Murder in the Green

Book 6: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Female Sleuths; Thrillers

Synopsis

Libby Serjeant and her friend Fran become involved in the strange rituals of the local Morris Men, when one of them is found dead on May Day and another seems to have vanished into thin air. Libby goes out of her comfort zone, as far as Cornwall, in search of the solution, which, in the end, is found much closer to home, turning out to be the most unpleasant case she has dealt with yet.

Release date: May 1, 2012

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 371

Sample

Chapter One

OUT OF THE DARKNESS they came, bells silenced, boots muffled on dead leaves. The whites of their eyes caught the torchlight and reflected an ancient excitement. Above them, budding branches whispered, ahead of them the need-fire was already burning.

The path wound down the shallow hillside among the trees. Two figures broke away, feathers nodding above black faces. Neither of them returned.

‘Please, Libby. Just come and talk to them.’

Libby Sarjeant frowned at the phone. ‘Gemma, I can’t.’

‘Why not? You’ve been involved in murders before.’

Libby squirmed. ‘Not intentionally.’

‘But you have. You’re like – like – oh, I don’t know, bloody Miss Marple or something.’

Libby closed her eyes and squirmed some more. ‘No, I’m not, Gemma. Let me tell you, the police always get there either ahead or at the same time as the amateur in these cases. Let well alone. They’ll find out what happened.’

‘It’s nearly two months now. How can they find out now?’

‘Just think of all the cold case reviews they do these days,’ said Libby. ‘They solve those, don’t they?’

‘They do on telly,’ grumbled Gemma.

‘Anyway,’ said Libby, hastily returning to the point. ‘I can’t see your lot welcoming a batty old woman asking a lot of impertinent questions, can you? Be sensible.’

There was silence at the other end of line. Eventually Libby said, ‘Are you still there, Gemma?’

‘Yes. I was thinking,’ said Gemma. ‘Couldn’t you at least come along? See the celebrations?’

‘On the longest day?’

‘Yes. We start at sunrise.’

‘What? You must be joking!’

‘It’s traditional.’ Gemma sounded defensive. ‘Even the Mayor comes out to watch.’

‘Good for him,’ muttered Libby.

‘Well, if you can’t come then, you could come to one of the public displays during the day. Or even,’ Gemma was disparaging, ‘to the Saturday parade.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Libby. ‘I seem to remember that being good fun. I used to go with the kids.’

‘Oh, yes, how are they?’

‘Adam’s working with a garden designer locally, and Belinda and Dominic are both working in London. How are yours?’

‘Still at home,’ said Gemma gloomily. ‘Anyway, will you come?’

Libby sighed. ‘Possibly to the Saturday parade,’ she said. ‘Where does it finish up?’

‘Same as we always do – on the mount.’

‘What time?’

‘Two-ish. But you won’t get a chance to talk to anybody then.’

‘I didn’t say I’d talk to anyone,’ said Libby.

‘But I want you to talk to them,’ wailed Gemma. ‘You don’t understand!’

‘Oh, yes, I do, Gemma. Believe me.’

Libby put the phone down and frowned at her sitting room. Sidney the silver tabby twitched an ear in her direction and buried his nose more firmly under his tail. Libby sighed again, picked up the phone and sat down on the cane sofa.

‘Fran? It’s me.’

‘Hi. What’s up?’

‘I’m fed up.’

‘You sound it. Been missing me?’

‘As it happens, I did, but I’ve seen you twice since you’ve been back, so I think I’ve recovered.’

‘From the shock of my marriage, or my enforced absence on honeymoon?’

Libby laughed. ‘Both. No, I’m fed up about lots of things.’

‘Lots of things? Good lord!’

‘Two anyway,’ said Libby. ‘One is Steeple Farm, which is turning into a monster, and the second is – well, someone’s asked me to Look Into Something.’

Fran sighed. ‘I don’t believe it. A murder?’

‘Yes. Have you ever met my old friend Gemma Baverstock?’

‘No. Should I have?’

‘No, I just wondered. She’s a member of the Cranston Morris, if you’ve heard of them.’

‘No, I haven’t, but don’t forget I’ve only been in Kent for a few years. And aren’t Morris sides supposed to be men only?’

‘Used to be, yes, and purists still argue about it, but there are loads of female sides now. Cranston have a male side, a female side and a mixed side, but still uphold the old traditions.’

‘Well, I don’t know anything about that,’ said Fran, ‘except that they dance at May Day.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Libby. ‘Well, on May Day their Green Man was killed.’

‘Sorry, you’ll have to explain,’ said Fran. ‘I thought that was a sort of gargoyle.’

‘Can be,’ said Libby. ‘Often carved up high in churches and cathedrals. But in this case it’s a bloke inside a sort of conical wire frame covered with vegetation.’

‘And this bloke was killed?’

‘Stabbed inside the cage. No one knew until he didn’t start to move when everyone else did.’

‘People would have seen blood, surely.’

‘I didn’t think of that. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t ever want to get mixed up with murder again. It’s quite ridiculous.’

‘Oh, I agree,’ said Fran with a laugh in her voice. ‘I bet Ben does, too.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Come on, Lib. There’s something else, isn’t there? You said Steeple Farm. And Ben?’

‘Yes. I know I’m being silly, but –’

‘Do you want to talk about it? Guy’s at the shop and won’t be home until at least half five.’

‘Do you mind? I’ll bring lunch with me.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Fran. ‘You can bring a bottle of wine, if you like. You’ll be allowed one glass, won’t you?’

‘OK.’ Libby brightened. ‘I’ll leave as soon as I can.’

Leaving a note in case anyone appeared and wondered where she was, she collected a bottle of wine from the kitchen, gave Sidney a perfunctory stroke, and left the cottage. The sky was grey, but as there was very little wind the air felt muggy, and much warmer than it had indoors. Romeo the Renault, now freed from servitude with Libby’s son Adam, sat under the trees on the other side of the little green and started at the first turn of the key.

‘I suppose I shall have to upgrade you sooner or later,’ Libby told the car, as she turned round to drive out of Allhallow’s Lane, ‘but while you behave yourself, I shall keep you.’

The drive from Steeple Martin, the village where Libby lived, to Nethergate, the seaside town where Fran’s cottage looked out over the sea, was quiet and pleasant, through undulating Kentish countryside and the occasional remaining hop gardens, but today Libby was too immersed in her thoughts to admire her surroundings.

Reaching the sign which announced itself as “Nethergate, Seaside Heritage town, twinned with Bayeau St Pierre”, she drove past the entrance to the new estate and dropped down the hill to the high street, past Luigi’s, the Italian restaurant favoured by Fran and her husband, Guy, and finally along Harbour Street, past Lizzie’s ice cream shop and Guy’s gallery until she reached Coastguard Cottage.

The heavy oak door stood open, and Libby found Fran leaning on the deep windowsill gazing out at the small harbour, the yellow printed curtains billowing round her. She turned and smiled.

‘I still can’t believe how lucky I am,’ she said.

Libby gave her a hug. ‘All this and a husband too, eh?’

Fran blushed. ‘I can’t get used to it,’ she said. ‘I’m Fran Wolfe now. How strange is that? I’ve been Castle for the last thirty years.’

‘I bet people will still call you Castle,’ said Libby, hauling the wine bottle out of her basket.

‘I expect so,’ said Fran, ‘and I don’t really mind, as long as it isn’t the children.’

‘No change there, then?’ Libby followed Fran into the kitchen.

‘No. I sent them all postcards from the honeymoon and while Jeremy was staying here until we got back he says Chrissie and Lucy never stopped badgering him. He was very rude to them eventually, and I haven’t heard a word from them since he went.’

‘He phoned me at one point,’ said Libby. ‘He was so sick of them, and they were being so selfish. Not that I could do anything, but by that time his lovely girlfriend had gone back to the States and I think he wanted to let off steam.’

‘He said you had him over to dinner twice. He thought you were lovely.’

‘Good.’ Libby grinned. ‘Adam was there too, so he had someone of his own age.’

‘I thought Adam wasn’t living with you now?’ Fran handed over a glass of wine.

‘He isn’t. You know where he is, don’t you?’

Fran shook her head. ‘I’ve only been back a week, I haven’t caught up.’

‘In your old flat!’ Libby announced triumphantly.

‘Over The Pink Geranium?’

‘And giving Harry a hand in the restaurant in the evenings if necessary. It seems to be working really well.’

‘And Lewis?’

‘Oh, Adam and Mog are still working on his gardens. They’re going to be beautiful. And Lewis has got a new firm in to re-do the interiors. I don’t think he wants to live there any more –’

‘Not surprised,’ said Fran, remembering the unpleasant events that had taken place at Lewis’s house, Creekmarsh Place, only a few weeks before her wedding.

‘– but he still wants to run it as a venue. He’s going to get someone in as an events manager.’

Supplied with glasses of wine, they went back into the sitting room and sat either side of the empty fireplace.

‘Still liking married life?’ asked Libby.

‘Yes.’ Fran leant back and sipped her wine. ‘It feels so good after all these years.’ She fixed her eyes on Libby. ‘And in that direction things are still not going well with you?’

Libby shook her head. ‘Oh, we came to a sort of accommodation before your wedding, you know we did. But even though he’s stopped pushing to get married, he’s still banging on about Steeple Farm.’

Fran eyed her friend thoughtfully. ‘Last I heard,’ she said, ‘he was going to do it up while you stayed at Number 17 and then think again.’

‘I know,’ Libby nodded. ‘But he’s so enthusiastic about it. He keeps dragging me off to have a look at what’s being done – which isn’t much yet, to be frank.’

‘And don’t you like it?’

‘It’s still Aunt Millie’s house to me, even if I’ve stopped thinking of those dormer windows as eyes.’

‘But you said –’

‘I know what I said.’ Libby was exasperated. ‘You said you wanted to live here on your own, and look where you are now? Married to Guy, with all that means.’

Fran pursed her lips. ‘At least I was honest enough to admit I’d changed my mind. Love does that, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, but I’ve admitted I love Ben. Ever since we came together over that girl’s murder three years ago. We’ve got a lot in common – we’re both divorced, we both love the theatre and we have the same social circle. His cousin Peter is one of my best friends.’

Fran looked doubtful. ‘That’s not love.’

Libby looked up quickly. ‘I didn’t say it was. I still fancy him.’

‘You were the one who lectured me when I was dithering about Guy. I thought you had it sorted.’

‘I did.’ Libby sighed. ‘Sort of.’

‘And Steeple Farm’s complicated matters?’

‘Definitely. You remember why Ben’s taken it on?’

‘Of course. It belongs to Peter’s mum Millie and while she’s in care he won’t sell it.’

‘That’s right. As all this happened just before your wedding, I wasn’t sure how much you’d taken in. So Ben’s going to do it up and live in it, and if Millie dies he’ll buy it as a sitting tenant.’

‘And the original idea was that you’d both live in it, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Libby bit her lip. ‘It is a lovely house – or it will be, but I love my cottage.’

‘There would be much more room at Steeple Farm.’

‘I know, I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘And Adam loves it. Lewis has promised to keep a watching brief over the renovations, and we’ve got that builder who’s a qualified lime plasterer doing the work.’

‘And?’ prompted Fran after a minute.

‘It still gives me a funny feeling when I go in.’

Fran gave a sharp little nod. ‘In that case, don’t go and live there,’ she said. ‘You know as well as I do, the atmosphere is paramount, and I know what I’m talking about.’

‘I know.’ Libby nodded. Fran had been a consultant to the Mayfair estate agents, Goodall and Smythe, who sent her into properties to divine whether there was anything in the atmosphere which would preclude clients from having a positive living experience, as they put it. Put another way, to find out if anything nasty had happened in the woodshed, the cellars or the attic which might make very rich clients very uncomfortable.

‘You said you couldn’t see me living there,’ said Libby slowly. ‘Remember?’

‘Yes. I also said I could have been wrong. You know how often I’m wrong.’

‘I think you were right.’ Libby twirled her wine glass. ‘I won’t live there.’

‘What about Ben?’

‘He was very understanding last time we spoke about it.’ Libby stood up. ‘Can I go outside for a fag?’

‘You can have one in here, if you like,’ said Fran.

‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘It’s bad enough me still smoking without contaminating everywhere else. I’ll go into the yard. Perhaps Balzac will keep me company.’

‘He’ll be sleeping in the big flowerpot,’ said Fran, also getting to her feet. ‘Come on, I’ll come with you. I want to know what you’re going to do about Ben.’

Libby went through the kitchen and out into Fran’s little courtyard. ‘So do I,’ she muttered.

Chapter Two

‘SO HOW MUCH DO you know about this murder?’ asked Fran later as she cleared plates into the kitchen sink.

‘Only what I told you and what I remember from the local tv news. I noticed because it was Cranston Morris and I’ve known Gemma and her husband for ever. And a couple of the other members.’

‘So just that the Green Man was killed?’

‘And another member of the side has gone missing, yes.’

Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that significant?’

‘The police looked into it at first, but he hasn’t turned up and they seem to think it was a planned disappearance.’

‘When he did he go?’

Libby frowned. ‘That’s the funny thing. They were all there for the May Day parade, apparently. It was after they’d discovered that Bill had been stabbed that the other bloke must have disappeared, because he wasn’t there when they rounded them all up.’

‘Very significant, then.’

‘You’d have thought so,’ said Libby, ‘but he hadn’t had time to get far, and there was no trace of him. Even his car had gone.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a real puzzle.’

Fran cocked her head to one side. ‘And you don’t want to look into it?’

Libby felt the colour creeping up her neck. ‘Well …’

‘When does this Gemma want you to talk to them?’

‘At the Summer Solstice. Apparently they get up really early and dance, then they go to various sites and dance some more. Then, of course, there’s the Saturday Parade – either the Saturday before or after, whichever’s closer.’

‘Where’s that? And which Saturday will it be?’

Libby wrinkled her brow. ‘The day before at Steeple Mount. Longest day is June 21st.’

‘Why don’t we go to the parade together?’ suggested Fran.

‘You don’t want to get involved, surely?’

‘I wouldn’t mind knowing more about it,’ said Fran. ‘What have I got to do these days? I wasn’t cut out to be a stay-at-home housewife.’

‘Guy won’t mind?’

‘Of course he won’t. As long as I’m sensible and we don’t get into trouble like we did before.’

‘Ben’ll mind.’

‘Don’t look so mournful. It’s your life.’

Libby laughed. ‘You’ve changed!’

‘Yes,’ said Fran thoughtfully, ‘I have. Strangely, I’ve become more assertive. Guy’s been good for me in so many ways.’

‘Mmm,’ said Libby.

‘You find out the times and so on and we’ll make arrangements,’ said Fran. ‘Hope the weather changes.’

No need to tell Ben, thought Libby, as she drove home through windscreen-wiper-defying drizzle. I’ll just say Fran and I are going to have a day out together. But he knows Gemma and Cranston Morris, said an insidious little voice. He’ll know why you’re going to the parade. I’ll have to think of an excuse, Libby told herself, and tried to think of something else.

Ben was in a particularly good mood when he returned from the Manor Farm estate office, where he worked looking after his parents rather diminished estate. Once the Manor had been the local centre of hop growing, but the gardens had all been sold off, the hopping huts knocked down, all but one small row which Ben wanted to turn into a museum, and the rest of the estate turned over to tenant farmers.

‘They’ve actually finished ripping out the kitchen and repairing the walls at Steeple Farm,’ he said, pouring himself a whisky. ‘Want one?’ He held up his glass. Libby shook her head.

‘That seems quite fast,’ she said, wiping her hands on a tea towel as she joined him in the sitting room.

‘It is.’ He grinned at her. ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled and tried to feel keen. ‘What’s next?’

‘They’ll carry on stripping the whole house and repairing or restoring as they go. Lewis popped by today and was very enthusiastic.’

‘Has he been at Creekmarsh?’

‘He stayed down last night apparently.’

Lewis Osbourne-Walker owned Creekmarsh Place, where Adam and his boss Mog were restoring the gardens. Lewis was a carpenter whose appearances on a television homes show had given him a whole new career; a new series was being constructed round the renovation of the house and gardens. Adam was cock-a-hoop about appearing on television.

Libby nodded and threw the tea towel over her shoulder. ‘Dinner in about an hour,’ she said.

‘How about a quick one at the pub, then?’ said Ben. ‘We haven’t been down there for ages.’

Reprieve, thought Libby. He won’t talk about Steeple Farm if we’re in the pub. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Give me five minutes.’

The sun had made a belated appearance and threw their long shadows before them as they walked down Allhallow’s Lane.

‘So, what did you do today?’ Ben slipped an arm around Libby’s waist.

‘Oh, I popped over to see Fran for lunch. She’s–’ Libby stopped and bit her lip. So happy, she had been going to say.

‘She’s what?’ Ben cocked his head to look at her.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Libby temporised, ‘different, I suppose.’

‘Happy?’

‘Well, yes. But I didn’t mean that.’ Libby looked him in the eye. ‘Assertive. She said so herself.’

‘Oh.’ Ben was taken aback, as she had intended.

‘Anyway,’ Libby went on, without giving him time to pursue the subject, ‘she’s suggested we have a day out, just the two of us, next Saturday.’

‘Good. You’ve missed her, haven’t you?’ said Ben.

‘Yes.’ Libby smiled at him. ‘I seem to be surrounded by males, don’t I? And Fran is the first close female friend I’ve had in years.’

‘I know.’ Ben gave her a squeeze and opened the door of the pub. Libby immediately felt guilty because he was being understanding.

‘Is that where you’re going?’ Returning from the bar with the drinks, Ben nodded at a poster stuck up beneath the clock.

“Midsummer Madness with Cranston Morris” it read. “Saturday Parade with fancy dress competition and Greet the Dawn at 5am on The Mount on Sunday 21st June.”

Libby’s heart sank. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I used to enjoy taking the kids when they were younger. Fran suggested it –’ true, she thought ‘– and I thought you wouldn’t mind. Not the greeting the dawn thing, though.’

‘I should think not.’ Ben settled down beside her. ‘We used to go, too. I expect we bumped into one another.’

‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘You would have remembered me. If you recognised me when we met again a few years ago, you would have done then, too.’

‘True.’ Ben nodded, and paused for a sip of beer. ‘I always fancied dancing Morris.’

‘Did you?’ Libby was surprised. ‘I wouldn’t ever have guessed.’

‘Apart from the stereotypical images – you know, Arran sweaters, beards and long hair – I thought it looked fun. I was put off by the women, though.’

‘Really?’ Libby twisted sideways in her chair to look at him properly. ‘How come?’

‘They always seemed to be homing in on a male preserve, and over-enthusiastic. I even researched it once.’

‘Did you? What did you find out?’

‘That there’s evidence of women dancing way back in the sixteen hundreds, but the Morris Ring won’t allow women’s or mixed sides.’

‘What’s the Morris Ring?’

Ben wrinkled his brow. ‘As far as I can remember, a sort of association of sides. Over two hundred, I think, but there are other organisations which allow the women.’

‘Fascinating, and one up for the girls.’ Libby lifted her glass.

‘Yes, but there’s no real evidence for women dancing in proper Morris sides, and it really was a men-only thing for years. The people who revived Molly dancing in the Fens in the seventies wouldn’t have them, although even some of them do now.’

‘Molly dancing?’

‘Black-faced. They dance on Plough Monday –’

‘You’ve lost me now,’ said Libby shaking her head. ‘Although Cranston Morris are black-faced. Would they have a connection?’

‘No idea. As I say, I only did a bit of research a few years ago. And I used to have a friend who lived in the Cambridgeshire Fens and danced with a local Molly side.’ Ben smiled reminiscently. ‘Quite rough and earthy. They used to do a Mummer’s play, too.’

‘We have those here, too.’ Libby was defensive.

‘I know, I know.’ Ben smiled again and patted her knee. ‘Cranston Morris do a Mummer’s play themselves at the Saturday parade.’

‘Of course,’ said Libby, ‘I should have remembered. St George and the doctor and all that.’

‘We ought to do one for the theatre,’ said Ben. ‘We could do a pre-Christmas thing. That’s when mummers used to go round, isn’t it?’

‘Wassailing?’ Libby frowned. ‘Something like that. I’ll look it up. Perhaps we could do something round the pubs to promote the panto?’

To Libby’s relief, Ben took hold of the change of subject and began to discuss next season’s pantomime. The oast house owned by the Manor Farm had been turned into a small theatre, which was run by a consortium of Ben’s cousin Peter, Ben himself, who was the architect behind the project, and Libby. The opening production had been marred by the murder of a member of the cast, but, since then, the theatre had gone from strength to strength and gained a formidable reputation in the area.

Peter and his partner, Harry, who owned between them The Pink Geranium, a vegetarian restaurant a few doors down from the pub, joined them at Number 17 after dinner.

Harry complained that the credit crunch was going to halve the takings if something didn’t happen soon.

‘As long as you break even it doesn’t matter,’ said Peter.

‘Hardly doing that at the moment,’ said Harry gloomily. ‘That’s why we’ve come here to ponce a drink off you rather than going to the pub.’

‘And here was I thinking you were desperate for my company,’ said Libby, handing over two large glasses of red wine.

Peter kissed her cheek. ‘What, you, you old trout?’

Libby grinned.

‘So what’s been going on chez the Sarjeant Wilde household?’ asked Harry, flinging himself on to the cane sofa and upsetting Sidney.

‘Not a lot,’ said Ben. ‘Still working on Steeple Farm.’

Harry shot a look at Libby. ‘Right,’ he said.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Peter. ‘James was asking the other day.’ James was Peter’s younger brother.

‘Has he decided h. . .