Murder Most Merry

Book 0: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Amateur Sleuth

Synopsis

The three short Christmas stories, featuring Libby Serjeant, now available together in ebook. Perfect for fans of Faith Martin, J. R. Ellis and LJ Ross.

'Lesley Cookman is the Queen of Cosy Crime' PAUL MAGRS

MURDER AT MALLOWAN MANOR

It's the run-up to Christmas.

Libby Sarjeant and her friend Fran have been invited to stay at grand old Mallowan Manor to investigate some mysterious rumours which are preventing the owner from selling up. A weird cast of characters, including an ageing actress and an enigmatic butler, makes Libby feel like she's ended up in an Agatha Christie plot...

MURDER MOST FOWL

It is almost Christmas, and pantomime rehearsals are well under way . . .

Once again, local butcher Bob is playing the dame, but the whole production is put under threat when someone sabotages his business.

Super sleuth Libby Sarjeant now has to recruit Fran Wolfe to help find the culprit, and restore the Steeple Martin pantomime.

MURDER AND THE PANTOMIME CAT

Pantomime is coming to The Alexandria theatre in Nethergate.

Among the cast is Clemency, an old acquaintance of Libby Sarjeant and Fran Wolfe. She is making her return to the professional stage, encouraged by her mother Dame Amanda Knight, whom Libby and Fran met on a previous adventure.

But when one objectionable member of the cast is found dead, Dame Amanda and heavyweight of the English Stage, Sir Andrew McColl, call in Libby, Fran and their friends to prevent the wrong person being charged with murder and the Nethergate pantomime from turning into a disastrous melodrama.

Readers LOVE the Libby Sarjeant series:

'I've read all of the books in this series and love them all' 5* Reader Review

'Just can't get enough of reading about Libby and her friends' 5* Reader Review

'Libby's gang are like old friends and I was hooked from the start' 5* Reader Review

'Love this series, roll on the next one!' 5* Reader Review

'I adore the characters and the village. I wish I could live on All Hallows Lane and be a part of this gang. Hoping for a new novel soon. Highly recommend' 5* Reader Review

'The characters are so likeable. I would love to visit the mythical Steeple Martin!' 5* Reader Review

Release date: December 1, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 184

Sample

Libby Sarjeant put down the pen with which she’d been writing Christmas cards and picked up her phone.

‘Fran?’

‘Yes, it’s me.’ said Fran Wolfe.

‘What’s up?’

‘Well, you remember Goodall and Smythe?’

‘How could I forget?’ Goodall and Smythe were upmarket estate agents who some years ago had employed Fran to look into houses with a reputation for being haunted. Fran’s psychic ability, with which she wasn’t entirely comfortable, had been employed in the first murder case Libby had encountered and resulted in their firm friendship.

‘They’ve come back to me.’

‘What? After all this time? It must be serious.’

‘It’s more than that.’ Fran sighed. ‘You see, the owner asked them to bring me in. And you, too.’

‘What! Why? How?’

‘It’s Sir Andrew’s fault.’

‘Don’t hang it out, Fran. What’s it got to do with Sir Andrew?’

‘The owner is an old friend of his. An elderly actress. She was talking to Sir Andrew at some theatrical bash and telling him all about this house she wants to sell which is apparently haunted and won’t sell. So he told her about me, and then a bit about some of our – er – experiences. And mentioned you. And she knew you.’

‘Knew me? But I don’t know any old actresses – at least I don’t think so. Unless I worked with her when I was in the job?’

‘No, apparently she knew you when you were young. She kept in touch with your parents for years.’

‘They’re both dead.’

‘I know that. But she knew your name and Sir Andrew confirmed it was you. Anyway, she went to Goodall and Smythe and asked them to employ me to investigate. With you.’

Libby was thinking. ‘A friend of my parents … could it be … there was one. A young actress, but I can’t remember her name. I had a huge crush on her. It can’t be her?’

‘Could be. Dame Amanda Knight.’

‘Good God!’ said Libby. ‘I never connected her to the person I knew all those years ago. And she remembered me?’

‘Very well, apparently. You see, immediately after Goodall and Smythe called, so did she. Got my number from Sir Andrew. And she said – she sounds lovely, by the way – that you must have got your taste for investigation from her. What does that mean?’

Libby laughed. ‘I’d almost forgotten. She had a way of getting involved in cases in exactly the same way as we do, but I was a child so I didn’t take as much notice as I should have. My lord! How exciting! So what does she want us to do?’

‘She isn’t convinced about this so called haunting, but what she proposes is that she invites us both – with Guy and Ben – to a weekend house party to do some snooping, physical and metaphysical. Next weekend.’

‘I don’t believe it! A Christmas house party in a haunted house? This is pure Agatha Christie. Will we have the suspects lined up?’

Fran laughed. ‘From the way she spoke, yes. I know it’s short notice, and I said Guy and I could only come on Saturday evening after we’d closed the shop, so she said could we stay until Monday morning.’

‘Couldn’t you and I go earlier on Saturday and the men join us later? Couldn’t you get cover for one day? After all, you are going to be paid.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Fran dubiously. ‘I could ask old Bob Alton. You remember him? He’s a regular customer and seems to know as much about the shop as I do.’

‘There you are then! Do you have to call her back, or anything?

‘I said I would. Will you ask Ben? I’ll talk to Guy – he’s already agreed in principle. Let me know what Ben says, and I’ll call her back.’

The following Saturday morning Fran picked up Libby in Steeple Martin and they headed deep into the Kent countryside. The lanes were covered in frosted fallen leaves, naked trees forming a skeletal canopy above their heads. Libby shivered.

‘Why do we always seem to have to drive through these spooky lanes in winter?’

‘We do drive through them in summer, too,’ said Fran, concentrating on the lane which disappeared into the mist only a few metres ahead. ‘Let’s just be grateful the house is in Kent. She could have lived anywhere by now.’

‘You’d think being in top commuter belt south-east England there would be more houses around, wouldn’t you?’ Libby peered through the side window at the shadowy woodland.

‘I expect there are, we just can’t see them. Now keep your eyes open, there should be a turning on our left.’

As they eventually came out into more open country the mist began to clear and at last a small wooden signpost announced itself as Mallowan Manor. Fran turned right into the drive which wound between more banks of trees and shrubs and ended abruptly in a large empty courtyard.

‘Well, there it is,’ said Fran, switching off the engine. ‘The haunted house.’

‘It could have come straight from an M. R. James story,’ said Libby. ‘How old is it?’

‘Seventeenth century, I think. I looked it up, and there appears to be a connection with the civil wars.’

‘Oh, not again! This is like a replay of that Dark House business. Cavaliers and buried treasure?’ Libby was remembering one of their previous adventures.

‘Well, at least we’ve got some background knowledge of the period,’ said Fran.

The big oak door swung slowly inward and revealed a small figure leaning on a stick. Libby and Fran got out of the car and retrieved their overnight bags.

‘Fran!’ A beautifully modulated voice rang out across the courtyard. ‘And Libby! I’d have recognised you anywhere.’

Dame Amanda Knight held out a welcoming hand. Her iron grey hair was drawn back in an Edwardian fashion, over her long dark tunic and trousers was draped a blue and green scarf, and her face was creased into a beaming smile. Her eyes twinkled up at Fran, who reached her first, and she impulsively kissed her on both cheeks before turning to Libby.

‘Libby, my dear! You’re taller than me now, aren’t you? Although I’ve shrunk a bit since we last met. Still got that rebellious hair, I see. Now, come along in. I want to hear all about you, and I’ve got a lot to tell you both.’

Dame Amanda led them across a wide hallway, darkly panelled in what Libby supposed was oak. A huge inglenook fireplace took up the better part of one wall, and there was even a suit of armour at the foot of the impressively sweeping staircase. A man appeared from the shadows.

‘Fran,’ whispered Libby, ‘is this a set-up? That can’t be a butler, surely?’

‘Coolidge,’ said Dame Amanda, ‘this is Mrs Wolfe and this, Mrs Sarjeant. Could you have their bags taken up to their rooms, please? And could we have coffee in the library?’

‘It is a set-up,’ whispered Libby, as Coolidge lowered his head in silent acknowledgement and turned to pick up the overnight bags. His black jacket and pinstriped trousers disappeared once more into the gloom.

‘Come along, dears.’ Dame Amanda led them to the back of the hall and opened a door onto the most perfect country house library Libby could have imagined. Four deep leather chairs were set around a stone fireplace.

‘Let’s sit down, dears, and get comfortable.’ Dame Amanda sat in one of the chairs and propped her stick beside her. ‘Now, I must thank you both for coming, especially as it’s so near Christmas and you must have plenty to do. Are you doing a pantomime this year, Libby?’

‘Yes,’ said Libby, surprised. ‘How –’

‘Sir Andrew told me all about you and your theatre, dear. I was so pleased to hear about you, and to find that you were so close to us here. And you have three grown up children now, don’t you? Your dear mother wrote to me not long before she died.’ Dame Amanda shook her head. ‘Lovely woman.’

‘Yes,’ said Libby again.

‘And Fran, it was your particular talents that decided me on this course of action. I need to put paid to the myth that this house is haunted.’

‘But if it isn’t I won’t be able to find anything,’ said Fran.

‘That’s just the point, child. Then I can say to the others “There! This is a genuine psychic and she says there are no ghosts.” Then maybe the gossip will stop.’

‘Gossip?’ said Libby.

‘Others?’ said Fran.

Following a faint knock on the door, Coolidge glided silently in and placed a silver tray, complete with silver coffee pot, on a small table at Dame Amanda’s elbow, then withdrew.

‘A marvellous asset, Coolidge,’ said Dame Amanda, picking up the pot. ‘Impresses people no end.’

Libby laughed. ‘Is that why you’ve got him? To sort of complete the picture?’

‘Of course!’ Dame Amanda’s eyes twinkled. ‘Perfect, isn’t it?’

‘I said it was a set-up,’ said Libby. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘Well, not quite.’ Dame Amanda handed cups, then paused to sip her own coffee. ‘When I bought this place years ago, I was first attracted to the name, of course.’

‘The name?’ said Fran.

‘Mallowan was Agatha Christie’s married name,’ said Libby.

‘Exactly. So I rather built on it. It amused me to make it just like one of the country houses in the Golden Age detective stories – you remember I’ve always had an interest, Libby?’

‘I do, although I’d rather forgotten all about it.’

‘Anyway, recently I began to think that it was too big, too expensive to run, and it no longer amused me, so I decided to sell. And that was when the trouble began.’

‘How?’ asked Fran.

‘Goodall and Smythe said nobody was enquiring after it because it was apparently haunted.’

‘And you didn’t know this?’ asked Libby. ‘Even after living here for years?’

‘No idea,’ said Dame Amanda. ‘So I asked them how they knew, and apparently they narrowed it down to a couple of pieces on the internet. Recent pieces, I might add. These had been deliberately posted in as many places as possible where the sort of people who might buy would see it. And then the noises began.’

‘Noises?’ said Fran and Libby.

‘It started with a faint knocking that seemed to come from the gallery. Always at night. Coolidge and I investigated, you know, tapping all the panelling, and Coolidge even sat up all one night. Then the other things began. We would find an open window which we were certain had been closed the night before. One morning we found the big windows in the drawing room wide open on to the terrace. Even I began to get spooked.’ She looked thoughtfully into the fire. ‘But it dawned on me that this wasn’t a ghost. This was someone trying to scare me. And then I wondered why? If someone was trying to scare me, presumably they wanted me to leave the place. In which case, why had the rumour got out that was preventing me selling? It didn’t make sense.

‘So,’ she turned to the two friends, ‘that was when I saw Andrew and he told me about you.’

‘Did you ask his advice?’ asked Libby.

‘Not exactly. I hadn’t seen him for some time, not since the funeral of a dear mutual friend of ours.’

Libby and Fran exchanged glances.

‘Yes, dears, you were there, although I didn’t see you. So I asked Andrew how he was coping and he told me how he had met – Harry, is it? And you. And of course, I was delighted, and saw at once how it could work.’

‘But you were always doing this sort of thing when you were younger,’ said Libby, ‘couldn’t you have investigated yourself?’

‘I’m not a psychic, and I’m not as young as I was. Besides, this is a little too close to home, as you’ll see.’ She looked serious. ‘Now we come to the others. My children and my nephew. You’ll meet them all later.’

‘Do they not want you to sell?’ asked Libby after a pause.

‘My son and my nephew don’t, but my daughter does. You see, when I sell this place I want something small and manageable, and I told the children I would give them a settlement each – in advance of my will, if you like. My daughter jumped at that – she’s just come out of a rather bitter divorce, and she’d like to go travelling and – er – find herself. But my son and daughter-in-law don’t.’ She shook her head. ‘And I really don’t understand why.’

‘What about your nephew?’ asked Fran.

‘He lives here, you see.’ Dame Amanda shrugged. ‘He was a musician and did very well for a while, but his band fell out of favour and since then he hasn’t really done anything. I took pity on him. He doesn’t want me to sell because he’d lose a comfortable home. I’ve said I’d give him a small settlement, too, but he would have to knuckle down and find work. The money wouldn’t last long.’

‘So there could be two motives for these so-called hauntings,’ said Libby. ‘The first to scare you and make you sell, the second to make sure no one buys it. It’s mad. And it can’t be your own flesh and blood, surely?’

‘I don’t know, dear, but I wouldn’t be too sure.’ Dame Amanda grinned. ‘I’m under no illusions about my children. I understand from Andrew that yours are very nice people, but your own don’t always turn out the way you’d hope.’

‘Tell me about it,’ sighed Fran.

‘Oh, you too, dear?’ Dame Amanda smiled sympathetically.

‘My son’s lovely, but he lives in America,’ said Fran, ‘but my daughters both seem to resent me having my own life. It’s my own fault, in a way. I neglected them for my career when they were young.’

‘What was that, dear?’

‘I was an actor, too,’ said Fran, blushing.

‘Oh, marvellous!’ Dame Amanda clapped her hands together. ‘So we can all talk the same language. Now, I think we ought to have a proper Christie like gathering this evening – or this afternoon at teatime. They’ll all be here by then. I can introduce you as old friends who have come to help me get to the bottom of this. No need to mention at first your particular – ah – accomplishments, eh?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ murmured Fran.

‘But I shall have to at the end if we going to disprove this haunting myth.’

‘Well, all right, but only at the end,’ said Fran reluctantly.

‘Shall we go on a tour of the house now?’ Dame Amanda prepared to stand up.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Libby. ‘Before this obviously deliberate rumour was started, which seems suspect in itself if you ask me, how much of the history of the house did you know? And are there any stories about it in the village? If there is a village. It looked pretty deserted to me.’

Dame Amanda sank back in her chair. ‘We know a bit about it. 1640 or thereabouts.’

‘Just before the Civil War,’ said Libby. ‘Was the owner with the . . .