Murder on the Edge

Book 21: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Suspense

Synopsis

'With fascinating characters and an intriguing plot, this is a real page turner' Katie Fforde

Super-sleuth Libby Sarjeant is back with her most puzzling case yet . . . a mysterious death at the local cliffs.

Colin Hardcastle has arranged for two men to meet and discuss the sale of a house. But when Nick Nash - the owner of the property - doesn't show, Colin cannot begin to imagine the events he has set in motion.

Perplexed, Colin tells his friends in Steeple Martin, piquing the interest of Libby Sarjeant - and the Reverend Patti Pearson, who finds Nash's name strangely familiar . . .

Despite her burgeoning reputation as a super-sleuth, Libby is somewhat loath to investigate what seems to be a tragic accident. But when two of Patti's parishioners ask for her help, Libby very quickly finds herself caught up in the mystery. Then Nash's body is found, and things take a darker turn.

As the case unravels, biting deeper into the local community, Nash's shocking past is unearthed and it's up to Libby and her friend Fran Wolfe to help solve the case before it's too late...

This is an addictive and unputdownable crime mystery novel perfect for fans of Faith Martin, J.R. Ellis and LJ Ross.

(P) 2020 Headline Publishing Group Limited

Release date: October 1, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

‘So, I’ve decided,’ said Colin Hardcastle, ‘that I’m going to keep one of the flats for myself!’ He beamed at his assembled friends, who all reacted with delight.

‘Excellent!’ said Libby Sarjeant. ‘I always wondered why you hadn’t done anything with the building yourself, being in property.’

‘I know. I should have done.’ Colin looked guilty.

‘No need,’ said Ben Wilde, Libby’s significant other. ‘You’re doing it now. Let’s have another drink to celebrate.’

He went to the bar, where Tim, owner of the Steeple Martin village pub, had been listening to the conversation.

‘Different bloke now, isn’t he?’ he said as he pulled a new pint for Ben. ‘Wouldn’t recognise him from when he first came over in June.’

‘Good job, too,’ said Ben. ‘And two halves of lager, please.’

‘Weren’t you going to take someone over to see that house near the Dunton Estate?’ Patti Pearson, vicar of St Aldeberge, a village a little way from Steeple Martin, put in. ‘It’s just behind us, more or less.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Colin turned to her. ‘This morning. But it was really odd. I told you last week, didn’t I, that Gerald Hall was interested?’

‘Who’s Gerald Hall?’ asked Libby, who had obviously missed the previous conversation.

‘Bloke I met through the business. He said he wanted a base in England, and liked the idea of living on the coast.’

‘How did you know about the Dunton Estate house?’ asked Ben.

‘That was someone else I met in Spain. I was talking about what had happened over here in June and he said he had a house near here that he wanted to sell. Apparently he and his wife had split up and he’d decided he was going to live permanently in Spain. And then I met Gerry and was telling him about what happened—’

‘Does everyone in Spain know about what happened over here in June?’ asked Libby, amused.

‘Well, it was extraordinary,’ said Colin defensively, ‘you must admit. And I was explaining that I’d decided to make my base over here, you see . . .’

In June, Colin had been called back to England by the police after the discovery of a body in a semi-derelict property he owned. Far from giving him a dislike of the area, he had made friends and was becoming a part of the village community.

‘So anyway, Gerry said he wanted to come back to England, too, and I mentioned Nick Nash.’

‘He’s the owner of this house?’ said Patti, frowning. ‘I think I know the name.’

‘Yes, him and his wife Simone – although I’m not sure she actually part-owned it. It was his before they married. So I put them in touch and arranged to take Gerry over to see it. Nick was flying back specially. But he didn’t turn up.’

‘Nick Nash, Nick Nash,’ Patti was muttering under her breath. ‘Why do I know that name?’

‘One of your congregation?’ suggested Libby.

‘No.’ Patti shook her head. ‘Something to do with the church, though, I’m sure.’ She sighed. ‘Oh well. It’ll come back to me.’

‘Do you think you got the wrong day?’ asked Patti’s partner, Anne. Patti came over to Steeple Martin every Wednesday to visit Anne and have a drink with Libby and Ben, her time being somewhat circumscribed as reverend of three parishes.

‘No – I checked the message while we were over there. And tried to phone him. But it went straight to voicemail.’

‘Do you think he’s changed his mind?’ said Ben.

‘I suppose he might have done, but why not let me know?’ Colin sat back in his chair with a sigh. ‘I can’t ask Simone because I don’t know where she is. And I haven’t got her mobile number – I never knew her very well. I didn’t know Nick that well, either. He was just part of the ex-pat business community.’

‘I don’t suppose your friend Gerry’s very happy, either,’ said Libby. ‘Where’s he staying?’

‘Hotel in Canterbury,’ said Colin. ‘He said he’s going to look round the estate agents tomorrow – see if he can find something else.’

‘Well, at least it isn’t your responsibility any more,’ said Ben.

‘I brought Gerry over here, though,’ said Colin miserably. ‘What a waste of a journey.’

‘Doesn’t he want to buy one of your lovely new apartments?’ asked Anne.

Colin shook his head. ‘No, he wants a house. Preferably one with a bit of land and near the sea.’ He turned to Patti. ‘You must admit, the Dunton Estate’s perfect.’

‘Well, it’s near the sea,’ said Patti. ‘Bit isolated, though. You remember, Libby? Where you thought it looked like Rupert Bear country, with tunnels leading down to caves?’

‘Well, it did,’ said Libby. ‘That’s where the illegal immigrants were landed.’ She looked at Colin. ‘There’s a long history of smuggling in those parts. People and . . . stuff.’

‘Stuff?’ Colin looked alarmed.

‘Drugs.’ She nodded portentously. ‘And tea and brandy in the past.’

‘Tea?’

‘Hugely valuable back in the eighteenth century,’ said Anne, who worked in a Canterbury library. ‘Even more than gin and brandy. You’ve heard the old rhyme, haven’t you? “Brandy for the parson, baccy for the clerk”? Famous poem by Rudyard Kipling!’

‘It rings a bell,’ said Colin, looking nervous.

‘Don’t tease the poor man,’ said Ben. ‘Don’t worry about it, Colin. They’ve found out about all these things over the years. They enjoy airing their knowledge.’

Patti, Anne, and Libby set up a chorus of protest.

‘There must be some down near your mate Fran’s place,’ said Tim, who was leaning on the bar listening.

‘I can’t think of any with land, though,’ said Libby. ‘We could have a look, I suppose.’

‘Who could?’ said Ben. ‘This isn’t anything to do with you, Lib.’

‘Just trying to be helpful.’ Libby gave him a look. ‘Aren’t I, Colin?’

‘Yes, Libby,’ said Colin dutifully. He shot a quick glance at Ben, and said hastily, ‘Would you like to come and see the flat tomorrow morning, by the way? It’s shaping up quite nicely.’

Accepting the change of subject with good grace, Libby gave him a wry smile and agreed.

The following morning, after Ben had left for a meeting with the builders working on his restoration of the Hop Pocket pub, a project he had taken on during Colin’s original visit, Libby followed him down Steeple Martin High Street, until she came to the scaffolding-wrapped former Garden Hotel. Not knowing quite where to go into the building, she made her way to the back, where the restored bat and trap pitch had been in use for several months now, to the delight of the villagers. An old game now being revived in Kent, it had proved surprisingly popular.

Colin appeared at the top of the external staircase that led from the top floor of the building. ‘Come on up, Libby!’ he called.

‘Not going to be much fun climbing up here in the winter,’ she puffed, as she reached the top.

Colin, slim, wiry, and at least fifteen years younger than Libby, grinned at her.

‘We’re building an internal staircase, too,’ he said. ‘We’ve had to re-position the old one because it cut two of the apartments in half. Anyway, come in. This will be a Juliet balcony when we’ve finished.’

Libby turned round and looked. ‘Nice view,’ she said.

The apartment was still an empty shell, still awaiting kitchen and bathroom fittings, but it was bright and airy, and bore little resemblance to the shabby, dilapidated building of a few months ago.

‘No radiators?’ said Libby.

‘Underfloor heating throughout the building,’ said Colin. ‘Controlled from the basement.’ He gave an involuntary shudder. ‘No one wants to spend time down there.’

‘No.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘Well, you’ve certainly made it different. ‘Are the other apartments as advanced as this one?’

‘No – they haven’t gone on the market yet. We’re going to finish this one so people can come and view. Then they can choose their own finishes and fittings.’

Libby nodded. ‘So when do you think you’ll be moving in?’

‘In time for Christmas.’ He smiled. ‘I have a fancy to spend a traditional English country Christmas for the first time in years.’

Libby beamed back at him. ‘Excellent! And Nanny Mardle will be delighted.’

Mrs Mardle had helped bring the young Colin up, and lived next door to Libby and Ben in Allhallow’s Lane.

‘I’m going down to Nethergate to see Fran this afternoon,’ Libby said as they descended the stairs. ‘Do you want me to have a look in any estate agents while I’m there? I know you and your friend can do it online, but . . .’

‘I thought Ben told you it wasn’t your problem,’ said Colin with a grin.

‘I know.’ Libby sighed. She thought for a moment. ‘I still think it was odd, though, your friend not being there. The other friend, I mean.’

‘I know what you mean.’ Colin leant on the fence of the bat and trap pitch. ‘We looked all round the house, in the windows and everything. And his car was on the drive.’

‘You didn’t tell us that!’

‘No? Well, it was. He must have changed his mind.’ Colin frowned. ‘Shame, because Gerry really liked the look of that place.’

‘Is it worth trying to get hold of him again?’ Libby opened the gate to the lane that ran at the back of the building.

Colin shrugged. ‘I can try. I might ask John Newman. He knows a lot of people from the Felling and Aldeberge area, doesn’t he?’

‘He seemed to,’ said Libby. ‘You could always ask. It depends how long ago this Nick Nash lived there, doesn’t it?’

‘Your Patti said she thought he had something to do with the church,’ said Colin. ‘He wasn’t a vicar, was he?’

‘How do I know?’ laughed Libby. ‘Patti just thought she’d come across the name somewhere.’

‘I’ll give Nick another try and then give up. I’ll give John a ring later, too.’

John Newman had lived at the Hop Pocket, the pub Ben was having restored, when he was a child, while Colin had lived at the old Garden Hotel. He now lived with his wife in the tiny town of Felling, close to St Aldeberge and the Dunton Estate.

Libby put her head round the door of the Hop Pocket, where she found Ben, covered in plaster dust, up a ladder. He waved cheerfully.

‘I’m going to see Fran,’ she said.

‘Don’t start house hunting,’ he warned.

But Libby didn’t want to go house hunting. She wanted to know why the prospective vendor hadn’t turned up.

‘Oh, Lib!’ Fran Wolfe laughed as she poured boiling water into mugs half an hour later. A foot taller than Libby and considerably slimmer, her sleek dark hair was just beginning to show a little grey.

‘What?’ Libby looked indignant.

‘You can’t leave well alone, can you?’

‘Well, it’s odd.’ Libby accepted a mug and retreated to the window seat in the front room. ‘Colin told me this morning that this bloke Nick’s car was actually on the drive. Why wasn’t he there?’

‘The lubberkin got him,’ said Fran, following her.

‘The what?’

‘Lubberkin. It’s a sort of Puck, or hobgoblin.’ Fran sat down in the armchair by the fireplace. ‘I was reading up about it. There’s quite a lot of myth and legend about the whole area.’

Libby sipped her tea and looked out of the window at the grey sea, which grumbled and threw itself at the beach. ‘Of course there is,’ she said. ‘Just remember Cunning Mary and the Willoughby Oak.

‘And it’s coming up to All Hallow’s Eve,’ said Fran after a moment.

Several years ago, when Libby and Fran had first met Patti, over a rather unpleasant murder in her church, they had come across the legend of Cunning Mary, a local wise woman, who, in 1612, the same year as the Pendle Witch trials, had been forced out of her cottage, taken to the isolated Willoughby Oak, and hanged. Over the years, tales of unearthly goings-on about the tree had spread, particularly on All Hallow’s Eve, or Samhain.

Libby sighed. ‘Well, we don’t want to get involved in anything like that again, do we?’

‘We don’t want to get involved with anything,’ warned Fran. ‘There’s no mystery here, and it’s nothing to do with us anyway. It’s only marginally to do with Colin, after all.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Libby turned from the window and absentmindedly rested her mug on the head of Balzac the cat, who had slithered unobtrusively onto her lap. ‘Amuse me, then. What other murky tales did you find out, apart from this Lubberkin?’

‘Lots of stuff about the blackthorn tree.’ Fran settled back in her chair. ‘Did you know it’s particularly associated with Samhain?’

‘No. Is it a very witchy tree, then?’

‘One of the witchiest. Its thorns are used in poppets, and—’

‘Hang on. Poppets?’

‘That’s the little figures people make to cast spells on people.’

‘The wax ones?’

‘Yes, although apparently they can be made of all sorts of stuff. And not just in Voodoo religions, either. Very European – Germany and Norway.’

‘Well, well!’ Libby shook her head. ‘Grimm’s Fairy Tales, then.’

Fran nodded.

‘So what started you on that?’

‘Something popped up on one of the apps, you know.’

‘What app?’ Libby looked wary. ‘You know I don’t do apps.’

‘Sorry. I forgot how internet-resistant you are!’

‘Why were you looking? I thought you would have had enough of witches by now.’

Fran shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. Hallowe’en. Brings out the weird and wonderful everywhere.’

‘Well, unless this landlubber or whatever it is can make people vanish, I don’t see what it’s got to do with Colin’s mate.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Fran. ‘I was just looking into it for interest’s sake. And because we occasionally get asked for Hallowe’en curios in the shop.’

Libby looked shocked. ‘You don’t do that sort of tat!’

‘I know. It just made me wonder if there was a – I don’t know – classier side to it all.’

‘Good Lord, Fran!’ Libby was disgusted. ‘Whatever’s got into you?’

‘This from the person who’s devoted to panto?

‘Panto has a long and noble tradition,’ said Libby loftily.

‘Not half as long as Hallowe’en,’ said Fran, amused.

‘Ah, but not in its current form!’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I came to talk about.’

‘No.’ Fran sighed. ‘You came because you sense a mystery in the offing.’

‘Come on, you must admit it’s odd.’

‘OK, I’ll admit it’s odd because someone anticipating a house sale – and presumably a lucrative one, at that – doesn’t voluntarily just not turn up. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That it isn’t voluntary?’

Libby eyed her friend warily. ‘Well – yes.’

‘Even if it isn’t, there isn’t anything we can do about it, is there?’

‘No . . .’

‘So it’s useless speculation.’ Fran grinned. ‘As it often is.’ She stood up. ‘More tea?’

‘No thanks.’ It was Libby’s turn to sigh.

Fran sat down again. ‘So tell me about this house, then. Is it big?’

‘I don’t know. It must be quite posh, I think. I can’t think exactly where it is.’

‘And you want to go and look at it, don’t you?’

Libby felt the colour begin to seep up her neck. ‘Erm . . .’

Fran laughed. ‘You’re so transparent!’

‘Oh, all right! Yes, I do. But I suppose I can’t. That really would look nosy, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes, Lib. I really think you’ll have to leave it be.’

‘If Ian had been at the pub last night, we could have asked him,’ said Libby. ‘But he wasn’t.’

Detective Chief Inspector Ian Connell frequently joined the Wednesday party in the pub, but it was no surprise when, due to the exigencies of his job, he didn’t turn up.

‘I suppose someone will have to report him missing eventually, if he doesn’t appear,’ said Fran.

‘Who, Ian?’ Libby was startled.

‘No, idiot! This Nick person.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Should I tell Colin to do that?’

‘Isn’t there someone else?’

‘Colin said he couldn’t get hold of the ex-wife. And I expect, as he seems to live in Spain a lot of the time, people would be used to him not being around.’

‘It wouldn’t hurt to mention it, I suppose. Informally.’ Fran raised an eyebrow.

‘The last time I tried to do anything informally with Ian, he got mad at me,’ said Libby.

‘Was that when you – er – mentioned something through Edward?’

‘Yes. Well, Edward does live in the same building as Ian. It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Libby grinned reminiscently. ‘Oooh, he was mad!’

‘So were you, as I remember.’

‘Yes, well. Anyway, I’ll mention it to Colin, and if he wants to, he can tell Ian.’

‘Let me know what happens,’ said Fran. ‘And now I’ll have to turf you out. I’ve got to go back to the shop. Guy’s got an appointment this afternoon.’

Back in the car, Libby wondered what to do next. There was a casserole in the slow cooker, so there was nothing to do for dinner, there were no rehearsals at the theatre that evening, and Ben wouldn’t be home for ages. She decided it was a toss-up between Patti at St Aldeberge or a visit to Jane Baker up on Cliff Terrace. Jane was the grandly titled Online Editor of the Nethergate Mercury group of local newspapers, and worked mainly at home, as the group only maintained a very small office space.

On balance, she decided against Jane, as her daughter Imogen would be home from school. Patti, on the other hand, might be anywhere, but it was worth a try.

St Aldeberge was quiet. It usually was, although there was a healthy community spirit – and an even healthier support for the pub. Patti’s own support in the village had been slow to pick up, but she had persevered, and after her involvement in the murders that Libby and Fran had helped to solve, it had strengthened. The only thing she didn’t feel able to do was to bring Anne to live in the village. That might be a step too far, she felt.

Libby drove past the Community Shop, currently closed, down the side of the church, and onto the drive in front of the vicarage. Patti appeared at the front door, beaming.

‘I’ve been looking things up!’ she called, as Libby got out of the car. ‘Is that why you’ve come?’

‘I suppose so, sort of.’ Libby locked the car and went up to the steps. ‘I was just puzzled about that Nick person. His car was still on the drive, you know.’

‘Was it?’ Patti looked surprised. ‘Colin didn’t tell us that last night.’

‘No, he told me today when he showed me round his new flat.’

‘Oh.’ Patti led the way into what she fondly referred to as her office. ‘Look.’ She pointed to a ledger lying open on her desk.

‘What am I looking at?’ Libby peered at it.

‘Here.’ Patti pointed at the handwritten heading

‘Parish Officials,’ read Libby. ‘Nick Nash! Gosh! What was he? Churchwarden?’

‘See? I knew I knew the name from somewhere. And he lives right behind the village. You remember the two cottages by the side of the inlet?’

‘How could I forget?’ said Libby with a shudder.

‘Well, his house is right behind there, not far from Dunton House. You must have been able to see it when you and Fran went exploring.’

Libby nodded slowly. ‘But no reason to take any notice of it then. How do you get to it?’

‘You remember the little lane leading to the Willoughby Oak? There’s a lane leading the other way, straight up to it. That’s the way Colin would have taken his friend.’

‘Hmm.’ Libby was thoughtful. ‘Fran and I walked all over that land, almost down to the cliff. That was when I thought it looked like Rupert Bear smugglers’ country.’

Patti nodded her head. ‘I mentioned that last night. Rupert was a TV puppet, wasn’t he?’

Libby was shocked. ‘No! Well, they eventually made him into one, but he was originally a Daily Express strip cartoon character. Then they made him into annuals. . . .