Murder Under the Cliff

Book 27: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

An investigation into the sale of a plot of land takes a darker turn when a body is found on a cliffside. Libby Sarjeant and her friend Fran reluctantly agree to investigate the case.

It's clear that there's more than a dodgy development deal at play - but can Libby and Fran unravel the puzzling case before it's too late?

This gripping and twisty crime mystery novel is is the perfect read for fans of Richard Osman, the Reverend Richard Coles and LJ Ross.

Praise for Lesley Cookman:

'With fascinating characters and an intriguing plot, this is a real page turner' KATIE FFORDE

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

'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: June 19, 2025

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 304

Sample

‘Seen the news?’ Harry Price, chef patron of the Pink Geranium restaurant in Steeple Martin, sat down opposite his customer and placed two glasses of red wine on the table.

‘What news?’ Libby Sarjeant picked up one of the glasses and took an appreciative sip.

‘About Steeple Well. Donna told me.’

‘Donna does live there. I suppose she would know.’

Steeple Well, just off the Canterbury Road past the Cattlegreen Nursery, was a collection of disparate houses of different periods. An old well, long since dried up and now filled in, had presumably been the reason the first houses had been built there, but now they simply hung around with no particular purpose. There was no village shop, church or pub, and not even a proper street layout. Harry’s right-hand woman, Donna, lived there with her surgeon husband and two children.

‘You know that big old barn? That used to be part of Taylor’s Farm?’ Harry went on.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby. ‘Yes, I went there.’

‘Bit of land that belongs to the barn is being sold off for development.’ Harry sat back in his chair and nodded smugly at Libby’s astonished face.

‘Oh, it can’t be! Who’s selling it? Who bought the barn?’

‘I don’t know. The word is that the owner’s holding out for a high price.’

Libby shook her head. ‘What is it with these people? We had all that trouble over at the Dunton estate with that company wanting to build on the nature reserve, then there were the redevelopment problems at the golf course—’

‘That didn’t end up so badly,’ interrupted Harry. ‘Colin and Gerry bought their house over there.’

‘I know.’ Libby stared gloomily into her wine. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if they were building social housing – or at least affordable houses. But it’s always luxury homes.’

‘In pretty places,’ agreed Harry. ‘Anyway, enough of that – why are you here? Have you had a row with somebody?’

‘No!’ Libby looked offended. ‘I came in for lunch.’

‘And I gave you a very nice bowl of bitsa soup.’

‘Bits of soup?’ She frowned.

‘Bitsa, petal. Bitsa this and bitsa that. Scrapings from the bottom of the veg basket.’

‘Oh.’ Libby smiled. ‘And very nice it was, too.’ She looked round the almost empty room. ‘Not very busy today? I’m surprised.’

‘Why? People go shopping on Saturdays and they don’t do it in the village. I’m booked solid tonight.’

‘That’s a pity.’

Harry’s brows rose. ‘Why? I’m quite pleased about it.’

‘Because Ron’s coming to the Pocket tonight, to do a little solo set.’

Ron ‘Screwball’ Stewart had once been the frontman, guitarist and drummer of the hugely popular prog-rock band Jonah Fludde, and the Pocket, or Hop Pocket, to give it its full name, was the restored village pub owned by Libby’s partner, Ben Wilde.

‘Oh, bum!’ said Harry. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘He only told Ben this morning. Or asked him, I should say. He’s got quite friendly with John Cole, apparently, and he and Maria often come over, so he asked Ben if he minded.’

‘Don’t you need a music licence?’

‘John plays the piano in the bar at least once a week and no one’s ever said anything. And it’s not paid – it’s just like a party.’ Libby finished her wine. ‘So come over if you’re closed in time.’

‘I shall boot the punters out as early as I can,’ said Harry.

Ben and Libby arrived at the Hop Pocket that evening to find several friends already gathered in the bar, including Ron Stewart and his wife, Maria, sitting with vicar Beth and her husband, John.

‘Beth invited us for dinner,’ said Maria, giving Libby a kiss, ‘so Ron decided to bring his guitar. Not a proper gig or anything.’

‘Very exciting,’ said old Richard Brandon, one of Steeple Martin’s newest residents. ‘I was a great fan, you know.’

‘Thanks, Brandon.’ Ron gave the old man a grin. ‘I’ll do a couple of the old Fludde numbers just for you.’

While Ben went to the bar to buy drinks and commune with his manager, Simon, Brandon turned to Libby.

‘Wanted a word with you, me dear,’ he said. ‘Have you heard about this business up at Steeple Well?’

Libby nodded. ‘Actually, yes – only today. Harry’s bookkeeper, Donna, lives there. I hadn’t seen or heard anything on the news. Why?’

‘One of those happy coincidences.’ Brandon settled back in his chair and lifted his pint. A veteran actor of the old school, he loved telling a tale. ‘Turns out, although I had no idea, that an old friend of mine lives there!’ He nodded, smiling. ‘Wouldn’t believe it in a book, would you?’

Libby, no stranger to coincidences, shook her head.

‘Ever heard of the Great Demonda?’ Brandon leant forward.

‘Vaguely.’ Libby frowned. ‘Music hall?’

‘Not quite that old, dear.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘He used to do panto with me in the old days. And TV, of course. Guest on all the big-name shows.’ He gazed reminiscently over Libby’s head. ‘Demon Demonda, they called him.’

‘Oh – a magician!’ Libby remembered. ‘Yes, of course!’

‘Well, that’s who’s living up at Steeple Well. Right next door to where this piece of land is going to be sold.’ Brandon shook his head. ‘Very worried about it, he is. Him and his neighbour.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Libby smiled her thanks to Ben, who had handed her a glass. ‘You remember I told you about that business up at Steeple Well earlier, Ben? Well, Brandon’s got a friend living there, right next door to the land that’s being sold.’

‘Haven’t they raised objections?’ asked Ben. ‘The council are obliged to advertise and ask for objections.’

‘I’m not sure.’ Brandon looked worried. ‘I don’t think Barty knows much about the legal side of things.’

‘Well, I’d get him to look into it, if I were you,’ said Ben.

‘Oh, I’m sure he is – him and Terry. See,’ Brandon leant even further forward, confidentially, ‘they think there’s something a bit off about it.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

‘Oh, dear.’ Libby tried to look sympathetic. ‘I hope they can sort it out.’

Brandon sat back looking dissatisfied, and Ron stood up and winked at Libby.

‘Come on, John,’ he said, hoisting his guitar from under the table. ‘Let’s go and make some noise.’

Ben gave Libby a quizzical look. ‘Old men making a fuss about nothing?’ he asked in a low voice.

‘Maybe.’ Libby looked thoughtful. ‘I’m not sure exactly which bit of land is being sold. There’s the barn, and I don’t know who bought that, but where is the land that’s being sold? Behind it? How would you get to it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ben frowned. ‘Any company wanting to build would have researched that.’

‘The builders who wanted to knock down the Crooked Horse didn’t,’ said Libby.

‘But they did. That’s why they wanted to knock the old place down. I hope somebody isn’t going to try knocking anything down up at the Well.’

‘Perhaps I ought to go and see Brandon’s friend?’ suggested Libby, with a wary look at her best beloved.

‘Why would you do that?’ Ben leant back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. ‘No one’s asked you to look into anything, have they?’

‘Well, Brandon said—’ began Libby.

Ben sighed. ‘Just leave it, Lib.’

Ron and John were going down a storm by the time Harry and Peter arrived just after ten o’clock.

‘Kicked the punters out early, then?’ said Libby, as Harry dragged a chair over to their table while Peter went to the bar.

‘Didn’t need to.’ Harry stretched out his legs. ‘They’d all gone by quarter to.’ He gave her a grin. ‘Heard a bit of goss, though.’

Beth, sitting next to Libby, leant forward and gave him a minatory look.

‘It’s all right, vicar dear,’ said Harry placatingly. ‘Not nasty goss – just something of interest to our old trout here.’

Beth, who had not heard the previous conversation with Brandon, looked interested. ‘Are you investigating again, Libby?’

‘No,’ said Libby firmly.

‘She might!’ said Harry. ‘That old barn – up at Steeple Well.’

‘Oh, I remember that!’ said Beth.

‘You would,’ said Libby. ‘You got quite involved in all that, didn’t you?’

‘Anyway,’ said Harry, tapping the table with an imperious finger. ‘That barn – it’s being sold. And no one knows who owns it now.’

‘You told me earlier that it was a piece of land behind the barn,’ said Libby.

‘Donna and her old man came in tonight for their anniversary,’ said Harry, ‘and gave me the update. And it looks like exactly what was happening over at the old Horse.’

‘Somebody buying it just to sell to the developers?’ Libby looked round at Brandon. ‘Hear that, Brandon?’

‘Eh?’ Brandon leant forward looking confused. Libby explained.

‘Ah. So old Barty was right.’ He sighed and nodded his head wisely. ‘Something not kosher.’

‘I don’t think you’re supposed to say that nowadays,’ muttered Beth.

Harry and Libby exchanged a surreptitious grin.

‘Going to pop up and have a look now, Libby?’ Brandon lifted his glass. ‘I’ll come with you, if you like.’

‘Oh, I don’t think there’s anything I could do, Brandon,’ said Libby, casting another wary look at Ben, who was now sitting with friends from the Steeple Martin Morris side and joining in lustily with the singing.

‘Now don’t give me that!’ Brandon wagged a finger at her. ‘Come on, let’s make it an outing.’

‘Oh, go on, petal.’ Harry smiled and patted her arm. ‘You know you want to.’

Libby looked at Beth and shrugged. ‘Can’t get out of it, can I?’

‘Well, you can’t go tomorrow,’ said Ben on the way home. ‘It’s Sunday.’

Sunday lunch at the Manor with Ben’s mother, Hetty, was an immovable feast.

‘No, I know. But we could go on Monday. If you don’t mind.’

‘I don’t mind.’ Ben gave her arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve said before, it wouldn’t be Libby Sarjeant if she wasn’t investigating. Remember that time you tried to back out completely and everybody got worried about you?’

‘Oh – that was the Turkish business, wasn’t it? Yes, I remember.’ Libby fished her keys out of her bag. ‘That was nasty, but I did like that little village. We haven’t had a holiday since, have we?’

‘No. Hal’s still got the beach house on the Isle of Wight, though. I’m sure we could pop over there for a few days, if you’d like?’

Libby opened the front door of number 17 Allhallow’s Lane and tripped over Sidney the cat.

‘So we could. In fact – did he tell you? – he’s actually taking Jeanette over there for a long weekend.’

‘Jeanette?’ Ben looked astonished. ‘Jeanette his mother?’

‘We only know one Jeanette, don’t we?’ Libby led the way into the kitchen. ‘Nightcap?’

Harry and his birth mother, Jeanette Price, had been reunited some years ago, after Harry had become the astounded beneficiary of Ship House on the Isle of Wight.

‘I think I need it!’ said Ben. ‘I didn’t realise he’d stayed that closely in touch with her.’

Libby fetched a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. ‘And his dad. Although Keith’s a bit frail these days. Apparently, he invited them both.’

‘Blimey! That could have been awkward.’ Ben took his glass and sat down.

‘Oh, I think they all made their peace ages ago,’ said Libby, sitting next to him. ‘Anyway, I think it’s rather nice.’

‘It is.’ Ben looked sideways at her. ‘Are we expected to welcome them into the Steeple Martin fold as well?’

‘If Hal wants to invite them here, yes!’ Libby gave him a dig in the ribs. ‘Don’t be a grump.’

On Monday morning, Libby drove herself and Brandon to Steeple Well through a positively summer-like October morning. The trees that bordered the narrow lane that led off the Canterbury Road were all gold and rust-coloured, and she parked under one of them, mindful of the oven-like propensities of a steel box left in the sun.

‘Which one’s Barty’s?’ she asked, as she held the passenger door open for Brandon.

‘That one.’ He pointed to the nearest of a pair of cottages that stood partially in front of the barn Libby remembered.

‘So their back gardens run practically alongside the barn.’ She frowned. ‘No wonder they’re worried.’

Brandon didn’t look worried. In fact, he looked remarkably cheerful as he approached the red-painted front door. It swung open before he reached it, revealing a small, round man with a suspiciously black goatee and a shining red face.

‘Brandon!’ he yelled. ‘You came!’

‘Barty!’ Brandon yelled back. ‘Of course I did!’

Libby hovered in the background while fond expressions of delight were exchanged, until another man, equally small but thin as a whippet, appeared from behind Barty.

‘And this is my dear friend Terry,’ announced Barty. ‘This is the great Richard Brandon, Terry.’

Terry didn’t look quite as delighted as Barty, Libby thought, but he held out his hand with a brief ‘Pleased ter meetcher’.

‘And this is Libby Sarjeant.’ Brandon turned back and waved an arm in Libby’s direction. ‘She’s here to help.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about . . .’ began Libby, rather startled.

‘Don’t be modest, dear.’ Brandon led her forward, and to her surprise, she found herself enfolded in a heavily scented hug.

‘Delighted, my dear, delighted!’ Barty crowed. Libby decided that Barty had no volume control. ‘Here, Terry! The famous Libby Sarjeant!’

To her surprise, Terry’s face twitched into a warm smile as he held out a hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Libby,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard all about you. And . . . Fran, is it?’

‘Oh!’ Libby smiled back and shook the proffered hand. ‘Who from?’

Terry tapped the side of his nose. ‘That’d be telling!’

‘Don’t be tiresome, dear,’ said Barty. ‘Joe and that lovely boy Owen, for a start, Libby. Very fond of you, Owen is.’

Joe and Nella and their son Owen ran the Cattlegreen Nursery just off the Canterbury Road before the turning for Steeple Well.

‘They’re a lovely family,’ agreed Libby.

‘Now, come along in, dears, and see what we’re up against.’ Barty led the way into the cottage. Libby was amused to see the walls lined with posters and photographs, all featuring the Great Demonda, and in a glass-fronted cabinet in the crowded sitting room, a selection of what were obviously favourite props from the magician’s career.

‘He misses it, you know,’ said Terry quietly, noticing the direction of Libby’s gaze.

‘I can tell,’ she whispered back.

‘There!’ Barty threw open double French doors leading onto a small patio. ‘See?’

Brandon and Libby stepped outside and peered down the small garden. At the bottom, beyond a low fence, stretched an uninterrupted view of the Kentish countryside.

‘And where do they want to build?’ asked Libby.

‘Come with me.’ Barty marched briskly past them and across the tidy lawn. At the fence, he waved an arm to their left, where, on the other side of a red-brick wall, they could see the back of Taylor’s Barn and a modern-looking garden. ‘See? They want to sell it off so they can build on the fields.’ He looked fierce. ‘They don’t care about knocking the old barn down. We thought we were going to have new neighbours living there, not a building site!’

‘I thought the barn was listed?’ Libby was frowning over the wall. ‘I actually went there a few years ago.’

‘We heard.’ Terry came up beside her. ‘Joe told us what happened. As far as we know – and we would, living next door – no one’s lived there since those Darlings.’

‘You’ve been here some time, then?’ Brandon asked. ‘I didn’t realise.’

‘Barty’s been here for six or seven years. My cottage came up for sale three years ago. Right in the middle of the pandemic.’ Terry smiled at his neighbour. ‘And very happy I’ve been.’

‘Well, dears, it turns out the barn isn’t listed,’ said Barty. ‘And it was my lovely nephew who found out all about the sale. Although I don’t think he realised how upset we’d be.’

‘Nephew?’ repeated Brandon. ‘I didn’t know . . .’

‘No,’ Terry muttered. ‘Neither did I.’

‘Come inside and have some coffee,’ said Barty, rubbing his hands together. ‘And we’ll tell you all about it.’

He led the way back up the garden, Brandon by his side. With a last look at the beautiful view, Libby followed with Terry.

‘Were you in the business, too?’ she asked him.

Terry inclined his head, not looking at her.

‘Does that mean “keep off”?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Sorry – I expect you’ll have heard I’m known for being nosy.’

He gave her a sideways smile. ‘I had. Which is why you’re successful.’

‘Successful?’

‘As a sleuth. Asking the questions no one else dares.’ He stood aside for her to go ahead of him into the sitting room. ‘And you don’t have to keep off. I just don’t talk about it.’

Barty and Brandon had gone into the kitchen, a tiny room from which came the familiar sound of a coffee machine.

‘Sit down, Libby. We’ll leave them to catch up for a bit, shall we?’ Terry sat on one of the overstuffed armchairs either side of the fireplace. Libby chose the end of the matching sofa and crossed her legs.

‘It sounded back there as if you weren’t too keen on Barty’s nephew,’ she said. ‘There you are. First nosy question.’

Terry leant back in his chair and passed a hand over his wispy grey hair. The gesture struck Libby as familiar, but she couldn’t think why.

‘I don’t really know him.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘I was just surprised when he turned up.’

After money? Libby wondered, but decided that might be a question too far.

‘Recently, then? After you’d moved here?’

‘Yes.’ Terry looked up. ‘About six months ago.’ He continued to look at her. ‘Very helpful.’

Libby stared back. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘He would be.’

Terry nodded. ‘Don’t let me prejudice you. If you should meet him.’

Libby raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘You think I shall?’

‘Oh, yes.’ His smile was faintly ironic. ‘I’m sure you will.’

‘Now then, Terry!’ Barty bustled in with a tray. ‘Don’t you be questioning our visitor! You don’t have to do that any more.’

Questioning? Libby looked back at Terry. He said he’d been in the job. Did he mean the police, not the theatre?

Brandon laughed. ‘Come on, Libby! Don’t you recognise him?’

Terry sighed heavily, got up and walked back to the French doors.

‘You’re Terry Cartwright!’ Libby gasped, the penny finally dropping. ‘I’m sorry – I should have recognised you.’

‘Oh, he’ll be relieved,’ said Barty, setting the tray down on an oversized coffee table. ‘He can’t get away from the Decent Detective.’

Libby watched the man who had played the Decent Detective in the television series for something like ten years. He was just as unassuming and self-effacing as the character, something critics had condemned as unrealistic but the public had loved.

‘Now, come along, dears.’ Barty seated himself behind the tray. ‘How do you take your coffee?’

When they were all served, and Terry had resumed his seat, Brandon clapped his hands.

‘Right, Libby. What would you like to know?’

‘Er . . .’ Libby was startled.

‘How do you know about the developers, Barty?’ asked Brandon. ‘We didn’t know.’

‘Has it made the news now?’ said Libby. ‘My friend Harry told me on Saturday. And his right-hand person, Donna, is one of your neighbours.’

‘Yes, dear.’ Barty cocked his head and winked. ‘She told us about you, too.’

‘Oh.’ Libby picked up her coffee and sighed.

‘Anyway, you must have known about it some time ago,’ said Brandon.

‘Oh, well before it was public knowledge, dear.’ Barty leaned back and steepled his fingers. ‘We got a tip-off.’

‘Who from?’ Libby looked at Terry, anticipating the answer.

‘Rafey, dear.’ Barty beamed.

‘His nephew,’ clarified Terry.

‘Ah.’ Libby looked down into her coffee. ‘But where did he get it from?’

‘Connections,’ muttered Terry.

‘That’s Ralph, of course,’ said Barty, ‘but he pronounces it Rafe. My cousin’s child, you see, so not actually a nephew, but when he introduced himself, he called me Uncle, so we’ve stuck with it.’

‘Oh, you didn’t already know him, then?’ Brandon was looking perplexed.

‘No, dear, not until he literally turned up on the doorstep!’ Barty giggled. ‘Such a shock! I never knew much about my father’s relations, although I knew he had a brother he hadn’t seen for a long time. And he had a son who had a lovely son, Rafey.’ He beamed at them again. ‘And he knew all about me! Even though I didn’t know about them. And of course, my dear father died such a long time ago . . .’ He looked pensive for a moment. ‘But there! It’s so nice to have family again after all this time.’

There was a pause. Libby sneaked a look at Terry, who was studiously avoiding looking at anyone.

‘So Rafe told you about the sale of the barn? Or the developers?’ she asked finally.

‘Well, both, really, dear.’ Barty became confidential. ‘He heard about the developers through his work, you see, and when he heard they were trying to buy the fields over the back there, he thought he ought to warn me.’

‘How did he know you lived here, if you hadn’t met before?’ asked Brandon.

Barty’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Oh, easily, dear. Electoral register. He wanted to know what was going on – he’s got a suspicious mind, bless him – and so he looked up Steeple Well, and, well!’ He giggled again. ‘There I was!’

‘And he looked into it for you,’ said Libby. ‘That was kind of him.’

‘Oh, he’s been lovely, dear. He told us about Taylor’s Barn being on the market before anyone else knew. And he said development looked inevitable, didn’t he, Terry?’

Terry cleared his throat. ‘He did.’

‘So he asked us if we wanted to sell, too, before the news got out, so to speak.’

‘But we didn’t,’ said Terry.

‘No. And it doesn’t look right. Because we think whoever it is who’s selling Taylor’s Barn is holding out for a high price.’

‘Because access to those fields is through its land,’ added Terry.

‘Is it?’ Libby frowned. ‘Not from the other end? Wherever that is?’

‘No. The land goes right down to Steeple Cross high street – if you can call it that.’ Terry gave Libby a crooked smile. ‘I don’t think the villagers would be too pleased.’

‘Well, we’re not too pleased, either.’ Barty bridled. ‘So what do you think, Libby?’

‘It certainly doesn’t seem quite right, does it? But I don’t see what I could do about it.’ Libby put down her coffee cup and fixed Barty with a quizzical eye. ‘Why did you think I could do something?’

‘Because Joe and Donna both said how you’d been solving murders,’ said Terry, ‘and you know all ab. . .