Murder in the Green

MURDER IN THE GREEN

LESLEY COOKMAN

Publisher Information

Published by Accent Press Ltd

Digital Edition converted and published by Andrews UK Ltd 2010

Copyright © Lesley Cookman 2010

The right of Lesley Cookman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

Cover Design by Nathan Mackintosh,

Zipline Creative

Dedication

For my granddaughter, Kitty

Acknowledgements

First, I’d like to rectify a mistake I made in Libby and Fran’s last adventure by acknowledging Miles Cookman and Chris Coates as the inspiration behind
Murder In Bloom
. Thanks, lads.

There are a number of people and organisations to whom thanks are due for background information to
Murder In The Green
, chiefly the original Mepal Molly Men and Bogshole Mummers; Dixie Lee and the organisers of Whitstable’s May Day celebrations; and special thanks to my daughter Louise who had the idea in the first place.

And to fellow members of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Happy 50th Birthday to us!

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.’