Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘And that includes this Wicker Man effort,’ said Lewis, rounding a bend which took them to the top of a village street.

  ‘I suppose so. It’s a rebirth thing, isn’t it? I read something about Manannán mac Lir.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Manannán mac Lir,’ repeated Libby. ‘He was a sea god. Particularly in the Isle of Man, but also Wales and Cornwall, which seem to be the most pagan parts of the British Isles. The most steeped in the traditions, anyway.’

  ‘Blimey, you’re better than my researcher,’ said Lewis. ‘This looks like it, doesn’t it?’

  They had driven down the little village street past stone cottages bright with window boxes and emerged at the bottom in a tiny square (which wasn’t) that fronted the cove. Small boats were drawn up on the mixed shingle and sand beach, and the terrace of a cafe, which seemed to have grown out of the cliff-side, lay to the left, while to the right stood a solidly Victorian hotel, The Portherriot Arms.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Libby, with a sigh of pleasure.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lewis. ‘Where’s the car park?’

  ‘I don’t suppose there is one,’ said Libby. ‘There isn’t room.’

  ‘Do you mean to say we’ve got to lug everything from some bloody place up there?’ said Lewis in horror.

  ‘Let’s ask,’ said Libby, opening her door. ‘We’re cluttering up the square.’

  But as she clambered down from the vehicle a man came hurrying out of the front door of the Portherriot Arms.

  ‘Ms Osbourne-Walker?’ he said.

  ‘Er – no,’ said Libby, suppressing a giggle. ‘That’s Mr Osbourne-Walker.’

  The man, short, tubby and wearing a wonderfully flamboyant waistcoat over a checked shirt, rushed round to Lewis’s side. Libby turned to speak to cameraman Jerry and soundman Boysie.

  ‘Why Boysie?’ she’d asked earlier.

  Lewis shrugged. ‘No idea. Ask him.’

  Now, Libby eyed Boysie, with his long hair and tattoos and decided to wait until she knew him better.

  ‘Do you know what exactly you’re going to be doing while we’re here?’

  Jerry shook his head. ‘Only filming this celebration or festival, or whatever it is. Then whatever takes his lordship’s fancy.’

  ‘Has he got permission?’

  Jerry raised his eyebrows. ‘He’d better bloody have,’ he said. Boysie, a man of few words, nodded.

  ‘Car park’s round the back,’ yelled Lewis out of his window. ‘Follow me.’

  He started up without waiting for Libby to rejoin him, so she plodded along behind Jerry’s car, down the right-hand side of the hotel, which appeared to be another steeply rising lane bordered with more stone cottages and one startling pink and turquoise gift shop. Buckets, spades, inflated seagulls and seals, hats and kites fluttered outside in garish dissonance.

  The small car park adjoined an equally small garden at the back of the hotel. In Libby’s opinion, it was more pub than hotel, even though the little man in the waistcoat surely suffered delusions of grandeur.

  Lewis got out of the SUV, Jerry and Boysie got out of Jerry’s rather more battered one and waistcoat-man and two youths in jeans arrived to help with the unloading. Libby sat on a bench and watched. She was joined surreptitiously by several silent drinkers, who gathered behind her like so many ghosts.

  ‘S’that Lewis bloke orff the telly,’ came a sibilant whisper.

  ‘Ar. ’Er said ’e’d be comin’.’

  ‘Fer Mannan night?’

  ‘Ar.’

  Mannan night? thought Libby. That fits with Manannán mac Lir. She thought of turning round to ask if that was the case, then decided against it. Villagers, if these were they, might be resistant to nosy strangers. Although they hadn’t seemed opposed to Lewis.

  The equipment had been unloaded and transported inside by the two youths. Libby was joined by Lewis, Jerry, Boysie and waistcoat-man. The Greek chorus behind her melted away.

  ‘Now, let me show you to your rooms, or would you like a drink first?’ said waistcoat-man. ‘Such a long journey from London.’

  ‘Kent, actually,’ said Libby sweetly. Waistcoat-man looked as if he might say “same thing”, in which case she would have countered with “Nice place, Devon,” but with a quick look at Lewis, he held his tongue.

  ‘Drink?’ Lewis looked at his little entourage, who nodded.

  The bar, lounge bar, Libby supposed, was dark, woody and red plush. A vase of dusty paper flowers stood in the fireplace, but, apart from that, it was inviting. Through a doorway, they could see the other bar, where the villagers must gather, judging by the buzz of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter. Waistcoat-man disappeared and reappeared like a magic rabbit behind the bar.

  ‘What’s your pleasure, lady and gentlemen?’ he beamed.

  Five minutes later, settled on a surprisingly comfortable bench seat in the window with a half pint of lager, Libby smiled at her fellow travellers.

  ‘Nice ’ere, innit?’ she said.

  Jerry nodded. Boysie looked morose and Lewis looked anxious.

  ‘I hope they won’t cause trouble,’ he said.

  ‘Trouble?’ asked Libby.

  Lewis nodded towards a poster on the wall, depicting a highly coloured and improbable wicker giant falling into a positively Turner-esque sea. Mannan Night! it proclaimed.

  ‘My researcher said they were a bit sort of protective like when she spoke to them.’

  ‘Who did she speak to?’

  ‘I dunno. I spoke to your mate, and she was all right. Told me all she knew, anyway.’

  ‘Which wasn’t much, by all accounts,’ said Libby.

  ‘Just as long as they don’t turn on us,’ said Jerry, swallowing half his pint in one go.

  ‘Do they, sometimes?’

  Jerry shrugged. ‘Don’t care for meself, but they can damage the equipment.’

  ‘Did you get the impression they might be like that?’ Libby said to Lewis.

  ‘Our Shannon said they was all right about us coming, but didn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Shannon? She the researcher?’

  ‘Yeah. Worked on Housey Housey with us before.’

  ‘A lot of people came with you from Housey Housey, didn’t they?’

  ‘Guess I’m just lovable,’ said Lewis with a grin and Jerry and Boysie snorted.

  ‘Anyway, we’d better see if we can get anybody to talk to us before tomorrow night.’ Lewis finished his tonic water. ‘I’ll go and ask Trubshawe over there.’

  ‘Trubshawe? Is that his name?’ said Libby, delighted.

  ‘Nah – he just looks like one.’ Lewis grinned and went to the bar.

  Waistcoat-man, whose real name turned out disappointingly to be Jones, suggested Lewis talked to a few of the patrons of the public bar during the evening. He himself only knew of Mannan Night as a source of revenue and occasional damage. The committee, unlike many village committees, didn’t even meet here, he said, a trifle huffily.

  ‘Are any visitors staying here?’ asked Libby, joining Lewis at the bar.

  ‘Apart from yourselves, madam? I believe participating visitors are lodged with committee members or stay at the camp site at the top of the village.’ Mr Jones sounded even more put out, now. Camp sites were obviously, in his opinion, beyond the pale.

  ‘In tents?’ asked Boysie suddenly in a deep and unexpected voice.

  ‘I believe so,’ said Mr Jones. ‘And –’ he hesitated before continuing with emphasis ‘– caravans!’

  ‘Even worse,’ muttered Jerry with a concealed grin.

  ‘Wouldn’t have minded a tent,’ said Boysie. Mr Jones looked scandalised.

  After assuring Mr Jones that they would be eating in his restaurant that evening, the little party adjourned to their rooms.

  ‘See you downstairs about half past seven,’ suggested Lewis, ‘that’ll give us time to get sorted.’

  Libby unpacked her small suitcase, had a quick shower in her be
autifully appointed bathroom and changed into a long skirt and suitably ethnic-looking top. Just right for traditional folk-type festivities, she thought. Although she didn’t match the luxurious boutique-hotel-style room, she reflected. That needed Versace or Armani.

  It was still only a quarter to seven, so she decided to explore.

  The sky was overcast and the wind was turning the grey sea into dirty washing-up liquid. Bells and buckets tinkled and clanked together outside the gift shop, and on the terrace of the little cafe a harried-looking member of staff was taking down umbrellas.

  ‘Not sure if that means it’s going to get windier or not going to get wetter.’

  Libby turned to see Dan Baverstock beaming at her.

  ‘Dan! How lovely to see you,’ she said.

  ‘Lovely to see you, too, but what on earth are you doing here?’ said Dan giving her a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Oh, a friend of mine’s down here and offered to bring me away for a few days. Lewis Osbourne-Walker. I think he talked to Gemma the other day?’

  A spark of interest lit Dan’s face. ‘Oh, right! He’s a friend of yours, eh? Gemma didn’t say. He’s here to do a documentary, isn’t he?’

  ‘Just to film a bit, really,’ said Libby. ‘I expect he’ll do follow-up stuff and interviews after editing.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dan, looking bemused. ‘So he’ll be filming tomorrow night, will he?’

  ‘Is that when the ceremony takes place?’

  ‘First part.’ Dan nodded. ‘Then the second part in the morning.’

  ‘So what are the first and second parts, then?’

  ‘Burning of the Man tomorrow night,’ said Dan, ‘and then retrieving him from the sea in the morning.’

  ‘Is there anything left to retrieve if he’s burnt?’ said Libby with a shudder.

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s only set alight just before he goes in the sea – up there, look.’ Dan pointed to where the wooded cliffs rose up on one side of the bay. Libby could see some kind of edifice above the trees.

  ‘Then the bonfire carries on and there’s dancing,’ explained Dan. ‘Quite good fun.’ He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘You don’t look sure,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, well,’ Dan shrugged, ‘some of them get a bit carried away, you know.’

  ‘Not Cranston Morris, surely,’ grinned Libby. Dan looked at her quickly, then away again.

  ‘Course not,’ he said. ‘Come and have a cuppa. Gemma’s up there.’ He pointed to the cafe terrace. Libby was sure he’d been about to say something else.

  ‘So where are you staying?’ asked Libby once she was seated in a windy corner of the terrace next to Gemma. ‘Someone said something about tents.’

  ‘We’ve got our camper van,’ said Gemma, ‘but lots of them have tents.’ Now it was her turn to look uncomfortable.

  ‘Camper van’s much better, I would have thought,’ said Libby. ‘Are you all together on one site?’

  ‘Yes, a camp site owned by one of the Mannan committee,’ said Gemma. ‘It’s right near the bonfire site, so it’s really handy.’ She looked up and smiled as Dan came to the table with three white china mugs.

  ‘I’ll have to come up and see you,’ said Libby, quite fancying the idea of a camper van.

  ‘Do,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ll show you round. Dan’ll be busy with Diggory and some of the others tomorrow.’ A shadow passed over both the Baverstocks’ faces and Libby wondered why.

  ‘So.’ Gemma sat up straight and looked directly at Libby. ‘Why are you here, Libby? Have you decided to look into our murder after all?’

  Chapter Eleven

  I KNEW IT, THOUGHT Libby. ‘No,’ she said aloud. ‘I just told Dan, I’m down here with Lewis Osbourne-Walker.’

  ‘Really?’ Gemma’s face, as Dan’s had, lit up. ‘Of course! You’re a friend of his, aren’t you? I wondered why he’d phoned me and how he got the number.’

  ‘He didn’t get it from me,’ said Libby.

  ‘What about – um – Ben?’ asked Gemma.

  ‘He’s glad to get me out of his hair. His father’s ill, and he’s up at the Manor helping his mother.’

  ‘Didn’t he want you there, too?’ Gemma frowned.

  ‘Apparently not. I did ask.’ Libby frowned back.

  ‘Sorry.’ Gemma’s colour deepened. ‘So he’s all right about you coming away with Lewis?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Libby grinned. ‘After all, he’s got nothing to be jealous about, has he?’

  Gemma’s colour had now turned to beetroot. ‘Er – no, I suppose not.’

  ‘Are you part of his – er – team?’ asked Dan, clearing his throat and sending a minatory look towards his wife.

  ‘For the filming? Oh, no,’ said Libby. ‘I’m just along for the ride.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Gemma. ‘It was his house where you found –’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Libby firmly. ‘But yes. There was a murder there.’

  ‘So are you really here to –?’

  Libby sighed. ‘Gemma, I’m not here to do anything but have a couple of days off, and Lewis offered me the opportunity. He thinks of me as a second mum.’

  ‘Has he got one, then?’ Gemma looked interested.

  ‘He hardly stepped fully formed on to the set of Housey Housey, did he? Of course he’s got a mother. Very nice woman name of Edie.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure.’ Gemma lifted her chin and stared out to sea.

  ‘Well, I’d better get back to the hotel,’ said Libby, after a short uncomfortable silence. ‘We said we’d meet at 7.30.’ She stood up. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘Will you be coming to watch tomorrow night?’ asked Dan, also politely standing up.

  ‘If the others are going to film it, I shall be there. Who did they ask for permission, by the way? I know Lewis spoke to you, didn’t he Gemma?’

  ‘Someone spoke to the committee down here,’ said Gemma. ‘Not Lewis, I don’t think. He only called me to get the local idea of it. I couldn’t really tell him much.’ She looked quickly at her husband.

  ‘Right.’ Libby looked from Gemma to Dan and frowned. There was something odd going on here, she was sure, but she couldn’t quite decide if it was to do with Mannan Night or Cranston Morris itself. Whatever it was, they were ashamed of it, that much was certain.

  ‘I’m off, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll pop up to your camper tomorrow, shall I, Gem? Have you got your mobile with you? I could give you a ring to find out when it’s convenient.’

  Gemma fished into her tapestry shoulder bag and pulled out a mobile phone. Libby punched the number into her own, and with a wave, left the Baverstocks to their contemplation of the unsettled sea. It was by now almost half past seven, but before she went back to the Portherriot Arms she decided to pay a visit to the little gift shop.

  She nearly fell down the step into its dark interior and was greeted by an uninterested voice. ‘Mind the step,’ it said.

  The interior of the shop was as cluttered as its exterior. Presents and postcards from Cornwall, from Portherriot, even from the Eden Project, abounded. China dogs, wishing wells, piskies, and pirates jostled each other on the shelves, and a giant freezer hummed and shook slightly in the corner, covering “genuine Cornish Ice Cream” with crystals like the Snow Queen’s palace.

  At the back of the shop, behind a counter piled high with magazines and comics, Libby eventually discerned a shape. At first it appeared to be entirely round and dark, but on going closer, middle-parted hair fell to navy-sweatered shoulders, surrounding a swarthy face adorned with an incipient moustache. Male or female, Libby wasn’t sure. Two bright eyes followed her progress round the shop.

  ‘Do you sell cigarettes?’ Libby didn’t need any, but she felt she was expected to buy something. The shape nodded, and Libby asked for her brand.

  ‘Good night, is it?’ she asked, noticing another poster for Mannan Night as she accepted her change.

  The sharp eyes fell, and there was a barely perceptible shr
ug.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Libby, and tripped up the step. ‘Mind the step’ followed her out into the lane.

  Lewis, Jerry and Boysie were waiting for her in the “lounge”. Mr Jones bustled over and asked once again after her pleasure.

  ‘I just met my friends the Baverstocks,’ Libby said, when he had gone to fetch her glass of wine. ‘I’m going up to the encampment tomorrow and Gemma’s going to show me round.’

  ‘Can we come?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. This is an old mates thing, and you’d inhibit her. I’m going to see her camper van.’ Libby smiled up at Mr Jones as he set her glass down in front of her.

  ‘We’ll have to find some of the other – what was it he called them? Participants.’ Lewis took a small sip of tonic water. ‘I need to talk to the main man, don’t I?’ He appealed to his sound and camera men.

  ‘You got Shannon’s notes,’ said Jerry. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I’ll ask old Trubshawe,’ said Lewis.

  ‘The organiser?’ said Mr Jones, thus appealed to. ‘Well, I suppose Florian Malahyde would be the one to ask. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Where would Florian Malahyde be found?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Just up the way,’ said Mr Jones, gesticulating. ‘The shop.’

  ‘The gift shop?’ Libby’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Just so,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, the restaurant …’

  ‘Is Florian a man’s or a woman’s name?’ asked Libby, as Mr Jones hurried away.

  ‘Man’s,’ said Jerry. ‘If it’s a woman it’s Flora.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby looked at the table, frowning. ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘How?’ said three voices.

  ‘I went into the shop after I talked to Gemma and Dan Baverstock,’ said Libby. ‘It’s a funny little seaside gift shop up the lane there. He didn’t seem to want to talk about Mannan Night, though. I asked.’

  ‘Why?’ said Lewis.

  ‘There was a poster on the wall.’

  ‘And you didn’t know if it was a man or a woman?’ said Jerry.