Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  Libby felt a frisson of apprehension. ‘Why? What about?’

  ‘Because she’ll probably know what Lethbridge meant about being Wagnerian. Did he actually know his opera or was it just a phrase – a cliché.’

  ‘I was just thinking about that,’ said Libby. ‘I wondered if he was referring to Elizabeth Martin. She’s a fiery redhead. Could that be Wagnerian?’

  ‘The avenging warrior queen. Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘But I don’t see what he had to do with her. Or whether he was just talking about Frensham having had an affair with her.’

  ‘No – unless there was some reason he shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Of course there was,’ scoffed Libby. ‘He was married.’

  ‘But Lethbridge had an affair with Frensham’s wife. He was in no position to disapprove.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Libby. ‘You mean another criminal reason?’

  ‘I don’t know either, but yes,’ said Ian. ‘But meanwhile, I want you to ask Monica if she knows what Lethbridge meant. Will you do that?’

  ‘Just me?’ squeaked Libby. ‘Without Fran?’

  ‘Fran’s got cold feet, I think,’ said Ian. ‘She sounded very distant just now.’

  ‘Perhaps she was being tactful because Guy was there.’

  ‘I didn’t think he minded her getting involved in your Miss Marple outings?’ said Ian, in some surprise.

  ‘He doesn’t, but I think he’s still a bit jealous of you,’ said Libby. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying.’

  Ian chuckled. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘So again, pardon me for asking, but why aren’t you going to talk to Monica?’

  ‘Because it’s a very small question within a very big case, and I’m snowed under. We’ve also got this drugs distribution ring we’re trying to track down at the moment, which, of course, I didn’t tell you about.’

  ‘No.’ Libby nodded to herself sagely. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So, will you do it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘As soon as possible, I suppose?’

  When Ian had rung off, she frowned at the phone wondering if she should call Fran. How would she feel if Ian asked Fran to do something without her? Which of course, he had done, earlier in their association. But Fran had always apprised her of whatever the situation was. She punched in the number.

  ‘He said you sounded distant,’ said Libby, when she’d finished telling Fran what Ian had asked her to do.

  ‘Nothing to do with him,’ said Fran. ‘Chrissie’s here.’

  ‘Omigod.’

  ‘Quite. Can you cope on your own? I’ve got something you might want to hear, so I’ll call you as soon as I’m able.’

  ‘You don’t want moral support?’

  ‘I don’t think she’d appreciate that,’ said Fran, with a sigh. ‘She’s just sent Guy off with a flea in his ear.’

  ‘Bloody cheek!’

  ‘I know, but the quicker I listen the quicker – I’ll have to go.’

  ‘OK. Speak to you later.’ Libby switched off the phone and frowned at it again. Whatever did Chrissie want? She sighed and went back to the kitchen. Time to formulate a plan.

  The trouble was, Libby wasn’t good at formulating plans. She needed Fran there to bounce ideas back and forth. The first thing, she supposed, was whether to ring Monica first or not. She could always ask her the question over the phone, although she rather thought Ian would want her to do it face to face. Anyway, it was a start.

  ‘Will you be in this afternoon?’ asked Libby, after introducing herself.

  ‘Yes, up till about three,’ said Monica. ‘Why?’

  ‘Inspector Connell has asked me to ask you a couple of questions,’ said Libby.

  ‘Did he not want to ask them himself?’ Monica’s voice had turned frosty.

  ‘He’s so busy – working on your husband’s death, of course – and as this is a tiny little query he deputised me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Monica went quiet. ‘Nothing very serious, then?’

  ‘It could be,’ said Libby. ‘Can I pop over, then? I won’t keep you long.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Monica grudgingly, ‘but make it before two thirty. I’m supposed to be at Anderson Place just after three.’

  ‘Oh, really? Are you going to see Sir Jonathan? He told me he had quite a soft spot for you.’

  ‘Did he?’ Monica audibly softened. ‘You know him, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes, quite well. Give him my love. I actually saw him on Saturday, but not for long enough.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Monica, obviously thinking as she spoke, ‘why don’t you come over here and ask your questions, then we could both go and have tea with Sir Jonathan.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Libby, ‘but I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t be,’ said Monica blithely. ‘He’d be delighted, you know he would.’

  ‘All right then,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll be at yours around a quarter to three. OK?’

  How surprising, she thought, as she went into the kitchen to find herself some lunch.

  The journey took slightly longer this time than last, partly because Libby was distracted by some particularly lovely views, which she had to stop and look at. This was the part of Kent the tourists didn’t see, the tiny lanes that would give Devon a run for its money. The real country, with real country people, real farmers and real villagers, not incomers (she felt a pang of guilt at this) who bought up and prettified the cottages and priced the locals out of the market. Or built houses like this, she thought, as she turned once more on to Monica Frensham’s gravelled drive.

  Monica, in pale green to match her furniture, opened the front door, a sparkling smile on her face.

  ‘So nice to see you again!’ she said. ‘Do come in for a moment. I won’t offer tea, as we’ll have some at Anderson Place.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Libby, sitting in the same place as before. ‘It was very nice of you to agree to see me.’

  Monica shrugged. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve hardly seen anybody. At first I couldn’t bear to talk to anyone, except the children, but now I wouldn’t mind some company, most people seem afraid to talk to me. That was why I was so grateful to receive Sir Jonathan’s invitation.’

  ‘He’s an old sweetie, isn’t he?’ said Libby, and found herself telling Monica about her previous adventure involving him and Anderson Place. ‘And he’s already offered to help with this investigation,’ she finished.

  ‘Really? You’ve talked to him about it?’ Monica’s tone became fractionally colder.

  ‘Oh, no, not really. You see Fran and I were at a hen party there and one of the other guests worked for your husband’s company.’ Libby hoped this rather incomplete version of events would satisfy Monica. It did.

  ‘Oh, I see!’ she said. ‘Who was it? Might I know them?’

  ‘A girl called Trisha,’ said Libby. ‘I think she works for Barry Phillips?’

  Monica was frowning. ‘Trisha? Is she blonde?’

  ‘Ye-es. Rather a nice girl. A bit – um – ditsy, I suppose you might call it. She used to work with the girl who was getting married.’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ Monica’s face cleared. ‘Not that I know her well, of course, but I did meet her. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit delicate,’ said Libby, clearing her throat. ‘We need to ask you something about John Lethbridge.’ She stopped as she saw Monica’s face change. ‘No, please, it’s just that you knew him better than anyone else we’ve talked to.’

  ‘Except Wilhelmina,’ said Monica.

  ‘That’s just it. We and the police have talked to Wilhelmina, and we rather think you knew him better than she did.’

  A faint expression of gratification passed over Monica’s face. ‘In some ways,’ she said.

  ‘He made a comment, in Wilhelmina’s hearing, about something being positively Wagnerian. Now,’ said Libby, leaning forward, ‘this p
robably sounds pathetic and petty, but she had no idea what he meant, didn’t even know what Wagnerian was. In view of the comment, the police would like to know if John really knew Wagner, or if it was just a – a – oh, you know, a well-known phrase or saying.’

  Monica frowned. ‘You’re right, it does sound pathetic and petty, but I’ll take your word for it. John loved opera. It was one taste we shared, although I prefer the ballet. So if he described something as Wagnerian, that’s what he meant. In the true sense of the word.’

  ‘And what would that be? In your opinion, of course.’

  ‘Wagnerian? Oh, large, grand. In fact Grand Guignol, almost. Perhaps without the horror.’

  ‘We thought of Brunnhilde,’ said Libby. ‘She’d be the female personification of Wagnerian, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘She would!’ Monica clapped her hands, delighted. ‘You know your Wagner, too, then.’

  ‘The Ring Cycle, yes,’ said Libby modestly, not admitting that her knowledge was based on the extremely funny Anna Russell explanation she had on a CD at home.

  ‘Have you ever seen it?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby, ‘and I can’t say I’d want to sit through all twenty hours at once, either.’

  ‘You have to do it on consecutive days,’ said Monica. ‘We did it – John and I – about a year ago.’ She bowed her head. ‘When we were getting to know each other.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby made a face. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean –’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Monica looked up. ‘He wasn’t mine, was he. I shouldn’t be mourning him. I have my husband to mourn.’

  Oh, goodness, thought Libby.

  ‘Anyway,’ Monica went on, sitting up straight and smoothing her brown hair, ‘that’s what John would have meant.’ She paused, looking thoughtful.

  ‘Have you thought of something?’ asked Libby, after a moment.

  ‘No.’ Monica’s eyes refocused. ‘Sorry. I was just remembering. Shall we go?’

  You weren’t just remembering, thought Libby, as she stood up. You just thought of something. I wonder what it was?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  THEY TOOK BOTH CARS, although Monica offered to drive Libby, but Libby wanted the means to make a quick getaway. As Monica had predicted, Sir Jonathan was delighted to see Libby, and took them upstairs to his room on the first floor, where tea things had already been laid out.

  ‘I’ll just boil the kettle,’ he said disappearing into a cubbyhole at the other end of the room.

  ‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it,’ said Monica, gazing round.

  ‘He’s got an apartment right at the top of the building, too,’ said Libby. ‘I think he’s been very clever turning what could have been an albatross into such a thriving business.’

  ‘I didn’t do it all on my own, you know.’ Sir Jonathan came up behind them, beaming at Libby. He put the silver teapot down on the tray.

  ‘So, my dear, thank you for coming to see me.’ He handed Monica a cup. ‘I was so sorry when I heard of Bill’s death. He was a good customer who became a friend. A good supplier, too, of course.’

  ‘Was he?’ Monica looked puzzled.

  ‘He set up their website,’ said Libby. ‘And did the marketing.’

  ‘And office supplies, of course,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘Always came personally to see me, even though I don’t really have anything to do with the business. Our Melanie came via Frensham Holdings, as well.’

  A light went on inside Libby’s head. Why hadn’t she thought of asking Mel?

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t realise,’ Monica was saying. ‘I only ever came here to functions. Bill never discussed the business with me. That’s why –’ she stopped.

  Sir Jonathan quirked an eyebrow at Libby, who made a face.

  ‘Why you want to find out what’s going on there?’ she suggested.

  ‘Exactly.’ Monica turned to her in relief. ‘I told you, didn’t I? That Elizabeth Martin is making it very difficult.’

  ‘Forgive me, my dear,’ said Sir Jonathan, ‘but surely you’re now the majority shareholder?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean to say they can tell me what’s going on,’ said Monica. ‘I think Barry – Mr Phillips – would, but Mrs Martin, well, she just wants to keep me out of everything.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know what she doesn’t want me to find.’

  Sir Jonathan frowned. ‘I wish I could help,’ he said, shooting another interrogative glance at Libby. ‘I don’t know the lady well enough.’

  ‘You’ve met her, though?’ Monica looked up.

  ‘Oh, yes, at functions here, like yourself. I got the impression that she was taking over the supplies part of the business.’

  ‘From whom?’ Monica’s voice went right up the scale.

  ‘Well – your husband –’

  ‘I meant who did you hear it from?’

  ‘Ah – I’m afraid I don’t know.’ He was looking uncomfortable now. ‘Someone in the office, I assume.’

  ‘That’s all right, Monica, we can find out,’ soothed Libby. ‘Don’t worry about it now.’ She smiled brightly at Sir Jonathan. ‘Lovely cake,’ she said, taking a slice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Monica, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know what gets into me.’

  Libby patted her hand. ‘Your husband was murdered, that’s what’s got into you. It’s enough to cope with by itself, without any added business complications. Now, cheer up and have some of this lovely cake.’

  The tea party then resolved itself into more conventional terms. Sir Jonathan was the perfect host and treated Monica like precious china, so much so that by the time Libby deemed it suitable to take her leave, she was quite happy to stay when Sir Jonathan pressed her to a fresh pot of tea. Libby said goodbye and was accompanied to the door by Sir Jonathan.

  ‘Thank you for smoothing over the awkward moment,’ he said quietly. ‘I wasn’t sure what to do.’

  ‘She’s desperate to find out what’s going on in the company,’ whispered Libby, ‘and to find out what happened to the man who they thought was Bill’s killer.’

  ‘And wasn’t he?’

  ‘No, it turns out he was already dead,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Sir Jonathan pulled at his white moustache. ‘I’ll do what I can to keep her mind off it. But I really think they ought to let her into the business.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Libby, ‘but they aren’t keen on anyone getting inside, customers or shareholders.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sir Jonathan raised his eyebrows. ‘We’ll have to see about that, or I’ll be changing my suppliers.’

  ‘Is it all right if I pop in to see Mel?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Of course.’ Sir Jonathan kissed her cheek. ‘Take care, my dear.’

  All that old world charm, thought Libby, as she walked down the staircase. If only I were older.

  Melanie was found in her office at the end of the main corridor on the ground floor, looking far more like the Mel Libby had first met with Harry. Obviously not on front of house duties today, she was dressed in torn jeans, a studded leather collar and a T-shirt.

  ‘I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Frensham Holdings, actually, if you don’t mind,’ said Libby, after the niceties were out of the way.

  Mel put her booted feet on the desk and raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh? Mrs Sarjeant Investigates?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve heard.’

  ‘We could hardly avoid it, could we? So what do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m not really sure,’ said Libby. ‘Anything you remember from your days working for them.’

  Mel put her feet down and leant her elbows on the desk. ‘I didn’t work for them,’ she said. ‘I worked for another of their clients. And I find this job far more congenial. More freedom. As far as I could see they didn’t ever seem to let anybody know what was going on.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Libby nodded. ‘That’s what Mrs Frensham’s finding now.’

  ‘Mrs Frensham?’ Mel looked surprised. ‘In the business
?’

  ‘Well, no,’ said Libby. ‘They won’t let her get near it, even though she’s the majority shareholder.’

  ‘She was never interested before. At least that’s what we were told. And Elizabeth Martin would never let anyone near old Bill, anyway.’

  ‘Were they having an affair back then?’

  ‘We all thought so, but there was another woman as well. We saw her a couple of times.’

  ‘Blonde? A bit tarty?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘Wilhelmina Lethbridge,’ said Libby, and told Mel all about it.

  ‘We’ve had a couple of deliveries of office supplies since Bill died,’ said Mel when she’d finished, ‘but they’ve been using a third party delivery service. They used to come with someone in a car. Often it was Bill himself. Keeping in with old Jonathan, I think.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Jonathan said he made personal visits. You don’t sound as though you were over-smitten, though.’

  ‘No.’ Mel shook her head. ‘Always felt there was something funny about the company. I mean, Barry Phillips was good at his job, and they had some good people working there, but, I don’t know, the Supplies division always seemed a bit run down, if you know what I mean. I don’t know if that was the first part of the company Bill set up, and then got into marketing and media and lost interest. That’s a bit what it felt like.’

  ‘Well, somehow or other Monica’s got to get in and find out. She may want to sell. I think I would, if it was me.’

  ‘If the business is in good shape,’ said Mel. ‘They’ve been in trouble recently.’

  ‘Really? My partner said he had a bad time getting money out of them. Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps they don’t want Monica to see the balance sheets.’

  Libby was thoughtful as she walked out to the car. Had Ian looked into that? Had they put in a forensic accountant, or whatever they were? Was it fraud? She sighed, unlocked the car door and got in. And stopped. Just ahead of her was a white van with a logo she’d seen before. Diggory’s. And sitting in the passenger seat was a woman she’d seen before. Elizabeth Martin.

  The van drove off before she could even think about what to do, or what it meant. All she wanted to do was talk to Fran. And Ian, but preferably Fran. She shut the door, put on the seat belt and started the engine. Would Diggory have recognised her car? No, of course he wouldn’t. And Martin had only seen it in the car park of Frensham Barn, and was unlikely to have taken any notice of it.