Murder in Midwinter - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

‘No, you take charge, Mel. We might as well let you do the lot, then we haven’t got to worry.’

  ‘Do you want our florist to send you pictures of examples?’ said Mel, making a note.

  ‘Please, or Pete will go spare, and we can’t have him getting his knickers in a knot. Now, can we show Lib the room?’

  ‘Sure.’ Mel stood up and led the way out of the office.

  The room designated for the celebration of marriages, civil partnerships and, surprisingly, baby welcoming ceremonies, (for the modern atheist, Libby assumed) was just to the right of the imposing front reception hall. Double doors led into what must have once been a formal drawing room, with a large marble fireplace on the left-hand wall and enormous french doors leading on to a balcony, which in turn led on to the imposing front steps.

  ‘For summer weddings,’ said Melanie, ‘the couple can come straight in from the balcony. Lovely,’ she added, looking misty.

  ‘We won’t, though,’ said Harry, shuddering. ‘And anyway, don’t we have to see the celebrant first?’

  ‘Just through here,’ said Melanie, indicating a little room just outside the double doors on the right. ‘Then the celebrant comes in and takes her place –’

  ‘Her?’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, yes. Most of them are, these days,’ said Mel.

  ‘Hey, I like the sound of that. Could I do it?’ asked Libby.

  Mel looked taken aback. ‘No idea,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, shut up, you old trout,’ said Harry. Mel looked even more taken aback.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Harry assured her sweetly. ‘It’s our pet name for her.’

  Libby shrugged. ‘I don’t notice it any more,’ she said to Mel. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Anyway, our celebrant is a bloke,’ said Harry. ‘We’ve ordered him.’

  ‘Ordered him?’ said Libby.

  ‘There’s a company who can guide you through this sort of thing and supply sympathetic celebrants and scripts and stuff,’ said Harry. ‘All we did was find the venue.’

  ‘And that’s all right with you, is it, Mel?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mel. ‘It’s exactly the same as having a wedding planner. Better in fact, because they don’t try to interfere with our own arrangements.’

  ‘Oh.’ What a lot she didn’t know, thought Libby. ‘Scripts?’

  ‘Oh, Lib,’ said Harry, ‘of course. There aren’t special words or services written down for CPs. They’re not legal.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, what I mean is, the ceremony isn’t the legal part. The signing of the register is the legal part. So you can design the ceremony yourselves, and this company will send you scripts to help you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby again. ‘Golly.’

  Harry laughed and gave her a hug. ‘So you can write in your own part, dear heart. Best Person.’

  Libby made a face. ‘I’m so old and out of touch.’

  ‘You’re not,’ said Mel. ‘You should see the ages of some the CPs. They’ve probably been living together for years and years, and finally they can make it legal. We’ve had several couples in their seventies. Mostly men. The women are usually young or middle-aged.’

  ‘Wow.’ Libby was round-eyed. ‘And all this just in a year.’

  ‘December 5th 2005,’ said Mel.

  ‘And since then you wouldn’t believe how many “specialists” have appeared,’ said Harry.

  ‘Good job, I’d have thought,’ said Libby. ‘You’ve just said it’s good to have someone guiding you through the whole thing.’

  ‘But specialist photographers? Ring makers? Tailors? What were they doing before?’ Harry made a disgusted sound.

  ‘They were wedding photographers, ringmakers and morning-suit suppliers,’ said Mel, with a grin. ‘They’re all the same people. They have to make themselves appear sympathetic to same sex couples. You’ve no idea how many of the traditional wedding industry practitioners aren’t sympathetic.’

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ said Harry. ‘I went to a Wedding Fair in September, and in some places you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.’

  ‘You went to a Wedding Fair?’ Libby said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Well, I did,’ said Harry, colouring. ‘Not long after Pete asked me.’

  ‘And I meant to look up civil partnerships as soon as I had my computer, but things sort of put it out of my head,’ said Libby, remembering the day in her garden when Harry had told her about the forthcoming wedding.

  ‘They would, seeing as you were out and about solving murders,’ said Harry.

  Mel’s face was a study.

  ‘Harry!’ said Libby. ‘He doesn’t mean it, Mel. He’s just making fun of me.’

  They completed their tour of the venue with a visit to the garden room, where the reception was to be held.

  ‘Are you having vegetarian food?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No. Pete’s not veggie, only me, and not many of the guests are. There’ll be enough for me to eat.’

  Libby stood looking out at the garden, growing dark now, and the view across to a lake in the distance, bare-branched trees creating a lace-like pattern against the sky. What would it feel like to be getting married again, she wondered.

  ‘Won’t Pete want James to be Best Person?’ she asked in the car on the way home.

  ‘I think we can have as many attendants as we want,’ said Harry, ‘and you two can be the witnesses. After all, I’ve got nobody on my side.’

  ‘Nobody?’ Libby turned in her seat and looked at him, realising how little she knew of Harry’s background except that Peter had met him in the rather exclusive private club where he had been assistant chef.

  ‘Well,’ said Harry, shifting uncomfortably, ‘not family.’

  ‘Oh?’ Libby wanted to know, but sensed that perhaps Harry didn’t want to tell her.

  ‘Pete’s got enough for both of us,’ said Harry firmly. ‘Think of all the relatives I’m going to have!’

  ‘Think of Mad Millie as a mother-in-law,’ said Libby. ‘What has she said about the wedding?’

  ‘I don’t think Pete’s told her,’ said Harry. ‘I don’t think she’d take it in.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Libby. ‘Is she coming?’

  Harry glanced sideways at her. ‘I wish I could say no, but I think Pete wants her there.’

  ‘But she might make trouble,’ said Libby, visions of Peter’s mother the last time she’d seen her, wild-eyed and quite mad rising before her eyes.

  ‘I know.’ Harry nodded and slowed down in front of Number 17. ‘I’ve tried to talk to him. You see if you can have a go.’

  ‘All right,’ said Libby, gathering her cape round her and preparing to climb out, ‘but I don’t see what good I can do. This is where we miss poor old David.’

  They were both silent, remembering David, the doctor member of the family who had died so tragically last spring.

  ‘Ben might help,’ said Harry, hopefully. ‘He’s quite sensible for an old –’

  ‘Old?’ said Libby.

  ‘Sorry, Lib.’ Harry grinned. ‘Middle-aged, then.’

  ‘Whippersnapper,’ said Libby, and climbed out of the car. ‘I’ll talk to him. Oh, and what do I wear as Best Person? I haven’t got long to find it, have I?’

  ‘What you like, ducky. We’re not having themed get ups. Maybe matching ties, that’s about it.’

  ‘Golly,’ said Libby, trying to picture the flamboyant Harry in a formal suit.

  Falling down the step in the dark as she opened the door, Libby noticed the red light winking on the answerphone. Fending off Sidney, who was loudly demanding to be fed, she pressed the button.

  ‘Why don’t you ever switch on your mobile?’ came the voice of an exasperated Ben. ‘Or haven’t you even taken it with you?’

  Libby remembered turning it off while having lunch in The Swan.

  ‘How about dinner at Harry’s tonight,’ Ben went on. ‘Or can’t you face it after your meal th
ere on Wednesday? Give me a ring.’

  Libby switched on the lights and let Sidney lead her into the kitchen. After shifting the kettle on to the Rayburn’s hotplate and giving Sidney his first tea, she rang Ben.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘In fact, I spent the afternoon with Harry. Are you coming round here first?’

  ‘Is that an invitation?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Not that sort of invitation,’ said Libby. ‘I’d just like to talk to you before we go to the caff.’

  Ben groaned. ‘Not about this investigation, or whatever it is?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby, surprised that she’d actually forgotten about Bella Morleigh and the murder. ‘It’s about the wedding.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ben sounded relieved. ‘OK. I’ll book a table, if Harry’s got one left, of course, and I’ll come round about seven, if that’s all right?’

  Libby rang off and sat down at the kitchen table to wait for the kettle to boil. Now that Ben had reminded her, she wondered whether Fran had come up with anything after their morning’s adventures. If she had, she certainly didn’t want to share them, thought Libby, reaching an idle hand for the teapot.

  With a mug of tea in hand, Libby wandered in to light the fire in the living room, which she did, with the help of Sidney, who insisted on walking through her arms and sticking his bottom in her face. Then, with a little trepidation, she phoned Fran.

  ‘Sorry if I’m intruding,’ she said, crossing her fingers, ‘but I wondered if there was anything you could tell me about this morning. I know you wanted to think about it on your own.’

  Fran sighed. ‘Well, yes. I’m not entirely sure what I could see, or feel, but there’s something, and I’m trying to make sense of it.’

  ‘Would it help to talk about it?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Maybe, but not yet,’ said Fran. ‘Let me wrestle with it for a bit first.’

  ‘OK,’ said Libby. ‘Ben and I are going to the Geranium tonight, so tomorrow, maybe?’

  ‘I must do some Christmas shopping tomorrow,’ said Fran. ‘You haven’t done yours, yet, have you?’

  ‘Oh, God, no!’ Libby spilt some of her tea. ‘What with the panto and the wedding I’d forgotten all about it. Shall we go into Canterbury together? We could do park and ride.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Fran. ‘What time?’

  After arranging to meet at ten, Libby rang off and finished her tea, before going upstairs to shower and change.

  Ben arrived just after seven, while Libby was stoking up the fire, having given Sidney his second tea.

  ‘Pete’s right, you know,’ said Ben, watching Sidney chase his plate around the kitchen floor. ‘Sidney is a walking stomach.’

  ‘He’s a fine figure of a cat,’ said Libby. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Ben, sitting in the armchair. ‘So what do you want to talk about?’

  Libby told him about her afternoon with Harry at Anderson Place.

  ‘The funny thing was,’ she said, tucking her feet up under her on the creaky sofa, ‘that he didn’t look out of place in his pink shirt and leather trousers and jacket.’

  ‘Like some latter day Regency hero,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh, he’d love that,’ laughed Libby. ‘But seriously, Ben, he’s very worried about Millie.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ben sat forward in his seat and looked into the fire. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, ah, yes, what? Harry thinks Pete wants her there, which is natural, but he’s afraid she’ll cause trouble.’

  ‘She will,’ nodded Ben. ‘Think what she was like when she was normal.’

  ‘Has she ever been normal?’ asked Libby dubiously. ‘I just remember her talking about Peter’s “friend”, and trying to treat Pete and me as a couple.’

  ‘There you are. She didn’t understand then and she won’t understand now. It could be really embarrassing.’

  ‘That’s what Harry’s worried about. Makes you go cold inside, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So what’s going to happen, then?’

  ‘Well, Harry thought perhaps you could talk to Pete,’ said Libby.

  ‘Me? Why would he listen to me?’

  ‘Because he respects you? And you’re his older cousin.’

  ‘What about James? He’s his brother, the obvious person, surely.’

  ‘Perhaps Harry thinks James is too young.’

  Ben laughed. ‘James is older than Harry!’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ said Libby, ruffled. ‘Anyway, there it is, I’ve told you. Oh, and it’s official, I am to be Best Person, with James, I think.’

  ‘Swank.’ Ben leant over and patted her hand. ‘Do I get to be chief bridesmaid, then?’

  Ben had managed to get a table for nine o’clock, although by the time the previous diners had vacated it, it was nearer half past.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Donna. ‘You’d think Christmas was just an excuse to eat a lot and get drunk, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I thought it was,’ said Ben, pushing Libby’s chair in for her. Donna, a staunch member of the local chapel, looked affronted and handed them menus in a marked manner.

  Later, while they were drinking their coffee, Harry emerged from the kitchen faintly pink and damp and carrying a bottle of brandy. Sitting himself in one of the empty chairs at their table, he waved at some of the other customers and poured three brandies.

  ‘Here you are, loves,’ he said, ‘on the house.’

  ‘Heavy night?’ said Libby, raising her glass to him.

  ‘Always bloody is, these days.’ He looked at Ben. ‘She tell you, then?’

  ‘About what?’ said Ben, looking cautious.

  ‘Oh, Ben. Yes, of course I did,’ said Libby. ‘He agrees that it would be a problem.’

  ‘So, are you going to talk to Pete, then?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I don’t see how I can,’ said Ben. ‘It’s not any of my business, strictly speaking, and I don’t want to mess up my relationship with my favourite cousin. I’ll volunteer to take charge if her, if you like, and hustle her out if it looks as if she’s going to cause trouble.’

  ‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ muttered Harry. ‘Who would he take notice of, do you think?’

  ‘You’d know better than we would,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Harry petulantly. ‘He goes all upper class and looks down his nose at me if I try and say anything.’

  Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘Considering his Ma is working class London and his Dad wasn’t exactly top drawer I don’t know how he manages that.’

  ‘Oh, you know what he’s like,’ said Harry, and Libby, picturing Peter’s patrician nose and floppy fair hair, did know.

  ‘We’ll do what we can,’ said Libby, ‘but we might have to fall back on Ben’s suggestion.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Harry, ‘small price to pay, I suppose.’

  ‘My small price,’ said Ben, ‘thank you.’

  Harry grinned at him. ‘You’ll get your reward, darling,’ he said. ‘And just think, after this we’ll actually be related.’

  Ben cast his eyes up to the ceiling and Libby sniggered. ‘Not sure it works that way,’ she said.

  ‘In my book it does.’ Harry leant over and poured more brandy. ‘Drink up, cousin-in-law.’

  ‘So,’ said Ben, as they strolled home a little later, ‘what happened this morning with Fran and the theatrical lady?’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Libby, ‘I’d forgotten all about that. I think Fran came up with something, but she hasn’t wanted to share it. We’re going Christmas shopping tomorrow, so she’ll probably tell me then.’

  ‘She’s still scared of them, isn’t she?’

  ‘Her moments? Yes, she is.’ They turned the corner into Allhallow’s Lane. ‘She’s better at focusing them, now, and she did ask for something to take away, so that she could concentrate on it. That’s what the proper psychics do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Fran being an improper psychic, eh?’ Ben squeezed her arm. ‘I wonder how Gooda
ll and Smythe bill her? “Our resident psychic”? “Our investigative medium”?’

  ‘I don’t suppose they do,’ said Libby, getting out her key. ‘I expect they simply tell clients they’ll get somebody to look into the property. They must be the very expensive ones, mustn’t they?’

  ‘Usually, yes, but occasionally she’s had to go to an ordinary street which has a reputation, and on one occasion to a house where it was thought a murder had taken place. She said it hadn’t.’

  ‘Was she telling the truth?’ asked Libby, opening the door and switching on the light.

  ‘As far as I know.’ Ben followed her in. ‘And now are we going to talk about something apart from murders and other people’s weddings?’

  Chapter Six

  BELLA RANG FRAN THE following morning.

  ‘I’m going to see Aunt Maria’s grave,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come with me?’

  As an invitation it left a lot to be desired.

  ‘You know where she’s buried, then?’

  ‘Not buried, exactly. I went and asked George at the pub last night, and he said she was cremated, and her ashes had been scattered in the garden at the crematorium.’

  ‘So why do you want to go?’ asked Fran, who had no patience with a morbid desire to seek out the remains of human flesh and worship at the graveside. If the spirit was alive, fair enough, but there certainly wasn’t anything left in a grave, or ashes.

  ‘I thought I should,’ said Bella. ‘Don’t you think I should?’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ said Fran, and explained her own feelings. ‘Mind you,’ she concluded, ‘I know mine isn’t the popular take.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Bella. ‘But we’ve been every year to Andrew’s mother’s grave, and to look at the tree I planted for my mother and father. It seemed the thing to do.’

  ‘Up to you,’ said Fran, ‘but I wouldn’t get anything from the visit if that’s what you were hoping.’

  ‘Well, I was rather,’ said Bella, with a nervous laugh.

  ‘I’m still thinking about what we found yesterday,’ said Fran. ‘Have you had a look through any of those files yet?’

  ‘Yes, but not many. I managed to open the file for the 1920s again, and the one that said “Up to 1920”. I didn’t know what would be in that one, because Maria wasn’t born until 1914, but there were a couple of things listed, so I found the box file.’