Murder in the Green (10 page)

He gave her a squeeze. ‘We don’t have that kind of relationship, do we? And I’d hardly be jealous of young Lewis, would I?’

‘Perhaps I could turn him,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘And now, let’s sort out this lunch. Then I can go and see your father if he’s up to it.’

Lewis was delighted when Libby called him later.

‘See? I knew I could handle old Ben,’ he said.

‘Well, now you’ve got to handle young Adam, because he wants me to go away so I don’t get involved in another murder investigation. And if he hears Cranston Morris are going to be there – well!’

‘All right, all right. I won’t mention them. I’ll pick you up Wednesday morning at about nine, OK?’

‘That early? Hell.’

‘Lazy cow,’ said Lewis. ‘See you then.’

Libby called Ben. ‘Lewis is picking me up at nine in the morning on Wednesday. Would you be able to come for a sleepover tonight? Or tomorrow? Or both?’

She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘I think I might manage it,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay here with Mum for dinner if you don’t mind – but you could join us?’

‘OK,’ said Libby, never averse to avoiding cooking. ‘I suppose I’d better start packing. What on earth do I take?’

‘Ask Fran,’ said Ben, and, blowing a kiss, hung up.

Libby chewed her finger for a moment, staring at the phone. She supposed she should tell Fran, but something was making her hesitate. Unwillingly, she realised it was the fear that Fran would want to come with her, or interfere in some way. Sitting down on the sofa, which Sidney vacated in a huff, she reasoned that Fran would hardly take off into the wilds of the West Country without her husband only weeks after her marriage. And she, Libby, could hardly
not
tell her friend she was going away. Sighing, she picked up the phone again.

‘But why?’ Fran said, after Libby’s rather garbled explanation.

‘It was Adam’s idea that I needed a holiday,’ said Libby. ‘Ben agreed.’

‘
Ben
agreed?’

‘Yes, I know, but he has. He’s busy with his mum and dad, so I’ll be better out of his hair. I’m going to dinner at the Manor tonight and he’s staying over here. I go at 9 am on Wednesday.’

‘Whereabouts in the West Country?’

‘A little village where they have some kind of pagan ritual to do with John the Baptist, I think.’

‘June 25th?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘No idea,’ said Fran. ‘Is it his feast day? Yes, of course it is. He was born six months before Christ, wasn’t he?’

‘Was he? Anyway, what’s it got to do with Wicker Men?’

‘Wicker Men?’ Fran sounded bewildered. ‘Do you mean like that awful film?’

‘Well, yes, I think so.’

‘What that’s got to do with John the Baptist I’ve no idea,’ said Fran, ‘but it sounds suspiciously as though you’re getting involved again.’

‘No, I’m just going because Lewis suggested it, and I think he’s managed to swing it on his telly expenses.’

‘Just you watch it, then,’ said Fran. ‘No crawling inside Wicker Men in the dark.’

‘No.’ Libby shuddered. ‘I’ll stick close to Lewis and his team.’

I’ll try, anyway, she thought, as she climbed the stairs to start packing. Nothing’s likely to happen.

Chapter Ten

Lewis’s SUV, followed closely by that of the cameraman, swung down a precipitous little lane between high banks. They had passed Plymouth and turned sharp left, as far as Libby could make out.

‘Forgotten corner of Cornwall,’ said Lewis, with a sideways grin. ‘Not so many tourists. They by-pass it.’

‘But I’ve heard of Whitsand Bay and Kingsand and Cawsand,’ said Libby.

‘The main road cuts it off, though,’ said Lewis. ‘And our little village doesn’t seem to get anybody.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘Portherriot. We’re staying at the Portherriot Arms.’

‘And when do all these shenanigans break out?’

‘They start on Thursday night, I think,’ said Lewis. ‘I’ve got all the notes on the laptop, and I spoke to one of your mates at Cranston Morris. She was delighted.’

Libby groaned. ‘Not Gemma Baverstock?’

‘That’s her. She’s sort of the secretary, isn’t she?’

‘Her old man’s currently the head honcho,’ said Libby. ‘He played the Holly King on Sunday.’

‘So tell me all about the solstice celebrations that they do,’ said Lewis, swinging the car round a sharp bend. A view unravelled before them.

‘Oh, look!’ said Libby.

Obligingly, Lewis drew up. Behind them, the cameraman’s vehicle also slowed to a stop. They all got out.

Ahead of them, green fields starred with poppies sloped to granite cliff tops, below which they could see a small cove guarded by rocky outcrops like bared teeth rising from a fretting sea. On the other side of the cove they could see a few buildings, above which thickly wooded cliffs marched away into the distance. The whole was isolated, and very beautiful.

‘I guess the rest of the village is below us,’ said the cameraman from behind a viewfinder. ‘Great place.’

‘Windy,’ said Lewis, and shivered.

Libby looked at him sharply. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ He gave her a strained grin. ‘I get the old heebies in the country these days.’

‘Because of Creekmarsh?’

‘Well, it’s not nice to have murders on the premises,’ he said, climbing back into the car. ‘Come on.’

‘If you feel like that, why did you come down here?’ Libby climbed in after him and fastened her seat belt.

‘Work, innit? Anyway, I thought I’d be safe if you was with me.’ Lewis started the car and moved slowly away.

‘So that’s why you asked me? Nothing to do with Adam?’

‘He was talking about you and I saw an opportunity, as they say.’ He slid her another grin. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

Libby grinned back. ‘Nah. I’m going to enjoy it.’

‘So, you were going to tell me all about this solstice business,’ said Lewis. ‘Carry on.’

Libby related all she had heard, read and found out about the folk traditions followed by Cranston Morris. ‘I don’t know what else there is,’ she said. ‘Cranston Morris seem to have their own version of most of the traditions, all mixed up together. I don’t think they’re purists. They seem to take the bits they want from each.’

‘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.