Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery

Murder Out of Tune

Lesley Cookman

A member of a local ukulele group is found dead in Steeple Martin's churchyard.

Libby's first reaction is relief that the victim isn't anyone she knows. She and the usual suspects have other things to occupy them as they are gearing up for a Christmas concert and pantomime in the Oast Theatre but when Libby's cousin gets romantically involved with a man in whom the police are taking an interest, she can't help asking a few questions – and getting into trouble…

To the memory of Caryl Ann Knight
November 1947 - July 2014

Acknowledgements

My thanks once again to my son Miles who provided the suggestion of a ukulele group as a viable setting for murder. None of the ukulele players I am acquainted with are murderers or victims, as far as I know, although I have heard threats …

WHO’S WHO IN THE LIBBY SARJEANT SERIES

Libby Sarjeant            Former actor, sometime artist, resident of 17, Allhallow’s Lane, Steeple Martin. Owner of Sidney the cat.

Fran Wolfe                 Formerly FranCastle. Also former actor, occasional psychic, resident of Coastguard Cottage, Nethergate. Owner of Balzac the cat.

Ben Wilde                   Libby’s significant other. Owner of The Manor Farm and the Oast House Theatre.

Guy Wolfe                  Fran’s husband, artist and owner of a shop and gallery in Harbour Street , Nethergate.

Peter Parker                Ben’s cousin. Freelance journalist, part owner of The Pink Geranium restaurant and life partner of Harry Price.

Harry Price                 Chef and co-owner of The Pink Geranium and Peter Parker’s life partner.

Hetty Wilde                Ben’s mother. Lives at The Manor.

DCI Ian Connell          Local policeman and friend. Former suitor of Fran’s.

Adam Sarjeant            Libby’s youngest son. Works with garden designer Mog, mainly at Creekmarsh.

Lewis Osbourne-        TV gardener and handy-man who owns Creekmarsh
Walker

Sophie Wolfe              Guy’s daughter.

Flo Carpenter              Hetty’s oldest friend.

Lenny Fisher               Hetty’s brother. Lives with Flo Carpenter.

Ali and Ahmed           Owners of the Eight-til-late in the village.

Jane Baker                  Chief Reporter for the
Nethergate Mercury
. Mother of Imogen.

Terry Baker                Jane’s husband and father of Imogen.

Joe, Nella                    of Cattlegreen Nurseries       
and Owen

Reverend Patti           Vicar of St Aldeberge’s Church
Pearson

Anne Douglas             Librarian, friend of Reverend Patti

Chapter One

A breeze rustled through the heavy branches of the old yew tree and moved moon shadows over the body that lay quietly stiffening between the gravestones. Voices drifted back to disturb the silence, gradually petering out to be replaced by the sounds of car engines being started up, until, at last, peace returned to the graveyard and its most recent occupant.

‘I don’t care,’ said Libby Sarjeant mutinously. ‘I can’t play the bloody things. They hurt my fingers.’

Her friend Peter Parker regarded her with amusement. ‘And you don’t want to cut your nails.’

‘Well, no.’ Libby regarded her newly varnished nails with satisfaction.

Harry Price, Peter’s life partner and owner-chef of The Pink Geranium restaurant in Steeple Martin’s high street, peered at her hands.

‘So what were you talking about anyway?’ he asked, sitting down at the pub table.

‘The ukulele group,’ said Ben Wilde, Libby’s significant other, returning from the bar with drinks. ‘You know.’

‘I don’t actually,’ said Harry, accepting a pint of lager. ‘Oh, I know there is one – isn’t Lewis part of it? – but I’m not sure what it’s all about.’

‘It’s a craze,’ said Libby. ‘These groups have sprung up all over the country and because ukuleles are cheap to buy and fairly easy to play, they’ve become really popular, especially with the – er – older market.’

‘Pensioners,’ explained Ben. ‘People looking for something to do with their time and who like playing the old songs.’

‘Like that cleaning windows bloke?’ said Harry.

‘Similar,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, this chap from Canterbury had a group going and decided to start another one here.’

‘Why here?’

‘Because it’s a fairly large village with a decent church hall,’ said Libby.

‘Initially, he tried to use the theatre for his rehearsals, until we explained that it was so often in use he couldn’t and the hire rate would be the same as for the theatre. That peeved him a bit.’ Ben smiled at the memory. ‘So he uses the church hall.’

‘So why were you going to join?’ Harry turned back to Libby.

‘I wasn’t. Somehow, as you said, he’s persuaded Lewis to join to raise the profile, and Edie’s joined too. She used to play the banjo in her salad days, apparently, and she’s really enjoying it, so she wanted me to join too, to keep her company.’

‘And you don’t want to.’

‘No! I wasn’t at all sure about the people – I went once with Edie – and the strings hurt my fingers.’

‘And now they’re going to be part of the big Christmas Concert at the theatre,’ said Peter.

‘Andrew’s charity concert?’ said Harry. ‘But haven’t you got some famous people in that? Won’t they show themselves up?’

‘We’ve got some pro singers and musicians and your Andrew is going to read some Dickens,’ said Ben. ‘You knew that.’

‘Pro musos won’t take kindly to a bunch of geriatric strummers,’ said Harry.

‘Don’t be so rude, Harry Price!’ Libby bent a baleful eye on her friend. ‘It’s for a very good cause, and Andrew will keep everyone in line.’

Sir Andrew McColl was a friend met fairly recently, after the death of someone close to both he and Harry. A theatrical knight, married to a theatrical dame, he had professed himself delighted with the Oast Theatre, of which Ben was the owner. Peter and Libby were both directors of the company. It was he who had suggested the concert, in aid of a homeless charity.

‘How was panto rehearsal tonight?’ Harry changed the subject. ‘Still having trouble with the chorus?’

‘Not my problem any more,’ said Libby. ‘Susannah’s taken them over lock, stock, and barrel. She’s making them sound quite good now. And we’ve got proper dancers again, so they’re doing their stuff in Lorraine’s studio until we stick them all together.’

‘I don’t know Lorraine, do I?’

‘She’s a dancer with her own studio in Canterbury. She takes private pupils, and still appears in TV ads, but says she’s too old now for the West End. She’s bloody good, and hilarious,’ said Peter. ‘I’m sure I pointed her out to you the other day. That furniture polish ad.’

‘Oh, her,’ said Harry. ‘You are getting posh. And is Susannah’s old man quite happy to be doing all the baby-sitting while she’s out gallivanting?’

‘He is,’ said Libby. ‘After all, we’re paying her.’

Susannah’s brother Terry Baker had introduced her to Libby and the Oast Theatre some years before when they were planning a special birthday party for Ben’s mother Hetty. Susannah was a professional singer and pianist, who, since she’d become a mother, was less keen to do the touring that went with the job. She’d happily settled in to the Oast company as almost permanent musical director.

The barman leant across the bar.

‘You talking about the ukulele lot? That’s some of ʼem come in just now.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the other half of the bar, where some of the pantomime cast were also drinking.

Peter and Libby craned their necks to try and see round the corner.

‘Don’t recognise any of them,’ said Peter, ‘but I can’t see properly.’

‘Lewis isn’t there, then?’ said Libby.

‘He’d have come looking for us,’ said Ben.

Lewis Osbourne-Walker had come to prominence as a handy-man on a television make-over show and now presented a whole variety, from country documentaries to lifestyle programmes. His own series had featured the make-over of his garden by Libby’s son Adam and Adam’s boss, Mog. He divided his time between London and Creekmarsh, an old house a few miles from Steeple Martin, where his mother Edie had the former housekeeper’s flat.

‘Well, I’m ready to go home now,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve got an appointment with our wardrobe mistress in the morning which I’m not looking forward to.’

‘Why?’ asked Ben.

‘She always wants to make the costumes
she
wants, rather than the ones
I
want,’ said Libby. ‘I wrote the bloody thing, I know what I want the cast to look like.’ She stood up and wandered into the other bar to say goodbye to the rest of the cast.

‘And why did you do that?’ asked Peter, when she came back to collect her coat. ‘Just to have a look at the ukulele people?’

‘Of course she did,’ said Ben with a grin. ‘I wonder she doesn’t join them just out of nosiness.’

Libby sniffed. ‘I told you, the strings hurt my fingers. Anyway, I’ve got far too much on with the panto.’

Lewis Osbourne-Walker appeared in the doorway of the pub. He waved distractedly to Libby and her friends but called loudly to the ukulele group in the other bar.

‘Old Vernon in here? His car’s still in the car park.’

A stillness fell over the bar.

‘No,’ said one male voice hesitantly. ‘He never comes to this pub.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Lewis. He turned to Libby.

‘Any of you lot seen him? Oldish bloke, reddish hair, thinning on top, glasses.’

‘That could be anybody,’ said Peter.

‘Nobody’s been in this bar but us,’ said Ben.

‘Where is he, then?’ said Lewis. ‘His missus just rang me to say his mobile keeps going to voicemail. What’s happened to him?’    

Chapter Two

They found out what had happened to Vernon Bowling the next morning. Harry rang as Libby was having her third cup of tea and Ben was about to leave for the estate office at the Manor.

‘You know that bloke Lewis was looking for last night? Well, they found him.’

‘Yes? Oh, good.’

‘Not so good. Dead as a dodo in the churchyard.’ Harry sounded cheerful.

Libby gasped. ‘Poor man. What was it? A heart attack?’

‘No, ducky. Murder.’

Libby sank down into her chair and made a face at Ben. ‘I simply don’t believe it.’

‘True. Blue-and-white tape across Maltby Lane and the doctor’s car park half full of police cars.’

‘That doesn’t necessarily mean murder,’ said Libby. Ben had come back to the table and sat down again.

‘Flo’s already been across to tell me. All the old dears in Maltby Close have had an officer at the door, and our Ian’s been seen.’ Detective Chief Inspector Ian Connell was an old friend.

‘Oh, dear.’ Libby shook her head. ‘Tragic. At least we’ve got nothing to do with it this time. But why bring it right home to our village? That’s not fair.’

‘I don’t suppose he meant to get killed in your village, lovey,’ said Harry. ‘Anyway, I’ve got prepping up to do. I’m looking forward to being full at lunchtime when the gawpers arrive.’

‘That’s shocking, you ghoul!’

‘No, just sensible. Pop in for a chat if you’re passing.’ Harry ended the call, and Libby looked across at Ben.

‘Did you get all that?’

‘Lewis’s missing man? I gathered. Where?’

‘In the churchyard. Ian’s there, apparently. Flo told Harry.’

‘Don’t get involved,’ warned Ben, standing up again. ‘Nothing to do with you.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve got enough to worry about.’

‘Have you?’ Ben raised one eyebrow. ‘What, exactly?’

‘The panto, of course,’ said Libby in exasperation. ‘I’ve got the wardrobe meeting in half an hour, and you know I’m not looking forward to it.’

After a gruelling hour with the formidable wardrobe mistress, whom Libby did not dare push too far in case she took up her scissors and left in a huff, Libby put her folder of sketches into her brand new bag, the latest successor to her old favourite, the basket, locked the theatre and made her way down the Manor drive towards The Pink Geranium.

‘Had a call from Andrew this morning,’ said Harry, coming forward with two steaming mugs of coffee.

‘Did you? Why?’ Libby frowned.

Harry shook his head at her. ‘What do you mean, why? Why do you think? About the concert.’

‘Oh!’ Libby was enlightened. ‘I thought you meant the other Andrew.’

‘Why on earth would Andrew Wylie call me? And we haven’t seen him for ages, anyway.’

‘He came to last year’s panto, and he helped out over that business at Dark House,’ said Libby.

‘Well, we’ll have to find a way to tell them apart,’ said Harry.

‘Easy, I suppose. Sir Andrew and Professor Andrew.’

‘But not to their faces.’

‘No. But I would love to see them together. They’re both small and neat, aren’t they?’

Harry laughed. ‘I suppose so. And much the same age, too.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Libby indignantly. ‘Andrew Wylie’s at least ten years younger.’

‘All right, all right. I didn’t tell you about Andrew’s call to get into a discussion about his age.’

‘What, then?’

Harry topped up their mugs. ‘He’d already heard about our murder.’

‘What?’ Libby was bewildered. ‘But we’ve only just heard …’

‘On the news, apparently.’

‘I didn’t hear it,’ said Libby.

‘On the
proper
news, dear heart,’ grinned Harry, ‘not the three-second headlines you listen to.’

‘Oh.’ Libby digested this. ‘I expect it will be on the local news this evening.’

‘I’m sure it will.’ Harry nodded towards the window. ‘Isn’t that your mate’s outfit?’

Libby looked round to see the large blue-and-white Kent and Coast Television van drawing up beyond the police tape.

‘If you mean Campbell McLean, he’s not my mate,’ she said.

‘I thought you and Fran got to know him quite well?’

Libby shrugged. ‘A bit.’

‘Well.’ Harry grinned again. ‘You’re going to get the chance to know him a bit better. He’s headed over here.’

Sure enough, the bell over the door tinkled and Campbell McLean, still looking like an old-fashioned geography teacher, appeared.

‘Hello, Libby – I thought I recognised your back.’ Campbell nodded to Harry, who held up an enquiring coffee pot. Campbell’s face broke into a grin. ‘Oh, I’d die for a decent coffee.’ He turned back to Libby and pulled out a chair. ‘So what do you know about all this?’

‘All …?’

Campbell waved a hand at the window. ‘This. The murder.’

‘Nothing,’ said Libby. ‘Harry’s only just told me – well, a bit earlier.’

‘Really?’ Campbell looked from Libby to Harry and back again. ‘Oh, come on, don’t give me that.’

Libby scowled. ‘Why does every bloody murder in the district have something to do with me? Well, it doesn’t. I don’t know anything about this, or even who the victim is.’ She glared at Campbell. ‘Do you?’

He was taken aback. Harry put a mug down in front of him and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Never mind, mate, her bite’s much worse than her bark.’ He winked at Libby.

‘Actually, I do know,’ said Campbell slowly, ‘but I thought you must know because of this group he’s in.’

‘Do you mean the ukulele group? They’re nothing to do with me.’

Campbell raised his eyebrows. ‘No? Then why did the wire say “rehearsing for a concert in Steeple Martin’s well-known Oast Theatre”?’

Libby sighed. ‘It’s a charity concert. It’s been hired by an outside hirer.’

‘Yes – Sir Andrew McColl. How did he hear of you?’

Libby saw Harry’s face darken. ‘Old friends,’ she said hurriedly. ‘And how come you’ve got so much information already?’

‘I told you – it was on the wire. Apparently your friend Lewis Osbourne-Walker’s involved, too.’

Libby nodded gloomily.

‘So you could hardly blame me …’

Libby sighed. ‘No all right but, truly, I know nothing about it. All I know is Lewis came into the pub last night to ask the ukulele group if any of them had seen someone, then Harry called me this morning to tell me a friend of ours had been questioned in a house to house.’

Campbell brightened. ‘Questioned?’

‘Because she lives over there. They talked to everyone,’ said Harry.

‘Really?’ Campbell swivelled in his chair and tried to peer past his own van into Maltby Close.

‘It’s a sort of private retirement complex,’ explained Libby. ‘There were barns there, and someone turned them into self-contained units for the better-off over-fifty-fives. There’s a community hall and, of course, the doctor’s surgery at this end.’

‘Oh, so not likely to be involved?’

‘They’re all over sixty-five, let alone fifty-five,’ said Harry.

‘So that community hall, is that where this rehearsal was?’

‘No, in the church hall, at the back of the church. I know that, because we turned them down and they asked us to suggest somewhere else. The Carpenter Room is only used by the residents of Maltby Close.’ Libby drained her coffee mug. ‘Sorry Campbell, but this time, you’ve got the edge on us. So who was the victim?’

‘Vernon Bowling.’ Campbell looked from Libby to Harry. ‘Ring any bells?’

They both shook their heads.

‘Top government scientist. No?’

‘No,’ said Libby. ‘Why would we know that?’

‘Unless he’s been involved in scandal of some sort,’ said Harry.

‘Well, it looks as though he might have been now, doesn’t it?’ said Campbell eagerly. ‘I’d better get over there and see what’s going on.’

‘Off you go then,’ said Libby. ‘Good hunting.’

They watched him trot across the road and disappear behind the big van.

‘Scientist,’ said Libby. ‘Playing the ukulele?’

‘There’s a gay television builder, too,’ said Harry. ‘Takes all sorts.’

‘Do you think this is going to bring the media down on us?’ Libby rested her chin in her hands and peered through the window.

‘That was what I was going to tell you. Andrew heard it – or saw it – on the news this morning and wanted to know if we knew any more about it. He was pretty sure the media will pay us some attention –’

‘Oh, no,’ groaned Libby.

‘And that it will do us good,’ finished Harry triumphantly.

‘I thought the tickets were already selling quite well?’

‘The punters will be falling over themselves now,’ said Harry. ‘Andrew reckons we might have to put it on for another night.’

Libby frowned. ‘Does he mean the Sunday as well as the Saturday? I can’t see that being popular with the artistes – it’s the Sunday before Christmas. A lot of them will have stuff planned.’

‘He meant the Friday,’ said Harry, looking a little nervous.

‘My last rehearsal?’ exploded Libby. ‘You must be joking!’

‘I told him that, but he still wanted me to ask.’

‘He’s a pro – he knows we open on the 29th. I’ve had to let everybody have Christmas week off, or I wouldn’t have a cast, so I can’t afford to lose any more rehearsal time. As it is the cast are coming in on the 28th to do a final run.’

‘I know,’ sighed Harry. ‘I told him.’

‘Anyway,’ said Libby piously, ‘it’s awful to have to profit from a murder.’

‘I can think of quite a bit of profit made out of murder round here,’ said Harry, collecting mugs.

‘What?’ Libby glared at him.

‘You and Ben, Fran and Guy. Even Flo and Lenny in a way. And young Jane and her Terry.’

‘That’s not profit. Not money profit.’

‘You’ve also made friends with the dishiest cop in Kent,’ said Harry, nodding once more towards the window. ‘And guess where he’s coming?’