Murder in the Green (22 page)

‘Barry Phillips PA, she said she was.’

‘That’s Trisha,’ said Libby. ‘I hope she isn’t there when I go. She’d never be able to pretend she’d never met me.’

‘Why should she?’

‘Well, she spilt a certain amount of beans, didn’t she?’

‘Nothing much, from what you’ve told me. Now, stop worrying. The appointment’s set for tomorrow morning at eleven, so let’s get an early night so you can catch up on your beauty sleep.’ He leered at her.

‘Satyr,’ she said, making for the stairs.

Libby was nervous as she drove across country towards Frensham Barn. She didn’t know quite what Ben expected her to get from this meeting, and as John Lethbridge’s body had now been found, she couldn’t see any link between Frensham Holdings and Bill Frensham’s murder. She wondered privately if Ben was doing this in some way to get back at the company, but in that case, why hire them?

‘Or,’ she said to herself, as she turned into a tarmac drive signposted “Frensham Barn”, ‘perhaps he doesn’t actually intend to hold the party after all. Perhaps he’ll leave them in the lurch.’ She scowled at the building in front of her. Surely Ben wouldn’t be that devious.

The barn looked like every other converted barn Libby had ever seen. Most of its front was glass, and as far as she could see there was nothing special about it. She wondered if that was one of Ben’s problems. Perhaps they had watered down his design and then tried not to pay for it?

There were three cars parked in marked parking bays to one side of the forecourt. Libby parked next to a large silver Mercedes and got out. There was silence except for distant summery country sounds. She walked slowly towards the open door, taking a deep breath and summoning her courage.

‘Mrs Sarjeant?’ A shortish, well-built man appeared in the doorway.

‘Yes,’ said Libby.

He held out a well-manicured hand. ‘I’m Barry Phillips, very nice to meet you.’

‘Er – yes,’ said Libby shaking the hand.

‘So Ben Wilde has forgiven us, has he?’ Barry Phillips made this sound jocular, but there was a sharp look in his small blue eyes.

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ said Libby.

‘You know he designed this building?’

‘Hurrum – yes,’ said Libby.

‘I believe there was some trouble over the bill. We had to modify the design.’ Barry Phillips was watching her carefully.

Just as I thought, Libby told herself. Out loud, she said, ‘I rather gathered that when I saw the building.’ Coolly.

‘Ah.’ Phillips round face broke into a grin. ‘Well, it was nothing to do with me,’ he said, ‘even though I am a director and the barn comes under my control. I preferred Ben’s original design. Still,’ he took her elbow and led her through the lobby and into a large conference room, ‘I’m glad that he’s decided we’re on speaking terms again. I liked Ben.’

And I like you, thought Libby, smiling back at him. I’m glad you’re not a suspect.

‘I think Ben’s argument was with Bill Frensham personally, rather than with Frensham Holdings,’ she said artlessly, ‘and of course, now he’s dead…’

‘Ah, yes.’ Phillips looked solemn, but Libby thought she detected a certain relief in his expression. You didn’t like Frensham either, she thought.

‘Terrible business, that,’ he said. ‘They haven’t caught the man who did it yet?’

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Libby, slightly surprised. ‘No leads at all.’

‘But the man who disappeared… they haven’t found him yet.’ He shook his head. ‘Shocking. It’s been two months now.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby, ‘they’ve found
him
.’

‘They have?’ Phillips turned, his eyes widening in shock. ‘My God! Why has no one told us? Have they told Monica?’

‘Monica?’ Libby frowned.

‘Monica – Bill’s wife. They must have told her. How do
you
know?’

Sidestepping this question, Libby said with a certain amount of internal glee, ‘But why should they tell her?’

‘What?’ Phillips looked at her as though she was mad. ‘Surely they tell the murder victim’s wife when the murderer’s caught?’

‘Oh, I
see
!’ Libby feigned sudden understanding. ‘Oh, no, they haven’t caught the murderer. They just found John Lethbridge’s body. He was the man that disappeared. And it turns out he’d been dead longer than Mr Frensham.’

Luckily, Barry Phillips didn’t ask her again how she knew, but simply looked as though his world had fallen apart. That’s interesting, thought Libby. That’s made him think the murderer must be someone else. And he’s worried about
who
.

‘Anyway,’ said Libby brightly, ‘I’m not here to talk about Mr Frensham. I mustn’t waste your time. You know the reason for Ben holding this reception?’

Barry Phillips pulled himself together with an effort. ‘Ah, yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘According to my secretary,’ Trisha wouldn’t like that, thought Libby, ‘he’s holding a sort of retirement party. Is that right?’

‘Yes. He didn’t hold one when he retired from active service, as it were, so he thought he ought to make it official.’

‘He hasn’t actually left the company, has he? Sold his interest?’

‘Oh, no.’ Libby shook her head. ‘But he no longer practises. He manages his father’s estate.’

‘Oh?’ Libby could see Phillips’s ears prick up. ‘Where’s that?’

Time to depress pretension. ‘Steeple Martin,’ she said. ‘So, can you tell me what facilities you have and what catering arrangements you usually make? Parking and so on?’

Barry Phillips switched on his professional manner and led her through the barn’s multiple, if bland, facilities. Libby decided she would much prefer Anderson Place, but smiled and nodded throughout.

‘Now, would you like a cup of coffee?’ he asked at the end of the tour. ‘Real stuff in the office.’ He smiled at her and she reminded herself that she liked him.

‘Thank you, that would be nice,’ she said and followed him into a spacious office to the left of the main lobby.

‘Who lives in here normally?’ she asked as she seated herself by the desk.

‘Whoever’s here from head office. It’s not in constant use, so there’s no reason to have someone here all the time.’

‘Oh. Whose are the cars outside then? There were three there when I parked.’

‘Gardeners.’ Phillips placed a cafetière between them on the desk. ‘They come in twice a week or more if we have a function. They have their own building hidden away in the grounds.’ He frowned suddenly.

‘Where they keep their tools I suppose?’ said Libby. ‘That would have to be alarmed as well as this place, wouldn’t it? Expensive equipment, I would have thought.’

‘Yes.’ Phillips lifted his gaze from the cafetière. ‘Funny, you know, I wondered if it was something to do with that when Bill was murdered.’

‘Really?’ Libby’s heart thumped. ‘Why?’

‘We had a break-in down there a while ago. Bill looked into it, but wouldn’t call the police.’ He sighed. ‘I couldn’t understand why.’

‘Was much taken?’

‘No, that was the point. Bill made a report for the estates department, and then – well, it was brushed under the carpet. Or that’s what it seemed like to me.’ He was frowning again.

‘Should you be telling me this?’ asked Libby.

‘Oh, sorry.’ He looked up and smiled again. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t. I expect it was because you told me about that other bloke being found that Bill’s murder was in my mind.’

Libby fought a battle with her sensible side and won. ‘Actually, I knew Bill myself, slightly,’ she said, crossing her fingers. ‘I’m still friendly with some of the members of Cranston Morris.’

‘Really.’ He looked wary. ‘Strange bunch, I always thought.’

‘Oh, I agree. In fact I was down in Cornwall last week filming them, and some of the things they get up to are really weird.’

‘Filming?’

‘Oh, a friend of mine was doing a small feature about them on a television programme.’

Barry Phillips looked as though he’d like to have asked, but didn’t.

‘Lewis Osbourne-Walker,’ said Libby, putting him out of his misery. ‘He does a programme –’

‘Yes, I know what he does. And he owns Creekmarsh.’ He put his head on one side. ‘And I know who you are, now, too.’

Libby’s heart sank.

‘You’re the one who found that body –’

‘No, I
didn’t
,’ Libby interrupted. ‘Why does everyone think I did?’

‘But aren’t you the one who’s been mixed up with all those murders? Is that why you’re interested in Bill?’

‘Well,’ Libby hesitated, ‘it’s actually because my friend is a psychic. She’s helped the police on a couple of occasions, and I’ve helped her.’

‘So
is
it why you’re interested?’

‘Why do you think I am?’

‘Because you brought his name up very early on, and you seem to know something that the general public don’t know. Even members of his own company, who would be expected to be told.’ Phillips sat back in his chair. ‘And now I’ve given you fuel for your fire by telling you about the gardeners’ shed.’

‘Have you?’ Libby tried to look innocent. He laughed.

‘Oh, it’s all right, Mrs Sarjeant,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind at all. I wish the police would get to the bottom of Bill’s murder so we could all stop tip-toeing round one another with suspicious faces.’

‘Is that what you’re doing? Who’s all?’

He shrugged. ‘Elizabeth Martin and me, for a start. And Monica, of course.’

‘His wife? Why? Is she a director of the business?’

‘She has an interest financially – or rather she had a small one which is now a much bigger one. She doesn’t take much of an
actual
interest in the business, never has, as far as I can see.’ He sat back and looked up at the ceiling. ‘But there’s been no motive discovered, you see.’ He looked back at Libby. ‘And everyone suspects each other.’

‘How do you know Monica does?’

‘Oh, she was here after he died, hysterical. Accusing Elizabeth and I of killing him to gain control of the business.’ He shook his head. ‘We got her calmed down, and her children took her home, but she’s popped up two or three times since then, snooping around.’ He sighed again. ‘And we can hardly stop her, can we?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Libby. ‘But surely you and Miss Martin don’t suspect each other?’

‘It’s Mrs Martin, actually, and no, of course I don’t suspect her.’ Libby’s was interested to note a slight heightening of Barry Phillips’s colour as he said this. Does he fancy her? she wondered.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s all very interesting, and thank you for telling me all about it, but–’

‘You didn’t tell me if you
are
looking into Bill’s death,’ he said.

‘Not really, although my friend has been helping the police a bit.’ Libby crossed her fingers again. ‘But I was going to say, I shouldn’t worry too much. Now John Lethbridge’s body has been found, it looks as thought the murder was more connected to his private life than his business life.’

The door of the office crashed open. A tall, striking redhead stood there and Libby thought she could almost see flames coming from her nostrils.

‘And exactly what is going on here?’ she said.

Elizabeth Martin had arrived.

Chapter Twenty-two

‘Liz!’ Barry Phillips stood up in a rush. Elizabeth Martin’s eyes swivelled to him under lowered brows.

‘Elizabeth,’ he corrected himself. ‘This is Mrs Sarjeant –’

‘I know.’ The fierce eyes turned back to Libby, who was sitting fascinated and rooted to her chair. ‘I want to know what she’s doing here.’

Libby opened her mouth but Barry Phillips beat her to it.

‘To check out the facilities for Ben Wilde’s retirement party,’ he said, going round the desk and attempting to take Elizabeth Martin’s arm. She shook him off.

‘So I’m told,’ she said. ‘And I want to know why. Bill would never have allowed it.’

‘Of course he would.’ Barry Phillips was flustered. ‘Whatever had happened –’

‘No. Ben Wilde tried to get money from us after giving us a sub-standard design. He was – is, I should say – a chiselling fraud.’

Libby opened her mouth again, but once more Phillips beat her to it.

‘Elizabeth!’ His voice had taken a completely different tone, and Elizabeth Martin turned to him in surprise. ‘That was totally uncalled for and extremely rude. Apart from the fact that Ben Wilde’s design was far superior to that which we’ve got now, he is anything but a fraud. And I would remind you that Frensham Barn is under my jurisdiction, not yours, and if I wish to let it to anyone, I will.’ He sat down again, looking thunderous.

Elizabeth Martin stood rigid except for her eyes which flicked between Libby and Phillips.

‘How dare you!’ she whispered finally. ‘This is to get back at me, isn’t it?’ She leant across the desk, her face inches from Phillips’s. ‘Because he’s dead and you still can’t have me.’ She straightened, cast a scathing glance at Libby and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.