Murder in the Green (5 page)

It was all hugely interesting, thought Libby, but what Gemma thought she could do she had no idea. In this case, more so than in any other she had been involved with, she had no legitimate interest, and neither did Fran. And Fran hadn’t even felt the slightest flutter of her psychic wings which had been so necessary in other cases, and the reason that the police, in the shape of Detective Inspector Ian Connell, as Jane had reminded her, had asked for her help.

Nevertheless, she and Fran would go to the Solstice Parade and talk to Gemma. It would be a day away from Steeple Martin at worst, and might turn up something interesting at best. Although being away from Steeple Martin might turn out to be the best of it after all, Libby thought, and went to put the kettle on.

‘It was nice to see you this afternoon,’ said Ben, later. He was pouring himself a drink before going up to shower and change.

‘Yes,’ said Libby, hesitating inside the kitchen doorway.

‘Any more thoughts?’ He cocked his head on one side, like an eager dog, thought Libby.

‘A few,’ she said slowly. ‘I really like what’s being done, and I can imagine how it will look when it’s finished.’ She sat down and smiled. ‘And I even began imagining ponies in the paddock.’

Ben sat down opposite and patted her knee. ‘That sounds hopeful.’

‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘I’m just being silly, I’m sure, but I do feel kind of pressured, and as I keep saying, I bought this cottage and did everything in it myself, so it feels like part of me.’

Ben looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. ‘I do understand. And with me living here it doesn’t feel like your house any more, does it?’

Libby was horrified. ‘That wasn’t what I meant!’

‘I know it wasn’t.’ Ben gave her a crooked smile and stood up. ‘I know we’ve been all through this before, and came to a compromise –’

‘You did, you mean,’ Libby interrupted.

‘All right, I did,’ agreed Ben. ‘But it was that or lose you. And I don’t want to lose you.’ He dropped a kiss on her head and made for the stairs. Libby remained staring after him feeling guiltier than ever.

Now what, she asked herself. Before Fran and Guy’s wedding Ben had indeed come to a compromise, putting his own desire to get married on hold and agreeing to live in Number 17 until Libby felt ready to live at Steeple Farm instead of moving into it straight away.

What she needed to do, she answered herself, getting up and going back into the kitchen, was to sort out what exactly she felt for Ben. Was the threat of leaving her cottage and moving in to a property owned by a member of his family affecting her feeling for him? She pulled a face at her reflection in the kitchen window. It made her sound like the heroine of a historical romance being imprisoned by the Duke’s family.

Perhaps, she thought, absently stirring the pot on the Rayburn, she needed to get right away. Right away from Ben, the cottage, the farm and from Steeple Martin itself. Her world had been so bound up in its narrow confines for the last few years, even if there were excursions to Nethergate, she had hardly considered the outside world.

‘That’s it,’ she said, raising her head. ‘I shall have to run away.’

Chapter Five

There was no opportunity to run anywhere before the Solstice Parade at Steeple Mount. Fran and Libby met in the car park at the bottom of Steeple Mount high street, which was almost at bursting point. Libby drove round and round, cursing each time she missed a space and getting hotter and hotter and more and more frustrated. Finally grabbing a tight space under the nose of another irate motorist, she clambered damply out and went to find the ticket machine, where she discovered Fran looking enviably cool and unflustered.

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she grumbled, punching her registration number into the machine. ‘You look as though you’ve just stepped out of an air-conditioned Rolls.’

‘Better than that,’ grinned Fran. ‘Out of Guy’s car. He dropped me off.’

Libby snorted.

Steeple Mount high street was
en fête
. Straighter and narrower than that of Steeple Martin, bunting was looped along both sides, and the few shops all had relevant window displays, especially, Libby noticed, Diggory’s bakery, overflowing with bread sculptures in the shapes of Stonehenge, the Oak King and the sun.

‘The Oak King?’ asked Fran. ‘Who’s he?’

‘Didn’t you look it all up yesterday, as you suggested?’ said Libby with a lift of her eyebrows.

‘No,’ sighed Fran. ‘So go on, tell me.’

‘At the Winter Solstice, or Yule, the Oak King kills the Holly King, and then reigns until Midsummer, or Litha. Once the Summer Solstice arrives, the Holly King returns to do battle with the Oak King, and defeats him. The Holly King then rules until Yule. More or less. There are different versions according to whether you’re reading Wiccan, Pagan, Celtic or Druid. I expect the Morris sides take a bit from each.’

‘Litha’s midsummer, then, is it?’

‘And a great time for love and sex, apparently. Lots of tumbling in the bushes during the night.’ Libby made a face. ‘How uncomfortable.’

‘But more cheerful than the black mass,’ said Fran, remembering her experience a couple of years ago at Tyne Chapel just outside Steeple Mount.

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Libby. ‘The Holly King kills the Oak King after sunrise – or is it sunset? – tomorrow. Not very cheerful.’

‘Do Cranston Morris have an Oak King?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never looked into it before. I just remember the parade and a lot of dancing up on the Mount.’ Libby nodded towards the end of the high street. ‘The parade’s nearly there, look. If we want to see anything we’d better get a move on.’

Following the crowd, Libby and Fran reached the foot of the Mount and began to climb the path. It was some years since Libby had done this and now it was making her puff. Fran, as usual, looked unworried.

At the top of the Mount, in front of the large standing stone known as Grey Betty, Cranston Morris were gathered round an odd figure wearing a mask and antlers. Other visiting sides grouped round them and all of them were singing.

‘Oh, I remember this,’ said Libby. ‘It’s about sunrise and the flame of love. They used to give out leaflets so everyone could join in. They’ve got a song for May Day, as well. The dances start after this.’

Sure enough, at the end of the song, which was greeted with cheers and applause by all the Morris sides and the onlookers, Cranston Morris formed up in front of the odd figure and began to dance.

‘Do you suppose that’s the Oak King?’ asked Fran.

‘Yes, could be,’ said Libby. ‘He’s got an oak leaf crown, hasn’t he? I don’t remember him being around when we used to come with the kids, but I expect they just wanted to get to the fun fair.’

‘Fair?’ Fran looked around. ‘Where?’

‘They don’t have it any more. Economic downturn, I suppose. There are a few roundabouts on the other side of the hill, look.’ Libby led the way. ‘And – oh! Gallopers!’

Sure enough, at the bottom of the Mount on the edge of the water meadows that ran down to the River Wytch, beautifully painted horses sailed up and down on a magnificent carousel.

‘Can we have a go?’ Libby turned excitedly to Fran.

‘At our age?’ Fran laughed. ‘Come on, Lib!’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Libby, starting down the hill. ‘There’s a couple of pensioners on there already.’

‘We’re not quite pensioners yet,’ said Fran, ‘but I suppose there’s no harm in it.’

After the carousel ride, Libby treated Fran to candy floss from the Nethergate Lions Club stall and Fran bought them each a turn on the coconut shy. By this time, Libby had noticed members of Cranston Morris, their duty now done, strolling among the crowds. On the edge of the Mount, outside the beer tent, sat Gemma Baverstock with the now mask-less Oak King.

‘Hello, Gemma,’ said Libby. ‘This is my friend Fran.’

‘Libby!’ Gemma jumped up from her white plastic chair. ‘Pull up a seat. Hello Fran. Oh, I’m so glad you came.’ She sat down again and indicated the figure at her side. ‘Do you remember Richard Diggory?’

‘Yes, of course,’ beamed Libby. ‘Now I know why you had an Oak King in your window. Very impressive.’

‘The bread or me?’ Richard Diggory smiled back and shook her hand.

‘Oh, both, of course,’ said Libby. ‘How long have you been Oak King?’

Gemma and Richard looked at each other. ‘Only this year, actually,’ said Richard. ‘It was always Bill.’

‘Oh?’ Libby looked at Gemma. ‘I didn’t realise it was the same person. Was he always Green Man, too?’

‘Yes.’ Gemma nodded. ‘So he could have been killed by anyone, you see. Everyone knew he was Green Man, the same as everyone knew he was Oak King.’

‘Only people who were interested in Morris and the celebrations. Outsiders wouldn’t.’ Richard picked up his empty glass. ‘Can I get anyone a drink?’

Libby opened her mouth.

‘No thanks,’ said Fran, ‘Libby’s driving.’ Libby glared at her.

‘I don’t remember an Oak King when I used to come with the children,’ said Libby to Gemma when Richard had gone to the beer tent.

‘No, he’s fairly recent,’ said Gemma. ‘When Bill took over as Squire –’

‘Squire?’ Fran wrinkled her brow.

‘Sort of captain,’ said Gemma. ‘Well, when he took over, and my Dan was made bagman – treasurer and secretary,’ she explained, catching Libby’s and Fran’s expressions, ‘they went into the whole history of Morris and incorporated the whole Oak and Holly King tradition into the solstice celebration. The Squire had always been the Green Man, so he became Oak King, too.’

‘Who’s the Holly King who has to kill him off?’ asked Libby.

‘Dan. And there he is,’ said Gemma, standing up and waving.

Libby turned and saw a burly figure in a red and green cloak and tunic coming towards them.

‘Hello, Lib,’ he said, kissing her soundly on the cheek. ‘Lovely to see you. Who’s this?’

Libby introduced Fran, then touched the mask, similar to the one Richard had been wearing, which hung from Dan’s belt.

‘This is the Holly King mask, is it?’

He unhooked it for her inspection. ‘Specially made for us by a bloke who does film and theatre make-up. We found a website with some on, and had them copied. I’ve got holly leaves and berries, Richard’s got oak leaves and acorns.’

‘And why the antlers?’ asked Fran.

‘It’s all linked up with Herne the Hunter,’ said Dan. ‘If you go into the history –’

‘Not now, Dan,’ interrupted Gemma, laughing and patting him on the arm.

‘No, but it’s interesting, Gem,’ said Libby. ‘And you did want me to come and talk to you.’

‘Yes,’ said Gemma, her already rosy cheeks becoming rosier as she glanced at her husband, whose set mouth indicated his lack of sympathy with her views.

‘You don’t agree with Gemma,’ said Fran.

‘Bill’s murder was bloody awful,’ said Dan, ignoring the rather dreadful pun, ‘and very upsetting for Monica. The police are still working on it and I don’t see how involving amateurs –’

‘Dan!’ expostulated Gemma.

‘He’s right, Gem,’ said Libby. ‘I told you the police always get there in the end.’

‘Not always,’ mumbled Gemma.

‘If they don’t, then neither would anyone else,’ said Libby. ‘Sometimes Fran and I have been lucky enough to stumble on things, usually because one of us is in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it can be dangerous.’

‘But you might be able to explain things to us,’ said Gemma, her eyes imploring.

‘How? I don’t know anything about the murders.’

‘Why do you say murders plural?’ said Dan sharply.

Libby looked surprised. ‘Sorry, I was just assuming that the other chap was being treated as a murder, too.’

‘John Lethbridge?’ Gemma looked shocked. ‘He’s just disappeared. He had money problems.’

‘And trouble with his ex-wife,’ said Dan.

‘Ex-wife? That’d be old Willy.’ Richard Diggory reappeared behind Gemma’s shoulder and gave her a nudge. She winced and glanced up at Dan, who rolled his eyes.

Fran stared at him. ‘Willy? Who’s Willy?’

Richard gave a slight laugh. ‘Wilhelmina. Wilhelmina Lethbridge. That’s who you were talking about, wasn’t it?’

‘Was it?’ said Libby.

Richards eyes moved swiftly to each of the group. ‘I heard you say ex-wife. I only know one.’

‘Could have been anybody,’ said Libby, with a shrug. ‘Come on, Fran, I ought to get back. My parking ticket will run out.’ She stood up.

‘You’re going?’ Gemma looked startled.

‘I’ve seen the dancing and the Oak King and had a ride on the carousel,’ said Libby, with a grin. ‘Now I need to go home and have a grown-up drink.’ She gave Gemma a quick kiss on the cheek and waved at Richard and Dan. ‘Hope tomorrow goes well,’ she said. ‘Come on, Fran.’

‘What was all that about?’ asked Fran, as they climbed back up the Mount to where a troupe of small children were performing a largely uncoordinated fairy dance.

‘There’s something wrong with that Diggory person,’ said Libby, pausing and panting by Grey Betty. ‘You mark my words.’