Chapter One

Out of the darkness they came, bells silenced, boots muffled on dead leaves. The whites of their eyes caught the torchlight and reflected an ancient excitement. Above them, budding branches whispered, ahead of them the need-fire was already burning.

The path wound down the shallow hillside among the trees. Two figures broke away, feathers nodding above black faces. Neither of them returned.

‘Please, Libby. Just come and talk to them.’

Libby Sarjeant frowned at the phone. ‘Gemma, I can’t.’

‘Why not? You’ve been involved in murders before.’

Libby squirmed. ‘Not intentionally.’

‘But you have. You’re like – like – oh, I don’t know, bloody Miss Marple or something.’

Libby closed her eyes and squirmed some more. ‘No, I’m not, Gemma. Let me tell you, the police always get there either ahead or at the same time as the amateur in these cases. Let well alone. They’ll find out what happened.’

‘It’s nearly two months now. How can they find out now?’

‘Just think of all the cold case reviews they do these days,’ said Libby. ‘They solve those, don’t they?’

‘They do on telly,’ grumbled Gemma.

‘Anyway,’ said Libby, hastily returning to the point. ‘I can’t see your lot welcoming a batty old woman asking a lot of impertinent questions, can you? Be sensible.’

There was silence at the other end of line. Eventually Libby said, ‘Are you still there, Gemma?’

‘Yes. I was thinking,’ said Gemma. ‘Couldn’t you at least come along? See the celebrations?’

‘On the longest day?’

‘Yes. We start at sunrise.’

‘What? You must be joking!’

‘It’s traditional.’ Gemma sounded defensive. ‘Even the Mayor comes out to watch.’

‘Good for him,’ muttered Libby.

‘Well, if you can’t come then, you could come to one of the public displays during the day. Or even,’ Gemma was disparaging, ‘to the Saturday parade.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Libby. ‘I seem to remember that being good fun. I used to go with the kids.’

‘Oh, yes, how are they?’

‘Adam’s working with a garden designer locally, and Belinda and Dominic are both working in London. How are yours?’

‘Still at home,’ said Gemma gloomily. ‘Anyway, will you come?’

Libby sighed. ‘Possibly to the Saturday parade,’ she said. ‘Where does it finish up?’

‘Same as we always do – on the mount.’

‘What time?’

‘Two-ish. But you won’t get a chance to talk to anybody then.’

‘I didn’t say I’d talk to anyone,’ said Libby.

‘But I want you to talk to them,’ wailed Gemma. ‘You don’t understand!’

‘Oh, yes, I do, Gemma. Believe me.’

Libby put the phone down and frowned at her sitting room. Sidney the silver tabby twitched an ear in her direction and buried his nose more firmly under his tail. Libby sighed again, picked up the phone and sat down on the cane sofa.

‘Fran? It’s me.’

‘Hi. What’s up?’

‘I’m fed up.’

‘You sound it. Been missing me?’

‘As it happens, I did, but I’ve seen you twice since you’ve been back, so I think I’ve recovered.’

‘From the shock of my marriage, or my enforced absence on honeymoon?’

Libby laughed. ‘Both. No, I’m fed up about lots of things.’

‘Lots of things? Good lord!’

‘Two anyway,’ said Libby. ‘One is Steeple Farm, which is turning into a monster, and the second is – well, someone’s asked me to Look Into Something.’

Fran sighed. ‘I don’t believe it. A murder?’

‘Yes. Have you ever met my old friend Gemma Baverstock?’

‘No. Should I have?’

‘No, I just wondered. She’s a member of the Cranston Morris, if you’ve heard of them.’

‘No, I haven’t, but don’t forget I’ve only been in Kent for a few years. And aren’t Morris sides supposed to be men only?’

‘Used to be, yes, and purists still argue about it, but there are loads of female sides now. Cranston have a male side, a female side and a mixed side, but still uphold the old traditions.’

‘Well, I don’t know anything about that,’ said Fran, ‘except that they dance at May Day.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Libby. ‘Well, on May Day their Green Man was killed.’

‘Sorry, you’ll have to explain,’ said Fran. ‘I thought that was a sort of gargoyle.’

‘Can be,’ said Libby. ‘Often carved up high in churches and cathedrals. But in this case it’s a bloke inside a sort of conical wire frame covered with vegetation.’

‘And this bloke was killed?’

‘Stabbed inside the cage. No one knew until he didn’t start to move when everyone else did.’

‘People would have seen blood, surely.’

‘I didn’t think of that. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t ever want to get mixed up with murder again. It’s quite ridiculous.’

‘Oh, I agree,’ said Fran with a laugh in her voice. ‘I bet Ben does, too.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Come on, Lib. There’s something else, isn’t there? You said Steeple Farm. And Ben?’

‘Yes. I know I’m being silly, but –’

‘Do you want to talk about it? Guy’s at the shop and won’t be home until at least half five.’

‘Do you mind? I’ll bring lunch with me.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Fran. ‘You can bring a bottle of wine, if you like. You’ll be allowed one glass, won’t you?’

‘OK.’ Libby brightened. ‘I’ll leave as soon as I can.’

Leaving a note in case anyone appeared and wondered where she was, she collected a bottle of wine from the kitchen, gave Sidney a perfunctory stroke, and left the cottage. The sky was grey, but as there was very little wind the air felt muggy, and much warmer than it had indoors. Romeo the Renault, now freed from servitude with Libby’s son Adam, sat under the trees on the other side of the little green and started at the first turn of the key.

‘I suppose I shall have to upgrade you sooner or later,’ Libby told the car, as she turned round to drive out of Allhallow’s Lane, ‘but while you behave yourself, I shall keep you.’

The drive from Steeple Martin, the village where Libby lived, to Nethergate, the seaside town where Fran’s cottage looked out over the sea, was quiet and pleasant, through undulating Kentish countryside and the occasional remaining hop gardens, but today Libby was too immersed in her thoughts to admire her surroundings.

Reaching the sign which announced itself as “Nethergate, Seaside Heritage town, twinned with Bayeau St Pierre”, she drove past the entrance to the new estate and dropped down the hill to the high street, past Luigi’s, the Italian restaurant favoured by Fran and her husband, Guy, and finally along Harbour Street, past Lizzie’s ice cream shop and Guy’s gallery until she reached Coastguard Cottage.

The heavy oak door stood open, and Libby found Fran leaning on the deep windowsill gazing out at the small harbour, the yellow printed curtains billowing round her. She turned and smiled.

‘I still can’t believe how lucky I am,’ she said.

Libby gave her a hug. ‘All this and a husband too, eh?’

Fran blushed. ‘I can’t get used to it,’ she said. ‘I’m Fran Wolfe now. How strange is that? I’ve been Castle for the last thirty years.’

‘I bet people will still call you Castle,’ said Libby, hauling the wine bottle out of her basket.

‘I expect so,’ said Fran, ‘and I don’t really mind, as long as it isn’t the children.’

‘No change there, then?’ Libby followed Fran into the kitchen.

‘No. I sent them all postcards from the honeymoon and while Jeremy was staying here until we got back he says Chrissie and Lucy never stopped badgering him. He was very rude to them eventually, and I haven’t heard a word from them since he went.’

‘He phoned me at one point,’ said Libby. ‘He was so sick of them, and they were being so selfish. Not that I could do anything, but by that time his lovely girlfriend had gone back to the States and I think he wanted to let off steam.’

‘He said you had him over to dinner twice. He thought you were lovely.’

‘Good.’ Libby grinned. ‘Adam was there too, so he had someone of his own age.’

‘I thought Adam wasn’t living with you now?’ Fran handed over a glass of wine.

‘He isn’t. You know where he is, don’t you?’

Fran shook her head. ‘I’ve only been back a week, I haven’t caught up.’

‘In your old flat!’ Libby announced triumphantly.

‘Over the Pink Geranium?’

‘And giving Harry a hand in the restaurant in the evenings if necessary. It seems to be working really well.’

‘And Lewis?’

‘Oh, Adam and Mog are still working on his gardens. They’re going to be beautiful. And Lewis has got a new firm in to re-do the interiors. I don’t think he wants to live there any more –’

‘Not surprised,’ said Fran, remembering the unpleasant events that had taken place at Lewis’s house, Creekmarsh Place, only a few weeks before her wedding.

‘– but he still wants to run it as a venue. He’s going to get someone in as an events manager.’

Supplied with glasses of wine, they went back into the sitting room and sat either side of the empty fireplace.

‘Still liking married life?’ asked Libby.

‘Yes.’ Fran leant back and sipped her wine. ‘It feels so good after all these years.’ She fixed her eyes on Libby. ‘And in that direction things are still not going well with you?’

Libby shook her head. ‘Oh, we came to a sort of accommodation before your wedding, you know we did. But even though he’s stopped pushing to get married, he’s still banging on about Steeple Farm.’

Fran eyed her friend thoughtfully. ‘Last I heard,’ she said, ‘he was going to do it up while you stayed at number 17 and then think again.’

‘I know,’ Libby nodded. ‘But he’s so enthusiastic about it. He keeps dragging me off to have a look at what’s being done – which isn’t much yet, to be frank.’

‘And don’t you like it?’

‘It’s still Aunt Millie’s house to me, even if I’ve stopped thinking of those dormer windows as eyes.’

‘But you said –’

‘I know what I said.’ Libby was exasperated. ‘You said you wanted to live here on your own, and look where you are now? Married to Guy, with all that means.’

Fran pursed her lips. ‘At least I was honest enough to admit I’d changed my mind. Love does that, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, but I’ve admitted I love Ben. Ever since we came together over that girl’s murder three years ago. We’ve got a lot in common – we’re both divorced, we both love the theatre and we have the same social circle. His cousin Peter is one of my best friends.’

Fran looked doubtful. ‘That’s not love.’

Libby looked up quickly. ‘I didn’t say it was. I still fancy him.’

‘You were the one who lectured me when I was dithering about Guy. I thought you had it sorted.’

‘I did.’ Libby sighed. ‘Sort of.’

‘And Steeple Farm’s complicated matters?’

‘Definitely. You remember why Ben’s taken it on?’

‘Of course. It belongs to Peter’s mum Millie and while she’s in care he won’t sell it.’

‘That’s right. As all this happened just before your wedding, I wasn’t sure how much you’d taken in. So Ben’s going to do it up and live in it, and if Millie dies he’ll buy it as a sitting tenant.’

‘And the original idea was that you’d both live in it, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Libby bit her lip. ‘It is a lovely house – or it will be, but I love my cottage.’

‘There would be much more room at Steeple Farm.’

‘I know, I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘And Adam loves it. Lewis has promised to keep a watching brief over the renovations, and we’ve got that builder who’s a qualified lime plasterer doing the work.’

‘And?’ prompted Fran after a minute.

‘It still gives me a funny feeling when I go in.’

Fran gave a sharp little nod. ‘In that case, don’t go and live there,’ she said. ‘You know as well as I do, the atmosphere is paramount, and I know what I’m talking about.’

‘I know.’ Libby nodded. Fran had been a consultant to the Mayfair estate agents, Goodall and Smythe, who sent her into properties to divine whether there was anything in the atmosphere which would preclude clients from having a positive living experience, as they put it. Put another way, to find out if anything nasty had happened in the woodshed, the cellars or the attic which might make very rich clients very uncomfortable.

‘You said you couldn’t see me living there,’ said Libby slowly. ‘Remember?’

‘Yes. I also said I could have been wrong. You know how often I’m wrong.’

‘I think you were right.’ Libby twirled her wine glass. ‘I won’t live there.’

‘What about Ben?’

‘He was very understanding last time we spoke about it.’ Libby stood up. ‘Can I go outside for a fag?’

‘You can have one in here, if you like,’ said Fran.

‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘It’s bad enough me still smoking without contaminating everywhere else. I’ll go into the yard. Perhaps Balzac will keep me company.’

‘He’ll be sleeping in the big flowerpot,’ said Fran, also getting to her feet. ‘Come on, I’ll come with you. I want to know what you’re going to do about Ben.’

Libby went through the kitchen and out into Fran’s little courtyard. ‘So do I,’ she muttered.

Chapter Two

‘So how much do you know about this murder?’ asked Fran later as she cleared plates into the kitchen sink.

‘Only what I told you and what I remember from the local tv news. I noticed because it was Cranston Morris and I’ve known Gemma and her husband for ever. And a couple of the other members.’

‘So just that the Green Man was killed?’

‘And another member of the side has gone missing, yes.’

Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that significant?’

‘The police looked into it at first, but he hasn’t turned up and they seem to think it was a planned disappearance.’

‘When he did he go?’

Libby frowned. ‘That’s the funny thing. They were all there for the May Day parade, apparently. It was after they’d discovered that Bill had been stabbed that the other bloke must have disappeared, because he wasn’t there when they rounded them all up.’

‘Very significant, then.’

‘You’d have thought so,’ said Libby, ‘but he hadn’t had time to get far, and there was no trace of him. Even his car had gone.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a real puzzle.’

Fran cocked her head to one side. ‘And you don’t want to look into it?’

Libby felt the colour creeping up her neck. ‘Well…’

‘When does this Gemma want you to talk to them?’

‘At the Summer Solstice. Apparently they get up really early and dance, then they go to various sites and dance some more. Then, of course, there’s the Saturday Parade – either the Saturday before or after, whichever’s closer.’

‘Where’s that? And which Saturday will it be?’

Libby wrinkled her brow. ‘The day before at Steeple Mount. Longest day is June 21st.’

‘Why don’t we go to the parade together?’ suggested Fran.

‘You don’t want to get involved, surely?’

‘I wouldn’t mind knowing more about it,’ said Fran. ‘What have I got to do these days? I wasn’t cut out to be a stay-at-home housewife.’

‘Guy won’t mind?’

‘Of course he won’t. As long as I’m sensible and we don’t get into trouble like we did before.’

‘Ben’ll mind.’

‘Don’t look so mournful. It’s your life.’

Libby laughed. ‘You’ve changed!’

‘Yes,’ said Fran thoughtfully, ‘I have. Strangely, I’ve become more assertive. Guy’s been good for me in so many ways.’

‘Mmm,’ said Libby.

‘You find out the times and so on and we’ll make arrangements,’ said Fran. ‘Hope the weather changes.’

No need to tell Ben, thought Libby, as she drove home through windscreen-wiper-defying drizzle. I’ll just say Fran and I are going to have a day out together. But he knows Gemma and Cranston Morris, said an insidious little voice. He’ll know why you’re going to the parade. I’ll have to think of an excuse, Libby told herself, and tried to think of something else.

Ben was in a particularly good mood when he returned from the Manor Farm estate office, where he worked looking after his parents rather diminished estate. Once the Manor had been the local centre of hop growing, but the gardens had all been sold off, the hopping huts knocked down, all but one small row which Ben wanted to turn into a museum, and the rest of the estate turned over to tenant farmers.

‘They’ve actually finished ripping out the kitchen and repairing the walls at Steeple Farm,’ he said, pouring himself a whisky. ‘Want one?’ He held up his glass. Libby shook her head.

‘That seems quite fast,’ she said, wiping her hands on a tea towel as she joined him in the sitting room.

‘It is.’ He grinned at her. ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled and tried to feel keen. ‘What’s next?’

‘They’ll carry on stripping the whole house and repairing or restoring as they go. Lewis popped by today and was very enthusiastic.’

‘Has he been at Creekmarsh?’

‘He stayed down last night apparently.’

Lewis Osbourne-Walker owned Creekmarsh Place, where Adam and his boss Mog were restoring the gardens. Lewis was a carpenter whose appearances on a television homes show had given him a whole new career; a new series was being constructed round the renovation of the house and gardens. Adam was cock-a-hoop about appearing on television.

Libby nodded and threw the tea towel over her shoulder. ‘Dinner in about an hour,’ she said.

‘How about a quick one at the pub, then?’ said Ben. ‘We haven’t been down there for ages.’

Reprieve, thought Libby. He won’t talk about Steeple Farm if we’re in the pub. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Give me five minutes.’

The sun had made a belated appearance and threw their long shadows before them as they walked down Allhallow’s Lane.

‘So, what did you do today?’ Ben slipped an arm around Libby’s waist.

‘Oh, I popped over to see Fran for lunch. She’s–’ Libby stopped and bit her lip. So happy, she had been going to say.

‘She’s what?’ Ben cocked his head to look at her.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Libby temporised, ‘different, I suppose.’

‘Happy?’

‘Well, yes. But I didn’t mean that.’ Libby looked him in the eye. ‘Assertive. She said so herself.’

‘Oh.’ Ben was taken aback, as she had intended.

‘Anyway,’ Libby went on, without giving him time to pursue the subject, ‘she’s suggested we have a day out, just the two of us, next Saturday.’

‘Good. You’ve missed her, haven’t you?’ said Ben.

‘Yes.’ Libby smiled at him. ‘I seem to be surrounded by males, don’t I? And Fran is the first close female friend I’ve had in years.’

‘I know.’ Ben gave her a squeeze and opened the door of the pub. Libby immediately felt guilty because he was being understanding.

‘Is that where you’re going?’ Returning from the bar with the drinks, Ben nodded at a poster stuck up beneath the clock.

“Midsummer Madness with Cranston Morris” it read. “Saturday Parade with fancy dress competition and Greet the Dawn at 5am on The Mount on Sunday 21st June.”

Libby’s heart sank. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I used to enjoy taking the kids when they were younger. Fran suggested it –’ true, she thought ‘– and I thought you wouldn’t mind. Not the greeting the dawn thing, though.’

‘I should think not.’ Ben settled down beside her. ‘We used to go, too. I expect we bumped into one another.’

‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘You would have remembered me. If you recognised me when we met again a few years ago, you would have done then, too.’

‘True.’ Ben nodded, and paused for a sip of beer. ‘I always fancied dancing morris.’

‘Did you?’ Libby was surprised. ‘I wouldn’t ever have guessed.’

‘Apart from the stereotypical images – you know, Arran sweaters, beards and long hair – I thought it looked fun. I was put off by the women, though.’

‘Really?’ Libby twisted sideways in her chair to look at him properly. ‘How come?’

‘They always seemed to be homing in on a male preserve, and over-enthusiastic. I even researched it once.’

‘Did you? What did you find out?’

‘That there’s evidence of women dancing way back in the sixteen hundreds, but the Morris Ring won’t allow women’s or mixed sides.’

‘What’s the Morris Ring?’

Ben wrinkled his brow. ‘As far as I can remember, a sort of association of sides. Over two hundred, I think, but there are other organisations which allow the women.’

‘Fascinating, and one up for the girls.’ Libby lifted her glass.

‘Yes, but there’s no real evidence for women dancing in proper Morris sides, and it really was a men-only thing for years. The people who revived Molly dancing in the Fens in the seventies wouldn’t have them, although even some of them do now.’

‘Molly dancing?’

‘Black-faced. They dance on Plough Monday –’

‘You’ve lost me now,’ said Libby shaking her head. ‘Although Cranston Morris are black-faced. Would they have a connection?’

‘No idea. As I say, I only did a bit of research a few years ago. And I used to have a friend who lived in the Cambridgeshire Fens and danced with a local Molly side.’ Ben smiled reminiscently. ‘Quite rough and earthy. They used to do a Mummer’s play, too.’

‘We have those here, too.’ Libby was defensive.

‘I know, I know.’ Ben smiled again and patted her knee. ‘Cranston Morris do a Mummer’s play themselves at the Saturday parade.’

‘Of course,’ said Libby, ‘I should have remembered. St George and the doctor and all that.’

‘We ought to do one for the theatre,’ said Ben. ‘We could do a pre-Christmas thing. That’s when mummers used to go round, isn’t it?’

‘Wassailing?’ Libby frowned. ‘Something like that. I’ll look it up. Perhaps we could do something round the pubs to promote the panto?’

To Libby’s relief, Ben took hold of the change of subject and began to discuss next season’s pantomime. The oast house owned by the Manor Farm had been turned into a small theatre, which was run by a consortium of Ben’s cousin Peter, Ben himself, who was the architect behind the project, and Libby. The opening production had been marred by the murder of a member of the cast, but, since then, the theatre had gone from strength to strength and gained a formidable reputation in the area.

Peter and his partner, Harry, who owned between them the Pink Geranium, a vegetarian restaurant a few doors down from the pub, joined them at Number 17 after dinner.

Harry complained that the credit crunch was going to halve the takings if something didn’t happen soon.

‘As long as you break even it doesn’t matter,’ said Peter.

‘Hardly doing that at the moment,’ said Harry gloomily. ‘That’s why we’ve come here to ponce a drink off you rather than going to the pub.’

‘And here was I thinking you were desperate for my company,’ said Libby, handing over two large glasses of red wine.

Peter kissed her cheek. ‘What, you, you old trout?’

Libby grinned.

‘So what’s been going on chez the Sarjeant Wilde household?’ asked Harry, flinging himself on to the cane sofa and upsetting Sidney.

‘Not a lot,’ said Ben. ‘Still working on Steeple Farm.’

Harry shot a look at Libby. ‘Right,’ he said.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Peter. ‘James was asking the other day.’ James was Peter’s younger brother.

‘Has he decided he wants to move in?’ asked Libby, a little too quickly.

‘Good lord, no,’ said Peter with a frown. ‘He’s far too ensconced in his nice flat in Canterbury with his new girlfriend.’

‘New girlfriend?’ said Ben and Libby together, and the conversation was once more turned away from Steeple Farm, to Libby’s relief.

‘Come on, then,’ said Harry, a bit later, when Libby went to fetch another bottle from the kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Libby gave him a wide-eyed look.

‘You don’t want to move into Steeple Farm, do you?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ Libby wrestled with the foil covering on the bottle. Harry took it out of her hands.

‘Just tell Ben. He won’t mind.’

‘But he will.’ Libby looked up at Harry and sighed. ‘He really wants it. And he wants us to live there together.’ She sighed again. ‘Oh, he’s said he’ll live here until I’m ready, but that’s not what he wants.’

Harry looked at her thoughtfully while pulling the cork from the bottle. ‘And it’s not what you want, either, is it?’

Libby felt the colour creeping up her neck. ‘Well, it’s not ideal…’ she began.

‘No.’ Harry handed her the bottle. ‘If you want to talk about it, come down to the caff tomorrow. I think you’re in serious need of therapy.’

‘What were you and Harry talking about in the kitchen?’ asked Ben later, as they got ready for bed.

‘Steeple Farm,’ said Libby, without stopping to think.

‘Oh?’ Ben stopped taking his shirt off and turned to face her. ‘What about it?’

Closing her eyes and cursing herself, Libby sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Come on, Lib, out with it.’ Ben sat down on the other side.

‘Harry wanted to know how I felt about it now.’

‘Now?’

‘Now the renovations have started.’

‘They started weeks ago.’

‘I know. He just wondered if I was happier about it.’

‘Oh, so everyone knows you’re not happy, do they?’ said Ben grimly.

Oh, dear, thought Libby, here we go. ‘No,’ she said aloud, ‘everyone – whoever everyone is – does not know I’m unhappy because I’m not.’

‘Go on.’ Ben settled back against the pillows, arms folded across his chest.

‘It’s just what I said before.’ Libby stood up and belted her dressing gown round her waist. ‘I love this cottage, and I made it what it is now. It’s all me. It’s very hard to think of leaving it.’

‘And you’ve discussed this with Harry?’

‘No!’ The colour flooded back into Libby’s cheeks. ‘He was there when it was first discussed, wasn’t he? And he knows me very well. He just sort of – picked up the – er – vibes, so to speak.’

Ben sighed and stood up to continue undressing. ‘More than I can, then,’ he said.

Libby escaped to the bathroom and heaved a guilty sigh of relief. It wasn’t going to turn into an argument, then. Not tonight, anyway.

Chapter Three

Libby pushed open the door of the Pink Geranium despite the closed sign. Donna, Harry’s waitress and second-in-command, still there after numerous offers from bigger and not necessarily better establishments, greeted her with a nod.

‘Harry!’ she called. ‘Libby’s here.’

Harry, already in his chef’s checked trousers and white jacket, appeared from the kitchen wiping his hands on a tea towel.

‘Hello, petal. Wine or coffee?’

Libby looked at her watch. ‘It had better be coffee, hadn’t it?’

‘Go on, then. Take a pew. Be with you in a minute.’

Libby sat on the sofa in one of the windows, to the side of the front door. If she sat sideways she could see the village high street, Ahmed and Ali’s eight-til-late, Bob’s butcher’s shop and the new farm shop, squashed into a gap between the Methodist Chapel and Ivy Cottage on the other side of the road.

‘Have you met the people in the farm shop?’ she asked, as Harry sat down beside her and put a tray on the coffee table.

‘Course I have. So have you.’

‘Have I?’

‘They’re the people who run Cattlegreen Nurseries on the Canterbury road. Nella and Joe. Nella says they weren’t getting enough custom because people weren’t stopping.’

‘And is it better here?’

‘She says so. People in the village are trying to shop in the village and not use their cars, so fresh veg is a good move. And did you know Ahmed’s got a proper baker to deliver bread in the mornings, now?’

‘Really?’ Libby was impressed. ‘Where from?’

‘Steeple Mount, apparently. The bakery there does very well.’

‘Oh, I know it. Run by Diggory something. He’s a Cranston Morris man.’

‘Richard Diggory. He sometimes supplies me with stuff. I didn’t know he was a Morris man.’ Harry pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Might have to stop buying from him.’

Libby laughed. ‘Go on, you don’t subscribe to the old stereotype beard and Arran sweater image!’

‘Well, no.’ Harry leant forward to pour coffee. ‘Rich is quite a suave individual, as it happens. Very surprising this is.’

‘He’s known as Diggory in Cranston Morris,’ said Libby. ‘I suppose that fits the image better than “Rich”, doesn’t it? I was introduced to him at a party, ages ago. I’ll probably see him again on Saturday.’

‘You’re not going to that shenanigans?’ Harry looked appalled.

‘The parade? Yes. Fran and I are going.’ Libby took a sip from her thick, white mug. ‘Ben and I used to take the children years ago.’

‘Together?’ Harry raised his eyebrows.

‘No, Ben and his wife and me and Derek. Ben says we probably met, but I don’t remember.’

‘Which brings us neatly back to why you’re here.’ Harry leant back in the corner of the sofa. ‘Shoot.’

Libby unnecessarily stirred her coffee.

‘It’s daft, really,’ she said.

‘So are you,’ said Harry.

‘Yeah, well.’ She sat up and looked at him. Faint lines were beginning to show at the corners of his blue eyes and the handsome face was just that little bit fuller than it had been a year ago. ‘You’re looking very content,’ she said.

‘We’re not talking about me,’ said Harry. ‘However, I am very content. I’m glad Pete and I got civilled, I have a failing restaurant and a lovely home. What more could a bloke want? Your turn.’

‘You know I fancied Ben when I met him over that Hop Pickers murder?’

‘I thought you already fancied him.’

‘Well, I did, sort of, but I didn’t know him very well.’ Libby looked down at her mug. ‘And I didn’t think I stood a chance, to be honest.’

Harry’s mouth twitched. ‘Course you didn’t.’

‘Oh, come on, Harry!’ Libby looked up and grinned. ‘Short, plump and over fifty. Nobody’s best catch.’

‘Were you over fifty then? I thought you were younger.’

‘Flatterer.’ Libby put her mug on the table. ‘Anyway. So we got it together, briefly, like a couple of teenagers. I reckoned it was that life-affirming thing you’re supposed to do after death, you know?’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Harry.

‘Then we drifted apart –’

‘Your fault, I gather.’

‘All right, it probably was, but then we got back together. And it was great. Well, you know, you’ve seen us through all of it.’

‘But now –’ said Harry.

‘I think it started when he moved in.’ Libby wriggled in her seat. ‘I’ve come to realise that I like my own space.’

‘So did Fran,’ said Harry. ‘I seem to remember she didn’t want Guy moving in when she went to Coastguard Cottage. She wanted to savour the moment.’

‘I reminded her of that,’ said Libby, ‘but she’s changed. She loves Guy so much.’

‘Which argues, petal, that you don’t love our Ben that much.’

‘I suppose it does,’ said Libby gloomily. ‘And now I don’t know what to do.’

Harry cocked his head on one side. ‘I know I’m not the expert on male-female relationships, but don’t you think it’s a bit unfair that you haven’t told Ben all this?’

Libby nodded. ‘But I don’t want to lose him,’ she said.

‘Now that really is dog-in-the-manger,’ said Harry. ‘I want him, but only on my terms. Compromise, gal, is the name of the game.’

Libby sighed. ‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. Ben and I went through all this only a few weeks ago, just before Fran’s wedding. He’s compromised, he’s come to live in my cottage, when he had far more room at the Manor.’

‘And you feel you can’t chuck him out?’

‘Of course I can’t. But I feel crowded and pressurised.’

‘Stating the bleedin’ obvious, Steeple Farm would take care of all that, wouldn’t it? Much more space. And Ben would let you do more or less what you liked with the inside, I betcha.’ Harry sniffed. ‘You could probably even take that creaky straw sofa. And the walking stomach.’

‘Well, of course, I’d take Sidney,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘And my cane sofa is a statement, I’ll have you know.’

‘It makes enough noise,’ said Harry, getting up. ‘More coffee?’

‘No thanks. I’ve promised Guy another pretty peep for his shop and I want to borrow Jane’s sitting room to do a preliminary sketch, so I’ve got to go to Nethergate.’

‘I thought you said Jane and Terry were turning that house back into one, now? Won’t that be their bedroom?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Libby, standing up. ‘She said I could use it, that’s all I know. And she’s working from home today, so I’m going over.’

‘They’re getting married soon, aren’t they?’ asked Harry innocently, as he opened the door for her.

‘Yes. Don’t start.’ Libby gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘And don’t work too hard.’

Jane Maurice, local newspaper reporter, and her fiancé and ex-tenant, Terry Baker, lived in the beautiful, tall, terraced Peel House on Cliff Terrace, Nethergate. It looked out over Nethergate bay and gave Libby a completely different perspective for her tourist paintings which Guy claimed to sell like hot cakes.

Jane opened the door, looking far less mouse-like than she had the previous summer when they had all been involved in some fairly hair-raising adventures. She kissed Libby’s cheek and held the door wide.

‘Terry at work?’ asked Libby, toiling up the stairs behind her.

‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘Only five days a week now. He was doing six, but I said he didn’t need to.’ She opened the door to the room at the top of the house.

‘I bet he didn’t like that,’ said Libby, when she’d got her breath back.

Jane looked sheepish. ‘No, he didn’t. But there’s no mortgage on this place and I’m earning a reasonable salary, so why should he work all that overtime? I’d rather he was here with me.’

‘What about when the children come along, though?’ said Libby slyly.

Jane cleared her throat and went pink. ‘We’ll have to have a rethink then,’ she said. Libby looked at her sharply, but she’d turned away.

‘So how’s the granny annexe going?’

Jane sighed. ‘Mother’s being difficult.’

‘No surprise there, then,’ said Libby, taking out her sketch pad and pencils. Mrs Maurice was a true daughter of the nineteen fifties and bigoted into the bargain.

‘The flat was all right for old Mrs Finch, and we’ve already put in a new bathroom and kitchen, but she’s still saying she won’t come.’

‘Perhaps she just doesn’t want to leave her own home and her friends,’ said Libby, searching for the right viewpoint from the large window. ‘It’s a big step to take. I know,’ she added darkly.

‘You moved from somewhere the other side of Canterbury, didn’t you?’ asked Jane.

‘Yes, but I didn’t mean that. My old home was associated with my prat of a husband, so I didn’t mind at all moving away, even though the kids were a bit uncomfortable with it.’ Libby turned an armchair to face the window. ‘I meant if I had to move from Number 17.’

‘But I thought you were moving?’ Jane looked surprised and Libby sighed. Everyone, as Ben had said, was indeed talking about it.

‘Maybe,’ said Libby. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? I’m parched.’

‘So what else have you done in the house?’ she asked when Jane came back with tea.

‘Turned the ground floor into a big kitchen and dining room, with a cloakroom, Terry’s old flat into the sitting room and main bedroom, also with a cloakroom and an en-suite for us, and this floor’s bedrooms and bathrooms. I’m using this one for an office at the moment.’

‘Sorry,’ said Libby, through a mouthful of BB pencil.

‘That’s OK.’ Jane perched on the arm of another chair. ‘I wasn’t doing much. Not much to do.’

‘Are you covering the Cranston Morris parade on Saturday?’ Libby put down her pad and took the cup of tea.

‘The – oh! You mean the Steeple Mount Solstice Parade? No, one of the juniors and a photographer will do that.’ Jane frowned. ‘Cranston Morris. Wasn’t it one of their people who was stabbed at the May Day celebrations?’

Libby nodded. ‘That’s right.’ She looked quickly at Jane. ‘Matter of fact, a friend of mine wants me to look into it.’

‘Oh, Libby, no!’ Jane laid a hand on her chest, looking horrified. ‘Remember what happened here?’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Libby, testily. ‘But Fran and I are quite interested.’

‘Fran too? I thought she had more sense,’ said Jane.

‘Look, I’m only going to look into it as an intellectual puzzle,’ said Libby. ‘We’re not police, or private detectives or anything. It’s just people have got to know about our involvement with all these – um –’

‘Murders?’ suggested Jane.

‘Well, yes.’ Libby was uncomfortable. ‘But, don’t forget, Fran was actually asked to look into that business of the body on the island by the police.’

‘By Ian Connell, anyway,’ said Jane shrewdly. ‘And he wasn’t over-pleased, as I remember, when you turned up at Creekmarsh Place a couple of months ago.’

‘But I was asked by the owner to look into that,’ said Libby smugly.

‘And then asked not to.’

‘Oh, OK.’ Libby sighed. ‘Anyway, I’ve actually said I won’t look into the Green Man murder, so you needn’t worry.’

‘But you said Fran was interested?’

‘Yes.’ Libby frowned. ‘To be perfectly honest, I think she’s a bit bored.’

‘Well, don’t let her drag you into anything,’ said Jane. ‘It was all a bit unpleasant, that murder.’

‘Did you cover it?’ said Libby, interested.

Jane nodded. ‘I saw it – the Green Man, I mean.’ She shuddered. ‘Horrible.’

‘And hadn’t another member of the troupe, side or whatever it is, hadn’t he disappeared?’

‘It looked like it,’ said Jane, ‘because his car wasn’t there and wasn’t at his house, either.’

‘Have they found him?’

Jane shook her head. ‘Completely disappeared, apparently. Just another missing person.’

Libby looked out of the window over the grey-blue sea. Just another missing person, she thought. And perhaps not.

Chapter Four

The problem, Libby told herself as she drove home, was that she had no one to talk to. Except Fran, Harry and Ben, who, for different reasons, didn’t appreciate what her problem was. She suddenly felt very alone and had to swallow hard against a painful lump in her throat.

‘Pitiful,’ she muttered to herself. But the feeling of ill-usage persisted. Ben (despite agreeing to stay at Number 17 for the time being) was really expecting her to live her life as he wanted it, Adam, although now living in the flat above the Pink Geranium, still tended to treat Number 17 as a hotel (and occasional laundry service) and her other children, Dominic and Belinda didn’t get in touch anywhere near as much as she would have liked. And even Fran was now cocooned in a golden halo of marriage, more suited, in Libby’s opinion, to a misty-eyed twenty-something. Although perhaps twenty-somethings were no longer misty-eyed but cynical and jaded these days.

Sniffing and swallowing, Libby drove past the turn for Steeple Mount, deliberately not looking towards Tyne Chapel, which at one time had been the scene of not only an illegal Black Mass but a murder. Vaguely, she wondered if Black Masses and covens had anything to do with the mythology surrounding the celebrations Morris sides took so seriously. Beltane and Samhain were certainly connected with witches, weren’t they? She resolved to ask Gemma when she saw her on Saturday.

Obeying goodness knows what perverse prompting from her subconscious, Libby turned left instead of going straight on when she reached Steeple Martin and drove slowly up the sunken lane to Steeple Farm. Two small vans and a pile of timber were all that indicated the presence of workmen, so Libby parked the car and went round to the back of the house.

The kitchen door was open and through it Libby could hear Radio 2 quietly chuntering away.

‘Lib!’

Libby swung round to face Ben, who had come up silently behind her.

‘Hi,’ she said weakly.

‘This is a nice surprise.’ He beamed at her and tucked a hand under her arm. ‘Come and see what they’ve been doing.’

A tour of the house revealed much bare plaster work and open studwork and Libby felt her enthusiasm being very slightly rekindled.

‘Coming on, isn’t it?’ said Ben, as they finished up in the empty kitchen. ‘Look, they’ve just put a marble shelf in the larder.’ He pulled open the planked door.

‘Wow.’ Libby put her head inside. ‘I –’ she stopped herself saying “I’ve always wanted one of those.” ‘– I think it’s fantastic,’ she finished.

‘I remember you saying you always wanted a larder,’ said Ben. ‘How do you feel about it now?’

‘The house?’

‘Of course the house.’

‘It’s going to be beautiful,’ said Libby honestly. ‘It really is. What a pity Millie changed it so much.’

Ben looked at her for a long moment. ‘But you’re still not convinced.’

Libby felt the colour creeping up again. ‘I – er – I just need some time.’

‘Mm.’ Ben went to the back door. ‘OK. Do you want to see any more, or shall I see you later?’

‘I’ll see you later,’ said Libby, feeling absurdly guilty.

She took a last look at the paddock, imagining it with a couple of ponies resting under the trees at the end, frowned and went back to the car.

The answerphone light was winking when she got home.

‘Lib, it’s Fran. Can you give me a ring back?’

‘Libby it’s Jane. I found something out about that Green Man murder. Thought you’d like to know.’

Libby stared at the phone. Life wasn’t giving her much of a chance to think about her personal problems.

‘I just thought I’d look up everything we had on the Green Man murder,’ said Jane, when Libby rang her. ‘Apparently they looked into that bloke’s disappearance more thoroughly than I thought.’

‘And?’

‘The police talked to his ex-wife and all his close friends, but no one could say whether anything was missing from his house. His wallet and keys were gone, but not his passport, and nothing’s been heard from him since.’

‘Dead?’ asked Libby. ‘Is that what they think?’

‘According to my sources,’ said Jane, with a faint air of triumph, ‘they think he’s the murderer.’

‘Well, obviously,’ said Libby. ‘Sorry, Jane, but if they’ve gone to a lot of trouble and the conclusions are what you’ve just told me, it stands to reason.’

‘But that has never been released. He’s still listed as missing.’

‘And everyone concerned will have thought the same as the police, I bet,’ said Libby. ‘I wonder why Gemma didn’t say anything.’

‘Perhaps the people involved don’t think it’s connected?’ suggested Jane.

‘Or don’t want to,’ Libby mused. ‘Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps Gemma wants me to come up with an alternative theory. Well, thanks Jane. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘You are coming to my hen night, aren’t you?’ said Jane hurriedly as Libby was about to ring off.

Libby’s heart sank. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said brightly. ‘Next Saturday, isn’t it?’

‘The Saturday after,’ said Jane, ‘the 27th.’

‘Right. It’s on the calendar,’ lied Libby. ‘If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you then.’

She punched in Fran’s number.

‘Do we have to go to Jane’s hen night?’ she asked when Fran answered.

Fran laughed. ‘Of course we do. We were instrumental in getting those two together. Or you were, anyway.’

‘It’s not going to be one of those awful learner plate and white veil dos, is it? We haven’t got to get into a stretch limo and wave cheap champagne out of the roof?’

Fran snorted. ‘Can you honestly see Jane doing that? No, it’s a very sedate evening at Anderson Place. Not many of us. A couple of Jane’s old college friends, a few from work and us.’

‘No Mum?’

‘I hardly think so,’ said Fran. ‘But I wasn’t ringing you about that.’

‘No, sorry, Jane rang and reminded me, that’s all. Why did you ring me?’

‘I was thinking about that Green Man murder.’

Libby groaned. ‘Jane was, too.’

‘What did she say?’

Libby told her.

‘Why didn’t Gemma tell you anything about this other man?’

Libby explained her theory.

‘That makes sense,’ said Fran. ‘If he was popular, they wouldn’t want to think of him as a murderer. And you wondered if he was dead?’

‘Yes. Well, if he hasn’t been seen or heard of, presumably that means his credit cards haven’t been used, that’s the first thing that springs to mind, isn’t it?’

‘Ye-es,’ said Fran slowly. ‘I was just wondering what motive he had.’

‘Oh!’ Libby was surprised. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘You hadn’t thought of motive?’

‘Yes. I mean, no. I hadn’t. For either of them. I wonder if Jane knows anything.’

‘Don’t you go ringing her back,’ said Fran. ‘You said you didn’t want to get involved – as usual.’

‘Yes, well.’ Libby cleared her throat. ‘It’s an intellectual puzzle.’

‘Hmm. Not for the Green Man’s widow, I suspect. What was his name, do you know?’

‘Bill something. I’ve met them all in the past. Gemma belonged to my old amateur group, and we went to parties together.’

‘And who is the Disappearing Man?’

‘No idea. I expect we’ll find out on Saturday.’

‘It will have been in the papers.’

‘It was, that’s how I knew about it,’ said Libby, ‘I just don’t remember the name. I could –’

‘I said, don’t phone Jane. What have you got a computer for?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Libby smiled. ‘I’ll look it up. Er – why do we want to know?’

‘I’ll look it up, too. We want to know before we see Gemma on Saturday so that you can confound her by telling her all the facts in the case and saying there’s nothing you can do that the police can’t.’

‘I’ve already told her that,’ said Libby, ‘and in that case, why are we bothering to go?’

‘Because we’re bound to find something else out,’ said Fran.

‘You have changed,’ said Libby.

The computer search yielded a plethora of news sites with everything from straight reportage to speculative ramblings about Celtic and Druidic rites and mystical vengeance. There was very little that Libby didn’t already know, except the name of the Disappearing Man, who turned out to be John Lethbridge, a divorced financial advisor, who lived in a village a little way from Steeple Mount.

‘Absconding with funds?’ murmured Libby.

Monica, widow of murdered Bill Frensham, was reported to be devastated, and her two student children had returned home to be with her.

‘I hope neither of them was due to take finals,’ thought Libby.

There were several theories about the celebration of Beltane, a festival that seemed to be based largely on sex, as far as Libby could see. At midnight on May 1st something called “need-fire” was lit to be carried back to the houses of the faithful (make that members of Cranston Morris, thought Libby) to light the fire to keep the house warm for the rest of the year and purify the cattle. Seeds were planted and courting rituals took place, all to ensure fertility for the coming season. There were earnest articles on the blood-letting which could be said to be the ultimate fertility rite and some which denounced the whole incident as a put-up job to call the whole of Druidism, Paganism and Celticism into disrepute.

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.’

‘If there is,’ said Fran, amused, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t start questioning him.’

‘That’s exactly why I left,’ said Libby, starting down the other side of the Mount towards the high street. ‘It would have warned him off and made the atmosphere even more uncomfortable than it was.’

Fran looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, there was a certain amount of discomfort there, wasn’t there?’

‘Gemma’s really uncomfortable.’ Libby frowned. ‘I don’t know what it is, or why she’s asked me to talk to people. She can’t really mean that, can she?’

‘She wants us to look into the murders,’ said Fran calmly.

‘Now you’ve said murders plural,’ said Libby accusingly.

Fran nodded. ‘And one of the reasons Gemma’s uncomfortable is Richard Diggory.’ Fran stopped outside the bakery. ‘Notice anything about this window?’

‘Apart from the Oak King and the sun?’

‘And the Holly King on the floor.’ Fran pointed to another bread sculpture of a Father Christmas head at the Oak King’s feet.

‘But that’s just symbolic of the battle between them,’ said Libby.

‘But you said today the Holly King kills the Oak King, so this should be the other way round.’

‘Oh.’ Libby made a face. ‘So Diggory’s jealous of Dan? Why?’

‘Oh, honestly, Libby!’ Fran laughed. ‘He’s after Gemma.’

‘Gemma?’ Libby squeaked. ‘But she’s…well, she’s…’

‘Not very glamorous?’ suggested Fran. ‘No, maybe not, although I haven’t seen her in mufti. But she’s certainly got that sort of earthy sensuality that appeals to men.’

‘Has she?’ Libby’s brows flew up into her hairline. ‘Good lord! How do you know?’

Fran shrugged. ‘I just do.’

‘You’ve been having one of your moments, haven’t you?’

‘I suppose so.’ Fran turned and began to walk towards the car park. ‘I’m completely sure that whatshisname Letchworth –’

‘John Lethbridge.’

‘– was murdered, and that Richard Diggory has evil designs on your friend Gemma.’

‘But the two aren’t connected.’ Libby hurried to keep up.

‘Not on the face of it.’

‘Oh, Fran, how could they be? Bill Frensham had nothing to do with Gemma; neither, as far as I know, had John Lethbridge, so Diggory wouldn’t be knocking them off as rivals, would he?’

‘As I said, on the face of it,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to go home and think about it. And talking of home,’ she turned to Libby, ‘will you give me a lift? Guy wasn’t coming to get me until after closing time.’

‘Of course,’ said Libby.

They drove out of Steeple Mount and Libby glanced over to where the woods concealed Tyne Chapel.

‘Reminds me a bit of all that Satanism at the chapel,’ she said with a shudder.

‘The Morris?’ Fran nodded. ‘It’s all based in the old beliefs, and there’s a connection with horned gods. The Morris is good, though, surely?’

‘Oh, yes. Cranston Morris do loads of fund raisers and dance at church festivals.’

‘I meant basically. The origins of Morris.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, yes, as far as I could tell. Have a look online, but I warn you, there’s absolutely loads of stuff on there, and you have to stop yourself going down all the unnecessary byways.’

‘That’s the same with all research,’ said Fran.

Libby looked at her sideways. ‘So we’re looking into it, then?’

Fran, smiled through the windscreen as a view of her adopted town appeared over the horizon.

‘Just for interest’s sake,’ she said.

Chapter Six

Libby couldn’t sleep that night. Every time she began to drift off, she caught herself involuntarily and woke up. Eventually, thoroughly frustrated, she slid out of bed carefully, leaving Ben emitting whiffling little snores as he turned on to his back, and crept downstairs.

Sidney appeared in the kitchen in happy surprise and immediately started asking for breakfast. ‘Ssssh!’ she told him. ‘It’s not morning yet.’ She felt the top of the Rayburn, which was barely warm, sighed, and dug out the electric kettle. Waiting for it to boil, she wandered out in the dark garden and noticed the slight lightening in the east.

‘Nearly solstice time, then,’ she said to Sidney. ‘I suppose I could go and watch with the mayor.’ She went back inside and peered at the clock. What time had Gemma said? Sunrise? 5 o’clock? Just time if she drank her tea while getting dressed.

Fifteen minutes later, in jeans, scarves and a denim jacket, Libby drove down Allhallow’s Lane, hoping that the solstice celebrations were on the Mount. She hadn’t thought to ask Gemma, having had no intention of coming. And now she wondered why she was. Had her sleepless night been somehow self-induced? Had she subconsciously intended to come all along?

She was surprised to find the Steeple Mount car park almost as full as it had been 12 hours earlier. A few stragglers were hurrying along the high street towards the Mount, where Libby could see a large group of people already surrounding Grey Betty. To her left, she noticed another group emerging from the direction of the woods.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she told herself, ‘they’ve come from the back lane. Plenty of houses down there.’ But she found herself veering to her right and climbing the Mount as far away from the woods as she could.

The sight at the top was impressive. To one side stood the dancers and musicians, the accordionist and fiddler, to the other, several figures in long white robes, (Druids? wondered Libby) and in the centre, the fully clad Kings, Oak and Holly. And between them, to Libby’s surprise, a female figure festooned in summer vegetation. The Goddess, the Earth Mother, obviously.

Libby stopped on the outskirts of the crowd and looked round. She saw the Mayor, looking uncomfortable with his chain of office sitting on top of a lightweight linen jacket, a gaggle of local press photographers, two of whom she recognised, and other members of Cranston Morris, the women in their traditional peasant girl costumes.

The sky began to get lighter and the Oak King began to speak. In spite of a certain amount of scepticism, or possibly cynicism, Libby found it impressive. As the light increased, so the two kings took up their positions, and as the sun weakly penetrated the cloud, they began to fight. It was a purely symbolic fight with staves, but to Libby it was chilling. As the Oak King fell, the Holly King took the Goddess by the arm and they ceremonially began a descent of the Mount. Behind them the dancers fell into formation, the musicians struck up, and the whole procession moved off, amid flashing cameras. The solstice song was sung again, and this time, Libby found herself remembering the words.

‘Enjoy that?’ Richard Diggory, mask hooked on to his belt, came up behind her, wiping his brow.

‘Impressive,’ said Libby. ‘Do you ever hurt yourselves? Those staves must weigh a ton.’

‘We’re used to it. Dan isn’t as – shall we say, committed? – as Bill was.’

‘Doesn’t hit so hard, you mean?’

Richard looked at her through narrowed eyes. ‘You could say that.’

‘Libby,’ said another voice at her shoulder. She swung round.

‘Ian! What on earth are you doing here?’

Detective Inspector Ian Connell’s black eyebrows were, as usual, drawn down over his equally dark eyes. ‘The same as you, probably,’ he said.

Libby started. Aware of Richard Diggory on her other side, she shook her head. ‘I – er – doubt it,’ she said.

‘I was watching the sunrise celebrations,’ said Ian. ‘Weren’t you?’

Confounded, Libby gave a shaky laugh. ‘Oh, of course.’ She darted a look at Richard Diggory who had dropped behind and was watching thoughtfully. ‘Do you know Ian Connell, Richard?’

‘Detective Inspector.’ Richard inclined his head. ‘We’ve met.’

‘Oh.’ Feeling foolish, Libby realised that a) Ian was probably here to keep a watching brief over Cranston Morris and b) that if so, Diggory would have been questioned by him after Bill’s death.

‘Mr Diggory.’ Ian’s own head bent slightly in acknowledgement. ‘Are you going home now, Libby? Have you got your car?’

‘Of course,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t walk from Steeple Martin.’

‘I didn’t suggest you did,’ said Ian equably. ‘I thought someone else might have given you a lift.’

‘Fran’s not here,’ said Libby, and could have bitten her tongue out.

‘No.’ Libby could have sworn Ian’s mouth quirked in a smile. ‘I was merely going to offer you a lift if you needed one.’

‘Oh. Thanks, Ian. No, I’m fine. The car’s in the car park.’

‘You’re not still driving that rattletrap Renault, are you?’

‘Romeo’s very reliable,’ defended Libby, crossing her fingers.

‘If you say so,’ said Ian, with a proper smile this time. ‘I’ll say goodbye then.’

Libby watched him stride off down the hill and wondered what he had really been doing here.

‘So you know the saturnine Inspector?’ Richard Diggory said.

‘Yes,’ said Libby.

‘Well?’

‘Good heavens.’ Libby turned wide eyes on Diggory. ‘What business is it of yours?’

He shrugged. ‘Just wondered. Given your reputation and his.’

‘Reputation?’

‘Both investigators – of a sort.’ Diggory gave a sly smile and veered off to his right. ‘Got to go and join the others. See you around.’

Libby scowled and stomped off down the hill.

‘Libby!’

‘Good God,’ muttered Libby and turned round to see Gemma hurrying down the hill after her, clad, surprisingly, in the draperies and vegetation of the Goddess.

‘I didn’t realise it was you under all that stuff,’ said Libby, waiting for Gemma to catch up with her. ‘I thought it was all very impressive.’

‘Thanks,’ said Gemma breathlessly. ‘I didn’t think you were coming.’

‘I wasn’t, but I couldn’t sleep. Seemed like a good opportunity.’

‘You haven’t talked to anybody, though?’

‘Gem, I didn’t say I would. Richard Diggory talked to me, though.’ Libby pulled a face.

‘You don’t like him?’

‘Do you?’ Libby raised her eyebrows. Gemma blushed. ‘Oh, dear. Well, far be it from me –’

‘But stay away,’ finished Gemma on a sigh. ‘I know. It’s so flattering, though.’

‘How long has he been – what? Flirting with you? Or is it more than that?’

‘Oh, only while we’ve been preparing for this weekend, really. Because we did the King and the Goddess together.’ Gemma looked away. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

It does to you, thought Libby. Oh, dear.

‘How long have you been the Goddess?’ she said aloud.

‘Only this year. Willy Lethbridge used to do it.’

‘Willy? Wilhelmina?’

‘Yes. Even after they split up, they were both still members of the group. Willy only really did the Goddess, though. She always used to do the May Day parade, too, although she didn’t this year.’

‘So did you do it because you’re Dan’s wife?’

‘They all thought it made sense. Bill’s wife Monica never used to do it, though. She’s never been a member of the group.’

‘What’s she like?’ asked Libby, as they resumed a path down the hill.

‘Monica?’ Gemma frowned. ‘I don’t really know her. Quiet. Didn’t like being on show. She never even came to May Day or the Solstice.’

‘So she never joined in socially?’

‘Oh, yes, parties and things, and she even came to the pub after practice nights sometimes. A bit clingy, I always thought.’

‘She must be devastated, then,’ said Libby.

‘Oh, she is,’ nodded Gemma. ‘She wouldn’t see anyone after the murder, and she very nearly collapsed at the funeral. The children looked after her, but she didn’t appear at the wake.’

‘Where was that?’

‘Oh, at their house. But the daughter – Julie, is it? – came down and said we were to carry on, it was what Dad would have wanted.’

‘Poor kid. So did you?’

‘We tried, but it was all too sad. Some of the other girls and I cleared it all up and we sort of crept away.’

‘Have you seen her since?’

‘No. No reason to, really. I suppose if they ever find out who – um – did it, we might see her.’

‘Where though?’ asked Libby. ‘Still no reason to see her, I would have thought.’

‘That’s true.’ Gemma nodded again. ‘Oh – and by the way, did you see the police were here today?’

‘I saw Ian Connell,’ said Libby.

‘Who?’

‘Detective Inspector Connell. Was he in charge of the investigation into Bill’s death?’

‘Is he the very dark, sort of Celtic-looking bloke?’

‘That’s him.’ Libby smiled. ‘Fancied my friend Fran for a time.’

‘I wouldn’t have said no,’ said Gemma, with a grin.

‘She was in two minds at first,’ said Libby, with an answering grin, ‘but true love weighed, as they say, and now she’s married to lovely Guy.’

‘That’s not Guy Wolfe? The artist?’

‘The smallness of this part of the world never ceases to amaze me,’ said Libby. ‘How do you know Guy?’

‘Well, he’s sort of famous, isn’t he? And he painted the dancers once, a few years ago. It was in the Royal Academy.’

‘No! Really? Wow!’ Libby was impressed.

‘It was in the papers and everything,’ said Gemma seriously. ‘But I think it was before you moved to Steeple Martin, so you might not have seen it.’

‘I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it,’ said Libby. ‘I knew Guy long before I moved here. He’s been selling my pretty peeps for some time.’

‘Your -? Oh, yes, you paint, too, don’t you?’

‘Not as much as I used too, but yes. I do.’

‘And do you still act? I haven’t done anything with the old Players for ages.’

‘Occasionally,’ said Libby. ‘I’m involved with our theatre in Steeple Martin now.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. You had that murder, didn’t you? That was the first one you investigated.’

‘Look, Gem,’ said Libby, standing still and turning to face her, ‘I don’t investigate murders. I’m not a private detective, or, God help me, a Miss Marple. That first time we were all suspects and it involved a lot of my close friends. My friend Fran came to help because she’s –’

‘Psychic, yes, I know,’ said Gemma.

‘And then her own aunt was murdered. After that, because she has this strange sort of – well, power, I suppose – the police asked her to help. And I helped her. That’s all.’

‘But there was that business over at Creekmarsh a few weeks ago, wasn’t there?’

‘My son Adam was working there.’ Libby began walking again. ‘Still is, as a matter of fact.’

‘Really?’ Gemma looked interested. ‘So what’s Lewis Osbourne-Walker like? He’s gay, isn’t he?’

Libby sighed gustily. ‘Yes, he is, and he’s a lovely bloke. Quite gorgeous to look at, of course.’

‘Right,’ said Gemma doubtfully.

‘Oh, come on, Gemma! Surely you aren’t homophobic?’

Libby watched unlovely colour flood Gemma’s face. ‘Of course I’m not,’ she said. ‘I just –’

‘What?’ said Libby, now determined to make Gemma squirm. ‘Just what? Don’t know any?’

‘I –’ Gemma seemed to dry up.

‘I expect you do,’ said Libby. ‘You just don’t know you do. They are perfectly ordinary people, like you or me. They don’t have a badge, or the mark of Cain. They just happen to have a different sexual orientation, and when I think how long and how effective their fight for non-discrimination has been, it makes me absolutely –’

‘All right, all right!’ broke in Gemma, as Libby’s voice got louder and louder. ‘Sorry. I guess I still haven’t broken away from my parents’ 1950s mentality.’

‘A lot of people haven’t,’ grumbled Libby, quietening down. ‘And I really, really object to making a fuss about it when no fuss should be needed.’

‘I know.’ Gemma placed a hand on Libby’s arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

They walked to the bottom of the hill in silence.

‘Right, I’m off home for breakfast,’ said Libby. ‘I hope the rest of the day goes well.’

‘And are you going to…’ Gemma trailed off.

‘Look into Bill’s death after all?’ Libby sighed. ‘If Fran gets any sort of feeling about it, maybe. But that’s all, Gemma.’

Shaking her head, Libby stomped off down the high street towards the car park, trying to subdue the investigating imp that was bouncing up and down beside her. Fumbling in her pocket for her keys and realising she was now too warm, she arrived at her car. Unwinding the scarves with relief, she got in and started the engine.

‘Well?’ said a dark brown voice at the window. Libby screamed.

Chapter Seven

‘Ian!’ Heart thumping, Libby wound down the window. ‘You scared me to death.’

Ian looked sceptical. ‘Am I going to get in, or are you getting out?’

Libby sighed, leant across and unlocked the passenger door. Ian folded himself inside and turned to face her. ‘Well?’ he said again.

‘Well what?’ Libby swallowed.

‘I assume you were there for the same reason I was?’

‘Watching the sunrise,’ said Libby, avoiding his eyes.

‘Bollocks. You’re interfering again.’

‘Ian!’ Libby’s voice trembled on the verge of a laugh. ‘Are you swearing on duty?’

‘I’d like to do a lot more than that on duty,’ said Ian glowering at her.

‘La, sir!’ said Libby, and fluttered her eyelashes.

‘Shut up, Libby.’ Ian took a deep breath. ‘Are you interfering in Bill Frensham’s murder?’

Libby turned to face him. ‘No, Ian. Gemma Baverstock asked me to, but I said no. I am not an investigator.’

‘No, you’re not,’ said Ian, ‘but that hasn’t stopped you before. What about Fran?’

Libby wriggled in her seat. ‘She came with me to the parade yesterday.’

Ian’s brows drew down even more than before. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said.

‘No – she hasn’t had any moments,’ said Libby hastily, ‘she’s just a bit bored.’

Ian’s brows flew up. ‘Bored? She’s only just back from honeymoon!’

‘Ah – um – that’s the trouble,’ floundered Libby. ‘Guy’s had to go back to work, Sophie’s gone off to Europe and she’s got nothing to do. Before the wedding there was all the preparation and – well –’

‘Your little investigation at Creekmarsh,’ Ian finished for her. ‘Yes.’ He settled himself more firmly in his seat. ‘Now listen. We have been investigating Bill Frensham’s murder for nearly two months –’

‘And John Lethbridge’s?’

Ian let out a breath. ‘There, you see? You already know about that.’

‘I didn’t know he was dead,’ said Libby innocently.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Ian testily, ‘I meant you know about Lethbridge’s disappearance, presumably.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And is there anything else you know?’

‘No more than you,’ said Libby, looking out of the windscreen.

‘Libby.’ Ian took hold of her chin and turned her to face him. She blinked. ‘Now listen. Don’t go barging in to this investigation. It’s complicated and fairly wide-ranging and nothing to do with you.’

Libby opened her mouth.

‘No,’ said Ian. ‘Don’t speak. I’m not saying that if Fran has some sort of vision about it I wouldn’t be willing to listen, but that’s it. Understand me?’ He shook her chin a little for emphasis. She nodded, or tried to.

‘Good girl,’ he said patronisingly, and patted her cheek, opening the door with his other hand. ‘Now off you go back to your Ben.’

Libby stared after him open-mouthed, forgetting to be annoyed about his uncharacteristic chauvinism. No wonder Fran had nearly been seduced by him.

‘I’m going on a diet,’ said Libby to Fran over the phone later in the morning. ‘I’m far too fat.’

‘You’ve been saying that for ages,’ said Fran. ‘What’s changed suddenly?’

‘I got very out of breath climbing the Mount.’

‘I noticed.’

‘No, this morning,’ said Libby.

‘You went to the sunrise?’ Fran’s voice rose. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Libby explained about waking early. ‘I couldn’t ring you at that time in the morning, could I?’

‘No,’ said Fran grudgingly. ‘So what happened?’

Libby told her.

‘And Ian’s warned us off in no uncertain terms,’ she finished. ‘Unless you have a spectacular moment about it all.’

‘So what’s new?’ said Fran. ‘We’ve been warned off every time.’

‘Except when he’s asked for your help.’

‘Yes, but he only ever wants limited help,’ said Fran. ‘And we have got into trouble in the past.’

‘I have, anyway,’ said Libby, settling on the bottom stair more comfortably. ‘You’re more sensible.’

‘Mmm.’ Fran didn’t sound convinced.

‘Come on, Fran! Are you still bored?’

‘I suppose I am a bit,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘Although today we’re going to Chrissie and Brucie baby’s for lunch. That won’t be boring.’

‘Blimey! That’s brave of Guy!’

‘She is my daughter, when all’s said and done,’ said Fran, ‘and I mean to start building bridges.’

‘Even after they were so awful while you were away?’

‘I’m going to tackle that over lunch,’ said Fran. ‘Then after I’ve talked to her, I shall go up to London and see Lucy.’

‘Well, if you have any flashes of intuition don’t forget to let me know.’

‘I’ll phone Ian direct,’ said Fran, ‘then you needn’t get involved.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby, feeling a nasty little worm of disappointment. ‘OK.’

‘What was all that about?’ asked Ben, rustling the Sunday papers at her from the sofa.

Libby sighed and told him.

‘You want to investigate, don’t you?’ Ben put the paper down.

‘Not really,’ lied Libby. ‘Fran said she did, the other day. She’ll talk to Ian if she thinks of anything.’

‘And today they’re going to lunch with her daughter?’

‘Yes. Don’t know how Guy can bear it.’

‘Well, I put up with your lot,’ grinned Ben.

‘Very true.’ Libby nodded seriously. ‘And I put up with your dreadful family.’

Ben laughed. ‘How about us having lunch with them, then?’ he said. ‘Shall I phone Mum?’

‘If you like,’ said Libby, brightening at the thought of not having to cook Sunday lunch. ‘Will she mind?’

‘Of course she won’t. You know she’d feed us every day if we’d let her.’

Two hours later, when Ben and Libby arrived at the Manor, Libby wasn’t surprised to find her son Adam already there, together with Peter, Harry and Peter’s younger brother James.

‘Turned it into a party, then, Mum?’ said Ben, kissing Hetty’s cheek.

‘Caff closed today?’ said Libby, as Harry gave her a hug.

‘No bookings. So when Het called we decided to make a break for it.’

‘Run away,’ murmured Libby.

Harry lifted an eyebrow. ‘And?’

‘Nothing.’ Libby smiled brightly at him.

Harry frowned. ‘I’ll be watching you, young Lib,’ he said quietly.

Libby felt a rush of adrenalin as though she’d been caught out in some awful misdeed. She turned her back on Harry and went to give Ben’s mother Hetty a hug.

‘Hi, Ma.’ Adam gave her a kiss on the cheek.

‘You OK?’ Libby returned the kiss. ‘Haven’t seen you for a few days.’

‘Before I lived down here you didn’t see me for months on end.’ Adam was amused.

‘Ah, but I’ve got used to you being around now. And your washing,’ said Libby, giving him a poke in the ribs.

‘He’s got his own washing machine, the rat,’ said Harry. ‘He uses the caff’s whenever he wants.’

‘Mum can peg it out, though,’ said Adam, faintly colouring.

‘If you did yours overnight you could peg yours out in the yard before you went to work,’ said Harry.

‘It’d be in your way,’ said Adam, the colour getting deeper.

‘Don’t tease him, Harry,’ said Libby, laughing. ‘I don’t mind.’

Adam and Harry grinned at one another and Harry turned back to Peter, who was having a low-voiced conversation with his brother.

‘So how’s the garden?’ asked Libby. ‘And Lewis?’

‘Garden’s coming on. Lewis was only saying yesterday you must come over when he’s next down.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Next weekend possibly. He’s got a job on for tv somewhere this week, then the whole crew will be down for some more filming. His mum’s coming to look after him.’

‘How is Edie?’ Libby had only met Lewis Osbourne-Walker’s mother a couple of times, but liked her.

‘She’s fine. I think having more to do has helped her. She seems much brighter and livelier. She’s a fab cook, too.’

‘Glad to hear you’re not starving,’ said Libby. ‘I suppose Harry feeds you, too?’

‘I get the scraps,’ said Adam, trying to look soulful.

Hetty called them in to the kitchen, where they sat round the huge table. Libby noticed Greg wasn’t there, and leant over to whisper to Ben.

‘Not very well today,’ he whispered back. ‘I’ll go in and see him after lunch.’

Ben’s father, wounded and imprisoned during the last war, had become increasingly frail over the last few years. He was an old-school gentleman who had deeply regretted having to hand over the management of his farm and hop gardens to his young wife after the war, although he was still able to run the estate office. Now, however, Ben, retired from his architect’s practise, did it for him, though the hop gardens and most of the land had long gone.

How Hetty had managed it with such short notice, Libby didn’t know. The enormous piece of beef must have been in the freezer, she supposed, but how had she thawed it out in time? Even in the microwave – if it had fitted – it would have taken ages. Still, thought Libby, tucking in to perfect roast potatoes, there it was, and hers not to reason why.

Lunch finished and cleared away, with Hetty insisting on doing her own “pots” as she always did, Ben went off to visit his father and the rest of them lay in various somnolent attitudes around Hetty’s sitting room.

‘Ben tells me the house is goin’ well, Libby.’ Hetty peered over the top of her spectacles.

‘Very well, thanks, Het,’ said Libby. ‘How’s Millie?’

‘Much the same,’ said Peter. He glanced at his brother. ‘James and I went in to see her yesterday. I’m not sure she knew who we were.’

Hetty snorted. ‘Her own sons? Course she knew.’

‘No, Aunt Het,’ said James. ‘She really doesn’t. Or what day of the week it is or anything. She talks about you, though, and your mother – Lillian? – and Flo and Lenny.’

‘Oh?’

‘But as though she was still a child,’ said Peter. ‘That bloody play.’

‘You can’t blame the play, Pete. She was already a bit…’ Libby trailed off and looked round helplessly.

‘Barmy?’ said Harry helpfully. ‘Course she was, Pete.’

‘But The Hop Pickers revived the whole story of you coming here, Het, didn’t it? And that’s what set her off.’ Peter stood up and walked to the window. ‘I’ll never forgive myself.’

The rest of the little gathering fell silent and awkward. Eventually, James stood up. ‘I’d better get back to Canterbury, Aunt Het,’ he said. ‘Tanya and I are going out tonight.’

‘That’s good, boy,’ she said tapping his hand with her gnarled one. ‘Time you settled down.’

Harry snorted and Adam gave him a nudge. Libby was amused to see how well the two of them got on. Fran would be worried that Harry, and/or Lewis Osbourne-Walker, would be turning Adam’s head, but as far as she could see, her youngest son stayed resolutely heterosexual. Not that she was particularly worried about it either way.

As James left, Ben came back in to the room frowning.

‘I think we should call the doctor, Mum,’ he said. ‘I don’t like the look of him.’

Hetty gave him a sharp look. ‘He’s been as bad as this before.’

‘Maybe, but we’ve always called the doctor.’

‘He said not to,’ said Hetty, setting her mouth in a firm line.

‘Not even to make him more comfortable?’

Hetty’s eyes lost focus. ‘He’s never comfortable,’ she said, and Libby was appalled to hear a tremble in her voice.

Ben hunkered down beside his mother. ‘I know, Mum. But I really do think we need to call the doctor.’

‘Who is it?’ said Libby, standing up. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘The new one.’ Hetty looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. ‘The old surgery.’

The others in the room all looked at one another, reminded again of the tragedies of a few short years ago.

‘All coming back to that fucking play again,’ said Peter, and strode out of the room. Harry made an apologetic face and hurried after him.

Libby went outside to make the call. It was, of course, put through to an emergency service, but the operator told her she would try and get hold of Dr Harrison himself. When she rang off, she found Adam standing by her elbow.

‘Mum,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m not sure I understand all this.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the sitting room. Libby sighed. ‘I’ll just go and tell them I’ve made the call,’ she said.

‘You remember the play, don’t you?’ she said, coming back to Adam.

‘Yes. We came down to see it.’

‘And there was a lot of trouble about it? Remember that?’

‘Could hardly forget it, could I?’

‘Well, Pete blames himself for writing the play and insisting on putting it on. He doesn’t think any of the problems would have happened if we’d never even thought about the theatre.’

Adam frowned. ‘But you’ve put on lots of things since then, and he’s been involved.’

‘But now his mother and his uncle are both getting worse, and he sees it as a direct result of The Hop Pickers. It isn’t of course, but you can understand it.’

Adam shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s like Lewis thinks he’s entirely responsible for all the trouble at Creekmarsh. I tell him he’s daft, but I don’t think it makes any difference.’

Everyone stayed for a while, waiting for a call from the doctor. It came while Libby was making tea in the kitchen.

‘He’s coming over,’ said Ben, coming to find her. ‘He sounded –’ he broke off.

‘Concerned?’ Libby put the big brown teapot on to the tray with mugs, a milk jug and sugar bowl.

‘Yes.’ Ben looked down at the tray and covered Libby’s hand with his own. ‘Lib, I’m sorry, but I think I ought to stay here tonight.’

Libby was conscious of almost equal parts of worry and relief, and hated herself.

‘Shall I stay with you?’ she asked heroically.

Ben shook his head and picked up the tray. ‘Better not,’ he said. ‘I don’t think anything – well, that is, I don’t think he’ll –’

‘Die tonight?’ said Libby.

‘Yes.’ Ben looked at her. ‘But it might be difficult.’ He heaved a sigh, standing in the kitchen, the heavy tray in his hands, looking as though the whole world had descended onto his shoulders. ‘He’s been a creaking gate for so long that we’ve all got used to it.’

Libby nodded and leant across the tray to give him a kiss. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘And what with Peter blaming himself it just makes things even more awful, doesn’t it?’

Ben sighed and nodded, and they left the kitchen to take the tea into the sitting room. They were still there when the doctor arrived. Ben and Hetty took him straight up to Greg.

‘Come on,’ said Harry. ‘Let’s wash these mugs up and get out of the way. They won’t want us hanging around.’

Peter, still looking like an aristo on his way to the tumbrel nodded vaguely and came away from the window. Adam began loading mugs on to the tray and Libby led the way to the kitchen, where she filled the sink with water.

‘You three go,’ she said plunging her arms in. ‘I’ll be quicker on my own. Then I’ll just see if they need anything and get off home myself.’

Adam and Harry came up behind her and each gave her a kiss on the cheek.

‘Come to us this evening,’ said Harry. ‘I’ve got some bookings at the caff, so if you feel like eating again later on I’ll give you a share of Ad’s scraps.’

Libby looked round at him and grinned. ‘I’ll do that,’ she said. ‘Be like old times.’ She looked across at Peter, standing disconsolate by the door. ‘Cheer up, Pete. It really isn’t your fault.’

But, later, as she walked slowly down the Manor drive past the Oast House Theatre, she wondered if perhaps they didn’t all share the blame.

Chapter Eight

It was still broad daylight at a quarter to nine when Libby walked to the Pink Geranium. Ben had called at around six, to say that Doctor Harrison had arrived and organised some specialist equipment to be delivered, including oxygen, given his father an injection and said he would see them in the morning before surgery, but if they were at all worried they were to call him on his private number at any time.

‘Seems a nice chap,’ said Ben hesitantly. ‘Don’t know where he’s living.’

‘Over the surgery, perhaps?’ suggested Libby. ‘There is a flat there, isn’t there? He must have bought the whole building when he bought the practice.’

‘Maybe,’ said Ben. ‘Most practices have several doctors these days. The old village doctor has all but died out.’

‘Not ours, obviously,’ said Libby. ‘And if he’s nice, as you think, then thank God for it, I say.’

She glanced now across the road to where the doctor’s surgery stood on the corner of Maltby Close. A light on the first floor confirmed her supposition that the new doctor had taken up residence in the flat. Bit small for a family, thought Libby, but at least there’s a garden.

Donna installed her on the sofa in the window of the Pink Geranium and Adam brought over a bottle of red wine.

‘Harry said you like this,’ he said, wiping his hands on his long French-waiter apron.

‘I do.’ Libby smiled up at him. ‘Where’s Pete?’

‘He wouldn’t come.’ Adam pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Said he’d got work to do at home.’

‘Am I waiting until you two are free to eat with me?’

‘Don’t know.’ Adam shrugged. ‘I’m supposed to be plating up, so I’d better get back. See you in a bit.’

Libby sat gazing out onto the high street watching the sky get slowly darker. Eventually, she stood up, and carrying her wine glass, made her way to the back of the restaurant.

‘Can I go through to the yard?’ she asked Donna.

The yard, from where steps led up to the flat Adam was now occupying, had now become a designated smoking area. Libby sat at one of the little white-painted iron tables, and noted that the other two were full. She smiled evilly to her self and lit a cigarette. ‘So much for the ban,’ she muttered.

‘What?’ Harry slid a chair noisily away from the table and sat down. ‘Gi’s a fag, gal.’

Libby handed over her packet. ‘Have you finished in there?’

‘Yup. Be able to come out and play soon. Do you mind what you get to eat?’

‘No, I’m looking forward to it.’

‘So what’s the news on Uncle Greg?’

Libby told him all she knew.

‘Doesn’t look too good, does it?’ said Harry, stubbing out his cigarette half smoked and standing up. ‘I’ll just finish up in there and be out shortly.’

Libby finished her own cigarette slowly, then went back to the sofa to wait for Adam and Harry. Donna came over to join her and slipped off her shoes.

‘Are you eating with us?’ asked Libby.

‘No.’ Donna pushed her hair away from her face. ‘Got a date.’ She grinned at Libby. ‘Finally, someone who isn’t put off by unsocial hours.’

‘Oh?’

‘No one you know. He’s a doctor.’ Libby was surprised to see Donna blush.

‘Not the new doctor over the road?’

‘Oh, no. I’m one of his patients, couldn’t do that.’ Donna giggled. ‘No, he’s a houseman at the hospital.’

‘Oh, right. Well. Congratulations. His hours will be even worse than yours.’

‘I know.’ Donna sighed. ‘Can’t get it right, can I?’

Harry appeared carrying two plates, Adam following with a third.

‘Sure you won’t join us?’ said Harry. ‘Or are you desperate for the doctor?’

Donna poked her tongue out and stood up. ‘Will you sort out the last customers?’ she said, indicating the two remaining tables of diners.

‘Have they paid?’

‘Of course.’ Donna gave Adam a playful pat on the cheek and disappeared towards the kitchen. Harry nodded towards the empty table in the other window.

‘She’s a good girl,’ he said. ‘I hope she doesn’t decide to start having babies and leave us.’

‘She’s got ambition,’ said Libby, taking her seat at the table. ‘You told me. That’s why she came here from Anderson Place, isn’t it?’

‘But luurve might intervene,’ said Harry. ‘If this doctor sweeps her off her size tens.’

‘Blimey!’ said Adam, his mouth full of refried beans. ‘I never noticed she had big feet.’

‘Bye Donna,’ said Libby loudly, and Adam choked. ‘Have a good time.’

Donna encompassed them all in a smile and a wave.

‘Anyway, babies aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,’ said Libby with a darkling glance at her son.

‘We were angels,’ he grinned. ‘It’s Fran’s lot who are so awful.’

‘Not Jeremy, actually,’ said Libby. ‘You liked him, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah, but he’s in America. Fat lot of use he is.’

‘I met the other two at the wedding, didn’t I?’ said Harry, pouring more wine. ‘The quite pretty one with the kids who couldn’t decide whether or not to be a hippy, and the discontented one with the make-up and the husband.’

‘Lucy with Rachel and Tom, who aren’t too bad, I suppose, and dreadful Chrissie and Brucie baby, who have a cat, Cassandra. Fran and Guy have gone there today, as a matter of fact.’ Libby sipped at her wine. ‘Families, eh?’

‘Yours is all right,’ said Harry, with an odd look. ‘The Parkers and the Wildes are a bit more of a problem.’

‘Mmm.’ Libby didn’t want to think about it. ‘I think there are quite a lot of family problems in Cranston Morris, too,’ she said.

‘Cranston Morris?’ Harry frowned. ‘What have they got to do with anything?’

‘You knew I was going to their parade,’ said Libby. ‘Well, I met Richard Diggory again. I said I would. Then I went to the actual sunrise celebrations this morning.’

‘What time did you get up?’ asked Adam, horrified.

‘Four thirty. I didn’t mean to, I just didn’t sleep well. Anyway, it turns out Diggory is the Oak King and quite important in the whole Celtic festival thing. Bit of a ladies man, though.’

‘Don’t tell me he tried it on with you?’ Harry threw his head back and laughed.

‘Why shouldn’t he?’ said Libby, a little huffily.

‘Trying to mate with a hedgehog comes to mind.’ Harry patted her hand.

‘He made me uncomfortable, anyway,’ said Libby.

‘And what else happened?’ Harry had sat back in his chair and was watching her carefully.

Libby opened her eyes wide. ‘Nothing, why?’

‘Just wondering why you went to the parade and the sunrise party. Not your sort of thing these days, is it? You told me you used to go when he was small.’ Harry jerked his thumb towards Adam.

‘Something to do,’ said Libby, bending to her plate once more.

‘That bloke who was murdered on May Day,’ said Adam indistinctly. ‘Betcha.’

Libby looked up at two sets of eyes bent accusingly on hers.

‘Well,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘my friend Gemma did ask me to look into it.’

‘Oh, Libby!’

‘Oh, Mu-um!’

‘It’s all right,’ she said hastily. ‘Fran’s had no moments about it –’

‘So Fran’s involved too?’ said Harry.

‘And Ian’s warned me off comprehensively.’

‘When did you see Ian?’ asked Harry.

‘This morning. He was there, too.’

‘That bloke that got murdered May Day. Told you.’ Adam glared triumphantly at his mother.

‘All right, all right,’ said Libby. ‘But I said no, and that’s that.’

‘Where have I heard that before?’ said Harry, casting his eyes up to the ceiling.

‘You know what,’ said Adam suddenly. ‘You want to get away. Have a holiday. You haven’t been away from Steeple Martin since you moved here, have you?’

Libby and Harry both looked at him in astonishment.

‘Where did that come from?’ said Harry.

‘I just think she should.’ Adam was defensive. ‘She’s spent the last few years looking into things for other people, and looking after people –’

Harry snorted.

‘Well, she has,’ said Adam, glaring once again, but this time at Harry.

‘It’s a lovely idea,’ said Libby, ‘but how could I? Ben and his family might need me.’

‘He’s packed you off home, hasn’t he? He can always ring you if the circumstances change.’ Harry leant forward. ‘Look, petal. For once the incubus is right. You need a holiday. Even Fran’s been on honeymoon.’

‘But where would I go?’ Libby’s baser self was saying go – run away, while her more cautious self was telling her she couldn’t possibly.

‘Somewhere not too far away? But different?’ Adam was thinking.

‘This country,’ added Harry.

‘I know – Lewis is going somewhere this week – I told you.’ Adam let his chair, which had been teetering backwards, bang to the floor. ‘Somewhere nice, it is, I’m sure. He could find you a place.’

‘You can’t ask Lewis to do that.’ Libby pushed her plate away.

‘He wouldn’t mind. He thinks you’re great.’

‘What is this strange power you have over young men?’ said Harry, grasping her hand and looking deep into her eyes.

‘Gay men,’ said Libby.

‘A fag hag to her fingertips.’ Harry gave her hand a pat and stood up to take the plates away. On his way to the kitchen he stopped to speak to the last diners, who were preparing to leave. Adam dutifully went over to lend a hand.

Libby watched them both with a feeling that she had suddenly got out of her depth. It was only the other day she had been wanting to run away, and now here were two of her nearest and dearest telling her to do it. Not that they knew she wanted to, but it provided some sort of validation for her feelings.

The last diners had gone, Harry turned his sign to “closed” and Adam taken his apron off. Harry provided an ashtray. ‘Not a public place any more,’ he said.

‘That’s another thing,’ said Libby. ‘You can’t stay anywhere these days. No one allows smoking in hotels or self-catering.’

‘There’s a loophole for hotels,’ said Harry. ‘It was in the catering mag. They can have smoking rooms.’

‘Really? And how do you find out which ones they are?’ Libby shook a cigarette out of her packet as Adam looked disapproving.

Harry shrugged. ‘Google?’

‘Choose a hotel and then ask them, I suppose,’ said Libby. ‘And then go on to the next one.’

‘Are you going to go, then, Ma?’

Libby looked across at her son. ‘It’s an appealing idea,’ she said. ‘Although I do feel I’d be ratting on Ben.’

‘And your “investigation”?’ Harry put it in inverted commas.

‘There isn’t one,’ said Libby firmly. ‘I’ve said.’

Harry and Adam sighed in unison.

‘So you did,’ said Harry.

Chapter Nine

‘How’s Greg?’ asked Libby.

‘No worse.’ Ben’s voice sounded tired at the other end of the phone.

‘Have you had any sleep?’

‘Oh, yes. Not as much as I’d like, but Mum and I both had a reasonable night’s sleep.’

‘Shall I come up and see him?’

‘If you like,’ said Ben. ‘He’s quite relaxed and perfectly compos mentis.’

‘Much like normal, then?’ said Libby with a smile.

‘Exactly. So what did you do last night?’

‘Went to the caff for leftovers with Ad,’ said Libby, feeling slightly guilty.

‘I’m glad you weren’t on your own,’ said Ben, and she felt even guiltier.

‘No.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘Ben, while you’re at the Manor, would you – I mean – would it – er, well, I wondered –’

‘Spit it out, Lib.’

‘I wondered if I might go off for a few days,’ said Libby in a rush.

‘Off?’ said Ben, after a short silence. ‘Off where?’

‘It was Adam’s suggestion.’ Libby hurried on. ‘He said I needed a holiday.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Because I hadn’t had one for so long, I suppose.’

‘We could go away, if you want to.’

‘You can’t leave your Mum and Dad right now,’ said Libby, feeling dreadful.

‘No, but I’ll be able to soon. Or is this simply to get away from me?’

‘Of course not,’ said Libby, now completely suffused in hot guilty colour and glad no one could see her. ‘And it was only a suggestion. I don’t want to leave if you need me.’

There was another short silence. ‘Of course I need you, but if you want to get away, don’t let me stop you. Where will you go?’

‘I won’t,’ said Libby. ‘You’ve made up my mind for me. I told Adam I’d feel I was ratting on you, and now I do, so I won’t go.’

‘Oh, God,’ groaned Ben. ‘Now you’re making me feel guilty.’

Libby, feeling calmer and cooler, laughed. ‘Right pair, aren’t we?’

Ben gave a reluctant snort of laughter. ‘We are.’

‘I’ll come up at lunchtime, shall I? See Hetty – and Greg, if he’s up to it.’

‘All right,’ said Ben. ‘And – thanks, Lib.’

Libby erased the Google search for rental cottages on her computer and switched it off. So that was that. She didn’t know how she’d thought she was going to get away with it, and despite what Adam said, she didn’t really feel in need of a holiday. It wasn’t as if she worked particularly hard, after all, she thought, sending a guilty glance towards the conservatory and the blank canvases within.

Deciding to go the whole hog and prepare a luxurious picnic lunch to take to the Manor with her, she collected purse and basket and set off for Ahmed and Ali’s eight-til-late and Nella and Joe’s new Cattlegreen farm shop. It was while she was selecting some very ripe brie from Ali’s new deli counter that her mobile rang.

‘Lib? Hi, it’s Lewis.’

‘Hello, Lewis!’ Libby struggled with basket, purse and phone. ‘I’m shopping. Can I ring you back in a minute?’

Ahmed’s son, Ali’s nephew, handed over a beautifully wrapped piece of cheese and took her money, handing it over for his uncle to put in the till. She smiled at him, thanked the brothers and went outside.

‘Hi, Lewis, sorry about that,’ she said. ‘I was buying cheeses for Ben’s lunch.’

‘Ad said you was looking for somewhere to get away,’ said Lewis Osbourne-Walker without preamble. ‘Well, I got a suggestion.’

‘Actually, Lewis,’ she began, but Lewis interrupted.

‘Now don’t say you’ve changed your mind,’ he said, ‘because this one’s right up your street.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Libby cautiously.

‘Well, you know we do a mini feature each week on the show?’

‘I know you will be, when it goes out.’

‘Well, it was your Ad talking about this Green Man effort set me off.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby with a groan.

‘And I looked up all these weird folk-type things until I come to something that’s going on now.’

‘Now?’

‘Well, in a few days’ time. Why don’t you come with me?’

‘Lewis, did Adam tell you Ben’s father’s ill?’

‘I thought that was why you could get away?’

‘Well, yes, but it turns out Ben needs me here, and I can’t really leave him. It’s a bad time.’

Lewis let out a gusty sigh. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I reckon it’d be good fun. Some of this Cranston Morris lot go. Seeing as how I thought you’d be looking into the murder, I thought you’d be up for it.’

‘Where is it?’ asked Libby, her interest now definitely piqued.

‘Some village on the coast. They have this wicker thing – like the Wicker Man, I suppose.’

‘Glory.’ Libby shuddered. ‘Not quite like that, I hope.’

‘Something to do with John the Baptist?’

‘Blimey! What are we talking about here? Pagan or Christian?’

Lewis sighed. ‘No idea. I thought you’d know. Anyway, it’s Thursday, 25th June.’

‘It’s Monday now,’ said Libby. ‘When were you thinking of going? Will you have to get the crew together?’

‘Only the cameraman and the sound guy. We travel light. So, do you want to come?’

‘Not much of a holiday, is it?’ said Libby.

‘No, but you’d get away for a couple of days. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Did you tell Adam about this?’ asked Libby. ‘Only I don’t know why he would be happy about it. He wants to get me away from investigations, not get me in deeper.’

‘He doesn’t know what it’s about,’ said Lewis cheerfully. ‘Go on. Be a devil. All found, nice little pub in the village.’

‘You didn’t answer me. When are you going?’

‘Wednesday. Time to research the area a bit.’

Libby pulled at her lip. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to ask Ben.’

‘You do that,’ said Lewis. ‘Give me a ring later.’ And he was gone.

Now, thought Libby, trudging up the Manor drive, it will look as though this lunch is bribery. Bugger.

Ben opened the door as she approached the house.

‘I’ve just had your mate Lewis on the phone,’ he said with a grin. Libby’s mouth dropped open.

‘Apparently he wants your input into some feature he’s doing for his show.’

‘He said.’ Libby cleared her throat and went past him and down the corridor to the kitchen. ‘I said I’d think about it.’

‘He told me.’ Ben followed her into the kitchen. ‘And if you were trying to protect me, thank you. Is this what you meant about going away?’

Libby unloaded her basket on to the table. ‘No, I hadn’t heard about it. He’s only just phoned me, while I was shopping. I think it’s a bit much of him to phone you. I told him what the situation is with your father.’

‘I think he thought you were using me as an excuse.’

Libby looked up, surprised. ‘Really? How odd.’

‘Were you?’

‘No.’ She bit her lip. ‘Well –’

‘Come on, Lib. Wouldn’t you like to go? He says you know more about this sort of thing than he does. And some of Cranston Morris are going.’

‘I know very little about it all. Only what I’ve found out recently.’

‘Ah,’ said Ben. ‘An investigation.’

‘No. Fran and I just had a look, that’s all. All this Oak King and Holly King stuff. Cranston Morris seem to have gone a bit farther down the old Pagan or Celtic path than most Morris sides.’

Ben turned her to face him. ‘Why don’t you go? I know I was a bit taken aback when you asked earlier – although it does seem a bit odd, you asking, then Lewis coming up with this scheme.’

‘Think about it.’ Libby stroked his cheek. ‘Whose suggestion did I say it was?’

‘Adam’s.’

‘And who does Adam work for?’

‘Ah!’ Ben grinned. ‘All becomes clear. Adam’s devious machinations eh? But why does he think you ought to go away?’

‘He thinks I’m going to get involved in the Cranston Morris murder. He thinks it will divert my mind.’

‘Doesn’t he know where Lewis wants to take you?’ Ben looked astonished.

‘No.’ Libby giggled. ‘That’s what’s so funny.’

‘If you go,’ said Ben slowly, ‘will you…’ He trailed off.

‘Get involved? I’ll try not to.’ Libby sighed and kissed him. ‘But if Gemma’s there, and she probably will be, she’ll definitely think I’m there on her behalf, despite what I said to her on Sunday. But,’ she said, leaning back and looking into his face, ‘I won’t go if you’d rather I didn’t.’

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.

Waistcoat-man, whose real name turned out disappointingly to be Jones, suggested Lewis talked to a few of the patrons of the public bar during the evening. He himself only knew of Mannan Night as a source of revenue and occasional damage. The committee, unlike many village committees, didn’t even meet here, he said, a trifle huffily.

‘Are any visitors staying here?’ asked Libby, joining Lewis at the bar.

‘Apart from yourselves, madam? I believe participating visitors are lodged with committee members or stay at the camp site at the top of the village.’ Mr Jones sounded even more put out, now. Camp sites were obviously, in his opinion, beyond the pale.

‘In tents?’ asked Boysie suddenly in a deep and unexpected voice.

‘I believe so,’ said Mr Jones. ‘And –’ he hesitated before continuing with emphasis ‘–caravans!’

‘Even worse,’ muttered Jerry with a concealed grin.

‘Wouldn’t have minded a tent,’ said Boysie. Mr Jones looked scandalised.

After assuring Mr Jones that they would be eating in his restaurant that evening, the little party adjourned to their rooms.

‘See you downstairs about half past seven,’ suggested Lewis, ‘that’ll give us time to get sorted.’

Libby unpacked her small suitcase, had a quick shower in her beautifully appointed bathroom and changed into a long skirt and suitably ethnic-looking top. Just right for traditional folk-type festivities, she thought. Although she didn’t match the luxurious boutique-hotel style room, she reflected. That needed Versace or Armani.

It was still only a quarter to seven, so she decided to explore.

The sky was overcast and the wind was turning the grey sea into dirty washing-up liquid. Bells and buckets tinkled and clanked together outside the gift shop, and on the terrace of the little cafe a harried-looking member of staff was taking down umbrellas.

‘Not sure if that means it’s going to get windier or not going to get wetter.’

Libby turned to see Dan Baverstock beaming at her.

‘Dan! How lovely to see you,’ she said.

‘Lovely to see you, too, but what on earth are you doing here?’ said Dan giving her a peck on the cheek.

‘Oh, a friend of mine’s down here and offered to bring me away for a few days. Lewis Osbourne-Walker. I think he talked to Gemma the other day?’

A spark of interest lit Dan’s face. ‘Oh, right! He’s a friend of yours, eh? Gemma didn’t say. He’s here to do a documentary, isn’t he?’

‘Just to film a bit, really,’ said Libby. ‘I expect he’ll do follow-up stuff and interviews after editing.’

‘Ah,’ said Dan, looking bemused. ‘So he’ll be filming tomorrow night, will he?’

‘Is that when the ceremony takes place?’

‘First part.’ Dan nodded. ‘Then the second part in the morning.’

‘So what are the first and second parts, then?’

‘Burning of the Man tomorrow night,’ said Dan, ‘and then retrieving him from the sea in the morning.’

‘Is there anything left to retrieve if he’s burnt?’ said Libby with a shudder.

‘Oh, yes. He’s only set alight just before he goes in the sea – up there, look.’ Dan pointed to where the wooded cliffs rose up on one side of the bay. Libby could see some kind of edifice above the trees.

‘Then the bonfire carries on and there’s dancing,’ explained Dan. ‘Quite good fun.’ He looked uncomfortable.

‘You don’t look sure,’ said Libby.

‘Oh, well,’ Dan shrugged, ‘some of them get a bit carried away, you know.’

‘Not Cranston Morris, surely,’ grinned Libby. Dan looked at her quickly, then away again.

‘Course not,’ he said. ‘Come and have a cuppa. Gemma’s up there.’ He pointed to the cafe terrace. Libby was sure he’d been about to say something else.

‘So where are you staying?’ asked Libby once she was seated in a windy corner of the terrace next to Gemma. ‘Someone said something about tents.’

‘We’ve got our camper van,’ said Gemma, ‘but lots of them have tents.’ Now it was her turn to look uncomfortable.

‘Camper van’s much better, I would have thought,’ said Libby. ‘Are you all together on one site?’

‘Yes, a camp site owned by one of the Mannan committee,’ said Gemma. ‘It’s right near the bonfire site, so it’s really handy.’ She looked up and smiled as Dan came to the table with three white china mugs.

‘I’ll have to come up and see you,’ said Libby, quite fancying the idea of a camper van.

‘Do,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ll show you round. Dan’ll be busy with Diggory and some of the others tomorrow.’ A shadow passed over both the Baverstocks’ faces and Libby wondered why.

‘So.’ Gemma sat up straight and looked directly at Libby. ‘Why are you here, Libby? Have you decided to look into our murder after all?’

Chapter Eleven

I knew it, thought Libby. ‘No,’ she said aloud. ‘I just told Dan, I’m down here with Lewis Osbourne-Walker.’

‘Really?’ Gemma’s face, as Dan’s had, lit up. ‘Of course! You’re a friend of his, aren’t you? I wondered why he’d phoned me and how he got the number.’

‘He didn’t get it from me,’ said Libby.

‘What about – um – Ben?’ asked Gemma.

‘He’s glad to get me out of his hair. His father’s ill, and he’s up at the Manor helping his mother.’

‘Didn’t he want you there, too?’ Gemma frowned.

‘Apparently not. I did ask.’ Libby frowned back.

‘Sorry.’ Gemma’s colour deepened. ‘So he’s all right about you coming away with Lewis?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Libby grinned. ‘After all, he’s got nothing to be jealous about, has he?’

Gemma’s colour had now turned to beetroot. ‘Er – no, I suppose not.’

‘Are you part of his – er – team?’ asked Dan, clearing his throat and sending a minatory look towards his wife.

‘For the filming? Oh, no,’ said Libby. ‘I’m just along for the ride.’

‘Oh, of course,’ said Gemma. ‘It was his house where you found –’

‘No, I didn’t,’ said Libby firmly. ‘But yes. There was a murder there.’

‘So are you really here to – ?’

Libby sighed. ‘Gemma, I’m not here to do anything but have a couple of days off, and Lewis offered me the opportunity. He thinks of me as a second mum.’

‘Has he got one, then?’ Gemma looked interested.

‘He hardly stepped fully formed on to the set of Housey Housey, did he? Of course he’s got a mother. Very nice woman name of Edie.’

‘Sorry, I’m sure.’ Gemma lifted her chin and stared out to sea.

‘Well, I’d better get back to the hotel,’ said Libby, after a short uncomfortable silence. ‘We said we’d meet at 7.30.’ She stood up. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

‘Will you be coming to watch tomorrow night?’ asked Dan, also politely standing up.

‘If the others are going to film it, I shall be there. Who did they ask for permission, by the way? I know Lewis spoke to you, didn’t he Gemma?’

‘Someone spoke to the committee down here,’ said Gemma. ‘Not Lewis, I don’t think. He only called me to get the local idea of it. I couldn’t really tell him much.’ She looked quickly at her husband.

‘Right.’ Libby looked from Gemma to Dan and frowned. There was something odd going on here, she was sure, but she couldn’t quite decide if it was to do with Mannan Night or Cranston Morris itself. Whatever it was, they were ashamed of it, that much was certain.

‘I’m off, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll pop up to your camper tomorrow, shall I, Gem? Have you got your mobile with you? I could give you a ring to find out when it’s convenient.’

Gemma fished into her tapestry shoulder bag and pulled out a mobile phone. Libby punched the number into her own, and with a wave, left the Baverstocks to their contemplation of the unsettled sea. It was by now almost half past seven, but before she went back to the Portherriot Arms she decided to pay a visit to the little gift shop.

She nearly fell down the step into its dark interior and was greeted by an uninterested voice. ‘Mind the step,’ it said.

The interior of the shop was as cluttered as its exterior. Presents and postcards from Cornwall, from Portherriot, even from the Eden Project, abounded. China dogs, wishing wells, piskies, and pirates jostled each other on the shelves, and a giant freezer hummed and shook slightly in the corner, covering “genuine Cornish Ice Cream” with crystals like the Snow Queen’s palace.

At the back of the shop, behind a counter piled high with magazines and comics, Libby eventually discerned a shape. At first it appeared to be entirely round and dark, but on going closer, middle-parted hair fell to navy-sweatered shoulders, surrounding a swarthy face adorned with an incipient moustache. Male or female, Libby wasn’t sure. Two bright eyes followed her progress round the shop.

‘Do you sell cigarettes?’ Libby didn’t need any, but she felt she was expected to buy something. The shape nodded, and Libby asked for her brand.

‘Good night, is it?’ she asked, noticing another poster for Mannan Night as she accepted her change.

The sharp eyes fell, and there was a barely perceptible shrug.

‘Thanks,’ said Libby, and tripped up the step. ‘Mind the step’ followed her out into the lane.

Lewis, Jerry and Boysie were waiting for her in the “lounge”. Mr Jones bustled over and asked once again after her pleasure.

‘I just met my friends the Baverstocks,’ Libby said, when he had gone to fetch her glass of wine. ‘I’m going up to the encampment tomorrow and Gemma’s going to show me round.’

‘Can we come?’ asked Lewis.

‘No, I don’t think so. This is an old mates thing, and you’d inhibit her. I’m going to see her camper van.’ Libby smiled up at Mr Jones as he set her glass down in front of her.

‘We’ll have to find some of the other – what was it he called them? Participants.’ Lewis took a small sip of tonic water. ‘I need to talk to the main man, don’t I?’ He appealed to his sound and camera men.

‘You got Shannon’s notes,’ said Jerry. ‘Who is it?’

‘I’ll ask old Trubshawe,’ said Lewis.

‘The organiser?’ said Mr Jones, thus appealed to. ‘Well, I suppose Florian Malahyde would be the one to ask. I’m not sure.’

‘Where would Florian Malahyde be found?’ asked Libby.

‘Just up the way,’ said Mr Jones, gesticulating. ‘The shop.’

‘The gift shop?’ Libby’s eyebrows rose.

‘Just so,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, the restaurant…’

‘Is Florian a man’s or a woman’s name?’ asked Libby, as Mr Jones hurried away.

‘Man’s,’ said Jerry. ‘If it’s a woman it’s Flora.’

‘Oh.’ Libby looked at the table, frowning. ‘I’ve met him.’

‘How?’ said three voices.

‘I went into the shop after I talked to Gemma and Dan Baverstock,’ said Libby. ‘It’s a funny little seaside gift shop up the lane there. He didn’t seem to want to talk about Mannan Night, though. I asked.’

‘Why?’ said Lewis.

‘There was a poster on the wall.’

‘And you didn’t know if it was a man or a woman?’ said Jerry.

‘No. You’ll see, if you go and talk to him tomorrow. Could have been either.’

Jerry raised his eyebrows and shook his head at Lewis. Libby scowled at him.

‘He won’t be open after dinner, will he?’ said Lewis.

‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘There wouldn’t seem to be much call for it. We haven’t seen many visitors, have we? Maybe it’s just day trippers.’

‘And participants,’ said Boysie. They all looked at him and Mr Jones arrived to tell them their table was ready.

The restaurant, and the food, spoke once more of the Portherriot Arms’ ambition to become a boutique hotel. The trouble, of course, was that the villagers wanted it not to get above itself and stay as their local. The only other diners were very obviously visitors, and not those for Mannan Night, either.

Lewis decided a chat with locals in the other bar would be a good idea, so after refusing dessert in favour of an Irish coffee, Libby carried her glass through and perched on a stool by the bar. Lewis ordered another tonic water for himself and beer for Jerry and Boysie.

‘Are they coming through?’ asked Libby. ‘I though they’d want to go off on their own.’

‘There isn’t anywhere else,’ said Lewis, pulling a face. ‘Jerry asked.’

‘Bet he was popular,’ grinned Libby.

However, Jerry proved to be more than popular when he managed to get into conversation with a group of locals and inveigle himself and Boysie into a game of darts. Libby and Lewis drifted over to watch.

‘So,’ said Jerry, positioning himself at the oche, ‘what’s all this going on tomorrow night, then?’

‘Tha’s what yer down here for, ennit?’ said a tall, thin man in corduroys.

‘Only ’cos the telly sent us,’ said Lewis. ‘We don’t know nothing.’

‘S’only Mannan Night.’ Another man shrugged. ‘Do ’un every year.’

‘Tourist board stuff, is it?’ asked Jerry, throwing his last dart and raising a few eyebrows at his score.

The thin man shrugged. ‘No. Old Florian –’e does it. Done it for years.’

‘What does he do, exactly?’ asked Libby, edging a little nearer.

The group of men all turned to look at her, surprised, and she realised she was the only woman in the bar.

‘Gets they dancers organised.’ The thin man shrugged again.

‘Local dancers?’ asked Libby.

‘Goat’s Head they calls ’emselves,’ said another man.

‘Goat’s Head Morris?’

‘That’ll be it. Black coats and faces. They does a play at Christmas in ’ere.’

‘A Mummers Play?’ Libby was delighted.

‘Aye. With Father Christmas and a dragon.’

‘Great!’ Libby turned to Lewis. ‘You need to talk to the head of the Goat’s Head Morris, then. If you can’t find him, I’ll bet Gemma knows him.’

‘Bernie Lee, that’s who you want,’ said the thin man, stepping up to the oche and throwing the remark over his shoulder. ‘Always into that there pagan stuff.’

‘Pagan!’ whispered Libby. ‘See, I said it’d be interesting.’

‘Did you?’ Lewis made a face at her. ‘I reckon you’re just thinking of your old murders.’

‘Course I’m not.’ Libby was indignant. ‘The murders didn’t happen here. Anyway, there was only one murder. The other person has simply disappeared.’

‘That’s not what you think,’ said Lewis. ‘Unless you think the other person murdered the first person.’

‘Very convoluted,’ said Libby, with a grin. ‘No, I don’t know, and I’m not going to think about it. I am, however, very interested in the Goat’s Head Morris. The Goat is the symbol of the devil.’

Lewis frowned. ‘I don’t like this much,’ he said. ‘It’s all a bit weird.’

‘It was your idea,’ said Libby. ‘The Green Man, remember?’

‘Yeah.’ Lewis sighed. ‘I must have been off me rocker.’

‘It’ll make good telly,’ said Libby, ‘as long as they let you film the actual celebration, or whatever it is.’

Lewis sighed again. ‘We’ll go and talk to that Flora person in the morning. You go and have a word with your mate and see if you can find out where this Bernie Lee hangs out. We need to talk to him, too.’

‘Can I borrow your laptop?’ asked Libby a few moments later, after watching Boysie throw three darts straight into the bull, looking bored.

‘Yeah. What do you want it for?’

‘To look up the Goat’s Head,’ said Libby, lowering her voice. ‘See what it’s all about.’

‘Don’t go messing with it, Lib.’ Lewis shook his head at her. ‘We’ll just talk to these people and film tomorrow night. Then we’ll go home.’

‘But there’s the second part of the ceremony,’ said Libby. ‘Your Shannon must have told you that.’

‘Huh?’

‘They fish the wicker man out of sea in the morning.’

‘Oh,’ said Lewis, looking gloomy. ‘Yeah.’

‘Anyway, you promised me a holiday. Two nights isn’t much.’

Lewis looked at her with dislike. ‘I don’t know why I brought you.’

‘Yes, you do. For protection.’ Libby grinned. ‘You told me that up on the cliffs this afternoon.’

‘Fat lot of protection you are,’ said Lewis, picking up their glasses. ‘You ready for a proper drink now?’

‘Are you?’

‘I want a cuppa,’ said Lewis. ‘I bet I can persuade them to make me one.’

Libby looked over to one of the jean-clad youths from this afternoon who now lounged behind the bar.

‘I bet you could persuade him into anything,’ she said with a wink.

Chapter Twelve

After breakfast the next morning, Lewis, Jerry and Boysie set off to talk to Florian Malahyde, while Libby, after a quick call to Gemma, climbed the rest of the way up the lane and came out on to a windy plateau at the top. To her left, in front of the thick trees, a large field contained what seemed like hundreds of tents, some caravans, camper vans and a couple of static caravans. Immediately in front of the trees stood a low stone building, which Libby guessed contained showers, loos and possibly offices.

She began to work her way down the left-hand side of the field as Gemma had told her, keeping an eye out for her friend. Who, as it turned out, was all too visible.

In the centre of a circle of chanting people, Libby could see the Oak King and the Goddess engaged in a ritual dance. She stopped and watched as the Holly King emerged from a tent and in mime, challenged the Oak King. The performance followed exactly the ritual she had seen the previous Sunday morning, and ended with all three performers bowing to their little audience, after which Gemma disappeared into a camper van behind her, while Richard and Dan talked to the members of the audience. Libby followed Gemma into the van.

‘So what was that in aid of?’ she asked, after looking round the neat interior and approving it.

Gemma had taken off her robe and her crown, which she laid across one of the benches in the living area. ‘Just explaining what we do in our celebrations. Everyone does something different.’

‘And what about the Goat’s Head Morris down here?’ asked Libby, and was startled by the look of fear that crossed Gemma’s face.

‘They’re – well, they’re different,’ she said finally.

‘Black faces and black coats,’ said Libby. ‘That doesn’t sound very different.’

Gemma looked at her for a long moment, then got up with a sudden abrupt movement and filled a kettle. ‘It’s what they do,’ she said at last.

‘What they do? I heard they do a Mummers’ Play, but so do you, don’t you?’

‘Yes. It’s not that.’

‘What then?’

Gemma looked frightened again. ‘Sacrifice,’ she whispered.

‘Sacrifice?’ Libby hooted. ‘Don’t be daft, Gem! How could they ever get away with that?’

Gemma looked stubborn. ‘They do. It’s well known.’

‘Pagan ritual?’

‘I don’t know. They all dress up like those Goths, only lots of them are much older. Do you want coffee?’

‘Yes, please, black, no sugar. So where do you get this idea about sacrifice from?’

‘Everybody knows. They have these meetings in the woods over there.’

‘When? While you’re here? How many times have you come down for this Mannan Night thing?’

‘This is the second.’ Gemma pushed a mug towards Libby. ‘Only since Willy stopped doing the Goddess.’

‘And Dan?’

‘Same. Bill always came down, with a few members of Cranston Morris, but it all seemed a bit odd to us. Then we came last year, because Bill wanted Dan to play the accordion.’ She shrugged. ‘Then of course, this year – well, with Willy gone and Bill dead – we had to come.’

‘So you don’t really know that much about it?’ Libby sipped hot coffee. ‘Ow.’

‘You hear things.’ Gemma’s mouth was set in a stubborn line.

‘About sacrifice?’

Gemma sighed. ‘Look, Libby, if you’ve just come here to laugh at me, you can go away again.’

‘But you asked me –’ began Libby, but Gemma interrupted.

‘I thought you could reassure some of our members about the murder because you had been involved in cases before. You said you couldn’t, but you still turned up at the Solstice. Now you’ve turned up down here. Are you investigating or not? And if you are, do the police know? And even if you are, why have you come down here? What have you heard?’

Libby stared at her friend in surprise.

‘Good lord, Gem. I don’t know what to say.’

‘How about answering my last question? What have you heard?’

‘I haven’t heard anything.’ Libby frowned. ‘I honestly came down with Lewis for a few days’ break. The only thing I’ve heard is that Florian Malahyde organises the Mannan Night and Bernie Lee is head of Goat’s Head Morris. And that came from people in the bar of the Portherriot Arms last night. What could I have heard?’

Gemma looked at her searchingly. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course, I’m sure,’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘Are you suggesting there’s something funny going on down here? And that it’s connected with your murder?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Gemma, snapping her lips shut.

‘Except sacrifice,’ said Libby. ‘Come on Gem. You’ve already said that. You can’t backtrack now.’

‘Goat’s Head Morris do that, I’ve told you.’ Gemma looked over her shoulder and out of the window. ‘They go into the woods at night.’

‘You’ve seen them?’

Gemma nodded. ‘And seen the bonfires.’

‘In the woods?’

‘Yes.’ She leant forward. ‘I’m serious, Lib. I didn’t connect Mannan Night with Bill’s murder, but since we’ve come down here…’ she trailed off.

‘Has something happened?’ asked Libby, after a moment.

‘Not exactly.’ Gemma frowned. ‘It’s just – well – I can’t really put my finger on it.’

‘Is it the people, Gem? Some of your friends?’

‘Well,’ said Gemma again, ‘well, yes. I don’t know how to put this without seeming disloyal, but some of them seem to have come down here for another reason altogether.’

‘Another reason?’

‘Than just Mannan Night. That’s supposed to be a rebirthing ritual, and it ties in with our Solstice celebrations. It’s Celtic, you see.’ Gemma was earnest. ‘But some of them – I’m not sure. They seem to have been whispering together.’ She made a tutting sound and sat back in her chair. ‘How pathetic that sounds. They’re not a bunch of schoolkids.’

‘But you think something secretive’s going on?’

‘Dan and I noticed a group of them went off together the night before last, then the same thing happened last night.’

‘Are they a group of particular friends at home? Might they not have gone off for a drink?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘They might, but we’d all organised to stay here and have a camp fire. We’d brought beer and wine with us.’

‘Was Richard with them?’ asked Libby.

‘Richard?’ Gemma looked startled. ‘Not the first night. He stayed here with us. I didn’t notice him last night.’

She looked uncomfortable and Libby guessed she’d been looking for Diggory.

‘Why do you ask, anyway?’ Gemma looked suspicious.

‘No reason. I just thought he seemed quite – er – fond – of you when I saw you last weekend. I thought he might be, well, flirting with you. I told you that last weekend.’

Colour rushed into Gemma’s cheeks. ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘He knows I’m married. Anyway, he’s not really one of us. Dan’s and mine, I mean.’

‘Your what?’ Libby frowned.

‘Well, we were part of the original Cranston Morris – you remember, years ago, when we first started up after the Bogshole Mummers folded.’

‘I remember.’

‘Well, then Bill joined and John Lethbridge –’

‘He’s the one who’s vanished? Married to Wilhelmina?’

‘That’s him. Well, Bill knew all about all the old Celtic and Pagan rituals, and began to introduce them. Some of the members got very enthusiastic, and that’s when we started doing the Oak and Holly King rituals, with the Goddess.’

‘The Goddess is around at Beltane, as well, isn’t she?’ asked Libby.

‘And Plough Monday,’ nodded Gemma. ‘She is supposed to give birth to the Beltane at the Winter Solstice, then on Plough Monday she’s supposed to be laid in the first furrow in the form of a corn dolly, then she courts the God at the equinox – this is where the Oak King comes in –’

‘So it’s a bit mixed up? Some of it’s Green Man and the Goddess and some of it’s Oak and Holly King? And then down here it’s Manannán mac Lir.’

Gemma frowned. ‘Who?’

‘An old sea dog – I mean, god – which is where Mannan Night comes from.’ I think, thought Libby.

‘Well, they all come from the same root, whatever their names,’ said Gemma. ‘And a lot of the group took it more seriously than others. We just liked our dances and celebrations and rehearsals, but they used to meet at other times, too.’

‘To do what?’

‘I don’t know. Discuss it all, I suppose. But then…’

‘Then? You’re not thinking of Bill’s murder, surely?’

‘No-o-o.’ Gemma looked up under her brows. ‘It’s just that, with John going, and Willy having gone, I wondered.’

‘Wondered what?’ asked Libby, getting exasperated.

‘If there was something else going on.’ Gemma sat up straight. ‘Which is why I wanted you to come and talk to everyone.’

‘I still don’t see how I could have done that,’ said Libby, ‘unless you’d gathered them all together and I’d given them a lecture.’

‘I thought if they knew how the police can be – you know, thorough – they would all be honest and we’d get it cleared up quickly. You don’t know how horrible it’s been since May Day.’

‘Murder is horrible,’ said Libby, ‘and you’ve got a hope if you think anything I said would encourage people to be honest. I know for a fact that people always conceal things from the police in a murder case, and not usually because it’s anything to do with the murder, either. It annoys me, and it annoys the police, I know. Ian Connell is a particular friend of ours and he gets mad – generally at me – because people interfere, tell silly lies and do stupid things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Stupid things like trying to investigate when it should be left to the police,’ said Libby, feeling the colour mounting into her face. ‘That’s why he gets mad at me.’

‘See, you do know a lot about it,’ said Gemma. ‘I just thought –’

‘That I could talk someone into confessing? Or into not shielding someone else? No chance. They wouldn’t listen to me. People always think they know best. They watch television programmes and see the heroine go into the dark cellar, and they say “Oh, don’t be daft! She wouldn’t do that!” then they go and do virtually the same thing themselves.’

Gemma’s shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, well,’ she said, in a dispirited voice.

‘Do you actually suspect any of these people in Bill’s group of being his murderer?’ asked Libby. ‘Or do you think there’s something going on with them down here? That they’d have thought of him as a sacrifice?’

Gemma looked scared. ‘I know it sounds silly,’ she said, ‘but I knew about Goat’s Head Morris, and then all the others were going after them into the woods…’

‘But Bill didn’t die down here.’

‘No, but the Green Man is symbolic and in some rituals is killed off.’

‘Not in modern south-east England he isn’t,’ said Libby. ‘Not in the middle of a parade. Now, if there were any clandestine rituals it would have happened then.’ She paused suddenly.

‘What is it?’ said Gemma, after a moment.

‘Do you know anything about Tyne Chapel?’

Gemma’s brow wrinkled. ‘Isn’t it somewhere near Steeple Mount?’

‘Just outside, part of an old estate,’ said Libby.

‘Why did you want to know?’

‘No reason.’ Libby looked at her quickly. ‘I just wondered if Cranston Morris had ever used it, that’s all.’

‘What would we use it for? Isn’t it derelict?’

‘Not completely,’ said Libby. ‘I thought you might use it as a rehearsal space.’

‘Good heavens, no!’ Gemma laughed. ‘That has to be in a pub, or the men would want to know the reason why. Beer’s part of the tradition of Morris dancing.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Libby, ‘the archetypal Morris dancer: Arran sweater, beard and pewter tankard.’

‘Accordion, fiddle and bodhrun as side options. And the trouble is – it’s true! Dan and I even conform in that we’re teachers.’

‘Oh, well, you can’t have everything,’ said Libby obscurely. ‘At least you look more cheerful now.’

‘I suppose you’ve made me see I was being a bit silly,’ said Gemma, although Libby still didn’t think she looked entirely happy.

‘Well, if they sneak off into the woods tonight, why don’t you follow them,’ said Libby. ‘Then you’ll be able to have a good old laugh at whatever it is they’re doing.’

‘Not if it’s sacrifice.’ Gemma shuddered. ‘It might be a rabbit or – or – a goat.’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, tonight’s Mannan Night, isn’t it? They won’t do anything awful tonight. They’ll be too busy showing off.’