LS 13 - Murder in a Different Place (21 page)

First chapter of
Murder out of Tune

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

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

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

‘Well, no.’ Libby regarded her newly varnished nails with satisfaction. ‘I’m so pleased I discovered this stuff.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Like that cleaning windows bloke?’ said Harry.

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

‘Why here?’

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

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

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

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

‘And you don’t want to.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I don’t know Lorraine, do I?’

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

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

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

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

The barman leant across the bar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why?’ asked Ben.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A stillness fell over the bar.

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

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

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

‘That could be anybody,’ said Peter.

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

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

Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2014

ISBN 9781909624955

Copyright © Lesley Cookman 2014

The right of Lesley Cookman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN

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