Murder by Magic

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Or,’ continued Fran, ‘at least knows quite a lot about it. Perhaps been threatened himself?’

  ‘That’s possible. But we still don’t know why Mrs Bidwell was killed in the first place.’

  ‘Or why Mrs Longfellow was in the second. Although her murder was definitely a result of Mrs Bidwell’s. I’m certain of that.’

  ‘So we need to find someone who had a reason to murder Mrs Bidwell and who’s a member of, or knows a lot about, a Black Magic coven,’ said Libby. ‘Not much then.’

  ‘You remember all that business with the coven up at Tyne Hall chapel,’ said Fran. ‘The members of that coven were simply using it as an excuse for bad behaviour, weren’t they?’

  ‘Orgies with blackmail,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps that’s what all Black Magic covens do.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. Could this person – the murderer – have been blackmailed by Mrs Bidwell?’

  ‘From what we’ve heard I can’t see Mrs Bidwell knowing anything about Black Magic covens!’ said Libby.

  ‘No … But when did Patti get the first anonymous letters talking about Black Magic?’

  ‘Or was it just rumour?’ Libby frowned. ‘Oh, goodness, this is complicated.’

  ‘And we should be leaving it to the police,’ sighed Fran. ‘What are we like?’

  Libby was saying goodbye to Edie when Tim Bolton appeared at her side.

  ‘I shall remember about the Willoughby Oak,’ he said. ‘I think there’s a story there.’

  Libby swallowed hard. ‘I hope you find it,’ she said, turning back to Edie. ‘See you soon, Edie. Come over one day to see Hetty.’

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ she said to Ben, Peter and Harry as they drove away from Creekmarsh.

  ‘What now?’ sighed Ben.

  ‘That Bolton person. He thinks there’s a programme in the Willoughby Oak.’

  ‘What’s the Willoughby Oak?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Don’t ask!’ said Ben.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Peter.

  ‘And who is he, exactly?’ Ben turned to look at his inamorata, who was huddled inside her coat and looking cross. She explained.

  ‘And it would matter why?’ Peter turned from the front seat to ask.

  ‘If there is a coven meeting there,’ began Libby.

  ‘Oh, not the bloody witches again!’ said Harry. ‘Remember that awful woman with the moustache who was into witchcraft?’

  ‘Yes, sadly,’ said Libby. ‘And yes, it is the bloody witches again – or someone wants us to think so.’

  ‘Someone wants you to think so?’ repeated Ben.

  ‘All right, someone wants the police to think so.’

  ‘Did Fran tell you where she thinks the Oak is?’

  ‘No, I shall have to ask her tomorrow. And Ben –’ Libby hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to go to church tomorrow. To support Patti.’

  ‘That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t see why. I’m not a confirmed atheist like Fran. It was after last Sunday that Alice called me for help, so, on the basis that, if the village really is making life difficult for Patti, it might well be worse tomorrow, I thought I’d go over. I’ll be back in time for lunch.’

  ‘Do you know what time the service is?’

  ‘Bother, no I don’t. I’ll have to call Alice first thing.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

  Libby turned to him in surprise. ‘Would you? I never thought to ask. You don’t like getting involved in my stuff.’

  ‘No, I know, but I do feel some sympathy for this poor woman.’ He patted her hand. ‘I’ll come, and then I can make sure we’re back well in time for lunch at The Manor.’

  Libby gave him a grateful smile, and settled back to peer out at the darkened countryside.

  Chapter Eleven

  Alice was out when Libby called her in the morning.

  ‘Early service,’ said her husband Bob. ‘God knows why she has to go more than once on a Sunday.’

  ‘I expect He does,’ said Libby. ‘And I expect it’s to support Patti. Do you know what time the next service is?’

  ‘Eleven,’ said Bob. ‘Why? Are you going?’

  ‘I thought I might,’ said Libby. ‘Ben’s coming, too.’

  ‘Who’s Ben?’

  ‘My other half. Of course, I forgot, you wouldn’t know him.’

  ‘I only remember your husband. Derek, wasn’t it? Good bloke, I thought.’

  You would, thought Libby. ‘Until he went off with a younger woman,’ she said aloud.

  ‘Yeah, well …’

  ‘Anyway, I expect we’ll see you at eleven, then,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t go,’ said Bob. ‘Load of rubbish, if you ask me.’

  ‘What does one wear to church these days?’ asked Ben peering into his half of the wardrobe. ‘It’s not suits any more, is it?’

  ‘I should think it’s anything you like,’ said Libby. ‘I can get away with anything under my coat, so it doesn’t matter.’

  Under immense pressure, Libby had finally given up her ancient blue cape and taken to wearing the new coat Ben had bought her. The cape did, however, hang on a hook by the back door to do duty in the garden if required.

  ‘Churches are cold, aren’t they? I shall go for the traditional country gentleman look. Then I can wear a jumper over the shirt.’ Ben removed some items from the wardrobe.

  ‘Oh, not a sheepskin coat and a cap?’ Libby dragged a cardigan on.

  ‘I couldn’t grow a handlebar moustache in time,’ grinned Ben.

  Not much to Libby’s surprise, there was a steady stream of people entering the church as they approached. Inside, Alice was handing out hymn books and service sheets.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she whispered. ‘Bob said you’d phoned. There’s a lot of people here.’

  ‘Nosy, or support?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Nosy.’ Alice sniffed. ‘But Patti’s got a surprise for them.’

  The service was a straightforward Communion, and Patti, thought Libby, conducted it as if she had no worries in the world. However, when she came to the lectern, which had been used for the gospel readings, to deliver the sermon, she lifted her head a little higher and delivered her surprise.

  ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Her voice was strong and her eyes swept the congregation with a fierce intensity. ‘I didn’t cast any stones, but someone has. This is an unusual step, but has the sanction of the Bishop. I invite Detective Chief Inspector Connell to speak to you.’

  A collective gasp followed by a murmur like approaching thunder ran round the church. Libby and Ben looked at each other with raised eyebrows as Ian Connell appeared from the vestry.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘as Miss Pearson has said, this is a very unusual step, but I have, myself, been to see your bishop and he agrees that as the tragic events recently relate closely to the church, it is perfectly appropriate.’ He looked over the congregation as if waiting for someone to disagree with him, and sure enough there was a subdued muttering from the back.

  ‘I can assure you all that both the police and your bishop have every confidence in Miss Pearson, and we are all horrified at the wicked attempts to involve her in the crimes that have been committed.’ He paused again. ‘To that end, we would like to invite every member of this congregation to speak to the police, particularly if they have anything relevant to this enquiry to tell us. I hope Miss Pearson can continue to count on the support of you all in the future. Thank you.’ Ian gave a quick nod and disappeared into the vestry, leaving behind him a stunned silence.

  ‘Perhaps “start” to support would have been more truthful,’ Libby muttered as they stood for the next hymn.

  The service continued quite normally after that. Libby kept an eye out for renegade parishioners who might leg it, but no one did. In fact, at the end of the service, when Patti stood by the door to bid
the congregation goodbye, everyone wanted to speak to her, and from what Libby could see, perfectly pleasantly. By the time Ben and Libby reached her, a smug Alice by her side, Patti was looking weary.

  ‘Well done,’ said Libby, giving her a kiss on the cheek. ‘That was brave. This is Ben.’

  Ben and Patti shook hands.

  ‘It could have gone horribly wrong. They all could have got up and left, despite the Bishop. It was you who gave me the idea.’

  ‘I did? Oh, good.’ Libby looked round. ‘Where did Ian get to?’

  ‘He and a sergeant are just down there,’ Patti pointed. ‘Being a visible presence in case anyone really does decide to talk to them.’ She shook her head. ‘I doubt it, though.’

  ‘Did he really go and see the Bishop?’ Ben asked.

  ‘He called him. I spoke to the Bishop first, and believe it or not, it was his idea to involve the police. He’s very annoyed about people who profess to be Christians behaving badly and presuming to know more about the practices and teachings of the Church than the professionals.’

  ‘I agree with him,’ said Libby. ‘It’s presumptuous in the extreme.’

  ‘It was really kind of you to come this morning,’ said Patti. ‘Did you think there might not be anyone here?’

  ‘Partly, or that there’d be a baying mob.’

  ‘Told you, they’re all nosy,’ said Alice. ‘And I hope they’re ashamed of themselves.’

  Ian, with a brightly smiling Sergeant Maiden, greeted them with a degree of reserve.

  ‘I suppose anyone can go to a church service,’ he said, after shaking hands with Ben.

  ‘But not anybody can preach,’ said Libby, with an innocent smile.

  Ian sighed. ‘It was all cleared –’

  ‘By the Bishop. I know,’ said Libby. ‘Any more news?’

  ‘Not so far.’ Ian eyed her suspiciously. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Nothing. Seriously. Just speculation about witches, Black Magic and the Willoughby Oak.’

  ‘The what?’

  Libby explained. ‘We thought it might be someone who knew that witches used the Oak for meetings and decided to pin the blame on them.’

  ‘By using the feathers and other symbols?’

  ‘Yes. What other symbols?’

  ‘The body of Mrs Longfellow was enclosed in a pentagram for one thing.’

  ‘That’ll do it.’

  ‘It had, of course, occurred to us as well,’ said Ian, ‘but we didn’t know about the Oak. We’ll look into it. Don’t want any more of those blasted play-actors around here.’

  ‘I don’t think they are acting, Ian, or not in their own eyes, anyway.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Ian’s faint Scots accent became more pronounced. ‘It’s all made-up rubbish to cover up sexual bad behaviour.’

  ‘Fran said that,’ said Libby.

  ‘Always said she was a sensible woman,’ Ian said with a small smile.

  ‘Anyway, you don’t believe it’s anything to do with Black Magic?’

  ‘Of course not. Any more than it’s anything to do with the vicar. So we need someone else with a motive for killing Joan Bidwell and Marion Longfellow.’

  ‘Fran says Mrs Longfellow was killed as a direct result of the death of Mrs Bidwell,’ said Libby.

  ‘Yes, she did, but why exactly? Revenge? I can’t believe that.’

  ‘Well, there must be a reason. That is, if you’re certain now that Mrs B was murdered.’

  ‘She was.’ Ian nodded. ‘A very clever forensic pathologist has come up with the method.’

  ‘And what was it?’ Libby asked.

  ‘Can’t tell you just yet, but we have to look at that, too, as a pointer to our murderer. And it’s probably the same for Marion Longfellow.’ Ian grinned at Libby’s obvious frustration. ‘I’ll give you a clue. It’s Sux.’

  ‘It sucks?’ echoed Libby in bewilderment.

  ‘No – just sux,’ said Ian. ‘It’s a perfect clue.’

  ‘But what sucks?’ asked Libby, as she and Ben drove away from St Aldeberge. ‘Just sucks? Sounds vaguely rude.’

  ‘He’s obviously giving you something else to worry away at to keep you out of his hair,’ said Ben. ‘And he didn’t say something sucks, he said just “sucks”. I’d get to some serious web searches, if I were you.’

  ‘I shall,’ said Libby firmly, ‘and so will Fran.’

  They drove straight to the Manor, where Hetty had cooked a huge roast dinner and invited her brother Lenny, best friend Flo, and Peter and Harry. Harry’s spasmodic Sunday opening routine was currently in abeyance, but would start up again nearer to Christmas, and he was quite happy to come and eat all the vegetables Hetty provided with the roast beef. They sat round the long scrubbed kitchen table and discussed the recession, the prices in the eight-til-late and the up and coming pantomime.

  ‘Aren’t you having anything to do with it this year?’ asked Hetty.

  ‘Who? Me or Libby?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Both. One of yer always poking yer oar in somewhere.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve designed the set and I’m helping to build it,’ said Ben.

  ‘We helped to cast it,’ said Libby, ‘but I’m sitting back and taking it easy this year.’

  ‘Unless you have to take over a role again,’ said Peter.

  ‘I’m keeping an eye on the Queen,’ laughed Libby. ‘I’m daring her to fall over or catch flu.’

  ‘So what you doing then, gal?’ asked Flo. ‘Another murder?’

  Libby choked.

  ‘That’ll be one o’ them undetecting poisons, then,’ said Flo, when Ben had explained.

  ‘There aren’t any left,’ said Libby.

  ‘Bet there are,’ said Flo. ‘What about that feller who was killed with an umberella?’

  ‘But they detected that poison,’ said Libby, ‘and even the Russian who was in hospital. They found out what was wrong with him in the end.’

  ‘That could be what “sucks” means,’ said Ben, with an air of discovery.

  ‘Sucks?’ repeated the entire table.

  ‘Something Ian said to us – said it was a clue.’

  ‘A real clue!’ said Harry. ‘I’d watch it – you’ll be turning into detectives.’

  ‘Don’t be sarky, Hal,’ said Libby. ‘I’m going to Google it the minute I get home. Bother.’ She fished in her bag for her warbling mobile and switched it off.

  ‘Not important?’ asked Peter. ‘You looked a little pissed off, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Rosie again,’ sighed Libby. ‘I suppose I shall have to ring her back eventually.’

  Both having had several glasses of Hetty’s excellent claret, Ben and Libby left Ben’s car at The Manor and strolled home.

  ‘I suppose I’d better ring Rosie,’ Libby said as they negotiated their way round Sidney into the sitting room.

  ‘You do that and I’ll light the fire,’ said Ben. ‘And I’ll even put the kettle on.’

  ‘Rosie. It’s Libby.’

  ‘Libby! Where have you been? I’ve been ringing and ringing.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry, but I’ve been rather busy. Only just got in, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’ Rosie sounded disappointed. ‘I was hoping you could come up here and give me a hand.’

  ‘A hand? With what?’ Libby tried not to sound exasperated.

  ‘This dating website. I told you.’

  ‘How could I possibly help? You have to put your own details on there. I can’t do anything.’

  ‘You could check over some of the men I’ve been looking at.’

  ‘I don’t think I could. Just don’t agree to meet any of them.’

  ‘No. So you won’t come up? I’ve got some cake and a nice bottle of red.’

  ‘Rosie. I’ve just told you, I’ve this minute walked through the door and Ben’s making me a cup of tea. I’ve been very busy and I’m knackered.’

  ‘Oh. I suppose I’ll have to wait until tomorrow,’ said Rosie, sounding v
ery hard done by.

  ‘Come down to supper tomorrow night,’ said Libby suddenly, ‘and you can show me on my computer. It’ll have to be earlyish, as I’ve got a panto rehearsal at a quarter to eight.’

  ‘Oh, all right, thank you.’ Rosie didn’t sound that grateful. ‘What time shall I come?’

  ‘About five thirty? Then we can look at your website before supper.’

  ‘You haven’t got a rehearsal tomorrow night,’ said Ben, bringing two mugs of tea through as Libby switched off the phone.

  ‘I know, but otherwise we’d be stuck with her for the whole evening, and I can’t take that much of Rosie.’

  ‘I’d noticed,’ said Ben. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t.’

  Monday morning dawned wet. Libby decided to concoct something to cook in the slow cooker so that she had no preparation to do when Rosie turned up, so, forsaking the village shops in favour of a ride in the car, she drove out to the nearest supermarket and tried not to feel guilty about depriving the locals of her custom.

  By the time Rosie arrived at half past five, a savoury smell was wafting through number 17, Ben had once more lit the fire and made tea, and Libby had the laptop open on the table in the window.

  ‘So let’s have a look at this website,’ said Libby, pushing the laptop towards Rosie.

  ‘Here.’ She turned the screen so Libby could see it properly. ‘These are my “matches”. I’ve been in touch with some of them.’

  Libby scrolled down through the mini pictures and self-descriptions.

  ‘They’re all so old, Rosie.’

  ‘So am I, dear. But some of them sound interesting. Look.’ She clicked on a picture and the whole profile came up. ‘There. He sounds all right, doesn’t he?’

  ‘He sounds as boring as hell,’ said Libby. ‘And not terribly bright. Aren’t there any men doing exciting things? Or who aren’t intellectually challenged?’

  Rosie sighed. ‘Actually, that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. I expect this is the wrong site for me.’

  ‘I thought it was for research, not for you?’ said Libby, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘It is,’ said Rosie, but a faint colour appeared in her cheeks. ‘But I’ve got to do it properly. I could have signed up with a picture of someone young, and made up the details, but that wouldn’t have fitted the book.’