‘How do you know that?’
‘Look.’ Fran got out of the car and approached the tree. Libby followed. ‘Here.’
Faint marks were scratched into the trunk of the tree, and there were scraps of fabric clinging to its lower branches.
‘And here.’ Libby pointed to the ground, where there were several marks, including darker staining, making Libby shiver.
‘And tyre tracks,’ murmured Fran.
‘Could be the police?’ wondered Libby doubtfully. ‘We told Ian about this place.’
‘It could be Tim Bolton,’ said Fran. ‘Looking for his story.’
‘Oh, lord, and now us. It’s a positive Piccadilly Circus,’ said Libby. ‘I suppose it’s more likely to be Tim Bolton. The police would do a bit more in depth research before bothering to come out here.’ She looked round at the empty field and shivered. ‘It’s quite spooky, isn’t it? You wouldn’t think it would be, being so open.’
Fran was staring at the ground. Libby watched her for a few minutes.
‘OK – what have you seen?’
Fran looked up. ‘I’m not sure. It was dark. And I get the feeling this is nothing to do with our murders, but to do with the village.’
‘Which backs up our theory that whoever’s behind them is simply using Black Magic or witchcraft as a cover.’
‘Maybe.’ Fran looked round the field. ‘But whoever is using this tree has been here recently.’
‘Have they? Shall we go then, before they come back?’ said Libby nervously.
Fran looked amused. ‘They’re hardly likely to come mid-afternoon when it’s still light.’
‘I suppose so. Still, I do have to get back. I need to cook before we go to Pete’s for this meeting tonight.’
‘All right.’ Fran looked up at the tree, reached out and pulled off a piece of fabric that fluttered from a twig just above her head. ‘I’ll see if I can get anything off this.’
‘Should you tell Ian you’ve done that?’ said Libby dubiously.
‘I don’t see why.’ Fran stuffed the scrap into her pocket. ‘Come on then. Will you have time for a cup of tea before you go?’
Libby decided she could afford another half an hour when they arrived back at Coastguard Cottage, and settled down in front of the fireplace with Balzac the cat on her lap.
‘I think,’ said Fran coming in from the kitchen with two mugs in her hands, ‘that this fragment is part of one of those blasted cloaks they all wear.’
Libby shuddered. The cloaks worn by others who had been members of a Black Magic coven some years ago had distinctly unpleasant memories. ‘But not sinister in itself?’
‘No, just caught on that twig while its wearer pranced about, presumably naked underneath.’
‘Yuck.’ Libby made a face and sipped her tea. ‘I reckon they are all just a cover for bad sexual behaviour.’
‘All covens?’
‘And Satanists. Or are they the same?’
Fran sat down in the chair opposite looking thoughtful. ‘According to their own literature, there is only one kind of magic and people use it for either good or evil, and if evil, they are obviously linked with the Devil. But Satanists are a bit different. Satanism itself was a term only really coined in the last century; before that it was simply Devil worship and not necessarily anything to do with magic, although magic was supposed to be employed at some level. It’s all terribly complicated. I was looking it up on the internet.’
‘I gathered.’ Libby grinned at her friend.
‘There’s one particular sect who say they are a “small religious group that is unrelated to any other faith, and whose members feel free to satisfy their urges responsibly, exhibit kindness to their friends, and attack their enemies”. Actual Devil worship is nastier. And collectively it’s all known as “The Left-Hand Path”.’
‘And some of them use the nastier aspects to – er – satisfy their urges.’
‘Not always responsibly, either.’
‘So we still don’t know anything about our murderer.’ Libby absentmindedly rested her mug on Balzac’s head. He didn’t seem to mind. ‘He knows about the coven, or whoever they are, but it’s not actually connected to the murder.’
‘It doesn’t seem to be.’ Fran frowned. ‘Perhaps Ian will find out more.’
‘Or Tim Bolton will. Although he doesn’t know its connection to the murders – or not.’ Libby smiled grimly. ‘And I’d like to see how far he gets now Ian knows, anyway.’
Later, throwing together a quick spaghetti bolognese, she found out.
‘Tim Bolton’s cross with you,’ said Lewis, obviously in a car.
‘You’re not talking while you’re driving, are you?’ said Libby.
‘Course not. I’m not an idiot. No – our Tim’s been warned off by the coppers. Your copper mate Ian, in fact.’
‘Really? How?’
‘Found out where it was, didn’t he, and when he got there your Ian’s there with a couple of uniforms and a lot of crime scene tape.’
Must have been after we went there this afternoon, thought Libby. ‘So why is he blaming me?’ she asked aloud.
‘He reckons you were looking into it, and seeing as how you’re in with the coppers, it must have been you what put them up to it.’
‘Yes, well, it probably was,’ said Libby, a trifle uncomfortably, ‘but it had nothing to do with your Tim Bolton. He just said he came across it while he was researching something else.’
‘I know, love. But you know what these media types are like. Go mad for a story.’
‘I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘Tell him I’m sorry – although I don’t quite know what for.’
‘I won’t tell him anything of the sort.’ Lewis laughed. ‘Do him good. But don’t be surprised if he finds out where you live and comes bothering you. He can be a right nuisance, the bugger.’
‘I had a feeling he could.’ Libby sighed gustily. ‘OK, forewarned is forearmed, Lewis, thanks. Where’s Adam, do you know?’
‘Working for your mate for a few days. I’m off up to London doing some filming. I’ll give you a call when I get back.’
Libby repeated all this to Ben as they ate their meal. ‘He can’t do anything to me,’ said Libby, ‘but if he does decide I know something about what is obviously a police case, he could become very persistent.’
‘All you’ve got to do is tell him you’ll report him to the police for harassment,’ said Ben.
‘But he’s almost a – well, not a friend, exactly, but we met him socially.’
‘You did. I didn’t. I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. Now eat up, or we’ll be late for Pete’s meeting.’
Peter and Harry’s cottage lay just beyond The Pink Geranium and the Manor drive, on the High Street. Libby waved at Adam through the window of The Pink Geranium as they passed.
Settled in her favourite sagging, cretonne-covered chair, with Peter, Ben, the stage manager, Frank, Bob and Baz and the dame, Tom, arranged around the sitting room, Libby put the whole question of St Aldeberge and the Willoughby Oak out of her mind. This was much more her world, she told herself, and prepared to enjoy it.
Chapter Fourteen
The joy of email and social networking sites, Libby thought the following morning, as she informed the entire cast and crew of the pantomime of the changes agreed upon last night. The plan hammered out for the transformation of the production was a little radical, especially as the musical director and choreographer had not been informed of the changes in the music. There was, in fact, plenty of time to implement changes, but this was not, she reminded herself, professional theatre, where panto would get two weeks rehearsal for the principals if lucky. The MD and choreographer were paid “honoraria”, but everyone else was a volunteer, although they were lucky to have several professional or ex-professional actors and technicians, who liked to keep their hand in, on whose talents they could call.
The trickiest thing, she decided, was going to be the new gauze which a) cos
t money b) needed to be painted – a tricky job – and c) had to be hung from one of the lighting barrels, none of which appeared to be free as far as the lighting designer’s plan showed. Oh, well, she thought with a sigh, as she shut the laptop, it wasn’t her concern, it was Peter’s, as he was now in overall charge of the production as well as director. Young Kylie had been kindly informed that Peter didn’t work with a PA, and despatched back to the chorus.
When the landline rang, she was surprised to hear Fran’s voice at the other end.
‘That Bolton person managed to get hold of me,’ she said, sounding angry.
‘Who?’ Libby’s brain did the difficult switch from panto to real life. ‘Oh! Lewis thought he might come after me.’
‘Oh, he did, did he? Why didn’t you let me know?’
‘What would I have said? Tim Bolton’s angry with me because Ian Connell warned him away from the Willoughby Oak?’
‘Yes. I would have known what he was going on about. The bastard tried to trick me into telling him the whole story.’
‘Oh, Fran! He didn’t? You didn’t?’
‘No, of course not.’ Fran was now sounding irritated. ‘I don’t know why Lewis has anything to do with him.’
‘He’s got money in the production company,’ said Libby. ‘How did he get hold of you?’
‘He Googled me!’ Fran was now amazed.
‘We’ve been told before we come up in search engines,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve just never tried it.’
‘Apparently, a mention of our wedding came up in a link, and of course he saw Guy’s name, which is still quite well known in the art world, found out where the shop was and bingo. He rang the shop, asked for me, and Sophie, bless her, handed him over.’
‘I wish our investigations were that simple.’
Fran made a noise that sounded like “hmph”.
‘Did you get anything out of him about what Ian was doing at The Oak?’
‘No. He took the line that of course I knew about the police’s interest in the tree and so did he, so what did I think about the whole case.’
‘Cheeky.’
‘Precisely. Luckily, by that time, not knowing Ian had gone out there, I had the wit to ask what case he was talking about. And that set him floundering. He was a little bit disingenuous.’
‘I suppose he’s only doing his job,’ sighed Libby. ‘But annoying. We shall have to watch out for him. Did you get anything else from the piece of cloak?’
‘No, but after Bolton rang me, I left a message for Ian. I expect he’ll call back at some time today. I’ll let you know.’
‘OK, but I think we should be concentrating on finding out why Mrs Bidwell died. We seem to have forgotten that.’
‘I don’t think “we” should, Lib. We did what we could to help Patti, who now seems to be off the villagers’ hook –’
‘How do you know that?’ interrupted Libby.
‘I – I –’ Fran stopped. ‘I don’t actually. Well, I do, but I don’t know how.’
‘We’ll take it as read, then,’ said Libby. ‘And surely we’ve got to try and find out what happened? We can’t leave it here.’
‘We’d just be being nosy for nosy’s sake,’ said Fran. ‘If anyone asks us to do something, that’s different. Meanwhile, I think we should get down to real life. We’re doing a Christmas-themed display for the shop, and you’re rehearsing panto. How did last night’s meeting go?’
When Libby rang off, she sat chewing her finger for a moment, thinking. Fran was, of course, quite right. There was no reason for them to look into the St Aldeberge’s murders now that the police had them in hand and Patti had been cleared of involvement. And Libby now had lines to learn and her duties as Peter’s unofficial deputy which would keep her busy enough. But Libby’s fuse of curiosity had been lit, and once lit was terribly hard to put out.
She wandered into the kitchen, made herself a cup of coffee for a change and punched Patti’s number into the phone.
‘Just wanted to see how you were,’ she said.
‘That’s kind, Libby. And thank you so much for coming over on Sunday. I can’t tell you what a difference Ian’s sermon made. All of a sudden people were speaking to me again, and not only that, asking me to help with things. It’s been a great few days. Except for Joan Bidwell’s son.’
‘Why, what did he do?’
‘He turned up wanting me to do the funeral. He doesn’t live here, he moved away years ago, when he married, I think he said.’
‘Sensible,’ said Libby.
‘Yes, well, he wants his mum to have a church service here, as she loved the place. I said we couldn’t do that until the police released the body and he went off on one.’
‘He must have already been told that by the police if he was her next of kin.’
‘Apparently his sister was down as next of kin, but as she’d had nothing to do with Mrs Bidwell for about forty years, she wasn’t bothered, and when this Dennis Bidwell asked her about it, she said he could do what he liked, only didn’t tell him about the police having the body.’
‘What a mess. No wonder he was upset.’
‘Yes,’ said Patti, ‘but after all, he hadn’t spoken to his mother in years, either.’
‘From what you’ve told me, I don’t blame him.’
‘Probably feels guilty,’ said Patti with a sigh. ‘They often do.’
‘Shame he didn’t know her better,’ said Libby. ‘It might have helped find a motive for her murder. Or has anything turned up in that regard?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Patti. ‘Hasn’t your nice Ian said anything?’
‘I haven’t spoken to him, but he’s under no obligation to tell Fran or me anything. Rather the opposite, usually.’
‘But he asks for your help, doesn’t he? And look how you’ve helped in this case.’
‘I know, but once he’s in charge, unless he thinks we can actively help, he’d rather we kept out of it. We get under his feet a bit.’
Patti laughed. ‘Well, I’m glad you do. It’s helped me enormously.’
‘Oh, we didn’t do much,’ mumbled Libby.
‘I disagree. Look, I’m coming to see my friend Anne again today as it’s my day off again –’
‘Blimey! A whole week since you last came!’
‘Yes, so I thought, would you like to come to dinner with us? We’re going to that nice restaurant in your High Street.’
‘The Pink Geranium? My friend Harry owns it. Actually, I couldn’t tonight, I’ve got a panto rehearsal – perhaps we could see you for a drink in the pub after you’ve eaten?’
‘Yes, lovely. Panto, eh? We’ll have to get you down to give us some advice if I do manage to set up a drama group.’
‘Alice didn’t look thrilled with that idea,’ said Libby, with a laugh.
‘Oh, she’ll join in. She usually does,’ said Patti. ‘What time will you get to the pub?’
‘We finish rehearsals at ten, so about ten past if I can get away. See you then.’
By the time Libby pushed open the glass doors of the theatre at a quarter to eight that evening, it was already warm. Peter greeted her from the top of the spiral staircase that led to the sound and light box.
‘Looking forward to it, petal?’ he said.
‘Of course, as long as the cast aren’t too upset about the changes.’ Libby unwound her scarf. ‘Ben in the auditorium?’
‘No, he’s already in the workshop with some of his team showing them the amended designs. Go on, in you go.’
The cast and crew were, gratifyingly, only too pleased about the changes, and though Libby asked if anyone would like to be considered for the part of the Queen, no one volunteered. New notes were given, the musical director resignedly accepted all the music changes, and the choreographer sighed.
‘Much as usual, then,’ grinned Libby, as she went to join the cast for the first scene, where the wicked witch Carabosse curses the baby Aurora in revenge for being refused an invitation
to the christening. ‘So far so good.’
‘So, how do you think it went?’ asked Ben two hours later as they walked back down the Manor drive.
‘Very well, considering. Pete’s made it a lot easier. He must have worked his socks off today. Good job he didn’t have to go into town.’
‘Oh, the beauties of broadband,’ said Ben. ‘He can work at home as much as he wants, these days.’
Libby spotted Patti and her friend straight away as they entered the pub.
‘Hi,’ she said, going over to the corner where they sat near the fire. ‘This is Ben, Patti.’
Patti stood to shake hands. ‘We met on Sunday, didn’t we?’
‘Oh, yes, of course you did, sorry.’
‘This is my friend Anne, who lives just round the corner from you in New Barton Lane.’
‘Really? When I was trying to hold of Patti I looked in the directory and couldn’t see any A Douglases.’
‘The phone’s still in my mother’s name.’ Anne Douglas held out a small hand and Libby realised she was in a wheelchair. Her small, elfin features beamed out from beneath a feathered mousy fringe.
‘I’m Ben.’ Ben leaned over to shake hands and she turned her beam on him.
‘Lovely to meet you. I’ve seen you both around of course, and I come to your theatre.’
‘Do you? Oh, lovely. We’ve just been at a panto rehearsal.’ Libby looked round at Patti. ‘Sorry – what would you like to drink? Ben?’
‘No, I’m getting them,’ said Patti. ‘This is to say thank you for propping me up over the last week.’
When Patti went off to the bar with Ben in tow to help carry, Libby sat down next to Anne. ‘I can’t say I’ve seen you around,’ she said.
‘I tend to drive everywhere, so you wouldn’t, unless you saw me in your audience,’ said Anne. ‘Then I’m usually quite conspicuous.’
Libby laughed. ‘I suppose you are, but I’ve still not seen you. Patti says you’re a librarian in Canterbury.’
‘Yes. We met when we were at uni.’
‘Before she became a priest?’
Murder by Magic Page 10
