Murder by Magic

by Lesley Cookman

‘Get a towel, petal,’ he said, ‘then come back and drink this. The officers will want to speak to you.’

  ‘Where’s Sidney?’ whispered Libby, who had just discovered that her legs wouldn’t allow her to go and get a towel. Hal got up and went instead.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Peter, putting a mug in front of her. ‘But it wasn’t as if the house was on fire with him trapped inside it, was it? He’ll have shot off out of it.’

  ‘Here,’ said Harry returning with towels, a dressing gown and a protesting cat. ‘Under your bed. Said he didn’t want to come out and didn’t much like fires unless they were in your fireplace.’

  Libby grabbed Sidney with shaking hands and found that she might be going to cry.

  ‘Shock,’ said Harry kindly, patting her on the shoulder. ‘Now, drink that tea and get that dressing gown on.’

  Without shame, through spending time in many mixed-gender dressing rooms, Libby stripped off her jumper and trousers and wrapped the dressing gown round her, while Harry swathed himself in her best blue towels. They all sat round the kitchen table watching through the conservatory as the fire was brought under control and the garden reduced to a soggy mess.

  ‘They saved the cherry tree,’ said Libby, as she watched beige-suited men picking through the wet undergrowth.

  There was a knock on the open front door.

  ‘In here,’ called Peter.

  The fire officer was apologetic about the mess in her garden.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you I might not have had a garden, or a house, come to that,’ said Libby, feeling slightly less shaky.

  ‘I gather you were out tonight?’ said the officer.

  ‘Yes,’ they all three said together.

  After eliciting the information that there was nothing kept at the bottom of the garden that could have caused a fire, the officer left, saying that a police officer would shortly be calling.

  ‘Arson, then?’ said Harry.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Peter. They both looked at Libby.

  ‘I didn’t do it!’

  ‘No, but it does look a bit sus, doesn’t it?’ Harry poked a finger at her. ‘Here’s you, up to the neck in a murder investigation and all of a sudden someone tries to make a bonfire out of you.’

  ‘But actually, they didn’t,’ said Libby reasonably. ‘They set the back hedge alight. And because it’s November and wet, the woods didn’t go up, and it didn’t spread as quickly as it might have. There was every chance that it would be put out before too much damage was done.’

  ‘She’s right, you know,’ said Peter. ‘So, what? A warning, you think?’

  ‘Bloody right,’ said Harry. ‘Good job we came back with you.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Libby grabbed both their hands. ‘What would I do without you two? Thank you so much.’

  ‘We didn’t actually do much except act as moral support,’ said Peter, patting her hand with his free one. ‘However, now we’ve had the tea for the shock, I suggest you dig out your strongest spirits to revive us before the Spanish Inquisition.’

  ‘Which is just about to start,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Did you know the front door was open?’ And Ian strolled into the kitchen.

  Libby gaped, while Peter, with a wry smile, stood up and went to fetch the whisky.

  ‘They called me when the report came in,’ said Ian, sitting on the remaining chair. ‘The address rang a bell, apparently.’ He leant forward to look critically at Libby. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine now. I was a bit shaky but … Ian, is this arson?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Ian, shaking his head as Peter waved the whisky bottle at him. ‘So someone has decided you’ve been making too much noise over at St Aldeberge. Which means that, however accidental, somehow you’ve hit on part of the truth.’

  Libby looked at Peter and Harry, then back at Ian.

  ‘Which part?’ she said, and wondered why they all laughed.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing since we last spoke,’ said Ian.

  ‘I’d rather know what you’ve been doing.’

  Ian shook his head. ‘Just give me a recap on your more outrageous exploits in the past few days and I’ll see if I can satisfy your curiosity.’

  ‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ said Libby, and proceeded to give him a précis of the last couple of days, concluding with the fact that she was still worried about Rosie and about her Rupert Bear theory.

  ‘As far as Rosie’s concerned, I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. I think she did go off to do some sleuthing on her own, but I’m pretty sure she’s all right. Yes,’ he held up his hand, ‘I know texts can be sent from anyone, but she’s actually spoken to Andrew today, and apart from sounding rather mysterious, seems to be quite happy. Excited, even.’

  ‘So what about my smugglers?’

  Ian smiled. ‘We are, in fact, pretty convinced there is a smuggling element concerned with all this and we’re involved in at least two undercover operations, so I’m certainly not going to tell you anything about them!’

  ‘And the second victim being involved with whatever was going on?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I can’t say anything about that, either, I’m afraid,’ said Ian, ‘but what I will say, Libby, is that you must, repeat must, stop investigating. The police and customs operations are undercover so far, but you have been extremely visible, so whoever our murderer is, you’re the one he – or they – see as a threat. So keep out of sight.’

  ‘But what about the St Aldeberge Nativity?’

  ‘I’m sure now you’ve set it up they could manage on their own,’ said Ian. ‘Now, we shall want statements from all of you, but I’ll send someone round tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ll be at the Manor for lunch,’ said Peter, ‘at least Libby and I will. Harry will be at the restaurant.’

  ‘Where’s Ben?’ asked Ian. Libby told him. Ian nodded. ‘He’s not going to be too pleased, is he?’

  Libby’s stomach sank. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s not.’

  After Ian left, Peter topped up the whisky in their glasses.

  ‘Do you want to come back and stay with us tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. Whoever it is isn’t likely to come back is he?’ Libby looked over her shoulder towards the garden, where two fire fighters were still picking through the mess.

  ‘Anyway, she wouldn’t leave the walking stomach,’ said Harry, peering under the table where Sidney was sulking.

  ‘He’d be all right overnight, but I’ll stay here anyway, thanks, Pete.’ Libby smiled gratefully. ‘You ought to be going home now. It’s getting very late.’

  With Harry and Peter gone, Libby called out to the remaining firemen that she was going to bed if it was all right with them and locked all the doors and windows. But of course, when she finally got into bed, allowing a surprised Sidney to accompany her, she couldn’t sleep.

  The thought she couldn’t shake off was that somebody had been watching her closely over the last three weeks. Which meant someone who knew right from the start that Patti had asked her in to investigate Joan Bidwell’s death. Which pointed inexorably at Alice and Bob, but it couldn’t be Alice. She was the one who had suggested Patti call her in. Bob? Who had shied away from the DNA test? It was possible, she supposed, and Bob would have been able to find her address, which presumably Alice had kept, as she had kept the phone number. But there didn’t seem to be any reason for him to kill Joan Bidwell. He couldn’t be involved in anything more complicated than a darts match, he was too indolent.

  So who else? Neither Fran nor Libby had met anyone else in the village until Libby and Ben had gone to church, and then Libby’s meeting with the Nativity committee. By that time both murders had been committed and everyone knew they were under investigation. There had also been the nasty business of the cockerel, or whatever it was, on Patti’s doorstep.

  So perhaps it was after this that the murderer began to get suspicious of Libby. After the visi
t to the Willoughby Oak, perhaps? That would have been a give away. Or maybe the first visit to the shop and Dora Walters. Dora was a gossip, and although she still hadn’t confirmed who Marion Longfellow’s serious lover was, it was a safe bet that he would know about Libby. But who was he? And was he Bruno51 from the dating site? And was he even the murderer?

  At this point Libby found herself floating in a boat with Fran and Patti over a flat, grassy field. Patti was saying that of course this was how the murderer got away and Fran was complaining about her most recent grandchild climbing through holes … and she woke up with a start.

  Without her noticing the night had passed and she’d slept. But the dream stayed vividly in her mind, and then it made sense.

  ‘You see,’ she said to Fran excitedly on the phone while she waited for the kettle to boil, ‘I remembered the Rupert Bear story was about a coastguard seeing bad men around the cliff top and they suddenly vanished. And Rupert and his friends find a tunnel down to the foot of the cliff hidden in a clump of bracken. And that’s what it must be. I already nearly had it, but the dream clarified it. And I expect it comes out somewhere near the Willoughby Oak. And after the fire –’

  ‘Fire? What fire?’

  ‘Oh.’ To her surprise, Libby realised she hadn’t told Fran about the fire first. She glanced out of the window to the sorry, soggy mess that was her garden, the cherry tree standing skeletal in the middle. ‘Well, I had a fire last night.’

  Putting boiling water into the teapot, she listened to Fran’s horrified outpourings.

  ‘It’s all right, Fran, it was only the back hedge and part of the dividing fence. The garden’s ruined, but nothing else was harmed except for a crack in the conservatory. Ian’s concerned, though, that someone might be trying to give me a warning. He’s warned me not to do any more investigating.’

  ‘And he is completely right,’ said Fran. ‘And that goes for both of us. Does Ben know yet? He was away, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No, not yet. I’m not looking forward to telling him. But what do you think about my tunnel theory?’

  ‘Fine as far as it goes, but listen, Lib, you aren’t going to do anything to put it to the test, do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, I hear you,’ sighed Libby. ‘I was lying awake last night after Hal and Pete left realising that someone has been watching me – us, probably. It’s a bit creepy.’

  ‘I’ve hardly been involved,’ said Fran, ‘so I don’t suppose anyone’s been watching me.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to work out who it could be.’ Libby lodged the phone between shoulder and ear and went to fetch milk. ‘It’s obviously somebody in the village. I wish Rosie would get in touch.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a non-sequitur,’ said Fran, surprise in her voice.

  ‘Not really. I think she was on the trail of that Bruno51, who could also be the murderer, and I’m now even more worried for her safety, despite what Ian says.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Fran. ‘I think she’s OK. For what it’s worth.’

  ‘Really?’ said Libby, brightening. ‘Like, properly all right?’

  ‘I haven’t any evil premonitions, and my brain tells me she’s all right,’ said Fran. ‘Can’t help any more than that. Listen, if you would feel better, you can always come and stay here. The bed’s still made up from last time.’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘Hal and Pete offered to put me up, too, but Ben will be home today, so I shall be protected.’

  ‘If nagged,’ said Fran.

  Libby giggled. ‘Indeed.’

  In fact, Ben arrived within ten minutes, having been called, much to Libby’s annoyance, by Ian, who had his mobile number. After a flurry of reassurances and remonstrances, Libby poured more tea and they sat down at the table.

  ‘Ian was worried about you,’ said Ben.

  ‘I was fine,’ said Libby. ‘He didn’t think anyone would come back, did he?’

  ‘No, he didn’t want you feeling insecure on your own.’

  ‘Hal and Pete and Fran have all said I can go there, but you’re home now, so we’ll be fine, and as I’ve been effectively warned off any more investigating, there will be no need to come after me again, will there? As I said to the others last night, I don’t think it was meant to do much harm. If it had, they would have fired the house.’ She shuddered.

  ‘And this will mean you don’t do any more poking your nose in.’ Ben looked at her sternly.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘But I do so want to know how it all turns out.’

  ‘Of course you’ll know. Patti will tell you, and I’ve no doubt Ian will come and do his Poirot-style round-up after it’s all over. And I don’t expect Ian will ban you from attending the Nativity service if you want to go.’

  ‘If it’s cleared up I’ll go,’ said Libby, ‘but if not and the murderer’s still at large, I shan’t.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to ring Hetty to tell her you’ll be at lunch, then I’m going to have a shower.’

  Ian sent the fresh-faced Sergeant Maiden to the Manor to take statements from Peter and Libby, and had thoughtfully not bothered with Harry, who was run off his feet with Sunday lunches in The Pink Geranium.

  Sitting at the kitchen table with a large mug of coffee and looking wistfully at the equally large glasses of red wine in front of Ben, Peter and Libby, Sergeant Maiden snapped his notebook shut.

  ‘That all seems clear,’ he said. ‘Would you be able to come into the station to sign these sometime?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Peter. ‘We’ll come tomorrow – and we could bring Harry, too.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Maiden took a sip of coffee. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Mrs Sarjeant, you do manage to get yourself mixed up in some nasty stuff.’

  ‘I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘I’ll try and do better.’

  Sergeant Maiden grinned. ‘I wouldn’t worry. You and Mrs Castle have been really helpful over the past few years.’

  ‘More help than hindrance?’ asked Ben. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘It’s Mrs Wolfe, now, Sergeant,’ said Libby. ‘Although I still think of her as Fran Castle, too.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can give our little ferreter here any news on how the investigation’s going, can you?’ said Peter.

  ‘Sorry, sir, no.’ Maiden grinned. ‘I’m sure you’ll hear all about it soon enough. Getting close now.’

  ‘That wasn’t fair!’ exploded Libby after Ben had ushered the Sergeant out. ‘Taunting us like that.’

  ‘Too nosy fer yer own good,’ said Hetty, setting dishes of vegetables on the table. ‘Lucky you wasn’t burnt to death.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, Hetty.’ Libby wriggled uncomfortably. ‘I’m trying not to think about it.’

  Hetty shrugged. ‘No point in that.’

  After lunch, when Hetty went to put her feet up in her little sitting room, Libby and Ben put the kitchen to rights, and Peter invited them back to his house, as Harry would be finished at the restaurant.

  ‘So did the fuzz put you in the picture?’ he asked, almost as soon as he walked in the front door.

  ‘No such luck,’ said Libby.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said, giving Peter’s bottom a friendly squeeze as he passed him on the way to the kitchen, ‘that the fire investigators will have been looking for an accelerant. Have they been back?’

  ‘They were there when we left for the Manor,’ said Ben.

  ‘Would it have needed an accelerant?’ asked Libby. ‘It’s a hedge. It would burn.’

  ‘Not quickly enough, said Ben. ‘It’s been damp for weeks, without an accelerant it could easily have fizzled and gone out. Think how much difficulty people have lighting bonfires on Guy Fawkes’ night.’

  ‘Anyway, why did you ask?’ said Libby.

  ‘Won’t they be able to trace it back to a particular person?’ said Harry, putting his head round the kitchen door.

  ‘Doubt it,’ said Ben. ‘It’ll probably be petrol, and anyone could get hold of that.’

/>   ‘Unless it’s red diesel,’ said Peter. ‘And then you might be under suspicion.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  ‘What?’ gasped Libby.

  ‘Bad taste, Pete,’ said Ben.

  ‘Sorry, cousin,’ said Peter, with a grin. ‘You know about red diesel, Libby?’

  ‘Er – vaguely.’ Libby looked from one to another. ‘It’s illegal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Only for use in ordinary road vehicles. It’s legal for agricultural vehicles,’ said Peter, ‘and Ben has it up on the estate.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I think that was in bad taste, too, Peter Parker.’

  ‘Tea?’ said Harry, smiling seraphically and pouring oil on troubled waters.

  ‘The other thing I was thinking,’ he went on, coming to perch on the arm of Peter’s chair while the kettle boiled, ‘was the witchcraft angle. They used to burn witches, didn’t they?’

  ‘So I’m a witch, now, am I?’ said Libby. ‘You’re doing well this afternoon, Harry!’

  ‘Calm down, petal,’ said Peter. ‘You know what he means. Is it a deliberate attempt to hook into that aspect of your murders?’

  Libby shifted uncomfortably. ‘Don’t call them my murders. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with me, now. I’ve been warned off.’

  ‘And that’s presumably what the murderer – or the arsonist – wants,’ said Harry.

  ‘I don’t think the witchcraft angle has proved to be anything to with it, except obfuscation,’ said Ben.

  ‘Ob what?’ said Harry.

  ‘Muddy the waters,’ explained Libby. ‘Not a word in common use.’

  ‘There, I’ve learnt something,’ said Harry, getting up and going to the kitchen.

  ‘So will you really stay out of it now?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I don’t have a choice,’ said Libby. ‘And to be honest, I don’t see what else I could do.’

  ‘Much as I would prefer you not to have anything more to with it, I have a feeling that this won’t be the last we hear,’ said Ben.

  Harry brought in his beautiful decoupage tray with the usual collection of chipped mugs.

  ‘Why don’t you buy some new ones?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I like these,’ said Harry. ‘They make me feel comfortable.’