Murder by Magic

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Fran!’ said Libby.

  ‘I can probably help,’ said Fran, continuing towards the tree.

  A police car followed by an ambulance arrived beside Libby and Ben. A uniformed officer got out.

  ‘Sergeant Maiden’s behind the tree with the casualty,’ said Ben, forestalling questions.

  ‘Casualty?’ repeated the officer. ‘He said –’

  ‘Yes, but he checked again. He’ll need the paramedics.’

  The officer, giving them a suspicious look, went to check for himself, then came back and hailed the ambulance crew. Minutes later, Maiden escorted Fran back to Libby and Ben. She looked at Libby.

  ‘We do know her,’ she said. ‘It’s that nice flower lady we met in church.’

  Libby gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

  ‘Sheila Johnson! Oh my God! It’s her husband –’ she broke off.

  ‘Her husband what?’ said Maiden sharply.

  ‘I met him only on Friday.’ Libby recovered herself. ‘In the village shop. He was so nice.’

  Fran gave her a keen look.

  ‘Is that a positive identification, Mrs Wolfe?’ asked Maiden back to being the formal police officer.

  ‘Yes, unless I have to come and look,’ said Libby.

  Maiden looked from her to Fran. ‘I think I’ll trust you,’ he said. ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘In St Aldeberge, but you’ll have the details, because her husband gave his DNA last week.’ Libby frowned in concentration. ‘Ken – that’s it, Ken Johnson. But she’ll probably have identification on her, won’t she?’

  Maiden and Fran looked at each other.

  ‘No, Lib,’ said Fran. ‘She was naked under the cloak.’

  Sergeant Maiden beckoned to one of the officers now standing guard by the newly strung police tape. ‘Can you see these people to their car?’

  Libby held out her hand to him. ‘Thank you so much for coming out on what must have seemed like a wild goose chase.’

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘I have to say it was worth it, but all the same, I wish Mr Connell had been here.’

  They followed the officer’s yellow jacket down the lane to Fran’s car, where he stood and waited for them to drive off, with Libby jammed into the tiny space behind the two seats.

  ‘Fran,’ she said, as they turned onto the Steeple Martin road, ‘why don’t you stay with us tonight? Save you going back to an empty house. Balzac will be all right until the morning, won’t he?’

  ‘Thank you, Lib.’ Fran met her eyes in the mirror. ‘I didn’t relish going back there on my own, I must admit. If it isn’t any trouble.’

  ‘Course it isn’t.’ Ben smiled at her. ‘I believe the spare bed’s even made up.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ said Libby. ‘In case of a visiting child.’

  Fran parked the car behind Libby’s Renault opposite number 17, and Ben hauled Libby out of the back.

  ‘Nightcap?’ he asked, as he led the way into the sitting room. The fire had died down, but there was enough of a glow for Libby to poke it back to life again.

  ‘Have you got any gin?’ said Fran, subsiding into the armchair.

  ‘We have. And tonic and ice,’ said Libby. Fran gave her a grateful smile.

  ‘So what do we think now?’ asked Libby, when they were all settled with drinks. ‘Thrown everything back into the melting pot, hasn’t it?’

  ‘You nearly let the cat out of the bag about the husband,’ said Fran.

  ‘I know, but it doesn’t make any difference, does it? He’ll be questioned anyway. Do you think she really was a member of this cult, or coven or whatever it is?

  ‘It looks like it, but it could have been a set-up. You realise we still don’t know what’s happened to Rosie?’

  ‘Oh, lord!’ Libby put her head in her hands. ‘I wish I’d bloody gone with her after all, now.’

  ‘Do you think she was there tonight?’ said Ben.

  ‘No idea. It’s possible, but whether we’ll ever find out …’ Libby trailed off.

  ‘Will we be able to convince the police to start a search for her?’ said Libby.

  ‘If it had been Ian, yes, but with Maiden in charge, I don’t know.’ Fran stared into the fire.

  ‘They might make someone else take over,’ said Libby. ‘Someone who won’t know us, or understand the situation.’

  ‘Ian will be back on Tuesday,’ said Ben.

  ‘That may be too late for Rosie,’ said Libby.

  ‘They’re sure to have started a search of the area, by now,’ said Fran. ‘After all, we told the sergeant about the figure we saw going into the wood.’

  ‘Yes, but there was an awfully long gap between us seeing that and the back-up arriving,’ said Libby. ‘And there might have been any number of people disappearing into the night if it was a proper meeting of the witches, or whatever they are.’

  ‘I did a bit more digging today,’ said Fran. ‘Modern witches seem to be either peaceful Wiccans, itself a modern religion, or organisations set up to hold Witches Sabbaths, or “esbats”. Those are gatherings held purely for pleasure, apparently, like the ones we found out about at Tyne Chapel, or these at the Willoughby Oak. It’s fascinating, actually,’ Fran leant forward, warming to the story. ‘All the descriptions of Satanic rituals that date back in history are from people, particularly the Church, trying to blame something other than God for all the disasters, and are by people who’d never taken part in one. The overwhelming evidence is that they were totally imaginary.’

  ‘What about the so called witches, like the Pendle women? They were tried,’ said Libby.

  ‘And just read the evidence!’ said Fran. ‘They were uneducated women whose words could be twisted, if they were allowed to say anything. I’m sure they did concoct herbal remedies, and maybe they went wrong sometimes, but they weren’t witches. The same thing happens in every civilisation; there’s a section of the community that is either accused, or sets itself up as witches, or shamans.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Libby looked doubtful. ‘But whatever the situation is, this lot are holding meetings or Sabbaths or whatever just to indulge in orgies.’

  ‘That’s right, and drugs and hallucinogens have always been used. Most of the current stuff only dates from the early 20th century anyway, with people like Gerald Gardner and Aleister Crowley inventing it.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Crowley, but not Gardner,’ said Ben. ‘It sounds as though you did a lot of research.’

  ‘But it doesn’t help us know what’s happened to Rosie,’ said Libby. ‘If she went to the Sabbath or coven thing tonight, she could have been killed like Sheila Johnson.’

  ‘Who isn’t dead, remember,’ said Fran. ‘I thought she was. But she isn’t. Hopefully she’ll be able to tell the police what happened when she comes round.’

  ‘If she comes round,’ said Libby gloomily.

  ‘And on that note,’ said Ben, standing up, ‘I’m going to bed. Come on Lib. There’s nothing you can do right now.’

  ‘And don’t say, “stop worrying, it won’t do any good.” No one was ever able to stop worrying.’ Libby stood up and picked up empty glasses. ‘Go on up, Fran, you know where everything is.’

  To her surprise, Libby woke in the morning and realised she must have fallen asleep almost as soon as she got into bed. But a big Rosie-shaped shadow rolled over her as she sat up and wondered who she could get hold of to see if there was any news.

  Ben was already in the kitchen making tea for her and coffee for himself.

  ‘Fran’s up, too,’ he said. ‘She’ll be down in a minute.’

  Libby switched on the radio in the kitchen, the television in the sitting room, and the laptop.

  ‘What’s this? Information overload?’ Ben put a mug of tea in front of her.

  ‘Just seeing if there’s any news about last night.’ Libby scrolled through the news sites on the laptop. ‘There doesn’t seem to be, yet, but as soon as someone picks up the fact that Sheila Johnson was ye
t another flower lady at St Aldeberge the fat’ll hit the fire.’

  ‘Morning,’ said Fran, appearing in the doorway. ‘I’ve just thought. Do we know who owns the Dunton Estate?’

  Libby swivelled to face her. ‘No idea. We didn’t bother to look when we were in the Felling Museum, did we?’

  ‘Look now,’ said Fran.

  ‘Coffee or tea?’ said Ben.

  ‘Found it,’ said Libby.

  The Dunton Estate had been broken up not long after the second World War, like so many others. The house, not important enough to be taken over by the National Trust or English Heritage, had been sold and turned into apartments. Only a relatively small part of the grounds had been kept, the rest having been sold off.

  ‘But it doesn’t say who to,’ said Libby.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t. There was a fence round that wood, though, wasn’t there? Someone owns it.’

  ‘Or has appropriated it,’ suggested Ben. ‘If the people running this coven wanted privacy, probably easy enough to do that.’

  ‘The same as they seem to have hung their dubious shenanigans on to the hanging of poor Cunning Mary,’ said Libby.

  ‘Always useful to have a focal point,’ said Fran. ‘Right, as soon as I’ve finished my coffee, I’m off. Thank you both for last night.’

  ‘We didn’t do anything,’ protested Libby.

  ‘You did. You organised Sergeant Maiden and then let me stay here.’

  ‘And thanks to you, they found that poor woman,’ said Ben. ‘Go on, off with you, and if you hear anything before we do, let us know.’

  ‘We will hear something, won’t we?’ said Libby, after Fran had gone. ‘The police will have to get statements.’

  ‘We might have to go into the station,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Libby stared gloomily at the television screen, which was showing her a map of where the sun would be shining later that day. Inevitably, it wouldn’t be on Steeple Martin.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Just before Ben left to go up to the Manor, his mobile rang. He answered, then raised his eyebrows at Libby and mouthed, “Ian”.

  ‘But you’re at a wedding in Scotland,’ he said. Libby perched on the edge of the kitchen table trying to work out what the conversation was about. Eventually, Ben switched off the phone.

  ‘Sergeant Maiden decided Ian ought to know about last night. I can only suppose there’s an official code that made him take notice of that phone call when he hadn’t replied to yours and Fran’s, but after he spoke to Maiden, he listened to your messages. He said someone will be round to take statements later today, and he’ll be in touch tomorrow as soon as he gets back. Meanwhile, you’re to do nothing, and they’ve put out an alert for Rosie.’

  ‘Why did he call you instead of me?’ Libby looked affronted.

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ said Ben, his lips twitching. ‘And now I must be off. Call me when the fuzz arrive.’

  ‘I shan’t wait in for them,’ said Libby. ‘I shall go shopping. And probably to see Pete and Harry to tell them about last night. Harry will be pleased he was proved right.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Ben, opening the front door. ‘They’re here already.’

  Libby wondered if her neighbours were getting used to seeing police vehicles parked outside. It seemed to happen with alarming frequency.

  The two uniformed officers asked some very basic questions, wrote down all the answers and asked Libby and Ben to sign each page. They were gone in fifteen minutes.

  ‘I think,’ said Libby, closing the door behind them, ‘that was an exercise in box ticking.’

  ‘To keep to the rules while something else is going on in the background,’ agreed Ben. ‘Well, at least you can go off on your news round now. Don’t stay in Harry’s for too long if you happen to turn up there at lunchtime.’

  Before Libby set off to do her shopping, she called Fran to see if she’d arrived home. There was no answer, so she assumed not.

  The last day of November had suddenly turned bright. Ali and Ahmed in the eight-til-late both looked more cheerful, as did Nella in the farm shop. Peter didn’t look any different.

  ‘You’re early,’ he said disapprovingly.

  ‘I thought you’d want to know what happened last night. I’ll go to the caff and tell Harry instead.’

  Peter looked resigned and held the door wide. ‘No need. He hasn’t left yet.’

  Libby recounted the events of the previous night and finished up with the morning’s visit from the police and Ian’s phone call.

  ‘See?’ said Harry. ‘I said Rosie would get you into trouble.’

  ‘It wasn’t Rosie, though. It was Fran thinking someone was dead.’

  ‘And you both thought it was Rosie, so I rest my case.’

  ‘That’s rather unfeeling,’ said Peter. ‘Try for a little sympathy, pet.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Harry shrugged himself into his chef’s whites. ‘So what are you going to do now, petal?’

  ‘Nothing, as Ian has instructed. I don’t know what I could do, to tell you the truth. Just hope they find Rosie.’

  ‘What’s happening about the fire? When will they let you start the clear-up?’ asked Peter.

  ‘No idea. I’ll ask Ian when he calls tomorrow. I think I’m going to have to get in a digger and a skip.’

  ‘I’m off, then,’ said Harry. ‘If you fancy it you can pop in for soup at lunchtime. I’m trying a new recipe.’

  ‘Is that both of us?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Just guinea-pigs, now, are we?’ said Peter.

  ‘You get free soup, what are you complaining about?’ Harry grinned and left.

  ‘One o’clock, then?’ said Peter to Libby, holding the door for her.

  ‘I’ll tell Ben. He might want free soup, too.’

  And now there was nothing to do. Libby contemplated visiting Flo Carpenter and Lenny, or Hetty up at the Manor, decided she was too restless to talk to any of them and made her way slowly home, where, with a great feeling of martyrdom, she started work on a new painting of Nethergate in winter for Guy’s shop. When she succeeded in finishing a painting, Guy would have postcards and prints made, and would provide a nice little income that at least kept Sidney in cat food. Sometimes, in the summer, she painted several small pictures which sold almost immediately they appeared in the shop, bought by tourists who loved the old world feeling of the town and wanted a souvenir.

  On being invited to partake of free soup at lunchtime, Ben declined, being deep in some sort of estate business, and having promised to have lunch with Hetty.

  ‘So it’s just us,’ said Libby at one o’clock, as she joined Peter at the big pine table in the window where the daily papers were, as usual, spread out.

  ‘So we can talk panto instead of murders and witchcraft, can we?’ Peter laughed at her expression. ‘Come on, you’re worrying about Rosie, aren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t you dare say “stop worrying”,’ said Libby.

  ‘I know, I know, but you could at least take your mind off it.’

  ‘The soup’ll do that,’ said Harry, arriving with two steaming bowls. ‘Do you want a glass of something with it?’

  ‘I’d better not,’ said Libby. ‘I might have to drive somewhere later.’

  ‘Oh? Where?’ Peter and Harry stared at her suspiciously.

  ‘I don’t know. Don’t look at me like that. I might go down and see how Fran is after last night.’

  Peter and Harry heaved simultaneous sighs.

  ‘Just eat your soup,’ said Harry.

  Peter determinedly talked panto at her as they ate their soup, which was delicious, and Libby gradually relaxed.

  ‘Now,’ he said after Harry had removed their bowls and replaced them with coffee cups. ‘Just remember that you’ve got a rehearsal tonight. Don’t go haring off on another wild goose chase.’

  ‘It wasn’t a wild goose chase last night,’ said Libby indignantly. ‘We might have saved that poor woman
’s life.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘We don’t know that we did, though. Perhaps I ought to pop down to St Aldeberge and find out what’s been going on.’

  ‘If there’s anything you need to know, Lib, surely your new friend Patti will tell you,’ said Peter. ‘Drink your coffee.’

  Libby waited until she arrived home before calling Patti. She had to leave a message on the answerphone, but Patti answered her mobile on the first ring.

  ‘Oh, Libby,’ she said, ‘I’ve been meaning to call you all day, ever since we heard about Sheila, but things have been going mad round here.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Libby. ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Not really, unless you can calm Alice down. We had to get Bob home from work, and Tracey’s none too pleased because Alice won’t be able to pick the boy up.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I’d be much use there,’ said Libby. ‘Alice seems to blame everything that’s happened since Joan Bidwell’s death on me, despite her being the one to ask me in. What exactly is the problem?’

  ‘She’s certain now that she’s going to be next. The fact that a reporter rang up and said “Is it true another of your flower ladies has been killed”. She was with me and heard it, and that set her off. Complete hysterics.’

  ‘But Sheila Johnson was alive when we found her,’ said Libby, a cold feeling settling in her stomach.

  ‘Yes, she still is, apparently,’ said Patti, ‘but still unconscious. I don’t really know much, except that the police have taken Ken to the station.’

  ‘Under arrest, or simply to – er – help with their enquiries?’

  ‘I don’t know that, either. The police told me last night, as they didn’t have any identification. Well, they did,’ she corrected herself, ‘because you told them who she was, but I gave them Ken’s address and phone number. Alice came round here this morning to tell me Ken had gone off in a police car and to find out what had happened, then the reporter rang, and – whoosh! Up like a rocket. And somehow, the news has spread right round the village and I’ve had people on the doorstep, ringing me – God knows what. Well, he probably does.’ Patti managed a weak laugh.