Murder by Magic

by Lesley Cookman

  Inside the cottage and she could see his pleasant, open face now dark with anger and what? Confusion? Her own cleared as she realised he didn’t actually know what to do. If he let go of her she could run. He had to find something to silence her without letting go of her. She followed his frantic eyes in their search of the room. And there, just out of reach, was a stone Buddha. Their eyes alighted on it simultaneously, and, as Libby twisted to get at it first, the blue lights appeared, flashing through the uncurtained window.

  Gavin Brice fought hard. He tried biting, slapping, pushing, punching, anything without letting go of Libby’s left arm, until a quiet voice said behind him: ‘Enough, now, Mr Brice. I think you’d better come with us.’

  Libby slumped to the floor and fell backwards onto a table leg. There was a flurry of activity above her, a good deal of swearing and then a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Can’t keep out of trouble, can you Lib?’

  She shook her head and dissolved into tears on Ian’s shoulder.

  Peter cancelled the Wednesday night rehearsal. Patti was coming over to see Anne, and Harry was able leave Donna in charge after nine o’clock, so they were all able to gather to hear Libby’s story. Number 17 being too small to accommodate so many people, Peter suggested the theatre bar, which had the advantage of easy access for Anne’s wheelchair and on-tap alcohol.

  ‘Tell us all, then, petal,’ said Harry, once they were settled. Fran sat protectively on one side of Libby and Ben on the other. She smiled at them both before beginning.

  ‘Well, both Fran and I said we were the stupid heroines going into the cellar last night –’

  ‘Eh?’ said Guy.

  ‘You know, in the films where the woman hears a noise in the night and goes off to investigate where no right-minded individual would go,’ his wife told him. He nodded.

  ‘But I really intended to go home after I sent Ian a text. It was just that I saw this light, and I was worried that there was going to be another fire. So I went to investigate, and tried to back out, only he heard me.’

  ‘Garbled, but instructive,’ said Peter. ‘Who heard you?’

  ‘Gavin Brice,’ said Patti, in a voice of doom. ‘My churchwarden. I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘It was so obvious, really,’ said Libby. ‘I’m sure anyone else would have jumped to it straight away. It had to be Gavin who injected poor Mrs Bidwell with the succo – er – succ –’

  ‘Succinylcholine,’ said Ben. ‘I looked it up.’

  ‘Call it sux, dear. That’s what the doctors say,’ said Harry.

  ‘OK, sux. He went with the old priest to give her communion, he was the nearest to her. And the old priest was very unsteady on his feet and couldn’t see very well. And of course it was Gavin moving the wheelchair out of the church and into his boot, because he was always allowed to park close to the church when he brought Mrs Bidwell to church. He was also used to the wheelchair and how it folded.’

  ‘But why did he kill her?’ asked Patti. ‘And why in the church, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘It was exactly as I thought,’ said Libby, ‘he was involved in both drug and people smuggling. Border Protection boarded that boat just off shore last night.’

  ‘What boat?’ asked several voices. Libby explained.

  ‘Anyway, the boats would run into the inlet and offload whatever it was.’

  ‘And how did they get from the bottom of the inlet up to the top?’ asked Fran.

  Libby gave a smug smile. ‘My Rupert Bear theory was right. There is a tunnel which goes up to the field behind Marion Longfellow’s cottage from a cleft in the rock. Gavin would go and collect the illegal immigrants or the drugs or both in his minibus – remember you told me he took people into Felling in his minibus? – and drop them near the marshes. Then they would be picked up by someone else after they’d made their way across. Gavin would hand over any drugs he had to a contact somewhere – don’t know where. And Joan Bidwell saw him. Or at least, he thought she did.

  ‘Ian said Gavin was raging against her being a snooping old –’ she looked round, ‘Well, a snooping old person who watched him at night from her window.’ Libby paused for a sip of wine.

  ‘We think he got hold of the sux through his drugs contacts,’ she continued. ‘That is, Ian does. They believe it was being used to get rid of any illegals who were no use to them any more, or were causing trouble.’ She shivered. ‘Then, of course, because Marion Longfellow was a member of his witches’ coven, she “had a word” with him. As she’d mentioned to Sheila. Who, incidentally, didn’t know Gavin was the head witch, or whatever he was. Marion had recruited her and her husband because she fancied Ken. And Gavin didn’t like that, because he’d been having an affair with Marion and Ken rather took his place. Oh –’ she turned to Patti and Fran. ‘And Ken was the man Dora was talking about, and the man George at The Red Lion saw with Marion.’

  ‘So she said what to Gavin? She’d seen him murder Mrs Bidwell?’ asked Anne.

  ‘We don’t really know, but she knew enough about him to guess it was him, and she was going to try a spot of blackmail,’ said Libby. ‘So she had to go. And believe it or not, Sheila Johnson was an accident. An overdose of whatever they were taking.’

  ‘But why did he make Marion’s death look like the result of a Black Magic ritual? And you haven’t answered the question of why he killed Joan Bidwell in my church. It must have been very risky – anyone could have seen him putting the wheelchair in his car and that would have given the game away, surely,’ said Patti.

  ‘Well, mostly because she told him earlier that morning that she wanted to talk to him after the service. He decided he couldn’t risk killing her on the way to church, so it had to be in church. I suppose he thought old Mr Roberts wouldn’t notice. He was sure she was going to tell the police about the smuggling.’ Libby sighed. ‘And do you know, I bet she wasn’t. I bet she couldn’t even see what was going on in that inlet. But also, Patti, he was motivated by a very deep dislike of you, personally. He hid it very well, but as well as a general hatred of women vicars he was worried that, with your background and your interest in alternative religions, you’d find out about his coven. He was trying to drive you out. The emails and letters to you and the police, and laying out Marion’s body were all part of an attempt to turn opinion in the village further against you and to make you decide to leave. I don’t think he ever thought the police would seriously think you were involved in the deaths.’

  ‘‘And Marion was going to blackmail him about it,’ said Patti. ‘Lovely congregation I had. And what about your friend and the dating website?’

  ‘I knew she was a pest from the start,’ said Harry.

  ‘It turns out that Gavin was Bruno51, and used the website to lure unsuspecting ladies of a certain age into the coven, and he and Marion used it to talk about meetings. And it’s how he kept in touch with the Astarte members. Gavin was paranoid about using his email accounts. The police found he had several.’

  ‘So Rosie was actually useful for that,’ said Fran.

  ‘Except that it very nearly got her house burnt down and her into trouble,’ said Peter.

  ‘Very nearly got mine burnt down, too,’ said Libby, ‘And OK, before you all say I get myself into these messes, I know. All right?’

  ‘You were asked in,’ said Patti, ‘and I’m sure the police wouldn’t have cleared it up without you.’

  ‘I’m sure they would,’ said Fran. ‘They usually get there as quickly as we do.’ She turned to Libby. ‘And why the fires?’

  ‘Ian thinks he was panicking,’ said Ben. ‘Either warning Libby and Rosie not to say anything or actually to – harm them.’

  ‘But we don’t know the full story by any means,’ said Libby. ‘I had to make a statement last night, obviously, but a fuller one this morning, so Ian came with Sergeant Maiden. They’d both been up for a good part of the night, and Gavin, after not saying a word, decided to come clean and try and blame his pay
masters in the drugs racket. Who, of course, are much higher up the chain than he is. He hasn’t got a clue who they are.’

  ‘Ian says they stop one hole and the rats immediately find another,’ said Ben. ‘Gavin’s little racket’s been stopped, but the organisations are so huge they’ll just find another mug. There are always criminals who are willing to take the risk.’

  ‘I still don’t know one thing,’ said Fran. ‘Gavin was supposed to be “well-alibied” for Sunday night. How come?’

  ‘He said he was at home with his son Joe. Turned out Joe was off in Canterbury with his girlfriend. Gavin never gave it a thought that the police would check up on him.’

  ‘So that’s that,’ said Harry, standing up and going to the bar. ‘Another successful case for Sarjeant and Castle.’

  ‘Wolfe,’ came the chorus.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Harry with a wink at Fran. ‘Now, who’d like champagne?’

  ‘Champagne?’

  ‘Courtesy of your friendly local vicar,’ said Harry.

  They all turned and looked at Patti, who turned a fiery red. Anne took her hand.

  ‘Very grateful,’ she mumbled. ‘For the support and the friendship. Thanks.’

  Then they were crowding round her, patting her on the back and shaking her hand. Libby stepped back and found herself next to Anne.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said, her eyes on the back of Patti’s head. ‘She’s back to normal.’

  ‘Not sure I did much really,’ said Libby, feeling awkward. ‘And I did put myself in a couple of stupid situations.’

  ‘Maybe, but now you’ve got something to be really proud of,’ said Anne.

  ‘I have?’

  Patti turned and caught Anne’s eye. They both grinned at Libby.

  ‘The Nativity Pageant!’ they said together.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Libby.

  First Chapter of Murder at the Monastery

  ‘How’s the self-catering business going?’ The Reverend Patti Pearson kicked her way through last autumn’s leaves, that still lay at the side of the path.

  Libby Sarjeant frowned. ‘Not brilliantly. Steeple Farm’s got a six month let at the moment, but the Hoppers’ Huts don’t seem to have taken. I think they’re too small for self-catering.’

  ‘And still no thoughts of any more writing or painting weekends at the Manor?’

  Libby shuddered. ‘No. Put us right off, that last one did.’

  ‘So you haven’t got much on at the moment?’

  Libby turned and looked at her friend suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  Patti laughed. ‘I was just hoping to save you from being bored.’

  ‘You’re not going to rope me into another church thing, are you?’ Libby had helped devise a Nativity Pageant for Patti’s church, St Aldeberge’s, the previous December.

  ‘Not exactly.’ Patti stopped by a stile and leant her elbows on the top. ‘What a lovely view.’

  Libby surveyed the wooded valley before her. ‘Yes, it is. I forget how pretty our part of the world is, sometimes.’

  ‘I wish Anne could get up here.’ Anne Douglas, who lived in Steeple Martin, Libby’s home village, was confined to a wheelchair.

  ‘Aren’t there any country walks suitable for her chair?’ said Libby.

  ‘A few, but they’re all rather sanitised and landscaped.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they would be.’ Libby turned to face Patti. ‘Come on, then, what did you want me to do?’

  ‘It isn’t exactly important,’ said Patti. ‘It’s out of interest, really. Have you heard of the Tredegar Relic?’

  ‘No. Is it Cornish?’

  ‘The name’s Welsh,’ said Patti, ‘because that’s where Saint Eldreda came from. Have you heard of her?’

  ‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘You talk in riddles, woman. Let’s get back to the car and head for a pub.’

  It was a Wednesday afternoon, Patti’s regular day off, when she joined Anne for dinner and stayed overnight. However, Anne, working for a library in Canterbury, didn’t get home from work until later, so Patti had taken to coming and spending time with Libby first, after finishing her stint in the St Aldeberge community shop.

  ‘St Eldreda,’ Patti continued in the car, ‘was an obscure saint who came from Mercia on what is now the Welsh borders. As far as anybody can tell. I don’t suppose she was actually anywhere near Tredegar, but that’s what it’s become known as.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘The relic. St Eldreda married a nobleman who brought her to Kent and after he was killed, Egbert, who was King of Kent, gave her some land and she set up a house of prayer. He did the same for Domneva of Minster.’

  ‘Who?’

  Patti sighed. ‘Sorry, I’ll keep it simple. Well, St Eldreda’s monastery became quite famous after her death because miracle cures began occurring after pilgrims had visited her tomb. But then the first chapel was destroyed by fire, it being made of wood, we assume. So St Eldreda’s relics were removed for safe keeping.’

  ‘Ewww! Do you mean her skeleton?’

  ‘Yes. Now this bit is where things get complicated. It appears her family wished her bones returned to Mercia, but somehow a compromise was reached and they were only given a finger. Which is now known as the Tredegar Relic.’

  ‘Ah, got it. So what’s the mystery?’

  Patti shot her a quick look. ‘Who said it was a mystery?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have mentioned it to me if it wasn’t.’ Libby beamed smugly and turned her gaze to the passenger window. ‘Look there’s a pub. Shall we stop?’

  ‘Libby, I can’t have a drink at four thirty in the afternoon! Let’s go back and you can make me a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh, all right. But it looked a nice pub,’ said Libby wistfully.

  ‘You can get Ben to bring you here one evening. If you’re not rehearsing anything, of course.’

  ‘You know we’re not at the moment,’ said Libby. ‘Go on then, about these bones.’

  ‘The Tredegar Relic was housed in an abbey church in Mercia, but when dear old Henry tore everything down, it appears the Relic was lost.’

  ‘Dissolute Henry’s Dissolution. What about the remaining relics in Kent?’

  ‘They’re still here. Somehow, the Augustines, who were good at that sort of thing, got them moved to Canterbury Cathedral, and they were left intact. When, centuries later, the nuns returned to their site, which of course was practically ruined, they, or their mother house, managed to raise enough funds to build a small house. It’s now St Eldreda’s Abbey, and,’ said Patti, pulling into the side of the road, ‘it’s over there.’

  First, all Libby could see were rather typical stone ruins. Then she made out other buildings, including what looked like a modern church.

  ‘They incorporated a farmhouse that had been built on the land by a previous owner, and subsequently they’ve built a marvellous new chapel.’

  ‘So that’s why you wanted to come out here today. To show me this. But I still don’t know what the mystery is. And anyway, you’re an Anglican, not a Catholic.’

  ‘They are now Anglican Benedictines,’ said Patti, ‘and one of them is an old friend, Sister Catherine. And the mystery is that the Tredegar Relic has turned up.’

  ‘Turned up? How?’

  ‘In an auction catalogue. Bold as brass, apparently. And the girls want to find out what’s going on. They’ve applied to the auction house who can’t, or won’t, tell them anything about the supposed seller.

  ‘The girls?’

  ‘The nuns,’ giggled Patti. ‘They’re a jolly bunch.’

  ‘I always thought,’ said Libby, ‘that nuns would be totally against female priests.’

  ‘Well, Catherine isn’t. Would you like to meet her?’

  ‘Now?’ Libby looked nervous.

  ‘Actually no, not now. They have visiting hours which stop at four. We could make an appointment.’

  ‘We’ll see. Come on, I want that tea now. And you can te
ll me what delights you have in store for me.’

  ‘The nuns want to find out more about the seller of this supposed relic,’ said Patti, settled in front of Libby’s fireplace later.

  ‘I expect they would,’ said Libby, busying herself with wood and firelighters. ‘Still cold for April, isn’t it?’

  ‘Look, Libby, are you interested or not? It doesn’t matter if you aren’t.’

  Libby sat back on her heels and grinned up at her friend. ‘Of course I’m interested. You – and they – want me to find out who the seller is and what the provenance is for this relic. I haven’t got a clue how I’ll go about it, but it sounds just what I need at the moment.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, Patti. You were right. I’m bored.’ She got up and made for the kitchen. ‘Just going to make the tea.’

  She came back with two mugs to find Sidney the silver tabby happily purring on Patti’s lap.

  ‘He is a tart, that cat,’ she said, handing over one of the mugs. ‘Come on, then, how do I start with this business? I know next to nothing about convents, nuns, relics or saints. Or auctions, come to that. And how come just a bone is in an auction?’

  ‘It’s in what’s called a reliquary that was made for it when it went back to Mercia. It’s a gold and jewelled box, very rare. They were usually pieces of jewellery, pendants and so on, that could be worn. They are also far more common, if that’s the word, in the Eastern forms of Christianity, and more even than that in the Eastern religions. Anyway, presumably because it was so precious, someone hid it away very carefully when it went back to Mercia and even the Cromwells didn’t manage to get hold of it.’

  ‘And now it’s appeared?’

  ‘Someone browsing the online site of a very respectable auction house spotted it and looked it up. The whole story was there, but not how it had come into the possession of the seller. This person now looked up our Abbey and sent them an email asking if they were the sellers.’

  ‘And they weren’t, of course,’ said Libby.