Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series)

by Cookman, Lesley

  MURDER IN

  THE MONASTERY

  LESLEY COOKMAN

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2013

  ISBN 9781908917768

  Copyright © Lesley Cookman 2013

  The right of Lesley Cookman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

  Cover design by Sarah Ann Davies

  Acknowledgements

  Once again, I have to thank Suzanne Sutton and the Reverend Frances Wookey for their invaluable help. If I’ve got any particulars of the workings of an Anglican Benedictine Abbey wrong, I sincerely apologise, as I do, as usual, to the fine British Police Force for taking such liberties.

  Thank you also to Peter Oliver who put me right on the name of the Tredega Relic and Seraphina Moody who allowed me to use her Arte Umbria courses. Lastly, to my indefatigable editor, Bob Cushion.

  WHO’S WHO IN THE LIBBY SARJEANT SERIES

  Libby Sarjeant

  Former actor, sometime artist, resident of 17, Allhallow’s Lane, Steeple Martin. Owner of Sidney the cat.

  Fran Wolfe

  Formerly Fran Castle. Also former actor, occasional psychic, resident of Coastguard Cottage, Nethergate. Owner of Balzac the cat.

  Ben Wilde

  Libby’s significant other. Owner of The Manor Farm and the Oast House Theatre.

  Guy Wolfe

  Fran’s husband, artist and owner of a shop and gallery in Harbour Street, Nethergate.

  Peter Parker

  Ben’s cousin. Free-lance journalist, part owner of The Pink Geranium restaurant and life partner of Harry Price.

  Harry Price

  Chef and co-owner of The Pink Geranium and Peter Parker’s life partner.

  Hetty Wilde

  Ben’s mother. Lives at The Manor.

  Greg Wilde

  Hetty’s husband and Ben’s father.

  DCI Ian Connell

  Local policeman and friend. Former suitor of Fran’s.

  Adam Sarjeant

  Libby’s youngest son. Lives above The Pink Geranium, works with garden designer Mog, mainly at Creekmarsh.

  Lewis Osbourne-Walker TV gardener and handy-man who owns Creekmarsh.

  Sophie Wolfe

  Guy’s daughter. Lives above the gallery.

  Flo Carpenter

  Hetty’s oldest friend.

  Lenny Fisher

  Hetty’s brother. Lives with Flo Carpenter.

  Ali and Ahmed

  Owners of the Eight-til-late in the village.

  Jane Baker

  Chief Reporter for the Nethergate Mercury. Mother to Imogen.

  Terry Baker

  Jane’s husband and father of Imogen.

  Joe, Nella and Owen

  Of Cattlegreen Nurseries.

  DCI Don Murray

  Of Canterbury Police.

  Amanda George

  Novelist, known as Rosie.

  Chapter One

  ‘How’s the self-catering business going?’ The ReverendPatti 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, last 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 Tredega Relic?’

  ‘No. Is it Cornish?’

  ‘The name’s Welsh,’ said Patti, ‘because that’s where Saint Eldreda came from. At least, they think so. 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 Tredega 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 Tredega 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.’

  At 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 Tredega 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 tell 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 then looked up the Abbey and sent them an email asking if they were the sellers.’

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

  ‘No, and the auction house won’t tell them who the seller is.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to say it’s illegal,’ said Libby. ‘Whoever hid it back whenever it was could have kept it in the family and it could have become an heirloom. The Abbey wouldn’t necessarily have a claim on it, would they?’

  Patti frowned. ‘I suppose not. But they are interested in where it’s been. After all, it could have been stolen all those years ago, not hidden by one of the nuns or monks.’

  ‘So you just want me to look into its provenance? They don’t want to get it back?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but it is a bit idolatrous in my opinion. I think they just want to know.’

  Libby stared into the fire. ‘I don’t see what I can do apart from ask the auction house, and maybe have a look back at the history of the old abbey in Mercia. It might be interesting.’

  ‘You haven’t got the constraints of living as a nun,’ said Patti. ‘They’ve got computers, of course, but they are bound by the routines of their days and haven’t got the freedom to travel.’

  ‘Hmm. I don’t see me travelling to Wales to find things out, you know.’

  Patti put her head on one side and grinned. ‘You’re thinking it might not be what you want to do after all, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am, a bit,’ said Libby with a shamefaced grin. ‘But I’ll do a bit of background research and see if I get anywhere.’

  ‘Right.’ Patti stood up. ‘I’m off to Anne’s. Coming for a drink later?’

  ‘Of course. Are you eating at Harry’s?’

  ‘Of course. My weekly treat, The Pink Geranium.’

  ‘See you later, then,’ said Libby.

  The Pink Geranium, the mainly vegetarian restaurant in Steeple Martin, was owned by Harry Price, who lived with Peter Parker, cousin to Ben Wilde, Libby’s significant other. Libby’s son Adam lived in the flat above the restaurant when he wasn’t staying with Sophie Wolfe, step-daughter to Libby’s best friend Fran, in the seaside resort of Nethergate. Peter, Ben and Libby had fallen into the habit of meeting Patti and Anne in the pub on Wednesday evenings, and Harry would join them if the restaurant permitted.

  This evening, before Patti and Anne arrived, someone else appeared at their table.

  ‘May I join you?’ asked Dominic Butcher.

  Libby allowed herself an inward sigh. Dominic Butcher had recently been cast in an Oast House Theatre production, and as a former professional actor, thrown his weight around until stopped by the director. He also had the temerity to have the same name as Libby’s eldest son.

  ‘Of course.’ Peter politely shuffled his chair closer to Ben’s.

  ‘Dominic.’ Ben nodded and turned back to Libby. ‘So what exactly do these nuns want you to do?’

  ‘Find out the provenance of this relic – sorry, reliquary. I don’t see how I’m going to do it.’

  ‘St Eldreda’s Abbey,’ said Peter dreamily. ‘Lovely place. Very atmospheric.’

  ‘Oh, you know it?’ Libby said in surprise. ‘I’d never heard of it.’

  ‘They allow occasional drama performances there,’ said Peter. ‘Even Murder in the Cathedral. I wonder …’

  ‘What?’ asked Ben and Libby together, somewhat nervously. Peter’s projects had occasionally been known to lead to as much off-stage drama as on.

  ‘Murder in the Cathedral,’ said Dominic, obviously not liking to be left out of the conversation. ‘I was in that myself, you know, a few years ago –’

  ‘I could write a play about St Eldreda, couldn’t I?’ Peter turned bright blue eyes on his cousin. ‘And if we could find anything out about this relic –’

  ‘Reliquary. Who’s this “we”?’ asked Libby.

  ‘If the nuns gave me permission, I’d naturally help you.’ Peter gave her his most charming smile.

  ‘I suppose we could ask Patti what she thinks,’ said Libby.

  ‘What do I think?’ Patti pushed Anne’s wheelchair up
to the table. ‘Evening all.’

  ‘I was just telling them about St Eldreda and the reliquary,’ said Libby.

  ‘And I thought it would make a great play to put on in the Abbey ruins,’ said Peter.

  ‘Oh.’ Patti looked surprised. ‘I suppose it would. Tell me more.’

  Ben pulled out a chair and introduced Dominic. ‘And I’ll go and get your drinks,’ he said, ‘while Peter persuades you to use your good offices in his cause.’

  By the time Ben got back with a tray of drinks, Peter had finished.

  ‘I think it’s rather a nice idea,’ said Anne. ‘Can we talk to Catherine about it?’

  ‘She’s a friend of yours as well?’ said Peter.

  Anne and Patti looked at each other and smiled.

  ‘Of course,’ said Patti. ‘I’ll ring her tomorrow. She’ll want to talk to Libby, anyway.’

  Libby opened her mouth and shut it again.

  ‘Well, I’m happy to offer my services if it comes off,’ said Dominic. ‘I’ve done a bit of directing you know, as well as the telly.’

  Anne looked at him curiously. ‘Were you on television?’

  Dominic smiled deprecatingly. ‘I was Alf in Limehouse Blues.’

  Anne looked blank.

  ‘It’s a TV soap,’ Patti explained. ‘Anne doesn’t watch much television.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I’m actually thinking of going back to my former profession now, anyway,’ said Dominic, glad to be in the forefront of the conversation at last.

  ‘Oh.’ Patti gave it the downward tone to convey lack of interest, but Dominic carried on.

  ‘I was a Senior House Officer,’ he said.