Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series) (11 page)

F
ran drove over from Nethergate the following morning to join the small band of Oast House Theatre members who were to remove the costumes, lights and other paraphernalia from the Monastery.

To their surprise, ten minutes after the security guard let them in, Sister Catherine unlocked the atrium doors and hurried outside.

‘Oh, Libby,’ she said, catching Libby’s hands in her own. Libby dropped the costumes she was holding. ‘I’m so sorry this should have happened. We blame ourselves, you know. If we hadn’t found out about that – that –
thing
, this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘It’s more my fault than yours,’ said Libby. ‘If I hadn’t told Peter, he wouldn’t have written the play –’

‘I’ve told you,’ said Ben coming up behind them with his arms full of lighting cable, ‘that train of thought is useless and unproductive. If you go back to first causes you’d be blaming Adam and Eve.’

‘But that’s what the bible teaches us,’ said Sister Catherine with a smile. ‘The whole problem of the human race!’

‘Wrong analogy,’ grinned Ben. ‘The roots of causality.’

‘Have you heard how Martha is?’ asked Libby.

‘Still unconscious, although I believe she’s now in what they call a medically induced coma. I wish she could tell us what happened.’ Sister Catherine twisted her hands together. ‘If only we hadn’t had that thing here …’

‘That, unfortunately,’ said Libby, picking up the costumes, ‘was down to the police. They thought it might drag someone out of the woodwork. It worked only too well.’

‘I just wish we’d never even heard of the thing,’ said Sister Catherine. ‘After all, it’s really nothing to do with us. At least it’s gone now.’

They all turned to look into the empty atrium.

‘The police removed the plinth as well, then?’ said Libby.

‘As soon as the reliquary went,’ Sister Catherine nodded. ‘Dear Martha was so proud of her responsibility towards it.’

‘Apparently her name wasn’t Martha?’

‘No. When she came here she was recovering from a rather unpleasant marriage, and she said she wanted nothing more to do with her old life, so she adopted the name. She felt it was appropriate.’

‘So you knew nothing of her life as Cornelia Fletcher?’ said Ben.

‘Nothing.’ Sister Catherine shook her head. ‘I expect the police know more than we do. They went through all her belongings. I found that very distressing.’

‘Most police investigations are unpleasant,’ said Libby, ‘especially when they involve murder.’

Sister Catherine sighed. ‘That poor man. We pray for him.’

‘But –?’ began Libby, but Ben stopped her with a glare.

‘We’ll soon be out of your way,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t think you’d want any more plays here.’

‘It’s not up to us, but the Trust. The Abbey doesn’t own the Monastery. It just happened to be a fortuitous –’ She stopped. ‘Well, you know what I mean. Please come and say goodbye when you leave.’ And she was gone in a swirl of black.

‘I don’t care what you say,’ said Libby somewhat belligerently to Ben, ‘I still feel guilty. Those poor nuns, and worse, poor Martha.’

‘I know.’ Ben patted her shoulder through the tangle of cables. ‘Come on, the sooner we’re out of their hair the better.’

Libby loaded her costumes into a hamper and went back to the gardener’s shed for more.

‘The police have been through these,’ said Fran, looking up from a pile of habits.

‘I expect they have,’ said Libby. ‘They’ll have taken anything they thought suspicious.’

‘That accounts for being one short.’

‘Eh?’

‘One habit short.’

‘No, that would have been the one Dominic wore,’ said Libby.

‘I counted that,’ said Fran, sitting back on her heels. ‘We’re still one short.’

They looked at one another for a moment.

‘Has Ian given you a receipt for anything?’ asked Fran.

‘No. Oh, God.’ Libby let out a long breath. ‘We’ll have to tell him.’

‘When?’

‘Now. I bet he’ll want someone to come over.’ Libby went to find her phone and found Ben instead. She explained and he called Ian’s police number.

‘Yes,’ he said, ending the call. ‘We’re to leave the costumes, but we can carry on with the other stuff. Someone will be over as soon as possible. He sounded a tad cross.’

‘I bet he did,’ said Libby. ‘So who took the other habit?’

‘The murderer,’ said Fran, appearing from behind a screen of free-standing lights waiting to be loaded on to Bob’s butcher’s van.

‘Stands to reason,’ said Libby.

‘What’s going on?’ Peter came up with his clipboard. They told him. ‘Oh, bugger. The costume hire people are going to go mad.’

‘Peter!’ said three shocked voices.

‘Well, they are. I had to tell them yesterday about the habit Dominic was found in – now to tell them another one’s missing – it’s going to be a hell of an insurance mix-up.’

‘I don’t see how we can be held responsible for them,’ said Ben. ‘They’ll be covered by their own insurance, won’t they?’

‘No, it’ll be down to us,’ said Peter gloomily. ‘I wish I’d never heard of the bloody reliquary.’

‘That’s what everyone’s saying,’ said Libby. ‘Look out, here come the police. That was quick.’

In fact, it was DI Davies who was ushered through by the security guard. He looked round a little sheepishly and asked to be shown the evidence.

‘We haven’t got any evidence, exactly,’ said Libby, ‘just a lack of it, if you know what I mean.’

Davies asked them to unpack the costumes already in the hamper, counted through them, then went to the shed.

‘And there’s one short?’ he said. ‘Apart from that on the deceased?’

‘Yes. That’s why DCI Connell wanted them checked.’

Davies frowned. ‘Right. I’d better call in.’

‘He doesn’t know what to do next,’ whispered Libby, as they left him in the shed.

‘I expect they’ll impound the lot,’ said Fran. ‘Although I don’t know what good that will do.’

But DI Davies returned to say the costumes could be returned to the hire company, and a receipt would be issued for the robe worn by Dominic. He didn’t seem inclined to say anything else, and in frustration they watched him go.

‘Now they’ll set up a search for the missing robe,’ said Libby. ‘And they’ll start here, I bet. Poor Sister Catherine.’

When Libby and Fran went to the Abbey to say goodbye, Libby warned Sister Catherine what might happen.

‘I know,’ said the nun mournfully. ‘Mr Connell just called to tell us. I can’t tell you how awful it is. We’ve already had the police all over the Abbey, now they’re coming again. Mother Abbess is beside herself. They’re searching the nuns’ quarters, and even the chapel. We’ll have to be reconsecrated.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby helplessly. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Sister Catherine smiled sadly. ‘We brought it on ourselves, Libby. Or at least, I did. I’m going to be doing penance for the rest of my life.’

‘Do you think she will?’ asked Fran, as they went back to their cars.

‘I don’t know.’ Libby shook her head. ‘But even if she isn’t told to, she’ll probably do it off her own bat.’

Back at the theatre it was a silent and sober party who unloaded the lights, props and costumes. Peter packed up the remaining habits and put them in his car.

‘I’m going to drive them up now,’ he said. ‘No sense in hanging on to them any longer.’

‘I’m going home,’ said Fran. ‘Why don’t you two come to dinner tonight and stay over? Get away from it all for a bit.’

Libby called over to where Ben was uncoiling cables. He stuck up a thumb.

‘We can go and have a drink at The Sloop first if the weather stays fine,’ said Fran, ‘so come about seven?’

Finally leaving the theatre shipshape, Ben went across to the Manor to see his mother and attend to anything in the estate office that might have cropped up in his absence.

Libby walked slowly down the drive trying to work out exactly what had happened on Saturday night. The single most inexplicable thing, in her view, was the time lapse between Dominic’s murder and the attack on Martha. Almost as if they were unconnected.

The high street was quiet. The schools hadn’t yet broken up for the summer, and only a few shoppers wandered between Nella and Joe’s farm shop, the eight-til-late and Bob’s butcher’s shop. Libby waved through the window of The Pink Geranium at Harry and stopped for a word with Donna, who was approaching with her baby in a sling.

‘Just going to collect the books,’ she told Libby.

‘He still hasn’t replaced you,’ said Libby. ‘I think he’s hoping you’ll come back.’

Donna laughed. ‘With a husband who works the unsociable hours mine does? He’ll be lucky.’

Libby walked on. The village was its normal, peaceful self, as if nothing as vicious and unpredictable as murder had ever ruffled its surface. When she opened the door of number 17, Sidney shot out between her legs and she tripped down the step. All was as usual.

But it wasn’t. Libby felt unsettled and vaguely depressed as she went to make herself a cup of tea and realised she’d missed lunch. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she acknowledged that this feeling was because Dominic Butcher’s murder was so much closer to home than most of the others she had been involved with, for even when a body had been found in the Manor grounds it had been nothing to do with Libby, Ben or any of their friends. But Dominic had been cast in their play, they had all been there. Somewhere, there was culpability.

On the easel in the conservatory sat the most recent painting due for delivery to Guy’s shop. As they were going there for dinner in the evening, Libby decided to put the finishing touches to it. But she couldn’t concentrate, and, in the end, merely signed it and left it to dry.

Sitting under the cherry tree in the garden with a fresh cup of tea, she once more turned to the insoluble problem of the murder.

‘You see,’ she said to Sidney, who had returned to keep her company, ‘unless the murderer was one of the nuns, someone else had to have hidden in the monastery ruins before they were locked up, or broken in, somehow. That means someone who knew Dominic was going to be there, or who was there for the same reason – to steal the reliquary. And if that was the case, why didn’t they just go for it? That would make sense – and Martha could have been attacked when she came to protect it. Instead, there’s a gap of nearly two hours –’ She stopped.

Actually, apart from the evidence of the security guard who had found Martha at six o’clock, what did they have on the time of her attack? How did they know that Martha hadn’t interrupted the burglary at the same time as the murder?

She stood up, racking her brain for anything Ian might have told her. She couldn’t ring him up and ask him, but she was sure there must have been a reason for putting Martha’s attack so much after Dominic’s murder.

But there was another thing she’d forgotten to ask about. Why, when Martha was attacked, apparently trying to protect the reliquary, had the alarms not gone off?

‘
I
t was last night,’ Libby said to Fran later, as they sat at atable in front of The Sloop waiting for Ben and Guy to bring drinks. ‘Ian said Dominic’s death had been put at earlier than four, which means the security guard missed him on his four o’clock round, but would have seen Martha, so there must have been a gap between the two attacks.’

‘It’s very odd,’ said Fran staring out at the little harbour, where the two tourist boats,
The Dolphin
and
The Sparkler
, bobbed quietly at anchor. George and Bert, their respective owners, sat a little way off outside Mavis’s Blue Anchor café, a blue haze of smoke curling round their heads.

‘Do you think the killer waited for Martha purposely?’ asked Libby.

‘Must have done,’ said Fran. ‘Probably so that she could turn off the alarms and he could steal the reliquary. So he must have known all about her.’

‘Then why didn’t he steal it? And why didn’t the alarms go off?’

‘Martha must have come down to the atrium and turned the alarms off before she was attacked. And perhaps the killer heard the security guard coming and made off empty-handed.’

‘I still wonder why she was down there to turn the alarms off so early,’ said Libby.

‘Just to have a last look, as she was so attached to it.’

‘Yes, she did say it was a pity it couldn’t stay there.’ Libby frowned. ‘There’s something wrong about it all.’

Fran gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘You could say that.’

‘And where does Estelle come in? She’s a spanner in the works, well and truly. Just how did she know Dominic was dead?’

‘I was thinking about that,’ said Fran. ‘I know Ian told you the police had kept a lid on it until yesterday morning as far as the media were concerned, but what about social media? They say you can pick up news as soon as it happens, well before any official announcements.’

Libby frowned. ‘You mean someone put it out on one of the sites? But who?’

‘Anyone could have. Not the nuns, of course, but one of the security guards, perhaps saying “we’ll be in trouble over this”, or a member of the company. No one told them not to, did they?’

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said Libby, ‘but you have to be a friend or a follower or something before you can read people’s updates. How would Estelle have known anyone connected with us?’

‘These things spread, you know that. One person’s hundred followers read it, their hundred read it and there you are. And Dominic’s name was sufficiently well known for it to be picked up.’

‘Wouldn’t she have admitted that to Ian when he asked her?’

‘She might have felt it was embarrassing, admitting she’d picked it up that way and come snooping down to see what she could get out of it,’ said Fran. ‘Oh, good, here are the drinks.’

The conversation turned away from the murder as they sat and contemplated the sunset over the sea. Along Harbour Street, Cliff Terrace and Victoria Place the fairy lights strung between lampposts came on, and the cupola on top of the Alexandria, the recently restored theatre, glowed like an imitation moon.

‘I was thinking,’ said Libby, ‘now we’ve started doing outreach theatre –’

‘Doing what?’ said Ben.

‘All right, productions in other places –’

‘Only one,’ said Fran.

Libby let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Let me finish! I was thinking that perhaps we could bring something down here to the Alexandria. They let other amateur groups hire it, don’t they?’

‘I think so,’ said Guy, ‘but at the moment they’ve got a series of one-nighters. They need to appeal to the holiday-makers.’

‘I had an idea about an End Of The Pier show,’ said Libby. ‘A really old-fashioned one. After all, the people who come to Nethergate aren’t the same sort who go to Brighton or Blackpool. They like the old-fashioned, traditional feel of the place. Don’t you think it would work?’

‘It might,’ said Ben. ‘Who’s looking after the Alexandria now?’

‘It’s administered by a trust,’ said Guy, ‘but I can find out who to approach, if you like, although it would probably be next summer before you could do anything.’

‘That’s all right, next summer would be perfect,’ said Libby. ‘Thanks, Guy. Oh, and I’ve brought a new picture with me. It’s in the boot.’

Fran had prepared sea bass and roasted vegetables, followed by her own version of Eton Mess.

‘Lovely,’ said Libby as she licked the last vestige of cream off her spoon. ‘I’m too full to move.’

‘Come on, Ben,’ said Guy. ‘We’ll get coffee.’

Fran leant over and topped up Libby’s wine glass.

‘So do you think we’re going to get anywhere at all with our own investigations?’ she asked. ‘Or do we give it up now?’

‘I thought I might look up the social networking sites for mentions of Dominic,’ said Libby. ‘See if we can trace where Estelle’s information came from.’

‘Not tonight, though,’ said Fran.

‘No, of course not. The other thought I had was: suppose she knows all about Dominic’s family background. We might be able to find out if he was a renegade Beaumont.’

‘I expect Ian’s got people on that already. He wouldn’t need Estelle’s information.’

‘I still wish I could talk to her,’ said Libby.

‘But she was horrible to you,’ said Fran. ‘She wouldn’t talk to you.’

‘I wonder if I could get round that,’ said Libby. ‘Sympathise, or something.’

‘Hypocritical,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, you don’t know where to find her.’

‘She might have stayed somewhere near the village. Harry said she was scared of something, maybe something the police might find, so she might be keeping an eye on things.’

‘I still don’t think she would talk to you,’ said Fran. ‘I’d leave it alone, if I were you.’

‘Coffee.’ Guy put the cafetière on the table. ‘And now you can stop talking about the murder.’

The following morning, after Guy and Ben had gone out to fetch croissants for breakfast, Fran and Libby sat down at the kitchen table and began their search of all the social media sites.

It soon became apparent that, as Fran suspected, Dominic’s murder had trickled through as early as ten o’clock on the morning he had been murdered, but where the news had originated they couldn’t tell. They did a search for Estelle Butcher on the networking sites and found she had a presence on all of them. A lot of her information was protected, but it was still easy to see who she talked to and what about. However, there was nothing about Dominic.

It was just after breakfast when Libby’s phone rang.

‘Patti! Why aren’t you at church?’

‘I’m in Italy, remember?’

‘Oh, yes. Why are you calling me from Italy?’

‘Catherine just called. She’d forgotten too, but she wanted you to know – Martha’s regained consciousness!’

‘Well,’ said Libby as she ended the call, ‘that’s that, then. Murder solved.’

Fran was frowning. ‘I’m not sure …’

Libby sat forward. She recognised that look. ‘What is it?’

Fran shook her head. ‘It’s probably nothing.’

‘What is? Come on, what did you see?’

‘I don’t know. There was a sudden brightness – like a sun flare. And then that suffocating darkness – you know? That I’ve had before.’

‘Couldn’t that be Martha remembering the bash on the head and then losing consciousness?’

‘It could.’ Fran sighed. ‘I wish I could interpret these things better.’

‘You haven’t been having so many of your moments for the last couple of years, though, have you? Except when we rescued Rosie, of course.’

‘That was an easy one,’ said Fran. ‘This is more difficult. If Martha had died I could have understood it.’

‘But she didn’t,’ said Libby. ‘So?’

‘Perhaps it means she doesn’t remember anything.’

‘Of course. They say that after a bash on the head people don’t remember.’

‘Then again,’ said Fran, ‘it may not be about Martha at all. Just triggered by the mention of her regaining consciousness.’

‘So we ignore it?’

‘I don’t see that we can do anything else,’ said Fran. ‘Presumably someone will be able to question Martha and we’ll know. It just didn’t feel right, somehow.’

All day, Libby waited to hear something about Martha. There was nothing on the news, national or local, and no phone call from Ian.

‘Not that you could expect him to call,’ said Ben, when he returned from the estate office in the late afternoon. ‘I doubt if we’ll hear any more until it’s all wrapped up.’

Libby sighed. ‘You’re right. I just wonder what Fran’s moment meant.’

‘I doubt it’s significant. You can just relax now.’

‘Won’t we have to go to the inquest?’

‘Maybe, although it’s more likely they’ll call Peter to tell them about the play and why both the reliquary and Dominic were there. Do we know when it is?’

‘No, Ian hasn’t told us. If we were needed, I suppose we’d know. Oh, well, I suppose I can get down to planning the End Of The Pier Show now.’

‘The what?’

‘Remember? Yesterday – the Alexandria. I had a look at their website earlier. We’d have to hire it ourselves, but there’s nothing like it there at the moment. So I emailed.’

‘You did what? Without discussing it with me or Pete?’

‘It was only an enquiry,’ said Libby, feeling a bit red in the face. ‘Just to see how much it would cost and all that sort of thing.’

‘Well don’t go and do anything stupid until we’ve had a committee meeting about it,’ said Ben.

‘Can’t I at least plan a show in case?’

‘Nothing to stop you,’ said Ben, sounding disgruntled. Libby sighed.

She was just changing channels on the television to catch the local news when her mobile rang.

‘Just thought you’d want to be updated,’ said Ian. ‘I knew you’d be chewing the woodwork by now.’

‘We heard Martha regained consciousness from Sister Catherine,’ said Libby. ‘What –?

‘Hold on. First – the inquest was adjourned this morning for further enquiries. One reason was that Mrs Fletcher had regained consciousness and there was a possibility that she would be able to talk to us. So far, she hasn’t.’

‘Oh, Ian! Why?’

‘Partially because the doctors say she can’t yet, but also because she hasn’t said a word about anything so far. She merely seems distressed.’

‘So is that the only progress? What about Estelle?’

‘You know I can’t give you any more information about the case, Lib. Just rest assured we’re looking into her background.’

‘We found out that Dominic’s death had been leaked on the social media sites the same morning,’ said Libby. ‘We thought maybe that was how she heard of it.’

‘The same thought had occurred to us, strangely,’ said Ian, and Libby could hear the smile in his voice. ‘We occasionally get there without you.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Libby. ‘Do you know who leaked it in the first place?’

‘Too difficult to trace,’ said Ian. ‘But unlikely to have been the murderer.’

‘No. But I do wonder what it is Estelle is so scared will be discovered.’

‘So do we, but I expect we’ll find out. We’re going back to Mr Butcher’s house tomorrow, and we’ll be looking at any other places connected with him.’

‘How was he paying his bills?’ wondered Libby. ‘You said he left nothing but debts and didn’t have a job.’

‘And I shouldn’t have said that much,’ said Ian. ‘I’ll let you know progress if and when I’m able, but there’s nothing more you can do.’

‘Except carry on looking into Jolly Tolly,’ said Libby.

‘Who?’

Libby grinned. ‘The will of Bartholomew Tollybar, of course.’