Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series) (3 page)

R
ehearsals for
Murder in the Monastery
began as soon as Sister Catherine and the Mother Abbess had approved Peter’s outline. Libby, Fran, Ben and Dominic Butcher were all in the cast, along with several other members of the Oast House Theatre’s regular company. Patti brought Sister Catherine to one of the first rehearsals, where she entertained them all with a highly embellished story of Saint Eldreda and her relics, and put them right on a few matters of both religion and language. She also promised to send them information on costume.

‘Early medieval is difficult,’ she said, ‘because, as you know, it’s a period also known as the Dark Ages, and people aren’t quite sure what was being worn when. But we’ve got material in the archives, even though it wasn’t our Order.’

‘Isn’t she nice?’ whispered Libby to Fran. ‘I somehow imagine her with a lot of long, blonde, curly hair.’

‘I know what you mean.’ Fran looked at the bright, interested face of Sister Catherine, leaning forward from her seat on the edge of the stage, waving her hands as she described something. ‘And so young.’

‘Well, Patti’s quite young, and they were at college together.’

‘I still can’t understand what makes a pretty, intelligent young woman decide to become a nun,’ said Fran, with a sigh. ‘It’s unnatural.’

‘Not to them,’ said Libby, fearing an anti-religious lecture from her friend.

Fran turned to her and smiled. ‘No, I know. And since we’ve known Patti I think I’ve become more tolerant.’

‘Good.’ Libby turned back to where Peter was helping Sister Catherine to her feet. ‘We’d better go and say goodbye and thank you.’

‘I wanted to say thank you to you, actually,’ said Sister Catherine, clasping Libby’s hand between both of hers. ‘It was kind of you to look into our puzzle, and ask the police to become involved. We don’t necessarily want it back, we’re an Anglican Order, but it would be nice to see the relic back with the rest of poor Eldreda.’

‘And find out who committed the most recent murder,’ said Libby, ‘not to mention find out who has profited from selling it. The reliquary looked quite beautiful – if macabre.’

Sister Catherine smiled wryly. ‘I doubt if any of the money would come our way, and we wouldn’t want to profit by it, especially if it had been the reason for – well, for murder.’

‘Come on, Cathy,’ said Patti, coming up behind them, ‘we’ve got to get you back to the Abbey.’

‘OK.’ Sister Catherine gathered up her habit in one hand and held her other out to Fran. ‘Good bye. I shall look forward to seeing the play when it’s a bit further advanced.’

Within a few days, Patti had called to say that Catherine had discovered that the day usually said to be St Eldreda’s Day was July 13th. Peter felt this was auspicious for the first performance of Murder in the Monastery and stepped up rehearsals. The at-first improvised script had been refined and written down, and submitted to the Mother Abbess for her approval (and from her to the Bishop – just in case!). The relic itself seemed to have faded into the distance.

It was June when Ian joined Libby, Patti and the theatre group in the pub after rehearsal one Wednesday.

‘Surprise, surprise!’ said Libby, as he bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Where have you been hiding?’

Ian made a face. ‘Behind a desk, mostly.’

Ben handed him a pint. ‘Any news on our reliquary?’

‘That’s why I came by.’ Ian took a grateful sip of his beer. ‘After a good deal of negotiating, an officer from the Arts and Antiquities Unit at the Met was able to get in to see the antiquarian site offering the item. There is actually a proper little gallery, not just a website, although it’s hidden away down one of those London alleyways and has no shop front.’

‘Well,’ said Fran, ‘I suppose you wouldn’t want to advertise all that priceless stuff, would you?’

‘They definitely don’t, and they were extremely put out by any suggestion that they were handling stolen goods.’

‘I bet they were.’ Ben looked amused. ‘What happened?’

‘Eventually, the owner of the gallery, or whatever it’s called, gave in, probably because he could see himself up on a charge. He produced all the documentation on the object and Arts and Antiquities are looking into it.’

‘What about us and the Abbey?’ said Libby indignantly.

‘He’s copying me in on everything, don’t worry, but it’s easier for them to look into it. They’re on the spot, they’re experts and they’ve got the contacts.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Libby grudgingly.

‘He’s right, Libby,’ said Patti. ‘After all when the Abbey tried to look into it they got nowhere, and you would have thought that their credentials were enough to get them in.’

‘So what’s the latest?’ asked Dominic Butcher, on the outskirts of the group, from where he’d been listening.

‘Mark, my Arts and Antiquities contact, is looking up the solicitor who’s handling the sale. Apparently, it’s a probate sale.’

‘Someone’s died?’ Libby wrinkled her brow.

‘But we don’t know who. Normally the solicitor would handle it on behalf of the estate of the deceased, which would be stated, but this time it isn’t.’

‘Isn’t that suspicious?’ said Dominic.

Ian shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. Anyway, in this case, because of its history the solicitor will be forced to tell Mark who owned it and show what provenance they have.’

‘Good,’ said Libby with satisfaction. ‘Have you told Sister Catherine?’

‘I’ve left a message. I expect they were all at prayers, or something. I’ve suggested she get in touch with one of you.’

‘Excellent,’ said Patti. ‘So once we know who the person was, we can try and find out how he got it.’

‘That’s what I meant when I said they’d have to show provenance.’ He smiled slightly. ‘But I don’t suppose there’s any harm in you doing a little digging once we’ve got a name.’

Libby, Fran and Patti looked at each other and grinned.

‘Blimey,’ said Libby. ‘Permission.’

Patti called Libby the following afternoon to say Sister Catherine had been on the phone very excited.

‘It’s the thrill of the chase,’ said Patti. ‘She doesn’t get much excitement.’

‘Well, we’ll keep her in the loop. She might find out things better than we could because of her status.’

Finally, Ian called Fran on Friday and asked her to pass on the news that the solicitor had divulged the name of his dead client.

‘A collector called Marshall,’ Fran reported to Libby, ‘who bought it way back in the seventies from someone who claimed to be a descendant of the original owner.’

‘St Eldreda? Wouldn’t have thought she’d had any descendants.’

‘No, there was some tale about it being held in trust by the monks.’

‘Ah!’ said Libby. ‘The monks who spirited it away during the dissolution.’

‘Anyway there was enough to convince Marshall that it was genuine, and the solicitor apparently had the whole story of St Eldreda down pat.’

‘Hmm,’ said Libby thoughtfully. ‘Seventies. That’s when that bloke was murdered in the monastery and the reliquary was stolen.’

‘And then,’ said Fran slowly, ‘it was sold on.’

‘And the murdered man – Bernard Evans, I suppose – had offered it to the order. He obviously thought it should go back to where it came from.’

‘Yes, but he was suggesting they sold it to raise funds to buy the monastery.’

‘Well, good for him, poor sod,’ said Libby. ‘So presumably, whoever knocked him off sold it to this collector, pretending to be descended from the monks.’

‘Not very good title, is it?’ said Fran. ‘If the monk’s family pinched it.’

‘They were looking after it,’ said Libby. ‘I expect that would be their story. I wonder who they were?’

‘I wonder if there’s a history of the Tredega monastery, if that’s what it was called.’

‘Worth a prowl round the internet,’ said Libby.

‘OK. Let me know if you find anything and I’ll do the same.’

But there was no Tredega Monastery, Abbey or anything else. Libby found a site where she could look for historical sites by century, and although there were plenty in Wales, none were near Tredegar. Libby tried the Tredega Relic, which she’d tried before, but there were only vague references to it. Searching for St Eldreda was similarly ineffective, although she did have a brief history of her life online. There wasn’t even much on the rather limited website of the current Abbey. Libby sighed in frustration and went to make a cup of tea.

She was sitting in the bar/foyer of the theatre that evening waiting for Peter to start rehearsals, when Fran came in with a smile of triumph.

‘Found it!’

‘You haven’t?’ Libby was frankly disbelieving. ‘I couldn’t find anything, whatever search terms I used.’

‘Did you try Mercia?’

‘No! I never thought of it.’

‘Well, I did.’ Fran sat down opposite Libby and pulled some papers from her bag. ‘You told me Patti said Eldreda had come from Mercia and the relic, although called the Tredega Relic, was probably from nowhere near the actual place.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, Mercia is the modern day Midlands and doesn’t go into Wales. The other thing is, the Mercians and their king Wulfhere were only Christian from 658, so any monastic institutions would be after that.’

‘So? The relic wasn’t stolen until the dissolution.’ Libby frowned.

‘But there must have been someone back then who wanted her relic.’

‘But it could have just been her family. It could have been a chapel, or something that became a monastery later. I wonder,’ said Libby slowly, ‘if it was her family.’

‘What? Who wanted the relic back?’

‘Well, yes, but whose name was Tredega – not the place?’

‘Well!’ Fran sat back in her chair. ‘Of course, that could be it. But they didn’t have Christian and surnames as we do back then, did they?’

‘No, but perhaps they
came
from Tredegar originally. Anyway – you said you found it. Where was it?’

‘I
think
I’ve found it, and it’s in Herefordshire, and it was one of the first Anglo-Saxon Christian religious houses. There’s an eighteenth century church on the site now, but they’ve excavated the Anglo-Saxon building and a Tudor one.’

‘Why do you think it’s our one?’ asked Libby.

‘Because the website mentions Eldreda.’

‘So how come Sister Catherine didn’t know that?’ said Libby.

‘She didn’t know much, did she? Her order are Anglican Benedictines, not the original Augustines. But she got the area right. It is on the borders of Wales, near one of the castles that were built to keep the Welsh out of England, although it pre-dates that. I suppose everyone assumed it was near Tredegar as there actually is a place called that.’

‘Can we find out if Eldreda’s family were called Tredega?’ said Libby.

‘We can have a go. Might have to take a trip to the area to look at any written records there are – although there won’t be many.’

‘But what we really want to know,’ mused Libby, ‘is who took the relic during the dissolution and kept it for all those years.’

‘Or how it turned up with poor Bernard Evans.’

‘And was in the hands of the late collector.’

Fran and Libby looked at each other and grinned.

‘On the trail again!’ said Libby.

F
ran called Libby the following morning. ‘How about a day out at the seaside?’

‘Do you want me to do something?’ asked Libby warily.

‘Yes, go through the research on our relic. I thought we could do it together. It’s a lovely day, and we could have lunch outside The Sloop.’

‘Oh.’ Libby brightened. ‘OK, be with you in about an hour.’

It was indeed a lovely day, the road to Nethergate from Steeple Martin was thickly bordered by a mass of green hawthorn, blackthorn and alder. The sea came into view sparkling like cheap sequins as the car crested a rise, with the long, dark shape of Dragon Rock hunkered down in the middle of the bay. Libby smiled with pleasure.

She managed to find a parking spot in Harbour Street not too far from Coastguard Cottage and met Fran leaning over the sea wall contemplating the beach.

‘Nice ’ere, innit?’ she said.

Fran turned and smiled. ‘I’m lucky aren’t I?’

‘The cottage, the sea, Guy and me. Yes, you are.’

Fran punched her lightly on the arm. ‘Come on, see what I’ve found. Or would you like an ice cream from Lizzie’s first?’

Lizzie had a small booth selling indescribably beautiful ice cream just along from Guy’s gallery.

‘Oh, go on, then.’

Returning to the sea wall with their cones, Libby said, ‘So what have you found out, then?’

‘Believe it or not, there’s the whole story on the estate website. I suppose it was concealed at the time and only got publicised with the advent of public openings and so on.’

‘So the church belongs to the castle estate?’

‘No, the estate of a stately home called Maidenhaye. It seems to be a sort of Chatsworth or Castle Howard set up – you know, villages still part owned by the estate, farm shop, all sorts of events going on.’

Libby sucked the last dollop of ice cream out of the soggy end of the cornet. ‘Come on then, let’s go and have a look.’

Maidenhaye was beautiful. The house, smaller than either of those to which Fran had compared it, still contained the sort of paintings and treasures associated with the British stately home, and within the estate boundaries there were villages, shops selling only produce from the estate, estate farms, woodyards and craft shops, not to mention several properties available for holiday lets.

That, of course, was quite apart from the archaeological digs that seemed to be an ongoing process.

‘Here we are,’ said Fran. ‘Dissolution.’

An early monastic house had been excavated, after the excavation of the supposedly 12th century monastery, the ruins of which had stood in the grounds for as long as anyone could remember. And with the excavation had come the examination of accompanying documents held in the family’s archives.

And there was Eldreda.

‘No mention of Tredega, though,’ said Libby.

‘No, but it tells the story. How her relic was brought back to the monastery and the reliquary was designed to hold it. Miracles were supposed to happen if the faithful came and prayed to it. And then how this monk – what’s his name?’

‘Brother Thomas.’ Libby peered at the screen.

‘Yes, him. Fled from the monastery when he knew Henry’s thugs were on their way and gave it into the family’s safekeeping.’

‘It even explains what happens next,’ exclaimed Libby. ‘It’s not even a secret.’

‘Yes, the family lost everything – or nearly – and sold the relic after the South Sea Bubble burst. And there they lose sight of it.’

‘Right.’ Libby sat back. ‘So who are the family who lived at Maidenhaye? Does it say?’

‘The family are still there. It was entailed, and somehow they repaired their fortunes and hung on, even after the last war.’

Libby scrolled back through the pages. ‘The Beaumonts. That sounds Norman-ish. Were they the family who brought back the reliquary?’

‘I should think the original Anglo-Saxon family married into a Norman family,’ said Fran. ‘So it probably is the original family.’

‘Who are still there. Should we ask them about it?’

‘We ought to ask Sister Catherine if she’s done that already,’ said Fran.

‘But she’s so difficult to get hold of.’ Libby gazed out of the window. ‘Let’s ask Patti.’

‘Go on, then, give her a ring. Then we can go and have lunch.’

But Patti didn’t know.

‘I’m sure if she’d have known all that she’d have told me when we first spoke about it. But if they sold it after the South Sea Bubble – when was that? 1720s? – they wouldn’t know its whereabouts now, would they?’

‘They might know who they sold it to,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, it’s all become a bit academic now. After all, the antiquities dealer has quite happily admitted he’s got the relic, and he’s told Ian who they’re handling it for. We’re just interested.’

‘As usual,’ said Patti, amusement palpable in her voice.

‘All right, nosy,’ agreed Libby, ‘but after all, you did set us on the trail.’

‘And gave your Ian a link to a cold case,’ said Patti. ‘Just watch out that the curse of the relic doesn’t come after you!’

‘I still think we have to get in touch with the Beaumonts,’ said Libby, as she and Fran walked down Harbour Street towards The Sloop Inn. ‘Peter needs to if he’s writing a play about St Eldreda. He might need to get their permission.’

‘That’s a point. You’d better tell him ASAP. Are we rehearsing tonight?’

‘Yes. And I’ll leave a message for Ian. I find it odd to say the least that the Arts and Antiquities people haven’t got this far in their researches.’

Peter went into a very uncharacteristic panic when Libby told him the news and rang off saying he was going to call the Maidenhaye estate immediately. To the message she left for Ian, she received no reply.

When she arrived at the theatre that evening, Peter was in the bar with his laptop and several sheets of paper, frowning furiously.

‘Good job you told me about the Beaumonts,’ he said, looking up. ‘They’re very happy for me to go ahead, but they knew nothing about the reappearance of the relic. They’ve given me access to the few documents they hold when ever I want to go down, which means I’d better go this weekend. Want to come?’

‘Well, yes, but – Ben …’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Lib. You’re not tied at the hip. Fran could come too, if she liked.’

‘If I liked what?’ Fran came up behind Libby, who explained.

‘No, I’ll leave it to you two, I have to help in the shop in Saturdays, and Guy’s being very forbearing about all this rehearsing I’m doing.’

Ben appeared carrying a ladder.

‘You don’t mind if Libby goes down to Herefordshire with me on Saturday, do you, cousin dear?’ Peter called across the lobby.

Ben raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘No, why?’

‘We’ve found out more about the relic,’ said Libby. ‘Well, Fran did, actually.’

‘So who did you speak to at Maidenhaye?’ asked Fran.

‘Eventually the household manager, who put me on hold while she spoke to someone else. The Beaumonts are in residence, apparently, and she managed to convey the fact that they are very interested. Wonder why?’

‘Who wouldn’t be? Something from your family’s past turning up as part of a puzzle. If you count poor Bernard Evans as a puzzle, that is.’ Libby looked over Peter’s shoulder at the pieces of paper. ‘Script changes?’

‘There will have to be, now. These are preliminary notes. Meanwhile, we can go over the stuff that won’t be affected.’ He stood up. ‘Is everybody here?’

‘Nearly everybody,’ said Ben. ‘Except Dominic.’

‘I don’t know how he kept a job in television,’ muttered Peter. ‘I’ve never known anyone so unprofessional.’

The errant Dominic turned up halfway through Peter’s explanation of the prospective script changes and annoyed everybody by asking for the whole story to be repeated. Peter refused and chivvied everyone into position for the start of the scenes he proposed to rehearse.

‘I do think he might have explained properly,’ Dominic said in an aside to Fran. ‘It might have an effect on my character.’

Fran gave him a disgusted look. ‘You’re playing a thoroughly disreputable priest. Nothing much is going to change that.’

Dominic looked thoughtful. ‘No. Much more fun playing baddies.’

Fran rolled her eyes and edged away.

When Libby and Ben got home, Libby found the Maidenhaye website and showed it to Ben.

‘It looks beautiful,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should book into one of their hotels and make a weekend of it.’

‘That’s an idea,’ said Libby. ‘That looks nice.’

The Maidenhaye Arms, predictably, stood on the edge of a village called Haye, just a stone’s throw from the main house and the archaeological site. Ben called Peter’s mobile, apologising for the lateness of the call, and made his suggestion.

‘Looks good,’ said Peter, after calling up the site on his own computer. ‘Do you think it’s too late to ring now?’

‘We’ll email. A double and a single? Hal won’t be able to come will he?’

‘No, pity. If we get in, don’t forget to tell Hetty we won’t be around for Sunday lunch.’

Friday morning, and an email accepting the booking was in Libby’s inbox.

‘Now you need to tell the Beaumonts we’re coming,’ said Libby, when she called Peter to tell him. ‘And hope they don’t mind hangers-on.’

She had barely switched off the phone when a sharp knock on the door indicated someone in a bad mood.

‘Hello, Ian,’ she said.

‘What’s all this about the Beaumonts and Maidenhaye?’ he demanded, sweeping past her in to the sitting room.

‘I told you in the message. Peter, Ben and I are going down there, tomorrow.’

‘And you didn’t think to ask me first?’

Libby was outraged. ‘I bloody did! We didn’t decide to go down there until last night after Peter had spoken to them. By which time you’d had my message since lunchtime. Besides, I don’t have to ask your permission to do everything in my life.’

‘All right, calm down, I’m sorry.’ Ian pushed his hand through his hair.

‘And you did say there was no harm in us digging,’ said Libby, slightly mollified.

‘Yes, I did. I’ve said I’m sorry.’

‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ asked Libby. ‘Come into the kitchen and you can tell me all about whatever it is that’s brought this on.’

‘Mark – you remember? – got on to Marshall the collector’s solicitor, who is handling the sale. He was able to state chapter and verse and make the solicitor realise that the reliquary had been stolen from Bernard Evans. He genuinely didn’t know, and showed Mark all the relevant documentation for its provenance. The trouble is, the documents
were
genuine. They just dated from a century before.’

‘No!’ Libby paused in the act of pouring water on to tealeaves. ‘So they were stolen, too?’

‘Unfortunately we can’t find that out. At the moment we’re trying trace the person who provided them and sold the reliquary. All we have is photocopies of the documents, which Mark has verified.’

‘It gets more and more complicated, doesn’t it?’ Libby fetched milk from the fridge. ‘So why were you cross that we’d been in touch with Maidenhaye?’

‘Because the documents appear to come from the Beaumonts.’