Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series) (9 page)

‘Tea?’

‘OK, alcohol. Do you want to join us?’

Ten minutes later Libby was sitting at the big table in the window watching Harry pour wine.

‘I shall fall asleep this afternoon,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, then. What happened?’

‘I was questioned about practically everything but the colour of my underwear,’ said Peter wearily. ‘It’s obvious she thinks I got the reliquary down here to steal it but can’t quite make it fit the facts because it wasn’t me who requested the reliquary but Ian.’

‘That’s exactly what Ian said.’ Libby recounted the substance of her conversation with Ian.

‘So he thinks a third party killed Dominic and beat up Martha, but didn’t steal the reliquary?’ said Harry. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘No, that’s what he said Big Bertha will think. So she’s trying to find someone to fit that third party.’

‘And she’s picked on me,’ said Peter morosely. ‘Great.’

‘It’s all right, chuck,’ said Harry, ‘you’ve got about a hundred and one witnesses to where you were until at least two in the morning.’

‘What about after that?’ said Peter. ‘There’s only you, and they would discount your evidence as being partisan.’

‘They could look at cars and amounts of petrol,’ said Libby. ‘If your car has no petrol …’

‘We don’t exactly jot down how full the tank is before and after each journey, dear heart,’ said Harry. ‘Be your age.’

‘Did she ask you about Ian and his investigation?’

‘Not a word. She barely mentioned Sister Catherine and St Eldreda’s. She was just focussed on me, the reliquary, if I knew of the security arrangements, and how well I’d known Dominic. She practically accused me of having an affair with him, at one point.’ He shuddered delicately.

‘I wonder where his family is?’ mused Libby. ‘Won’t they be contacted? His ex-wife?’

‘Oh, I expect they’ve done that already. Although she kept asking me questions about his background as though I’d lived in his pocket for years.’ Peter shuddered again. ‘What a woman.’

‘Ian’s got an appointment with her,’ Libby looked at her watch, ‘in about ten or fifteen minutes. I wonder what will happen?’

‘He’ll tell her all about the Bernard Evans investigation and she’ll hijack it,’ said Harry.

‘Do you think so?’ Peter looked thoughtful. ‘After all, superintendents don’t tend to go out in the field, do they? They stay at home and pull the strings.’

‘So you think she might give it to Davies?’

‘No, I think she might turn it over to Ian.’

Harry grinned. ‘Oooh, lovely! Do you think they’ll fight over it? I love a good fight.’

Ben appeared in the doorway.

‘I guessed you’d be here.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down. Harry fetched another glass.

‘I texted you,’ said Libby. Ben pulled out his phone.

‘So you did.’

‘How did your interview go, then?’ asked Peter. ‘I’m almost under lock and key.’

Ben’s interview had gone along the same lines as Libby’s, but he was indignant to hear about Peter’s.

‘The woman’s deranged,’ he said. ‘She gives the police a bad name.’

‘Let me tell you about the other stuff Ian told me,’ said Libby, ‘and what he said we could do.’

‘We?’ said three male voices warily.

‘Well, me. He said if I could find Bartholomew’s will, I was welcome to try.’

T
he smell of the sea wafted in through Fran’s open sitting-room window, a window that had been immortalised in Libby’s paintings more than once. The walls were a foot thick, so the windowsill was deep, and Fran always had a small vase of flowers there. The curtains, small too, to fit in the embrasure, were a light yellow cotton with a small and indeterminate pattern, vague as an impressionist painting. This afternoon they drifted in and out with the slight breeze. Libby sniffed ecstatically.

‘Gorgeous. I could sit here all day.’

‘So could I,’ said Fran, ‘which is why I only come in here if I’ve nothing else to do. Let’s take the laptop into the kitchen.’

‘I found that website Ian told you about,’ said Fran, clicking on a link.

Libby lifted Fran’s fat black-and-white long-haired cat, Balzac, off the table and onto her lap. He turned round once, purred, licked her hand and went to sleep.

‘The one for wills?’

‘Yes, it doesn’t cover anything that far back, but I’ve finally found where to look. It would have been heard at an ecclesiastical court, and their probate records should be held at the National Archive. It’s likely to be probated at the Prerogative Court of Canterbury, as we think he was a wealthy businessman.’

‘Do we have to go there?’

‘No – look.’ Fran pushed the laptop towards her and there it was. The National Archives, wills between 1384 and 1858. ‘Mind you, we’ll have to pay for it, but I think we can see if it’s there for free.’

And it was.

‘Lucky he had an unusual name,’ said Libby. ‘Are we going to order it?’

‘We can just download it,’ said Fran, busily tapping away. ‘Can you fetch the printer from the spare bedroom? I think I can afford a few pounds.’

‘You realise,’ said Libby, stumbling back into the kitchen with Fran’s printer, ‘if we find out who Bartholomew left the reliquary to, we’ll have to find his will, and so on and so on.’

‘Mmm.’ Fran was frowning at the screen. ‘But it isn’t mentioned in dear old Barty’s will.’ She connected the printer and hit the button.

‘It isn’t? But that just means it’s included in “all the goods of which I die possessed”, doesn’t it?’

‘Look.’ Fran passed Libby the first pages of the will as they emerged. ‘It’s got other items mentioned. Valuable items. But not the reliquary, unless he’s described it as something else.’

Libby scoured the seven pages of the will for some mention of the reliquary, but in the end had to agree with Fran. It wasn’t there.

‘So what does that mean?’

‘It means he either sold it on, and we have no idea who to, or it was stolen from him.’

‘Alastair said the people who sold it before came to bad ends, and it always came back to the family. I wonder if a family member got it back from Barty?’

‘You mean one of the secondary branches?’ said Fran, standing up. ‘I need tea.’

‘So do I,’ said Libby, lifting Balzac on to the floor. ‘And yes, one of those distaff sides or something. And I wonder how Barty died? Did he come to a bad end?’

‘We can’t tell from the will,’ said Fran, ‘and he died too early to have a proper death certificate.’

‘What about parish records?’

‘We don’t know where he died, the will doesn’t say that either.’ Fran, not such a stickler for real tea as Libby, poured boiling water on to teabags in mugs.

‘Ah,’ said Libby, snatching up the first sheet of the will, ‘but it does say where he lived, silly! Look – St Dionis Backchurch. And it mentions his sister, Beatrice Retford. That’s two more records we’ve got.’

‘What do we do, then? Go and find St Wotsit Backchurch?’ Fran fished out the teabags and added milk.

‘No,’ said Libby, back at the laptop. ‘We can’t do that. It was demolished in 1858.’ She clicked through another few searches. ‘Parish records went to another church, which has also been demolished. I doubt if they’ll have survived anywhere else.’ She pushed the laptop away. ‘Damn. I thought we were on to something there.’

Fran sat down at the table. ‘Has Ian talked to Mr Marshall’s beneficiary yet? He or she must know where he got it from. And he or she allowed the thing to come to the Abbey.’

‘Yes, he –’ Libby stopped. ‘Oh, My God!’

‘What?’

‘I can’t think how I forgot! Martha told me the beneficiary was coming on the last night and wanted to take the reliquary back with him, or her.’

‘You didn’t tell me that!’ said Fran.

‘I didn’t tell anybody. The nuns consulted the security people and said they had instructions it was only to leave the Abbey under lock and key with them.’

‘So did the beneficiary come?’

‘I don’t know. If it had, it would have introduced itself, wouldn’t it? No, Martha and I both thought it was a try-on, but by whom, I’ve no idea.’

‘The murderer, obviously,’ said Fran. ‘Was it a man or a woman?’

‘I don’t know. Do you suppose Sister Catherine’s told the police about it? I mean, I forgot – so might she have done.’

‘Call Ian. He must be out of Big Bertha’s clutches by now.’

To Libby’s surprise, Ian answered immediately.

‘Um – I forgot something.’

Ian sighed. ‘Yes?’

‘Martha told me on the last night that Mr Marshall’s beneficiary had called to say he or she was coming down and would take the reliquary back with him, or her.’

‘What? Why hasn’t anyone mentioned this?’

‘Martha’s unconscious. Sister Catherine would know. We don’t even know if it was male or female. Which is it?’

‘Which is what?’

‘The beneficiary. Man or woman?’

‘His niece, a Mrs Chappell.’

‘So it would have to have been a female voice,’ said Libby. ‘Although no one at the Abbey knew who the beneficiary was, so I suppose it wouldn’t matter.’

‘They didn’t agree, did they?’

‘No, of course not. They invoked the security company and, for all I know, the police as well.’

‘I’ll get on to Sister Catherine straight away, if I can between prayers.’

‘You? What about Big Bertha.’

Libby heard the smile in Ian’s voice. ‘It’s all right, Lib, you can relax. She’s handed over to me.’

‘What a relief.’

‘This doesn’t give you carte blanche to go haring off into an investigation, but you can keep your eyes and ears open as usual, and don’t go forgetting anything else.’

‘No, Ian,’ said Libby. ‘I suppose we couldn’t talk to Mrs Chappell?’

‘No!’ Ian’s voice made her wince. ‘That would compromise the investigation, you know that. You’ll just have to think of something else.’

‘Go on then,’ Libby said to Fran, as she ended the call. ‘He says we’ll have to think of something else. What?’

‘To be honest, I don’t think we need to. Ian’s on the case, literally, and we’ve now told him everything we know. Or everything you know, anyway. So we might as well retire gracefully from the lists.’

Libby stood up and paced restlessly across the kitchen. ‘How many times have we said that over the past few years? It’s nothing to do with us so we’ll let the police do their job. And how many times have we turned something up which has broken the case?’

‘I know, I know, but we also know that the police always get there, too. In their own time.’

‘Hmm.’ Libby sat down again. ‘Usually just in time to save us from a fate worse than death.’

‘Mostly you,’ said Fran. ‘And our intervention often just complicates things.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Look, Lib, think about it. How many times have the police had to turn out to rescue us? That wastes resources and probably costs money.’

Libby sighed. ‘OK. But I can’t just let it go. What aspect of this case do you think the police won’t be concentrating on?’

‘There isn’t one.’ Fran leant her elbows on the table. ‘Listen. The reliquary. Ian was already looking into the theft and Bernard Evans’s death. He already knows about the current – late – owner and his beneficiary. He’s working to find out where Mr Marshall got it from. He will be looking into Dominic’s circumstances, his ex-wife, his financial affairs – all that sort of thing. And how the murderer got into the Abbey.’

‘The monastery. Didn’t get into the Abbey.’

‘In which case how did he attack Martha? She was found inside the atrium. And the doors were open.’

‘Martha must have seen something outside and opened them. Anyway, Ian will be looking at that. And what time it happened. So what’s left?’

‘Martha? Could there be something there? In her background?’

‘Good lord, how? She’s an oblate, she was simply protecting the reliquary on behalf of the Abbey and the beneficiary. I did wonder,’ Libby squinted at the open garden door, ‘perhaps Dominic knew her –’

‘If he knew her, why didn’t either of them say so?’

‘You’d hardly admit to it if you were going to kill someone, would you?’

Fran wrinkled her brow. ‘What maggot’s got into your brain now? They were both attacked. And they were at least fifteen metres apart.’

‘I don’t know. I’m grasping at straws.’

‘You are.’ Fran stood up. ‘Come on, let’s get an ice cream.’

They strolled along Harbour Street with their cones, Libby thoughtful and Fran contented.

‘What about Dominic’s wife?’ said Libby suddenly.

‘What about her? Did she somehow follow Dominic to the Abbey and kill him and attack Martha – for what?’

‘Money?’ said Libby doubtfully. ‘If he’s not paying maintenance or something?’

‘So she knows he’s going to steal the reliquary – why stop him if that was going to get her money?’

‘She had a conscience?’

‘So she murders him to prevent burglary? Oh, come on, Lib.’

Libby sighed. ‘I know. It’s just so frustrating.’

‘It is, but there’s nothing we can do about it.’

‘We can still try and trace the history of the reliquary. Just for interest’s sake.’

It was Fran’s turn to sigh. ‘We could, I suppose. But we’ve just lost our last link to Bartholomew Tollybar, so where do we go from there?’

‘I know!’ Libby stopped dead and nearly lost her ice cream. ‘Andrew!’

‘Andrew?’

‘Wylie. He’s a historian, isn’t he? He’s helped us in the past. I bet he could ferret out some more documents. He’d know where to look. And he could probably interpret that will. There’s sure to be a clue there.’

Professor Andrew Wylie, retired, was the occasional significant other of novelist Amanda George, better known as Rosie, erstwhile creative writing tutor of Fran’s, who had been involved in previous adventures.

‘Let’s go and see him now.’ Libby threw the remains of the ice cream cone into a bin. Andrew Wylie lived in a new block of flats on the outskirts of Nethergate.

‘We can’t just burst in on him,’ said Fran. ‘Besides, he might not be there.’

‘Rosie’s away at that writing festival, so he won’t be with her. Where else would he be?’

‘He has a life outside Rosie,’ said Fran.

‘Let’s ring him.’ Libby fished out her phone and found Andrew’s numbers. ‘Landline first,’ she said.

Andrew answered almost on the first ring.

‘Andrew, it’s Libby Sarjeant. How are you?’

‘Libby? This is a surprise. I’m fine, how are you? I take it this isn’t just a social call?’

‘Sorry, is it that obvious?’

Andrew laughed. ‘It’s usually to do with Rosie, but as she’s away in the wilds of Westmorland or somewhere, it must be something else.’

‘Oh, dear. That makes me sound awful.’

‘Not at all. Do you need help with one of your investigations?’

Libby made a face at Fran. ‘Yes, Andrew, that’s exactly it. I don’t suppose we could pop round now?’

‘I’d be very pleased to see you. Are you in Nethergate?’

‘Yes, at Fran’s. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Of course not. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Ten minutes later Andrew, a smart, dapper little man who looked far younger than his years, opened his front door and twinkled at them.

‘And you’ve brought a laptop,’ he said. ‘That means it’s serious. Tea or coffee?’

When they had been settled on the diminutive balcony looking out over Nethergate below, Libby told the whole story from Patti’s first approach to the researches of this afternoon and Bartholomew Tollybar’s will.

‘Let’s see then,’ said Andrew, and Fran showed him the downloaded document.

‘Fascinating,’ he murmured. ‘How do I enlarge text on this machine?’

Fran showed him. He pored over the screen for a long few minutes while Libby fidgeted and Fran stared serenely out to sea.

‘Well,’ he said eventually. ‘Old Bartholomew has quite a lot to tell us. I think you might be pleased.’

‘Really?’ said Libby and Fran together.

‘Oh, yes. The names of family, and even where they lived.’