Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series) (14 page)

‘Well, not this time,’ said Libby. ‘I was at the Alexandria, so I thought I’d see if you were in.’

‘What were you there for?’ asked Jane. ‘Oh – of course – the show Susannah’s playing for. Looking forward to that.’

‘Not only playing, she’s doing a number on her own, too.’

‘Oh, good. She’s terrific. Well, you know that, don’t you? Actually,’ Jane sat down and leant forward. ‘I think I shall do a feature about it. After all, Susannah’s quite well known – been on TV and that sort of thing – and you and Fran are, too.’

‘Notorious,’ said Libby.

‘Well, people know you around here, and the Oast’s got a wonderful reputation. It would make a lovely piece, don’t you think?’

‘It would and it would be terrific publicity, thanks, Jane.’

‘Come on then, let’s go and make some tea. Imogen – juice?’

Imogen took Libby’s hand. ‘Doose,’ she agreed.

A
fter a lazy Sunday, Libby attacked her rather neglected housework on Monday morning, made a sandwich and took it to the theatre to begin sorting through the costumes Hetty had selected. Halfway through the afternoon, she sat back on her heels and puffed out a long breath. Dust swirled in the working lights above the stage like so much fairy dust and got up her nose.

Pushing back a lock of hair, she fished in her pocket for her mobile and, after a moment’s thought, found Andrew’s number.

‘Libby,’ he answered in a whisper, ‘I’m in the library. I’ll call you back.’

Libby got to her feet and picked up some of the costumes to carry them through to the rail in the dressing room. Although they had all been cleaned before being put away, some smelt musty, and she put these aside to give them a good airing. She was just going back for a second load when the phone rang.

‘Sorry about that Libby, I’ve had to come up to the British Library.’

‘What for?’ asked Libby, surprised.

‘I do have other projects,’ said Andrew, sounding faintly put out. ‘Not just yours.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ said Libby, contrite. ‘I thought …’

‘I know, I know,’ said Andrew. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve not been able to spend all my time on the Tollybar/Beaumont project, but I’m trying to find out if they had children.’

‘Who did?’

‘May and Albert Glover, remember? It’s not easy tracing downwards, much easier going upwards. Unfortunately the names are all quite common. You wouldn’t believe how many May and Albert Glovers there were back in the early twenties. And of course, I can’t get at the census records for 1921 yet.’

‘Oh? Why not?’

‘They haven’t yet been opened – the hundred-year rule, you know.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Libby, who didn’t.

‘However, I think I’ve found a connection between Bernard Evans and the person who left him the reliquary.’

‘You have? What was his name again?’

‘Ronald Barnes. He never married, but he had siblings. Bernard is the great-great-great nephew. Apparently, there is a letter which went to Bernard with the reliquary which Ian is trying to have unearthed from the police files. It was obviously never followed up at the time.’

‘So what we have to do now is prove a link between Bad Jack Jarvis and Ronald Barnes?’

‘But why, Libby? Why is that important?’

‘Because there’s a link back to the Beaumonts. All this business of them wanting the reliquary back – I’m sure it’s a motive.’

‘I must say I don’t see Alastair Beaumont as a murderer,’ said Andrew dubiously.

‘Neither do I. It’s got to be one of those domino lines.’

‘Domino –?’

‘You know – what you said the other day. One person has two children, they each have two, then they have two each –’

‘Yes, yes, I see. You could be right, but I’m damned if I see what good it’s going to do.’

‘I’m not sure either,’ said Libby, frowning, ‘but Ian wanted you to carry on, didn’t he? So there has to be a reason. And only a Beaumont or a Tollybar would know about the reliquary.’

‘So are you suggesting that whoever killed Bernard Evans and Dominic Butcher was a Beaumont or a Tollybar?’

‘Not the same one,’ said Libby, ‘but yes.’

‘And that’s the purpose of all this delving into family history.’

‘Well, of course it is. We have to find out who knew enough about the reliquary to want to steal it. And we now know that Ronald Barnes did, and so did Albert Glover. Now, if we can prove that they are related –’

‘They would both be putative descendants of Bad Jack Jarvis. Yes, I get it.’

‘But that doesn’t get us anywhere with the current generation,’ said Libby gloomily. ‘Did Bernard Evans have any children?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Andrew. ‘Ian must have that in the old case files.’ He sighed. ‘When I’ve finished what I’m doing now I’ll get back on to Albert and May’s children. If any.’

Libby switched off the phone and stood staring at the still swirling dust motes. Things were now so complicated in her head that she’d begun to lose sight of the starting point of the case.

‘Which was,’ she said out loud, her voice echoing in the empty auditorium, ‘finding out where the reliquary had come from. Which we now know.’

‘Only we don’t.’ Peter’s voice came back at her making her jump. She put up a hand to shield her eyes.

‘Where are you?’

‘Here.’ He strolled through the auditorium doors and down towards the stage. ‘You were talking to yourself, were you?’

‘I’d just been talking to Andrew.’ Libby gathered up another armful of clothes. ‘You can help me take these to the dressing room, if you like.’

Peter picked up the rest. ‘As I was saying – you don’t know where the reliquary came from.’

‘Yes, we do, from Mr Marshall.’

‘The whole point, Libby, is where did he get it from?’

‘Oh, bugger, of course. Presumably the killer of Bernard. It’s annoying, isn’t it? It just pops up here and there, waves at us and disappears again.’

‘So Andrew’s trying to do what?’

‘That’s what he was asking. I think we’ve all rather lost the plot. Basically find out who might have known about the bloody thing from family connections.’ Libby hooked the last hanger on to the rail.’

‘It could be nothing to do with that, you know.’

‘I know. It could just be a random act. Someone finding out how valuable it is and knocking Dominic on the head. But you see, that’s the puzzle. Dominic found out about it from us and from the play. If he’d stolen it, it would have been a random act to solve his debt problems. But someone killed him and
didn’t
take the reliquary.’

‘But meant to and Martha stopped them. That could still be random.’ Peter led the way to the workshop, where he filled and switched on the kettle. ‘Come on, I want to find that seaside backcloth we had for the Music Hall.’

‘Someone who’d heard about it? Someone like Estelle, perhaps?’ said Libby, pulling out a selection of rolled canvasses.

‘Eh?’ Peter was getting out rather stained mugs. ‘Oh, you’re back on that are you? Yes, well, Estelle could have heard about it, or anybody connected with the play. And then, it
was
on the TV and in the paper. It could have been anybody. I think your delving into family history might be a red herring, Lib.’

‘There’s still the problem of how he got in, and the time difference between Dominic’s death and Martha’s attack.’

‘We-ell,’ said Peter, thoughtfully stirring the mugs, ‘how about the murderer hearing the guard coming on his rounds just after he’s killed Dominic and leaving it a good long time before he goes back and is then disturbed by the guard again? Are they sure Martha was attacked only just before the guard found her?’

‘Fairly sure, and she herself says she got up and went to check on the thing at about a quarter to six before Matins. That’s two hours at least between the attacks.’

‘I give up, then. But I still say it could be random. Come on, concentrate on finding this scenery. We’ve got to check measurements, and send somebody over to have a look at their lighting rig, don’t forget.’

Libby valiantly put the whole Monastery case to the back of her mind over the next two days and, as Peter had suggested, concentrated on the new show. On Tuesday evening the soloists, perforce unaccompanied, gathered at the theatre to try out their pieces in front of each other, to see if they remembered them well enough. On Wednesday morning Patti telephoned to say she and Anne were back in the county and would see them at the pub that evening if they were free.

‘Yes, but we’re rehearsing again,’ said Libby. ‘Mad, isn’t it?’

‘We’re going to The Pink Geranium for dinner as usual, so we’ll see you afterwards. I expect you’ve got lots to tell us, haven’t you?’

‘Some,’ said Libby cautiously. ‘Bet you’ve got more!’

‘Oh, we were very quiet,’ said Patti, ‘but it was glorious.’

Libby was early at the theatre, switching the coffee machine on in the bar and arranging chairs on the stage to represent the minimal set for the first ensemble piece. Susannah arrived and was immediately surrounded by members of the cast to talk about their individual songs, but eventually, Peter, who was overseeing rehearsals as he wasn’t taking part, was able to instil some sort of order and they began the first seaside set.

Susannah made them go through it twice, and Libby reminded them of some of the moves they had used in the Music Hall. It was at this point that she became aware of a man sitting alongside Susannah and following the music. When she decreed a coffee break, Libby went over to them.

‘Libby, this is David,’ she said. ‘Your new drummer.’

David gave her a delightful smile and held out his hand.

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ he said.

‘Me too,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘So pleased Susannah persuaded you to join us. I hope it won’t be too much of an imposition.’

‘Not at all. I expect she told you I’m down here on a bit of a break anyway, and I would have got bored with nothing to do.’

‘But that’s what you’re supposed to do on a break,’ said Libby. ‘Are you staying in Nethergate?’

‘Just outside. I was lucky to get a holiday let at short notice.’

‘It’s the recession,’ said Libby. ‘A lot were left empty this year. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘We’ll get our own, Libby,’ said Susannah. ‘Come on, David.’

‘Drummer?’ asked Fran, as Libby joined her.

‘Yes. He seems nice. How old would you say he is?’

‘Too young for you, Libby. Early forties?’

‘I’d say so. He’s staying just outside Nethergate.’

‘I wonder why,’ said Fran, her eyes resting thoughtfully on the back of David’s glossy brown head.

‘Why?’ Libby’s eyebrows went up. ‘He needed a break, he said.’

‘And he’s working for us?’

‘He said he was bored.’

‘Hmm,’ said Fran.

‘Why are you being so suspicious?’ said Libby testily. ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

‘I hope he doesn’t come to the pub with us afterwards.’

‘He won’t if no one asks him,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, let’s get some coffee now the queue’s died down.’

The rest of the rehearsal went as well as could be expected, and, to Fran’s relief, David and Susannah left together.

‘David’s giving me a lift,’ she said, ‘and I want to get back as early as possible.’

‘Of course,’ said Fran, as she watched them go, ‘she’s got a baby, hasn’t she?’

‘Not a baby any more, Uncle Terry tells me. Five, or nearly. And that baby’s father and she are now living together, so all happy families.’

‘I guessed she and David weren’t a couple.’

‘Really? How?’ Libby led the way out of the theatre.

‘They just didn’t seem like it. I suppose if they’re both professionals they’ll have worked together.’

‘That’s how Susannah knew about him being down here and why she asked him.’

‘Oh, she asked him, did she? Not the other way round?’

‘What are you on about?’ said an exasperated Libby. ‘You’ve taken a proper dislike to him, haven’t you?’

But Fran would only shake her head.

Patti and Anne were waiting for them in the pub, and, after hugs of greeting, Patti went to fetch drinks at the bar, where Ben interrupted her and took over.

‘Tell us all about it, then,’ said Libby. ‘And have you got pictures?’

‘Loads of pictures, but they’re all still in the camera. I’ll put them on the computer and then you can see them. Gorgeous place.’

‘And hugely me-friendly,’ said Anne, indicating her wheelchair. ‘And we actually managed to paint some pictures.’

The conversation was still on the painting holiday when Peter looked up.

‘Hello, Ian. Is this a social call?’

‘More or less.’ Ian smiled a tired smile. ‘I’d like a coffee and a chat. Hello, everyone.’

Ben got up and went to fetch a coffee.

‘You look tired,’ said Libby. ‘Has it been a long day?’

‘It has. It started with Martha being let out of hospital.’

‘Really? Is she back at the Abbey?’

‘Not so loud,’ said Ian. ‘You never know who’s listening.’

‘There’s only people from the theatre within earshot, Ian, and they know all about Martha anyway,’ said Fran.

‘Well, let’s keep it that way,’ said Ian. ‘No newcomers for your show?’

‘Susannah – but she’s Terry Baker’s sister, you remember? So as she’s Jane from the
Mercury
’s sister-in-law she’d know all about it, too. I expect.’

‘And then, of course,’ said Fran, fixing her eyes on Ian, ‘there’s our new drummer. David.’

‘I knew it.’ Ian shook his head. ‘And you’ve guessed who he is, haven’t you Fran?’

‘What?’ said a bewildered Libby. ‘Who?’

‘David Fletcher,’ said Fran. ‘Martha’s husband.’

‘
H
ow did you know that?’ demanded Libby.

‘I don’t know,’ said Fran helplessly. ‘I just knew there was something wrong about him. Then as soon as Ian mentioned Martha it was there, as a fact.’

‘She
was
suspicious,’ Libby confirmed, ‘and I couldn’t understand it. Susannah brought him along because she’s worked with him before. He seemed nice.’

‘He’s a professional musician and he’s suddenly accepted a free gig in a small, little-known theatre for – what is it? A week? With rehearsals?’ Ian looked sceptical.

‘Susannah said he was down here anyway, and he said he’d needed a break.’ Libby nodded gloomily. ‘I see. But how was I to know?’

‘You weren’t. But he obviously does,’ said Ian. ‘As far as we know, he still doesn’t know Martha lives permanently in the Abbey or that she’s an oblate and changed her name. The only contact Mrs Fletcher says they’ve had over the past couple of years is through her solicitors, whom she strictly forbade to give her address.’

‘Well, how did he know about her being involved here?’ asked Patti. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

Ian smiled at her. ‘You aren’t, Miss Pearson.’

‘Please call me Patti. Pearson makes me uncomfortable.’

‘Patti, then. The reason he knew was the media using her real name, which, of course was in the police statements. Not at first, because we didn’t release it.’

‘But what does he want?’ asked Libby. ‘Is he a suspect?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Ben, ‘or he wouldn’t have turned up looking for her.’

‘Do you think he thinks she’s going to die and he’ll inherit something?’

‘Could be, Libby, but we can’t be sure. At the moment we want to keep him away, so please everyone, don’t say anything to him.’ Ian sipped at his coffee. ‘This is hot.’

‘We won’t,’ said Patti. ‘We’re not likely to meet him.’

‘And none of us will,’ promised Libby. ‘We can avoid him most of the time.’

‘Just watch for him trying to start up conversations with the company,’ said Ian, ‘and don’t tell any of them that Martha’s out.’

‘We can warn them all not to say anything to anyone,’ said Peter. ‘They’ll understand if we say the police investigation could be compromised.’

‘Fine,’ said Ian. ‘And now tell me what else has been going on.’

Libby told him what Andrew had said that afternoon, and Peter repeated his random theory. Ian smiled wearily again.

‘I wish it was, Peter, but someone had to know about the reliquary and how to get in to the Monastery. I know it was on the TV news and in the local press, but there was no clue given as to the value of the item. Which means we have to find out who knew. We’ve ruled all of you lot out, you’ll be pleased to know.’

Libby looked affronted and the others laughed.

‘You were rather too obvious, you know,’ said Ian.

‘I suppose we were,’ said Libby. ‘Fancy being a suspect!’

‘I don’t, thanks,’ said Fran. ‘And now, I really must get going. Oh, Ian. What about Jane and Terry Baker? Shall we tell them?’

‘You’d better, I think, but tell him not to tell his sister. She’d be bound to react to Fletcher differently if she knew.’

‘Well, there’s a turn-up for the books,’ said Libby, as she and Ben walked home. ‘I wonder why he’s here? Martha didn’t sound as though there was any love lost between them, although of course she didn’t tell me anything about him’

‘Perhaps it was the life-style?’ suggested Ben. ‘You know, professional musician, always travelling, suspect fidelity, perhaps?’

‘Maybe, and if she was already a particularly religious sort that wouldn’t go down well. But why did she marry him in the first place?’

‘It’s a puzzle,’ said Ben. ‘And I expect Ian will get to the bottom of it. Meanwhile, we have to keep quiet about the whole thing.’

‘I wonder if he’ll come with Susannah tomorrow,’ said Libby. ‘I think, in case, we’d better tell Susannah she isn’t needed until eight thirty, then we’ll have a chance to tell everyone to keep mum.’

Libby spent Thursday envisaging ever more unlikely scenarios concerning David Fletcher and Martha, whom she still couldn’t think of as Cornelia, so that by the time the company were assembled at the theatre in the evening she had built him into a comic-book villain in her head.

‘This is just a piece of advice I’ve been asked to pass on by the police investigating Dominic’s murder,’ Peter began, as they all settled into seats in the auditorium. ‘No one is to mention anything about the attack on Martha, or even mention her name to anybody outside the company, and that, unfortunately, includes our new MD, Susannah, and her drummer, David. This is because the police are keeping details of her attack under wraps for the usual reasons.’

‘So if anyone knows about the facts, it means they probably did it?’ suggested someone at the back. ‘That’s what they do on TV.’

‘Something like that, I guess,’ said Peter. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that none of us are suspects –’ general laughter ‘– but we must all take this very seriously. Speak to no one about it, and particularly if someone starts asking questions.’

‘Sometimes it could just be morbid curiosity,’ said Libby, ‘like slowing down at the scene of an accident, but you never know.’

‘It’s like the war, isn’t it?’ said someone else. ‘Be like Dad – keep Mum!’

‘Walls have ears,’ said Ben. ‘And now, let’s get on with blocking the Bells number.’

When Susannah and David arrived, Libby couldn’t help staring at David, and noticed that several members of the company were doing the same. She caught as many eyes as she could and scowled mightily at them.

The Bells scene was finally set quite twenty minutes after Susannah had arrived, when Libby asked her to play it for them and see if the movements all worked to music.

‘I see why you asked us to come late,’ she said to Libby, as they made their way to the foyer for coffee in the break. ‘All that setting – don’t you get bored?’

‘Yes, but it must be the same for you,’ said Libby. ‘All that rehearsing and practising.’

‘But I’m not normally an accompanist, so I don’t have to fit in with anyone else unless it’s a band or an orchestra. And to be fair, the bands I play with are so well rehearsed and have worked together so often, they hardly need to rehearse. In fact, I frequently have the music emailed to me, possibly with a recording, and learn it before I get to the gig. Then we go through it at the sound check.’

‘Is that all?’ said Libby, awed.

Susannah laughed. ‘You’ll find a lot of vocalists do it that way, too. Especially those that work in a specific genre.’

‘Well, I never knew,’ said Libby. ‘I was in provincial rep when there was such a thing, so I never came across it.’

‘David’s the same,’ said Susannah, putting her money into the coffee machine. ‘I know people don’t think drummers need to read music, but they do. And David’s a classical percussionist, among other things.’

‘Blimey.’ Libby allowed her gaze to travel to David who was deep in conversation with Peter. Safe there, she thought. ‘So what’s he down here doing a free gig for us for?’

‘I’m not actually sure,’ said Susannah. ‘I told you, I don’t know what his connection to the area is, but there obviously is one or he wouldn’t be here.’

‘He might have just fancied Nethergate for a holiday,’ said Libby. ‘Some people do.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Susannah frowned. ‘He told me he had to be in the area for some time. What he’s doing about work I’ve no idea.’

‘How did you know he was here?’

‘Oh, he rang me. Told me what I’ve just told you, and said he didn’t know the area and was there anything I could tell him about it. Which struck me as a bit odd, but then I mentioned that I was doing your show and he immediately said did I want a drummer.’

‘Didn’t you think that was odd, too?’

‘A bit. But then, musicians
are
odd. They tend not to live conventional lives, or even if they do, they don’t have conventional hours.’

‘Must be difficult with a child, then.’

‘It is, but now Emlyn’s moved back in with me things are a lot easier.’

So, thought Libby, as she strolled towards David and Peter, he did invite himself in. Very suspicious.

Peter barely acknowledged her presence and carried on speaking:

‘… and with the advent of the internet and social media dissipating news faster than we can get it out there, there are worries that we’re going to become completely redundant.’

David was looking a little glazed.

‘Can I get you off your hobby horse, Pete, so we can start again?’ Libby smiled at David and put her arm through Peter’s, guiding him away.

‘Well done,’ she whispered. ‘Was he asking?’

‘He was trying,’ muttered Peter. ‘Tell you later.’

No one wanted to go to the pub that evening, so Peter, Ben and Libby settled for a drink in the foyer bar. Libby told them what Susannah had told her.

‘Well, he was definitely trying to get something out of me,’ said Peter. ‘Although if we hadn’t been warned about it I probably wouldn’t have noticed.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Ben.

‘Started off by saying weren’t we the company who’d performed in the old Monastery when that person got murdered. Now, that’s just the kind of thing all sorts of people have said over the last few weeks, and quite normal, but, as I said, once you’ve been warned …’

‘So what did you say?’ said Libby.

‘Just yes, it was awful, and I hoped the police would catch the killer.’

‘What then?’

‘He said wasn’t someone else attacked and I said I didn’t know much about it, we weren’t actually there and our production had finished. I think that surprised him.’

‘You made it sound as though we’d gone for good?’ said Ben. ‘Excellent.’

‘If he took it that way, I can’t help it!’ said Peter, with a grin.

‘So did he ask anything else?’ said Libby.

‘No, he just said wasn’t it awful something like that should happen in a Monastery of all places, and I managed to turn the conversation into –’

‘A rant on the current state of the publishing industry,’ Libby finished for him. ‘It was brilliant.’

‘Did you think to call Jane and Terry and warn them?’ asked Ben.

‘Bugger, no I didn’t, said Libby. ‘I’ll pop down there tomorrow. Easier than over the phone.’

‘That’s just an excuse to go and have an ice cream on the Harbour wall with Fran,’ said Peter.

Libby grinned. ‘Might even see if the
Sparkler
or the
Dolphin
are going out and have a trip round the bay.’

‘All right for some,’ said Peter with a theatrical sigh.

‘You could come too, if you wanted. You choose your own hours.’

‘Not at the moment. There are too many things going on in the world,’ said Peter. ‘I need to be in close touch.’

‘They’re not going to start sending you off to war zones again, are they?’ asked Ben, looking worried. ‘I thought you’d given all that up.’

‘I have. But there are other sorts of crises, as you well know. And the public can’t always rely on the social networking sites.’

‘I still rely on the BBC,’ said Libby, ‘although even they get things wrong sometimes.’

Libby drove down to Nethergate the following morning and parked as near as she could to Peel House. After knocking on the front door for a few moments, she heard the door to the basement flat open.

‘Is that you, Mrs Sarjeant?’

Jane’s mother was peering up at her, holding Imogen by the hand.

‘Hello, Mrs Maurice. Yes, it’s me. Is Jane at work?’

‘Yes, she had to go in this morning. She’ll be back just after one.’

‘Fine, I’ll pop back. Will you tell her?’

Mrs Maurice said she would, and Libby crossed the road to look down on Victoria Place and its beautifully planted, regimented flower beds. She decided it would be rather nice to sit there on one of the benches and gaze at the sea.

She wandered down, found an empty bench and sat down, breathing in an invigorating dose of ozone.

‘Hello,’ said a voice. ‘Fancy finding you here.’

And David Fletcher sat down beside her.