Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series) (2 page)

A
part from a little desultory internet research on reliquaries, St Eldreda and auction houses, none of which revealed anything of great use, Libby did nothing much on Thursday. She was working on a series of small paintings for Guy Wolfe’s gallery-cum-gift shop, most of which she had done before, but visitors seemed to love them. Nethergate was a very old-fashioned British seaside resort that had changed little since the nineteen fifties, and many of the tourists it attracted preferred genuine paintings of the area to more normal holiday mementoes.

But on Friday Peter phoned.

‘I’ve got the go-ahead,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘Murder in the Monastery.’

‘What?’

‘The play. In the Abbey ruins.’

‘Oh!’ Libby sat down on the stairs. ‘You really meant it?’

‘Oh, yes. I could do with having a chat about it, if you’re free.’

‘What, now?’

‘Harry’s open for lunch. I’ll treat you, if you like. How can you refuse?’

‘In that case, I shall go and put a face on,’ said Libby, standing up.

Fifteen minutes later she joined Peter at the big pine table in one of the windows of The Pink Geranium. In front of him he had a notebook, a laptop and an open bottle of red wine.

‘I shouldn’t drink at lunchtime,’ said Libby, eyeing the bottle.

‘Yes, you should, dear heart.’ Peter poured her a glass. ‘Cheers. Here’s to the new project.’

Libby drank obediently. ‘Go on then, tell me all about it.’

‘St Eldreda was granted land to build a monastery, and it is the remains of that you can still see. At least, some of it. Some of it was rebuilt after the Norman Conquest.’

‘Thus Murder in the Monastery. So how did you get permission? Did Patti ask her mate?’

‘No, I did. I called yesterday and spoke to the lady. She asked me to put a proposal into an email for her, which I did, and she called me this morning and said it had been approved, as long as they get to see the script before it’s performed.’

‘That was quick.’

‘It just happened that the timing was right. It’s the thirteen hundredth anniversary of Eldreda’s death in 712 so they felt it was appropriate.’

‘But what’s it going to be about? She wasn’t murdered, was she?’

‘There actually was a suggestion that she was. And then the chapel burnt down –’

‘Patti mentioned that.’

‘And it was thought to be a deliberate act to destroy the relics.’

‘Good job they were moved, then. So who dunnit?’

‘That was never proved. I’ve undertaken to provide some alternative theories for the sisters and they can decide which is most –’ Peter frowned and drummed his fingers on the table.

‘Seemly?’ suggested Libby. ‘Well. It all sounds terribly complicated. What about the reliquary?’

‘That will come into it. I may even be able to work it that Eldreda’s Welsh family had something to do with the burning of the chapel in order to steal the relics.’

‘You can’t malign people like that!’ Libby was shocked. ‘You’ll have to invent someone.’

‘That’s why I’ve got to put it before the sisters, in case I’ve stepped on someone’s toes.’ Peter grinned and lifted his wine glass.

Harry appeared with two plates of soup.

‘No Donna?’ asked Libby.

Harry pulled a face. ‘She’s gone part-time.’

‘Well, she is seven months pregnant,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t suppose the standing does her much good.’

‘She’s doing the books and admin at home though,’ said Peter. ‘Just as you suggested.’

‘So all you need is a new waitress? Shouldn’t be too difficult. Have you still got that lad you bullied?’

‘He bullies them all. Likes to pretend he’s a chef off the telly,’ said Peter.

‘Jacob?’ said Harry. ‘Yes, but he’s part-time, too, and can’t work during the week. He’s good at prepping in the kitchen at weekends, though. I think he prefers that.’

‘He used to look terrified out here,’ said Libby. ‘Poor child.’

‘So,’ she continued, when Harry had gone back to the kitchen, ‘what did you want my help on?’

Peter looked surprised. ‘Well, everything. The script, the characters, the story …’

‘Oh.’ Libby looked alarmed. ‘But I don’t want to get into research. I’m supposed to be looking into this reliquary thingy.’

‘But that will help, won’t it?’ said Peter. ‘Can’t you get in touch with the sale rooms and ask if you can see it, and if they have any information on its background for the play in the actual place it came from? I bet they’d let you see it, and they might part with a bit more info than they would to the nuns.’

‘Maybe …’ Libby thought for a moment, sipping her soup. ‘Perhaps I could. I’ll have to ask Patti which sale rooms it is. What else?’

‘I don’t know whether to use St Eldreda as a character or if the sisters would see that as – oh, I don’t know – blasphemous in some way.’

‘You could set it immediately after her death and concentrate on the investigation,’ suggested Libby.

‘That’s what I thought. So it becomes a proper murder mystery.’

Libby looked at him sharply. ‘Don’t forget what happened last time you recreated a real-life murder.’

‘I know, I know, but the murder wasn’t even connected in the end, was it?’

‘Everybody connects the two,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, go on.’

When they’d finished their soup, Harry brought them cheese and joined them while they thrashed out a few more points on the story.

‘When do you want to perform it?’ he asked.

‘It will have to be in the summer because of the weather,’ said Peter.

‘That doesn’t give you long, it’s April now,’ said Libby. ‘You’ve got to write it, get it passed by the sisters, cast and rehearse it.’

‘Three months if we aim for July,’ said Peter. ‘Should be able to do it.’

‘After all,’ said Harry, standing up, ‘it only took God a week to create the world.’

Peter frowned at his departing back. ‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit him.’

‘It’s true, though, Pete. And think of all the early medieval research you’re going to have to do.’ Libby shook her head. ‘If you want to do it, why don’t you find an easier subject?’

‘I can’t write about Murder in the Monastery unless there is one, can I?’ said Peter reasonably.

‘What about the current problem? Or something in the more recent history?’

Peter sighed. ‘I’ll ask Sister Catherine. I’m going to see her to get some background tomorrow. They have a sort of open house between eleven and twelve.’

‘In that case,’ said Libby, ‘I shall wait until you report back before doing anything further.’

It wasn’t until quite late on Saturday afternoon that Peter sent Libby a text.

‘On my way home. Can I call in?’

He knocked on the door ten minutes later bearing a large folder.

‘Lots of info,’ he said, ‘and very interesting.’

‘Do you want tea?’ asked Libby. ‘The kettle’s on and Ben will be back in a minute.’

‘I’d love a cup. I had a very small cup of coffee when I first arrived at the Abbey and that was it.’

‘Have you been there all this time?’ Libby’s eyebrows shot up.

‘Not quite.’ Peter threw himself languidly on to the cane sofa, which creaked alarmingly. ‘But I was there for a good time. They let me look through some of their books. Fascinating. Especially the story of the re-establishment of the order.’

‘Oh?’

‘Go and make that tea, dear trout, and I’ll tell you.’

Libby made the tea, brought it back into the sitting room and turfed Sidney out of the armchair.

‘Tell all,’ she said.

‘Well,’ said Peter, sitting upright and sipping his tea, ‘in the first place the auction site that the reliquary was found on isn’t quite that. It’s a specialist antiquities dealer’s website. I’m sorry to say I didn’t even know such things existed. I thought items such as Anglo-Saxon brooches and Viking swords would be Crown property.’

‘No,’ said Libby, with a wealth of knowledge derived from watching archaeology programmes on television, ‘sometimes an item found on someone’s land is returned to him and he can sell it. Although I’d be surprised in this instance. All items like that must be reported to the coroner within fourteen days and he decides if it’s officially treasure which can then be claimed by the Crown. There’s something about percentages of gold and silver and age, but I don’t know the exact details.’

‘Well, this website states quite categorically that it has authenticated the reliquary and has the provenance. Apparently it was in the hands of a private collector from the eighteenth or nineteenth century.’

‘But it won’t say who?’

‘They wouldn’t be able answer any questions, would they?’

‘No, but who was the collection left to?’

‘The person selling the reliquary, I suppose.’ Peter sighed. ‘Now listen, before you get any more hot under the collar about that, I must tell you about the re-establishment of the order, which you suggested I should find out about.’

‘And?’

‘Patti told you that the buildings had gone into private ownership, didn’t she?’

Libby nodded.

‘Apparently, the last private owner wanted to sell, but was having trouble. A local vicar suggested that, as it had been a monastic organisation, it should be offered to English monastic houses. As it happened, this community of Anglican Benedictine sisters had been living in rather cramped quarters somewhere else, and with all sorts of outside financial help, managed to buy it. I believe there was a substantial legacy from one particular woman, but I can’t remember who, exactly.’

‘So they aren’t really anything to do with the original St Eldreda?’ said Libby.

‘Nothing at all. And they don’t necessarily want the reliquary back, they just want to know where it’s been.’

‘Oh, so a bit of a damp squib, then?’ said Libby, putting down her mug.

‘Not really. They still use her name, and, as I told you, they’re celebrating her anniversary this year. But,’ Peter grinned wickedly, ‘that isn’t the best bit.’

Libby sighed. ‘Go on. What is it?’

‘There really was a Murder In The Monastery.’

‘
T
here was? Who? St Eldreda?’

‘No, no, much more recent. At the time of re-establishing the monastery, the reliquary turned up.’

‘What!’

‘This is one of the main reasons they want to find out who’s selling it now.’

‘But why didn’t Patti tell me all this in the first place?’ said Libby.

‘She didn’t know all of it. Apparently, Sister Catherine simply told her about the reliquary turning up on the website. Patti looked up the story of the original relic herself.’

‘So did Sister Catherine know Patti had asked me to look into it?’

‘Oh, yes. It was then she told me the story.’ Peter finished his tea and peered into the mug hopefully. ‘Any more?’

Libby sighed. ‘Lucky I keep the kettle on the simmer!’ She took the mug and returned in a few moments with a fresh one. ‘Now, go on, tell me the story.’

‘Well.’ Peter settled back into the corner of the sofa and Sidney jumped on his lap. ‘It was at the time the order bought the Abbey and the farmhouse, back in the seventies.’

‘It was that recent?’

‘Yes. I was surprised, too. There are a couple of nuns still there from that time, but most have joined more recently. After the order had been offered the Abbey, they had to raise enough money to buy it. They sold their previous home quite easily, but had to find the shortfall quickly. It was then that they were offered the Tredega Relic.’

‘Really?’ Libby frowned. ‘Who by?’

‘An anonymous donor, who suggested they sell it to raise funds.’

‘How extraordinary! What happened?’

‘Their solicitor began to look into it, and eventually the potential donor suggested he bring it to show them to prove its existence. He had already sent photographs.’

‘He?’

Peter nodded. ‘The day before the meeting had been set up with the solicitor and the Mother Abbess, the body of a man was discovered in the ruins of the Monastery. He had on him the correspondence between himself and the community, but no relic or reliquary.’

‘Blimey.’ Libby was wide-eyed. ‘So was he identified as the man who’d written the letters?’

‘Yes, by his wife, who knew nothing about it.’

‘But why,’ said Libby, still frowning, ‘had he offered them the relic? And how had he come by it?’

Peter shrugged. ‘No one knows. The police investigated at the time, but didn’t find anything. The sisters weren’t informed of any progress, and of course, things were very different back then.’

Libby was silent for a moment. ‘How did they raise the money in the end?’

‘A couple of gifts and, finally, a legacy from a nun who died. Of course, they tried to find out from the police why the man had been in the ruins of the Monastery when he died.’

‘And did they? Or how he died?’

‘Sister Catherine doesn’t know.’ Peter grinned. ‘And she’s just as curious as you are!’

‘So that’s why she let Patti mention it to me?’

‘Yes. I don’t think they want the relic – after all, it belongs to a different order and a different era, but it’s connected to their building and their name.’

‘Right.’ Libby leant back in her chair and looked at the ceiling. ‘So we need to know all the details of the offer of the relic in the seventies. How would we do that?’

‘Sister Catherine says she’s already tried to find out on the internet and found a list of unsolved murders from the seventies to see if she could find the name of the man, but it wasn’t very conclusive. She also said she didn’t have unlimited access to the internet, either.’

‘I don’t suppose she has. So did she find a name?’

‘As far as she could make out, it was Bernard Evans. She hasn’t gone any further.’

‘So now it’s up to me, eh?’ Libby sat up straight and grinned. ‘Well, this makes it a slightly more interesting project. And will you write your play about this murder?’

‘No, about the early medieval period. And they will let us do it in the Monastery ruins. They aren’t at all precious about it, and I was right, they have staged Murder in the Cathedral there. The whole place was deconsecrated when it went into private hands, so they’re quite cheerful about it all. They have music concerts there, too.’

‘You know, the police should have been informed about this antiquities website,’ said Libby. ‘It’s probably enough to make them re-open the case.’

‘That’s a thought.’ Peter quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘Going to phone Ian and tell him?’

‘I might. I could also invite him to dinner.’

‘He’d smell a rat,’ said Peter.

Chief Detective Inspector Ian Connell had tolerated Libby’s so-called help in several of his cases, not least because Fran Wolfe, Libby’s best friend, was a reluctant psychic, whose “moments” had been instrumental in significant breakthroughs. He had, at one time, been rather romantically interested in Fran, but despite her choice of artist Guy Wolfe as a husband, he had remained a friend to both of them.

‘I’ll just give him a ring, then. Ask him who would be the right person to contact.’

‘Cold Case squad, I expect,’ said Peter. ‘Which will mean it won’t be Ian getting involved.’

‘True. Still, they should be informed, shouldn’t they?’

‘Certainly.’ Peter grinned. ‘Go on, then. Ring him.’

Libby squinted at the screen of her mobile and found Ian’s private number. To her surprise, he answered.

‘Is this a social call?’ he asked.

‘Well, not exactly,’ said Libby, and heard him sigh.

‘Go on. What is it?’

‘Who would I tell if I had information that related to a crime committed in the 1970s?’

There was a momentary pause, and Ian spoke in a completely different tone.

‘What information on what crime?’

‘The murder of – we think – a Bernard Evans in St Eldreda’s Monastery. Or Abbey, as it is now.’

‘And what,’ asked Ian cautiously, ‘is this information?’

Libby explained about the reliquary.

‘And you just happened to come across this?’ Ian was now definitely suspicious.

‘No, Sister Catherine at the Abbey asked me to see if I could find out who was selling the reliquary. She’d asked the antiquities dealer, who wouldn’t tell her.’

‘Why on earth would a nun ask you –’ Ian paused. ‘Miss Pierce.’

‘Pearson,’ corrected Libby. ‘Yes, she was at college with Sister Catherine.’

‘But aren’t nuns Roman Catholic?’

‘I thought that, too, but apparently not. These are Anglican Benedictines. So what do we do?’

Ian sighed. ‘I’d better speak to Sister Catherine and then get on to the dealer. They’ll tell me who the seller is, believe me.’

‘You? Wouldn’t it be the cold case unit?’

‘It’s been reported to me, hasn’t it? Let’s just see what happens.’

‘There.’ Libby sat back and switched off the phone. ‘Now we just sit back and let Ian do his stuff.’

‘And you’ve lost yourself a nice little mystery,’ said Peter, standing up. ‘I’d better get back and make a start on this while everything’s fresh in my mind. Can I send you a rough outline when I’ve done it?’

‘OK,’ said Libby. ‘It’ll give me something to do.’

When Peter had gone, she called Patti to tell her.

‘So it look as though I won’t be doing a thing. Ian will find out who the seller is as it relates to an old murder, and that will be that.’

‘Oh, pity. It would have been interesting for you.’

‘Kept me out of mischief, you mean,’ giggled Libby. ‘Actually, Peter’s got permission from your Sister Catherine to perform his play in the Monastery ruins, so helping him with it over the next few months will do that.’

‘Excellent. How did he find her?’

‘Do you know,’ said Libby in surprise, ‘I didn’t ask him. And he didn’t say, but they obviously got on all right.’

‘You’ll have to meet her soon,’ said Patti. ‘She was very interested in our little mystery from last year.’

‘How morbid of her.’

‘Oh, come on, Libby. That’s rather pot and kettle isn’t it? She doesn’t get much excitement.’

‘I suppose so. Anyway, I’m bound to meet her once Pete starts rehearsing over there. I expect we’ll do the first part in the theatre. We’ve only got a few one-nighters until the June production.’

Libby relayed the news to Ben when he arrived home.

‘That’s a pity,’ he said, waving a bottle of gin at her. ‘I thought that was going to be a nice quiet little mystery where you wouldn’t get into any trouble.’

‘That’s what Patti said. Sorry to disappoint you all.’

Ben grinned and handed her a gin and tonic. ‘I expect something will come along.’

Sunday was something of a ritual. Ben’s mother Hetty, who lived at his family home, the Manor, cooked an enormous roast dinner and expected anyone who was around to come and help eat it. Libby, Ben and Peter were always there, Harry if the restaurant wasn’t opening on a Sunday lunchtime, which, in April, it wasn’t, Peter’s younger brother James, sometimes with a girlfriend, more often without, Hetty’s brother Lenny and his partner, Hetty’s best friend Flo Carpenter, and occasionally, Fran and Guy Wolfe. This Sunday they were all there, and Hetty looked round the long kitchen table with satisfaction.

‘Beef and Yorkshire today,’ she said. ‘Pop down and get the good claret, Ben.’

Hetty and Flo shared a palate for and knowledge of good wines, learnt from their respective late husbands, which put their younger friends and relatives to shame. Under the influence of the good claret, the conversation turned to the reliquary and Peter’s play.

‘I’ve already done a working synopsis which I’ve emailed to Sister Catherine,’ he said.

‘You can email nuns?’ Hetty’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘Yes, Auntie,’ said Peter, using a title she hated. ‘They’ve all been dragged into the 21st century by their habits.’

‘So how long will it take you to write, once the nuns approve it?’ asked Libby.

‘I thought I might do a slightly more detailed synopsis of each scene, cast it and use an improvisation technique.’

Everyone looked at him in astonishment.

‘Aren’t we a bit traditional for that?’ asked Ben. ‘And won’t it be a bit difficult to improvise in early medieval English?’

‘Old English is actually more or less Scandinavian,’ said Peter.

‘Anglo-Saxon,’ put in Harry.

‘Clever.’ Peter gave him an amused smile. ‘Anyway, no one would be able to understand it, and we might as well use modern language, avoiding any slang and sticking, as far as we can, with the proprieties of the era.’

Lenny was looking puzzled. ‘Come again?’

Peter fell into a long explanation which appeared to baffle his uncle further.

‘Will you audition?’ Fran asked Libby, helping herself to more roast potatoes.

‘I expect so. There must be a Mother Abbess or something. Would you like to have a go?’

Fran looked across at her husband. ‘What do you think, Guy? I haven’t done it for years.’

Fran, like Libby, had been a professional actor at one time, and had, in fact, performed at The Oast House Theatre in pantomime a few years ago.

‘Long way to go for rehearsals,’ said Guy, ‘but it would be an experience, wouldn’t it?’

‘You wouldn’t mind?’ Fran looked doubtful.

Guy exchanged looks with Ben and they laughed.

‘I’d mind far less than I mind you getting mixed up in murders,’ said Guy.

‘Oh, well, I might then.’ Fran grinned at Libby. ‘It might be fun.’

‘Both of you?’ Peter returned to the main conversation. ‘What about you, Ben?’

‘Are there any men?’

‘Of course. The monks who took the reliquary to Wales and those that took the other relics to Canterbury.’

‘Well, maybe.’

‘Your lead actor Mr Butcher will want to be in it,’ said Harry.

‘Dominic? Yes, I suppose he will,’ said Peter gloomily. ‘The trouble is, if it’s going to be based on improv he’ll go on and on for ever.’

‘Make him a Trappist,’ suggested Harry.

‘You watch out there isn’t a real murder in the Monastery, then,’ said Flo. ‘He’s an annoying bugger.’ She lifted her glass. ‘’Ere’s to success then. Make sure we got somewhere dry to sit.’