Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series) (21 page)

‘
S
he’s
what
?’ Libby sat down with a bump. ‘Good God!’

‘You remember I told you Albert and May had three children?’

‘Yes, and Estelle is their great-granddaughter, from their son – er –’

‘Robert. That’s right. And last time I told you about Jessica and Edgar?’

‘Yes?’

‘Albert and May’s third child was Caroline, who had a daughter Jean who was Cornelia’s mother.’

‘So Uncle Edgar is hers, too,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think she knows?’

‘That would be first cousin once removed Edgar,’ said Andrew. ‘I wonder if either Mrs Fletcher or Mrs Butcher know? It’s not the sort of thing you brag about, is it?’

‘Ian and I were talking about it – lord, only yesterday morning – and speculating that Estelle knew. It’s just as likely that Cornelia did, too.’

‘Well, Cornelia’s family were a different kettle of fish from Jessica’s and Robert’s. Her grandmother Caroline was the eldest of the Glover children, and she had friends among the solid middle classes of children who grew up between the wars. She was taken under the wing of another girl’s family, and met and married a young man who, while not exactly aristocracy, was certainly upper middle class. Sadly he died in the war, and never saw Jean, Cornelia’s mother, but Caroline and Jean were taken to live with his parents and were very comfortable.’

‘So it’s unlikely she ever knew Uncle Edgar?’

‘She might not even have heard of him, but it’s hard to believe that when you look at the circumstances.’

‘I suppose it could just be coincidence,’ said Libby, doubtfully.

‘That she was attacked in front of the reliquary that it’s almost certain her relative murdered for and stole?’ said Andrew.

‘So what about her husband?’ asked Libby after a moment.

‘Nothing. Middle class parents, grammar school, music degree and postgraduate diploma. All I can see is the bare facts, I know nothing about how he met his wife, nor when they separated, but apparently they aren’t divorced.’

‘I knew that,’ said Libby.

‘You did?’ Andrew sounded startled.

‘Yes, when I was talking to Martha – Cornelia – before all this began. She said before she joined the Abbey she’d been married and still was.’

‘Well, it strikes me that there must be a connection,’ said Andrew. ‘I wonder if the cousins knew each other?’

‘I wonder,’ said Libby. ‘Was Robert Glover’s family well off? Middle-class?’

‘Fairly ordinary, I think, but there’s no way I can find out if they kept in touch with Caroline’s family. As far as I can tell, they didn’t live near each other.’

‘Oh, dear, isn’t this frustrating?’ said Libby. ‘Do you think Ian will challenge Martha with this?’

‘You know him better than I do,’ said Andrew, ‘but he’d be foolish not to, wouldn’t he?’

‘He would,’ said Libby, ‘but he keeps saying she mustn’t be worried.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder why.’

‘Because she had a bad knock on the head?’

‘Well, so has Ben, but he doesn’t seem too worried about that,’ said Libby.

‘What? You didn’t tell me that!’

‘I didn’t get a chance,’ said Libby. ‘That’s what Fran and I were talking about on the phone when you tried to get through.’ She explained about last night’s events, including the possibility that Estelle was the perpetrator and the illegal occupier of the Hoppers’ Hut.

‘It does seem as though she might be dangerous,’ said Andrew. ‘And what’s she after, do you think?’

‘We did wonder if she thought the reliquary had been stolen, because it was never reported that it wasn’t,’ said Libby. ‘She might be looking for it.’

‘In your Hoppers’ Huts?’ said Andrew incredulously.

‘Well, no, but in Dominic’s house.’

‘She knows he’s dead and he died in the monastery,’ said Andrew. ‘He couldn’t have got the reliquary out, could he?’

‘No.’ Libby sighed. ‘Oh, I give up.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Andrew. ‘I’ll let you know if I find out anything else, or if DCI Connell gets in touch.’

Libby immediately called Fran and reported the conversation.

‘What do you think?’ she finished. ‘Do you think Martha’s involved?’

‘With what? She was one of the victims,’ said Fran.

‘Well, of course she’s involved to that extent,’ said Libby. ‘But she’s actually a Beaumont/Tollybar descendant and cousin-in-law to the main victim. There’s got to be a connection.’

‘She never showed any sign of knowing Dominic, or he her,’ said Fran, ‘although I suppose they didn’t come into contact much.’

‘If the families had lost touch she probably wouldn’t know who he was,’ said Libby, ‘and from what Andrew says, it’s quite likely they didn’t even know of each other’s existence – Martha and Estelle, I mean.’

‘Meanwhile, what do you suppose Ian will do about this?’ said Fran. ‘Will he talk to Martha?’

‘I don’t think he can avoid it,’ said Libby. ‘I wonder if the Abbey would let me in to talk to her?’

‘Libby! Of course you can’t! What were you thinking of doing? Questioning her before Ian could get to her?’

‘Well …’

‘Don’t be silly. If there’s anything Ian wants us to know he’ll tell us.’

Libby went into the kitchen and took her frustration out on leeks and potatoes for soup, and swore when the phone rang again.

‘I’m bringin’ a stew down for yer dinner, later,’ said the laconic voice of Hetty. ‘Save cookin’.’

Feeling ashamed, Libby put the vegetables in a stock pot and trailed up the stairs to see how Ben was. She found him staring out of the window, a frown on his face.

‘You’re supposed to be sleeping,’ she said sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘I can’t,’ said Ben. ‘I keep thinking about the bloody case.’

‘Well, before I bring you some soup – do you want soup? – I shall fill you in on the latest,’ said Libby.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Ben, when she’d finished. ‘So what happens next?’

‘No idea,’ said Libby. ‘Fran and Andrew and I all think Ian will go and question Martha. She might know nothing about Estelle and Dominic.’

‘Isn’t that unlikely? A bit too much of a coincidence.’

‘I suppose so. I want to talk to David.’

‘Ian said you mustn’t.’

‘I know,’ sighed Libby. ‘It’s so frustrating. I’m desperate to know who attacked you.’

‘Funnily enough, so am I,’ said Ben. ‘What about that soup?’

Ben did fall asleep after lunch, and when Hetty turned up with her stew, she offered to sit and watch Libby’s television instead of her own, allowing Libby to go out.

She wasn’t sure where she wanted go, but back up the track on to the estate land seemed a good idea. The sky was grey again, so the old anorak and trainers were once more pressed into use, but this time Sidney declined to accompany her, as there was a new lap to sit on.

Despite the grey sky, the birds were still singing. Libby’s favourite blackbird called to her as she left the house and from deep in the woods a variety of birdsong assured her that it
was
summer, even if it didn’t look like it. She retraced her steps from the previous day, which now seemed like weeks ago and eventually came up to the Hoppers’ Huts.

The blue–and-white police tape fluttered across the door, and all was still. Libby walked round behind the huts and peered at the ground. No sign of a vehicle, but then she would have seen that yesterday, if there had been one. There were plenty of tyre tracks in front of the huts from the police vehicles and Ben’s car.

Libby carried on across the field until she came in sight of the yard where Ben kept his tractor and tools. It wasn’t secured in any way, even though Ian had told him in the past about the many farm thefts the force had to deal with each year.

This afternoon it looked much as it always did. Libby wandered in to have a look at the tools but couldn’t have guessed if any had been moved or if there were any missing. She looked up at the gallery, once a hayloft, and wondered if Estelle had hidden up there during the rest of yesterday until she came out for her attempt on the theatre. The rusty ladder didn’t look as if it had been used, but Libby doubted she knew what to look for.

Anyway, she told herself as she left the yard, perhaps it wasn’t Estelle. But if it wasn’t, who else would be hiding in the hut? A random thief? A prisoner on the run? She wandered along the track towards the bridge, and finally on to the track that eventually led to the Manor and the theatre, remembering the first time Peter had brought her to look at the huts before they’d been renovated. It was always Peter or Harry forcing her into long and uncomfortable walks, she thought, grinning to herself, although her fitness levels had increased since living in the village.

Finally gaining the drive, and with no more idea of what had gone on yesterday than she had before her walk, she carried on into the high street and went into Nella’s farm shop to buy Ben grapes.

‘Are they for Ben?’ asked Nella, putting them into a paper bag. ‘How is he?’

‘Everyone seems to know,’ said Libby. ‘He’s fine, just a bit sore. His mum’s sitting with him at the moment, but he’ll be up and about tomorrow, I bet.’

‘Give him our best,’ said Nella. ‘Awful thing to have happened.’

This was repeated all along the high street; Ali and Ahmed came out of the eight-til-late and Bob came out of his butcher’s shop. By the time Libby reached number 17 she was glad to sit down and stop talking. Hetty made tea, took a cup up to Ben, and announced his intention of coming down for dinner.

‘I hope he’s all right to do that,’ said Libby, ‘although he seemed fine earlier.’

‘He’s good as gold,’ said Hetty. ‘Hard old head.’

Libby smiled affectionately at her mother-in-law-elect. ‘Good genes,’ she said.

Ben appeared half an hour later, showered and dressed, and looking, except for the dressing on his head, perfectly normal.

‘It occurred to me,’ he said, sitting on the sofa next to Libby, ‘that no one checked inside the theatre last night, did they?’

‘Yes,’ said Hetty. ‘Peter and Harry did, after you’d gone. With those policemen.’

‘Ah. No one inside, then.’

‘Well, of course not,’ said Libby. ‘You scared whoever it was off.’

‘You don’t think she was hiding inside and was just breaking out, realising she’d been locked in?’

Libby and Hetty looked incredulous.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Libby asked.

‘I was just thinking what a stupid place it was to try and hide out, that’s all,’ said Ben. ‘If that’s what it was. After all, there’s nothing to steal in the theatre, is there?’

‘Our tech equipment and lights,’ said Libby, ‘but that would need a van to take it away. No, I don’t think the theatre was being burgled.’

‘No.’ Ben sighed.

‘I went and had a look at the yard this afternoon,’ said Libby. ‘I couldn’t tell if anything was missing.’

‘Did the police look at it?’

‘Fran reckoned the police would have been all over the grounds this morning.’

‘They were,’ said Hetty. ‘Come and ask permission. Don’t know where they went. Left ’em to it.’

‘Just have to wait until we hear from Ian, then,’ said Libby. ‘If we ever do.’

The three of them ate Hetty’s stew sitting round the kitchen table, with Sidney perched hopefully next to the Rayburn. Ben heroically refused wine and consumed most of his bunch of grapes instead. Libby refused Hetty’s offer of help to wash up and Ben declared his aim of escorting his mother home.

‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘Supposed to rest. It’s still light, ain’t it?’

As soon as she’d left, Ben called Peter and asked him to watch out for her.

‘He told me not to be an old woman, that my mother was walking home in broad daylight in her home village in full sight of people she’d known most of her life,’ said Ben with a grin. ‘I think that bump on the head must have affected me after all!’

Libby left him on the sofa while she went to tackle the washing-up and heard the phone ring again. Ben appeared in the doorway frowning, the phone still to his ear.

‘Yes,’ he was saying, ‘but honestly, I think you’d better talk to Libby. She’s right here.’

‘David Fletcher,’ he mouthed, holding out the receiver. ‘He wants to talk about his wife.’

‘
D
avid?’

‘Yes, Libby. Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I know something’s been going on with my wife, but I can’t get anyone to talk about it. You’re all blocking me every time I try and find out.’

Libby thought for a moment. ‘If you’d been honest from the first it might have been different, but we were warned about you by the police.’

‘The police?’ David’s voice rose several notches. ‘What on earth for?’

‘To find out that a person’s estranged husband is making enquiries about her immediately after a murder and a vicious attack, seemingly under cover, is enough to make anyone suspicious,’ said Libby. ‘Have you spoken to the police now?’

‘No, of course not. They wouldn’t tell me anything the first time I asked.’

‘Well, I should, if I were you,’ said Libby, ‘because whatever you tell me I shall pass on, and it would be better coming from you.’

There was a short silence. Then:

‘All right. I’ll call them now. Do I use 999?’

‘No, I’ll give you the number to use, just hold on a moment.’ Libby reached for her mobile to look up Ian’s official number. ‘He wants to talk,’ she whispered to Ben. ‘What shall I do?’

‘Ask him here,’ said Ben, ‘and I’ll make sure Pete knows he’s coming in case of trouble.’

‘Here you are,’ said Libby into the phone, and gave David the number. ‘I expect you’ll have to leave a message. Meanwhile, if you’re not doing anything, do you want to come over here and talk about it? I can’t guarantee that we’ve got any answers, but we might have.’

‘Would you mind? I don’t seem to have endeared myself to any of you over the last couple of weeks.’

Libby sighed. ‘No. Blame our suspicious minds. But do come over. We might be able to sort a few things out. Do you know where we are?’

‘Aren’t you at the Manor?’

‘No, Ben’s mother lives there. We live at number 17, Allhallow’s Lane. Come down the hill from Nethergate, pass the Manor and theatre drive and it’s the next on the left.’

‘Half an hour, he said,’ said Libby, switching off the phone. ‘How much do we tell him?’

‘I think we’ll have to let him talk and just confirm where we can,’ said Ben. ‘I’ve called Pete.’

‘We won’t even know if he really has called Ian, either,’ said Libby, turning back to the sink.

‘Oh, I think he will have done, because he knows you will,’ said Ben. ‘And this, if I mistake not, Watson, will be our client now.’ He answered the phone. ‘Hello, Ian. We were just talking about you. Yes, we know, he’s coming here to talk to us about it. What do we say? Oh, right. Half an hour – yes, that’ll be fine. He’ll be spooked, though.’ He switched off the phone. ‘Yes, David left a message and Ian’s coming here, too.’

‘You’re right, he will be spooked. What do we say in the meantime?’

‘Play it by ear,’ said Ben with a grin. ‘As if that isn’t what you do all the time.’

By the time David knocked at the door, the washing-up was done and the big kettle was whispering to itself on the Rayburn.

‘Coffee?’ Libby offered, as he sat down in the chair opposite the sofa. ‘I thought you wouldn’t want a drink as you’ve got to drive home.’

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ David looked round. ‘Lovely cottage.’

‘Thank you,’ said Libby. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

She made coffee in a jug and put it on the tray with milk and mugs.

‘So, what is it you want to tell us?’ asked Ben, when they were settled.

‘It’s more what you can tell me,’ said David. ‘I read – or heard, I can’t now remember – that my wife, Cornelia, had been hurt in an attack at St Eldreda’s Abbey, and there was also a murder. I called the Abbey, but they wouldn’t comment, neither would the police, so I decided to come down here and find out myself. I called Susannah because we’ve worked together several times and it was pure coincidence that you’d just asked her into your show.’

‘Why did you want to find out about Cornelia?’ asked Libby.

David looked surprised. ‘Wouldn’t you? If it was your husband?’

‘But you no longer live together. She’s cut all ties, she told me so herself.’

‘So you do know her!’ said David in triumph.

‘Yes, I do, but as I said, she told me you’d cut all ties.’

‘She did. Nothing to do with me. I wasn’t surprised to hear that the attack had been in an Abbey, though.’

‘Oh? Why?’ said Ben.

‘One of the reasons for the split. She had become more and more – well, religious, I suppose. And St Eldreda’s, of all places. I knew there must be something up.’

Libby and Ben looked at each other.

‘Because?’ asked Libby.

‘Oh, something to do with her ancestors. There was a casket, or something.’

Libby sighed. ‘Yes, we know all about that. Didn’t you see it mentioned in the paper?’

‘No.’ David looked from one to the other in apparent bewilderment.

‘What did you see, then?’ said Ben.

‘That an actor who’d been performing in a play in the Monastery had been murdered and my wife had been the victim of a brutal attack.’

‘You didn’t go back to find out what the play had been about?’ said Libby.

‘No. It mentioned you, which was how I was able to track you down.’

‘Me?’ said Libby. ‘Or the Oast House Theatre?’

‘The Oast,’ said David.

There was a sharp rap on the door. Libby got up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she heard David say, ‘I didn’t ask about your head. What happened?’

‘Ian, come in.’ Libby held the door open and allowed Ian to pass her.

‘David, I don’t think you’ve met Detective Chief Inspector Connell, have you?’ said Ben.

David looked pole-axed.

‘Mr Fletcher.’ Ian pulled out one of the upright chairs and sat down.

‘Coffee?’ asked Libby. ‘I’ll fetch a mug.’

‘Look,’ David stood up. ‘I’m sorry I interrupted. I’ll –’

‘Sit down, Mr Fletcher. You obviously wanted to talk to me, so I’ve come here for you to do just that.’

David looked round at the three expectant faces and sat down again. Libby poured a mug of coffee for Ian and handed it over.

‘David has just been telling us how he came to be looking for his wife, Ian. Would you like him to repeat it?’

David gave a précis of what he’d said and when he’d finished, looked anxiously at Ian.

‘And I’m sure Mrs Sarjeant has told you she knows about your wife’s ancestry? And the links to the reliquary?’

‘The what?’

‘Come, Mr Fletcher. I’m sure you know exactly what I mean. After all, it must have come up when you were talking to Mrs Butcher last Sunday.’

David’s jaw dropped.

‘And did she stay with you?’ asked Libby. Ian frowned at her.

‘Yes, she did.’ David sighed heavily. ‘If you know about Estelle, I’d better tell you everything that happened.’

‘It would be best, sir,’ said Ian.

‘Cornelia and Estelle are cousins,’ began David.

‘We know,’ chorused Ben and Libby.

‘Is there anything you don’t know?’ snapped David.

‘Yes. Why you met Estelle,’ said Libby, equally waspish.

‘When I saw the murdered man’s name, I knew it was Estelle’s husband. I couldn’t believe it was a coincidence, I thought they must have patched up their differences and become friends again – Estelle and Cornelia, I mean.’

‘Had there been a family argument?’ asked Ian.

‘I believe the cousins had been quite close when they were children, but there was some kind of – I don’t really know – a difference of opinion. They’d kept in touch, though. Anyway, I thought I’d call Estelle.’ He fell silent.

Ian put down his mug. ‘And then?’

‘Well, she was in a state. I couldn’t quite make out what she was going on about, but she said she was down here already and they wouldn’t let her into Dom’s house. She also said she knew nothing about Cornelia being attacked.’

‘So you met her at Creekmarsh Place?’ said Ben.

‘Yes. How do you know?’

‘Sheer coincidence,’ said Libby. ‘We know the owner. We were there raiding the vegetable beds.’

‘Oh.’ David shrugged. ‘Well, we drove miles away and had a pub lunch, which Estelle spent complaining that the police and the theatre company were being obstructive, and why couldn’t she go into Dom’s house. I said all the right things about Dom, I think, although I’d never liked him. Never liked her, much, either. I said all I wanted to find out about was Cornelia, but she just wouldn’t talk about that. Anyway, I said she could stay in the cottage that night.’

‘And the next night?’ asked Ian.

‘No, but she did turn up on Tuesday. I let her use the washing machine.’

‘Ah,’ said Libby. Ian frowned at her again.

‘And the next time you saw her?’ said Ian.

‘I haven’t seen her since.’ David looked round at them all. ‘Look, what is this all about?’

‘It’s rather complicated,’ said Libby. ‘Much of it is about Cornelia’s family history.’

‘Really?’ He looked puzzled.

‘Do you really not know the history of the reliquary?’ said Ben.

‘I know it was a jewelled casket that had belonged to the family years ago and was something to do with St Eldreda.’

‘Which family?’ asked Libby.

David looked surprised. ‘The Glovers, I suppose.’

‘It’s far more complicated than that,’ said Ian. ‘Did you get any hint from Mrs Butcher that the item featured in her husband’s murder?’

‘She said she thought it had been stolen, and it was family property anyway. It didn’t seem to be her main worry, though.’

‘Oh.’ It was Libby’s turn to look surprised.

‘So you don’t know where Mrs Butcher’s been since Tuesday?’ said Ian.

‘No.’

‘Not last night, for instance?’

‘Last night? No!’

‘You didn’t go to the theatre?’

‘No!’ David looked from Ian to Libby. ‘You told Susannah I wasn’t needed last night.’

‘We did.’ Libby nodded. ‘And Estelle didn’t turn up on your doorstep last night?’

‘I’ve already said, no. And why? Why do you need to know about her last night? What’s happened.’

‘This,’ said Ben, pointing to his dressing.

‘You said –’

‘It happened at the theatre,’ said Ben. ‘It did. Someone was trying to break in and I interrupted.’

‘But why should it have been Estelle?’ asked David, now looking thoroughly confused.

Ian calmly explained how Estelle was suspected of breaking into Dominic’s house and the Hoppers’ Hut and the reasons.

‘Why haven’t you asked Cornelia about her?’ said David when Ian had finished.

‘We’ve been protecting Mrs Fletcher since the attack in case someone decided to finish the job,’ said Ian.

‘Oh, I see! That was why you wouldn’t let me near her!’

Ian inclined his head.

‘So can I see her now? Where is she?’

‘We’ve only got your word so far that all you want to do is find out how she is, Mr Fletcher, so until we find her attacker and Mr Butcher’s murderer, she’s staying just where she is.’

Libby broke the awkward silence.

‘So, did Cornelia tell you much about the family? She and Estelle weren’t first cousins, were they?’

‘No, their mothers were,’ said David. ‘They were close when the girls were born. And they both used to talk about their favourite uncle.’

‘Oh?’ said three voices.

‘Yes, Edgar. Uncle Edgar.’