Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series) (4 page)

‘
S
o what exactly was he cross about?’ asked Peter, as Ben manoeuvred the four by four out of the Manor drive the following morning.

‘He felt he should have approached the Beaumonts first – or Arts and Antiquities should.’ Libby put her feet up in the back seat and prepared for a relaxed journey.

‘I can see why he felt that. How did you talk him round?’

‘By pointing out that anyone could have found out as much as we had about old Eldreda without knowing anything about Bernard Evans’s murder. We were simply nosy researchers. He eventually conceded we might be able to find out more than he could. The Beaumonts don’t, after all, know what we’re looking for.’

‘What
you’re
looking for, you mean,’ said Peter, sending her a disapproving look over his shoulder.

‘So are you, really, whatever you say.’ She peered through the gap between Peter and Ben. ‘How long did you say this would take?’

‘About four and a half hours, according to the route planner.’ Ben eyed his satnav with disfavour. ‘And if this doesn’t take us up a farm track by mistake.’

‘I shall follow the map on this,’ said Peter, waving his smart new tablet. ‘And give you updates on the news if you should want it.’

‘No thanks,’ said Libby. ‘I have thought about a smartphone, though. It would be quite good for the old social networking.’

‘I can’t believe,’ said Ben, looking over his shoulder as he pulled on to the main Canterbury road, ‘that only a few years ago I had to help you buy your first computer. And now listen to you talking about social networking.’

‘A lot’s happened in the last few years,’ said Libby. ‘And Fran and I couldn’t possibly have carried out our investigations without the internet.’

Peter and Ben exchanged amused grins.

‘Anyway, to get back to the subject, are we allowed to tell the Beaumonts about the documents that were found?’ Peter asked.

‘Yes, I think so. After all, unless they somehow got the relic back, they’ll be as much in the dark as we are, and they ought to know that someone has misappropriated some of their documents.’

‘They probably don’t know of their existence if they haven’t noticed they’re missing,’ said Ben. ‘Oh, great. Here’s the first traffic jam.’

Including a brief stop at a motorway service station, the journey actually took five hours; they pulled up in the Maidenhaye estate car park at half past three.

Libby uncurled stiff limbs from the back of the four by four and stretched. Ben was already looking in the windows of the estate shop, sited handily in what appeared to be an old barn right next to the car park.

‘Look at that beef,’ he said. ‘And that bread.’ He turned to Peter and Libby. ‘Do you think we should have an estate shop?’

‘We wouldn’t want to take away the livings of Joe and Nella at Cattlegreen,’ said Libby, ‘or Bob at the butchers. And they have organic stuff. The only thing the village hasn’t got is a baker, and I can’t see us doing that.’

‘Hmm.’ Ben turned back to the shop. ‘Lovely range of home-made jams and pickles they’ve got, and look at their cheese counter.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Peter, ‘we’ll go in and buy everything when we leave. I shall take cheese back for Harry. Now where do we have to go?’

They discovered the entrance to the main house and explained that they were there to see the Beaumonts and didn’t want to buy the (expensive) tickets to see the house. The woman behind the desk looked dubious but lifted her telephone and pressed a button.

‘Mr Beaumont will be down in a moment,’ she said addressing a spot just behind Peter’s left shoulder.

Libby looked round for a seat, but in the large hall the only seats were behind the desk. She wandered over to a huge portrait of a typically bland-faced gentleman in eighteenth-century clothes. ‘I wonder if it was this one who lost the family fortunes?’

‘It certainly was,’ said an amused voice. Libby spun round to see that a tall man in slightly disreputable clothes had joined Peter and Ben.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Libby, going forward and holding out a hand. ‘I’m Libby Sarjeant and I always say the wrong thing.’

‘And I’m Alastair Beaumont.’ The man took her hand with a friendly smile. ‘Do come upstairs and meet my wife. We’re dying to hear your story.’

Libby, Ben and Peter followed his rather stooped figure down a corridor and through a door marked private, where they climbed a well polished staircase to another door marked private.

‘Sorry about this, but if we didn’t keep a tiny bit of the house to ourselves, we’d go mad.’ Alastair Beaumont opened the door and ushered them into a room with huge windows overlooking the park, with a view in the distance of what looked like ruins.

‘Jennifer,’ he said, ‘here are our guests.’

A short woman with greying brown hair and a bright pink cardigan came forward with an equally bright smile.

‘So good to meet you all,’ she said. ‘And we’re dying to hear all about the relic. I boiled the kettle while Alastair was downstairs fetching you, so we can all have tea.’

When they were all settled in armchairs surrounding the empty fireplace with cups of tea, Libby began the story as it had gradually unfolded to them.

‘It’s intriguing,’ said Alastair when she had finished, assisted by Peter, who told of his visit to the Abbey and the forthcoming play. ‘We knew nothing about the documents. How did your policeman know they were genuine?’

‘Actually, I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘I mean, they were authenticated by someone in the Arts and Antiquities department as being original old paper and ink – apparently they can practically tell what year the ink is from – and they have the Beaumont crest on them. Further than that, I don’t know. But I expect Chief Inspector Connell will be in touch to ask you to verify them.’

‘And these documents are where, now? Or rather, where were they found?’ asked Jennifer Beaumont.

‘They were provided by the solicitor handling the estate of a Mr Marshall, the collector who died,’ said Peter. ‘We think he bought it in all honesty. The documents would certainly make it appear legitimate.’

‘So we don’t know who sold it to him?’ Alastair Beaumont frowned at his tea cup. ‘And you say someone was murdered, too?’

‘Yes, a Bernard Evans back in the seventies, but we don’t know where it came from then. He had inherited it, we think.’

‘I wonder if he’s a distant connection of ours?’ said Jennifer Beaumont. ‘We have Evanses in the family, don’t we dear?’

Alastair laughed. ‘I should think everyone in England has Evanses somewhere in their families, Jenny.’

‘All right, I know I’m a bit dim.’ Jennifer smiled comfortably, not at all put out.

‘Well, when we’ve finished our tea we’ll go down to the muniment room and you can see what I’ve dug out so far since your phone call,’ said Alastair.

A white-painted arched door led into the muniment room, which was not, as Libby had thought, a dim and dusty dungeon, but a light room with tall windows, shelves on the walls, also white-painted, and a polished round table in the middle. Library steps stood against one set of shelves which held what appeared to be modern brown storage boxes, while against one wall stood a beautiful apothecary’s chest and an ancient telescope. More boxes could be seen through a cupboard door which stood open.

‘As you can see,’ said Alastair, ‘we’re trying to catalogue everything and make everything more accessible, especially since we’ve had the archaeologists around. And we already had these out after the discovery of the earlier monastic house.’

On the table were fragile documents in what could have been Sanskrit as far as Libby was concerned.

‘These are the letters brought back with St Eldreda’s finger after she died. Very rare. Then these,’ Alastair lifted a leather bound book which looked as though it might fall apart at a sudden breath, ‘are the reports of Brother Thomas bringing the reliquary here. We’d always wondered why he came here, but of course St Eldreda had a connection with this place, although we don’t actually know what that was.’

‘And it was quite safe here from thereon?’ asked Libby.

‘Well, actually, no, it wasn’t.’ Alastair smiled wryly. ‘It has a chequered history, and we can’t sort it all out. Before it was sold by the family after the South Sea Bubble adventure, it had gone missing twice, both times having been recovered.’

‘And how had that happened?’ asked Peter. ‘Someone stole it?’

‘Yes, both times it was a member of the family who needed money, and both times it was sent back by whoever had bought it. The members of the family by the time it was finally sold decided it brought bad luck. The people who’d sold it both came to bad ends, and it was assumed that whoever had bought it had also had bad luck and returned it, only for the family to lose almost everything in the eighteenth century.’

‘But we don’t know where it went after that?’ asked Ben. ‘No more bad luck?’

‘Not until this poor chap Bernard Evans you told me about. Someone seems to have stolen it then, yet it’s now being sold with Beaumont documentation.’ He shook his head. ‘You don’t know exactly what these papers are?’

‘No.’ Libby looked round the room. ‘What could they have been, do you think?’

‘Probably,’ said Peter, ‘the original documents of sale from the eighteenth century.’

‘But,’ said Libby, frowning, ‘that’s not possible. If the family sold it all bona fide, in 1720 whatever, whoever bought it had the documents. He either left it to someone or gave it to someone with the documents. Eventually it was left to our Bernard, and then it was stolen. But we don’t know that the documents were stolen with it.’

‘They must have been,’ said Ben. ‘He was taking it to the Abbey, wasn’t he? He would have brought the provenance with him.’

‘Hmm.’ Libby was still frowning.

‘It’s the only thing that makes sense,’ said Alastair. ‘And the person who stole it then sold it to the collector who has just died.’

‘It’s such an obscure item, though,’ said Peter. ‘It’s almost as though someone has been tracking it through the years. How would anyone know about it? This is the first time it’s gone on sale – or even view – to the public.’

The four of them looked at each other.

‘That’s true,’ said Alastair slowly. ‘And of course, the only people who could possibly have known anything about it would be the members of my own family.’

B
en, Libby and Peter shifted uncomfortably.

‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ said Alastair, sounding amused. ‘Our family has more than its fair share of villains and ne’er-do-wells. If a member of the family found out that Bernard Evans had it in the seventies, he, or she, could well have stolen it from him. A bit much to murder him, I’d have thought, but perhaps it was an accident.’

‘But we come back to “how did they know”,’ said Libby. ‘Bernard was left it, apparently. We still don’t know by whom.’

‘Well,’ said Alastair, pulling a chair out from the table and indicating that the others should do the same, ‘we could start by looking at who it could have been from my family.’

‘That’s a bit extreme,’ muttered Peter. ‘Families can be –’

‘Tricky.’ Ben nodded. ‘We know all about that, Alastair.’

Alastair quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

‘Your family must have been quite widely – er –disseminated by then, Alastair,’ said Libby hurriedly.

‘Oh, yes.’ He pulled a scroll towards him and began to unroll it. ‘Peter, could you weigh down the other end?’

‘This is a family tree we had drawn up a few years ago. I got this out as well to see if I could see any connections, and now we’ve got Bernard Evans’s name we could look for him.’

Libby shook her head. ‘I can’t see him being a member of your family.’

‘He could be the issue of someone who married into it. If only we knew where it went after it was sold in the seventeen hundreds,’ said Ben.

‘We know who it was sold to,’ said Alastair.

The other three stared at him.

‘But you said …’ said Libby.

‘I didn’t say anything.’ Alastair smiled. ‘We do know who it was sold to, but the family lost sight of it after that.’

‘So who was it?’ asked Peter.

‘A man rejoicing in the name of Bartholomew Tollybar, who I’ve always thought must have been a bit of a crook.’

‘And who was he?’ asked Libby.

‘We don’t know. We simply have the deed of sale –’ he reached across to pull another document forward ‘– here.’

‘Bartholomew Tollybar – is that esquire?’ Libby pointed to a squiggle.

‘Yes, and that’s all we know about him.’ Alastair sat back in his chair and smiled at the other three. ‘I can’t see that it helps at all.’

‘I can,’ said Libby. ‘We can look into Bartholomew’s family tree. Find out about him. You know, censuses and things.’

‘They didn’t start until the next century,’ said Ben. ‘You found that out before, didn’t you?’

‘Oh, yes. Well, let’s see.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Street directories?’

‘Possibly,’ said Alastair, ‘but I’m not sure why you want to trace him.’

‘It’s a link,’ said Libby. ‘We need to trace the progress of the reliquary until it reaches where it is now. It might help find out who killed Bernard Evans,’ said Libby.

‘We haven’t looked at the family tree yet,’ Peter pointed out, ‘and I’m still holding the other end.’

‘Sorry.’ Libby bent towards it. ‘This is you, is it, Alastair?’

Alastair pointed the way through the generations of Beaumonts, past the impecunious member who had sold the reliquary, and back into far more sparse accounts. Brother Thomas appeared, but as a secondary branch of the family, and then, in the early fifteenth century, the line seemed to peter out.

‘And do we know who the black sheep were who pinched it before it was sold?’ asked Ben.

‘Not definitively. That tends to be passed down orally, but as far as we can tell it’s never been anyone of the direct line.’

‘Son of a younger son?’ suggested Libby.

‘Something like that. You can see we’ve got many offshoots now, not all of them followed up.’

‘So all we’ve really got to follow up is old Bartholomew Tollybar,’ said Libby, as Peter and Alastair carefully rolled up the family tree.

‘If it helps.’ Alastair put the documents back inside a cupboard. ‘I was wondering, if the reliquary was up for sale, if the family might buy it.’

There was a surprised silence.

‘You said the nuns don’t want it?’

‘Well, not really.’ Libby looked at Peter. ‘They don’t, do they?’

‘They regard it as idolatrous,’ said Peter. ‘They’re an Anglican order. They were just interested.’ He looked at Alastair. ‘Do you regard it as rightfully belonging to your family, then?’

‘No, because we sold it, but it did once belong to this family,’ said Alastair reasonably.

‘Not really,’ said Libby. ‘It belonged to the monastery where St Eldreda came from.’

‘But that’s here in our grounds,’ said Alastair, ‘and she came from here.’

‘Yes.’ Libby nodded. ‘So, do you want it back?’

‘Legitimately, if we could. Don’t you think it would be fitting?’

The other three looked at each other.

‘It would,’ said Peter,’ but I’ve got a feeling our Chief Inspector Connell won’t let it go anywhere just yet.’

The Maidenhaye Arms was comfortable, old-fashioned and quiet. After a wash and brush-up, Libby met the two men in the bar.

‘So what do we think of all that, then?’ asked Peter, while Ben went to fetch drinks. ‘Nice bloke?’

‘Yes, very nice,’ said Libby. ‘I was a bit bothered by him wanting to buy the relic, though.’

‘I think it’s quite natural,’ said Peter.

‘But whatever that old document said, we can’t be sure that St Eldreda came from his family, can we?’

‘No, because it looks to me as if the Beaumonts are descended from a Norman line who wouldn’t even have been here then.’

‘And what about the original abbey or whatever it was?’

‘There are more than one sets of archaeological remains there, aren’t there,’ said Ben, putting three gin and tonics on the table. ‘I think it’s safe to say that was where she was taken. Or rather, the reliquary was. And transferred to the newer one before the dissolution.’

‘So did we actually find anything out?’ said Peter. ‘Only who the reliquary was sold to three hundred years ago.’

‘We really needed to know how those documents were stolen, and where from,’ said Libby. ‘Then we could find out who took them.’

‘And when,’ said Ben. ‘If they were forged back then, perhaps when one of the Beaumonts pinched the reliquary, it wouldn’t help.’

‘But Alastair said it had been stolen
before
it was sold. And we don’t know exactly when those documents were dated.’ Libby took a sip of her drink. ‘Oh, dear, this is most confusing.’

‘Actually, I don’t think there’s much more we can learn here,’ said Peter. ‘I suppose we could talk to the archaeologists, but they won’t be able to tell us about anything.’

‘Wasted journey, then?’ said Ben.

‘No, because we know about jolly Bartholomew Tollybar,’ said Libby. ‘That’s a good starting point for finding out where it went after that.’

‘It’s a long shot,’ said Ben.

‘I wish we’d been able to take a copy of that family tree,’ said Libby thoughtfully. ‘If we could trace perhaps a rogue line …’

‘How would that help?’ said Peter. ‘All we’d get is a lot of names we don’t know.’

‘Yes.’ Libby sighed heavily. ‘Oh, well, at least we can report back to Ian that we haven’t done anything he wouldn’t like.’ She looked round the bar. ‘Are we eating here?’

The food was good, basic British cooking, made from ingredients from the estate shop.

‘Is this place owned by the Beaumont estate?’ asked Libby, when their plump, smiling host brought coffee to their table.

‘We lease it from them,’ he said. ‘No restrictions except that we use estate produce. Which we’re happy to do anyway.’

‘And what’s it like living here? It’s almost feudal, isn’t it, with the estate owning whole villages?’

He laughed. ‘It sounds like it, doesn’t it? But actually, there are privately owned properties, apart from the leased ones. And ex-estate workers who have their properties for life.’

‘So he’s a benevolent despot, Alastair Beaumont?’ said Ben.

‘Indeed he is.’

‘You’re a benevolent despot, too, aren’t you, darling?’ said Libby, patting Ben’s arm as the manager left them.

‘I only have a couple of tenant farmers,’ said Ben. ‘And I leave them alone as much as I can.’

‘You seem to have a lot of work to do in the estate office,’ said Peter.

‘We’ve still got the woodyard and the staff who look after our own bit of ground that isn’t leased out,’ said Ben.’

‘Do any of them have tied cottages?’

‘Why the sudden interest?’ asked Ben, amused. ‘You’ve never asked before.’

‘I’ve never thought about it before,’ said Peter. ‘Have they?’

‘No, we don’t own any property except the two farms, and they only revert to us if none of the family want to continue in the business.’

‘So the farms are more or less theirs for ever?’

‘That’s it. If either of the families decided to leave, which they may well do, seeing that farming’s going through such a bad time, especially dairy, we’d have to sell up.’

‘Where would they go?’ asked Libby. ‘If they left?’

‘Both families have bought property away from the farm,’ said Ben. ‘They’re sensible.’

After dinner they took a stroll round the village, which impressed them with its neatness and prettiness.

‘It’s like a village in a story book,’ said Libby. ‘Very chocolate-boxy.’

‘Not untidy and slapdash like our village?’ said Ben with a smile.

‘I like us as we are,’ said Libby. ‘This all looks a bit repressed.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t think they allow rowdy parties here.’

‘You don’t do rowdy parties,’ said Libby, tucking one arm through his and the other through Ben’s. ‘Come on, let’s go back to the pub and have a drink.’

The following morning they returned to Maidenhaye itself to say goodbye to Alastair and Jennifer.

‘You will let us know about any developments?’ said Alastair. ‘And remember, if it really is for sale, we’d certainly be interested to buy it.’

Ben and Peter browsed the estate shop and bought various treats, while Libby tasted a couple of the estate wines.

‘We could do something at the Manor,’ she said as they finally pulled out of the car park to start the journey home. ‘I know we supply some of the meat for the butcher’s shop and there’s Nella and Joe at Cattlegreen, but maybe cheeses and marmalades and things.’

‘Are you offering?’ asked Ben, grinning at her in the rear-view mirror.

‘Not exactly,’ said Libby, ‘but what about a farmer’s market sort of set up? Then Bob the Butcher and Nella and Joe could sell stuff.’

‘Where, though? They both have shops in the village already, as you said yesterday. And personally, I wouldn’t like to have to go into retail at this time of life. If we were to start making anything at the Manor or on the farms, I’d rather they sold it themselves or through the eight-til-late.’

‘You’ve changed your mind,’ said Libby, settling back in her corner. ‘It just looked nice there.’

‘It did look nice, but don’t forget there aren’t any other shops in that village. We’ve got several. We’re lucky.’

It was when they were on the home stretch of the journey, having circumnavigated Canterbury, that Libby’s phone began to ring.

‘Libby, it’s Patti.’

‘Patti? It’s Sunday. Why aren’t you ministering?’

‘I’m going to one of the other churches for evensong in a minute, but listen. You’ll never guess what!’

‘What?’

‘They’ve offered to let St Eldreda’s display the reliquary while the play’s on!’