Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series) (7 page)

Martha met them when they arrived, a frown on her face.

‘What’s up?’ asked Libby.

‘It’s the owner. Well, the person who will be the owner,’ said Martha. ‘He wants to take it away tonight.’

‘The reliquary?’ said Peter, as they all stopped dead. ‘He’s here, then?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose he must be on his way. Sister Catherine had a phone call.’

‘But that might not be genuine,’ said Libby. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! It will take hours to dismantle the lasers and the case – and you can’t just let someone walk off with it on the say-so of a phone call.’

‘No, that’s what we all thought. Sister Catherine said the security company are contracted to deliver it back to the antiquarian auction place, and they won’t allow it out of their sight.’ She sighed. ‘So it will be here until tomorrow morning. What I can’t understand, if that phone call was genuine, is why? This person volunteered to loan the relic, and even paid for the security company – why go against that?’

‘That’s what makes it seem phoney,’ said Ben. ‘I think you’re wise to keep it here.’

‘Yes,’ Martha turned a wistful face towards the atrium. ‘I shall miss it.’

The usual end-of-term feeling pervaded the cast as they changed and got ready for the last performance of Murder in the Monastery.

‘The last ever, probably,’ said Bob, adjusting his tonsure-wig. ‘Shame.’

‘Couldn’t Peter ask the beneficiary of the estate to lend it for another performance next year?’ asked Dominic.

‘It will have a new owner by then,’ said Fran.

‘Well, why not ask them. It might be those people you went to see, Libby.’

‘And it might not. No, I think this is the last we’ll see of it, Dominic,’ said Libby. ‘And it’ll be gone by the morning.’

At the end of a triumphant last performance, Peter produced more champagne and an invitation back to the theatre bar. ‘And we need a work party for tomorrow, don’t forget,’ he warned.

Libby went to find Martha, who was locking the atrium for the last time.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but I expect this will be gone by then.’

‘I expect so,’ said Martha. ‘I’m handing over my keys very early.’

‘You look sad,’ said Libby.

Martha smiled. ‘I know. I am. I’ve so enjoyed this week – and the weeks leading up to it. When this goes it will seem like the end of something lovely.’

Impulsively, Libby leant forward and kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve been great,’ she said. ‘If they ever let you out you must come to Steeple Martin and see us all.’

This time Martha laughed. ‘Oh, they let me out, all right. And perhaps I will.’ She made shooing motions. ‘Go on, they’ll be waiting for you.’

‘I’m going,’ said Libby. ‘Bye Martha.’ She waved at the dark atrium. ‘Bye St Eldreda.’

But in the morning, when the security guard arrived, St Eldreda was still there, which was what he expected. What he didn’t expect was to find Martha spread-eagled on the floor in front of it, and outside, lying in the shadow of the great stone arches, a body in a monk’s habit, its skull smashed like a crushed snail shell.

P
eter called Libby early on Sunday morning.

‘Pete? It’s only half past six!’ Libby unglued her eyes to peer at the clock.

‘Lib, listen, this is serious.’ Libby could hear the shake in Peter’s voice. ‘Dominic’s dead.’

‘Dom?’ Libby’s voice rose to a shriek.

‘Not your Dom.’

Libby’s heart rate slowed. ‘You mean Dominic Butcher?’

‘Yes. At the Abbey.’

‘Oh, God.’ Libby closed her eyes. ‘Where? What happened?’

‘All I can tell you is what Sister Catherine told me. The security guard found Martha next to the reliquary case and Dominic dead in the ruins.’

‘Martha? She’s not –?’

‘No, but she’s in hospital. Critical, Sister Catherine thinks. It looks as though she foiled a burglary attempt.’

‘By Dominic?’ Libby was frowning. Ben was sitting up and trying to listen.

‘I don’t know,’ said Peter helplessly. ‘He was wearing his costume.’

‘The habit?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the reliquary? You said Martha foiled …’

‘It’s still there. But Martha was next to the case and Dominic was some distance away, so it looks as though there may have been a third person.’

‘What do we do?’

‘Wait for the police to get in touch. We can’t go and do the get-out.’

‘Oh.’ Libby digested this. ‘The police will want to talk to us, then?’

‘Yes. Sister Catherine has given them my number and yours.’

‘Oh, good.’ Libby looked at Ben. ‘Here we go again.’

‘I’m going to the theatre to make a start on clearing up the bar,’ said Peter. ‘It’ll keep me busy.’

‘Good idea,’ said Libby, swinging her legs out of bed. ‘Give me a chance to have a cup of tea and I’ll follow you up.’

Three quarters of an hour later, Ben and Libby joined Peter at the theatre. All the glasses from the previous evening’s last-night party were already stacked on the bar, chairs were piled on tables and Peter was manipulating the vacuum cleaner out of its cupboard.

‘Sister Catherine called again,’ he said, straightening up. ‘Apparently Martha’s still unconscious, and there’s a police officer by her bed.’

‘How ill is she? Did Catherine say?’

‘I don’t think she knows. And I don’t suppose the police will tell us. I wonder who’s in charge?’

‘It won’t be Ian,’ said Ben. ‘The Abbey isn’t in his jurisdiction.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby gloomily. ‘We won’t get any inside information, then.’ She went behind the bar and turned on the tap. ‘Might as well wash up, then.’

Peter switched on the vacuum cleaner and Ben began to root about for forgotten glasses parked on windowsills and behind pillars.

The vacuum cleaner was suddenly silent and Libby looked up, startled, as she heard Peter’s voice.

‘Can I help you?’

In the doorway stood two people. A large and uncomfortable-looking man with close-cropped greying hair, and a petite woman with a mane of suspiciously bright blonde hair.

‘Oh, lord,’ muttered Libby. ‘Big Bertha.’

‘You Peter Parker?’

‘Yes? And you are?’

‘Superintendent Bertram. This is DI Davies.’

Peter’s chin lifted. ‘Identification?’

Big Bertha looked astonished, but scrabbled in her shoulder bag before bringing out her ID. DI Davies beat her to it.

‘You knew Dominic Butcher and were instrumental in bringing that antique to St Eldreda’s Abbey. Why?’

Libby strolled out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

‘Don’t worry, Pete. She always puts people’s backs up.’

Superintendent Bertram turned a furious gaze on Libby. ‘Oh, for f …’ she began.

‘Yes, nice to meet you again, Superintendent. Remember me? Libby Sarjeant with a J?’

‘I remember you,’ snarled the smaller woman.

Peter raised his eyes as Ben, coming through from the auditorium, joined the group.

‘The murder at Lewis’s place,’ explained Libby. ‘We met then.’

‘Are you involved in this?’ snapped Bertram.

‘In the play that was put on at the Abbey? Yes.’

‘We all were,’ said Ben. ‘This is our theatre. We put the play on.’

‘What do you mean “our theatre”?’

Libby, Ben and Peter looked at each other in surprise.

‘What I said. Our theatre.’ His amusement showed. ‘We own it.’

Looking a trifle discomfited, Bertram cleared her throat.

‘What connection do you have to the Abbey?’ asked DI Davies.

‘Only that we put on a play there based on the story of the original St Eldreda,’ said Peter. ‘I’m sure Sister Catherine has already told you that.’

‘Why did you ask for that – that thing?’ Big Bertha’s voice was even more like a cheese grater than ever, thought Libby.

‘The relic? Because that was how we knew about the story,’ said Libby. ‘Sister Catherine asked me to look into the reliquary –’

‘She did what?’

Libby smiled tranquilly. ‘Yes. It’s all right, DCI Connell from Canterbury knows all about it. In fact, it was him who asked for the reliquary to be loaned for the play.’

‘He what?’

‘Did Sister Catherine not tell you? He’s spoken to her several times.’ Libby crossed her fingers, hoping it was true.

DI Davies put away his notebook, and Big Bertha sighed.

‘I’ll call him. Meanwhile, if you can all give me statements about your movements last night and what you know of Butcher and the other woman –’

‘Martha,’ said Libby helpfully. ‘Let’s sit down.’

Davies, Ben and Peter lifted chairs off tables and they all sat down. Libby’s eyes went to the coffee machine, but she decided it would only prolong things if she offered.

The interviews were straightforward, each of them giving as thorough an account of their movements the previous night as they could, unnecessarily so, in Libby’s case, and their candid opinions of Dominic Butcher.

‘And the woman?’ said Bertram.

‘Martha is an oblate. She lives at the Abbey with the nuns, but isn’t quite as bound by the monastic life, so she was in charge of us while we were there. She was also in charge of security for the reliquary,’ explained Libby. ‘The last thing I said to her last night was that I hoped she’d come and visit us in Steeple Martin.’

‘The – what did you call it?’

‘Reliquary,’ supplied Ben. ‘It contains part of St Eldreda’s finger.’

Davies looked gobsmacked, Bertram nauseous.

‘Why were you looking into it?’ Bertram looked back at Libby, who explained.

‘As I said, DCI Connell knows all about it.’

‘We’ll have more questions.’ Bertram stood up abruptly. ‘Meanwhile, don’t get in my way.’

Davies smiled at them weakly and followed his tiny blonde warlord out of the theatre.

‘You did enjoy winding her up,’ said Peter admiringly.

‘Dangerous thing to do, I reckon,’ said Ben. ‘But at least we might get Ian on the job. Coffee?’

‘She’s like a Jack Russell – makes up for her size with full-blown aggression,’ said Libby.

‘That’s giving Jack Russells a bad name,’ said Peter. ‘Coffee’s a good idea. Anyone got any coins?’

They finished the clearing up and discussed how to tell the rest of the company.

‘Some of them said they’d be in to help this morning,’ said Peter, looking at his watch, ‘because we thought we’d be going to the Abbey. Shall we wait for them?’

They filled in the time by going into the workshop to tidy up – Ben, bottling up behind the bar – Peter, and ambling aimlessly around the little garden outside the bar – Libby. While she ambled, she called Fran.

‘Did it happen this morning?’ asked Fran after a moment.

‘I don’t know. Sometime during the night, I supposed.’

‘Then why was Martha there? Did she stay up all night with the thing? Was she dressed?’

‘I don’t know.’ Libby was bewildered. ‘Why?’

‘If she was dressed it would either be before she went to bed or after she got up this morning.’

‘It couldn’t be before she went to bed because the security guard would have found her on his rounds.’

‘So it must have been this morning,’ said Fran slowly. ‘But Dominic could have been killed earlier. He wouldn’t necessarily have been seen if he was in a habit among the ruins.’

‘No,’ agreed Libby, ‘and the security guard wouldn’t have been looking there, anyway. He was only there to check on the reliquary.’

‘Were the atrium doors open?’

‘Fran, I don’t know! All I know is what Sister Catherine told Peter. Big Bertha didn’t tell us anything.’

‘Oh, no!’ groaned Fran. ‘Is she on the case?’

‘Yes,’ giggled Libby, ‘and she didn’t know about Ian’s involvement. She wasn’t half cross! Oh, look, Fran, I’ve got to go. The others have turned up and we’ve got to tell them.’

The members of the company who had arrived, somewhat blearily, to help with the get-out, were told of the tragedy and expressed varying degrees of shock and horror.

‘Like that business with The Hop Pickers,’ muttered someone who’d turned a pale shade of Eau de Nil. Peter shot her a withering look. And Libby remembered him saying he thought something could go wrong.

‘But at least it wasn’t until after the run,’ she told herself, and then felt ashamed of the thought.

‘Harry says to go to the caff for a restorative,’ said Peter, pocketing his phone after the other members of the company had gone. ‘Are you going to Hetty’s for lunch?’

‘No, she’s going to Flo and Lenny,’ said Ben. ‘Harry’s open today, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he is. Closed this evening and all day tomorrow. He’s finally making his hours regular, rather than opening at random times. Come on.’ Peter looked round the little foyer, switched off the lights and held open the double glass doors.

S
teeple Martin high street was bathed in sunshine. Harry had opened the front door of The Pink Geranium, although the closed sign still hung there.

‘Thought I’d give the place a good airing,’ he said. ‘Is it too early for a nice bottle of red?’

‘Save it for lunch time,’ said Ben, ‘if you’ve got room for us, that is.’

‘Not going to Hetty’s? I’m honoured.’

‘She’s going to Flo and Lenny’s,’ said Libby. ‘Don’t get above yourself.’

Harry went off to fetch coffee, and Ben, Peter and Libby seated themselves at the big round pine table in the window, where Harry had already spread the Sunday broadsheets.

‘Good job it missed the papers,’ said Peter, moving a
Telegraph
to one side.

‘It’ll make the news today,’ said Libby. ‘And we’ll have Campbell and Jane on our tails.’

‘Well, let’s hope Jane can act as a stringer before the nationals descend,’ said Ben, ‘although I doubt it.’

‘What do we know about Dominic’s family?’ asked Libby. ‘He’s never mentioned a wife.’

‘I don’t suppose anyone would put up with him,’ said Peter. ‘I think he was married, but I don’t know much about him. He only moved here – what was it? Last year?’

‘I don’t even know where he lives,’ said Libby.

‘Somewhere off New Barton Lane,’ said Peter. ‘I got the impression he was renting.’

‘The only time I really had anything to do with him was when he helped with the set building for panto,’ said Ben. ‘He was full of his professional career and very little else.’

‘So what was his actual job?’ Libby frowned down at the
Sunday Times
. ‘I assume he had one.’

Ben and Peter looked at one another.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Peter. ‘All I know is his mobile number which I had to have. I hope the police have more success.’

‘Is his number in your phone?’ said Ben. ‘Why don’t you call it? See what happens?’

‘It’ll go straight to voicemail,’ said Peter, fishing his phone out of a pocket. ‘Told you. It did.’ He put the phone away.

‘Interesting that the police didn’t answer it,’ said Libby.

‘They might not have it. He may not have carried it in his habit.’ Peter shook his head. ‘I just can’t understand what he was doing there and in costume.’ He pushed a lock of lank fair hair off his forehead and leant back in his chair, scowling.

‘Here we are, poppets,’ said Harry, placing a large cafetière on the table along with four mugs. ‘I shall join you. Why the long face, treasure?’

‘We were talking about Dominic Butcher and realising we knew hardly anything about him,’ said Libby.

‘You knew enough about his illustrious career,’ said Harry, pushing down the plunger on the cafetière. ‘Bloody
Limehouse Blues
. He even talked to me about it.’

‘Really?’ said Libby. ‘When?’

‘Once or twice when I went into the pub before you lot came in. Introduced himself as a “friend” of yours. And he came to the caff a few times.’

‘Was he with anyone?’ asked Ben.

Harry shook his head. ‘Always came in with a book, but keen to talk to anyone who would listen.’

‘And did you find anything out about him?’ said Libby.

‘Like what?’

‘What he did for a living, for instance?’ said Peter, leaning forward to pick up the cafetière.

‘Nah. He gave the impression he was resting.’

‘He said something about returning to his former profession once, do you remember?’ said Libby.

‘God, yes, as a doctor. But they’d never have him back.’ Peter poured coffee into the four mugs.

‘We perhaps ought to tell the police that,’ said Ben. ‘It might be significant in tracing his family.’

‘You can tell Ian, then,’ said Libby. ‘I’m not telling Big Bertha anything.’

‘Big Bertha?’ Harry rocked forward on his chair. ‘That blonde bird you met before?’

‘The same, apparently. All last night’s eye make-up and split ends,’ said Peter.

‘Miaow,’ said Libby. ‘By the way, Fran asked some interesting questions on the phone.’

‘And they were?’ asked Peter.

Libby repeated what Fran had said.

‘I expect the police will have gone into all that by now,’ said Ben. ‘Their first action would be to find out what times the security guard went round. Where was he actually stationed?’

‘In the lodge at the Abbey gates. It has a view of the gates into the monastery ruins, but he had to walk right up the drive to get to the atrium, by-passing the ruins on his left,’ said Libby.

‘So no one could have got into the whole site from the road without being seen by him?’ said Harry, drawing an invisible map on the table.

‘Unless they waited for him to go on his rounds,’ said Peter.

‘So they’d have to know when that was?’

‘But it may have been random,’ said Libby. ‘Don’t they say that if those sort of things are done at regular times it gives criminals an advantage?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ben, ‘but it makes sense. But do we think it was Dominic who got in?’

‘Wait!’ Libby held up a hand. ‘Did anyone see him at the party last night?’

Everyone looked at everyone else.

‘No,’ they all said together.

‘So that’s something else to tell the police,’ said Ben.

A little later, Ben and Libby strolled back to Allhallow’s Lane to change before returning to The Pink Geranium for lunch.

‘It looks as if Dominic was trying to steal the reliquary,’ said Ben, ‘or is that what we are meant to think?’

‘I don’t know, but it looks as if Martha was defending it, and Dominic was too far away for it to be him she was defending it from, if you see what I mean.’

‘Yes. But we are agreed he must have hidden after we all left last night?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby, ‘and I believe he’d done it before. Remember after the dress rehearsal I commented that not many people had come back for a drink? And Dominic always came for a drink.’ She shook her head. ‘Poor sod. I wish I’d been nicer to him.’

While Libby struggled to find something to wear, Ben left a message for Ian on his official police mobile.

‘If he’s managed a day off today, I didn’t want to disturb him on his personal one,’ he explained, as they left the house again, Libby avoiding the affronted, glaring eye of Sidney, who clearly thought they should be staying in with him.

‘I wonder if we’ll hear anything else from Big Bertha today?’ she said. ‘He must have had some sort of ID on him, cards or something, so I suppose that’s how they identified him.’

‘It was poor Sister Catherine who was dragged out to look at them both, and all she and the security guard knew was that Dominic was a member of the company.’

‘How do you know all that?’ asked Libby in surprise.

‘Oh – I forgot – Patti called while you were in the shower. She wanted to know anything we knew and exchanged gossip. The nuns are in a flat spin, apparently.’

‘I bet they are,’ said Libby. ‘Oh, dear. I’m sure Patti feels guilty now.’

‘What for?’

‘Asking me to look into the reliquary’s provenance. If she hadn’t, none of this would have happened.’

‘In that case you ought to feel guilty, too. You told Peter, Peter wanted to write the play, Dominic was in it …’

‘So we all ought to feel guilty,’ said Libby, scowling at him. ‘Gee, thanks.’

‘What I was trying to point out was that it’s simply a chain of events. If Hitler’s father hadn’t met Hitler’s mother, World War Two would never have happened. See?’ Ben tucked his arm through hers. ‘Come on. I bet Harry’s done Pollo Verde just for you.’

Peter joined them for lunch, and to their surprise, so did Patti and Anne.

‘How have you escaped the clutches of your parish?’ asked Libby, as Patti sat down.

‘I’m on holiday! Anne and I are off to Umbria the day after tomorrow.’

‘Oh, lovely. Hang on – where’s Umbria?’

‘Next door to Tuscany,’ said Peter. ‘Just as beautiful, if not more, and less touristy.’

‘You’ve been?’ Anne, her small face lighting up, leant forward in her wheelchair.

Peter smiled at her. ‘Yes, several times, although it was a long time ago when I actually worked for a newspaper before I went freelance.’

‘Newspaper?’ Patti frowned. ‘What did you do?’

‘He’s now a freelance journalist. He used to work for one of the more prestigious newspapers,’ said Ben. ‘I’m quite proud of him, really.’

Libby laughed as Patti and Anne exchanged slightly puzzled looks. ‘Ben’s Peter’s cousin,’ she explained. ‘That’s how the Oast House Theatre is a family business. Ben did the conversion and Peter is the artistic director. I’m just a hanger-on.’

‘So where are you staying in Umbria?’ Peter asked.

‘We’re doing a painting holiday at a beautiful villa,’ said Anne.

‘It’s called Arte Umbria,’ said Patti. ‘We both loved art at school and have never had a chance to do it properly since.’

‘Excellent,’ said Libby. ‘Send us pictures, won’t you? And now, if it’s not too touchy a subject, what did you think of the play?’

Patti sighed. ‘I thought it was excellent, and I felt very proud that I’d been instrumental in bringing it about. And now look what’s happened.’

‘I know.’ Libby shot an “I told you so” look at Ben.

‘It was very good,’ said Anne. ‘I thought it was brilliant the way you managed to convey the suggestion of ancient language while keeping it comprehensible.’

‘Thank you.’ Peter looked surprised.

‘Anne can actually read Chaucer in the original,’ said Patti, smiling at her fondly. ‘I can barely master basic Latin.’

‘You don’t need Latin in the Anglican church, surely?’ said Ben.

‘No, but it’s very useful for the history of the church. We did it at college.’

‘Can you stop now?’ complained Libby. ‘I’m feeling really inadequate.’

‘Nobody can act like you, though,’ said Ben, patting her hand while everyone else laughed.

‘That’s a double-edged sword,’ said Libby.

By tacit agreement, the subject of murder was not mentioned for the rest of the lunch. Harry was able to join them for a drink at the end, grumbling that since Donna, his former right-hand woman, had at last produced her first baby, he’d had far too much to do.

‘She’s still doing the books at home, isn’t she?’ asked Libby. ‘And surely you should have been able to find a capable waitress or waiter by now? People are crying out for jobs.’

‘But not jobs with unsocial hours,’ said Harry. ‘I need most help at weekends, when they’d rather be out clubbing.’

This remark produced an uneasy silence.

‘What did I say?’ Harry looked round the table in surprise.

‘Dominic,’ said Ben.

‘And Martha,’ added Libby.

‘Oh,’ said Harry. ‘Is that how …? Oh.’

‘We think so,’ said Patti. ‘Martha, anyway.’

‘Come to think about it,’ said Libby, ‘no one’s told us how Dominic died.’

‘They don’t,’ said Harry, ‘then when you say “I’ve never used a Toledo Stiletto in my life” they leap up with the handcuffs.’

‘Very funny,’ said Libby.

‘Sorry, just trying to lighten the atmosphere.’

‘A bit hard to do that under the circumstances,’ said Peter, ‘even for you, dear heart. Do you know, I feel an alarming sense of resentment against poor Dominic for spoiling my play.’

Libby and Ben murmured agreement.

‘I think that’s perfectly normal,’ said Patti. ‘Even if you knew who’d killed him and felt resentment towards them, Dominic still seems to have put himself in danger.’

‘I’ve just thought of something,’ said Libby. ‘If Dominic had planned to stay behind for whatever reason, who would know? And if no one knew, it was an opportunistic murder by someone who also shouldn’t have been there.’

‘On the other hand,’ said Ben, ‘he could have arranged to meet someone just like poor Bernard Evans did. Someone who said he was someone else.’

‘But what was he, or she, offering?’ asked Libby. And what did Dominic have to give?’