Murder by Magic

Book 10: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Traditional Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Thrillers; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Lesley Cookman's bestselling series featuring amateur sleuth Libby Sarjeant is back for its tenth instalment. Libby Sarjeant and her friend Fran Wolfe are asked to look into the sudden and unexplained death of a devoted churchgoer. The police appear to have lost interest, but the villagers are certain that their new lady vicar has something to do with it! But if it is murder, how on earth was it done? There doesn?t seem to be any rational explanation. And as everyone knows, `whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?. But could it really be magic?

Release date: September 6, 2012

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 283

Sample

Chapter One

The voices receded and the heavy iron-studded door swung shut. Silence fell, and the weak sun sent pastel-coloured lozenges of colour on to the stone floor before the altar. A few dead leaves rustled in the breeze from under the door, which also lifted the sparse grey hair of the woman in the brown coat, whose now sightless eyes stared at the prayer book still clutched in her claw-like hands. Someone looked out of the vestry, paused and silently withdrew. All was well.

‘I wish you’d come and look into it,’ said the querulous voice on the other end of the phone. ‘I’m sure you could help poor Patti.’

‘Poor Patti?’ repeated Libby Sarjeant. ‘Who’s that?’

‘I’ve just told you! The vicar!’

Libby sighed. ‘Look, Alice, I’m not a private detective, you know.’

‘But you’ve been involved in all those murders. And the police are stumped. Or else they really don’t think there’s anything fishy about it.’

‘They could be right,’ said Libby. ‘After all, didn’t you say this was an old lady? Couldn’t she have had a heart attack or something?’

‘Oh, they looked into all that.’ The voice that was Alice sounded impatient. ‘There was a whadyercallit – a post – post …’

‘Autopsy. Post mortem. Yes, there would be in a case of sudden death.’

‘There, you see,’ said Alice in triumph. ‘You know all about it. Why won’t you come?’

‘Because I’m not a detective, I’ve already said. And I don’t know any of the people, so I can’t go round asking questions.’

‘Oh, but I told Patti you would!’ wailed Alice. ‘What can I say now?’

Libby sighed again. ‘Exactly what I’ve just told you.’

‘What about your friend? The psychic one. Would she come?’

‘Even less likely,’ said Libby. ‘Alice, I’m sorry, but the less I have to do with mysteries and possible murder the better I like it. And the police hate interference.’

‘I don’t see how they could hate interference in this, they’ve written it off.’ Alice was now indignant. ‘If I can’t change your mind, I’ll let you go, you’re obviously busy.’

‘Er – yes. Thank you.’ Libby cleared her throat. ‘How’s Bob, by the way?’

‘Fine. Getting under my feet as usual.’

‘Ah. Right. Nice to hear from you Alice,’ Libby lied, and switched off the phone feeling guilty.

‘I can’t just go butting into things which are none of my concern,’ she complained when her significant other arrived home in time for a drink before dinner. He cocked an ironic eye at her. ‘You know what I mean,’ she said, grinning.

‘Yes,’ said Ben, ‘I do. I also know that given the slightest excuse you’ll be off after the scent.’

Libby shook her head firmly. ‘Not this time.’

‘Where does this Alice live?’ asked Fran Wolfe the next day when she and Libby met for lunch at The Sloop Inn, yards from Fran’s cottage overlooking the sea at Nethergate.

‘Not that far from you, round the coast a bit. One of those funny little villages on a cliff top. Rather isolated.’ Libby perused the menu. ‘Did I like the sausages here?’

‘How do I know?’ Fran looked up in surprise. ‘Don’t change the subject. What’s the name of the village?’

‘St Aldeberge.’ Libby looked a little guilty. ‘I looked it up.’

‘You surprise me. Why, in particular?’

‘It’s a funny name. Apparently it’s the alternative – and presumably the original – name of Queen Bertha.’

‘Who?’

‘She was married to – er – Ethelbert, I think. There’s a church in Canterbury that’s all about her. Near the prison.’

‘Right. So why else did you look it up?’

‘Just to see if there was anything about the murder on the net.’

‘But you said it probably wasn’t a murder.’ Fran was looking suspicious.

‘It didn’t hurt to have a look. And there was something. But although the police called it “unexplained” it doesn’t seem to have been followed up.’

‘And why does this Alice want you to look into it? Who is she, by the way?’

‘A friend from years ago when I was still living the other side of Canterbury. She moved away too, to St Aldeberge, I suppose. But we’ve been in the local papers, haven’t we? She tracked me down. Because there’s a whole lot of suspicion and gossip been stirred up, mostly against the vicar, I think.’

‘Poor man.’ Fran grinned. ‘Always a target.’

‘No, this one’s a lady vicaress. Patti. Or Poor Patti, as Alice referred to her.’

The waitress arrived to take their order. When she left, Fran looked thoughtful.

‘Nothing to lose by going and having a look round,’ she said.

‘Really?’ Libby narrowed her eyes at her friend.

‘What did it say on the net?’

‘This woman whose name I can’t remember was found dead in a church after a big reunion service. As far as I can see, as I suggested to Alice, it was a heart attack, although she hadn’t been under the doctor for her heart. So unless the police are keeping something to themselves, it doesn’t bear any further investigation.’

‘So why are the villagers up in arms?’

‘Because there’d been a lot of ill-feeling, particularly between this lady and the vicar. I can imagine an old church hen not liking a new lady vicar, can’t you?’

‘Yes, but maybe she wasn’t an old church hen. You’re using generalisations again.’ Fran took a sip of her white wine. Libby scowled at her mineral water. She was driving.

‘What are you doing this afternoon?’ said Fran after they’d both been served.

‘I thought I was spending it with you.’ Libby took a bite of sausage. ‘Lovely.’

‘Why don’t you drive us over to St Aldeberge and we can have a walk round the village? We could even call on your friend Alice.’

‘So you don’t think it was a simple heart attack.’ Libby leant back in her seat and surveyed her friend.

‘I don’t know. But your friend Alice is concerned, and where there’s concern, there’s sure to be a cause.’

Libby sighed. ‘I was trying to keep out of it, you know.’

‘I know, but you’re also bored.’ Fran put her knife and fork neatly together.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘You are. You don’t normally call me and suggest lunch for no reason.’

‘I haven’t seen you much lately.’

‘We saw enough of one another in the summer,’ said Fran, ‘let’s face it.’

‘Seems ages ago, though,’ said Libby.

‘So let’s go and have a look at St Aldeberge.’ Fran watched Libby’s expression with amusement, knowing she would give in.

‘Oh, all right. Shall I ring Alice?’ Libby said, with a resigned sigh.

‘Do you want to? We might decide not to do anything about it, and then it would be difficult to back out.’

‘But you said we could call on her.’

‘We might.’ Fran stood up. ‘But let’s go and have a look first.’

‘You’re hoping for a moment, that’s what,’ said Libby, following her out of the pub.

Fran grinned over her shoulder. ‘It had occurred to me,’ she said.

Fran’s “moments” were occasional flashes of scenes or sensations which appeared in her mind like established facts. She had felt deaths and seen places and events, some of which had helped the local police force, in particular Chief Inspector Ian Connell, solve crimes. It was this that gave her the sobriquet Special Investigator, and which had alerted the media to some of the adventures in which she and Libby had become involved.

St Aldeberge sat in a small hollow about half a mile from the cliff top. Below the cliff was a natural harbour at high tide, to which rough steps had been cut in the chalk, allowing a few intrepid small boat owners access to their craft which at low tide would lie at drunken angles on the sand. Libby drove slowly through St Aldeberge and followed the road out of the village to its end, and stopped.

‘Look,’ she said, getting out of the car. ‘Isn’t that lovely.’

Fran looked down at the little natural harbour, high tide now, with the few boats bobbing gently at their moorings.

‘Those steps don’t look very safe,’ she said.

‘They don’t, do they? And those rings set into the cliffs don’t look very secure, either. One good storm and they’d be pulled out.’

‘Perhaps they’ve been set into concrete or something,’ said Fran. ‘We can’t see from up here.’

‘No.’ Libby turned and looked inland. ‘I suppose now we go back to the village. Then what do we do?’

‘Look at the church,’ said Fran. ‘And then we’ll see.’

The church, dedicated unsurprisingly to Saint Aldeberge, stood on a triangular plot in the middle of the village, facing a wide street which divided either side of it. Feeling very exposed, Libby tried the big iron handle on the studded oak door. Almost to her surprise, it opened.

‘I though churches were kept locked these days,’ she whispered to Fran as they sidled in.

‘Are they?’ said Fran. ‘I thought they were supposed to be kept open for everyone to come in when they wanted.’

‘Used to be, but things get stolen these days.’

They stood and looked around. In front of them a stone font stood, its wooden lid surmounted rakishly by a little stone figure poking its tongue out.

‘That looks like a gargoyle,’ said Fran.

‘Yes, but actually it’s what’s called a “grotesque”,’ said Libby. ‘Gargoyles were water spouts.’

‘I never knew that,’ said Fran, giving the little monster an amiable stroke. ‘Odd place to have it, though.’

Libby was looking through the inevitable stack of leaflets arranged either side of an honesty box. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘they’ve got a community shop in the village. Open ten till two Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. That’s enterprising.’

‘Can I help you?’ A voice echoed from the other end of the nave.

Libby and Fran peered into the darkness near the altar and saw a figure clad in an old-fashioned cross-over apron emerge from a side door.

‘Er – no – we were just looking,’ said Libby lamely.

‘It’s so unusual to find a church unlocked these days,’ said Fran. Libby shot her an indignant look.

‘I’m afraid ours is usually locked, too,’ said the woman approaching up the aisle. ‘It’s only because I’m here doing the flowers.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll get out of your way.’

‘No, please stay and look round if you want to,’ said the woman, tucking a wisp of greying fair hair into a kirby grip. ‘I’ll be here for a while. Was there anything you particularly wanted to see?’

‘Actually,’ said Libby on a note of inspiration, ‘we wondered if there was anything about Saint Bertha, because this is her church, isn’t it?’

‘Only a window, over in the Lady Chapel,’ said the woman, ‘and we’ve got a little leaflet about her life, of course. Most people go to St Martin’s in Canterbury.’

‘May we see the window?’ asked Fran.

‘Yes, of course.’ The woman turned back down the aisle and they followed her down to the first pew, where she pointed to the right. ‘In there,’ she said. ‘Not very big, as Lady Chapels go, but at least we’ve got one.’

Libby and Fran went through glass doors into the little chapel. To their left, they looked up at Queen – or Saint – Bertha, piously gazing heavenwards.

‘Don’t all churches have Lady Chapels, then?’ asked Fran in a whisper.

‘No, although we’ve got one in Steeple Martin. It’s usually big churches and cathedrals. I suppose this is quite a big church.’ Libby looked round at the small electric piano and modern light oak pews. ‘And this has been recently done up, too. Not much like the church itself.’

They left the chapel and Libby called out goodbye to their unseen guide, who popped her head out of what was presumably the vestry door.

‘Pleasure,’ she said, and withdrew.

Libby and Fran took a leaflet about the Saint and dropped some coins into the honesty box, feeling they’d justified their visit.

‘Well,’ said Libby, as they emerged into the watery daylight again, ‘did you get anything in there?’

‘Not a thing,’ said Fran. ‘Shall we call on your friend?’

‘I thought you wanted to look round?’

‘There isn’t much to look round, is there? The shop isn’t open and there isn’t anything else here.’

‘You’re such a townie,’ laughed Libby. ‘Villages are like that!’

‘Your village isn’t,’ said Fran.

‘Steeple Martin is a big village with several shops. This is far more typical. Like Steeple Cross. Small villages have lost their shops and schools and often their pubs, too. It’s criminal.’

‘All right, I’m sorry. So will we ring Alice?’

‘Oh, all right.’ Libby fished her mobile out of her pocket and then, with a triumphant ‘Ha!’ put it back in her pocket.

‘What?’ said Fran.

‘I haven’t got the number!’ said Libby. ‘I never call her, so it isn’t in my phone. In fact, I doubt if I’ve even got it written in an address book anywhere.’

‘Right. What’s her surname?’

‘Gay,’ said Libby, ‘only she isn’t, in either sense.’

Fran turned back towards the church door and went briskly inside. Libby stayed where she was.

‘Number four Birch Lane, down on the left,’ said Fran, emerging once more from the church. ‘I asked the flower lady.’

‘Enterprising,’ murmured Libby, following her friend down the wide, empty street.

Number four Birch Lane turned out to be a substantial brick and flint cottage built in the shape of a letter L. Libby rang the bell, and was just about to suggest there was no one in and they might as well go home, when the door opened.

‘Libby!’ gasped Alice.

‘I’m sorry we didn’t ring, but I didn’t have your number,’ began Libby, but she was interrupted.

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ beamed Alice, holding the door wide. ‘It’s just perfect timing. You see the vicar’s here already!’

Chapter Two

‘Ah,’ said Libby.

‘Is this Fran?’ asked Alice, giving Fran a warm smile.

‘Yes, Fran Wolfe,’ said Fran, holding out her hand. ‘I’m so sorry to barge in like this.’

‘Not at all, not at all.’ Alice closed the door, pulled down her brown cardigan and gestured to a door on their left. ‘I didn’t think Libby was interested in helping, so it’s a lovely surprise.’

‘Well –’ said Libby and Fran together, and looked at each other.

‘It was my idea actually,’ said Fran.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Alice, with another tug on her cardigan. ‘We just need some help.’

She gestured again to the door on their left, and, reluctantly, Libby led the way in.

Low-ceilinged and heavy with dark wood and floral chintz, the room achieved the same faded prettiness as its owner. Before the empty fireplace stood a dusty-looking arrangement of autumn leaves and a vicar.

‘This is our vicar, Patti Pearson,’ Alice announced proudly. ‘Patti, this is my friend Libby Sarjeant and her friend Fran – er – Wolfe, did you say?’

Fran nodded and smiled. ‘Hello.’

Libby held out her hand. ‘Hello, Reverend,’ she said.

Patti Pearson made a face. ‘Please don’t call me that! Patti will do fine.’

‘Now, I’ll go and put the kettle on again. Would you both like tea?’ asked Alice.

‘Thank you,’ said Fran, and Alice left the room.

‘I understand Alice thought you might be able to help us with our bit of trouble in the village,’ said Patti, sitting down in a chair by the fireplace, while Libby and Fran sat side by side on the sofa.

‘She called me, yes,’ said Libby, ‘but I don’t see what we can do. If the police don’t think the lady was murdered, then there’s nothing to look into.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘I thought I might –’ Fran paused and looked briefly at Libby. ‘I thought I might pick up something.’

‘Ah.’ Patti put her head on one side. ‘You’re the psychic.’

Fran looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure what I am,’ she said, ‘and I know that the church disapproves of  – well, that sort of thing.’

Patti gave a wry little smile. ‘In some cases,’ she said, ‘but you know we also have a Deliverance Minister for each diocese, so we admit the existence of “that sort of thing”. In fact, it’s one of my areas of interest. It’s another of the things the congregation doesn’t approve of.’

‘Deliverance Minister?’ said Fran.

‘Exorcist,’ said Libby. ‘Isn’t that it?’

‘It is, although it’s frequently more a case of psychologist.’

Alice came into the room precariously carrying three mugs.

‘I hope you all take milk?’ she said setting them down on a piecrust table and slopping a little. ‘Shall I fetch the sugar?’

‘No, that’s fine, thank you,’ said Libby, eyeing the greyish mixture warily. The other two shook their heads.

‘So have you told them what’s been happening?’ Alice sat on another chair, smoothing an ancient-looking cotton skirt over her knees and giving another tug to the cardigan.

‘I haven’t had a chance yet,’ said Patti. ‘Fran tells me she’s the psychic.’

‘Ah, yes. But Libby said you wouldn’t want to come?’ Alice gave Libby a faintly accusing stare.

‘I simply wondered if there was anything in the atmosphere.’ Fran was looking even more uncomfortable. ‘I understand the police are no longer interested, which usually means foul play is ruled out, but if I could pick anything up, it might bear a little further investigation.’

‘So we went to the church,’ said Libby.

‘And did you?’ Patti asked Fran. ‘Pick anything up?’

‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’ Fran took a tentative sip of her tea and hastily put down the mug.

‘But you haven’t looked inside,’ said Alice.

‘Actually, we have,’ said Libby. ‘There was a lady there doing the flowers. We went to see the Lady Chapel.’

‘Sheila Johnson,’ said Alice and Patti together.

‘Quite a large lady with a crossover apron,’ said Libby. ‘Very pleasant.’

‘Very,’ said Alice, darting a look at Patti. ‘She’s another of the flower ladies. Oh, I suppose you know that.’

‘You say “another”?’ said Libby.

‘Yes. Joan Bidwell was a flower lady.’

‘She was the one who died,’ explained Patti. ‘So Sheila Johnson has taken over the rota.’

‘Although she seems to be doing most of it herself. The other women don’t appear to be interested.’ Alice sniffed disapproval.

‘Don’t you do flowers?’ asked Libby, surprised. ‘I thought you would have done.’

Alice coloured slightly. ‘I’m hopeless with flowers. And I get hay fever.’

‘Even at this time of year?’ said Fran.

‘There’s still pollen in some of the shop-bought flowers,’ defended Alice.

‘Alice is invaluable on the PCC,’ said Patti. ‘And she sings in the choir.’

‘Oh, yes, you always used to be in the chorus of our pantomimes, didn’t you?’ said Libby.

‘Did you?’ Patti sounded amused. ‘I never knew that. We ought to try and set up a drama society here.’

Alice looked alarmed.

‘Very time-consuming,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve got a community theatre and drama group in our village.’

‘Oh yes. Your Oast Theatre,’ said Alice. ‘It’s getting quite a reputation, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘There was that first play you put on and the murder,’ said Alice.

‘But that was nothing to do with the theatre,’ said Libby.

‘And you’ve done some really good things since.’ Alice turned to Patti. ‘It’s always in all the local papers and local radio. Libby’s got something to do with it.’

‘I’m a director,’ said Libby. ‘My partner’s family own it and he redesigned the oast house as a theatre.’

‘Oh, a board director,’ said Alice. ‘I thought you meant –’

‘Yes, she does that, too,’ put in Fran.

‘Anyway, to get back to your problem,’ said Libby, ‘tell us exactly why you think there’s something to be looked into in Mrs Biddle’s death.’

‘Bidwell,’ corrected Alice. ‘It’s actually all to do with the vicar.’

Patti sighed and tucked dark bobbed hair behind an ear. Her round face shone with cleanliness and goodness – and no make-up. Libby was prepared to like her.

‘For a start,’ she said, ‘Joan Bidwell didn’t like me at all. She was of the generation that totally disapproved of the ordination of women.’

Libby shot Fran a triumphant look.

‘It isn’t always generational, though,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve met quite young people who don’t agree with it.’

‘But they tend to be people brought up in a Catholic or a religious household,’ said Patti, ‘not that I mean that Catholicism isn’t religion. Most younger people today don’t go to church and the world is increasingly secular and doesn’t much care what sex the vicar is.’

‘Except when they suddenly want to be married in church,’ said Alice quite viciously. ‘Or have their child baptised.’

‘When they haven’t been near a church in years.’ Libby nodded wisely. ‘I’ve always found that so hypocritical. I’ve even heard of people choosing the prettiest church in the area and ignoring their own parish church.’

‘That happens all the time,’ said Patti. ‘I’m inured to it, now. But to get back to Joan Bidwell, she disapproved of me and opposed many of the changes I’ve tried to bring in.’

‘What changes?’ said Libby.

‘How did she die?’ said Fran.

Patti looked from one to the other and laughed. ‘You don’t waste any time, do you?’

Libby looked surprised. ‘But I thought that was what Alice wanted? For us to ask questions.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Alice. ‘But I don’t …’

‘It’s fine,’ said Patti, clasping her hands round her knees. ‘I’ll tell them.’ She put her head on one side in an attitude of thought. ‘When I came here the congregation was small. It’s a small village, of course, but hardly anyone came to church. It was run by the two churchwardens, the PCC and the flower ladies, some of whom were on the PCC. And they more or less made up the congregation.’

‘Were you on the PCC?’ Libby asked Alice, who nodded.

‘So when I came,’ Patti resumed, ‘and suggested a few changes, some of these people were dead against them. I look after another church in the area, too, and they adopted the changes quite quickly, mainly because it’s a much younger congregation and when I suggested a proper Sunday School and a crèche they were enthusiastic. Here, I had a fight on my hands for everything.’ Patti looked down at her hands. ‘Not just because the changes went against everything they were used to, but because I was a woman.’

‘It’s unbelievable that sort of prejudice still exists, isn’t it?’ said Fran.

Patti looked up. ‘But it does.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, I persevered, and people like Alice helped, until we had won over most of the people who were objecting. And then just the few, Joan Bidwell, Marion Longfellow and Maurice Blanchard and Gavin Brice, the churchwardens, were holding out. We now have a children’s service once a month, the choir is more active and we can incorporate different elements into the services. So that was where we were when we held the reunion service.’

‘Yes – what is a reunion service?’ asked Libby.

‘The miners,’ said Alice.

‘Miners?’ Fran looked blank.

‘Kent had productive coalfields,’ said Patti. ‘All closed by the end of the 1980s. It was an awful time. Anyway, we decided to hold a reunion service for all the survivors of the mines who live, or used to live, in or around the village. Representatives from all the mines attended, and the one remaining colliery band played for us. It was a great service.’ She looked out of the window, a small smile on her face, remembering.

‘And then we all adjourned to the village hall for a buffet,’ said Alice. ‘The pub provided some of the food and a small bar –’

‘Which our ladies disapproved of, naturally,’ put in Patti.

‘And everything was going really well, until someone, I can’t remember whom, realised Joan wasn’t there.’ Alice went pink. ‘I’m afraid I dismissed it, rather. I thought she was just showing her disapproval by not attendin. . .