Murder by Magic

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘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 attending.’

  ‘But Sheila Johnson went to look for her.’ Patti pulled a face. ‘And there she was. Just sitting in her pew. Dead.’

  ‘Of course, we all thought it was her heart, or a stroke, or something,’ said Alice.

  ‘And the post mortem didn’t really turn anything up. Her heart just stopped. Her arteries were furred, but nothing else was found.’

  ‘Nothing in her stomach?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No.’ Patti coloured slightly. ‘Of course, that was what the village was saying, that somehow I’d poisoned her with the host –’

  ‘Host?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Communion wafers,’ explained Libby. ‘You don’t know much about the church, do you, Fran?’

  ‘Never been a church-goer,’ said Fran. ‘Neither was Mum.’

  ‘So how did the congregation think you’d done that? Managed to poison one wafer out of dozens?’ Libby returned to the vicar.

  ‘Because it was reserved sacrament,’ said Patti, looking agonised.

  Fran opened her mouth and Libby frowned at her.

  ‘That’s for people who take communion sitting in their pew, isn’t it? Or even at home?’ she said.

  Patti nodded. ‘Yes. You see, Joan wasn’t that well. She had diabetes and arthritis, and found it difficult to get to the altar rail, let alone kneel.’

  ‘How did she do the flowers?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Oh, she’d come in her wheelchair,’ said Alice, ‘but she couldn’t sit in her wheelchair in the aisle because it blocked access.’

  ‘Health and safety,’ said the vicar, looking gloomy.

  ‘So she was helped to get to “her pew”.’ Alice made quotation marks with her fingers, and Libby winced.

  ‘And no one noticed her wheelchair was left behind?’ said Fran.

  ‘It was always pushed right out of the way in the Narthex –’

  ‘The lobby,’ said Alice and Libby together.

  ‘All right,’ said Fran peaceably. ‘I get it. The place where we found the leaflets and the honesty box?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Patti. ‘Someone would normally go and get it for her after most of the congregation had gone.’

  ‘So why didn’t someone this time?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Because when Gavin Brice went to look for the wheelchair it wasn’t there.’

  Chapter Three

  After a pause, Libby said, ‘But didn’t he check to see if Joan was still in her pew?’

  Alice shook her head. ‘He says he went for the wheelchair, saw it was gone and assumed she’d been taken out by someone else. He didn’t look back.’

  ‘And so she was,’ said Libby. ‘Taken out, I mean.’

  ‘Libby!’ admonished Fran. ‘And Gavin Brice is …?’

  ‘One of our churchwardens,’ said Patti.

  ‘And had he left the chair in its usual place?’ asked Fran.

  ‘No, that was the odd thing. He took it right outside because of all the extra people in the church. We’d filled the Narthex with chairs, you see.’

  ‘Can I interrupt for a moment?’ said Alice. ‘Only Patti had actually come round to talk about the next children’s service and I’ve got to pick up Nathaniel in a little while.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby looked blank.

  ‘Where do you have to pick him up from?’ asked Fran.

  ‘The village primary,’ said Alice, beaming. ‘Then I have him until Tracey gets home.’

  ‘Is Tracey your daughter?’ asked Fran, while Libby, who couldn’t remember a thing about Alice’s family, silently thanked her.

  ‘Yes. We moved here after Bob retired. Tracey was still living with us then and when we came here she met Darren. Then they had Nathaniel.’ Alice was still beaming. ‘And now she’s pregnant again. We’re so pleased.’

  Patti turned to Libby and Fran. ‘Are there any more questions you’d like to ask?’ she said. ‘Because I’d be happy to talk to you. Anything to try and sort this mess out.’

  ‘Would you like to come to one of us?’ asked Fran. ‘Off home ground, so to speak. Then you wouldn’t get interrupted.’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Patti. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘I’m in Nethergate, which is nearer you,’ said Fran, ‘and Libby’s in Steeple Martin.’

  Patti brightened. ‘Steeple Martin? I have a friend there, Anne Douglas. Do you know her?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Libby looked doubtful.

  ‘I could combine a visit to her with a visit to you, perhaps,’ said Patti. ‘If I could time it right.’

  ‘Does Anne work?’ Fran correctly interpreted this remark.

  ‘Yes, she’s a librarian in Canterbury.’

  ‘So if you came over late afternoon one day, perhaps, you could go and see your friend for supper?’

  ‘That would be good.’ Patti looked more cheerful than ever.

  ‘Well,’ said Libby standing up, ‘you get hold of your friend and find out when she’s free, then we can liaise.’ She scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘There’s my number,’ she said, handing it over. ‘We’ll look forward to hearing from you.’

  Both Patti and Alice accompanied them to the front door.

  ‘So you do think there’s something to be looked into after all?’ said Alice to Libby.

  ‘Fran does,’ said Libby. ‘And I trust her.’

  Patti smiled at them both. ‘And so do I.’

  ‘That went well,’ said Libby, as they drove back to Nethergate through the grey afternoon.

  ‘Yes, it did,’ said Fran, her eyes on the equally grey sea. ‘Nice woman.’

  ‘Who, Alice?’r />
  ‘No, Patti. Wish I knew why they become vicars.’

  ‘Because they’re Called,’ said Libby. ‘Just because you and I don’t have that sort of faith –’

  ‘It’s all fairy stories, Lib.’ Fran turned her gaze to the coast road ahead. ‘You can’t possibly think anything else.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ said Libby uncomfortably, ‘but what the vicars do. It’s up to them, surely?’

  ‘I’ve told you about my cousin, haven’t I?’ said Fran, in a settling-down sort of tone.

  ‘Your cousin? I didn’t know you had any cousins.’

  ‘You do, perfectly well. Cousin Charles.’

  ‘Oh, gosh! Of course. What’s he got to do with anything?’

  ‘You remember his side of the family came from Steeple Mount? Well, there was another cousin who became a vicar.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He left the ministry when they decided to ordain women.’

  ‘Well, good riddance!’ said Libby. ‘How ridiculous. Was he very ancient?’

  ‘No, that was the trouble. He was about ten years younger than I am, and this, remember, would have been in 1994, so he would have been quite young.’

  ‘I suppose it’s like a lot of things,’ said Libby, ‘we think it’s ridiculous now, but anything new has always been held in suspicion. I mean, we think it’s terrible that people couldn’t hold certain jobs if they were married, but thirty or forty years ago it was quite normal.’

  ‘What was ridiculous,’ Fran went on, ‘was his absolute conviction that the Bible said it was wrong. I cannot believe that someone intelligent enough to go to university believes that farrago of lies.’

  ‘Steady on!’ said Libby, alarmed. ‘Farrago of lies?’

  ‘Look,’ said Fran patiently. ‘It’s been almost incontrovertibly proven that most of the stories are either allegorical or written years and years after the event by people who weren’t there. Can you honestly believe that what is supposedly God’s law is actually true?’

  ‘Um,’ said Libby, and decided to leave well alone.

  It was later that evening when Patti rang Libby to ask if it would be convenient for her to call round on the following afternoon.

  ‘My friend Anne will be home early, so if I came about three I could go to her as soon as you’ve had enough of me,’ she said.