‘No, but I just thought if he was particularly early he might have seen someone lurking about.’
‘The police were going to ask all the neighbours if they saw or heard anything, but, to be honest, if I didn’t hear anything, actually living here, how would anyone else have done?’
‘I wonder,’ mused Libby, ‘if that’s why Alice is scared?’
‘What do you mean?’ Patti looked puzzled.
‘I wonder if she knows someone was wandering about in the night?’
‘Like who? Her husband? Poor old Bob, he wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
‘That’s true, of what I remember. Her daughter?’
‘Tracey? Good lord, no. And her husband Darren – I can’t see him tiptoeing round the village at night. More likely singing or fighting.’
Libby pulled a face. ‘Oh, dear, poor Alice.’
‘Oh, Darren’s all right.’ Patti sighed. ‘He just gets a bit carried away on Friday and Saturday nights in the pub.’
‘So there could have been people around late last night?’
‘But not after twelve. The landlord’s strict about his closing time.’ Patti smiled. ‘Just as well, as the pub’s only over the road!’
‘Is it? Where?’
‘Just on the right as you go past the church from here. It’s set back a bit from the road, but it’s the classic old village set-up, pub and church virtually opposite each other.’
‘So someone coming out of the pub might have noticed someone lurking around your place?’ Libby persisted.
‘Only if they came this way on their way home, and considering what state most of them are in when they leave I doubt they’d notice anything.’
‘Oh, well. I expect the police will have asked all those sorts of questions anyway,’ said Libby. She smiled at Patti. ‘At least you sound better than you did on the phone.’
‘Yes, I think talking about it helps. What I don’t understand is the reasoning behind this.’
‘Ah, well.’ Libby reported her conversation with Fran. ‘So you see, it almost seems as if someone’s panicking and trying to divert suspicion.’
‘Whoever’s spreading the rumours, you mean?’ said Patti.
‘Maybe, but look, in the first place Mrs Bidwell’s murder – we’re all sure it was murder now, aren’t we? – was concealed and made to look like a natural death. Then the rumours started about you, so perhaps the murderer, realising that Mrs Bidwell was going to be looked into, so to speak, decided to take advantage of the situation and point the finger at you.’
‘What – and just to do that he murdered poor Marion Longfellow? That’s appalling!’ Patti looked horrified.
‘No, there must be a reason to kill her,’ said Libby, ‘and Fran was convinced the two deaths are linked. The Black Magic setting was to confuse and point towards you because of the rumours.’
‘So why the – thing – on my doorstep today?’
‘God knows,’ said Libby. ‘Oh, sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Patti with a grin. ‘I expect He does.’
Libby laughed. ‘Well, I wish he’d let you in on the secret, then! Actually, it occurred to me driving over here, is there any history of Black Magic or witchcraft connected with the village?’
Patti looked interested. ‘I don’t know. It’s the sort of thing I should know, isn’t it? Hang on, I’ll see if I can find –’ She stood up and went to the crammed bookshelves that lined two of the walls. ‘Here,’ she said, coming back to her desk with a large old-looking book. ‘This belonged to my predecessor. It’s a history of the village written in the thirties.’
‘Will it have an index?’ asked Libby, shifting her chair a bit nearer. ‘Otherwise we don’t know what to look for.’
‘No, but it does have chapter titles,’ said Patti, turning the yellowed pages. ‘Here – forty-four of them.’ She ran her finger down the list. ‘Folk-lore of the village and surroundings. Could that be it?’
Together, they scanned the contents of the folk-lore chapter but discovered no more than a few May Day and midsummer rituals.
‘What about this?’ said Libby, turning back to the contents list and pointing. ‘Listen: “Cunning Mary and the Willoughby Oak”. That sounds like it. Didn’t they call witches “cunning-women”? Or the “cunning craft”?’
Patti found the chapter and they began to read.
‘That’s it!’ said Libby triumphantly. ‘We’ve found it! Now, where’s the Willoughby Oak?’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Patti, looking bewildered. ‘And anyway, although it says she was a witch and hung from the oak, it doesn’t say anything else happened there.’
‘No, but I bet it did. Maybe still does. Poor woman was only a wise woman, after all. Just because some stupid farmers accused her of causing a murrain.’
‘I’ve always wondered what a “murrain” was,’ said Patti, pulling her laptop towards her. ‘Oh, just a general term for disease in cattle and sheep.’
‘But look,’ said Libby, ‘it does say it became synonymous with witchcraft. Anyway, that’s not the point. Put Cunning Mary and the Willoughby Oak in.’
Patti dutifully did so, and to their gratification up came several sites, mostly those devoted to witchcraft and the paranormal. As Patti’s book had said, Cunning Mary lived in the late sixteenth century and had the reputation of a “wise woman”. As with most such women, she was regarded with fear and distrust by many, and eventually, in sixteen twelve, the same year the Pendle Witches were tried, a mob forced her out of her tiny cottage and took her to the Willoughby Oak, where they summarily hanged her.
But two of the websites went further than the book. According to them, every year on the anniversary of Mary’s murder, for that, said Libby, is what it was, strange goings-on were reported from the oak. There were various theories about this. Some said it was Mary’s ghost coming back to cast vengeful spells on her killers. Others, reporting strange lights in the tree, that other wise women, or witches, were using the force-field created by Mary to further their own spells. However, the most up-to-date report stated quite unequivocally that there were meetings of a Black Magic coven beneath the tree on the anniversary of Mary’s death every year.
‘And look when her death is,’ said Patti.
‘All Hallow’s Eve,’ they said together.
‘Samhain,’ said Libby. ‘We found out about it before, when we got involved with Morris dancers.’
‘Their most important festival,’ said Patti. ‘We had to learn quite a lot about it in college.’
‘Really? Is that when you got interested in Deliverance?’ Libby was interested. ‘I’ve often wondered what you learn.’
‘Yes, I got very interested in Deliverance and the areas of spirituality that seemed to clash with the doctrines of the church. I suppose that’s why the rumours began that I was a witch. I should have known about poor Cunning Mary.’
‘Did you do a degree in theology?’
‘Yes, although I did a Sociology degree first. I thought it would help.’
‘And has it?’
‘I’m really not sure. The application of the two disciplines is fairly contradictory sometimes.’ Patti sighed and looked out of the window again. ‘They’re going, look.’ She waved as one of the forensics team put up a thumb and climbed into the van.
‘I suppose I ought to be, too. I’ve got a party to go to tonight.’ Libby stood up. ‘I don’t think I’ve helped at all.’
‘Oh, you have.’ Patti stood up.
‘Have I?’ Libby looked dubious.
‘Now I’m going to pop over and see Alice. I mean, she came here this morning with the same idea – to see if I was all right.’
‘Shall I give you a lift over there?’ Libby fished out her keys as Patti opened the front door.
‘No, it’s only a step. I’ll walk.’ Patti looked down at the scrubbed doorstep. ‘I hope I get over not wanting to step on it.’
Libby jumped up and down on it. ‘
There. Now all you’ll think of is a middle-aged woman making a fool of herself.’ She gave Patti a kiss on the cheek. ‘Take care of yourself.’
‘I will. And let me know if you hear anything else.’
‘Ditto,’ said Libby, climbing into the car.
Chapter Ten
‘Do we know what sort of party this is?’ asked Peter, as he folded his tall body in beside Libby in the back of the taxi.
‘I know it’s being catered,’ said Libby, ‘so I don’t suppose it’s a small intimate one.’
‘Hmm. I don’t fancy staying overnight if there are going to be a lot of media types swanning around. I wonder if Hal would mind driving home?’
‘Poor Harry,’ said Ben, turning round from the front seat. ‘You’ll condemn him to a drinkless evening.’
‘But you aren’t staying, neither are Fran and Guy, so we wouldn’t know anyone,’ complained Peter. ‘We don’t know your Lewis very well, after all.’
‘He isn’t “our” Lewis,’ laughed Libby.
‘You know him better than the rest of us,’ said Peter, and lapsed into a morose silence.
Creekmarsh was lit up like the proverbial Christmas Tree. Since Lewis had opened it up as a wedding and conference centre, although he was very choosy about whom he permitted to use it, it had allowed him to indulge a passion for theatrics, and any amount of lights and lasers were hung in trees and mounted on roofs and were playing against the walls. Several cars including Guy’s stood on the drive, which was lit with flares, Libby noticed.
Inside, Lewis’s mother Edie was, as usual, in her best black and sequins, and her assistant Charlene was again in her French maid’s outfit. Lewis was ushering a group of people into the refurbished grand hall, and turned to welcome them.
‘Great, this, isn’t it?’ he said waving a hand at the brocade hangings and heavy, dark furniture. ‘Look at that fire!’
Sure enough, in the huge manorial fireplace a log fire of immense proportions blazed. No one was standing remotely near it.
‘Great,’ the party of three murmured as a tray of champagne glasses appeared under their noses.
‘Right,’ said Lewis. ‘Come and meet people.’
It was some time before Libby could manoeuvre herself next to Fran and tell her what she’d learnt that day in St Aldeberge.
‘It’s definitely all a bit odd,’ she finished. ‘And we must find out about Cunning Mary and the Willoughby Oak.’
‘The Willoughby Oak?’
A masculine voice behind them made them both jump.
‘Sorry.’ A tall fair man ducked his head with a smile. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Libby, warily.
‘Oh, it’s all right,’ he said sticking out a hand. ‘Tim Bolton, Lewis’s producer.’
‘Oh.’ Libby smiled her relief and took the hand. ‘I’m Libby Sarjeant – with a j – and this is Fran Wolfe.’
Interest sparked in Tim Bolton’s eyes. ‘Ah – the psychic investigators!’
‘No, no,’ Libby hastily corrected. ‘I’m distinctly un-psychic.’
‘But –’
‘It’s me,’ said Fran, a little wearily. ‘I’m supposed to be psychic.’
‘I thought Lewis said –’
‘We helped a bit when they discovered those bones in his garden,’ said Libby. ‘That’s all.’
‘I heard slightly differently,’ said Tim Bolton. ‘In fact, I asked Lewis if he thought we could do a programme about you.’
‘What?’ Fran let out a horrified shriek, loud enough that several people, including her husband and step-daughter started towards her.
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ soothed the embarrassed Bolton. ‘He said nothing on earth would induce you to allow that, so I didn’t pursue it.’ He took a deep breath and changed the subject. ‘But I heard you mention the Willoughby Oak. It’s near here, isn’t it?’
‘Do you know about it, then?’ asked Libby, waving away concerned relatives with an imperious hand. ‘I only heard about it today.’
‘Oh.’ Tim Bolton looked disappointed. ‘It came up in my research into a programme about the four hundredth anniversary of the Pendle Witch Trial.’
‘Yes, another witch was hanged from it in the same year,’ said Libby, ‘but I don’t know where it is.’ Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a strange expression on Fran’s face and hurried on. ‘If you find out, perhaps you’d tell Lewis and he could tell me?’
‘Of course,’ said the amiable but shrewd Bolton, ‘but you have to tell me why you want to know first.’
‘Oh – just interest,’ said Libby. ‘A friend and I were looking something up on the internet and it came up in one of those side paths you always find your self wandering …’ She floundered to a stop.
‘Right. If I find out where it is I’ll let you know.’ He gave her a quizzical look and turned to Fran, whose eye, conveniently, was caught by her step-daughter.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘my daughter …’ and with a vague smile pushed her way through the throng.
‘I upset her, didn’t I?’ Tim Bolton ruefully followed Fran’s progress through the crowd.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Libby, glad that the subject of the oak tree had been abandoned. ‘Fran’s very sensitive about her abilities. She doesn’t quite believe in them herself.’
‘I can understand that.’ Tim Bolton was still watching Fran as she talked to Sophie and Guy. Adam stood close by with Peter and Ben. ‘Of course, four hundred years ago she’d have been called a witch.’
Libby’s breath caught in her throat and she felt as if she’d received a blow in her solar plexus.
‘Sorry.’ Tim Bolton returned his attention to her. ‘It’s all this research into witches I’ve been doing for the programme.’
‘Oh, you and your witches.’ Lewis appeared beside them waving new champagne glasses. ‘Come on, Lib, we’re nearly ready to eat. You’d better go and find that woman of yours, Tim.’
‘Was he bothering you?’ Lewis asked quietly, as he shepherded Libby towards her family. ‘I saw Fran take off.’
‘Not really. He said he’d suggested doing a programme about Fran to you.’
‘He did. About both of you, but concentrating on Fran’s – y’know – psychic stuff. I said no.’
‘Yes, he said.’ Libby gave Lewis’s arm a squeeze. ‘Thank you.’
‘He can’t help it. He used to be an investigative journo until he went into production. He part-owns our company now. Why did he start talking to you?’
Libby told him about the Willoughby Oak.
‘If he finds anything out, I’ll let you know,’ said Lewis, ‘and I won’t ask any questions.’ He gave her a wink and delivered her into the arms of her friends.
The food, as always was exceptional.
‘I suppose if we ate like this all the time we wouldn’t appreciate it,’ said Libby to Ben.
‘I’d watch what you answer there,’ said Peter.
‘And better not repeat it to Harry,’ agreed Ben with a grin.
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, Harry doesn’t do beef. He’s a veggie.’
‘He has kept your favourite pollo verde on the menu, though. And the odd bit of fish.’ Peter scraped the last of his Beef Wellington off his plate and sighed. ‘That was great, though.’
‘So tell us about this Willoughby Oak,’ said Guy, leaning forward. ‘Fran hasn’t told me anything.’
‘She doesn’t know much. I haven’t had the chance to tell her,’ said Libby, pushing her plate away.
‘I know where it is, though,’ said Fran.
‘Thought you’d had a little moment.’ Libby nodded. ‘While I was talking to that Bolton person.’
‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘But I don’t know the rest.’
So Libby related the day’s events.
‘Bloody hell, Ma,’ said Adam. ‘You do get yourself into some messes.’
‘They both do,’ said Sophie gloomil
y. ‘It can be quite embarrassing.’
‘Sophie!’ Guy looked shocked.
Fran and Libby laughed.
‘Parents are supposed to embarrass their children, even step-parents,’ said Fran. ‘It’s in the rule-book.’
‘What I’m not absolutely sure about,’ said Peter, ‘is why you want to find this oak?’
‘Because of the Black Magic coven that meets there,’ said Fran.
Everyone looked at her.
‘Well, they do,’ she muttered, burying her face in her wineglass.
‘OK,’ said Libby slowly, ‘so they do. Do we know if any of them have connections to the village or Patti?’
‘How do I know?’ said Fran. ‘I don’t get a printed list. I simply know there’s a coven and they meet there.’
‘There you are, then,’ said Libby with a weak smile. ‘That’s why we want to know.’
It was much later when Libby and Fran had a chance to talk again. Harry had arrived and, to Libby’s surprise, had agreed to drive home rather than stay the night, so while they waited for him to enjoy the supper Lewis had saved for him, they settled down in a corner away from everyone else.
‘Is there a connection, do you think?’ asked Libby.
‘If there is, it’s an oblique one. As we said earlier, it looks as though someone’s setting a stage. It isn’t real.’ Fran tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair, looking thoughtful.
‘So someone, perhaps, who knows about the coven and wants to point the finger at them?’
‘Perhaps. Although the second murder was meant to imply Patti had something to do with Black Magic.’
‘Which was promptly discounted when they found out she wasn’t around, so they’ve thought up this latest nonsense. This is what we thought anyway, though, isn’t it? I haven’t gone very far in progressing the theory.’ Libby sighed.
‘I think we have,’ said Fran. ‘There would have been no point in using a Black Magic cover if the murderer didn’t know there was a coven operating in the area. Which argues that he or she must either be a member of it –’
‘Which isn’t likely, because he or she got things a bit wrong,’ interrupted Libby.
Murder by Magic Page 7