‘Yes. We were both doing Sociology.’ Anne looked down at her lap. ‘She’s a very good person, you know. She was devastated about all the –’ she paused and looked up. ‘Well, you know.’
‘I know. Having a death in your church is bad enough, without all the subsequent nastiness. Still, at least the villagers seem to be back on her side now.’
‘Oh, yes, there’s huge support. But that doesn’t mean they’ve found out about the letters and emails, or the murders, does it?’ Anne frowned. ‘It’s so unsettling for her.’
‘Well, good that she can come here to you once a week for some respite,’ said Libby. ‘If she does come once a week, of course.’
‘Ever since she came to St Aldeberge. We were both delighted that she should be so near. I’ve lived here all my life, and when my mother died it was easier for me to stay here because the house had already been adapted.’
‘Do you go to church here?’ Libby asked, as Patti and Ben returned with the drinks.
Patti laughed. ‘I’ve never been able to convince her to give God a try.’
Anne grinned. ‘No, never been a God-botherer.’
‘Which is one of the reasons she couldn’t understand how deep some of the feelings within the church and its congregations go,’ said Patti.
‘I don’t think Mrs Bidwell’s murder was church-related, though,’ said Libby. ‘I think someone started the hate mails as a cover. Then there was the attempt to implicate you, to send suspicion well away from the real murderer and the real murder.’
‘But what was it?’ asked Anne. ‘Who was it?’
‘That’s what’s such a puzzle,’ said Libby. ‘The police have cleared away some of the mud, but the central problem’s still there.’ She turned to Patti. ‘I meant to say, how are the parishioners reacting to the murders now? They’re reacting better to you, but they must now be worried about a murderer being at large.’
‘Do you know,’ said Patti, in tones of wonder, ‘I don’t think that’s occurred to them! Yet they should be worried, shouldn’t they?’
‘Considering that two of their flower ladies have been done to death in suspicious circumstances, yes they should,’ said Libby.
‘Do you think,’ said Ben, putting his pint back on the table, ‘it is someone within the church community?’
Patti looked startled. ‘Yes, I suppose I’d assumed it was.’
‘But it might not be. The day Mrs – the first victim – was found, Libby tells me there were a lot of strangers in the church.’
‘Yes.’ Patti looked at Anne, then Libby and back at Ben. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘Did she appear to know any of them?’
‘I couldn’t say.’ Patti rubbed her forehead. ‘I was aware of her in her pew, but not that anyone spoke to her. Except when she took communion, of course. But the church was packed.’
‘I expect the police have asked who was sitting in her pew with her?’ said Libby.
‘They asked me, but I couldn’t tell them. I suppose they’ve asked everyone they can, but perhaps …’ Patti looked worried.
‘Perhaps people don’t want to tell them?’ suggested Ben. ‘That would be a normal reaction, wouldn’t it?’
‘Perhaps Ian should have added that to his sermon on Sunday,’ said Libby. ‘But Ben’s quite right. It might not have anything to with the church, Just someone – again – trying to cover up. We really need to know what that motive was.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘That was really clever of you,’ said Libby, as she and Ben strolled home. ‘Everyone’s been assuming it was someone within the congregation, but of course it needn’t be at all. I really want to know what was going on in Mrs Bidwell’s life.’
‘Not a lot. She was a flower lady and in a wheelchair,’ said Ben.
Libby dug him in the ribs. ‘I’m glad you didn’t say that in front of Anne back there,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t seem to have a problem, and she’s living alone and working.’
‘But she’s not in her eighties,’ said Ben.
‘True. But there must be something Mrs B knew, or saw, or perhaps possessed, that made someone kill her.’
‘And Fran saying the other one was killed as a result of her death means she knew it or saw it, too.’
‘Or saw who killed Mrs Bidwell.’ Libby stopped outside number 17 while Ben got out his key.
‘And how will you find that out?’ asked Ben, as Libby tripped down the step and fell over Sidney.
‘I don’t know. I know Fran says we should stop, and I know we should, but I really want to know what happened. I can’t ask Ian any more, there’s no reason for me or Fran to be involved.’
‘What about this son and the funeral?’ Ben switched on lights and held up the whisky bottle. Libby nodded.
‘What about the son?’ she said. ‘He doesn’t know anything. He hasn’t seen her for donkey’s years.’
‘Shame you don’t have a reason to get inside the community somehow,’ said Ben, handing over a whisky.
‘No, I –’ Libby stopped, her eyes brightening. ‘But I do!’
‘You do?’ Ben looked amused.
‘Drama! Patti’s said twice she’d like to get something going over there. She even said she’d have to get me down there.’
‘There you are, then. Two things, though – remember you’ve now got a panto to deal with here, and remember what happened last time you got involved with someone else’s production.’
Libby called Patti as soon as she decently could the next day, giving her time to get back home from Steeple Martin.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You know you said you’d like to get something going in St Aldeberge? Like panto?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Patti cautiously.
‘Well, I was thinking, it’s too late for panto this year, but how about a Nativity Pageant?’
There was such a long silence at the other end that Libby decided she must have mortally offended her new friend.
‘Actually – I think it’s a brilliant idea,’ said Patti eventually. ‘Almost no rehearsing and no lines to learn.’
‘Do the children do a Nativity play?’
‘In school they do.’
‘Could you borrow them to be extra angels or sheep or something?’
‘I expect so. Do you mean we have a grown-up Mary and Joseph?’
‘Yes, and,’ said Libby, struck by a brilliant idea, ‘it could be Alice’s daughter and her partner!’
‘When would we do it?’
‘That’s up to you. Could it be a candlelight service?’
‘Like the nine lessons and carols?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes, although we don’t have one here. Christmas Eve would be the best time, wouldn’t it?’
‘If you say so.’
‘I’ll put it to the PCC – not formally, but I’ll phone them all. Oh, this is so exciting! You will help us, though, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Libby, relieved, and feeling slightly guilty that this was the only reason she’d suggested it. Although, she said to herself after Patti had rung off, she was only doing it for the good of the village, the church and Patti.
‘I thought it would be a good idea,’ she said to Fran later on the phone. ‘We could maybe find out more about Mrs Bidwell and the other woman.’
‘Oh, Libby,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘I said we’ve got nothing else to do with it. We did what Alice asked us in the first place. That’s an end to it.’
‘OK, if you’re not interested I shall go on my own,’ said Libby. ‘I bet you’ll want to know if I find anything out.’
‘Let’s not fight about it, Lib. And I can’t imagine Ben will be that pleased about you getting even more involved.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Libby, with a certain air of smugness, ‘it was his idea.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘It was. Ask him. We went for a drink with Patti and her friend
Anne after rehearsal last night. Oh, and her friend Anne’s in a wheelchair. Nice woman.’
‘Oh.’ Fran sounded taken aback. ‘Well, I suppose …’
‘See? I said you’d be interested.’
‘Look,’ said Fran hastily, ‘I don’t necessarily want to be involved, but I’ll help if I can.’
‘That’s a bit of an oxymoron!’ laughed Libby.
‘You know what I mean. When are you going down there?’
‘I don’t know, Patti’s going to speak to the PCC first.’
‘PCC?’
‘Parochial Church Council,’ said Libby. ‘Not to be confused with the Parish Council, which is secular. More or less.’
‘I shall never get the hang of the church,’ said Fran with a sigh.
Ben arrived at lunchtime with a message from Hetty.
‘She’s asked Rosie for supper and wants us to go, too.’
‘For protection?’
‘Possibly! I must admit I was surprised. I didn’t notice them getting on together particularly well in the summer.’
‘No, neither did I. Of course, Rosie was often in the kitchen with us rather than the other guests. Maybe they saw more of each other than we thought?’
Ben and Libby had hosted a Writers’ Weekend with Rosie as a tutor during the summer. Unfortunately, a body had turned up and rather spoilt it all. (Murder at the Manor)
‘I expect she’s just feeling she ought to, as Rosie isn’t the ordinary sort of faceless tenant. Anyway, I said we’d go.’
‘I wonder if Rosie’s given up on the dating site since Monday,’ said Libby later, as they trudged together up the Manor drive. Ahead lights shone out of the theatre where the musical director and choreographer were rehearsing the chorus in the new words and music for the pantomime.
‘You haven’t heard from her since then, so maybe she has,’ said Ben, pushing open the heavy oak door to the Manor. But from the sound of the voices coming from the kitchen, Rosie hadn’t.
‘And there’s this one man,’ she was saying, ‘who seems ideal. Such a gentleman.’
Hetty grunted, and Ben led the way into the kitchen.
‘Still at it, then, Rosie?’ said Libby, going forward to give Hetty a kiss.
Rosie, pink in the face, gave a little laugh. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you know. Research.’
‘You said on Monday you were going to stop.’ Ben was pouring a noble claret into glasses for himself and Libby.
‘Looking for myself, yes.’ Rosie cleared her throat.
‘Well, on your own head be it,’ said Libby. ‘How are you, Hetty?’
Hetty had, as usual provided a sumptuous meal, but left most of the talking to her three guests, which made Libby certain that she had indeed felt an obligation to invite Rosie, as tenant of a family property, but needed Ben and herself as back-up.
‘Can’t see,’ she said eventually, when the talk turned again to the dating site, ‘what you want with another man at your age.’
Rosie opened her mouth and shut it again.
‘Mum!’ reproved Ben. ‘Rosie said, she’s only using it academically.’
‘Didn’t sound like it.’ Hetty rose and began gathering plates. ‘I’d be careful, gal, if I were you.’
‘What do you know about these sites, Hetty?’ Libby asked, amused.
‘I watch the telly, don’t I, and read the papers. Great place for them stalkers, dating sites. Young blokes looking for old women to get at their money.’
‘Old –?’ gasped Rosie.
‘Older, then,’ conceded Hetty. ‘See it all the time.’
‘Well, there’s a plot for you, Rosie,’ said Libby, smacking Ben on the hand to stop him laughing.
‘I’m working on something quite different,’ said Rosie, whose colour was still heightened.
‘Is it your usual genre?’ asked Libby, trying to get the conversation back from the brink of disaster.
‘A family-relationship novel, yes,’ said Rosie, calming down a little. ‘Tell me, did you find any more out about your murder method?’
‘On the internet, yes,’ said Libby, ‘although the police are thoughtlessly not telling us anything, so we’ve no confirmation. But Fran and I are off the case now we’ve done what we were asked to, so I doubt if we’ll hear any more about it.’ She avoided Ben’s surprised stare.
‘Oh, you’ll have more time then,’ Rosie began.
‘Sadly, she won’t,’ said Ben, ‘she and our friend Peter have just had to step in to rescue the pantomime.’
‘Didn’t tell me,’ said Hetty, serving bread and butter pudding.
‘Didn’t think you’d be interested, Mum,’ said Ben, accepting his plate.
‘Theatre’s next door, ain’t it? Course I’m interested. Who’s doing the costumes?’
Ben and Libby exchanged surprised looks.
‘The usual team, I think,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t know how far they’ve got.’
‘I’ll do yours, if you like,’ said Hetty. ‘If you’re gonna be in it.’
‘Oh, Hetty!’ Libby felt her face go pink with pleasure. ‘Yes, I am – I’m the Queen!’
Rosie, looking slightly put out, picked at her bread and butter pudding. Ben took pity on her.
‘Actually, Rosie, that’s given me an idea.’
Rosie looked up.
‘Hetty’s theory about stalkers on dating sites. I wonder if that was what was behind our first murder?’
‘Mrs Bidwell on a dating site?’ said Libby. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so! She was in her eighties, and I doubt if she had a computer. She sounded such a died-in-the-wool traditionalist.’
‘Yes,’ said Rosie, ‘but Ben’s right.’ Her interest piqued, she leant forward. ‘It wouldn’t have to be a dating site, it could simply be someone visiting her, making a fuss of her. Hetty’s right, too, you hear of it all the time. The carers who persuade old people to leave them their money, the fake solicitors – there are so many!’
Libby, surprised, looked round the table to see Hetty and Ben nodding. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It could be exactly that. I wonder if the police have thought of it?’
‘I expect they have,’ said Ben. ‘There’s no flies on Ian. They’ll be looking at the will to see if there’ve been any changes recently, and who benefits.’
‘Not her son and daughter, then?’
‘If they haven’t seen her for thirty years, probably not.’
‘Hmm.’ Libby tapped her spoon against her plate and stared at her wineglass. ‘What would you do with it in a story, Rosie?’
Rosie picked up her own glass. ‘I’d have to think about that. It would have to be the least likely person on the surface, of course.’
‘Which would probably be Patti herself,’ said Libby, ‘and we know it isn’t her. Oh, well, we’ll see what the pageant turns up.’
The minute she said it, she could have kicked herself.
‘What pageant?’ said Rosie.
With a sigh, Libby explained.
‘You’ve got time to do that, then,’ said Rosie.
‘Rosie,’ said Ben, with a rather tired smile, ‘this is to help a community get back together, not to help a writer with a plot.’
Hetty caught Libby’s eye and gave her a grim smile. Rosie pushed her plate away, and Libby put a hand on her wrist.
‘Rosie, I do have other things in my life, you know. I’m sorry if you feel I’m neglecting you, but I didn’t ask you to come, did I?’
This time, Rosie looked as if she was going to cry, and Libby hastily topped up her wineglass.
‘Come on, cheer up,’ she said, ‘you’ve been a great help to us already.’
‘On a case you’re not even on any more,’ said Rosie.
‘But on which we might be able to offer help,’ persisted Libby.
‘Hmm.’ Rosie sipped at her wine and didn’t look at anyone. Hetty stood up.
‘Coffee?’ she asked.
Predictably, Rosie refused coffee and Ben’s offer to wa
lk her home, thanking Hetty for inviting her before trudging off down the Manor drive managing to look like a refugee being turned from the door.
‘That went well,’ said Ben, leading his mother and Libby into the cosy sitting room. ‘I should think she might go home, soon.’
‘Not if her kitchen’s not finished,’ said Libby, ‘but I meant what I said. The suggestion of a stalker – or rather – of someone trying to do her out of her savings – is a good one, and we wouldn’t have thought of it without her.’
‘We wouldn’t have thought of it without my mum,’ said Ben, and gave her a hug.
Chapter Sixteen
When Patti called the following morning to say everyone she’d spoken to was in favour of a version of the Nativity story live in the church, Libby was delighted. There was a panto rehearsal that night, but she agreed to go over and have a brief meeting with some of the people involved that afternoon. She called Fran to tell her the news, but didn’t invite her to the meeting. She had a feeling that Fran, with her atheistic tendencies and complete non-understanding of the Church, would be a hindrance in this particular instance.
Ben, too, was delighted, and even offered to cook their evening meal. Not that this was an unusual occurrence, Ben was very hands-on as a house-sharer, which had come as a great surprise to Libby, whose former husband had been a died-in-the-wool chauvinist.
She drove over to the St Aldeberge vicarage in the drippy greyness of a November afternoon. Patti was coaxing life into a fire in a shabby, comfortable room at the back of the house, and five other people, one of whom was Alice, sat round watching her.
‘Sheila Johnson I believe you’ve met,’ said Patti, waving a hand at the large lady whom Libby had last seen in the church, ‘Kaye Cook, who also helps with the flowers,’ she indicated a small woman with mousy hair and a pursed mouth, ‘and Gavin Brice and Maurice Blanchard who are our churchwardens. Alice you know.’
Gavin Brice was a pleasant-looking middle-aged man with a round pink face and an air of permanent cheeriness, who didn’t look as though he had ever disapproved of Patti. Maurice Blanchard, on the other hand, was tall and lugubrious, his long cheeks creased with vertical lines. He eyed Libby with vague suspicion as she smiled brightly round at the company, and Patti began her opening remarks.
Murder by Magic Page 11