Murder by Magic

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘So all we have to do is come down the aisle in procession,’ said Libby, when Patti had finished, ‘and take up various positions as the story is read out. Luke, would you say, Patti?’

  ‘With the Magi from Matthew tacked on,’ agreed Patti. ‘Everybody happy with that?’

  ‘What about the Annunciation?’ asked Maurice. ‘That’s in Luke.’

  ‘We could start with that, and then when we get to Luke Two the progression can begin,’ said Patti. ‘What do you think, Libby?’

  And so the arrangements went on until Libby suggested they might ask for volunteers to take the various parts.

  ‘Your Tracey would be ideal for Mary,’ she said to Alice. ‘Would she do it?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have to ride on a donkey, would she?’ asked Alice doubtfully.

  ‘I don’t suppose we’d find a willing donkey,’ laughed Libby. ‘No. Would her partner do Joseph?’

  ‘No.’ Alice shook her head firmly. ‘Specially if it’s Christmas Eve. Darren goes to the pub on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘How old was Joseph?’ asked Gavin.

  ‘Older than Mary, but under forty as far as we can tell,’ said Patti, eyeing Gavin nervously.

  ‘Oh, not me, love!’ Gavin’s laugh was as cheerful as his face. ‘I meant my own Joseph. He’s much of an age with young Tracey, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a definite possibility,’ said Patti looking relieved. ‘Now, shepherds and Kings.’

  ‘Why don’t you,’ said Libby, ‘put a notice up in your community shop asking for volunteers?’

  ‘That’s an idea.’ Sheila Johnson nodded. ‘Pity we don’t open again until Monday.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ve got Sunday in between. Patti can make an announcement then. Bit different from last Sunday’s, but cheerier.’ Libby beamed at them all.

  So it was decided and Patti and Alice went into the kitchen to make tea.

  ‘So you’re the detective lady?’ said Sheila Johnson. ‘I saw you when you were looking for Alice, didn’t I? With the other lady.’

  ‘You did, but I’m not a detective,’ said Libby.

  ‘And why are you helping with this whatever-it-is, pageant?’ asked Maurice.

  ‘Because I’m an ex-professional actor, I still act in and direct community theatre and Patti asked me,’ said Libby, stung by his attitude.

  ‘I think it’s great,’ said Gavin. ‘I’ve said for years we should have a drama group here. I have to go over to Felling if I want to do anything.’

  ‘Oh, you act, do you?’ Libby turned to him.

  ‘A bit.’ Gavin put on the modest air Libby associated with the amateur who thought he was a good deal better than he was. ‘I’d do more, but Felling’s a long way off to pop over in the evenings.’

  ‘I don’t think I know it,’ said Libby.

  ‘It’s a couple of miles further inland, at the end of our little inlet,’ said Kaye, speaking for the first time in a surprisingly deep voice. ‘The police keep an eye on it.’

  Everyone looked at her.

  ‘Do they?’ said Libby and Sheila together.

  ‘They think illegal immigrants are coming ashore there,’ said Kaye.

  ‘In Felling?’ Maurice almost sneered. ‘Where would they go when they got there? You can barely get out of the town as it is.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’ asked Libby. Four voices answered her.

  ‘One road in –’

  ‘Through the Sand Gate –’

  ‘Ring road –’

  ‘One way system –’

  Libby laughed, as Patti and Alice came back into the room with a tray of mugs.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked Alice. Libby told her, and it was Alice’s turn to laugh.

  ‘Felling is a very old town, possibly even Roman, but certainly developed in Saxon times, and became very important in medieval times. Now, it’s simply very small, with very narrow streets and the only way in or out is through the Sand Gate. Anyone trying to slip out unnoticed would be hard put to it.’

  ‘In that case, why are the police watching it?’ asked Kaye reasonably. ‘They must have some kind of information.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s not illegal immigrants?’ suggested Gavin. ‘Perhaps it’s drugs. You could smuggle those through in an ordinary car.’

  ‘Coming ashore at Felling Quay?’ said Maurice, still sneering. ‘You can’t get anything bigger than a rowing boat up the creek between us and Felling. It’s unnavigable.’

  Gavin shrugged. ‘I don’t know then. It’s not important, anyway, is it?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Patti, handing out mugs. ‘Anyone want a biscuit? I haven’t any cake, I’m afraid.’

  When the other four had gone and Patti, Alice and Libby sat alone around the fire, Libby had a suggestion to make.

  ‘I quite understand that you might feel you should do it,’ she said, ‘but Kaye’s got such a beautiful voice, I wondered if she might do the reading?’

  Patti smiled. ‘I was going to suggest it myself. She often does the readings in church for that reason.’

  ‘And what’s up with Maurice? He spent the whole meeting looking like Eeyore.’

  ‘That’s just his way.’ Alice sighed. ‘He lives alone and likes to make sure everyone knows he’s an old misogynist.’

  ‘Only he isn’t really.’ Patti giggled. ‘He’s got a lady friend that no one knows about.’

  ‘Really?’ Alice looked astonished.

  ‘Yes, really, but don’t ask me any more, because I won’t say. He’s also kindness itself, and by far the largest donor to the collection.’

  ‘He’d actually make a good king – Melchior, probably. “Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume, breathes a life of gathering doom”,’ said Libby.

  ‘That’s Balthazar, and it’s gloom, not doom,’ corrected Patti, ‘although it comes to the same thing, and I see what you mean. Are we going to do that, by the way? Intersperse with hymns?’

  ‘Gosh, yes! I’d forgotten that. All nice traditional ones. That one, and While Shepherds Watched …’

  ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem?’ suggested Alice.

  ‘And not Little Donkey,’ said Patti.

  ‘Well, of course not, that’s not traditional,’ said Libby.

  ‘You’d be amazed at the people who think it is,’ said Patti gloomily.

  ‘So, Gavin. He’d make a cheerful innkeeper? Or shepherd?’

  ‘Oh, innkeeper,’ said Alice. ‘He’s always happy-looking, and the innkeeper did give them a place to sleep, after all.’

  ‘Is he always that happy?’ asked Libby. ‘And why did he disapprove of you? He doesn’t seem to now.’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Patti. ‘I think he keeps his real self under wraps, like Maurice, although I don’t know why I think that. His son Joe’s a nice boy and they seem to get on fine, so I don’t think there’s anything nasty going on. Perhaps a bit of tragedy. I suppose it was mainly because I’m a woman that they both disapproved. I know Maurice at least has very high church leanings.’

  ‘His wife left,’ said Alice. ‘Perhaps that’s it.’

  ‘Oh, dear. When ?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Oh, years ago now. Before we came to the village. It’s always been just him and Joe.’

  ‘What about Sheila and Kaye?’

  ‘What about them?’ said Patti.

  ‘Are they married? Have they been here long? How did they get on with Joan Bidwell and Marion Longfellow?’

  ‘Is that what this is all about?’ asked Patti shrewdly. ‘An undercover investigation into the murders?’

  ‘No!’ said Libby, feeling a little heat creeping into her cheeks.

  ‘Well, if it is, I think it’s a very good idea,’ said Patti, laughing. ‘The police don’t seem to be doing anything.’

  ‘I expect they are, only they don’t have to keep everyone up to speed,’ said Libby. ‘Fran and I, having served our purpose, are no longer in the loop. Once we’d put him on to the Willoughby Oak, that was
it.’

  ‘Did you?’ said Patti.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Alice.

  ‘It’s place near here where they hold Black Magic rites,’ said Libby, ‘Yes, we told Ian and he went to look just after Fran and I did, and warned off that Tim Bolton I told you about.’

  ‘So you’ve seen it?’ said Patti.

  ‘Who’s Tim Bolton?’ asked Alice.

  Libby patiently explained the whole saga of the Willoughby Oak, Cunning Mary, the witch trials, and finally the involvement of Tim Bolton and Lewis’s production company.

  ‘And has that helped the investigation into the murders?’ Alice was frowning.

  ‘It has a bit, because of the insinuation that Black Magic was involved first in Joan Bidwell’s death, and subsequently Marion Longfellow’s. But we – the police, I mean – don’t think it’s actually someone involved in Black Magic, simply using it as a cover.’

  ‘It was my interest in all the alternative religions and deliverance that did it,’ said Patti with a sigh. ‘That’s why all the mutterings started. I wonder if it was the murderer or someone else?’

  ‘We thought,’ said Libby slowly, ‘that the murder was committed as it was in order to look like a natural death, so perhaps whoever started the Black Magic rumour wasn’t the murderer, but just a nasty busybody, and then the murderer latched on to it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Alice didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Anyway, I must get going. Panto rehearsal tonight, and we’re still trying to knock the damn thing into shape. Trouble is, with volunteers, you can’t sack them.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Patti with feeling. ‘Oh, not you Alice.’

  ‘Will you let me know when you’ve assembled a cast?’ asked Libby, standing up and reaching for her coat.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d like you to come and cast a professional eye on it, perhaps direct it a bit?’

  ‘Yes, I will, but bear in mind I shall be rehearsing in the evenings.’

  ‘Not every evening, surely?’ said Alice.

  ‘No, but I don’t necessarily want to spend my evenings coming to other rehearsals,’ said Libby.

  ‘And so you shouldn’t,’ said Patti. ‘It’s very kind of you to help, Libby. We just need someone to point us in the right direction.’

  ‘And that,’ Libby told Ben later, ‘was how it was left. Honestly, Alice is as bad as Rosie thinking everyone should do what she wants.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what normally happens,’ said Ben.

  ‘Not if I know it. Alice’s husband Bob does just as he likes, and I think their Tracey’s the same. And I should think she lets her grandson push her around, too.’

  ‘Rosie, on the other hand,’ said Ben, dishing up a prawn stir-fry, ‘is used to people doing her bidding, even poor old Andrew Wylie. Must come of being a semi-celebrity.’

  ‘Anyway, I can’t see how I can be of much help as they’ll be rehearsing in the evenings and so will I.’ Libby forked up rice. ‘This is nice.’

  ‘We could go down on an evening we’re not rehearsing,’ said Ben.

  ‘We?’ Libby turned to stare at him. ‘Why are you so interested?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I suppose it rubs off, this detection business. Besides, I feel sorry for Patti.’

  When Ben and Libby arrived at the theatre, Peter had the cast and crew gathered at the front of the auditorium discussing the rehearsal schedule. He waved them to seats.

  ‘Now,’ he was saying, ‘I know that formerly you had all been asked to be present at every rehearsal, which doesn’t seem to be necessary.’

  There was a murmuring and shaking of heads.

  ‘So we’re going to work out who we need in what scenes and set rehearsals accordingly. The chorus can rehearse separately until we need to coalesce.’

  ‘What’s that?’ could be heard muttered through the rows of seats.

  ‘Until we have to come together,’ grinned Peter. ‘I was saving your blushes.’

  A splutter of laughter grew into a roar, and Peter held up a hand for silence.

  ‘So let’s organise ourselves so that we know what we’re doing. This is what I’ve worked out so far. Tell me if I’ve got anything wrong.’

  ‘No one would dare,’ whispered Libby, getting out her rehearsal sheet and a pencil. ‘At least we’ll get some time off to go to St Aldeberge.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Much to Libby’s surprise, Patti called on Sunday afternoon to say the parts were all cast.

  ‘We put a notice in the window of the community shop even though we were closed, and one on the church notice board, and even before the service this morning we had so much interest we’d been able to cast it. In fact we’re having our first meeting tonight. I don’t suppose you could come?’

  ‘Regretfully not,’ said Libby. ‘Both Ben and I consumed vast quantities of his mother’s very good red wine at lunch, so we wouldn’t be safe to drive. What a pity.’

  ‘Have you any other nights off this week that you could pop down? I don’t want to put you under any pressure.’

  ‘As it happens, Tuesday’s free.’ Libby decided to keep quiet about Friday also being free. She wanted the occasional night off.

  ‘I’ll try and get them to come on Tuesday, then,’ said Patti. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I can.’

  On Tuesday, after a productive rehearsal on Monday, Ben drove them both to St Aldeberge. The church was surprisingly brightly lit, and Patti was serving coffee in the Narthex.

  ‘Hello again,’ said Kaye Cook. ‘You see we got going straight away!’

  ‘Yes, it’s great,’ said Libby, surveying the thirty or so people of all ages milling about. ‘What are the children going to do?’

  ‘Mini shepherds and angels.’ Sheila Johnson came up behind them carrying two mugs.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Libby, taking one. ‘This is Ben. Ben, this is Kaye and this is Sheila. Are you both taking part?’

  ‘Kaye’s doing the reading,’ said Sheila.

  ‘Which apparently you suggested?’ Kaye smiled at Libby.

  ‘I did, yes. You have a lovely voice. What about you, Sheila?’

  ‘No, I’m just going to help with the organising. And I’ll be doing the flowers, of course. Kaye will help with that.’

  ‘Are you both on the flower rota, then?’ asked Ben.

  ‘The only two left,’ said Sheila with a sigh.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Ben nodded and looked at Libby.

  ‘I actually asked Patti how Joan Bidwell managed the flowers in her wheelchair?’ said Libby, although she couldn’t remember if she had asked Patti.

  Kaye shrugged. ‘She had to ask for things to be lifted down for her, but otherwise she was fine. We’ve a ramp into the Narthex, and it’s level all the way to the Chancel steps, and into the vestry and the Lady Chapel.’

  ‘Have you ever heard what became of the wheelchair after she died?’ asked Libby, all innocence.

  ‘No.’ Sheila frowned and looked at Kaye. ‘Wasn’t it there?’

  ‘No, it was gone, that’s why no one went back to look for her,’ said Kaye. ‘Gavin looked for it after we found her, but it was gone.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Things were a bit confused, weren’t they? Now,’ she turned back to Libby and Ben. ‘Will you excuse me? I’m in charge of the children this evening. Patti will be free in a moment.’

  ‘So who else is in the pageant?’ Libby asked Kaye, as Sheila bustled off to round up the children, some of whom were in Cub and Brownie uniforms and had no doubt been dragooned into taking part.

  ‘Gavin’s the innkeeper, Maurice is Balthazar, both just as you suggested. Tracey didn’t want to be Mary – didn’t think it would be dignified, apparently.’

  Libby laughed. ‘Could that be translated as couldn’t be bothered?’

  ‘She’s also terribly tired,’ said Kaye, pulling a face. ‘You’d think no one else had ever been pregnant, except herself of course. Alice is looking after little Nathaniel more and more these
days.’

  ‘And will no doubt have to have him when Tracey comes home with the new baby,’ said Libby. ‘Honestly, some of them don’t know they’re born, do they? I never had my mother to rely on when I had mine.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Kaye, ‘and I’ve made sure that my daughter doesn’t rely on me.’

  ‘Oh, have you grandchildren? I didn’t think you were old enough,’ said Libby.

  ‘Not yet.’ Kaye’s face lit up with a grin. ‘I’m just preparing the ground.’

  ‘How did you get on with Joan Bidwell, if you don’t mind me asking?’ said Libby after a pause while they watched Patti speaking to the children. Ben had wandered away to look at stone plaques in the walls.

  There was a pause before Kaye answered.

  ‘Not very well,’ she said eventually. ‘She was opinionated and bitter. She hated having a female vicar, complained loudly about new forms of service, hated having the children in services – you name it, she disapproved of it. I was practically a scarlet woman, being divorced.’

  ‘It’s astonishing that there are people like that still around,’ said Libby. ‘Was there anybody she did like?’

  ‘I don’t think she actually liked anyone,’ said Kaye, ‘but she tolerated Sheila. Mainly because she was a stay-at-home wife and mother, and Joan viewed her business as a “little hobby”.’

  ‘Sheila’s business?’

  ‘She paints and sells individual greetings cards. I say individual, she will do them to order, but they’re mainly prints.’

  ‘Really? I shall have to talk to her. I paint a bit myself.’

  Kaye looked dubious. ‘Oh. Right.’

  Libby laughed. ‘No, I do. I paint little sea views for a gallery in Nethergate. Some of those are turned into cards, too.’

  Kaye’s face cleared. ‘Ah! For Guy Wolfe’s gallery?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby was pleased. ‘He’s married to my friend Fran. I introduced them, in fact.’

  ‘Is that the psychic lady?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can’t she find out what happened to Joan and Marion?’ Kaye suddenly shivered. ‘Only it’s a bit scary, being one of only two flower ladies left, after two of us have been murdered.’

  ‘I wish she could,’ said Libby, ‘but she can’t do these things to order, and we have no official standing in the investigation.’