‘So she would have just remained where she was and died. And injected where?’
‘That’s the thing. Intravenously would be too difficult, so it would have to be intramuscular, just jabbed through the clothes. She was a diabetic, so small puncture wounds went unnoticed at first. And that, being intramuscular, would have taken more of the drug, apparently.’
‘So who has access to it? Oh, yes, you said. Vets, again.’
Libby made a face. ‘But there aren’t any in this case.’
‘And who was near enough to administer it?’
‘The old vicar and Gavin Brice when they gave her communion,’ said Libby, ‘but they cancel each other out. The old vicar didn’t know her, and he would have seen Gavin Brice doing something odd. And as far as I know, she took communion perfectly normally.’
‘And we don’t know who was sitting near her in church,’ said Fran.
‘Some people might have been going back to their seats from the altar rail, but it was a special service, don’t forget, and packed.’
‘With a lot of people from outside the village, so there’s almost no chance of tracing them.’
‘They did get names from the party afterwards, but I don’t suppose that was everybody,’ said Libby. ‘Neither do I suppose that anyone remembers now where they were sitting. They all know where she was because she always sat in the same place, but because there were a lot of visitors I expect even the regular churchgoers didn’t get to sit in their normal places.’
‘So we’d never get anywhere trying to find out who was near enough or had access to the sux stuff,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t envy the police.’
‘No wonder Ian’s actually listened to us. He must be clutching at straws. So, what other avenues are there?’
‘The situation with the men? The two men whose wives didn’t turn up yesterday?’
‘Sheila Johnson’s husband and Alice’s Bob,’ said Libby. ‘I suppose their DNA has turned up. Amazing how quickly they can get results these days. It used to be weeks.’
‘Turned up at Marion Longfellow’s house, you mean. But that would suggest they had been there, not that they killed her.’
‘Yes, but it’s significant that they had been there. Neither Alice nor Sheila said they knew her well, so why did their other halves visit her?’
‘I wish I’d seen her,’ said Fran. ‘I imagined her as nearly as old as Mrs Bidwell for some reason, but obviously she wasn’t.’
‘But I thought you saw –’ began Libby.
‘I saw the scene, not her face,’ said Fran.
‘Right. I do feel sort of responsible for those poor men. If I hadn’t told Ian about what Mrs Dora had said.’
‘Poor men nothing. If they’d been having affairs with Mrs Longfellow they deserve what’s coming to them.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ said Libby.
Fran cast her a militant look. ‘When your ex left you for another woman, didn’t you think he deserved a battering?’
‘I threw him out, actually,’ said Libby, ‘so I suppose yes, I did.’
‘Because you found out. He didn’t volunteer the information?’
‘No, I found him out.’ An unpleasant internal tremor told Libby that she still hadn’t got over that particular betrayal.
‘So, unless those two men have reasonable explanations, they’re going to be for it from their wives.’ Fran tapped her saucer with her spoon to make her point.
‘They probably aren’t the only two in the village,’ said Libby. ‘We only know the church-related people. And Mrs Dora didn’t say it was anything to do with the church.’
‘I wonder if the police have interviewed her now?’ mused Fran. ‘I expect she told them who she meant.’
‘And I don’t suppose Ian will tell us,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘On to the next point, then, because if Mrs L was killed by a lover –’
‘Or an angry wife,’ suggested Fran.
‘Oh, yes! Hadn’t thought of that. So will they take the DNA of the wives of any men who had been in Mrs L’s house?’
‘Might do, I suppose, and they’ll check alibis, won’t they?’
‘Of course. But that still means her murder had nothing to do with Mrs B’s, and you were sure it did.’
‘I was probably wrong,’ said Fran.
‘But you don’t think you were?’
‘You know how it is. I think I have a fact, but who knows? I can only really be certain of things I can see and hear now, this minute. Although I can remember my wedding as a fact, it’s quite possible that I’ve forgotten parts of it, or think it happened one way when in fact it didn’t. That’s what the police always say, isn’t it? When they interview witnesses to crimes, each one remembers it differently yet swears it’s fact.’ Fran stared out of the window across to the museum. ‘So I might be entirely wrong.’
‘Oh,’ said Libby, worried.
‘It doesn’t make a lot of difference what I believe, anyway,’ said Fran. ‘It’s what the police believe.’
‘Right.’ Libby looked at her doubtfully, while Fran continued to stare out of the window. ‘So we add jealous wives as possible suspects. But not for Mrs B’s murder. And I can’t believe we’ve got two separate murderers.’
‘No.’ Fran turned to grin at her. ‘That’s why I’m still sure they’re connected. And I still don’t see why the witchcraft element was brought in.’
Libby frowned. ‘No, because it wasn’t until after Mrs L’s death that the rumour began about Patti, was it? Or was it? And that could just be someone latching on to facts of the murder.’
‘I wonder if the suggestion had been made before either of the murders,’ said Fran. ‘If Mrs B had been trying to blacken Patti’s name, for instance?’
‘And someone picked up on that when it began to look as if the police were going to look into Mrs B’s death? But surely, no one would have killed Mrs L just to blacken Patti’s name? That’s ridiculous.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’ Fran pushed back her chair. ‘Come on, I must get back.’
‘The other thing that’s bothering me,’ she said as they walked back across the square to the car park, ‘is where on earth is that bloody wheelchair?’
Chapter Twenty-four
‘Who can I ask about the wheelchair?’ Libby said to Ben later that day.
‘No one as far as I can see.’ Ben poured wine into the glasses on the table.
‘No. Can’t ask Ian. I suppose someone in the village would know if it’s been found.’
‘Ask your gossipy friend Dora. Wouldn’t she know?’
Libby put plates on the table. ‘Only if it’s very general knowledge. I should think people are fairly careful about what they say in front of her. Gavin might know, as he was the one who usually pushed her.’
‘Ask Patti.’ Ben sat down and lifted his glass. ‘She can ask around for you.’
The pantomime rehearsal went as well as could be expected. This year there was no panto horse or cow, due to several injuries having resulted from their antics in past productions, and the ensemble was beginning to look much better. Libby’s Queen was even earning laughs from the cast.
‘Keep it up, dearie,’ said Peter, as they walked to the pub. ‘It’s getting slicker. I’m doing a couple more re-writes, but only to cut out extraneous stuff. Won’t affect you.’
‘Good,’ said Libby, and pushed open the pub door. ‘Good lord, Rosie!’
Rosie, sitting alone looking uncomfortable at a table away from the bar, looked up. ‘Hello.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Libby went over to the table while Peter and Ben went to the bar.
‘I was bored. I thought you might be in here so I came down.’
‘We’ve been rehearsing,’ said Libby. ‘Pity you were bored. When can you go back to your house?’
‘I suppose I could go now,’ said Rosie, looking down into her glass. ‘It hasn’t been as much help as I thought being away.’
‘If that’s a di
g at me not being around to help you, I’m ignoring it,’ said Libby. ‘Now, do you want to join us and the theatre crowd?’
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Rosie meekly.
‘Come on then.’ Libby led the way to where Peter, Ben and other cast and crew members were already drinking.
‘I’ve just thought,’ said Libby, accepting her half of lager from Ben, ‘Your cottage isn’t far from St Aldeberge or Felling, is it, Rosie?’
‘No.’ Rosie looked surprised. ‘St Aldeberge’s where your murders are, isn’t it?’
‘Where they happened, yes. But Felling’s come to our notice, too. What do you know about the river that comes up from the St Aldeberge inlet?’
‘It’s hardly a river,’ said Rosie. ‘I don’t think you can even get a rowboat up it. Once at Felling it goes off through the marshes on its way inland.’
‘Yes, Fran and I saw that today,’ said Libby. ‘And that the grounds of the Dunton Estate are bounded by the marshes.’
‘Isn’t that where …?’ Ben raised his eyebrows.
‘The Willoughby Oak is, yes.’
Peter sighed and moved to a just vacated table. ‘Come on, there’s bits of this story I’ve missed. Fill us in.’
Libby brought them all up to date with a quick précis of events.
‘So you’ve got guilty husbands, revengeful wives, drug smugglers and practising witches in the mix now, have you?’ said Peter, amused.
‘I think I’d start with the first murder,’ said Rosie, looking thoughtful.
‘Well, yes, you would,’ said Libby.
‘Don’t be sarcastic. I’m just thinking about it as I would a book plan. Start with some kind of change. A murder is a change, isn’t it? But there’s a reason for that murder. The rumours about your vicar friend started after that.’
‘There were murmurings before,’ said Libby, ‘although not as malicious.’
‘But the malicious ones and anonymous letters started after the first murder,’ said Rosie, ‘and that would appear to be in order to lay the blame on the vicar. Then the second murder happens with all the trappings of witchcraft surrounding it. I could almost believe that was simply to point the finger at the vicar.’
‘And all the subsequent rumours about her are just red herrings?’ Ben looked interested.
‘Maybe. So the most important point is who had reason to murder the first woman?”
‘Well, yes, obviously,’ said Libby, ‘but we can’t think of any. She’s estranged from her children, she lived right out on the little lane to the headland, just below the second victim, actually. No other neighbours.’
‘That’s suggestive, then, isn’t it?’ said Rosie. ‘If they both lived in the same isolated place they could both have witnessed something illegal.’
‘But we’ve established that the inlet isn’t big enough to get up to Felling –’
‘Why does it have to go to Felling?’ interrupted Peter.
Taken aback, Libby stared at him. ‘I suppose it doesn’t.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s us amateurs putting two and two together and coming up with seven hundred and fifty. We heard the police were mounting an operation at Felling, the rumour was that it was about either drugs or illegals, and Fran is convinced someone’s been dealing drugs at the Willoughby Oak under cover of Black Magic meetings.’
‘I think I can see where that tortuous reasoning comes from,’ laughed Peter.
‘It all made sense when we thought of it,’ said Libby.
‘They still could have seen something illegal at the inlet,’ said Rosie. ‘After all, it would be a good place to run in a small boat under cover of darkness and unload something.’
‘That’s why I said why Felling,’ said Peter. ‘Much more likely to land whatever it is and get away over land rather than take a boat up river to Felling where it would be much more noticeable – except of course, that they couldn’t anyway.’
‘So the Felling operation’s nothing to do with our murders, then.’ Libby sighed. ‘I guessed as much. Or Fran did.’ She took a sip of lager. ‘But what about the Oak and the drugs?’
‘I’m sure that’s a different case altogether. How did you get on to the Oak in the first place? How did it come up?’ asked Rosie.
‘We looked up witchcraft connections with St Aldeberge. Patti had it in an old book about the village. That was after the cockerel or whatever-it-was was left on her doorstep.’
‘Oh.’ Rosie looked a bit sick. ‘You didn’t tell us that bit.’
‘Somebody was trying to force a Black Magic connection if you ask me,’ said Peter. ‘I bet it doesn’t come into it at all.’
‘I expect you’re right.’ Libby sighed again. ‘And I don’t suppose there’s a drug connection either.’
‘And,’ said Ben, patting her hand, ‘I expect Ian’s all over it anyway.’
‘Did you ever find out if the second woman had been on a dating site, by the way?’ asked Rosie.
‘The police had her computer for analysis, so I don’t know, although I did mention it to Ian’ said Libby. ‘It’s so frustrating not to know!’
‘I wonder if I could find her on the site I’ve been on?’
‘Could you do that? How? And wouldn’t they have taken her details off by now?’
‘If the police get in touch with them, yes, but they might not have. I could put in the search engine “Woman, between – ” what was she? Age-wise?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ll guess at sixty, Maybe younger, fifty-five.’
‘OK – “Woman, between fifty-five and sixty, five-mile radius of Nethergate.” Then, if she’s there, she’ll come up.’
‘She might have lied about her age or where she lives,’ said Ben. ‘Everyone does that, don’t they?’
Rosie shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try.’ She looked at Libby. ‘Do you want me to?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Libby, feeling guilty that she hadn’t spared more time for Rosie in the last two weeks. ‘I’ll pop up tomorrow morning, shall I?’
‘Do you realise that it’s three weeks since I had that first call from Alice?’ said Libby, as she and Ben walked home. ‘Seems incredible that the police have made no progress. Especially since the second murder.’
‘I expect they have,’ said Ben, ‘just that you don’t know about it. After all, they found out what had killed the first woman, didn’t they? Up until then, it looked like magic. And they’ve spread their search. All the DNA matches they’ll be trying to take …’
‘I know, I know,’ sighed Libby. ‘And I feel we put Ian on the wrong track with the Willoughby Oak, too. He won’t be too pleased with us.’
‘You gave him the village gossip. That was worthwhile.’
‘Except that it’s caused rifts in two marriages.’ Libby stared miserably at the ground. ‘Perhaps we should stop meddling.’
‘You aren’t meddling.’ Ben put his arm round her shoulder. ‘Alice and Patti asked you in and you’ve been trying to help. See what happens when you go over on Wednesday.’
But the following morning, on the way up to Steeple Farm to see Rosie, Libby’s mind once again returned to the wheelchair.
‘Someone must have seen who moved it,’ she said aloud. ‘It was gone by the time everyone left the church, so they were all still there when it was moved.’
She turned into Steeple Farm’s gravel forecourt and knocked at the door. Rosie answered immediately, an excited grin on her face.
‘Look what I’ve found!’ she said, practically dragging Libby into the sitting room, where she had her computer set up on a table by the fire. Talbot, stretched out in an armchair, barely twitched a whisker.
Libby found she was looking at the profile page of a blonde woman of around fifty, although the age stated was fifty-six.
‘See? Actually says “near Nethergate”. And read the description.’
‘Hobbies – indoor sports. Is that a euphemism? And – golly! Flower arranging. And she says she’s interested and involved in villag
e life.’
‘Could that be her?’ Rosie was almost hopping with excitement.
‘It could,’ said Libby, ‘but I’m surprised that if it is, the police haven’t found her account on her own computer and got it off the site.’
‘Perhaps she used a different computer? If she never accessed the site from her own …’
‘But they’re web-based sites. Emails would go straight to your own computer.’
‘Not if you had a different email address associated with – well, say a smart-phone. A different email programme that you only accessed from there?’
‘But if she had a smart-phone or a tablet the police would have found them, too.’ Libby shook her head. ‘Unless they were stolen. Anyway, I’m not sure any more if this is relevant to her death.’
‘What about if she had seen something odd and because she didn’t really know someone well on this site, she confided in him? You know how it’s occasionally easier to tell a stranger?’
‘Possible.’ Libby looked up at Rosie. ‘Do you think I ought to tell Ian? It might not be her.’
‘But if it is, he needs to know,’ said Rosie. ‘I think you should tell him.’
‘All right.’ Libby heaved a sigh. ‘I’ll tell Fran first, then pluck up courage.’
‘Good.’ Rosie patted her shoulder. ‘Now, how about coffee?’
Libby called Fran from her mobile while standing looking over the dewpond half an hour later.
‘I thought I’d send him a text with the screen name of the woman and the site, then he could look into it himself.’
‘I suppose that’s better than taking up his time with a phone call,’ said Fran. ‘Do you think it’s her?’
‘It could be. The dating site would have her real details, wouldn’t they, if she’s a paid-up member? The police would be able to check.’
‘What was the screen name? I could go and do a free search, couldn’t I? Or do they insist on you signing up first?’
‘No idea,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll go home and try it, too.’
She sent the text to Ian, sniffed appreciatively at the sharp November air and set off down the hill. Peter came out of his cottage as she passed and swept her up to join him for coffee in The Pink Geranium.
Murder by Magic Page 17