Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series)

by Cookman, Lesley

  ‘OK,’ said Libby. ‘It’ll give me something to do.’

  When Peter had gone, she called Patti to tell her.

  ‘So it look as though I won’t be doing a thing. Ian will find out who the seller is as it relates to an old murder, and that will be that.’

  ‘Oh, pity. It would have been interesting for you.’

  ‘Kept me out of mischief, you mean,’ giggled Libby. ‘Actually, Peter’s got permission from your Sister Catherine to perform his play in the Monastery ruins, so helping him with it over the next few months will do that.’

  ‘Excellent. How did he find her?’

  ‘Do you know,’ said Libby in surprise, ‘I didn’t ask him. And he didn’t say, but they obviously got on all right.’

  ‘You’ll have to meet her soon,’ said Patti. ‘She was very interested in our little mystery from last year.’

  ‘How morbid of her.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Libby. That’s rather pot and kettle isn’t it? She doesn’t get much excitement.’

  ‘I suppose so. Anyway, I’m bound to meet her once Pete starts rehearsing over there. I expect we’ll do the first part in the theatre. We’ve only got a few one-nighters until the June production.’

  Libby relayed the news to Ben when he arrived home.

  ‘That’s a pity,’ he said, waving a bottle of gin at her. ‘I thought that was going to be a nice quiet little mystery where you wouldn’t get into any trouble.’

  ‘That’s what Patti said. Sorry to disappoint you all.’

  Ben grinned and handed her a gin and tonic. ‘I expect something will come along.’

  Sunday was something of a ritual. Ben’s mother Hetty, who lived at his family home, the Manor, cooked an enormous roast dinner and expected anyone who was around to come and help eat it. Libby, Ben and Peter were always there, Harry if the restaurant wasn’t opening on a Sunday lunchtime, which, in April, it wasn’t, Peter’s younger brother James, sometimes with a girlfriend, more often without, Hetty’s brother Lenny and his partner, Hetty’s best friend Flo Carpenter, and occasionally, Fran and Guy Wolfe. This Sunday they were all there, and Hetty looked round the long kitchen table with satisfaction.

  ‘Beef and Yorkshire today,’ she said. ‘Pop down and get the good claret, Ben.’

  Hetty and Flo shared a palate for and knowledge of good wines, learnt from their respective late husbands, which put their younger friends and relatives to shame. Under the influence of the good claret, the conversation turned to the reliquary and Peter’s play.

  ‘I’ve already done a working synopsis which I’ve emailed to Sister Catherine,’ he said.

  ‘You can email nuns?’ Hetty’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise.

  ‘Yes, Auntie,’ said Peter, using a title she hated. ‘They’ve all been dragged into the 21st century by their habits.’

  ‘So how long will it take you to write, once the nuns approve it?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I thought I might do a slightly more detailed synopsis of each scene, cast it and use an improvisation technique.’

  Everyone looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘Aren’t we a bit traditional for that?’ asked Ben. ‘And won’t it be a bit difficult to improvise in early medieval English?’

  ‘Old English is actually more or less Scandinavian,’ said Peter.

  ‘Anglo-Saxon,’ put in Harry.

  ‘Clever.’ Peter gave him an amused smile. ‘Anyway, no one would be able to understand it, and we might as well use modern language, avoiding any slang and sticking, as far as we can, with the proprieties of the era.’

  Lenny was looking puzzled. ‘Come again?’

  Peter fell into a long explanation which appeared to baffle his uncle further.

  ‘Will you audition?’ Fran asked Libby, helping herself to more roast potatoes.

  ‘I expect so. There must be a Mother Abbess or something. Would you like to have a go?’

  Fran looked across at her husband. ‘What do you think, Guy? I haven’t done it for years.’

  Fran, like Libby, had been a professional actor at one time, and had, in fact, performed at The Oast House Theatre in pantomime a few years ago.

  ‘Long way to go for rehearsals,’ said Guy, ‘but it would be an experience, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind?’ Fran looked doubtful.

  Guy exchanged looks with Ben and they laughed.

  ‘I’d mind far less than I mind you getting mixed up in murders,’ said Guy.

  ‘Oh, well, I might then.’ Fran grinned at Libby. ‘It might be fun.’

  ‘Both of you?’ Peter returned to the main conversation. ‘What about you, Ben?’

  ‘Are there any men?’

  ‘Of course. The monks who took the reliquary to Wales and those that took the other relics to Canterbury.’

  ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘Your lead actor Mr Butcher will want to be in it,’ said Harry.

  ‘Dominic? Yes, I suppose he will,’ said Peter gloomily. ‘The trouble is, if it’s going to be based on improv he’ll go on and on for ever.’

  ‘Make him a Trappist,’ suggested Harry.

  ‘You watch out there isn’t a real murder in the Monastery, then,’ said Flo. ‘He’s an annoying bugger.’ She lifted her glass. ‘’Ere’s to success then. Make sure we got somewhere dry to sit.’

  Chapter Four

  Rehearsals for Murder in the Monastery began as soon as Sister Catherine and the Mother Abbess had approved Peter’s outline. Libby, Fran, Ben and Dominic Butcher were all in the cast, along with several other members of the Oast House Theatre’s regular company. Patti brought Sister Catherine to one of the first rehearsals, where she entertained them all with a highly embellished story of Saint Eldreda and her relics, and put them right on a few matters of both religion and language. She also promised to send them information on costume.

  ‘Early medieval is difficult,’ she said, ‘because, as you know, it’s a period also known as the Dark Ages, and people aren’t quite sure what was being worn when. But we’ve got material in the archives, even though it wasn’t our Order.’

  ‘Isn’t she nice?’ whispered Libby to Fran. ‘I somehow imagine her with a lot of long, blonde, curly hair.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Fran looked at the bright, interested face of Sister Catherine, leaning forward from her seat on the edge of the stage, waving her hands as she described something. ‘And so young.’

  ‘Well, Patti’s quite young, and they were at college together.’

  ‘I still can’t understand what makes a pretty, intelligent young woman decide to become a nun,’ said Fran, with a sigh. ‘It’s unnatural.’

  ‘Not to them,’ said Libby, fearing an anti-religious lecture from her friend.

  Fran turned to her and smiled. ‘No, I know. And since we’ve known Patti I think I’ve become more tolerant.’

  ‘Good.’ Libby turned back to where Peter was helping Sister Catherine to her feet. ‘We’d better go and say goodbye and thank you.’

  ‘I wanted to say thank you to you, actually,’ said Sister Catherine, clasping Libby’s hand between both of hers. ‘It was kind of you to look into our puzzle, and ask the police to become involved. We don’t necessarily want it back, we’re an Anglican Order, but it would be nice to see the relic back with the rest of poor Eldreda.’

  ‘And find out who committed the most recent murder,’ said Libby, ‘not to mention find out who has profited from selling it. The reliquary looked quite beautiful – if macabre.’

  Sister Catherine smiled wryly. ‘I doubt if any of the money would come our way, and we wouldn’t want to profit by it, especially if it had been the reason for – well, for murder.’

  ‘Come on, Cathy,’ said Patti, coming up behind them, ‘we’ve got to get you back to the Abbey.’

  ‘OK.’ Sister Catherine gathered up her habit in one hand and held her other out to Fran. ‘Good bye. I shall look forward to seeing the play when it’s a bit further advanced.’<
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  Within a few days, Patti had called to say that Catherine had discovered that the day usually said to be St Eldreda’s Day was July 13th. Peter felt this was auspicious for the first performance of Murder in the Monastery and stepped up rehearsals. The at-first improvised script had been refined and written down, and submitted to the Mother Abbess for her approval (and from her to the Bishop – just in case!). The relic itself seemed to have faded into the distance.

  It was June when Ian joined Libby, Patti and the theatre group in the pub after rehearsal one Wednesday.

  ‘Surprise, surprise!’ said Libby, as he bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Where have you been hiding?’

  Ian made a face. ‘Behind a desk, mostly.’

  Ben handed him a pint. ‘Any news on our reliquary?’

  ‘That’s why I came by.’ Ian took a grateful sip of his beer. ‘After a good deal of negotiating, an officer from the Arts and Antiquities Unit at the Met was able to get in to see the antiquarian site offering the item. There is actually a proper little gallery, not just a website, although it’s hidden away down one of those London alleyways and has no shop front.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fran, ‘I suppose you wouldn’t want to advertise all that priceless stuff, would you?’

  ‘They definitely don’t, and they were extremely put out by any suggestion that they were handling stolen goods.’

  ‘I bet they were.’ Ben looked amused. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Eventually, the owner of the gallery, or whatever it’s called, gave in, probably because he could see himself up on a charge. He produced all the documentation on the object and Arts and Antiquities are looking into it.’

  ‘What about us and the Abbey?’ said Libby indignantly.

  ‘He’s copying me in on everything, don’t worry, but it’s easier for them to look into it. They’re on the spot, they’re experts and they’ve got the contacts.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Libby grudgingly.

  ‘He’s right, Libby,’ said Patti. ‘After all when the Abbey tried to look into it they got nowhere, and you would have thought that their credentials were enough to get them in.’

  ‘So what’s the latest?’ asked Dominic Butcher, on the outskirts of the group, from where he’d been listening.

  ‘Mark, my Arts and Antiquities contact, is looking up the solicitor who’s handling the sale. Apparently, it’s a probate sale.’

  ‘Someone’s died?’ Libby wrinkled her brow.

  ‘But we don’t know who. Normally the solicitor would handle it on behalf of the estate of the deceased, which would be stated, but this time it isn’t.’

  ‘Isn’t that suspicious?’ said Dominic.

  Ian shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. Anyway, in this case, because of its history the solicitor will be forced to tell Mark who owned it and show what provenance they have.’

  ‘Good,’ said Libby with satisfaction. ‘Have you told Sister Catherine?’

  ‘I’ve left a message. I expect they were all at prayers, or something. I’ve suggested she get in touch with one of you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Patti. ‘So once we know who the person was, we can try and find out how he got it.’

  ‘That’s what I meant when I said they’d have to show provenance.’ He smiled slightly. ‘But I don’t suppose there’s any harm in you doing a little digging once we’ve got a name.’

  Libby, Fran and Patti looked at each other and grinned.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Libby. ‘Permission.’

  Patti called Libby the following afternoon to say Sister Catherine had been on the phone very excited.

  ‘It’s the thrill of the chase,’ said Patti. ‘She doesn’t get much excitement.’

  ‘Well, we’ll keep her in the loop. She might find out things better than we could because of her status.’

  Finally, Ian called Fran on Friday and asked her to pass on the news that the solicitor had divulged the name of his dead client.

  ‘A collector called Marshall,’ Fran reported to Libby, ‘who bought it way back in the seventies from someone who claimed to be a descendant of the original owner.’

  ‘St Eldreda? Wouldn’t have thought she’d had any descendants.’

  ‘No, there was some tale about it being held in trust by the monks.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Libby. ‘The monks who spirited it away during the dissolution.’

  ‘Anyway there was enough to convince Marshall that it was genuine, and the solicitor apparently had the whole story of St Eldreda down pat.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Libby thoughtfully. ‘Seventies. That’s when that bloke was murdered in the monastery and the reliquary was stolen.’

  ‘And then,’ said Fran slowly, ‘it was sold on.’

  ‘And the murdered man – Bernard Evans, I suppose – had offered it to the order. He obviously thought it should go back to where it came from.’

  ‘Yes, but he was suggesting they sold it to raise funds to buy the monastery.’

  ‘Well, good for him, poor sod,’ said Libby. ‘So presumably, whoever knocked him off sold it to this collector, pretending to be descended from the monks.’

  ‘Not very good title, is it?’ said Fran. ‘If the monk’s family pinched it.’

  ‘They were looking after it,’ said Libby. ‘I expect that would be their story. I wonder who they were?’

  ‘I wonder if there’s a history of the Tredega monastery, if that’s what it was called.’

  ‘Worth a prowl round the internet,’ said Libby.

  ‘OK. Let me know if you find anything and I’ll do the same.’

  But there was no Tredega Monastery, Abbey or anything else. Libby found a site where she could look for historical sites by century, and although there were plenty in Wales, none were near Tredegar. Libby tried the Tredega Relic, which she’d tried before, but there were only vague references to it. Searching for St Eldreda was similarly ineffective, although she did have a brief history of her life online. There wasn’t even much on the rather limited website of the current Abbey. Libby sighed in frustration and went to make a cup of tea.

  She was sitting in the bar/foyer of the theatre that evening waiting for Peter to start rehearsals, when Fran came in with a smile of triumph.

  ‘Found it!’

  ‘You haven’t?’ Libby was frankly disbelieving. ‘I couldn’t find anything, whatever search terms I used.’

  ‘Did you try Mercia?’

  ‘No! I never thought of it.’

  ‘Well, I did.’ Fran sat down opposite Libby and pulled some papers from her bag. ‘You told me Patti said Eldreda had come from Mercia and the relic, although called the Tredega Relic, was probably from nowhere near the actual place.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Mercia is the modern day Midlands and doesn’t go into Wales. The other thing is, the Mercians and their king Wulfhere were only Christian from 658, so any monastic institutions would be after that.’

  ‘So? The relic wasn’t stolen until the dissolution.’ Libby frowned.

  ‘But there must have been someone back then who wanted her relic.’

  ‘But it could have just been her family. It could have been a chapel, or something that became a monastery later. I wonder,’ said Libby slowly, ‘if it was her family.’

  ‘What? Who wanted the relic back?’

  ‘Well, yes, but whose name was Tredega – not the place?’

  ‘Well!’ Fran sat back in her chair. ‘Of course, that could be it. But they didn’t have Christian and surnames as we do back then, did they?’

  ‘No, but perhaps they came from Tredegar originally. Anyway – you said you found it. Where was it?’

  ‘I think I’ve found it, and it’s in Herefordshire, and it was one of the first Anglo-Saxon Christian religious houses. There’s an eighteenth century church on the site now, but they’ve excavated the Anglo-Saxon building and a Tudor one.’

  ‘Why do you think it’s our one?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Because the website mentions
Eldreda.’

  ‘So how come Sister Catherine didn’t know that?’ said Libby.

  ‘She didn’t know much, did she? Her order are Anglican Benedictines, not the original Augustines. But she got the area right. It is on the borders of Wales, near one of the castles that were built to keep the Welsh out of England, although it pre-dates that. I suppose everyone assumed it was near Tredegar as there actually is a place called that.’

  ‘Can we find out if Eldreda’s family were called Tredega?’ said Libby.

  ‘We can have a go. Might have to take a trip to the area to look at any written records there are – although there won’t be many.’

  ‘But what we really want to know,’ mused Libby, ‘is who took the relic during the dissolution and kept it for all those years.’

  ‘Or how it turned up with poor Bernard Evans.’

  ‘And was in the hands of the late collector.’

  Fran and Libby looked at each other and grinned.

  ‘On the trail again!’ said Libby.

  Chapter Five

  Fran called Libby the following morning. ‘How about a day out at the seaside?’

  ‘Do you want me to do something?’ asked Libby warily.

  ‘Yes, go through the research on our relic. I thought we could do it together. It’s a lovely day, and we could have lunch outside The Sloop.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby brightened. ‘OK, be with you in about an hour.’

  It was indeed a lovely day, the road to Nethergate from Steeple Martin was thickly bordered by a mass of green hawthorn, blackthorn and alder. The sea came into view sparkling like cheap sequins as the car crested a rise, with the long, dark shape of Dragon Rock hunkered down in the middle of the bay. Libby smiled with pleasure.

  She managed to find a parking spot in Harbour Street not too far from Coastguard Cottage and met Fran leaning over the sea wall contemplating the beach.

  ‘Nice ’ere, innit?’ she said.

  Fran turned and smiled. ‘I’m lucky aren’t I?’

  ‘The cottage, the sea, Guy and me. Yes, you are.’