Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series)

by Cookman, Lesley

  ‘No, thanks, Ian. I’ll pour myself a large whisky and phone Hetty and Fran. I hope I don’t wake them.’

  ‘It’s only one o’clock,’ said Ian. ‘I expect they’re both still waiting for news. Oh – and I’m told Peter and Harry came tearing up the drive after you’d gone off in the ambulance, so you’d better call them, too.’

  ‘I will,’ Libby promised, and leant over to kiss Ian’s cheek. ‘Thanks for being there tonight. I know you were there because it’s your job, but still.’

  ‘I needn’t have come,’ said Ian. ‘It would have been normal procedure to have a uniform in attendance. I was there as a friend.’

  ‘And you got us through in record time,’ said Libby.

  ‘Head injuries are always seen quickly.’ He, in turn, kissed Libby’s cheek. ‘Off you go. I’ll be in touch.’

  Libby let herself in, idly stroked Sidney’s head as he looked up from the sofa, and poured herself the promised whisky, after which she phoned Hetty, who answered immediately.

  ‘All right, gal,’ she said after being reassured. ‘I’ll come with you in the morning.’

  Fran was also waiting for the call.

  ‘I wasn’t worried,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘That’s actually reassuring,’ said Libby. ‘But listen to what Ian told me.’

  Fran agreed to discuss it in detail the following day and to speak to everyone who might need to know, then Libby called Peter’s mobile.

  ‘I thought it was Hetty when I saw the blue lights,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘You couldn’t have done anything,’ said Libby. ‘He’s OK, a bit sore and grumpy, but all you would have done is go haring off into the darkness and probably got hit on the head, too.’

  ‘Bloody woman,’ Peter grumbled.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘No, that Estelle. I knew she was trouble the minute she turned up on the doorstep.’

  ‘We don’t know it was her,’ said Libby.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Peter. ‘Can I come with you tomorrow?’

  ‘No, Pete, Hetty’s coming, and we don’t want to overcrowd him. I’ll ring you when we’re home.’

  Libby switched off the phone, finished her whisky and climbed slowly up the stairs.

  ‘I’ll never sleep,’ she told Sidney, whom she had allowed to join her. ‘I know I won’t.’

  But she did.

  The following morning the phone woke her with a call from Bob the Butcher, who wanted to know if he could do anything. He was followed by various other members of the theatre company, until, in order to shower in peace, she switched off both the landline and her mobile.

  When she was ready, she called the hospital and was told yes, she could collect Mr Wilde as soon as she liked. She called Hetty, who said she would be ready at the end of the drive, then left a message for Ian and set off.

  They found Ben, dressed, with a bandage on his head, sitting at the nurse’s station in his ward, clutching a large envelope.

  ‘That’s for your GP,’ said a nurse to Libby, as though Ben were a child. No wonder he still looked grumpy, she thought.

  ‘So how is it?’ she asked as soon as they were back in the car.

  ‘A bit painful,’ said the patient with a sigh. ‘But not too bad. I’ve had stitches,’ he added proudly.

  ‘Wow!’ said Libby, admiringly. ‘Everyone’s been asking after you.’

  ‘How did they know?’

  ‘The village,’ said Hetty succinctly from the back seat.

  ‘Any news from Ian?’

  Libby flicked him a warning glance. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Right.’ Ben subsided into his seat. ‘I’ll just close my eyes for a bit. You’ve no idea how noisy it is in a hospital at night.’

  After they’d delivered Hetty to the Manor, Libby drove carefully back to Allhallow’s Lane.

  ‘Now, do you want to go to bed?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I want to know what Ian said.’ Ben sat down carefully on the sofa. ‘I’d like a decent cup of tea, though.’

  Libby told him what Ian had said the previous night while she made a pot of good strong tea.

  ‘Pete says it’s got to be Estelle,’ said Libby, ‘and although Ian won’t say it definitely is, I bet he thinks so, too.’

  ‘I think it’s got to be her, too,’ said Ben, ‘although, for a woman, she packs a powerful punch.’

  ‘Perhaps she used the crowbar or whatever it was she was trying to get the lock off with,’ said Libby.

  ‘And,’ said Ben, frowning, ‘where did she get that from? If she’s been hanging around on the estate all day since she left the hut, I bet she stole it from the yard.’

  ‘Well, yes, if it was her, or if it was all the same person but not Estelle, but we don’t know that, either.’

  ‘We don’t know if it was Estelle, and we don’t know if it was the same person who was in the hut this morning.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby. ‘Complicated, isn’t it?’

  ‘And you say Ian says she had a key to Dominic’s house?’

  ‘Yes. He actually said she let herself in with a key. I don’t know how he knows that.’

  ‘Perhaps they found a key that hadn’t been there before?’

  ‘You know what?’ said Libby, ‘you’re thinking too much. You need to get some rest.’

  Ben smiled. ‘Trying to get rid of me already?’ He sat up and held out a hand. ‘Help me up, then. Are you going to undress me?’

  ‘That would be bad for you,’ said Libby primly. ‘I shall watch you go up from the bottom of the stairs.’

  ‘Spoil sport,’ said Ben, and slowly climbed the stairs.

  After checking that he was indeed in bed, Libby went back to the front room and poured herself another cup of tea before ringing Fran.

  ‘Yes, he’s fine. A bit grumpy, and he didn’t sleep much, so he’s gone up for a rest now. But what I’m wondering is, what will Estelle do next?’

  ‘If it was Estelle who hit Ben and who was also in the hut yesterday morning, I don’t think she’d try anything else, she’d be too exposed. She’d know the police would be all over the place.’

  ‘Will they?’

  ‘Of course. They’ll be up there now, searching the estate.’

  ‘Really? I must find out.’

  ‘But what does she want?’

  ‘Ian says she doesn’t want anything, she’s just hiding. If it is her.’

  ‘But hiding from whom?’

  ‘Well, the police, I suppose,’ said Libby.

  ‘That doesn’t make sense. Until she broke into Dominic’s house – which is debatable, anyway – she hadn’t done anything wrong. So who is she hiding from?’

  ‘If it is Estelle,’ said Libby firmly, ‘she’s certainly done something wrong now, by walloping my Ben.’

  ‘Yes, but she was hiding before that. Have you told Susannah?’

  ‘No, not yet. I suppose I should. Will she tell David, do you think? You don’t think he could have anything to do with last night?’

  ‘We don’t know what David has to do with any of it,’ said Fran. ‘And to be honest, I don’t think we can keep this quiet. All the cast know what happened by now. It’s possible, even, that David knows already.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll call Susannah, then.’

  But before she could do so, the phone rang again.

  ‘Libby, it’s Andrew. I tried you and Fran just now, but you were engaged.’

  ‘Yes, we were talking,’ began Libby.

  ‘Listen a moment. I’ve left a message for Ian, but I thought both of you would want to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Cornelia Fletcher is also a descendant of May and Albert Glover.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  ‘She’s what?’ Libby sat down with a bump. ‘Good God!’

  ‘You remember I told you Albert and May had three children?’

  ‘Yes, and Estelle is their great-granddaughter, from thei
r son – er –’

  ‘Robert. That’s right. And last time I told you about Jessica and Edgar?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Albert and May’s third child was Caroline, who had a daughter Jean who was Cornelia’s mother.’

  ‘So Uncle Edgar is hers, too,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think she knows?’

  ‘That would be first cousin once removed Edgar,’ said Andrew. ‘I wonder if either Mrs Fletcher or Mrs Butcher know? It’s not the sort of thing you brag about, is it?’

  ‘Ian and I were talking about it – lord, only yesterday morning – and speculating that Estelle knew. It’s just as likely that Cornelia did, too.’

  ‘Well, Cornelia’s family were a different kettle of fish from Jessica’s and Robert’s. Her grandmother Caroline was the eldest of the Glover children, and she had friends among the solid middle classes of children who grew up between the wars. She was taken under the wing of another girl’s family, and met and married a young man who, while not exactly aristocracy, was certainly upper middle class. Sadly he died in the war, and never saw Jean, Cornelia’s mother, but Caroline and Jean were taken to live with his parents and were very comfortable.’

  ‘So it’s unlikely she ever knew Uncle Edgar?’

  ‘She might not even have heard of him, but it’s hard to believe that when you look at the circumstances.’

  ‘I suppose it could just be coincidence,’ said Libby, doubtfully.

  ‘That she was attacked in front of the reliquary that it’s almost certain her relative murdered for and stole?’ said Andrew.

  ‘So what about her husband?’ asked Libby after a moment.

  ‘Nothing. Middle class parents, grammar school, music degree and postgraduate diploma. All I can see is the bare facts, I know nothing about how he met his wife, nor when they separated, but apparently they aren’t divorced.’

  ‘I knew that,’ said Libby.

  ‘You did?’ Andrew sounded startled.

  ‘Yes, when I was talking to Martha – Cornelia – before all this began. She said before she joined the Abbey she’d been married and still was.’

  ‘Well, it strikes me that there must be a connection,’ said Andrew. ‘I wonder if the cousins knew each other?’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Libby. ‘Was Robert Glover’s family well off? Middle-class?’

  ‘Fairly ordinary, I think, but there’s no way I can find out if they kept in touch with Caroline’s family. As far as I can tell, they didn’t live near each other.’

  ‘Oh, dear, isn’t this frustrating?’ said Libby. ‘Do you think Ian will challenge Martha with this?’

  ‘You know him better than I do,’ said Andrew, ‘but he’d be foolish not to, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘He would,’ said Libby, ‘but he keeps saying she mustn’t be worried.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder why.’

  ‘Because she had a bad knock on the head?’

  ‘Well, so has Ben, but he doesn’t seem too worried about that,’ said Libby.

  ‘What? You didn’t tell me that!’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance,’ said Libby. ‘That’s what Fran and I were talking about on the phone when you tried to get through.’ She explained about last night’s events, including the possibility that Estelle was the perpetrator and the illegal occupier of the Hoppers’ Hut.

  ‘It does seem as though she might be dangerous,’ said Andrew. ‘And what’s she after, do you think?’

  ‘We did wonder if she thought the reliquary had been stolen, because it was never reported that it wasn’t,’ said Libby. ‘She might be looking for it.’

  ‘In your Hoppers’ Huts?’ said Andrew incredulously.

  ‘Well, no, but in Dominic’s house.’

  ‘She knows he’s dead and he died in the monastery,’ said Andrew. ‘He couldn’t have got the reliquary out, could he?’

  ‘No.’ Libby sighed. ‘Oh, I give up.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Andrew. ‘I’ll let you know if I find out anything else, or if DCI Connell gets in touch.’

  Libby immediately called Fran and reported the conversation.

  ‘What do you think?’ she finished. ‘Do you think Martha’s involved?’

  ‘With what? She was one of the victims,’ said Fran.

  ‘Well, of course she’s involved to that extent,’ said Libby. ‘But she’s actually a Beaumont/Tollybar descendant and cousin-in-law to the main victim. There’s got to be a connection.’

  ‘She never showed any sign of knowing Dominic, or he her,’ said Fran, ‘although I suppose they didn’t come into contact much.’

  ‘If the families had lost touch she probably wouldn’t know who he was,’ said Libby, ‘and from what Andrew says, it’s quite likely they didn’t even know of each other’s existence – Martha and Estelle, I mean.’

  ‘Meanwhile, what do you suppose Ian will do about this?’ said Fran. ‘Will he talk to Martha?’

  ‘I don’t think he can avoid it,’ said Libby. ‘I wonder if the Abbey would let me in to talk to her?’

  ‘Libby! Of course you can’t! What were you thinking of doing? Questioning her before Ian could get to her?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Don’t be silly. If there’s anything Ian wants us to know he’ll tell us.’

  Libby went into the kitchen and took her frustration out on leeks and potatoes for soup, and swore when the phone rang again.

  ‘I’m bringin’ a stew down for yer dinner, later,’ said the laconic voice of Hetty. ‘Save cookin’.’

  Feeling ashamed, Libby put the vegetables in a stock pot and trailed up the stairs to see how Ben was. She found him staring out of the window, a frown on his face.

  ‘You’re supposed to be sleeping,’ she said sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Ben. ‘I keep thinking about the bloody case.’

  ‘Well, before I bring you some soup – do you want soup? – I shall fill you in on the latest,’ said Libby.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Ben, when she’d finished. ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Libby. ‘Fran and Andrew and I all think Ian will go and question Martha. She might know nothing about Estelle and Dominic.’

  ‘Isn’t that unlikely? A bit too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘I suppose so. I want to talk to David.’

  ‘Ian said you mustn’t.’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Libby. ‘It’s so frustrating. I’m desperate to know who attacked you.’

  ‘Funnily enough, so am I,’ said Ben. ‘What about that soup?’

  Ben did fall asleep after lunch, and when Hetty turned up with her stew, she offered to sit and watch Libby’s television instead of her own, allowing Libby to go out.

  She wasn’t sure where she wanted go, but back up the track on to the estate land seemed a good idea. The sky was grey again, so the old anorak and trainers were once more pressed into use, but this time Sidney declined to accompany her, as there was a new lap to sit on.

  Despite the grey sky, the birds were still singing. Libby’s favourite blackbird called to her as she left the house and from deep in the woods a variety of birdsong assured her that it was summer, even if it didn’t look like it. She retraced her steps from the previous day, which now seemed like weeks ago and eventually came up to the Hoppers’ Huts.

  The blue–and-white police tape fluttered across the door, and all was still. Libby walked round behind the huts and peered at the ground. No sign of a vehicle, but then she would have seen that yesterday, if there had been one. There were plenty of tyre tracks in front of the huts from the police vehicles and Ben’s car.

  Libby carried on across the field until she came in sight of the yard where Ben kept his tractor and tools. It wasn’t secured in any way, even though Ian had told him in the past about the many farm thefts the force had to deal with each year.

  This afternoon it looked much as it always did. Libby wandered in to have a look at the tools but couldn’t have guessed if any had been moved or i
f there were any missing. She looked up at the gallery, once a hayloft, and wondered if Estelle had hidden up there during the rest of yesterday until she came out for her attempt on the theatre. The rusty ladder didn’t look as if it had been used, but Libby doubted she knew what to look for.

  Anyway, she told herself as she left the yard, perhaps it wasn’t Estelle. But if it wasn’t, who else would be hiding in the hut? A random thief? A prisoner on the run? She wandered along the track towards the bridge, and finally on to the track that eventually led to the Manor and the theatre, remembering the first time Peter had brought her to look at the huts before they’d been renovated. It was always Peter or Harry forcing her into long and uncomfortable walks, she thought, grinning to herself, although her fitness levels had increased since living in the village.

  Finally gaining the drive, and with no more idea of what had gone on yesterday than she had before her walk, she carried on into the high street and went into Nella’s farm shop to buy Ben grapes.

  ‘Are they for Ben?’ asked Nella, putting them into a paper bag. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Everyone seems to know,’ said Libby. ‘He’s fine, just a bit sore. His mum’s sitting with him at the moment, but he’ll be up and about tomorrow, I bet.’

  ‘Give him our best,’ said Nella. ‘Awful thing to have happened.’

  This was repeated all along the high street; Ali and Ahmed came out of the eight-til-late and Bob came out of his butcher’s shop. By the time Libby reached number 17 she was glad to sit down and stop talking. Hetty made tea, took a cup up to Ben, and announced his intention of coming down for dinner.

  ‘I hope he’s all right to do that,’ said Libby, ‘although he seemed fine earlier.’

  ‘He’s good as gold,’ said Hetty. ‘Hard old head.’

  Libby smiled affectionately at her mother-in-law-elect. ‘Good genes,’ she said.

  Ben appeared half an hour later, showered and dressed, and looking, except for the dressing on his head, perfectly normal.

  ‘It occurred to me,’ he said, sitting on the sofa next to Libby, ‘that no one checked inside the theatre last night, did they?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hetty. ‘Peter and Harry did, after you’d gone. With those policemen.’

  ‘Ah. No one inside, then.’