Murder by Magic Page 5

  ‘In fact, what?’ prompted Libby.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Maybe I’ll talk to you about it another time.’ Rosie turned back to the fireplace. ‘That’s terrific. Shall we light it?’

  By the time Libby had lit the fire, made a cup of tea, and shown Rosie all the amenities of Steeple Farm it was quite dark.

  ‘I must get back home,’ said Libby. ‘I haven’t sorted out dinner yet.’

  ‘Oh – let me take you to dinner! Is that lovely young man still running his restaurant?’

  ‘The Pink Geranium? Yes, of course.’

  ‘Why don’t you give him a ring and see if he can fit us in tonight? And Ben, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Libby with a wry grin. ‘I’d better ring him first, though.’

  She relayed the surprise information to Ben and conveyed Rosie’s invitation.

  ‘Ben says he’d be delighted,’ said Libby, pressing The Pink Geranium’s number on speed dial.

  She booked a table for three at eight o’clock, and having made sure Rosie remembered the way to the restaurant, left Steeple Farm to go home and change.

  Rosie was better known as the novelist Amanda George, whom Fran had met while taking a creative writing course. The two women had given her some help with a mystery in her past, and she had joined them as a guest lecturer on the writers’ weekend held at The Manor in the summer. She and Andrew Wylie had appeared to become very close after he had helped a good deal with research, but Libby had always put Rosie down as somewhat flighty and flirtatious, despite being in her sixties, so she wasn’t altogether surprised at Rosie’s announcement.

  The Pink Geranium wasn’t unduly crowded for a Thursday evening. When Libby and Ben arrived slightly before eight o’clock, Harry’s right-hand woman Donna showed them to the sofa in the window to wait for their table and for Rosie. Libby ordered red wine.

  Rosie arrived in a flurry of scarves and smiles ten minutes late.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I had to unpack before I could find anything to wear, and it took me longer to walk here than I thought.’

  ‘You walked?’ said Ben. ‘On your own?’

  ‘Well, yes! How else would I get here? I didn’t want to drive down – not if I want a glass or two of wine.’

  Libby sighed. ‘We’ll walk back with you.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to,’ said Rosie, accepting a glass. ‘I’m sure a woman on her own is perfectly safe in Steeple Martin.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, Ben’s always had a rooted objection to unescorted females at night.’

  ‘How sweet.’ Rosie beamed at him and Ben scowled. ‘He’s going to get even more annoyed with me then.’

  Ben and Libby looked at each other. ‘Oh?’ said Libby.

  ‘I’ve joined an online dating site.’ Rosie, looking delighted, waited for their reaction.

  ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’ said Libby.

  ‘You want to be careful,’ said Ben.

  ‘See? I told you,’ said Rosie to Libby. ‘That’s always the reaction.’

  ‘What do you expect her to do?’ Libby asked Ben. ‘Run off with a toyboy half her age who’ll steal all her money?’

  Ben looked as though he wouldn’t put it past her, but shook his head.

  ‘Look, Ben, I’m being perfectly honest on there, I’m ignoring anyone under 60 who contacts me, and if I decide to meet someone, I’ll do it in a public place. I’m a novelist, for goodness’ sake. I do know something about people.’

  ‘Has anyone contacted you yet?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Not yet. I might have to change my profile picture and description. You could help me if you like?’

  ‘That’s what you were going to tell me earlier, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘Is that why you’ve come here, so I’m on tap?’

  A faint colour appeared on Rosie’s cheekbones, belying her cool reply. ‘Of course not. I’m here because I picked up your leaflet when we had the writers’ weekend, I told you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind helping,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve always thought the people who went in for online dating were a bit sad, but if you’re doing it they can’t be. But what happened to poor Andrew?’

  ‘Nothing. We just found we didn’t suit.’ Rosie picked up the menu. ‘So – is there anything new I should try?’

  They didn’t return to the subject of online dating until the end of the meal.

  ‘Will you come up and have a look at my profile on the dating site?’ Rosie asked, after handing her credit card over to Donna.

  ‘I’ll give you a ring,’ said Libby. ‘I’m not quite sure of my movements at the moment.’

  ‘Oh?’ Rosie raised her eyebrows, but got no reply.

  ‘Thank you for the meal, Rosie,’ said Ben, standing up and pulling out her chair.

  ‘It was a pleasure. You must come up and have a meal at Steeple Farm while I’m here, too.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Libby smiled and peered round the door to the kitchen. ‘Bye, Hal.’

  Harry Price wiped his hands on a tea-towel and hurried out of the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t get out to join you for a drink,’ he said. ‘Hello, Rosie. Nice to see you again.’

  ‘And you,’ said Rosie. ‘I shall be a regular visitor for the next few weeks.’

  ‘Oh?’ Harry looked at Ben and Libby for an explanation.

  ‘Rosie’s renting Steeple Farm,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh,’ said Harry again.

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll be off,’ said Libby, reluctant to discuss Rosie’s romantic exploits in front of Harry, Donna and two tables full of interested diners. ‘We’re seeing Rosie home.’

  ‘As if I couldn’t walk on my own,’ said Rosie with a slight laugh.

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ said Harry. ‘Go on, you old trout. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.’

  ‘For the gossip,’ said Libby to Ben in an undertone, as they followed Rosie from the restaurant.

  As they walked, Libby entertained Rosie with the sad tale of Amy Taylor, who had drowned herself in the dewpond on the other side of Steeple Lane from Steeple Farm. (Murder Imperfect.)

  ‘That’s not a very nice story for someone who’s going to be looking at it every day for the next few weeks,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh, no, it’s romantic,’ said Rosie. ‘I shall have to get the whole story from you Libby. It could make a good book idea.’

  ‘There are people still alive who might be affected by it, though,’ said Libby hastily. ‘I found that out some years ago.’

  They left Rosie making a fuss of Talbot, and linking arms, walked slowly back down the hill.

  ‘It looks quite pretty from up here, doesn’t it?’ said Libby, stopping to look out over Steeple Martin.

  ‘Like a picture postcard village,’ said Ben. ‘Lucky, aren’t we?’

  ‘Do you really think Rosie’s having her kitchen and bathroom done up? Or is that an excuse?’ asked Libby, as they resumed their slow progress.

  ‘A very expensive excuse,’ said Ben. ‘No, I think she is, she got quite animated talking about spa baths, after all. But I think she’s happier being away from home while she’s doing her computer dating thing. Which makes me wonder if she really has broken up with Andrew.’

  ‘Oh! You mean he could be in and out at home and might see what she’s doing? She’s planning to two-time him?’

  Ben laughed. ‘Yes, the jade! You do use such dated language sometimes.’

  ‘And that was a terrible pun,’ said Libby, digging him in the ribs, ‘even if you didn’t mean it.’

  The following morning Libby rang Fran to tell her about Rosie. Fran was surprised at her arriving at Steeple Farm, but not at her attempt at online dating.

  ‘We knew she was a flirt, didn’t we, we’ve seen her in action. And I never thought Andrew was quite right for her. A bit too finicky.’

  ‘Yes, he’s very neat, isn’t he. And she so isn’t.’ Libby smoothed down her rather rumpled sweater. ‘So shall I go
up and help her set herself up, or is there anything to do with the St Aldeberge murders I need to be looking into?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Fran. ‘I can’t get the cockerel feathers out of my head, though.’

  ‘Remember Ian said it was almost as if this one had been set up to make us think the same about Mrs Bidwell?’ said Libby thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, that’s very odd, isn’t it, if Mrs Bidwell’s death had been set up to make it look like a natural death?’

  ‘You’re right. That is odd,’ said Fran in surprise. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘Either it was really a natural death and someone’s trying to capitalise on it, or it was murder, and the murderer thinks the police have realised it.’

  ‘I expect they have now,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll have to think about what exactly Ian said yesterday.’

  ‘And find out what he said to Poor Patti,’ said Libby. ‘Dare I ring her?’

  ‘I’d leave her alone if I were you,’ said Fran. ‘She’ll have enough to deal with at the moment.’

  But half an hour later, Patti was on the phone.

  ‘Have you heard?’ she said, her voice rising to a squeak. ‘I can’t believe it! And the villagers are already saying it’s voodoo or something.’

  ‘It was made to look like that,’ said Libby. ‘But at least they can’t think this one’s anything to do with you – you weren’t there.’

  ‘Hmm, yes,’ said Patti thoughtfully. ‘Actually they probably wouldn’t have known I wasn’t there. I’ve just fitted one of those timer switches to turn the lights on and off, to deter burglars. So anyone passing on Wednesday evening might have thought I was having my day off at home. Anne goes off to visit her aunt sometimes so I’m not always away on Wednesdays.’

  ‘I see,’ said Libby.

  ‘They practically crossed themselves in the shop this morning,’ said Patti, her voice returning to patent gloom. ‘I always support them, because I think it’s such a good idea for the community, and I even help in there sometimes. But today it was as though I was a pariah.’

  ‘Tell the bishop,’ said Libby. ‘You shouldn’t be in this position.’

  ‘If I do that it’s like wimping out.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. And your parishioners need a bloody good talking to. He might come down and harangue them himself next Sunday.’

  ‘He can’t do that, he’s busy,’ said Patti, ‘but actually, that’s quite a good idea – to get someone else in to preach and tell them how awful they’re being. Do I sound terribly self-pitying?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Libby, ‘but tell me, what have you heard about this other murder?’

  ‘Other murder? So you do think Mrs Bidwell was murdered?’

  ‘It certainly looks like it,’ said Libby, ‘although the facts haven’t changed, but I think the police are going to have another look at it.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ Patti was silent for a moment. ‘You obviously know a bit about yesterday’s murder?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby chewed her lip. ‘Actually Ian – Chief Inspector Connell – took Fran and I out to the scene yesterday.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘He wanted to see if Fran could pick anything up. We didn’t go in.’

  ‘Did she? Pick anything up?’

  Libby thought about what she should say and decided to be uncharacteristically circumspect.

  ‘Not really. She said there was a lot of blood, but we knew that already.’

  ‘And feathers,’ said Patti slowly. ‘And she didn’t pick up on that?’

  Libby sighed. ‘If you mean witchcraft, of course, but she and DCI Connell, and I, for that matter, think it’s a set-up.’

  ‘Really,’ said Patti. ‘Well, the village doesn’t. The village thinks I’m a witch.’

  Chapter Seven

  Oh, here we go, thought Libby. ‘What makes you say that?’ she asked aloud.

  ‘I had another delightful anonymous phone call.’ Patti sounded tired. ‘Apparently “everybody” now knows I’m a witch and I’ve been holding Black Masses in the church.’

  ‘Tell Ian straight away,’ said Libby. ‘Or one of his team.’

  ‘Would it be all right if I told him at the inquest?’ asked Patti after a pause.

  ‘Oh, the inquest! No, try and get hold of him before then. When is it?’

  ‘Eleven thirty this morning. I was just leaving.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll try and get hold of him. You get going,’ said Libby. ‘But he must know before he goes into the inquest.’

  ‘Why?’ Patti was obviously puzzled.

  ‘It may affect it, that’s what. Go on, get going.’

  Libby tried the police station switchboard. Ian’s extension was answered almost immediately.

  ‘DCI Connell’s phone, Maiden speaking,’ said a voice Libby recognised.

  ‘Hello, Sergeant Maiden,’ she said. ‘It’s Libby Sarjeant. I’ve got some information about the St Aldeberge murders.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Sarjeant, nice to hear from you. Would that be the inquest that’s about to happen?’

  ‘Yes. I’m reporting it because one of the witnesses told me and she’s actually on her way there.’

  ‘OK, then, fire away,’ said DS Maiden. ‘I’ll get it to him straight away. Although I think he’s going to ask for an adjournment anyway.’

  Satisfied she’d done all she could, Libby switched off the phone and trailed back into the kitchen to wash the breakfast things. She’d hardly managed to plunge her hands into hot water when the phone rang again. By the time she’d dried her hands and got halfway across the living room the answerphone had cut in.

  ‘It’s Rosie here, Libby. I wondered if you’d be free to pop up here and have a look at my dating profile. I think I’m going to use it for a situation in a book, so it’s a legitimate piece of research. Give me a ring.’

  Libby sighed and went back to the kitchen. Just like Rosie to expect everyone to drop everything to rush to her aid, but the answerphone had given her the perfect excuse to ignore the invitation and do what she wanted, which today was to concentrate on the two murders in St Aldeberge.

  ‘The Flower Lady murders’, she murmured out loud. ‘Bet that’s what the press will call them.’

  No one, she remembered, as she propped plates against mugs on the draining board, had asked about the wheelchair. Didn’t Patti – or Alice, she’d forgotten which – say it was missing, which was why the churchwarden thought Mrs Bidwell had been taken out of the church? Ian hadn’t even mentioned it. Surely that should have been enough to alert suspicion?

  Well, it had, but only in the minds of Patti’s congregation, apparently. And Ian was right, it appeared that the second murder had been constructed to confirm that suspicion. Except that it had backfired.

  Right. She wandered back into the sitting room and curled up on the sofa with the laptop. Undetectable poisons, that’s what she wanted. Because Mrs Bidwell had no obvious cause of death. Libby frowned. But every pathologist knew all the signs to look for; almost invisible puncture marks under the nails or in the hairline or minute petechiae, so nothing would have been overlooked, and, as far as anyone knew, undetectable poisons were a myth. ‘A little known poison of South American origin,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Beloved of Golden Age mystery writers. But not forensic pathologists.’

  So what else? Rohypnol, the date rape drug? But that was detectable, surely. Libby entered it into the search engine. Yes, it was detectable in urine within seventy two hours. And surely, the post mortem was done within seventy-two hours? So that was out. She trotted aimlessly around the internet for another twenty minutes, then shut the laptop with a sigh, wondering how Patti and Ian were getting on at the inquest.

  Which, of course, she reflected, going into the kitchen to make more tea, was an indication of doubt about the cause of death. Inquests were only called by the coroner if there was still doubt after the post mortem.

  With her
mug, Libby strolled out into the wintry garden. Dead hollyhock stalks drooped over the pathways, and a clump of Michaelmas daisies rusted quietly in a corner. In all, it was depressing. Sidney, intrigued as to why she had ventured into the garden, followed, pouncing on stray leaves and generally trying to pretend he was a real cat. When the phone rang inside the house he got tangled up with her feet and allowed the answerphone its chance again.

  ‘You didn’t ring back,’ said Rosie’s voice plaintively. ‘I have to go out now, but perhaps you could come up later?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Libby out loud. ‘Did I say I’d help you?’

  Sidney, now convinced that she’d tricked him into making a fool of himself, gave her a “what-else-have-you-got-to-do?” look, and jumped onto the sofa. Libby gave an exasperated snort, swallowed the rest of her tea and collected a duster and spray cleaner ready for a determined assault on the week’s accumulated dust.

  It wasn’t until after a lunch of yesterday’s soup that Patti called.

  ‘They adjourned it.’ Her voice sounded tired.

  ‘Thought they would. Did you talk to Ian?’

  ‘Your policeman? Yes, before we went in. He seems very nice.’ Libby heard a yawn. ‘Sorry. I’m not sleeping well.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. What did Ian say you should do?’

  ‘He didn’t, really. An expert’s coming round to look at the computer and see if they can work out who sent the emails, and he’s suggested that we make them public.’

  ‘Public? How?’

  ‘He said he’d call someone on the local news programme. He said we could put a spin on it. I don’t know what he means.’

  ‘I do.’ Libby grinned to herself. ‘He’s going to try and shame someone into giving something away.’

  ‘How?’ Patti sounded bewildered.

  ‘I’d watch the Kent and Coast news this evening and see if he’s managed it,’ suggested Libby.

  When Patti rang off, Libby found Campbell McLean’s number in her phone.

  ‘I wondered if I’d hear from you,’ he said, before she could announce herself. ‘I’ve been speaking to your pal Ian Connell.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘So you got him involved in this case?’