Murder in the Monastery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series) by Lesley Cookman Page A

all of them very well. People audition, we don’t check them for a criminal record.’
    ‘Pity you don’t.’ Detective B bristled.
    ‘Sorry – what I meant was, he auditioned for a part last year when we put out an open call, so we had his name and address – at least we have somewhere – but that’s about it. He never volunteered anything about his life to me, although he used to see us in the pub sometimes. He’d been a professional actor.’
    ‘Open call?’
    ‘For a play. We advertise for actors in the local press and on the internet.’
    ‘Don’t you vet them?’ Detective A was surprised. ‘They could be anybody.’
    ‘We don’t pay them. We have no right to go delving into their personal lives,’ said Libby.
    ‘Well, we have to,’ said Detective B. ‘We know he and his wife were separated, he was in debt and out of work.’
    ‘He was talking about going back into medicine,’ said Libby.
    ‘Medicine?’ Both detectives looked up.
    ‘He had been a house surgeon, I believe, before he got his break on television.’
    ‘ Limehouse Blues .’ The detectives looked at one another. ‘Not exactly a favourite of the police force.’
    ‘I can imagine.’ Libby grinned. ‘I don’t watch it myself.’
    ‘Glad to hear it, madam,’ said Detective A, with the suspicion of a smile. ‘So you didn’t know Mr Butcher well. Did he ever show any interest in this – er –’ he consulted his notebook, ‘this relic?’
    ‘Only as much as we all did,’ said Libby. ‘I remember him commenting once on the security arrangements. Most of the cast and crew knew what was going on with it as it was the whole reason the play was being done.’ She sighed. ‘It’s such a shame. It was a good play.’
    ‘It wasn’t the play that died, Mrs Sarjeant,’ said Detective B.
    ‘No,’ said Libby, feeling hot colour sweep up her neck and into her face.
    ‘What about Cornelia Fletcher?’ asked Detective A.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The woman who was attacked.’
    ‘But her name’s Martha!’
    ‘Not according to her bank statement.’ Detective B looked up from his notebook. ‘You didn’t know?’
    ‘Of course not! Sister Catherine introduced her to me as Martha, their resident alongsider –’ Libby caught Detective B’s frown ‘– or oblate, as they’re known. And that’s all I’ve known her by. I suppose she took Martha as a sort of Christian nom-de-la-vie.’
    Both detectives looked at her disapprovingly.
    ‘You never saw her away from the Abbey?’ Detective A was back in charge.
    ‘No. She looked after us, and always locked up the atrium and the reliquary. She and the security guard were the only ones allowed anywhere near it. There were lasers – and – and – and things.’
    ‘Yes. They were turned off.’ Detective B looked at Libby accusingly.
    ‘Well, I didn’t do it,’ said Libby indignantly. ‘And how come the security guard didn’t see anything?’
    ‘He did,’ said Detective A. ‘He saw Ms Fletcher and Mr Butcher.’
    ‘Oh.’ Libby shifted on the sofa.
    ‘Now, Mrs Sarjeant,’ continued Detective A, ‘tell us what you know about this – relic. We understand you have been enquiring into its – um –’
    ‘Provenance,’ supplied Libby. ‘Yes.’ She sighed, offered more tea, was refused, and settled down to relate the entire circumstances of her knowledge of the reliquary, including the trip to Maidenhaye and as much of the history of St Eldreda as she could get away with.
    ‘However,’ she concluded, ‘I expect you know all that, as DCI Connell does, and is investigating himself.’
    This time she’d thrown them a curve ball, Libby could see it in their suddenly rigid faces. They didn’t know, she thought with glee. Big Bertha didn’t tell them.
    Detective B made up their collective minds. ‘Very well, madam,’ he said getting massively to his feet. ‘That will be all for the moment. No doubt we’ll be in touch.’
    ‘No doubt,’ said Libby sweetly, holding the