Murder At St Herbert’s

A detective has a case to crack in this captivating short story by Tony Redcliffe.

JOYCE BRETHERTON hummed to herself as she arranged flowers on the altar of St Herbert’s, a small stone church dating, they said, from Saxon times.

Mrs Bretherton loved doing the flowers on a day like this, with the sun splashing patches of colour through the stained-glass windows.

She often thought of the people who had worshipped here, how many babies had been baptised, how many brides had walked down the aisle and how many coffins had been carried in and carried out.

Yes, those flowers looked lovely. Perhaps a little more water was needed.

Mrs Bretherton picked up her jug. She needed to go to the sacristy.

She turned from the altar to walk past the tomb and stone effigy of Sir Richard Chantille, a mediaeval knight clad in armour, gauntleted arms crossed on his breast, sword by his side and sightless eyes gazing at the vault above him. He lay where he had lain for hundreds of years.

The sarcophagus to his right had no inscription and no stone effigy lying on it. But there was a figure. Not of stone. Of flesh and blood. Cold flesh and blood.

Mrs Bretherton took a step back, her jug clutched tightly in two hands.

A woman lay there, her hands clasped in her lap, her open eyes staring at the vault above – and a dagger protruding from her chest in a patch of red.

Still carrying her jug, Mrs Bretherton ran from the church and the dead woman lying staring at the vaulted roof.

* * * *

It was Amanda Fraser’s first murder. She hoped it wouldn’t be too gruesome. If you were going to make it as a detective inspector you had to get past the bad bits and concentrate on finding what caused the bad bits.

Joe Duggan, her sergeant, was driving. He was a couple of years older than she was.

“Pretty countryside,” she commented.

“It is, ma’am, especially on a sunny day.”

“This is my first murder.” It was better to be honest.

“I’d say congratulations, but I don’t think . . .”

She smiled.

“No, you’re right. What about you?”

He glanced at her.

“My third, ma’am.”

“Right.”

At least she wouldn’t have a seasoned veteran with 20 years’ experience looking over her shoulder, weighing up her every word, her every move.

“Here we are,” she said as they pulled up in front of the church of St Herbert, at the moment guarded by a uniformed WPC.

Inside, Fraser and Duggan took a moment for their eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine, although shafts of light still slanted across the nave. Dust motes danced in the sunlight.

There was the sweet smell of incense and wax, and a votive light in a blue lamp flickered in front of a statue of the virgin.

In front and to the left of the altar was a sarcophagus supporting the figure of an armoured knight.

To the left of that was the stone sarcophagus that supported the body of a woman.

At her head and leaning slightly over her was a man Amanda recognised as Dr Philip Southern.

Dr Southern looked up at them over his spectacles.

“Ah! The lady policeman, as my mother used to say. And Mr Duggan, too. Well, all the photos and the dusting have been done, and I’m almost ready to bag the body. Come and look.”

Inspector Fraser took a deep breath, stepped to the other side of the body and looked down.

An attractive woman. In her early forties. Grey skirt, cream blouse. One flat black shoe.

Long blonde hair flowed down over her breast and her hands were crossed in her lap.

She hadn’t just been put here on this bare stone tomb – she had been arranged here.

“Cause of death? Although I can guess,” she said, her voice quiet.

His wasn’t.

“I’ll do a full autopsy to see if there are other wounds and so on, but she was killed by one single thrust of that dagger through her heart. Swift and deadly.

“I’m ready to remove the weapon if you are.”

Amanda turned to Joe Duggan, who produced an evidence bag.

Dr Southern took a firm hold of the hilt of the

The church was now a crime scene, and a killer was on the loose . . .

dagger, which protruded from the woman’s chest.

As he pulled, Amanda thought the blade would never end. It finally slid out, a bloody pointed blade nine inches in length.

Southern looked at it. “A stiletto,” he said. As he held it, he looked at the police officers. “These have been around for hundreds of years. A weapon just designed for stabbing, not cutting. Very effective.”

He slid it into the evidence bag held by Duggan.

“Where would you get a weapon like that?” Duggan asked.

“Like everything else,” Southern replied. “On the internet. From an antiques shop or a military shop. Not difficult.”

“How long has she been dead?” Amanda asked.

“She was found at nine a.m., so I think she died at about eight. Best have a word with Mr Winter, the vicar. He’s over there.” Southern nodded towards a man sitting in the front pew at the other side of the nave.

The inspector and the sergeant went over. Mr Winter was a thin, balding man, his clerical collar too big for his neck.

“Terrible business,” he said. “Terrible. Poor Mrs Bretherton found her.”

“Do you know the victim, Mr Winter?” Amanda asked.

“Oh, yes. It’s Lady Sarah Chantille. Although I didn’t recognise her at first.” “Really? Why not?”

“Her hair, you see. Lady Sarah has short brown hair. Not long blonde hair. And by the way, someone broke into the church through the sacristy door.”

The inspector looked at her sergeant.

“Can you take a look?” Duggan went off and Inspector Fraser went back to the body. She touched the forehead, cool now.

She slipped her fingers into the blonde hair and lifted. The hair came away in her hand. The dead woman was wearing a wig.

* * * *

As they drove to see the dead woman’s husband, Sir Gerald Chantille, Duggan told his inspector what he’d found outside the sacristy.

“A woman’s shoe and a bicycle propped against the wall. So she was probably killed outside and carried or dragged into the church deliberately.”

Set in acres of land, the house of Sir Gerald and

Lady Chantille wasn’t exactly a house. It was a Tudor mansion with its origins going back even further.

Sir Gerald received the police officers in the library. He sat at a wooden desk, a decanter of whisky in front of him. The whole of his big body looked as though it was sagging into the chair.

He waved an arm, indicating two chairs opposite him.

“We are so sorry for your loss, Sir Gerald,” Amanda said, “but we need to ask you some questions.” He nodded.

“When did you see your wife last?”

Sir Gerald lifted his eyes from his glass of whisky to look at Amanda.

“In the morning. I saw her cycle down the drive.”

“Did you know where she was going? Or why?” He shook his head.

“I just thought she was going for a ride. She did sometimes, so I went to the stables as I do each morning. We have two horses: Jack, and Sarah’s horse, Bella. I groomed them. Took me about an hour.”

“Did anyone see you?” He shook his head.

“I see,” Amanda said.

“How were things between you and Lady Chantille?” He shrugged.

“We’ve been married six years. I am nearly seventeen years older than she is.

“Six months ago she left me for another man. A younger man. Then four months later she came back to me.”

“I see. You took her back.” “I loved her. I know she wasn’t in love with me, but we got on together, you know?” There were tears welling in his eyes.

“Can you tell me about this other man?” Amanda prompted gently.

Sir Gerald took a drink.

“Marcus Daniels. An architectural historian and restorer. He came to do some work on wooden panels in St Herbert’s.

That’s how Sarah met him.

“I let him do some work on some very old stained glass on the staircase. Anyway, Sarah soon got tired of him and came back to me. She chose me.”

“Did anyone see Lady Sarah leaving on her bicycle, sir?” Sergeant Duggan asked.

Sir Gerald shrugged.

“Mrs Kendal may have. My cook and housekeeper. She’ll be in the kitchen, I expect.”

The two officers stood.

“By the way, Sir Gerald,” Amanda began, “can you remember what your wife was wearing as she left?”

Sir Gerald frowned and thought for a moment.

“A blouse or top and a grey skirt.”

“Was she wearing a hat, do you recall?”

“No,” he said. “No hat or scarf.”

“What colour was her hair?”

Sir Gerald looked puzzled. “My wife’s hair is brown.” “She wasn’t wearing a wig, then?”

“A wig! No, Sarah didn’t possess a wig.”

* * * *

Mrs Kendal was skinning a rabbit. She was in her mid-fifties, a handsome, sturdy woman with a country complexion.

The officers watched as she inserted a knife, slit upwards and pulled off the skin in one deft movement. She looked at them. “Supper tonight. He has to eat; I’ll see that he does.”

“You are a live-in housekeeper, Mrs Kendal?” Amanda asked.

She wanted to talk to the woman before she started dismembering the rabbit.

“Yes. I have a small flat. I’ve looked after Sir Gerald for ten years. A girl comes in twice a week to clean and do the washing.”

“I understand that Lady Sarah had recently had an affair,” Amanda continued. Mrs Kendal nodded.

“With a chap named Daniels. Marcus Daniels. She fell for him, silly woman. Sir Gerald is worth ten of him.”

“But the affair was over?” Amanda asked.

“Was it? Perhaps,” Mrs Kendal said.

The inspector and sergeant glanced at each other.

Mrs Kendal went on.

“The day before she died I overheard her on the

“Can you remember what your wife was wearing when she left?”

telephone in the hall. She was trying to keep her voice low, but I heard her.

“‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll meet you’.” Mrs Kendal sniffed and picked up the rabbit. “I reckon she was talking to Marcus Daniels.”

“Sir Gerald said Mr Daniels had done some work in the house,” Amanda said quickly.

Mrs Kendal put down the rabbit.

“I can show you, if you like.”

The three of them moved into the hall and began to walk up the main staircase. They halted by a stainedglass window, small but very old.

Mrs Kendal pointed.

“He cleaned some of the glass. Mediaeval glass, apparently.”

Amanda studied the small oval window. There were flowers and the figure of a woman, small but discernible, with a long flowing dress and long flowing hair. She turned to Mrs Kendal.

“Do you know anything about the woman?”

Mrs Kendal blew out her cheeks.

“Just the legend. They say it’s Lady Margaret Chantille, the wife of Sir Richard.

You’ll have seen him and his tomb in the church.

“The story goes that

Lady Margaret was unfaithful to him. So he killed her. She’d pierced his heart so

he pierced hers. It’s just a story.”

* * * *

Amanda Fraser and Joe Duggan sat together in the car.

“So what do you think, ma’am?”

“Well, Sir Gerald hasn’t an alibi. Perhaps he suspected that she was still seeing her lover and followed the example of his ancestor, Sir Richard. Mrs Kendal doesn’t have an alibi, either.” Duggan looked surprised. “But Mrs Kendal had no reason to kill Lady Sarah.”

“Mrs Kendal, Joe, unless I’m mistaken, is in love with Sir Gerald. She could have followed Lady Sarah. You’ve seen her with a knife. Then there is Mr Daniels.”

“We need to find him,”

Joe conceded.

“I know where he is. I phoned the bishop and his secretary told me Daniels is doing restoration work in St Wilfred’s church. That’s about eight miles away. Go and bring him in, Joe.”

“To the station, ma’am?” “Bring him to the scene of the crime. In the meantime, I’ll phone the vicar of St Wilfred’s to see what he, or she, can tell me about our Mr Daniels.”

It was late afternoon when Sergeant Duggan and Marcus Daniels arrived at St Herbert’s.

Amanda Fraser took stock of the man. Tall, mid-thirties with unruly hair and dark good looks.

Amanda introduced herself.

“We know about your relationship with Lady Sarah. Who ended it?” she asked.

“She did. She went back to her husband.”

“Where were you on the morning of her death?”

“I was working in St Wilfred’s. From eight in the morning to about twelve.” Amanda shook her head. “But you weren’t, Mr Daniels. It seems that decorators descended on the vicarage at St Wilfred’s, and the vicar was in his church. You weren’t.

“You were here,” she accused. “She’d agreed to meet you, hadn’t she? Did she reject you again?”

For a moment it looked as though Daniels was going to bluster and argue, but then he shrugged.

“I knew she would. So I came prepared.”

The inspector and sergeant looked at each other as Daniels went on, getting angrier.

“What does it matter? The fact is she betrayed me.”

“She betrayed her husband,” Amanda said.

“No!” Daniels shouted. “She betrayed me!”

He jabbed his finger violently to his chest.

“She sold herself. For money, a mansion and a title.”

“So you killed her and placed her where Lady Margaret Chantille should have rested, another unfaithful woman. But why the wig? It’s bizarre.” Daniels gave a snort. “A sign of what she was. At one time no respectable woman would be seen without a head covering, or she would have her hair braided in circlets on her head. Not long loose hair. That was a sign.”

He looked at the police officers and went on.

“In the New Testament a woman enters a house and falls at the feet of Jesus weeping, and she wiped his feet with her hair and everyone there knew what she was.

“She had a bad reputation. And there was Mary Magdalene. You know, Inspector, in all the religious paintings that show Mary Magdalene she has long flowing hair . . .”

He took three steps and stood by the effigy of Sir Richard.

“Look,” he said.

At the side of Sir Richard was his great stone sword. On the right side was another stone weapon – a thin pointed knife, the blade thin and very long,

“You don’t know what that is, do you?” Daniels sneered. “It’s a misericorde, which means act of mercy. It was used to dispatch mortally wounded knights, friend and foe.

“The blade slipped through the gap between armour plates into the heart and death was swift. As it was for Sarah.”

“Marcus Daniels, I am arresting you for the murder of Lady Chantille,” Amanda began. “You need not –”

“She deserved it,” Daniels interrupted. “She deserved no forgiveness.”

“Really?” Amanda asked. “Did you know, Mr Daniels, that the first person Jesus appeared to after his resurrection was Mary Magdalene? Cuff him, sergeant.”

The End.