Murder at the Manor

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Mmm.’ Libby remembered the sulky-faced woman, and the way she had clung to Patrick Joseph’s arm before dinner. ‘You could be right.’ She looked consideringly at her partner. ‘He is quite attractive.’

  He slapped her arm with a spoon. ‘That’s quite enough of that, woman.’

  ‘Did you see that, Het?’ Libby turned an astonished face to her mother-in-law-elect. ‘He hit me! That’s abuse, that is.’

  ‘He don’t deserve no pudding then,’ said Hetty, laconic as ever.

  After dinner, the guests gravitated to the sitting room, and Libby asked if they were all there, as far as Lily Cooper knew. Looking slightly surprised, she agreed they all were, why? Libby explained, but Lily, Patrick and the other guests all looked vaguely uncomprehending.

  ‘Well, that’s that.’ Libby left the sitting room. ‘Where are Fran and Rosie?’

  ‘In the kitchen with Hetty,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t think they fancied sitting in there with that lot.’

  ‘I said they’d be cliquey,’ said Libby, going back to the kitchen.

  Hetty was waving a bottle of red wine around. Libby fetched glasses and she and Ben sat at the table.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ she asked Rosie.

  ‘They’re all right, as far as it goes,’ said Rosie. ‘Not really up for being taught anything though. It strikes me as more of a reunion than a writing weekend.’

  ‘Well, that’s exactly what it is,’ said Libby. ‘You sure you want to stay, Fran?’

  ‘I’ll stay to keep Rosie company.’ Fran raised her glass. ‘Cheers. Anyway, I’ve already paid.’

  Libby felt herself colouring. ‘We’d give your money back.’

  ‘I know. But I am genuinely looking forward to talking to some of the others. The only writers I know are the ones in Rosie’s class, and none of them are published.’

  ‘I thought for a moment you were going to say none of them were real writers,’ said Rosie. ‘Anyone who writes is a writer.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how many times you tell me that,’ said Fran, smiling at her tutor, ‘I shan’t feel like a writer until I see my name in print.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Libby. ‘I knew a playwright in London who’d been writing for a living since he left university, but he said until he had a book published he couldn’t call himself a writer.’

  Ben snorted. ‘Bloody artistic temperament.’

  ‘No, I don’t think it’s that,’ said Rosie. ‘For instance, if someone asks you what you do for a living and you say you’re a writer, their next question is either “What do you write?” or “Would I have read anything of yours?” or a combination of the two. If, as a friend of mine does, you reply “I’m a columnist for The Times” they say, “Oh, a journalist,” as though it’s a lower life-form.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby was interested. ‘I wonder where I come in the life-forms.’

  ‘You write?’ Rosie looked astonished.

  ‘Panto.’ Hetty leaned forward with the bottle to top up glasses. ‘Written dozens.’

  ‘Not dozens, Het. Just a few.’ Libby stood up. ‘I’ll fetch another bottle, shall I?’

  ‘One o’ the good ones gal, not the ones you bought.’ Hetty nodded to wards the pantry door.

  ‘Not good enough, Mum?’ said Ben with a grin.

  ‘Good enough for this lot,’ said Hetty, sitting back in her chair. ‘Good job our Flo ain’t here.’

  Flo Carpenter, oldest friend of Hetty and live-in partner of her brother Lenny, had been left as something of a wine connoisseur by her late husband, who, as the village would have it, “kept a good cellar”.

  ‘Some of them have started drifting off to the pub,’ said Libby, coming back into the room with a bottle in each hand. ‘There seems to be a bit of an atmosphere.’

  ‘It’s that Patrick Joseph,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I thought you said he was a nice enough man?’ said Fran.

  ‘He is,’ agreed Rosie, ‘but he is also the most dreadful womaniser.’

  ‘Has he tried it on with you?’ asked Libby.

  Rosie shook her head and smiled. ‘I’m ten years older than he is, and he tends to go for the younger ones, anyway.’

  ‘Lily Cooper’s not that young,’ said Ben.

  ‘No, but I expect she was the best of the bunch at whatever event they met at,’ said Rosie, ‘or even the only one who responded. Some young women aren’t as dazzled by his celebrity status as they should be, you see.’

  They all laughed.

  Later, as Ben and Libby walked down the Manor drive on their way home, they met Patrick Joseph, Lily Cooper and two other writers coming back up.

  ‘Sleep well,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Aren’t you on site?’ asked Lily in surprise.

  ‘No, we live round the corner,’ said Ben, ‘but my mother is in the Housekeeper’s flat should you need anyone in the night.’

  ‘But – what about staff?’ persisted Lily, looking more and more disgruntled.

  ‘We aren’t a hotel,’ said Ben, rather stiffly. ‘We’re a rather small conference centre. That’s why you got this weekend at such a bargain price.’

  ‘And that told you, Lily,’ said Patrick genially. ‘Thanks – er – Ben, was it? See you tomorrow.’

  ‘She’s an unpleasant piece of work, isn’t she?’ said Libby, as they resumed their way down the drive.

  ‘Yes.’ Ben frowned. ‘I hope I haven’t made things worse. Good job we charged each delegate individually, we might not have got paid.’

  ‘And should we have had someone staying on site?’ asked Libby. ‘It’s not fair to leave your mum in charge.’

  ‘We modelled it on that place in Wales, didn’t we?’ said Ben. ‘They don’t have anyone staying on site. And the guests cater for themselves.’

  ‘True. I’d hate that, though, wouldn’t you? At least ours get good food.’

  ‘Nothing better than my mum’s cooking.’ Ben squeezed her arm against his side. ‘Apart from yours, of course.’

  ‘Don’t flannel. I’m not fit to lick Het’s apron.’ Libby gave him a reciprocal squeeze as they turned left into the high street and past The Pink Geranium, the vegetarian restaurant run by their friend Harry, and owned by him and Ben’s cousin Peter. Libby peered in through the windows, but no one was in evidence.

  ‘In the pub,’ said a voice behind them, and Libby turned to face her son Adam, who worked occasionally for Harry, and rented the flat above the restaurant.

  ‘Fancy joining them?’ said Ben.

  ‘Have we got time?’ asked Libby.

  ‘It’s early yet,’ said Adam. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where’s Sophie?’ asked Libby, as they went into the pub, subject of many a calendar photograph. Sophie, Fran’s stepdaughter, had been going out with Adam for two years and had recently finished her Art History degree at university.

  ‘Away with some uni mates at a hen weekend,’ said Adam. ‘I don’t want to know, quite honestly.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Libby, amused.

  ‘Hello, petal,’ Harry, tall, slim and blond, leant forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Some of your punters were just in here.’

  ‘Patrick Joseph.’ Peter, equally tall and blond, although rather more patrician, kissed her other cheek. ‘I’ve met him before.’

  ‘You don’t sound too enamoured.’ Ben squeezed between them and waved at the barman.

  ‘He’s not a bad writer, but thinks a lot of himself.’ Peter leant back against the bar. ‘Quite the renaissance man, he is. Finger in a lot of pies. Does a lot of broadcasting.’

  ‘A true polymath, in fact.’ Libby pulled a face. ‘Yes, Rosie implied the same.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie’s up there already, is she?’ said Harry. ‘I thought she was the star turn tomorrow.’

  ‘She is, but she thought it would be more friendly if she stayed with them. Fran’s staying too, although I said she could come home with us.’

  ‘Well, t
hey didn’t impress me,’ said Harry, ‘and there was some bird hanging off that Patrick who reminded me of an angry heron.’

  Ben and Libby laughed. ‘Lily Cooper.’

  ‘Whoever.’ Harry shrugged. ‘Couldn’t keep her hands off him. Very pissed off that he didn’t pay her much attention.’

  ‘As that’s everyone’s impression, I guess it’s right,’ said Libby. ‘Is Patrick married, do you know, Pete?’

  ‘Very.’ Peter pulled a face. ‘Although he keeps her very much in the background. She’s something quite important in her own right, but I don’t know what. I don’t even know her name, but the word is he uses her as an effective brake on any little interlude that threatens to get out of hand. Your Rosie would know.’

  ‘She does know him, but hasn’t said much about him other than he’s quite a nice bloke, but a terrible womaniser.’

  ‘There you are then.’ Harry wagged a finger in her face. ‘So don’t you get into any little corners with him.’

  Adam snorted.

  ‘Don’t embarrass my son,’ said Libby, hoisting herself onto a bar stool.

  ‘So,’ said Peter, picking up a new glass of red wine and nodding thanks to Ben, ‘are any of the other writers famous?’

  ‘No, they’re all aspiring,’ said Libby. ‘Like Fran. They met on a writing holiday last year.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you want to do? Host writing holidays?’

  ‘Yes, but small weekend ones. This was a big one.’

  ‘Have you had any more feedback for tomorrow’s dinner?’ asked Harry. ‘I don’t want to poison someone accidentally with a prawn or a mushroom.’

  ‘I sent you the food forms ages ago,’ said Libby.

  ‘But there will still be someone who says, “Oh, I can’t eat dairy/seafood/red meat.” Or “I don’t like that foreign muck.” You know there will.’

  ‘No one’s said anything yet,’ said Ben, ‘and Mum’s food went down a treat.’

  ‘Traditional British, dear,’ said Harry. ‘Bound to.’

  It was nearly half-past eleven when Libby and Ben returned to Number 17, Allhallow’s Lane. Sidney the silver tabby shot out between their legs and Libby tripped down the step. All was much as usual.

  But in the morning, when the phone began ringing at half past seven, when Libby was only just out of bed, she knew the roof had fallen in.

  There was a body in the grounds of The Manor.

  Chapter Three

  ‘I’M THE OWNER,’ BEN said to the yellow-jacketed policeman, ‘and we are co-organisers of the event going on here. Of course you’ve got to let us in.’

  The policeman looked doubtful. ‘Wait here a moment, sir,’ he said and went over to a dark saloon where two men stood zipping themselves into blue boiler suits. All three turned and looked at Ben and Libby.

  ‘All right, sir.’ The constable lifted blue-and-white tape and beckoned them under. ‘Would you go inside and wait with the other people?’

  Libby looked at the ambulance standing with its doors wide open, the police vehicles and what seemed like dozens of people moving slowly around the forecourt in front of the theatre. Some in uniform, some plain clothes and some boiler-suited. And two with dogs, who wagged tails and grinned, their tongues hanging out. She shivered. This was a scene from television, not Steeple Martin.

  ‘Come on,’ muttered Ben, taking her arm. They were ushered into the Manor, where they turned left towards the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the constable, ‘in here, please.’

  Libby stopped. ‘No, Constable,’ she said. ‘I am going into our kitchen to make tea. Has anyone been given tea? Or coffee? Or have they all been turfed out of bed and barricaded in here without anything?’

  The poor constable looked even more confused, as an older, more confident constable appeared at his side.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ the older man said. ‘You’ll have to obey the rules. In here with the others.’

  ‘Go and get your superior,’ said Libby, calmly turning towards the kitchen. ‘The body, about which I know nothing except that it wasn’t found in this house, will not be compromised by my making tea. Nor will any of the so-called suspects.’

  Ben was already ahead of her filling the huge brown kettle. Luckily, the oil-fired Aga was still on, but, to back it up, Libby filled the electric kettle while the two hapless officers stood in the doorway. By the time trays with mugs had been prepared and the two brown betty teapots filled, the older constable had disappeared, while the younger one stood unhappily in the corridor outside the kitchen.

  ‘Now we’ll go into the sitting room,’ said Libby, smiling sweetly as she passed him.

  There was a loud reaction to the sight of the teapots and Ben’s cafetière from the inmates of the sitting room. Another constable, obviously to set to watch these dangerous insurgents, started forward frowning, but caught sight of constable one, who shook his head hopelessly.

  While serving mugs of succour, Libby and Ben tried to find out what had happened.

  ‘First I knew was the police at the door,’ said Hetty, taking charge of the second teapot. ‘One of them people in the huts come out and practically fell over her.’

  ‘Her? It’s a woman? Who?’

  ‘None of us know, yet. The police woke us all up and herded us in here.’ Rosie was looking resentful.

  ‘One of the guests?’ Libby looked at Fran.

  ‘We’re all here except the people from the Hoppers’ Huts, and it was one of them who found the body, so I wouldn’t think so.’

  The door opened again and they all looked round. One of the men whom Libby and Ben had seen outside walked into the middle of the room.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to have kept you in here for so long. As a preliminary, we just need to take your names, then you can go back to your rooms, and I’m sure your breakfast will appear as soon as possible.’ He turned to Hetty. ‘Mrs – er – Wilde –’

  ‘You don’t want to speak to me,’ said Hetty, loading up one of the trays. ‘Them’s the two you want.’ She nodded at Ben and Libby. ‘And her.’ She jerked her head at Lily Cooper who was on her way to the door.

  ‘Mrs Cooper,’ called Libby. The woman stopped.

  The detective looked at Libby. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Libby Sarjeant. My partner Ben Wilde and I run the Manor. Lily Cooper is the organiser of this weekend break on behalf of the delegates – guests.’

  Lily Cooper approached reluctantly, pulling a somewhat frivolous dressing gown more tightly around her.

  ‘DS Wallingford,’ the detective introduced himself. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to get the names of all the guests present here over the weekend, and,’ he looked at Libby, ‘the staff.’

  ‘All my paperwork’s in the estate office,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps Ben could show you while I go and help Hetty with the breakfasts?’

  DS Wallingford was frowning. ‘Yes, that’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘And Mrs Cooper? Have you any paperwork?’

  ‘Well –’ Lily hesitated. ‘Not as such. It was a very informal group. We did it all by email and phone calls and I just did the block booking. Everyone paid for themselves.’

  ‘But you’d have a list of all the guests?’

  ‘I could write one, I suppose,’ said Lily, ungraciously.

  ‘That would be ideal,’ said the detective. ‘Perhaps after you’re dressed?’ He turned to Ben. ‘Would it disturb you too much if I borrowed your office for a while this morning? Or is there somewhere else I could use?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘Much the best place,’ he said. ‘There’s an individual phone line in there if you need it, and the wifi works better in there than in the rest of the house.’

  Wallingford was frowning again. He looked at Libby. ‘Sarjeant,’ he said slowly. ‘Why does that ring a bell?’

  Libby’s heart actually lurched. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

  ‘No reason why we should,’
said Wallingford, still looking pensive.

  ‘No,’ said Libby. ‘May I go now?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come and find you in the kitchen if I want to speak to you,’ he said, and looked hopefully at the cafetière.

  ‘Here,’ said Ben, retrieving an unused mug. ‘There’s still some left, and I’m sure Libby will make more.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The detective took the mug, added milk and cast another thoughtful look at Libby before following Ben out of the door. Libby sighed and picked up her tray. Lily Cooper had already vanished.

  ‘That detective thinks he knows me.’ Libby put the tray down on the table in the kitchen. ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Bound to rekkernise the name, gal,’ said Hetty without turning from the Aga where she was loading bacon into a huge pan.

  ‘Not from Ian Connell,’ said Libby, carrying mugs to the sink.

  ‘You bin mixed up in all them murders already, you and that Fran. And you bin in the papers. They probly warn young coppers about you in training.’

  Libby ran hot water into the sink. ‘I know, but this is a bit closer to home. I’m in a different position.’

  ‘It was just as close to home with that first one,’ said Hetty.

  Libby looked quickly over to Hetty’s bowed head. ‘Shit,’ she said under her breath.

  ‘Closer, actually,’ she amended. ‘But the others – well, I’ve got involved by accident, really, haven’t I?’

  ‘Or you was arst in. That young Lewis, he arst you, and Harry’s friend did too.’

  ‘Hmm. And Ian’s almost made a career out of warning me off.’

  ‘He’s bin grateful for your help, though hasn’t he?’ Hetty turned and fetched a large basket full of eggs from the dresser. ‘Look at these. Old Pritchett brought ’em up last night, fresh yesterday. Good job he didn’t leave it till this morning. He wouldn’t have got in.’

  ‘No, and they won’t let the staff in either, will they?’ said Libby, looking worried.

  ‘We can cope with the breakfasts, gal. And we don’t know what’s going to happen after that. They might want them to stay, or they might send them home.’