Murder at the Manor

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Shakespeare?’ He turned as she came up behind her. ‘That’s ambitious.’

  ‘The Dream,’ said Libby. ‘Jolly fun for all the family.’

  ‘Are you in it?’

  ‘Me?’ Libby laughed. ‘And who do you think I could possibly be? An ancient witch-like Titania? Geriatric Hermia?’

  He smiled. ‘Maybe not. ‘I can see you as a female Bottom, though.’

  Libby snorted. ‘That would be a whole new take on the story, wouldn’t it? A lesbian Titania.’

  Ian laughed. ‘I meant it as a compliment. You have a talent for comedy.’

  ‘Thanks, I think.’ Libby grinned back at him. ‘Come on, then. This is where I met the guests and ticked them off on my clipboard.’

  ‘Did you by any chance put the times they arrived down?’ Ian held open the Manor door for her to precede him.

  ‘No – what a bugger. That would really have helped, wouldn’t it? But I had no reason to.’

  ‘It would, but it doesn’t matter. Can you show me the rooms the guests occupied?’

  ‘Can I pop into the office? I need to get a copy of the list, I can’t remember off-hand. And I need to tell Ben you’re here.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ Ian followed her down the passage to the estate office, where Ben was poring over the accounts. He looked up, surprised.

  ‘Hello, Ian. Come to arrest me?’ He looked at Libby. ‘I suppose there’s no point in asking why you’re here.’

  Libby explained and collected the original list of guests from her desk drawer. ‘I’ll pop in and let Hetty know what we’re doing on the way past.’

  ‘She’s in the main kitchen,’ said Ben. ‘She says the one in her flat isn’t big enough.’

  ‘Well, when you’re used to one the size of a church I don’t suppose it is,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, Ian.’

  Ian grinned at Ben and followed her out.

  After saying hello to Hetty, Libby led Ian through the whole of the Manor, not only the public rooms and guest bedrooms, but the other areas which would have been accessible although out-of-bounds. He inspected it all thoroughly.

  ‘And where exactly did Hetty see this Lily Cooper?’

  Libby showed him the area outside Hetty’s flat. ‘Early morning, I think,’ she said. ‘Hetty’s an early riser. And there was no reason for Mrs Cooper to be anywhere outside her room. Or Patrick’s,’ she added thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, that’s where she’d been,’ said Ian, swivelling round to see behind him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Checking the topography.’

  ‘The –? Oh, to see if this was her best way back to her room? No, it wasn’t. They were both on the floor above. She didn’t need to be here at all.’

  ‘Who else was on this floor?’

  ‘Young Nina Etherington.’

  ‘Why do you always say “young” Nina?’ Ian turned to face her.

  Libby shrugged. ‘Because she is. None of the other women are young – even Lily Cooper and Dee Starkey are at least in their forties. She doesn’t exactly fit with the group.’

  Ian frowned. ‘She didn’t?’

  ‘No. And did you find out what she wanted to tell the police?’

  ‘No. But I haven’t managed to go through all the statements yet. Right – now the huts.’

  Libby led the way back to the office and collected the key to hut number five.

  ‘I never came here during your first big case,’ said Ian, as they tramped across the Manor grounds.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it that,’ said Libby. ‘It was all too close to home. Horrible.’

  ‘They all are. You’ve just got inured to it.’

  ‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘It’s just easier to think of things as an intellectual puzzle.’

  ‘That makes you sound cold,’ said Ian, ‘and you aren’t.’ He looked around. ‘Where was the bridge? That Peter fell from?’

  Libby waved. ‘Over there. In fact, it’s still there, what’s left of it. And just back there, where that big flower bed was –’ She stopped.

  ‘Yes. The original site of the huts.’ Ian looked sideways at her.

  ‘You read up on it?’

  ‘After the case where I first met you all, yes.’ He pointed ahead. ‘Are those the new huts?’

  Libby let him into hut five and stood back. Nothing had been changed, except the contents of the bin and the bed linen which had been taken away for analysis. Melanie’s bag had gone, but her make-up and toiletries still stood on the dressing table.

  ‘Why did you take the sheets?’ she asked.

  ‘DNA,’ said Ian, going into the bathroom pod.

  ‘Ah,’ said Libby, none the wiser.

  He came out of the bathroom, produced evidence bags and gloves from his pocket and collected all the make-up and toiletries.

  ‘More DNA?’ asked Libby, interested.

  He gave her a quick smile. ‘You never know. Now, let’s have a look at where she was found.’

  Libby locked the door behind them. ‘I’m surprised Mr Murray let me keep a key to the hut if it was still under investigation.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Ian.

  Libby frowned at him, but said nothing. ‘Well, you can see for yourself where she was found.’ She indicated blue and white tape fluttering from posts stuck in the ground. ‘Not far.’

  Ian ducked under the tape and crouched down. After a moment, he stood up and looked back at the huts.

  ‘Is there another way in here apart from the Manor? I can see the gravelled track for cars, but it seems to carry on.’

  ‘It does, but only locals know about it,’ said Libby. ‘Ben and I thought of that the other day. It’s not gravelled all the way, it’s just a track and comes out at the top of my road.’

  ‘So a vehicle could get here without being seen from the house?’

  Libby repeated her own objections to this theory.

  ‘But it could have come up here at night?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Libby doubtfully, ‘Nick Forrest thought he heard a car at night.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby, ‘but you’ll ask him, won’t you?’

  ‘Certainly will.’ Ian ducked back under the tape. ‘Come on, let’s see if there are any tyre tracks further on. Or has anyone else been along here since the weekend?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Ben sometimes brings the four by four along here to come home, but we’ve been walking over the last few days.’

  They passed the huts and carried on along the rutted track towards the woods.

  ‘Too dry to show anything,’ said Ian, squatting down again. Libby admired his taut thighs beneath the gents’ suiting and gave herself a mental slap on the wrist. Taut thighs indeed.

  ‘Might as well turn back.’ He stood up and turned to face her. ‘I’ll maybe get the team out here to have a proper look. I take it they didn’t at the weekend?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby, turning back towards the Manor. ‘I wasn’t watching what they did out here.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ He grinned at her. ‘Must have been very frustrating for you.’

  She grinned back. ‘It was, rather. The only thing we could do was talk to some of the guests. Ben chickened out.’

  ‘So, just the old team, then?’

  ‘Yup – Castle and Sarjeant on the job.’

  ‘Wolfe,’ corrected Ian.

  ‘Castle and Sarjeant sounds better though, don’t you think? I suggested it to Fran.’

  Ian slid her a wary look. ‘But I think she prefers Wolfe.’

  ‘Yes, of course she does.’ Libby heaved a sigh. ‘She’s very proud of it.’

  ‘And she’ll keep it that way. Much as you seem to be keeping to Sarjeant.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you start,’ groaned Libby. ‘My marital preferences seem to be up for discussion by the world and his wife. No pun intended.’

  ‘Not by me,’ said Ian. ‘What you do is your business
. Except when it’s mine.’

  ‘Is that another warning?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Not entirely. What I’m saying is whatever you find out, or stumble across, it comes to me first. Understand?’

  ‘That means we can help?’ breathed Libby.

  ‘God help me, yes. I may regret it, but yes. And now, can you remember as much as you can of your conversations with the guests?’

  Libby beamed. ‘With pleasure!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  LIBBY REPEATED AS MUCH as she could of the conversations she and Fran had had with Jennifer, Nina, Dee and Daniel. Nothing she had said to Lily Cooper or Patrick Joseph seemed relevant. By this time they were back at the Manor and Ian was frowning.

  ‘There’s something wrong with all this,’ he said.

  Restraining herself from a sarcastic “Well, dur!” Libby merely said ‘Mmm?’

  ‘There seems to be no animus towards Melanie but quite a bit towards Patrick.’

  ‘But as I said, not enough to kill him for. If Daniel or Dee wanted Patrick to help them towards mainstream publication, it wouldn’t do their cause much good to bump him off, would it?’

  ‘No,’ said Ian, ‘so the only credible suspects are Patrick himself because Melanie had found out about his affair with Cooper, and Cooper herself.’

  ‘And Patrick seemed genuinely devastated by Melanie’s death. And before you say anything,’ said Libby, as Ian opened his mouth to protest, ‘I know that all murderers do that, but Jennifer confirmed it, saying she’d known them both for years and even babysat for Patrick and his younger sister. Also,’ she added, ‘it wasn’t really an affair, by all accounts, more a fling. I don’t even think it was continued after the writers’ holiday where they all met. This was just to be another one- or two-night stand, which is what he specialised in.’

  ‘Sounds like a great bloke,’ said Ian.

  ‘But actually quite charming. And he wasn’t trying to seduce me.’ Libby giggled. ‘Lily Cooper was reet put out.’

  ‘Was she?’ Ian looked interested.

  ‘Well, Patrick wasn’t really taking much notice of her – in public anyway. Even Harry and Peter noticed in the pub on Friday night.’

  ‘But she had been to his room,’ said Ian. ‘She admitted it –’

  ‘Boasted, more like,’ interrupted Libby.

  ‘And so did he,’ continued Ian. ‘I’ll have to read the statements properly.’

  ‘Timings,’ said Libby.

  ‘Quite.’ Ian twitched his eyebrows at her. ‘Well, anything else you can think of before I go back and get stuck in?’

  ‘Where did the takeaway come from?’

  The eyebrows now rose in surprise. ‘Very good point, Libby. I shall look into that, too. As long as they’ve kept the evidence,’ he said with a sigh.

  ‘Oh, come on, Ian! No one’s likely to have thrown it away, surely?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder,’ said Ian, turning to his car. ‘Say goodbye to Ben and Hetty for me.’

  ‘Don’t you want tea or coffee before you go?’

  ‘No thanks. I just want to get going now. Enough time’s been wasted.’

  ‘Ah – the Golden Hours,’ said Libby.

  Ian laughed, leant forward and kissed her cheek. ‘You know what, Libby? You’re priceless.’ He turned, got into the car and drove off down the drive.

  ‘Are you seducing your pet policeman?’ asked Ben, strolling out to join her.

  Libby grinned. ‘He thinks I’m priceless.’

  ‘Well, so do I, but probably for different reasons.’ Ben slid an arm round her waist. ‘Come on. Mum’s made lemon drizzle cake.’

  When Libby got back to the cottage, she called Fran.

  ‘Ian doesn’t appear thrilled with the way the investigation’s been handled so far. He thinks a lot of things have been missed.’

  ‘Which is stupid, really,’ said Fran. ‘They had the classic country-house murder set-up – all the suspects in one place.’

  ‘But did they? If, as it now looks like, it was nothing to do with Patrick, the murderer must have been an outsider.’

  ‘Who knew all about the weekend? That’s a bit improbable,’ said Fran.

  ‘Perhaps her murderer came with her?’ Libby said excitedly. ‘That’s it! The murderer drove her here, she went and ticked herself off and picked up the keys, after all, they were labelled.’

  ‘And how did they find the huts?’

  ‘Not difficult. The track leads behind the theatre and is quite obvious. Then, in the middle of the night, he kills her, dumps the body and drives off down Allhallow’s Lane. Nick Forrest heard the car.’

  ‘You’re forgetting something. Neither Forrest nor Fisher saw a car.’

  Libby looked dashed. ‘Oh. Well, perhaps they arrived – Melanie and the murderer – after Fisher and Forrest came back to the Manor before dinner?’

  ‘Then they would have seen a car when they went back to their huts that night.’

  ‘Perhaps they just didn’t notice it?’

  ‘Clutching at straws, Lib,’ laughed Fran. ‘Now, I’ve got to go. We are having a visitation.’

  ‘Oh, lawks,’ said Libby. ‘Who from?’

  Fran sighed. ‘Chrissie and the baby genius.’

  ‘No Brucie-baby?’

  Fran’s younger daughter had given birth to a baby girl some months previously. Her husband Bruce, even more besotted than his wife, was nevertheless being pushed out of the equation a trifle.

  ‘Yes, I expect he’ll be there, doing all the things Chrissie doesn’t want to do.’

  ‘Like changing nappies?’

  ‘Exactly. He’s changed a good deal for the better. Sorry, no pun intended. Pity I can’t say the same for Chrissie.’ Fran sighed again. ‘Still, I’d better go and get ready for them.’

  After the call, Libby went into the kitchen thanking her lucky stars that so far, none of her three children had found the urge to procreate. Her older son Dominic lived in London, as did her daughter Belinda, both in a succession of delightful though non-serious relationships. Adam, who lived – nominally – in the flat above The Pink Geranium, had been in a relationship with Fran’s step-daughter Sophie for over two years, continuing even though she had been away at university. He spent equally as much time in Sophie’s flat above her father’s gallery-come-shop in Nethergate.

  Libby began, unenthusiastically, to poke about in the fridge for something to cook for dinner and her thoughts drifted back to the case.

  The whole problem was the focus on Patrick. Why had Melanie decided to come to the weekend? And if the murder wasn’t to do with her connection to her husband, how did the murderer know about the weekend and where she’d be?

  In the middle of peeling potatoes, it occurred to her that they hadn’t really done an exhaustive web search on Melanie Joseph. There were the death threats and the bomb under her car – they’d been told about those – but why exactly had she been targeted? Just because she was pro-nuclear fuel?

  Libby put the potatoes on to boil, checked the lamb chops in their dish in the oven, wiped her hands and went to wake up the laptop. When Guy had looked up Melanie Joseph he had concentrated on the death threats and the bomb, but Libby found her name coming up on thousands of sites, most prominently on the Green Country website.

  ‘That’s the place to start,’ she muttered and clicked on the link.

  The Green Country website was huge and professional, and smacked of government. Melanie Joseph’s biography was the obvious place to start looking.

  Melanie Joseph, she read, was born Melanie Jacks in Devon and read politics at Cambridge, where she’d first met her current husband, novelist Patrick Joseph. ‘Current?’ murmured Libby. She’d been recruited as a researcher by a member of the cabinet of the day and had married a businessman with links to the party, an Edgar Solomon. ‘Ah – a former husband!’ said Libby. Their two children, Rachel and Zachary, had stayed with their mother after the break-up of the marriage. She had married P
atrick Joseph some three years later, and had subsequently become interested in green politics. She had helped found Green Country, and here it listed all the committees and sub-committees on which she had served, at one point being named Special Advisor to the government. There was no mention of the death threats.

  Libby decided to look up the link to the online encyclopaedia and found Melanie’s page there. The basic information was the same, but after that came the death threats. It also appeared that Melanie had had run-ins with all political parties at one time or another, and had a knack of making the most inflammatory statements in public. Her stand over ancient monuments was militant, and she had been known to barricade certain places if she thought they were at risk. Several archaeologists had nailed their colours to her mast, but there were some who considered she went too far. Some places that were open to the public were well protected and policed, and her opponents argued that it was part of the nation’s heritage that the public should be allowed to see and learn from them. Libby agreed.

  ‘So there’s plenty there for the police to look into,’ thought Libby, as she went back to the kitchen, ‘and they’ll already be doing it. In fact, I’m surprised the Met isn’t already involved.’

  She wanted to share the information with Fran, but decided that she could hardly drag her away from her visiting family, and had to wait until Ben came home to talk about it.

  ‘I’m sure they’ve already got the Major Crimes Squad, or whatever they’re called, on to it,’ said Ben. ‘I didn’t realise that she was such an important figure politically.’

  ‘And if she was,’ mused Libby, ‘why wasn’t she more security conscious?’

  ‘It explains the false identity,’ said Ben. ‘I bet she had several to use, all legit.’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby’s eyes turned to the laptop. ‘But, you know, I’m not sure she was still quite as powerful as she had been. Most of her high-profile causes – and the bomb and death threats – were several years ago. And from the Green Country website it seems that she’s now more of a figurehead than an active participant.’

  ‘There’s another angle.’ Ben helped himself to more potatoes. ‘Her first husband.’