Jennifer peered interestedly inside. ‘Are they comfortable?’ she asked. ‘I’ve often wondered about them. I think I might feel a bit vulnerable in one.’
‘They are a bit light,’ said Libby, watching Fran trail across the road out of the corner of her eye. ‘So.’ She held out her hand to Jennifer. ‘Thanks for meeting us. What time shall we say tomorrow?’
‘Ten thirty? You can park here and I’ll walk you up to the stone, then we can circle round and come back to the henge. I must stop calling it a barrow.’
‘We left rather suddenly,’ said Fran, as Libby turned the car to set off towards Potter’s Farm.
‘Because you’d gone into a brown study, and there is no knowing what you’ll say when you’re like that. It could have been something we wouldn’t want Jennifer to hear.’
‘Mmm.’ Fran looked out of the window. ‘It’s just that there’s something wrong.’
‘Wrong?’ prompted Libby, after a minute. ‘How do you mean?’
‘With the stuff about the stone and the henge.’
‘You mean, Jennifer was making it up?’
‘Oh, no, I’m sure she wasn’t. But there’s something wrong about Melanie.’
‘Well, yes. She’s dead.’
Fran huffed an irritated sigh. ‘You know what I mean. The motive. The reason she’s dead. No one’s spotted it yet.’
‘Have you?’ Libby incautiously looked at Fran, who shouted, ‘Look where you’re going!’ and grabbed the wheel.
‘All right, all right.’ Libby removed Fran’s hand and crept slowly round a bend. ‘So, come on. Do you know what the motive was?’
‘I think,’ said Fran, ‘I might.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘WELL? WHAT IS IT?’ Libby pulled in to a farm gateway and turned to face her friend.
‘Something to do with her writing.’ Fran was still frowning.
‘Her writing?’
‘As soon as Jennifer said she wrote, something clicked into place.’ Fran shook her head. ‘But I don’t know exactly what.’
Libby sighed and pulled out of the gateway. ‘And you said there’s something wrong about the henge?’
Fran wriggled her shoulders. ‘Could just be residual stuff from burials, but I did feel something up there, even though I said I didn’t to Jennifer.’
‘But not connected to Melanie?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’ Fran was frowning again.
Libby slid her a sideways look. ‘Look, we’d better go and find somewhere that sells wine before we go back to the farm. It’ll help you to think.’
Fran grinned. ‘Or not. Where are we going?’
‘I think we ought to head into Blandford Forum. I don’t see any of these villages sporting a shop that sells wine, do you?’
Having found a supermarket in the middle of Blandford Forum and bought what Libby considered a reasonable amount of wine to see them through the next few days, they found their way back through the rain to Potter’s Farm, where they found Mrs Rush lighting the wood-burning stove in the hall between their rooms.
‘Makes it more cheerful,’ she said with a smile. ‘What time do you want your dinner?’
They settled on seven thirty. Once they had put the wine away and hung up wet jackets, Libby pulled the table in front of the fire and they sat down with the laptop.
‘What are we looking for?’ asked Libby, checking the wifi connection.
‘Melanie Joseph books,’ said Fran, and Libby typed that into the search engine. Immediately over two thousand sites came up.
‘She certainly wrote,’ said Fran, ‘but Jennifer was right, it’s all non-fiction, or academic stuff.’
‘Look here, though,’ said Libby, and clicked on a link. ‘A book about ancient monuments, and,’ she scrolled down, ‘desecration of same.’
‘It’s odd, isn’t it,’ said Fran. ‘If she was so enamoured of these places you’d think she’d be fighting on Dee’s side, so to speak, not trying to prevent anyone from going near them.’
‘Perhaps there’s something she’s trying to conceal?’ suggested Libby.
‘In every site in Britain?’
‘Oh, yes. Unless it’s all camouflage to protect this site only?’
‘Hardly,’ said Fran. ‘No, it’s a puzzle. I can see the point in not wishing to disturb the dead, and of course there’ve been lots of protests when sites have been dug, like the one in Norfolk – Sea Henge, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I remember that, but the protest was against its removal, wasn’t it? The scientists wanted to dig it up in order to preserve it, and the protestors said it would destroy its magic.’
‘Perhaps Melanie felt excavations would destroy the magic?’ Fran pushed back her hair. ‘I suppose we should read the book.’
‘No we shouldn’t.’ Libby peered at the screen. ‘It’s hardback and costs twenty-five pounds.’
‘Perhaps Patrick knows about it,’ said Fran.
‘Oh, sure, we can just pop along and ask him.’ Libby sat back.
‘Maybe not.’ Fran stared at the wood-burner. ‘But I bet Dee would know.’
‘I thought we’d exhausted Dee as a witness?’
‘Of course not,’ said Fran. ‘She’s got a lot more to tell us.’
‘You sound very certain.’
‘I am.’ Fran grinned. ‘More certain than I am about finding anything at the standing stone or Bonny Henge.’
‘Where does she live?’ Libby turned once again to the computer.
‘She said London. You told me.’
‘Right.’ Libby frowned. ‘So do we go and see her?’
‘We’ll call her and see,’ said Fran and closed the laptop. ‘One thing at a time.’
Mrs Rush’s dinner was excellent, as was the Chilean Syrah they drank with it. Admitting to feeling tired, Libby agreed to have an early night.
‘So we can be fresh for climbing up that henge,’ said Fran.
‘It wasn’t exactly steep.’
‘No, but then we’re doing a circular walk to the stone and back, and goodness knows what we’ll do after that.’
‘Find out where the rest of the guests live,’ said Libby. ‘Some of the others might live in the area.’
‘It’s a thought,’ said Fran. ‘Night.’
Fortunately, the rain had gone and left the sky a clear blue, with only the smallest wisps of cloud appearing and disappearing when they emerged after a substantial farmhouse breakfast the next morning.
Fran was once more behind the wheel, happier and more confident now the rain had cleared and she vaguely knew the route. Jennifer was already waiting for them in front of the village hall.
‘Better day for it,’ she said. ‘I brought the dog, I hope you don’t mind?’
Libby bent down to say hello to a grinning hound of mixed parentage with a huge, feathery tail.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ said Fran. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Herald,’ said Jennifer. ‘No idea why. He was a rescue and already named.’
‘Because his tail’s like a banner,’ said Libby.
‘Of course.’ Jennifer laughed. ‘I’ve had him three years and never thought of that.’
The went up the lane beside the church, Herald preceding them, and paused at the top, while the dog investigated a variety of interesting smells. Fran wandered over to the edge of the ditch and peered at the mound.
‘How does she do this?’ Jennifer quietly asked Libby, as they watched.
‘She doesn’t consciously “do” anything. Things appear in her head as though they’re facts. As though she’s actually seen them. She’s tried doing it on purpose, of course, because the police occasionally ask her, but it doesn’t often work. I mean,’ said Libby, suddenly remembering, ‘she came up with something yesterday evening about which she was quite certain and I have no idea what it might mean.’
‘About Melanie?’ Jennifer was watching Fran.
‘No, not exactly,’ said Libby. ‘About someon
e else. No idea what it means, but I’ll go along with it.’
‘May I ask who? Is it someone I might know?’ Jennifer turned to her, looking worried.
‘No, no, don’t look so bothered.’ Libby grinned. ‘Not you or Patrick.’
‘Oh.’ Jennifer’s face relaxed into a relieved smile. ‘Sorry. I’m very concerned about him. I know he gets a bad press about all his little affairs, but he’s a kind-hearted soul really, and people are inclined to take advantage of him.’
And he of them, thought Libby, thinking of Nina, Dee and Lily.
‘Did he often get asked for advice on manuscripts?’ she asked aloud.
‘Oh, frequently. But he didn’t have the time or energy to do anything about it. The books took up all of his time.’ Jennifer’s expression clouded.
‘Did Melanie help him?’ Libby was curious.
Jennifer looked at her sharply. ‘Help? In what way?’
‘Act as his secretary, that sort of thing?’
‘Oh, yes. Considering she had her own work to do, although it was nowhere near as much as it had been a few years ago, she was very good. She often stayed here when he went to London to do the business side of the work and followed up research projects for him.’
‘Research? But I thought he wrote thrillers?’ said Libby.
‘Libby, really!’ Fran came up to join them and looked shocked. Jennifer laughed.
‘A lot of people think that writing fiction is just ploughing away until the words make sense,’ she said, ‘but in every work of fiction there are things which must be got right. Otherwise you pull the reader out of the story.’
‘Rosie says much the same,’ said Fran.
‘Rosie? Oh, your Amanda George. Nice woman. Wish I could take her course.’
‘She’s very good,’ said Fran, ‘but surely you don’t need a course. You’ve been writing for years.’
‘And been paid for it,’ Libby added.
‘It’s very nice of you, but writing a novel’s a whole different technique,’ said Jennifer. ‘Now, shall we make a move? It’s getting hotter and we don’t want to be out here scorching ourselves for too long.’
Jennifer and Herald led them along a chalk ridge towards a thick line of trees. Just as they were about to drop down to them, Jennifer stopped.
‘Here,’ she said, and stepped over what Fran and Libby now realised was the shallow ditch which had followed them from Bonny Henge. She crouched down and pulled away some vegetation, and there, set into the ground, was the top part of a dark, pointed stone.
‘Oh,’ said Libby, disappointed.
‘It’s been buried,’ said Fran. ‘Deliberately?’
‘They don’t think so,’ said Jennifer, standing up and brushing her hands together. ‘It’s more likely natural, the same way that the ditch is now so shallow and would have been much deeper four thousand years ago.’
‘Four thousand? Blimey!’ Libby looked at the stone with new respect.
‘If you stand here and look back, you can see the full shape of the henge.’ Jennifer beckoned them across the ditch, and sure enough, Libby could see the oval shape of the mound with the ditch encircling it.
‘It’s obvious once you know,’ said Fran. ‘And there definitely are other stones here.’
‘There are?’ said Jennifer and Libby together.
‘Yes, why?’ Fran looked at them in surprise.
‘We haven’t found any yet,’ said Jennifer. ‘I told you, we haven’t raised enough for a proper dig.’
‘Well,’ said Fran, ‘they’re here. Not all of them, but a good few. And,’ she frowned, ‘some holes.’
‘Post holes?’ asked Libby.
‘How do I know? Just holes. I don’t know anything about archaeology.’
‘We need to get someone out here,’ said Jennifer, ‘as soon as we can.’
‘I don’t think any serious archaeologist would listen to me,’ said Fran.
‘What about the burials?’ asked Libby.
‘I don’t know. All I know definitely is – there are stones here.’ She shivered.
‘And?’ prompted Libby. Fran scowled at her and shook her head slightly. Libby sighed and stepped back across the ditch to where Herald was lolling against what could be seen of the stone, his tongue hanging out.
‘Shall we walk back?’ asked Jennifer. ‘We can carry on round the other side, which actually dips into the trees. It’ll be cooler.’
‘So what was that about?’ hissed Libby, as she and Fran fell into step behind Jennifer and her dog.
‘Something happened here, but I have no idea what or when. Something to do with death.’ Fran shivered again. ‘I said there was something wrong.’
‘But you also said it could be residual from the burials that must be here.’
‘It just doesn’t feel like that,’ said Fran.
‘Well, it could also be the white lady’s bloke. He was found up here somewhere.’
‘Hmm.’ Fran looked sceptical. ‘Doesn’t feel like that either.’
Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well. No doubt more research is indicated.’
When they emerged from the trees back where they started, the sun was even hotter.
‘A cool drink in the pub?’ suggested Jennifer. ‘Herald could do with a drink, too.’
In the empty bar with a half of lager for Libby and mineral water for Jennifer and Fran, and Herald enjoying a tin bowl of water in the doorway, Fran asked a question.
‘Jennifer, you said yesterday you didn’t know much about Melanie’s writing. But we found she’d written quite a few books, and one is actually about ancient monuments and their destruction. Surely you must have known about that? She’d have written about Bonny Henge, surely.’
‘Well, yes.’ Jennifer looked uncomfortable. ‘But I’ve never read it. Patrick said …’ she trailed off.
‘That it wasn’t very good?’ suggested Fran. Libby looked surprised.
‘In so many words.’ Jennifer nodded, looking even more uncomfortable. ‘It sounds awful, now, but because I didn’t like or approve of her, I was always ready to believe the worst about her. Even when Patrick was – well, wasn’t exactly pleasant about her. Yet she really did help him a lot.’
‘Was he jealous?’ asked Libby. Fran and Jennifer looked at her in surprise.
‘Well, she was a writer, and an academic, and she’d had a high-profile career. He could have been.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Jennifer slowly. ‘It didn’t occur to me.’
‘Is there any chance at all that Patrick would talk about her?’ asked Fran.
Jennifer shook her head. ‘He seems hell-bent on wiping the memory,’ she said. ‘Yesterday he was talking about burning her files.’
‘He can’t do that!’ said Fran, outraged. ‘The police would be furious.’
‘I told him that.’ Jennifer laughed ruefully. ‘He was like a child denied a treat. God knows what he’s up to now.’
‘Is he at home?’ asked Libby.
‘He certainly is. And very unhappy about it. You see, his step-children have arrived.’
Chapter Twenty
‘THEY DON’T GET ON?’
‘No. They didn’t get on with Melanie, either, but they’ve come back because they felt they should, I suppose. Edgar saw to that.’
‘What was he like?’ asked Libby.
‘I only met him a couple of times. He and Melanie split up long before she met Patrick.’
‘Ostensibly,’ said Fran.
Jennifer looked startled. ‘You think they might have started seeing one another while she was still married to Edgar?’
‘It’s not inconceivable, is it?’ said Fran. ‘Neither of them sound like particularly stable personalities.’
‘Patrick’s normally very stable,’ defended Jennifer.
‘But constitutionally unfaithful,’ said Libby.
Jennifer subsided. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Anyway, Rachel and Zachary are coming to stay, are they?’ said Fran.
‘They’re here already – at least they’re in the country. And as far as I can make out, their father is with them.’
‘Oh, boy!’ said Libby. ‘Happy families.’
‘By the way,’ said Fran suddenly. ‘I never asked – where was the original writers’ holiday?’
Jennifer and Libby exchanged surprised looks.
‘Not far from here, actually,’ said Jennifer. ‘It was organised by a local writing association. Quite a big hotel on the coast in Devon.’
‘So most of the delegates were from round here?’
‘Not necessarily. The holiday was advertised in writing magazines and websites. Anyone could go. But they managed to get Patrick to run a group, being a local author, and a couple of others who live vaguely in the area.’
‘It might be worth finding out who does live in the area,’ said Fran. ‘Who would know?’
‘Lily Cooper,’ said Libby. ‘Although I suppose I took details when people paid – no I didn’t, did I? Because they only had to give the numbers on the card. I only took phone numbers.’
‘What’s it got to do with Melanie, though?’ asked Jennifer.
‘Oh, just wondering,’ said Fran vaguely. ‘You don’t happen to have the name of the association?’
‘Well, of course, I’m a member. It’s called Writers in the South. There’s a website.’ Jennifer looked at Libby and raised her eyebrows. Libby shrugged.
‘Back to Bonny Henge,’ said Fran. ‘Who deals with the archaeology of the Chase?’
‘Mainly the AONB.’
‘The who?’ said Fran.
‘The what?’ said Libby.
‘Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. There’s an actual organisation, run from Cranborne itself, I believe. They’ve been involved in trying to get something done about the henge and the stone.’
‘Can you tell me anything about the specific reasons Melanie was against – what? Was she against archaeology, or people wanting to explore the sites?’ asked Fran.
‘Apparently, there are many people who don’t want to dig up sites because of the damage they will do. Even some archaeologists,’ said Jennifer.
Murder at the Manor Page 14