Murder at the Manor

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘But that’s the whole purpose of archaeology, surely?’ said Libby. ‘To find out what was going on? Unless you dig it up you don’t know.’

  Jennifer shook her head. ‘I don’t understand it, but I think that was the stand she took, and she didn’t want members of the public tramping all over sites, either.’

  ‘Then half of Britain would be out of bounds,’ said Fran.

  ‘I said I didn’t understand it,’ said Jennifer with a short laugh. ‘Or her.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘I suppose if there’s nothing else we can do, we might as well get back, shall we Fran?’

  Fran was looking vague again. ‘I’d like to see the stone again.’

  ‘OK.’ Libby turned to Jennifer. ‘Do they do lunches here?’

  ‘Only bar food, I think,’ said Jennifer. ‘I suppose you could always –’

  But Libby interrupted. ‘No, no, we’re not going to impose on you, if that’s what you were going to suggest. We’ll have a sandwich or something here, take a quick walk up to the stone again and go back to our B&B. We’ll need to look things up on the computer.’

  ‘You should have a tablet,’ smiled Jennifer. ‘Or at least a smart phone.’

  ‘A tablet?’

  ‘You know, a mini computer with smartphone technology. Then you could look things up on the move. Even I’ve got one.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Fran’s husband’s got one. I didn’t think I’d ever need one.’

  ‘We should have borrowed it.’ Fran had come out of her reverie. ‘I’ll go and get a menu.’

  Jennifer stood up and prepared to leave. ‘Don’t forget to ring me if you need anything else,’ she said. ‘I was certain there was something to find out about the henge and the stone, but I’m not sure Fran’s seen anything. Or felt it, whatever it is she does.’

  Fran came back with a menu and they accompanied Jennifer to the door to say goodbye to Herald.

  ‘I hope you can find something out about poor Melanie’s death. I’m sure there’s some connection with the village,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘But why?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Because she’d angered so many people. And when the demonstrators came they seemed to have a personal interest in her.’

  ‘What were they actually protesting about?’ asked Libby. ‘I’ve got very confused.’

  ‘They maintained it had a pagan-religious significance and they should be allowed to worship there.’

  ‘As I said before,’ said Libby, ‘or hold nasty Black Masses.’

  ‘And the archaeologists were just as bad. The amateurs, anyway.’ Jennifer sighed and patted Herald, who stood and grinned at them. ‘Well, I’ll be off then. As I said, let me know if there’s anything else you want to know.’

  ‘What were you thinking about?’ asked Libby, when Jennifer had gone and they’d ordered home-cured ham sandwiches.

  ‘Several things. If any of the weekend guests were members of Writers in the South they might have known about Patrick and Melanie living in the area, even though they all said they didn’t know Patrick apart from meeting him at events like the holiday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Someone else as well as Dee Starkey could have been among those who were up in arms about her.’

  ‘I don’t see that the one necessarily follows the other,’ said Libby, ‘but I suppose it’s worth finding out if any of the others come from this area. Although even then, we come up against the fact that her car wasn’t there –’

  ‘But someone here could have given her a lift. We thought about that, didn’t we?’

  Libby sighed heavily. ‘OK. So we look into Writers in the South. What else?’

  ‘Jennifer was right. There is something odd up at the stone. But I’m not sure it has to do with Melanie.’

  ‘Is that why we’re going back up there?’ said Libby dubiously.

  ‘Yes. Without Jennifer. She’s been muddying the waters.’

  ‘What? Deliberately?’

  ‘No.’ Fran looked up as the barmaid signalled that the sandwiches were ready. ‘Just she desperately wants to find something up there. I don’t know what, but she’s got an agenda.’

  ‘She wants to prove Melanie wrong and get the archaeologists in?’

  ‘She does, but it isn’t that.’ Fran got up and went to fetch the sandwiches. ‘We might never find out.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Libby a little later, through a mouthful of ham, ‘she’s very protective of Patrick. Do you think there’s more to it than that? Do you think she thinks he’s the murderer?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Fran sighed. ‘I wish we could talk to Patrick.’

  ‘I expect the poor bloke’s had enough people bothering him by now. I bet Scotland Yard have already been on to him.’ Libby put down her sandwich. ‘Funny, though, Jennifer didn’t say anything about them speaking to her.’

  ‘Perhaps they haven’t,’ said Fran. ‘Perhaps they’ve looked into everyone’s background and decided that most of them don’t have a political motive.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Libby thoughtfully finished her sandwich. ‘Well, one thing at a time, I suppose. Back up to the monument?’

  Without Jennifer and Herald, Fran took her time walking alongside the boundary ditch, looking across at the village and to the other side of the henge and the trees. At one point, she climbed to the top of the mound and walked right across it. Libby stood still and watched. Eventually she came back to the ditch.

  ‘You can see the entrance to the henge,’ she said.

  ‘Can you? Where?’

  ‘Where the stone post is. There’s a gap. And I’m pretty sure there are huts inside.’

  ‘Inside?’ Libby was bewildered. ‘You mean, under that mound?’

  ‘No. I mean, there used to be huts. That’s the holes I could see.’

  ‘See! I said post holes!’ said Libby.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Fran, walking forward towards the post. ‘I think they really ought to excavate this site.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Libby, ‘especially as there seem to be so many other sites in the area. It would help complete the picture. But you’re not getting anything else from here? No White Lady avenging her lover?’

  ‘No … but it’s confused.’ Fran stopped in front of the stone post. ‘There’s something here. Something’s happened here.’

  Libby stood looking at her hopefully. Fran went down on her haunches and pulled away more vegetation.

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘What doesn’t?’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I keep thinking someone died here. And no – not a prehistoric burial. And it doesn’t seem like a historic death, so probably not the White Lady’s lover.’ She scrabbled at the back of the post, where it was stuck firmly in the ground. ‘But there’s no recent sign of activity.’ She stood up and closed her eyes. ‘No, no clearer.’

  ‘So it was a waste of time?’ said Libby, with some asperity.

  ‘No, Libby.’ Fran frowned at her. ‘I’m convinced there is more here than one henge post, and something happened here, whether it was to do with Melanie or not. And I’m going to find the right person to tell.’

  They drove back to Potter’s Farm through rolling, partially wooded countryside, highlighted in places by fields of meadow flowers planted by farmers to increase insect and bird life.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ sighed Libby. ‘The quintessential English countryside.’

  Fran glanced sharply sideways. ‘Not thinking of relocating, I hope?’

  ‘Couldn’t afford it,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, I could hardly drag Ben from his ancestral home. And what would I do without you? And Pete and Harry?’

  ‘You’d get bored.’

  ‘I expect I would. Look – don’t miss the turning.’

  Back at Potter’s Farm, Libby took the laptop out onto the terrace, under the shade of the overhanging balcony.

  ‘What
are we looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘Writers in the South,’ said Fran. ‘See if there’s a contact number.’

  The Writers in the South website was fairly basic, and didn’t contain a list of members, but did, however, contain details of both the weekend at The Manor, the next writers’ holiday (not organised by them) and a contact number for the secretary.

  ‘So, do we try?’ asked Libby. Fran nodded and picked up her phone.

  Her eyebrows rose as the call was answered almost immediately.

  ‘I’m afraid you don’t know me,’ she explained, ‘but I was a guest at the weekend in Kent – oh, yes, I know, shocking. You didn’t go yourself? No. But you knew Patrick and Melanie Joseph were going? No? Oh, just Patrick. Yes, of course, Lily Cooper organised it.’ She paused, listening. ‘Well, I’m near Rising Parva at the moment with Mrs Sarjeant who was the host of the weekend, and we wondered how many other guests lived in this area, or in your catchment area, anyway.’

  She looked at Libby and made a face.

  ‘Oh, no we wouldn’t dream of intruding. We just wondered … Yes, of course.’ She gestured to Libby for a pen and paper and began to scribble. ‘Thank you so much.’ She switched off the phone and sat back in her chair. ‘Well, that was interesting.’

  ‘Didn’t she ask why you were asking all those questions?’ said Libby.

  ‘No, not once.’ Fran giggled. ‘I don’t know what I would have said. But just look at this.’ She pushed the paper towards Libby. ‘Either members, or people she knows who live in this area.’

  Libby looked at the list and gasped.

  ‘All of them!’ she said.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘NOT NECESSARILY PEOPLE WHO live in Cranborne Chase,’ said Fran, ‘But in the area, from Bournemouth and Weymouth right across to Southampton, and members who live outside the area. Like Dee Starkey.’

  ‘But why would she join an association of writers so far from her home patch?’

  ‘Mrs Scratchall –’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The secretary. She said people had to join if they wanted to go to the writers’ holiday. I suppose that makes sense.’

  ‘And Paul Fisher – he lives in north London. Audrey and Bernice – they’re Bournemouth.’ Libby pored over the scribbled list. ‘What’s this – D Hill – Daniel? – Pole?’

  ‘Poole. Not the ideal milieu for a literary writer.’ Fran grinned.

  ‘And Lily. Well, well. Salisbury. Both of them almost on the doorstep.’

  ‘And the fact that everyone seemed to think their affair hadn’t carried on after the holiday indicates that she probably didn’t know where he lived. He’d be keen to keep it off his doorstep, wouldn’t he?’ Fran unscrewed the bottle of fizzy water they’d brought out with them. ‘And Nina. Where’s she? Reading.’

  ‘I can’t see Nina being involved with any of this,’ said Libby. ‘Whatever all this is. Now, who’s left. Nick Forrest. Well.’ She looked up. ‘Would you look at that.’

  ‘I did,’ Fran grinned. ‘I wrote it.’

  ‘Ebbesdean. Right in the middle of Cranborne Chase.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean to say any of them knew the Josephs lived here,’ said Fran, ‘except Jennifer. But it does make me wonder if any of them knew about Melanie’s involvement with ancient monuments, in particular Bonny Henge. After all, Dee admitted she’d even been arrested here. Others could have been.’

  ‘So are you convinced this is the real motive for her murder?’ asked Libby.

  ‘It seems more likely than anything to do with Patrick, doesn’t it?’ said Fran.

  ‘Let’s speak to Dee again, then.’

  ‘She wasn’t very forthcoming last time,’ said Fran.

  ‘But Scotland Yard might have been on to her by now. We could be sympathetic, especially as we now know the story behind the fight about the henge– if that’s what it was.’

  ‘Wouldn’t a visit to Nick Forrest be better?’ suggested Fran.

  ‘We could do both. It’s Friday, though. He didn’t phone until late afternoon the other day, so he might not be home from work yet. And then, as it’s Friday, he might go for a drink after work. I can leave a message and say we’re in the area, though.’

  ‘Ring them both and see what happens,’ said Fran. ‘Are we going to book dinner with Mrs Rush tonight, or find a pub?’

  They decided to opt for a pub, as they didn’t know where they might be later in the evening, and Libby left messages for both Nick Forrest and Dee Starkey. Dee called back first.

  ‘What do you want now?’ She sounded edgy and sharp.

  ‘Have Scotland Yard been on to you yet?’ asked Libby.

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘We came down to Rising Parva to have a look at Bonny Henge and the post. We can see why people were angry with Melanie. The area really needs to be excavated, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No!’ Dee almost shouted. ‘No! It belonged to our ancestors – it’s a sacred place.’

  ‘Ah.’ Libby was confused. ‘But Melanie didn’t want it excavated either.’

  ‘But she didn’t want anyone on the site. She wanted to fence it off and have no one allowed near it. That isn’t fair.’

  ‘Right.’ Libby looked helplessly across at Fran. ‘So when you demonstrated here, it wasn’t to get permission to excavate?’

  ‘No, it bloody wasn’t. But there were people there who wanted that. And now,’ she said, and her voice was bitter, ‘I suppose they’ll get their way and a dig will go ahead.’

  ‘Only if they can get the funds,’ said Libby.

  ‘Why do they need money to do a dig?’ Dee was scornful. ‘But we’ll stop them if they try.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  Dee’s voice turned wary. ‘My friends and I.’

  ‘Are you an organised group?’

  ‘You’re worse than bloody Scotland Yard,’ shouted Dee and switched off the phone.

  Libby related the conversation – that which hadn’t been audible – to Fran and the phone rang again.

  ‘Hi.’ Nick Forrest sounded surprised. ‘Do I gather you’re in my neck of the woods?’

  ‘Quite close,’ said Libby. ‘We’re in Rising Parva. You’re not far from there, are you?’

  ‘About ten miles, I suppose. What are you doing there?’

  ‘Looking at Bonny Henge.’

  ‘Oh. Isn’t that where they’ve discovered a standing stone?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Libby cautiously. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘You couldn’t not know,’ said Nick, laughing. ‘Not if you live round here.’

  ‘You’re not interested in archaeology, then?’

  ‘Me? Good God, no. Although, as I said, you can’t fail to be aware of it here. There’s archaeology all over the place. Why did you want to see Bonny?’

  ‘We heard about it from Jennifer Alderton.’ Libby made an I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing face at Fran.

  ‘Oh?’ Nick sounded puzzled. ‘And why did you want to speak to me?’

  Libby opened and shut her mouth a couple of times but couldn’t think of what to say. Fran put her head in her hands.

  ‘Libby?’ prompted Nick.

  ‘Actually,’ she said in a rush, ‘it was about Melanie.’

  ‘Melanie? Who – oh! Patrick’s wife? Oh, right. Well, yes. Those Scotland Yard people did call me. They didn’t seem that interested in me, but as I’d briefly been a member of a quasi-political party at university, I think they felt duty bound to check me out. Daft, really.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s a relief,’ said Libby.

  ‘So, are you and your friend doing anything this evening? There’s a great pub here that does food, if you fancy driving over.’

  ‘We’d love to,’ said Libby, a little too quickly. ‘Wouldn’t we Fran? Go and meet Nick for dinner at a pub?’

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘It’s called the Barley Mow. Can you find your way here from Rising Parva?’

  ‘Yes
, I’m sure we can,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll see you in there about eight, shall we?’

  ‘What was the matter with you?’ said Fran as Libby switched off the phone.

  ‘I just couldn’t think what to say to him. He didn’t seem to know about Melanie’s interest in the standing stone, or that she and Patrick lived here.’

  ‘Good job he suggested the pub, then, wasn’t it?’ said Fran. ‘I suggest we decide what we’re going to talk to him about before we go, or we’ll end up sitting in silence for the evening.’

  ‘Let’s see if there’s anything interesting about Ebbesdean,’ said Libby, turning to the computer.

  ‘And we can ask him about Writers in the South,’ said Fran. ‘That should keep us going.’

  The drive to Ebbesdean was idyllic, over the top of the chalk downland, looking down into shadowed valleys, until the village came into view. A church spire poking out of the top of a thick band of trees, with green and yellow fields spreading out behind painted the quintessential picture of England, as Libby again remarked.

  The Barley Mow, a flint building almost next to a crossroads, stood in the centre of the village opposite a green, where there were tables, mostly occupied. Fran pulled into the car park at the side of the pub. As they got out of the car, Nick Forrest came up to meet them.

  ‘I recognised the car,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘I’m afraid I was nosy enough to have a good look at it last weekend.’

  Fran shook the proffered hand. ‘I don’t mind. Lots of people are curious.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked. ‘I’m at a table on the green while the light and the weather hold.’

  Libby ordered lager, and Fran a mineral water, and, after escorting them to the table, Nick left them to go to the bar.

  ‘He’s not our man,’ said Libby.

  ‘Because he’s young and pleasant?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Because he doesn’t have a motive.’

  ‘He wasn’t very happy with Patrick, apparently.’

  ‘But you said that wasn’t the motive,’ said Libby. ‘He doesn’t know Melanie.’

  ‘Didn’t,’ corrected Fran. ‘So he says.’

  Libby looked at Fran in puzzled annoyance, but just then Nick came back with a tray, three glasses and a menu.