Murder at the Manor

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Strangely, they do very good fish and chips here,’ he said, sitting down, ‘but only on a Friday.’

  ‘That’s what I’ll have then,’ said Libby.

  ‘Me too,’ said Fran, ‘even though I live at the seaside and could have them all the time.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t live near Libby, then?’ said Nick. ‘I assumed as you were a friend of hers, you did.’

  ‘I do,’ said Fran, ‘just not in the same village. I live at the seaside, a few miles away.’

  ‘My geography’s not that good. I didn’t realise The Manor was near the coast.’ He stood up again. ‘I’ll pop inside and order then, shall I?’

  By the time he came back again, Libby was well into her lager and had lit one of her increasingly rare cigarettes.

  ‘Sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I just never get the chance these days.’

  Nick grinned. ‘I know. I’ve only just given up myself, because it was an unequal struggle.’

  ‘High-handed bloody government,’ said Libby. ‘The minute they ban smoking in our own homes I leave the country.’

  Nick laughed. ‘It is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? After all, everyone agreed Prohibition was a bad idea. This is substantially no different. Or it would be.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Libby. ‘Eh, Fran?’

  Fran laughed. ‘Don’t get me involved.’ She looked round the little green and across to a pair of imposing gates on the opposite side of the road. ‘Is that Chancery House? We found that on the internet.’

  ‘Did you?’ Nick frowned.

  ‘We just thought we’d see where you lived,’ said Libby hastily.

  ‘Yes, that puzzled me a bit.’ He picked up his beer and looked at them over the top. ‘How did you know where I lived?’

  Libby sighed. ‘Time to come clean. We got in touch with Writers in the South.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. ‘Why?’

  ‘To see if anyone who was there last weekend lived anywhere near the Josephs.’

  He looked confused. ‘And did they?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘You do.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  NICK’S MOUTH DROPPED OPEN. ‘Me?’ he said. ‘They live here?’

  ‘In Rising Parva,’ said Libby. ‘Near enough.’

  A range of expressions crossed Nick’s face, finishing up with what looked suspiciously like anger.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Libby cautiously.

  He exhaled heavily. ‘I just can’t bloody believe that he strung me along.’

  ‘Eh?’ Libby and Fran looked at each other.

  ‘Sorry.’ He shook his head and took a long pull of his beer. ‘I should explain.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said Fran. ‘We – er –’ she glanced at Libby, ‘– we thought you knew.’

  ‘How would I know? I met him last year on that writers’ holiday – well, you knew that – and for the mini-course that he ran he’d asked for manuscripts to be submitted to him beforehand.’

  ‘He could have been inundated,’ said Fran.

  ‘No, it was limited to ten people and we only had to send in the first ten pages of a novel.’

  ‘Ah. The ten people who were at the Manor last week?’ said Libby. ‘Now it makes sense.’

  ‘Yes, although they weren’t all writing thrillers.’

  ‘No,’ said Libby, thinking of Dee Starkey and Nina Etherington.

  ‘Did he critique them all?’ asked Fran.

  ‘He said he had,’ said Nick grudgingly, ‘and to be fair, he’d done a good job on mine. But when I talked to him about it he was a bit vague.’

  ‘What about the others?’ asked Libby.

  ‘They all had critiques, but some of them weren’t what they’d expected.’ Nick shrugged. ‘I guess they weren’t in his genre.’

  ‘But there was some bad feeling about the critiques?’ suggested Fran.

  ‘Well, not exactly.’ Nick sat forward, cradling his glass. ‘It was fairly obvious that he had favourites.’ He looked up quickly. ‘Not among the writers, among the books. He liked mine, Nina’s and Dee’s, surprisingly.’

  Not, thought Libby.

  ‘Anyway, he talked to us all about them when he wasn’t giving his classes, you know, in the bar, and we became quite a – well – a group, you know?’

  ‘Convivial,’ said Libby.

  ‘Exactly. And he said we must keep in touch, and as good as promised to help me with my book.’

  ‘But you said he was vague about it?’ said Fran.

  Nick frowned. ‘He was. He seemed only to talk about it in generalisations, not specifics.’

  ‘As though he hadn’t really read it?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Not exactly – he did know what it was about. And he did say keep in touch.’

  ‘And did you?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Well, yes, we all did, mainly by email, and that was why we arranged last weekend. And he kept promising to meet me – get together, he said – but it was difficult with his schedule. And he let me think he lived miles away.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know where you lived?’ suggested Fran.

  ‘Oh, no. He knew where we all lived. Our initial critiques came to us by post.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Libby. ‘Why not email?’

  ‘We had to send in hard copy and a stamped addressed envelope.’

  ‘How old-fashioned,’ laughed Fran.

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Libby.

  ‘That’s what you used to do when you approached an agent or a publisher,’ said Fran.

  ‘It’s still how you approach most,’ said Nick. ‘Very few accept initial queries by email.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fran, abashed. ‘I haven’t got that far yet.’

  ‘So he knew you lived near him.’ Libby sipped her lager. ‘But he must have had so many people trying to get him to read manuscripts or help them in one way or another, I expect he just wanted to keep his privacy.’

  ‘But he kept saying he wanted to meet up,’ protested Nick. ‘All he had to do was say he’d meet me at the pub for half an hour.’

  Privately, Libby found herself agreeing with Patrick. If this was the sort of obsessive chasing would-be authors went in for, she’d want to keep her privacy, too.

  ‘Table thirty-five!’ shouted a voice from the pub, and Nick stood up and waved. A sturdy young woman in an inadvisable short black skirt scuttled over bearing a tray on which three plates of fish and chips sat gently steaming.

  ‘That looks lovely,’ said Libby, smiling up at her. The handmaiden grunted and scuttled off.

  For a few minutes they were all occupied with the application of salt and vinegar and the cracking of crisp golden batter.

  ‘This is good,’ said Libby through a mouthful of chips.

  ‘Told you.’ Nick grinned at her, calmer now.

  ‘How much do we owe you?’ asked Fran.

  ‘No, please –’ Nick began, but was interrupted by both women.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Nick. You don’t know us. You’re not buying us supper. Anyway, we’re picking your brains,’ said Libby.

  ‘Are you?’ Nick looked surprised.

  ‘Well, yes. We wondered if any of the other weekend guests had any idea where Patrick and Melanie lived?’

  Nick frowned thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think so. Except Jennifer, of course, and I didn’t know that until she told that policeman. I didn’t know where any of them lived, actually, except Paul. He lives in north London, and I’ve been up to stay with him a couple of times.’

  ‘And he didn’t know where anyone lived either?’ said Fran.

  ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘We’re trying to find out if Melanie knew anyone who was a guest. It’s just so odd that she was there and that she was murdered there. It had to be someone who knew about the weekend.’

  ‘It needn’t have been a guest, though,’ said Nick, slowly. ‘Any number of people knew about the weekend.’

  ‘It wasn�
��t advertised like the holiday,’ said Libby, ‘so how?’

  ‘Writers in the South knew – we initially used their message boards to get in touch before exchanging emails.’

  ‘But not the wider general public,’ said Fran. ‘Only partners, husbands and wives, families.’

  ‘I suppose so. I told a few people.’

  ‘Friends? At work?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Well, yes.’ Nick was now looking irritated.

  ‘If they’re local,’ Libby persisted, ‘they might have known Melanie.’

  ‘Somebody would have told me,’ said Nick.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Libby.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Nick put down his knife and fork.

  ‘If you were talking about going to see Patrick Joseph and someone knew his wife – not unlikely as you’re in the same neighbourhood – if they had a grudge against her, they wouldn’t tell you, would they? But they could find out where you were going and –’

  ‘And somehow find out that Melanie was going under cover to confront her husband?’ interrupted Fran. ‘I don’t think so, Lib.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby’s face fell. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘I still can’t believe I didn’t know they lived near here,’ said Nick, shaking his head and picking up his knife and fork.

  ‘Especially Melanie,’ said Libby.

  ‘Why Melanie?’

  ‘Oh, we didn’t get round to warning you, did we?’ said Fran. ‘Melanie Joseph was a former government advisor and president of Green Country. Scotland Yard are interested in the case.’

  ‘Really?’ Nick looked quite bright at this information. ‘Of course ! Those bombs under the car!’

  ‘Only one bomb, actually,’ said Libby, ‘and death threats.’

  ‘There you are then! It’s nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Scotland Yard don’t want to believe that,’ said Fran. ‘They want a link between one of you and Melanie’s enemies.’

  ‘But how could any of us – why are they enemies?’

  ‘She stood up for some controversial policies.’

  ‘What, like wind farms? That sort of thing?’

  ‘Well – yes,’ said Libby guardedly.

  ‘Nuclear power?’

  ‘Yes, she had an opinion on that,’ said Fran. ‘And ancient monuments.’

  Fran and Libby watched for Nick’s reaction and were disappointed.

  ‘Oh. Well, she didn’t go short of those if she lived round here. There’s practically one on every corner.’ He shook his head. ‘You know, I still can’t believe that Patrick lived not ten miles away from me.’

  ‘So we gather,’ said Fran. ‘You were never aware of any protests about local monuments?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not really interested,’ said Nick. ‘I don’t read the local papers or watch the local news. Unless it’s something I can’t avoid, like Bonny Henge.’

  ‘Right.’ Libby sighed. ‘So you can’t tell us anything?’

  ‘No. Did you think I could?’

  ‘You live in the same area as the victim. We hoped you might,’ said Fran.

  ‘What about Writers in the South?’ asked Libby, after a pause for more fish and chips. ‘How did you find out about them?’

  ‘Someone at my local writers’ group told me about them.’ Nick was vague as he put down his knife and fork. ‘They have big quarterly meetings with famous names speaking, and a lot of the smaller writers’ groups like mine belong, or are affiliated, to them. Then they organise this writing holiday. It’s really good and very inclusive.’

  ‘Inclusive?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Yes. Published and – er – pre-published writers all together, and no one seems to mind.’

  ‘Why should they?’ asked Libby, wrinkling her brow.

  ‘Published writers can be very sniffy towards unpublished,’ said Fran. ‘That’s why Rosie’s so different.’

  ‘Rosie? Oh, Amanda George,’ said Nick. ‘Yes. She seemed very nice.’

  ‘So, Writers in the South,’ continued Libby. ‘Are they a charity?’

  ‘A charity?’ Nick looked surprised. ‘No, they’re just a writers’ group. Mainly to support the unpublished.’

  ‘They don’t have any big name sponsors, or anything like that?’

  ‘Good lord, no. But they manage to get some good names as speakers as I said. And they had really good people running their mini-courses on the holiday. Patrick was one, of course.’

  ‘Do they think,’ said Nick later, over their second drinks, the remains of the fish and chips having been removed, ‘that the people who planted the bombs –’

  ‘Bomb,’ corrected Fran.

  ‘Bomb, then. Do the police think it was the same people who killed Patrick’s wife?’

  ‘They’re obviously thinking along those lines,’ said Libby.

  ‘Didn’t they catch the person who’d planted the bomb?’ said Fran.

  ‘Did they? But if that person was working for an organisation there would still be others around,’ said Nick.

  ‘And they wouldn’t advertise their presence,’ said Libby.

  ‘So it could have been one of our group?’ Nick looked worried. ‘But they’re all – they all seemed so normal.’

  Libby wondered if Daniel Hill or Dee Starkey would be pleased to be called normal.

  ‘You didn’t ever hear any of them making any sort of – well, subversive comments?’ said Fran.

  ‘Subversive? About what?’

  ‘Anything. The government, political correctness, the media – anything,’ suggested Libby.

  ‘No.’ Nick was still looking worried. ‘I think Daniel is a bit of a communist, and Dee seemed to be angry with everything, but that’s about it.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ sighed Libby. ‘It was worth a try. Look, if you think of anything give one of us a ring, will you, Nick?’

  Nick brightened. ‘Are you investigating properly, then? I’d be happy to help.’

  ‘That’s good, then,’ said Fran. ‘We’ll call on you if we need you.’

  ‘And did you find anything else out about the car?’

  Fran and Libby looked at each other.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Libby. ‘I’d forgotten the car.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘GOOD JOB HE REMINDED us about the car,’ said Libby, as they drove back to Potter’s Farm.

  ‘Why?’ said Fran, carefully negotiating a sharp bend in a narrow lane. ‘We can’t find a car.’

  ‘No, but it’s a significant part of the puzzle,’ said Libby. ‘She was obviously brought to the Manor in someone else’s car, which makes it certain that the murderer was one of our guests.’

  ‘We’ve already talked about this. It could have been someone dropping her off.’

  ‘I know we’ve talked about it, and I still say – how could they when someone would have seen the car? Except that Ben says a lot of people know the back way in from the top of Allhallow’s Lane.’

  ‘But that would argue someone local. No one else would know about that,’ said Fran, sighing with relief as they turned into the drive of Potter’s Farm.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Libby. ‘I think we need to go over all the evidence.’

  ‘Not tonight,’ said Fran, stopping the car. ‘All I need now is a large drink to make up for all the mineral water I’ve drunk this evening.’

  ‘But,’ said Libby, when they were both supplied with glasses of wine in front of the large windows, ‘we do need to decide what we’re going to do next.’

  Fran sighed. ‘I suppose so. We could see if we could speak to Daniel and Lily. Salisbury and Poole are both within shouting distance.’

  ‘Neither of them want to speak to us, though,’ said Libby.

  ‘That’s never stopped you before.’

  Libby leant back in her chair and gazed at the ceiling. ‘We could do a bit of research on them both.’

  ‘We’ve looked them both up online. What else do you suggest?’

  ‘What about Facebook? If
they were on there, would it have come up when we searched for them?’

  Fran nodded. ‘I was thinking of visiting, though. Daniel sounds as though he might not go out to work.’

  ‘How do you “sound” like that?’ asked Libby, interested.

  Fran laughed. ‘I just thought he seemed retired.’

  ‘Except for contributing to – what was it?’

  ‘Scriptus. Which can’t take up much of his time. Just a thought.’

  ‘I could ring him back in the morning,’ said Libby, a touch dubiously. ‘After all, I didn’t return his call the other day.’

  ‘And warn him about Scotland Yard. Then we’ll know if he’s heard from them.’

  ‘He might not tell us. He sounds extremely grumpy.’

  ‘He was grumpy last weekend, so that’s no different,’ said Fran. ‘What about Lily Cooper?’

  ‘She put the phone down on me,’ said Libby, ‘and she knows about Scotland Yard, so we haven’t got an excuse.’

  ‘I wonder where she works?’

  ‘We can hardly ask your Mrs Scratcher –’

  ‘Scratchley.’

  ‘Whatever. We can’t ask her where Lily works. And there’s no one else to ask.’ Libby finished her wine. ‘Perhaps I’ll have a brainwave overnight.’

  But it was Fran who had the brainwave.

  ‘We can ask Mrs Scratchley, you know,’ she said, wandering into Libby’s room with a cup of tea.

  ‘Huh?’ Libby struggled up out of the duvet and tried to unstick her eyes.

  ‘Ask when there’s another meeting, or which groups are likely to be meeting on their own. Nick said lots of smaller groups were affiliated to the main group, didn’t he?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Libby grunted and heaving her legs out of bed, staggered over to the tea tray and switched on the kettle.

  ‘Is that a “yes” mmm? Or a “I don’t know” mmm?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby dropped a teabag into a cup. ‘It’s too early.’

  Fran grinned and retreated. By the time Libby emerged enveloped in a cardigan, she was writing notes.

  ‘Well?’ Libby wrapped her hands round the cup and perched on the edge of a chair.

  ‘Mrs Scratchley, who sounded rather surprised, I must say, said there won’t be another Writers in the South meeting for another six weeks, but Daniel Hill is holding one of his literary events today just outside Poole.’