‘A literary event? Bit pretentious, isn’t it?’
‘She gave me a link to it.’ Fran pulled her laptop towards her and clicked on a link. ‘There.’
Libby went to the table and bent down to have a look. ‘Live literature. Join writer Daniel Hill and others reading their work at this prestigious event. Two p.m. at the Fanbridge Centre.’ She looked up. ‘Where’s the Fanbridge Centre?’
‘Fanbridge, strangely enough. It’s on the outskirts of Poole. Shall we go?’
‘I think we should,’ said Libby, ‘even if we’ll be bored witless.’
‘Do you think Daniel will throw us out?’
‘I’d like to see him try. So we leave Lily alone even though we’re so close to Salisbury?’
‘I can’t see that we’ve got any grounds to see her or talk to her. Not legitimate ones, anyway.’
‘OK.’ Libby stood up straight and stretched. ‘I’m going to have a shower and then Mrs Rush’s breakfast. Should we call Jennifer to say goodbye?’
‘After breakfast,’ said Fran. ‘See you in ten minutes.’
Full of Mrs Rush’s bacon, eggs and fried bread, Libby and Fran paid their bill and retired to their rooms to collect their bags. Fran called Jennifer before they left.
‘Oh, that’s a pity,’ said Jennifer, when she heard their plans. ‘Patrick was saying he would have liked to see you as you were in the area.’
‘Patrick?’ Fran’s eyebrows flew upwards and she looked at Libby. ‘He wanted to see us?’
Libby nodded frantically.
‘I think he wanted to say thank you to Libby.’
‘Really? What for?’
‘She didn’t try to make capital out of the situation,’ said Jennifer.
‘There wasn’t much she could do, was there,’ said Fran.
‘And I said I thought you were both trying to solve the – er–’
‘Murder,’ said Fran helpfully.
‘Yes. Would you have time to come over this morning before you leave?’
‘I’m sure we would,’ said Fran, looking at Libby again. Libby once more nodded vigorous agreement.
She was given directions to Patrick’s house and switched off the phone.
‘Well, what do you think of that?’ she said.
‘Good job we rang,’ said Libby. ‘I wonder why he wants to see us.’
Fran repeated Jennifer’s thoughts on the matter.
‘That’s nice of him, if that’s the case,’ said Libby, ‘but I also don’t want any taint of association attached to the Manor.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Fran. ‘If we want to see Patrick and get to Fanbridge to see Daniel we’d better get a move on.’
The rain had started again by the time they reached Rising Parva. Following Jennifer’s directions, Fran turned right just before the village proper. A narrow lane crept up the hillside and stopped at a pair of high hedges. With unashamed tautology, a rustic plaque announced “High Hedges”.
‘Do we just drive in?’ asked Libby, peering out of the side window.
‘There’s no gate, so I suppose so,’ said Fran, proceeding to do just that.
A curving drive led them between dense shrubberies to a long, low flint and brick house under a thatched roof.
‘Pretty,’ said Fran.
‘It hasn’t got eyebrows,’ said Libby.
Fran stopped the car and looked an enquiry.
‘Steeple Farm has windows in the thatch and they look like beetling eyebrows. Or the thatch does. I’ve always been a bit spooked by it.’ Libby got out of the car.
‘What is Ben going to do with Steeple Farm?’ asked Fran, shutting the car door.
‘It’s not his, you know that. It technically belongs to his Aunt Milly, Peter’s mum, so it will be up to Pete and his brother to do something with it when his mum dies.’
‘Pity Ben did all that work to it though,’ said Fran, with a sideways look at Libby, who sighed.
‘I know, and it would have been a good idea to live there, but Number 17’s my home – I own it and I can do what I like there. I’m perfectly happy for Ben to live there with me, but I really don’t want to move.’ She walked up to the front door. ‘I hope we’re expected.’
But the door was opened before she had time to ring the old-fashioned bell at the side.
‘I’m so pleased you could come,’ said Patrick, drawing her inside. ‘And Mrs – Wolfe, was it?’
‘Fran, please,’ said Fran, feeling waves of something grey and murky flowing from the man who was smiling so sadly at her.
‘And Libby,’ said Libby. ‘It’s awfully nice of you to see us.’
‘Oh, I’m in your debt,’ said Patrick, leading them into a comfortable sitting room, with two big sofas upholstered in a faded terracotta either side of a wide fireplace which contained the largest wood-burning stove Libby had ever seen.
‘Please sit down,’ he said. ‘Jen’s in the kitchen getting coffee. Or would you prefer tea?’
‘Coffee’s fine,’ they said in unison.
‘No, really.’ Patrick sat down opposite where they sat side by side. ‘I would have come to you, but I’m a bit – well, paranoid, I suppose you could say – about going out at the moment. That’s why I’m so grateful to you for not saying anything to the media about – um – well, about –’
‘Melanie’s death?’ said Libby. ‘No need to thank me. Why would anyone want to talk to me about it, anyway?’
Patrick smiled. ‘The media will look at every angle. Has no one come after you yet? Your local television station? One of the redtops?’
‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘Have they been after you?’
‘No.’ Patrick frowned. ‘I’m not sure why.’
‘Scotland Yard,’ said Fran succinctly.
‘Oh.’ Patrick seemed to shrink into himself. ‘Of course. Jennifer told me.’
‘They haven’t spoken to you?’ Libby was surprised.
‘Not yet.’ He sighed. ‘Doubtless they will. I can’t think it’s out of respect for the feelings of a recently widowed man.’
‘Has no one spoken to you since you came home?’ asked Fran.
‘From the police? Only a DCI Connell, but I gathered he was from the local force. I suppose I shall be investigated by the Special Operations people again. I can’t think why they haven’t already been here.’ His voice was now sounding querulous. Jennifer appeared carrying a tray.
‘If they haven’t been already, they aren’t seriously considering you as a suspect,’ she said soothingly. ‘Hello, Fran, Libby.’
She looked younger, thought Libby. Her hair, previously neatly folded back in a pleat, was loose and her linen shirt and trousers far more becoming.
‘That’s true,’ said Patrick, brightening, ‘but I still think it was magnanimous of you not to go to the media.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to go,’ said Libby, disingenuously and mendaciously. ‘Anyway, if I had, I expect Scotland Yard would have stopped me.’
‘Not if you’d got in on the first day,’ said Patrick. ‘I gather it took a while to get passed up the line.’
‘Oh?’ said Fran. ‘I thought you’d only heard through Jennifer about Scotland Yard.’
‘Inspector Connell told me it had been passed on when he rang on Monday.’
‘He never –’ began Libby indignantly, and subsided at a look from Fran. Jennifer shot her a sharp glance, but Patrick didn’t seem to notice.
‘It’s not as if I’m not used to it,’ he said tiredly. ‘We’ve had it all before. Guards on the place here and the flat in London. Endless questions and sifting through our acquaintances. They never found out who did it.’
‘And of course,’ said Libby, accepting a cup from Jennifer, ‘there was all the business at Bonny Henge.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ he said. ‘If only she’d stayed out of the spotlight. Odd though, that the media haven’t been on to me.’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘especially as it was reported on the i
nternet almost immediately. Certainly on the Sunday.’
‘I expect Scotland Yard put a muzzle on the media,’ said Fran. ‘But no one can muzzle the internet.’
‘So do you think the Bonny Henge business was why she was killed?’ asked Libby. Fran frowned at her again.
‘That’s all right,’ said Patrick. ‘I’d rather talk about it, if you don’t mind. Jennifer says you’ve been looking into it a bit.’ He gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘Two Miss Marples, eh?’
‘Fran is a special investigator, Patrick,’ said Jennifer, again sounding a little like Nanny in the nursery. ‘She helps the police sometimes. I wanted to get them both down here to see if they could find anything. I couldn’t think of any other reason Melanie would –’ she looked round at Libby and Fran and made a face, ‘well, that Melanie would die.’
‘No, I see that.’ Patrick nodded and gazed down at his cup. ‘It was kind.’
Jennifer made a sound between a snort and a sigh of exasperation. ‘It wasn’t kind, Patrick. I wanted to make sure they didn’t try and set you up like they did last time.’
Chapter Twenty-four
‘SET YOU UP?’ SAID Libby and Fran in chorus.
‘They didn’t really.’ Patrick shifted uncomfortably in his seat and threw Jennifer an irritated look. If she’s hoping to take Melanie’s place, thought Libby, she’s got a long way to go.
‘It was thought,’ said Jennifer, sitting up very straight and assuming Nanny-knows-best tones again, ‘that a group of what I can only call anarchists tried to implicate Patrick in the death threats and the bomb under the car. Melanie had a very high profile then.’
‘That’s why she all but retired from public life and moved down here permanently,’ said Patrick. ‘I kept the flat on as I have to go up to town frequently, but she was happy to stay here. Until,’ his voice grew bitter, ‘that blasted standing stone.’
‘Can you tell me exactly what her feelings were about it?’ asked Fran. ‘I don’t mean to be intrusive, but she didn’t want it either excavated or left as it is now.’
‘She didn’t want it defiled,’ said Patrick. ‘Those were her exact words. “I don’t want it defiled.” She felt it had – oh, I don’t know – a religious significance, or a cultural one, and it should be preserved. She felt digging would disturb the spirit of the place, but hordes of people swarming all over the site would also disturb and possibly destroy it.’ He shrugged. ‘I could see what she meant, in a way.’
‘So can I,’ said Libby, ‘but I don’t suppose either the archaeological community or the druids, or whoever they are, would agree with her.’
‘You’re right,’ said Jennifer. ‘The strange thing is, as you saw yesterday, no one seems to have tried either yet. I know the funds for an excavation haven’t been forthcoming, but you’d think someone would be around now and then with a theodolite or something.’
‘A theodolite?’ said Libby, interested. ‘Do they use those in archaeology?’
‘They have to survey the site before digging,’ said Patrick. ‘I set a book on a dig once.’
‘And the druids haven’t been back, either?’ asked Libby.
‘I don’t know that they’re druids,’ said Jennifer, ‘but no. Mind you, there were some arrests at the last protest.’
‘We know.’ Libby looked from Jennifer to Patrick and took a chance. ‘Dee Starkey was one of them.’
Jennifer’s face tightened, and Patrick’s mouth fell open.
‘Dee? She’s been here?’ he said.
‘Not to the house. She wouldn’t have known where it was, but,’ said Libby, ignoring the warning looks Fran was sending, ‘she did know Melanie lived here. I think she was possibly the only one of your fellow guests who did last weekend. It was Dee who told us about Bonny Henge.’
Now Patrick was looking hunted. ‘You won’t tell her where I live, will you?’
‘Of course not.’ Libby looked surprised. ‘Why on earth should we? We’re just trying to make sense of the situation. I don’t want opprobrium attached to the Manor any more than you want it attached to you. We all know what media scandals can do to people. And you don’t want to affect any future books.’
‘I shan’t write any more.’ Patrick shook his head and seemed to shrink into the corner of the sofa. ‘I can’t bear it.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Nanny-Jennifer coaxingly, ‘of course you will.’
But Patrick just shook his head again and gazed at the fireplace.
Fran’s phone rang. She stood up hastily, fishing it out of her pocket and sending a quick glance Libby’s way.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, backing towards the door. ‘I ought to take this.’
‘Why do you think you won’t write any more?’ asked Libby, to cover the silence after Fran had left the room.
‘Melanie was my rock,’ said Patrick. Libby couldn’t resist a quick glance at Jennifer’s face, which was stony. ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘I think I might move away from Dorset altogether. I don’t need the house any more, the children don’t live here, and I’ve got the flat.’
This time Jennifer did show some emotion. Horror? Distress? Libby couldn’t make up her mind. Fran came back into the room and resumed her seat.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘It was the police.’
‘Oh?’ said Libby, while Patrick and Jennifer both looked startled.
Fran smiled gently. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘Do carry on. I interrupted.’
‘Patrick was just saying he might sell this house and move to London permanently,’ explained Libby.
‘I wouldn’t make any rash decisions just yet, Paddy,’ said Jennifer. ‘After all, this has been your home since you were a boy.’
‘I think that’s why I need to go, Jen.’ He gave her a tired smile. ‘There’s no one left here for me.’
Jennifer looked as though she’d been stabbed. ‘But look at all the friends you’ve got here!’ she stammered.
‘The dinner party and point-to-point set?’ Patrick laughed. ‘All they’d miss is a tame minor celeb to open fêtes. At least in London I’ve got friends in the business. Real friends.’
He’s got no idea what he’s doing, thought Libby, watching the two of them.
‘You don’t have any writer friends around here, then?’ asked Fran. ‘I thought you did. Nick Forrest only lives at Ebbesdean, and Daniel Hill’s not far away in Poole.’
A faint colour appeared along Patrick’s cheekbones. ‘Yes, I know. I had to send back their critiques before last year’s holiday. But –’
‘They weren’t friends, Fran.’ Jennifer had regained Nanny status. ‘I told you, if you remember.’
‘Of course.’ Fran smiled at her. ‘So you didn’t see Lily Cooper either? Salisbury’s not far.’
‘No.’ Patrick’s face closed. ‘They were not friends. Merely people I met whom I was tutoring.’
Don’t push it, Fran, thought Libby, but Fran had obviously made whatever point she wanted to and was lifting her coffee cup.
‘Actually, we’re going to see Daniel this afternoon,’ Libby said brightly. ‘He’s doing some sort of live literature event.
Both Patrick’s and Jennifer’s faces expressed disgust.
‘Don’t go!’ said Patrick. ‘He’ll be absolute shite. He did something at the holiday, and of course, all the other so-called literary morons followed suit. It was excruciating.’
‘Oh.’ Libby was taken aback. ‘I thought I might be a bit bored, but I didn’t think it would be that bad.’
‘Is it performance poetry?’ asked Fran.
‘It’s meant to be,’ said Jennifer. ‘I found it intensely embarrassing.’
‘Not very good, then,’ said Libby.
‘We didn’t think so,’ said Jennifer.
‘Did you go to the holiday together?’ asked Libby. ‘Or was it a coincidence?’
‘No,’ said Patrick.
‘Yes,’ said Jennifer.
‘What I mean is,’ sa
id Jennifer, her colour matching Patrick’s. ‘Patrick said he’d been asked to tutor this part-time course, and as I was trying to write a novel in between commissions, I thought it would be fun to go and see if I could kick-start myself. Then I met Nina, and the others were OK, especially Audrey and Bernice, so when this get-together was mentioned I decided to go. And when I heard Amanda George had been asked to talk to us, that was the icing on the cake.’
‘Must have been convenient,’ said Fran. ‘At least you could travel in the same car.’
‘I went straight from London,’ said Patrick, not looking at Jennifer.
‘Right.’ Libby smiled vaguely. ‘Well, we won’t take up any more of your time, Patrick. It was kind of you to see us, and I’m so very sorry about your wife.’
Patrick stood up with the air of a guardsman going on parade.
‘It was kind of you to call,’ he insisted politely. ‘And thank you once again for keeping a low profile.’
‘We shall continue to do so,’ said Fran. ‘Thank you, Jennifer.’
It was Jennifer who showed them out.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said as she accompanied them through the front door. ‘He’s not himself yet.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Libby.
‘Oh, all that stuff about not writing any more and moving to London. He’ll change his mind again.’
‘You certainly seem to know him very well,’ said Fran. ‘And it’s hardly surprising he doesn’t really know what to do yet. It’s only been a week since Melanie was found.’
‘Good heavens, so it is,’ said Libby. ‘It’s Saturday again!’
‘If you need my help on anything, you know where to find me,’ said Jennifer, shaking hands with them both. ‘And as for Lily Cooper – I’m pretty sure she did know where they lived. I’m not saying anything else,’ she looked over her shoulder, ‘because I don’t want to worry him.’
‘OK,’ said Fran. ‘If necessary, I’ll call you again.’
‘Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it?’ said Libby, as they drove back down the drive. ‘And what did the police want? Who was it really?’
‘It was the police.’ Fran looked left and right before pulling on to the main road. ‘It was Ian.’
Murder at the Manor Page 17