Murder at the Manor

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Was it? Cor! What did he want? Did you tell him where we were?’

  ‘Wait a sec.’ Fran pulled into a farm gate and turned off the engine before turning towards Libby. ‘Brace yourself. Melanie wasn’t killed at the Manor and she’d been dead well over twelve hours before she was found.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘SO, YES, I DID tell him where we were, and he told me not to say anything, obviously.’ Fran tapped the steering wheel. ‘So I don’t know where that leaves us.’

  ‘Good God.’ Libby stared out of the window at the stunning view. ‘So that means – what does it mean?’

  ‘It means her body was dumped during the night, and someone went to the trouble of setting the scene in the hut. So where was the body until it was dumped? Do you think the killer put it in the hut?’

  ‘It was obviously an attempt to implicate Patrick. Otherwise why leave the handbag with all the credit cards and driving licence so prominently displayed? Someone meant us to think Melanie had come disguised as Ann Marsh to confront Patrick about his infidelities.’

  ‘They forgot the car, though,’ said Fran. ‘They should have brought her down in her own car and left it there. And it might not be to deliberately frame Patrick, but simply to divert suspicion.’

  ‘Odd way to go about it,’ said Libby. ‘You know, while we were in Patrick’s house, I’d begun to think perhaps it was Jennifer all along, to get rid of Melanie and claim Patrick for herself, but if the whole idea was to frame Patrick that’s a non-starter. She’s potty about him.’

  ‘I wonder why she portrays herself as a borderline elderly pearls-and-twinset type in public when she’s so much more attractive in real life,’ said Fran.

  ‘So she can keep close to Patrick with no one being any the wiser,’ said Libby. ‘She can assume her ex-babysitter persona and be no threat to his various inamorata.’

  ‘But you’d think she would want to pose a threat to them,’ said Fran.

  ‘No, because at the moment, Patrick only sees his old friend Jen, who’s been there all these years for him to lean on, and I’ll bet he uses her to hide behind if one of the ladies gets a bit too persistent. Then she can pop out in her best when they’re alone.’

  ‘Makes sense.’ Fran nodded, pursing her lips. ‘And she did look so much nicer today – and younger.’

  ‘And it’s all wasted.’ Libby sighed sympathetically. ‘He’s not going to hang around. He’ll be off to London and the high life as soon as he decently can, leaving her behind.’

  ‘She was shattered when he went on about his so-called friends, wasn’t she?’ said Fran. ‘He didn’t even notice.’

  ‘Anyway, it couldn’t have been Jennifer,’ said Libby. ‘I give her an alibi myself. I saw her arrive and take her case out of the car. I think I might have noticed if she’d had a body in it. I ticked her off and watched her go in and up the stairs, and I was on front-door duty for a good while after that. Come to think of it,’ she sighed, ‘I can give most of them an alibi for the same reason.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Fran slowly, ‘she was hidden nearby before Friday.’

  ‘Eh?’ Libby turned in shock. ‘Bloody hell, Fran. Where did that come from? And, come to that, where would she have been hidden?’

  ‘I was just thinking,’ said Fran, ‘if someone had bothered to check out the place before last Friday, they could have come up and dumped the body somewhere nearby. In the woods, maybe?’

  ‘That wouldn’t work,’ said Libby firmly. ‘There would be forensic evidence of – of – well, leaves and things. And if the body had been there overnight, wouldn’t there be, um, deteriorations? What happens about rigor?’

  ‘It was just an idea. I’m trying to work out how she got there. So are the police.’

  ‘There will be forensic evidence of the killer in the hut, won’t there? It would take time to set everything up, and they couldn’t possibly do it without leaving traces. Not unless they had a police boiler suit. And a mask and gloves.’

  ‘Do they have masks? I thought that was only doctors and nurses,’ said Fran.

  ‘I think so.’ Libby was frowning. ‘After all, it’s a procedure of a sort, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, the police are stepping up the investigation.’

  ‘Do I take it Ian’s back in the loop now?’

  ‘Apparently.’ Fran laughed. ‘He sounded quite cock-a-hoop. I told him we’d ring him when we got home. I think Scotland Yard, or whoever they are, have got a bit fed up because it doesn’t look remotely like a political or terrorist murder.’

  ‘So they’ll let Ian and the team back in? That’s good,’ said Libby with satisfaction.

  ‘Anyway, you can see why I wasn’t to let on to Jennifer and Patrick. If she was killed before she went to Steeple Martin, they could be in the frame.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Although if Patrick was in London and Melanie was down here I don’t see how that would work.’

  ‘He was very quick to say that, wasn’t he?’ said Libby. ‘Do you think it wasn’t true?’

  ‘Jennifer wasn’t too sure,’ said Fran. ‘I wonder where he really was.’

  ‘And more importantly,’ said Libby, ‘where she was.’

  ‘Jennifer or Melanie?’

  ‘Melanie. That’s probably the most important thing.’

  ‘The other important thing,’ said Fran, slowing down to look at a road sign, ‘is that the whole thing was premeditated. Someone booked in as Ann Marsh.’

  ‘Ah, but it could have been Melanie herself, and someone else knew her plans. Anyway, you’re right, it was definitely premeditated.’

  ‘I wish I could get something on it,’ said Fran, with a sigh, ‘but there’s nothing. There was a lot of negative energy coming off Patrick this morning, though.’

  ‘Has he got something to hide?’

  ‘I would say so. And we also ought to try and look at Lily Cooper again.’

  ‘After what Jennifer just said, yes. I’d forgotten that in the shock of what you told me.’ Libby peered out of the window. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Going round the outskirts of Wimborne Minster,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve been there before. There’s a lovely old hotel in the square.’

  ‘So we’re nearly there? Should we stop for lunch?’

  ‘What, in Wimborne? No, I’d rather get to Fanbridge first. There’s bound to be somewhere there we can get a sandwich.’

  ‘OK,’ said Libby, who had been thinking more in terms of something alcoholic to sustain her through Daniel Hill’s event.

  However, when they found Fanbridge, which was fairly non-descript and suburban, the only place that appeared to have food of any sort was the Fanbridge Centre itself, a modern building next to a pound shop. The Gallery Restaurant overlooked what appeared to be a multipurpose space which today was set up with an optimistic amount of chairs around a small dais.

  ‘Perhaps we could stay up here and watch?’ whispered Libby, as they collected their pre-packaged sandwiches and exorbitantly priced cans of drink.

  Fran looked doubtfully at the bored waitress behind the counter. ‘I don’t know. It would be easier to leave from here if we got bored, but that isn’t the point, is it? We want to speak to Daniel.’

  ‘It would also be easier to read or do a crossword up here if we get to hair-tearing boredom,’ said Libby.

  ‘Have you got a book with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby triumphantly. ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘No. I suppose I could go and find a newspaper or a magazine. There’s got to be a shop somewhere.’

  ‘There are magazines over there,’ said Libby, pointing to a table by the front entrance. ‘They’re probably local ones, but better than nothing.’

  ‘Right,’ said Fran, standing up. ‘I’ll go and pinch a couple.’

  Libby watched as she went back down the stairs and went to the table. It didn’t look as though there was much of a selection, but suddenly Fran’s head shot up, she grabbed a newspaper and a mag
azine and quickly came back up the stairs. Then Libby saw the reason. Daniel Hill appeared in the doorway, flanked by two other people. Fran flopped down in her chair and pushed back her hair.

  ‘That was close.’

  ‘Mind you,’ said Libby, ‘we could have talked to him now and saved ourselves the agony of the performance.’

  ‘I suppose we could.’ Fran peered over the balcony rail to where Daniel, in apparently the same knitted waistcoat he had worn last week, was setting up a table with the help of his acolytes, two women of indeterminate age, one with hair in a plait and large glasses, the other with cropped grey hair and small glasses. Just as she began to draw back, Daniel looked up.

  ‘Bugger!’ whispered Libby. ‘He’s seen us!’

  ‘It was you who said we should have talked to him before the performance,’ said Fran, watching as Daniel turned to speak to the two women, who both looked up at the gallery. ‘So what do we say now?’

  ‘He’ll know we came here to see him,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, let’s finish our sandwiches and then we’ll go down. Pity, I’m sure we would have loved his readings.’

  Fran coughed on a sandwich.

  Daniel had taken no notice of them since he’d first looked up, but Libby got the impression it was a studied ignorance. When she and Fran approached from the body of the performance space, the two acolytes turned towards them, but Daniel, though he must have heard them, didn’t.

  ‘Daniel, just the man.’ Libby raised her voice to performance pitch.

  Slowly he turned round, his face more bulldog-like than ever.

  ‘What do you want?’ he snapped. ‘I said I had nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Why?’ Libby widened her eyes at him. ‘We only wanted to warn you about Special Branch.’

  The two acolytes’ faces registered alarm.

  ‘Well, Scotland Yard, anyway,’ amended Libby. ‘Have they been in touch already?’

  The shifty eyes provided their own reply and Fran smiled gently.

  ‘We’ve just been talking to Patrick and Jennifer,’ she said, ‘so we thought we ought to talk to you as well.’

  ‘I haven’t got long,’ muttered Daniel.

  ‘No, we know your event starts at two,’ said Libby. ‘Shall we sit down for a moment?’

  Daniel reluctantly led the way to the back row of chairs, deliberately ignoring the other two women who watched with shocked faces.

  ‘How did you find me?’ he said, as soon as they sat down.

  ‘Through Writers in the South,’ said Fran. ‘They don’t appear to mind passing on details.’

  ‘That’s an infringement of personal liberty,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Well, of the Data Protection Act, anyway,’ said Libby, trying not to grin.

  ‘We only wanted to speak to you as a friend of Patrick’s,’ said Fran craftily, ‘as he’s being looked into, too.’

  Daniel looked slightly less pugnacious and grunted.

  ‘It all seems so odd, you see,’ said Libby, taking her cue. ‘Patrick would seem to be the only one who had a motive for killing his wife, yet we know he didn’t.’

  Daniel sniffed. ‘One of those women. Bound to be.’

  ‘Women?’ said Libby.

  ‘Jennifer whats-her-name or bloody Lily Cooper.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Jealous, weren’t they?’ He sniffed again and brushed ineffectually at his front, where traces of ash still lurked.

  ‘Of Melanie?’ prompted Fran.

  ‘Huh. Thought they bloody stood a chance. Course they didn’t.’

  ‘I can see Lily might have wanted to step into Melanie’s shoes –’

  ‘Bed, more like,’ grunted Daniel.

  ‘But Jennifer had been a friend since Patrick was a child,’ continued Libby.

  ‘She was the same. Must have been one of them.’

  ‘So you don’t think there’s anything in Scotland Yard’s investigations into Melanie’s political past?’ said Fran.

  Daniel looked uncomfortable and fixed his eyes on a point above their heads. ‘Wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Did you know anything about her days with Green Country or as a government advisor?’ asked Libby.

  ‘What would I know?’ There was a slightly patchy colour beginning to show on Daniel’s cheeks, Libby noticed gleefully.

  ‘So, you’ve never written about her?’ she said. ‘Not in Scriptus, of course, but in one of your other publications.’

  ‘What other publications?’ His eyes were wide open now and staring at Libby, who was put on the spot.

  ‘I’m sure you remember,’ said Fran, ‘otherwise why would Scotland Yard have come after you?’

  ‘They didn’t “come after me” as you put it,’ said Daniel, now highly indignant. ‘Yes, I used to contribute to a couple of magazines that were critical of Green Country’s policies. A lot of people did.’

  ‘But self-confessed anarchists?’ asked Fran gently.

  Daniel’s colour was now alarmingly high. ‘Look, I had nothing to do with the silly whore’s death. If I’d wanted to kill anyone it would have been him, the puffed-up bloody pulp-peddler. Couldn’t be bothered with anyone like me, could he? Or that pipsqueak Nick Forrest. It didn’t matter that he could have helped us, and even come to events. And what he did –’ He stopped abruptly.

  ‘So you knew he lived locally?’ put in Libby quickly.

  ‘Course I did. We weren’t supposed to – our manuscripts were all sent to the Writers in the South secretary to preserve anonymity.’ He made a sound of disgust. ‘But it wasn’t exactly difficult to find out where he lived.’

  ‘Nick Forrest said he didn’t know,’ said Fran.

  ‘He might not have,’ admitted Daniel grudgingly, ‘but Lily and Dee did.’

  ‘That’s hardly all of you,’ said Libby mildly. ‘What about Paul Fisher?’

  ‘Who? Oh, that other queer little Nicky palled up with. Dunno.’

  Fran’s face showed blatant distaste. Libby rushed in.

  ‘Surely not? They both struck me as nice people.’

  ‘You saying queers aren’t nice?’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Mind you, you’re right.’

  ‘No,’ said Libby, ‘I wasn’t. As it happens, some of my best friends are gay, and I’ve even been an attendant at a civil partnership. I phrased my remark badly.’

  ‘Well, you two –’ he looked from Fran to Libby with a sneer, ‘– obviously lezzers –’

  He got no further, as two ringing slaps connected with both his cheeks. Astonished, Libby and Fran watched open-mouthed as the two acolytes dragged him off his chair, then dismantled everything they had set up on the dais. Daniel got to his knees and crouched in the aisle, watched interestedly from the gallery by the staff.

  ‘You’re not a couple,’ said the slimmer acolyte, turning to Libby and Fran. ‘We are, and we can see that. We’d begun to have our doubts about this self-important pig, but he was our best way into writing and writers.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘I think we’d better think again.’

  The other woman came up and put an arm round her. ‘I guess we had,’ she said, ‘particularly if he’s mixed up in murder.’

  ‘I’m not mixed up in anything!’ Came a strangled and gasping cry from the floor. The women took no notice.

  ‘Will you go ahead with the event?’ asked Fran.

  ‘He might.’ The younger woman glanced distastefully at Daniel. ‘We won’t be here.’

  ‘Are you members of Writers in the South?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No.’ The plaited one sighed. ‘He said it was –’ she turned to her friend. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Proletarian.’ Silver hair snorted. ‘Honestly. I think we might join now. We didn’t know he was a member.’

  ‘I only joined –’ began the voice from the floor.

  ‘To get close to Patrick. Yes, we gathered that,’ said Libby. ‘You pathetic little worm. I pity your cat.’

  ‘Hodge is a very well look
ed after cat!’ Daniel gasped, struggling to his feet.

  ‘Hodge!’ said four women in unison, and laughed.

  ‘Look,’ said silver hair, turning her back on him, ‘if we can help in any way – not that we know what’s going on – but we’d be happy to.’ She fished in the pocket of her quilted gilet and pulled out a wallet. ‘Here.’ She handed over a card. ‘We’ll even keep an eye on him if you want.’

  Libby held out her hand. ‘That’s great, thank you. We live in Kent, so it would be good to have an impartial ear to the ground, so to speak.’

  Silver hair shook the proffered hand. ‘Can you tell us what’s going on? I’m Virginia, by the way – don’t laugh – known as Ginny, and this is Sarah.’

  Fran introduced herself and Libby and led the way out of the Centre.

  ‘Anyone fancy a drink?’ said Libby. ‘Or isn’t there a pub near here?’

  ‘In Fanbridge?’ Sarah squinted through her large glasses. ‘You must be joking! There’s a nice one in Wimborne, if that isn’t too far? We live there.’

  ‘Great!’ Libby smiled happily. ‘Lead on, then, and we’ll tell you the whole story.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  IN THE BAR OF the hotel in Wimborne, Fran and Libby between them related the story of Melanie Joseph’s murder.

  ‘Well,’ said Ginny, when they’d finished, ‘I knew Melanie lived near here because she was involved with the Bonny Henge protests. It was all over the news. I didn’t connect her with Patrick, though.’

  ‘That’s what I find puzzling,’ said Fran. ‘When the police asked if anyone knew Melanie or Patrick everyone except Jennifer said no.’

  ‘It doesn’t look as though anybody actually knew them,’ said Libby, ‘but they did know where they lived, which no one has admitted to before.’

  ‘I think Nick was telling the truth,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t think he knew.’

  ‘No, and I wonder what Daniel thought he knew about Nick and Paul Fisher? I mean,’ said Libby, ‘we know they spent some time together in between the holiday and the reunion, but I wouldn’t have thought Nick was gay.’

  ‘Daniel is just a nasty old homophobe,’ said Sarah. ‘He’s never sounded quite so unpleasant as he did just now, but we always felt he was laughing at us, didn’t we?’ She looked at her partner. ‘And it’s worse for us, because it seems that gay men are accepted more than we are.’