Murder at the Manor

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Oh, they got stuff in the main house all about the Chase, dear. Why don’t you pop round and have a look? Bit pricey – I think it’s about a tenner to get in. I got a leaflet inside. Hang on, I’ll get it. Another drink?’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Libby when Yvonne had departed in search of her leaflet and two cups of coffee.

  ‘It is a bit expensive, but it might be worthwhile. On the other hand the Salisbury Museum might be cheaper, or even free.’

  Yvonne came back with coffees and a handful of leaflets. ‘Look see, there’s no actual museum in Cranborne itself,’ she said. ‘All the old stuff went to Salisbury.’ She put one of the leaflets down. ‘And this is ours. Probably got what you want, eh? What was it exactly you was looking for?’

  ‘Have you heard of Bonny Henge?’ asked Libby.

  Yvonne was scornful. ‘Heard of it? I should bloody say so. The stone they found – all over the local news it was. Some silly cow getting herself all het up over it.’

  ‘Yes, we heard something about that,’ said Fran, kicking Libby under the table to keep her quiet. ‘Nick Forrest – do you know him?’

  ‘Nick? Course I do. He’s a regular. Was it him who brought you here?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t know much about what went on in the area, but he knew about that.’

  ‘Well, there’s stuff about that over there, I’m pretty sure. In the main house it would be.’

  ‘That’s great, thank you, Yvonne,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll certainly go and have a look. What time do you serve dinner?’

  ‘Any time from six thirty. Now, got everything you want? I’ll see you later then.’

  They pored over the leaflets. Salisbury had what was called the Pitt-Rivers Wessex collection, which looked fascinating, and there were other collections in Shaftesbury, Blandford and Wimborne but although the Chancery House leaflet said nothing about it, Yvonne had said there would be something about Bonny Henge there. So, finishing their coffees and returning the cups to the bar, they left the pub and set off up the lane.

  As Yvonne had said, the main entrance to Chancery House was just round the bend, and far more impressive than the gates opposite the pub. Large signs either side of a wide entry announced “Chancery House Living Museum” with details of opening times beneath. They walked through the entry and along a dusty track to where a booth and barrier had been set up.

  ‘Half price,’ said the affable grey-moustached man inside the booth. ‘It’s nearly three now and we close at five.’

  ‘Thank you,’ beamed Libby, and handed over a ten-pound note.

  They made their way towards the imposing mansion. ‘Georgian?’ said Fran, and climbed the steps. Inside a helpful guide immediately stepped forward and handed them a map and a set of headphones.

  ‘Actually,’ said Libby, ‘we were wondering if you had anything about Bonny Henge?’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ The woman, in a pleated skirt and pearl-buttoned cardigan had been sent from central casting, Libby was sure. ‘This way,’ she went on. ‘You’ll also find some material about our Rising Parva ghost there, too, although of course in those days it was thought to be a barrow.’ She frowned. ‘Actually, now I think about it it probably wasn’t known as a barrow either in those days.’

  ‘When did the ghost – er – die?’ asked Fran.

  ‘1778. The events did actually happen, although I’m not sure there’s any provenance for the ghost story. Here we are.’ With a flourish, their guide indicated a large, well-lit glass case containing various archaeological finds and many photographs. ‘The ghost story’s further along.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Fran, ‘this is just what we wanted.’

  ‘Pleased to help,’ beamed the guide and disappeared back the way they’d come.

  Libby and Fran stood staring at the exhibition, daunted.

  ‘I don’t know where to start,’ said Libby.

  ‘At this end and work our way along,’ said Fran.

  In between the pieces of broken pottery and flint arrowheads were framed information pages in copperplate script. They learnt when the barrow had first been excavated, when it had been discovered to be a henge and finally, underneath a large photograph of what they recognised as the standing stone, a somewhat newer-looking page in plain Times New Roman told the story of the discovery of the stone and all its implications. There was no mention of any protests, for or against excavation, simply a statement that investigations were ongoing.

  ‘But they aren’t,’ said Libby, as they stood back to survey the whole display case.

  ‘No, but as soon as funding’s available there will be.’ Fran moved on to the smaller case.

  ‘I know we’ve been considering this whole Bonny Henge thing as being a possible motive, but could it really? It seems so unlikely, unless Melanie stood in the way of funding somehow.’ Libby peered into the second case. ‘I like this Lady in White picture. Very Victorian.’

  ‘I still think it’s to do with her writing,’ murmured Fran. ‘Look at the highwayman!’

  ‘Her writing? But she hadn’t published anything for years. Still you were right about the drinking, so you might be right about this.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fran made a face. ‘Come on, look at this ghost story.’

  In 1778, it appeared that the daughter of the owner of Rising Manor had slipped out at night to meet her highwayman lover on top of Bonny Henge, known then as Bonn Hill. Finding his body mutilated, she walked down from the hill, into the Manor, took one of her father’s flintlock pistols and shot herself. The highwayman, one Peter Radcliffe, was later buried at a crossroads some way from the village, his lady, Margaret, the other side of the crossroads. Sightings of Lady Margaret had been reported from the mid-nineteenth century onwards.

  ‘Trust the Victorians,’ said Libby. ‘I said it was a Victorian picture, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did. And what it’s got to do with Melanie’s murder I have no idea.’ Fran stood back and sighed. ‘In fact what anything’s got to do with it I don’t know.’

  Libby looked at her uneasily. ‘But you wanted to come down again. You said you wanted to go to a museum.’

  ‘I know.’ Fran sighed again. ‘I don’t know what’s driving me on this one. I can’t seem to see any connections with anything, and yet there’s this certainty that there’s something to find out.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Libby. ‘A murderer, for one thing.’

  Fran wandered back along the Bonny Henge case. ‘And I thought there’d be more to find out about this. We already knew all this.’

  ‘Come on then,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve still got well over an hour left. We can have a look at these rescued buildings. Get our fiver’s worth.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I owe you that,’ said Fran. ‘Yes. Let’s go and look at buildings.’

  Chapter Thirty

  BACK AT THE BARLEY Mow, Fran and Libby retired to their rooms, ostensibly to rest and then get ready for dinner downstairs but, naturally enough, both switched on laptops.

  Libby made herself a cup of tea from the hospitality tray, put her feet up on the bed and rested the laptop on a pillow.

  ‘Do you know,’ she said out loud to herself, ‘I don’t know why we’re here, either. And I don’t know what we’re looking for. Or who.’

  She sighed, took a sip of very hot tea and opened her email programme. To her surprise, there were three addressed to her persona at the Manor.

  The first was from Paul Fisher.

  Mrs Sarjeant, I apologise if I was less than polite when you called last week. I have since received visits from detectives and my car has been forensically examined, even though I informed the officers that I hadn’t used it to go to the Manor. In fact, several of us met up at Victoria Station and shared a taxi when we reached Canterbury. I realise now that you were trying to be helpful. If you hear anything else about the investigation, I’d be very pleased if you let me know’

  ‘Hmm,’ thought Libby.

  The next was from Bernice
Weldon. Libby had to think for a moment to remember who she was.

  Dear Mrs Sarjeant,

  Last week Mrs Fran Wolfe rang my friend Audrey Glenister to tell us that Scotland Yard would be likely to investigate us over the death of Melanie Joseph. Both of us have subsequently been interviewed and even our cars are now being examined, though only mine was used to take us to the station. We arranged to meet up with Paul Fisher and Nick Forrest to share a taxi from Canterbury. I assume this is because it is thought that Mrs Joseph was transported in someone’s car to The Manor? We can’t seem to find out anything else, although we have been in touch with the other members of our little group by email, but some of them appear to have either left the group or not bothered to reply.

  We wondered if you had heard anything more?

  Best wishes

  Bernice Weldon.

  The last, most surprisingly, was from Dee Starkey.

  I’ve got some information. Don’t know who to go to. Scotland Yard detectives didn’t seem to know much about the case. Is that one we saw at The Manor still in charge?

  Libby hit reply.

  ‘The Senior Investigating Officer is now DCI Connell, who is based in Kent but is currently in Dorset. I can tell him you are trying to get in touch, if you like.’

  Libby slid off the bed and went to knock on Fran’s door.

  ‘Look,’ she said, displaying the laptop screen.

  Fran sat down on her own bed and read the emails.

  ‘I’ve only replied to Dee, telling her I’ll tell Ian she wants to get in touch. What do you think?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘No idea. What information can she have? And why didn’t she tell anyone at the time?’

  ‘Or when the Scotland Yard people went to see her?’

  ‘She says they didn’t seem to know about the case. I wonder if she tried to tell them? Or if she’s only just realised she has information?’ Fran looked back at the screen. ‘Oh, hello! You’ve got another email.’

  Dorset? Is he looking at Bonny Henge? Tell him I need to speak to him.’

  ‘From Dee, look.’ Libby sat beside Fran on the bed. ‘Do we tell him?’

  ‘I think so.’ Fran reached for her mobile. ‘Shall I send him a text? He’ll be cross if his phone rings.’

  ‘You do that and I’ll reply to the other two,’ said Libby.

  She was just finishing off a reply to Bernice Weldon when Fran’s phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Ian.’ Fran put her thumb up at Libby. ‘Yes, Libby got an email from Dee Starkey. Here, I’ll hand you over.’

  Libby took the phone. ‘Ian? Yes Dee Starkey says she has some information for you. She guessed you were at Rising Parva and it seems urgent.’

  ‘How did she “guess” I was in Rising Parva?’ Ian’s voice put the word in quotation marks.

  ‘I’ll read you her email and my reply.’ Libby did so. ‘Then she emailed back almost immediately: Dorset? Is he looking at Bonny Henge? Tell him I need to speak to him.’

  Ian sighed. ‘I suppose I should be grateful.’

  ‘I expect she would have got in touch somehow,’ said Libby. ‘Oh, and I’ve had two of the other people on, both telling me their cars have been done over when they didn’t even use them for the weekend.’

  ‘I assume you mean forensically examined? Yes, I heard that. But then, none of those four people were ever seriously suspects, even though young Forrest lives in the area and is a journalist.’

  ‘A what?’ yelped Libby.

  ‘A journalist.’

  ‘He told us he never knew what was going on in the area,’ said Libby, practically hyperventilating. ‘He was lying!’

  ‘It would appear so.’ Ian sounded amused.

  ‘I bet there’s a connection, then,’ said Libby. ‘Why lie to us?’

  ‘Or even to us?’ said Ian.

  ‘You don’t seem bothered.’

  ‘His car is being examined and his story looked at again, but I doubt very much if he has a motive. And if he left home early in the morning to go to Salisbury Station as he said, and met up with his friend Paul and the two ladies from Bournemouth in London, when could he have done it?’

  ‘I still want to know why he lied,’ said Libby.

  ‘Perhaps to try and get a story out of you?’ suggested Ian.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ Libby exploded. Ian was openly laughing now. Fran carefully removed the laptop from her friend’s lap.

  ‘OK, OK, enough,’ said Ian. ‘Have you got this Starkey woman’s phone number?’

  ‘No. You’ll have it, though.’

  ‘Yes, I was just hoping to save time,’ said Ian. ‘Thanks for letting me know. Go carefully, now. Where are you going this evening?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ said Libby. ‘We’re eating here. And probably eating Nick Forrest, too, if he comes in.’

  ‘Be gentle,’ said Ian, and rang off.

  Libby relayed the conversation.

  ‘He could be some other sort of journalist,’ said Fran. ‘You know, for a trade magazine or something.’

  ‘I thought all journalists kept an eye on the news,’ said Libby. ‘Especially local news.’

  ‘You could ask Peter,’ suggested Fran. ‘He’s quite a high flyer these days, isn’t he? He’d know all about the business.’

  ‘Yes, he does opinion pieces and guest editorial stuff. Political comment mostly.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘I doubt if he’d know Nick’s name though. I think our best bet’s to corner the little blighter and make him talk.’

  ‘You said he was nothing to do with it last Friday,’ said Fran, handing back the laptop.

  ‘I know. He’s so innocent-looking. Doesn’t look like a journalist.’

  ‘Neither does Peter or Jane. Or even Campbell McLean.’ Fran stood up.

  ‘And I suppose they cover all aspects, don’t they?’ Libby also stood up, closing the laptop. ‘Peter does the big stuff, Jane’s on the local paper and Campbell’s local TV news. Nick could be any one of those.’

  ‘Or none,’ said Fran, switching on her kettle. ‘Have you had tea?’

  ‘Bother,’ said Libby. ‘I left it getting cold in my room. See you later.’

  Five minutes later she was back in Fran’s room.

  ‘Another email, look,’ she said, turning the laptop to face Fran. ‘And I didn’t even know she had my email address.’

  ‘Hello, Libby

  I’m sorry if I was a bit abrupt on the phone. As you said, the police have come to take my car away for forensic testing. Lucky then that I have the use of the vet’s van to get to and from work. It’s very handy sometimes.

  I hope you find out about Mrs Joseph’s murder and why it happened. At least it can’t be anything to do with us, can it? Will you let me know?

  Best wishes

  Nina’

  ‘Is it me, or does she sound anxious?’ said Libby.

  Fran was frowning again. ‘Yes, she does, but as I said before, it’s probably the stress of being investigated. We’ll get in touch if there’s anything we can tell her.’

  At six thirty Libby knocked on Fran’s door again.

  ‘Going down?’ she asked.

  ‘Coming.’ Fran picked up her handbag and phone. ‘Did you do any more research after the emails?’

  ‘No.’ Libby led the way downstairs. ‘I couldn’t think what to do. I don’t know what we’re doing here either, now. Or who we’re investigating.’

  ‘No more do I.’ Fran sighed. ‘I really hoped there’d be something more in the museum.’

  ‘But what?’ Libby held open the door to the bar.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They went to the bar, where they were served by a different handmaiden who wore a similarly unfortunate skirt. Taking their drinks and a menu to a table by a window, they prepared to stake out the main entrance in case Nick Forrest appeared.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Libby, sipping her wine, ‘try and think what it is you thought we ought to find at the museum.’

 
Fran leaned her elbows on the table, frowning. ‘I really don’t know. I expected to find something that was a revelation; something that would connect Melanie to it and explain why someone would have murdered her for that connection.’

  ‘I wonder why they all said they didn’t know her or where they lived?’ mused Libby. ‘What did Daniel say? He, Lily and Dee knew. Well, we knew Dee did.’

  ‘There’s got to be a connection,’ said Fran, banging her glass on the table. ‘There’s just got to be. Why is it there all the time?’

  ‘Er – eh?’ Libby was startled.

  ‘I mean, it’s constantly in my head. And Jennifer wanted us – me – to come down to see it. Why?

  ‘Don’t ask me. I’m just being nosy, like always. Come on, what do you want to eat?’

  When they had both chosen local beef and ale pie, Libby returned to the subject.

  ‘Now, writing. It was a writing weekend. Melanie couldn’t have come because she wanted to learn to write a novel, because this was a reunion, but perhaps she genuinely wanted to come to be with her husband?’

  ‘Rubbish. In that case, why not come with him? And why use an alias? We know the name’s genuinely hers, so Patrick would have known it.’

  ‘OK, that’s got that out of the way. So what did she write? Non-fiction? Do you think she wrote about the henge? Or the ghost?’

  ‘Might have done,’ said Fran. ‘We can look that up tomorrow. I’m not going upstairs to get a laptop now.’

  ‘No, and anyway,’ said Libby, ‘look who’s just come in.’

  She was beside Nick Forrest before he even had time to order his drink. She beamed impartially at both him and the barmaid and said ‘I’ll get this.’

  Looking surprised, but not nervous, Nick allowed himself to be conducted to the table where Fran sat smiling at him.

  ‘I didn’t expect you two back here so soon,’ he said. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘We didn’t think we would be, either,’ said Libby. ‘But then, neither did we know we’d been talking to a journalist.’

  Libby had hoped he would choke on his beer, or something equally theatrical, but disappointingly, he just sighed.

  ‘I suppose it was too much to hope for,’ he said, ‘that you wouldn’t find out.’