Murder at the Manor

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Well, of course we would,’ said Libby. ‘We have police contacts, remember.’

  ‘I know. I’ve been reading up on you both since last Friday.’ He took a long swallow of his beer.

  ‘Reading up – oh, the internet.’ Fran shook her head. ‘I forget that other people can look us up as well as the other way round. Although I’m surprised that there’s anything about us on there.’

  ‘You would be surprised,’ said Nick.

  ‘Someone else said that recently,’ said Libby. ‘But apparently our cases get reported in the local press and then it goes online.’

  Fran laughed. ‘Our cases? That makes us sound important.’

  ‘Oh, you know what I meant,’ said Libby, ‘the cases we’ve been involved with, then.’

  ‘So you’re actually working this case, are you?’ Nick looked from one to the other.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us instead, young Forrest, why you didn’t tell us you were a journalist and why you lied about having no knowledge of anything that went on in the area.’ Libby sat back and picked up her wine, ready for a good story.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what you were doing down here last week, and I thought if I told you who I was – or what I was, more accurately – you’d never tell me anything. So I shut up. I thought I might get something out of it, but I didn’t.’

  ‘How do you mean, you didn’t?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I work for a regional newspaper, yes, but I’m actually a music journalist. I freelance for some of the London mags and do interviews and reviews at the local level. I rarely get involved in news material, but you’re right, of course, I couldn’t fail to be unaware that Melanie Joseph was involved with Bonny Henge. But I really didn’t know they lived in Rising.’

  ‘You said you didn’t get anything out of it – us. What did you mean?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I was hoping I could get a bit of a local scoop. Even if it wasn’t my field, my editor would have been quite pleased if I had. But you didn’t tell me anything, really. Except that Patrick lived at Rising Parva, and they wouldn’t have published that under the circumstances. We’re quite a caring lot, actually.’

  ‘No door-stepping?’ said Fran.

  ‘No. Or even phone hacking!’ He grinned mischievously. ‘But I realised, when I looked you up, with your police contacts you’d know what I did as soon as I was mentioned. I take it you did report on our meeting?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘of course. And on our meeting with Patrick, and Daniel.’

  ‘You saw Patrick?’ Nick looked surprised.

  ‘Yes. Briefly.’ Fran didn’t expand further.

  ‘And Daniel.’ Nick looked down at his beer. ‘Well, well, well.’

  Fran and Libby waited.

  ‘OK, what did that mean?’ asked Libby eventually.

  ‘It explains why he rang me on Saturday evening and threatened me.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  ‘HE WHAT?’ SAID FRAN and Libby together.

  ‘I couldn’t understand what he was on about at first.’ Nick shook his head and finished his pint. ‘Before I say any more, can I get you two another drink?’

  By the time Nick was back with three more drinks, Fran’s and Libby’s meals had arrived.

  ‘Are you eating here?’ asked Libby, knife and fork poised.

  ‘No, I’ve already eaten,’ said Nick. ‘You carry on.’

  ‘We were going to,’ said Libby. ‘Go on, then, tell us about Daniel.’

  ‘I’m not sure I should, really,’ sighed Nick. ‘It seems like telling tales, but I’ve mentioned it now, so I suppose I’ll have to.

  ‘Last year at the writers’ holiday Daniel started out quite friendly. Not as grumpy as he seems now. But gradually he realised that no one was looking up to him and he was considered just as much of a beginner as the rest of us.’

  ‘Except you aren’t,’ said Fran. ‘And if you’re a music journalist, why didn’t we find any mention of you on the net?’

  ‘Because I don’t write under my own name. Reviewers often have a pseudonym to protect them – especially music reviewers. Some of the fans can be a trifle – well, let’s just say vocal.

  ‘Anyway, Daniel decided he would confide his annoyances to me one night when we’d been drinking in the bar. I’d been with Paul, but he’d already gone up to his room, and I was very surprised when Daniel came to sit with me.’ He stopped and stared down at the table.

  ‘He made a pass at you?’ suggested Fran, gently. Libby looked at her, astonished.

  Nick looked up and gave her a quick smile. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘He’s so aggressively homophobic.’ Fran returned to her pie. ‘And he mentioned something about you and Paul when we saw him. It was that which led to our disagreement with him.’

  ‘Ah.’ Nick sat contemplating his drink until someone hailed him from the bar. He waved back, but didn’t move.

  ‘What was your disagreement with him?’ he said eventually. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We asked to speak to him at this place where he was doing Live Lit –’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Nick.

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby. ‘And he then accused you and Paul of being gay, us of being gay and then his two female helpers, who are, in fact, a couple, slapped his face and took us for a drink.’

  ‘Succinctly put,’ applauded Fran. ‘That’s it, essentially, Nick. So why did he threaten you?’

  ‘Why do you think? He was obviously very upset about something, and very flustered. He just threatened to damage my career if I ever told anyone about what had happened between us. Oh, and tell everyone about Paul and me.’

  ‘Oh?’ Libby raised an eyebrow.

  Nick sighed again. ‘It’s hardly a secret. On the holiday Paul and I got together, and the night Daniel came on to me his line was now that Paul had left me on my own I’d need someone else.’ He shuddered. ‘He was so insulting. It made me creep.’

  ‘We thought he was wrong,’ said Libby. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right, but I thought you would have spotted it, not that any of us go round advertising as so many people think we do.’

  ‘Why me?’ said Libby.

  ‘Your friends who supplied the lovely Mexican food. You seem close to them.’

  ‘So you thought my gaydar would be finely tuned?’ Libby laughed. ‘It is usually.’

  ‘So how would Daniel damage your career?’ asked Fran.

  ‘He was going to publish my real name on all the music fan sites for one thing. And, presumably, on Twitter and Facebook. Despite his public disapproval of social networking, I know he uses them. I’ve had a look and seen what he puts up there.’

  ‘Hell hath no fury,’ said Libby.

  ‘Yes, it was a bit like that,’ said Nick. ‘Anyway, he was just about as nasty as possible. Left a very unpleasant taste. I rang Paul and told him and we decided to ignore him, but I didn’t know what it was that had upset him in the first place. I do now.’

  ‘Do you think,’ said Fran, pushing her empty plate away, ‘that he is nasty enough to have done something to Melanie to hurt Patrick?’

  ‘Yes, I think he is, but he’d have been far more likely to have hurt Patrick, and I don’t think it would have been physical. More like a smear campaign.’

  ‘He did know where Patrick lived, he admitted it,’ said Libby. ‘He said he, Lily Cooper and Dee knew. I assume through Writers in the South.’

  ‘They seem to be very free with giving out private information,’ said Nick, a little huffily.

  ‘Good job for us,’ said Libby. ‘Although Ian will have all the names and addresses now, anyway.’

  ‘Ian?’ queried Nick.

  ‘Our favourite DCI,’ said Libby. ‘Ian Connell.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He called me about the car.’

  ‘Well, now we’ve cleared that up,’ said Fran, observing that Nick looked thoroughly deflated, ‘do you want to go and join your friends?’ She nodded towards the bar.

  ‘Not
really.’ He gave her a sad little grin.

  ‘Another drink, then?’ Fran stood up.

  ‘No, let me –’

  ‘No, you bought the last one,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, you look fed up now. Sorry if we’ve brought up things you would rather have not thought about.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ Nick shrugged. ‘Paul and I still see one another, though not as much as we would like. Last weekend was a bit of a bonus. Except for Daniel. Bloody creep.’

  ‘Hey!’ Libby was struck by a thought. ‘Last weekend. You and Paul were in Hoppers’ Huts four and six, with Melanie between you. Didn’t you – um –’ she paused.

  ‘Spend the night together?’ Nick smiled. ‘Yes, of course we did. It was when Paul was going back to his hut he found the body.’ He made a face. ‘Horrible.’

  ‘Ah! I wondered why it was so early,’ said Libby, as Fran came back to the table.

  ‘What was early?’ she asked. Libby explained.

  ‘And you didn’t hear anything except the car?’ said Fran.

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  Fran and Libby looked at one another. Fran gave the slightest of nods.

  ‘If you haven’t gathered already,’ said Libby, ‘the police think Melanie was already dead when she arrived at the Manor, and someone set up the room to look as if she’d been there. She also booked in under an alias, but the evidence in the room showed who she really was. Where the body was until it was dumped near the huts we don’t know.’

  ‘You mean we could have been next door to a dead body all night?’ Nick looked horror-struck.

  ‘What difference would it make if it was in the hut or outside?’ asked Fran.

  ‘None I suppose.’ Now he looked uncomfortable. ‘So they want to check the cars – I guessed why – but I didn’t even take my car. What was the alias?’

  ‘Can we tell him that?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Fran. ‘So tell us. Last week you knew nothing about Melanie and little about anything going on in the area.’

  ‘Except Bonny Henge,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Except Bonny Henge. But now you can tell us what else you know about the area, in case there’s anything we could use.’

  ‘Use?’

  ‘Tell our friendly policeman,’ said Libby.

  ‘I think you’ve probably got everything I know by now.’ He heaved another sigh. ‘Daniel is a pain in the backside – whoops!’ He grinned. ‘I didn’t mean that. Jennifer – well, you’ve seen yourself what Jennifer’s like.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you knew Jennifer, too?’ said Libby.

  ‘Only because of the writers’ holiday. And of course, she lives in Rising Parva, too, doesn’t she? It looked to me as if she was very protective of Patrick, even when I didn’t know they’d known one another before. She’s a journo, too.’

  ‘Yes, we know, but wants to write fiction. Funny, isn’t it, that so many of you on that course were already published elsewhere?’

  ‘Often the case. Sometimes, people don’t consider you a proper writer until you’ve had a novel published.’

  ‘Our friend Rosie says that,’ said Libby.

  ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Amanda George. You met her.’

  ‘Ah, right. So what exactly are the police looking for?’

  ‘Not sure we can tell you any more,’ said Fran warily.

  ‘Let me have a guess then?’ He leant forward, looking like an eager puppy.

  ‘Go on then,’ said Libby, ‘but we might not tell you if you’re right or wrong.’

  He frowned in concentration for a moment. ‘Right. If Melanie was dead before she was taken to the Manor – oh, hang on. Perhaps she wasn’t. Was she taken there alive and then stabbed?’

  Fran and Libby didn’t look at one another.

  ‘We – they – don’t think so,’ said Libby.

  ‘Right. So whoever took her knew her, or her habits. And there was a lot of her stuff in the hut, was there?’

  They nodded.

  ‘So whoever it was could get into the house in Rising Parva and knew where to find stuff. Or – no, they could get into the house and just go through all the rooms to find stuff that looked right.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten that it had to be someone who knew she was intending to go to the weekend,’ said Fran.

  ‘So it had to be someone who she knew well!’ said Nick in triumph. ‘So it must be Jennifer!’

  ‘Must it?’ said Fran.

  ‘Well, no one else knew her, did they?’

  ‘Most people have said they didn’t know her, or where she and Patrick lived, but so far we haven’t any real proof of that,’ said Libby. ‘Patrick isn’t admitting to knowing any of the guests better than the others.’

  ‘Except the ones he went to bed with,’ said Nick.

  ‘Dee and Lily,’ said Fran.

  ‘He tried it on with Nina, too, but I don’t think he got very far.’

  ‘She says he didn’t,’ said Libby.

  ‘So you’ve got to find out first who took their cars to Kent. That rules out Paul, me, Audrey and Bernice.’

  ‘Dee lives in London, so I can’t see her driving all the way down here, can you? And she doesn’t strike me as the sort of person Melanie would have known.’ Libby sipped her wine. ‘Socially, I mean.’

  ‘Nina drove, but she’s even more unlikely,’ said Fran. ‘I thought at first she’d come with Jennifer, but apparently not.’

  ‘You see?’ said Nick. ‘It all points to Jennifer.’

  ‘I’m still not convinced of that,’ said Libby, ‘even though it looks most likely.’

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t anything to do with the time of her life that she spent in government – or advising it?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Certainly could be, but it doesn’t alter the fact,’ said Libby cheerfully, ‘that someone still had to kill her and take her there, knowing where she lived and knowing what she planned to do. It had to be someone who knew her, and knew about the Manor. So if wasn’t a guest at your weekend do, someone had to get in and out of the Manor grounds at least twice without us seeing them.’

  ‘Twice?’ Nick raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Once to sign her in. Do you remember, I came in and asked if everybody was there on the Friday night? That was because she – or who she was pretending to be – had been ticked off on my clipboard and the keys to her hut had gone. Then to dump the body. We don’t know at what time the scene in the hut was stage-managed.’

  ‘Very complicated.’ Nick frowned. ‘Someone had it planned thoroughly, didn’t he, or she?’

  ‘Yes, and that’s really all we know at the moment,’ said Fran. ‘We came down here to see if we could find out about who she knew, or how she lived, but we haven’t been very successful so far.’

  ‘Well, you found me and Daniel last week,’ said Nick. ‘That was fairly successful.’

  ‘So,’ said Fran, ‘to get back to what you know about the area. You know about Bonny Henge. What exactly do you know about it?’

  ‘Used to be Bonny Barrow, and then some years ago they decided it was a henge. Then a year or so ago they found a standing stone and think there might be more up there. It’s a small henge with probably only one entrance. And there are groups who want to protect it and groups who want to excavate it. Oh, and there’s the White Lady of Rising Parva.’ He grinned. ‘Not exactly scientific fact.’

  ‘You know a lot more than you let on,’ said Libby.

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry, but none of that helps find who killed Melanie Joseph, does it?’

  ‘I suppose not, but it’s interesting that you know all that. Because if you know it, so must the others,’ said Fran.

  ‘Only if they live in the area,’ said Nick. ‘But you can find out all about the White Lady wherever you are.’

  ‘On the internet, yes,’ said Libby doubtfully.

  ‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. I meant the book about her. Fictionalised, of course, but I think it sold quite well. By
someone called Ann Marsh.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  SILENCE. NICK LOOKED FROM Fran to Libby and back. ‘What did I say?’

  Libby cleared her throat. ‘Just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘I said it was to do with writing,’ muttered Fran.

  ‘Sorry – what?’ Nick peered at Fran, who deliberately picked up her wine and took a large swallow.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Libby. ‘Tell me, Nick, have you read it? How did you come to hear of it?’

  ‘It was in all the local bookshops and anywhere that could possibly sell books. I expect they’ve got it over the road. I’ve never read it.’

  ‘You mean in Chancery House?’ said Fran. ‘We didn’t see it and we asked about Rising Parva. The guide even showed us the exhibit for the White Lady.’

  ‘Well, maybe they haven’t any longer, but you’d find it online.’ Nick picked up his glass. ‘Come on, what’s this about?’

  ‘You’re a journalist,’ said Fran. ‘You already know more about the case than you possibly should, and we’re certainly not going to give you any more.’

  ‘You knew the name.’ Nick narrowed his eyes. ‘Didn’t you? Ann Marsh? Who is she?’

  ‘She’s – connected to the case,’ said Libby. ‘But we’re not going to tell you how.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we will have to tell the police what you’ve told us and we would get into serious trouble if we said any more,’ said Fran.

  ‘I could tell them myself.’ Nick sat back, looking belligerent.

  ‘OK, that would be great,’ said Libby with relief.

  ‘Oh.’ Nick frowned. ‘Well, actually what would I say?’

  ‘There’s a book about the White Lady of Bonny Henge written by someone called Ann Marsh. That’s what you told us.’ Fran was becoming brisk.

  Nick sighed. ‘OK, you can do it.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ grumbled Libby.

  ‘Look, I don’t know the significance, do I? So why would I report it? No, it’s better that you two do it.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I will go and join my mates. Thanks for the drinks.’

  ‘And thanks for the information,’ said Fran. ‘I expect we’ll see you again.’