‘Not if he sees us first,’ said Libby, as Nick was absorbed into the group at the bar.
Fran got up. ‘I’m going to look that book up online. Coming?’
‘No, I’m going to go outside and have a cigarette. I’ll follow you.’
‘Aren’t you interested? This is the most fascinating thing we’ve discovered so far.’
‘Of course I’m interested, but it’ll wait for twenty minutes, won’t it?’
Fran sighed. ‘All right. See you in a bit.’
Libby took her drink to one of the tables outside. It was still quite light, although she could see lamps coming on in some of the houses round the green. She lit her cigarette and rested her elbows on the table, trying to make sense of what they’d just learnt. If Melanie Joseph had written a book about her local ghost under the name of Ann Marsh, what exactly did it mean? And did it matter? She knew Fran was convinced that it did, because she’d had the feeling Melanie’s murder was to do with writing, but to Libby’s non-writerly brain it didn’t add up.
‘Still got the dreadful habit, I see,’ said a voice, and Libby nearly spilt her wine.
‘Ian!’ She looked up at him and saw DS Wallingford hovering behind looking uncomfortable. ‘Is this an official visit?’
‘No, I’m not going to arrest you. Where’s Fran?’
Libby opened her mouth, shut it again and grinned. ‘There!’ she said as Fran appeared from the door of the pub, laptop in hand.
‘Ian – what are you doing here?’ she said.
‘Lovely welcome from both of you, I must say. I’m off duty, and I knew you were here, so I dragged poor Barry here along as driver.’
‘If you’re off duty, perhaps you won’t want to see this then,’ said Fran.
Ian cast his eyes up. ‘Great. But let me get a drink, first.’
‘Nick Forrest’s in there,’ warned Libby.
‘Is he? Would I be right in thinking he helped you to whatever information you think you’ve got for me?’
Libby nodded.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter for the moment because he and I have never met. You can introduce me later. What can I get you to drink?’
Libby had another glass of wine, but Fran, always more sensible, declined and Ian went into the pub followed by DS Wallingford.
‘What is it?’ said Libby, when they’d gone.
‘Here.’ Fran turned the laptop screen, and there was the cover of a book, with the same ghostly picture they had seen earlier that day at Chancery House, superimposed over a traditionally dark silhouette of an isolated house.
Libby scrolled down to the description of the book, which appeared to be a gothic time slip novel based around the legend of the White Lady. There was nothing about the author, and when Libby clicked on the name nothing more came up.
‘Look, it only came out six months ago,’ Fran said. ‘It’s got to have something to do with her murder.’
Ian and Barry Wallingford appeared carrying drinks and sat down on the benches either side of the table.
‘So what is it?’ Ian asked, after his first pull at his pint. Fran turned the laptop screen towards him.
‘I don’t see –’ he began, frowning. ‘Oh, Ann Marsh. So?’
‘The book’s about the local ghost who walks from the henge to Rising Manor. And it only came out six months ago.’ Libby shrugged. ‘I don’t know what it means, either, but Fran’s sure it means something.’
‘It’s got to be Melanie. I know Ann Marsh isn’t an unusual name,’ said Fran, ‘but as it’s about her local legend it’s got to be her. Although she’s only written non-fiction before, and this is very much in the romantic-gothic genre.’
‘We were both surprised when we heard,’ said Libby, ‘because it was such a coincidence, but I don’t see that it has anything to do with her murder.’
‘And how did you hear?’ asked Barry Wallingford, making them all jump.
‘Nick Forrest,’ said Fran. ‘He brought us here when we came down before, and after you’d told us he was a journalist we rather hijacked him when he came in this evening. He admitted he knew slightly more about the people and set-up than he’d told us before and then said that anyone could find out about the White Lady because of the book written about her. The name rather took us by surprise.’
Ian’s face darkened. ‘You didn’t tell him why?’
‘No, of course not. Do you want to talk to him yourself?’
‘I suppose I ought to.’ Ian frowned at the laptop screen. ‘Did he tell you anything else?’ He turned to Wallingford. ‘This is all off the record, Barry, but they’ve been very helpful in the past. Not that I expected anything this evening.’
‘I recognised Mrs Sarjeant’s name when I first went to the Manor.’ He grinned at Libby. ‘Then I realised why you’d backed off the case.’
‘Didn’t do me much good, did it? Go on then, did this Forrest tell you anything else?’
Libby and Fran told him about Daniel’s threat and the background to it.
‘That didn’t make sense, either,’ said Libby. ‘Why would Daniel threaten Nick just because we’d been to see him?’
‘He thought Nick would reveal all,’ said Fran. ‘I can see how he worked it out. He knew we were working our way through the members of the writing weekend, and if we told anyone about how he’d behaved towards us, someone else might agree and wade in with their own story. And Nick did.’
‘The other thing was,’ said Libby, ‘and I don’t suppose he’ll thank me for telling you this, he and Paul Fisher spent the night together in Nick’s hut. It was when Paul was going back to his own that he found the body.’
‘That was why it was so early,’ said Barry Wallingford.
‘Just what I said.’ Libby beamed at him. ‘So, do you want to talk to Nick?’
Ian and Barry looked at each other. Barry nodded.
‘I suppose so,’ said Ian. ‘One of you point him out to me.’ He stood up.
‘I’ll go and fetch him,’ said Fran. ‘It would be kinder.’
‘All right, but you two are not – repeat not – sitting in on the interview.’
‘OK, boss,’ grinned Libby, and collecting the laptop and her glass, stood up.
‘No,’ said Ian, ‘you stay here. We’ll go to one of those tables over there.’ He indicated the green, just as Fran arrived with a bewildered-looking Nick.
‘DCI Connell, Mr Forrest,’ said Ian holding out his hand. ‘And this is DS Wallingford, whom I believe you’ve already met.’
‘What’s this about? The book? I don’t know anything about it.’ Nick shook Ian’s hand as if it might turn into a snake.
‘Just come over here, Mr Forrest,’ said Ian, ‘and we’ll explain. Nothing to worry about. Can I borrow the laptop, Fran?’
The three men walked across the green, while Libby and Fran watched.
‘What do you suppose Ian will ask him?” said Libby.
‘Why he didn’t say he and Paul were together that night, I expect, and what he knows about the book.’
‘But that was such a throw-away remark, when he mentioned the name,’ said Libby. ‘He doesn’t know anything about it.’
‘He might know more than he thinks,’ said Fran slowly.
‘Eh?’ Libby turned to stare at her friend. ‘Not another “moment”?’
‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘I just wondered – oh, it’s too far-fetched to be possible.’
‘Go on, what? You can’t leave it like that.’
‘No, it’s daft.’ Fran looked across at the three men on the green. ‘I’ll wait until they come back and ask Nick then.’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Libby.
Fran shrugged. ‘You’ll hear then, won’t you? If I tell you now, you’ll tell me how bonkers it is and then I won’t ask.’
Libby harrumphed and lit another cigarette.
Ten minutes later, by which time darkness had fallen, Nick walked back towards them between Ian and Barry Wallingford.
‘I was wondering,’ continued Fran, while Ian and Barry Wallingford stood aside looking as baffled as Libby, ‘if, when you went on that writers’ holiday, you knew what your fellow delegates’ books were about?’
‘Books?’ Nick looked baffled now, too.
‘Sorry, the manuscripts you’d submitted to Patrick before the course.’
‘Well, they weren’t books, only ten pages or so with a synopsis.’
‘Were any of them finished?’
‘I don’t know. Mine wasn’t, and Paul’s wasn’t. Not sure about the others.’
‘Didn’t you discuss them during Patrick’s course?’
‘Yes, we had to read out a part of what we’d submitted and discuss it, each of us in turn. We didn’t all do it on the same day.’
Fran leant forward. ‘And do you remember what any of them were about?’
Nick looked startled. ‘No – well not properly. I remember Daniel’s – it was about someone going to have a sex change in Singapore.’ Nick wrinkled his nose. ‘Ironic, in a way.’
‘Fran, I hate to interrupt,’ said Ian, ‘but can you tell us what you’re getting at?’
‘I was just wondering,’ said Fran, going a bit pink, ‘if any of the books submitted to Patrick were a time slip novel about the White Lady of Bonny Henge.’
Chapter Thirty-three
EVERYONE LOOKED AT FRAN. Then everyone looked at Nick, who was gaping.
‘What made you think of that?’ said Ian. ‘What books submitted?’
Libby explained, as Nick seemed incapable of speech.
‘But I don’t think there were any,’ he said when Libby had finished.
‘Any romances?’ asked Fran.
‘No obvious ones that I remember,’ he said slowly. ‘We were all supposed to have submitted something in Patrick’s genre, but he did say several would fit other genres better.’
‘And you would only have heard short pieces from each read out?’ said Libby.
Ian and Barry Wallingford were listening with puzzled interest.
‘Exactly,’ said Nick, ‘so I don’t know. Can I go now?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ said Fran, looking in the light from the pub windows even pinker. Nick disappeared and the two policemen sat down.
‘Right – what was that about?’ asked Ian.
‘I told Libby I thought it was daft,’ said Fran, ‘but I just wondered when I realised what the book was about if Melanie had pinched the idea from one of the writers who submitted to Patrick.’
‘But why would any of the writers have written about the ghost of Rising Parva?’ asked Libby.
‘It still wouldn’t be worth killing for,’ said Ian. ‘If somebody had a real grievance it would be better to fight it out in court, surely.’
‘No would-be writer could afford that,’ said Fran.
‘Anyway,’ said Libby, ‘the manuscripts were submitted to Patrick, not Melanie.’
‘She could have seen them,’ said Fran. ‘Jennifer said she helped Patrick.’
‘I don’t see how it helps to find her killer,’ said Ian.
‘No,’ said Fran. ‘Sorry. I said it was daft.’
‘What about Dee Starkey?’ asked Libby. ‘Did you get hold of her?’
‘No, I had to leave a message. If you feel like it you could email her again and tell her I’ve tried to speak to her. If it’s as urgent as she told you it was she’ll ring either you or me.’
‘Nina emailed, too,’ said Libby. ‘She seemed a bit anxious.’
‘I don’t think they’ve found any forensics in her car,’ said Ian, ‘although I haven’t had a full report on it.’
‘You know,’ said Fran slowly, ‘she could easily be the person who wrote about The White Lady. She’s a romance fan, isn’t she?’
‘So’s Jennifer,’ said Libby, ‘and she’s far more likely to have written about a ghost in her home village. Anyway, we don’t know that Melanie stole the idea from anybody.’
The subject was dropped and the evening slid easily into a mildly enjoyable social occasion, but as Ian and Wallingford stood to leave, Fran said, ‘Is there any way we could ask for copies of those manuscripts?’
Ian frowned. ‘I can’t see why, and they’d have been destroyed by now, wouldn’t they?’
‘Not by the writers,’ said Fran with a small smile.
‘Would Joseph have kept copies?’ asked Wallingford.
‘No, but he might have kept copies of his critiques,’ said Libby. ‘Is it worth asking?’
Ian sighed. ‘We’re seeing him tomorrow again. We’ve had people going through his house. I’ll mention it.’
‘Is he a suspect then?’ said Libby.
‘Of course he is.’ Ian looked surprised. ‘The most obvious one.’
‘But we don’t think he did it, do we?’ said Libby, as she and Fran climbed the stairs to go back to their rooms.
‘I don’t know. The police can’t have thought so, or they would have been questioning him much more thoroughly than they have done. There must have been some reason not to suspect him in the beginning.’
‘I suppose so.’ Libby halted outside her door. ‘So what made you think about Melanie pinching that idea?’
‘I kept thinking about her writing. It was the only thing that made any sense.’ She shrugged. ‘But even that didn’t make sense, either.’
‘I have to agree with Ian,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t see that killing someone who had pinched your idea would make sense. You’d want a fight in the open, so you could claim it for your own and perhaps make some money from it.’
‘I know.’ Fran sighed. ‘The only people with any kind of real motive are Patrick, Jennifer because she was jealous of Melanie, and Lily Cooper for the same reason. And Lily didn’t know her well enough to meet up with her and give her ketamine before the weekend. Well, didn’t know her at all, in fact.’
‘Let’s sleep on it,’ said Libby. ‘Then tomorrow we’ll track down a copy of the White Lady, or whatever it’s called.’
The next morning they were served breakfast in a small private parlour behind the bar.
‘I looked that book up last night,’ said Libby, pouring tea. ‘It’s actually called Rising Lady.’
‘So did I,’ said Fran, ‘and it does actually look quite good. It’s got lots of five-star reviews.’
‘We’ll go and find a bookshop, shall we? I don’t want to spend another entrance fee at Chancery House.’
It appeared that neither of them wanted to talk about Melanie Joseph’s murder that morning and instead they went to Salisbury in search of bookshops.
It wasn’t hard to find one, nor was it hard to find many Patrick Josephs on the shelves. It was harder to track down Ann Marsh, but Libby eventually found Rising Lady in General Fiction.
‘No photograph,’ said Fran, as they pored over it.
‘And a very sparse biog,’ said Libby. ‘Are we going to buy it?’
‘It would be cheaper online,’ said Fran.
‘Oh, come on, Fran! If everybody did that we wouldn’t have any real bookshops,’ said Libby. ‘Besides, I can’t wait all that time to read it. I’ll buy it. Blimey!’
‘What?’
‘Look – a cover quote from Patrick Joseph!’
‘That seals it, then,’ said Fran, taking the book from Libby and marching towards the till.
They found a cafe with tables outside in the sunshine and sat down to read the first few pages of Rising Lady together.
‘I can’t believe Jennifer didn’t know about this,’ said Libby, after a waitress had delivered their coffee. ‘They must have publicised it in Rising Parva. In all the Risings.’
‘You’d think so,’ agreed Fran. ‘After all, somebody must have noticed it somewhere, or it might have caught someone’s eye online.’
‘If they were trying to keep her identity quiet they wouldn’t want to publ
icise it locally,’ said Libby.
‘But they’ve got it in Chancery House, Nick thought.’
‘We don’t know they have,’ said Libby, ‘and, as I said last night, you’d have thought the lady there would have told us if it was, especially as they had this drawing displayed.’
‘Perhaps they actively kept it away from the area,’ said Fran.
‘Which argues that there is something dodgy about it.’
‘It’s all supposition,’ said Fran, leaning back and pushing the book away from her. ‘I don’t know why I’m bothered about it.’
‘Neither do I, but it’s intriguing,’ said Libby, picking up the book and reading a few more lines. ‘In fact, so’s the book. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Lily Cooper lives here,’ said Fran, staring down the street as though expecting to see the woman appear.
‘So she does.’ Libby put the book down. ‘Were you intending to call on her?’
‘Just saying. It’s actually much closer to the Risings than I thought.’
‘Has she jumped to the top of the list?’
Fran sighed. ‘I don’t know. I can see her killing Melanie by accident if she and Patrick had been discovered, but not with this sort of deliberation. Someone really wanted Melanie out of the way permanently.’
‘So why would that be?’ Libby looked resigned. ‘She must have been a threat to someone.’
‘Sorry, Libby.’ Fran gave her friend a smile. ‘I know I’m being a pain.’
‘I don’t know if we’re trying to find things out or not, frankly,’ said Libby. ‘I think we might just as well go home again.’
‘All right.’
Libby looked surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Just let’s go to Rising Parva once more and show Jennifer this book.’
‘Ian might not like us going if he’s there,’ said Libby doubtfully.
‘We’ll call him. But let’s call Jennifer first in case she’s not home.’
‘We’re going now?’
‘Why not? And we can always have lunch in the pub there again.’
Jennifer was in, and though surprised to hear from Fran, said yes, she would meet them at the pub in half an hour.
‘Poor Patrick’s had the police in the house for two days,’ she said. ‘I’ve been taking him meals. And they’ve been all over my car, too.’
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