Murder at the Manor

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Not pleasant, is it?’ said Fran. ‘Thanks, Jennifer, we’ll see you in half an hour.’

  ‘Do you realise,’ said Libby, as they finished their coffee, ‘we’ve met Jennifer three times in her home village, yet we’ve never been to her house.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s particularly remarkable,’ said Fran. ‘I know lots of people quite well who’ve never been to my house.’ She picked up her phone again. ‘Better tell Ian where we’ll be.’

  But Ian’s phone went straight to voicemail, and Libby and Fran decided not to call his official phone as it could quite easily, as he had told them before, impede an investigation.

  Rising Parva looked much as it had every other time they’d been there. If the police had a presence there, it was out of sight, presumably at Patrick’s house.

  Jennifer had not arrived, so they sat on a bench outside the pub and waited for her.

  ‘I wonder what she’ll say,’ said Libby, who held the book face down on her lap.

  ‘That’s what we’re here for,’ said Fran. ‘To find out. Look, here she comes.’

  Jennifer, summery in pale blue linen, with her hair loose, approached from the direction of the henge with Herald, who waved his plumed tail and beamed at them.

  ‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Nice to see you again.’ There was a faint question in her voice.

  ‘We just wanted to ask you something,’ said Fran. ‘Do you want to go inside? We’re going to have lunch here, but we can stay here if you like.’

  ‘No, here’s fine.’ Jennifer allowed Herald to have a drink at the dog bowl and sat down on the bench beside Libby.

  ‘We asked you about Melanie’s writing,’ said Fran, ‘and you said you didn’t take much notice. But we thought you must have known about this.’

  Libby held out Rising Lady and watched Jennifer’s face turn white. Her hand fluttered up to her chest and her eyes went frantically from Fran to Libby and back.

  ‘You obviously did know,’ said Libby, putting the book back in her lap. ‘And it’s equally obviously important.’

  Jennifer sat in silence for so long that Herald padded over, whined and put his head on her knee. Fran leant across Libby and put her hand on Jennifer’s arm.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Water? Brandy?’

  Jennifer shook her head and seemed to break the spell. ‘No – I – I think I’d like tea.’

  ‘I’ll go and ask,’ said Libby. ‘Milk?’

  When Libby had gone inside the silence fell again, only now Jennifer was rhythmically stroking Herald’s head.

  ‘They’ll bring tea out,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t know what to order you Fran.’ She sat down and looked expectant.

  ‘I don’t know where to start.’ Jennifer continued looking down at Herald.

  ‘Can you confirm that Ann Marsh is – or was – Melanie Joseph?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Yes.’ Jennifer almost whispered.

  ‘And you knew it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what about this book?’ asked Libby, getting impatient. Just then Jennifer’s tea was brought out and set on a wrought-iron table.

  ‘The book?’ prompted Fran.

  ‘I – er – I helped her with it.’

  ‘Honestly!’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘Why haven’t you told anybody this before?’

  ‘It didn’t seem relevant.’ Jennifer cleared her throat and reached out for her mug.

  ‘But it means you must have known her much better than you allowed people to think,’ said Fran. ‘You could hold the clue as to why she was murdered.’

  ‘No,’ whispered Jennifer, shaking her head.

  ‘Tell us why this has upset you so much,’ said Libby, ‘and why, come to think of it, you thought no one would find out?’

  ‘Why should they?’ said Jennifer, looking up.

  ‘Somebody would have come across this book, just as we did,’ said Fran. ‘And from there it would have been a short step to asking the police to get hold of the publishers and find out who the author was. An author who’s just been murdered, so this is quite relevant.’

  ‘But no one would have known I helped,’ said Jennifer, her eyes returning to the book.

  ‘No, neither would we, but you gave yourself away.’ Libby sighed deeply. ‘There must be some reason this has frightened you.’

  Jennifer drank some of her tea.

  ‘Look, Jennifer,’ said Fran, ‘I’m really sorry for you, but you must see that your closeness to Melanie means you’ll be able to help the police. DCI Connell’s here in Rising Parva now, so –’

  ‘He’s with Patrick. I can’t talk to him,’ Jennifer interrupted.

  ‘Oh, come on, Jennifer!’ said Libby. ‘What is it? Why is the fact that you helped Jennifer write it so worrying?’

  ‘Because,’ Jennifer drew herself upright in her seat and put the mug on the table, ‘because I didn’t help her. She helped me. This is my book. She stole it.’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  THOUGHTS AND SUSPICIONS TUMBLED over one another in Libby’s mind, thoughts that were mirrored in Fran’s face. Jennifer stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Libby.

  ‘Home,’ said Jennifer.

  Fran picked up Herald’s lead. ‘Not yet,’ she said.

  ‘You know perfectly well we’ll only send the police to see you,’ said Libby. ‘So be reasonable and tell us all about it. We’ll see if we can help.’

  ‘You can’t help,’ said Jennifer, but she sat down again.

  ‘Alcohol might,’ said Libby. ‘I’m going to get you a glass of wine. I’m driving, so I’ll have a shandy. You, Fran?’

  When Libby had gone, Fran handed Herald’s lead back to Jennifer, who took it but didn’t move.

  ‘How much does Patrick know about this?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Most of it,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘And he’s said nothing to the police?’ Fran was frowning. ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘To protect me, probably,’ said Jennifer, although she didn’t look convinced.

  Libby came back with the drinks and sat down on another bench that she pulled up to face the one on which Jennifer and Fran were sitting. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Now, begin at the beginning, Jennifer.’

  After a moment’s thought, Jennifer picked up her wineglass, took a sip and began her story.

  ‘You know I wanted to write a novel? That was why I went on the writers’ holiday last year. I already had the idea, in fact, I’d written most of it. Patrick suggested I should go, but we decided we wouldn’t say we were already friends because it would cause accusations of favouritism.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘He said it was a great source of ideas, as well everything else.’ Her eyes flickered suddenly.

  ‘He’d been before, then?’ said Fran.

  ‘Yes, he was a regular. There and some other conferences.’

  ‘So you went along? And submitted the first ten pages to him first?’ said Libby.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Melanie saw the manuscript?’ said Fran.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And offered to help? Come on Jennifer, give us a hand here,’ said Libby.

  Jennifer took a deep breath. ‘Melanie knew it was mine, and asked if she could see any more of it. Well, of course, I gave it to her, and when I got back from the writers’ holiday she was very encouraging and helped by pointing out a couple of the historical details I’d missed, and then helped me finish it. Then she said she would help me find an agent and a publisher.’ She fell silent again.

  ‘So,’ said Libby, ‘she submitted the book as her own. What – to Patrick’s publishers? As herself?’

  ‘Yes. When I found out – as of course I did when I found a copy in their house – I almost fainted from shock. Literally. She made it sound so speciously reasonable. I would never have had a hope, didn’t I know how difficult it was these days for a new author, at least my work had seen the light of day. Eventually, I threatened to sue. Luckily, I still ha
d the book on my own computer, and backed up on CD and memory stick.’ She gave a small twisted smile. ‘You don’t work in publishing without learning that.’

  ‘What did she do?’ asked Fran. ‘Had she had an advance?’

  ‘Yes, she had. Not a large one, but apparently Patrick’s publishers don’t normally publish that sort of book, so they were taking a risk. But it was doing quite well. After I confronted Patrick with it, he said he hadn’t known what was going on and would have stopped her if he’d known, but I’m pretty sure he did know – just didn’t want to.’

  ‘So what happened next?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Patrick told her to give me the advance. And they both signed a letter to the publishers, with me countersigning, asking that my name should be included on the cover in any future editions. And that I should receive the royalties.’

  ‘Well, that’s great!’ said Libby. ‘So why were you so upset when we showed you the book?’

  ‘Because that letter was never sent.’ Jennifer looked up. ‘And I never received the money from the advance. And I knew how it would look. As if I’d killed her because she’d stolen my book.’

  ‘But your best chance was to keep her alive to challenge her – to do as you said, and sue,’ said Fran.

  ‘No, I couldn’t do that,’ said Jennifer, her eyes dropping to her lap again.

  ‘Why not?’ Libby was getting exasperated again. ‘It was your right.’

  ‘But Patrick –’ began Jennifer.

  ‘Ah. You’re protecting Patrick.’ Libby shook her head. ‘He doesn’t deserve it, if you ask me.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ said Jennifer. ‘It would have meant the end of Patrick.’

  ‘How do you mean, the end?’ asked Libby. ‘Did he depend on her that much? You said she helped him, but to that extent?’

  ‘She helped him a lot.’ Jennifer’s lips snapped shut, as if she were forcibly holding back words that threatened to burst out and destroy everything.

  They sat in silence for a moment, then Fran said: ‘You said you didn’t like her much. And that you didn’t take much notice of her own writing. If that was the case, why did you let her help you with the book?’

  ‘I – well, I suppose because I thought she would be better equipped than I was, and I would never ask Patrick.’

  ‘And he never commented himself on your manuscript?’ said Libby.

  ‘No, but we’d already decided that.’ Jennifer finished her glass of wine. ‘And I ought to get back now.’

  ‘Back where?’ asked Libby.

  ‘What?’ Jennifer looked startled. ‘Oh – er – home.’

  ‘Not Patrick’s?’ said Fran.

  ‘The police are there, aren’t they?’ said Jennifer.

  ‘I should think so,’ said Libby. ‘DCI Connell told us they would be.’

  ‘DCI –’ Jennifer looked frightened now. ‘Will you tell him?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fran. ‘You know we will.’

  ‘Of course.’ Now Jennifer sounded almost relieved. ‘And then he’ll talk to Patrick, won’t he?’

  ‘I expect so, even if we can’t see that this had anything to do with Melanie’s murder,’ said Libby.

  Jennifer stood up and hesitated. ‘Thank you for talking to me first,’ she said.

  ‘We couldn’t very well have told the police anything about the book until you told us, could we?’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, the police already know about the book.’

  Jennifer’s eyes widened.

  ‘But not, of course, that you wrote it,’ said Fran. ‘We didn’t know that until you told us.’

  ‘We simply thought there might be something in the fact that Melanie wrote it under a pen-name – if she did, which we also didn’t know conclusively – that could have given us a clue to her murderer.’

  Jennifer swallowed hard and lost the colour she’d regained over the past ten minutes.

  ‘Go on, you go off home,’ continued Libby. ‘We’ll be in touch, or the police will, if there’s a need to.’

  Jennifer nodded and, without another word, picked up Herald’s lead again and turned abruptly.

  ‘There’s more to this,’ muttered Fran, as they watched Jennifer walk away.

  ‘But what?’ said Libby. ‘I don’t understand it. Why has she kept out of it for so long? Look.’ She opened the book at the publishing history page. ‘It was only published a few months ago. Melanie must have rushed it through with the publishers.’

  ‘In case Jennifer found out too soon?’ suggested Fran.

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t see how the Josephs could have hoped to keep it quiet. The publishers must have agreed not to publicise Melanie’s real identity, but it would have come out eventually. And to be honest, who would believe Jennifer? Remember all those other plagiarism claims by unknown writers against famous ones? They’re always thrown out of court.’

  ‘Primarily because the unknown writers haven’t got enough money to pursue it,’ agreed Fran. ‘Do you think we need to tell Ian now?’

  ‘Yes, so he can ask Patrick about it. Although I still don’t see what bearing it has on the murder,’ said Libby.

  ‘There’s something that Jennifer wasn’t telling us. And she’s still scared. So perhaps whatever that is, it does have a bearing on the murder.’ She fished her phone out of her pocket. ‘And we don’t know that Ian’s actually at Patrick’s, do we?’

  The phone once more went to voice mail, so, taking a deep breath, Fran called Ian’s official phone. She was answered within seconds.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s something you need to know. Jennifer Alderton wrote that book, Rising Lady. Melanie stole it.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the pub in Rising Parva,’ said Fran. ‘I left you a voice mail saying we were coming to see Jennifer Alderton.’

  ‘Is she with you?’

  ‘No, she said she was going home.’

  ‘Damn. I’ll send someone to pick her up.’

  ‘Are you with Patrick?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Yes. I’ll talk to him now.’

  The phone was switched off and Fran pulled a face at Libby.

  ‘He’s going to talk to Patrick and pick Jennifer up. I thought he might ask us to go up there.’

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve already interfered too much. We might as well have lunch and go home, as we planned.’

  They ordered shepherd’s pie and waited for it on the bench outside.

  ‘You read about that sort of thing happening, don’t you? Or writers thinking it will happen.’

  ‘You do?’ Libby asked.

  ‘Writers submit manuscripts, get rejected and think that someone at the agency or the publishers have pinched the idea.’

  ‘This wasn’t the publisher or agent, though, it was another writer,’ said Libby. ‘That must happen.’

  ‘I still don’t understand how she got the publishers to take her on, though. It’s so hard to get published at all and she was unagented and didn’t want to trade on her own name.’

  ‘We know why she didn’t want to trade on her own name,’ said Libby. ‘Because it wasn’t her work.’

  ‘The publishers wouldn’t have known that.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Still don’t get it.’

  Their shepherd’s pie arrived just as Fran’s phone trilled again.

  ‘Might need your input again,’ came Ian’s tired voice. ‘Something’s come up.’

  Fran put down her fork. ‘What? What do you want us to do?’

  ‘I think you could come up here. The Josephs’ house. You know where it is, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran was frowning. ‘But why do you need us? And can we finish our lunch first?’

  ‘All right.’ Ian sighed. ‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’

  They finished their lunch as quickly as possible and set off towards Patrick’s house.

  ‘This is giving me indigestion,�
�� complained Libby. ‘Why do you think he wants us?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Fran. ‘It seems highly unlikely.’

  DS Wallingford – Libby still couldn’t think of him as Barry – let them in to Patrick’s house and ushered them into the sitting room, where Ian sat on an upright chair by a small table and Patrick and Jennifer sat miserably opposite each other either side of the fireplace. Ian nodded, grunted and stood up, jerking his head towards a door at the back of the room. Libby and Fran followed him through it.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Libby. ‘What have they said? Why did you want us?’

  They found themselves in a long kitchen that had been extended into a conservatory. Ian turned to face them.

  ‘I don’t know what it is about you two,’ he said heavily, ‘but whenever you’re involved things just get more and more complicated.’

  Libby felt herself blushing and noticed that Fran had gone pink, too.

  ‘But we don’t make things complicated,’ she protested.

  ‘No, you just uncover the complications,’ said Ian. ‘And I suppose I’m grateful. If you hadn’t found out about that bloody book, we wouldn’t know what we do now.’

  ‘But what? All we found out was that Melanie had pinched the book Jennifer had written because she saw what Jennifer submitted to Patrick for the writers’ holiday.’

  ‘She saw it all right,’ said Ian. ‘Because it was to Melanie that the books were submitted.’

  ‘What?’ said Libby and Fran together.

  ‘Patrick hadn’t written his books for years. Melanie wrote them all.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  FOR A LONG MOMENT there was a stunned silence.

  ‘Melanie wrote them?’ Fran said eventually in a strangled voice.

  ‘Apparently she’d been helping for years before she took a back seat from public life, because he’d hit some sort of writer’s block.’ Ian shrugged. ‘Can’t say I’d know what that is. So when she had more time on her hands it seems that she more or less took over.’

  Libby shook her head. ‘I don’t understand it. Why wouldn’t she want her own name on the books?’

  ‘Because it was Patrick who had the name. She would have had to build up a following,’ said Fran.