Murder at the Manor

by Lesley Cookman

  There. So that’s a dead end.’

  ‘Right.’ Fran was silent for a moment. Then, ‘How about we do this together after all? We’ll only end up constantly on the phone to each other. Shall I come up to you?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby. ‘You always come here. I’ll come down to you. Then we can have an ice cream from Lizzie and I can sit on the beach. And perhaps go and see Jane and Imogen.’

  ‘OK,’ laughed Fran. ‘I’ll tell Guy I won’t be available for the shop – again!’

  ‘Oh, dear, is that what you should be doing?’

  ‘Only lunchtime relief, and I don’t suppose he’ll mind. See you when you get here. I’ll have the kettle on.’

  The drive to Nethergate from Steeple Martin was a pleasant one, and as Libby passed the end of Canongate Drive and dropped down towards the town and the sea, she reminded herself how lucky she was to live in an area like this, despite her brief flirtation with Dorset. From the top of the town, she looked out on to the curve of Nethergate Bay, with its lighthouse at the tip of the left headland and locally named Dragon Island in the middle.

  ‘Picture-postcard perfect,’ said Libby to herself, as she let in the clutch and began the steep descent.

  At the bottom of the high street was the square, with the old Swan Inn opposite. Off to the right was Victoria Place and Cliff Terrace, where Jane and Terry Baker’s Peel House stood, and to the left, Harbour Street, where, overlooking the sea on the opposite side of the road, stood Fran’s Coastguard Cottage.

  Libby found a parking space right down at the bottom of Harbour Street near the Blue Anchor cafe, and waved at Mavis, who was setting out her tables outside on the hard.

  Fran had the kettle on and had set up her laptop on the table in her little backyard, where Balzac the cat lay curled up in his favourite plant pot. He lifted his head and chirruped at Libby.

  ‘Not easy reading the screen,’ commented Libby, pulling herself and the table further into the shade.

  ‘We won’t need that so much, will we? I thought we were going to be phoning people,’ said Fran, putting a cafetière and two mugs on the table. ‘You don’t want biscuits, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby wistfully.

  ‘So, where do we start?’ Fran sat down with the list of numbers in front of her. ‘Nick and Paul will both be at work again, but Lily might answer even if she is at work. And Nina.’

  ‘Then there’s Audrey and Bernice. And Daniel, but he won’t talk to us.’

  ‘He might,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll try him first.’

  Fran didn’t give him a chance. As soon as he answered his phone with a gruff ‘Hill’, she began.

  ‘Daniel, this is important. Did you know that Melanie Joseph was, in fact, the real author of Patrick Joseph’s books?’

  After a short silence a burst of language that would, in the words of Alan Jay Lerner, make a sailor blush, emerged.

  ‘I take it you didn’t,’ said Fran.

  ‘He was making fools of us all,’ declaimed Daniel. ‘I shall sue.’

  ‘But what for?’ asked Fran. ‘I imagine he’s going to get into enough trouble when this gets out. The only thing you could complain about is that he led the workshops under false pretences. The real writer of those books actually did critique your work.’

  ‘No wonder it was a worthless critique,’ snapped Daniel, ‘and no wonder he wouldn’t discuss the book with me. Pointless exercise altogether.’ And the line went dead.

  ‘That was odd,’ Fran said to Libby. ‘Apart from the rather theatrical swearing and declamations, he didn’t actually say he knew or didn’t know.’

  ‘Suspected, perhaps?’ said Libby, adding milk to her coffee.

  ‘Maybe. Your turn now.’

  ‘Audrey, then, the one whose husband used to work for the council.’ Libby pulled the list towards her, and punched in the number on her phone.

  ‘Hello, dear, nice to hear from you again. Is there any news?’ Audrey asked comfortably, obviously settling in for a nice chat.

  ‘Well, there is, actually,’ said Libby, ‘although not quite the sort of news you might expect.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure this is all going to come out eventually, so you might as well know now,’ Libby continued. ‘Can I ask you if you and Bernice were pleased with your critiques from Patrick?’

  ‘Pleased?’ Audrey sounded surprised. ‘Well – yes, I suppose so. I mean, they weren’t quite what we’d been expecting, and he hardly referred to them at all when he was doing his workshops last year.’

  ‘No, that’s understandable,’ said Libby, taking a deep breath. ‘You see, Audrey, Patrick didn’t write the critiques. He didn’t even write his own books.’

  Audrey made a sound like gas escaping. ‘Didn’t – didn’t – write?’

  ‘No. Oh, he wrote the earlier ones, but for the last few years Melanie wrote them all. And did the critiques.’

  ‘Melanie?’ Audrey burst out. ‘Melanie? That misguided tree-hugger? Said she was Green but supported nuclear power. And coal. I ask you. I don’t want her critiquing my work!’

  ‘Oh, so you knew who she was after all?’ said Libby, raising her eyes at Fran.

  ‘Of course we did. You couldn’t live anywhere near Rising Parva and not know who she was.’

  Libby gasped. ‘You knew she lived there all along?’

  ‘Well, no. Not actually lived there. But we knew she lived in the area. Oh, my word, you just wait until I tell Bernice. Or were you going to tell her, dear?’

  ‘I was, yes, straight after I’d phoned you.’ Libby indicated to Fran that she was to dial Bernice’s number now. ‘But anyway, you had no idea that was going on?’

  ‘No, I Did Not. And I shall want my money back from that holiday. False pretences, that’s what it was.’

  ‘It wasn’t their fault,’ protested Libby mildly, hearing Fran begin her explanation to Bernice on the other phone. ‘Writers in the South didn’t know either. If anyone should be paying compensation it’s Patrick himself.’

  ‘I shall certainly be taking this up with –’ Audrey paused ‘– with someone, anyway. Thank you for telling me, dear. Oh – is it anything to do with her murder?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ said Libby. ‘But I’ll keep you posted.’

  Fran finished her own call and they compared notes.

  ‘So, both outraged,’ Libby summed up, ‘but Bernice worried about something else, you thought.’

  ‘Yes. She wasn’t quite as voluble as Audrey, and almost seemed as though she half expected it, but on the other hand it wasn’t what she expected.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Libby. ‘Shall we try Dee again?’

  ‘Might as well,’ said Fran, and Libby dialled the number. To her intense surprise, it was answered, not by Dee, but by a man.

  ‘Is Dee there, please?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the man pleasantly. ‘Who’s calling, please?’

  ‘Um, this is Libby Sarjeant. Could you ask if she could call me back?’

  ‘Thank you, Ms Sarjeant,’ said the voice. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Well!’ said Libby. ‘That was a bit rude.’

  But within seconds her mobile rang and she snatched it up.

  ‘Dee?’ she said.

  But it wasn’t Dee. It was Ian.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  LIBBY’S INSIDES PERFORMED THAT manoeuvre normally referred to as the heart turning over, or possibly one’s stomach sinking.

  ‘Ian?’ she croaked. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You just tried to call Dee Starkey.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ian sighed. ‘I needn’t have done this, you know. But I decided I’d better. Dee Starkey’s dead.’

  Libby turned her head to meet Fran’s worried gaze. ‘Dead?’ she repeated. ‘How?’

  ‘It appears to be murder,’ said Ian. ‘I can’t tell you any more.’

  ‘What happened? When?’

>   Ian sighed again. ‘I told you. I can’t tell you any more. I’ll call you later. Are you and Fran talking to the other writers?’

  ‘In the middle of it,’ said Libby.

  ‘In that case don’t say anything – anything, do you understand? – about this.’

  Libby switched off the phone and reached a shaking hand for her coffee.

  ‘Dee’s dead?’ said Fran.

  Libby nodded. ‘Why don’t you look surprised?’

  ‘We should have guessed when we couldn’t get hold of her.’

  ‘You don’t assume someone’s dead just because you can’t get hold of them!’

  ‘But if they’ve got in touch with you, it’s a police matter and they say it’s urgent, wouldn’t you get suspicious?’

  ‘We didn’t,’ said Libby, ‘but I suppose, looked at like that, we should have been. So should Ian.’

  ‘He – or somebody in the investigation – obviously was,’ said Fran. ‘Or they wouldn’t have found her.’

  ‘So why was she killed? Because of the information she said she had for us?’ Libby shivered. ‘God, I can’t stop shaking.’

  ‘Have a cigarette,’ said Fran magnanimously. ‘I’ll even find you something for an ashtray.’

  When she got back with a small terracotta dish, Libby had lit a cigarette and was staring into space.

  ‘Do you know what,’ she said slowly, ‘it’s becoming clear that everyone on that bloody weekend knew more about Patrick and Melanie Joseph than they said at first.’

  ‘And there’s something very odd about the weekend itself,’ said Fran.

  ‘Eh? What do you mean?’

  ‘They told us and the police they’d got together for that weekend because they’d bonded so closely on the writers’ holiday that they wanted a reunion. But they’re not like that at all, are they? They didn’t seem particularly close last weekend, and some of them are positively antagonistic to the others. So why were they there?’

  Libby looked horrified. ‘You’re not suggesting some kind of perverted Orient Express murder, are you?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m suggesting,’ said Fran, ‘just that they all knew more than they were saying and few of them liked each other, so there must have been another reason for the weekend.’

  ‘Do you think Dee was going to tell us what that reason was?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Shall we get on with calling people then?’ said Libby. ‘Ian says we mustn’t talk about Dee, but how about we now ask what the real reason was for the weekend?’

  ‘I think Daniel and Bernice at least thought that was what we were going to ask them,’ said Fran. ‘Revealing that Patrick hadn’t written his own books was almost – I don’t know – an anti-climax. Even with all Daniel’s blustering.’

  ‘Audrey seemed genuinely bemused, though,’ said Libby.

  ‘It’s as if they knew something about Patrick but this wasn’t it,’ mused Fran.

  ‘Yes – and look how Jennifer and Patrick were yesterday. How scared they were. There’s something they’re hiding and they’re worried someone’s going to find out.’

  ‘And somehow the others know about it.’ Fran shook her head. ‘But it’s silly. If the others know something detrimental why don’t they come out and say so?’

  ‘No idea. Let’s call Lily Cooper and see if she’ll let down her guard.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she will, but we might as well try. I’ll do it, shall I?’ Fran pulled the list of numbers towards her and picked up her phone.

  ‘Hello?’ Lily’s tone was brisk.

  ‘Ms Cooper,’ Fran began, ‘this is just to let you know there have been developments in the case of Melanie Joseph.’

  The tone turned wary. ‘Oh? That’s not the Sarjeant woman, is it?’

  Fran winced. ‘No, Ms Cooper. New information has come to light.’ Better Lily Cooper took her to be a police officer than admit who she was, Fran decided, wishing she’d concealed her number. ‘It appears that Patrick Joseph didn’t write his own novels.’

  ‘So he’s been –’ Lily Cooper burst out and then stopped. ‘Not written –? What exactly do you mean?’

  Fran wanted to ask what she’d meant, but decided it could get complicated. ‘Apparently all his more recent books were written by his wife. Who also did all the critiques for the writers’ holiday.’

  Lily Cooper’s language was almost as ripe as Daniel Hill’s had been.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Cooper,’ interrupted Fran, ‘but there’s one other thing. Can you tell me the real reason for the reunion weekend?’

  Silence.

  ‘Only it has become apparent,’ continued Fran, in her best formal language, ‘that you all knew more about Melanie and Patrick Joseph than you were prepared to admit, and neither did you appear to get on very well with each other.’

  More silence. Fran could almost hear Lily thinking. ‘Ms Cooper?’ she prompted.

  ‘Er – I’ll think about it.’ The voice was now positively shaky. ‘Can I come back to you?’

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Fran, and switched off the phone.

  ‘Well done, Inspector Wolfe,’ said Libby. ‘She’s obviously rattled.’

  ‘Very.’ Fran sighed. ‘I just don’t get it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you who we should call,’ said Libby. ‘Young Nina. She’s surely the most likely to tell us. Remember how uncomfortable she was at the Manor?’

  ‘We could ask Rosie to talk to her,’ said Fran, in a moment of inspiration.

  ‘So we could! Fran, that’s brilliant!’ Libby finished her coffee. ‘Shall we call Rosie now?’

  ‘We can see if she’s willing to do it,’ said Fran. ‘I suppose I’d better not say anything about Dee, had I?’

  ‘No, but tell her everything else,’ said Libby.

  While Fran related the story of the Melanie Joseph investigation to an obviously incredulous Rosie, Libby poured herself another cup of coffee and wandered round the tiny back yard. Balzac jumped off his plant pot and wound himself between her legs.

  Fran switched off the phone.

  ‘Rosie says she’s got one of those conference phones in her office, which means we could hear everything Nina said and we could chip in, too. She says wouldn’t this evening be best if Nina works?’

  ‘It’s a mobile number,’ said Libby, looking at the list, ‘so she might answer it anyway. Can’t we go over and try now?’

  ‘I think Rosie’s busy. We can’t just barge in. Besides, don’t you think we ought to run it past Ian?’

  ‘We’ve got to wait for him to call us,’ said Libby. ‘OK, then, we’ll carry on cold calling. Who’s left?’

  ‘Only the two men, Nick and Paul. I don’t suppose we’ll get them either.’

  ‘We’ve got Nick’s mobile number now,’ said Libby. ‘We could try.’

  ‘Your turn then,’ said Fran. Libby punched in the number.

  ‘Nick Forrest.’

  ‘Hello, Nick, it’s Libby.’

  ‘Libby! Are you still here?’

  Libby tried a small laugh. It didn’t sound convincing. ‘No, no, we’re back in Kent. Nick, there’s a bit more information about Patrick and Melanie. And you put us on to it, really.’

  ‘I did? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know that book, Rising Lady? And it turned out it was written by Melanie Joseph?’

  ‘So it was, was it? I don’t think you’d confirmed that.’

  ‘Yes, it was. Only it wasn’t.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It was published by her under the name of Ann Marsh, which was an alias she used while she was on official government business, and she still had the credit card in that name, which was how she managed to book in to the Manor.’ Libby paused for breath.

  ‘Yes?’ said Nick. ‘And?’

  ‘Only it wasn’t her book. It had been written by Jennifer Alderton.’

  ‘Jennifer? But how?’

  ‘Melanie saw Jennifer’s submiss
ion for the writers’ holiday workshop and offered to help her with it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Nick, sounding guarded.

  ‘And it turns out that not only did Melanie write all those critiques, but she had also been writing Patrick’s books for several years.’

  ‘She what?’

  ‘Sorry, but it does sort of change things in the investigation. So the police –’

  ‘The police know this, do they?’

  ‘Of course.’ Libby was surprised.

  ‘In that case – look, Libby, were you asked to tell me this?’

  ‘Yes, and to ask you what the real reason for the reunion was. It’s become apparent –’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know all that. Look I’m going to call Paul. Do you want me to call you back, or shall I call your inspector? I’ve got his card.’

  Libby valiantly suggested he call Ian direct.

  ‘All right, but I might call you afterwards,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re bursting with curiosity.’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Libby dryly, and switched off the phone. She looked at Fran. ‘Did you get all that?’

  ‘Most of it. Perhaps Rosie won’t need to talk to Nina after all.’

  Deciding there was nothing more they could do until they heard back from either Nick or Ian, they took the coffee things indoors and wandered across the road to the beach. The usual young families were there, protected by windbreaks, burying fathers in the sand and building sandcastles. A few tots in droopy swimsuits and floppy hats squealed at the wavelets and shook small buckets.

  ‘Ice cream,’ said Libby, so they walked back across the road to Lizzie’s tiny shop front and bought ice cream that tasted like it used to.

  When they’d finished their ice creams they wandered down to the Blue Anchor where Bert, captain of the Sparkler, and George, captain of the Dolphin, sat in their usual seats with large white mugs in front of them.

  ‘Not going out today?’ asked Libby, nodding at the two boats bobbing gently at the end of the little jetty.

  ‘Not enough trade,’ grunted Bert.

  ‘Little’uns don’t want to go. Trouble on boats they are,’ said George indicating the families on the beach. ‘What you two up to then? No good, I’ll be bound.’