Murder at Mallowan Manor

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Well, all right. But let’s go up to the gallery first. You can use the phone up there.’

  ‘Mobile,’ said Libby, holding hers up. ‘You go on up. I’ll follow.’

  Fran and Dame Amanda climbed the rest of the staircase and came out on the broad gallery. The view down into the hall made Fran feel dizzy.

  ‘Did you buy the house from the Mallowan family?’ she asked Dame Amanda, turning to the bank of portraits hanging along the wall.

  ‘No, it was lost in the Civil War, and there were no living members of the family after the Restoration. These are portraits of the families that came later, and a lot that were just bought for effect, I think.’

  Libby came panting up the stairs to join them.

  ‘You’ll never believe it,’ she gasped, ‘but Andrew had already started looking into it!’

  ‘What?’ Dame Amanda and Fran turned simultaneously.

  ‘He came across a reference to it in some academic online group. Someone had posted about the rumour that had popped up, and all these old history professors started arguing about it. So Andrew started looking it up.’

  Dame Amanda looked startled. ‘So this rumour’s got that far?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t take much for something like that to go viral,’ said Libby.

  ‘Go viral?’ Dame Amanda frowned.

  ‘Spread across the internet like a virus,’ said Fran.

  ‘But they’re dangerous, aren’t they? Don’t they damage your computer?’

  ‘Not that sort of virus,’ said Libby. ‘It’s just rumour-spreading, only online. Anyway, in this case it’s worked in our favour. Andrew’s only found out so far what you’ve told us, but he’ll keep digging and keep in touch.’

  ‘Did you explain the circumstances?’ asked Dame Amanda.

  ‘Not fully. I merely said you were trying to sell.’

  ‘Good.’ Dame Amanda gave a satisfied nod. ‘Now, come on. Let’s do the rest of the tour. This, obviously, is the gallery.’

  ‘This is where you heard the knocking?’ said Fran.

  ‘Yes. It seemed to come from one of the rooms along here,’ she indicated several doors between the paintings, ‘but there was nobody there and nobody hiding, as far as we could see. And we tapped all the panelling, inside and out.’

  ‘No hollow sounds?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Not that we could hear. And as I said, Coolidge sat up all night here one time.’

  ‘If it was a fake ghost, whoever was doing it would know he did that,’ said Fran.

  ‘That’s what we thought, which reinforced my belief that it’s a very human ghost. So,’ said Dame Amanda, with a very fierce expression on her face, ‘I’m quite determined to find out who it is. And why.’

  ‘Right.’ Libby glanced at Fran. ‘And find out who the ghost is supposed to be.’

  Dame Amanda raised her eyebrows. ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Of course. That’s why Andrew’s looking into it. If there isn’t any historical evidence of a ghost, what are the – um – perpetrators basing their myth on?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, I see. Well, come on, then. Along the gallery are these rooms which are mainly not in use. This weekend, I’ve put my daughter in one of them and the solicitor in another.’ She opened a door onto a sparsely furnished bedroom. ‘All of them have en-suites built into them now, but we’ve blended them in.’

  Libby and Fran saw a boxed-off and panelled corner of the room.

  ‘Do they back on to one another?’ asked Fran. ‘The en-suites?’

  ‘Yes. It made it easier for the plumbing.’

  ‘When they did the plumbing, did they find anything else?’ said Libby.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Unexplained gaps – that sort of thing.’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I know. No secret passages, or anything like that.’

  Fran was back out on the gallery looking thoughtful. ‘Where does that door at the end lead to?’

  ‘Another staircase. They weren’t exactly logical, these seventeenth-century builders.’

  ‘Up or down?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Both. It goes down to the old drawing room and up to the next floor where most of the bedrooms are.’

  ‘And your room is up there? And your nephew’s room?’ said Fran. ‘Is there any other way up to them?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Dame Amanda turned back to the staircase by which they had come up. ‘You see? Just beyond where we came out it turns back on itself up to the next level. Not as imposing as the first flight, of course.’

  ‘So anyone could come up and down without being seen. Say, if you or Coolidge had been coming down that staircase, someone else could have been going back up the other one.’ Libby was peering both ways along the gallery.

  ‘Well – yes.’ Dame Amanda looked puzzled. ‘But that would mean it had to be my nephew.’

  ‘You suspect him, don’t you?’ said Fran.

  ‘Maybe.’ Dame Amanda looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Now it’s come to it, you really don’t want to point the finger, do you?’ said Libby shrewdly. ‘We’ve made it real.’

  Dame Amanda looked at her steadily for a long moment. ‘You’re probably right. But I’m not looking for a murderer or a thief. Just to find out who’s trying to frighten me in my own home and for what reason. It might cause a rift in the family, but …’ she stopped, looking miserable.

  ‘Aren’t families the devil,’ said Fran gently. ‘Shall we carry on without you?’

  Dame Amanda looked relieved. ‘Would you? Just better not actually go into any of the bedrooms. You can open the doors –’

  ‘After knocking,’ said Libby.

  Dame Amanda smiled. ‘Go on then. I’ll be downstairs when you’ve finished.’

  ‘Other staircase,’ said Libby, as their hostess descended the grand staircase.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ said Fran.

  ‘Another staircase? Between the walls? Shall we go down and see if we can find any sort of entrance?

  ‘We need to go outside and look for any anomalies in the walls.’

  ‘Too thick for the rooms inside, you mean?’ said Libby. ‘Let’s just explore in here first. What do you think is happening?’

  ‘The most obvious thing is trying to frighten her out of the house,’ said Fran, ‘but in that case, why is the rumour about the haunting being put about to stop it selling?’

  ‘Search me. Do you think we’ll be able to question the family?’

  ‘I expect Dame Amanda will start a conversation and we’ll have to listen.’

  ‘And interpose the odd question, surely?’ said Libby.

  ‘Tactfully, perhaps.’ Fran opened the door at the end of the gallery onto a small landing with a staircase, as promised, going up and down in a plain stairwell, painted a yellowish cream and looking none-too-well maintained.

  ‘Down first?’ said Libby.

  ‘No, up.’

  ‘Well, we can’t tap the walls here,’ said Libby. ‘They’re stone. Can you see anything out of that window?’

  The window was set in the wall opposite, tall and thin and slightly grubby.

  Fran stood on tiptoe. ‘No, just sky.’ She went down a few steps and tried again. ‘No, it’s too high. We’ll have to check that outside.’

  They ascended the stairs to the next floor, where a door opened onto a passage, still panelled, but far less grand than the gallery. Here, doors opened on both sides. Tentatively, Libby knocked on the first on her right. There was no answer, so she pushed it cautiously open.

  ‘Look at this,’ she said.

  They were looking into what could have been a teenaged boy’s room. There were posters on the wall, not of current pop sensations but those of two decades and more before, including one of Jonah Fludde, a band Fran and Libby had cause to remember. Clothes were strewn on the bed – a modern divan – on the floor, and on the two chairs. There was even the obligatory line of mugs on the windowsill.

  ‘How old is
this nephew?’ said Fran. ‘From what Dame Amanda said he’s got to be at least in his thirties.’

  ‘Case of arrested development?’ said Libby. She closed the door. ‘Well, his room’s closest to this staircase, so he could slip up and down without anyone being any the wiser.’

  ‘Although, wouldn’t you have thought the staff would use this one?’ said Fran. ‘And, by the way, where do they sleep? And who are they? We only know about Coolidge.’

  ‘No idea,’ said Libby, opening the next door. ‘Perhaps he’s the only one living in. You don’t have staff like the old days.’

  The next room was obviously a guest room, not occupied at the moment. The two on the other side of the passage had obviously been assigned to Libby and Fran, as their bags sat on tables at the foot of the beds. Then, next to Libby’s, a surprise.

  ‘Coolidge,’ said Fran, taking in the neat but luxurious interior. Here there was a four-poster bed and some very good antique pieces, including what looked to Libby like a Georgian escritoire.

  ‘She hasn’t considered him as a suspect,’ said Libby, ‘but he wouldn’t want her to sell, would he? With this level of comfort.’

  ‘He’s been with her a long time, obviously,’ said Fran. ‘He’s probably saved up for a little cottage in the country.’

  ‘Then he’d lose this and have to pay all his own bills and food. I don’t get the impression he has a lot to do here, do you? Should we put him on the suspect list?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Fran closed the door. ‘Next one on your side.’

  This one proved to be Dame Amanda’s room, or more correctly, suite. The door opened onto a small sitting room, from where another door opened into a bedroom with another handsome four-poster bed.

  ‘Nice,’ said Libby. ‘I bet she spends most of her time up here. No wonder she wants to sell the house. It’s much too big for her.’

  Opposite Dame Amanda’s room the main staircase led to the gallery floor. Libby and Fran went down and back along the gallery, knocking and looking into two more guestrooms, ‘Solicitor and daughter,’ said Libby, ‘and this one here seems to be a sort of storeroom for unwanted furniture.?’

  ‘You’d expect that to be on the top floor, wouldn’t you?’ said Fran.

  ‘Good hiding place,’ said Libby.

  ‘First place you’d look, surely,’ said Fran. ‘Besides, no old treasure would be hidden here – this is all twentieth-century stuff.’

  ‘Do you really think there’s a treasure hidden here?’

  ‘I doubt it, don’t you? Unless maybe in the attic. Where is the attic, anyway?’

  ‘Perhaps there isn’t one. Unless there’s another wing we haven’t seen.’ Libby led the way to the smaller staircase. ‘Let’s go down.’

  At the bottom they came to a small hall with a rather more modern – Regency, at least – door. Libby knocked and entered and found herself in a pale blue room overlooking a terrace through floor-length windows.

  ‘Is this the room where the windows were left open?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I think so,’ said Fran, with an abstract air. ‘Libby – there’s something here.’

  Libby stood still, arrested in mid-action, pointer-like.

  Fran continued to stare at nothing. Libby fidgeted.

  ‘Well?’ she said eventually.

  ‘I can’t get it.’ Fran shook her head.

  Libby looked at the door at the other end of the room. ‘Shall I see where that goes?’

  ‘Into the rest of the house, I expect.’

  Libby opened the door onto another passage down which she could see the large hall. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ She turned back.

  Fran was now frowning at the fireplace. ‘There’s something wrong about that,’ she said, pointing.

  ‘The fireplace? Why? It’s just a rather nice Georgian one with a lovely raised firebasket.’

  Fran sighed. ‘I know. But there’s something wrong.’ She looked at Libby. ‘I’m beginning to think there’s something behind all this, even if it’s not what appears on the surface.’

  Libby stared for a moment. ‘Let’s go and find Dame Amanda and ask if we can look round the outside.’

  They found Dame Amanda back in the library with a newspaper.

  ‘Outside? Of course, but why?’

  ‘Sometimes you find a section of wall that’s thicker or wider than it ought to be, indicating the presence of a secret room or staircase. We’ve found two in the past,’ Libby added proudly.

  ‘Well done,’ said Dame Amanda, with a smile.

  ‘And –’ Libby paused, head on one side. ‘Why didn’t I recognise your name? You’ve changed it, haven’t you?’

  ‘I wondered when you’d get round to that,’ laughed Dame Amanda. ‘I was little Abby Knight when you knew me.’

  ‘Abby?’ repeated Fran. ‘That’s not short for Amanda.’

  ‘No, Abigail. Which wasn’t a popular name back then, so when I got an agent, he decided to change it to Amanda. And Amanda it’s stayed.’

  ‘Of course! Abby Knight – why didn’t I remember?’ Libby was beaming.

  ‘Long time ago, Libby. Now, off you go and have a look at the outside. Lunch will be ready soon. Just soup, I expect.’

  Libby and Fran trudged round the outside of the house, locating the window above the second stairwell.

  ‘Doesn’t look as though there’s anything odd about it,’ said Libby.

  ‘We can’t tell, though,’ said Fran. ‘There are no other windows to act as guidelines.’

  They prowled round the house for the next twenty minutes, finding nothing that aroused suspicions, until they heard Dame Amanda’s voice calling them for lunch. They found her in a small, bright room that had obviously been, or still was, a breakfast room, with a large tureen of soup in the middle of a round table partnered by a platter of different breads.

  ‘Would you like wine?’ she asked as they seated themselves. ‘I don’t usually at lunch time, but you’re obviously welcome.’

  Libby opened her mouth but Fran got in first. ‘No, thank you, water will be fine,’ she said, and kicked Libby under the table.

  ‘Can you tell us anything about the dishonoured maid?’ asked Libby, after a first sip of soup. ‘Do you know the date?’

  ‘It’s only a rumour,’ said Dame Amanda. ‘It’s in these online pieces, of course, but it’s very vague. I think Coolidge was told about it in the village pub when we started asking about all this, but there was no very firm story. It wouldn’t surprise me if that was completely made up. It’s such a cliché, isn’t it? And just like an old song I used to do occasionally. “Only a Glass of Champagne”, by Noel Gay. I don’t suppose you know it?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Libby and Fran together.

  ‘We’ve used it in our summer season show,’ said Libby. ‘We do them every year at The Alexandria in Nethergate.’ She waved an arm. ‘One, two, three …’

  “Only a glass of champagne,” they all warbled together, “but it led a poor girl into sin …”

  Coolidge appeared silently at the table, his eyebrows raised.

  Dame Amanda giggled guiltily. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Were we making a noise?’

  Coolidge’s stern features relaxed. ‘Not at all, madam,’ he said with a quick, appraising glance at Libby and Fran. ‘It’s good to hear you enjoying yourself.’ He vanished as silently as he had arrived.

  Libby wondered why Dame Amanda should feel guilty. Dame Amanda read her thought.

  ‘He’s very protective,’ she said. ‘Especially since this business started.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know why I don’t just pack up and move out and leave the children to get on with it.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Fran, ‘that’s just what they want you to do.’

  ‘Except your daughter,’ said Libby. ‘She would want her money.’

  Dame Amanda sighed again. ‘I know.’ She picked up her spoon. ‘Don’t let your soup get cold.’

  After lunch, Dame Amanda announced her intention to ha
ve a rest upstairs in bedroom. ‘You girls carry on. Poke about a bit.’

  ‘May we ask Coolidge some questions?’ asked Libby. ‘We’ll be discreet.’

  Her hostess raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, if you think it will help. You’ll find him down the passage to the right of the staircase. He has a lair.’

  They discovered Coolidge in his lair reading a newspaper. He stood up as Fran knocked on the open door.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ said Libby, ‘but we wondered if we could ask you some questions.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the butler. ‘Do take a seat, ladies.’

  ‘We’d like to know,’ said Fran, when they were seated, ‘if there was anything you could tell us about, for instance, the stories you heard in the village about the maid. Perhaps something you felt you couldn’t tell Dame Amanda?’

  Coolidge thought for a moment. ‘Not really. I asked in the pub, but all I got was a vague rumour that didn’t seem to have been circulating long. Even the oldest inhabitant – there’s always one, isn’t there? – only said there’d been some talk after the last war.’

  ‘So it wasn’t based entirely on these recent rumours?’ said Libby.

  ‘No, there was something before then, but I gathered it was something about when the house had been used during the war. I imagine all sorts of things happened then.’

  ‘Was it a hospital?’ asked Fran.

  ‘More of a recovery centre, I think,’ said Coolidge. ‘But nobody seems to have known much about it. I suppose not many people are alive to remember.’

  ‘I wonder if we could ask the Professor to look into that?’ said Libby. ‘There would be some record, surely?’

  ‘Maybe not if it was top secret or something,’ said Fran. ‘Do you have any ideas yourself, Coolidge?’

  Coolidge raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course, madam.’

  ‘May we hear them?’ asked Libby. ‘Or are you playing the part of the butler so well that it would be unacceptable for you to express an opinion?’

  Fran frowned at her friend, but Coolidge merely smiled.

  ‘I believe someone has put around stories to frighten Dame Amanda away from the house,’ he said.

  ‘Not to stop it selling?’ said Libby.

  ‘On that I couldn’t comment.’ He inclined his head.