‘We? Who’s we? And why me? Why did you want to warn me?’
‘Fran Wolfe and I,’ sighed Libby, ‘and we’re warning everybody, not just you. We simply thought people needed to know.’
There was a short silence.
‘Well, I don’t see that it’s got anything to do with me,’ said Lily eventually. ‘I didn’t even know the woman.’
‘No, I don’t think anyone did,’ said Libby, ‘not the weekend guests, anyway.’
‘Except Jennifer,’ said Lily, an unmistakeably sour note in her voice.
‘Quite,’ said Libby, ‘although she knew Patrick better than Melanie.’
‘I bet,’ muttered Lily.
‘Anyway,’ Libby hurried on, ‘if there’s anything you want to talk about, do phone one of us.’
‘Why should I want to talk to you?’ said Lily rudely, and the phone went dead.
‘That went well,’ said Libby, and picked up her mug before repeating the conversation.
None of the other guests were answering their phones, so Libby and Fran left messages on them all, not mentioning Scotland Yard – ‘just in case’ said Libby.
‘Well, that was a bit of a waste of time,’ said Fran. ‘Unless we get anything out of it when they ring back.’
‘At least we know how bitchy Lily Cooper is.’
‘I thought we knew that already,’ said Fran.
‘We guessed. Why do men go for women like that?’
‘Because she was all that was left?’
‘Oh, yes. We know he had a bit of a thing with Dee Starkey and he tried it on with Nina, so I suppose, yes. She was all that was left and she was desperate. She has that look, doesn’t she?’
‘The well-preserved, over-toned look.’ Fran turned down her mouth. ‘I hope to God I don’t ever look like that.’
‘I wonder how old she is?’ mused Libby. ‘Forty-five?’
‘She probably wants people to think she’s thirty-five,’ said Fran.
Libby persuaded Fran to stay for lunch, and, to while away the rest of the morning, they took a jaunt in Fran’s car to the Cattlegreen Nurseries on the outskirts of the village. Joe and “the boy”, Owen, were pleased to see them and left them to wander among the rows of plants.
‘Any news on that murder?’ asked Joe, as he took Fran’s money for a tray of bedding pelargoniums.
‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘Nothing to do with us, it seems. We’ll just have a plague of bluebottles for a bit.’
Joe frowned and Owen frowned harder. Libby sighed.
‘I meant a lot of police around the place. Already had two this morning.’
‘Must be hard for old Hetty,’ said Joe, handing over change. ‘Specially now old Greg’s gone.’
‘Oh, she’s fine,’ said Libby. ‘Much as we all miss him terribly, Hetty has a lot less responsibility now. And Ben looks after her. The police won’t bother her.’
Joe nodded. ‘You take care, now,’ he said. Libby grinned and patted Owen’s arm. He blushed.
‘The whole village knows, then,’ said Fran driving back towards Allhallow’s Lane.
‘Well, of course they do. You ought to be used to that by now. Don’t forget the community memory’s been useful to us in the past.’
‘Yes.’ Fran frowned as she swung the car into Allhallow’s Lane. ‘But we also know how different people’s memories are. They get smoothed over and sanitised.’
‘Hmm.’ Libby shot a quick glance at her friend. ‘Well, it’s a bit soon for memories to start playing up in this case.’
The answerphone light was winking and informed Libby that there were three messages. The first was from Dee Starkey, the second from Daniel Hill and the third from Jennifer. Libby went into the kitchen to prepare a salad while Fran called Jennifer.
‘It was lovely to hear from you so soon, but I couldn’t help feeling there must be something serious going on?’ Jennifer’s rising lilt made it a question.
‘Libby had a visit from two Scotland Yard detectives this morning,’ Fran told her.
‘Good heavens! Why? Oh – don’t tell me – Melanie and her blasted Green Country, I suppose.’
‘We’ve been told,’ Fran went on, ‘that even though her post with the organisation is merely titular these days, because of her past as a government advisor –’
‘I know, I know, and the bomb and the death threats.’ Jennifer sighed. ‘So I suppose the case has been handed over to them and we’re all going to be investigated.’
‘Um, yes, I’m afraid so. At least that’s what we’ve been told.’
‘I didn’t think they’d give that much away.’
‘No,’ said Fran, ‘we were told by the detective formerly in charge of the case.’
‘Wallington? Was that his name?’
‘No, that was DS Wallingford, and at that time DCI Murray was in charge. It was taken over briefly by DCI Connell, and then Scotland Yard appeared. DCI Connell told us, because he’d already re-interviewed us and gone over the ground. The crime scene, that is.’
‘I see.’ Jennifer was quiet for a moment. ‘Well, it won’t be the first time.’
‘Er – what won’t?’
‘I’ve been investigated.’ There was a light chuckle. ‘When the bomb went off, although the car was outside the flat in London, we were all questioned very thoroughly.’
‘We?’
‘Friends in the village. She’d been a trifle – ah – active here, too.’
‘Oh?’ Fran made frantic faces at Libby.
‘I don’t know how much you know about Green Country or Melanie’s particular causes, but we have an ancient monument on the edge of the village.’
‘Aah,’ said Fran.
‘I see you do know. In that case you’ll guess that she engendered quite a lot of bad feeling here.’
‘I can guess.’
‘Well, there you are. I shall await questioning a second time with equanimity.’
Fran laughed. ‘You can tell you’re a writer.’
‘Oh?’
‘Your phrasing. Not exactly normal conversational stuff.’
Jennifer laughed. ‘No, perhaps not. Sorry. It was kind of you to warn me.’
‘Where is your village? If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Dorset, on the borders of Somerset and Wiltshire. Near enough to Stonehenge for tourists to do both, and Avebury, in one visit.’
‘And she objected?’
‘She certainly did.’
‘Well, I’m sure the police, or whoever it is, will revisit that,’ said Fran. ‘Have you seen Patrick since you’ve been home?’
‘Yes, I was round there yesterday. The children are on their way home.’
‘They had children? I didn’t know.’
‘Melanie’s children, Rachel and Zachary.’
‘Of course, Edgar Solomon’s children.’
‘You have been doing your research.’ Jennifer sounded amused.
Fran sighed. ‘I’m afraid for Libby and me it’s second nature now.’
‘Ah, yes. Home-grown investigations, isn’t it?’
‘Inadvertent, actually,’ said Fran, nettled.
‘Sorry, of course. I couldn’t resist looking you up, either, when I got home.’
‘On the internet?’ Fran was surprised. ‘Are we there?’
‘In reports of various cases, yes. I did see a reference to you as a special advisor.’ Again there was a questioning note in Jennifer’s voice.
‘I’ve done property investigation in the past.’ Fran’s tone put an end to any further questions.
‘Really,’ Jennifer said dryly. ‘Pity you can’t come and have a look at our monument.’
Resisting the urge to ask why, Fran began to wind up the conversation.
‘Thank you for ringing back, Jennifer, and let us know if you need to talk about anything.’
‘I meant it, you know. Look it up and see if you’re interested. Give my regards to Libby. Goodbye Fran.’
Libby
was almost hopping up and down from foot to foot.
‘What? What? What did she say?’
Fran relayed the conversation and followed Libby back into the kitchen, where they began on the salad and cold meat which were set out on the table.
‘So, what do you think? Should we go down and have a look?’ Libby leant forward excitedly.
‘Why, though?’
‘Because Jennifer asked us to. Because she’s looked us up, and she obviously knows what you do.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Why else would she ask you to have a look at an ancient monument? I bet in one of those reports of the other cases it mentions your talents.’
Fran pulled a face. ‘Ian never made anything of it in the press.’
‘No, but it’s amazing how people actually seemed to know what you did, isn’t it? Think of Jane and Campbell McLean. They knew.’
Fran sighed and pushed away her plate. ‘OK. We’ll have a look at the area. See if we can pin it down.’
Libby rose gleefully to her feet and began clearing away. ‘Go and get the laptop, then, and I’ll put the kettle on.’
Fran raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, mistress.’
Libby laughed and clattered plates in the sink. ‘You know you want to. Come on, Fran! Don’t you feel a proper investigation coming on?’
Chapter Seventeen
‘HOPELESS.’ FRAN SQUINTED AT the screen. ‘The whole area is littered with henges and barrows.’
‘Are we assuming we should be somewhere in – or on – Cranborne Chase?’ Libby peered over her shoulder.
‘It seems like it. Not many actual monuments, like standing stones, it’s just ditches and burial mounds.’
‘Well,’ said Libby swinging the laptop round to face her, ‘we’ll just have to call Jennifer and ask her. It looks like an interesting place anyway. I’d love to find out more of the history. It was a private hunting forest until 1828.’
‘I know, Lib. I’ve been reading all the sites, too.’ Fran sat back.
Libby’s phone rang.
‘Hello? Oh, Dee.’ Libby waggled her eyebrows at Fran.
‘What did you want?’ Dee Starkey sounded nervous.
‘Just to tell you the update on Melanie Joseph’s murder,’ said Libby.
‘What? Have they found him?’ Too quickly.
‘Him? Who?’
‘The – er – the murderer,’ faltered Dee.
‘No, they haven’t found anybody,’ said Libby, ‘but we thought we ought to warn you that Scotland Yard are now looking into it.’
‘What?’ squeaked Dee.
Libby once again explained about Melanie’s political background.
‘Oh, don’t I know it,’ said Dee, viciously.
‘You do?’
‘I happen to be very interested in prehistoric archaeology,’ said Dee. ‘She was very much against us.’
‘Oh, I know she was all for preserving ancient sites,’ said Libby.
‘Hardly,’ spat Dee. ‘She would have had everything wrapped in bubble wrap so that no one could get near it.’
‘Ah,’ said Libby. ‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘Her own bloody village in particular!’
‘Oh? Where was that? They have a monument?’
‘Haven’t you ever heard of Bonny Henge?’ Dee was incredulous. Libby was typing the words into the search engine with one hand.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Libby, watching as all the sites came up and Fran clicked on the first one.
‘Look it up,’ said Dee, unaware that Libby was doing just that. ‘I’ve been arrested at demos there. No wonder Scotland Yard want to investigate me.’
‘Do you live near there, then?’ asked Libby.
‘No, I live in London. Which of course puts me in an even worse position, doesn’t it? I could have bombed her bloody car.’
‘So you know about that? You didn’t mention it when you were here.’
‘Why should I? You were all more interested in that bastard Patrick.’
‘But you said you knew nothing about her.’
‘I wasn’t likely to put my head in a noose, was I?’
‘True. Well, thanks for coming back to me, Dee. We’ll keep you updated.’
‘Bonny Henge, just outside Rising Parva. Derived, possibly, from Bone Henge.’ Fran turned the laptop back towards Libby. ‘That was easy.’
‘Look, it’s a valley on the edge of Cranborne Chase. Four Risings, Parva, Magna, St Peter and Abbas. All very Dorset.’ Libby clicked on a couple more sites. ‘Oh, this is great!’
Fran pushed her heavy dark hair back from her face. ‘So when do we go?’
‘You’re excited about it now, aren’t you?’ Libby grinned at her friend.
‘It’s intriguing, I’ll give you that.’ She pulled the laptop back towards her. ‘Especially as I noticed this, look.’ She clicked through another couple of links and pushed it back to Libby.
‘“The Bonny Henge Ghost”,’ she read, ‘“is said to appear on moonless nights, when it walks down from the henge and through the gates of Rising Manor, whereupon a shot is heard. It is said to be the spirit of a former Lady of the Manor who shot herself after finding her lover’s murdered body at the henge.” Blimey! A real ghost for you to investigate!’
‘Yes.’ Fran’s answering grin was mischievous. ‘And a cover if anyone wants to know what we’re doing.’
Libby’s eyebrows rose. ‘But it’ll be obvious what we’re doing. To Jennifer and Patrick it will, anyway.’
‘But the police, or Scotland Yard, whoever they are, will want to know why we’re there. This is perfect cover.’
‘Brilliant. OK, who’s going to phone Jennifer? And we’ll have to check with the men that we’re all right to skive off for a few days.’
Fran laughed. ‘Really? We have to ask our menfolk for permission?’
‘No.’ Libby was uncomfortable. ‘Just check there’s nothing we should be doing.’
‘Fine.’ Fran picked up her phone again and re-dialled Jennifer’s number.
‘That was quick.’ There was irony in Jennifer’s cut-glass voice.
‘Rising Parva,’ said Fran. ‘The Bonny Henge ghost.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, of course you’d be interested in that. Are you coming down to investigate?’
‘We thought we would. Is there a pub in the village where we could stay?’
‘Afraid not, not any more. There’s a pub, but it doesn’t let rooms. There’s the Rising Arms in Rising St Peter, which is about two miles away, or there’s a B&B just outside the village. I’m not sure that would suit you, though.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘A Mrs Broadhurst has two letting rooms in her bungalow.’ Jennifer sounded amused. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard any good reports.’
‘Right,’ said Fran. ‘Well, we’ll have a look on the internet and I’ll give you a ring to let you know when we’re coming.’
Libby had been speaking to Ben, who seemed very relaxed about the proposed jaunt. ‘His last remark was “I’ve been expecting something like this”. He didn’t even tell me not to get into trouble.’
‘OK, so you can look up accommodation in the Risings while I phone Guy,’ said Fran. ‘Start with the Rising Arms and ignore a Mrs Broadhurst’s B&B.’
The choice of accommodation was narrowed down to the Rising Arms and two other B&Bs, neither of which belonged to Mrs Broadhurst. Having decided to strike while the iron was hot, that narrowed the choice still further to Potter’s Farm B&B, three or four miles from Rising Parva, but close enough for exploration, who could take them for a maximum of two nights from tomorrow.
‘But I’m sorry, dear, it’s Saturday after that, and I’ve got walkers.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs – er – Potter?’ said Libby.
‘Mrs Rush, dear. Potter’s just the name of the farm. Now – you don’t mind sharing a room? I can do you two singles if you prefer.’
‘Are they both en-su
ite?’
‘Oh, yes, dear. You can’t sell anything without en-suite these days,’ said Mrs Rush.
‘Just what I told Ben when we were doing up the Manor,’ said Libby when she’d switched off the phone. ‘Sounds all right, though. She’ll do an evening meal if we like and we can take our own wine.’
‘So, said Fran, standing up. ‘Tomorrow morning then? We’d better take my car.’
‘Had we?’
‘I doubt if your Romeo would stand up to the journey,’ said Fran.
‘Oh, look,’ said Libby. ‘We haven’t listened to the other two messages.’
‘Dee called again, so it’s only Daniel. What did he say?’
Libby pressed the button and Daniel Hill’s grumpy tones issued forth.
‘This is Daniel Hill returning your call. I cannot imagine what you wish to talk to me about.’ And the click of the phone being switched off.
‘Oh, well, we needn’t bother with him then,’ said Libby. ‘Let’s leave him till we come back home.’
But before Fran left, the phone rang again.
‘Hello, is that Libby? It’s Nina here. You left a message on my phone.’
‘Oh, hello, Nina, yes. We’re just warning everybody about Scotland Yard.’
Nina let out a startled yelp.
‘Don’t worry, it’s just that Melanie Joseph was a political sort of person, so Special Branch are investigating everyone’s backgrounds.’ Libby soothed.
‘Even mine?’
‘Well, yes. All of us. To see if we knew her or had any connection with her.’
‘I didn’t.’ Nina was sharp. ‘I’ve already said. How would I know her?’
‘All right, calm down,’ said Libby in surprise. ‘They have to find out for themselves. Oh, and by the way, did you ever get to talk to the police about – er – about whatever it was?’
‘Talk to them?’
‘Yes. On the Saturday evening you asked me if any of the police were still there.’
‘Oh.’ There was a short silence. ‘Well, no.’
‘If it was information, don’t you think you ought to? Or you can always tell me, if you like.’ Libby glanced quickly at Fran, who was leaning forward, looking interested.
Murder at the Manor - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 12
