Murder at the Manor - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Oh – it was nothing.’ Nina sounded embarrassed. ‘Just –’

  ‘Just what? Come on Nina, it sounds as though it could be important.’

  ‘It was the row.’ It came out in a rush.

  ‘What row?’

  ‘In Patrick’s room. I heard them. Him and Lily Cooper. At least, I think it was her. It could have been Dee Starkey, I suppose.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Oh, early Saturday morning, I think. I’m not really sure …’ the voice trailed off.

  ‘I still think you should tell the police,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll give you DCI Connell’s number if you like.’

  ‘No, I’m not having anything more to do with the police, unless they come after me,’ said Nina, and the phone went dead.

  ‘I expect,’ said Fran, after Libby switched off the phone, ‘she was just worried at the thought of Scotland Yard. After all, it is a bit frightening to think of being investigated by them. You automatically feel guilty.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Libby, ‘but she was so – I don’t know – almost panicky.’

  The following morning, Fran called to pick up Libby at half-past nine. Libby was still staggering around with wet hair and her eyes glued shut.

  ‘Honestly,’ said Fran, exasperated. ‘You agreed nine thirty on the phone last night.’

  ‘I know. I went back to sleep after the alarm went.’

  ‘Didn’t Ben wake you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby’s eyes opened a bit wider and a tell-tale tide of red crept up her neck.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Fran. ‘Well, you go and get dressed and I’ll make you some toast.’

  ‘I’ve had some,’ mumbled Libby. ‘Ben made it.’

  ‘Well, go and get ready for goodness’ sake,’ said Fran, standing, arms akimbo, at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Or we’ll never get there this side of tomorrow.’

  Eventually, Libby, her bag and her laptop were loaded into the car and Fran set off towards the M25.

  Halfway down the A303 the rain started. Fran began to look anxious.

  ‘Do you want me to take over?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No, it’s all right. You keep navigating.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Oh, for a satnav.’

  ‘It’ll only send you down a one-way dead end,’ said Fran. ‘Look, there’s a sign for Salisbury – next roundabout.’

  After Salisbury they were pointed towards Blandford Forum and at last, a signpost to The Risings. After another half a mile, they came to a finger post pointing to all four Risings and two other villages.

  ‘That way,’ said Libby, pointing down a tree-lined lane.

  The rain had lessened, and, peering out of the open window, Libby finally spotted the signpost for Potter’s Farm. ‘Lovely views,’ she said.

  ‘If you can see them through the rain,’ said Fran through gritted teeth.

  The farmhouse was the sort of place expatriates dream of when they think of England. However, Mrs Rush directed them to the back of the property where a large barn had been converted.

  ‘This is you, dears,’ she said, opening a stable door into a wide hall. ‘One room there, the other this side. You’ve both got little terraces, but I’ll bring your dinner here to the hall, seeing as how it’s so wet. Got everything you need?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Libby, ‘it’s lovely. Do we need a key to get in? We’re probably going out again in a little while.’

  ‘Are we?’ muttered Fran.

  ‘Yes, dear – here.’ Mrs Rush produced two key rings. ‘One for the front door here, and one for your rooms. There’s a little internal phone here in the hall if you need me.’

  ‘This is nice,’ said Libby, surveying her room after Mrs Rush had left them alone. She crossed the hall to look at Fran’s room, and found her sitting on the bed. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Driving,’ said Fran. ‘I just hate it these days.’

  ‘I said I could take over,’ said Libby. ‘You’re all right at home. You do loads of the driving then.’

  ‘On my home turf,’ said Fran. ‘I can’t even drive up to London these days.’

  ‘I’ll do it, then,’ said Libby. ‘It’ll make a change from driving Romeo or that four-wheeled drive beast of Ben’s.’

  ‘I’ll phone up Guy and get him to put you on the insurance, then,’ said Fran, ‘but first I’m going to take something for this headache.’

  Libby patted her sympathetically on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get the laptop. You can do it online.’

  Half an hour later, clothes unpacked, insurance sorted and rain stopped, Libby checked the directions to Rising Parva and started the car.

  ‘Gosh, isn’t it light?’ she said, as they bumped out of the farm yard on to the lane. Fran winced.

  ‘Did you let Jennifer know we were coming?’ she asked, as Libby swung into the lane leading to Rising Parva.

  ‘Had to leave a message,’ said Libby. ‘Beautiful countryside, isn’t it?’

  Cranborne Chase, even in the rain, was certainly beautiful. Rolling chalk uplands and pockets of thick woodland concealed very small villages. Even under grey skies it was spectacular.

  ‘It’s more country-ish than our bit of Kent.’ Libby waved a hand at the view and Fran winced again. Libby looked sideways at her. ‘Do you know, I’d never realised what a nervous passenger you were.’

  ‘I’ve got worse over the years I’ve known you,’ said Fran.

  ‘Implying that it’s my fault?’

  ‘No, just that I’m used to driving safely and sensibly in my own car or being driven by my equally safe and sensible husband.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Libby peered through the windscreen. ‘Well, I appear to have got us here safely and sensibly. Where shall we park?’

  Rising Parva was a long narrow village, with a traditional duck pond, pub and church in the middle. A couple of small alleyways led off the village street and, on a slightly higher level, they could see a few large houses. Opposite the inn and almost beside the church sat a Victorian-built village hall, in front of which were marked parking bays. Libby parked in one of them and checked her phone.

  ‘Text from Jennifer “ring when you get here”.’ She keyed in the number.

  ‘She’s coming to meet us,’ she said when she switched off the phone. ‘Do you want to look at the church?’

  Fran raised an eyebrow. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Pray that you’ll be kept safe from my driving?’

  Fran aimed a punch at her shoulder. ‘Shut up, or I’ll drive away and leave you here.’

  ‘I’ve got the keys,’ said Libby, grinning and going towards a glass-covered notice board filled with leaflets and posters advertising local events and services.

  ‘And I’ve got the spares,’ said Fran, joining her.

  Jennifer arrived on foot ten minutes later.

  ‘I think I’ll join the life drawing class,’ said Libby, turning to greet her, ‘and Fran’s going to join the craft club.’

  ‘What about the Rising Stars?’ laughed Jennifer, shaking hands. ‘Just up your street, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Rising Stars? Who are they?’

  ‘Our am-dram group, of course!’

  Libby and Fran laughed. ‘Rising Stars – brilliant!’ said Libby.

  ‘So, you want to have a look at our barrow?’ Jennifer turned to lead the way back on to the village street.

  ‘I think so,’ said Fran. ‘I did discover several White Lady stories on the internet about this part of the world, so it’s not exactly irrefutable, is it?’

  ‘No, but we have got proof of the lady’s suicide. Up here.’

  They went up a track by the side of the church and climbed a small hill, coming out on a plateau.

  ‘There,’ said Jennifer.

  A long lump sat in front of them, surrounded by a shallow ditch.

  ‘Typical Iron Age barrow,’ said Libby wisely.

  ‘Interested in archaeology?’ asked Jennifer, sounding slightly s
urprised.

  ‘Only the television variety,’ admitted Libby. ‘What do you think, Fran?’

  Fran was frowning. ‘I can’t feel anything,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it’s too long ago.’ She turned to Jennifer. ‘The woman’s lover was found up here, the legend says?’

  ‘Apparently that’s a fact, too. What aren’t facts are her appearances up here. But then, Dorset’s supposed to be a very haunted county, and as you found out, there are all sorts of ghost stories in the area.’

  ‘And this is what Melanie was trying to protect?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No, she was trying to protect our standing stone.’

  ‘You’ve got one of those, too?’ Libby was surprised.

  ‘Fairly newly discovered,’ said Jennifer. ‘It’s further away, and,’ she looked at the sky, ‘it looks as though it’s going to start raining again, so perhaps if you want to see it we’d better not try today.’

  ‘We’re staying for a couple of days,’ said Fran. ‘Perhaps we could see it tomorrow?’

  ‘Good idea. Have you seen enough here?’

  ‘For the moment.’ Fran was frowning again. ‘I’d like to come back here, too.’

  ‘Fine. We’ll have an expedition tomorrow, then,’ said Jennifer. ‘Shall we go back and see if they’ll give us tea in the pub?’

  ‘Yes, and you can tell us why you suggested we should come down and investigate,’ said Libby.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE PUB DID INDEED give them tea. The rain had started falling again as they made their way down the hill and was now driving against the windows.

  ‘Nice weather for a short break,’ said Libby, gazing dismally out at the shiny pavement.

  Fran was looking at Jennifer, who caught her eye and smiled.

  ‘I know, I’m being mysterious,’ she said. ‘I’m also feeling a bit embarrassed.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Because I’ve effectively brought you down here on a mere suspicion of my own, and now it doesn’t seem very sensible.’

  ‘Tell us what the suspicion is, then.’ Libby turned from the window.

  Jennifer looked down into her cup. ‘You had to know Melanie, really,’ she said finally. ‘She was so driven.’

  ‘Driven? By her politics?’

  ‘By her causes.’ Jennifer looked up. ‘Before Patrick brought her back here to live, after they’d been married for about a year, this village had been going along in its little rut the same way for generations. Even our shop was still here.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s gone of course, but we’re lucky, we still have the pub – and the church, of course, although it shares the vicar with the other Risings.’

  ‘So what changed when Patrick brought her here?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Nothing for a while, because she was so caught up in her politics and her children. She and Edgar had awful rows about them, and I’m afraid I rather sided with him, because she didn’t really want them. She sent them away to boarding school as soon as they were old enough, poor little things.’

  ‘No wonder they chose to go to America to live with him,’ said Fran.

  ‘Quite. So then Melanie started trying to take over the village. After the bomb scare, Patrick insisted they spend most of their time here. But it ended up with her staying here, and Patrick having to keep going up to London on his own.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby, pulling a face.’

  ‘Exactly. Everybody guessed he was seeing other women, and if Melanie knew, she never said anything. Just carried on trying to take over the WI, the parish council and anything else she could get her hands on. She was forever trying to start clubs, or hold events, and the more sycophantic among the villagers – newcomers, mostly – backed her up.’

  ‘What did Patrick say to all this?’ asked Fran.

  ‘He didn’t. He just smiled and encouraged her.’

  ‘So that he could carry on with his own reprehensible little schemes,’ said Libby.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Jennifer nodded. ‘And then, a year or so ago a metal detectorist walking along the ridge found our stone.’

  ‘The standing stone?’ said Libby.

  ‘Yes. There’s not much of it above ground, but the chap reported it, and the county archaeologists sent someone out to have a look. Unfortunately, Dorset doesn’t actually have an archaeological team of its own, so it sent someone from a university. He wanted to bring a group of his students and to dig it up. Melanie, predictably, was furious.’

  ‘Ah.’ Fran and Libby looked at one another.

  ‘You know something about this?’ Jennifer looked from one to the other.

  ‘We know someone who’s been on a demo here,’ said Libby. ‘But is that Bonny Henge? I thought the barrow was the henge?

  ‘It’s part of the henge. A henge isn’t stones or posts, it’s the earthwork. Our barrow is inside the interior ditch, which you saw. We were standing on the outer bank, although it doesn’t look like it from there. When we go and look at the stone you’ll be able to see that there’s a bank, a ditch and our barrow, which is actually a mini-henge.’

  ‘Mini-henge?’ repeated Libby.

  ‘Because it’s smaller than twenty metres across. And it appears only to have one entrance. But now the stone has been found –’

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry. We interrupted. What happened when the students wanted to dig up the stone?’ said Fran.

  ‘They didn’t actually want to remove it,’ said Jennifer, ‘they simply wanted to excavate down to its lowest point to date it, and then investigate whether it was a single stone or part of a ring. Being, as it appears to be, inside the ditch, it was possible that there were more.’

  ‘And were there?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No one’s been able to get the funding for the project yet. And Melanie made it as difficult as she could, going to every county and government department she could think of to delay the process. Even Patrick was getting fed up with her.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why she wouldn’t want it excavated.’ Libby looked at Fran. ‘We were told she wanted to keep everything in bubble wrap.’

  Jennifer nodded. ‘She was up in arms when the site was first investigated some years ago, which was when we discovered it wasn’t actually a barrow but a henge. Although there are burials in there.’

  ‘Is that why it’s called Bonny Henge? Because of the bones?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Jennifer looked surprised. ‘It’s always been called Bonny Barrow locally, even on OS maps, so it just became Bonny Henge. It made a bit of a stir in the national press because henges are comparatively rare finds these days, and we’re of course in a very good area, what with Stonehenge, Avebury and Knowlton Circles all within spitting distance. So the finding of the stone was the icing on the cake as far as we were concerned. And everybody else, from the county to the university.’ Jennifer sighed. ‘But she went on and on about the desecration of ancient sites, got it put on the agenda of her precious Green Country –’ Jennifer stopped. ‘Well, there you are. That’s my suspicion.’

  ‘You think a mad archaeologist bumped her off?’ Libby looked sceptical.

  ‘Sounds silly, doesn’t it.’ Jennifer gave a short laugh. ‘But believe me, if you’d seen some of those demonstrators …’

  ‘Before we actually heard that one of the guests last weekend had actually been here,’ said Fran, ‘we had made a connection with her stand on ancient monuments.’

  ‘It was a guest?’ Jennifer’s eyebrows shot up.

  Libby nodded. ‘Dee Starkey. Did you have anything to do with her?’

  ‘Last year at the writers’ holiday, I did. Strange young woman – not so young, I suppose – writes erotic fiction. Pornographic, I’d call it, actually.’ A faint flush could be seen on Jennifer’s well-bred cheeks.

  ‘Well, she claims to have an interest in ancient monuments.’ Libby sniffed. ‘Personally, I can guess what sort.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jennifer looked interested.

  Fran
laughed. ‘Libby got involved in a murder in a Morris dancing side a couple of years ago, and they do seem to get themselves mixed up with very strange pagan rituals.’

  ‘Like those idiots at Stonehenge at midsummer?’ said Jennifer.

  ‘Only much darker and more secret,’ said Libby. ‘And sometimes there are covens – or Satanists. Very Aleister Crowley. We’ve been there, too, haven’t we, Fran?’

  ‘You’ve certainly lived,’ said Jennifer admiringly. ‘And do you always get your man?’

  ‘The police do,’ said Libby, with a grin. ‘With or without our help.’

  ‘And you’re the special investigator.’ Jennifer turned to Fran. ‘With your rather special skills.’

  ‘See?’ said Libby. ‘I told you she’d know all about you.’

  ‘I must admit, I thought it would be interesting to see what you got up on the mound. Not exactly because of our Lady in white, but to see if there was any connection to Melanie’s murder.’

  ‘Unless Melanie was murdered there, I wouldn’t get anything about that,’ said Fran. ‘I’d still like to see the stone, though.’

  ‘But you think there’s real chance that someone who wanted the new dig to go ahead could have been behind her murder?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I can’t see any other reason.’ Jennifer shook her head. ‘It seems so odd that she should have been at the writers’ weekend. Why would she go? She’d never been to one before – and she wrote herself.’

  ‘Did she?’ Fran’s eyebrows rose. ‘What did she write?’

  Jennifer looked vague. ‘Non-fiction. I’m afraid I’ve never been interested enough to find out. I was more Patrick’s friend than hers.’

  ‘And how is Patrick?’ asked Libby, while Fran returned to frowning mode.

  ‘Shaky. Doesn’t want anyone around – except me,’ Jennifer added, a shade smugly, Libby thought.

  ‘Well, do give him our best wishes,’ she said. ‘I suppose we ought to be getting back to our farm, Fran.’

  ‘Oh, where did you say you were staying?’ asked Jennifer.

  ‘Potter’s Farm. It’s a couple of miles away, and it’s lovely.’ Libby stood up and Fran looked startled.

  ‘Are we going?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, come on.’ Libby started towards the door, Jennifer hurrying in her wake. ‘I’m afraid we can’t give you a lift, Jennifer,’ she continued. ‘As you can see, there’s only room for two in these cars.’