Murder at the Manor - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Well, she did it this time with the Ann Marsh pseudonym and Jennifer’s book.’ Fran frowned. ‘This makes it even more mad. I wonder why?’

  ‘It lets Joseph out as a suspect,’ said Ian. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted Melanie out of the way.’

  ‘No wonder he said he wouldn’t write any more,’ said Libby.

  ‘Did Jennifer know all this?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Not until after Melanie died, so she says,’ said Ian. ‘Then Patrick told her.’

  ‘She would have talked to him about her own book,’ said Fran. ‘Is that how she found out?’

  ‘She didn’t say so, but it makes sense.’ Ian rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. ‘The reason I wanted to talk to you two is because I want to find out about the other writers. Did they have any idea about this? Could this be a motive for Melanie’s murder?’

  ‘Because they felt cheated by Patrick you mean? Because he was supposedly critiquing their work and running workshops when he wasn’t even writing the books?’ Libby frowned. ‘But why us? Shouldn’t DS Wallingford or someone do it?’

  ‘You’ve already had contact with them, and I think they’re more likely to respond to you than to a heavy-handed copper,’ said Ian. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Of course we are,’ said Fran, with a severe look at Libby. ‘I suppose we should start with Dee as she’s been trying to get in touch with you. Have you heard from her yet?’

  ‘No.’ Ian levered himself upright from the worktop where he’d been leaning. ‘I don’t know why, as she told you it was urgent. Try her again, and then move on to someone else.’

  ‘Why did you bring us up here to tell us?’ asked Libby as they went back to the sitting room.

  ‘It was that or come down to you at the pub, and I didn’t want to do it in public. Also, I thought you might want to talk to Jennifer and Joseph before you talk to anyone else.’

  ‘Right.’ Fran nodded. ‘Will you go now?’

  ‘Out of the room, yes. I want to see what the SOCOs have got. They’ve more or less finished.’

  Ian collected DS Wallingford and left Libby and Fran in the sitting room with Jennifer and Patrick.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police any of this before?’ Libby asked, sitting on the sofa and glaring at Patrick.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I – er – didn’t think it was relevant.’

  Libby snorted. ‘Your wife and ghost-writer is killed and you didn’t think it was relevant? I can see now why you stopped writing books yourself.’

  Patrick was now bright red. ‘I resent that remark.’

  ‘Resent away, chummy. It’ll all come out now in any case.’ Libby looked at Jennifer. ‘At least your stolen book will now come up, and should be put right.’

  Jennifer opened her mouth, looked at Patrick and closed it again.

  Fran sat down beside Libby. ‘I really don’t understand you two. Why did you think it would be possible to keep this from the police? And why would you?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Jennifer, her voice beginning to crack. ‘I thought it would give me a motive.’

  ‘But it clears you,’ said Fran to Patrick. ‘You must see that.’

  ‘Er – yes.’ Patrick’s colour had subsided. He now looked simply frightened.

  ‘Come on, then, what else is there?’ asked Libby. ‘Obviously there’s something. What else are we going to find out? That you actually did kill your wife?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Patrick. ‘And I don’t see what it’s got to do with you anyway.’

  ‘Nothing, I suppose,’ said Libby with a shrug. ‘But as you can see, we often work with the police and we have been asked to this time.’

  ‘So is there anything else you want to tell us?’ asked Fran. ‘Anything you know about the other writers who were there last weekend?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ Patrick was still looking apprehensive.

  ‘You know nothing about them except the contact you had through Writers in the South and last year’s holiday?’ said Libby.

  ‘Nothing. And the email group we set up to organise last weekend,’ said Jennifer. ‘You know all this already.’

  ‘I daresay we do,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘In that case we’ll get off,’ said Fran standing up. ‘I hope if you think of anything else you’ll tell either one of us or the police.’

  ‘Of course.’ Jennifer nodded. Patrick said nothing, but watched them leave the room with worried eyes.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Libby burst out as they stepped out of the front door into the sunshine. ‘What are they hiding, those two? And why?’

  ‘I can only think that they really did murder Melanie.’ Fran was frowning as they walked down the lane back towards the village hall, where they had once again left the car. ‘Or one of them did and is protecting the other.’

  ‘Can’t you feel that?’ Libby watched her friend closely. ‘I mean, you always said it was about her writing, and it looks as though it is. Or could be.’

  ‘We still don’t know it is,’ said Fran. ‘That’s why Ian wants us to talk to the other writers. I expect the investigations into her old public life are still going on.’

  ‘Yes, and for all we know it could be something entirely different. You know,’ said Libby, enthusiastically embracing a whole new scenario, ‘a long-lost illegitimate child or misappropriated will, or –’

  ‘Abduction by aliens,’ interrupted Fran, grinning. ‘Meanwhile, if we can find a wifi connection, shall we try and raise Dee Starkey by email?’

  No wifi was to be had in the village, however, and as neither Fran nor Libby had a smartphone and Dee’s telephone number was locked away in Libby’s email account, they had no way of reaching her until they reached home.

  ‘Same goes for all of them, actually,’ said Libby. ‘How annoying. I would have liked to see Lily Cooper while we were here.’

  ‘I doubt if she would have liked to see us,’ said Fran. ‘Come on. We’ll go home and do it from there. We don’t have to interview people face to face.’

  ‘No, but at least they can’t escape so easily if they’re in front of us,’ said Libby. ‘They can put the phone down on us, though.’

  Libby dawdled through the narrow lanes of Cranborne Chase to allow them a last look at the stunning beauty of the rolling chalk grassland and ancient woodlands. In a dip between hills, the spire of the church at Ebbesdean appeared and vanished at a turn in the lane.

  ‘Glorious,’ sighed Libby. ‘I wish …’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Fran. ‘You’d never see anyone if you lived here.’

  ‘I don’t see Dom and Bel very much as it is,’ said Libby. ‘They could come here just as easily as to Steeple Martin.’

  ‘They grew up in Kent, Lib,’ said Fran. ‘When they come to you they can also see all their old friends. And what about Adam? He lives there now.’ She slid a look sideways at her friend. ‘And what about us?’

  Libby smiled. ‘I know. Just day-dreaming. Perhaps we could buy a caravan and come and park it here?’

  Fran laughed. ‘Oh, yes! I can just see you and Ben in a caravan.’

  They hit far more traffic on the way home, and Libby was aware of tense shoulders and a stiff neck by the time they’d made their way round Canterbury and were on the home straight. Fran had left her car outside Number 17, and decided to come in for a cup of tea before driving on to Nethergate.

  ‘You can have tea,’ said Libby, ‘I’m having a large glass of wine.’ She flung her arms round Ben. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Shall we have a quick look at Dee’s email while I have my tea?’ suggested Fran.

  ‘Still on the trail, eh?’ said Ben. ‘Go on, then. I’ll make the tea. We’re booked in at Harry’s later Lib.’

  ‘Again? Lovely.’ Libby beamed and unearthed her laptop from her luggage.

  ‘Nothing more from her,’ said Fran, after they’d read and re-read the previous day’s emails. ‘Where’s her phone number?’

  L
ibby tracked down the numbers of everyone who’d been at the Manor when Melanie had been murdered, and this time wrote them down. ‘That way we won’t lose them,’ she said. ‘Which one of us is going to ring her?’

  But Dee’s phone went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Odd,’ said Libby. ‘And we haven’t got her landline number, have we?’

  ‘Ian will have,’ said Fran. ‘We could ask him for it?’

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Libby doubtfully. ‘She’s in London, isn’t she? I really don’t want to have to go chasing after her in person now we’ve got home.’

  ‘We could try through Spank Monthly,’ suggested Fran. Ben raised his eyebrows as he handed her a mug. Fran grinned at him.

  Libby brought up the home page of the magazine. ‘There’s only a contact form here,’ she said, ‘but we could try it. We won’t get a very swift answer, though.’

  ‘I don’t know what information she could have had anyway,’ said Fran as Libby closed the laptop. ‘We agreed she was an unlikely person for Melanie to know, and she’d have not been able to get all the personal stuff to set up the room, not coming from London.’

  ‘No, I suppose we can discount anyone who came from London,’ agreed Libby. ‘Mind you, that’s only Nick, Paul Fisher and, well, Patrick himself, I think. He said he came straight from the London flat, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, so there might have been stuff there he could have taken.’ Fran was thoughtful.

  ‘But not her body,’ said Libby.

  ‘Jennifer could have brought that up,’ said Fran.

  ‘So they were in cahoots? That’s why they looked so frightened today?’

  ‘Could be, but I’m sure Ian and his team would have found some sort of evidence if that was the case.’ Fran stretched. ‘We could talk round corners for ever on this one. Let’s call it a day and start the ring round tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll email you the phone numbers – no, you take the list I wrote. I’ll write them out again. And we’ll do what we did before, divide them up.’ Libby stood up. ‘Will we have to speak to Nick again? I think he’s had enough of us.’

  ‘I think we will,’ said Fran, opening the front door. ‘This is new information, after all. We didn’t talk to him about this.’

  Ben and Libby walked slowly towards The Pink Geranium an hour later. It was still light, but the lights were on inside the eight-til-late, the pub and the restaurant. Adam opened the door for his mother.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Are you on duty tonight?’

  Adam indicated his long white waiter’s apron. ‘No, Ma, I wear this for fun. You’re at the back tonight, no room in the window.’

  The Pink Geranium was indeed crowded. ‘Feast or famine,’ said Harry, popping his head out of the kitchen to say hello. ‘Remember last December when we had the snow and we were empty?’

  ‘You know you said someone from Dorset must have taken Melanie’s body and her clothes up here?’ said Ben, after Adam had brought them a bottle of red and taken their order.

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, who’d regaled him with the events of the last two days while she’d showered and changed.

  ‘And the room was booked, by credit card, in the name of Ann Marsh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you think the booking was genuine?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Couldn’t it be,’ said Ben slowly, making patterns on the table with his fork, ‘that somebody else on the course – holiday, or whatever – told Melanie about what Patrick was up to, and offered to take her with them? Then she would have left under her own steam.’

  Libby looked at him with a dawning awareness. ‘And therefore –’ she said.

  ‘And therefore,’ continued Ben, ‘no one needed to rifle through the house, she could have taken herself and her belongings anywhere in the country and been killed and transported from there.’

  ‘Even London,’ breathed Libby.

  ‘Especially London,’ said Ben.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  SO TAKEN WAS LIBBY with the new theory that she wanted to call Fran and Ian immediately.

  ‘It’ll keep until tomorrow,’ said Ben, laying his hand over hers, ‘and if I’ve thought of it, you can be sure Ian has.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby was deflated. ‘I suppose he has. He’ll be looking through all the phone records, won’t he?’

  ‘Bound to be. Or some other poor bugger will be. We never see the boring side of police work, do we?’

  ‘No, poor souls. The paperwork they have to get through is enormous.’ Libby picked up her glass. ‘Oh, well, I’ll tell Fran tomorrow before she starts phoning anybody.’

  ‘You could send her a text,’ said Ben. ‘Then she’ll know in advance not to start making the phone calls before she’s spoken to you. And, by the way, what exactly are you supposed to be talking to these people about?’

  ‘If they knew about Melanie writing the books. Mind you, I don’t think any of them did, or they would have denounced Patrick, especially as several of them were quite open about not liking him much.’

  ‘Didn’t you say someone made a comment about him avoiding talking about the books?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And I actually said: “As though he hadn’t read them?” And I was right! Melanie had. And written the critiques. And, I suppose, she sent them all back to the writers. Which means she knew where they all lived and Patrick might not have. Nick seemed resentful about that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He couldn’t believe Patrick hadn’t bothered to get in touch as he’d promised. As Nick said, they only lived ten minutes apart. It wouldn’t have hurt Patrick to make the effort to see him for a brief chat. But if Melanie had never told Patrick where any of the writers lived, he wouldn’t have known that Nick was round the corner.’ Libby shook her head. ‘It explains quite a lot, really.’

  ‘What I can’t understand is why Melanie let it go on. She was doing all the work and Patrick was getting all the glory,’ said Ben.

  ‘I don’t know either.’ Libby lifted her head to smile at her son as he placed a plate of tacos in the middle of the table. ‘Thanks, Ad.’

  ‘Go on, then, send that text before we start on the meal and then we can concentrate on the food without interruptions,’ said Ben.

  Libby sent the text and received an impatient text in return. She smiled and put the phone back in her new bag, which had finally replaced the basket she had been carrying around for years.

  ‘Once we get you a new winter coat the change of image will be complete,’ Ben had commented when she first brought it home.

  After their meal, Harry and Adam joined them for a drink before clearing up ready for the following day.

  ‘No Donna tonight?’ said Libby, as she poured wine.

  ‘Not feeling well, apparently,’ said Harry with a sniff. ‘Playing hookey with the new husband, more likely.’

  ‘Not so new, now,’ said Libby, ‘and they can’t have that much time together, with him working eighty-hour weeks at the hospital.’

  ‘I reckon she’s pregnant,’ said Adam.

  Harry’s face darkened. ‘She’d better not be.’

  ‘Oh, Harry, you can’t say that,’ laughed Libby. ‘I remember you worrying about it when she’d only just announced her engagement.’

  ‘She’s my right hand,’ said Harry, aggrieved. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her.’ He patted Adam’s hand. ‘No offence, mate.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Adam, amused.

  ‘Well, whatever the reason, I hope she’s better and back soon,’ said Libby.

  ‘So where were you off to again?’ Harry leant back in his chair. ‘Leaving the old man all by his lonesome again so soon.’

  Libby explained where she and Fran had been, and about the discovery that Melanie had been writing Patrick’s books.

  ‘Should you tell them that?’ asked Ben. ‘It might not be made public.’
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  ‘Of course it will,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think that’s the sort of secret that could be kept? Someone at the publishers will let it out, you can bet.’

  ‘Or the police,’ said Adam.

  ‘Not on Ian’s watch,’ said Ben.

  ‘I wonder,’ mused Libby, ‘if the publishers actually knew?’

  ‘No reason why they should,’ said Ben. ‘I would have thought Patrick would keep it quiet or he might lose his contract.’

  ‘Do writers have contracts?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I think so,’ said Ben. ‘Not quite sure how they work, but it would be like sailing into the mist without one.’

  ‘Hang on, though,’ said Harry, frowning. ‘If the publishers didn’t know, wouldn’t Patrick have been breaking his contract somehow by not writing the books himself?’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Libby. ‘I shall look into it tomorrow. Somehow.’

  The next morning Fran was on the phone before eight o’clock, wanting to know what new theories had sprung up. Libby repeated both Ben’s London theory and Harry’s broken contract one.

  ‘So how would we find out about that?’ asked Fran, when she’d finished. ‘I don’t think Patrick will tell us.’

  ‘Jennifer might,’ said Libby. ‘After all, she’s going to have to try and get Rising Lady back.’

  ‘And that’s going to be a nightmare,’ said Fran. ‘I wish the letter Patrick and Melanie wrote had been sent. It would have made it much easier. I doubt if the publishers will hand over the rights to Jennifer just like that.’

  ‘Well, where shall we start today and who with?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Have you checked your email to see if Dee’s been in touch?’ said Fran. Libby hadn’t, and did so.

  ‘There’s an email from Spank Monthly, though,’ she said. ‘Hold on – I’ll read it.

  Dear Libby –

  ‘How familiar!’

  – we haven’t heard from Dee Starkey for over a month, although she has an outstanding commission from us which has now missed the deadline. If you should hear from her, please ask her to contact me.