Murder at the Manor Read online

  ‘How was Patrick?’ asked Libby, going up to them.

  Jennifer shook her head. ‘How you’d expect. Absolutely shocked, devastated, uncomprehending. He can’t understand what she was doing here, especially under a false name.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby looked sceptical and Jennifer sighed.

  ‘Yes, I know. He was an incredibly naughty boy and she obviously decided to check up on him. At least I assume so. I gather the police do, too.’

  ‘Have they said so?’

  ‘He said that what they said to him sounds as if they do.’ She sighed again. ‘Such a silly boy.’

  ‘Boy?’ Nina said.

  ‘To me he is,’ smiled Jennifer. ‘I was an adult when I first met him. I used to babysit.’

  ‘But he was twelve! You said so earlier.’

  ‘He had a younger sister and a twelve-year-old boy wasn’t considered a fit babysitter in those days.’

  ‘I don’t think he would be now, either,’ said Libby. ‘You’d have social services on your back.’

  ‘So he’s not coming back to join us?’ Fran came up on Jennifer’s other side.

  ‘No, I’m taking a plate up to him. And he’ll leave as soon as the police let him. He’s already had to identify the body, poor soul.’

  Fran, Libby and Nina all nodded in sad agreement.

  ‘And what about Lily?’ asked Nina. They all looked at her in surprise. ‘Where’s she?’

  ‘I don’t know. In her room, I suppose.’ Jennifer looked round. ‘I don’t know why she was singled out for treatment.’

  Libby managed not to catch Fran’s eye. ‘Oh, I expect because she was closer to Patrick than anyone else.’

  ‘You think so? Apart from the fact that they were sleeping together?’ said Jennifer.

  ‘Er – well –’ Libby slid her eyes sideways to Fran.

  ‘She was no closer than any of his other conquests,’ said Jennifer. ‘He really was devoted to Melanie. And he hadn’t seen Lily since last year.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby frowned. ‘Do you think in that case she was murdered to get at him?’

  ‘Why not just stab him?’ said Jennifer.

  ‘Stab?’ said the other three.

  ‘Yes.’ Jennifer looked confused. ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Stabbed.’ Libby was thoughtful. ‘Out there in the field.’

  ‘No, apparently,’ said Jennifer. ‘The police think she’d been moved.’

  Libby, Fran and Nina stared at her.

  ‘Dinner is served,’ said Harry.

  Chapter Eight

  HARRY AND PETER WERE relishing being in the spotlight. The older ladies, including Jennifer, Libby was surprised to see, were twittering around them like elderly moths, agreeing to be tempted by some of the more exotic dishes Harry had brought.

  ‘I though Mexican was just chilli con carne,’ said one, adjusting her multiple necklaces and patting her wispy hair.

  Libby watched as Jennifer bore away a tray with a covered dish and a bottle of Harry’s best Cabernet Sauvignon.

  ‘Up to the condemned man,’ Harry whispered as she took her place at the serving table in front of him.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Libby. ‘Apparently he’s devastated.’ Harry looked scornful. ‘No really. I’ll tell you later.’ She filled her plate with Pollo Verde, refried beans, salad and rice.

  ‘Got enough there, dearie?’ Harry handed her a full glass of wine.

  ‘Cheek,’ said Libby, and went to find Fran and Rosie, who were, unsurprisingly, at a table with Nina.

  ‘Where’s Ben?’ asked Fran.

  ‘He’s opted to eat in the kitchen with Hetty. I think he’s a bit overwhelmed with all these writers.’ Libby turned to Nina. ‘Is Jennifer all right? She must be very shocked as she knew them both.’

  Nina nodded. ‘She seems to be. I didn’t know she knew him. She didn’t say last time.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Rosie. ‘She didn’t want him to feel pressured or to be seen to get preferential treatment.’

  Nina’s eyes slid to Fran.

  ‘Yes, I know it’s obvious we’re friends,’ said Fran, reading Nina’s mind. ‘But I’m not expecting any sort of treatment.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what a lot of the other people did think they would get if they befriended Patrick, wasn’t it, Nina?’ Libby forked up Pollo Verde and assumed an expression of bliss.

  ‘I think so.’ Nina was looking nervous again, and Fran shook her head slightly at Libby. Just in time, Jennifer reappeared and sat down with them.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘A bit more normal. He said he wanted to come down for a drink after dinner –’ she turned to Libby ‘– if we’re allowed to have a drink after dinner? We’ll be drinking far more than was included in the price.’

  ‘Well, of course you’re welcome, but would he want to be surrounded by a lot of inquisitive well-wishers?’

  ‘Oh, I think most people will be sensitive enough to leave him alone,’ said Jennifer. Nina looked doubtful.

  But before Patrick could make an appearance downstairs, it was Libby who was accosted by another of the guests, a small, slim, dark-haired woman with an intense expression and skin-tight black jeans.

  ‘You’re one of the organisers, aren’t you?’ The woman had sidled up to Libby almost without her noticing.

  ‘Not exactly. My partner owns the Manor and we host this sort of thing.’ Libby found herself looking down on the woman, not something she normally had to do.

  ‘But you know Amanda George?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Could you introduce me? I’m sure my work would be of more interest to her than to Patrick Joseph.’ The name came out like venom from a snake.

  ‘You could introduce yourself,’ said Libby. ‘No introduction from me would make any difference, and I don’t even know you.’

  ‘Dee Starkey.’ The woman held out a thin hand. ‘I write erotic fiction.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby swallowed and shook the hand gingerly. ‘Well, Rosie – I mean – Amanda doesn’t write that sort of thing, you know.’

  ‘I know, but she writes women’s fiction, doesn’t she? Nearer my market than gory bloody thrillers.’

  ‘You could,’ said Libby, inspiration striking, ‘join the Romantic Novelists’ Association. I bet they’ve got people who write that – er – well – your sort of thing.’

  ‘Them!’ Dee Starkey was scornful. ‘I’m not going to join a bunch of wannabes and old women.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby’s brows drew together. ‘You’re published then?”

  ‘I have a regular slot in Spank Monthly.’

  Libby bit the inside of her lip hard to stop herself from laughing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a shaky voice, ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of that.’

  ‘It’s an online erotic fiction magazine. So you see, I’m hardly a beginner.’

  ‘No, I quite see that,’ said Libby, ‘but what makes you think Amanda could help you?’

  ‘I need an agent. She could introduce me to hers.’

  Libby was beginning to see what Rosie and Fran had meant. ‘Oh, I don’t think she could do that,’ she said, improvising, ‘her agent doesn’t deal with your sort of fiction either.’

  Dee Starkey let out something between a snort and a sigh. ‘That’s what the other bastard said.’

  Libby located a wine bottle and held it up. ‘Can I top you up?’ she asked, realising that Dee’s other hand held an empty wine glass.

  ‘Is that red? I only drink white.’

  Libby picked up another bottle, turning the label in case this strange little woman had the widespread and fashionable dislike of Chardonnay.

  ‘So, Patrick refused to help you did he?’ Libby topped up her own glass.

  ‘Said more-or-less what you did. And that he couldn’t be seen to be showing favouritism.’

  Another tick for the theory, thought Libby. ‘You were friends, were you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Unattract
ive colour seeped into Dee’s thin cheeks. Oho. Another conquest? Or another refusal?

  ‘Perhaps this sort of thing isn’t quite the right place to try finding an agent,’ suggested Libby. ‘The holiday you went on where you all met, isn’t that more the sort of thing?’

  ‘Oh, writers’ holidays, conferences, you name them, I’ve been to all of them.’ Dee fidgeted, her eyes turning to the door. ‘I suppose I can’t very well ask Patrick again.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Libby. ‘He’s just lost his wife.’

  ‘Much he cared about her.’

  ‘Really? Jennifer said he was devastated.’

  ‘Jennifer?’ Dee laughed. ‘What does she know?’

  ‘Quite a lot, actually,’ said Libby, beginning to get annoyed. ‘She babysat him when he was a boy.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dee, obviously not wanting to give ground, but with little left to say.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you,’ said Libby, ‘but I don’t know enough about your business to suggest anything else.’

  ‘You’re not a writer?’ Dee looked surprised.

  ‘No, I’m an artist.’ Libby didn’t mention pantomime. She didn’t think Dee would appreciate it.

  ‘Oh, well, of course you wouldn’t understand. I’d better talk to Amanda George myself.’ Dee sighed, as though this was one inconvenience too far.

  ‘I’ll wa– tell her,’ said Libby, hoping Rosie, Fran, Jennifer and Nina had done as they said and gone to sit in the small sitting room. ‘Why did you ask Patrick in the first place?’ she asked as a delaying tactic.

  The colour seeped back into Dee’s cheeks. ‘He – er –’ she cleared her throat, ‘looked at something of mine.’

  ‘A story? A – um – manuscript?’

  ‘A short, actually.’

  ‘Oh, so he didn’t downright refuse, then?’

  Dee looked hunted. ‘Er – no.’

  ‘So what, then?’ Libby wasn’t going to give up now.

  Dee pulled herself up to her full five feet and threw back the last of her wine. ‘If you must know,’ she said, putting her glass down with a bang, ‘he asked to see it because he said it turned him on. And it did. With me. And then had the fucking nerve to say it wasn’t his sort of thing. I tell you – it was his sort of thing while he was doing it!’ And with a furious glare at the unsuspecting Harry, who had arrived to collect plates, she stamped off towards the hall. Libby subsided against the table.

  ‘Here,’ said Harry, taking her glass and topping it up again. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Another of Patrick’s little peccadilloes,’ said Libby. ‘Did you see where Fran and Rosie went?’

  ‘Into the small sitting room with those other two, I think.’

  ‘I shall get them to convene in the kitchen in a minute, I think. You and Pete can come too, if you want to hear a bit more gossip.’

  ‘You know I don’t like gossip.’ Harry wagged a finger in her face. ‘But I might stretch a point.’

  But before Libby could convene anyone, Patrick Joseph appeared in the doorway.

  The buzz of conversation gradually faded away as he walked between the tables towards Libby.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where Jennifer is?’ he said.

  Libby knew now what was meant when it was said someone had aged overnight. Or in this case over one day. Patrick’s rather long but normally jovial face was haggard, his cheeks sunken and the wrinkled shadows under his eyes a chalky grey.

  ‘Er – yes. She’s in the small sitting room. I’ll show you.’ She put down her glass. ‘I’m very sorry about …’ she stopped not knowing how to go on. He gave a tired smile.

  ‘I know. No one knows what to say. But I’ve known Jennifer nearly all my life. I thought I’d like to have a drink with her.’

  ‘What can I get you?’ said Libby. ‘Wine? Whisky? Gin?’

  ‘Red wine would be lovely, thank you. I had a very nice Cabernet Sauvignon with my dinner. Which,’ he turned to Harry, ‘was excellent. Thank you. I gather you’re the chef.’

  Harry, who also didn’t appear to know what to say, inclined his head and produced another bottle of Cabernet. Libby took it and led the way to the small sitting room.

  ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ she said, when the others had expressed their sympathy and Jennifer had pulled a chair up for Patrick. ‘I’ll send Harry in with a couple of glasses.’

  ‘Fran and Rosie, could I speak to you for a moment in the kitchen?’ she said, once they were outside. ‘Nina, sorry this is a family matter.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Nina, with a resigned expression. ‘I think I’ll go up to my room.’ She turned to go, then turned back. ‘Do you know if any of those policemen are still here?’

  ‘I don’t think they are, except perhaps a couple guarding the – er – the hut and the front door. Why?’

  Nina looked nervous. ‘I – well, I wanted to talk to one of them.’

  Libby raised an encouraging brow. Nina’s pale skin began to change to a delicate pink. ‘I just – just thought of something,’ she said, and rushed out of the room.

  Hetty and Ben were sitting either side of the Aga and Hetty had opened the door to show the glowing red fire inside. Peter was in a chair at the table, his legs stretched out before him as usual. Harry came in bearing plates almost as soon as Libby, Fran and Rosie had sat down.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What’s happened now?’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘SO IT APPEARS,’ LIBBY concluded, ‘that Patrick asked to read one of Dee Starkey’s stories purely as a seduction technique and then turned down her manuscript. Or the chance to read it.’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘So that makes three of them, Daniel Hill, Nick Forrest and Dee Starkey. All of them turned down by him.’

  ‘But he hasn’t been killed,’ said Fran. ‘His wife has been killed.’

  ‘But not where she was found,’ said Libby. ‘And we know now she was stabbed. So she could have been killed here, in the house and moved.’

  ‘And we know Lily Cooper was wandering around during the night,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Morning,’ said Hetty.

  ‘Eh?’ All heads turned towards her.

  ‘It was morning. About half five. Told you in the first place – I get up early.’

  ‘Does that make a difference?’ asked Ben.

  ‘It would if we knew when she was killed,’ said Libby.

  ‘Your inspector will have asked everyone if they heard anything, won’t he?’ said Harry.

  ‘The sergeant asked me,’ said Ben, ‘but I told him we weren’t here.’

  ‘If she was killed here one of those people could have mistaken her for him,’ said Peter.

  Rosie shook her head. ‘No, he’s quite a big man.’

  ‘Now, if it had been poison,’ said Libby, ‘it could have been mistaken identity.’

  ‘It wasn’t, though,’ said Fran. ‘I think we should be looking into Melanie’s own life.’

  ‘How exactly? We aren’t looking into this at all, Fran.’ Libby sighed and leant back in her chair. ‘Oh, I wish Ian was here.’

  ‘I shall start getting jealous if you keep saying that,’ said Ben.

  ‘We asked him when we started looking at White Lodge last year,’ said Libby.

  ‘That wasn’t a murder case,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Then,’ murmured Peter.

  ‘Anyway, I bet Murray doesn’t know about Dee Starkey’s fling, or that she, Daniel Hill and Nick Forrest were all turned down by Patrick,’ said Libby. ‘People are far more likely to talk to us than to the police. Mind you, young Nina wouldn’t tell me just now what she wanted to tell the police.’

  ‘What?’ said several voices at once. Libby explained.

  ‘And he made a pass at Nina, so this could simply be getting her own back,’ she concluded.

  ‘Libby, once and for all, it wasn’t Patrick who was murdered,’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ grumbled Libby.

 
‘Anyway, all the guests will be leaving in the morning. They’ve been told they can go,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s that then.’ Libby sighed.

  ‘I hope the police go as quickly,’ said Ben. ‘We don’t need this sort of publicity.’

  ‘This was a private booking,’ said Libby, ‘it isn’t as if it’ll go on the website.’

  ‘Have you got any more bookings?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Not until later in the year. No one knows us yet,’ said Libby.

  ‘But we have got a lot of lettings for the Hoppers’ Huts and Steeple Farm,’ said Ben. ‘Something to do with people wanting to holiday in the UK rather than spend money on going abroad.’

  ‘Where do all the guests live?’ asked Fran suddenly.

  ‘Why?’ Libby looked taken aback. ‘You’re not thinking of tracking them all down all over the country?’

  ‘No, but I wondered how well they really knew one another.’

  ‘Except for Jennifer, no one knew Patrick,’ said Rosie. ‘Except me, I suppose, and I only met him on the circuit.’

  ‘I still find it odd that if all these people are aspiring novelists, why they didn’t know anything about the etiquette of a gathering like this, or the previous writers’ holiday,’ said Libby. ‘And that Dee Starkey was scathing about your Romantic Novelists’ Association, Rosie. I asked why she hadn’t joined. I was sure there must be erotic writers there? Or wouldn’t they be allowed?’

  ‘Of course they are. It’s a very broad church and much more inclusive than most of the other organisations. I mean, we allow unpublished writers. No one else does.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. She seemed to think you were all twinset and pearls or wannabes.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘If you knew how many times that’s been said. Most journalists like to perpetuate the pink, fluffy image that’s about fifty years out of date – if ever it was the right image in the first place, which I doubt.’

  ‘I suppose we shall just have to wait for the police investigation to sort it out,’ said Fran, standing up. ‘I’m sure there’s more to this than meets the eye.’

  ‘There could hardly be less,’ said Libby, following suit. ‘I don’t think I want to stay here tonight after all, Ben. They’ll let us go home, won’t they? Sidney needs to be fed.’