Murder at the Manor - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Read online

  The constable detailed to stay on guard at the door confirmed that he had instructions to let Harry, Peter, Libby and Ben leave the Manor and they strolled down the drive together.

  ‘I can’t believe it was only twenty-four hours ago we walked down here and said goodnight to Patrick Joseph,’ said Libby.

  ‘You have had a busy day, haven’t you?’ said Harry. ‘Do you want a nightcap with us?’

  ‘I think I’d like to go home if you don’t mind,’ said Libby. ‘You can go if you want, Ben.’

  ‘No, I’ll come home, too,’ said Ben. ‘Thanks all the same, Hal.’

  Peter turned right to go to their cottage, while Harry popped into The Pink Geranium to see how the evening had gone under the stewardship of Donna, his right-hand woman, recently married to her doctor husband. Ben and Libby walked along the dark village street arm in arm.

  ‘What made you change your mind about staying?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I’d had enough,’ said Libby. ‘It seemed to be questions all day, either the police asking them or us asking each other, and getting nowhere. If we’d stayed it would have meant sitting up with Fran and Rosie and carrying on talking about it.’

  ‘And the alternative is going home and talking about it with me?’

  ‘No, I shall try and find something mindless on the telly.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘I want to feel normal.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I’m wondering how normal I’ll ever feel at the Manor after this.’

  ‘Oh, Ben! Don’t say that. Do you think we should shut down the operation and just stick with the lettings?’

  Ben sighed. ‘I don’t know. Now we’ve done all the conversion it seems a waste.’

  ‘Let’s just see how it goes.’ They turned the corner into Allhallow’s Lane under the lilac tree. ‘They’ll all be gone tomorrow, so it’ll look completely different.’

  Ben frowned and took out his key. ‘It’s odd having your childhood home overrun like that, though.’ He opened the door and Sidney shot out.

  ‘I thought it would be Hetty who’d be unhappy, but she isn’t, is she?’

  ‘No. And it’s been good for her since Dad died.’ Ben switched on a table lamp. ‘Takes her mind off it. Nightcap?’

  ‘Do you know what I’d really like? A cup of hot chocolate.’ Libby went kitchenwards. ‘That proves I’m not an alcoholic.’

  The following morning the casual staff had been allowed back and by the time Libby arrived in the kitchen of the Manor Hetty had breakfast well under way.

  ‘Half of ’em ready to go,’ said Hetty pouring a mug of coffee and handing it to her. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘I don’t blame them,’ said Libby. ‘What a start to the business.’

  Hetty gave her a look. ‘Art weekend went well. Not half so much trouble. Stick to them.’

  Libby sighed. ‘We could. I don’t think I’m quite in tune with writers.’

  ‘More bloody artistic temperament than artists,’ said Ben, coming in and giving his mother a kiss.

  ‘I don’t think so. More jealousy, perhaps, and a murder’s enough to make anyone throw a temperament,’ said Libby. ‘But Rosie says they’re not all like this.’

  ‘And we mustn’t forget, as Fran said, that it wasn’t a writer who was killed, but a writer’s wife.’ Ben poured himself some coffee. ‘Come on. We’d better go and check the guests and the police. See what the situation is.’

  The situation was clear. All the guests except Patrick Joseph were assembled in the large sitting room, their bags neatly piled against the wall.

  ‘Is breakfast ready?’ asked Lily Cooper. ‘I need to get away.’

  ‘It’s on its way,’ soothed Libby. ‘If you’d all like to go into the dining room, the staff will bring it in.’

  There was a muttering and sighing and the guests gradually got to their feet. Dee Starkey gave Libby a hard look as she passed, and Jennifer and Nina came up to speak to her, followed by Fran and Rosie.

  ‘We’d like to thank you,’ said Jennifer. ‘You coped admirably.’ She turned to Rosie. ‘And you were brilliant. I wish I lived nearer and could come to one of your courses.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Nina, ‘so do I. And will you sign my book before you go?’

  Rosie smiled. ‘Of course. Now? Or shall we do it after breakfast? I’m not rushing off.’

  Nina looked at Jennifer, who said, ‘After breakfast, I think. And I’ve got one too, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  Rosie beamed. ‘Delighted,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and eat.’ She walked off towards the dining room between them.

  ‘Andrew’s coming to take her home,’ said Fran, ‘so I thought I’d hang around and see if you need a bit of help.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Stay by all means. I only hope all the food we had in for lunch today won’t go to waste. I expect Hetty will insist on cooking for us, so will you stay for that?’

  ‘Of course. Guy might drive up, too.’

  ‘That means neither of you can have a drink,’ said Ben. ‘Oh, well, I’ll go and see if our resident policemen are in my office.’

  ‘I’ll come too.’ Libby waved a hand at Fran and followed him out of the room

  DCI Murray and DS Wallingford appeared to be in the process of leaving, too.

  ‘We’re done here for the time being, Mr Wilde,’ said Murray. ‘We need to keep a presence and there are more forensics to be done, to make certain we know where Mrs Joseph was killed.’

  ‘So you think it was in the house?’ said Libby. ‘We heard you thought she’d been moved.’

  Murray’s lips tightened. ‘That we’re not sure of, Mrs Sarjeant. But you’ll understand the investigation will take some time.’

  That he’d wanted add “You of all people” was quite clear.

  ‘But you’re letting the guests go home?’

  ‘I can hardly keep them here when not one of them’s a suspect,’ said Murray.

  ‘Not even Lily Cooper or Patrick Joseph?’ said Libby.

  ‘Mrs Sarjeant,’ Murray sighed, ‘please don’t start trying to solve this case. Try and believe we do sometimes know what we’re doing.’

  ‘You know where we are if you need us,’ said Ben, hastily stepping into the breach. ‘If not here, at home on Allhallow’s Lane.’

  ‘You live there now, then, Mr Wilde?’ Murray raised his eyebrows and looked from to the other.

  Ben bristled.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ said DS Wallingford. ‘We’ll be in touch if we need to. All right if we leave the SOC officers here? And don’t let anyone touch any of the guests’ bedrooms until we give the all-clear.’

  ‘Or the public rooms,’ added Murray.

  ‘But there’s already been a certain amount of clearing up,’ said Libby. ‘Washing up and that sort of thing.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Wallingford. ‘Just don’t do any cleaning yet, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Does that include the Hoppers’ Huts?’ asked Ben.

  ‘The –?’ Murray frowned.

  ‘Surely you remember the Hoppers’ Huts, Mr Murray?’ said Libby.

  He scowled.

  ‘Oh, and did young Nina whatsername manage to speak to either of you?’ Libby looked from one to the other of the policemen, who looked at each other.

  ‘Not to me,’ said Murray.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Wallingford. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She didn’t say,’ said Libby. ‘Shall I ask her?’

  ‘No!’ said Murray and Wallingford together.

  ‘That went well,’ said Ben, as they watched Wallingford and Murray get into the large sleek car Libby had noticed yesterday. The other police vehicles and bodies in blue-and-white boiler suits were still scattered across the forecourt. One of them was reading the poster on the front of the theatre.

  ‘Let’s go and tell Hetty the good news she can’t start spring cleaning,’ said Libby. ‘She’ll be furious.’

  Chapter Ten

  HETTY WAS PHILOSOPHICAL. She made
arrangements with the casual staff to come in as soon as the police allowed, and set about preparing lunch, refusing all offers of help.

  Fran and Libby waited until Andrew Wylie, Rosie’s occasionally significant other, came to pick her up, then wandered down the drive on their way to Number 17 Allhallow’s Lane.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Libby. ‘The murder case we’ve been closest to for ages and it’s all over.’

  ‘It’s hardly all over,’ said Fran. ‘Just as far as we’re concerned.’

  ‘It’s so frustrating. We know absolutely nothing about it and we can’t find out.’

  ‘Libby, you’re positively ghoulish.’

  ‘We could look everyone up on the internet,’ said Libby, with an air of inspiration.

  ‘What good would that do? And who would we look up?’

  ‘We–ell,’ said Libby slowly, ‘how about Melanie Joseph? Peter said she was quite important in her own right. She might be quite well documented. And we might find a clue as to why she was stabbed.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Fran, equally slowly.

  ‘What, that we might find a clue?’

  ‘No, that she was stabbed.’

  Libby stopped and turned to her friend.

  ‘A “moment”?’ she asked.

  Fran’s occasional psychic “moments” had played a part in most of the investigations in which they had been involved, and were the source of the help given them by Detective – now Chief – Inspector Connell, who, despite the scepticism of his colleagues, had not infrequently asked for her help – and by extension, Libby’s.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Fran frowned. ‘I keep getting one of those pictures.’

  ‘Of what?’ said Libby, excitedly.

  ‘A woman drinking.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby began walking again. ‘No suffocating feeling?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Poison?’

  ‘No idea. But poison’s a bit dramatic and passé these days, isn’t it?’

  ‘Shades of Miss Marple, you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes. And I don’t know if it has anything to do with murder, or contradicts the stabbing theory, really.’

  ‘But you feel it has?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran sighed. ‘You know I can’t be sure of things. But what I don’t understand, if it does contradict the stabbing theory, is why Jennifer was so certain Melanie was stabbed.’

  ‘Patrick told her. And that the police thought she’d been moved.’

  ‘I wonder?’ Fran was still frowning. ‘Would the police have volunteered that sort of information to someone who must be the prime suspect?’

  ‘So you think Patrick was lying?’

  ‘Or Jennifer was.’

  ‘Jennifer?’ Libby was wide-eyed with surprise. ‘Why would she lie?’

  ‘By her own admission she’s the only one with any previous knowledge of them both.’

  ‘But she was really nice. She couldn’t possibly have a motive for killing Melanie.’

  ‘If she knew them as well as she said, how do we know she didn’t have one?’

  Libby shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘She’s one we could look up when we get back. She writes for the women’s magazines. She’s bound to have an internet presence, or at least be mentioned.’

  ‘I still think it’s something to do with mistaken identity,’ said Libby, getting out her key.

  ‘You can look all the others up, too. Daniel Hill’s a contributor to Scriptus and Dee Starkey to Spank Monthly –’

  Libby snorted and opened the door.

  ‘– so they could be there, too.’ Fran narrowly avoided Sidney and followed Libby into the sitting room. Libby woke the laptop and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. Fran sat at the table in the window and put Jennifer Alderton into the search engine.

  ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do with this information even if we do get any,’ she called to Libby.

  ‘We’ll think of something,’ said Libby. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Loads of information about Jennifer.’ Fran turned the screen to show Libby as she set a mug down on the table. ‘But no website of her own, which surprises me. Most writers have one, even the struggling ones. Daniel Hill has one – or rather, he has a blog, look.’

  Daniel Hill had ideas of aggrandisement. His blog reflected the fact that he was convinced of his superiority as a writer, and his attacks on others, popular or literary, were scathing. There was little about either his history or his personal life, except the suggestion that he lived in Dickensian surroundings with his cat – ‘Poor cat,’ said Libby.

  Of Nick Forrest there was no sign. Many Nick – or Nicolas – Forrests appeared in the results, several of which could be their Nick, but none were writers.

  ‘Of course,’ said Fran, ‘he could have a blog under another name.’

  ‘Yes – lots of them have odd names, don’t they?’ said Libby. ‘But we don’t know, so he’s a washout.’

  Nina didn’t come up in any searches, either, so Fran typed in Patrick’s name. There was, of course, a plethora of information, including, coming first, a news report about the death of Melanie.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t think they’d released it yet. Now we’ll be besieged by reporters.’

  Fran was reading the reports. ‘No, I don’t think so. There’s no mention of how she died, just “Melanie Joseph, wife of thriller writer Patrick Joseph, has been found dead. Mr Joseph was unavailable for comment. A friend said he was devastated. Mrs Joseph was chair of the environmental charity Green Country and served on various government committees.’

  ‘Well, there!’ said Libby. ‘Pete was right, she was important. And there could certainly be motives for her murder there, couldn’t there?’

  Fran nodded. ‘Environmental subjects seem to rouse the beast in everybody, for and against.’

  ‘All those demonstrations and marches,’ agreed Libby. ‘So perhaps it wasn’t anything to do with the writers, after all.’

  ‘I expect that’s why they let all the writers go and there’s no mention of the Manor in the report. Hang on, let me look at the other reports.’ She scrolled through the reports from the BBC, Reuters and CNN. None of the papers appeared to have got the news in time to go to press. ‘No, you’re safe for the time being.’

  ‘I bet someone gets wind of it, though,’ said Libby morosely. ‘You know what the press are like.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Fran was comforting. ‘Come on, let’s have a look at Jennifer Alderton. She seems to be a regular not only for the women’s weeklies, but some of the glossies, too. Not such a nonentity.’

  ‘I wonder how old she is?’ mused Libby. ‘Not as old as she looks. Rosie’s age?’

  ‘She said she babysat Patrick when he was twelve. I wonder how much older than him she was?’

  ‘Need only have been a few years. She dresses like someone Rosie’s age, though. Odd for someone who works in the magazine industry.’

  ‘And I wonder why she came on the weekend?’ Fran sat back in her chair. ‘She’s an experienced writer.’

  ‘But she went on the original writers’ holiday. I expect she just wanted to write a novel. There’s a huge difference, I should have thought.’

  ‘But she didn’t make anything of it, not like Daniel Hill or Dee Starkey, who thought their limited experience put them on the same level as Patrick.’

  Libby pulled the laptop towards her. ‘Ooh, yes. Let’s look up Spank Monthly!’

  There was a warning that the following pages contained adult content and should not be viewed by anyone under the age of eighteen. When they clicked through to the Spank Monthly site, they could see why.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Libby, wide-eyed at the images. ‘Do people actually read this stuff?’

  Fran nodded. ‘Very popular. Erotic ebooks are huge sellers, especially, believe it or not, in America.’

  ‘This is erotica? It’s positively pornographic
.’ Libby sat back and shook her head. ‘So Dee Starkey was going to write a pornographic novel.’

  ‘Erotic,’ corrected Fran.

  ‘Whatever. So why was she anxious for Patrick to help? He doesn’t write that sort of thing.’

  ‘The basics of writing a novel are the same whatever genre it is,’ said Fran. ‘You know, characterisation, story arc, over- or under-writing, setting – all sorts of things.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Libby, ‘but if she wanted help with contacts, Patrick wouldn’t have had the right ones for this sort of thing, would he?’

  ‘He might have known where to go – you know which agents or publishers might be approached. Once you’re in the industry you can find out a lot. There are newsletters and websites with up-to-date publishing news that come out daily.’

  ‘She could do that on her own, surely? Any of them could.’

  ‘But if you’re on the outside it’s much more difficult. Introductions are worth their weight in gold.’

  ‘Cliché? Fran – and you call yourself a writer!’ Libby grinned at her friend and picked up her mug.

  ‘Clichés are there because they are a good way of putting across an idea,’ said Fran. ‘It just doesn’t do to overlard your writing with them or it looks careless and lazy.’

  ‘I should imagine there are quite a lot of clichés in Spank Monthly,’ said Libby, ‘or it might simply be rather unpleasant biological description.’

  ‘Let’s see if there’s a list of contributors,’ said Fran going back to the laptop. ‘Yes – see? Dee Starkey, and a picture of her looking like a vampire.’ She scrolled down. ‘But nothing much about her except a list of other erotica she’s had published online. Not a lot, it seems.’

  ‘And has she got a website of her own?’ asked Libby.

  She did. But as with Daniel Hill’s, it gave little away about her personal life.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t do to say “I live in a three-bedroomed terrace with two point four children and my hubby who’s a double-glazing salesman” would it?’ said Libby. ‘Ruins the image.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Fran, ‘look. She’s a member of a pressure group to save some ancient monument.’