Murder at Mallowan Manor
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Synopsis
It's the run-up to Christmas, Libby Sarjeant and her friend Fran have been invited to stay at grand old Mallowan Manor to investigate some mysterious rumours which are preventing the owner from selling up. A weird cast of characters, including an ageing actress and an enigmatic butler, makes Libby feel like she's ended up in an Agatha Christie plot ?
Release date: March 16, 2015
Publisher: Accent Press
Print pages: 82
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Murder at Mallowan Manor
Lesley Cookman
Libby Sarjeant put down the pen with which she’d been writing Christmas cards and picked up her phone.
‘Fran?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’ said Fran Wolfe.
‘What’s up?’
‘Well, you remember Goodall and Smythe?’
‘How could I forget?’ Goodall and Smythe were upmarket estate agents who some years ago had employed Fran to look into houses with a reputation for being haunted. Fran’s psychic ability, with which she wasn’t entirely comfortable, had been employed in the first murder case Libby had encountered and resulted in their firm friendship.
‘They’ve come back to me.’
‘What? After all this time? It must be serious.’
‘It’s more than that.’ Fran sighed. ‘You see, the owner asked them to bring me in. And you, too.’
‘What! Why? How?’
‘It’s Sir Andrew’s fault.’
‘Don’t hang it out, Fran. What’s it got to do with Sir Andrew?’
‘The owner is an old friend of his. An elderly actress. She was talking to Sir Andrew at some theatrical bash and telling him all about this house she wants to sell which is apparently haunted and won’t sell. So he told her about me, and then a bit about some of our – er – experiences. And mentioned you. And she knew you.’
‘Knew me? But I don’t know any old actresses – at least I don’t think so. Unless I worked with her when I was in the job?’
‘No, apparently she knew you when you were young. She kept in touch with your parents for years.’
‘They’re both dead.’
‘I know that. But she knew your name and Sir Andrew confirmed it was you. Anyway, she went to Goodall and Smythe and asked them to employ me to investigate. With you.’
Libby was thinking. ‘A friend of my parents … could it be … there was one. A young actress, but I can’t remember her name. I had a huge crush on her. It can’t be her?’
‘Could be. Dame Amanda Knight.’
‘Good God!’ said Libby. ‘I never connected her to the person I knew all those years ago. And she remembered me?’
‘Very well, apparently. You see, immediately after Goodall and Smythe called, so did she. Got my number from Sir Andrew. And she said – she sounds lovely, by the way – that you must have got your taste for investigation from her. What does that mean?’
Libby laughed. ‘I’d almost forgotten. She had a way of getting involved in cases in exactly the same way as we do, but I was a child so I didn’t take as much notice as I should have. My lord! How exciting! So what does she want us to do?’
‘She isn’t convinced about this so called haunting, but what she proposes is that she invites us both – with Guy and Ben – to a weekend house party to do some snooping, physical and metaphysical. Next weekend.’
‘I don’t believe it! A Christmas house party in a haunted house? This is pure Agatha Christie. Will we have the suspects lined up?’
Fran laughed. ‘From the way she spoke, yes. I know it’s short notice, and I said Guy and I could only come on Saturday evening after we’d closed the shop, so she said could we stay until Monday morning.’
‘Couldn’t you and I go earlier on Saturday and the men join us later? Couldn’t you get cover for one day? After all, you are going to be paid.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Fran dubiously. ‘I could ask old Bob Alton. You remember him? He’s a regular customer and seems to know as much about the shop as I do.’
‘There you are then! Do you have to call her back, or anything?
‘I said I would. Will you ask Ben? I’ll talk to Guy – he’s already agreed in principle. Let me know what Ben says, and I’ll call her back.’
The following Saturday morning Fran picked up Libby in Steeple Martin and they headed deep into the Kent countryside. The lanes were covered in frosted fallen leaves, naked trees forming a skeletal canopy above their heads. Libby shivered.
‘Why do we always seem to have to drive through these spooky lanes in winter?’
‘We do drive through them in summer, too,’ said Fran, concentrating on the lane which disappeared into the mist only a few metres ahead. ‘Let’s just be grateful the house is in Kent. She could have lived anywhere by now.’
‘You’d think being in top commuter belt south-east England there would be more houses around, wouldn’t you?’ Libby peered through the side window at the shadowy woodland.
‘I expect there are, we just can’t see them. Now keep your eyes open, there should be a turning on our left.’
As they eventually came out into more open country the mist began to clear and at last a small wooden signpost announced itself as Mallowan Manor. Fran turned right into the drive which wound between more banks of trees and shrubs and ended abruptly in a large empty courtyard.
‘Well, there it is,’ said Fran, switching off the engine. ‘The haunted house.’
‘It could have come straight from an M. R. James story,’ said Libb. . .
‘Fran?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’ said Fran Wolfe.
‘What’s up?’
‘Well, you remember Goodall and Smythe?’
‘How could I forget?’ Goodall and Smythe were upmarket estate agents who some years ago had employed Fran to look into houses with a reputation for being haunted. Fran’s psychic ability, with which she wasn’t entirely comfortable, had been employed in the first murder case Libby had encountered and resulted in their firm friendship.
‘They’ve come back to me.’
‘What? After all this time? It must be serious.’
‘It’s more than that.’ Fran sighed. ‘You see, the owner asked them to bring me in. And you, too.’
‘What! Why? How?’
‘It’s Sir Andrew’s fault.’
‘Don’t hang it out, Fran. What’s it got to do with Sir Andrew?’
‘The owner is an old friend of his. An elderly actress. She was talking to Sir Andrew at some theatrical bash and telling him all about this house she wants to sell which is apparently haunted and won’t sell. So he told her about me, and then a bit about some of our – er – experiences. And mentioned you. And she knew you.’
‘Knew me? But I don’t know any old actresses – at least I don’t think so. Unless I worked with her when I was in the job?’
‘No, apparently she knew you when you were young. She kept in touch with your parents for years.’
‘They’re both dead.’
‘I know that. But she knew your name and Sir Andrew confirmed it was you. Anyway, she went to Goodall and Smythe and asked them to employ me to investigate. With you.’
Libby was thinking. ‘A friend of my parents … could it be … there was one. A young actress, but I can’t remember her name. I had a huge crush on her. It can’t be her?’
‘Could be. Dame Amanda Knight.’
‘Good God!’ said Libby. ‘I never connected her to the person I knew all those years ago. And she remembered me?’
‘Very well, apparently. You see, immediately after Goodall and Smythe called, so did she. Got my number from Sir Andrew. And she said – she sounds lovely, by the way – that you must have got your taste for investigation from her. What does that mean?’
Libby laughed. ‘I’d almost forgotten. She had a way of getting involved in cases in exactly the same way as we do, but I was a child so I didn’t take as much notice as I should have. My lord! How exciting! So what does she want us to do?’
‘She isn’t convinced about this so called haunting, but what she proposes is that she invites us both – with Guy and Ben – to a weekend house party to do some snooping, physical and metaphysical. Next weekend.’
‘I don’t believe it! A Christmas house party in a haunted house? This is pure Agatha Christie. Will we have the suspects lined up?’
Fran laughed. ‘From the way she spoke, yes. I know it’s short notice, and I said Guy and I could only come on Saturday evening after we’d closed the shop, so she said could we stay until Monday morning.’
‘Couldn’t you and I go earlier on Saturday and the men join us later? Couldn’t you get cover for one day? After all, you are going to be paid.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Fran dubiously. ‘I could ask old Bob Alton. You remember him? He’s a regular customer and seems to know as much about the shop as I do.’
‘There you are then! Do you have to call her back, or anything?
‘I said I would. Will you ask Ben? I’ll talk to Guy – he’s already agreed in principle. Let me know what Ben says, and I’ll call her back.’
The following Saturday morning Fran picked up Libby in Steeple Martin and they headed deep into the Kent countryside. The lanes were covered in frosted fallen leaves, naked trees forming a skeletal canopy above their heads. Libby shivered.
‘Why do we always seem to have to drive through these spooky lanes in winter?’
‘We do drive through them in summer, too,’ said Fran, concentrating on the lane which disappeared into the mist only a few metres ahead. ‘Let’s just be grateful the house is in Kent. She could have lived anywhere by now.’
‘You’d think being in top commuter belt south-east England there would be more houses around, wouldn’t you?’ Libby peered through the side window at the shadowy woodland.
‘I expect there are, we just can’t see them. Now keep your eyes open, there should be a turning on our left.’
As they eventually came out into more open country the mist began to clear and at last a small wooden signpost announced itself as Mallowan Manor. Fran turned right into the drive which wound between more banks of trees and shrubs and ended abruptly in a large empty courtyard.
‘Well, there it is,’ said Fran, switching off the engine. ‘The haunted house.’
‘It could have come straight from an M. R. James story,’ said Libb. . .
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Murder at Mallowan Manor
Lesley Cookman
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