Murder at the Manor

Book 9: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Female Sleuths; Suspense

Synopsis

Lesley Cookman's bestselling series featuring amateur sleuth Libby Sarjeant is back for its ninth instalment. Steeple Martin sleuth Libby Sarjeant and her partner Ben are hosting a writers? weekend reunion at Ben?s family home, The Manor, when a body is discovered in the grounds. Even though Scotland Yard are on the case, Libby feels compelled to investigate the murder. It is on her home patch, after all! The enquiries take Libby and psychic investigator Fran Castle to historic Dorset, where they uncover a complex web of writers? jealousies. Libby uses all her wiles to get at the truth, but doesn?t manage to reach it before further tragic consequences occur?

Release date: May 1, 2012

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 268

Sample

Chapter 1






‘WHEN ARE THEY ARRIVING, then?’ Ben Wilde stared up at the newly refurbished exterior of his family home. The sun had briefly pierced the grey sky and reflected in the brightly polished windows.

‘Fran’s bringing Rosie at about two, and the rest are supposed to start coming in dribs and drabs between four and six,’ said Libby Sarjeant, referring to a large clipboard. ‘I hope it works all right.’

Ben turned and gave her a hug. ‘Course it’ll work. It was your idea, remember?’

‘I know,’ said Libby, ‘but I can’t help feeling a bit uncomfortable. We seem to have done it so quickly. It’s not so long since your father died.’

‘If Mum had any objection, she’d have told you. She’s as happy as Larry in her little flat, and she just loves having people to boss about.’

‘I hope so.’ Libby sighed. Ben’s mother Hetty had accepted the death of her husband Greg with the stoicism she was famous for, but when Ben suggested gently that she should sell the Manor and retire to sheltered accommodation near her brother Lenny, she had refuted the idea with some vigour. No, she was going to stay at the Manor in what had once been the housekeeper’s quarters, and Ben and his sister Susan could do what they liked with the rest.

Which was where Libby, Ben’s significant other, had come in. Her idea, mooted some time ago, of turning The Manor into a venue for creative writing and painting holidays was put into action. Their friend Guy Wolfe was an artist, married to Fran, who was taking creative writing classes with a best-selling novelist, Amanda George, known to them all as Rosie. They already had the contacts to make the venture work, and the first outing, a painting weekend run by Guy and Libby between them, had been a success.

Hetty had insisted on overseeing the cleaning and cooking and had recruited part-time help herself.

‘She’s thoroughly enjoying it,’ said Ben, giving Libby a hug. ‘Now tell me exactly what this weekend is all about. A reunion?’

‘Apparently,’ said Libby, letting him lead her indoors, ‘this group met on a writing holiday in Devon and this is a reunion weekend. They’ve all kept in touch with each other by email, so there shouldn’t be any awkward moments.’

‘But Rosie’s going to be teaching them? It isn’t just a knees-up?’

‘No. The organiser, –’ Libby referred to her clipboard again ‘– Lily Cooper, wanted a proper tutor. Only for a couple of sessions. So Fran asked Rosie.’

‘So they all eat together this evening, then what?’

‘You haven’t been listening to me for the last couple of weeks, have you?’ They were in the huge kitchen now, and Libby put the clipboard down on the table and went to put the kettle on the Aga.

‘Yes, I have.’ Ben looked vaguely guilty. ‘But I’ve been busy, too.’

‘I know.’ Libby turned with a smile. ‘And a brilliant job you’ve done, too. The Hoppers’ Huts are terrific.’

‘Well, between them and Steeple Farm we’ve got plenty of letting properties now, and there’s plenty of space for people on courses if they spill out of the main house.’

‘Which they have done this weekend.’ Libby checked her clipboard again. ‘We’ve only got a couple in the Huts, both men. Oh, no – one woman. She was a late booker.’

‘So, go on, then, what happens after dinner this evening?’

‘This Lily Cooper introduces Rosie and then they all go off and do what they want. They can all go down to the pub if they want to, or sit in the sitting room and talk books.’

‘Haven’t they got drinks here?’ Ben frowned.

‘We’re not licensed, are we? They get wine with their dinner and before it, that’s included in their weekend price, but we couldn’t afford to include any more, not for what they’re paying us.’

‘Then we need to do something about that,’ said Ben.

‘They can always bring their own. That’s cheaper for them.’ Libby poured tea into two mugs from the large brown teapot.

‘Hmm.’ Ben didn’t look convinced. ‘Shall I take a cup to Mum?’

‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘She hates it. Thinks we’re waiting on her. Anyway, she’s not here, she popped down to see Flo and Lenny. Said she’d be back in time to start the dinner.’

‘But we’ve got people coming in to do that,’ said Ben.

‘You know your mother.’ Libby grinned at him. ‘And tomorrow night you do remember Harry’s bringing his food?’

‘They’re all going to be eating veggie Mexican, are they?’

‘No, he’s breaking all his own rules and cooking meat and chicken as well. Pollo Verde, my favourite.’

‘I hope they all like spicy food, then,’ said Ben. ‘I can hear a car.’

Outside, Fran was helping Rosie George out of her little Smart car.

‘Hello, both.’ Libby went forward to take Rosie’s overnight case from Fran. ‘Good to see you.’

‘This is lovely,’ said Rosie looking round, her grey-blonde hair flying, as usual, in uncontrollable wisps around her head. ‘You’re so lucky, Libby.’

‘Oh, we don’t live here,’ said Ben, coming out to give Fran a kiss and shake Rosie’s hand. ‘My mother still does.’

‘I was sorry to hear about your father,’ said Rosie.

‘Thank you,’ said Ben. ‘He’d been ill for years, but somehow we didn’t expect it.’

‘No.’ Rosie shook her head. ‘One never does.’

Libby led the way inside and across the hall to the wide staircase. ‘You’re sure you want to stay overnight, Rosie?’ she said. ‘You can go home if you like.’

‘No, I’ve arranged for Talbot to be fed, and I want to immerse myself in the weekend.’ Rosie beamed. ‘It’s quite exciting. Different from my adult ed classes. And Fran’s staying, too.’

‘I know.’ Libby sighed again. ‘I said she and Guy could come and stay with us, but she refused.’

‘Getting my money’s worth,’ said Fran with a grin. ‘The only writers I know are the ones in Rosie’s class. I need to network a bit more.’

‘Don’t forget that most of these people know each other already,’ said Libby. ‘They may be cliquey.’

‘If they see I’m best friends with their tutor I’ll be welcome, I’m sure,’ said Fran, with a smile at Rosie. ‘After all, Rosie’s quite a famous name.’

‘We’ve got another quite famous name, too,’ said Libby, consulting her clipboard again. ‘Patrick Joseph.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard of him,’ said Ben, looking interested. ‘Is he really coming?’

‘Doesn’t he write crime?’ asked Fran.

‘Yes, rather gritty urban stuff,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ve met him several times. Seems a nice enough man.’

‘Well, there you are. He won’t try and take over, will he?’ said Libby.

‘No, I shouldn’t think so. I might ask him to field a few questions, just to be friendly,’ said Rosie.

‘Speaking of which,’ said Libby, going into the kitchen to shift the kettle back on to the hob, ‘I’m not being very friendly. You must be parched.’

‘Could I go to my room first?’ asked Rosie. ‘Then I’ll come and join you.’

‘Come on, then,’ said Ben, picking up her case. ‘I’ll show you.’

‘How’s it going?’ asked Fran, following her friend into the kitchen and sitting at the huge, scrubbed pine table. ‘Did you get the leaky shower pod fixed?’

Libby pulled a face. ‘Just in time. After all that money they cost.’

The all-in-one bathroom pods, similar to those found in student accommodation, had been installed in all the bedrooms, Libby having stated unequivocally that en-suite facilities would be a necessity for the kind of operation they were trying to run.

‘I know.’ Fran was sympathetic. ‘Especially after Ben had to buy Susan out.’

‘That was awful.’ Libby brought the tea to the table. ‘She always said she couldn’t care less what happened to the Manor, and she didn’t want anything to do with it, until we told her what we were going to do.’

‘You told me. Although I still don’t know why he had to buy Susan out. Technically, it isn’t even his yet.’

‘I think it’s his active conscience. It also makes sense, in that when Het dies, she can leave it to him alone.’

‘As long as they’ve got that in writing,’ said Fran.

‘Well, of course. It was all done legal-like, but as you say, it was an expense he could have done without.’

‘Pity you’re not rich.’ Fran grinned across the table.

‘No, but I’m a fully paid-up director of the company, so I’m a real person. And a grown-up.’

‘Nearly,’ said Fran, and ducked the tea cosy aimed at her head.

‘Nice room,’ said Rosie coming into the kitchen. ‘Ben said to tell you he’d gone to the office.’

‘Glad you like it,’ said Libby. ‘Tea?’

By half-past five, the rest of the group had assembled. Most were in their rooms, although some, including Patrick Joseph and Rosie, were in the sitting room renewing old friendships. With Patrick, sullen and rather bored, was the organiser of the weekend, Lily Cooper. A tall woman with highlighted dark hair and a striking figure, she was obviously unused to being ignored. On her way to the kitchen to see how the dinner was getting on, Libby paused in the doorway. Pasting on a professional smile, she went over to the little group.

‘Everything all right?’ she asked, addressing Lily.

‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, her tone implying that it obviously wasn’t.

Patrick Joseph and Rosie both looked up.

‘Yes, thanks, marvellous,’ said Patrick, in a smooth, chocolatey voice.

‘Have you met properly?’ asked Rosie. ‘Patrick, this is my friend Libby, who runs the Manor. Libby this is Patrick and – um –’

‘Lily Cooper,’ said the woman in an icy voice.

‘Yes, actually, Rosie, I introduced myself when they booked in,’ said Libby hastily. ‘Well, if there’s nothing I can get you, I’ll see you for drinks before dinner.’

‘If looks could have killed,’ she said to Ben a few minutes later, when they went to change in the privacy of the estate office. ‘She couldn’t bear it that this Patrick was enjoying talking to Rosie.’

‘Rosie wasn’t up to her old tricks, was she?’ Ben’s head popped through the neck of his collarless shirt.

‘She wasn’t flirting as far as I could see. Anyway he’d be too young for her. He can’t be more than fifty.’

‘Would that be a barrier?’

‘Maybe for him, if not for her.’ Libby grinned as she wrapped a long lilac scarf round her neck. ‘Anyway, she doesn’t flirt any more. Not now she’s more-or-less settled into a semi-detached relationship with Andrew.’

‘Like we used to be.’ Ben opened the door. ‘Come on, attached one. Let’s go and make the party swing.’

Rosie, Patrick and Lily were nowhere to be seen when Libby re-entered the sitting room, but several of the other guests were drifting aimlessly around. She smiled round brightly. 

‘Please help yourself to a drink,’ she said waving a hand in the direction of a chiffonier laden with drinks, glass and an ice bucket. Slices of lime and lemon were in a lidded glass dish. Immediately the guests converged and there was some fairly well-mannered jostling for position.

‘Everybody, here, gal?’ Hetty appeared in the doorway. 

‘I think one person was missing.’ Libby went over to her. ‘I left the clipboard in the kitchen.’

They went back to the kitchen together.

‘Oh, no – look. All the names are ticked.’ Libby frowned. ‘Did you check anyone in, Het?’

‘No, gal. Wouldn’t have asked you if I had, would I?’

‘Suppose not.’ Libby put down the clipboard. ‘Oh, well. I’ll wait until the last three put in an appearance in the sitting room, then we can serve dinner.’

When she got back, Patrick had reappeared and was being lionised by several of the other guests. Rosie and Lily arrived a few moments later, and Libby clapped her hands.

‘Dinner’s served, everyone. If you’d like to follow Ben over there into the dining room, I’ll join you in a moment.’

Fran paused by her friend as she watched the guests shuffle obligingly out of the room.

‘So far so good,’ she murmured.

‘Keep your fingers crossed,’ said Libby. ‘Although I honestly don’t see what could go wrong unless one of them gets food poisoning.’

‘Don’t tempt fate,’ said Fran. ‘With our record, that could be fatal.’

Libby gave her A Look.

Chapter 2



LILY COOPER DEVIATED SLIGHTLY from the programme she’d sent to Libby by welcoming the guests and introducing Rosie before dinner rather than after.

‘Not that it matters,’ said Libby to Ben as they went back to the kitchen to eat their own dinner with Hetty and the casual cooking and waiting staff. ‘And, by the way, did you tick off the last guest? I was sure there was one to come, but when I looked they’d all been ticked off.’

‘Not me.’ Ben shook his head. ‘After I’d seen Rosie to her room I went straight to the office.’

‘I wonder who it was, then?’ Libby frowned. ‘Unless someone arrived, found the clipboard and no one with it and checked himself, or herself, in.’

‘How would he have got his key or known where to go?’

Libby sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Anyway, they all seem fine in there at the moment, and I’m sure if there’s someone missing or something wrong, that Lily will be only too keen to tell us. She’s the least happy of the lot.’

‘She’s jealous.’ Ben smiled his thanks at his mother as she put a plate of food in front of him. 

‘Of what? Who?’

‘Anyone, I would think.’ Ben laughed at her puzzled face. ‘Oh, come on, Lib. I would think they’re having an affair – or at least she thinks they are, probably after a one-night stand at their last gathering. She’d be jealous of anyone he took an interest in, knowing her own precarious position.’

‘Mmm.’ Libby remembered the sulky-faced woman, and the way she had clung to Patrick Joseph’s arm before dinner. ‘You could be right.’ She looked consideringly at her partner. ‘He is quite attractive.’

He slapped her arm with a spoon. ‘That’s quite enough of that, woman.’

‘Did you see that, Het?’ Libby turned an astonished face to her mother-in-law-elect. ‘He hit me! That’s abuse, that is.’

‘He don’t deserve no pudding then,’ said Hetty, laconic as ever.

After dinner, the guests gravitated to the sitting room, and Libby asked if they were all there, as far as Lily Cooper knew. Looking slightly surprised, she agreed they all were, why? Libby explained, but Lily, Patrick and the other guests all looked vaguely uncomprehending. 

‘Well, that’s that.’ Libby left the sitting room. ‘Where are Fran and Rosie?’ 

‘In the kitchen with Hetty,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t think they fancied sitting in there with that lot.’

‘I said they’d be cliquey,’ said Libby, going back to the kitchen.

Hetty was waving a bottle of red wine around. Libby fetched glasses and she and Ben sat at the table.

‘So, what do you think?’ she asked Rosie.

‘They’re all right, as far as it goes,’ said Rosie. ‘Not really up for being taught anything though. It strikes me as more of a reunion than a writing weekend.’

‘Well, that’s exactly what it is,’ said Libby. ‘You sure you want to stay, Fran?’

‘I’ll stay to keep Rosie company.’ Fran raised her glass. ‘Cheers. Anyway, I’ve already paid.’

Libby felt herself colouring. ‘We’d give your money back.’

‘I know. But I am genuinely looking forward to talking to some of the others. The only writers I know are the ones in Rosie’s class, and none of them are published.’

‘I thought for a moment you were going to say none of them were real writers,’ said Rosie. ‘Anyone who writes is a writer.’

‘It doesn’t matter how many times you tell me that,’ said Fran, smiling at her tutor, ‘I shan’t feel like a writer until I see my name in print.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Libby. ‘I knew a playwright in London who’d been writing for a living since he left university, but he said until he had a book published he couldn’t call himself a writer.’

Ben snorted. ‘Bloody artistic temperament.’

‘No, I don’t think it’s that,’ said Rosie. ‘For instance, if someone asks you what you do for a living and you say you’re a writer, their next question is either “What do you write?” or “Would I have read anything of yours?” or a combination of the two. If, as a friend of mine does, you reply “I’m a columnist for The Times” they say, “Oh, a journalist,” as though it’s a lower life-form.’

‘Really?’ Libby was interested. ‘I wonder where I come in the life-forms.’

‘You write?’ Rosie looked astonished.

‘Panto.’ Hetty leaned forward with the bottle to top up glasses. ‘Written dozens.’

‘Not dozens, Het. Just a few.’ Libby stood up. ‘I’ll fetch another bottle, shall I?’

‘One o’ the good ones gal, not the ones you bought.’ Hetty nodded to wards the pantry door.

‘Not good enough, Mum?’ said Ben with a grin.

‘Good enough for this lot,’ said Hetty, sitting back in her chair. ‘Good job our Flo ain’t here.’

Flo Carpenter, oldest friend of Hetty and live-in partner of her brother Lenny, had been left as something of a wine connoisseur by her late husband, who, as the village would have it, “kept a good cellar”.

‘Some of them have started drifting off to the pub,’ said Libby, coming back into the room with a bottle in each hand. ‘There seems to be a bit of an atmosphere.’

‘It’s that Patrick Joseph,’ said Rosie.

‘I thought you said he was a nice enough man?’ said Fran.

‘He is,’ agreed Rosie, ‘but he is also the most dreadful womaniser.’

‘Has he tried it on with you?’ asked Libby.

Rosie shook her head and smiled. ‘I’m ten years older than he is, and he tends to go for the younger ones, anyway.’

‘Lily Cooper’s not that young,’ said Ben.

‘No, but I expect she was the best of the bunch at whatever event they met at,’ said Rosie, ‘or even the only one who responded. Some young women aren’t as dazzled by his celebrity status as they should be, you see.’

They all laughed. 

Later, as Ben and Libby walked down the Manor drive on their way home, they met Patrick Joseph, Lily Cooper and two other writers coming back up.

‘Sleep well,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Aren’t you on site?’ asked Lily in surprise.

‘No, we live round the corner,’ said Ben, ‘but my mother is in the Housekeeper’s flat should you need anyone in the night.’

‘But – what about staff?’ persisted Lily, looking more and more disgruntled.

‘We aren’t a hotel,’ said Ben, rather stiffly. ‘We’re a rather small conference centre. That’s why you got this weekend at such a bargain price.’

‘And that told you, Lily,’ said Patrick genially. ‘Thanks – er – Ben, was it? See you tomorrow.’

‘She’s an unpleasant piece of work, isn’t she?’ said Libby, as they resumed their way down the drive. 

‘Yes.’ Ben frowned. ‘I hope I haven’t made things worse. Good job we charged each delegate individually, we might not have got paid.’

‘And should we have had someone staying on site?’ asked Libby. ‘It’s not fair to leave your mum in charge.’

‘We modelled it on that place in Wales, didn’t we?’ said Ben. ‘They don’t have anyone staying on site. And the guests cater for themselves.’

‘True. I’d hate that, though, wouldn’t you? At least ours get good food.’

‘Nothing better than my mum’s cooking.’ Ben squeezed her arm against his side. ‘Apart from yours, of course.’

‘Don’t flannel. I’m not fit to lick Het’s apron.’ Libby gave him a reciprocal squeeze as they turned left into the high street and past The Pink Geranium, the vegetarian restaurant run by their friend Harry, and owned by him and Ben’s cousin Peter. Libby peered in through the windows, but no one was in evidence.

‘In the pub,’ said a voice behind them, and Libby turned to face her son Adam, who worked occasionally for Harry, and rented the flat above the restaurant.

‘Fancy joining them?’ said Ben.

‘Have we got time?’ asked Libby.

‘It’s early yet,’ said Adam. ‘Come on.’

‘Where’s Sophie?’ asked Libby, as they went into the pub, subject of many a calendar photograph. Sophie, Fran’s stepdaughter, had been going out with Adam for two years and had recently finished her Art History degree at university.

‘Away with some uni mates at a hen weekend,’ said Adam. ‘I don’t want to know, quite honestly.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Libby, amused.

‘Hello, petal,’ Harry, tall, slim and blond, leant forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Some of your punters were just in here.’

‘Patrick Joseph.’ Peter, equally tall and blond, although rather more patrician, kissed her other cheek. ‘I’ve met him before.’

‘You don’t sound too enamoured.’ Ben squeezed between them and waved at the barman.

‘He’s not a bad writer, but thinks a lot of himself.’ Peter leant back against the bar. ‘Quite the renaissance man, he is. Finger in a lot of pies. Does a lot of broadcasting.’

‘A true polymath, in fact.’ Libby pulled a face. ‘Yes, Rosie implied the same.’

‘Oh, Rosie’s up there already, is she?’ said Harry. ‘I thought she was the star turn tomorrow.’

‘She is, but she thought it would be more friendly if she stayed with them. Fran’s staying too, although I said she could come home with us.’

‘Well, they didn’t impress me,’ said Harry, ‘and there was some bird hanging off that Patrick who reminded me of an angry heron.’

Ben and Libby laughed. ‘Lily Cooper.’

‘Whoever.’ Harry shrugged. ‘Couldn’t keep her hands off him. Very pissed off that he didn’t pay her much attention.’

‘As that’s everyone’s impression, I guess it’s right,’ said Libby. ‘Is Patrick married, do you know, Pete?’

‘Very.’ Peter pulled a face. ‘Although he keeps her very much in the background. She’s something quite important in her own right, but I don’t know what. I don’t even know her name, but the word is he uses her as an effective brake on any little interlude that threatens to get out of hand. Your Rosie would know.’

‘She does know him, but hasn’t said much about him other than he’s quite a nice bloke, but a terrible womaniser.’

‘There you are then.’ Harry wagged a finger in her face. ‘So don’t you get into any little corners with him.’

Adam snorted.

‘Don’t embarrass my son,’ said Libby, hoisting herself onto a bar stool.

‘So,’ said Peter, picking up a new glass of red wine and nodding thanks to Ben, ‘are any of the other writers famous?’

‘No, they’re all aspiring,’ said Libby. ‘Like Fran. They met on a writing holiday last year.’

‘Isn’t that what you want to do? Host writing holidays?’

‘Yes, but small weekend ones. This was a big one.’

‘Have you had any more feedback for tomorrow’s dinner?’ asked Harry. ‘I don’t want to poison someone accidentally with a prawn or a mushroom.’

‘I sent you the food forms ages ago,’ said Libby.

‘But there will still be someone who says, “Oh, I can’t eat dairy/seafood/red meat.” Or “I don’t like that foreign muck.” You know there will.’

‘No one’s said anything yet,’ said Ben, ‘and Mum’s food went down a treat.’

‘Traditional British, dear,’ said Harry. ‘Bound to.’

It was nearly half-past eleven when Libby and Ben returned to Number seventeen, Allhallow’s Lane. Sidney the silver tabby shot out between their legs and Libby tripped down the step. All was much as usual.

But in the morning, when the phone began ringing at half past seven, when Libby was only just out of bed, she knew the roof had fallen in.

There was a body in the grounds of The Manor.

Chapter 3





‘I’M THE OWNER,’ BEN said to the yellow-jacketed policeman, ‘and we are co-organisers of the event going on here. Of course you’ve got to let us in.’

The policeman looked doubtful. ‘Wait here a moment, sir,’ he said and went over to a dark saloon where two men stood zipping themselves into blue boiler sui. . .