Next Door to Murder

by Anthea Fraser

  Their coffee arrived, and as she poured it, Rona prompted, ‘You’re from Canada, aren’t you?’ Louise’s accent was, in fact, more pronounced than that of her parents.

  She nodded.

  ‘Though you’re actually English, your mother said. How long were you out there?’

  ‘Oh, several years.’

  ‘It’s somewhere I’d love to go. Whereabouts did you live?’

  A look Rona couldn’t analyse flickered across the other woman’s face. If the idea hadn’t been ludicrous, she’d have guessed it was alarm.

  ‘I don’t – Toronto.’ Louise thrust a plate of biscuits towards her. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘All my life, apart from university.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘Sometimes I feel I should have been more adventurous.’

  Louise shook her head decidedly. ‘You’ve been able to put down roots, establish your own place in society. In a town this size, you’ll know a lot of people, and they’ll know you, which must give a sense of security. I envy you.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of it that way,’ Rona admitted with a little laugh.

  ‘You probably haven’t needed to,’ said Louise Franks.

  The conversation had become less than comfortable, and by tacit consent, neither of them asked any more questions. In fact, Louise seemed to have retreated into her shell, leaving Rona to keep up a stream of inconsequential chat while they finished their coffee and started to walk home.

  As they turned the corner into Lightbourne Avenue, Rona was startled to see Mrs Franks standing at her gate, looking agitatedly to left and right.

  ‘Oh, God!’ said Louise under her breath.

  Catching sight of them, the woman stiffened and stood waiting until they reached her.

  She gave Rona a brief nod, and turned to her daughter.

  ‘Louise!’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Where on earth have you been? We’ve been worried to death. I told you not to go out! Anything could have—’

  ‘Ah, there you are, love.’ Keith Franks, the left side of his face swollen, came down the steps from the house. ‘All safe and sound, as I was sure you would be.’

  He put an arm round his wife, but she shook him off, turning back to Rona.

  ‘Thank you for bringing her back, Mrs – Miss—’

  ‘Rona,’ Rona supplied. ‘And I didn’t actually bring her back; we went out together for a coffee.’

  She was aware of Louise’s quick flash of gratitude, but her mother was unconvinced.

  ‘Well, it was very good of you,’ she mumbled, and, taking Louise’s arm, led her firmly up the path and into the house, leaving Keith and Rona eyeing each other uneasily.

  Rona gave him a cautious smile and would have moved on, but he said quickly, ‘I don’t know what she told you – Louise, I mean – but it’s not wise to take her too literally. She’s been ill, you know, and she still gets – confused.’

  Since she could think of no suitable reply, Rona smiled again and, tugging gently on Gus’s lead, turned thankfully into her own gateway.

  The afternoon in the garden wasn’t as relaxing as she’d anticipated. Her eyes kept drifting from her book to the high wall on her left, aware of movement and occasional low voices behind it. From her position close to the house, she could not, she knew, be seen from next-door’s windows, yet she felt curiously exposed.

  What an odd family they were, she reflected: the parents reserved and, certainly on the face of it, over-protective; and Louise herself a complex mix, shying away from personal questions, yet seeming touchingly eager for some form of contact. Rona hoped fervently that they’d soon find a home of their own, preferably on the other side of Marsborough.

  ‘What do you think was the matter with her?’ she asked Max over the phone that evening, having regaled him with the morning’s events.

  ‘My dear girl, how in the world should I know? I’ve never even met the woman!’

  ‘Her father said she was confused, but she seemed all right to me. Well, more or less all right.’

  ‘Never mind, you’re unlikely to be called on to give a diagnosis.’

  ‘But I’m uneasy about them, Max. I didn’t even enjoy being in the garden this afternoon.’

  ‘Now you’re being fanciful. As I told you, I talked to – Keith, I think he said his name was – and found him very affable. I can’t see anything unusual about parents wanting to protect their daughter if she’s been ill.’

  ‘But not allowing her out by herself!’

  ‘Perhaps she has epilepsy or something.’

  ‘And they’ve been discussing us,’ Rona added indignantly.

  ‘Well, we’ve been discussing them!’

  ‘They wondered if we were married, as we have different surnames.’

  ‘Reasonable enough. When they’ve been there a bit longer, they’ll notice I don’t come home every evening, and they’ll probably discuss that, too. Good luck to them!’

  ‘I wish you were coming home tonight,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘Sweetheart, for goodness’ sake! You’ll probably never come across them again. Think how seldom we saw all the other people who’ve taken that house.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Rona.

  There were no more sightings of their neighbours over the next two days, and Rona’s initial discomfort eased. Perhaps Max was right, and there’d be no further contact. And now it was Friday evening at last, and they were about to meet the Willows.

  As she was preparing to go out, it occurred to her that they mightn’t agree to being researched. Her previous efforts had, after all, turned up several skeletons. As one of the Curzons had remarked, most long-established families had them; it was a question of whether or not they could be contained. Well, she decided philosophically, that was a bridge she could cross when she came to it.

  ‘Ready?’ Max enquired, looking into the bedroom.

  ‘Ready!’ she confirmed, picking up her bag.

  ‘Then let’s go and meet your next victims!’ he said.

  The Kingstons lived in a large modern house in Piper’s Way, an executive development on the far side of Guild Street. There were already two cars in the driveway, and although there was room for another, Max parked on the road.

  ‘In case we need a quick getaway!’ he said.

  Georgia and Patrick met them in the hall, gratefully accepted Max’s bottle of wine, and exclaimed over the Provençal mats Rona had brought.

  ‘If the table weren’t already laid, I’d put them on straight away!’ Georgia exclaimed. ‘How clever of you – they’re just the right colour. Now, come and meet our other guests.’

  The two men in the sitting room rose as they entered. One of them was Simon Grant, who came forward to kiss Rona and shake Max’s hand.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve met the Willows,’ Georgia said. ‘Julian and Felicity, Rona and Max.’

  As the four of them nodded smilingly at each other, Rona and Max avoided each other’s eyes. For Felicity Willow was not the woman they’d seen with Julian at the London restaurant. Here we go! Rona thought resignedly.

  ‘I certainly know of you both,’ Julian was saying, ‘and I’ve a feeling Rona and I met once, many years ago.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I think it was at the tennis club.’

  And he’d changed surprisingly little, she thought, as she sat down at Patrick’s invitation and took the glass he handed her. He was still tall and thin, with a lean, clever-looking face and deep-set eyes. Only his hair was different. Fair and fine, it had flopped over his face in his youth; now it had receded, leaving him with a high and bony forehead.

  Felicity Willow leaned forward with a smile. ‘I’ve read some of your biographies,’ she said to Rona, ‘and enjoyed them very much. Have you any others in the pipeline?’

  Max laughed. ‘A leading question!’

  Rona flushed, aware this could lead to the subject she’d hoped to postpone till later in the eve
ning. Georgia came to her rescue.

  ‘I loved the one about Sarah Siddons. What a life that woman had!’

  The conversation turned to a discussion on the theatre, but Rona had barely relaxed when another potentially delicate subject arose, and again, to her annoyance, it was Max who precipitated it.

  ‘It’s ages since I saw a West End show,’ Hilary was remarking. ‘What’s on at the moment?’

  And Max replied, ‘The Sound of Music, for a start. We saw it on Saturday.’

  ‘Of course – it was Rona’s birthday. Did you get my card?’

  ‘Yes; thanks very much.’

  ‘And how was the show?’

  ‘Very good; it was lovely to hear all those songs again.’ Rona caught Max’s eye, willing him not to mention their theatre supper, and thankfully he subsided.

  In the event, it was Julian himself who raised the matter of the articles. Georgia had seated him next to Rona at dinner, so that she could, if she wished, bring up the subject, and it was as they were starting their dessert that he said without preamble, ‘I’ve been enjoying your series in Chiltern Life. Someone said the Curzons have also received the treatment?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Rona answered carefully, ‘but we’re holding publication to coincide with their anniversary.’

  ‘That family tree must have been hell to work through. We go back further, but our lineage is much simpler – father to son right down the line.’

  ‘Actually—’ Rona began, and broke off, seeing the twinkle in his eye. ‘You know what I’m going to ask, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve a pretty good idea. I was wondering when you’d get round to us.’

  ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘I’d be honoured. We’ve lots of family documents, all filed chronologically and more or less on your doorstep. Though no doubt you’ll want to go to Yorkshire at some stage, when you come to Lady Araminta.’

  Lady Araminta, Rona noted. Not just ‘Honourable’, then; Georgia had demoted her.

  ‘And you predate the Curzons?’ she prompted.

  ‘Yes, by nearly fifty years. But as I said, we’ve had the good sense to have only one son per generation, which has spared us a lot of hassle.’

  No doubt, like the Curzons, the Willow women had taken no interest in the business. Rona hoped they’d nonetheless received their due desserts.

  Felicity, sitting opposite them, smiled across. ‘Are you boring Rona with stories of the family?’ she asked. ‘I should warn you, Rona, once started, there’s no stopping him.’

  ‘We have received the accolade, darling,’ Julian informed her. ‘She wants to write us up for her series.’

  ‘No doubt it was you who suggested it!’

  ‘I might have nudged her a little.’

  ‘Really,’ Rona assured her, ‘I was intending to ask him.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, we’d be glad to give you all the help you need, wouldn’t we, darling?’

  There was something immediately likeable about Felicity, though Rona, remembering the woman she presumed to be her rival, felt she could make more of herself. She wore minimal make-up, and her soft brown hair with its wispy fringe looked as though she’d washed it herself – very different from the chic stylishness of her husband’s London companion. Moreover, though her dress was obviously expensive, it did little for her, being altogether too matronly. Rona longed to take her to one of Magda’s boutiques.

  ‘When are you hoping to embark on this?’ Julian asked.

  ‘Whenever’s convenient; my desk is clear at the moment.’

  ‘Shall we say Tuesday, then? All the papers are at the house, so you’d be working from there. As you’ll appreciate, space at the store is at a premium, with everything being on the one floor.’

  ‘Julian’s grandfather tried to buy the walkway above,’ Felicity put in, ‘so we could expand upwards, but it caused an uproar. There was a Conservation Society, even then.’

  ‘What are you all talking about so earnestly at your end of the table?’ Simon demanded laughingly.

  ‘My next project,’ Rona told him. ‘Willows’ Fine Furniture, Past and Present.’

  ‘And God bless all who sail in her!’ Max added facetiously.

  ‘You pulled it off, then,’ he commented, in the car on the way home.

  ‘Julian brought it up himself. Said he’d wondered when I’d get round to him. Barnie told me he’d had enquiries from local businesses, but he didn’t mention the Willows. At least I’ll be working close to home this time – in fact, actually in their home, though Julian was careful to point out I’ll need to go to Yorkshire, to pay homage to their aristocratic roots.’

  ‘Who,’ Max remarked drily, ‘probably won’t thank you for reminding them they’re related to trade.’

  Dominic stood at his window, looking down over the town of Marsborough. He’d been damn lucky to find this place, he reflected. Not only was it fully serviced, with a first-class restaurant on the ground floor, but there was also a coffee lounge doubling as an informal club, which residents made use of to meet business colleagues. And to crown it all, Carla had a flat two floors below him, so was always on hand. It could not have been more convenient.

  He glanced at his watch. Another fifteen minutes till the conference call. An important deal was under way, and he was running through the points he intended to make, when a tap on the door broke his train of thought.

  ‘Not now, Carla,’ he said testily. ‘I need to keep my mind clear.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Carla sounded harassed. ‘You have a visitor who insists on speaking to you.’

  He turned angrily. ‘I see no one without an appointment, you know that.’

  ‘You’ll see me,’ said a voice behind her, and as she perforce moved aside, Lady Miranda Barrington-Selby, known colloquially as Dominic’s heiress, came into the room.

  He felt his heart jerk, surprise and guilt combining to wrong-foot him. ‘Forgive me, Miranda,’ he said gently, ‘but I really can’t talk to you now. I’m awaiting an important call.’

  ‘I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient, Dominic, but that’s your fault, not mine. If you’d had the courtesy to return my calls, I shouldn’t have had to seek you out.’

  He said quietly, ‘Five minutes, then,’ and nodded dismissal at Carla who, having failed to preserve his privacy, was hovering uncertainly. She went out, closing the door quietly behind her.

  He turned back to Miranda. God, why couldn’t she accept that what had been between them was over? It was an episode about which he’d always been uncomfortable, and latterly ashamed. She was so agonizingly young. How could he have let things get so far out of hand? Yet, in his defence, it had been she who’d initiated the affair, phoning almost daily to invite him to some function or ball or opening, until, flattered, he’d succumbed, accepting that she always got her way. She was also very beautiful, with her cascade of red-gold hair and her green eyes.

  And those green eyes now challenged him from across the room. She was still by the door. He beckoned her closer, but she made no move.

  ‘It’s not a social call, Dominic. I’ve come to tell you I’m pregnant.’

  He stared at her, his heart plummeting. ‘You can’t be,’ he said ridiculously.

  She ignored him. ‘And Daddy isn’t too happy about it.’

  Dominic moistened his lips. ‘Daddy’, whom he’d met through business contacts, was a prominent member of the House of Lords. But God, what timing. Any minute . . .

  ‘Miranda, I’m truly sorry, but I can’t deal with this now. I’ve—’

  ‘An important call. Yes, so you said.’

  ‘Look, I’m not being dismissive, believe me, but it really is impossible. If you’d care to wait, I’ll meet you down in the coffee lounge in an hour or so. It’s not open to the public, so tell them you’re meeting me. There’s a supply of magazines in there, to help pass the time.’

  And before she could protest, he took her arm and led her firmly out to Carla.

&n
bsp; Back in his room, he rubbed a hand over his face. Oh, God, God, God, he could have done without this! How in hell could he remain focussed for the duration of this blasted call?

  It seemed a very short space of time before the phone rang.

  Five

  Dominic’s willpower being one of his strengths, the conference call had gone well, but he remained at his desk for a good ten minutes after it ended, wondering how best to approach Miranda.

  Finally, deciding to play it by ear, he took the lift to the ground floor and made his way to the coffee lounge. He saw her at once, long legs crossed, hair screening her face as she flicked through a magazine; saw also that several of the businessmen grouped around the room were casting speculative glances in her direction.

  She looked up as he approached, but didn’t speak.

  ‘Another coffee?’ he asked, seating himself opposite her and noting her empty cup.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Pity; it might have helped things along. He cleared his throat. ‘Right; I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Now, let’s start again. You’re sure you’re pregnant?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘And – forgive me – it is mine?’

  Her eyes flashed, but she merely said tightly, ‘Yes.’

  He waited for the inevitable claim that there’d been no one else, but surprisingly it didn’t come; a glaring omission in the circumstances.

  ‘How far on are you?’

  ‘Twelve weeks.’

  ‘Twelve weeks?’ he repeated, his voice rising. ‘You took your time telling me.’

  ‘I wanted to be sure.’

  He thought back three months. April. Easter in Paris. He’d intended the weekend to be their last together, during which he’d gently extricate himself from the affair. In the event, since she was enjoying it so much, he’d postponed doing so, finally broaching the subject over dinner at the Savoy a couple of weeks later.

  With a pang, he remembered the blank shock on her face, the phone calls that had followed, during which she’d alternately wept and raged at him, refusing to accept that it was over. It had been the messiest and most painful ending of any of his affairs. And now this.

  She was watching him, perhaps following the pattern of his thoughts.