The young woman knocked on one of the panelled doors, opened it, and announced, ‘Miss Parish to see you, Lady Roxford.’
Cecilia, Countess of Roxford, had been removing some fallen petals from the top of the piano, and she turned to survey Rona from across the room. She was a tall woman, dressed in a plain blue linen dress; her hair was short and neat, her eyes keen and her mouth slightly pursed. Fleetingly, Rona wondered from whom Miranda had inherited her beauty.
‘Come in and sit down, Miss Parish.’ Lady Roxford dropped the fallen petals into a waste basket and took her seat opposite that to which she’d directed Rona.
‘It’s very good of you to see me,’ Rona began a little nervously. ‘You probably know that I’m researching the Willow family?’
‘So I believe, from my husband; though I confess I’m at a loss to see how we can help you.’
‘Julian – Mr Willow – is anxious that it should be as full a history as possible of both family and firm, and there was, of course, a point at which their history impinged on yours.’
A smile touched the countess’s face. ‘Tactfully put, Miss Parish. Yes, we were brought up on tales of the scandalous Araminta. However, it’s a tenuous link, and I shouldn’t have thought warranted dragging you all the way up here to see us.’
Rona, unaware of any special etiquette to be observed, decided to relax and be herself. ‘Actually, I’ve been enjoying myself,’ she said frankly. ‘I’ve just been on a tour of the house. It’s magnificent, isn’t it?’
Lady Roxford thawed slightly. ‘Indeed it is. We love it dearly, and frequently use the downstairs rooms for entertaining. So, what would you like to ask me?’
‘You’ve already answered part of it. I wondered how your family regards the Willow episode; you referred to Araminta as scandalous.’
‘I wasn’t entirely serious, of course. I think quite a few of us over the years have admired her for her pluck. She’d always been headstrong, but she must have been very much in love to act as she did, in the face of such severe disapproval. But exaggeration, as you must know, plays a large part in family legend. For instance, the Willows were a respectable and respected family, even in her day, and references to Sebastian as a simple carpenter are certainly spurious.’
‘How exactly did they meet?’
‘I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but not only was he the son of the firm, he was also a skilled and highly regarded furniture-maker. It happened that the wife of one of Araminta’s brothers was expecting a child, and, having seen some of his work at an exhibition, they commissioned a carved cradle. Sebastian delivered it himself, offering to make any alterations they might wish, but they were so delighted with it that Charles persuaded him to stay on and do some more work for him. In all, he was up here for two or three months, during which he and Araminta inevitably came into contact – and the damage, if such it was, was done. The attraction was on both sides, but to his credit, Sebastian made no attempt to prolong it. It was she who insisted on leaving with him when the time came.’
‘And was disinherited?’
‘So the story goes, though I think it was done in a fit of temper, and her father later regretted it. She was his only daughter, and had always been the apple of his eye. It was only natural he should hope for an advantageous marriage for her.’
‘And I learned today he left her a small legacy.’
‘Yes. Altogether, a happy enough ending, considering the circumstances.’
‘Are you still in touch with the Willows?’ Rona asked, with assumed innocence.
‘Not personally, though I believe my husband and Julian occasionally lunch together.’
They heard voices in the hall, and she added, ‘There’s my husband now. He was hoping to get back in time to meet you.’
The door burst open and a larger-than-life figure exploded into the room. He was dressed in a check shirt and riding breeches, and his face was red with sunburn and exertion. Rona rose hastily to her feet in time to take the hand thrust towards her.
‘Apologies for being late, my dear,’ he said breezily. ‘Miranda’s horse lost a shoe, and that delayed us. Delighted to meet you.’
Belatedly, Rona saw that his daughter had followed him into the room. Though recognizable as the girl in the photograph, Miranda Barrington-Selby was a pale copy of her former self. In contrast to her father’s ruddy features, there was no colour in her face other than the purple shadows under her eyes. She, too, was dressed in riding clothes, and carrying her hat by its strap.
‘This is Miss Parish, my dear,’ Lord Roxford introduced, and, to Rona, ‘My daughter, Miranda.’
The two young women nodded cautiously at each other.
‘No doubt my wife has been able to answer your questions?’
‘Yes, thank you. She’s been very helpful.’
‘Splendid, splendid. Not sure that we’ve much to offer that’s of interest, but Julian was determined we should see you. You’ve covered the story of Araminta, then?’
‘Yes, I – have a much clearer idea of events now.’
‘She’s also been over the house,’ Lady Roxford put in.
Lord Roxford nodded approvingly. ‘Good move. Give you some idea of the background.’
His wife’s glance moved to their silent daughter. ‘I hope you’ve not overdone things, dear,’ she said anxiously. ‘It might be wise to go upstairs and have a rest before dinner.’
The girl nodded, smiled wanly in response to a paternal pat on the arm, and went out of the room.
There was a brief silence, then, by way of excuse or explanation, Rona wasn’t sure which, Lady Roxford remarked, ‘She’s been a little under the weather lately.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Rona said inadequately. Feeling her welcome was coming to an end, she went on, ‘I won’t take up any more of your time. I’m extremely grateful to you both for agreeing to see me and answer some questions, and I’m delighted to have had the chance to see round your lovely home.’
They both smiled at her, as though she were a child who’d said the right thing.
‘Regards to Julian and his wife,’ Roxford said, as, in response to a bell rung by his wife, the young woman who’d admitted Rona appeared and, after appropriate words of farewell, escorted her back to the door.
Outside on the gravel, Rona stood uncertainly for a moment. She had, she realized, paid to see the gardens, and had not yet done so. It would do her good, after the long drive and somewhat tricky interview, to have a walk and clear her head. Returning briefly to the car, she locked her briefcase in the boot, and took the path leading to the lake.
On her return to her room at the pub, Rona took out her laptop and typed up notes on her visit to the Hall. As Lady Roxford had remarked, there’d been no need for her to come to Yorkshire; everything she had learned here could have been accessed from other sources, but Julian had wanted to show off his connections. In retrospect, though, Rona was glad to have met the Roxfords – not to mention their daughter – and seen where they lived. Also, she was looking forward to satisfying her curiosity about the Franks the following day.
Before going down for supper in the pub restaurant, she phoned Lindsey.
‘I was about to ring you,’ her sister exclaimed, before Rona could speak. ‘You’ll never guess who’s just been on the phone?’
‘Then you’d better tell me.’
‘Adele Yarborough! She’s finished her psychiatric treatment or whatever it was, and is back home.’
‘Oh Linz, I’m sorry. Max did tell me, and I meant to warn you.’
‘Well, thanks a bunch! I got the shock of my life. And you’ll never believe it, but she’s had the gall to invite us to a drinks party they’re giving next week – you and Max, as well as the neighbours here.’
The Yarboroughs lived in the same cul-de-sac as Lindsey, some fifteen minutes’ drive out of Marsborough, and before her temporary removal to Norfolk, Adele, a student of Max’s, had claimed he’d molested her, an accusation that had re
sulted in an uncomfortable few hours with the police.
‘I doubt if Max will go within fifty yards of her.’
‘That’s what I thought. To be fair, though, she was genuinely ill during all that fracas. I think I’ll go along, and I can report back to you on how she seems. Sorry, though, this is your call; did you want something?’
‘To tell you that you in turn will never guess who I met today.’
‘Surprise me.’
‘None other than Lady Miranda.’
She heard Lindsey’s indrawn breath. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘The far-flung north. Ottersby, to be precise, a couple of miles from Roxford Hall.’
‘She was at the house?’
‘Yes; I only met her briefly. She’d been riding with her father, and I must say she looked pretty washed out. Her mother said she’d been “under the weather”, whatever that meant.’
‘Lovelorn, would you say?’
‘Could be.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Difficult to say. She didn’t open her mouth.’
‘Well, if she’s up there, at least she’s not with Dominic.’
‘No one can argue with that,’ Rona said.
Max’s call came as she was preparing for bed.
‘Did you remember your curtsey?’ he asked her.
‘You’d have been proud of me.’
‘Seriously, did it go OK?’
‘Yes, they were pleasant enough, but as Lord Roxford remarked, there was no need whatsoever for me to come up here.’
‘Massaging Julian’s ego, that’s all.’
She paused. ‘Have you been back to the house?’
‘No, why?
‘I wondered if there was any post.’ She paused again. ‘Lindsey’s had an invitation from the Yarboroughs, and says we’re also on the guest list.’
This time the pause was on his side. ‘An invitation to what?’
‘A cocktail party. For next week, I think.’
‘Well, you go if you like, but I shan’t.’
‘That’s what I thought. In that case, neither shall I.’
‘We can make some plausible excuse.’
‘No doubt. Well, see you tomorrow, darling. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ he said.
The following morning, she settled up with the pub, put her case in the boot, and set off for Harrogate. The last time she’d had to search the records, it had required making an appointment at the archive centre and booking a reading table. However, when she’d phoned to do so, she was told past copies of the electoral rolls were available in the local library. No appointment was necessary, and, even better from Rona’s viewpoint, the rolls were in volumes rather than on microfiche.
Through indirect questioning, Louise had found out the address of the Franks’ old home – 26 Rawsdon Drive – and also the date on which she herself had left for Canada. On arrival at the library, therefore, Rona’s first task was to check in which district or parish the road fell, then unearth the volume for the year 2000, which would have been Louise’s last entry. Having done so, she settled at a table with a feeling of anticipation. If she could provide evidence that Louise had indeed lived with her parents prior to moving to Canada, it should do a lot to restore some sense of identity.
Which did not, however, prove to be the case. There was no difficulty in tracing the listing for the Franks, but the names recorded were Barbara M., Karen E. and Keith G. There was no mention at all of Louise.
Rona frowned and leafed both backwards and forwards in case she’d made some mistake. But the address tallied – 26 Rawsdon Drive – and the year was the one she’d been given. She sat back, studying the page in bewilderment. Could it be that the Franks had, either intentionally or otherwise, given Louise the wrong date? Perhaps she’d left for Canada a year earlier? As to who Karen might be, Rona had no idea. There’d been no mention of a younger sister. Could she, then, have been an unmarried aunt, who’d been living with them? Even Keith’s mother? There was no way of knowing.
Not to be defeated, Rona collected several back volumes, but each gave the same information. When, however, she consulted the 2001 records, interestingly enough, only Barbara and Keith’s names appeared. Whoever Karen was, she seemed to have moved away at the same time as Louise. Was this significant?
Rona stared at the pile of volumes in frustration. There must be a logical explanation, but try as she might, she couldn’t detect it. Remembering her previous experience, she then looked up the names of the neighbours on either side of the Franks’ house and directly opposite, then checked them against the latest roll. Two of the names were the same.
She glanced at her watch. Ten to eleven. She wanted to be home by six, and it was a four-hour drive – possibly more on a Friday evening. She’d just have time to drive out to Rawsdon Drive in the hope of catching at least one of the couples at home. With luck, they might be able to solve the mystery.
She bought a map of Harrogate, located the road she wanted, and, after a couple of wrong turns, found her way there. Parking the car outside number twenty-six, she glanced up at the house, wondering if the people who now lived there had bought it from the Franks, or whether there’d been an intervening sale. It was worth enquiring.
Her heart sank when the woman who answered her knock was in her twenties, and holding a baby in her arms. It was no surprise to learn they’d moved in only six months ago, and had no knowledge of previous owners.
Rona walked down the drive and up that of the next-door house, but when her ring resulted only in the distant barking of a dog, it was obvious no one was home. Which left the house opposite, whose occupants had also been there during the time of the Franks.
This time, a woman of about sixty opened the door, and Rona’s spirits rose, guessing her to be the Susan J. Griffiths who’d been listed at this address. She launched into her prepared speech.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you can help me? I’m trying to trace Mr and Mrs Franks, who used to live opposite. Have you any idea how I can get in touch with them?’
‘Goodness me, no,’ Mrs Griffiths replied. ‘The last I heard of them was when they left about three years ago, to join their daughter out in Canada.’
‘That would be . . .’ Rona frowned, as though trying to remember.
‘Karen,’ supplied Mrs Griffiths promptly. ‘She’d been courting a local lad, David Swann, and when his firm transferred him to Toronto, they got married and she went with him. Barbara and Keith visited them a couple of times, then, when Keith took early retirement, they moved out there permanently.’
Rona was now totally confused. So Karen had been their daughter, and married David Swann. Then where did Louise, who’d married Kevin Stacey, come into the picture?
She said tentatively, ‘They had another daughter, didn’t they? Louise?’
Mrs Griffiths shook her head. ‘No, just the one.’ She looked at Rona more closely. ‘I thought you said you knew them?’
‘Not personally,’ Rona back-tracked. ‘They’re friends of friends. I heard they’d recently moved back to the UK, and wondered if you might know their new address?’
‘Sorry, can’t help you there. We lost touch when they left.’
‘My friends certainly spoke of a Louise,’ Rona persisted. ‘Could she have been a niece, or something?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose’ Mrs Griffiths said doubtfully, ‘but I never heard of her.’
In desperation, Rona added, ‘I called at number twenty-four, but no one was in. Might they . . .?’
‘I really couldn’t say; they keep to themselves.’ Mrs Griffiths was becoming less forthcoming, and Rona feared her suspicions had been aroused. She felt in her handbag and extracted a card. ‘I’m only here for the day, but if they do know anything, could you possibly ask them to phone me? My friends would be so grateful.’
She held out the card, and after a moment, the woman took it.
‘Thanks so much for y
our help,’ Rona continued, remembering just in time not to add the woman’s name, which she should not have known. Her quick smile elicited no response, and she made her way down the path and across the road to her car, hearing the door close behind her.
As she was about to drive off, she glanced back at the house, in time to see one of the net curtains twitch. With luck, curiosity would prompt Mrs Griffiths to pass on the card. If not, well, Rona had done all she could.
It would have been wiser, she reflected as she turned out of Rawsdon Drive, not to have offered to make these enquiries; their result would only add to Louise’s uncertainties.
‘Cal! Hi, there! Good to hear from you! How are things?’
‘Fine, fine. You too?’
‘Great, yes. I’ve got a new job, did you hear? Finally made the move, and so far, I haven’t regretted it. Still in IT, but a different line.’
‘Good for you. And Susie?’
‘Blooming. Literally. We’re expecting an addition to the family in October.’
‘Congratulations, that’s great. Look, the reason I’m phoning is I thought you’d like to know a woman has been sniffing around, making enquiries about the Franks.’
The hairs rose on the back of his neck. ‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday, I think. The folks were out, but the old biddy across the road came over with a card she’d left, asking them to get in touch if they knew where the Franks are now.’
‘Toronto, isn’t it?’ he said slowly.
‘She seemed to think they were back in this country.’
His grip tightened on the phone. ‘Who—’ His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat. ‘Who is this woman?’
‘According to Dad, the name on the card was Rona Parish, and she lives down your way. It might be worth looking her up, finding out how much she knows.’
‘It might indeed,’ he said slowly. ‘You don’t happen to have her address?’
‘Yep; I thought you’d want it, so I jotted it down. Nineteen, Lightbourne Avenue, Marsborough. It is your neck of the woods, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, only a few miles away. Did she say why she wanted to contact them?’
‘On behalf of friends, but Ma Griffiths had her suspicions, not least because she seemed to think they had a daughter called Louise.’
Next Door to Murder Page 12
