Next Door to Murder

by Anthea Fraser

  Had Mrs Griffiths passed her card to the Johnsons, who’d been the Franks’ next-door neighbours? And, even supposing she had, would they bother contacting her? She very much doubted it. It seemed that for all their joint efforts, she and Louise would never have proof, one way or the other, of her true identity, and whereas the passing of time would put the matter out of her own head, it would remain a life sentence for Louise.

  Beset by such thoughts, Rona was glad when it was time to leave for her appointment. Max had taken Gus with him when he left that morning, since after seeing Mrs Willow, she would go straight to Oak Avenue. She’d have welcomed him at her side as she approached the corner of Fullers Walk, but today the only people around were an elderly couple some yards ahead of her, and a mother wheeling a pushchair, a dancing child at her side.

  The drive to Woodbourne took about half an hour, and Rona settled down to enjoy it. The last time she’d been there, she reflected, she had seen the display of Curzon china in the window of the de Salis Gallery, and gone inside. Remembering the events that followed, she repressed a shudder, and switched her mind back to the present.

  As Felicity had told her, the address was easy to find. Just past the bus station, a road led off the main thoroughfare, threading its way through a development of Scandinavian-style wooden houses, about a dozen in all, each standing on a fairly large plot. The front gardens were open-plan, those at the rear enclosed by fences to afford privacy. Rona remembered reading that they boasted what, at the time they were built, had been revolutionary features in the English housing market – triple glazing, wood-burning stoves and solar panels. The whole development was surrounded by trees, underlining the impression of a corner of Sweden, set down in the middle of an English market town.

  And Erika Willow looked to be the archetypal resident. Tall and well-built, she had an abundance of flaxen hair that, held in a low ponytail, hung down her back. In her tanned face, her eyes were a disconcertingly light blue. Though she must have been in her sixties, she looked at least ten years younger.

  ‘Mrs Willow, I’m Rona Parish; you kindly invited me to see you.’

  Erika nodded. ‘Please, come in.’

  Even after all the years she’d lived in the UK, her voice had a Swedish intonation. She led the way into the house, and Rona looked about her with interest. The ground floor was open-plan, and floors, walls and ceilings were composed of rich, golden pine. The comfortable-looking sofas and chairs were upholstered in light blue, with darker blue scatter cushions, and the curtains hanging at the long windows were patterned in blue and white. The overall impression was of space, comfort and, somehow, cleanliness.

  Erika Willow watched her reaction with a slight smile. ‘It is different from Oak Avenue, yes?’

  Rona laughed. ‘Indeed it is.’

  ‘For my poor husband, it took some getting used to. Now, he loves it as much as I do.’

  ‘It’s a charming house,’ Rona said warmly.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Coffee was served in thick blue mugs, with a jug of cream alongside.

  ‘How did you meet your husband?’ Rona enquired, accepting one of the sweet biscuits passed to her.

  ‘He came to Sweden to inspect our furniture. The two families, you see, have a long-standing business association, and in the days when Sebastian Willow made furniture, it was we who supplied the timber. After the last war, my father decided the time was right for us to branch into furniture-making ourselves. You won’t remember, but in the fifties and sixties, Scandinavian furniture was all the rage in Britain, and the business thrived. We are still the main suppliers for Willows’, as well as for many other, better-known, stores.’

  Rona noted that she bracketed herself with the Swedish side of the family. ‘Did any of Sebastian’s descendants try their hands at furniture-making?’

  Erika shook her head. ‘He was a one-off. The others were all interested in the business, rather than the creative, side. For which, of course, we’re grateful; if they’d continued to manufacture themselves, they’d have had no need of us.’

  ‘Julian was saying how lucky it was there’s been only one son per generation.’

  Erika made a sound of impatience. ‘He has this idée fixe that the family is unique in that. True, it has meant the business hasn’t had to be divided, but other sons would not have been a problem. Quite the reverse, in fact. Many of his forebears would have welcomed another – “the heir and the spare” theory, particularly in the days of high infant mortality. Which is no doubt why they went on to have several other children, who –’ she raised her shoulders in a shrug – ‘either fortunately or unfortunately, turned out to be girls.’

  She smiled indulgently. ‘Did he also tell you he’s unearthed myths of second sons being secreted out of birthing rooms and baby girls substituted? If he hasn’t, he will. Of course, no one else believes a word of it.’

  ‘May I use that story?’ Rona asked eagerly. ‘It would add colour to the article.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you have only one child yourself?’

  ‘No, we have a daughter, and to prove my point, she is younger than Julian. We wanted a second child; boy or girl would have made no difference.’

  ‘Is she married?’

  ‘Imogen? No, she’s a career girl – an interior designer, so in tune with the family business. She has a flat in London, and that seeming requisite nowadays, a live-in lover, who, I am told, is “something in the City”.’

  Erika threw her a glance. ‘Why? Will you want to see her?’

  Rona shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’ll be necessary, since she’s nothing to do with the firm.’

  ‘Julian told me you were equally interested in the family?’

  ‘That’s true, but mainly where there’s some business connection.’ Rona paused, and added diffidently, ‘Will there be a chance to meet your husband?’

  ‘Oh indeed, he’d like to see you. I offered to fill in the background while he finishes what he was doing in the garden.’

  She walked to the sliding glass door, and called his name. Minutes later, he appeared and, rubbing his hand down his trousers, held it out to Rona.

  ‘Not as clean as it might be,’ he apologized. ‘I’ve been doing some weeding.’

  Graham Willow was of the same slight build as his son, and seemed somewhat dwarfed by the imposing figure of his wife. Like Julian’s, his hair had receded, and there were hollows under his high cheekbones. Nonetheless, he looked healthy enough, and seemed in good spirits.

  ‘I’ve been following your series with interest,’ he said, ‘and learned a lot about my neighbours in the process. Fascinating histories, some of them.’

  ‘Not many have featured a runaway heiress!’ Rona smiled.

  Willow laughed. ‘I hear my son had you traipsing up to Yorkshire. Quite unnecessary, of course.’

  ‘I enjoyed the trip. Lord and Lady Roxford were very kind, and I had a tour of the house. There’s a portrait of Araminta, similar to the one in the dining room at Oak Avenue. She was your grandmother, wasn’t she? Do you remember her at all?’

  ‘Oh yes, quite well. She lived into her eighties, and as children, my sisters and I used to go to her house for Sunday tea. We’re a long-lived bunch, Miss Parish. My father lived to be almost a hundred.’

  ‘So I heard. You had the flat made for him and your mother, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. In some ways I was sorry to leave the family home, though handing it over to Julian on his marriage made sense, and Erika here couldn’t wait to move out.’

  ‘It was a good family home,’ Erika said firmly, ‘and it still is. It is a house that needs children, and when we had ours, it suited us well. Now it’s Julian and Felicity’s turn.’

  ‘How are you doing with your research?’ Graham asked, seating himself in one of the chairs. ‘Are you working chronologically?’

  ‘No; I knew Julian wanted me to see Lord Roxford, so I’ve been concentrating o
n your grandparents.’

  ‘And now that’s under your belt, what will you turn to?’

  ‘I’ll start at the beginning, which is what I’d normally have done in the first place.’

  ‘With John the barrow-boy? The sublime to the ridiculous?’

  ‘I don’t think either term applies,’ Rona said tactfully.

  ‘You’re right, of course. In our heart of hearts, we’re proud of both of them. I can give you facts and figures about the shop, incidentally, when you’re ready for them – how much was paid for it, and when the various extensions were added.’

  ‘Did they never consider opening other branches?’

  ‘They did try once, but their timing couldn’t have been worse. It was in the twenties, and the Depression put paid to them. After that, they decided to stick to the flag ship.’ He stood up. ‘Well, if there’s nothing I can help you with at the moment, I’ll return to my gardening. But call me anytime you need some answers; I’ll be glad to oblige.’

  ‘Thank you. I must go, too.’ Rona turned to Erika. ‘Thanks for the coffee and the information. Perhaps I could come back if I have more questions?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Erika showed her to the door. ‘My love to the family.’

  ‘I’ll pass it on.’

  It was only as she was driving home that Rona remembered Felicity’s warning that Erika could be fierce. She’d seen no sign of it. Perhaps, she thought with amusement, it was a side of herself she kept for her daughter-in-law.

  Ten

  As previously arranged, Felicity had prepared lunch for them both, and was eager to hear how Rona had fared with her parents-in-law. There wasn’t much to tell, but Rona outlined the gist of their conversation, omitting the references to Julian’s idée fixe.

  ‘It’s a fabulous house, isn’t it?’ she ended. ‘It must be very cosy in winter, with the wood stove burning.’

  ‘Yes, it’s attractive, but too sparse and modern for me,’ Felicity replied. ‘I’m not into minimalism; I reckon we came off best!’

  Rona smiled. ‘Then everyone’s satisfied. And now,’ she said, folding her napkin, ‘I must return to work, and this time “start at the very beginning”.’ She helped to clear the table. ‘Thanks so much for lunch, Felicity. Tomorrow, I’d like to take you to the Bacchus, if you’re free?’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ Felicity protested. ‘I love cooking, and as I said, I’m glad of the company.’

  ‘All the same, I’d like to.’

  ‘Then as long as you don’t regard it as repayment, thanks, I’d enjoy it.’

  Rona worked steadily till five o’clock, going back, as she’d said, to the earliest records and the famous John Willow. But to her disappointment, extensive though the archives were, a lot of the material was technical and business-orientated, and would be of little interest to the readers of Chiltern Life. The most interesting find, to Rona’s mind, had been the letters following Araminta’s defection. It seemed that tracing the progress of the firm from its small beginnings to its present eminence would not take as long as she’d expected.

  She switched off her laptop and closed it, aware that she was delaying her return home and the inevitable meeting with Louise. She hoped she could break the news without it sounding as if they’d come to the end of the line, even though, in her opinion, they had.

  She collected Gus from Farthings and drove home, trying to work out the best approach and realizing with irritation that since she still had no note of Louise’s phone number, it would again mean calling at the house. Which could be awkward, if Barbara or Keith were there; she couldn’t keep escaping to the garden with Louise, without it looking pointed and arousing their suspicions: though what suspicions they might have, Rona couldn’t imagine.

  In the event, the decision was taken out of her hands. As she drew level with the Franks’ house, the front door opened and Louise came hurrying down the steps.

  ‘I was watching out for you coming home,’ she said. ‘How did it go in Harrogate? I’ve been on edge all weekend, wondering what you found out.’

  Rona had continued to her own gate, Louise falling into step with her. ‘Come in and have a drink, and I’ll tell you about it,’ she invited resignedly.

  This time, apparently anxious not to waste a second, Louise didn’t comply with Rona’s nod towards the sitting room, but followed her down the basement steps, where she was sufficiently distracted from her anxiety to exclaim at the light and airy room.

  ‘You really have done wonders with the house!’ she enthused. ‘It makes ours look desperately staid and old-fashioned.’

  ‘Any luck finding somewhere of your own?’ Rona asked, taking a bottle of wine from the fridge.

  ‘Not really. We’ve been to see dozens, but nothing’s quite right. Either the location’s wrong, or the rooms are too small, or there’s no garden. The trouble is, though the house we’re in can’t hold a candle to yours, it’s still very handsome, with high ceilings and lots of character, and it’s spoiling us for anything else.’

  Louise took the glass Rona handed her, and they sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Now,’ she said eagerly, leaning forward with her hands clasped, ‘tell me how you got on.’

  ‘Not very well, I’m afraid.’

  Louise sat back, dismay on her face. ‘There’s no trace of us?’

  Rona kept her eyes on her glass. ‘I found your parents, listed under twenty-six Rawsdon Drive, as you said.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But the only other person at that address was a Karen E. Franks.’

  Louise stared at her blankly. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Believe me, neither do I.’

  ‘So who was she, this Karen?’

  ‘Well, I wondered if she could have been an aunt, even your grandmother – there was no indication of her age or relationship to your parents. So I went to Rawsdon Drive and spoke to a woman who’d lived there when – when you did.’

  ‘And?’ Louise demanded impatiently.

  ‘And,’ Rona said, slowly and unwillingly, ‘she said they’d had a daughter who’d emigrated to Canada, but – her name was Karen.’

  Louise moistened dry lips. ‘That’s just – not possible.’

  ‘And she married someone called David Swann,’ Rona ended in a rush, eager to get it all over.

  ‘But – what about Kevin?’

  Rona shrugged helplessly.

  ‘Not to mention me!’ Louise added, her voice rising hysterically. She put both hands to her mouth. ‘I was so sure this would make it all right,’ she said tremulously. ‘If I could know I’d actually lived there with my parents, then it would prove I’m who they say I am. But now where are we?’

  She seemed on the verge of tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Louise. I wish I’d never suggested looking.’

  ‘In fact,’ Louise continued, as though Rona had not spoken, ‘it seems to prove the opposite – that I’m not their daughter. Suppose . . .’ She paused, thinking furiously. ‘Suppose this Karen died, and her parents – Keith and Barbara – couldn’t accept it. Then they read in the papers about this unknown woman much the same age, who was found after a car crash, and had lost her memory. They put things like that in the paper, don’t they? “Does anyone know this woman?” kind of thing. And if no one came forward to claim me, they might have thought I’d be a good substitute. That’s certainly possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rona said uncertainly.

  ‘I mean, women steal other people’s babies after losing their own. This is the same idea, only with someone older. And it would explain why there was no record of my marriage or divorce,’ she went on, the idea gaining ground. ‘After all, Louise Franks never existed.’

  ‘And Kevin Stacey?’

  Louise lifted her shoulders helplessly. ‘They might have invented him, to make it all more plausible. He probably doesn’t exist, either.’

  Rona leaned forward, covering Louis
e’s hands with her own. ‘There’s no “either” about it, Louise. You exist, in your own right, whatever people choose to call you. Don’t ever forget that.’

  Louise said shakily, ‘I suppose that’s true. God, I’m glad I met you, Rona. You’re the only thing that’s keeping me sane.’ She paused, pursuing her line of thought. ‘It could be David Swann, Karen’s husband, who’s working in the Far East; in which case, he wouldn’t know anything about the substitution.’

  Rona shrugged helplessly. ‘Look, let me give you my mobile number, then you can contact me at any time. Have you got one yourself?’

  Louise shook her head.

  ‘Then give me your home number.’

  They each made a note, then Louise looked up, meeting Rona’s concerned eyes. ‘What should I do?’ she asked simply.

  ‘Can’t you speak to your parents? If they knew how upset you are—’

  But Louise was shaking her head. ‘It would show I didn’t believe what they’d told me.’

  ‘You could ask them who Karen is; say the name suddenly came into your head.’

  Louise stared at her. ‘It would be interesting to see their reaction,’ she said slowly. ‘I might just do that.’

  ‘She’s gone next door again,’ Barbara Franks said worriedly. ‘I don’t like it, Keith. That girl’s a journalist; she must be good at ferreting things out.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to find, is there? Not over here – that’s why we came back.’

  ‘All the same, I’ll be glad to get away from this house. Perhaps we should reconsider the Alban Road one.’

  Keith said patiently, ‘Moving across town won’t interrupt their friendship, if that’s what it is. We’d have to leave the area altogether, and to be honest, I’m heartily sick of moving. Lord knows, we’ve done enough of it in the last year.’

  Barbara was staring unseeingly out of the window. ‘What I can’t help thinking,’ she said, ‘is, suppose her memory comes back?’

  ‘It was ghastly,’ Rona said to Max on the phone. ‘I felt as if I’d slapped her in the face. She was so excited when she came round, but what I’d discovered was worse than a complete blank. It seems to deny her very existence.’