‘And a lot of the residents are commuters, aren’t they, so not around during the day.’
‘Lot of retired, though.’
They ate their meals in appreciative silence, then Libby sat back and sighed.
‘We could pop up to see Mike while we’re here. He might know something about Lisa.’
‘Mike? I doubt it. Unless she was a customer. He’s not exactly the curious sort is he?’
‘Worth a try,’ said Libby.
They bade Sid goodbye and asked if they could leave one of the cars in his car park, then Fran drove the Smart car along Rogues’ Lane to the little track which led to Mike’s nurseries.
He emerged from his office wiping his hands on a rag.
‘Hello, Libby, Fran.’ His smile was diffident. ‘Cass isn’t here, I’m afraid.’
‘No, it was you we came to see,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve just had lunch at The Poacher.’
‘Oh?’ Mike put his head on one side.
‘You know they’ve had another murder in Steeple Martin?’ said Fran.
Libby murmured a protest, but Mike nodded.
‘Well,’ continued Fran, ‘she lived here, and I know it’s a long shot, but we wondered if you knew her. Nobody else seems to. Lisa Harwood, she lived in Chestnut Cottage.’
Mike raised his eyebrows. ‘Her, was it? Poor Lisa.’
Libby and Fran both gasped.
‘You knew her?’
Mike nodded. ‘Yes. She was a customer.’
Chapter Seventeen
Libby and Fran looked at each other.
‘Well,’ said Libby. ‘There’s a turn up.’
‘You say a customer,’ said Fran. ‘For plants?’
‘Of course for plants,’ said Libby. ‘Somehow I didn’t take her for a gardener, though.’
‘I’m not sure she was,’ said Mike with a small smile. ‘She used to buy large tub arrangements.’
‘Oh?’
‘Come in here, and I’ll show you.’
They followed Mike’s rather shambling figure into the nearest greenhouse, where he took them towards a corner in which huge decorative pots filled artistically with a variety of exotic-looking plantswere ranged beside a water feature.
‘Not your sort of thing, I would have thought,’ said Libby, eyeing the water nymph thoughtfully.
‘No, they aren’t. Cass helps me plant them up and we grow a specific range of plants for them.’ He shook his head. ‘Lisa used to come up every couple of months and choose one, we’d deliver it and that would be that. We supply a couple of local hotels with these.’
‘So she had loads of these?’ Libby frowned. ‘Was the garden at Chestnut Cottage that big?’
‘I don’t know. I only ever saw the front when we delivered the pots. There’s fence either side of the house, so you can’t see the back garden.’ Mike shook his grey head. ‘It did strike me as strange, though. We left the pots by the house, yet we never saw any of the ones we’d delivered before. And I don’t think she was strong enough to have carried them on her own.’
Both Libby and Fran were frowning now.
‘Perhaps she had one of those things on wheels you can move them around on,’ said Libby.
‘I don’t think they make them that big,’ said Mike. ‘We have industrial ones and mini fork lifts. Perhaps she had one of those hidden away.’
‘And she lived alone apparently,’ said Fran.
‘Did she?’ Mike looked surprised. ‘I always got the impression that there was someone else around.’
‘Really? Did you see someone?’ asked Libby.
‘No.’ Mike frowned. ‘Actually, I don’t know why I thought that. Perhaps it was just that she was an attractive young woman and I assumed she wouldn’t be alone. You say she was on her own?’
‘Well, she was married, but not living with her husband and children.’ Fran’s voice was at its most disapproving.
‘Oh.’ Mike looked nonplussed.
‘Do you know anything about the Notbourne Estate?’ asked Libby. ‘Sid at the pub thought Lisa’s cottage would have been part of it once.’
‘I don’t know about that. I know Notbourne Court, though.’
‘You do?’
‘Well, what’s left of it. It was demolished in nineteen something. Very early, anyway.’
‘Sid told us the estate was broken up in 1908, but not that it was demolished,’ said Fran.
‘Some of it was kept by the family, but a lot was sold off. Much of the stuff in the old Court itself – you know, paintings and so on.’
‘Oh, how awful,’ said Libby. ‘Was it debt?’
Mike shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I know lots were sold off after the Second World War because they were too expensive to keep up, but I didn’t know it was happening as early as that.’
‘Where are the remains of the Court?’ asked Fran.
‘Just over there.’ Mike pointed in the opposite direction to Rogues’ Lane. ‘There’s a lane leading to it just off Rogues’ Lane a bit further along.’
‘Parallel to the road the pub’s on?’ said Libby.
‘And Chestnut Cottage, yes. It leads eventually back to the Canterbury Road.’ Mike gave them a quizzical smile. ‘Are you two investigating again?’
Libby felt herself going red. Fran, however, wasn’t fazed.
‘No. Just interested. My stepdaughter found Lisa’s body and used to run with her.’
‘Oh.’ Mike was taken aback. ‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry.’
‘You knew she ran?’ said Libby.
Mike nodded. ‘She ran round here in the early mornings. Well, along the lane, I mean.’
‘Did you ever see anyone with her?’
‘A young bloke sometimes,’ said Mike.
‘Roly,’ said Libby and Fran together.
‘Anyone else?’ asked Fran.
‘Not that I saw,’ said Mike. ‘You are investigating, aren’t you?’
‘Not really.’ Libby sighed. ‘We just got involved by accident and it’s become second nature to ask questions, I suppose.’
‘But if you don’t mind, Mike,’ said Fran, ‘we will tell DCI Connell you knew her. He’s having trouble tracing her friends.’
‘Oh, we weren’t friends. She was just a regular customer,’ said Mike.
‘By the way, how did she pay for the tubs?’ asked Libby.
‘Credit card,’ said Mike, looking surprised.
‘Ah, right. Well, we’ll be going then. Say hello to Cass when you see her.
They left Mike looking rather puzzled and went back to the Smart car.
‘That was interesting,’ said Libby.
‘It certainly was.’ Fran started the engine. ‘Shall we go and look at Chestnut Cottage first or Notbourne Court?’
‘Oh, we’re going to both, are we?’
Fran turned to her and grinned. ‘Of course we are. And in between I shall call Ian and leave him a message about Lisa and her pots.’
Chestnut Cottage stood on its own about a quarter of a mile beyond The Poacher. Whitewashed, with a tiled roof, it looked to Libby to be a perfect example of a converted longhouse. Either side were fences with gates leading to the back of the property, but no pots or tubs.
‘Nothing to see,’ said Fran, pulling up opposite. ‘Not even any police tape.’
‘No.’ Libby swivelled in her seat. ‘And no neighbours. Do you know, if she’d been killed here she wouldn’t have been found for ages – unless she had visitors no one knows about.’
‘And that’s probably why she wasn’t,’ said Fran. ‘Let’s go and look at Notbourne Court.’
They turned round and went back to the green, back along Rogues’ Lane, past Farthing’s Plants until they came to a lane leading off to the left.
‘This isn’t used often,’ said Libby, as Fran squeezed the car between banks of hawthorn and burgeoning cow parsley.
‘It was perhaps the drive to the Court once,’ said Fran.
‘Maybe.’ Libby tried to peer thro
ugh the vegetation. ‘Look! That looks like something.’
The lane widened very slightly and Fran pulled as far into the side as she could.
‘I’ll have to get out your side,’ said Libby.
The both scrambled out and, pushing through the branches, clambered to the top of a bank.They were looking down on a large, cleared area of grass, bordered by what looked like a range of gothic arches, which crumbled at both ends.
‘Is this all that’s left, do you suppose?’ said Fran.
‘Could be, but it’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it?’ Libby was staring down at the grass.
‘Eh?’ Fran looked at her startled. ‘What’s suspicious?’ She looked back at the grass. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘Someone’s looking after it,’ said Libby. ‘Why?’
‘Well, someone must own it, even if it isn’t the original family. That’s not suspicious.’
‘Hmm,’ said Libby. ‘Look! Is that the back of Chestnut Cottage?’
They could just see a roof above a stand of trees some distance away.
‘You know what this reminds me of?’ Libby turned to Fran. ‘White Lodge and the old barn.’
‘Only because there’s a house and another building that back on to one another,’ said Fran. ‘There’s no other similarity.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Libby. ‘I’m seeing problems where there are none.’
Fran nodded slowly. ‘I wonder what the story here is?’
‘We can look it up when we get home. I can’t read anything on your phone.’ Libby shivered. ‘Let’s go. This place gives me the creeps.’
Fran looked surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Doesn’t it you?’
‘No.’ Fran shook her head slowly. ‘That’s odd, isn’t it?’
They returned to the car, and Fran was forced to drive right to the end of the lane which turned back on itself until it came out on the Canterbury Road, as Mike had said, and then back through Itching to reach The Poacher and Libby’s car.
‘Speak to you later,’ said Libby, as she climbed out of the Smart car. Fran waved and turned round to leave the car park.
Libby sat in the car for a few minutes thinking. Were she and Fran making mountains out of molehills and poking their noses into something which didn’t concern them? She sighed. Possibly, but at least Mike had come up with some rather odd information about Lisa. She fished out her old, basic mobile and sent Fran a text.
Don’t forget to tell Ian about Lisa and the tubs.
Then, she switched onthe ignition and pulled out of the car park.
At home, she put on the kettle and opened her laptop, typing “Notbourne Court Chestnut Cottage” into the search engine. There were various links, mainly to Notbourne Court itself, but scrolling though, Chestnut Cottage was actually mentioned in one of them, which turned out to be a document detailing all the properties held on the estate at the time it broke up. Libby went to fetch her tea, then settled herself down to read.
Notbourne Court, she read, had been given to Lord Cheveley’s ancestor in the late sixteen hundreds. It had been rebuilt in 1790 – here was a painting of the Court in its heyday – but by the end of the nineteenth century it was falling into disrepair and the family’s money had all but disappeared. When the late Lord Cheveley offered it to the young National Trust, it was turned down, the Trust having insufficient funds for its upkeep. It was put up for auction, including buildings on the estate and the contents of the house – here there was a facsimile of the auction catalogue, which included several cottages. The article went on to list some of the properties to be sold at auction, including ‘one now known as Chestnut Cottage’ for five shillings.
‘Blimey!’ said Libby to herself.
The further history of the estate was a sad one. Lord Cheveley, unable to sell the Court, had it demolished, though it appeared he had retained ownership of the land.The last member of the family, Stephanie Hays, died unmarried and childless and left the estate to her old friend Christobel Harris in 1985.
Libby tried a new search for Stephanie Hays and Christobel Harris and found a newspaper article entitled “Suburban housewife becomes Lady of the Manor”. Christobel and Stephanie had apparently met during the Second World War as nurses and remained friends ever since. Christobel, interviewed by the paper, said that there wasn’t much of the estate left, but that she and her husband would maintain it as Stephanie would have wished. Frustratingly, there was no mention of where Stephanie had been living, or whether Christobel now lived there.
Libby sat back in her chair and stared at the screen. Nowhere could she find any reference to who owned the estate now, what there was of it, or if Chestnut Cottage had actually been sold for five shillings, or remained part of the estate. Had Christobel Harris and her husband,Robert, lived there? Had they left the estate to their own children? She assumed they were dead now, having been reported as 71 and 76 respectively in 1985.
Her mobile rang.
‘It’s me,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve just been talking to Ian.’
‘Oh? Actually talking to him?’
‘Yes. I wasn’t dismissed out of hand, which I rather thought I would have been. He was really interested in Mike and the tubs. And he said they’re expecting news from the Land Registry about who owns the property.’
Libby repeated what she’d just found out from the internet.
‘So it could be someone called Harris?’ said Fran.
‘Or anything if it came down through the female line,’ said Libby.
‘And whoever it is, let it to Lisa.’
‘For reasons which appear dubious,’ said Libby.
‘Well, they do to us. Could just be someone kind doing a favour to a friend.’
‘Under such secrecy? And I still want to know about the tubs!’
Chapter Eighteen
‘I had a look,’ said Libby the following morning, ‘on the Land Registry site. All you have to do is fill in a form and pay a fee to get details of a property. How come Ian was waiting for the information? It should have been there immediately.’
She and Fran were backstage at the theatre sorting costumes for The End Of The Pier Show. Music had been sourced and sent to Susannah and rehearsals would start next week. Luckily, it was a well-worn format and needed very little rehearsal. Individual acts were expected to rehearse on their own, but every year there were a few set pieces which need more thorough preparation, especially if choreography was incorporated.
‘I expect he said that to put me off,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, I suppose we could pay the fee ourselves and have a look, couldn’t we?’
‘I don’t see why we should,’ said Libby, sneezing as a stray boa feather wafted across her nose. ‘We’d then find ourselves paying to search births, marriages and deaths to find out if the person was related to the Harrises.’
‘And why do we need to know that?’ asked Fran, shaking out a Victorian bathing costume.
Libby paused. ‘Actually, I don’t know. All we – or rather, the police – need to know is who loaned or let the cottage to Lisa and did they have any connection to her murder.’
‘And we don’t need to know at all.’ Fran frowned down at the pile of clothes. ‘I don’t honestly know why I’ve got this niggle about it.’
‘Because it concerns Sophie?’ suggested Libby.
‘But it doesn’t really, does it? She was simply part of the same running club, the same as several others.I don’t know.’
‘Could it be because of that phone call? He did try twice to reach me, after all.’
Fran looked up. ‘Yes. And nobody’s taken that very seriously, have they?’
‘We all decided it was just to make the police take the disappearance seriously,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve heardnothing since.’
‘No.’ Fran sighed. ‘I suppose I shall just have to hope Ian tells us what he can when he can.’
‘Which won’t be much as we’ve no connection to the case,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, I’ve had enough of this
. I’ve got some soup on for lunch.’
Back at number 17, Fran made a fuss of Sidney while Libby stirred the soup and cut bread to go with it.
‘Did you know you’d got a message on your answerphone?’ said Fran, coming into the kitchen.
‘Oh, bother. Now it doesn’t beep at me I forget to look at the display. Don’t get much anyway because of the mobile.’
‘Hardly anyone has your mobile number,’ said Fran.
‘That’s true,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘So I can’t get bothered all the time.’ She put the bread knife down and went out to the hall, where the landline stood on the third stair up. She pressed the button.
‘Stop poking about Chestnut Cottage and Notbourne Court.’
Behind her Fran gasped.
‘Is that the same voice as before?’
‘Yes.’ Libby swallowed. ‘Someone’s following us.’ She lifted a finger to erase the message, but Fran stopped her.
‘Ian will want to hear that.’ She was already finding his number on her own mobile. She left a message on both his personal and work numbers and looked pensively at Libby’s landline.
‘If we unplug it, will it stop people ringing up?’
‘I don’t know. We can try 1471, I suppose.’
‘It won’t have the number,’ said Fran.
They went back to the kitchen where Libby ladled soup into bowls. They’d barely sat down when Fran’s mobile chirruped.
‘I’m sorry, Ian,’ said Fran when she could. ‘But Libby’s had another phone call. No – a message. Whoever it is has been following us. No – we haven’t. We just went to The Poacher for lunch and to see Mike – no, we weren’t!’ She made an exasperated sound. ‘Do you want to hear this message or not?’
She stood up and went back to the hall with Libby following. She held the mobile as close to the speaker as she could and pressed play.
‘There. All right?’ She shook her head at Libby and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Yes, I’ll tell her. Thank you.’ She ended the call.
‘Not happy, I gather?’ said Libby.
‘Anything but,’ said Fran, as they resumed their places at the kitchen table. ‘He’s sending someone over to record the message as soon as he can, and whatever you do, don’t erase it.’
Murder on the Run Page 12
