‘Nothing.’ Fran kept her eyes fixed on the painting. Libby saw that Ben was watching her.
‘It’s a favourite subject, Fran,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you seen any before?’
‘No.’ Fran turned to Libby. ‘I haven’t, have I?’
‘I don’t think so. You’ve been past the cottage, though.’
Guy turned from the easel. ‘It’s actually right down near the harbour,’ he said. ‘Don’t you like it?’
Fran smiled brightly. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Have you got any more here, Libby?’
‘Several,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll show you tomorrow.’
‘If you’ve got several,’ said Guy, ‘why haven’t I been given them to sell?’
‘They’re not really up to scratch,’ muttered Libby, turning the easel away from them.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Guy. ‘Come on, let’s have a look.’
‘We’re supposed to be having coffee,’ sighed Libby.
‘And brandy,’ said Ben, taking her arm. ‘Come on, Lib. We’ll leave them here to ferret and we’ll go and sit in comfort.’
‘Fran saw something in that picture, didn’t she?’ said Libby, once they were settled in the sitting room.
Ben nodded. ‘She’ll tell us eventually. Odd, though, because you painted it.’
‘You think it could be something to do with me rather than the picture?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Who knows? I wonder if she’s telling Guy all about it right now?’
‘I doubt it.’ Libby sipped her brandy. ‘Good if Guy does take some of those pictures, though. I could do with the money.’
When Fran and Guy came into the sitting room, Guy was carrying several paintings and Fran was looking thoughtful.
‘When I go home tomorrow, I’m taking Fran back with me so she can see your cottage,’ said Guy, sitting on the floor and accepting a brandy. He sent her a puzzled look, but didn’t say anything more.
‘I was wondering if it was available to rent,’ said Fran. ‘It looks very pretty.’
‘You can only see the window frame in the paintings,’ said Libby dubiously. ‘How can you tell if it’s pretty?’
‘The view’s pretty,’ said Fran with finality, and changed the subject.
Later, Guy gallantly offered to walk home with Fran, although, as Ben said, he would go past her door on his way to Peter and Harry’s anyway, and left Libby alone with Ben.
‘Washing up,’ she said, suddenly shy.
‘In the morning,’ he said.
‘Aha! You’ll be gone by then,’ said Libby, hoping he couldn’t see her heart hammering away like a pneumatic drill underneath her top.
‘Who said?’ asked Ben, bending to touch his lips to her neck. Libby shivered, as all the bits brought to life last night leapt once again to attention.
‘Sidney,’ she said faintly.
‘Go and feed him, then,’ said Ben, giving her a little push, ‘and then come back to me.’
As Sidney was discovered hoovering up the remains of dinner, Libby decided he’d eaten enough, and shut him in the conservatory. His habit of acting as doorkeeper to her bedroom was, she felt, superfluous tonight.
The following morning, she discovered Ben had done most of the washing up and fed Sidney before she was even awake.
‘It seemed a pity to wake you,’ he said with a grin, fetching her a mug of tea. ‘Couldn’t remember if you preferred tea or coffee in the morning.’
‘Tea,’ said Libby, wrapping her hands round her mug. ‘I thought you’d be gone by now.’
‘A very cavalier attitude, I must say!’ He sat down beside her on the creaking sofa. ‘I wouldn’t sneak out into the dawn, leaving not a wrack behind.’
‘What is a wrack?’ said Libby. ‘I’ve often wondered.’
‘Wreckage,’ said Ben, ‘like what I feel at the moment.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Libby looked at him with interest. ‘You don’t look as if you’ve got a hangover.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Ben, tracing a finger down her neck, dangerously close to her dressing gown. ‘But I’m not as young as I was.’
‘Oh,’ said Libby, blushing.
‘I will go now, however,’ he said, standing up. ‘You’ll want to ring Fran to find out about last night …’
‘I wouldn’t be so nosey!’
‘No, I meant about her reaction to the paintings.’
‘Oh.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I’d better, before she goes off with Guy.’
He bent to kiss her. ‘I’ll see you later, then,’ he said. ‘Got some estate work to do for Dad, then Mum wants to go into Canterbury.’
‘OK.’ Libby nodded and watched him leave before getting to her feet and going to the window to see if she could still see him walking up the lane. How pathetic, she thought, craning sideways to catch the last glimpse. How old am I? Sighing, she turned from the window and went to call Fran.
‘No, he didn’t come in,’ said Fran, ‘before you even ask.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Libby indignantly. ‘I was merely going to ask about the picture.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Fran in a weary voice. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘It hasn’t any relevance to Aunt Eleanor. It’s just – I keep feeling I’ve been there before. As a child. I keep seeing a child. And a bedroom, although it isn’t mine.’
‘I suppose it couldn’t be mine?’ asked Libby slowly.
‘Yours? Why?’
Libby told her story about the picture on her bedroom wall. ‘That’s why I keep painting it. I have no idea if it’s that cottage, but when I went to view it, it felt right.’
‘So it was for sale?’
‘Oh, yes, but too expensive for me. Sea front, you see. Prime position.’
‘Do you remember who the agent was?’
‘No. Fran, you couldn’t afford it! Don’t be silly.’
‘If they haven’t sold it, they might be willing to rent it out,’ said Fran, sounding stubborn.
‘It’s bound to have been sold. Very desirable property, that.’
‘I’ll have a look, anyway. I need to find out about it.’
‘Well, let me know,’ said Libby. ‘How will you get back?’
‘Oh, I’ll think of something,’ said Fran vaguely. ‘I’ll ring you.’
Libby rang off, thought for a moment, then dialled again.
‘Sophie? Hi, it’s Libby Sarjeant … You remember yesterday you said you thought you could find out where young Nurse Warner lives? Well, could you? … Yes, I know what Fran said, but I think we need to know … No, I think he’s on his way back now … yes, right … OK. Thanks very much.’
Right,’ she said to Sidney, who had appeared deciding it was lunchtime already, ‘now to find where Nurse Redding lives.’
But before she could do anything about either of the nurses, the phone rang again. This time it was Marion Headlam asking if Fran had another contact number.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Libby, ‘only her mobile number. Is there a problem?’
‘I just wondered if there was any news.’ Marion Headlam sounded nervous. ‘It’s all been rather unsettling.’
‘About the will, you mean?’ asked Libby, trying to inject warmth and sympathy into her voice. ‘I’m sure it is, if Mrs Bridges said she was going to leave you something.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Mrs Headlam with a shaky laugh, ‘not me, of course, only the home. And I wouldn’t want to appear greedy. I do so hate it when that sort of thing happens with relatives, don’t you?’
‘Er – yes,’ said Libby, who had no experience of it.
‘Well, never mind.’ There was an effort to sound normal and light hearted. ‘Such a pity we can’t bury the poor lady, then we could all get on with our lives, couldn’t we?’
Libby wondered whether Marion Headlam felt the same about all her clients, who, after all, probably left her in this state quite regularly.
‘Before you go, Mrs Headlam,’ she said, thinking rapidly, if not sensibly, ‘I was wondering if you could put me in touch with Nurse – er – Redding?’
‘Nurse Redding?’ Marion Headlam sounded surprised. ‘Well, we don’t give out details of staff, you know.’
‘Oh, no, of course not,’ said Libby, improvising frantically, ‘but my – er – friend saw her at the Kent and Canterbury Hospital the other day and wanted to return her –’ think, Libby, think‘– her book. She left it in the Friends coffee shop.’
‘Did she?’ There was no doubt about the surprise now. ‘I didn’t know she read much. Oh, well, you can always drop it in here next time you’re passing. Or perhaps give it to Mrs Castle?’
‘Yes, we’ll do that,’ said Libby, wondering what Nurse Redding would say when she learned that a strange man was returning her non-existent book. ‘Thank you, Mrs Headlam. I’ll tell Mrs Castle you called.’
That was all very odd, thought Libby, as she got under the reluctant shower. Why was that woman so concerned about the will? She must be expecting quite a legacy. Obviously, she needed it to be found. But why so nervous? Unless …
Libby stepped out of the shower and shook her head. Unless Marion Headlam felt that she had done something for nothing? If the will wasn’t found? Could she have killed Aunt Eleanor? Libby wrapped a towel round her, went downstairs, found paper and a ball point pen and began to work it out.
If The Laurels was in a financially parlous state, perhaps Marion Headlam had persuaded Aunt Eleanor to leave her enough money to keep it going. Perhaps she’d asked her first for a loan? Libby realised she had no idea of Aunt Eleanor’s mental state before she died. Fran had told her that she could no longer look after herself, but that could mean anything. Anyway, if there was a codicil, or a new will, as Libby now firmly believed, in order to collect the money, Aunt Eleanor would have to die. So could Marion Headlam have got into that room between the nurses leaving it and Barbara Denver entering?
Yes, thought Libby, she could. Who would question her presence anywhere in the building. And if she heard someone coming – of course! Out through the french windows.
Libby put down her pen and went back upstairs to dress. What she really needed to do now was to talk to those nurses and find out exactly what they knew.
Chapter Eighteen
FRAN FOUND THE DRIVE to Nethergate with Guy far more restful than with Libby. For a start, the car was a considerable improvement.
‘So, you’re thinking of moving down here permanently, then?’ Guy slid a glance sideways.
‘Yes. There’s nothing to keep me in London any more.’ Fran looked out of the window at the hedgerows. ‘This is much more pleasant.’
‘What about work?’
‘Oh, I can probably do that down here as well as up there.’ She turned towards him. ‘So you know nothing about this cottage, then?’
‘Changing the subject, Fran?’
‘Just wanted to know, that’s all.’ She turned back to the window. ‘It’s very kind of you to drive me to see it.’
‘I wish I knew why you really wanted to go.’
So do I, thought Fran. ‘It just seemed familiar, that’s all,’ she hedged. ‘I expect I’ve seen a picture, like Libby.’
Guy drove down the service road at the back of Harbour Street and parked behind the gallery.
‘Shall I show you which one it is?’ he asked, as he ushered her inside.
‘Isn’t it easy to spot?’ asked Fran, privately convinced she would know.
‘Well, Lib’s paintings are a view from inside. You might not recognise it.’
‘All right, thank you.’ Fran gave him a small smile. Guy sighed gustily and shook his head at her. How attractive he is, she thought. Why is he paying attention to me?
Sophie appeared from the kitchen.
‘Hi, Dad. Good evening?’ She raised her eyebrows slightly at Fran.
‘Excellent, thanks, Soph. Any business this morning?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Sophie rummaged among pieces of paper on the desk top, ‘Mrs Denver called again about that sculpture.’
‘Really?’ Guy looked at Fran. ‘Saying what?’
‘Did we know any more about it.’ Sophie looked from one to the other. ‘Do we?’
‘I’m putting it on hold for the moment, so just say we can’t get in touch with Phil if she calls again.’ He put his head on one side and looked at Fran. ‘Is that all right with madam?’
‘Don’t blame me,’ said Fran, alarmed.
‘But you said yesterday …’
‘Yes, I know.’ Fran frowned. ‘Thank you. I must let Charles know.’
‘Ah, yes, Charles. Your cousin.’
‘Only by marriage. I hardly know him.’
‘Hmm,’ said Guy. ‘Come along then. I’ll show you your cottage.’
‘Libby’s cottage,’ corrected Fran, as they went out into the sunshine.
As she had thought, Fran knew the cottage before Guy pointed it out. Perching on the sea wall opposite, she focussed her mind.
‘How do we find out about it, do you think?’ said Guy, leaning on the wall beside her.
‘Don’t you know? After all, you’re almost neighbours.’
‘Of course I don’t. I know some of the shopkeepers. Maybe they’ll know.’
‘I can’t just go in and ask!’ Fran felt herself going pink at the thought.
‘Oh, come on, then.’ Guy took her arm and hauled her upright, before marching them both into the nearest shop, a tiny frontage selling local ice-cream.
‘Hi, Lizzie, how’s business?’ he asked the cheerful-looking blonde behind the counter.
‘Better for me than you, I expect, Guy,’ she chuckled. ‘What can I get you?’
‘I’d like a vanilla double,’ he said. ‘Fran?’
‘Oh –’ Fran was taken aback, ‘strawberry, please.’
‘And do you know anything about Coastguard Cottage, Lizzie? Is it a holiday let?’
Lizzie handed over Fran’s strawberry cone and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I think it is, or at least someone’s holiday home. Bloody weekenders.’
‘You don’t know who owns it, then?’ said Fran.
‘No idea.’ Lizzie handed Guy’s ice cream and change. ‘Tell you who’d know, though. Old Sheila. She cleans it, I’ve seen her coming out. Know who I mean?’
‘Of course I do, she does for me, too.’ He beamed. ‘Thanks, Lizzie.’
‘Was you thinking of renting it, then?’ she said, giving Fran an interested inspection.
‘Possibly.’ Fran gave a vague smile and followed Guy out.
‘There you are then. I’ll ask old Sheila. Want me to do it now?’
‘Oh, I don’t want to put you to any more trouble. It can wait until you next see her,’ said Fran. ‘Thanks for the ice-cream. It’s lovely.’
He looked at her doubtfully. ‘If you’re sure. What are you going to do now. Go and have another look?’
‘I thought I would,’ said Fran diffidently. ‘There must be access round the back, isn’t there?’
‘Not from this end, but from The Sloop end, yes, there’s a drive that goes right along the back. Don’t go trespassing.’
‘No, I won’t,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll come and let you know what I find out.’
Savouring the last of her strawberry cone, Fran retraced her steps right down to The Sloop, and then out on to the little jetty. From here she looked back on to Harbour Street, and picked out Coastguard Cottage. There was definitely something about it. But the bedroom she’d seen in her head didn’t seem to match. Perhaps Libby was right, it was hers, and somehow she’d imbued her paintings with her childhood memories. It was all very confusing.
She strolled back down the jetty and made her way round to the drive at the back of the cottages. High garden fences stood on one side and on the other the beginning of the green-covered chalk cliffs. Picking her way along the track, she counted roof tops and garden gates until she was pr
etty sure she stood outside Coastguard Cottage. A high fence with a sturdy-looking gate protected it from view, and, greatly daring, Fran tried the handle. Naturally enough, it was locked. Glad she was wearing jeans, she scrambled a little way up the cliff on the other side of the track and found herself in a position to look down into the garden.
It wasn’t very big, and had been turned into a Mediterranean-style patio, with colourful pots and spiky leaved plants. The back door was open, and washing hung on a line strung from fence to fence. Fran stared, and now something was coming through. Something not very pleasant.
This time, there was no choking blackness, but Eleanor’s face was there again. And her own mother’s. Was it her mother? This dark-haired, frantic-faced woman, who was screaming? Fran’s heart lurched, and she found she was trembling. She forced herself to continue looking at the back of the cottage, but nothing else came to her, and she was just looking at a sunny back yard in a seaside town.
Someone came into the little garden and Fran half slid, half scrambled down to the track, not wanting to be seen. She found she was near an alleyway on to Harbour Street, and slipped through, brushing herself down. Calmly, she walked back to the gallery and went in.
Guy was with a customer and Sophie smiled at her from behind the desk.
‘Did you get a look at it?’ she asked. Fran wondered what Guy had told her.
‘Yes, I went round the back and saw the back yard. There are people in it at the moment – holiday-makers, by the look of them – you know, wellies and buckets by the back door. It doesn’t look like a long-term let.’
‘Right.’ Sophie nodded, then looked up to take a credit card from Guy’s customer.
Fran repeated what she’d said to him.
‘I phoned old Sheila while you were gone. She said the lettings are handled by a company who pay her, so she doesn’t know anything either.’
‘I’m not sure I’d want to live there, anyway,’ admitted Fran. ‘There’s something uncomfortable about it.’
Guy screwed up his face. ‘How do you mean, uncomfortable? How could you tell, if you didn’t go inside?’
‘Oh, you know,’ said Fran, trying to brush it aside, ‘when you get a good feeling about a house. Estate agents rely on it.’ And she should know, she thought.
Murder at the Laurels - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series Page 14
