Murder at the Laurels - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘What was it called, do you remember?’

  ‘Tyne Hall, far as I recall.’

  ‘I wonder if it’s still going on?’

  ‘Now, young Libby, I told yer, don’t you go pokin’ yer nose in,’ said Lenny. ‘All them funny people, devil worshippers an’ that. Nasty stuff.’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Libby. ‘Sorry.’ She put down her cup. ‘So tell me. How are you two getting on?’

  Lenny and Flo outdid each other telling her how happy they were. Libby reflected happily on her own part in bringing the two old people back together as she made her way back to Allhallow’s Lane, and as the first spots of rain fell, opened the door to hear the phone ringing.

  ‘Found him!’ said Ben’s voice triumphantly.

  ‘The builder?’ Libby sat down on Sidney’s step.

  ‘Yep. I called him, I hope you didn’t mind, and after he’d moaned at me saying he didn’t do any work any more, then moaned some more saying he didn’t know what to do with himself these days, he said you could call him, or better still, go and see him.’

  ‘Golly,’ said Libby, for the second time in an hour. ‘Did you tell him why?’

  ‘Not really. I said it was about some property he might know about.’

  ‘Right. Where is he? Could I go today?’

  ‘How about I come with you? I’m finished here. I could come home and pick you up.’

  Libby thought about talking to yet another old person today and decided that having Ben with her would be an asset.

  ‘I’ll be with you in about half an hour, then,’ he said.

  Awash with milky coffee and biscuits, Libby didn’t bother with lunch, and was waiting by the door when Ben drew up outside.

  ‘So where does he live and what’s his name?’ Libby asked, as they turned into the high street.

  ‘Jim Butler. Lives just outside Nethergate in a bungalow he built himself. His wife died a few years ago, and I think he’s a bit lonely.’

  ‘And bored, by the sound of it,’ said Libby.

  Their route took them past Steeple Mount and Libby found herself wondering where the Tyne chapel was. She nearly asked Ben, but thought he might react the same way as Lenny and Flo. The road wound through fields towards the sea, until Ben turned off into a well-kept, newly tarmac’d road lined with neat new bungalows on either side. At the end, a much larger and grander bungalow looked out over a terraced garden to the sea.

  ‘Here we are.’ Ben got out and came round to help Libby out. Before they could go any further, the front door opened, revealing a large, bald man in old corduroys and shirtsleeves, accompanied by an elderly black dog, whose tail waved in welcome.

  ‘Here you are, then, mate. How are yer?’ he held out his hand.

  ‘Hello, Jim.’ Ben shook the hand. ‘This is my friend Libby Sarjeant, who I told you about.’

  Jim Butler turned to Libby. ‘How are yer, then, ma’am?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, please call me Libby, Jim,’ said Libby. ‘And who’s this?’ She bent to hold out a hand for the dog to sniff.

  ‘That’s Lady. Silly bloody name, pardon me, ma – Libby – but the wife liked it. Gettin’ old now, like me.’

  Old wasn’t the word she’d apply to Jim Butler, thought Libby, as they followed him through an over-furnished hall into a modern conservatory with a wonderful view. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Libby herself, so his wife must have died very young, poor soul.

  ‘Great view, Jim,’ said Ben.

  ‘Built it for the wife,’ said Jim gloomily, ‘then she up and died just after it got finished. Spend most of me time here, nowadays. Lady can get straight out to the garden, see.’

  When they were seated and had refused tea or coffee, he said; ‘So what did you want to ask me about, then?’

  Libby looked at Ben, who gave her a slight nod.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘a friend of mine thinks a cottage in Nethergate might have once belonged to her family, and she wanted to find out.’

  ‘Where do I come into it?’ asked Jim.

  ‘Apparently the owners bought it from you, so she wondered who you bought it from.’

  ‘Which one is it, then? I had quite a few properties in Nethergate. Used to let ’em out for holidays.’

  ‘It’s on Harbour Street. I don’t think Fran told me what it was called.’

  ‘Had a couple on Harbour Street,’ said Jim unhelpfully. ‘Which one?’

  ‘It’s got very thick walls and nearer The Sloop than the other end,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh, ah. That’d be Coastguard Cottage. Leastways, that’s what they call it now. Sold it a coupla years back to a London couple. They use it in summer. Let it the rest of the time.’

  ‘Oh, have you kept in touch?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Nah. I got a coupla cottages left and the agency lets ’em out for me. They do the same for Coastguard Cottage.’

  ‘Right.’ Libby waited to see if any more was forthcoming, and as it wasn’t, asked again. ‘So, do you remember who you bought it from?’

  ‘Course I do,’ said Jim, looking affronted. ‘Not the name, mind, but it was someone to do with them Stones.’

  ‘Stones?’ Libby felt her scalp tingle. ‘Barbara Stone?’

  ‘Barbara? Don’t remember no Barbara. Old Joe Stone. His family. They used to own it, then someone took it over from them.’

  ‘Bought it, you mean?’ said Ben.

  ‘Yeah, course. But in the family, like.’ Lady suddenly surged to her feet and went to the sliding doors. ‘Hang on a minute – got to let ’er out.’ Jim got up and opened the doors. ‘I’ll leave ’em open if yer don’t mind. Then she can come in when she wants.’ He looked after her fondly. ‘Gawd, I’ll miss ’er when she goes.’

  Libby swallowed and blinked. Ben reached out and squeezed her arm.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Jim, coming to sit down again, ‘that’s about all I know. Bought it from the Stones, or near enough. Sure yer don’t want no tea?’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to have a cup,’ said Ben, and Libby’s insides quailed.

  ‘Oh, I ’ave the kettle on all day, me,’ said Jim, getting up. ‘You wait here. Won’t be two shakes.’

  ‘What now?’ said Ben, after he’d gone. ‘Are we any further forward?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Libby, ‘and certainly if it’s the same family. Was Auntie Eleanor a Stone, do you suppose? Barbara is her blood relative, I think, so it looks like it, doesn’t it? Do you think Uncle Frank rented the cottage from Eleanor’s father, or something, and that’s how he met her?’

  ‘Could be. I still can’t understand how Fran didn’t remember staying there, though. Given her peculiar talents.’ Ben leaned across and planted a quick kiss on Libby’s lips. ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist it.’

  Libby found herself blushing as she noticed Jim standing in the doorway with a broad smile on his face.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said, coming forward with a tray that looked suspiciously like the twin of the one in Flo’s house.

  After Ben had accepted a cup of what Libby referred to as “builder’s” and she had managed to refuse without giving offence, Lady strolled back in and fell on Libby’s feet.

  ‘She likes you,’ said Jim. ‘Don’t take to many people.’

  Libby smiled and patted Lady’s head, wondering what Sidney was going to say about this when he got a whiff of her legs.

  ‘So you bought it from the Stone family,’ prompted Ben.

  ‘Not exactly from them, from a connection, like. Married into the family, ’e ’ad.’

  ‘Uncle Frank,’ said Libby and Ben together.

  ‘Frank?’ said Jim.

  ‘Frank Bridges. Could it have been him?’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, ah. Rings a bell.’ Jim wrinkled his brow. ‘Come to think of it, ’e married one of old Joe’s girls.’

  ‘Eleanor?’ suggested Libby, almost holding her breath.

  ‘Could ’a been,’ said Jim slowly, ‘I don’t rightly remember t
heir names.’

  ‘Were there several daughters?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Two girls and a boy,’ said Jim.

  ‘Could Barbara have been the son’s daughter?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Could ’a been. Didn’t really know the family.’

  This appeared to be the end of Jim’s knowledge of the Stones and Coastguard Cottage, and although Libby was keen to leave and let Fran know of these exciting developments, Ben embarked on a discussion of old friends in the business and, according to Jim, the falling standards of local builders.

  ‘I had to,’ he said, as they left Jim and Lady on the front steps. ‘He would have been hurt if we’d left as soon as we got the information out of him.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Libby. ‘Nice old boy.’

  ‘Hey, not so old. Not much older than us.’

  Libby grinned. ‘Well, you’re a nice old boy, too.’

  Peter drove Fran to the station, got them both on the train and settled back in his seat.

  ‘See?’ he said, beaming at her. ‘Easy.’

  She nodded. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘but you do it every day. It’s an event for me.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Fran. You’ve gone up and down since May. It’s hardly a new experience.’

  ‘All right.’ She sighed. ‘And thank you for forcing me into it. And for the lift.’

  ‘No problem.’ Peter crossed his elegant legs and opened his laptop. ‘You don’t mind if I do some work, do you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Fran, politely and truthfully, for she was happy to have the opportunity to think through her plans for today. First, she would go to her flat and search for the photographs, then she would call Charles and see if he’d heard anything from the solicitor. If there was time, she would see if Lucy was free to meet her for lunch or a cup of tea. It was unlikely, as Rachel and Tom would still be on holiday from school and nursery respectively, but guiltily Fran realised that she had paid her daughter very little attention recently, and she should at least try.

  The journey didn’t seem to take as long as usual, although by the time they reached Victoria, the train was packed. Stiffly, Fran climbed out of the carriage and followed Peter, who wove along the platform with the ease of familiarity. As she made for the tube entrance, he caught her by the arm and propelled her towards the taxi rank.

  ‘It’s all right, Peter,’ she said, breathless at the speed with which he’d marched through the crowds. ‘I’ll go by tube.’

  ‘We’ll share a taxi,’ said Peter firmly, and kept hold of her until they reached the head of the queue.

  ‘What’s your address?’ he asked as he pushed her inside the cab. He relayed it to the cab driver and sat back in the corner. ‘Still one of my favourite luxuries,’ he said, with a sigh, ‘a cab in London.’

  ‘I think I agree,’ said Fran, staring out at the milling workers and the gridlocked traffic, ‘although I’m not sure it’s any faster.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Peter, ‘but much, much nicer, darling.’

  He refused to take her share of the fare when they pulled up outside her flat, looking the building up and down with a rather disparaging air. ‘Glad you moved down with us,’ he said. ‘See you at Victoria in time for the six o’clock. Got my mobile number?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t be late, and keep me informed.’

  ‘Yes, Peter,’ she said obediently, and waved him off.

  Climbing the stairs up to the Betjeman flat, she agreed with Peter. She was glad she’d moved, too. Even if the future was uncertain, her temporary quarters were streets ahead, she thought, pardoning herself the pun.

  The cupboard built into the eaves where Fran had stored all that remained of her mother’s possessions, was draughty, damp and cobwebby. Crawling on hands and knees and wishing she hadn’t worn a skirt, she managed to drag several cardboard boxes in severe danger of disintegration out into the bedroom, sat back on her heels and brushed cobwebs off her hair and face, hoping no spiders had come with them.

  Half an hour later she had found all sorts of things; old school reports, a few drawings from pre-school years and several photograph albums. These, however, dated from Margaret’s own childhood and included pictures of her own parents and grandparents, severely posed ladies and gentlemen in Victorian attire and serious expressions. There were some of Fran, but these were taken when her father was alive.

  Before she ventured back into the cupboard, she made herself a cup of tea and phoned Charles.

  ‘I was just going to call you,’ he said, ‘the solicitor just called me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The only will he knows about is the one we found. He didn’t know anything about me having Power of Attorney or even that she’d moved to The Laurels.’

  ‘Well, I suppose there was no reason he would, was there? Eleanor wouldn’t have thought to tell him, if she wasn’t quite compos mentis …’

  ‘Oh, she had most of her marbles,’ said Charles, ‘that’s what’s so puzzling. If she made a new will or a codicil, she knew what she was doing.’

  ‘So Marion Headlam couldn’t have conned her into it?’

  ‘No! I still can’t believe she would have done anything like that. I know you don’t like her –’

  ‘She wasn’t exactly your favourite person when we went there last week,’ Fran reminded him.

  ‘No, well, I was upset,’ said Charles, sounding sulky.

  ‘Anyway, what did he say about it? The codicil, I mean.’

  ‘He will proceed with the original will until something turns up. He can’t go on hearsay without concrete proof.’

  ‘Well, that should please you and the Denvers. The Laurels won’t get whatever she promised.’

  ‘We could make a goodwill payment to them,’ said Charles, ‘the solicitor suggested that.’

  ‘I bet it wouldn’t be as much as Marion Headlam expected,’ said Fran.

  ‘Anyway, apparently we can’t do anything until the police have finished their investigations.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fran frowned out of the window. ‘I wonder what happens when a case is left unsolved? Does the person’s estate just sit in limbo?’

  ‘No idea, but let’s hope it doesn’t happen in this case,’ said Charles. ‘Did you say you were in London?’

  ‘Yes, I’m just sorting out a few more things in the flat,’ Fran said evasively.

  ‘Would you like lunch? We could go to La Poule au Pot again,’ said Charles, sounding hopeful.

  ‘I can’t afford it, I’m afraid, Charles,’ said Fran, ‘and I’m supposed to be seeing Lucy, anyway. And how come you’ve got so much time free? I’ve never asked you what you do, have I?’

  ‘Ah – well, nothing at the moment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Libby said something about business commitments when you phoned the other day.’

  ‘An interview, that’s all.’

  ‘For what, though? What was your career?’

  She heard Charles sigh. ‘I was a salesman,’ he said. ‘But not a very good one. I couldn’t keep pace with the aggressive attitudes that seem to be wanted these days.’

  Despite herself, Fran sympathised. ‘I know what you mean. I couldn’t sell a heater to an Eskimo, let alone talk someone into something they didn’t really want.’

  ‘I’m glad you understand,’ said Charles, sounding gloomy, ‘but it doesn’t help. I can’t get arrested now.’

  There was a short silence while they both reflected on this rather apposite statement.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Charles, ‘that wasn’t intended.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it was,’ said Fran, with a slight laugh. ‘But chin up, Charles. You might have enough soon not to worry.’

  Charles sighed again. ‘I doubt it. I’ll have to replace all the money I borrowed, won’t I?’

  ‘But there’ll be more than that, won’t there? There’s the house.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Charles. ‘All I had access to was her bank. I
didn’t bother to look into anything else. So, anyway, lunch is off, is it?’

  ‘I can’t do it, really, Charles,’ said Fran with a distinct sense of relief. ‘I’ve still got a lot to do, and as I said, I’m supposed to be calling Lucy.’ That wasn’t a lie, she told herself, she had intended to phone Lucy.

  ‘OK. Well, keep me posted if you hear anything.’

  ‘And you,’ said Fran, and switched off the phone. Well, that didn’t get them any further forward, did it. She swallowed the rest of her tea and rinsed the mug before going back into the bedroom and crawling once more into the attic cupboard.

  Peering into a couple more boxes, she discovered nothing more interesting than some old china that she thought she remembered from her childhood. A tea service that she’d bought her mother a couple of years after they moved out of Mountville Road to replace the one they’d left behind, an old tablecloth in blue checks, with a suspicious stain on the edge, and tucked right at the back, a box with some loose photographs on top of what looked like a framed picture. She pulled it out into the bedroom.

  The photographs were fading and curled at the edges, but Fran’s heart lurched under her ribcage as she felt a shock of recognition. There they were, she and her mother, sitting on the harbour wall, her mother’s hair blowing about her face, and the sky behind them looking grey and cloudy. How she knew that, she wasn’t sure, as the photographs, naturally, were in black and white. Next there was one of Uncle Frank and Fran on donkeys on the beach, Uncle Frank’s feet almost touching the ground.

  ‘Poor donkey,’ murmured Fran, and took out the framed picture. This time, her heart didn’t lurch so much as stop dead. For the picture was almost identical to those she had seen in Libby’s studio.

  Taking a deep breath and sitting back on her heels, Fran steeled herself to look further into the box. Wrapped in what looked like crocheted doilies were a couple of ornaments. Fran lifted them out and carefully unwrapped them.

  And found herself looking at two china ponies.

  Chapter Twenty-five 1964

  FRAN LAY ON HER back and gazed out of the window at the moon. If she sat up, she would see it reflected in the sea like a shining pathway to the sky, but now it was pleasant just to lie here and look at the moon, listening to the faint slap of waves against the harbour wall, which meant that the tide was in.