Murder at the Laurels - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  It was lovely to be here, even if it was autumn half term and most of the shops were shut for winter. They had arrived today, Thursday, the first day of half term, and were to go home Sunday in time for school on Monday, but it wasn’t the same without Uncle Frank. Fran sighed and sat up. Things had been different since the wedding.

  Frank and Eleanor had arrived back from their honeymoon in Brighton late one night, and Fran hadn’t seen them. When she got home from school the next afternoon, Uncle Frank was sitting with her mother.

  ‘Not as good as our holidays in Nethergate, though, poppet,’ he said, tweaking Fran’s plait, when he’d finished telling them all about Brighton. Fran privately agreed, for they didn’t seem to have done any of the things they normally liked to do on holiday.

  ‘Tell you what, though,’ said Frank, ‘now I’ve bought the cottage from your Aunt Eleanor’s dad, we can all use it whenever we like. I thought you and your mum might like to go down for half term. What do you think, Margaret?’

  Fran’s mother looked dubious. ‘It all depends if I can get the time off work,’ she said.

  ‘Course you can,’ said Frank. ‘If you can’t, perhaps Eleanor and I could take Franny down.’

  Fran tried not to look horrified, and sent her mother a pleading look.

  ‘No, I’m sure I’ll be able to manage it,’ she said, giving Fran the ghost of a wink. ‘We don’t want to trouble Eleanor when she’s only just got married.’

  Fran didn’t miss the slightly brittle tone in her mother’s voice.

  Frank smiled, although Fran didn’t think he meant it. ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Let me know when it is, eh, Franny?’ He stood up. ‘And now I’d better get back upstairs.’

  ‘Aren’t you staying for tea?’ asked Fran.

  ‘No, darling, Uncle Frank’s got to go upstairs. Aunt Eleanor’s cooking his dinner,’ said Margaret, standing up herself. ‘And you’ve got homework to do.’

  And that set the pattern of the days and weeks to follow. Occasionally, Fran would find Frank sitting with her mother when she came home, but he would always go back upstairs very soon afterwards, and the visits became fewer and farther between. Eleanor never came down, and only once or twice were Margaret and Fran asked to the upstairs flat. Margaret never complained, and when Fran did, patiently explained that Uncle Frank’s life was different now, and she couldn’t expect him to pay as much attention to them.

  ‘We were very lucky he was here for us after your father died,’ she said, ‘but we couldn’t expect it to go on for ever.’

  Fran didn’t see why not, but as she cordially disliked Eleanor, she supposed seeing Frank infrequently was better than seeing him more often but with his wife. He did, however remember his promise about sending them to Nethergate for half term, and so here they were.

  Fran could hear the television downstairs, for when Frank had bought the cottage, he had installed the latest television and gramophone, which was good for Margaret, now she had no company after Fran had gone to bed. Not that she made Fran go to bed particularly early on holiday.

  Fran got up and went to the window. It was almost the same view from up here as it was from downstairs. She could see the little boats bobbing in the harbour, and somewhere over to her left, the lighthouse intermittently swept the sea with bright white light to rival the moon. On the windowsill, two of her very own china ponies now sat, for this room was now hers for ever, or so Uncle Frank said. What would happen when he and Eleanor stayed here, she didn’t know, although she couldn’t see why they would, when Eleanor’s parents and brother and sister still lived here. Why wouldn’t they go and stay with them?

  She was just going back to bed when she heard the front door. Turning back to the window, she opened it and peered out, but was too late to see who had just arrived. She couldn’t think who it could be, for apart from a few families they met regularly in the summer, they knew no one in Nethergate.

  But there was no sound of voices other than the murmur of the television, so she concluded that her mother must have opened the door for some reason and went back to bed.

  She must have slept, for she awoke suddenly, her heart beating heavily. For a moment, she was disoriented, then, as she heard a male voice, remembered where she was. Uncle Frank? Coming fully awake, she realised that she shouldn’t have heard his voice, but sure enough, it was his. Sounding angry. She sat up and got out of bed, frozen to the spot when she heard another, less familiar voice screaming.

  Something crashed against the outside of her door, and she heard her mother’s cry of pain.

  ‘Mum!’ She stumbled to the door and pulled it open.

  ‘No, Fran!’ Margaret whispered. She lay on the floor looking terrified, her arm reaching out to Fran. Then the screaming started again, almost in her ear, and she looked up to see Uncle Frank holding Eleanor by the arms, an Eleanor almost unrecognisable, her face twisted in fury, one hand still clutching a smashed china bowl.

  It wasn’t until much later that Fran remembered that Margaret had only been wearing a nightdress.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  BEFORE SHE MET PETER at Victoria, Fran phoned Libby.

  ‘What time are you seeing Ben tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘I needn’t see him at all,’ said Libby, with rare insight.

  ‘I don’t want you putting him off for me,’ said Fran, ‘but I would like to talk to you on your own.’

  ‘Get Pete to drop you off at mine, then, and we can have supper. Ben won’t be round till later.’

  ‘Are you sure, Lib?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. And I’ve got some news for you, too, assuming this is because you’ve got news for me.’

  ‘Well, yes. I think so.’

  When Fran arrived at Victoria, Peter was already there, and they were able to make the ten to six train. Fran was quiet, and Peter, after a quizzical look or two, left her in peace. Getting back into Canterbury just before half past seven, Peter dropped Fran outside Number 17 ten minutes later.

  ‘See?’ he said. ‘No trouble at all.’

  ‘It feels like a lifetime,’ said Fran. ‘I’d hate to do it every day.’

  ‘Well, mind you tell me what’s been going on. I’m a positive hive of seething curiosity.’

  ‘I will,’ said Fran, with a tired smile, ‘when I’ve worked it all out myself.’

  Libby settled her with a large gin and tonic, having learnt that her friend’s favourite tipple was not the same as her own, brought Sidney in from the garden and dumped him on her lap.

  ‘You look as if you need him,’ she said, sitting on the sofa, and for once, avoiding the creak.

  ‘Thanks, Lib.’ Fran stroked Sidney, who butted her other hand and spilled gin and tonic on his nose.

  ‘So? What did you want to tell me?’ Libby lit a cigarette.

  ‘I did stay in the cottage in Nethergate,’ said Fran. ‘In fact, my Uncle Frank owned it.’

  And she recounted her search at the Betjeman flat, and the discovery of the photographs, the picture and the china ponies.

  ‘So,’ she concluded, ‘Uncle Frank actually bought the cottage.’

  ‘I hate to story cap,’ said Libby, stubbing out her cigarette, ‘but Ben and I found that out, too.’

  She told Fran of the visit to Jim Butler, and his recollections of the sale of Coastguard Cottage.

  ‘So we worked out that Barbara must be Eleanor’s brother’s child, and Charles the sister’s son. Would that be right?’

  ‘I suppose it must be. I never thought to ask Charles, but he hasn’t said anything about the cottage.’

  ‘Have you asked him?’

  ‘No,’ said Fran, surprised. ‘Although we did talk about it, didn’t we? When I said Charles lived in Steeple Mount.’

  ‘He probably wouldn’t have known anything about it, anyway, being a child at the time,’ said Libby. ‘But go on. What else?’

  ‘I remembered,’ said Fran, ‘and it was horrible.’

  Libby was silent
when Fran finished. Eventually, she stood up and took Fran’s glass to top it up.

  ‘So Uncle Frank and your mum were having an affair?’ she said as she sat down again. ‘And you knew about it?’

  ‘Now I’ve remembered, I can put things together. I can only assume that that night at the cottage was so traumatic I blotted everything out. As soon as I saw the photographs of Mum and me and Uncle Frank it began to come back to me, then when I found the ponies, it was just as though I was reliving it all over again.’ She shuddered. ‘I hated it.’

  Libby nodded. ‘And presumably, they stopped when Frank got married, then he came down to the cottage that night and Eleanor followed him?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I thought Eleanor was going to kill my mother.’

  Libby thought for a moment. ‘So, how did the whole business of Eleanor and the cottage come about?’

  ‘We used to stay there every year, and I think Frank must have met Eleanor when we were down there, through her father, who owned the cottage at the time.’

  ‘But if you were all down there, and he and your mum were – um – together, how come he married Eleanor?’

  ‘Now that I’ve remembered, there was one year when we left Uncle Frank down there, and we didn’t see much of him when we got back. I remember wondering why, but if I asked Mum, I don’t think she told me anything. They must have had a row.’

  ‘I wonder why they never married? Your mum and Uncle Frank?’

  ‘I wondered that, too. Perhaps they didn’t think it would be right, Frank being my dad’s brother.’

  ‘That’s just plain stupid,’ said Libby, snorting indignantly.

  ‘Things were different then. Perhaps Mum didn’t want any gossip.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t go about it in a very sensible way, did she? Going away on holiday with him every year. And you said you spent a lot of time together at home.’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was as though he really wasmy father. He was there all the time.’

  Libby eyed her curiously. ‘I don’t suppose he actuallywas your father?’

  Fran’s mouth opened in shock. ‘Good Lord! I’ve never even considered it,’ she said.

  ‘I expect it’s on your birth certificate.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sure it says Herbert,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, why on earth would my mother have lied about that?’

  ‘If she was married to Herbert, had an affair with Frank and became pregnant, she would have a very good reason to lie about it, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, hell, this is awful,’ said Fran, dislodging Sidney and putting her head in her hands. ‘I hate the thought of my mother having an affair.’

  ‘Well, it would appear that she did,’ said Libby, ‘although it wasn’t really a very sleazy one.’

  ‘Except that apparently they carried it on after Frank and Eleanor got married.’ Fran lifted her head and pushed her hair back. ‘I don’t understand any of it.’

  ‘I certainly don’t understand why the stupid bugger went down to the cottage when his wife knew about it,’ said Libby. ‘It had even belonged to her family. She must have known about your family holidays there.’

  ‘At least I know now why we had to leave Mountville Road,’ said Fran, ‘and why we never spoke to Frank or Eleanor after that. Poor Mum.’

  ‘And she never told you about any of it?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘Not a word. She never mentioned either of them, not even when she was ill at the end.’

  ‘When did Frank die?’ asked Libby. ‘Did they tell you that?’

  ‘No. I’ve no idea. I don’t know how I know, but I’m pretty sure he died quite young. Perhaps someone did get in touch with Mum and tell her, and I found out, somehow. We kept up with a few of Frank’s friends, but that all petered out because, as I see now, she was a single mother with a daughter, not a nice safe couple to go to dinner with. There was someone from the Conservative Club – or was it the golf club? Joe, his name was. He had a big old car, and he used to come and take us out sometimes, but his wife never came, and after a while that stopped, too.’

  ‘You poor old thing,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, I was all right,’ said Fran. ‘I was growing up, and although we moved, I still went to the same school, and had the same friends. It’s Mum I’m sorry for. I never understood. No wonder she loved my children so much. She’d never had much of a family, had she?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. I’d love to know what really happened that night, though.’

  ‘You can make an educated guess. You already did. Eleanor followed him down.’

  ‘But it could have been quite innocent. Perhaps, knowing you were down there, Frank and Eleanor came down to stay with her parents for a few days, and they popped in to see how you were getting on.’

  ‘In which case, why was my mother undressed, and why was Eleanor trying to kill her?’

  ‘That’s the flaw in the argument,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh – and I brought this for you to see,’ said Fran, handing over a plastic bag.

  Libby took out the little picture and gasped. ‘That’s my picture!’

  ‘I remember it now. It hung in my room at the cottage, but it was a cheap print we bought in a gift shop. Your parents must have bought one, too.’

  ‘I suppose so. But what a coincidence. And if I hadn’t had it, you would never have found out – well, everything.’

  ‘I know.’ Fran looked solemn. ‘The sort of coincidence that people say can’t happen in real life.’

  ‘If it was in a book it wouldn’t be allowed,’ agreed Libby.

  ‘Good job you’re not Miss Marple, then,’ said Fran.

  Libby grinned. ‘Isn’t it.’ She stood up. ‘I’d better check on supper. Here, or in the kitchen?’

  Ben arrived as they finished eating and Fran got up to go.

  ‘Don’t go on my account,’ he said, squashing himself onto a chair between the table and the Rayburn.

  ‘No, I want to get back,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve got a lot to think about, and it’s been a long day. I don’t know how people commute.’

  ‘I’ll walk you to the end of the lane, then,’ said Ben, unsquashing himself.

  ‘No need, honestly, I’ll be fine. It’s not late.’ Fran went into the living room to retrieve her bag. ‘Thanks for the supper, Lib. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

  ‘How much can I tell Ben?’ asked Libby quietly, as she saw Fran to the door.

  ‘As much as you like. I don’t mind Ben knowing. And Peter wanted to know all the facts as well, but I think I might give them an edited version.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ said Libby, and kissed Fran’s cheek. ‘Let me know what you want to do next.’

  ‘You were going to talk to Nurse Redding, weren’t you?’

  ‘Never got round to it after seeing Jim Butler,’ said Libby, ‘but I’ll try tomorrow.’

  Libby went back into the living room and found Ben sprawled on the sofa with his shoes off.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she said.

  ‘Come here, then,’ said Ben, holding out a hand.

  Libby’s stomach contracted and she walked forward. She and Sidney landed on Ben’s lap at the same time. She won.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  JUDGING THAT BEING ON earlies meant Nurse Redding would be home by two o’clock, Libby phoned at five past.

  ‘It’s Libby Sarjeant again,’ she said when Redding answered. ‘I do hope you don’t mind my bothering you.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Nurse Redding sounded bored.

  ‘It’s a bit embarrassing, but it’s something you said the other day. About sin.’ Libby crossed her fingers and held her breath.

  ‘Yes?’ The voice sounded marginally more interested.

  ‘I expect I got the wrong end of the stick, and I can’t really understand what made me think of it,’ or what made Harry think of it, anyway, she corrected mentally, ‘but I’ve always been interested in –’ oh, hell, interested in what? ‘�
� er, alternative religions. If you know what I mean.’ She felt perspiration on her brow and her heartbeat hammering in her ears.

  ‘Oh?’ was the unpromising answer.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Libby, aware that she was now going fast into waffle mode. ‘And I don’t know whether you’ve ever heard of it, but there’s a chapel over in the woods near Tyne Hall – you know? The place outside Steeple Mount. And I was told – I heard – that there was – well, there hadbeen – some sort of, er, meetings there. I just wondered.’ Now her heart was going so fast she thought she might faint.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Nurse Redding, sounding suddenly quite different, ‘and I wouldn’t advise you to find out, either.’

  ‘Oh, why?’ said Libby, feeling excitement rise.

  ‘I just wouldn’t, that’s all.’ There was a silence, and Libby wondered if she’d been cut off. But: ‘You couldn’t, anyway. It’s confidential.’

  ‘So you do know something about it?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.’ And this time, the phone really was switched off.

  Well, that proves it, thought Libby. Now how do I check it? Her first idea was to phone Ben, but decided he might view delving into the Black Arts as a mite foolish. The thought that it perhaps wasa mite foolish she thrust down. Fran might help, but Fran needed a bit of time to think through all she’d found out over the last few days. Peter would be disparaging and disbelieving. Which left Harry.

  ‘You in this afternoon?’ she asked, when he answered the phone.

  ‘In where?’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘In about half an hour, yes. Why?’

  ‘Is Peter there?’

  ‘Yes. Is that a problem?’

  ‘Why should you think that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have asked, otherwise. Are you going to invite me for a cuppa?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘please. I need your advice.’

  ‘Gor blimey,’ said Harry, ‘that’ll be a first.’