Murder at the Laurels - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘At the chapel?’ said Libby.

  ‘It seemed like it.’

  ‘Is it worth asking how you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought not. I went to have a look at it the other day. I forgot to tell you.’ Libby recounted her un-nerving experience at the chapel. ‘Do you think it was members of the coven, or whatever it is?’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ said Fran. ‘Good job they only saw you from a distance.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ asked Libby. ‘I don’t trust Redding to tell them anything.’

  ‘I think she might drop Paul in it, now. I can’t understand why she didn’t do it before. She was obviously furious with Warner. And that explains why Warner seemed so scared when I met them both the day after the death.’

  ‘Funny that she’s still living where she used to when she worked in Canterbury,’ said Libby. ‘I would have thought those flats were reserved for their own nurses.’

  ‘That’s another thing,’ said Fran, ‘she said “that’s what they thought before”. When I was surprised about her and Paul. ‘

  ‘She must have had some sort of affair while she was there, then,’ said Libby. ‘How could we find out?’

  ‘We can’t, Lib. There’s nothing we can do now. Leave it to the police. That’s what you advised me to do, isn’t it?’

  Libby looked at her thoughtfully. ‘OK. Until I think of something. Come on, come and have a drink with Ben and me.’

  Before they could leave, Fran’s mobile rang.

  ‘Fran, it’s Charles. You’ll never believe this, but I’ve had a letter from a development company. They think they’re buying this house.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You remember that the houses either side have been bought up and they wanted this one as well? Well, apparently, bloody Paul Denver approached them on the basis of being Eleanor’s beneficiary and somehow convinced them that I could sell it to them.’

  Fran sat down with a thump. Libby followed suit.

  ‘I don’t believe it. When’s the letter dated?’

  ‘Beginning of the week. They obviously didn’t know she’d died.’

  ‘No, because you certainly can’t do it now, until her estate’s sorted out. Bloody Paul. What a cheek!’

  ‘I bet Barbara was behind it,’ said Charles. ‘Anyway, do you think I should tell the police? It probably gives Paul a motive.’

  Fran thought for a moment. ‘On the contrary, it removes it,’ she said. ‘You could only sell it with power of attorney, not after she was dead.’

  ‘I could. Or we could. Once probate is granted.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Fran sighed. ‘And do we know if that’s held up in a case of murder?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Charles gloomily. ‘I could do with the money.’

  ‘Obviously, so could Barbara and Paul,’ said Fran. ‘Oh, well, tell the police anyway. DCI Murray’s gone to see Nurse Redding now, I happen to know, so you’ll have to talk to someone else.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Charles,’ said Fran wearily. ‘I’ll tell you all about it another time.’

  ‘So what was that all about?’ asked Libby, after Fran had rung off. Fran told her.

  ‘Did he ask about the codicil?’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, no. I didn’t think to mention it. He must know, surely?’

  ‘The police will have told him. Funny he didn’t mention it, though. He really needs to know, doesn’t he?’

  ‘He’s bound to phone me again. I’ll ask him then.’

  ‘I say, it’s all happening, isn’t it?’ Libby beamed. ‘Let’s go and tell Ben.’

  Fran allowed herself to be persuaded into one drink, then returned to the flat to think things through. She still couldn’t understand why Redding had concealed the will, unless it was a purely childish reaction in order to hurt him after what she saw as his betrayal with Nurse Warner.

  Fran lay on her back on the sofa and gazed at the ceiling. So who now became the most likely suspect? Paul, because he was there before he said he was? No, because he would have left after Redding burst in. Warner? Highly unlikely. Redding, after the other two had left?

  No, it had to be Barbara. She was on her own in the room for several minutes before calling for help, during which time she said she hadn’t realised that Eleanor was dead. Phooey, thought Fran, and tried to focus her mind on the suffocating blackness she’d felt that day on the train, and then again in Eleanor’s room. But it was no good. Nothing was coming through.

  And, she asked herself, sitting up, what about the witnesses? Both killed in road accidents. Could Barbara have done that? She realised that she had no idea whether or not Barbara drove, but surely, these days, everyone drove, especially if you lived as far out of town as Blagstock House. So Barbara could have bumped off the two witnesses to prevent them being called upon to prove there had been a codicil, then it would be just her word against Marion Headlam’s. And then, Nurse Redding’s position became clear. She knew a codicil had been written. She might not have seen it, but she knew it existed, and she was obviously aware that Paul and Barbara knew it, too, and were unhappy about it. So first, she took it, in order to frustrate them, then planted it to confound them. It would also make the police look more closely at the Denvers, who had every reason to want the codicil suppressed.

  Her mobile rang again.

  ‘Charles again,’ he said. ‘You’ll never guess what. I just called the developers.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘I thought I’d give it a try. And sure enough there was somebody there, apparently to take enquiries from prospective purchasers.’

  ‘And did they know anything?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They were able to look up the file immediately.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’ve only paid Paul a deposit.’

  ‘No!’ Fran was stunned. ‘No wonder he wanted to find that will.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve just called him and told him he has to return it. The house will have to be sold to divide up the estate and give The Laurels its share, so they can still have it, but they’ll have to buy it from the estate.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘I wouldn’t repeat it, but I got the impression that the deposit was no more.’

  ‘There’ll be hell to pay. No wonder Barbara was so scared. But surely, then, she and Paul wouldn’t have wanted her to die any more than you would, as all this would come out?’

  ‘I would think so,’ said Charles. ‘I wonder how many more shocks we’re going to get?’

  ‘Well, you obviously know about the codicil. How much of her estate goes to The Laurels?’

  ‘Two thirds,’ said Charles, gloomily. ‘No wonder it – er – got lost. Paul and Barbara wouldn’t want to lose out on that.’

  ‘Neither would you. How much would that be, do you suppose?’

  ‘Well, the house is probably all there is in the estate, and don’t forget it’ll be over the inheritance tax limit, so anything above that will be taxed at forty percent, but even so, I expect we’re talking a lot of money after the solicitors have taken their cut.’

  After Charles had rung off, Fran sat thinking for a while longer, then took a deep breath and called Blagstock House.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here, Frances,’ said Barbara. ‘He’s gone to the office.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He usually does on a Saturday. It’s the one day people come out house hunting here, it seems.’

  ‘I see.’ Fran frowned. ‘Could I have the office number, do you think?’

  ‘Why? Can’t you talk to me?’ Barbara’s voice was sharp.

  ‘It was something he said to Charles,’ said Fran.

  ‘Charles? When?’

  ‘This morning, I think. Charles just phoned me.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘Legal stuff,’ said Fran. ‘Nothing to do with you.’

  ‘If it’s to do with Aunt Eleanor it
’s very definitely to do with me.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Fran sweetly. ‘I’ve already told you about my trust. Don’t bother with the number. I’ll find it.’

  And now Barbara will ring Paul to find out what’s going on, thought Fran. And maybe by now, the police have talked to Nurse Redding and they’ve been in touch with Paul.

  But within five minutes, her phone rang again, and this time it was DCI Murray.

  ‘How did you get this number?’ asked Fran indignantly.

  ‘From your cousin Charles,’ said Murray abruptly, ‘and now would you tell me what this nonsense was you were telling DS Cole earlier on? I’ve just been talking to Nurse Redding and she denied every word.’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘According to you, she concealed the will, and on the day of the murder found Paul Denver and Nurse Warner in Mrs Bridges’ room before Mrs Denver arrived.’

  ‘That’s right. She told me so this morning.’

  ‘Well, I can’t prove that she told you or she didn’t, but I’mtelling you – she denied it all.’

  Fran sat, stunned. ‘Why?’ she said eventually.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Murray irritably, ‘I’m only the bloody investigating officer. And I ask myself why you would tell me this information if it wasn’t true. It doesn’t seem like you.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Fran. ‘You know that. I might give you some strange information sometimes, but I always believe it’s true.’

  ‘Exactly,’ sighed Murray, ‘so now I’m forced to try and prove what Miss perishing Joan Redding tells me.’

  ‘Did she say she found Nurse Warner in the room, and that Marion Headlam asked her to go and get the birthday cake?’

  ‘Birthday cake? What birthday cake?’

  ‘All the residents have one, apparently.’

  Murray exploded. ‘So why didn’t I know? Why has no one thought to tell me any of these nice little tit-bits? Don’t they know concealing evidence is a crime?’

  ‘I don’t suppose they thought of it like that,’ said Fran, consolingly.

  ‘Well, go on then,’ said Murray, breathing heavily, ‘now youtell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘Nurse Redding belongs to some kind of Satanist cult. I believe she’s going to a meeting tonight.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ groaned Murray, ‘and all the others are going with her.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Fran, amused. ‘I just thought you ought to know. It’s illegal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Depends what they’re doing. Can be a breach of the peace.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s at Tyne Chapel. You had some problems there before, didn’t you?’

  ‘Tyne Chapel? What do you know about that?’ Murray’s voice had changed.

  ‘Only local gossip. Someone said whatever trouble there was had been stopped, but perhaps it hasn’t.’

  ‘And how do you know there’s a meeting tonight?’

  ‘Well – I don’t, for certain.’

  ‘Ah. One of those.’ Murray sighed. ‘I think we might just check it out, though. Nasty goings on up there, there were. And don’t you go poking your nose in.’

  ‘No, Inspector,’ said Fran, demurely.

  ‘ChiefInspector, MrsCastle,’ he said and rang off.

  Now what, thought Fran. What a muddle. She wandered into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Presumably, Murray would ask Paul and Warner to confirm or deny what she, Fran, had told them. And what would they say? Paul would deny it, of course. But Warner?

  She dialled the number of Guy’s shop. Sophie answered.

  ‘He’s with a customer, Fran,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all right, Sophie, it was you I wanted. Did you find out for Libby where your friend Sue Warner lived?’

  ‘Not really, I think she’s moved out to be with her boyfriend. I did see them together the other day, did Dad tell you?’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ said Fran, remembering. ‘Where was it? Did you speak?’

  ‘No, she was too far away, but I’m certain it was her. And I’m not so certain, but the chap she was with – well, it looked like that Paul Denver.’

  Fran’s eyebrows rose. Result! she thought, and, after thanking Sophie, ran down the back stairs to see if Harry was still on the premises. He looked up in surprise and stopped chopping onions.

  ‘What’s the problem, ducks?’ He came forward, wiping his hands on his apron.

  ‘Have you got a telephone directory here, Harry?’

  ‘Yeah, over there in the drawer of the desk. Both sorts, I think. Why?’

  ‘I need to look up Paul Denver’s number,’ said Fran, going towards the desk.

  ‘Paul Denver. Hang on, he’s the estate agent, isn’t he?’

  Fran nodded, leafing through the business section of the directory. ‘Here he is.’ She punched the number into her phone, saved it, and called. A mechanical voice asked her to leave a message.

  ‘Paul, I need to know what you were doing with Nurse Warner before Aunt Eleanor died. You were there before you said you arrived. Please ring me on this number.’

  Harry leant his elbows on the desk and grinned. ‘Even more intriguing, this, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Are you going to take it up professionally?’

  ‘Take what up?’ Fran was looking through the private section now.

  ‘Detecting,’ said Harry. ‘Between the two of you, your instinct and Lib’s nosiness would make a great team, I reckon.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Harry.’ Fran closed the book. ‘Damn. No private number listed.’

  ‘You don’t know that. You don’t know what address you were looking for.’

  ‘There’s only one Denver in the book. And that’s Barbara.’

  ‘Oh.’ Harry straightened up. ‘Well, perhaps he still lives there.’

  ‘Oh, come on. He must be thirty. Still living with his mother?’

  ‘She’s got a big house. He’s got a business, he’s broke. Why not?’

  Fran stared at him. ‘Could be. But Sophie said –’

  ‘Who’s Sophie?’

  ‘Guy’s daughter.’

  ‘What’s she got to do with the price of fish?’

  ‘Oh, Harry,’ said Fran, exasperated, ‘it doesn’t matter. I just thought he might live somewhere with a girlfriend, that’s all.’

  ‘OK, keep your hair on. Want a coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve got a couple more calls to make. Thanks for the directory.’

  ‘Any time. Be good.’ Harry ushered her out of the kitchen and watched her go up the stairs.

  Libby was still out, so Fran left a message on the answerphone and tried the mobile. From the background noise when she answered, it was clear that she was still in the pub.

  ‘I just thought I’d let you know about a couple of developments. Sorry to interrupt your lunch.’

  ‘Not exactly lunch, Fran! It’s nearly half past three. Peter came in, and he and Ben are deep in family conversations. What’s happened?’

  Fran explained.

  ‘Shall I come up?’ asked Libby. ‘They won’t miss me, and Ben can always phone me if he wants me.’

  ‘OK, if you like. It’s all so puzzling, I felt I had to talk to someone.’

  ‘And who better than your partner in crime,’ said Libby triumphantly. ‘See you in a minute.’

  The distance between the pub and The Pink Geranium being only a matter of metres, she was, in fact, slightly less than a minute.

  ‘So what do you think will happen now?’ she asked, when Fran had finished telling her.

  ‘Murray will try and question Warner and Paul, I suppose, and probably go back to Nurse Redding. Did you know her name was Joan?’

  ‘No. Doesn’t suit her. Mind you, it might give us a handle on what went on at the hospital.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Now we know her name is Joan Redding we could ask a couple of people at the hospital.’

  ‘Like who
? Do you know anybody?’

  Libby wrinkled her brow. ‘Not off-hand. Pity David isn’t alive.’

  They both sat in silence for a moment, remembering Ben’s brother-in-law David, the village doctor who had died tragically back in the spring.

  ‘I know,’ said Libby suddenly. ‘My friend Tricia.’

  ‘Sounds like a pony book,’ said Fran. ‘Who’s your friend Tricia?’

  ‘She’s a medical secretary at the hospital. She’s worked for several departments over the years. I bet she knows.’

  ‘How do you know her?’

  ‘Oh, she works back stage at my old drama society. Hang on, I’ll find her number.’ Libby began scrolling through the address book on her phone.

  ‘That’s efficient of you,’ said Fran, ‘considering you’re always leaving your phone behind or switched off.’

  ‘Pots and kettles,’ said Libby. ‘Ah, here we are.’

  Fran went and made a pot of tea while Libby talked to the surprised Tricia, having to catch up on a lot of gossip before she reached the point of her phone call. Finally, she switched off and picked up the mug Fran offered.

  ‘Apparently, Joan Redding had a relationship with a doctor a few years ago, although Tricia says general opinion was that she must have forced him into it, and when he broke it off she started up a sort “Fatal Attraction” stalking operation. Very nasty, it got. She was asked to leave.’

  ‘There you are, then. That’s why she was worried about her job. Marion Headlam must have known about it when she took her on, but it would be difficult for her to get a job anywhere else.’

  ‘I wonder why Headlam took her on?’ mused Libby. ‘She’s hardly the comforting type. More like a prison warder.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what she needs. To stop the old dears getting out.’

  ‘Tricia didn’t know anything about Satanism, though. Still I suppose that’s not the sort of thing you boast about, is it? More a dodgy handshake sort of thing.’

  ‘I told Murray about Tyne Chapel. He’s going to look into it,’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh. You didn’t tell him I’d been up there, did you?’ Libby looked nervous.