‘I’ll ring her now,’ said Fran, scrambling to her feet.
‘Right,’ said Libby, following her example. She began to put the files back on the shelves and stopped when she heard Fran speak.
‘Well?’ she said, when Fran switched off.
‘She says that’s fine, she knows we’ll look after them, and had we found out anything more. You heard me tell her all about Laurence.’
‘And?’
‘She didn’t know anything about him, but we didn’t expect her to, did we?’
‘When’s she next coming down?’
‘She wasn’t sure. She sounded very dithery.’
‘That’s Orrible Andrew getting to her,’ said Libby. ‘And now it’s nearly Christmas she won’t be able to get down here at all, bet you.’
Fran nodded and sighed. ‘Oh, well, let’s take this lot out to the car.’
After getting rid of Balzac, who had followed them in and gone to sleep by the heater, they turned off the computer, lights and heater and locked up.
George offered them a drink when they took the keys back, but Fran said sensibly she was driving and they ought to get back home. Libby pulled a face and, waving to George, followed Fran back to the car.
‘Sorry if you wanted to stay,’ said Fran, as she drove back towards Steeple Martin, ‘but I want to get on with those papers. I’ve got a feeling we might find something in them.’
‘Something about the building works? Would they print planning applications like they do today?’
‘I don’t know, but I didn’t mean that. There must be a reason for Dorinda to have kept all those papers.’
‘They might fall to pieces,’ said Libby. ‘They should be preserved in a museum.’
‘I expect they are, somewhere,’ said Fran. ‘Newspaper archives have copies of everything, don’t they? Local and national papers.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby, looking wise.
‘Anyway, we’ll go through them and see if anything turns up,’ said Fran.
‘What exactly are we looking for?’
‘Anything relevant. Anything about Dorinda, or Peter, or Sir Frederick or – what were they called? The family?’
‘Oh, heavens,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t remember.’
They both thought for a moment, until Fran turned into Allhallow’s Lane and pulled up outside Number 17.
‘Here, you take half of them,’ she said leaning over and retrieving the file from the back seat.
‘Thanks,’ said Libby, looking with disfavour on the yellowing bundle she was given.
‘They weren’t Andersons, were they?’ said Fran.
‘Who? The family? No. Bella would have noticed that.’
‘Of course she would. I wonder what the connection is.’ Fran stared out through the windscreen as if she might find the answer in the Manor woods before her.
‘People they met and made friends with?’ suggested Libby. ‘They were here from 1904, and Peter was probably here with the other troupe before then. They must have known a lot of people.’
‘But not titled people. They wouldn’t have mixed with theatricals.’
‘What about stage door johnnies?’ Libby turned excitedly to her friend. ‘I bet that’s it! Sir Fred and Ivy – well that would be it, wouldn’t it? A friend of Dorinda’s perhaps, someone who’d been in The Serenaders or The Alexandrians, maybe went on into the chorus at one of the London theatres – and Sir Fred married her! It was always happening.’
Fran looked interested. ‘It certainly could be. So nothing to do with Dorinda and the family at all?’
‘Oh.’ Libby’s face fell. ‘Yes, of course. Oh, bugger.’
‘But you’re right, Lib,’ said Fran, ‘it is by far the most likely and obvious explanation. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.’
‘Because we were too busy looking for connections,’ said Libby. ‘That’ll teach us.’
‘Go and find me some more connections to shoot down.’ Fran grinned. ‘And I’ll see you tonight.’
Chapter Fourteen
LIBBY WAS TRYING TO keep awake over the brittle copies of the newspapers when her phone rang.
‘Lib?’
‘Harry. What’s up?’
‘Danny just called. I don’t know how important this is to you, or Fran, or – well, the fact is, the police have just been back on to Danny.’
‘Go on.’
‘Dorothy’s dead.’
‘Huh? Dorothy?’
‘The sister.’
‘Oh! Dorothy. Good God.’ Libby sat down suddenly on the sofa.
‘As far as Danny can make out, the police went back to talk to her and found her dead in her house.’
‘Murdered?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘Have they arrested Danny?’
‘No, but she lives a long way away, and I suppose they’ve been keeping tabs on him, so he couldn’t have got there without them knowing.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Harry testily.
‘Sorry.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Have you told Fran?’
‘No. You can tell her. Much as I like her, I don’t always find her sympathetic. She makes me feel as though she can see right through me.’
‘Really?’ Surprised at this further evidence of her friends’ attitudes towards Fran, Libby felt obliged to defend her. ‘She can’t, you know. I wish she could sometimes, but she’s as full of insecurities as we all are. More, actually.’ She thought of Guy.
‘I know,’ said Harry, sounding uncomfortable, ‘and I really like her, otherwise I wouldn’t be happy to have her upstairs, would I? And if she could find anything out for Danny it’d be great.’
‘Right,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll tell her, and see what she says. Although I don’t see how it helps.’
Harry sighed. ‘Neither do I. Bugger, isn’t it?’
After Harry had rung off, Libby punched in Fran’s number.
‘We have a development,’ she announced.
‘In the papers?’
‘No,’ said Libby, and explained.
‘Hello?’ she said, after a prolonged period of silence. ‘Fran?’
‘Do we know who their parents were?’ Fran said finally.
‘What?’
‘Laurence and Dorothy. Who were their parents?’
‘How on earth am I supposed to know?’ demanded Libby. ‘Or Danny, come to that.’
‘Can we ask him? And how was she murdered? And where did she live?’
‘Oh, good lord, Fran! How on earth can we find all that out? Danny won’t know – well, I suppose he might know about the parents, but not about anything else. You’re the best person to find out, with your connection to Inspector Connell.’
‘I can’t ask him.’
‘Of course you can!’ said Libby in exasperation. ‘The last thing he said to you in my hearing was, “You won’t forget to let me know, will you? Anything at all.” Now, from your silence just now, I guess you must have had a bit of a moment when I told you about Dorothy. So, tell him.’
Fran was quiet again. Eventually, Libby heard her sigh. ‘I suppose so. I feel the parents are important. Perhaps Laurence’s mother was an Anderson?’
‘That would have come out by now, Fran. A Walker, perhaps? No, that would have come out, too.’
‘You’re right. I’ll call the Inspector. I’ll let you know what he says.’
After Fran had rung off, Libby sat for a long time gazing into the fire, until Sidney reminded her of the time. She cast a look of dislike at the papers still spread out over the table in the window next to the computer and went to make a cup of tea and put something in the oven. Sidney was given his afternoon tea after which he took an evening constitutional round the garden. Libby watched his ghost-like shape through the conservatory windows.
Something was wrong. Fran was not herself, although Libby wasn’t quite sure what Fran’s real self was, their association having b
een forged during a series of quite abnormal events. Ben was right, Fran’s life had changed completely since they’d met, far more than Libby’s had, and maybe it was difficult for her to come to terms with it. Perhaps it was becoming involved with a murder investigation as an outsider. It did make one feel rather like a voyeur, Libby decided, which wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Was that how Fran felt?
In the little flat over The Pink Geranium, Fran was feeling exactly like that. And more. She was experiencing a horrid, stomach churning certainty that somehow Bella was concerned in the murder. No, that wasn’t quite right, she thought, pacing up and down the small living room. Not concerned, exactly, but affected by it.
Which, of course, was ridiculous. Of course she was affected by it – Bella had found the body, in premises she now owned. But Fran felt sure there was more to it than that. When Libby had told her about Laurence Cooper’s sister’s death, she had experienced the same black suffocation that had overcome her when she heard about her own aunt’s death, and that of the second murder victim in that case, not to mention when she had gone to see the Alexandria, which indicated that this, too, was murder. And therefore, a legitimate reason to ring Inspector Connell.
And that was the other problem. Fran was aware of a guilty thrill of excitement at having an excuse to ring Inspector Connell. The thought of someone’s murder being an excuse to speak to someone to whom you were, however unwillingly, attracted, made her feel physically sick. Not only that, Guy and she were, in most people’s eyes – certainly his – an “item”. This was not only slightly perverted, but unfaithful, if you had always been a one-man woman as Fran had. Not that she and Guy had even slept together, let alone given each other any sort of commitment, as Fran was as wary of middle-aged romantic entanglements as Libby had been only a few months ago. In fact, it still astonished her that she should be in this position.
She knew, too, that her new friends, particularly Libby, Peter and the lovely Harry were finding her difficult. Never good at giving much of herself, except when she was playing a part in her former life as a professional actor, she didn’t know what to do about this. Libby would have sat down and poured her heart out, not that anyone had much difficulty in seeing what was in Libby’s heart, as it was usually on her sleeve.
Her phone rang. Fran fished it out of her handbag.
‘Mrs Castle? Connell here.’
Fran’s heart went down in a lift. Why didn’t she check who was calling before answering? The simple answer was if she hadn’t got her glasses on she wouldn’t be able to see the screen.
‘Hello, Inspector,’ she said.
‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but in case it – er – strikes any chords with you, our victim’s sister has been found murdered.’
‘How?’ asked Fran, just managing to bite back the words “I know”.
‘How?’ Connell sounded surprised. ‘Hit on the head, as far as we know.’
‘Where?’
‘At her home. Look, Mrs Castle, do you know something about this?’
Fran paused, collecting her thoughts. ‘I was going to call you,’ she said finally. ‘Apparently, my landlord knew the first victim.’
‘You should have told me,’ said Connell accusingly.
‘Not well, only as a business acquaintance,’ said Fran, crossing her fingers. ‘But he knows Danny rather better.’
‘Danny?’
‘I don’t know his surname,’ said Fran.
‘Danny Lee,’ growled Connell.
‘Ah,’ said Fran.
‘So what else do you know?’ Connell’s tone was now glacial.
‘Danny told Harry – that’s my landlord – that Dorothy had been found dead. He didn’t know any more than that. Danny hasn’t anyone else to talk to, that’s why he told Harry, as a fellow restaurateur.’
‘Chef at The Pink Geranium, isn’t he?’
‘Owner of The Pink Geranium,’ corrected Fran.
‘So, why were you going to call me, Mrs Castle?’
‘Because I thought Dorothy had been murdered, Inspector.’
‘Thought, or felt?’
‘Felt.’
‘But we know that anyway. Nothing else?’
‘No.’ Fran hesitated. ‘I can’t find anything linking Laurence Cooper to Mrs Morleigh or her family, either, I’m afraid, or to Anderson Place.’
‘He worked there,’ said Connell sharply, ‘of course he’s connected to the place.’
‘Other than that,’ said Fran, wondering if she’d said too much.
‘You think there’s some other connection?’
‘No – I just said – I can’t find a connection.’
‘But you think there is one?’
Now Fran knew she’d said too much. ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I’m not a magician, Inspector. I can only tell you what I feel, or see.’
‘Right.’ He was silent for so long Fran wondered if she’d been cut off. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to know, Mrs Castle? Anything you think might help you feel, or see, something?’
Fran sat down in surprise. ‘Oh. Well, what was Dorothy’s surname? Was she a Cooper?’
‘No, she was a widow. Name of Buller.’
‘Where did she live?’
‘Yorkshire. Near Richmond.’
‘And where did the Coopers live as children?’
‘I’ve no idea!’ said Connell. ‘Is it relevant?’
‘I don’t know, but I think it might be. Had anything been taken from her house?’
‘Yes, it had been ransacked. We don’t have any idea what has been taken. The only one who could have told us was her brother. She had no children.’
‘Neither did he. How sad,’ said Fran.
‘According to her neighbours – and to Danny Lee, as a matter of fact – she was a right old –’ Connell paused, ‘well, not a particularly pleasant person, shall we say.’
‘Yes.’ Fran knew that. Somehow.
‘So, anything else?’
‘Not without something more concrete,’ said Fran.
‘Concrete? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I like to see places and people,’ said Fran vaguely.
Inspector Connell was silent again. Then, ‘Would it help if you saw Laurence’s flat and Dorothy’s house?’
Fran was so taken aback she couldn’t say a word.
‘Mrs Castle?’
‘Well – yes,’ she said finally.
‘If I could arrange it, when would you be free?’
‘I’m rehearsing a pantomime,’ she said, ‘so evenings are a bit difficult.’
‘Richmond’s a long way away,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s how you know Danny had nothing to do with Dorothy.’
‘Quite. When don’t you rehearse?’
‘Friday,’ said Fran.
‘We could go to Richmond on Friday, then.’
‘We?’
‘I could hardly allow you to go on your own.’ Connell was at his most forbidding, reminding Fran of when she first met him.
‘No,’ she said, feeling breathless.
‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I can,’ he said briskly, ‘oh, and Mrs Castle – don’t go telling the world and its wife about this, will you?’
‘No,’ she said, crossing her fingers again. Just Libby and Harry.
It was while she was eating baked beans on toast on her lap and watching the news that Connell called back.
‘I can take you to see Cooper’s flat tomorrow,’ he said, ‘and we’ve an appointment set up with Richmond CID on Friday at two.’
‘Oh.’ Fran felt her heart go up a gear. ‘Two in the afternoon?’
He sighed. ‘Yes, Mrs Castle. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at nine-thirty, if that’s all right, and we can make arrangements about Friday.’
‘Fine.’ Fran cleared her throat. ‘I’ll see you then.’
She took her tray into the kitchen and stood staring into the sink. Now she really did feel si
ck. She was excited about two days with Inspector Connell, all because two people had met their deaths by violence. How low could you go?
Chapter Fifteen
LIBBY WAS BESIDE HERSELF with excitement at the news.
‘Just think,’ she said, ‘All tomorrow morning and all day Friday with him!’
‘That isn’t the point,’ said Fran severely. ‘The point is, I might be able to find something out about Laurence’s life.’
‘Of course,’ said Libby, ‘but you can’t deny you’re just a little bit excited about Connell.’
‘I know,’ said Fran. ‘Isn’t it awful?’
Libby looked concerned. ‘I knew that’s how you were feeling,’ she said. ‘I feel a bit like it myself. Ghoulish. Almost like slowing down on a motorway to look at an accident.’
Fran shuddered. ‘I can’t do that. I have to look the other way.’
‘Difficult when you’re driving.’
‘It’s all bloody difficult,’ said Fran. ‘Come on, madam director, what are we doing tonight?’
The rehearsal of act two went slightly better than the previous night’s act one, and Libby called a halt just before ten o’clock.
‘I’ll give the pub a miss tonight if you don’t mind, Lib,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve got a heavy two days in front of me.’
‘Don’t forget you don’t need to be at rehearsal tomorrow,’ Libby reminded her. ‘It’s chorus and dancers only.’
‘Oh, bother,’ said Fran. ‘I had forgotten. Connell and I could have done both visits in one day.’
‘What, Laurence’s flat in the morning and straight on up to Richmond? That’s an even longer day.’
‘Yes, but then again, it only wastes one day.’
‘And you wouldn’t have to feel guilty for more than one day,’ said Libby with a smile.
Fran laughed. ‘I’ll see if he can arrange it, but I doubt it. I’ll let you know how things turn out.’
‘So what are you going to do tomorrow?’ asked Ben, when Libby told him about the latest developments as they walked back to Allhallow’s Lane.
‘Carry on going through those old papers, I suppose,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t know what I’m expected to find, though.’
‘Why don’t you come up to the Manor and give me a hand?’ said Ben. ‘I’m turning the estate office into an office for me, and Mum wants to start putting up the decorations. You know they have the party this weekend.’
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