‘Oh, it was terribly sad. There was a little notebook that I could hardly read with some names and amounts of money beside them, a few leaflets and postcards for The Silver Serenaders and The Alexandrians and a letter from Peter Prince that must have arrived after he died.’
‘Oh? May I see them?’
‘Of course. Do you want to come here, or shall I come to you?’
‘How would you get here?’ asked Fran, thinking that although it should be up to Bella to come to her, it wouldn’t be the most practical solution.
‘Is there a bus?’
‘Only into Canterbury, then you have to come out again. I’ll tell you what, I’ll ask Libby if I can borrow her car, and come to you. I’ll have to ring you and let you know when, because we’re going Christmas shopping today.’
‘Oh, all right, but I have to go home tomorrow. George from the pub is coming in this afternoon to fit a cat flap for me, and the lady next door will carry on feeding Balzac. I hope he learns to use it.’
‘All right,’ said Fran, ‘I’ll see if I can come later on today. Otherwise it will have to wait until you come down again.’
‘Or I could give you the keys,’ suggested Bella. ‘If you wanted, of course. I thought you mind find … well, you might–’
‘I think it’s an excellent idea,’ said Fran. ‘As long as you don’t mind me fossicking around on my own. How will you get the keys to me?’
‘I could leave them at the pub? George and his wife were really fond of Aunt Maria, and they seem to want to take care of me, now.’ Fran heard a sigh. ‘It’s quite a novelty, someone wanting to look after me.’
Another black mark for the unknown Andrew, thought Fran.
‘Good idea,’ said Fran, ‘but I’ll still try and get over today. Are you ringing from your mobile?’
Having agreed to ring Bella if she managed to find a way of getting to Heronsbourne, Fran switched off the phone and sat down to think. Her eyes went to the photograph propped up on the table.
March Cottage had been a surprise. There was a certain warmth about it, although, as she had said at the time, the upstairs felt as if it had been disinfected. But the outbuilding had been different. Not in itself, but in its contents. Fran had felt all sorts of things swirling around her, so much of it that it was difficult to sort out. She knew without a doubt that the woman in the photograph was Dorinda, she also knew that it hadn’t been taken in Nethergate or Heronsbourne. From what Bella had told them of Maria’s letter, Dorinda would have been in her late twenties in 1914, so in the photograph she must have been in her late thirties or early forties, judging by the clothes. Where would she have been then? Travelling in South Africa, while Maria and Bertram stayed at home?
Fran stood up with an exclamation of frustration. She could get nothing. The only thing she was going to be able to do was to immerse herself in the contents of that outbuilding.
She phoned Guy and explained the situation.
‘I’m really looking forward to spending some time in there, but getting there and back is going to be a problem. I need to get a car. But I’m wary of buying one on my own. I’ve never done that before.’
‘What – never bought a car?’ Guy sounded flabbergasted.
‘No. When I was married my husband always bought them, and since I’ve been on my own I haven’t been able to afford one. And as far as I can work out from female friends, car salesmen see women coming.’
‘That’s rather sexist,’ laughed Guy.
‘But true,’ said Fran. ‘Especially when it’s a woman of my age.’
‘So what you’re asking is for me to come with you?’
‘Would you mind? I can ask all the right questions myself, but I’ll be paying cash – blimey, cash! – and I gather you can haggle a bit. I wouldn’t be good at that.’
‘Of course I’ll come with you. When?’
‘Not today. Libby and I are going Christmas shopping. Although Bella did want to see me today. Can’t see how I could get over there, though, and she’s going back tomorrow.’
‘How about when I come and pick you up tonight we go there first?’ suggested Guy. ‘Then I’d be there to give you an excuse to get away.’
‘Good idea.’ Fran brightened. ‘Although I really don’t know why I’m putting myself out for her.’
‘Neither do I. She isn’t paying you, is she?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Fran. ‘All I needed to do was talk to her once, I suppose, because Inspector Connell suggested it. And I haven’t felt anything that might have helped him with his murder.’
‘So it’s just interest,’ said Guy.
‘Suppose so,’ agreed Fran. ‘I’ll have to think about it. And now I’ve got to go, or Libby will be here and I won’t be ready.’
As Libby drove into Canterbury, Fran told her about her conversations with Bella and Guy.
‘Good idea about the car,’ said Libby. ‘Do you know what you want?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Fran, ‘I’ve known for some time. I’ve been buying all the car magazines for weeks.’
‘You dark horse you,’ laughed Libby. ‘So no help needed there, then. But what about Bella’s stuff? Do you want me to come with you?’
‘I might. And Guy’s got me wondering about why I’m doing it, so I might need a detached bystander.’
‘It’s got you interested,’ said Libby. ‘You’re beginning to tap into those moments of yours a lot better now, aren’t you?’
‘I think so,’ said Fran. ‘I need to concentrate on picking things up from people or objects.’
‘Or places. You said you got rather a reaction at the old Alexandria yesterday.’
‘Mm, but I think it was from someone rather than something.’
‘The body!’ said Libby triumphantly.
‘The body wasn’t there.’
‘But it had been.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Fran. ‘Let’s change the subject.’
By lunchtime they were both exhausted and made for their favourite little back street pub, where the sparkling barman asked after Harry.
‘He’s fine,’ said Libby. ‘Getting married.’
‘Married?’ squeaked the barman.
‘Well, Civil Partnership, then. I’m Best Woman.’
‘Hmph,’ said the barman and slammed her change on the bar.
‘That went down well,’ said Fran, as they slid onto a bench and stuffed their parcels under the table.
‘Known for my tact,’ nodded Libby, taking a sip of her alcohol-free lager. ‘Yuck. That’s awful.’
‘You should have had an orange juice or something,’ said Fran, taking a large mouthful of white wine.
‘You wait until you’re the driver,’ said Libby grumpily.
‘That’s just it, I can’t wait,’ said Fran. ‘I shall be able to go where I want when I want.’
‘Meanwhile, you can borrow Romeo if necessary. But you said Guy’s going to take you to see Bella this evening?’
‘Yes, because she’s going home tomorrow. To Orrible Andrew.’
‘Why do you call him that?’ Libby looked interested.
‘Because he is. We felt it before, didn’t we? But I know now. It comes off her in waves. He doesn’t like the idea of her having any sort of life of her own, and it’s real rebellion, her coming down here, and especially if she refuses to sell. I just hope she stands up to him.’
‘Could he be anything to do with the body in the theatre?’ asked Libby.
‘I don’t see how. Bella knew nothing about her family until she got the letter from what’s-his-name – Grimshaw. No way Orrible Andrew could have known before she did.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps he intercepted a previous letter.’
‘If he had, his reaction would have been the same as it is now, wouldn’t it?’ Fran reasoned. ‘Whoopee – sell it and make money.’
‘Oh.’ Libby nodded glumly. ‘Course it would.’ She sat up straight and looked at her friend. ‘So, are you
interested in Bella’s family history, or the murder?’
Fran looked startled. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Both, I think. In fact, there’s a link. Just as Connell thought there might be.’
‘Have you only just thought of that?’
‘Yes. I was suddenly sure.’ Fran sat with her fingers to her mouth staring out of the window. ‘Oh, Lib, yes. I’m sure.’
On the journey home, Libby tried to get Fran to talk about the certainty of the link between the body in the theatre and Bella’s family, but Fran wasn’t sure of anything and refused to talk.
‘I’ll know more tomorrow,’ she said, as Libby dropped her outside The Pink Geranium. ‘I’ll tell you then.’
She was waiting outside for Guy when he arrived to collect her at half-past six.
‘No time for dalliance tonight, then?’ he said with a grin, as she got in beside him.
‘What do you mean?’ Fran kept her face down as she fastened her seat belt.
‘You didn’t invite me in.’
‘Sorry.’ Fran looked out of the side window.
‘Are you making use of me?’
‘What?’ she looked round quickly.
‘It’s all right, Fran, don’t take the bait so quickly.’ He pulled out into the High Street. ‘I offered to take you, didn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said Fran.
‘But you don’t really want to be beholden to me, do you?’
Fran gave him a startled look.
‘See? It’s not just you who can see into people’s minds,’ he said, patting her knee. ‘Never mind. Let’s go and see Bella.’
March Cottage was positively sparkling inside now. The range in the sitting room was glowing, and Balzac lay stretched out on his back in front of it.
‘Thanks for coming,’ said Bella. ‘Can I get you anything? A drink?’
‘No thanks,’ said Fran, as Guy opened his mouth. He closed it.
‘Well, sit down, then.’ Bella indicated the two chairs, and pulled up a straight backed one for herself. ‘Here. This is what I found in the box file.’
She handed over a small pile of rather fragile documents. First there was a tiny notebook which contained several names written in a beautiful copper-plate hand, with very small amounts of money written beside them: three and sixpence, two shillings and one and sixpence.
‘Piano lessons,’ said Fran.
‘Really?’ said Bella. ‘I thought it might be payments to the Serenaders.’
‘Too variable, and all the names are female. I think she adjusted her fee according to the circumstances of her customers.’
‘But Maria did say the troupe became all female during the war,’ said Bella.
‘What about the dates?’ asked Guy, peering over her shoulder.
‘Just says 5th April, and 1st February, things like that,’ said Fran. ‘No year. But they seem to start in November and finish in April. I would guess that’s the year Maria says she ran away from her employers, so 1903 to 1904.’
‘Then there’s these.’ Bella pointed to the poster and postcards, tattered, brown round the edges and age-spotted like ancient hands. The poster advertised the Silver Serenaders on the sands at Nethergate at 11.30, 3 o’clock and 8 o’clock, if wet under the cliff.
‘The cliff?’ said Bella.
‘Where the Alexandria stands now,’ said Guy. ‘Under the cliff was an area where there were changing rooms and public conveniences. Not then, though, I suppose.’
‘No, just a cave-like area in the chalk,’ said Fran. ‘That’s where Bella got her first pitch.’
Guy and Bella stared at her. Fran kept her eyes on the poster and the postcards.
‘And these were when she’d formed The Alexandrians, look. Pictures of the performers that were sold around the town and after the performances. Holidaymakers would send them home.’
Guy took one of the sepia tinted postcards, of a group of pierrot-costumed performers looking very seriously into the camera, with the title The Alexandrians, Nethergate along the bottom in spidery white print.
‘When did she build the theatre?’ asked Guy.
‘I don’t know,’ said Fran. ‘Bella?’
‘Sometime between 1904 and 1914, according to Maria’s letter,’ said Bella, still looking slightly shell-shocked. ‘She was given a pitch, it said, and then bought the freehold.’
‘This was before Maria was born, so she wouldn’t have known exactly what happened,’ said Fran, her hands still on the poster and the remaining postcards. ‘The first pitch was below the cliff, but I suppose it became easier to perform on the promenade.’ She looked up to stare into the glowing coals in the range. ‘I don’t know.’
‘She was very enterprising for a woman in those days,’ said Guy.
‘Wasn’t she,’ said Fran. ‘I expect there were a lot of them but we don’t get to hear about them. I’d like to know more.’
‘So, anything else about her?’ asked Bella.
‘Nothing at the moment. If I can come and have a look through the other stuff it would help. If you trust me.’
‘Of course. I’ll leave the keys with George at The Red Lion, like I said.’ Bella took the postcards and poster back, looking at them wistfully. ‘I wish I knew more.’
‘You will,’ said Fran, ‘in fact you hardly need me. You’ve got all that lovely information in the shed.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bella. ‘But Inspector Connell wants to know if there’s a connection between the family and the body in the theatre, doesn’t he? I couldn’t do that.’
‘It’s not a very old body, so I don’t see how there can be,’ said Fran. ‘If it had been really old, yes, there might have been, except the last thing the building was used for was – what was it – raves?’
‘Or a carpet warehouse,’ said Bella. ‘I don’t think anyone’s sure.’
‘There you are then. Nothing to do with Maria. Or you.’
‘But I’m not convinced of that,’ she said to Guy, as they drove back towards Nethergate.
‘You think she’s involved somehow?’ Guy glanced sideways at her.
‘Not exactly, but there’s a link. I’m sure of it. How I can uncover it, I’m not sure. I expect Inspector Connell will do it, though. I suppose it’s more a matter of identifying the body before anything else can happen.’
Guy stopped the car at the end of the promenade by the Alexandria, which looked positively eerie in the darkness. The lights strung between the new “vintage” street lamps were lit for Christmas, with the addition of the odd formalised tree or star in lights. Fran shivered.
‘Problem?’ asked Guy.
‘It’s a lovely place, but something nasty’s attached to it.’ Fran pulled her coat tighter round her. ‘But wouldn’t it be lovely to have live performances here, again? You could have panto in the winter, too.’
‘You’ve got enough to do with this year’s panto,’ said Guy. ‘Don’t start thinking about another one.’
‘Next year,’ said Fran, dreamily.
‘Dinner,’ said Guy firmly.
Chapter Seven
LIBBY AND BEN WERE invited to supper at Peter and Harry’s cottage on Sunday evening, partly, Libby understood, to discuss wedding arrangements. Not having to think about cooking, after a morning in the theatre helping the lighting designer and the set builder who was constructing the beanstalk, she decided to pay Fran a visit.
‘So where are we on the investigation now?’ she asked, perching herself on the window sill.
‘We?’ said Fran, raising her eyebrows.
‘You, then. You said you’d know more today.’
‘A bit. I know Dorinda taught piano lessons the winter after she left her employers, and I know where the original pitch was on the beach at Nethergate. And somehow, there’s a connection to this body, but I can’t work it out.’
‘That’s all Connell wanted you to do, isn’t it? So there’s no real reason for you to carry on, if you don’t think you can establish the connection.’
‘No, and as I said to Bella, she’s got all that information at her fingertips now we’ve found the computer and the files, so she doesn’t need me, either.’
‘She’d have found that stuff eventually, wouldn’t she?’ said Libby, pushing the window up and lighting a cigarette.
‘You’re going to fall out of there one day, you know,’ said Fran.
‘Don’t moan,’ said Libby. ‘As I said, she’d have found all that stuff. And really Connell only wanted to know if she had a connection to the murder, not the family, didn’t he?’
‘I suppose so. I guess my job’s done, really, isn’t it?’
‘Technically, but you said Bella wants you to go through the rest of the stuff in the shed.’
‘I think it’s more because she doesn’t know how to go about it than anything else. She wants it all laid out like a story for her.’
‘Like the letter from her old auntie.’
‘Exactly. I can’t blame her. Look at how I wanted to know what had happened in my family.’
Libby nodded. ‘Seems to be a problem with old aunties,’ she said. ‘Look at P.G. Wodehouse.’
‘I don’t think any of them were involved with murders,’ said Fran.
‘No, but most of them should have been victims,’ grinned Libby. ‘Anyway, where do you go from here?’
‘Don’t you mean where do we go from here?’
‘Oh, all right, of course I want to be in on it.’
‘We go and collect the keys from George at The Red Lion and plough through all the stuff in the shed. If we feel like it.’
‘Oh, I expect we will,’ said Libby. ‘When are you going to look for your car?’
As Guy was expected to take Fran car hunting any moment, Libby took her leave and went to see if the eight-til-late had a suitable bottle of wine to take to with her this evening. Educated by Peter, Harry and old Flo Carpenter, widow of one of the biggest wine buffs in the area, Ahmed supplied a very acceptable bottle of Shiraz, and was proud to show her his special Jack and the Beanstalk window display, to which his son and wife were putting the finishing touches before revealing it to the inhabitants of Steeple Martin.
‘Oh, Ahmed, that’s lovely,’ said Libby, touched. ‘Where did you get the idea from?’
Murder in Midwinter Page 9
