Murder in Midwinter

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘I know,’ said Libby, ‘what I don’t know is who comes? I mean, it used to be for all the farm workers and tenants, didn’t it? Who is it now?’

  ‘All the retired farm workers, of course! And their families. Flo, and some of the other hop pickers who stayed down here.’

  ‘So they’ll all eventually die out, then?’

  ‘Yes, but so will Mum and Dad,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t think I shall be expected to carry on the tradition.’

  ‘Will Millie go this year?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Susan’s going, which is very brave of her.’

  ‘Do Peter and James go?’

  ‘Of course. And Harry. Have you never been?’

  ‘This is only my second Christmas in the village,’ said Libby, ‘and I didn’t really know your family last year.’

  ‘Well, you do this year,’ said Ben, ‘intimately. So this year you’ll be there, won’t you?’

  ‘Love to,’ said Libby, ‘and yes, I’ll come up and help your Mum with the decorations. I can’t see that I’m going to find anything in those papers.’

  ‘If Fran thinks you will, I expect you will,’ said Ben, ‘but you need a break from all this detection.’

  ‘If you’re being sarcastic,’ said Libby, ‘let me tell you it’s bloody hard work, investigating. And a bit emotional, too.’

  ‘I know. But forget it for now and come and be emotional with me.’ Ben took the door keys from her hand and unlocked the door of number 17.

  The following morning, Libby felt a surge of Christmas expectation as she walked up the drive leading to both The Manor and the Oast House Theatre. Ben’s mother Hetty had already draped the two small fir trees outside the front door with lights and a large holly bough had been positioned across the lintel. A banner across the front of the theatre announced Jack and the Beanstalk, and two small silver trees stood either side of the glass doors to the foyer. It all felt extremely seasonal.

  ‘All we want is snow,’ Libby muttered to herself as she knocked on the front door of the Manor.

  Hetty was pleased to see her in a forthright and down-to-earth manner. She had Libby up a ladder hanging ornaments on the huge tree in the hall before Libby could protest that she really wasn’t terribly keen on heights.

  ‘Mum,’ said Ben, coming into the hall, ‘you should have asked me to go up that ladder.’

  ‘You weren’t here,’ said Hetty, and handed him a box of ornaments. ‘You go up, then. Libby can come and help me in the library.’

  Libby climbed thankfully down and followed Hetty into the library, where various pieces of greenery, tinsel and crepe paper lay over all available surfaces. Hetty produced treacly coffee in large mugs and showed Libby what she wanted done.

  ‘Did you know anything about Anderson Place in the past, Hetty?’ asked Libby as they worked.

  ‘Useter see some of them in the village in the war,’ said Hetty.

  ‘What, the patients, or the staff?’

  ‘Staff, mainly. They wasn’t bad to ’em, you know, the family.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the owners’ staff, not the hospital staff.’

  ‘Both. Some o’ the walkin’ wounded come down.’ Hetty sniffed. ‘And the nurses and such. They wasn’t always supposed to, but they did.’

  ‘Did you know any of them?’ asked Libby, sticking a piece of fir tree behind a portrait of a disgruntled-looking Wilde ancestor.

  ‘One girl, Edith, she’d been there from the beginnin’ of the war. Worked for Mrs Nemone as a scullery maid. ’Ad ’er own room, she did, at first, before the army took over the Place. Not often that happened.’

  ‘What, a room of her own?’

  ‘Yes. They all ’ad to share in them days. Well, so did Edith when they moved to the Lodge.’

  ‘So, who was Mrs Nemone? A relation of Sir Frederick?’

  ‘Not sure. She was old in the war, but kind to Edie. There was someone else livin’ in the Dower House, another relative, I s’pose. They was good to the staff they kept. Course, most of ’em went off to the war, but they kept one of the gardeners – Potter, I think ’is name was – and a gamekeeper, although all the ground was dug up for veggies. Not much call for pheasants. They useter give the girls time off for the pictures in Canterbury if there was one on, and the dance in the ’all ’ere, like. Not that we went o’ course.’

  This was a long speech for Hetty, and Libby was impressed, particularly as Hetty had stopped making paper chains and was staring into the fireplace.

  ‘Did Edith stay round here after the war?’

  ‘Went off to join the RAF just after we left in 1943. Never saw ’er again.’ Hetty looked down and resumed cutting strips of crepe paper.

  ‘Did you ever hear anybody talk about a Nemone family when you were a boy?’ Libby asked Ben over lunch in the Manor kitchen.

  ‘Nemone? Spelt how?’ said Ben.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘Your mum pronounced it “Nemonney”.’

  ‘No,’ said Ben slowly, ‘but I do remember a very old lady with a strange Christian name sounding a bit like that.’

  ‘Where did she live?’ asked Libby eagerly.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Ben. ‘She used to come and see my grandmother occasionally, I think. I hardly remember, but I know she seemed very old.’

  ‘Nemone.’ Libby brooded over the name. ‘Do you know, I think it is an old-fashioned girl’s Christian name. So old Mrs Nemone was probably Mrs Nemone Something. Living in the Lodge at the Place. With another relative whose name we don’t know in the Dower House.’ Libby shook her head. ‘No nearer then.’

  ‘Why so interested in the Place anyway?’ asked Ben. ‘Laurence didn’t die there, he only worked there.’

  ‘Because in the letters we found at Bella’s there is mention of visiting Sir Frederick and Ivy at Anderson Place. Fran is sure there’s a connection.’

  ‘They could have been anyone,’ said Ben. ‘Someone the old girl knew from London, or anything.’

  ‘I know. I suggested Ivy was a performer who married a title. They were always doing that, weren’t they?’

  ‘Good point,’ Ben nodded. ‘P.G. Wodehouse had loads of them, didn’t he?’

  ‘And aunts,’ said Libby, ‘but yes, and when he started writing it was that sort of era. I bet I’m right.’

  ‘Mum,’ said Ben, as Hetty came into the room, ‘do you remember Mrs Nemone coming to visit grandmother when I was little?’

  Hetty shook her head. ‘I don’t remember any of ’em,’ she said. ‘I was always outside workin’, wasn’t I?’ She collected a tin of polish and a duster and left the room again.

  ‘She’s still bitter about having to come down here and take over from my grandparents, you know,’ said Ben, ‘and knowing the full story now, I don’t blame her.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ agreed Libby. ‘Brave woman, your mother.’

  Ben looked at her sideways. ‘She never liked my ex-wife, you know.’

  Libby felt the blush creeping up her neck. ‘Oh,’ she said.

  They sat in silence until Libby jumped up and said. ‘I think I should go and see if she needs any more help,’ and disappeared summarily from the room.

  Hetty was polishing bookshelves in the library before training paper chains and greenery along them. Libby started handing up chains and drawing pins.

  ‘Nemone wasn’t her family name,’ said Hetty suddenly. ‘Wasn’t Anderson, either, although that other one, up at the Dower House, she was an Anderson.’

  ‘Did they move back into the Place after the army left?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Think so, although old Nemone might not have. Too old, see. There were youngsters, too. Well, they weren’t youngsters exactly, but Nemone’s children, I think. I can’t rightly remember. We wasn’t in the same circles, even if old mother Wilde was.’

  ‘Might Greg remember?’ asked Libby hesitantly.

  ‘Might, I s’pose. You’re not to go worryin’ ’im unless I’m there, though.’ Hetty looked do
wn at her. ‘When you goin’ to move in ’ere with our Ben?’

  Libby’s breath left her body in a whoosh and she had the strangest sensation of having been whopped over the head with a cricket bat.

  ‘Oh, no mind, duck,’ said Hetty, going back to her bookshelves. ‘Just thought it’d be easier for you.’

  Libby reported this remarkable conversation to Ben as he walked home with her later that afternoon.

  He laughed. ‘You can’t put much over on my mother, can you?’ he said. ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Want to what?’ asked Libby warily. ‘Put one over on her?’

  ‘No, stupid. Move in to The Manor.’

  Libby took a deep breath. ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not,’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ said Ben easily, and tucked her hand through his arm.

  Later, while she pushed an eclectic mix of vegetables round a wok and Ben was looking through some of the old newspapers, she returned to the subject.

  ‘I’m not being rude, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Mmm? Rude? About what?’ said Ben, without looking up.

  ‘Moving into The Manor.’

  He looked up now. ‘I know you’re not.’

  ‘It’s just that – well, I’d sort of feel it wasn’t mine and I couldn’t do what I wanted.’

  ‘It’s all right, Lib,’ he said, standing up and coming into the kitchen. ‘I understand perfectly. And after all, we do have quite a nice arrangement as we are, don’t we?’

  ‘As long as you don’t mind having to go home in the mornings,’ said Libby.

  ‘But I don’t have to, do I? I can hang around, if I want to.’ He laughed at her face. ‘It’s all right, Lib, I wouldn’t. But that’s exactly what I mean. We’ve both got our own space this way. We’re one of those LAT relationships.’

  ‘What? LAT?’

  ‘Living apart together,’ explained Ben. ‘It’s now a recognised phenomenon. Haven’t you heard of it?’

  Libby frowned. ‘Yes, I think I have. Not the name, but the situation. I remember reading an article in a magazine years ago by a woman who married her husband and lived down the street from him. So it’s quite normal, now, is it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Ben. ‘Keeps the mystery in the relationship, doesn’t it?’ He turned away to collect cutlery and Libby scowled at his back. ‘Especially as you get older and more selfish.’

  Libby sighed and piled stir fried vegetables on to rice. ‘Hmm,’ she said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  FRAN WAS WATCHING FROM the living room window when she saw a car pull up on the opposite side of the street. Grasping her handbag, she stood poised until she saw Inspector Connell emerge from the rear. Squashing a feeling of disappointment that there would be a third person with them, she ran down the stairs and was shutting the door as he arrived in front of her.

  ‘Prompt, Mrs Castle,’ he said.

  ‘Mustn’t waste police time,’ said Fran, as he took her elbow and piloted her across the street.

  ‘Constable Maiden, Mrs Castle,’ he said, as he showed her into the back seat and climbed in beside her.

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Constable Maiden keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

  ‘Good morning, constable,’ said Fran.

  Their journey took them on the Nethergate road, past Steeple Mount and eventually turned on to a newly tarmacked road that Fran recognised.

  ‘This is where Jim Butler lives,’ she said, breaking the silence that had lasted almost all the way.

  ‘Who?’ Connell turned to look at her.

  ‘Someone who used to own my cottage,’ said Fran. ‘He lives in that big bungalow down there. He built this estate, I think.’

  Connell nodded, but the car swung left to the other end of the road, which Fran now noticed was called Canongate Drive, to where stood three small blocks of flats. The car stopped, and Constable Maiden got out and held the door for Fran.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said smiling into a pair of bright blue eyes under a mop of the reddest hair she could ever remember seeing.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said again, but with a broad grin this time.

  Inspector Connell was holding open a door to the middle block, an air of impatience surrounding him like a cloak.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Fran, hurrying forward.

  There was no lift, and the three of them climbed two flights of stairs to the first floor, where Connell opened the door to number 3, taking off a blue-and-white police tape. Fran took a deep breath as a familiar wave of blackness washed over her.

  ‘Mrs Castle?’ Connell took her arm and bent towards her.

  ‘I – I’m all right.’ Fran opened her eyes and stood up straight. ‘I don’t know why that happened.’

  ‘Well, come inside and let’s see if we can find out.’ Connell held the door wide for her to precede him into the flat.

  Shaking off the remnants of the blackness, Fran looked round the tiny hall. Apart from three doors, it was completely featureless. Connell indicated the door in front of them, which stood half open, and they went into the living room. Large windows opened on to a Juliet balcony and two sofas were positioned to make the most of the distant view of the sea. A large shelving unit stood against one wall, and Fran went straight to it.

  ‘We’ve been through it,’ said Connell. Fran nodded.

  ‘May I?’ she said.

  ‘Go ahead’, said Connell.

  Constable Maiden stood by the door and Connell prowled round behind her as she looked through the few books and ornaments on the shelves and then opened the cupboards at the bottom. After ten minutes she turned round and shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Try the bedroom,’ said Connell, and led the way back into the hall.

  There had been no attempt at decoration in the bedroom either, although there was evidence here of Danny’s presence. Two sorts of cologne and two toothbrushes in the bathroom confirmed this, but nothing emerged to reinforce Fran’s reaction when they arrived. They went back into the living room.

  ‘Did you find his passport or birth certificate?’ asked Fran, sitting on one of the sofas.

  ‘No,’ said Connell, looking surprised. ‘He must have had them, mustn’t he?’

  ‘How long had he been here?’

  Connell shrugged. ‘Several years.’

  ‘Address book? Would that have had a previous address?’

  ‘We found an old address book, but no current addresses in it. No one from round here.’

  ‘So he didn’t come from round here originally?’

  ‘He might have done. There was nothing to indicate where he came from. Which is one of the reasons we wanted to talk to his sister again.’

  ‘Didn’t she say anything when she was first told about his death?’

  ‘Nothing about their history. She came down here, as you know,’ said Connell, ‘but she was understandably upset, so we sent her home again and said we’d need to talk to her again. But someone got there first.’

  Fran thought. ‘Mobile phone?’ she asked.

  ‘None found. And we’ve looked at the landline records. Nothing there except a local taxi firm.’

  ‘And you’ve checked with them?’

  Connell gave her a scornful look.

  ‘Well? Any local trips?’

  ‘From The Red Lion in Heronsbourne and Anderson Place.’

  ‘The Red Lion?’ Fran sat up straight. ‘That was Mrs Morleigh’s aunt’s local.’

  ‘What?’ Connell stared. ‘But she must have been ninety!’

  ‘But she still went in there regularly. The landlord looked out for her, and it was he and his wife who got her into hospital when she was ill.’

  Connell sat down on the other sofa and leant forward. ‘Is this relevant?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Fran honestly, ‘but it could be, couldn’t it? I mean, it’s not a link to Mrs Morleigh, but it is to her aunt.’

  ‘I can’t see what it means, though,’ said Connell. ‘They could just be
drinkers in a local pub. No reason for them to know one another at all.’

  ‘And maybe Laurence didn’t drink in there regularly, anyway. Only one trip?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Connell. ‘We only checked the recent calls, so the taxi firm only checked recent trips.’

  ‘Should we check with George at The Red Lion?’ asked Fran.

  Connell looked as though he was about to question her use of pronoun, but after a moment stood up and nodded. ‘Nothing else here?’ he said.

  Fran shook her head, although she was aware of something lurking at the back of her mind. But it was too formless to describe, so she filed it away to think about later.

  Constable Maiden held the front door open for her, and Connell replaced the police tape. She felt a brief resurgence of the black suffocation and lurched towards the stairs.

  ‘Careful,’ said Connell, reaching out to steady her.

  ‘Something happened here,’ said Fran, turning to look up at him. ‘Out here on the landing.’

  Constable Maiden made a stifled sound in his throat and Fran glared at him.

  ‘But we’ve established he was killed at the old theatre,’ said Connell.

  Fran shook her head. ‘I don’t know what it means,’ she said.

  They proceeded down the stairs and back to the car in silence, when Connell took out his phone and made a call, walking away so that Fran couldn’t hear.

  ‘They’ll get SOCO back to the hallway,’ he said, coming back to the car. ‘OK, Maiden. The Red Lion in Heronsbourne.’

  It was strange to be here without Libby, thought Fran, as Connell and she went into the bar, leaving Maiden in the car.

  ‘Hello, young lady,’ said George, coming forward with a smile. ‘Brought yer boyfriend this time?’

  ‘Inspector Connell, Nethergate CID,’ said Connell holding up his identification while Fran blushed furiously.

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure,’ said George, unabashed. ‘Can I get you anything, or are you on duty?’

  ‘I want to know if you recognise this man,’ said Connell taking a photograph in a clear bag from an inside pocket. Fran craned to see. ‘Taken at work, by the look of it,’ Connell told her, as George studied it.