Murder in Midwinter

by Lesley Cookman

  She shuffled awkwardly towards them and was swept into a bear hug by Harry, while Peter kissed her cheek.

  ‘This is our bridesmaid, everybody,’ said Harry, ‘or Best Person. I’m not sure which, and despite an unfortunate tendency to get involved in other people’s business, she’s been here for both of us for a long time. So we’d like you to accept this, Lib.’

  Peter handed her a beautifully wrapped package, and Libby’s throat went tight. She managed a croaky ‘Thank you’, kissed them both, and amid loud applause, staggered back to Ben.

  ‘Open it, then,’ said Fran, appearing by her side.

  Inside, the package contained the most beautiful silver necklace Libby had ever seen, set with a large oval cornelian.

  ‘And look, Lib, matching earrings.’ Fran stroked the silver. ‘How beautiful is that.’

  Libby once again had recourse to her tissues and had to be revived with more champagne, brought by Danny.

  ‘By the way,’ he whispered, leaning over her shoulder and flicking a glance towards Fran. ‘Do you know anyone by the name of Durbridge?’

  ‘Durbridge?’ Libby searched her slightly fuzzied memory banks. ‘I’m sure I do.’ She turned to Fran. ‘Do we know a Durbridge?’

  Fran’s expression sharpened. ‘Durbridge? Why?’

  Danny stood up straight looking self-conscious. ‘Laurence was talking about someone called Durbridge a few days before he – went missing. I’ve only just remembered. Is it important? Should I tell the police?’

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Fran slowly. ‘Don’t be surprised if they don’t take much notice, but tell them anyway. Thanks, Danny.’

  ‘Durbridge?’ whispered Libby. ‘Why do I know the name?’

  ‘Bella’s maiden name, remember? Now why would Laurence know that? Even George at The Red Lion didn’t know Bella’s name, so how did Laurence know it?’

  Libby looked up at her in bemusement. ‘I thought we were going to let it lie?’

  ‘Yes, but if this is a clue to the murder …’ Fran’s voice trailed off.

  ‘And you think it is.’ Libby stood up. ‘I forgot to tell you, Sir Jonathan’s going to pop in. He’s got something to tell us – or show us, Mel said.’

  ‘Really.’ Fran’s eyes had gone blank. Luckily, at that moment Guy came over and put his head on one side quizzically.

  ‘And where exactly have you gone now, Mrs Castle?’ he said, and Fran snapped back to normal.

  Libby had gone on to water by the time Sir Jonathan put in an appearance. He went straight to the happy couple and obviously delighted them by his attention, before surveying the room for Fran and Libby. Libby waved and began to make her way across the garden room.

  ‘Mrs Sarjeant,’ he said, ‘may I say how charming you’re looking.’

  ‘You may, Sir Jonathan,’ she twinkled up at him.

  ‘And Mrs Castle.’ He turned as Fran came up behind them. ‘You were interested in the portraits, weren’t you? Did you like the one of my grandmother?’

  ‘She was very beautiful, but rather sad,’ said Libby.

  ‘Well observed, Mrs Sarjeant.’ Sir Jonathan patted her arm. ‘Well, there’s another you might like to see upstairs in my suite. It might interest you, I don’t know.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Sir Frederick and his wife,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘Would you like to see it?’

  ‘We’d love to,’ said Fran. ‘When would you like us to come?’

  ‘If you can slip away, we could pop up there now?’

  Libby and Fran looked at each other.

  ‘Great,’ said Libby.

  They excused themselves to Ben and Guy, who both looked resigned, and followed Sir Jonathan out of the room. He led them into a gilded lift cage which took them to the third floor, and then into a large comfortable room which, thought Libby, would have wonderful view in the daylight.

  ‘There,’ said Sir Jonathan, leading them to a small painting hanging over a pretty bureau.

  It was an uncharacteristic Edwardian painting, of two heads and shoulders, not the traditional one-seated one-standing pose. The gentleman, who looked a lot like Sir Jonathan, was positioned just behind his much younger wife. Libby frowned and looked at Fran, who was transfixed.

  ‘The diamond necklace,’ she breathed.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Sir Jonathan from behind. ‘Still in the family. It passed to my mother.’

  ‘And that’s Ivy,’ said Fran.

  ‘Yes.’ He sounded surprised. ‘His second wife.’

  ‘Ah.’ Fran nodded. ‘So Nemone – your grandmother – was the daughter of his first marriage? And she married a Shepherd?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘Earnest Shepherd.’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘EARNEST!’ SAID LIBBY, TURNING to Fran.

  ‘Yes, that was his name.’ Sir Jonathan frowned.

  ‘It was also Laurence Cooper’s name,’ said Fran.

  ‘Really?’ Sir Jonathan looked as though he wanted to say “So?” thought Libby.

  ‘I suppose there’s no chance there might be a family connection?’ said Fran.

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘Earnest and Nemone had three children, William, Frederick and Julia. Unless –’ he broke off, frowning.

  ‘Unless?’ prompted Libby.

  ‘There was another child born – hmm – out of wedlock.’

  Fran nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Laurence’s father.’

  ‘We know Laurence’s father was Colin Cooper,’ said Libby.

  ‘Do you?’ said Sir Jonathan.

  ‘Yes, it’s on Laurence’s birth certificate,’ said Libby.

  ‘So where does Albert come in?’ said Fran with a smile.

  ‘Albert? Oh, Albert.’ Libby frowned.

  ‘Who’s Albert?’ asked Sir Jonathan, sitting down with a bemused expression on his face.

  ‘We don’t actually know yet,’ said Fran, ‘but as soon as we do, we’ll let you know everything.’

  ‘What?’ said Libby.

  ‘Laurence’s father,’ repeated Fran, ‘and who Albert is.’

  ‘Laurence’s grandfather?’ hazarded Libby.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Fran.

  Sir Jonathan was sitting with his mouth open looking from one to the other.

  ‘The necklace,’ said Fran, turning to him. ‘Are there any stories about it?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. I believe there was some concern when it was given to Ivy, as my grandmother had it before then.’

  ‘I suppose her mother left it to her?’ said Libby.

  Sir Jonathan nodded. ‘But from what my mother told me, Nemone never liked it much. She said it suited Ivy much better.’

  They all looked at the portrait above the bureau. Ivy positively sparkled, and Libby agreed that the necklace suited her far better than the sad-looking woman in the other portrait.

  ‘So, when it was stolen, it was obviously recovered,’ said Fran.

  ‘I didn’t know it had been stolen?’ Sir Jonathan sat up straight looking startled.

  ‘We found an old press cutting dated 1903,’ said Libby. ‘It was reported to the police.’

  ‘I know nothing about that,’ said Sir Jonathan, ‘and Sir Frederick and Ivy weren’t married until the following year.’ He got to his feet. ‘If you find out any more, I would be most grateful if you’d let me know.’

  Fran was silent as they returned to the garden room. Libby glanced at her a couple of times, but said nothing.

  ‘Where have you been?’ demanded Harry, as they walked in.

  ‘Looking at a picture with old Sir Jonathan,’ said Libby. ‘Did you miss us?’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be attending to our every whim,’ said Harry, throwing an arm round Peter’s shoulders. ‘Isn’t she, Pete?’

  ‘What is your whim, then?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – a bath of asses’ milk, or possibly just another glass o
f champagne.’ Harry held out his glass.

  Libby took the glass from his hand. ‘Your wish is my command, O master,’ she said.

  ‘So what’s it all about, then?’ she asked Fran as together they made their way to the drinks table, where a white-coated waiter ceremoniously poured more champagne.

  Fran shook her head. ‘Not here. I’ve got to think about something. And to be honest, it’s more deduction than psychic mumbo-jumbo. Have a think yourself.’

  Libby scowled. ‘I can’t think,’ she said. ‘And I’m sure we weren’t going to do this any more.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Fran. ‘But I think we’d better.’

  Libby stared at her. ‘That sounds ominous,’ she said.

  ‘I think it could be.’ Fran took a deep breath. ‘Now come on, let’s enjoy ourselves.’

  The local band who had been booked to play during the evening had turned up by this time, and there was no more opportunity for private conversation. By eleven o’clock everyone was winding down and Peter and Harry were seen off to their suite by a cheering crowd, after which the guests trickled out in sporadic bursts.

  Fran, Guy, Libby and Ben squeezed into the hired car and set off for Steeple Martin. For a while they discussed the wedding, the ceremony and reception, until Libby said: ‘How are you getting back to Nethergate, Guy?’

  Ben, sitting in the front next to the driver, turned round and glowered at her.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Guy, amusement sounding in his voice. ‘I’m booked in at the pub.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘Well, would you all like to come in for a nightcap?’

  ‘Love to,’ said Guy. ‘Fran?’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Lib,’ said Fran, although to Libby’s ears it sounded as though Fran wasn’t actually taking much notice of what was going on.

  ‘So,’ said Guy after the drinks had been poured. ‘What investigations did you two get up to so inappropriately?’

  Libby flushed. Fran appeared unmoved.

  ‘It wasn’t our fault,’ said Libby. ‘Sir Jonathan’s the owner of Anderson Place and he wanted to show us something.’

  ‘Connected with Laurence Cooper’s death?’ said Guy.

  ‘No,’ said Libby.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran. They all looked at her.

  ‘Really?’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Fran, and shut her mouth firmly.

  Before she went to sleep, Libby tried to work out why the portrait could have anything to do with Laurence’s death. It was beginning to look likely that Albert Cooper might have been Laurence’s grandfather, in which case there might have been a connection with Dorinda, but not with Anderson Place. Then again, there was the Importance of Being Earnest …

  Christmas Eve went by for Libby in a storm of activity. Bel and Ad arrived, final presents were wrapped and put under the tree, Sidney and Balzac came to a reluctant truce and sat back to back in front of the fire and there were several panic-stricken sorties to the eight-til-late for essential forgotten items such as tins of sweets which would remain uneaten until Easter.

  ‘Mum,’ said Bel with amusement after the latest of these purchases, ‘we’re not even here tomorrow. We’re going to Ben’s.’

  ‘There’s the rest of the holiday,’ said Libby defensively. ‘Even if you’re not here.’

  ‘We’re not going until the day after Boxing Day,’ said Ad, peering through a curly fringe from his place on the floor, ‘if I can stand sleeping with these cats, that is.’

  ‘I’ll shut them in the conservatory,’ said Libby. ‘They’re getting on better now.’

  Ben arrived at supper time to whisk Libby off to the pub. She persuaded him to eat first, then they collected Fran and crammed themselves into the bar.

  ‘Any more thoughts?’ Libby shouted at Fran over the hubbub.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Fran. ‘But I can’t talk about it now.’

  ‘Oh? Why not?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to shout it for all to hear,’ said Fran snappily.

  ‘Oh.’ Libby felt colour creeping into her cheeks. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Hello, gals,’ said a voice, and they looked round to find Lenny piloting Flo towards them.

  ‘Thought I’d find you ’ere,’ said Flo, as they found her a seat at their crowded table. Lenny began pushing through the crowd to get to Ben at the bar. ‘Something to tell you.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’ Libby leant nearer in order to hear. Flo didn’t want to shout, either.

  ‘That Eric. Seems his flat was broken into.’

  ‘No!’ Libby looked at Fran.

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ she said.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  ‘YOU WERE?’ LIBBY STARED, mouth open.

  ‘He saw the murderer, didn’t he?’ Fran looked down at the table, fiddled with a beer mat.

  ‘Oh, God, yes.’ Libby’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘So the murderer thought he would be there?’

  ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So why ’asn’t ’e been back before?’ asked Flo, squinting through the smoke of her cigarette.

  ‘Because he’s only just found out that Eric’s been asked to do a photofit,’ said Fran.

  ‘And how has he found out?’ asked Libby.

  Fran looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘You do,’ said Libby. ‘You’re just not going to tell us.’

  ‘I might be totally wrong, so I’m not going to say anything in case I am. You could probably work it out yourself, anyway. I told you the other day, it’s deduction more than psychic revelations.’

  Libby looked puzzled, Flo confused and Fran unhappy. Ben and Lenny arrived back at the table carrying the drinks between them. Lenny had managed to spill his down his front, and Flo tutted at him.

  ‘Silly old fool,’ she said.

  ‘What’s up with you lot?’ asked Ben, looking round at the three solemn faces. ‘It’s Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Eric’s flat’s been broken into,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Thinkin’ ’e’d be there, o’ course,’ said Flo. ‘You know more about it than me, but I reckon it’s someone who you’ve told, one of you.’ She looked at Fran and Libby. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, young Fran?’

  Fran nodded.

  ‘What?’ said Libby, aghast. ‘But who? I haven’t told anybody.’

  ‘We’ve discussed it between us,’ said Ben, ‘and all of us sitting round this table know. I expect Fran’s told Guy, too.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran.

  ‘So it could be anyone we’ve spoken to in the last couple of days,’ said Libby, ‘but I haven’t told anyone else about it, honestly.’

  ‘Don’t forget Edna,’ said Flo. ‘She knows. And she wouldn’t think anythink of talking about it to all ’er mates. At the shop, fer instance, or in the Close.’

  ‘Oh!’ Libby looked at Ben and Fran. ‘Of course! She could have told anyone, couldn’t she?’

  ‘But nobody in Maltby Close is connected with Laurence,’ said Ben.

  ‘How do we know?’ said Libby.

  ‘No, he’s right,’ said Fran.

  ‘What about the shop? Do we know anything about her friends there?’

  ‘It’s in Steeple Mount,’ said Flo with a sniff. ‘Course we don’t.’

  ‘Ian Connell will ask all these questions,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t think we need to worry about it.’

  ‘But it could be our fault,’ wailed Libby.

  Fran shook her head. There was a short silence.

  ‘Well, come on, everyone,’ said Ben, ‘cheer up. It’s the best night of the year.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers!’

  Somehow, but with an effort, the subject was changed and the atmosphere lifted. By the end of the evening, when an impromptu carol concert broke out, they were all in considerably better spirits.

  Ben and Libby left Fran at the door of her flat.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Libby, as she kissed her friend on the cheek
. ‘We can’t do anything over the holiday, anyway.’

  ‘I know,’ said Fran. ‘I feel uncomfortable about it, though.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Ben, giving her a kiss on the other cheek. ‘Just look forward to tomorrow. Presents under the tree, turkey, Christmas pud – the works. And us, too!’

  There had been some discussion between Ben and Libby as to whether he would stay at Number 17 that night with Libby’s children in residence. Libby was dubious, but Ben said he wanted to wake up with her on Christmas morning, and promised to be very quiet and leave early. As Belinda and Adam hadn’t yet returned from their night out in Canterbury, where they had met up with some old schoolfriends, no problems were incurred, so it was with some concern that Ben woke suddenly an hour later to find Libby sitting bolt upright in bed whispering ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘What? What’s happened?’ he muttered.

  ‘I know who it is,’ said Libby shakily. ‘Oh, my God. I know who it is. No wonder Fran was so miserable.’

  ‘Who, then?’ said Ben, now thoroughly awake.

  ‘No.’ Libby lay down again. ‘I’m not saying anything until I’ve talked to Fran. As she said earlier, I could be wrong, and I’d hate to have accused the wrong person.’

  Frustrated, Ben, too, lay down again and tried to go back to sleep, mentally cursing all murderers and his beloved’s insatiable curiosity.

  He left early in the morning, stepping carefully over Adam’s body on the sitting room floor, to go and help with preparations at The Manor. Libby came downstairs and sat in the kitchen with the cats and a cup of tea, brooding over the night’s revelations, or, at least, what she thought of as the night’s revelations. The more she thought about it, the more likely her theory appeared, although the finer details still escaped her. Finally, at eight o’clock, she could bear it no longer and phoned Fran. She was unsurprised when Fran answered immediately, sounding wide awake.

  ‘You’ve worked it out, haven’t you?’ said Fran.

  ‘I think so,’ said Libby warily, ‘although it doesn’t seem very likely.’

  ‘Inevitable, though,’ said Fran. ‘Tell me what you think.’

  Libby told her.

  ‘I think so, yes,’ said Fran with one of her doom-laden sighs. ‘I’ve just called Ian. I think he’d more or less come to the same conclusion.’