But it had led to a new career working for an upmarket estate agent, who sent her to ferret out nasties in the woodsheds of some of their top properties. And then she had met Ben, the architect, who, in turn, had introduced her to Libby, with whom she’d tried to solve a murder. The police, naturally enough, managed it without them, but in a funny way, Fran had enjoyed herself. There was something about the village community that appealed to her, although she did wonder how welcome she’d be when she turned up again, as she might provide an unwelcome reminder to some of those more closely involved.
The view outside the window was increasingly beautiful. Summer had clothed the country in a matching set of greens, with brown and cream accents. She loved the country. As a young actress she had adored touring seaside towns in summer, with their slightly raffish air of faded grandeur and tacky amenities, and large, industrial towns in winter, with comforting and fattening food specialities; all of it had charmed her. But the best part had been the tours to small market towns with Shaw and Ibsen and Rattigan revivals, surrounded everyday with beauty, both man-made and natural. Market towns had changed a lot since Fran’s young days. Now they had an outer shell of new building, and Fran often thought you could age a town by its rings, much like a tree. The outer ring would comprise low rise industry and thoughtfully designed new housing in village-style developments, the next the little boxes of the sixties, with huge plate glass windows and unimaginative plastic extrusions, then the smart red brick Thirties villas, a smattering of ornate Edwardian edifices, rather more Victorian monstrosities – large and small – and finally the red, black, white and gold of the local stone and brick that looked as though it had been planned and set there from the beginning of time.
For a change, the sun was beating down with an intensity suitable for August as they drew in. A venerable Ford masquerading as a taxi waited near the ticket office and proved willing and able to transport her to The Laurels, the imaginatively named nursing home where Aunt Eleanor had breathed her last, and which had, in fact, not a laurel in sight. It stood, mellow and welcoming, at the end of a slightly sloping, curved drive. Fran peered out of the taxi window at the well-kept grounds, noting the absence of shrubbery or dense vegetation of any description. In case the inmates tried to hide, she decided, trying to imagine little old ladies in long winceyette nightdresses flying across the lawns in a futile game of hide and seek.
The wide and curving stone steps were divided down the middle by a smooth ramp. Fran walked up beside it and pushed open the swing doors. Odd that they weren’t locked, or was there an inner door to prevent the prisoners escaping?
‘May I help you?’ A woman looked up from behind a high counter.
‘Er – yes.’ She suddenly realised she had given no thought whatsoever to what she was going to say when she arrived at The Laurels. She swallowed hard and returned the interrogative gaze of the woman behind the desk. Was she imagining it, or was it a suspicious gaze?
‘Eleanor Bridges. I’m her niece.’
The woman’s immaculately made-up eyes widened and she stood up.
‘But Mrs Bridges –’
‘Died. I know.’ Fran finished for her. ‘I just –’ she paused. ‘Well, I just wanted to –’
‘Her immediate relatives were here, you know.’ The woman’s tone was frosty.
‘I know. That would be Mr Charles Wade, wouldn’t it? He’s my cousin by marriage. My name is Fran Castle.’ Fran tried a winning smile and was gratified to detect a slight thaw in the woman’s expression.
‘Marion Headlam.’ The woman held out her hand. ‘I’m the owner of The Laurels.’
‘Not the Matron? You don’t look like my idea of a matron.’ Fran shook the proffered hand and relaxed.
‘No. I have qualified nursing staff here, obviously, but I look after the business side of things.’
And very lucrative it must be, thought Fran, looking round the well-appointed hall.
‘So.’ Marion Headlam came round the desk. ‘You wanted to see where Mrs Bridges died?’
Fran was taken aback. ‘Well, yes, actually.’
‘Relatives often do. Particularly,’ added Marion Headlam, with a minatory look, ‘when they haven’t been in the habit of visiting regularly.’
‘I didn’t even know she was in here,’ mumbled Fran in apology. ‘We’d – er – lost touch, rather. There was a – well, a family disagreement.’
‘Ah, yes.’ This seemed to explain everything to Marion Headlam. ‘Guilt. You’d be surprised at how much guilt a death generates. Now –’ she reached over the high counter and picked up a telephone. ‘I’ll just get – oh, Nurse Redding? Could you come to reception, please? Thank you.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘Nurse Redding was one of the staff who looked after your aunt. You’d probably like to talk to her.’
‘Thank you, yes.’ Fran was grateful that things had been taken out of her hands.
‘I’ll show you into the visitor’s room and send her in to you.’ Marion Headlam opened a door on her right and held it open for Fran. ‘Would you like some tea? Or coffee?’
‘Tea would be lovely, thank you,’ said Fran, feeling suitably humble. After the door had closed, she looked round the room.
It was quite a small room, decorated in a rich yellowy cream with blue and cream curtains at the long window, which looked out over the drive. A selection of up-market glossy magazines lay on a well-polished table and a strictly arranged vase of flowers and seasonal vegetation stood on another. No roses in here, thought Fran. They might be badly behaved enough to drop their petals.
She moved to the window and stared out at the manicured grounds. It wasn’t surprising that Marion Headlam had wondered why she was here. She wasn’t sure herself. Just … the strange feelings that had assailed her from the minute cousin Charles had telephoned her with the news. And then the train journey. She still hadn’t recovered from that.
A brief tap on the door heralded the entrance of a dark-haired woman in the royal blue of a nursing sister’s uniform. She was much the same age as Marion Headlam, but there the resemblance ended. This woman wore no elaborate eye make-up and wouldn’t even when she was off duty, if her unplucked eyebrows and aggressive moustache were anything to go by.
‘You wanted to see me?’ She stood just inside the room, hands held rigid at her sides.
Fran tried another winning smile. This time it wasn’t so successful.
‘Nurse Redding? Or should it be Sister Redding?’
‘Not here. When I worked in a hospital, I was.’ Her tone was flat and unemotional, as though it didn’t matter either way.
‘Right.’ Fran’s smile was becoming determined and a little manic. ‘Shall we sit down?’
Nurse Redding almost shrugged, but not quite, and sat on an upright chair by the wall. Fran took one of the high-backed, wooden-armed chairs grouped around the magazine table.
‘I believe you were with my aunt when she died?’
‘No, I wasn’t.’ Her expression didn’t alter one jot.
‘Oh. I thought Mrs – is it Mrs? – Headlam said you were.’
‘I was one of the team looking after Mrs Bridges. That’s what Mrs Headlam would have said.’
‘Right.’ Fran nodded immoderately. ‘And how was she?’
Nurse Redding looked surprised. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, peering under her beetling brows.
Fran felt herself break out in a gentle sweat. This was more difficult than she had thought. ‘I mean, was she happy? You know, contented?’
This time, Nurse Redding did shrug. ‘None of them are happy. They’re all here waiting to die. Most of them try and pretend they’re not, if they’ve still got some of their marbles. The others don’t know what’s going on anyway.’
‘And which was Aunt Eleanor?’
‘I thought you’d know. Mrs Headlam said you were a niece.’ There was definite suspicion in the voice now.
‘I am, but I hadn’t seen her for years. I didn’t know s
he was in here. Charles Wade only told me yesterday.’ Fran hoped that the introduction of Charles’s name would allay the suspicion.
‘She was confused. Wanted to go home.’
‘But not ill?’
‘You can never tell. Didn’t seem ill. But she had a bit of heart trouble. No surprise that she died.’
Fran thought about this. ‘But Charles did seem surprised when she died. He wasn’t expecting it.’
‘Nobody expects it. It’s always a shock.’
Fran was beginning to feel as though she was swimming through treacle.
‘Did she have many visitors?’ she asked in desperation.
‘Mr Wade, Mrs Denver. And Mr Denver.’
Fran caught the imperceptible change in the flat voice. ‘Mr and Mrs Denver? I don’t think I –’
‘Mrs Denver. Mr Wade’s cousin. Paul Denver’s her son. Thought you’d know.’
‘Oh, yes, well,’ Fran, remembering just in time, felt the hot flush spreading again. ‘Barbara Denver. I’m Mrs Bridge’s niece by marriage.’
Nurse Redding said nothing.
‘Um, I know this might sound a bit peculiar, but do you think I could see her room?’
Fran was aware of the first slight hesitation. ‘I don’t know … I’d have to ask.’ Nurse Redding stood up.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Fran brightly, following suit. That Nurse Redding was displeased was very apparent, but she had no choice but to leave the room with Fran behind her.
Marion Headlam didn’t seem in the least surprised that Fran should want to see the room where her aunt had died.
‘Of course. You’ll see that it’s a very pleasant room with every facility.’ She handed Nurse Redding a key. ‘We keep it locked, of course, until a new client takes it over.’
Client? thought Fran. Not patient? She came to a halt behind Nurse Redding, who had stopped at a door towards the back of the building. A small metal holder held a card, which, on peering closer, Fran read: E. Bridges. Nurse Redding unlocked the door.
Almost immediately, Fran was overwhelmed by black suffocation. From a distance, she heard a voice saying ‘Are you all right?’ and felt a hand on her arm. Panic gripped her, and she tried to push the hand away, but she was overborne, and thrust gently into a sitting position, her head forced forwards towards her knees.
‘Poor thing,’ she heard a voice saying. ‘It takes people the strangest ways, doesn’t it? Must have been fond of her old auntie after all. I’ll see if that tea’s ready.’
Fran’s head began to clear and she sat up slowly. She was in a large, bright room that seemed to be a cross between a hospital ward, with its high metal bed, and a well-furnished hotel room. Nurse Redding stood in front of her, a frown on her heavy face.
‘Sorry,’ said Fran, weakly. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
Nurse Redding managed her almost shrug again. ‘Shock,’ she said succinctly. ‘Mrs Headlam’s gone to see about tea.’
‘Thank you,’ said Fran, wondering if she dared ask to be left alone. Nurse Redding settled the question by moving to the chair the other side of the bed and sitting down, feet neatly crossed at the ankles. Fran sighed and looked round the room.
‘This was her furniture, wasn’t it?’ she said.
‘No. Mrs Denver kept it all in storage.’
‘Television? Was that hers?’
‘No. She did have one, but ours had a bigger screen.’
There was a video recorder, as well, and something that Fran thought was a decoder for cable television. On the bed table lay a formidable array of electronic gadgetry: three remote controls and a white item with red buttons.
‘What are those?’ Fran stood up shakily and picked up the white object.
‘The call button. Different buttons for different things. This one –’ Nurse Redding pointed, ‘for calling domestic staff, and this one for Nursing staff. This light flashed if there was a message for Mrs Bridges, and a buzzer sounded.’
‘What sort of message?’ Fran looked round for a telephone. There wasn’t one.
‘A visitor, or a phone message. She would buzz back if she wanted to take the message, and someone would either bring the mobile phone in, or come and tell her who the visitor was.’
‘So no one could come and see her unless she wanted to see them?’
‘Oh, no. The reception desk is manned at all times when the front door is unlocked.’ Nurse Redding turned her gaze to the french windows.
‘And when is that?’
The other woman looked back at Fran with a frown, and Fran wondered if her questions had gone too far.
‘The door’s unlocked between 10.30 and 12.30 in the morning and 2.30 and 5.30 in the afternoon. That’s when we encourage visiting.’
‘Like hospitals.’ Fran smiled, hoping to defuse the palpable hostility emanating from Nurse Redding. She failed.
There was a knock on the door, followed by the entrance of a small blonde in a blue and white striped uniform with an old-fashioned starched nurse’s cap. She carried a large tea tray set with a delicate bone china cup and a plate of biscuits. She smiled nervously.
‘Mrs Headlam sent some tea,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ smiled Fran going forward to take the tray, but Nurse Redding was too quick for her.
‘That’ll do, thank you, Nurse Warner.’ The tray was set firmly on the bed table and Nurse Redding picked up the sugar basin. ‘Sugar?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks,’ said Fran, watching Nurse Warner slide uncomfortably out of the room. There was something there, she thought. Something had come in to her head while that girl was in the room. Fear. Not as strong as the suffocating feeling, but quite tangible.
A high-pitched sound intruded in to the silence and Fran looked at the white device on the table in front of her. However, Nurse Redding felt under her cardigan and Fran saw that she wore a pager attached to her belt.
‘Excuse me. I’m wanted,’ she said, and without any further ado, left the room, leaving the door open behind her.
Fran stood still for a moment, wondering if anyone else was likely to come in and chaperone, but it seemed that she was to be trusted, for there was only silence in the passage outside. Carefully, her heart beating like thundering hoof beats, she moved to the door and pushed it closed. The click as it latched sounded deafening, but there was no answering commotion from outside and Fran let out her breath and began to snoop.
The room contained nothing. The efficient Mrs Denver had obviously cleared everything of interest and only a few forlorn garments were left. Fran picked up her tea and sat down in the chair Nurse Redding had vacated at the side of the bed.
‘Mrs Castle?’ The voice came from outside the door, and Fran realised that she had shut it and no one without a key could get in.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, smiling into the worried little face of Nurse Warner. ‘The breeze must have caught it.’
‘I came to see if you’d finished with the tea things.’ The young nurse scurried over to the table and picked up the tray, casting a nervous glance around the room as she went.
‘Did you look after my aunt?’ Fran asked, as she prepared to follow the girl out of the room. Nurse Warner stopped suddenly, and the cup rattled in the saucer.
‘Er – sometimes,’ she said.
‘And did you think she was happy?’
‘Happy?’ The big blue eyes turned on Fran in sheer astonishment. ‘Why should she be happy?’
It was Fran’s turn to be astonished. ‘Good heavens, what a peculiar answer.’
Nurse Warner blushed. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just – well, how can they be happy? They’ve no life left.’
‘They have every comfort, though, don’t they?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Nurse Warner nodded vigorously. ‘And the food’s very good. And the doctor comes round every day.’
‘Does he?’ mused Fran. ‘So did he think it was only to be expected that Aunt Eleanor died?’
‘I don’t know.
’ Nurse Warner looked down at the tray and shuffled her feet. Waves of something – was it fear? – were coming off her, and Fran couldn’t think how to get to the reason for it.
‘Sorry to leave you.’ Nurse Redding appeared from round a corner and Nurse Warner, with an air of relief, shot off in the other direction.
‘That’s all right.’ Fran began to walk beside the other woman back to the reception area. ‘At least I know where Aunt Eleanor spent her last days.’ To her own ears this statement sounded like the worst sort of maudlin falseness, but Nurse Redding seemed to accept it.
Marion Headlam was waiting for them in the reception hall.
‘Feeling better, now?’ She smiled brightly at Fran. ‘It’s the shock, you know. Mrs Denver fainted right away. Didn’t she, Nurse Redding?’
‘I’ll get back now,’ said Nurse Redding, without answering the question. She nodded briefly to Fran and disappeared back the way she had come. Fran thought she heard Mrs Headlam give a little sigh.
‘Do you know if there’s a bus service that I can get back to Nethergate?’ she asked.
‘Well, there is, but it’s a bit of a walk down the lane to the left.’ Mrs Headlam looked doubtful.
‘How far, would you say?’
‘Ooh, a good twenty minutes walk, I should think. I could call you a taxi?’
Murder at the Laurels Page 2
