Murder at the Laurels

by Lesley Cookman

  Fran put her shoulders back. ‘No, I think the walk would do me good. And it’s so pretty round here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve got lovely surroundings.’ Marion Headlam looked round complacently, although Fran thought she probably thought more of her interior surroundings than the exterior. ‘Well, see you at the funeral, I expect.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Fran.

  ‘We always attend clients’ funerals.’ Marion Headlam smiled and held open the door. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Castle.’

  Fran, a relieved surge of adrenaline washing over her, walked as briskly as she could down the steps and set off down the drive. By halfway down, she wished she’d left her jacket at home, by the time she reached the lane, she wished she’d worn flat shoes instead of her favourite courts and by the time she was in sight of the bus stop, half hidden by a mass of vegetation, she wished she’d taken a taxi or, when she’d called Libby earlier to arrange their meeting at the Swan, agreed that Libby could come and pick her up. Her mobile had no signal, so she couldn’t even call her now. The sun beat down remorselessly on her unprotected head and her forehead and the back of her neck were dripping. It occurred to her that she hadn’t bothered to find out how frequently the buses arrived, and, of course, there was no timetable attached to the bus stop. There were no houses nearby, either, which argued that this was possibly one of the one-a-day variety, which, after a quarter of an hour, Fran was convinced was true. Although, she argued with herself, if that was the case, surely Marion Headlam would have told her? She didn’t, she realised, even know whether she was waiting on the right side of the road, although she had taken an educated guess judging from the direction the taxi had come. She couldn’t see a corresponding stop on the other side of the road, and was beginning to feel quite desolate when the welcome sound of a diesel engine rose above the buzz of insects and call of birds, and round a bend in the road lumbered a double-decker bus. Greeting the surprised driver with a heartfelt smile, she climbed on thankfully.

  Chapter Three

  THE SWAN WAS NEAR the market cross in the very middle of the little town. A black and white building notable for its carved wooden beams, it presented two faces to the world. One was a sophisticated face that spoke of en-suite bathrooms and colour television in all rooms, the other more rustic and homely, supplying a variety of real ales to a discerning body of rather insular regulars. The restaurant attempted, occasionally successfully, to marry the two faces and was a favourite venue for tourists. Fran didn’t hold that against it.

  Libby hadn’t yet arrived, so she hoisted herself on to a tall stool with regrettably low foot rails and, smiling diffidently at the barman, large, bald and shirt-sleeved, whose sausage-like fingers hovered over the till buttons, ordered a half of lager.

  ‘Good heavens,’ said a voice to her left. ‘A woman who will drink by herself in a bar.’

  The first thing Fran was aware of were two very bright, very dark brown eyes fastened on her own. She blinked.

  ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps your unconventional behaviour precludes conversation with an unknown male.’

  Fran felt an unaccustomed warmth creeping up her neck. ‘Possibly,’ she said.

  ‘Pity.’ The man standing next to her was leaning on the bar, his arms folded. Above the brown eyes, tightly curling dark grey hair topped off an interestingly creased, tanned face with a neat goatee beard.

  ‘We haven’t met before, have we?’ He turned sideways, still leaning on the bar.

  ‘No.’ Fran picked up her lager and faced him, armed.

  ‘Not local then? I could have sworn I’d seen you before.’

  ‘I’m meeting a friend.’

  ‘Oh, who?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Is it any of your business?’ said Fran, irritated.

  ‘Sorry. Curiosity is one of my besetting sins.’ He grinned. ‘May I buy you a drink to make up for it?’

  Fran raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you trying to pick me up?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He signalled to the barman. ‘I’m not trying to pick this lady up, am I, Tony?’

  ‘Just friendly, that’s you.’ The barman picked up Fran’s glass. ‘Same again?’

  ‘No thanks.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded rude.’

  ‘Not in the least. A woman has to protect herself these days. I shouldn’t have butted in.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ said a voice behind Fran. ‘Haveyou been trying to pick up my friend, young Guy?’

  Fran beamed delightedly. ‘Libby!’

  Libby, looking like an animated carnival tent, stretched up on tiptoe to kiss Fran’s cheek.

  ‘Sorry, Libby. If I’d known she was a friend of yours I wouldn’t have dared speak to her!’ Guy grinned down at the little woman eyeing him with amused tolerance.

  ‘You want to be careful with him, Fran.’ Libby hauled herself on to the stool recently vacated by Fran. ‘He likes to think of himself as the local Don Juan.’

  Fran took refuge in her glass.

  ‘Well, you can buy me a drink, Guy Wolfe, then we are going to huddle in a corner and eat before returning to the rural delights of Steeple Martin.’ Libby beamed at the barman. ‘Lager, please, Tony.’

  ‘My pleasure, Mrs Sarjeant.’ Tony beamed back.

  ‘So, how are you?’ Libby looked Fran up and down. ‘You look a bit pale.’

  ‘That’s living in London.’

  Tony put a glass in front of Libby and Guy handed him the money. Libby fumbled in a capacious basket and pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Haven’t you given up yet?’ asked Guy. ‘You’ll have to soon, when the ban comes in.’

  ‘Police state,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘We’ll have a nice outside area with heaters for you, Mrs Sarjeant,’ said Tony, ‘don’t you worry. And I bet there’ll be more folks out there than in here.’

  ‘Thank you, Tony,’ said Libby, ‘and why do you always call me Mrs Sarjeant? Nobody else does. Come on, Fran, let’s eat.’ She slid off the stool. ‘Can we have a menu, Tony?’

  ‘I hope I wasn’t rude.’ Fran turned to Guy and held out her hand.

  ‘Not at all, it was good to meet you.’ Guy smiled and took it. ‘I hope I see you again.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘Come on, then, Fran.’ Libby stretched up and kissed Guy on the cheek. ‘See you, lover boy.’

  The table in the corner of the bar lurched a welcome as they squeezed into the old oak settle behind it.

  ‘So who’s Guy?’ asked Fran, after peering round to make sure she wasn’t overheard.

  ‘The Wolfe Gallery, just down Harbour Street.’

  ‘As in picture?’

  ‘As in all things artistic. Pricey.’

  Fran studied the menu. ‘And is he really a Don Juan?’

  Libby pulled the menu down and looked into her face. ‘Fran! Don’t tell me you’re actually interested in a man.’

  ‘I just wanted to know.’ Fran was defensive. ‘In case he tries to lure me in to see his etchings.’

  ‘Actually, he’s not, a Don Juan, I mean,’ mused Libby, ‘although he could be. He’s divorced, financially secure and reasonably attractive, if you don’t mind the ageing-gorilla look.’

  ‘Gorilla?’ Fran chuckled. ‘Long arms and caveman tactics?’

  ‘No, his face. Didn’t it strike you? Perhaps more chimp-like.’

  ‘Can’t say it did.’ Fran sat back on the settle and finished her scotch. ‘I’ll have the mushroom stroganoff.’

  Libby squinted sideways. ‘You’re not coming over all vegetarian, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m still a healthy carnivore. I just feel a bit delicate, that’s all.’

  ‘Delicate? In what way, delicate?’ Libby looked alarmed. ‘You can’t be pregnant, you’re too old.’

  ‘No – it’s just that I had this dream –’

  ‘Ready to order ladies?’ Tony appeared round the corner of the settle. ‘Guy said to say goodbye.’r />
  ‘Oh, right. Yes, thanks, Tony, we’ll have a mushroom stroganoff and a chilli jacket. And I’ll have a mineral water.’ Libby smiled winningly.

  Tony raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll shout when they’re ready, your highness.’

  ‘Mineral water?’ queried Fran.

  ‘I’m driving us back to Steeple Martin, aren’t I?’ Libby lit another cigarette. ‘Never believe I was trying to give up, would you? Right, so what was this about a dream?’

  Fran told her. Trying to describe the feeling it had engendered defeated her, and the story dribbled to an inconclusive finish.

  ‘Well,’ said Libby after a pause. ‘Normally I’d say it was just a dream brought on by something you’ve seen on television, but as you can describe it in such graphic detail, I suppose it must be one of your famous moments.’ She squinted at Fran through a haze of smoke.

  Fran fidgeted. ‘Don’t call them that. Anyway, I don’t have them any more.’

  ‘It seems that you do.’ Libby stubbed her cigarette out. ‘Was that Tony’s dulcet call just then? Come on. Let’s get our food.’

  Chapter Four

  STEEPLE MARTIN LAY SNUGLY in a shallow valley a few miles from Canterbury. A busy little stream skittered over a stony bed parallel with the main street, before turning sharply to the right on its way to join the River Stour.

  ‘You’re in your usual room,’ said Libby, as she let them in. ‘Can you take yourself up? I’ll make us some tea.’

  Fran climbed the steep, narrow stairs and turned left at the top. Just in time, she remembered to duck as she stepped down into Libby’s little spare room and promptly tripped over the aggressive rug that lay in wait by the bed. Rubbing her leg, she went to the window.

  The view from this room soothed her. She looked up the lane to where it petered out at the edge of the woods bordering The Manor lands, and wondered whether Ben was still living there with his parents, and what had gone wrong between him and Libby.

  ‘Fran? I’ve made the tea. Are you coming down?’ Libby shouted up the stairs.

  Libby’s colourful and voluminous apparel was indistinguishable from the various blankets and shawls disguising the shortcomings of the cane sofa on which she was curled up.

  ‘This place is in a time warp,’ said Fran, collapsing into an armchair similarly disguised. ‘It’s like a village in a Golden Age detective story.’

  ‘We like it that way.’ Libby leaned over to hand Fran a mug.

  ‘Doesn’t it make everyone a bit narrow-minded?’

  ‘Why should it? Just because we all choose to live somewhere beautiful doesn’t mean that we aren’t exactly the same as everyone else.’

  ‘Only richer.’

  Libby laughed. ‘Not necessarily. I’m not. I just happened to sell a large house. There’s a lot of people like that. Mind you, if I hadn’t had to give Derek his share I would have been able to afford something a bit bigger.’

  ‘And a lot of local people have to leave because they can’t afford to buy.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Libby conceded. ‘And we do have a lot of weekenders.’

  ‘There you are then.’ Fran nodded wisely. ‘You’re all a lot of nimbys.’

  ‘I think I should be offended by that,’ said Libby. ‘But I can’t be bothered. Now, tell me all about Charles and Aunt Eleanor.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Charles told me about Aunt Eleanor, then she died and I came down anyway. And had the dream.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, extracting a packet of cigarettes from somewhere inside the sofa, ‘but who exactly is Aunt Eleanor? And cousin Charles, come to that.’

  ‘OK, well, Aunt Eleanor married my father’s brother, Frank, just after my father died. When I was little, we lived in a flat in a big Victorian house in London. When my father died, Frank took over the house and we had to move out. I assume my father had left it to Frank, or perhaps it was jointly owned and it passed straight to Frank. I don’t know. I was only about twelve, so all I knew was that we had to leave.’ Fran stared into the empty fireplace. ‘It caused a lot of bad feeling.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Libby, indignantly. ‘Why couldn’t they just live in the other flat?’

  ‘Frank did. It was after he married Eleanor that we had to go. I don’t really understand what went on. My mother wouldn’t speak about it, and we didn’t have any further contact with them from then on.’

  ‘So what about Charles?’

  ‘He was Eleanor’s nephew. I vaguely remember him at their wedding. It was a huge shock to hear from him.’

  Libby looked thoughtful. ‘Why, do you suppose? I mean, after all these years – thirty or so, I suppose – should she decide she wanted to see you?’

  ‘It’s more than forty years, actually, and I really have no idea. In fact, Charles didn’t say shewanted to see me. Perhaps it was his idea.’

  ‘I’d ask him. Will you go to the funeral? You’ll see him then, won’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s offered to give me a lift. Funny, I haven’t even met him, yet.’ Fran leaned down to put her mug on the hearth. ‘But I shall speak to him when I go back tomorrow, because I just have this feeling that everything’s not quite – right.’

  ‘Because of the dream? And the feeling in her room?’

  Fran frowned. ‘I suppose so. And I want to find out about this Barbara Denver, who Charles says is a sort of cousin.’

  ‘Barbara Denver? Good grief!’ Libby sat forward.

  Fran looked up, surprised. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘We all know Barbara Denver. And her precious son.’

  ‘Great!’ Fran settled more comfortably into her armchair. ‘Tell me all about them.’

  Libby stared up at the ceiling. ‘She was small and pale. Fair hair and slightly buck teeth. Wore her hair in a single plait. Terribly neat. Barbara Stone, she was then.’

  ‘You’ve known her a long time, then?’

  Libby nodded. ‘Known ofher. Since we moved to Kent. She modelled for a bit, but not very successfully. Still, it brought her into contact with old man Denver, and she would never have met him otherwise.’

  ‘So who was he?’

  Libby finally lit her cigarette and blew out a long ribbon of smoke with relish. ‘Old man Denver owned Blagstock House. ’Course, he wasn’t so old, then, but he was a good twenty years older than Barbara. He was something big in the city.’

  ‘So how did he meet Barbara?’

  ‘His wife organised a charity fashion show.’

  ‘His wife?’ Fran was surprised.

  ‘Oh, yes, he was married then. Large committee woman. Did a lot for charity. That’s why she organised the fashion show, and, as a local girl, Barbara was included.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Fran prompted, after Libby had fallen silent. ‘Did she divorce him, the wife?’

  ‘Eventually. He got Barbara pregnant.’

  ‘Heavens! So he did the decent thing?’

  Libby shook her head. ‘Not really. He tried to keep it quiet – offered Barbara money for an abortion, you know the sort of thing. But she wouldn’t have it and kicked up a terrible fuss. I don’t know the details, but the upshot was that he moved out of Blagstock House and set up home with Barbara. His wife divorced him after the statutory two years, or whatever it was then, took a huge settlement and moved to France.’

  ‘So they moved back into Blagstock House? With the baby, presumably.’

  ‘Young Paul, yes. And then she insisted he married her.’

  ‘Which he did. And is he still alive?’

  ‘Good lord, no!’ Libby laughed. ‘She wore him out years ago. The trouble was that his first wife took such an enormous settlement that he only just managed to keep Blagstock House going. I gather Barbara had a little money when he died, but that’s gone now.’

  ‘They still live there, then? She hasn’t sold it?’

  ‘No. I haven’t heard of Barbara Denver for years. But I suppose she might sell up to one of the conglomerates. The house is ideal for a hote
l. I’m surprised Paul hasn’t already done it.’

  ‘The son?’

  Libby nodded. ‘An estate agent.’ She sniffed. ‘That’s where the last of the money went, or so the story goes. He used to work for one of the local firms and then decided to set up on his own, so Barbara funded him.’

  Fran nodded slowly. ‘So son Paul would be in an ideal position to sell Blagstock House to the right people.’

  ‘Not really.’ Libby threw her cigarette end into the fireplace. ‘His business never took off. He liked the trappings of the business rather than the business itself, or so I gather. The lunches and the golf club. That sort of thing. He’s still got a small shop in Nethergate, but it isn’t often open.’

  ‘Well, I suppose they’ll come in for something from old Auntie. Don’t know what the relationship is, though.’

  ‘Ask Charles.’ Libby stood up. ‘More tea, vicar?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m still awash with lager from lunchtime. And anyway, forget all my stuff, you still haven’t told me what happened with Ben.’

  Libby hesitated, then sat down again, fumbling absently for another cigarette.

  ‘I think we got it together as a sort of what-do-you-call-it, a reaffirmation of life. After all the traumas. For a few days after the arrest we were inseparable.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘It was fantastic. Especially with me looking like an upholstered rugby ball. I haven’t felt like that since I was – ooh, I don’t know – in my twenties. And then it all began to fade away. Family, mainly. After all, his poor family were right in the thick of it all. He was at home with his mother and his sister more and more, because his father took a turn for the worse.’

  ‘And how is he now?’

  ‘Old Gregory, or Ben?’

  ‘Well, both, but I meant Gregory.’

  ‘He’s recovered, but for how long I don’t know. Susan’s still living there, so after a bit Ben moved back to his own flat in Canterbury.’

  ‘And what? Nothing? Doesn’t he phone? Take you out?’

  Libby frowned down at her hands still holding an unlit cigarette.

  ‘I think I said a few Wrong Things.’

  ‘Oh, Lib! And he withdrew again? Like before?’