Murder at the Laurels

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Forty years ago, yes.’ There was a pause. ‘Look, why don’t we meet and I can fill you in on the details. It would be nice to see you again.’

  ‘We’ll see each other at the funeral, won’t we? You offered me a lift.’

  ‘And what about meeting before then?’

  ‘When did you have in mind?’

  ‘Are you too tired this evening?’

  Fran looked at the clock. ‘No – but I’ve only just got in and I haven’t eaten yet.’

  ‘Dinner then. There’s a very nice little bistro near you. I’ve been there several times.’

  ‘The Poule au Pot? Yes, it is good.’ Fran didn’t say that she had never been able to afford to eat there, but had gazed longingly through the windows on several occasions. ‘What time?’

  ‘Half past seven? Shall I collect you?’

  ‘No, I’ll meet you there.’ Fran scowled at the cracked lino and the wheezing gas fire.

  ‘Fine. Seven thirty then. Will we recognise each other after all this time?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Fran cheerfully. ‘Should be interesting, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘Very.’ Charles laughed. ‘See you later.’

  Fran put down the receiver and went to the window. It was dark now, and the wet pavements were gleaming with reflected light. Through the ill-fitting frame came the hiss of tyres on the road, the sound of returning workers at the end of a long day. What were they going home to, wondered Fran. Family gathered around the television? Children glued to computer screens? A microwaved meal while the other partner rushed off to aerobics or creative writing classes? She smiled and drew the thin cotton curtains across the glass. Or were they going to have a bath in a rusting tub and get ready for a meal out with a cousin they hardly remembered?

  Meanwhile, the sudden emergence into her life of long-lost relatives, even dead ones, was a welcome diversion. And a change from beans on toast for supper.

  The Poule au Pot was a hangover from the late sixties. It still had red and white checked tablecloths, candles stuffed into straw-covered Chianti bottles and a menu redolent of the era. Prawn cocktail, beef bourguignon and Black Forest gateau had been retained at the behest of the clientele, despite several changes of ownership and the fads and fancies of fashionable cooks and cooking. In fact, Fran knew from reading the magazines while she lurked in the paper shop, it was coming back into fashion, as, indeed, her rather down-at-heel area of London was itself. Nowhere would escape if it boasted a London postcode, which unfortunately meant that the prices were rising almost daily. When her landlord caught on, she knew she would no longer be able to afford even the Betjeman flat.

  Charles was sitting at a table at the side of the room, underneath a large and somewhat romanticised depiction of French peasants disporting themselves in a cornfield. His grey head – grey! – was bent over a menu.

  ‘Hello, Charles.’ She sat down opposite him as he tried to struggle to his feet. ‘Don’t get up.’

  He subsided and sat back in his bentwood chair. ‘Fran,’ he said. ‘You haven’t changed much.’

  ‘Rubbish. I was a child then, and now I look like my mother.’ She looked at him consideringly. ‘You’ve changed. Your hair’s grey.’

  He looked amused. ‘You’re very direct, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not always.’ Fran looked down at her hands. ‘I can dissemble beautifully if I have to.’

  ‘Oh? And you feel you don’t have to with me?’

  Fran looked up and grinned. ‘I don’t do I? I knew that. But I did at The Laurels.’

  ‘Before we go into that, have a look at the menu.’ Charles handed it over. ‘What would you like to drink?’

  When they had given their order and both had a glass of a robust red vin de table in front of them, Charles started again.

  ‘Now. Tell me all about The Laurels.’

  Fran took a sip of wine and leaned back in her chair. ‘Do you mean tell you exactly what I did there and who I met?’

  ‘Yes. And try and explain again why you went.’

  ‘That’s difficult.’ Fran frowned into her glass. ‘It just came over me when you phoned. I felt suffocated. And then there was this absolute conviction that I had to go there. That’s all I can say. And then …’ she looked up, ‘I got the same feeling again. When I was in her room.’

  ‘Which feeling?’

  ‘The suffocating feeling. I made a fool of myself I’m afraid, but they put it down to shock and grief. I felt a complete fraud.’

  ‘Start at the beginning.’ Charles leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. ‘I’m fascinated.’

  Fran told him everything from her arrival at The Laurels to her departure, including her dream on the train. When she had finished and the waiter had served their respective starters of pate and soup, Charles poured more wine into their glasses.

  ‘Did you say that Barbara had cleared the room?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran spooned up some onion soup. ‘Except for a few dresses in the wardrobe.’

  ‘The bureau wasn’t there?’ Charles was frowning.

  Fran shook her head and swallowed. ‘Nothing. Even the television belonged to The Laurels.’

  Charles stared absently at the French Peasants above him. ‘No bureau. That was quick.’

  ‘No bureau.’ Fran put down her spoon. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Her will was in the bureau.’

  ‘Ah. Fairly important, then.’

  Charles shrugged and spread pate onto a corner of toast. ‘I expect there’s a copy at her solicitors’ office – whoever they are.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘No, I don’t, although I ought to. The solicitors wrote to me when she told me years ago she’d made me her executor. I think she was old-fashioned enough not to trust Barbara because she was a woman and at the time, Paul was too young.’

  Fran pushed away her soup plate and rested her chin on her hands. ‘Is there much to leave?’

  ‘The Mountville Road house.’ Charles looked up at her and grinned. ‘Where you grew up.’

  Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Did it still belong to Uncle Frank, then? Old bugger. Must be worth a fortune now.’

  ‘A three-storey Victorian semi in a sought after inner London suburb? I should say so.’ Charles was crumbling his last slice of toast. Fran gave him a shrewd look.

  ‘So that’s why you’re anxious about the will? To see what she’s left you?’

  Faint colour appeared along Charles’s cheekbones. ‘Not entirely.’ He sat back in his chair and picked up his wineglass. ‘I’m the executor. I need to know what I’ve got to execute.’

  ‘So, do this Barbara and Paul get anything?’

  ‘I would imagine so. Eleanor always treated Barbara and me equally. She spoilt Paul, though.’

  ‘You sound bitter.’ Fran topped up her own wine glass.

  ‘She didn’t do anything for my daughter. I suppose I am.’

  Fran was surprised. ‘I didn’t know you had a daughter.’

  He looked up with a smile. ‘Kate.’

  ‘Goodness.’ She chuckled. ‘What a lot I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you any children?’

  Fran nodded. ‘Jeremy’s in New York being terribly high-powered and Chrissie’s married. Lucy was married, and has two children, Rachel and Tom.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ He looked up as a waiter appeared with an armful of vegetable dishes. Their empty starter plates were whisked away and Fran was soon inhaling the fragrant beef bourguignon in the rustic marmitebefore her.

  ‘Do you know Nethergate well?’ Fran speared a piece of meat and closed her eyes as she put it into her mouth. Delicious.

  ‘Very well. That’s where our side of the family come from. I lived in Steeple Mount when I was a child and went to school in Nethergate until I was eleven.’

  ‘Steeple Mount? Near Steeple Martin?’ Fran’s eyes were wide. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  He grinned and Fran noticed how his blue eyes seemed to gro
w warmer. Ridiculous. She’d always scoffed at the idea of the eyes containing expression. It was merely the arrangement of the skin around them.

  ‘It’s the Nether valley. The river Wytch runs through the valley from Steeple Martin to Steeple Mount, then on past Up Nethergate at the top of the cliffs and comes out at Nethergate at the bottom.’

  ‘That’s where I met my friend Libby yesterday. I didn’t see much of it, though.’

  ‘It’s lovely.’ He grinned at her. ‘Pure storybook stuff. Sand and tea shops and caves. Just the place for the grandchildren.’

  ‘I didn’t think children were into that sort of stuff these days.’ Fran helped herself to more broccoli. ‘I thought they just wanted theme parks and computer games.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Anyway, the adults love the nostalgia of it all. The whole place is in a bit of a time warp – you must have noticed.’

  ‘I know. Libby lives in Steeple Martin. That’s where I stayed last night. I was only saying to her that she lives in a Golden Age detective story.’

  Charles looked slightly puzzled.

  ‘Anyway, that’s why you put her down there instead of London, is it?’ Fran sat back to make room for another mouthful.

  ‘That and the fact that Barbara and Paul live near there.’

  ‘So I understand. And my friend Libby knows them. Or of them, anyway.’

  ‘Really? Coincidence.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Fran pushed a pea around her plate. She didn’t want to get in to Libby’s descriptions of the Denver family.

  ‘Yes.’ Charles put his knife and fork neatly together. ‘So now you’ve caught up on the situation you can tell me what’s been happening to you since you grew up.’

  Fran told him. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, despite the fact that he looked more like a typical city gent than the sort of person she normally consorted with. And older. She was used to younger people. Chrissie would approve of him, she thought. Chrissie had always hoped that she would suddenly morph herself into the blue rinse and Barbour jacket suitable for a putative grandmother and Charles matched that image.

  ‘So.’ They had ordered coffee and Charles sat back, stirring his thoughtfully. ‘You’ve told me everything except the reason for these suffocating feelings. Presumably you’re a – what, a psychic?’

  Fran bridled. ‘I’m nothing of the sort. I don’t know what all that was about.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And it was very embarrassing, let me tell you.’

  ‘Then how do you explain this suffocating feeling? Or how you knew I was the genuine article when I called you?’

  ‘Intuition?’ She looked up. ‘Instinct? I don’t know. The children always called them “Mother’s Moments”.’

  ‘So you’ve had them before?’

  Fran shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘Sort of. Just – you know – telling the children to be careful just before something happened. Or knowing who was on the phone before I answered it. Sort of thing that happens to everybody.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Charles was still stirring his coffee. ‘And it was because of one of these “Moments” that you went hotfoot off to The Laurels.’

  ‘Sounds silly, doesn’t it?’ Fran laughed, embarrassed. ‘I expect it was guilt, like that Mrs Headlam said.’

  ‘Nice woman, Marion Headlam.’

  ‘Nice?’ Fran frowned. ‘I suppose she was all right. Terribly mercenary, I would have thought.’

  ‘Oh, undoubtedly. But good at what she does. Attractive, as well.’

  Fran hitched a shoulder. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked coolly.

  ‘Oh, yes. Very well-groomed.’ Charles gazed up at the Peasants again.

  Fran put her coffee cup down sharply and realised that he was staring at something distinctly Rabelaisian behind a haystack. He looked back at her and quirked an eyebrow. She blushed.

  ‘Yes, well,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘You’ll see her again at the funeral. Apparently she attends all clients’ funerals.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to sort that out, won’t I?’ Charles looked worried. ‘I think it’s my job, isn’t it? As executor?’

  Fran stared. ‘How would I know? I’ve never been one. I organised my mother’s funeral, but that was simple. She was living with me when she died.’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better go down there. Oh, God, I knew this wasn’t going to be simple.’ He scowled and called for the bill.

  ‘When will you go?’ Fran picked up her bag and dropped the complimentary mint chocolates inside.

  ‘Tomorrow, I suppose.’ Charles sighed and signed the check with a flourish.

  ‘Could I come with you? I’d like to meet Barbara.’

  Charles looked surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. We could ask about the bureau.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Well, you could, then. Find the will.’

  Charles laughed and stood up. ‘Well, perhaps you can have one of your moments and find it for us. I never was shown the secret drawer.’

  Fran beamed with anticipation. ‘Goodness, a secret drawer. More storybook stuff. I can’t wait!’

  Chapter Seven

  I REALLY MUST GET an upstairs phone, thought Libby, as once again she struggled out of bed and tripped over Sidney to try and beat the answerphone to it.

  ‘Charles is driving me down again this morning.’

  Libby sat down on the bottom step and tried to unglue her eyelids.

  ‘It’s very early, Fran.’ She pushed Sidney’s nose out of her ear.

  ‘Sorry, but we’re leaving soon. He’s got a meeting with Marion Headlam about the funeral. And we’re going to see Barbara Denver.’

  ‘Really? Will you be able to come by here on your way home and tell me all about it?’

  ‘Charles will want to get back.’

  ‘Well, I know that. Could you bring a bag with you? Then he could drop you off and you could stay down until the funeral.’

  There was a pause. ‘I suppose I could,’ said Fran slowly. ‘It’s quite a good idea, isn’t it? Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘Course I wouldn’t. I’ve got Bel and Ad coming at some time in the next few weeks, but not imminently. And Sidney misses you.’

  Fran laughed. ‘OK. I’m sure Charles won’t mind making the detour. He said he wanted to meet you, anyway.’

  ‘Did he? What’s he like?’

  ‘Very city gent-ish. But nice. Lots of grey hair.’

  ‘Like Ben’s?’

  ‘Not a bit like Ben’s. More mane-like.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Libby, stop it. Now, do you want me to ring you when I know roughly what time we’ll be arriving?’

  ‘I suppose it would be as well. After all, you don’t know what exciting things I might get up to, do you?’

  After Fran had rung off, Libby hauled herself upright with the aid of the banister rail, tripped over Sidney and staggered through to the kitchen.

  As she waited for the kettle to boil, her thoughts returned to Ben. What hadgone wrong? The relationship had certainly got off to a dodgy start when they were rather thrown together during rehearsals for Peter’s play, but she’d really thought they were on to a good thing eventually. But her own questioning of everyone’s motives and basic insecurity had obviously pushed Ben away when she should have been there offering support. She sighed and poured water onto a teabag, wondering if there was anything she could do to retrieve the situation.

  The smack of the cat flap signalled Sidney’s departure on the business of the day, and Libby strolled into the conservatory to look at the latest view of Nethergate propped up on the easel. Guy Wolfe, she thought. Another one who seemed charmed by Fran. As Ben had been, she was sure. Ben had denied it, true, and proved quite conclusively that he was very attracted to Libby herself, but Libby remembered her insidious jealousy and hoped she wouldn’t be dog-in-the-manger enough to resent Guy’s attention to Fran. For Guy was her friend, and there had at one time been the suggest
ion there could be something more between them, but at the time Libby was still recovering from the break-up of her marriage and nervous of forming any sort of relationship with the opposite sex. Peter and Harry had helped her over that hurdle and Guy had retreated to the background of her life, emerging now and then to buy some more paintings and give her self-confidence a boost.

  And what about Aunt Eleanor? Fran had had strange intuitions about the goings-on last spring, all of which had turned out to be correct, so was she right about this? Was there something “not right”? And if so, what was it? Surely not murder again.

  A shopping trip to stock up the larder was obviously called for if she was going to have a house guest, and much as she preferred to use the village shops when possible, the occasional sortie to the supermarket was inevitable. Putting murder out of her mind, Libby went upstairs to dress.

  Wandering round the aisles an hour later with only a newspaper and a bunch of flowers in her trolley, Libby became aware of the advisability of always putting on make-up no matter how trivial one’s outing.

  ‘Hello, Lib,’ said Ben.

  He was leaning on the end of a freezer cabinet wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his short grey hair as neat as ever.

  Libby felt dampness break out all along her hairline as her heart rate accelerated. She’d noticed these unfortunate teenagerish manifestations before when suddenly confronted with Ben, and they didn’t get any easier.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for ages.’ Ben looked at her intently.

  ‘Well, you moved back to your flat, didn’t you? You haven’t been in the village much.’

  ‘My mother had her hands full with my sister and dad.’

  ‘It’s not been easy for any of you,’ said Libby.

  ‘Or you.’ Ben gave a small forced smile. There was a short silence.

  ‘I’m sorry –’ They both spoke together, then stopped. Libby laughed.

  ‘Well, I amsorry,’ she said. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too.’ Ben stood away from the freezer and looked down in to her trolley. ‘I got a bit emotionally unbalanced for a time.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’ Libby felt her insides contract with mortification.