Murder at the Laurels

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘What will?’ Peter appeared from the kitchen door, carrying a glass.

  ‘Libby investigating,’ said Fran.

  ‘Not again,’ said Peter, sitting down between them. ‘You know what it does to friendships, Lib. Can’t you leave it alone?’

  ‘This doesn’t affect any friends, Pete. This is academic.’

  ‘Nosey, more likely. And what investigating are you going to be doing, anyway? Is it going to put you in danger like last time?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Libby looked away uncomfortably. There were certain things she didn’t want to be reminded of.

  ‘She’s going to make friends with a couple of murder suspects,’ said Fran, grinning.

  ‘They aren’t suspects, are they? I thought we said witnesses to the will.’

  ‘Wedidn’t say anything. And either of them could have done it, couldn’t they? Before Barbara got there?’

  ‘Oh, well, if they were witnesses to the will they can’t have done it for money, and what other reason could they possibly have had?’

  ‘Libby, we don’t know they were witnesses to the will!’ said Fran, exasperated. ‘For goodness’ sake.’

  Peter patted her on the arm. ‘See what she’s like? Bull in a china shop. Aren’t you sorry you moved down, now?’

  ‘It’s not permanent,’ said Fran hastily. ‘At least not in your lovely flat.’ She stopped. ‘That sounded rubbish, didn’t it? I mean, I’d love to be able to stay in your flat, but I must find somewhere permanent. And I don’t regret it, not a bit. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, then,’ said Peter. ‘Do you want a nightcap? Harry can come and relax for five minutes before he stars the washing up.’

  ‘Washing up? He doesn’t have to do it, does he?’ Fran was shocked.

  ‘Who else? Him and Donna, and me, occasionally, we do everything.’

  ‘But he’s left Donna on her own sometimes, I know he has,’ said Libby.

  ‘Ah, well, we’ve got the boy.’ Peter tapped the side of his nose and stood up. ‘Mind you, the “boy” does change from time to time, depending on who we can get hold of. I’ll go and fetch chef.’

  Much later, Libby wandered home along the damp high street, replete with red wine and Harry’s brandy. All three of them, Fran, Peter and Harry, had tried to dissuade her from investigating anything to do with Aunt Eleanor’s murder, and though she knew they were right and sensible, she also knew she would carry on regardless. If, she thought, as she turned in to Allhallow’s Lane and stepped in a puddle, she could find a way to do it.

  The red light on the answerphone winked at her when she came in. Ignoring Sidney’s importuning, she pressed the button and felt her stomach go into its little routine as she heard Ben’s voice.

  ‘Hi, Lib, sorry I didn’t ring earlier, but Dad had a bit of a turn this morning and Mum and I ended up in hospital all day. He’s fine now, but they’re keeping him in overnight. I’m going to stay at The Manor for the time being, as now Susan’s gone back home Mum’s going to find it difficult to cope on her own. Anyway,’ she heard him take a breath, ‘you’ll never guess who I saw at the hospital? One of the nurses from that nursing home. And I bet you’re wondering how I knew, aren’t you? Well, give me a ring, and I’ll tell you. Speak soon. Bye.’

  There was a pause, then she heard the hum of the dialling tone.

  ‘Too late now,’ she told Sidney, as she went towards the kitchen, shedding cape and basket as she went, ‘I’ll have to ring him in the morning.’ She found she was grinning. ‘And he wants me to.’

  It was well after breakfast time when she finally plucked up courage to ring The Manor, only to be told by Hetty that Ben had gone to pick his father up from hospital. Deciding he wouldn’t be able to answer his mobile on such a delicate errand, Libby left a message with Hetty, and went into the conservatory to pretend to work. The rain had eased off over night, but the blazingly hot days of earlier in the summer seemed to have come to an end. Autumn was obviously on its way. She decided on a new painting from “her” window, with a jar of red leaves on the sill, a rough sea and ominous sky.

  For once, she was so absorbed in her work, it took her several minutes to realise that someone was knocking quite hard on the front door. Even Sidney, curled up on top of the unlit Calor gas heater, raised his head and glared at her reprovingly. Wiping blue paint-stained fingers on her painting shirt, she went to open the door.

  ‘Ben!’

  He was leaning against the door jamb, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, looking for all the world, she thought, like a model for the older man. What could he possibly see in me? she wondered.

  ‘You’ve been working.’ He stood upright and nodded at the shirt.

  ‘Makes a change, doesn’t it?’ She stood aside. ‘Coming in?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s time for a cup of tea, anyway.’

  He followed her into the kitchen and perched on the edge of the table while she lifted the kettle on to the Rayburn.

  So,’ she said turning round to face him. ‘What’s all this about a nurse?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, settling himself more comfortably, ‘when Mum and I took Dad in to hospital yesterday, I went along to the Friends’ coffee shop to get us a drink and a biscuit. You know where it is?’

  Libby nodded. With three children she had frequented the hospital more than she might have liked.

  ‘Anyway, while I was waiting to be served, I caught a bit of conversation. So I had to listen.’

  ‘What conversation? What made you listen?’

  ‘This woman was talking about The Laurels and the murder. And she said she’d been questioned.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Libby was excited. ‘What did she look like? Perhaps it wasn’t a nurse. Perhaps it was Marion Headlam, the owner.’

  ‘No,’ said Ben, ‘because she said she’d been looking after the victim. I didn’t get a good look, because I could hardly turn round and stare, so I had a quick glance when I left. She was sitting at a table with a woman in nurse’s uniform, but she wasn’t.’

  ‘Wasn’t what?”

  ‘In uniform. She was wearing a sort of zip-up jacket. Dark hair and no make-up.’

  ‘Ah. Nurse Redding. Did she have a moustache?’

  Ben looked startled. ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Well, she’s got one.’ Libby turned round and poured water into two mugs. ‘So what was she saying?’

  ‘As far as I could make out, she was highly indignant about being questioned, and seemed to think it was all someone else’s fault. She kept saying she could tell them a thing or two.’

  ‘About what?’ Libby pushed a mug across to him and sat at the table.

  ‘How do I know? That’s what she said: “I could tell them a thing or two.” Then her friend said “I bet you could,” in a gossiping sort of way, you know?’

  Libby nodded. ‘I wonder what she meant? Do you think she meant about the murder, or about something going on at The Laurels?’

  ‘Could be nothing,’ said Ben, blowing on his tea. ‘Could be something like the owner not letting them have time off, or not being nice to the inmates. Something really simple.’

  ‘Or it could be something she saw around the time of the murder. She and Nurse Warner were both in the room just before Barbara Denver arrived.’

  ‘Surely she’d have told the police, then?’

  Libby was getting excited again. ‘No, because perhaps she decided to blackmail whoever it was she saw!’

  Ben reached over and patted her hand. ‘Don’t get carried away, Lib. You don’t want to be Miss Marple, remember?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Libby grinned at him. ‘But listen, you haven’t heard the latest from Fran. All sorts of excitement.’

  She told him the recent developments about the will, and that Fran was certain there was a later version.

  ‘So I wondered if either of the nurses witnessed a n
ew version. I want to find out, but Fran, Pete and Harry told me not to,’ she concluded.

  ‘But you’re going to anyway,’ said Ben.

  ‘I don’t see how, but yes.’

  ‘It really isn’t any of your business, you know, Lib. But everyone will have told you that already.’ He sighed. ‘At least you were more-or-less legitimately involved in the last business. This time you aren’t.’

  ‘But you still tried to stop me last time.’

  He looked uncomfortable. ‘Lib, we’ve been over this. Don’t rake it up again.’

  ‘No, all right. Sorry.’ She looked down at the table. ‘I know I shouldn’t be prying, but it’s so intriguing. Especially as Fran sort of knew about it right from the start.’

  ‘And she’s certain about the will?’

  Libby nodded. ‘Absolutely. And from what I’ve seen of her magic moments, I’m sure she’s right. What do you think? I mean, when she’s done some investigating for you, has she always been right?’

  ‘Well, she hasn’t always found anything, if that’s what you mean, which isn’t to say there isn’t something to find, just that she hasn’t picked up on it. But when she’s found something and we’ve checked into it, she’s always been right. Goodall and Smythe would never have employed her otherwise.’

  ‘What kind of things did she find?’ asked Libby. ‘She’s never told me.’

  ‘Well, we told you about the thing that started it all off, didn’t we? When she was showing someone round a house and started telling them about a murder that had happened?’

  ‘Yes, that was when she worked for an ordinary estate agent, and they lost the sale and sacked her.’

  ‘That’s right, and when the clients went to Goodall and Smythe and told them all about her, she was offered the job. After that, she found out about hidden water courses, lost children, deaths, that sort of thing. She picked up on a couple of murders, too.’

  ‘Did the police get involved?’ Libby was wide-eyed now.

  ‘No, because they were murders that had been solved years ago. Quite naturally, when the houses came to be sold, no one was told about them. People don’t want to live in houses where people have been murdered.’

  ‘So, said Libby, sitting back in her chair, ‘you’d believe her if she had a feeling about something.’

  ‘I’d certainly be willing to listen,’ said Ben.

  ‘So what do you think I should do?’

  ‘About Fran? Or about investigating?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘If Fran doesn’t want you to, I don’t think you should. Remember last time.’

  ‘That’s what Pete said last night. But I don’t think it’s that Fran doesn’t want me to, it’s just that she’s more nervous than me.’

  ‘Most people are,’ said Ben. ‘You just … well …’

  ‘Blunder in like a bull in a china shop,’ Libby finished for him. ‘Pete said that last night, too. Ah, well. I’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘While you’re thinking, what are you doing tonight?’ Ben caught her hand again and her stomach turned over.

  ‘Er – nothing.’

  ‘Come for a drink? We can always ask the others if they want to join us.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, mentally consigning “the others” to the farthest reaches of the county.

  ‘Yes what? You’ll come for a drink, or we can ask the others?’

  ‘Well, either. Or both.’ Libby felt the familiar colour creeping into her cheeks.

  Ben stood up, went round the table and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘We can always leave and come back here,’ he said, putting his arms round her.

  ‘Er – yes.’ Libby cleared her throat. ‘But then they’ll … sort of …’

  ‘Know we want to be together? So what’s wrong with that? They knew before.’

  And I was embarrassed before, Libby wanted to say.

  ‘What is it that keeps worrying you?’ Ben pressed cool lips to her forehead.

  ‘Nothing,’ muttered Libby into his chest.

  He pulled back and smiled down at her. ‘All right. I won’t push. Not now, anyway.’ He let her go. ‘So, are we on for tonight?’

  Libby nodded.

  ‘I’ll pick you up about eight, then, OK?’ He leaned forward and kissed her again. ‘See you then.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  DESPITE LIBBY’S BEST EFFORTS, when Fran, Peter and Harry joined her and Ben in the pub later that evening, the subject of “Libby’s investigation” came up yet again. Fran seemed more amused by it than anything else, and in the end, Ben gave up and insisted on calling her Miss Marple all evening. When he walked her home, he slung a casual arm round her shoulder, and called attention to it by calling good night to everyone they passed.

  ‘So now,’ he said, as they settled down in the living room, ‘tell me what’s worrying you about me.’

  ‘It’s very silly,’ said Libby, not looking at him.

  ‘Is it to do with me or what happened before?’

  ‘No, it’s me.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been alone a long time, and out of the dating game for donkey’s years. I hate the thought of people talking about me behind my back and saying …’ she stopped.

  ‘Saying what? Isn’t it nice for Libby and Ben that they’ve got together?’

  ‘But is that what they’ll say? Won’t they think I’m being a sad old woman and you could do much better for yourself?’

  ‘Is that really what you think?’ Ben said.

  ‘Well, sort of.’

  There was a pause, while Libby stared into the empty grate and wished she’d never said anything.

  ‘I think,’ said Ben carefully, ‘you’re afraid I’ll do a runner like your ex. And you think you’ll be left looking foolish.’

  Libby looked up. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I can’t say we’re going to be together for ever, can I? It’s far too soon to say anything like that.’

  ‘I know, but we’ve already had one – er – upset.’

  ‘Because of the exceptional circumstances. I don’t suppose anyone thought you were foolish then.’

  ‘I did.’ Libby looked back at the fireplace.

  ‘Oh, come here,’ said Ben, standing up and pulling her into his arms. ‘I don’t think you’re foolish, and I don’tthink I could do any better for myself.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘In fact, I think it’s completely the other way round. What about Guy Wolfe? He fancied you rotten.’

  ‘Guy? No, he didn’t. Anyway, I think he’s taken a fancy to Fran, now.’

  ‘Has he, now? Good job, too. When did he meet her?’

  ‘In The Swan when I went to pick her up last week. Gosh, what a long time ago it seems.’

  ‘Well, a lot’s happened.’ He nuzzled her neck and she shivered. ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘Next?’ asked Libby in a strangled voice.

  ‘Now,’ he whispered.

  Fran had spent two very comfortable nights in the flat over The Pink Geranium. On Sunday she pottered around unpacking and refused Harry’s offer of Sunday lunch downstairs.

  ‘I’ll start relying on you too much, and then I’ll stop cooking entirely,’ she said. ‘Besides, I still have a hankering for an old-fashioned English roast.’

  She had her roast, a lamb chop from the eight-til-late and slightly underdone roast potatoes, and, much to her surprise, dozed in the chair by the window in the afternoon. In the evening, after Ben phoned, she joined the others in the pub, and felt pleasingly like a part of the community.

  ‘I don’t ever want to go back to London,’ was her last thought before she fell asleep.

  Monday morning she phoned Charles.

  ‘I thought you were going to tell me what the police said yesterday,’ she said when he answered.

  ‘Not much. They didn’t take the will away, but read the contents and took the name of the solicitors. I’ve just rung them, and someone’s going to ring me back.’


  ‘Charles, since I saw you on Saturday I’ve had a thought.’ Fran sat in her window chair and looked down on the high street. ‘I think there’s a later will.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Charles sounded impatient. ‘Why would there be?’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why Barbara and Paul were so keen to find it. And remember Marion Headlam thinks she’s been left something? Well, there couldn’t possibly be anything in the old will, could there? Auntie was still living at Mountville Road when she made that. Where were you, then?’

  ‘I was still married and living in Surrey.’

  ‘So it’s an old will. See what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles slowly. ‘And possibly in the new one I’m not executor.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that. But I think you ought to tell the police.’

  ‘Tell them what, exactly? That my cousin thinksthere might be a new will? On no evidence other than a feeling?’

  Fran thought for a moment. ‘If you ask for DCI Murray and tell him exactly that, and that it’s me who had the feeling, you may find he’ll listen.’

  ‘Oh? Knows about you, does he?’

  ‘Yes. I told you, he came to interview me on Friday morning.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try,’ said Charles, not sounding too hopeful, ‘but I don’t know what they can do.’

  ‘They can insist on having a look at the stuff Barbara and Paul removed from The Laurels. Or have they sent it up to you already?’

  ‘You must be joking. I phoned Barbara yesterday to tell her about the will and asked if they’d made any arrangements yet and she said Paul was going to do it today.’

  ‘Was she relieved about the will?’

  ‘Very. Said she wanted to talk to me about the house.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Fran’s mind went into overdrive. ‘They want to buy you out, I suppose?’

  Charles was surprised. ‘Yes, I think that’s what she wants. Not sure I can be bothered to argue.’

  ‘Don’t do anything yet,’ said Fran. ‘Not that you can anyway, until probate’s sorted out.’

  ‘I know. Are you coming up to London again soon?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Fran, ‘but I think Libby’s right. I think we need to find out about the new will. Or if there was one.’