Murder at the Laurels

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Oh, I see. You think she might have bumped her off for her money.’

  ‘Well, no,’ said Libby. ‘As far as we know, the nurses weren’t mentioned in her will, although the home was.’

  ‘So, why do you want to talk to her?’

  ‘Because Fran thought they were hiding something.’

  ‘They?’ said Peter and Harry together.

  ‘The two nurses. One of them seemed frightened, Fran said.’

  ‘And this is the one you want to talk to?’ asked Harry, beginning to look interested.

  ‘No, the other one. You’ll see if I can meet her in the caff tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, all right. I can be prepping up. What time?’

  ‘I’d better be there about three thirty, just in case. Is that OK?’

  ‘What about Fran?’ asked Peter. ‘Is she in on this?’

  ‘Er – no. She’s not as, um, interested as me.’

  ‘Bloody nosy, you mean,’ said Peter.

  ‘That’s exactly what she said.’ Libby nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Great minds, ducks. Drink up, and I’ll get you a refill. You can give Pete a hand now.’

  ‘A hand with what?’ asked Libby, handing over her glass.

  ‘I’m planning the panto.’ Peter cleared a space for her beside him.

  ‘Have you finished writing it?’ Libby picked up a brightly covered drawing. ‘This looks like a child’s picture book.’

  ‘That’s just what I want for the sets. Almost Disney. Pity we haven’t still got Steve.’

  They were all quiet for a moment, considering the unfortunate Steve.

  ‘What about Guy?’ suggested Libby. ‘He’s an artist.’

  ‘So are you, you old trout, and I don’t see you volunteering to do our sets.’

  ‘I couldn’t do big stuff, but he can. He used to do murals. And he restored some old wall paintings.’

  Peter looked dubious. ‘Panto sets are hardly in the same league, are they?’

  ‘Can but ask. He might advise. When’s the audition?’

  ‘In a couple of weeks. I’ve got all the rest of the backstage team in place.’

  ‘Are you directing?’

  Peter looked surprised. ‘No, I thought you were.’

  ‘Me?’ Libby gasped. ‘You never asked me. I want to be in it, not direct it!’

  Peter looked down his patrician nose. ‘I didn’t think I needed to. I assumed we were the Oast Theatre’s permanent team.’

  ‘Well, in a way, we are. I just didn’t know I was official director.’

  ‘Do it between you, then she can be in it,’ said Harry, placing replenished glasses on the table. ‘Stop squabbling, children.’

  As she walked home a little later, Libby looked up at Fran’s lighted window above The Pink Geranium, and wondered whether to tell her about tomorrow’s meeting. If she kept quiet, Fran might see them if she came downstairs and would not only be annoyed, but would ruin the whole thing, then again, if Libby warned her, she would still be annoyed and might still ruin the whole thing.

  When Ben called just after she arrived home, she asked his advice.

  ‘If the nurse said she could tell you something, it’s worth seeing her, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but I keep remembering your Uncle Lenny saying he could tell me a thing or two, when he couldn’t. Well, he could, but not the right thing.’

  ‘Well, maybe what she tells you won’t be the right thing, but might help anyway. What you really want to know is whether you should tell Fran, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby sighed. ‘I know she’ll say I should mind my own business, but she really wants to know herself. Otherwise she wouldn’t have come down in the first place, and she certainly wouldn’t have come down the second time with Charles, or gone looking for the will. She’s just confused.’

  ‘Tell her, then. Say what you’ve just said to me. She might want to sit in.’

  ‘Oh, no. I don’t want that. Nurse Redding might clam up.’

  ‘Play it by ear, then,’ said Ben, ‘and now let’s change the subject. I didn’t phone you to talk about murderous nurses.’

  By the time Libby switched off the phone, she decided it was too late to call Fran, and feeling happier, fed Sidney and went to bed.

  When she summoned up the courage to confess all the following morning, however, Fran’s mobile was switched off. Frustrated, Libby called Harry and asked him to see if Fran was in when he went to the caff for the lunchtime session. He called back just before midday to say that Fran wasn’t in, and had been seen by Ali from the eight-til-late getting on a bus before nine o’clock. Puzzled, Libby tried Fran’s phone again, and this time went straight to voicemail. She left a message asking Fran to call her back, but took the precaution of turning her own mobile off before setting out to meet Nurse Redding.

  Harry had stayed on after lunch and was sitting at the favourite corner table with newspapers spread in front of him.

  ‘I’ve made a carrot cake and some banana bread,’ he announced, as Libby sat down in front of him. ‘You’d better eat it.’

  ‘Of course I will. Not all of it, though.’

  ‘I’ll take the rest home for Pete, unless I get any other customers. I just hope it won’t set a precedent.’

  ‘People might expect an afternoon cuppa, you mean?’ Libby grinned at him. ‘You’ll have to invest in some doilies.’

  ‘Doily yourself.’ Harry stood up. ‘What time’s Miss Nightingale coming?’

  ‘Any time in the next hour, I should think. If she turns up,’ said Libby.

  However, within ten minutes, Nurse Redding pushed open the door, looking vaguely surprised that Libby was the sole customer.

  ‘How nice of you to come,’ said Libby, standing up and pulling out a chair. ‘I’ll order tea, shall I? Or would you prefer coffee?’

  ‘Tea’ll be fine.’ Nurse Redding, in an unsuitable tweedy skirt under the anorak Ben had described, or its twin, unhooked a large capable handbag from her shoulder and dumped it on Libby’s chair.

  Harry appeared from the kitchen and raised his eyebrows. ‘Goodness, what strange friends you have, Miss Marple.’

  ‘Shut up,’ hissed Libby, then, raising her voice, ‘Pot of tea for two, please, and have you any cakes?’

  ‘Carrot and banana,’ grinned Harry. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘So, what was it you wanted to know?’ asked Nurse Redding without preamble.

  ‘Er –’ said Libby, taken aback.

  ‘You said you were a friend of the family.’ Nurse Redding sniffed. ‘Can’t say I took to the family much.’

  ‘I’m actually a friend of Mrs Castle,’ said Libby.

  ‘Who? Oh, she came the day after the old woman died, that who you mean? Funny thing to do, if you ask me.’ Nurse Redding unzipped her anorak and pursed her lips.

  Harry appeared with a tray, which he unloaded as slowly as was humanly possible, with much fluttering of eyelashes at Nurse Redding. Libby felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rising and tried desperately to stifle it.

  Nurse Redding leant across the table when Harry returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Here. Is he queer?’

  Libby opened her eyes very wide and took a deep breath. ‘I think so. It doesn’t bother you, does it?’

  Nurse Redding shrugged. ‘Doesn’t bother me either way. Long as people get what they want. That’s all that matters.’

  Silenced by this startling announcement, Libby could only stare. Nurse Redding picked up the teapot and helped herself to tea, then cut a generous slice of both carrot cake and banana bread.

  ‘Anyway, what was it you wanted to know?’

  Libby pulled herself together. ‘Well, you see, my friend, Mrs Castle doesn’t really know the rest of the family, and seeing that the old lady was killed when they were all there, she thinks it must have been one of them. You saw Mrs Bridges just before she died, so you might have seen something.’

  Nurse Redding chewed silently for a moment.
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  ‘Well, I did and I didn’t,’ she said. ‘That Sue Warner was in the room when I went in. She followed me out. Then Marion Headlam came along the corridor, but didn’t go in. Just asked Warner if the birthday cake was ready.’

  ‘Birthday cake?’

  ‘All the residents have a cake on their birthday, even if they don’t know what’s going on. The relations like it.’ Nurse Redding looked as though she thought the relations were a bit dim-witted.

  ‘So what happened next?’

  Nurse Redding shrugged again and took a huge bite of banana bread. ‘Mrs Denver arrived. The buzzer went. Mrs Headlam sent me.’

  ‘And when you came back?’

  ‘I opened the door and let her go in, then I closed the door behind her.’

  ‘You didn’t go in?’

  There was that shrug again. ‘No need to. I could see the old lady in the chair near the windows.’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? I couldn’t see her face. She looked like she did –’ Nurse Redding stopped suddenly.

  ‘Like she did when? When you came in the last time?’

  ‘No,’ said Nurse Redding slowly.

  ‘What was different?’ asked Libby, after a moment.

  ‘I could see her face,’ said Nurse Redding, staring at the carrot cake. ‘I couldn’t before.’

  ‘So she’d moved?’

  Nurse Redding looked up. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was between you leaving and Mrs Denver entering?’

  ‘I told you, yes. After that I don’t know what happened. That Mr Charles arrived.’

  ‘And Paul Denver?’

  Libby was surprised, and a little entertained, to see faint colour stain Nurse Redding’s swarthy cheeks.

  ‘Yes,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Did they arrive together?’

  ‘More or less. I didn’t see them come in. There was a hoo-ha going on.’

  Libby watched the woman eating her way through the carrot cake for a few moments.

  ‘Was that all you wanted to tell me? You said you could tell me everything.’

  ‘I have.’ Nurse Redding emptied her mouth. ‘But watch that Warner. She’s sly. And she was in the room with the old woman.’

  ‘Yes, but you said she left with you. You’d have seen if anything had been wrong, wouldn’t you?’

  Nurse Redding stared defiantly at the banana bread. ‘I know what I know,’ she said.

  ‘Well, what?’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘Something about the Denvers? You said you didn’t take to them.’

  ‘Untrustworthy,’ said Nurse Redding, ‘both of them.’

  ‘Not Mr Wade?’

  ‘He didn’t come as often as them. Didn’t try anything on.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Libby, appalling images invading in her mind.

  ‘Borrowing money.’ Nurse Redding spared her a glance. ‘Theywas always trying it on.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Libby, wondering if she dared ask about Marion Headlam.

  ‘Wouldn’t have got any. She was going to leave it to us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘The home. Mrs Headlam said. When she got those men to witness the will.’

  ‘Right. Yes, we knew about that,’ Libby nodded.

  ‘Serve them right.’

  ‘What?’ Libby wasn’t quite sure where she was in this conversation. Nurse Redding seemed to be in charge and Libby didn’t know the lines.

  ‘Got their comeuppance, didn’t they?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  Nurse Redding showed Libby a sly smile. ‘Wages of sin,’ she said, and laughed.

  Libby was so perplexed she couldn’t answer. Instead, she picked up the teapot. ‘More tea?’ she said.

  Nurse Redding pushed her cup forward. ‘Course,’ she said, ‘they wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Know? About what?’

  ‘Sin.’ The woman leaned forward and Libby saw a thin trickle of saliva at the corner of her mouth. ‘It isn’t always what it seems. Unless you know.’

  Thoroughly confused, and by now alarmed, Libby put down the teapot with a thump. ‘I’m still not sure –’ she began.

  ‘Thought you had a look about you,’ said Nurse Redding, leaning back and picking up her cup. ‘What do they call it – New Age.’

  ‘New Age?’ repeated Libby faintly.

  ‘Crystals and all that. Those shops. Course, they’re useful, but what a lot of crap.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Libby, faint but pursuing. ‘Useful?’

  But Nurse Redding had a crafty look on her face. ‘Not to me,’ she said. ‘Anything else you want to know?’

  ‘Er – no. No, thanks.’ Libby swallowed her remaining tea. ‘As long as you’re sure none of the family could have got to Aunt Eleanor – I mean, Mrs Bridges.’

  ‘You want to find out about those two men. Ask Marion Headlam.’ Nurse Redding stood up. ‘Thanks for the tea.’ She made for the door, then turned round. ‘If you do want to know any more about sin, give me a ring.’ She winked and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘Well!’ Harry came out from behind the kitchen door. ‘What a performance.’

  ‘Can I have another cup of tea?’ asked Libby. ‘I need it.’

  ‘I should think so, petal.’ Harry took her cup. ‘Is she for real?’

  ‘Sexual repression and sinful urges, do you reckon? All that about sin and stuff?’

  Harry looked thoughtful as he poured boiling water on to a teabag. ‘Yeah, but a bit more than that. What she was saying about New Age shops and so on.’

  ‘I didn’t understand a word of it.’ Libby took the cup. ‘I thought she’d gone off her head.’

  Harry sat astride the chair vacated by Nurse Redding and leaned on the back. ‘Think about it. Sin, New Age, useful. What she said about those men. Who were they, anyway?’

  ‘Lorry drivers who witnessed the codicil to Auntie’s will. One of them’s dead.’

  ‘Aha!’ Harry looked triumphant. ‘See!’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Libby fretfully. ‘I think you’re as mad as she is.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to sit down with a bit of paper and a pencil and work it out, but I reckon,’ said Harry, taking a deep breath, ‘that she’s a witch.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  FRAN’S INTERVIEW WITH THE lettings agency had been difficult. The twelve-year-old behind the desk had been deeply suspicious, and did a lot of hair flicking, treating Fran to glimpses of deliberately dark roots. Eventually, she retreated into some inner sanctum and when she emerged, grudgingly revealed that the owners were in residence at present, as was their wont during August.

  The lettings agency was within walking distance of Harbour Street. Fran stopped for a coffee in a strangely nostalgic 1950s-style ice cream parlour, which, she decided, wasn’t a revamp, but a lovingly preserved original. Stirring her coffee, she stared thoughtfully down the high street to the sea, deciding that, as the weather was continuing hot and sunny, the owners were likely to be out and about. A letter was required.

  A card bought in a gift shop next door provided the means, and Fran walked down to a bench near The Swan and wrote a brief note. Wanting to avoid Guy, she made her way to the lane at the back and cut through the alley she had used the day before.

  The sight of the green painted front door standing open left her standing irresolute with the card in her hand. Suddenly the idea of questioning the current owners didn’t seem like such a good idea.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Fran turned to see a young woman in obvious beach clothes behind her. Two children trailed along the pavement in her wake.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Fran. ‘I feel rather embarrassed, now. Are you the owner?’

  The woman looked amused. ‘Yes, my husband and I own the cottage. If it’s Coastguard Cottage you mean.’

  Fran looked and noticed for the first time the discreet slate plaque beside the door. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘I’m
afraid we have the cottage for the whole of the summer holidays, and the other lettings are done through an agency,’ said the woman, waving the children inside the door. Reluctantly, staring at Fran, they went.

  ‘Yes, I know about the agency,’ said Fran. ‘Actually, I wanted to find out whether you knew anything about the previous owners.’

  The woman’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh?’

  Fran began to feel uncomfortable. ‘My family came from here, you see,’ she said, bending the truth a little, ‘and I stayed in this cottage.’ All at once, she was certain that she had.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ The woman bent to remove sandy beach shoes. ‘Why don’t you come in for a moment. I must check on the kids.’

  Fran followed her into the dark, cool interior, where her eyes were drawn immediately to Libby’s window, and she felt a jolt of recognition. The woman watched her curiously.

  ‘Lovely view, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Fran, smiling. ‘My friend paints it all the time.’

  ‘Your friend stayed here as well?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran, deciding that the full explanation would be just too long.

  ‘Right, well, we bought it from a speculative builder,’ said the woman, shuffling through a pile of papers on a side table. ‘Here we are. He hadn’t done much to it when we saw it, luckily, so we were able to stop the worst excesses.’ She handed Fran a card. ‘Would you like to look round?’

  ‘No, no thanks.’ Fran was scared she might disgrace herself as she had on that first visit to The Laurels. It seemed only too likely. ‘I’ll give this person a ring and see who he bought it from. It seems to have passed out of the family without anyone noticing.’ Now, how did I know that, she wondered.

  The woman frowned. ‘I hope there was nothing wrong with the title,’ she said. ‘I’m sure our solicitor checked everything.’

  ‘No, it was sold. I’d just like to know when. And it was lovely to see it again.’ Fran smiled as reassuringly as she could. ‘Thank you so much, and I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

  Fran could imagine the woman shrugging to herself and shaking her head as she shut the door. It all must have sounded a bit odd, to say the least. Throwing the now redundant card into a litter bin, Fran sat down on the bench and took out her mobile phone. Certain now that she hadbeen to the cottage and that it had some relevance to her family, she wanted desperately to have this confirmed. Somehow, she had to find out why her mother had been so terrified.