Murder at the Laurels

by Lesley Cookman

  Libby looked at her. ‘How do you know?’

  Fran looked surprised. ‘Because …’ She stopped. ‘I just know. There, see. I really knew that. Perhaps that means something.’

  ‘Like it was murder, and the same murderer?’ Libby was getting excited.

  ‘Maybe, but I thought we’d already assumed it was.’

  ‘Yes, but we came out here to find proof, didn’t we? This could be it.’ Libby let out the clutch and swerved sharply into the middle of the road. ‘On this road?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Fran.

  Ten minutes later, they had all the proof they needed. Standing by the side of the road in front of more blue and white tape, and surrounded by white-overalled scenes of crime officers, stood Detective Chief Inspector Murray.

  ‘Shit,’ said Libby, and tried to drive past, but a uniformed sergeant flagged her down, as DCI Murray approached.

  Libby sighed and wound down her window.

  ‘Mrs Sarjeant and Mrs Castle. Well, well, well,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ said Libby and Fran together.

  ‘Would you like to pull over there so we can have a little chat?’ he said. Libby steered the car to the edge of the road and got out.

  ‘Would I be right in thinking your appearance here is something to do with Mrs Bridges’ death?’ DCI Murray leaned against the bonnet and folded his arms.

  Libby and Fran looked at one another.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran.

  ‘And can you tell me why?’

  ‘You’ve obviously worked it out yourself,’ said Libby.

  ‘We’re not as dumb as we look, you know,’ said Murray, with the suggestion of a smile.

  ‘We found out from Mrs Headlam at the home that two delivery drivers witnessed the codicil to the will,’ said Fran. ‘We thought we’d try and see if they knew what was in it, and then discovered they were both dead.’

  ‘And it didn’t occur to you that you might be interfering in an investigation?’

  ‘Well, no,’ said Libby, trying to look ingenuous. ‘We just thought Fran might –’ She came to a stop.

  ‘And have you, Mrs Castle? I did ask you to let me know, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran looked uncomfortable. ‘But I don’t really know anything.’

  ‘You must have spoken to someone to find all this out,’ said Murray, his pale eyes darting from one to another. ‘That could have been dangerous.’

  ‘Only Mrs Headlam,’ said Fran, ‘and shegot in touch with us, because she was anxious about the legacy she’s expecting.’

  ‘And she gave you the names of the delivery drivers? Why?’

  ‘She did that before, because she wanted to give us proof that there really was a legacy for The Laurels.’

  DCI Murray looked sceptical.

  ‘She must have told you, too,’ said Libby, a little desperately, ‘or you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Quite right, Mrs Sarjeant,’ said Murray, running a hand over the remaining bristly red hair. ‘With our colleagues from the Sussex force, we’re looking at both accident sites. No reason to make a link before.’

  ‘And it’s murder, is it?’ Libby persisted.

  ‘We’re investigating, Mrs Sarjeant. I’m sure Mrs Castle will be informed if there are any developments which concern her.’

  ‘Which means we won’t,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘And now, ladies, if you’d kindly move on. It’s a longish drive back to Kent, and you don’t want to hit the rush-hour traffic.’ Murray straightened up, nodded, and went back to his SOCOs.

  ‘What rush-hour traffic? A couple of tractors and a herd of cows?’ Libby trod on the accelerator viciously.

  ‘We’ll be going round Tunbridge Wells,’ said Fran, ‘and it gets really jammed up round there.’

  Libby drove in silence for the next fifteen minutes.

  ‘Well, at least we were on the right track,’ said Fran eventually. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Have another go at Redding?’ suggested Libby.

  ‘You’d better do that,’ said Fran. ‘I think I’d like to carry on with finding out about the cottage.’

  ‘Do you think it has anything do with all this?’

  ‘I told you, I’m not sure. But Aunt Eleanor’s in there somewhere. It might be relevant.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Libby after a moment, ‘this isn’t half so straightforward as our other murder.’

  Fran laughed. ‘I thought you didn’t want to be a Miss Marple?’

  ‘I don’t. Trouble is, this murder doesn’t seem to be so close.’ Libby looked sideways. ‘Sorry, I know she was your auntie.’

  ‘I know what you mean. You were a bit ambivalent about the Hop Pickersmurder because it involved you and your friends, I’m ambivalent about this one because it does actually involve my family.’ Fran sighed again. ‘Even if I don’t like them much.’

  ‘You liked your Uncle Frank.’

  ‘Yes, I loved him. Up until I was twelve my childhood had been happy, even though my dad died. Uncle Frank did his best to take Dad’s place, even took us on holiday –’ she stopped suddenly.

  ‘To Nethergate,’ Libby finished for her.

  ‘Yes.’ Fran turned an astonished face to her friend. ‘Good lord, how could I have forgotten?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘You remember things you’ve never even known. Must have been a trauma, or something.’

  ‘Well, there was that picture of my mother screaming,’ said Fran, ‘perhaps that was something to do with it. But I really don’t remember anything about those holidays, except that we went.’

  ‘More than one?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You said – holidays, plural.’

  ‘Oh!’ Fran looked startled. ‘Yes. I shall have to think about it.’

  ‘Haven’t you got any photographs from when you were a kid?’

  ‘I haven’t, but my mother had.’ Fran was silent for a moment. ‘I’ll see if I’ve got any next time I go up to London. I’ve got some boxes stashed away somewhere.’

  ‘Well, that’s no good, is it? You need them now.’

  ‘I can’t keep dashing backwards and forwards from London, Libby.’

  ‘Why not? You dashed up and down several times last week.’

  ‘But the whole point of living in the flat was to stop that,’ argued Fran.

  ‘Oh, all right. But if it has something to do with Aunt Eleanor, don’t you think you really ought to look in to it?’

  ‘What I think is that we need to ask Charles if he or the police have heard from that solicitor yet,’ said Fran firmly. ‘That’s what I think.’

  ‘OK,’ said Libby, with a grin. ‘We could have asked our Mr Murray back there, couldn’t we?’

  ‘I think he’d have arrested us,’ laughed Fran.

  ‘Well, go on then, phone Charles. See if he’s heard.’

  Fran paused. ‘I haven’t got my mobile with me,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, you’re as bad as I am,’ said Libby. ‘Never mind, you can navigate us back to the M25 instead. I can’t work out where we are, now.’

  By the time Romeo the Renault breathed a sigh of relief outside The Pink Geranium, Harry was already open for the evening. He came to the door and surveyed them critically.

  ‘Drinkipoos, girls?’ he asked. ‘You look as though you could do with it.’

  ‘You’re a bad influence, young Hal,’ said Libby, climbing stiffly from the driver’s seat. ‘But yes, please. Love one.’

  ‘I’ll nip up and get my phone first,’ said Fran.

  ‘So, what did you get up to?’ asked Harry, settling Libby on the sofa in the window.

  Libby told him, while he opened a bottle of his best Sancerre and poured three glasses. Fran reappeared and collapsed beside Libby.

  ‘So, what next?’ Harry got up to get Libby an ashtray. ‘Got to stop this, you know, you old trout. I’m not allowed to have smokers in here when the punters are in any more.’

  ‘No, I k
now, Harry,’ sighed Libby. ‘I’m feeling more and more persecuted by the day. And you haven’t given up.’

  ‘No, and I don’t intend to,’ said Harry, taking one of Libby’s cigarettes. ‘I get bolshie when the government start telling me what I can and can’t do with my own life.’

  ‘Even when it’s for your own good?’ said Fran.

  ‘The worst of the nanny state,’ said Harry, swinging a leather clad leg over the back of his chair. ‘Now, come on. What are you two sleuths going to do next?’

  ‘Fran’s going to find a builder and I’m going to resume my interesting relationship with Nurse Redding,’ said Libby.

  ‘A builder?’ Harry’s eyebrows rose. ‘What are you planning on having done?’

  ‘It’s all right, Harry, I’m not going to knock your flat about. I want to find out who owned the cottage in Nethergate.’

  ‘Hang on, I’m not sure I know about the cottage in Nethergate,’ said Harry, looking confused.

  Fran and Libby filled him in, leaving him only slightly better informed. He emptied the bottle into their glasses and stood up.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to sort it out, then,’ he said. ‘I’ve got me first bookings in about ten minutes. There’s a table free later on, if you want it.’

  ‘No thanks, Harry,’ said Libby, ‘Ben’s coming over.’

  ‘Oooh.’ Harry struck a pose. ‘Another night of passion?’

  ‘I will, though, Harry,’ said Fran deflecting Libby’s obvious chagrin and embarrassment.

  ‘What happened to not wanting to rely on me?’ said Harry. ‘Come down when ever you’re ready after about 8.30.’

  ‘Go on, then, ring him,’ said Libby, when Harry had returned to Donna in the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Fran took out her mobile and stared at it.

  ‘It won’t bite you, Fran.’

  ‘No. Oh, well, here goes, then.’ Fran picked it up and pressed a few buttons.

  ‘Voice mail,’ she mouthed at Libby. ‘Yes, hello, Charles, it’s Fran. Could you ring me when you get this? Just wanted to know whether you’d heard from the solicitor. OK, bye.’

  ‘Was that his mobile or his landline?’

  ‘Er –’ Fran held the phone away and peered. ‘Oh, mobile.’

  ‘Try the land line, then.’

  ‘OK,’ said Fran and repeated the procedure.

  Well, I hope that doesn’t mean he’s back in the arms of the law,’ said Libby, draining her glass. ‘I’m off. Phone me when you hear from him.’

  By the time Fran went down to the restaurant she still hadn’t heard anything from Charles and was beginning to get worried. Harry put her in the corner by the counter and kept up an intermittent conversation with her in between customers.

  ‘I think Libby’s right, you know,’ he said, after serving the last diners their stultifyingly sweet dessert. ‘Much as I hate to admit it, the old trout can be right sometimes. You ought to look for those pictures of Mummy’s. Might bring it all back.’

  ‘I can’t bear the thought of going all the way back up to London, though,’ said Fran, sipping coffee.

  ‘Oh, come on. Pete does it almost every day.’

  ‘That’s different, somehow,’ said Fran, feeling wimpish.

  ‘Oh? What about all the other people in this village who commute? Not to mention all the DFLs?’

  ‘DFls?’

  ‘Down from Londons. All the weekenders who pushed the prices up so the kids can’t afford anywhere to live.’ Harry’s pleasant face looked vicious for a moment. ‘Worse in Nethergate.’

  Fran looked at him for a moment. ‘But you’re a DFL yourself,’ she said.

  Harry looked startled. ‘No, I’m not! I live with a Steeple Martonian born and bred. That doesn’t count.’

  ‘OK, OK. So what about me? That’s what I’ll be, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but you’re different, too. Anyway, you probably won’t be able to afford anywhere, either.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Just what I need to cheer me up.’

  ‘Oh, never mind. You can stay upstairs for as long as you want, you know that.’

  ‘Not rent free, I can’t,’ said Fran. ‘And now, please may I have my bill?’

  Harry reluctantly allowed her to pay, and sent her up the back stairs, saying you never knew what might be lurking in the high street.

  Taking her mobile out of her bag to ring Charles again, Fran was surprised to see she had received a message. She certainly hadn’t heard the discreet beep, but then, Harry’s diners tended to be a noisy lot.

  ‘Sol left messg,’ she read, ‘call tomorrow. C.’

  Fran forwarded this to Libby’s mobile, guessing a phone call wouldn’t be appreciated if Ben was with her, and was further surprised when Libby rang her straight back.

  ‘Ben’s just told me,’ she said, ‘he’s been using your builder for years. But now he’s retired, so no wonder he wasn’t answering the office phone!’

  ‘Does he know where to find him?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Not off-hand, but he says he’ll find out at the office,’ said Libby. ‘So that’s two exciting things to follow up tomorrow, isn’t it?’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  LIBBY WAS ALREADY UP when Fran phoned early the following morning. Ben had left even earlier to go and change into suitable going-to-the-office clothes, so she was sitting with a cup of tea and Sidney, wrapped in her old dressing gown and yet another post-coital glow.

  ‘You sound a bit x-rated this morning,’ commented Fran.

  ‘I feel it,’ said Libby. ‘Disgustingly.’

  ‘Well, if you can come down to earth for a bit, I’m going to leave the builder to you, at least for today.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Peter called this morning and offered to take me up to town with him.’

  ‘Oh, did he, now?’ Libby laughed. ‘I sense Harry’s fine Italian hand in this.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Fran, and explained. ‘So the upshot was, he told Peter all about me being such a wimp, and Peter decided to take me in hand. All I’ve got to do is be downstairs in five minutes, and I will duly be delivered home at 7 this evening.’

  ‘So you’ll unearth Mum’s pictures?’

  ‘That’s the idea. And maybe see Charles, as well.’

  ‘Do you think he might be at work?’

  ‘No idea. He told me he had a failed career, but I don’t even know what he did. Or does.’

  ‘Time to find out, although as you’re not interested in him, it doesn’t matter, does it?’ Libby yawned. ‘When Ben phones through the builder info, I’ll call you and see what you want me to do, if anything. Meanwhile, I’m going to see if I can get hold of Redding again.’

  Libby finished her tea, thought about breakfast and decided it could wait. After as quick a shower as the water system could manage, she dressed, went downstairs and phoned Nurse Redding’s number again. Then remembered that this week she was on earlies. So that left the builder. But it was still too early to expect Ben to have found out where he was, so now, what to do. She went into the conservatory and looked at the painting on the easel, wrinkled her nose, and went out again.

  There was always shopping. August had turned grey and unappealing, so Libby tucked an umbrella into her basket and let herself out.

  The village was quiet. In the butcher’s, Libby met Hetty, Ben’s mother, and in the post office his Uncle Lenny and Auntie Flo, who invited her back to Flo’s little house for coffee.

  ‘So, what you up to now, gel?’ asked Flo, settling her in a chair by the fireplace. Lenny pottered off to the kitchen to make coffee, and Flo sat down on the other side of the hearth and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ said Libby. ‘My friend Fran’s down here, staying in the flat over The Pink Geranium.’

  ‘I know all that. And her old auntie died, didn’t she? Murdered, Hetty said.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby was surprised. ‘I didn’t realise Ben had told her.’

  ‘Course he did. C
an’t keep anything secret here, you ought to know that.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Libby dubiously, remembering the secrets that had been kept in Hetty’s family.

  Lenny reappeared with a tray. ‘Don’t you go gettin’ involved, young Libby,’ he said, ‘police’ll look after it.’

  ‘I know, I know. But it’s difficult not to when a friend’s involved.’

  ‘So what’s the story, then?’ asked Flo. ‘Who do they reckon did it?’

  Libby gave them an edited version of all she knew, dwelling on the lighter aspects, including Harry’s conviction that Nurse Redding was a witch.

  ‘That’s not so silly, gel,’ said Flo, at this point. ‘Lot o’ women around her age go to these devil worship things. You read about it in the papers.’

  ‘Oh, I know, and all the cults that suck people in and make them do awful things.’ Libby nodded and took a sip of milky coffee. ‘But how do you know what age she is?’

  ‘I guessed. Stands to reason. Middle-aged, is she?’ said Flo, blowing on her own cup.

  ‘Bit younger than me, perhaps. I don’t really know.’

  ‘There you are, then. I remember a few years ago they had a bit of trouble up at the old chapel. Holding their meetings up there, an’ that.’

  ‘What old chapel?’

  ‘Over beyond Steeple Mount in the woods. Used to be a private chapel for the big house.’

  ‘What big house?’ asked Lenny.

  ‘Oh, it’s gone, now,’ said Flo. ‘Army used it in the war and the family didn’t come back. Then there was a fire and it was left to fall down. Folk said the family couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘So sad when that happens, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘Who were the family, do you know?’

  ‘Can’t say as I remember. Sir someone. Anyway, the chapel was still standing and these people were usin’ it for their what-d’you-call-its –’

  ‘Black mass?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Might be. They found blood and feathers and such up there.’

  ‘Golly! So what happened?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know. There was a lot of talk about it, and it all died down. Some bloke was arrested, I think. Haven’t heard nothin’ since.’

  ‘What was it called, do you remember?’