Murder at the Laurels

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Accident?’ Fran’s voice was shrill.

  ‘Don’t remember what sort of accident. Just remember seein’ it. Missus pointed it out to me in the paper. I wouldn’t of noticed it otherwise.’

  That was all Jim could tell them, and after drinking a suspicious cup of coffee each and making a fuss of Lady, they made their way into Nethergate to meet Guy in The Swan.

  ‘I can’t get over the fact that he died so soon after we moved out,’ said Fran, as Libby drove down the hill towards the sea. ‘Why did no one tell us?’

  ‘You said you thought someone might have told your mother.’

  ‘Only guessing. It’s just awful. He’d been like a father to me all through my childhood.’

  Libby looked sideways. Fran still looked upset. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you could always find out by looking up his death certificate. You know, tracing your family like they do in those television programmes. Or even the local paper, if Jim meant that’s where his death was reported. They keep everything on microfiche, don’t they?’

  ‘But we don’t know when it was.’

  ‘About a year after he sold the cottage to Jim, he said.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Fran, and turned to look out of the window. Libby frowned, and edged into a parking space in the square. She wished now she hadn’t rung Guy and arranged lunch if Fran was going to be like this.

  Guy took one look as they went into the bar, stood immediately and put an arm round Fran, who promptly dived in her bag for a handkerchief. Much pleased by this evidence of affection, Libby smugly sat herself down at the bar and waved at Tony.

  ‘I’ll have a glass of mineral water, Tony, and my friend will have a gin and tonic,’ she said.

  ‘Looks as though she needs it, Mrs – er – Libby.’ Tony turned down the corners of his mouth in sympathy and went off down the bar.

  Guy had settled Fran at a little round table at the corner of the bar, and beckoned Libby to join them.

  ‘So tell me what it’s all about,’ he said, as Tony came over with the drinks.

  Fran told him, with frequent interruptions from Libby.

  ‘And is this all connected with your aunt’s death?’ he asked when they’d finished.

  Fran shook her head. ‘We don’t know, but I’m sure it is, somehow. I just can’t get over losing Frank like that. He might have come back to us if only he hadn’t died so soon.’ She stopped, her drink half way to her mouth, her expression frozen. Libby and Guy glanced at each other.

  ‘He was,’ she said, putting her glass down. ‘He was coming back to us.’ Her face crumpled again, and Guy rushed into the breach with his comforting arm, while Libby handed over a rather creased, but clean, tissue.

  ‘Doesn’t this put a different complexion on things?’ said Libby, after a decent interval. ‘I mean – accident? Sounds suspicious to me.’

  Guy nodded and looked at Fran. ‘And me. Where was this accident?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Fran. ‘Jim didn’t say. He just said it was in the papers, and we assumed he meant the local papers.’

  ‘That was because he said he was connected with the Stones,’ said Libby. ‘That must mean the local paper, but it doesn’t follow that it happened here.’

  ‘So what are we saying,’ said Guy, waving a menu at Tony. ‘Somebody bumped off Uncle Frank to prevent him coming back to you and your mum?’

  Tony appeared with a pad and pencil and they all ordered lunch.

  ‘That can only mean Aunt Eleanor,’ said Libby, when Tony had gone.

  Fran nodded. ‘It was the cellar steps,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘You saw it?’ asked Libby. Guy just stared.

  ‘Yes. Like I saw Eleanor being smothered.’

  ‘I don’t think we need to tell DCI Murray about this,’ said Libby, with a worried frown.

  ‘Why not?’ Fran looked surprised. ‘Surely it must have some connection with her death, now?’

  ‘That’s exactly what Libby means,’ said Guy, ‘and the connection is you.’

  Fran looked at him with her mouth open.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said.

  ‘Precisely.’ Libby rummaged in her basket for her cigarettes. ‘Murray’s reasonably sympathetic about your moments, but if you go telling him about having seen Eleanor push Frank down some cellar steps, and follow it up with a graphic account of herdeath – what’s he going to think?’

  ‘That I did it for revenge,’ nodded Fran. ‘God, I’m so angry.’ Her expression was indeed ferocious, and Libby moved her glass out of reach. ‘That bloody woman. It’s so frustrating. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘No,’ said Libby, ‘and as you didn’t do it, it gets us no further forward, does it?’

  Fran looked up, surprised. ‘No.’

  Guy looked relieved. ‘So you can let it all go, now. Just let the police get on with it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran looked down as Tony placed a plate in front of her. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Won’t know what to do with ourselves, will we,’ said Libby, only half humorously.

  ‘You could get on with doing some more paintings,’ said Guy, nodding his thanks to Tony. ‘I’ve got a nice little cheque for you. Those that I picked up the other night walked straight out of the shop.’

  ‘But they weren’t even of Fran’s cottage,’ said Libby.

  ‘The punters aren’t wedded to those pictures. They seem to like them, but they like most things you do. And don’t forget, we’re nearly at the end of the season, so if you’ve got any more, I’ll take them all. Then you can concentrate on getting some more up for next year.’

  ‘I’m not a bloody production line,’ said Libby.

  ‘No, but we’re not talking fine art, here, are we?’ Guy reached over and patted her arm. ‘Don’t get bolshie with me, just be grateful that you sell.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Libby, and addressed herself to her jacket potato.

  They went back to the gallery after lunch and Guy gave Libby her cheque, and on the pretext of letting her have another look at the cottage, took Fran outside. Libby raised her eyes at Sophie.

  ‘Oh, I got Sue Warner’s parent’s address,’ said Sophie, ‘but I don’t think she’s living there any more. From what I hear, she’s got herself a new boyfriend, and I think she might have moved in with him.’

  ‘Oh, well, it was worth a try,’ sighed Libby. ‘But I think we’re going to stop sleuthing, now, and leave it to the professionals. All we do is go round in circles and make wild assumptions.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was proper sleuthing you were doing,’ said Sophie, looking interested.

  ‘It wasn’t,’ said Libby, with a grin.

  Fran was quiet on the drive back to Steeple Martin.

  ‘Did Guy ask you out?’ said Libby, eventually.

  ‘Yes.’ It came out on a sigh.

  ‘You don’t sound very pleased. I thought you liked him.’

  ‘I do.’ Fran looked at Libby. ‘But it’s difficult. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘Go out with him. Where did he want to go?’

  ‘He said dinner. But I don’t want to go to Harry’s. Or the pub.’

  ‘There are plenty of other places, you know.’ Libby changed gear as they went up the hill round Steeple Mount. ‘I hope you said yes.’

  ‘Yes. He’s coming over on Saturday,’ said Fran, and turned back to the window.

  Ben took Libby to The Pink Geranium that evening, despite Libby protesting that she’d already eaten out once today. There was no table when they arrived, so they sat on the sofa in the window and drank Harry’s best Sancerre while Libby filled him in on the day’s events.

  ‘So that’s it, really. We’re giving up. It was all a bit pointless, anyway,’ said Libby.

  ‘Well, I can’t say I’m sorry,’ said Ben, taking her hand and squeezing it. ‘You never know what you might have run in to. But how sad for poor old Fran. You think she’s right about Eleanor and Frank?’

 
‘About her killing him? Well, she seems to get things right, doesn’t she? And she seemed certain he was going to go back to them.’

  ‘Horrible. No wonder she’s frustrated.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope Guy can help in that department,’ said Libby innocently, caught Ben’s eye and blushed. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t in the best of taste, was it?’

  He leant across and kissed her cheek. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Oi. None of that there here,’ said Harry, looming over them in his whites and checks. ‘Your table’s ready.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  OVER THE NEXT FEW days Libby got bored. She heard nothing more about the police investigation, or what had happened to Marion Headlam. Fran went off to a job in London for Goodall and Smythe, after reporting on her dinner date with Guy.

  ‘Lovely restaurant,’ she told Libby dreamily, over a lunchtime drink in the pub. ‘Beautiful country house.’

  ‘And?’ said Libby.

  ‘He brought me home, and went home himself.’ Fran laughed at Libby’s expression. ‘Sorry, Lib.’

  ‘Is he gay?’ Libby was indignant.

  ‘No, of course not. Just a gentleman. And I’m not exactly the sort to inspire uncontrollable lust, am I?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Come on, Lib. Just be grateful that there are nice men out there who don’t have unrealistic expectations.’

  ‘I have to say,’ said Libby, after giving it a moment’s thought, ‘that Guy usually attracts the younger element. I’ve seen him with some real glamour in the past.’

  ‘What the hell’s he taking me out for, then?’ said Fran, looking as though she’d gone down suddenly in a lift.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby simply. ‘But he’s attracted to you. Otherwise I wouldn’t have pushed you together.’

  ‘Are you saying that this is entirely due to your intervention?’ Fran was now looking amused.

  ‘Well, partly,’ said Libby, attempting to look modest.

  ‘Don’t forget he was chatting me up in The Swan before he knew we were friends.’

  ‘I did say partly,’ said Libby.

  But now Fran was in London, Ben was clearing out his flat in Canterbury prior to moving permanently to The Manor and Libby had nothing to do. She painted in the mornings, finishing her autumn picture, starting a new pretty peep of Nethergate Harbour, not worrying too much about accuracy. The people who bought the paintings wanted an idealised interpretation of an idyll, not a photographic rendition.

  After lunch, she sat in the garden, rejoined the library, and one day drove to the supermarket just to pass the time. The weather was changing, going from the unnatural warmth of the early summer to the normal grey of early autumn, so time in the garden was limited, and Sidney began to spend more and more time indoors.

  Towards the end of the week, Libby woke to a beautiful day. Two things occurred to her. One, she ought to check whether Guy’s cheque had cleared in her bank account so she could buy the computer she had now set her heart on, and two, it would be a lovely day to go and see Tyne Hall and its chapel. She reassured herself that it was a purely aesthetic trip, and nothing to do with any sort of investigation.

  She checked her bank account at the ATM inside the village post office, and was so excited by the sight of her balance she nearly abandoned her sightseeing plans to rush off to Canterbury and buy a computer. Deciding, however, it would preferable to have an experienced computer user by her side when she did so, she put Romeo the Renault in gear and set off for Tyne Hall.

  It hadn’t occurred to her that there might be a problem in getting access to the chapel. Following signs to Tyne Hall – not easy, as there were no brown and white signposts and only one or two wooden ones – she finally came upon two large iron gates set into a crumbling brick wall, where an old notice hung on a gatepost informed the public that this was Tyne Hall, and there was no entry.

  Realising that she should have done a little more research before setting out on this trip, Libby fished out her mobile and rang Ben.

  ‘I just thought I’d come and have a look at it,’ she said, after listening to his forcibly expressed exasperation. ‘It was such a lovely day. But I can’t find an entrance.’

  ‘Tyne Hall isn’t open to the public, Libby,’ said Ben, ‘so you won’t find an entrance. If it’s the chapel you particularly want to see, you can get to it another way. But I think you’re mad.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful day, and I only want to have a look. What could happen?’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Ben with a sigh, and gave her directions.

  A little lane led past a few cottages and a wide stream, where Libby was enchanted to see crested grebe. She parked on a grassy verge, and crossed a small stone footbridge which lead to a track between overhanging beech trees. This lead out on to one side of a shallow grassy valley, at the top of the other side of which, surrounded by more trees, already turning golden and red, stood the chapel. In the same colour stone as the bridge, all Libby could see of it was the gothic arch of the door set into a short tower. Away to her left, the glint of water told her the stream had reappeared, and walking a little way down the slope, she saw that a lake spread away towards the ruins of the main house.

  The grass was already dotted with fallen leaves, yet the day was warm enough for Libby to be wearing summer clothes. Wishing she’d worn slightly more sensible shoes, she set off down one slope and up the other, until she was in front of the chapel. Now she could see that the trees pressed hard up against the walls of the chapel and a path led off to her right from the front door. The door itself was typical arched, planked oak, with enormous iron hinges. Libby was surprised that there were no extra bars or padlocks on it if there had been trouble there, but there was nothing, and when she ventured to turn the great iron handle, it moved easily and without a sound. It must have been bolted inside, however, because it refused to budge. Suddenly nervous, she stepped back and looked round. It seemed such a peaceful place, it was hard to imagine anything remotely evil happening, but unless Flo had got it wrong, it had.

  She walked a little way along the path to her right, and saw that down the side of the chapel there were three stained glass windows almost obscured by the trees, and, she was sure, another door, although she couldn’t be certain. The path led only to a barbed wire fence, half hidden by undergrowth, which looked as though it hadn’t been disturbed for years. If Satan worshippers, or cult or coven members met here, they must have flown in, thought Libby. She began to retrace her steps.

  After a further examination of the door and the tower, she gave up, and walked back towards the track between the beech trees. As she got to the bottom of the slope, she looked back, and stopped.

  In front of the chapel door stood three figures, all in black, watching her.

  She fled.

  Fran got back to the Betjeman flat, glad that she hadn’t yet given it up. Three days of wandering round an old manor house, its mews and stable yard had exhausted her, especially as all sorts of strange images had presented themselves to her, most of which she discounted as they obviously belonged to incidents far in the past. Goodall and Smythe’s client, a property developer, had been delighted with her, and planned to use some of her information in his publicity, although Fran couldn’t see why anyone would want to buy a remodelled mews flat with the exciting knowledge that a stable lad had once been beaten to death there.

  Tomorrow she would go back to Steeple Martin, but tonight she’d phone Charles. Not that she was interested in getting involved with any more investigations, of course. Just to see how he was. She’d told him briefly about Uncle Frank owning Coastguard Cottage, but he’d been surprised, and professed to know nothing at all about it.

  ‘Just wondered if there was any news,’ she said, after they’d greeted one another with a wary friendliness.

  ‘Not that I’ve heard,’ said Charles. ‘I gather Marion Headlam was let off the hook, but I still don’t know why she was taken in. I haven’t hear
d from Barbara, either.’

  ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  ‘You’re not still investigating, are you?’ asked Charles.

  ‘No, Charles. And I wouldn’t exactly call it investigating. The police are quite capable of doing that without our help.’ Even if they don’t know everything we know, she added silently.

  ‘Your friend Libby didn’t give me that impression,’ said Charles.

  ‘Well, she isn’t doing anything now,’ said Fran, crossing her fingers. True, Libby had said she wasn’t going to do any more nosing about, but you never knew with Libby.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Charles, with a heavy-handed air of changing the subject, ‘how did you come by the information that Frank Bridges owned that cottage?’

  Fran’s mind went blank. Then, ‘I thought I told you. I found a box of photographs and things when I was clearing out my flat.’ Well, that was true.

  ‘Yes, you did, but what did they actually tell you? I suppose,’ said Charles, with the suspicion of a snort in his voice, ‘there wasn’t a picture of him signing a contract?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Fran irritably, ‘but when I saw the photographs, I remembered we used to go there on holiday, and he bought the cottage from the person who let it. That was your grandfather.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Charles still sounded doubtful. ‘So is that how he met Eleanor?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Fran, not certain herself. ‘Don’t you remember your grandfather owning property in Nethergate?’

  ‘No. I lived in Steeple Mount, remember, and only went to school in Nethergate. I know we visited my grandparents, and Barbara’s family, but I wouldn’t have known anything about any businesses they might have had. I do remember, though,’ he said, with a hint of renewed interest, ‘that Eleanor was always called “poor Eleanor”. I think they were all surprised when she married.’

  ‘What was she like before she was married?’

  ‘All right. Not much interested in us children. Oh, she gave us an obligatory present at Christmas and birthdays, but that was about all. She lived at home with our grandparents. I don’t know what sort of social life she had.’