This is what I read.
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From: Lawrence Treherne
Sent: 21 June 2016 at 14:35
To: Susan Ryeland
Subject: RE: Cecily
Dear Susan
You asked me about my memories of the wedding day. I’m writing this with assistance from my wife, although you will have to forgive the absence of any particular style, which is to say I am not much of a writer, I’m afraid. The story that Alan Conway wrote is very different from what happened at Branlow Hall in 2008 so I do wonder how any of this can be of very much use to you, but at the same time it can’t hurt to have the facts set out, at least in so far as I remember them.
You might like to know how Aiden and my daughter met and I’ll start there because I believe it is part of the story.
At the start of August 2005, Cecily was in London and she was thinking of leaving the hotel. As I may have already mentioned to you, and it pains me to say it, she and her sister had always had quite a difficult relationship. I don’t want you to read anything into that. Two girls growing up together are always going to argue about music, clothes, boyfriends and things like that and my two were no exceptions. Lisa has always said that Cecily was our favourite but there’s no truth in that. She was our first child and we loved them both equally.
At the time, the two of them were grown-up and they were working together at Branlow Hall. The idea was that they would take it off our hands eventually but the relationship wasn’t working. There was a lot of tension between them and I’m not going to go into the details as it was nothing more than tittle-tattle, but the upshot was that Cecily decided to strike out on her own. She’d lived her whole life in Suffolk and she fancied having a crack at the big city. We offered to buy her a flat in London, which may sound extravagant but it was something we had been thinking about already. We liked going down to theatres and concerts and in the long run it would be more economical. So that was why she was there.
She found a place in east London that she liked the look of and Aiden was the estate agent who showed her round. They hit it off immediately. He was a couple of years younger than her but he was doing very well for himself. He’d already saved up enough money to buy himself a place on the Edgware Road, near Marble Arch. Not bad for someone in their twenties, even if it was only one room. While they were talking, Cecily discovered that it was actually his birthday that day and she insisted on going off with him and meeting his friends. That was very much how Cecily behaved. She liked to take the bull by the horns and she told me later that she knew that the two of them were compatible from the very start.
We met Aiden soon after and we liked him very much. As a matter of fact, he did us a huge favour because he was as keen to leave London as Cecily had been to go there and he persuaded her to stay at Branlow Hall. He didn’t like the city and he didn’t think she would either, but they would keep his flat as a useful bolt-hole if they needed to get away. But as a matter of fact, after he arrived Cecily’s relationship with Lisa got a lot better. It was two against one, you see. Aiden gave her self-confidence.
I’m attaching a couple of photographs of Cecily, by the way. You may have seen some of the pictures in the newspapers but none of them did her justice. She’s a beautiful girl. She reminds me so much of her mother at that age.
Aiden and Cecily moved into Branlow Cottage six months before they got married. Lisa had been living there but we persuaded her to move into a place we owned in Woodbridge. It made sense, particularly after Roxana was born. Aiden took over the PR side of the business. He did all the brochures, press releases, advertising, special events – and he did a very good job. It was about this time that Pauline and I realised that we could retire with a clear conscience. Lisa was doing a terrific job too. Despite what she said to you the other day, I don’t think she disliked Aiden. I rather hoped he’d jolt her into getting married herself.
And so to the point of all this. June 15th 2008. The wedding weekend.
I’ve gone over every minute of it, starting on the Thursday, and all the problems that came our way. First off there was a bust-up over the phone with the contractors who were supposed to be delivering the marquee. Their lorry had broken down and they were going to be late, which is one of the poorest excuses I’d ever heard. It didn’t come in until lunchtime on Friday and it was the devil’s own work to get it up on time. Cecily was in a state because one of the bridesmaids had come down with bad flu and she’d managed to lose a pen which I’d lent her. It was a 1956 Montblanc 342 with a gold nib – a really lovely piece, in its original box and never been used. I was actually quite angry with her although I didn’t say anything at the time. Anyway, I’d wanted her to have it because it was something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.
Lisa was always convinced that Stefan must have taken the pen. He was in and out of the house carrying things and it was just sitting there on the table. I mentioned that to the police but it was never found. In the end, Cecily had to make do with two coins, one of Pauline’s brooches and a ribbon.
What else? Cecily hadn’t slept well all week. Last-minute nerves. I’d given her some diazepam. She didn’t want to take it but Aiden and Pauline insisted as we didn’t want her going down the aisle looking like a zombie! She needed to look her best and feel her best for the big day. At least we were lucky with the weather. Friday was absolutely glorious. The forecasters getting it right for a change. Our guests started arriving. The marquee finally went up. And we were all able to relax.
I wasn’t there when Frank Parris booked in. That was on Thursday afternoon and I was at home in Southwold. I saw him very briefly early on Friday morning when I drove to the hotel. He was getting into a taxi. I caught sight of him wearing a light, fawn-coloured blazer and white trousers. He had curly silver hair, a bit like the boy in that painting by Millais, if you know what I mean. And the thing is I had an idea he was trouble even then. It’s easy enough to say it after the event, but he was arguing with the driver who was a regular at the hotel, a very reliable man who was only a couple of minutes late, and I got the sense of a passing cloud. In my view, and I’m not afraid to say it, he and Alan Conway were two of a kind.
We had a party on Friday night. We wanted to thank the staff for all their hard work and of course they would be busy the next day so it seemed only fair. We had it out by the swimming pool. It was a lovely evening, perhaps a little too warm. There was sparkling wine, canapés, Pimm’s. Cecily made a speech thanking everyone. It was very much appreciated.
I suppose you’ll want to know who was there. Well, basically it was the entire staff, including Anton who was the chef, Lionel, Natasha, William (he looked after the grounds), Cecily, Aiden, Lisa, Pauline and myself and, of course, Stefan. I invited very few of the family, although I seem to remember that Pauline’s brother was there. And Aiden’s mother, who was very sweet, looked in for about ten minutes before she went to bed. This was meant to be a hotel event rather than part of the wedding. I could send you a complete list if you want it but there were about twenty-five people in all.
I need to tell you about Stefan and I might as well start by saying that despite everything that happened, I always liked him. I found him quiet, hard-working, polite and, at least as far as I could see, grateful for the opportunity we had given him. Cecily was exactly of my mind. As you know, she defended him quite passionately, at least to start with, and she was terribly disappointed when he confessed to the murder. It was only Lisa who had any doubts about him. She was convinced he was pilfering and it gives me no pleasure at all to acknowledge that in the end she was proved right. I wish now that we’d all listened to her sooner and got rid of Stefan but there’s no point going over all that now.
In fact, Lisa and Stefan had met the day before – that was the Thursday – and she had given him his notice. So by the time he came to the pool party on Friday evening, Stefan knew that he was on his
way out. We were giving him a generous pay-off – three months’ wages – by the way, so he wasn’t exactly going to starve, but even so it may well explain what happened consequently. That evening he got quite drunk. Lionel, the spa manager, had to help him back to his room. Maybe he had already decided that he was going to make up for his loss of salary by stealing from the guests. I don’t know. I don’t know why Lisa had to take the action she did two days before the wedding. It could have been better timed.
One other thing about the party before I move on. Derek Endicott didn’t come. He was in a strange mood that evening. I did try to talk to him but he seemed quite distracted, as if he’d had bad news. I should have mentioned this to you before but I’m only remembering it now as I write everything down. Pauline said he looked as if he’d seen a ghost!
Derek was on duty that night. Pauline and I went home at about half past ten. According to the police, Frank Parris was murdered sometime after midnight, attacked with a hammer in room 12, where he was staying. We knew nothing about that until later.
Pauline and I arrived at the hotel the following day, the day of our daughter’s wedding, at ten o’clock. We had coffee and biscuits with the guests and the service took place in the rose garden, which is on the south side of the house, on the other side of the ha-ha. It took place at midday with the registrar from Suffolk County Council. Lunch was at twelve forty-five in the marquee with a hundred and ten guests arranged over eight tables. There was a fabulous menu. A Thai cashew and quinoa salad, then poached salmon and then a white peach frangipane galette. I was quite nervous because I had to make a speech and I’ve never been very comfortable with public speaking, but as things turned out I never said a word. Nobody did.
The moment I became aware that something was wrong was when I heard someone screaming outside the hotel. The sound was muffled by the canvas but it was still clear that something was very wrong. Then Helen came into the tent. Helen was our head of housekeeping. She was a very reliable, quiet woman and nothing would normally ruffle her feathers, but I could see at once that she was very upset. My first thought was that the hotel must be on fire because there was no earthly reason for her to come in otherwise. At first, she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. She asked me to come with her and although the first course was about to be served, I realised I had no choice.
Natasha was waiting outside and she was in a terrible state, as white as a sheet with tears running down her cheeks. She was the one who had found the body and it was an absolutely horrible sight. Frank Parris had been wearing his pyjamas. He was lying on the bed, not in it, with his head smashed in so that he was unrecognisable. There was blood everywhere as well as bits of bone and all the rest of it. Horrible. Helen had already called the police, which was exactly the right thing to do, but of course as you can imagine that signalled an immediate end to the wedding and sure enough, even as we spoke outside the marquee, I heard the first sirens heading our way from the A12.
It’s almost impossible to describe what happened next. A perfect English wedding was turned, in a matter of minutes, into a total nightmare. Four police cars turned up in the end and we must have had a dozen or more officers and detectives and photographers and forensics swarming over the grounds. The first person to arrive on the scene was a detective inspector called Jane Cregan and I have to say she did a very good job taking charge. Some of the guests were coming out of the tent wondering what was going on and she made them all go inside and then went in and explained something of what had happened.
She was very sensitive to the situation, but the fact was the party was over and nobody was allowed to leave. One minute they were wedding guests, now they were either suspects or potential witnesses and the marquee had become a giant holding pen. The ones I felt most sorry for were Aiden and Cecily, of course. They had a room booked in London and a flight leaving the next day for their honeymoon in Antigua. I talked to Miss Cregan about them being allowed to go. They couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder. Neither of them had even met Frank Parris. Well, briefly, the day before. But it didn’t make any difference. We got the money back on our insurance in the end and they went to the Caribbean a couple of weeks later, but still, it was hardly a great start to married life.
Part of me still wishes that Natasha hadn’t gone into room 12 until later in the day. Maybe Aiden and Cecily could have got away before the body was discovered. Natasha had started work at half past eight and she had gone past room 12 on her way to the Moonflower Wing. At the time, she was sure there had been a ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice on the door and she had decided to leave it until last. When she went back just after one o’clock, the sign wasn’t there. It was actually found in a dustbin further down the corridor. It had been thrown away.
The police did wonder about that. Stefan Codrescu might have placed the sign on the door to disguise what he had done, but when you think about it, there wouldn’t have been any point and why would he have taken it off again later? Later on he denied touching it, although the police found his fingerprints on it along with a tiny sample of Frank Parris’s blood – so he was obviously lying.
To be honest, it’s something I’ve often thought about and it still makes no sense. The sign was there at half past nine and at one o’clock it was in the bin. What possible explanation can there be? Did someone find the body and feel a need to hide it for three and a half hours? Did Stefan feel a need to go back into the room? In the end, the police decided that Natasha must have got it wrong. Unfortunately, you can’t talk to her. She went back to Estonia and I have no idea where she is. I also heard that Helen died a couple of years ago. She had breast cancer. Perhaps DI Cregan can help.
As for Stefan, he had kept a low profile on the day of the wedding. He may have been nursing a hangover, but when I saw him he was sulky and in a bad mood. The toilet off the entrance hall had blocked and he had to deal with it, which wasn’t particularly pleasant, but you might as well know that I felt duty-bound to tell the police that he looked as if he’d been awake half the night. His eyes were bleary with lack of sleep. He had a master key to all the rooms and so it would have been easy for him to enter room 12. And he looked exactly like someone who had just committed a horrible crime and was waiting for the axe to fall.
I hope this helps you. I’m still waiting to hear your thoughts on the book. As to your other request, if you would like to give me your partner’s bank details, I would be happy to send you an advance on the sum that we agreed. Shall we say £2,500?
Best wishes
Lawrence Treherne
PS The name of the guest we moved out of room 12 was George Saunders. He had been the headmaster at Bromeswell Grove secondary school and had come to Suffolk for a reunion. LT
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There were two photographs of Cecily attached, both taken on the day of her wedding.
Lawrence had described his daughter as beautiful and of course, as her father and on that particular day, what other word would he use? But it wasn’t exactly true. She was wearing an ivory wedding dress with a locket of platinum or white gold engraved with a heart and an arrow and three stars. Her naturally blonde hair had been styled immaculately in a way that made me think of Grace Kelly and she was looking past the camera as if she had just caught sight of the perfect happiness that lay ahead and that was to be hers. And yet there was something inescapably ordinary about her. I really don’t want to be cruel. She was an attractive woman. Everything about the photograph suggested to me that she was somebody I would like to have known and still hoped, faintly, to meet.
I suppose all I’m saying is that I could imagine her filling in her tax forms or doing the washing-up and the gardening, but not speeding round a series of hairpin bends in 1950s Monaco in an Aston Martin convertible.
I closed my laptop and walked back to the car. I still had to hit London and then take the North Circular Road all the way round to Ladbroke Grove. Craig Andrews had said he would be home by four to let me in and I wanted to sho
wer and change clothes before dinner at Le Caprice.
I should have spent longer thinking about what I had read. Lawrence’s email contained a great many of the answers to the puzzle. I just hadn’t seen them yet.
Ladbroke Grove
When I was working as an editor, I liked to see where my writers lived and worked. I wanted to know what books they had on their shelves and the art they had on their walls, whether their desks were neat and orderly or a battlefield of notes and discarded ideas. It always irritated me that my most successful author, Alan Conway, never once invited me to the sprawling folly that was Abbey Grange (he’d renamed it after a Conan Doyle short story). I only saw it after he was dead.
I’m not sure that we need to know the life story of an author to appreciate his or her work. Take Charles Dickens, for example. Does it add very much to our enjoyment of Oliver Twist to know that he had himself been a street urchin in London, working at a blacking factory with a boy who happened to be called Fagin? Conversely, when we meet his female characters is it a distraction to recall how badly he treated his first wife? Literary festivals all over the country turn writers into performers and open doors into their private lives that, I often think, would be better left closed. In my view, it’s more satisfying to learn about authors from the work they produce rather than the other way round.
But editing a book is a very different experience from just reading it. It’s a collaboration, and I always saw it as my job to get inside my writer’s head, to share something of the process of creativity. Books may be written in isolation, but their creators are to an extent defined by their surroundings and I always found that the more I knew about them, the more I could help them with what they were trying to achieve.
Moonflower Murders Page 13