"Nothing. Just Satis House."
Libby and Fran looked at each other.
"What can we do about it?" asked Fran eventually.
"Mum said you can talk to people." There was the faint suggestion of a whine in Estella's voice.
Libby sighed. "We can talk to people on our own turf. We don't know anyone here. Or anything about the area."
"I'm honestly sorry," said Fran, trying to sound sympathetic, "but we aren't professional investigators."
"Even if there's anything to investigate," pointed out Libby. "I know it's odd that he had the name of your beach hut in his pocket. But it could have been a route reminder, like 'Turn left at Satis House'. Or someone could have told him to look out for its fine Tudor beams," she added, momentarily sidetracked. "Anyway, the police won't have dropped a recent investigation yet."
Estella shrugged. "Haven't seen them." She looked sulky.
Libby knew that look. Her son Adam had worn it when he swore it was someone else's fault that he hadn't done his homework. He had grown out of it, she reminded herself. So would Estella.
"Have you asked them?"
Estella shook her head.
"They'll be doing a lot of work behind the scenes, you know," she said kindly. "Just think of all those TV shows—you've seen how much the police do that isn't actually at the scene of the incident." Libby knew that this was slightly misleading, but it was true that there was a lot more done out of sight of the public—mostly boring.
"Why not call them if you're worried?" asked Fran reasonably. "I'm sure they gave you a business card with a number to get in touch with them."
Estella nodded but didn't otherwise answer.
Fran looked at her searchingly. "Are you afraid to call them, Estella? Why—?"
But the girl interrupted. She had lost all colour and her hands were trembling. "Because everyone's saying it's murder!"
Chapter Two
"This begins to make sense at last," said Libby.
Fran said, "When you say everyone, who do you mean, Estella? Clearly not the police. So who's saying it? The paper boy? The village shop? Or have you had the local newspaper ring you up and ask for an interview?"
"No-o-o," Estella wailed. "They wouldn't do that, would they? They can't. I couldn't bear it." And she began to sob.
Fran got up and put her arms round the weeping girl.
Libby rummaged in her bag and handed over a helpful tissue. "Crumpled but clean," she said.
Estella took it and blew her nose gratefully. "I'm not really sure," she said at last. "It just seems to be on the grapevine."
"There you are, then. It's gossip. You'll only find out what's really going on from the police. Why don't you ring up whoever's name is on the card and ask? The body was found more or less on your property, so you've got a right." Libby also knew that this didn't necessarily carry much weight, but it was worth a try.
Estella sighed and slid off the table. "The card's back at home," she said. "Will you come with me? I've actually made up the beds in the annex for you, in case you want to stay." She looked at them both hopefully.
Fran looked at Libby. "Let's see what the police say and we can discuss it," she said. "Come on."
"This is more like it," murmured Libby as they pulled up outside a substantial stone house just outside Little Piddling itself.
"Welcome to Manor Farm," said Estella, after extricating herself from the back of the car.
"This is Manor Farm?" said Fran in surprise. "Where your grandmother lived?"
"Yes." Estella shrugged, turned and went up the shallow steps to the front door.
The hallway was wide, dark and slightly forbidding. Designed to impress, thought Libby, distinctly not.
"Definitely the house of a gentleman farmer," she said.
"You could say that." Estella didn't look at them.
Libby looked at Fran and raised her eyebrows. Fran shook her head.
"Come through to the annex." Estella smiled briefly over her shoulder, and led the way down an equally dark passage next to the staircase. At the end of this, a half-glazed door opened onto a glassed-in walkway that led in turn to another, small building.
"This is the annex," said Estella, opening the door straight into a pristine sitting room, complete with three-piece suite, stone-effect mock fireplace and large television.
"It's a mobile home," said Libby in surprise.
Estella coloured. "They're called residential park homes these days," she said.
"Why have you got one here?" asked Fran. "And attached to the house?"
Estella sighed. "Sit down," she said, waving at the sofa, while she subsided into an armchair. "I'd better tell you all about it."
For a moment she was quiet, staring at the carpet.
"I told you Granny Joan lived here. Well, she first came here during the war, as a land girl."
"It was still a working farm, then?" said Libby.
"Yes. She was very young." Estella stopped again. "It's a bit complicated, actually. My grandparents left together. They—um—weren't married. It caused a bit of a rumpus at the time."
"But then they came back?" said Fran, after another pause.
"Well…" Estella cleared her throat. "Grandpa Clive's mother sent for Granny Joan. When she heard about the baby, I think. And she needed help on the farm."
"Did your great-grandfather die?" suggested Libby helpfully.
"Yes," said Estella gratefully. "I don't think Grandpa Clive can have been around much, because his mother and Granny Joan always ran the farm together. There are photographs of them haymaking in the family album and there aren't any men around. Just my dad as a little boy."
"And your dad?" asked Fran.
"Oh, he died when I was very young. He was quite a lot older than Mum. She must have told you."
"Richard?" hazarded Fran.
Estella nodded. "Yes, that's right."
"I don't think we met. Cora didn't mention him when we spoke yesterday. And I haven't seen or heard much of her since we last worked together. So what happened then? Did you come back to live here after your dad died? I was under the impression that your mum didn't live here."
"No, she never has. As long as I can remember, the farm was going downhill and Granny Joan wasn't really coping, by the end. She left the estate to me when she died last year. My solicitor advised me to sell it, but I couldn't bear to."
"So what happened? The house looks very well maintained," said Libby.
"Well…" Estella took a deep breath. "The solicitor found me a white knight. That's what he called him. Arthur Strange. He owns The Old Barge pub. He had this idea of turning Manor Farm into a residential park homes village."
"Oh!" Libby sat back on the sofa. "Well, actually, on the face of it, that's quite a good idea. It would save the farm."
"It did." Estella looked a trifle defeated. "He bought all the homes and paid for the landscaping, and for all the services to be connected."
"And the licences? You have to have licences," said Fran.
"All of that." Estella nodded. "The solicitor deals with everything but—"
"Strange takes the lion's share of any profits?" said Fran shrewdly.
Estella nodded sadly. "I was in a panic. It seemed the only way out."
Libby was frowning. "Surely you don't think he had anything to do with this body?"
"I didn't. I just thought the body was some poor rambler who had lost his way and had a seizure or something. But if it's murder…" She looked scared again and said in a rush, "Well, I suppose it might be connected."
"Connected to what?"
Estella wriggled in her chair. "Well, then… Oh, I don't know. Mr Strange wanted to buy Satis House. He was really annoyed when he found it was mine, not part of the estate he'd leased. And then he started turning up here all the time. He'd never bothered much before. He does more at The Old Barge—acts as Mine Host, if you know what I mean."
"We do." Libby grinned at Fran. "We're seasoned pub goers. So this blok
e started turning up here. What—and started poking his nose in?"
Now Estella was frowning. "A bit. Mostly just hanging around the office."
"Can't be bothered with the nitty-gritty, eh?" said Libby.
Estella sighed. "No. He doesn't even handle the sales. I do all that—I'm just the agent."
"Doesn't sound very fair." Libby scowled.
Estella looked uneasy. "His solicitor arranged a sort of agreement." She gave herself a little shake and sat up straight. "So do you think the—er—body could be anything to do with us at the residential homes park village?"
"Let's just ask the police what progress they've made first," said Fran. "Then we can see if there's anything we can do."
Estella left Fran and Libby in the mobile home, where they found double and twin bedrooms and two bathrooms.
"Quite swish, really," said Libby. "How about a cup of tea while we review the situation?"
"I'd like to get a look at the site first," said Fran. "Did Estella say we were near a river?"
"No!" said Libby in surprise. "Where did you get that from?"
"I don't know." Fran frowned. "Perhaps it was the name of the pub—The Old Barge, wasn't it?"
"Oh, yes. Probably," said Libby, eyeing Fran a little warily. She had that look she got when one of her hunches struck her. "Do you want to go and have a look?"
"Yes." Fran was decisive. "Did she say this Strange had chosen Manor Farm because it was near the pub?"
"No... But I suppose I took it that it was the main motivation. Estella didn't actually say, though, did she?"
"Let's go and look."
Fran led the way out through the French doors onto the veranda that ran along the side and front of the home.
The main "village" appeared to be on the other side of Estella's annex, but Fran led them over a piece of rough ground and up a slight bank.
"Well, I expect it was a river," said Libby, looking down on a nettle-filled ditch.
"And that would be The Old Barge," said Fran.
On the other side of the ditch stood a low, whitewashed building, looking like everybody's vision of the idyllic country pub. A few wooden tables were dotted outside. There was no sign of life.
"Hmm," said Fran. "Let's go and look at these—I don't know—bungalows? Units? What do we call them?"
"Park homes, I think, officially. They're quite well appointed, if ours is anything to go by."
"No room for book shelves," said Fran, dismissively.
"Well, no..." Libby began, as she slithered back down the bank in her friend's wake.
Fran led the way back to the annex and round the side, where they met a path leading to a cluster of more homes. Landscaped to within an inch of its life, the set-up struck Libby as too sterile for words, but she supposed it would suit those with an excessively tidy mind.
"No clues," she said. "Now can we review the situation?"
Fran sighed, nodded and went back into the annex.
"What do we know?" asked Libby, going to fill the kettle in the smart open-plan kitchen area.
"About Estella?" said Fran. "Well, it appears her Granny Joan lived at Manor Farm and left it to her. Satis House was left separately, so if the estate had to be sold or rented out, Satis House wouldn't go with it."
"And Joan had Estella's dad out of wedlock, although the family came round." Libby found a couple of mugs and teabags and stood looking at the mugs thoughtfully while the tea brewed. "Actually," she said finally, "I don't see what on earth it's got to do with this body. Or with this business bloke—what was his name?"
"Arthur Strange," supplied Fran. "No, neither do I. And I don't see how we're going to make sense of any of it, anyway."
"Or why," said Libby, adding milk to the mugs, "Estella is so bothered by it all."
"I suppose it's nastier having a murder victim found outside your beach hut than if the poor chap just had a seizure or something."
"Maybe. Perhaps he'd simply been told to meet someone outside Satis House. After all, it stands out, doesn't it? And it's isolated from the main town."
"True." Libby handed over a mug and sat down in one of the armchairs. "The police have probably found out more by now and just haven't bothered to tell Estella. Do you think she'll come back and tell us?"
"I expect so. Are we going to stay here?"
"Must we?" Libby sighed. "I can't see that it's going to make any difference."
"Mmm." Fran frowned, clearly still uneasy. "Let's wait and see what the police say."
A sharp rap on the French doors, and Estella came in, looking flustered.
"What's up?" asked Libby, sitting up straight in her chair.
"The police." Estella collapsed on to the sofa.
"What?" said Fran, when the girl fell silent. "You got through, then?"
"Eventually. The one who had given me their card wasn't there—or wasn't taking calls, at any rate—but they put me through to someone else in the end."
"And what did he say?" asked Libby.
"It was odd." Estella scowled down at her hands. "First of all he said the investigation was on-going, but there wasn't anything he could tell me at the moment."
"And then?" prompted Fran.
"Then he seemed to change his mind. He said he was going to ask his sergeant and he would call me back."
Libby raised her eyebrows. "Sounds to me as if he just wasn't sure if there was anything he was allowed to tell you."
Fran nodded agreement. She looked tense. Libby wasn't surprised. It had just got a lot more likely that the poor body really had been murdered. And Fran's bad feeling seemed to be getting worse.
"Does it?" Estella looked from one to the other. "But do you think that means there is something to tell?"
"Probably not much," said Libby, with a shrug.
"Tell me, Estella—" Fran leant forward, elbows on her knees "—why are you so concerned about this? And why do you think it has something to do with your grandmother?"
Both Estella and Libby sent her startled looks.
"I—er—I don't." Estella looked uncomfortable.
"But you told us all about your grandmother inheriting Manor Farm and Satis House."
"I-I was just explaining how it—um—had come to me."
"In case it had some bearing on the body and the reason he was where he was?"
Estella was silent for a long moment, staring beseechingly at Fran. "Yes," she said at last.
Fran sat back in her chair and nodded. "And why did you think that?"
"Oh, hell!" Estella burst out suddenly. "I didn't think this would be so difficult. I thought you could just come to Little Piddling and ask some questions. Mum said that's what you do."
"We've already explained," said Libby, with a sigh. "We don't know anybody round here, we know nothing about the town and we wouldn't have any idea of what questions to ask—or to who."
"We don't have the authority of the police, you know," said Fran, more gently. "Now just tell us why this is important."
"You think it was murder. Don't lie to me. I can see you do."
"Possibly. You'll know soon enough when the police call you back. But apart from having the name of your beach hut on him, why should the victim have anything to do with you?"
"I just said to Fran, perhaps it was just the venue for a meeting," put in Libby.
Fran said suddenly, "Does your Satis House have some special significance?"
"Er—" Estella now looked confused.
"If," said Libby, with sudden inspiration, "it was to do with something in Granny Joan's past, or even earlier, your body wouldn't have known the beach hut was called that, would he? You told us you named it when you were young."
"I called it that when I was little," said Estella. "I used to pretend…"
"And I don't see what it would have to do with a present-day crime," said Libby. "Too small and too inconvenient."
"I think," said Fran, standing up, "that we'll stay for a day or two."
Libby s
ighed inwardly. Well, she'd known Fran was going to stick with this to the end, hadn't she?
"We'll get our bags in, and then sort out where to have dinner," she said. "And you can tell us a bit more about your family history. There's more to it than you've told us so far, isn't there?"
"All right." Estella stood up reluctantly. "But I'll get your bags."
"No," said Libby. "We will. And then we'll make a reservation at The Old Barge for dinner. What do you think?"
"We might see Mr Strange..."
"Oh, that'll be fine," said Libby brightly. "I'd like to see him, anyway."
Bags brought in, Libby and Fran tossed for the double bedroom (Fran won) and Libby looked through the various brochures left for visitors about local amenities. The Old Barge was attractively portrayed and promised a quiet atmosphere among beautiful surroundings.
"Including a silted-up riverbed," said Libby, as she punched the number into her phone.
"Seven-thirty," she said, five minutes later. "I should have asked how we get across the ditch, shouldn't I? They surely don't expect us to climb across?"
"There's got to be some form of easy access," said Fran. "If Strange is promoting Manor Farm as a sort of adjunct to the pub. Estella will know."
Estella did know.
Chapter Three
"He's built a sort of wooden bridge just a little way up from us," said Estella, leading them along the bank later that evening. "The road round Manor Farm leads directly up to it, this end."
The park homes petered out after about fifty yards, and the tarmac led, sure enough, to a rustic-looking wooden walkway across the ditch.
"It's not too obviously modern," said Libby. "Does it fit with the rest of the town? We haven't seen any of it yet, remember."
"You can have a look round tomorrow," said Estella. "If you want to, that is. Not that there's much to see. Sir Hereward's sign at the end of the prom, the Jubilee Gardens and Sir Copson's statue. The pier, I suppose, although it's not like Brighton or Hastings."
"Who's Sir Hereward?" asked Libby. "And Sir Copson?"
"Oh, Sir Hereward's some councillor at the beginning of the last century, I think," said Estella, leading the way up to The Old Barge's heavy oak door. "And Sir Copson is famous for getting lost in India or Africa or somewhere at about the same time. I can't remember where."
Beach Hut Surprise: Escape to Little Piddling this summer — six feel-good beach reads to make you smile, or even laugh out loud Page 13