"I wonder if Estella does," said Libby. "She was here a lot as a kid, wasn't she? I think we ought to ask her. Time she started talking."
Fran regarded her friend with a frown. "You're right. I'll ring her now."
Libby stood up and wandered round the sitting room.
Fran said into her phone, "Estella? Oh, hi—are you busy? We were just wondering if you could spare a moment to talk to us about Joan…? No, we just thought, if we are to go on looking into this whole business, we ought to get a feeling for the Hope family. Perhaps we could come up to the house…? Yes, fine, we'll be there in five minutes." She put down the phone. "She was a bit reluctant—"
"Surprise, surprise."
"—but she said yes. Finished your tea?"
Ten minutes later, Fran and Libby were sitting at Estella's kitchen table facing a very uncomfortable-looking Estella.
"We have rather a lot of questions," said Libby.
"And we'd like to start with Grandpa Clive," said Fran. "What happened to him after the war?"
Estella looked blank. "I don't know."
"Did Granny Joan leave any papers behind? Anything that might tell you?"
"Well..." said Estella after a pause.
"Come on, Estella," said Libby robustly. "We said we'll help and we will. But we can just as easily give up now and go home."
There was another silence.
"I notice," said Fran, slowly, "that you haven't asked us what your family history has got to do with this murder. So you think there's a connection, too, don't you? What is it you're not telling us, Estella?"
"Oh, God." Estella had gone perfectly white. She looked terrified.
Fran and Libby exchanged a startled glance.
"Have you told the police?" Estella whispered.
Fran put an arm round the shaking girl. "Of course not. But you'd better get it off your chest."
"Yes," said Libby, who was beginning to suspect that she knew what Estella's secret was. "It's eating you up. I can see it." She fished in her bag to hold another paper tissue in readiness.
The story was very simple and rather sad. Estella had known the murder victim, after all.
"I knew it," muttered Libby.
Fran frowned. Estella didn't seem to hear. She took the proffered tissue but instead of mopping her eyes, she twisted and twisted it, staring down as if it mesmerized her.
She'd first met him the Monday before his body was found. She always banked any cash and cheques on Mondays and she bumped into him outside the bank. He asked her for directions and, when she showed him the way to the cliff path on the map, he wanted to buy her a coffee to say thank you.
Fran and Libby looked at each other. It was clear that this was a novel situation for Estella.
"I didn't really know him," said Estella. "He said to call him Dave. He was nice enough. But pushy—you know?"
"We know," said Libby kindly.
"I just didn't quite trust him. He asked me to meet him later, for a drink in the pub. I couldn't think of an excuse and—well—he made me feel silly. So I agreed."
Fran was worried. "And did you meet him?"
Estella shook her head violently. "No. Oh, I was going to. Just to say that I had to work that evening and couldn't stay. But when I set off—"
"Yes?" they both said, impatient.
"Well, I was down in the dried-up river bed. It's quite overgrown in places. I suppose I was hidden. I saw Dave on the skyline and I thought, oh dear, and was going to hide. Only then I saw Arthur Strange. They'd obviously arranged to meet. They didn't look like friends, though. Arthur just gave him an envelope. And then they laughed."
"And you thought they were laughing about you," said Libby, in quick sympathy.
Estella nodded. "I waited until they'd gone and then I went back home. I locked the door," she added.
"Very sensible," said Fran.
Estella looked at her gratefully. "And then the next day the police came and said a body had been found beside Satis House. And would I come and see if I could identify it. And it was him." She looked sick. "I probably should have said that I'd met him. But I was scared. And I didn't know who he was, did I? So that's what I said."
Libby and Fran looked at each other. Both knew that Estella was going to have to tell the police that she'd met Dave and seen Strange talking to him. But she wasn't ready to hear that yet.
Libby said, "What about the paper in his pocket with Satis House written on it? You didn't give it to him?"
Estella looked appalled. "No. I can't understand that at all. When he asked me about the cliff path, he didn't even know where Piddling Point was. I was supposed to meet him in the pub."
Libby looked at Fran. "Maybe Arthur Strange gave it to him."
"It's a possibility," said Fran cautiously.
"I didn't like him," said Estella suddenly. "Dave, I mean. I know I'm shy—I was always the girl nobody picked for their team—but he sort of took me over as if I was nothing."
Libby looked at her with sudden approval. This shrewdness was unexpected. "Is it possible that he was lying in wait for you when you came out of the bank?" she asked.
"Why…? You think he deliberately set out to pick me up?" Estella sat up straighter. "Yes, it's definitely possible. Lots of people in Little Piddling could have told him my routine." She looked a lot happier suddenly. "So I wasn't just being paranoid?"
"Probably not," said Libby.
"My mother says I'm paranoid."
"It sounds to me as if you have damn good instincts," said Fran, keeping her feelings about Cora's maternal advice to herself.
Estella almost beamed. Instead she said, "But you wanted to ask me about family history. I don't know much. Though I do know that Little Piddling didn't approve of Granny Joan having a baby out of wedlock."
Libby nodded. "Did she tell you?"
"She didn't have to. I spent a lot of my childhood here, remember. She was a sort of pariah. And so was I."
Fran clicked her tongue sympathetically.
Estella took a deep breath. "The town didn't like it much when she came back here. Or when she inherited, either. There was some massive row after the war. Local rumour says that Grandpa Clive stamped out and Old Mrs Hope changed her will the next day. So Granny Joan got the lot."
"So..." said Fran slowly, "you think the murder has something to do with you? Because you've now inherited?"
"But I don't see why!" Estella sounded almost defiant. "The farm was so run down when Joan died that it was losing money. That's why I thought I was so lucky when Arthur Strange made me the offer. At least, I did at the time."
Libby heaved a sigh.
"Estella—" Fran stood up "—are you afraid that something about Joan will come out if the investigation into the murder goes on? Something disreputable?"
Estella stared at Fran. She was a rabbit-in-the-headlights again. She didn't say anything.
Fran went on, but gently, "Some old scandal that you thought you'd put behind you?"
"Look," said Libby with patience, "you didn't trust that Dave. You thought he had an ulterior motive. I'd say you were on to something. So what if this is all rooted in the past, like Fran thinks? What if someone else comes here on the same errand as Dave?"
Estella recoiled. "No!" she shouted.
And she jumped up and shot out of the room.
Chapter Seven
"Oh dear," said Libby guiltily. "That didn't come off, did it? Not quite the reaction I expected."
Fran was looking thoughtful. "I think you may have spelled out exactly what Estella is frightened of."
"Ouch. Poor girl."
Fran was philosophical. "Better out than in. She was going to have to face it at some point."
"But what do we do now? Come on Fran, time for one of your 'moments'." Libby leant forward across the table.
Fran smiled. But they both knew that she couldn't call up one of her intermittent flashes of psychic intuition to order. "I think she'll get over it. Hope so, any
way."
"So we just sit and twiddle our thumbs until she comes back?" said Libby, dissatisfied.
Fran grinned. "Yes. Or until the chippie opens. Whichever comes first." And she started to tap away at her phone again.
Libby prowled round Estella's kitchen, opening cupboards. Queenie the cat ate the same food as Sidney and looked as if she had a Dreamies habit. There were a lot of postcards propped up on the mantel over the old kitchen range. Whatever the residents might be like, lots of visitors wrote friendly thank-you notes to Estella, it seemed.
"Oh," said Fran suddenly.
Libby put a postcard of Windsor Castle back. "What?"
"I've found Primly Court. It looks as if it's owned by some City Chap now. But the local history society has a fair bit on its website." Fran was clicking through web pages. "It was a school in the 70s. And— No, hang on. It was requisitioned by the Army in 1941. Looks as if it was pretty much wrecked by them."
Libby went and peered over Fran's shoulder at sepia-tinted pictures of devastation. "Ouch. I read a book about that. Everyone dreaded having their stately homes requisitioned. The Army were the worst of the lot. Used Van Dycks as a dart board and drank the cellar dry, apparently."
Fran had pulled out her notes. "1941… 1941… Yes, here it is. September. Frederick Ethelred dies. Hmm."
But the kitchen door opened and they both looked up. Estella was back. She was carrying an old biscuit tin.
"Here," Estella said, seating herself at the table. "This is Granny Joan's box." She looked up. "She gave me this just before she died."
"When was that?" asked Libby gently.
"Last year. She—um—she was tired. Well, she was well over 90 and she had pneumonia. She kept falling asleep. But she was making sense. She said—" Estella swallowed, then went on bravely, "She said not to look in here until I was ready." She pushed the box across the table.
Fran opened it. Estella sat back, clearly not wanting to look.
"Photographs?" asked Libby, who'd seen biscuit tins like that before.
Fran investigated the contents with care. "And papers. And press cuttings. And… Is that a bunch of heather?"
The photographs were all small, dog-eared, black-and-white and of what appeared to be family groups.
"Who are they?" asked Fran, showing one to Estella. She pointed to a girl in a summer dress and sandals, standing next to a grumpy-looking younger boy beside a farm gate.
Estella didn't touch it but looked at the photograph cautiously. "That must be Amy."
"Amy?" repeated Fran and Libby together.
"Amy Hope," said Estella. "Grandpa Clive's sister."
"So that's Clive?" asked Libby after a pause.
Estella nodded.
"What happened to them?" asked Fran. "Did they die?"
Estella looked evasive. "Why do you say that?"
"Well, we haven't heard of Amy before. And I can't find a death certificate for Clive."
"Is it important?" Estella kept her eyes down.
Libby rolled her eyes. But Fran said kindly, "It may be."
"I don't know what happened to Amy. I think she went into the Wrens. She'd gone before Granny Joan got here."
"And Grandpa Clive? Come on, full story," said Libby.
"Granny Joan said his mother spoilt him," said Estella unexpectedly. "Every time he got into trouble, she made excuses. Said he'd got into bad company."
"Bit of a wide boy, was he?" Libby guessed.
Estella looked bewildered. "Granny Joan told me that when his father threw Clive out, she went with him because she wanted to get back to London. He left her almost at once. Then she found she was pregnant. After the baby was born, she sent Clive a letter telling him he had a son and she was going to call him Richard."
"Where did she send the letter?" asked Libby.
Estella nodded, as if she made a good point. "To Manor Farm. She assumed Clive would slink home when he ran out of money."
"He sounds charming," said Fran.
"Only old Mrs Hope opened the letter. She came up to London. Found Granny Joan and begged her to bring the baby home to the farm." Estella was lost in memories for a moment. "Granny never said so, but she must have been desperate, because she said yes."
"Understandable," said Fran.
"I suppose so." Estella came back to the present. "You know the rest. Old Mrs Hope took Joan in on condition my dad was brought up as a Hope."
"Interesting," said Fran. "Joan had already registered Richard as Hope, with Clive named as his father. I can show you the certificate online."
Estella surprised them by beaming. "Oh, that is so like my Granny Joan. She was very straight. 'Tell the truth and shame the devil', she used to say." Her eyes filled suddenly. "I miss her."
Fran patted her shoulder.
"So what happened to Grandpa Clive? Did he die in the bombing?" asked Libby.
Estella looked surprised. "Oh no. He used to come back to Manor Farm from time to time. My dad met him a couple of times, as a boy. Then there was a massive row and he was never seen again."
Fran and Libby looked at each other.
"I think you may find what happened to Grandpa Clive in Granny Joan's box, Estella," Fran said. "Would you like us to go through it with you?"
There was a silence.
Then Estella was suddenly decisive. "Yes. Yes, I would. I've been a wimp. Granny Joan would be ashamed of me. Let's look now."
They spread the contents out across the table. There were about two dozen photographs, some yellowing press cuttings, two long narrow envelopes and a hard-backed notebook, with a red cloth spine.
"Very 1940s," said Libby, whose grandmother had been a hoarder.
Estella opened it. There were pages of closely written prose. "Oh. It's Granny Joan's writing. I didn't know she'd written a book."
But it was more than a book, as it turned out. It was a diary.
More than that. It was evidence.
Chapter Eight
They extended the kitchen table to fit it all in.
"We need a timeline," said Libby, moving round the table like a 1940s Air Force plotter. "Where do we start? Granny Joan's diary?"
"Might as well," said Fran. "Estella?"
Estella was in charge of the notebook. She skipped back to the beginning. "She says she got to Manor Farm in October 1939. She was sixteen but she lied about her age. Nobody cared."
Estella had brought in some blank record cards from the Manor Farm office. Fran wrote the details down on one and put it at the far end of the table.
"Then what?"
Estella was speed-reading. "She stays for Christmas, because she hasn't any family. Clive goes off to London and there's a huge row when he gets back. His dad says he's been gambling and threatens to throw him out." She looked up. "It sounds as if the row frightened her. She says, 'I told the Land Army woman I wouldn't stay if the men were too free with their fists. And I won't.'"
"Sounds heartfelt," said Fran, writing it down and giving the card to Libby.
Libby put the card at the end of the table. "Maybe Clive didn't have a fling with Joan at all. Maybe his father threw him out for some other reason."
"You could be right," said Fran, much struck. "Maybe they got together later. What next?"
Estella thumbed her way through farming activities. "Ah. Primly Court has been requisitioned. The family only has 48 hours to clear out. The Women's Institute rally round to help and Mrs Hope organizes a roster." Estella looked up. "There should be a list somewhere of what went where and how it got there."
Fran hunted round.
"One of the long envelopes?" suggested Libby.
She was right. There were five foolscap sheets of accounting paper, covered in meticulous spidery writing.
"Joan helps ring round to find petrol. Only gets a bit. So they pack up anything small enough into parcels and people on bikes take it to where it's got to go."
"I'm beginning to see the light," said Libby. "Clive was one of the c
yclist couriers, right?"
Estella turned pages fast. "Doesn't say. Oh, hang on. There's a note here in pencil. Yes, I think you must be right, Libby."
Fran flourished one of the press cuttings. "Here we are. 'Thieves at Large. Mr Clive Hope of Manor Farm was riding his bicycle on the Piddling Magna Road on Thursday evening, when he was set upon by two thugs and his bicycle was stolen. Mr Hope was found unconscious and is now recovering at home.'"
"Ho yus?" said Libby. She had taken against Clive in a big way. "What date is that?"
Fran peered at the very top of the cutting. "1940, 25th August, I think." She picked up another card and scribbled it down.
"Two thugs, my eye," said Libby trenchantly. "What if shifty Clive made off with the small valuables and threw his bike in the hedge? That could be why his dad kicked him out the following month."
"Possible," said Fran, giving the card to Plotter Libby to place on their timeline column. "What's next, Estella?"
The girl was looking stunned. "Oh. Um. An Inspector comes. Farmer Hope complains that he keeps having to fill in forms. He and Clive argue. Joan asks to go to the pictures. Mrs Hope agrees, but Farmer Hope says they have to keep working while it's light. He's in a bad temper all the time." She turned the page. "Oh. Oh no." She snapped the notebook shut and almost threw it at Libby. "You read it. I can't. I just can't."
Fran put her arm round Estella.
"He hit her, Fran." The girl was shaking.
Libby said, "Why don't you make her some tea? I'll have a quick read of this."
It wasn't quick, but eventually Estella had calmed down, Fran had gone through the loose papers in the box and Libby had enough markers in the notebook to make sense of events.
"Farmer Hope said Joan was a lazy baggage. And he hit her."
Estella gulped.
Fran patted her absently but said, "He must have been at the end of his tether. When, Libby?"
"Fifth of September. Joan left the next day, telling Mrs Hope why. Clive went with her. She was grateful but surprised. No, definitely not lovers—at that stage, anyway."
Fran scribbled and added the card to the timeline.
Beach Hut Surprise: Escape to Little Piddling this summer — six feel-good beach reads to make you smile, or even laugh out loud Page 16