Murder at the Laurels - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Gee, thanks.’ Libby felt her insides contract with mortification.

  He looked up quickly. ‘No, I didn’t mean that, Lib. Oh, lord, I’m putting my foot in it again. I meant afterwards. The family kept coming first, and it was all so awful …’

  ‘I know, but I was a bit – well – insensitive about it. I’m the one who put my foot in it.’

  ‘How about we start again, then? Come to Harry’s tonight with me.’

  Libby’s heart jumped. ‘Oh, Ben, I’d love to, but I can’t. Fran’s coming down.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ben looked nonplussed. ‘Well, couldn’t she come, too?’

  ‘She was down the night before last and we went there then.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ben nodded and looked down into the trolley again. ‘How long’s she staying?’

  ‘Her aunt’s just died and she’ll stay until the funeral, I think.’

  Ben raised his eyebrows. ‘Did the aunt live near here?’

  ‘In a home just outside Nethergate. I gather that part of the family came from round here originally.’

  ‘Coincidence. She never mentioned it before, did she?’

  ‘I don’t think she knew before. It’s all come as a bit of a shock to her.’

  ‘Well, how about dinner on Friday, then? That Thai place we went to before? Or we could go to the pub. Their food’s got a lot better, apparently.’

  Libby smiled. ‘OK, thanks. I’d like that. If Fran’s here, I’m sure she won’t mind.’

  ‘The pub?’

  ‘Yes, please. I think I’d prefer to be out of Pete and Harry’s sight line, and it means you don’t have to drive all the way out from Canterbury and back again with me. Or I could drive in and meet you, I suppose.’

  ‘And not have a drink? Heavens above! Wouldn’t think of it.’ He grinned at her, the old teasing Ben once more. ‘And I’ll stay at the Manor for the night so I can drink, too.’

  Libby just stopped herself from saying ‘You can stay with me.’

  ‘See you about seven thirty on Friday, then?’ He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘And lets hope nothing happens this time.’

  ‘Like murder, you mean,’ she said, and could have bitten her tongue out.

  He smiled again, a little crookedly. ‘Yes, like murder.’

  Marion Headlam looked surprised as Charles and Fran walked in through the front door of The Laurels.

  ‘Well, hello again,’ she said. ‘Mrs Castle, isn’t it? I didn’t expect to see you so soon.’

  Fran tried not to look as sheepish as she felt. ‘I just thought I’d keep Charles company,’ she said weakly.

  ‘And we’re going on to see Mrs Denver,’ added Charles. ‘There are things to sort out.’

  ‘Of course.’ Marion Headlam nodded, not a hair on her perfectly groomed head dislodged by the movement. ‘You’ll want to sort out the funeral.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Charles. ‘Have any arrangements been made?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Mrs Denver organised it.’

  ‘Oh? I thought as the executor – and her power-of-attorney –’ Charles was now looking exceedingly grumpy.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wade, but I dealt mostly with Mrs Denver, as you know.’

  ‘I signed all your cheques.’

  Marion Headlam smiled sweetly. ‘Yes, Mr Wade, and, of course, I shall send you the final account.’

  Charles and Fran both looked taken aback.

  ‘Already?’ said Charles.

  ‘We are a business, Mr Wade. Naturally, we won’t pressure you at this sad time, but we have a waiting list for that room.’

  ‘I understood my cousin had cleared it of my aunt’s possessions, so you could let it out right now, surely.’

  ‘Not completely cleared, Mr Wade. There are some clothes left. Perhaps, as you’re here, you and Mrs Castle could take care of that now?’

  Charles opened his mouth, looking put out, and Fran rushed into the breach.

  ‘That might be sensible,’ she said. ‘Of course. Come on, Charles.’

  Marion Headlam left them alone in Aunt Eleanor’s room.

  ‘Bit of a cheek,’ said Charles, as soon as the door had closed.

  ‘No, it isn’t Charles.’ Fran went to the wardrobe, where she’d noticed the few clothes last time. ‘You just said you were the executor. She’s every right to ask you to take stuff away. And as there isn’t much of it left and you live in London, best do it while you’re here. It makes sense.’

  Charles made a sound suspiciously like harrumph, and began to prowl round the room, picking things up and putting them down again. ‘Barbara certainly did a thorough job,’ he said eventually, as Fran continued to lay faded print dresses on the bed. ‘But when did she do it? She left when I did, I’m certain of that, and she seemed too shocked to have come back the same day. And you were here the next day.’

  ‘She must have come in the morning. I didn’t get here until the afternoon.’ Struck by a thought, she swung round to face him. ‘And how come the funeral was arranged so quickly?’

  ‘The efficient Barbara obviously did thatthe next morning, too. What I can’t understand, is why she didn’t phone me first. I was the one with power-of-attorney, and she knew I was the executor.’

  ‘She probably thought she was doing you a favour. After all, she was the one visiting regularly, wasn’t she? And her son?’

  ‘I couldn’t visit regularly. I live in London.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Fran began folding clothes. ‘You’re operating on a double standard, here, Charles. And what did you say to me last night? You didn’t know what to do about the funeral. Well, here it is, all done for you, and you’re still complaining.’

  Charles looked away and went to stand by the french windows.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘I’m being stupid.’ He swung back. ‘I’m sorry I’m behaving badly in front of my long-lost cousin.’

  Fran grinned. ‘Oh, don’t mind me. And I’m not exactly a cousin, anyway, am I?’

  He grinned back. ‘That’s a relief. Couldn’t stand another Barbara.’

  ‘What are we going to put these in? Shall I go and ask for a black bin bag?’ Fran moved to the door.

  ‘I’ll go. I probably need to make my peace with Mrs Headlam,’ said Charles, and went.

  Fran went to the french windows and looked out at the neatly manicured grounds. Nothing was to be seen except fields in the distance, and a few brownish dots she took to be cows. She supposed the road ran somewhere behind the hedge in the middle distance, and, as if to prove her point, the roof of a car appeared skimming along the top of it.

  Since they’d come in to the room, she’d been waiting for a repeat of the suffocating feeling, but nothing had happened. She told herself this meant she’d been imagining it before, but didn’t really believe it. Something had happened, and possibly in this room. Which of course, it had. Aunt Eleanor had died here, and probably many other occupants, too.

  Charles came back with a bin bag. ‘She’s most grateful,’ he said.

  ‘I bet she is,’ said Fran, as she began to slide the garments in to the bag. ‘Nothing else you can see, is there?’

  Charles ran his hand along the sides of the wardrobe and inside the drawers. ‘No. No suspicious bits of paper with cryptic messages. Your magic moment must have been wrong.’

  ‘I was just thinking that. You see, I told you it wasn’t reliable.’

  They loaded the bin bag into the boot of Charles’s car and said goodbye to Marion Headlam, who saw them go with a hint of relief showing on her professional face.

  Blagstock House turned out to be a grey stone building with ambitions to be a castle, set at the bottom of a gravel sweep depressingly bordered by laurels and other gloomy shrubs of Victorian taste. Plenty of room here to hide little old ladies in winceyette nighties.

  Fran recognised Barbara Denver from Libby’s description. Smallish, her fawn-coloured hair smooth against her head and in a neat pleat at the back, her clothes had the look seen at poi
nt-to-points and upmarket beauty counters. This was somebody who wouldn’t take kindly to poverty. Fran tried to imagine her buying her linen skirt in a charity shop, and failed.

  ‘Charles,’ she said, with a slight smile, and offered her cheek to be kissed. ‘And you must be our cousin Frances?’

  ‘Please, just Fran.’ Fran held out her hand. Looking vaguely surprised, Barbara shook it. ‘And I was Uncle Frank’s niece, really, not Aunt Eleanor’s.’

  ‘Oh, but we’re still cousins.’ Barbara ushered them into the hall, which could have been used as it stood for the set of a Victorian melodrama. The drawing room was slightly lighter, decorated mainly in shades of grey and eau-de-nil, which depressed Fran even further.

  ‘Aunt’s funeral,’ began Charles, before he’d even sat down on the shiny silver sofa to which he’d been directed.

  ‘Tea?’ interrupted Barbara, indicating a tray set on a low stool. ‘I’ll just boil the kettle.’

  Charles looked helplessly at Fran as she left the room. ‘This isn’t going to be easy.’

  ‘No. And it’s worse because I’m here. I shouldn’t be.’

  ‘You wanted to be.’

  Fran nodded and looked round the room. Even the weather had turned cloudy now, further increasing the depression factor. She tried to find some kind of intuitive reaction to it, but came to the conclusion that it was simply a dismal place altogether.

  Barbara returned carrying a china teapot, placed it on the tray and sat down next to Charles on the sofa.

  ‘You were saying?’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Headlam tells me you’ve arranged Aunt’s funeral. You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Oh, Charles, I’m sorry. But I saw Aunt regularly, so I assumed you would want me to do it.’

  ‘Even so, you hadn’t thought to inform me afterwards. How would I have known?’

  ‘Paul was supposed to phone you from the office.’ Barbara had the grace to look a little discomfited. ‘I’m sorry if he hasn’t.’

  ‘So what would you have done if I hadn’t been there?’ Charles wasn’t going to let this go, Fran saw.

  ‘I – I – I don’t know.’ Barbara now looked worried. ‘Goodness, how terrible.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it. Perhaps you’d better check with young Paul that he’s done anything else you asked him to do.’

  ‘I will. I’ll call him now.’ She began to get up, but Charles put his hand on her arm.

  ‘Leave it until after we’ve gone.’ She sat down again.

  ‘Now, the other thing is, her will. I know she kept it in her bureau, and you brought that away, didn’t you?’

  She looked even more downcast. ‘Oh dear, was that wrong, too? I just thought Mrs Headlam would need the room cleared as soon as possible.’

  ‘Barbara, I’m her executor, you know that.’ Charles sounded exasperated. ‘And I had power-of-attorney. None of this is strictly to do with you, you know. So fetch me the will and be done with it.’

  She looked at him in silence for a moment. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t there.’

  ‘So you knew where it was kept, too?’

  ‘Well, yes. She told everybody.’

  Charles sighed and stood up. ‘Let’s have a look at the bureau, then.’

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t do that, either,’ she said, now looking definitely uncomfortable. ‘It’s in Paul’s office.’

  ‘It’s where?’

  ‘Well, we didn’t have room for it here. Some of her other stuff is there, too.’

  ‘Barbara, you have no right to do any of this. You’d better organise young Paul to get that stuff taken up to Mountville Road as soon as possible.’

  ‘You don’t want any of it, surely,’ she said, her eyes wide.

  ‘That isn’t the point,’ he said. ‘But I see that you might have done. Or Paul.’

  ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say.’ Barbara was indignant.

  ‘It wasn’t a very nice thing to do, was it? Come on, Fran, we’ll get off. What’s the name of the funeral director?’

  Fran could see Barbara didn’t want to tell him, but knew she had no choice.

  ‘Stallwood and Stallwood in Nethergate,’ she said. ‘They do all The Laurels funerals.’

  ‘Nice for them,’ said Charles. ‘Right, Fran, next stop Stallwood and Stallwood.’

  ‘We never had any tea,’ said Fran as they set off in a spray of gravel to drive into Nethergate.

  ‘What an irritating woman,’ said Charles. ‘Didn’t want her bloody tea.’

  ‘I could see that,’ said Fran, mildly. ‘So now we’re going to the undertakers and then to Paul’s office, are we?’

  Charles looked briefly at her, a startled look on his face. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘It was obvious. You don’t trust either of them, so you want to make sure the bureau is in his office and not hidden away somewhere else.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ said Fran, and settled back comfortably in her seat.

  Chapter Eight

  THE COMFORTABLE AND CARING lady at the reception desk of Stallwood and Stallwood was most accommodating and sympathetic. Mrs Denver was going to produce the death certificate and other paperwork, she understood. Perhaps Mr Wade would be kind enough to clarify the position as soon as he could?

  Cross, Charles set off down Nethergate High Street to find Paul Denver’s office, Fran trailing in his wake.

  ‘Death certificate,’ he said, ‘that means she represented herself as next-of-kin. That’s – that’s – I don’t know, falsification or something, isn’t it? Criminal?’

  ‘No idea,’ panted Fran. ‘How do we find out?’

  ‘From this little bastard,’ muttered Charles, pushing at the glass door of Denver and Denver, Estate Agents. It remained firmly shut.

  ‘Never open, ’e isn’t, love.’ A female head popped out of the newsagent’s next door. ‘Nothing to sell, anyway.’

  A glance in the window confirmed this. A couple of flyblown old pictures of houses with no prices attached were all that indicated the nature of the business.

  ‘You don’t know where we could find him?’ Fran asked.

  The woman shrugged. ‘No idea, love. I don’t move in his circles.’

  ‘Now where?’ said Charles. ‘Back to dear Barbara?’

  ‘I suppose so. We need to find out about this death certificate business. Don’t you have to provide some sort of proof of identity, or something?’

  ‘What happened when your mother died?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. The doctor gave me the medical certificate and I took it to the registrar. There wasn’t any question about who I was or anything. Perhaps it doesn’t matter who does it?’

  Charles looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps that’s the case. And after all, if an old biddy dies somewhere like The Laurels there might not be a next-of-kin handy.’

  ‘I think what we really need is the medical certificate.’

  ‘I never thought of that.’ Charles stopped suddenly. ‘Who signed it? We all left Mrs Headlam in charge. I suppose she got a doctor in.’

  ‘They’ll have a regular doctor there, I should think. Do they have to have a medical certificate before the body can be moved?’

  ‘Oh, lord, I don’t know. Let’s ring her.’

  Back in the car, Charles found The Laurels’ phone number on his mobile. Fran listened to his end of the conversation.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mrs Headlam, but who signed the death certificate for my aunt? Oh, really? Are they allowed to do that?’

  He switched off and turned to Fran.

  ‘It appears that if the doctor treating the deceased isn’t available, the body can be removed by ambulance, and has to be reported to the coroner. Stallwood and Stallwood are probably expecting the certificate to be sent to Barbara to go and get the death certificate from the registrar.’

  ‘So the funeral couldn’t possibly go ahead yet?’ said Fran, surprised.
r />   ‘I don’t think so. We need to find out from Barbara. Come on.’

  A low-slung silver sports car sat on the drive of Blagstock House when they returned.

  ‘Paul,’ said Charles. ‘Watch out for fireworks.’

  It took a long time for Barbara to open the door, and when she did, she looked flushed and nervous.

  ‘I didn’t expect you back,’ she said, although not expecting to be believed, if Fran was any judge.

  A young man appeared behind her, smiling determinedly.

  ‘Charles,’ he said, ‘and Cousin Fran. Good to see you.’

  Oh, yeah, thought Fran.

  ‘Paul.’ Charles nodded. ‘Barbara, we need to talk. I’m afraid you’ve led us up the garden path. May we come in?’

  Paul took his mother by the shoulders and moved her aside. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Do come in, both of you. I gather you didn’t get any tea on your last visit? Shall we make some more?’

  ‘No, thanks. We’d just like a chat.’ Charles went straight past mother and son into the drawing room, where the abandoned tea tray still sat. Fran followed, getting a whiff of something sharp and expensive as she sidled past Paul.

  ‘The funeral isn’t booked, Barbara,’ began Charles, standing in front of the empty fireplace like a Victorian squire. ‘I thought you said it was.’

  Barbara looked as though she might faint. Paul pushed her into a chair and turned to face Charles.

  ‘She isn’t playingat anything, Charles. I’m sure, if you’ve been to see Stallwood and Stallwood you know the position.’

  ‘I gather Marion Headlam had the body removed and because Aunt Eleanor wasn’t being attended by a doctor, the coroner had to be informed before a death certificate could be issued. So why not tell me this in the first place?’

  And that was the idea, thought Fran. They didn’t want Charles to know anything about it. Startled, she looked at Charles. He flicked a glance at her and looked back at Barbara. Her colour had returned, but her eyes were wide, and Fran could swear she could see her heart beating fast beneath her pale blue cardigan.

  ‘Barbara, there must be an explanation for all this,’ she said gently. ‘You removed all Aunt Eleanor’s things without permission and tried to keep the facts from Charles. And me, for that matter.’