Murder at the Laurels - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

Libby looked thoughtful. ‘I bet there’s a way. And I bet that’s what they’ll think. Maybe not seriously, but as a relative, and with no will in sight …’

  ‘Oh, that bloody will. If it wasn’t for that, this would all be perfectly simple.’ Fran moved her mug out of reach as Sidney inserted himself on to her lap.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly,’ said Libby. ‘Murder’s never simple. Look at …’

  ‘I know, look at Paula. But this is different, Libby. This isn’t a crime passionel, or whatever you call it. It’s a … well, it’s a …’

  ‘Murder for money?’ said Libby, looking at her over the rim of her mug. ‘Because that’s what it is, Fran. Why else would the old lady be bumped off? Therefore, it has to be a relative. There’s no one else in the frame, is there?’

  ‘There might be.’ Fran bridled. ‘There’s the Headlam for a start. She thinks she was left something in the will. Perhaps The Laurels is in debt. Then there could be all sorts of people I don’t know about from her London days; other relatives, Charles’s daughter, Kate, for instance.’

  ‘All of whom might think they’d got something in the will?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not that far-fetched, is it?’

  ‘No, and I’m sure our Mr Murray will have started looking in to all that. But meanwhile, he’s got the people here on the ground, as you might say. You, Charles, Barbara and Paul. And the Headlam. We ought to start with them.’

  ‘What do you mean, we ought to start with them?’

  ‘Investigating, of course. After all, it’s in your interests, isn’t it?’

  Chapter Twelve

  LIBBY WAS SAVED FROM phoning Peter to ask about the flat when he and Harry turned up a little later to ask how the inquest had gone.

  ‘What a trial, dear heart,’ said Harry, squeezing himself in beside Libby on the sofa, while Peter sat on the floor in front of the empty hearth. ‘Don’t know how you stood it. We didn’t have one of those, did we, Lib?’

  ‘I don’t know whether we did or not,’ said Libby, ‘but this one was very short. No problems, were there, Fran?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ said Fran.

  ‘But we’re going to have to find out a bit more …’ began Libby, before being howled down by Peter and Harry.

  ‘Remember last time,’ said Peter.

  ‘Yes, but Fran’s being interviewed by the police tomorrow. By one of our friends.’

  ‘Mr Plod? Or the little Ploddette?’ said Harry, interested.

  ‘No, dear Donnie Murray himself. He’s coming here in the morning.’

  ‘So you’re not going back up to London, yet?’ said Peter.

  ‘No,’ began Fran.

  ‘That’s what I was wondering, you see,’ broke in Libby. ‘I mean, she could stay here, but she’s actually thinking she might move down, and so while she was thinking about it, and while she’s got to be here anyway, because of this murder …’

  ‘Slow down, you old trout,’ said Peter, patting her knee. ‘Of course she can borrow the flat. You only had to ask.’

  Libby beamed, first at Peter, then at Fran and finally at Harry. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Hal?’

  ‘Course not.’ He grinned over at Fran. ‘Might even get a bit of part time help out of it.’

  ‘Is there a separate entrance?’ asked Fran. ‘I don’t want to be disturbing you all the time.’

  ‘Yes, at the side,’ said Peter. ‘And a fire escape into the back yard at the back. We do keep some stock up there, but we can put it all in the little bedroom.’

  ‘Is it still furnished?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Bit sparse, but yes. Bits of both of ours before we shacked up. Mine’s the tasteless stuff,’ said Harry.

  ‘And now we’ve sorted that out,’ said Peter, ‘tell us what happened at the inquest.’

  After Fran and Libby had told them the essential details and Libby’s inessential thoughts, Harry stood up, saying he had to get to the caff to open up for Donna.

  ‘Let us know when you want to move in,’ said Peter, when they left. ‘You’ll need to go back to London to get some more bits, won’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so. I wish I had a car.’

  ‘You can borrow the Renault,’ said Libby. ‘It’s a bit of a wreck, but it goes.’

  ‘You’ll take your life in your hands,’ said Harry.

  As Libby got plates out for their supper, she said: ‘You could go up tomorrow afternoon and come back on Saturday, couldn’t you? Give you plenty of time to sort out what you need and let people know. That kind of thing.’

  Fran laughed. ‘And leave you a free house for tomorrow night’s date?’

  Libby coloured. ‘Well, there is that, yes. But I hadn’t actually thought of it …’

  ‘Actually, Lib, it’s a good idea. I’ll have to try and see Lucy, and I could go via her place on the way home with a car. It’s really kind of you to lend it to me. And to sort out the flat.’ Fran gave her an impulsive hug. ‘You’re a really good friend.’

  Libby’s colour got even brighter. ‘Um. Thanks,’ she said, and hurriedly turned to the Rayburn to rescue the potatoes.

  The following morning, Libby tactfully retired to the kitchen when DCI Murray arrived, after letting him and the schoolboy DC Bulstrode in.

  ‘Ah, I remember this gentleman,’ said Murray, as Sidney glared at him from the stairs. ‘Quite saved the day, as I remember.’

  ‘Yes, he’s very good at tripping people up,’ said Libby.

  Fran sat in her usual armchair, leaving the cane sofa for DCI Murray, while Bulstrode perched uncomfortably on an upright chair and tried to manipulate his notebook.

  ‘So, Mrs Castle. Could I have your full name and address?’

  Fran gave it.

  ‘And you were Mrs Bridges’ niece?’

  ‘No, I was her husband’s niece. Frank Bridges. His brother Herbert was my father.’

  ‘And did you visit her regularly?’

  ‘No, there was a family dispute, and I hadn’t seen or heard from her in over thirty years.’

  ‘Oh.’ Murray looked confused. ‘Then, why …?’

  ‘Why did I go this year? Because my cousin – or rather – her nephew, Charles, thought we should mend the rift, and traced me. He invited me to go down for the birthday. I couldn’t as it happened, but decided to go the next day.’

  ‘And you said you went even though you knew by then she was dead. Guilt, I think you said.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran, feeling the colour rising up her neck.

  ‘And this was nothing to do with any – er – psychic revelations?’ Murray looked slightly embarrassed at this.

  Fran was silent.

  ‘Well, Mrs Castle? Or do you think I won’t believe you?’

  ‘There is that,’ said Fran.

  ‘Well, I can’t say it doesn’t go against the grain, but I’d sooner believe that than your feeling of guilt. Especially,’ he said heavily, ‘after your – er – phone call. After Miss Wentworth’s – er – death.’

  ‘There could have been any number of explanations for that,’ said Fran, her colour still alarmingly heightened.

  ‘I know, and I looked in to them,’ said Murray, surprisingly. ‘Let’s just say, if you felt anything was wrong about Mrs Bridges’ death, I’d be obliged if you’d tell me.’

  Fran cast a quick glance at DC Bulstrode, who was watching his superior with his mouth open. Bet they’ll love this at the station, she thought.

  ‘All right then, yes. I did feel that something was wrong. When Charles – Mr Wade – phoned me to tell me she was dead. And again, when I went in to her room at The Laurels.’ She didn’t mention the suffocating feeling. That might be over-icing the cake.

  ‘Right.’ Murray was watching her carefully. ‘And is that all?’

  ‘If you mean did I get any ideas about who might have suffocated her, no, I didn’t. Nor do I have any ideas about why.’

  ‘Mrs Headlam says there was some trouble about a will.’

 
; ‘I believe it can’t be found,’ said Fran, ‘but it’s nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t be in it.’

  ‘So you don’t have any – ah– feelings about where it might be?’

  Fran glanced at DC Bulstrode, who was looking quite gobsmacked at this further evidence of lunacy. ‘No,’ she said. And I wouldn’t tell you if I had, she thought.

  ‘You say Mr Wade traced you. Hadn’t you seen him recently, either?’

  ‘Not since Eleanor married my uncle. I was twelve.’

  ‘And Mrs Denver?’

  ‘I didn’t know her at all. I didn’t even know she existed until a couple of days ago. Or her son.’

  DCI Murray sighed. ‘All right, Mrs Castle. That’s about all, then.’ He stood up. ‘We might want to talk to you again. And if you think of anything else – well, perhaps you’d give me a ring.’

  ‘Even if it’s a feeling?’ asked Fran wickedly.

  He smiled slightly, looking as though it hurt. ‘If you think it’s worth it, Mrs Castle.’ He looked through to the kitchen where Libby had been unashamedly listening. ‘Bye, Mrs Sarjeant.’

  ‘Well,’ said Libby, ‘that was interesting.’

  Fran watched the unmarked police car reverse down Allhallow’s Lane. ‘It was odd,’ she said. ‘You don’t think he really believes my funny moments, do you?’

  ‘Why not? I bet he looked in to your background last time. If a prestigious estate agency like Goodall and Smythe believe you, why shouldn’t he?’ Libby brought her a steaming mug.

  ‘The police aren’t exactly known for their unquestioning beliefs, are they?’ Fran turned away from the window. ‘Not the most trusting of souls.’

  ‘He certainly seemed to be placing trust in your feelings this time,’ said Libby, flopping into the sofa and forgetting the creak.

  ‘That’s going to collapse one of these days,’ said Fran, returning to her chair.

  ‘I know,’ said Libby gloomily, ‘and I don’t suppose I shall be able to replace it. ‘Anyway, what are we going to do next? Will you go and see the bureau when Charles gets it back? See if you can pick up anything from it?’

  ‘Like where the will is?’ Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t suppose I could. In fact, I don’t suppose Charles really wants me poking my nose into things now. I bet he wishes he hadn’t got in touch with me in the first place.’

  ‘I rather thought he fancied you,’ said Libby.

  ‘So did I, at first. Heaven knows why. I’m hardly fanciable material any more, am I?’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before,’ said Libby, ‘and it doesn’t get us anywhere. Anyway, there’s still Guy Wolfe. He fancies you, and he’s unattached.’

  ‘We weren’t talking about unattached men, Libby. We were talking about Charles and wills.’

  ‘Well, are you going to do anything about it? Charles can hardly complain if you drop in to see him, can he? You used to live there, after all, and it’s only natural that you should be interested in what’s happening. He got you in to it in the first place.’

  Fran sighed. ‘I suppose so. Perhaps I’ll give him a ring when I get back to the flat later on. If you’re still sure I can borrow the car?’

  ‘Of course. When do you want to go?’

  ‘I’ll go and pack, then I’ll make a move, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Stay and have some lunch before you go,’ said Libby, ‘and is there anything you’d like me to do at the flat?’

  ‘Just make sure Peter and Harry really don’t mind. And if we’re going to have some lunch before I go, I’ll go and buy it.’ Fran stood up.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said Libby.

  ‘I know I don’t, but you’ve been so good to me. At least let me treat you to some pate or something.’

  Fran called in to see Harry in The Pink Geranium after buying lunch at the eight-til-late.

  ‘Come to view the premises?’ he asked. ‘Come on, I’ll take you up. We’re not open at lunchtime today.’

  Fran admired the flat and thanked Harry profusely, delicately mentioning the subject of rent.

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think Pete wants to bother with rent,’ he said, ‘although perhaps you could take a share of the bills and stuff? It’s not separate from the caff, you see.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Fran, ‘and I don’t expect I’ll be here for long. Libby thinks I should move down here permanently, so I’d have to look for a long term let.’

  ‘Do you want to move?’

  ‘Yes, now she’s put the idea in my head. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, except that I wouldn’t have known where to move to.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got us, now, ducky,’ said Harry, draping a friendly arm round her shoulders. ‘Good place to move to.’

  ‘Thanks, Harry,’ said Fran, going pink.

  After a lunch of pâté, bread and cheese, Fran left, jerking down the lane in the unfamiliar car, early enough to beat the worst of the Friday rush hour.

  ‘Although you’ll be going against the traffic most of the way,’ said Libby, as she waved her off. ‘Until you get to the M25, anyway.’

  Returning to the conservatory, Libby propped her latest views of Nethergate against the wall and surveyed them critically. She knew they were of no great artistic merit, but, as Guy Wolfe said, they sold we to the visitors who had discovered the retro charms of Nethergate. People who, like her, had fond memories of seaside holidays in the fifties and sixties and were surprised to find that somewhere like this still existed.

  There was one, at the end, of the view through the cottage window that Guy had said was a favourite. She had told him that she’d been to see it when house-hunting, but that wasn’t the only reason she loved it. When she was a child, she’d had a picture on her bedroom wall exactly like it. She couldn’t remember where it had come from, but it reminded her of holidays spent with her family in a boarding house just round the corner from The Swan. Perhaps her parents had bought it for her as a holiday present, and just perhaps it was that self-same cottage. She still felt drawn to it, and had been quite devastated to realise she couldn’t afford to buy it. One day, she said to herself, and then wondered how. Her “pretty peeps”, as Agatha Troy would have called them, were hardly likely to earn her a fortune, and at her age she was unlikely to fall in to any kind of lucrative career, unless …

  At that point, the rather startling thought popped in to her mind of re-marriage. To Ben. ‘No,’ she said out loud, and shook her head to dislodge the thought, which seemed to be making her scalp crawl. She must notthink like that. She was perfectly happy on her own with Sidney, she had her own friends and no longer had to wash anyone’s socks, or apologise to them for being late. And her relationship, if it could be called that, with Ben was hardly such that any sort of shared life would be on the cards.

  ‘Think about something else,’ she said to Sidney, going back into the kitchen. ‘Think about Fran’s Aunt Eleanor.’

  She made herself a cup of tea and took it in to the garden under the cherry tree. Sidney accompanied her and sat on Fran’s chair, no doubt intending to inform her that she was an inferior lap.

  ‘So,’ she told him, ‘Auntie’s murdered, either by Barbara Denver while she’s alone in the room with her, or by someone else, between the time the two nurses saw her and Barbara arriving. Or could one of the nurses gone back? Or someone come in through the french windows?’

  Sidney made no answer, but gazed at her through slitted eyes.

  ‘Oh, you’re no use,’ she said.

  ‘Who isn’t?’ said a voice.

  Libby spilt her tea.

  ‘How did you get here?’ she said.

  ‘Down the path from the top of the lane,’ said Ben. ‘Didn’t you realise there was one?’

  ‘No, I certainly didn’t,’ said Libby. ‘I shall never feel safe again.’

  ‘Whether there’s a path or not, anyone could have got over your back fence from the field, couldn’t they? I just have.’ Ben grinned and, picking up Sid
ney, sat down on the other chair.

  ‘I didn’t even hear you,’ said Libby indignantly.

  ‘No, because you were talking to Sidney, very seriously.’

  Libby blushed. ‘Yes, well, I’m on my own a lot.’

  ‘More, perhaps, than you need be,’ said Ben.

  ‘Would you like tea?’ asked Libby, standing up hurriedly. ‘I spilt mine.’

  ‘That would be nice. Actually, I came to find out whether you still wanted to go to the pub tonight. I’m quite happy to go further afield.’

  ‘I thought we’d decided on the pub because of driving?’ said Libby.

  ‘We did, but I just thought it would be nicer to get out of the village for a change. We could go down to Nethergate, if you like.’

  ‘Why Nethergate?’

  ‘It’s come up rather a lot recently, hasn’t it? And I haven’t been over there for ages. We could go to The Swan, if you like.’

  Libby shook her head. ‘Not The Swan,’ she said, ‘but if you’d like to go over there, I’m quite happy. There’s that nice little flint pub on the harbour wall, isn’t there? That’s got a restaurant.’

  ‘The Sloop? I’ll give them a ring. Do you want to look up their number while you put the kettle on?’ Ben fished in his pocket and retrieved his mobile.

  Libby nodded and went back in to the house. What was it about Nethergate? First of all Fran’s relations, then the cottage on the sea wall, now Ben wanted to go there. As she moved the heavy kettle back on to the Rayburn she tried to push the thought that these coincidences were omens to the back of her mind. Omens they might be, but good, or bad?

  She looked up The Sloop’s telephone number while the kettle boiled, and shouted it out to Ben. By the time she took two fresh mugs of tea outside, he was idly stroking Sidney and gazing up through the branches of the cherry tree.

  ‘It’s nice here,’ he said, accepting his mug. ‘It’s a proper garden, not like the one at the Manor. That feels like a municipal park.’

  Libby was shocked. ‘It’s a beautiful garden,’ she said.

  ‘For a park.’ He grinned up at her. ‘The Sloop has a table for us at eight o’clock. Shall we go early? We can have a walk along the front.’

  Libby looked up at the sky. ‘If the weather holds.’