Murder at the Laurels - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Pessimist. Can you be ready by six thirty?’

  Libby nodded. ‘Lovely,’ she said.

  Later, climbing out of the shower, she wondered why Ben had bothered to walk all the way down to see her this afternoon. He could easily have phoned. A treacherous thought suggested he might have wanted to see Fran, not knowing she was going home, but he hadn’t even mentioned Fran, and Libby hadn’t told him about the planned move to the flat over The Pink Geranium. No, she mustn’t think like that. Just be glad he wanted to see her, and stop all this nonsense about people’s motives. Face value, that was how you should take people. Stop all this analysing.

  Finally arrayed in a long floaty skirt that had recently returned to fashion and a tunic that, as far as Libby was concerned, had never been away, she fed Sidney and locked the back door, just as she heard Ben’s car in the lane.

  The sun still shone as they drove down the hill in to Nethergate, between flint cottages and shiplap houses. They turned left at the bottom along Harbour Street, past Guy Wolfe’s gallery and up to where The Sloop Inn overlooked the tiny harbour and the Harbour Master’s Office. Getting out, Libby breathed in seaweed and fish and smiled happily.

  ‘Like it here, then?’ said Ben, coming round the car to join her.

  ‘Love it. See along there?’ Libby pointed. ‘That’s the cottage I wanted to buy before I bought Number 17.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ Ben turned to look at it.

  ‘Too expensive. Sea views at the front and tree-covered hills at the back are out of my price range.’ Libby sighed. ‘It was gorgeous, though.’

  Ben took her arm and they began to walk along the harbour wall towards the cottage.

  ‘Is it the one you paint? The view from the window?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby looked at him in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because you’ve done several pictures of the same subject. I bought a winter one from Guy.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ gasped Libby.

  ‘I did.’ He grinned at her. ‘I liked it. Still like it. It hangs in my flat, although if I come back to the village permanently it might have to go into storage unless I can persuade Mum to hang it on her wall. More of a Green Lady person, my mum.’

  ‘Are you thinking of coming back permanently, then?’

  ‘Well, now I’m semi-retired and Mum’s struggling with the upkeep of the Manor I thought I might. Susan’s going back home, did you know?’

  Susan had been staying with their mother since the death of her husband, and Libby was pleased that she might be getting back on her feet.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Do you think I should visit her?’

  ‘I’d leave it a bit,’ said Ben, ‘and I’ll have a word with her. She’s very sensitive, you know.’

  Libby personally disputed this, remembering Susan’s stoic and unimaginative demeanour, but said nothing.

  Ben paused outside the cottage. The window that was the subject of Libby’s paintings stood open, a yellow patterned curtain blowing gently beyond the deep window shelf.

  ‘Lovely,’ murmured Ben, almost to himself.

  ‘Yes.’ Libby turned to look at the view. ‘Lovely.’

  They walked to the end of Harbour Street and sat outside The Swan with a drink before walking back to The Sloop for dinner, where they sat at a table overlooking the harbour, with a small red-shaded lamp between them. They chatted in a desultory fashion through the starters, the main course and Ben’s dessert, but when the coffee was served, he put his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands, and said, ‘So what’s all this about Fran moving into the caff?’

  Startled, Libby sat back in her chair. ‘Did Peter tell you?’

  ‘Of course. Was it a secret?’

  ‘No, but you hadn’t mentioned it.’

  ‘If I had, you would have thought I was interested in Fran, wouldn’t you?’ He gave hr a sly grin. ‘You still do.’

  Libby felt the familiar colour rising up her neck. ‘No, of course not,’ she said hastily.

  ‘Yes, you do. You thought so when I first introduced you, and you’ve never quite got rid of the suspicion, have you?’

  Libby stared into his eyes as though mesmerised. She shook her head.

  He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Well, you can get rid of it right now. Fran and I worked together on a couple of projects, but that’s all. I felt sorry for her living in London, so I used to get her down here whenever I could. I never fancied her. Honest.’

  Libby nodded. ‘Sorry I was so transparent. And so childish.’

  ‘No you weren’t. Don’t forget I’ve had the benefit of your views on men and marriage. You’re hardly likely to take me on trust. Especially after I behaved so badly during the – well, after the …’

  ‘I know. But I think we were all in a state then. Better to start again and put it all behind us.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘I always knew you were a sensible woman,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been called sensible before,’ mused Libby. ‘I’m not sure I like it.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  FRAN DROVE CAREFULLY IN Libby’s Renault, got stuck in traffic and watched worriedly as the engine began to overheat. Luckily, the jam broke before the engine and Fran limped home with relieved sweat on her brow.

  The Betjeman flat looked even more depressing after the cosiness of Libby’s cottage and the bright cleanliness of The Pink Geranium flat. Fran sighed, filled the kettle and decided to phone Charles. This time, he answered.

  ‘The police interviewed me this morning, Charles. Have they been to you, yet?’

  ‘Yesterday, when I got home. What did they ask you?’ He sounded tired.

  ‘Not a lot. How long was it since I’d seen you and Aunt Eleanor, whether I’d met Barbara and Paul before, how much I knew about the situation. That’s all, really. What about you?’

  ‘What you’d expect. Had I actually arrived before I’d said and shoved a pillow over Auntie’s face. What about the will. Where was it, and why didn’t I know.’

  ‘It does sound odd, you must admit.’ Fran moved over to the kettle and poured boiling water on to a teabag in her favourite cat mug. ‘As executor, you’d expect to know where it was, who the solicitor is and what was in it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘All right, Fran, I know.’ He sounded irritated. ‘I’m hopeless. You must wonder how on earth I got this far in life. Well, you’d be right. I’m still living in a flat in my dead aunt’s house, I’ve got no money to speak of and a failing career. There, now you know the worst.’

  Fran was silent for a long moment. ‘Well, that makes two of us, doesn’t it, Charles?’ she said at length. ‘I’m just about to move in to the flat over The Pink Geranium –’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Peter and Harry’s restaurant. Libby’s friends, you know?’

  ‘Oh, right. So, a charitable gesture, is it?’

  ‘Exactly. So you see, we’re exactly the same. Failing career, charity homes, no money.’

  ‘You mean your – er – investigation career?’

  ‘I don’t get much work that way, you know. When Goodall and Smythe first started using me it was quite a selling point, but it’s become passé now, I suppose.’

  ‘So,’ said Charles slowly, ‘you’re moving down to Steeple Martin. Is this because of the – er, well, Aunt Eleanor?’

  ‘No, Charles.’ Fran fished out the teabag and added milk to the mug. ‘It’s because Libby suggested it. I’ve got nothing to keep me in London, and if I do get any work I can travel from Kent just as easily as from here.’

  ‘But you’ll be down there. You could keep an eye …’ he tailed off.

  ‘The day before yesterday you didn’t want me to get involved.’

  ‘Well.’ He hesitated. ‘I suppose you’ve made me feel better about my circumstances, now.’

  Privately Fran still felt that Charles was a bit of a failure, and a wimp, as Libby had said
, but now he had admitted it she felt slightly more charitable towards him.

  ‘I’m certainly interested, especially now DCI Murray himself has been to see me. If I hear any more, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Yes, keep in touch. I expect I’ll need to come down again, so I’ll give you a ring, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Fran, ‘But I was actually going to ask if I could pop round and see the old house while I’m up here. Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Charles, sounding surprised. ‘When did you want to come?’

  ‘I thought on my way back to Kent tomorrow, would that be OK?’

  ‘Give me a ring when you’re leaving, then,’ said Charles. ‘Are you sure you know how to get here?’

  ‘Unless they’ve dug up the roads, or turned them all one way I should be all right. I’ll ring you in the morning,’ said Fran, ‘see you then.’

  Next, she rang her daughter Lucy, and after the required conversations with her grandchildren explained what she was about to do. Lucy wasn’t entirely pleased that her mother was leaving London and depriving her of an occasional babysitter, but brightened up when she was told that the move wasn’t necessarily permanent, and anyway, she and the children could come down for a holiday in the country.

  Next, she rang Chrissie, the youngest of her children. She and her husband Bruce thoroughly disapproved of Fran and her lifestyle, so the information that she was moving to the country, however temporarily, came as a pleasant surprise. She sent a text to son Jeremy in America, and wondered if there was anyone else she should tell. Depressingly, there wasn’t.

  The following morning, Fran was ready to go. She rang Charles, and set off across London. She found Mountville Road without mishap, and pulled in to the first parking place that she could find, stood on the pavement underneath the lime tree and looked up at the house. It hadn’t changed much. No one had replaced the original sash windows with aluminium or white plastic and the patterned tiled path to the front door remained the same. The other houses in the street had all been smartened up, but this one had always been a family home and sat unchanging, like an elderly relation in the midst of its newly grown family. There were sleeping policemen in the road, too, to prevent the boy racers who met on the common at one end of the road from launching themselves and their vehicles towards the hospital at the other, where they frequently ended up anyway.

  The leaves of the lime tree whispered above her head and she took a step forward. She put a hand tentatively against the stained glass and pushed. Ahead of her was the passage that she remembered and the flight of stairs to the upstairs flat where Frank and Eleanor had lived. The door at the top of the stairs was open, too, and light spilled out illuminating the worn stair carpet.

  At the top of the stairs, just as she remembered, a corridor ran both ways with the door ahead open on to a large bright room that she thought had been the kitchen. It still was. A rather tatty-looking blue formica-topped table stood just to the right of the window, which looked, just as she remembered, over the large garden with more lime trees at the bottom. On the right-hand wall was a cream painted fireplace with a gas fire and a sagging armchair at the side and to the left a deep, cracked butler sink and a free standing cooker with an eye level grill. Fran frowned. It looked almost exactly as it had forty years ago when she had last sat here. She looked over her shoulder and the built in dresser was still there, but no radio stood on the end and the china inside was different.

  ‘Sorry, I was putting out the rubbish.’

  Fran jumped and turned round to find Charles smiling at her, and looking far more relaxed than he had for the last week.

  ‘I shouldn’t have barged in, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but the door was open, and I just couldn’t resist it. It’s hardly changed.’

  ‘No, I don’t think Aunt liked change, much. My flat’s a bit different.’

  ‘Oh! This is isn’t yours?’

  ‘No. I’ve got the one downstairs. They used to rent it out.’

  ‘They did what?’ Fran was aghast. ‘Do you mean they turned my family out when they didn’t actually needit?’

  Charles turned faintly pink. ‘I don’t think it was quite like that,’ he said. ‘Although I don’t know any of the details, of course.’

  ‘Well, I wish I could find out. That makes me really cross. When I think of what my mother went through, and having my father die so young, too. I can’t believe his own brother would be so cruel. It must have been your Aunt Eleanor’s fault.’ Fran glared at Charles, who turned even pinker.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know what happened, Fran,’ he said. ‘If I could find the will there might be some explanation. Or papers.’

  Fran looked round. ‘Aren’t there any here? Have you looked?’

  ‘Not really.’ He looked worried. ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘Oh, Charles!’ Fran was exasperated. ‘I don’t believe you. Do you really mean to tell me you haven’t looked up here – in her old home?’

  ‘She kept all her important papers in the bureau,’ said Charles, rallying. ‘I told you that.’

  ‘I bet you’ll find she didn’t. I remember my mother hiding all sorts of things in different places. She always told me what she’d done, but sometimes she’d forget. When she died I had to hunt round everywhere to find her building society book.’

  ‘I suppose it’s all right if I look, then.’ Charles looked round the kitchen. ‘Do you want to give me a hand?’

  It was odd for Fran to hunt through the kitchen dresser and cupboards she had known as a child. Part of her wished it had all been changed, especially as it would all belong to someone else very soon. The wiring had been attended to, which was a relief, she thought, remembering the fabric-covered wires and wobbly plugs.

  Nothing was found in the kitchen, except a few old wartime recipe leaflets tucked into the back of a shelf. Guessing they had belonged to her mother, Fran carefully wrapped them in tissues and slid them in to her handbag.

  The large sitting room overlooking the street was sparsely furnished, but still contained an old television with a sliding door. Fran slid it aside until it stuck and pressed the switch, but, perhaps unsurprisingly, nothing happened. Charles went round the edges of the rug, peering underneath, and Fran looked behind all the remaining pictures on the wall. There was very little to search.

  The bedroom, however, was a different matter. Aunt Eleanor had had a very smart inlaid walnut bedroom suite, ladies and gents wardrobes, tallboy, dressing table, chest of drawers, bedside cabinets and a splendid bed.

  ‘These’ll take some searching,’ said Charles gloomily. ‘Shall I make some tea?’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ said Fran, brushing dust off her nose. ‘I’ll make a start on the wardrobes.’

  Aunt Eleanor’s wardrobe smelt like an old-fashioned fur depository, and Fran was suddenly reminded of one of her favourite books, where two girls go to collect their aunt’s legacy, only to find it comprising several old fur coats. Smiling to herself, she began to go through the pockets. The contents were interesting, but unenlightening.

  Charles brought in two mugs of tea, apologising for taking such a long time, but explaining that he’d had to go downstairs to make it. The faint suggestion of complaint in his voice made Fran grit her teeth.

  They set to again, and after about half an hour, Charles gave a surprised grunt.

  ‘What?’ said Fran.

  ‘Something stuck here,’ said Charles, struggling with a drawer in the tallboy. ‘Can you give me a hand?’

  ‘What do you think it is?’ Fran came over and knelt beside him. ‘Could it be the will?’

  ‘How do I know? It just feels as though something’s jammed and I can’t pull the drawer right out.’

  Fran felt as far as she could along the side of the drawer. ‘I can feel paper. Perhaps it’s just a newspaper that’s got stuck.’

  ‘What would a newspaper be doing in a drawer?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Lining it.
My mum lined drawers with newspapers.’ Fran withdrew her hand and pulled out the drawer above. ‘There, now we can see down in to it.’

  Poking up above the left-hand side of the drawer was what looked like a brown envelope. Fran carefully began to ease it out, while Charles made unhelpful suggestions from the sidelines. Eventually, it was free, and proved to be something like an old ration book.

  ‘Damn,’ said Charles, sitting back on his heels and reaching for his mug. ‘I thought we’d got it, then.’

  Fran looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I think we might be on to something here,’ she said. If that’s one hiding place, I bet she used a similar one for other documents.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s check all the other drawers.’

  However, there was nothing in any of the drawers in the bedroom, and they returned disheartened to the living room.

  ‘No drawers in here,’ said Charles. ‘Shall we try the small bedroom next?’

  ‘Yes, but hang on.’ Fran went over to the television. ‘This stuck, didn’t it?’

  She knelt down and began to push back the sliding door, which refused to move. Inserting two fingers between the door and the screen, sure enough she felt more paper. This was slightly easier to remove than the ration book in the bedroom, and was revealed as a long white envelope labelled ‘The Last Will and Testament of Eleanor Ann Bridges’.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE COLOUR BLED FROM Charles’s face. Fran raised her eyebrows at him and held out the envelope.

  ‘You open it,’ he said in a shaking voice.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Fran, ‘I expect it’s against the law or something.’

  ‘If I’m the executor I can ask you to open it, can’t I?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Fran, doubtfully.

  ‘Is the solicitor’s name on the front?’ Charles edged a little nearer.

  ‘Yes.’ Fran turned the envelope over. ‘It could be a different will, couldn’t it? Not the one you know about.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, just open it and let’s find out.’ Charles sat down suddenly on the edge of a chair.

  Fran opened the flap and withdrew the folded document. ‘Dated ten years ago,’ she said, and read a little further. ‘Naming you as the executor.’ She held it out. ‘Here. I mustn’t read any further.’