Murder at the Laurels - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  Guy nodded, looking unconvinced. ‘Do you fancy lunch?’ he said, ‘or are you anxious to get back?’

  ‘I’ve got to check on buses. Libby said there aren’t any from here to Steeple Martin.’

  ‘No, but you could get a train to Canterbury and a bus home from there. I’d take you myself, but I’d better not leave Sophie too often.’ He smiled over at his daughter, who, having wrapped the customer’s purchase, gave him a beautiful smile, and then pulled a face at her father.

  ‘I’ll find out the times of the trains, then,’ said Fran.

  ‘Ten past and twenty to each hour,’ said Guy, ‘so if we go and have a quick early lunch now, you could catch the ten past one.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Fran, ‘if Sophie doesn’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Sophie, ‘I shall just take most of the afternoon off.’

  ‘See what I have to put up with,’ sighed Guy in mock exasperation.

  ‘So tell me why you really wanted to see the cottage,’ he said, as they strolled back along Harbour Street.

  Fran looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You don’t want to rent it. Libby keeps painting it. What is it?’

  Fran sighed. ‘I don’t know why Libby keeps painting it. And it attracted me. I did think I could possibly rent it.’

  Guy looked sceptical. ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  ‘No idea.’ Fran looked out across the sea. ‘But thank you for bringing me, anyway.’

  The train to Canterbury and the meandering bus back to Steeple Martin gave Fran a long time to think about the morning’s events. Guy had flirted gently with her all through lunch, and given her a slightly lingering kiss on the cheek as he said goodbye at the station. This was gratifying, but unnerving, as Fran, like Libby, had had no experience of new relationships for a good many years. Like Libby, too, she had an abundance of insecurities, and very little sense of self-worth. Perhaps we should start a society, she thought, brooding over the dry August countryside.

  But exercising her far more were the disturbing images provoked by the sight of the cottage. She had been pretty sure last night that she either knew it personally, or it had some relevance. Now she knew it did, but what was a mystery. And why had she seen her mother’s face?

  The flat over The Pink Geranium had been shut up all morning and was hot and airless. Fran opened the sash windows on to the high street, made a cup of tea and took it out into Harry’s little garden. After staring at the whitewashed walls and the single climbing rose that had survived Harry’s ministrations for a good twenty minutes, she decided she need to talk to someone. Not just someone, but Libby. Over-enthusiastic she might be, and liable to fly off in all directions, but at least she understood more about Fran than anyone else at the moment.

  This, she reflected, as she climbed the stairs back up to the flat to fetch her mobile, was rather lowering. You would expect to have someone in your life who had been there for years, who understood from hay to nuts. Not someone who breezed in a few months ago and took you over.

  ‘So there you are. What do you think?’ Fran sat in the armchair by the window and stared down at a few desultory shoppers.

  ‘You must have been there as a child.’

  ‘I’m sure I haven’t. I don’t remember ever having had a holiday after my father died.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘I suppose she might have gone there, but why? It had no connection with our family. It’s all Charles and Eleanor’s side. Frank lived in the upstairs flat at Mountville Road, we lived in the downstairs one, until after he married Eleanor. Even then, we knew nothing about the connection with Kent.’

  ‘And the bedroom?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to fit in at all.’ Fran shook her head at herself. ‘I’m losing it.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s got to mean something if it was that overwhelming.’ There was a pause. ‘Look, Barbara Denver lived here all her life. That means Aunt Eleanor might have done.’

  ‘Charles lived in Steeple Mount and went to school in Nethergate. Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘Oh, good Lord, well, there you are then. You’re seeing something from the past. Do you think they could have lived in the cottage?’

  ‘No, Charles would have mentioned it.’

  ‘Not necessarily. He might have said he lived in Nethergate.’

  ‘He didn’t. He went to schoolin Nethergate.’

  ‘Well, there’s a family connection, anyway. Where your mum comes into it, I’ve no idea, but I think you should try and find out.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’m going to do that. I can hardly ask the Denvers, and Charles is incommunicado at present.’

  ‘Still? Have you tried to get hold of him?’

  ‘No, come to think of it, I haven’t. I’ll give him a ring.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Libby, ‘and let me know what he says.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  BUT ALL QUESTIONS ABOU tthe cottage in Nethergate flew out of Fran’s mind when she spoke to Charles.

  ‘It looks as though I’m in trouble, Fran,’ he said heavily.

  ‘Why? You didn’t kill her,’ said Fran, aware that her heart was beating so hard she could hardly breathe.

  ‘No, but … it’s her money.’

  ‘What about it.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Come on, Charles, what’s the problem?’

  ‘I’m afraid I used rather a lot of her money,’ he said baldly.

  ‘Charles!’ Fran took a moment to assimilate this. ‘As Power of Attorney, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the police have found out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they. They can get access to bank accounts and all sorts. What made you do it?’

  ‘I was broke, I told you. I always intended to put it back.’

  ‘They always say that, don’t they?

  ‘Who do?’

  ‘Embezzlers,’ said Fran. ‘That’s what it is, Charles. Make no mistake. What are they going to do to you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea at the moment. They’ve let me go home – no bail or anything.’

  ‘Well, you’re off the hook for the murder, then.’

  ‘How do know that?’ asked Charles, sounding surprised.

  ‘It would be in your interest to keep her alive until you’d sorted out the money, wouldn’t it? If she died it would all come to light – as it has done. Barbara and Paul would have found out, and all hell would have broken out. Which it will do now.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ groaned Charles. ‘I can’t take any more.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have taken it in the first place,’ said Fran, with an ill-placed attempt at humour. ‘Hadn’t you better see a solicitor?’

  ‘I suppose so. The one I saw before, do you think?’

  ‘If he knows you. And he certainly knew about the Power of Attorney, didn’t he. He’d be best.’ Fran thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps you could have used the money for essential repairs to her property.’

  ‘I’d have to produce bills and receipts and things, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you would.’ Fran sighed. ‘Oh, well. It was a thought.’

  ‘You’re not too shocked?’ said Charles.

  ‘No, I’m not. I suspect a lot of us would do the same in your circumstances,’ said Fran. ‘But before you go, Charles, you told me you grew up in Steeple Mount. Did the whole family come from here?’

  ‘Yes, I thought I told you. Barbara’s always lived around here as well.’

  ‘Any of you in Nethergate?’

  ‘Barbara and her family did. I went to school there.’

  ‘Did anyone have a cottage on the sea wall?’

  ‘Harbour Street? Good Lord, no. When I was a child they were ramshackle old places, and after I grew up they were beyond my reach. Why?’

  ‘I thought I recognised one, that’s all,’ said Fran evasively.


  ‘A magic moment, was it?’ For the first time in the conversation Charles’s tone lightened. ‘Well, you couldn’t have done. I don’t think you ever came here after Uncle Frank and Aunt Eleanor married.’

  ‘No, it does seem unlikely,’ said Fran slowly. ‘It wasn’t long after their marriage that we left Mountville Road.’

  ‘Must be leading you astray, then,’ said Charles.

  ‘Yes, it must be. Well, Charles, let me know how things go, and if you’re coming down this way again, soon.’

  ‘I will, Fran, and thanks for being so understanding,’ said Charles, his voice as warm and friendly as it had been when they first met and before the layers of his personality had been stripped off. How attractive he had seemed at first, when they met in La Poule Au Pot. Fran took herself to task for not having seen below the surface at that first meeting, and phoned Libby to tell her what Charles had said.

  ‘I said I didn’t like him, didn’t I?’ said Libby.

  ‘I don’t remember you saying that,’ said Fran. ‘You did call him a wimp, though.’

  ‘There you are then,’ said Libby. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Nothing. What should I be doing?’

  ‘Finding out what your – your – experiencemeant. Is it to do with Auntie’s murder?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. My mother’s been dead for years, and we never had much to do with Eleanor when Frank married her anyway.’

  ‘Just a thought. She could have been jealous of your mum.’

  ‘What areyou on about? How could she be?’

  Fran could almost hear Libby’s shrug. ‘I can think of reasons. Anyway. What about the nurses?’

  ‘The nurses?’ Fran was bewildered by Libby’s change of direction.

  ‘Redding and Warner. I still want to get to the bottom of them. Don’t you?’

  ‘I told you, no. I can’t see what they’ve got to do with anything.’

  Libby let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Don’t you care about your aunt’s murder?’

  ‘Of course I care. But it’s nothing whatsoever to do with me, I hardly knew her, I’m not a suspect, and I don’t gain anything from her death. So why don’t you let it alone?’

  Silence.

  ‘Well, Lib?’

  ‘Because I want to know,’ said Libby in a small voice.

  ‘Because you’re bloody nosey.’

  ‘Yes, there is that.’

  ‘Well, just don’t tread on anybody’s toes, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, Fran.’

  After ringing off, Libby stood and looked at the telephone. Fran was quite right. She shouldn’t interfere. Ever since the business over The Hop Pickers, people had been telling her not to interfere, and she was still uncomfortable about maybe having precipitated someone’s death during that investigation. Was she likely to do that in this case?

  She moved slowly back towards the conservatory, where the autumn painting was almost finished. She couldn’t see how asking a few questions of the nurses at The Laurels would precipitate anything, except her own vilification as a nosey parker. But, you had to accept that not only could theyhave murdered the old lady, so could Marion Headlam. She, at least, had a motive, or thought she had. And that reminded Libby, what about those two witnesses to the will? Had the police found them?

  She retrieved her basket from under Sidney, and rooted about until she found the old envelope on which she had copied the names down after Mrs Headlam had given them to Fran. She wasn’t sure Fran had approved of this, but it was always better to have a back up, wasn’t it?

  Fran would definitely class this as both interfering and bull-in-a-china-shopping, but Libby still dialled the first number on the envelope.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you,’ she said, when a woman’s hesitant voice answered, ‘but I was hoping to speak to Mr Edwards.’

  ‘Which Mr Edwards?’ asked the voice.

  ‘Mr Len Edwards?’

  ‘I’m afraid my husband died six weeks ago,’ said the voice.

  ‘Oh!’ Libby couldn’t think what to say. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said the voice. ‘Could you tell me what it was about?’

  ‘I believe he witnessed a will, or a codicil to a will, a little while ago,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, yes, he did. The old woman wrote to him – sent him a couple of quid for his trouble.’

  ‘Can you remember her name?’ asked Libby, almost holding her breath.

  ‘Afraid not, love, but she was in a home over to Nethergate in Kent. Is that any help?’

  ‘Oh, yes, very much so,’ said Libby, although she wasn’t sure it was any help at all, merely confirmation of Marion Headlam’s conviction that there was a new, or updated, will. ‘Thank you so much, and I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  Libby heard a sigh. ‘No trouble, love.’

  Well, what did you expect, she asked herself as she went to put the kettle on. Witnesses to wills were hardly likely to know what it was they’d witnessed, were they? At least they knew there was one.

  Deciding that what Fran didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, Libby sat down on the sofa with her tea and found her mobile. The phone book was still out from when she tried to trace Nurses Warner and Redding, and, settling back, she dialled one of the two remaining numbers for Reddings. Rather to her surprise, the second one was answered.

  ‘Could I speak to Nurse Redding?’ she asked, after clearing her throat.

  ‘Speaking,’ said a surprised voice.

  Libby realised she had no idea how she was going to continue.

  ‘I believe you were in the Kent and Canterbury hospital the other day,’ she said eventually, falling back on the book.

  ‘Visiting only. I don’t work there any more.’

  ‘No, no, my friend saw you in the Friends’ Café,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, yes. I was there last week.’

  ‘Well,’ Libby cleared her throat again, ‘my friend thought you left a book behind and wanted to return it.’

  There was silence for a moment. ‘I don’t think I had a book with me,’ said Nurse Redding, ‘and anyway, how did he know who I was if I don’t know him?’

  Libby felt as if she were going down in a lift. Bugger. Why hadn’t she thought this through?

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she said slowly, thinking on the hoof, ‘he overheard something about someone dying and the police. As we know someone who’s recently died and the police are involved, he rather put two and two together.’ And that’s the truth, thought Libby. He did.

  ‘Oh, really? And how do I know who you really are and what you want? You know I didn’t have a book.’ Nurse Redding sounded definitely suspicious now.

  Feeling perspiration break out on her brow, Libby took a deep breath and decided to lay her cards on the table. With an ace up the sleeve, of course. Although it felt more like a joker.

  ‘Actually, we’re a bit worried about it all,’ she said. ‘I’m sure if I could have a word with you, and perhaps the other little nurse, it would help enormously.’

  ‘Are you the papers?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Libby, wondering if perhaps she should have said yes. Nurse Redding didn’t sound as though she would have minded seeing her name in print. ‘I’m a friend of the family.’

  ‘You don’t need to talk to anyone else. I can tell you what you want to know.’

  Libby felt her heart leap with excitement. A breakthrough!

  ‘Really? That would be so kind. Could I meet you? Buy you tea?’

  ‘Not here. Not in Nethergate.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. How about – Steeple Martin? There’s a very nice café where they do a good tea.’ Libby crossed her fingers and hoped Harry wouldn’t mind. ‘When would be convenient?’

  ‘I’m on earlies this week, so tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘About this time?’

  ‘All right. Where is this café?’

  ‘In the high street. It’s called The Pink Gera
nium,’ said Libby. I’ll sit at the table in the window. My name’s Sarjeant. Libby Sarjeant, with a J.’

  ‘All right,’ said Nurse Redding again. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, and how did you get my number? They wouldn’t have given it to you at The Laurels.’

  ‘Oh, I looked it up,’ said Libby hastily. ‘Goodbye. See you tomorrow.’

  And before Nurse Redding could say another word, she switched off the phone. Now all she had to do was to convince Harry to open up for her tomorrow afternoon, and hope Fran didn’t barge in on the tête-à-tête.

  Chapter Twenty

  DECIDING THAT THE FACE to face approach was preferable, Libby strolled down to beard Harry in his den later that evening. She wasn’t sure about disturbing him on his evening off, but trusted in his innate curiosity – almost as bad as her own – to carry her through.

  ‘Hello, ducks,’ he said, opening the door. ‘To what do we owe this doubtful pleasure?’

  ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me then?’ said Libby, sidling past him into the living room, where Peter sat at the scuffed old oak table, sheets of paper strewn around him.

  ‘If it’s an excuse for a drink, yes,’ said Peter, pushing a hand through his limp blond hair, ‘if you want something, no.’

  ‘Sit down, petal.’ Harry put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. ‘Wine? Whisky? Beer?’

  When all three of them were supplied with their particular tipple, Libby began.

  ‘Actually, Pete, it is a favour.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Peter threw up his hands. ‘This bloody investigation of yours and Fran’s, I suppose?’

  ‘Fran’s not exactly investigating,’ said Libby.

  ‘No, she’s got more sense,’ said Peter. ‘Well, get on with it. What do you want?’

  ‘I just wondered if Harry would open up the caff for me tomorrow afternoon?’ She smiled in what she hoped was a winning manner. ‘Would you, Hal?’

  ‘If you stop glaring at me like some demented Cheshire Cat, I might,’ said Harry. ‘Who are you going to interrogate?’

  ‘How do you know I’m interrogating anyone?’

  ‘Why else would you want the caff? Unless you’re pretending to be a gourmet chef or something.’

  ‘Actually, I’m going to talk to one of Fran’s nurses.’