Murder at the Laurels - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  It wasn’t until Guy had pushed away his dessert plate with a satisfied sigh that Fran became aware of a curling sensation in the pit of her stomach. What now?

  ‘Wondering whether to invite me up for coffee?’ said Guy, cocking his head on one side like an inquisitive blackbird.

  ‘Are you getting in on my act?’ Fran asked. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. Coffee’s not a euphemism, though.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Guy pretended to be shocked. ‘As if I would think it was!’

  ‘Well,’ said Fran, confused, ‘you might. Although I can’t see why.’

  ‘Now you really are confusing me,’ said Guy, shaking his head. ‘Come on. Let’s sneak out without Harry noticing.’

  ‘I’ve got to pay,’ said Fran.

  ‘He knows where you are.’

  ‘Yes, and he’ll probably come leaping up the back stairs demanding his money.’

  ‘Oh, all right. Anything to prevent that.’

  Fran went over to Donna at the table they used for a cash desk and paid, just in time before Harry reappeared as they left.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Guy, as Fran showed him into the living room before going to put the kettle on.

  ‘Did you want coffee? Or something stronger?’ she called from the kitchen.

  ‘Coffee’s fine. I’m driving, remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said gratefully, coming back into the living room.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely meal, by the way.’ Guy sat on the sofa and smiled up at her. ‘Harry’s a good cook.’

  ‘A great chef, I think he would prefer,’ said Fran, laughing.

  ‘Then he shouldn’t refer to his restaurant as “the caff” should he?’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ said Fran, ‘but not tonight.’

  ‘No, not tonight,’ said Guy, reaching for her hand. ‘Come and sit beside me.’

  ‘I’ll go and get the coffee,’ said Fran hastily, pulling her hand away. ‘Sorry.’

  When she returned with mugs and cafetière, she apologised again. ‘I’m out of practice,’ she said.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Guy. ‘Shall we start again?’

  An hour later, when he left, refusing to let Fran come downstairs with him, they’d not only started, but gone quite a way towards the finishing line, and Fran was in a state of delighted confusion. Clearing the coffee things away, she was aware of a sort of tingling, bubbly feeling that almost took her breath away. Coming to live here, meeting Libby, Harry and Peter, the sudden and surprising acquisition of a legacy and, finally, meeting Guy were all rather too much for someone who’d not had the best life or luck over the past few years. Climbing into bed, she thanked Uncle Frank, and whoever else was up there looking after her, and looked forward to discussing everything with Libby in the morning.

  Libby called her in the morning before Fran had even gathered her thoughts together.

  ‘I was going to call you,’ she said, yawning.

  ‘That sounds like a good night,’ said Libby, a question in her voice.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it later,’ said Fran. ‘What did you want?’

  ‘A chat. I think you should tell the inspector what you know.’

  ‘That’s what Guy said.’

  ‘There you are then. And I think we should see what Nurse Warner knows, too.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Guy said his daughter Sophie saw her with her boyfriend the other day.’

  ‘Really? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look, Lib, I’ll come round when I’ve woken up properly and we can discuss everything. Anyway, I want to look at your computer.’

  ‘OK. I’ll have the kettle on. Don’t be too long.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Fran, exasperated. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  In fact, it was over an hour before she arrived at Libby’s, coat collar turned up against a sharp wind. Libby sat her down in front of the new computer while she made tea.

  ‘So, what happened last night?’ she asked.

  Fran gave her an expurgated version of the night’s events and made her laugh about Harry’s obvious nosiness.

  ‘A proper relationship, then?’ said Libby, when she’d finished.

  ‘The beginning of one, perhaps,’ said Fran uncertainly, ‘but I know now what you felt like about Ben, back in the spring.’

  ‘And a couple of weeks ago, don’t forget,’ said Libby. ‘Being middle-aged and starting a relationship’s absolute hell, in my opinion. Much worse than when you’re young.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever get to the point of taking my clothes off,’ said Fran, staring out of the window.

  ‘Oh, so you didn’t get that far last night?’ said Libby, grinning.

  ‘No,’ said Fran, blushing and trying not to think about Guy’s enterprising hands.

  ‘Hopefully, by that stage, you’ll be too far gone to be thinking,’ said Libby.

  ‘Let’s change the subject,’ said Fran, coming away from the computer and sitting in the armchair. Sidney appeared immediately and jumped onto the arm.

  ‘Right. Nurse Warner. Bet you she’s got a story.’

  ‘Bet you so has Nurse Redding.’

  ‘Well, of course she has, but she put me off pretty conclusively over the Satanists, didn’t she?’

  ‘I suppose I could try,’ said Fran, looking thoughtful. ‘I’ve a legitimate reason to ask her questions, now, haven’t I?’

  ‘The will, you mean? But you aren’t in it.’

  ‘She doesn’t know that.’ Fran thought for a moment. ‘Oh, yes, she does, doesn’t she? If she had the will, she’ll have read it. I still can’t think why she wanted it.’

  ‘Perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps she just found it.’

  ‘I can still ask her about it.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Libby, ‘you weren’t going to do any more. Leave it to the police, you said.’

  ‘You said I ought to go to the police, and we ought to discuss it.’

  ‘Oh, well, whatever.’ Libby waved a dismissive hand. ‘Tell DCI Murray what you’ve seen.’

  ‘You think so?’ Fran looked doubtful.

  ‘Yes, I do. And about Aunt Eleanor.’

  ‘Let’s not over-egg the pudding,’ said Fran, ‘he might not be like the White Queen.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Libby.

  ‘In Alice. Believing six impossible things before breakfast.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ll ring him.’ Fran heaved a sigh and dragged her mobile out of her bag.

  ‘I’ve told you, use the land line, or he’ll be able to get hold of you anytime.’ Libby handed over the phone.

  Fran, hoping that DCI Murray would be unavailable, was disappointed.

  ‘What have you got for me, Mrs Castle?’ he said, sounding much more friendly than the last time they’d met.

  Fran, with much hesitation, explained.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, when she’d finished, ‘we suspected something of the sort. Our scenes of crime people are very thorough, and we’d even searched the other residents’ rooms. Didn’t go down too well.’

  ‘I wouldn’t imagine it would,’ said Fran. ‘So you searched the staff quarters, too?’

  ‘Except Marion Headlam, they all live out,’ said Murray, ‘but we searched all the staff rooms and lockers. We’re quite competent, you know, Mrs Castle.’

  ‘I know.’ Fran cleared her throat. ‘Actually, there’s something else I ought to tell you, Inspector. As a result of Mrs Bridges’ death, I’ve come into a legacy.’ And she explained about the trust.

  ‘And you knew nothing about this?’ Murray sounded suspicious.

  ‘No, I promise you. I’ve got the name of the solicitor who told me. He’s ringing me back on Monday. John Meade of Hallbert and Dunkin.’

  ‘I’ll phone him first thing,’ muttered Murray. ‘This is getting too complicated.’

  ‘There was something else, too,’ said Fran, feeling that she might as well burn her boats.

  �
�Yes? What? More visions?’ DCI Murray sighed heavily.

  ‘Well, yes, actually,’ said Fran, and explained about the cellar steps.

  ‘When was this?’ he sounded quite bright, now, thought Fran, as she explained that she didn’t actually know, but it must have been 1964 or possibly 1965.

  ‘So you weren’t living in the house, then?’

  ‘No, we moved away after he married Eleanor,’ said Fran, wondering how many more times she was going to have to explain her family details.

  ‘We’ve got the address of the property, haven’t we?’ he said. ‘It’s where Mr Wade lives now.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Is that all Inspector? Only I’m using my friend’s phone.’

  ‘ChiefInspector, MrsCastle,’ he said. ‘Yes. I’ll come back to you if I need anything else.’

  ‘That’s that, then,’ said Libby, as Fran handed her back the phone. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Redding,’ said Fran. ‘I can talk to her on the pretext of warning her about the police wanting to question her again.’

  ‘Shall I ring her?’

  ‘We don’t know what shift she’s on, do we? Or even if she works at weekends. It isSaturday.’

  ‘I’ll risk it and go to The Laurels,’ said Fran.

  ‘Marion Headlam’ll be surprised,’ said Libby. ‘You were only there yesterday.’

  Fran shrugged. ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said.

  In fact, she didn’t have to. Borrowing Romeo once again, and deciding that, if the trust materialised, the first thing she would do would be to buy a car – a nice, clean environmentally friendly one – she was just about to turn into the drive of The Laurels, when a car, almost as ancient as Romeo, drove out, and Fran, whose distance eyesight was excellent, recognised Nurse Redding driving it. As she turned away from Fran, Fran was able to follow her without looking suspicious, and as Nurse Redding was a careful, not to say over-cautious, driver, following her was easy. She parked eventually in front of a large detached house near the hospital in Canterbury, and Fran was able to park in a space just beyond, and catch her up just as she walked up the path to the front door.

  ‘I’m so glad I caught you,’ panted Fran, skidding to a halt on some early fallen leaves.

  ‘What do you want now?’ Redding glared at her.

  ‘Just to say that the police want to talk to you again. I heard this morning.’

  ‘And why would they tell you?’ Nurse Redding’s eyes narrowed under her heavy brows.

  ‘Because of the will.’ Fran narrowed her eyes back, and hoped she wasn’t squinting.

  ‘You’re not in it,’ said Redding, then looked horrified.

  Fran didn’t bother to conceal her triumph. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘You had it. You read it. That’s why they want to talk to you.’

  ‘How did they know?’ The stuffing had leached out of Redding and she stood, limp, leaning against a wall.

  ‘It was obvious, wasn’t it?’ said Fran. ‘It wasn’t there when they searched, so it had to have been taken off the premises, and brought back by someone. Someone who had access to the whole place – not just a visitor.’ She eyed Redding thoughtfully. ‘Come on. Let’s get you inside. You’ve had a shock.’

  To her surprise, Nurse Redding didn’t demur, and led Fran into a large downstairs flat that appeared scrupulously neat and tidy, and curiously soul-less. The one thing of any character was the large and rather unpleasant picture over the bricked up hearth.

  ‘You’re into Satanism, I see,’ said Fran, in a conversational tone, and trying not to look too interested.

  ‘Yes.’ Redding sank down into a armchair. ‘So’s your friend.’

  Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Libby? Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Phoned me asking about Tyne Chapel, she did. I put her off.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Fran. ‘It’s still used then?’ Of course it was. She could see it. Torches and black robes. Tonight. Her heart banged frighteningly, and she sat up straight and tried to ignore it.

  Nurse Redding shrugged. ‘Might be,’ she said.

  ‘So tell me why you took the will,’ said Fran.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘You’re going to have to tell the police. And although I’m not a legatee in Mrs Bridges’ will, I am in her late husband’s,’ said Fran, crossing her fingers in her lap. Well, it was almost true.

  ‘I don’t see that it has anything to do with you.’ Nurse Redding looked truculent. Any minute now she’s going to ask me to leave, thought Fran, unless I can come up with something.

  ‘But it has to do with Charles Wade,’ she said, ‘and Mr and Mrs Denver.’

  To her surprise, Redding’s face took on an alarmingly malevolent expression. ‘Him,’ she said, a globule of spittle landing on her hand.

  ‘Charles?’ said Fran.

  ‘Paul bloody Denver.’ Redding’s head poked forward like a snake about to strike, and Fran felt a trickle of fear down her spine and raising the hair on the back of her neck.

  ‘The police ought to ask him about his fucking aunt’s death.’ Suddenly, Redding surged up out of her chair and loomed over Fran.

  Keep calm, Fran told herself, aware that her heart was banging so hard, Redding could probably see it. ‘But Paul didn’t arrive until after his aunt died,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, no? You ask that stupid bitch Warner where he was. With his auntie outside the french windows in her wheelchair.’

  ‘Where was he, then?’

  ‘In her room, wasn’t he? With Warner. Fucking the life out of her.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  FRAN JUST STARED. REDDING flung herself back in her chair and started chewing a nail.

  ‘Have you told the police?’ Fran was surprised that her voice came out sounding normal.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why on earth not? It changes the whole case.’

  ‘I’ve got something on him, haven’t I? And he knows it.’

  ‘Is that why you took the will?’

  Redding’s face took on a cunning expression. She’s mad, thought Fran.

  ‘They were really worried about that will. I heard them talking.’ She looked at Fran. ‘He used to tell me things when we were in bed.’

  ‘You?’ Fran gasped.

  ‘Oh, yes. I know what you’re thinking. Why me.’ She laughed. ‘That’s what they thought before.’

  ‘Who thought what before?’

  ‘At work. I was a sister.’

  Fran was now finding it hard to follow this barrage of information, but this made sense. ‘This is where you lived when you worked at the hospital?’ she said. ‘You said something about that the first time we met at The Laurels.’

  Redding stood up again. ‘You’d better go now,’ she said. ‘I’ve been on all night. I need sleep.’

  Fran went willingly to the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, before it was slammed in her face.

  She was shaking as she walked to the car. Her first thought was to phone the police, but after this morning’s call, she wondered if it would be construed as pestering. Resting her head on the steering wheel after getting into Romeo, she took a calming breath and decided to call Guy.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday,’ she said, ‘it must be your busiest day.’

  ‘Bother away,’ he said. ‘I tried to call you earlier, but your phone wasn’t switched on. So I called Libby.’

  ‘Did you?’ Fran was ridiculously pleased.

  ‘Yes. She said you’d spoken to Murray, and you were going to see Nurse Redding.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Fran, and embarked on a rather garbled version of her visit to Nurse Redding.

  ‘Where are you now?’ asked Guy.

  ‘Sitting outside her flat. She lives in one of those big houses near the hospital in Canterbury.’

  ‘And she used to work there?’

  ‘Yes, and there’s obviously something funny about that, too. It sounds as if she might have had
an affair there, but I could be wrong.’

  ‘How could you find out?’

  ‘I couldn’t. I don’t know anyone who works there. Anyway, what does it matter? The thing is she seems to have had an affair with Paul Denver.’ Fran shuddered. ‘Awful.’

  ‘And with this other one, too, Sophie’s friend.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran shuddered again. ‘You should have heard her. It was horrible.’

  ‘Look, we can’t talk about this on the phone. Why don’t you go home and I’ll come over.’

  ‘Oh, no. You can’t leave your shop on a Saturday. Anyway, I’ve got to take the car back to Libby. I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘I’ll come over later, then. Ring me if there are any developments.’

  Soothed and slightly happier, Fran put Romeo in gear, and with an ominous grinding turned him homewards.

  Once or twice on the way back to Steeple Martin, Fran found herself wondering whether she’d actually jumped any red lights, her mind was so full of what she’d learned from Nurse Redding. She arrived safely outside 17, Allhallow’s Lane, and was relieved to find Libby still at home, although making preparations to go and meet Ben for a Saturday lunchtime drink.

  ‘Doesn’t matter about that,’ she said, sitting Fran down and dumping Sidney on her lap. ‘I’ll ring him and put him off. You look awful.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’ Fran leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. ‘I was terrified.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Once again, Fran recounted the morning’s events, while Libby’s eyes grew wider and wider and her jaw dropped lower and lower.

  ‘Go to the police.’ Libby was firm. ‘This is no time to worry about what they’re going to think. She’s got to be the murderer.’

  ‘I still don’t know what to think about her hiding the will, though. What on earth for? And what about Paul and Nurse Warner?’

  ‘Goodness knows. Just phone the police. It doesn’t have to be Murray, it can be anyone.’ Libby handed over the phone. ‘Here.’

  It wasn’t Murray, it was, in fact, DS Cole, who listened with obvious impatience, then informed Fran that DCI Murray and DC Bulstrode were on their way to interview Nurse Redding as he spoke. No doubt she would give them the information herself.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Fran, ringing off. ‘Did I tell you she admitted to belonging to come sort of coven? Horrible picture over her mantelpiece. And I’m sure she’s going to a meeting tonight.’