Murder in Midwintereries

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Show me what to do, Fran,’ said Bella, getting up and going over to peer at the screen. ‘Then perhaps if I find the right date I can find the right file.’

  Fran gave Bella a quick lesson in how to start up the computer and how to open the folders.

  ‘Now I know, I can go through it later,’ said Bella. ‘It’s too cold to stay out here now. I’ll have to find a heater.’

  ‘There’s an electric radiator over here, said Libby. ‘Shall I switch it on?’

  ‘OK – yes.’ Bella came over to have a look. ‘She must have spent a lot of time here.’

  ‘Yes, and after she wrote that letter to you,’ said Fran. ‘When was it dated?’

  ‘Five years ago.’

  ‘She wanted to get things in order for you,’ said Fran. ‘I expect she intended to write again and tell you all about it.’

  Bella nodded. ‘It doesn’t help Inspector Connell, though, does it?’

  ‘No, not on the surface. But you don’t know what you might turn up,’ said Fran. ‘I’m sure there’s something.’

  ‘Sure sure?’ said Libby. ‘Or hope sure?’

  Fran smiled. ‘I can feel something, but I’m not certain what it is. If Bella comes across anything in all this that she feels might be useful, I’ll have a go at it.’

  Bella, under Fran’s guidance, closed down the computer, turned off the light but left the radiator on.

  ‘I’ll come out here later, when I’m feeling stronger,’ she said, as she led the way back inside March Cottage. ‘I’m a bit shell-shocked at the moment.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve had that sort of experience myself.’

  ‘But you can’t feel anything that might help me in here?’

  ‘It feels a contented sort of home,’ said Fran guardedly. ‘I’ll have to think about it. Tell you what,’ she stopped in the act of putting on her coat, ‘can you give me something of Maria’s? It might help.’

  ‘Something? Do you mean the letter? Because –’

  ‘No, not the letter. That’s too personal.’ Fran looked round the room and lit on a framed photograph. ‘What about that? Do you know who it is?’

  Bella picked it up. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t noticed it.’ She turned it to the light. ‘It could be Maria or Dorinda, couldn’t it?’

  ‘May I see?’ asked Libby. ‘Well, it’s obviously 1920s, and Maria wouldn’t be grown up by then, would she? And these women are definitely grown up.’

  ‘Dorinda, then? But which one is she?’ asked Bella.

  ‘That one,’ said Fran, indicating the tallest figure in the photograph, a laughing woman wearing a cloche hat.

  Bella stared. ‘How do you … oh.’

  Fran smiled. ‘Don’t know if I’ll get anything from it, but we can but hope,’ she said.

  ‘Right,’ said Libby. ‘Now, is there anything you want us to do before we go, Bella?’

  ‘No, thanks, you’ve been wonderful,’ said Bella. ‘Can I ring you if I need to?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fran, ‘and you might give Inspector Connell a ring, too.’

  ‘Do I have to tell him what we’ve found?’

  ‘I think you must,’ said Libby. ‘They always find things out in the end, and the quicker you get to the bottom of your murder, even if none of this matters, the better. Then you can get on with sorting out the theatre, can’t you?’

  Chapter Five

  ‘I NEARLY SAID “GET on with sorting out your life”,’ said Libby, as they drove out of Heronsbourne, ‘but she hasn’t admitted there’s anything wrong with her life, has she?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Fran, ‘give her time.’

  ‘So what did you get in there? Anything?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Fran stroked the photograph, which she held on her lap. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘That means you did.’ Libby stopped at a T-junction. ‘Do we want to go home, or shall we go and see Guy?’

  ‘Nethergate. I’d like to have a look at the theatre.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby, sending her a sidelong glance, ‘not Guy, then?’

  Fran grinned. ‘Oh, I daresay we could fit him in as well.’

  Libby drove the other way along the promenade from Guy’s gallery and the cottage Fran hoped would soon be hers. The Alexandria stood, forlorn and wind-battered, a blue-and-white police tape fluttering around it like absurd bunting.

  ‘There’s a policeman there,’ said Libby. ‘He won’t let you through.’

  ‘I just want to have a look,’ said Fran, and got out of the car.

  She crossed the road towards the theatre, pulling her sensible navy coat closer against the wind that whipped over the top of the cliff. The other end of the promenade dipped down to the same level as the beach, and Fran could see lights swinging outside The Sloop on the end of the Hard. Here, though, high up on the cliff top, there were no lights, just an abandoned building with a sinister secret. Fran felt her heart thump in her chest and a familiar blackness descending on her. Scared, she grabbed the railings along the cliff edge and closed her eyes.

  ‘Mrs Castle?’

  She looked up, her heart rate returning to normal.

  ‘Inspector Connell,’ she said, relieved to hear her voice steady.

  ‘Have you met Mrs Morleigh yet?’

  ‘We’ve just come from her cottage,’ said Fran.

  ‘We?’ said Inspector Connell, his dark brows beetling together over his deep set eyes.

  ‘Yes, Inspector,’ Fran sighed. ‘Surely you didn’t expect me to see Mrs Morleigh without Mrs Sarjeant?’

  ‘But I told you –’

  ‘Told me, Inspector? I thought I was doing you a favour.’

  There was a moment when Fran sensed a struggle within him.

  ‘I’m sorry. Of course. Mrs Sarjeant’s been – ah – a great help in the past, hasn’t she?’

  Fran smiled. ‘To me, she has,’ she said. ‘And no, we’ve found out nothing that might help you so far. Mrs Morleigh knows nothing of her aunt or her grandmother, and we found little at the cottage to help us.’ Despite what she’d said to Bella, Fran felt it better at the moment to conceal the photograph. Inspector Connell was in just the mood to impound it as evidence.

  ‘This is where she found the body?’

  ‘Yes.’ Connell turned and looked at the side door, where the constable stood on guard. ‘Did you want to see?’

  ‘What?’ gasped Fran.

  ‘I thought it might help you.’

  Was he teasing? Fran surveyed him warily. He looked quite serious.

  ‘The body’s not there, is it?’

  ‘No, of course not. SOCOs been all over it, but there’s so much rubbish in there we’re going to have to clear it all out and have another go.’

  ‘Can you get in the front door?’

  ‘Not at the moment. We’ll manage to open it up once we’re inside properly. Well? Do you want to see?’

  ‘Just from the door, then,’ said Fran, aware of a nasty liquefying feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  At the door, all she could see was a dark passage and piles of rubbish that appeared to have been pushed to either side. Her stomach was definitely unhappy, now, and her breathing was distinctly uneven.

  ‘All right, Mrs Castle?’ asked Inspector Connell, taking her elbow and peering down into her face.

  ‘Not really.’ She attempted a smile and broke away from him. ‘I think I’d better go.’

  ‘Did you – er –’

  ‘Get anything? No. Just great discomfort.’ Fran smiled again, feeling better now she was away from that door. ‘Can you tell me how old the body was?’

  ‘How old?’ Inspector Connell looked bewildered.

  ‘I mean – how long had it been there? Was it a new body?’

  ‘I see. Oh, yes. Very recent.’ His tone was guarded. ‘Why did you want to know?’

  ‘I thought it might help.’ Fran shrugged. ‘Sorry not to have been more use, but I shall be seeing Mrs Morlei
gh again, and we’ll try and find something in her aunt’s past that might have a bearing. Although, looking at this place, surely it’s more likely to have been a tramp squatting here, isn’t it?’

  ‘And why would he be murdered?’ asked Inspector Connell. ‘And by whom?’

  ‘So why,’ said Libby, as they drove off towards the other end of the promenade and Harbour Street, ‘didn’t you ask him how the body died?’

  ‘He wasn’t being very forthcoming about the age of the body, so I don’t think he would have welcomed any more questions,’ said Fran.

  ‘Well, I think it’s a cheek,’ said Libby, pulling up in the car park of The Swan with a screech of brakes. ‘He asks for your help and then won’t tell you anything.’

  ‘He didn’t actually ask for my help, did he, Lib? He just suggested that Bella talked to me.’

  ‘In case you could find anything out for him, yes.’ Libby got out of the car and locked it. ‘Shall we ring Guy and ask him to meet us here, or do you want to walk down to the shop?’

  ‘I want to have a look at the cottage. You stay here, if you like,’ said Fran. ‘Give Guy a ring.’

  Libby watched her friend stride off along the harbour wall, her coat pulled tight around her, sleek dark hair swinging slightly with every step. Libby sighed. Why wasn’t she neat and groomed like Fran? She looked down at the blue cape and the long denim skirt and sighed again. No hope really.

  She went to sit at the bar after ringing Guy on her mobile.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can see her coming. I’ll go and join her.’

  But five minutes later he came in alone.

  ‘She wanted to be alone,’ he said, giving Libby a quizzical look. ‘What have you two been up to?’

  ‘Fran’ll tell you. She told you about that woman, didn’t she? Bella Morleigh? Well, we’ve been with her. And I think she wanted to commune with her cottage. I do hope she doesn’t go into hibernation once she’s moved in there.’

  But after another few minutes, Fran joined them.

  ‘I can’t get in,’ she said. ‘It isn’t mine yet. And even though the owners aren’t there, they’ve got to clear it out. I don’t know when they’re going to do that. It must be difficult for them, not living down here.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll get a removals company to pack everything up and put it into storage, I should think,’ said Guy. ‘That way, they can sort things out at their leisure.’

  ‘Storage is very expensive, though, isn’t?’ said Libby. ‘I couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘If they can afford a second home, they can afford storage,’ said Guy. ‘Now what are we eating?’

  By tacit consent the subjects of Bella Morleigh and the murder were avoided, although Fran was very quiet. Libby chattered away about the pantomime, Peter and Harry’s civil partnership celebrations and Christmas. Guy told them about his new line of Christmas cards, which included one of Libby’s wintry sea scenes, much to her delight, and his daughter Sophie’s sudden decision to go to university.

  ‘What does she want to do?’ asked Libby.

  ‘History of Art, would you believe,’ said Guy. ‘She’ll be lording it over me when she comes back.’

  ‘You should be pleased she wants to follow in your footsteps,’ said Libby. ‘Don’t you think so, Fran?’

  ‘What?’ said Fran.

  Libby repeated the last part of the conversation.

  ‘What will you do for help in the shop?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Well, you could help out, couldn’t you?’ said Guy. ‘You’ll only be along the road.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ said Fran. ‘Cheap labour.’

  ‘Of course not. I’d pay you.’

  ‘Maybe now and then,’ said Fran, ‘in an emergency.’

  ‘She’ll be busy investigating things, anyway,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, Libby, shut up about it. Just because it’s happened once …’

  ‘It might happen again,’ said Libby, ‘you never know.’

  Guy looked from one to the other, amused. ‘This from the woman who didn’t want to play Miss Marple,’ he said.

  Libby sniffed and returned to her soup.

  After arranging to see Guy over the weekend, Fran suggested she and Libby should get back to Steeple Martin. ‘I’ve got a couple of calls to make,’ she explained.

  Libby looked dubious, but agreed and gave Guy a kiss goodbye.

  Fran continued to say very little on the journey back to Steeple Martin. Libby decided to leave her to it, hoping that she would tell all when they reached home. Fran, however, climbed out of the car, thanked Libby for the lift and disappeared straight upstairs to her flat.

  Disgruntled, Libby sat for a while in the car, wondering what to do. There was no rehearsal that night, so she had no preparation to do, she and Ben had made no arrangement to see each other, although she was fairly sure they would, and the afternoon stretched emptily ahead.

  A tap on the passenger window startled her.

  ‘Looking for a good time, dearie?’ Harry grinned at her.

  Libby wound down the window. ‘Yes, actually. Got anything in mind?’

  ‘Do you want to come and look at our wedding venue with me? I’ve got a few details to finalise.’

  ‘Are you sure? Shouldn’t Pete be with you?’

  ‘He’s in London. Anyway, I told you, he’s leaving most of it to me.’

  ‘OK, then, I’d love to. Do you want to go in my car?’

  Harry wrinkled his nose. ‘No, thank you. I value my image. You go home and I’ll come and pick you up.’

  Fifteen minutes later they were on their way.

  ‘Have you ever been to Anderson Place?’ asked Harry, as they left Steeple Martin in the opposite direction to Nethergate.

  ‘No, although I’ve always meant to. I should have taken the children there when they were young but I never got around to it.’

  ‘It’s beautiful. I can’t believe they had a vacancy for us at such short notice.’

  ‘Perhaps because it’s near Christmas?’ suggested Libby, as the car began to climb a steep lane between high hedges.

  ‘No, Christmas is very popular for weddings,’ said Harry. ‘I think they must have had a cancellation. They only offered us the one date.’

  ‘Is this it?’ said Libby as a pair of huge gateposts appeared on their right. ‘It’s not very far, is it?’

  ‘That’s what so good about it,’ said Harry. ‘Right on our own doorstep.’

  He drove between the gateposts and up a wide drive bordered with enormous trees. Libby, not the best horticulturist in the world, had no idea what they were, as they hadn’t even got their leaves on, but naked as they were, they were still impressive.

  The drive opened out on to a wide forecourt. Discreet signposts pointed to “Shop”, “Visitor’s Car Park” and “Spa”, while the building itself sported a colonnaded entrance approached by sweeping twin staircases.

  ‘Wow!’ said Libby. ‘Are you going to lose your glass slipper on those steps?’

  ‘Funny you should say that. They filmed a telly Cinders here, apparently. Out you get.’

  ‘But it says the car park’s round there,’ said Libby.

  ‘Only for open days or functions,’ said Harry, holding the door for her. ‘Come on, there’s only so long I can go on being a gent.’

  He led the way up the stone steps, which did indeed look like something in a fairy tale. Inside the huge double doors, all was gold and cream, but somehow understated, which couldn’t be said for the girl who came towards them with a welcoming smile on her iridescent pink lips.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, her stripy pink and red hair nodding towards them Medusa-like.

  ‘Hi,’ said Libby nervously.

  ‘Hi, Mel,’ said Harry, leaning forward to plant a kiss somewhere between the nose and eyebrow rings. ‘This is Libby. She’s our bridesmaid.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ giggled Mel, holding out her hand. ‘He’s a case, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, y
es,’ said Libby, not realising her offer of attendant had been taken seriously. ‘Am I?’

  ‘We said, didn’t we. I think you’re actually sort of best woman. You know, holding the rings. What normally happens, Mel?’

  ‘Oh, well, it depends on the couple. Anything goes really. Long as the celebrant is happy.’ Mel was leading them down a corridor lit by amazing chandeliers and lined with superior-looking console tables. She made a sudden left turn and ushered them into a tiny office labelled “Melanie Phelps, Events”. Libby viewed the spiky stripes with more respect.

  ‘Right, Harry,’ she said, going behind an efficient-looking desk. ‘Take a seat and let’s go through what we’ve got so far.’

  Libby’s mind wandered as Harry and Mel went through menu options, seating arrangements and floral decorations.

  ‘What do you reckon, Lib,’ said Harry, ‘gold and cream or pink and gold?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Flowers,’ said Harry. ‘You’re supposed to be here to help. Gold and cream or pink and gold?’

  ‘They both sound a bit naff to me,’ said Libby. Melanie giggled.

  Harry sighed theatrically. ‘All right, O Arbiter of Style. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Where are they coming from?’ asked Libby. ‘Do you supply them?’

  ‘We can do,’ said Mel. ‘It depends on how much involvement the client wants.’

  ‘Why not Christmas flowers? White, with holly and mistletoe and fir-coney things. Not too feminine.’

  ‘Oh, get you, ducky,’ said Harry. ‘Sounds good, though. What do you think, Mel?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve done that sort of thing before. I like it better than the obvious stuff.’ She turned to Libby. ‘Do you want to take charge of the floral arrangements, then?

  Libby recoiled in horror. ‘Oh, no, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m no good at that sort of thing.’

  ‘Poor old dear,’ said Harry, patting her arm. ‘You’ve only got to look at her immaculate dress sense, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oi,’ said Libby.

  ‘No, you take charge, Mel. We might as well let you do the lot, then we haven’t got to worry.’