Murder in Midwintereries

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘No-o,’ admitted Libby. ‘I just get that feeling.’

  ‘Well, I’d leave her to sort out her feelings, without you interfering,’ said Ben. ‘You’re not that good at sorting your own out, after all.’

  ‘Gee thanks,’ said Libby.

  Fran’s spirits got lower and lower the nearer they got to Steeple Martin. Eventually, plucking up courage, she cleared her throat and asked Connell to stop at a service station.

  ‘I need milk, you see,’ she said, ‘and the eight-til-late will be closed when I get home.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly. ‘What about food? Do you need a supermarket?’

  ‘No, I’ve got eggs and things,’ she said. ‘I’ll be all right until tomorrow.’

  ‘Would you like to stop for a meal?’ Fran got the impression that the words were forced out of him. ‘I should have thought of it before.’

  ‘No, please don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve got food at home.’

  He turned a quick smile on her. ‘Ah, but I haven’t,’ he said. ‘Take pity on me and keep me company.’

  Fran was glad of the darkness in the car as she blushed. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘That would be nice.’

  It wasn’t until they were drawing up in the car park of a country pub that Fran realised with a jolt that she didn’t know if he was married. There had naturally been no reason for anyone to have provided this information, and although one or two people had said they thought he was interested, that didn’t mean he was available.

  The pub provided basic and unremarkable food, for which Connell apologised. ‘I should have gone somewhere I knew,’ he said, providing her with the gin and tonic she’d asked for.

  ‘But that would have meant going on further,’ said Fran.

  He nodded. ‘And you must be hungry. All we’ve had all day is that sandwich.’

  ‘And biscuits at HQ,’ reminded Fran.

  ‘Very sustaining,’ he said, with a grin. ‘So tell me, now we’re well away from the place, any ideas?’

  Fran thought about it. ‘All I can come up with is a connection to Anderson Place, which, as you said, is obvious as he worked there. But there is another connection, I’m sure. Those photographs of him and Dorothy when they were children. Why were they there?’

  Connell shook his head and poked at his indifferent meat pie. ‘No connection to Mrs Morleigh’s family, then?’

  ‘Not that I can find at the moment,’ said Fran. ‘But don’t forget, I’m certainly not infallible, and I haven’t investigated this sort of thing before.’

  ‘You did with your aunt’s death,’ said Connell.

  ‘Only because it was forced on me,’ said Fran, feeling rather uncomfortable.

  ‘But you’ve investigated other things,’ persisted Connell.

  ‘Nothing like this,’ said Fran.

  ‘I gather you turned up one or two murders for Goodall and Smythe.’ He sent her a sly grin.

  ‘But not solving them. They’d just occurred, that’s all.’ Fran frowned at him. ‘And how did you know?’

  ‘I had to check you out, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘No,’ he added hastily as she opened her mouth, ‘don’t get upset. We always have to do it. You could have been a fraud.’

  ‘I still could be,’ said Fran grumpily.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘Well, I wish I could say that was a great meal, but I can’t. Sorry.’

  Fran smiled. ‘Don’t worry. It was better than the plain omelette I would have had at home.’

  ‘And better than my beer and cheese. I don’t even know if I’ve got any bread.’ He laughed. ‘You can tell I live on my own, can’t you?’

  Well, that answers that question, Fran thought, watching him as he paid the waitress. And should it matter to me, anyway?

  ‘I’ll buy you a decent meal to make up for it,’ he said as he held the passenger door for her. ‘If you’re free, of course.’

  ‘I don’t know when you’re going to ask me,’ said Fran, puzzled.

  ‘I meant – if you’re able to accept an invitation.’ He didn’t look at her, and swung the car back on to the slip road for the motorway.

  ‘Oh,’ said Fran, and then didn’t know what to say. Disappointed earlier that he had made no move towards her, she was now uncomfortable because he had. She glanced quickly sideways at his dark profile and thought again how like a romantic hero he was. What the hell he saw in her she just couldn’t think. To her embarrassment, he turned his head and caught her looking at him.

  ‘Problem?’ he said with a smile.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Just wondering what makes you tick.’

  ‘Work,’ he said, looking back at the road. ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘Nothing?’ said Fran, dying to ask if he had a family.

  ‘No time for anything else,’ he said.

  When they finally drew up outside The Pink Geranium, he got out and held the door for her.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘dinner some time?’ He saw her hesitation. ‘As a thank you for all your help,’ he added.

  ‘I haven’t really done anything,’ said Fran.

  ‘You have, you know. You’ve established a previous connection between Laurence and Anderson Place and got us looking at whatever went on outside his flat. That could be important.’

  ‘But not proved a connection between him and Mrs Morleigh’s family,’ said Fran.

  ‘Well, that was always a long shot,’ he smiled. ‘Can’t win ’em all.’

  ‘May I keep hold of the photographs?’ asked Fran, pausing in the act of putting her key in the door.

  ‘Let me know when you’ve finished with them,’ he said. ‘And if you find anything of course.’

  She smiled gratefully. He wasn’t going to push for a dinner date, then, or demand the return of the photographs. ‘I’ll call you,’ she said. ‘And thank you for the opportunity to see Dorothy’s – house. It was very kind.’

  ‘Not kind at all. I needed to see it, too. Thanks again.’ He gave her a mock salute and got back into his car, pulling away without another glance. Fran felt slightly let down.

  ‘You really are a silly cow,’ she told herself out loud as she climbed the stairs to the flat. ‘First you fancy him, then you’re disappointed when he ignores you, and when he does look interested you take fright. Then, blow me down,’ she said, as she switched on lights, ‘you’re cross because he takes the hint.’ She sighed heavily and went to see if she had any gin left. As she poured the last into a glass, she realised she needed to do some larder restocking before Christmas, especially as she hoped some of her friends would be able to come for Christmas drinks. And Lucy was bringing Rachel and Tom down at some point, after grumbling that her mother wouldn’t be in London to cook Christmas dinner. Fran had pointed out gently that she had a new life now and would be spending the day with friends. In fact Hetty had extended a gracious invitation to the Manor, where she would be joined by Libby, Ben, two of Libby’s children, Peter and Harry, Flo and Lenny and James. Ben’s sister Susan had opted to spend her day helping at the local hospital, at which decision everyone seemed relieved.

  She sat down in the front room and took out the photographs. The one of Laurence taken in the sixties gave her nothing, although she would have given anything to find out who the other man was. The Anderson Place pictures, however, were tickling away at the corners of her mind, and she was sure they had some kind of significance. She sat back and thought. There must be someone she could ask. Danny hadn’t been there long enough, but what about the woman Libby had met with Harry? How long had she been there?

  Fran downed the last of her gin and gathered up the photographs. Tomorrow she would phone Libby and ask for her help.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘THE PARTY’S ON SUNDAY,’ said Libby, when Fran phoned her on Saturday morning. ‘Are you going to come?’

  ‘I didn’t know I was invited,’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that matters. It’s a bit of a f
ree for all, as far as I can understand. Come with me. The family will all be busy with the tenants so I’ll need company. And think of all those children!’

  ‘Do you need help with them?’ asked Fran nervously.

  ‘I don’t think so. I hope not,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, what did you call me about? Certainly not the party.’

  ‘I thought you might want to know what happened yesterday.’

  ‘Well, yes, but not if you’re not supposed to tell me.’

  ‘Inspector Connell didn’t say I shouldn’t,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, I want your help.’

  ‘My help?’ Libby was puzzled, if gratified.

  ‘I’ll have to tell you all about yesterday first, so I can explain,’ said Fran. ‘Do you want to come over? Or shall I come to you?’

  ‘Come over for lunch,’ said Libby. ‘Only bread and cheese sort of lunch, but Ben’s busy putting up trestle tables at the Manor, so I shall be on my own.’

  Fran agreed, offering to bring a bottle of wine with her. Libby made a half-hearted attempt to tidy the sitting room and kitchen, lit the fire and was writing her last few Christmas cards when Fran arrived. They settled either side of the fireplace with Sidney between them, and Fran told Libby about her visit to Richmond.

  ‘So what do you want my help for?’ asked Libby. ‘I’m not psychic. I can’t see things that aren’t there.’

  ‘I want to talk to someone who might remember that era.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ said Libby, slightly affronted.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I thought you might have some sort of idea about who to ask. You’ve lived in this area longer than I have.’

  ‘But not that long. We moved to Kent when the children were small.’

  ‘But you still know more people here than I do. What about Hetty? Or Flo?’

  ‘I’ve asked them both already,’ said Libby. ‘I thought I told you about that?’

  Fran shook her head.

  ‘Well, Hetty remembers a kitchen maid called – um, Edith, I think, and an old lady coming to call from the Place, but nothing else, and Flo knew nothing at all.’

  ‘Who was the old lady?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I don’t know. Hetty didn’t either, and although Ben remembers her a bit he hasn’t got a clue. So that gets us no further.’

  ‘Would she have been Jonathan – what’s his name? – Walker? His mother?’

  ‘If she was very old back in the early fifties I wouldn’t have thought so. He was described as “old” Jonathan, wasn’t he? He’d have to be positively ancient if she was his mother.’ Libby stared into the fire. ‘I tell you what, though. How about asking him?’

  ‘How?’ said Fran. ‘He’s the owner. He probably doesn’t even live there. Anyway, he’s the boss of the Place. I doubt we’d get near him.’

  ‘It’s a good idea, though, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘Who could we ask about him?’

  ‘Danny? Or what about that woman you met up there with Harry?’

  ‘Mel,’ said Libby. ‘I suppose so, but Danny would be preferable. He’d know why we wanted to speak to the old man.’

  ‘Let’s ring him, then,’ said Fran. ‘Did you say they’ve let him go back to work?’

  ‘I think so. Have we got his number?’

  ‘I have,’ said Fran, digging out her mobile. ‘Here. If he’s working it’ll go straight to voice mail, won’t it?’

  ‘But at least he’ll know. I’m sure it’s Jonathan you need to speak to.’

  ‘Although even he might not know. They could have just been loitering outside the walls, couldn’t they?’

  ‘I haven’t seen the photographs, so I don’t know,’ said Libby.

  ‘Here.’ Once more, Fran scrabbled in her bag and drew out an envelope, which she emptied onto the table at her elbow. ‘There,’ she said.

  Libby looked through the photographs. ‘I can’t really work out where they are,’ she said. ‘That looks like the front of the Place, but it’s all different, now.’

  ‘That’s what’s so difficult,’ said Fran. ‘Are they there because they belong there? Or trespassing? Or actually outside?’

  ‘If they belonged there, Laurence wouldn’t have been working for them now, would he?’

  ‘Well, he might have been. If, say, his parents had worked there, he might have been given a job when it was turned into a hotel.’

  ‘Oh, yes. That’s true.’ Libby looked thoughtful. ‘Wouldn’t Danny have known that, though?’

  ‘Damn. Yes, of course he would.’ Fran sat back in the chair. ‘We haven’t got much further forward, have we?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. We’re going to try and speak to old Jonathan, aren’t we? That’s progress. Go on, ring Danny and I’ll open the wine.’

  Fran left a message for Danny to call her as soon as he was free and Libby came back with the wine.

  ‘And now tell me all about Inspector Connell,’ she said, handing Fran a glass.

  ‘Tell what?’ said Fran, looking innocent.

  ‘Oh, come on. You know what I mean. Did he take you for a meal?’

  ‘Yes, but only because it was late and we both needed to eat. Nowhere flash.’

  ‘He needn’t have done.’

  ‘No.’ Fran looked down into her glass.

  ‘Come on, there’s more, isn’t there?’

  ‘He sort of asked me out again.’ Fran wouldn’t look up.

  ‘What do you mean “sort of”? He either did or he didn’t.’

  ‘He offered to take me out for a proper meal to make up for the crap one.’

  ‘So?’ Libby stared at her friend intently.

  ‘I – um – didn’t really answer.’ Fran looked up. ‘It was weird. We had a bit of a spat in the car because I’d brought the photographs away and I shouldn’t have done, then we didn’t speak until we got to Kent. And I was disappointed because he hadn’t – er –’

  ‘Made a pass?’

  ‘Shown interest. Then when he did I got scared, and when he didn’t pursue it I was disappointed again.’

  ‘Freaked you out, did it?’ Libby grinned. ‘Is it because you really fancy him, or is it just because he has shown interest?’

  Fran stared at her. ‘Oh, Lib, I don’t know. I’m so unused to this.’

  ‘You’ve had Guy since the summer. You can’t be that unused to it.’ Libby failed to keep an accusing note out of her voice.

  ‘I know,’ said Fran. ‘And that’s the other thing. Connell actually asked me if I was free to accept invitations. He knows I’ve been seeing Guy.’

  Libby stayed quiet. This was where Fran started to work out her own love life.

  ‘I know you think I shouldn’t see anyone else now I’m seeing Guy, but we haven’t exactly been love’s young dream, have we?’

  ‘Whose fault is that? Guy’s been champing at the bit since you met.’

  Fran looked flustered as colour seeped up her neck. ‘Yes, but you know how confused I’ve been over that,’ she said.

  ‘Worse than I was,’ said Libby. ‘Middle-aged confusion.’

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ said Fran. ‘I still can’t understand how anyone remotely attractive could like anyone boring and middle-aged like me. No one ever has before. I’m just not that sort.’

  ‘Neither was I,’ said Libby, ‘and let’s face it, I’m shorter and fatter than you. What Ben sees in me I can’t think. But I’ve now accepted that he does love me, and I’m batty about him, and I can relax. But if you don’t really, really fancy either of them, don’t prolong it just because it’s flattering.’

  Fran stared at Libby with her mouth open. ‘Good lord, is that what I’m doing?’

  Libby shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I do know that you felt ambivalent about Guy at first because you couldn’t believe it was happening, and I’d felt like that myself, but what I wonder now is, has Connell’s attention convinced you that you are attractive, so you can play them off.’

  ‘Libby!’ Fran looked outraged. ‘How dare you. You r
eally can’t believe that of me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done, no, but I think it might have had that effect on me if Ben and I hadn’t – er – cemented our relationship, so to speak.’

  Fran was silent. Libby got up to fetch the wine bottle and put a pan of soup on the Rayburn. Her own complicated feelings about middle-aged relationships were resurfacing uncomfortably with this analysis and she had to take a deep breath and remind herself that Ben had said he loved her, and done nothing to disprove that, quite the reverse. But she understood totally Fran’s slightly panicky, exhilarated feelings, her unwillingness to take anything at face value. She took the bottle back into the sitting room.

  ‘I do understand, Fran,’ she said, topping up their glasses. ‘Go out with Connell if you want to. Perhaps it would be better if you did. At least you’d know if he really is interested.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Fran with a rueful smile, ‘but I can hardly ring him up and ask him, can I?’

  ‘You could,’ said Libby, ‘but I don’t suppose you would. But isn’t he coming round to get the photographs?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Fran, looking unsure.

  ‘Well, there you are, then,’ said Libby. ‘Give him the right signals, then if he asks you again you can say yes. Then you’ll know.’

  ‘But he’s younger than I am,’ wailed Fran.

  ‘Oh, stuff. My only encounter pre-Ben was with someone twenty years younger than me.’ Libby gazed at the ceiling. ‘I was stunned.’

  ‘Blimey!’ said Fran. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Oh, no one you’d know,’ said Libby, colouring faintly. ‘But I can’t quite believe it even now.’

  ‘I suppose if you can do it, I can,’ said Fran, ‘but you’re much more outgoing than I am.’

  ‘I don’t think being outgoing has anything to do with it.’ Libby poked the fire into a more satisfying blaze. ‘Ben had to ramraid his way past my defences.’

  ‘He’s too laid back to do that,’ said Fran, amused.

  ‘A subtle ramraid,’ said Libby, with a grin. ‘Now, how about my nice home-made soup?’

  ‘So who do you think Connell suspects for these murders?’ asked Libby, after they’d seated themselves at the kitchen table.