‘Not exactly,’ said Libby, feeling her cheeks go warm. ‘We were – er – hoping we might see old – um – sorry, Jonathan.’
‘Jonathan Walker?’
‘Yes. He’s the owner of the Place, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he is.’ Melanie’s eyes narrowed. ‘What for?’
Libby’s heart thumped in her chest.
‘We want to ask him if he recognises these children,’ said Fran, whipping the photograph of Dorothy and Laurence out of her bag.
‘That’s taken from the front, isn’t it?’ Melanie looked up and smiled. ‘Well, I don’t know if he’ll recognise them, but he’ll be delighted to see it. He loves anything to do with the history of this place.’ She cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Sorry, no pun intended. We do it all the time.’ She turned and beckoned them to follow her down the same corridor as before. She stopped at a pair of double doors standing partially open and knocked.
‘Couple of visitors for you, Sir Jonathan,’ she said, and ushered them inside.
‘Sir Jonathan?’ whispered Libby to Fran.
The man seated in the red and gold upholstered armchair before the large marble fireplace stood up. Tall and well built, his hair was completely white, but still plentiful, as were his large moustache and eyebrows, which he now raised.
‘Thank you, Mel,’ he said, coming forward.
‘Libby Sarjeant –’
‘With a J,’ put in Libby.
‘And Fran Castle,’ continued Melanie. ‘This is Sir Jonathan Walker, ladies. They’ve something to show you. Would you like coffee?’
‘We’d love some, wouldn’t we?’ said Sir Jonathan, smiling on Libby and Fran in turn. ‘Thanks Mel. Now come over here and sit down.’
Libby, feeling as though the wind had been completely knocked out of her sails, followed Fran to where Sir Jonathan indicated they should sit on a small sofa. Fran gave her a quick grimace and then smiled at their host.
‘It’s very kind of you to see us,’ she said, ‘we didn’t want to bother you, just to ask you if you recognised this photograph.’ She handed it over, and they watched the old man’s face light up.
‘Why, that’s taken from the old ha-ha,’ he said, ‘before the car park and drive were there.’
‘Do you recognise the children, sir?’ asked Libby.
He peered more closely, then shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Should I?’
‘Was the house open to the public in those days?’ asked Fran.
‘When was it taken?’ asked Sir Jonathan, turning the photograph over.
‘In the early fifties, we think,’ said Libby. ‘Can you see the sign just behind them? We wondered if that was anything to do with the military occupation?’
‘Oh, yes, I see.’ He peered again. ‘It could be. I can’t read it, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t have been around much then. I was in my late teens. Either still at school, or officer training. I used to come home for visits, of course. They were back in the house by then.’
‘Your parents?’ asked Libby.
‘The family. My mother, my Uncle William and my grandmother.’ He looked again at the photograph. ‘Now let me see. Who did you say they were?’
‘We didn’t but we think it’s Dorothy and Laurence Cooper,’ said Fran.
He looked up. ‘Cooper?’
‘Yes, Sir Jonathan.’
‘You mean – our Laurence Cooper?’
‘It was found with his sister’s things,’ said Fran. ‘There are quite a lot of photographs of them as children, and most of them–’ she crossed her fingers ‘– seem to be taken around here.’
‘With his sister’s things, you say? Was she – was she all right? She came here, you know.’
‘I’m afraid she died,’ said Libby, wondering why the old man didn’t know.
He sat looking at the photograph for a long time. Fran and Libby looked at each other and remained silent until Melanie followed her knock into the room with a tray of coffee cups and a cafetière.
‘Here you are,’ she said cheerfully.
‘Thank you, Mel,’ said Sir Jonathan, sitting up straight and clearing his throat. ‘I’ll pour.’
Melanie left the room with a frowning sidelong look at Libby, and Sir Jonathan pushed down the plunger on the cafetière.
‘There is something I remember, now,’ he said slowly. ‘I should have remembered it before, when the police came.’
‘What was that, Sir Jonathan?’ said Libby.
‘Perhaps there was no reason for you to remember it,’ said Fran.
‘Of course, that’s it,’ said Sir Jonathan, giving her a grateful look. He handed coffee cups and offered milk and sugar, then got up and went to a glass-fronted bookcase in the corner.
‘Just after we’d moved back into the main house I remember mother and grandmother being in a great taking because someone had come to visit. Well – barged his way in, apparently. We had no staff to speak of then, of course, just after the war, and Uncle William was away, so they’d had to deal with him themselves.’ He opened the bookcase and looked through the bottom shelf. ‘Here we are. Mother’s letters.’
He came back to his armchair and began looking through a pile of fragile-looking papers. It all comes down to old letters, thought Libby, things always seem to be rooted in the past.
‘Yes, I think this must be it.’ He smiled as he read. ‘Listen. “A most unpleasant man,” she writes, “Grandmother and I had to take up your father’s old golf clubs and brandish them wildly. He had two small children with him, and we were worried we would frighten the little mites, especially as they didn’t appear to be very happy.” Then she goes on to something else, but I’m sure there was more.’ He shuffled through a few more pages. ‘Ah, here it is. I must have written asking about the incident, because this is a different letter. “The man who came to see us was someone we had known many years before, my dear, when I was a young girl. I cannot now recall his name.” Oh.’ He turned the paper over. ‘That seems to be all.’ He looked up. ‘Do you think Laurence was one of those two children and that man his father?’
‘It seems likely,’ said Libby.
‘And could I ask you what your interest is?’
Wondering why he hadn’t asked before, Libby looked at Fran helplessly. But her friend was equal to it.
‘Laurence was found in some property belonging to a friend of ours,’ she said. ‘We also found references to Anderson Place in some documents left her by her aunt.’
‘I see,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘How exciting. And this aunt. When did she die? Or rather, when did she live?’
‘She was born in 1914, and the letter mentioning Sir Frederick was dated 1916.’
Sir Jonathan sat very still. ‘Sir Frederick?’ he said at last. ‘And who was the letter from?’
Libby and Fran looked at one another.
‘The aunt’s mother,’ said Libby. ‘Our friend’s grandmother.’
Sir Jonathan sat back in his chair and stared into the fire. Libby and Fran sipped at their coffee.
‘Sir Frederick,’ he said eventually, ‘was my great grandfather. He was the Anderson of Anderson Place. He renamed it.’
Libby didn’t say she’d already found that out.
‘So who was this lady who mentioned Sir Frederick in a letter? Obviously a lady living nearby?’
‘In – er – Heronsbourne,’ said Fran.
‘Heronsbourne? That’s near Nethergate, isn’t it?’
Fran nodded. ‘Don’t remember any connections over that way, but then, it was a long time before I was born, of course. And what’s the connection with Laurence?’
‘He was found in our friend’s property.’
Sir Jonathan frowned. ‘I can see that there is a sort of link, but I’m damned if I can see what,’ he said, looking irritable. ‘What were he and his father doing here in the fifties? And why hadn’t he told me he’d been here before?’
‘Perhaps he didn’t remember,’ said Libby. ‘He mus
t have been very young.’
‘It’s all very odd,’ said Sir Jonathan and finished the rest of his coffee at a gulp. ‘I wish my mother was still alive. She’d have known all the answers.’
‘Please don’t worry about it,’ said Fran, ‘we just wanted to throw a little light on the matter for our friend, as he was found on her property.’
‘Nasty for her.’ Sir Jonathan stood up. ‘Now, I’m awfully afraid you’ll have to excuse me, ladies. I have to go and do my rounds of the bar and restaurant. I always do on a Sunday, you know.’
‘Of course,’ said Fran, standing and putting her cup back on the tray. ‘It was extremely good of you to see us.’
‘I didn’t have much choice, did I?’ he said wryly, and Libby felt her face flame. ‘Oh, don’t be embarrassed my dear,’ he said hastily. ‘Melanie knew I’d be interested. And Laurence was a much-valued employee. I am appalled at what happened to him.’
‘He was a friend of another friend of ours, too,’ said Libby.
‘Really? How sad for you all. And what a coincidence.’
‘It was rather,’ said Libby, trying to avoid knocking over the delicate table as she skirted round it. She stopped in front of a portrait by the door. ‘Is that one of your relatives, Sir Jonathan?’
‘My Uncle William,’ he said. ‘A bachelor all his life, which is why the property came to me.’
‘Do you still live at the Place?’ asked Fran, as they walked together down the corridor towards the front door.
‘Yes, I have a private apartment.’ He stopped in the hall. ‘And this is where I must say goodbye.’ He shook hands with them both. ‘You will let me know if you find out anything more about –’ he waved his hands in the air ‘– all this?’
They assured him they would. He turned towards the bar and then stopped.
‘If you’re interested in the family,’ he said, ‘that is Sir Frederick’s daughter, my grandmother.’ He pointed at another portrait near the front door. ‘Goodbye, ladies.’
Libby and Fran went over to have a look. The woman, a little sad-faced, wore a typical Edwardian high-necked dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves, her brown hair dressed a la mode, full at the sides and high on top. Libby sighed.
‘So flattering,’ she said. ‘I wish I could wear my hair like that.’
‘You need rats and a maid,’ said Fran.
‘Rats?’ Libby looked horrified.
‘They were tied round the head to pad out the hair.’ Fran grinned at her. ‘Not real rats.’
‘Oh.’ Libby returned to the picture. ‘She looks nice.’
‘Yes,’ said Fran, ‘but we’d better go if you want to change before we go to the party.’
Libby sighed again. ‘Oh, all right.’ She turned to leave, cast one last look at the painting and stopped.
‘Fran,’ she said, ‘look.’
‘What?’
‘The name under the painting.’
The discreet gold plaque attached to the frame read: Mrs Nemone Shepherd.
Chapter Twenty-two
‘SHEPHERD?’ SAID FRAN. ‘THAT’S the name we couldn’t remember. The family Dorinda worked for.’
‘Exactly,’ said Libby, returning to the painting. ‘Pity we didn’t see this before Sir Jonathan disappeared into the bar.’
‘It would have confused him even more,’ said Fran, ‘and I must say, I’m a bit confused myself. I’m going to have to sit and think about this.’
‘Me too,’ muttered Libby, following Fran out of the door and down the steps.
‘Why can’t we go and have another look through Bella’s stuff tomorrow?’ she asked, as they got into Fran’s car. ‘This could be a breakthrough.’
‘I think I’ll have to let Bella know first,’ said Fran, putting the car into gear and pulling away across the forecourt. ‘But you’re right. We’ll have to have another look.’
‘Are you going to tell Inspector – oh, sorry, Ian – about this?’
‘What’s there to tell? We’ve discovered that the grandmother of the present owner of Anderson Place used to employ Bella’s grandmother? How on earth could that have any bearing on Laurence Cooper?’
‘Suppose you’re right,’ said Libby. ‘Shame though.’ She was quiet until they drove down the hill into Steeple Martin. ‘But what was he doing there in that photograph? That’s what we went to find out. And we didn’t.’
‘Sir Jonathan read us those bits out of his mother’s letters,’ said Fran. ‘We were very lucky. I’m surprised he didn’t just brush us off or throw us out.’
‘Mel wouldn’t have taken us to see him if she’d thought that,’ said Libby. ‘He’s obviously very interested in the history of the house and family.’
‘Well, we might have a lot more to tell him, soon,’ said Fran. ‘I have a feeling this is all going to get more complicated, and he’ll have a right to know.’
Libby looked at her in silence. Fran drove into Allhallow’s Lane and pulled up on to the little green opposite Libby’s house.
‘Are you being psychic again?’ said Libby, turning to face her.
‘What? No.’ Fran tapped the steering wheel.
‘Yes, you are. You’re doing it more and more often. How do you know this is going to get more and more complicated?’
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Fran continued to stare out of the windscreen.
‘Not to me it isn’t. All I can see is a lack of suspects for the murder, Laurence’s, anyway, I don’t know about Dorothy’s.’
‘Yes, well, I think there might be more to it.’ Fran cleared her throat. ‘Now, go on, get out. I want to go home and change, too.’
Libby watched her drive back down Allhallow’s Lane and went indoors to placate Sidney and change into something suitable for a feudal Christmas party.
The Manor looked even more like something on the front of a Christmas card to Libby as she walked up the drive. A little over to her right stood the converted Oast House which was the theatre, with its large billboard and banner advertising Jack and the Beanstalk flanked by two enormous trees from the estate garlanded in multi-coloured lights, which had joined the two silver ones by the glass doors. The two trees standing either side of the Manor’s impressive front door and the bough across the lintel had been supplemented by an equally impressive garland. Libby pushed tentatively and the door opened.
Inside, Ben was putting parcels under the tree in the hall and Hetty could be seen through the door to the right in full bustle mode. Ben came forward and kissed her.
‘Glad you’re early,’ he said, ‘you can go and help Ma. She’s getting into a state.’
‘I thought your mother never got into states?’
‘No, she doesn’t normally. I’m not sure what’s wrong, unless it’s Dad. He’s not too well again, although he laughs it off and calls himself a creaking gate.’
‘I’ll go and see what I can do. I’ll tell her what we found out at the Place this morning.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’
‘Yes, if you want to come with me. Otherwise I’ll tell you later.’
After that, Libby had no time to call her own. Hetty barked out orders, Libby obeyed them and eventually, Peter and Harry turned up to help. Ben was everywhere and at some point saw him usher Fran into the library. The tenants and their children ate voraciously and ran wild in the old ballroom and Libby served up glass after glass of punch. Finally, she grabbed Peter as he passed languidly by, and forced him to take over while she went outside for a reviving cigarette.
‘Old Het still don’t like us smokin’ indoors, then.’ An old man sitting on the wall by the kitchen garden waved a pipe at her.
‘No,’ said Libby, as she lit her cigarette, ‘although she used to smoke herself, I believe.’
‘Sure ’er did,’ said the old man. ‘I remember ’er in the war.’
‘Do you?’ Libby went to sit beside him. ‘So did you come and see the play about the family that we put on in the new theatre?’
>
‘O’ course I did. My daughter would’a made me go, anyway.’ He laughed wheezily. ‘Good it were. You did it, didn’t yer?’
‘Um, yes,’ said Libby. ‘So were you a picker or a home dweller?’
‘Home dwellers we was,’ said the old man. ‘Me mam worked up at the ’ospital.’
‘The hospital? In Canterbury?’
‘No, up the Place. Fer the soldiers.’
Libby held her breath. This couldn’t be true. ‘Your mum wasn’t Edith, was she?’
‘Edith? No, ’er was Lil. Lil ’Edges afore she were married. Arnold, after, like me.’
‘So did she know all the people up there?’ asked Libby.
‘Whatjer mean? People? All soldiers, they was.’
‘Yes, but I meant the people who owned the house. They were in The Dower House, I think.’
‘Oh, ah. Old Anderson’s widder. But my old mum didn’t ’ave nothin’ to do with her.’
‘Oh.’ Libby was disappointed.
‘Whatjer want to know for? Goin’ to do another play about ’em?’ Mr Arnold laughed again and coughed.
‘Maybe,’ said Libby. ‘I’d better go in or they’ll be after me.’
‘That ’Et’s a right one, ain’t she?’ marvelled Mr Arnold, as Libby left him sitting on his wall.
Much later, sitting with her feet up in the library surveying the wreckage of the Christmas tea, Libby was able to tell Fran about the conversation.
‘Well, we guessed that, didn’t we?’ said Fran. ‘Sir Frederick’s widow still living in The Dower House – she must have been very old, though. And why was the Shepherd woman there, too?’
‘I don’t know, but Hetty remembers her. She told me about Mrs Nemone when I asked her about the Place the other day. When she told me about Edith the scullery maid. I assumed she was the owner.’
Ben came in with whisky and glasses on a tray.
‘Ma says take it easy now, and she’ll clear up later,’ he said handing them each a glass.
‘Oh, yeah? Who does she think she’s kidding?’ said Libby, adding water to her glass. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer gin, Fran?’
‘Oh, damn, I forgot. Sorry, Fran,’ said Ben.
‘No, it’s fine, I often have the odd whisky.’ Fran smiled and raised her glass to them. ‘Here’s to a successful party.’
Murder in Midwintereries Page 21