by Diane Janes
‘You’re treating it as a suspected suicide, then?’ asked Fran.
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly comment, Mrs Black. I’m not directly involved with the case myself. I’m just the local officer who is to take down any statement you may care to make, which I will then pass to the officers who are conducting the enquiry.’
She knew from the newspapers that an inquest had been opened and adjourned. Linda’s identity had been established with reference to her dental records (Fran shuddered at the implications of this), and though there was nothing official, it was hinted that the cause of death was probably the result of being struck by a train. The papers had so far exhibited little interest in the Robert Barnaby Society, with some merely mentioning that Mrs Dexter had been staying at a nearby hotel, or else naming the hotel and adding that she had been at a conference or a ‘private event’. Only one newspaper had bothered to contact Hugh Allonby, who was quoted as saying how deeply saddened the society had been to learn of the death of a well-loved member. Hugh himself was described as president of the Robert Barnaby Society and the author of several books, including The Sheer Magic of Barnaby. ‘I don’t believe it,’ Tom had said when they’d spoken on the telephone later that evening. ‘He’s turned the whole exercise into a bit of self-publicity.’
In spite of being assured that it was ‘just routine’, Fran felt uncomfortable about the visit from the local constabulary. She had scarcely known Mrs Dexter, she told Sergeant Godfrey, while realizing how thin that sounded, when she had to explain that she had telephoned the dead woman’s house not once but three times during the weekend of her death. She wondered if he would ask her what Linda had been going to speak about at the conference, but he didn’t, though he did want to know whether Linda had appeared in any way upset, or had been behaving differently to her normal self during that Friday evening at the Furnival Towers Hotel, and finally whether Fran had been aware of anything which might have been worrying Linda.
‘There was nothing out of the ordinary at all. Of course, I don’t know anything about her private life. She never really talked about herself. We usually talk about books, you see. She was very knowledgeable: very well read.’
‘She never mentioned anything about men friends? You see, she was divorced, Mrs Black, so there was no husband on the scene, if you see what I mean.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Fran said coldly. ‘And as I’ve told you already, I knew nothing of her private life.’ And yet, she thought, little by little, I am becoming involved. I have started to think of her as Linda rather than Mrs Dexter. Perhaps it’s because no one else – except Tom and Mo – seems to care. All Hugh Allonby thinks about is his precious society.
As she shut the door behind the policeman, Fran said aloud, ‘Well, I don’t believe she killed herself.’
Mrs Snegglington was lying on the window seat, a vantage point from which she had been able to observe the visitor through narrowed eyes, refusing to acknowledge all Sergeant Godfrey’s friendly overtures. As if in response to Fran’s comment, she raised her head and looked Fran straight in the eye, as if to say: So what are you going to do about it?
‘Did you call, Mum?’ Ada, clearly agog, emerged from the kitchen, where she had no doubt been listening to every word.
‘No, thank you, Ada. I was just talking to the cat.’
NINE
‘So,’ said Mo. ‘How’s your sleuthing going?’
It was Friday evening, two weeks to the day since Linda Dexter had last been seen at the Furnival Towers Hotel. Mo had driven over to Bee Hive Cottage by prior arrangement, bringing the constituents of cocktails and canapes, to be consumed before a light supper provided by Fran.
‘You know that Tom Dod has this idea that perhaps there was something in Linda’s research that someone didn’t want to be made public?’
‘Sounds a bit farfetched, doesn’t it, darling? I mean, we’re talking of a children’s author here, not the memoirs of a double agent.’
‘Yes and no. Some people do have a monetary interest in Robert Barnaby.’
‘You mean the people who inherited his estate, his publishers, that kind of thing?’
‘Well, yes, of course, but not so much them. I think Robert Barnaby books would probably carry on selling, whatever anyone dug up about his private life.’
‘Who else has a stake in it?’ asked Mo. ‘Oh, do look out, Mrs Sneggers – there now, at least three drops of gin splashed into my lap!’
‘Here, have my napkin. No, Tom’s theory is that there are one or two other people who have a vested interest. Hugh Allonby is the main one. If Linda had discovered something which discredited his books … although I can’t imagine what it could possibly be …’
‘Maybe your Tom is wrong.’
Fran ignored the ‘your’. ‘I think he probably is, but at the same time why would anyone agree to give a lecture, drive all the way across the country, appear perfectly normal all evening, then pack up all their things, sneak off and top themselves on the railway line?’
‘I wouldn’t do it like that,’ agreed Mo, helping herself to another square of toast topped with anchovy paste. ‘I read somewhere that hypothermia is a painless way to die. Walk up into the hills with a bottle of whiskey, sit in the snow and let nature take its course. Apparently you just fall asleep.’
‘Slight problem with the shortage of snow in late April.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t use the railway line method,’ Mo reiterated. ‘Anyway, with my luck, there wouldn’t be a train coming.’
‘Mo, I can never decide if you’re an idiot or a genius!’
‘Gosh, thanks. Now what have I said?’
‘The line where they found Linda is a little branch line, serving a quarry. The reason it took two days to spot her was because hardly any trains use it. So how would she have known when there was a train due?’
‘Maybe she didn’t.’
‘No, no, think it through. It’s an absolute maze of little lanes round there. If you’re planning to kill yourself, you don’t drive around rural Lancashire on the off chance of finding a railway line. Even if you do spot a railway bridge, any fool knows that you can’t just set fire to your car, then climb up the embankment on the assumption that there will be a train coming. Some rural lines carry hardly any traffic, and Linda wasn’t stupid. If she chose to kill herself there, that presupposes that she knew the line was still used and exactly when she could expect a train.’
‘Do you think she was the sort of person who would know about railway trains?’
‘Not really. I imagine her knowledge of trains began and ended with Edith Nesbit.’
Mo looked blank.
‘The Railway Children,’ Fran prompted. ‘Linda knew lots and lots about children’s literature but I don’t suppose she’d have known anything much about railways. The sort of trains which ran along that line wouldn’t even appear on an ordinary passenger timetable.’
‘But whoever took her up there did know about that train,’ said Mo. ‘So we’re looking for a train-spotter with a vested interest in Robert Barnaby. That ought to narrow the field considerably. Are you going to ring Tom and tell him?’
‘Not now,’ said Fran. She didn’t want to ring Tom with Mo listening in. ‘I’ll have plenty of time to tell him about it on Tuesday.’
‘Why? What’s happening on Tuesday?’
‘We’re going to Linda Dexter’s funeral.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, we. Tom Dod and I are attending Linda’s funeral on behalf of the Robert Barnaby Society.’
‘Good move,’ murmured Mo.
Fran leant across to refill their glasses, neatly discouraging Mrs Snegglington’s interest in the anchovy toasts with her free hand. ‘Hugh Allonby got a letter from Linda’s sister, telling him about the arrangements and asking whether anyone from the society would like to be there.’
‘So you and Tom …’
‘I seemed to be the person on the committee who had had the most to do with
Linda – not that that amounted to much – and Tom happened to have a business appointment in Lancashire the day before, so he said he would stay overnight and we could go to the funeral together on Tuesday morning.’
‘So you’ve offered him a bed for the night.’
‘Of course not. He’s going to stay in a hotel and then pick me up on his way.’
‘You mean you didn’t even offer? Good grief, Fran, there’s just no hope for you. A chap gives you the broadest of hints—’
‘He didn’t give me any hints.’
‘It all depends if he’s keen enough. It’s still not too late, you know. You could telephone him and say you’ve just thought—’
‘It isn’t like that. The only reason we’re both going to the funeral is that we both happen to be available: I’ve always got time on my hands these days and he is working somewhere convenient the day before. The point is that we may be able to find out more about Linda – specifically, who is going to inherit her estate and thereby her research. Besides which, someone from the society really ought to go and no one else volunteered.’
‘I suppose a trip in his motorcar is a good way of getting to know more about him. If I’d had the benefit of a few long journeys a deux with a certain person, I might have avoided the matrimonial shackles myself.’
‘Really, Mo, you are terribly naughty about poor Terence.’
‘My dear, “poor Terence” as you call him is perfectly happy living on the other side of the world, mashing up rubber, or whatever it is that he is doing at the moment. I can tell from his letters that he doesn’t exactly miss me.’
‘That’s hardly fair,’ Fran protested, ‘when he invariably suggests in his letters that you ought to go out there and join him.’
‘That’s just a matter of form. He knows perfectly well that I hate the climate. Believe me, he has far more fun when I’m not there. He wouldn’t keep on asking if he thought there was the slightest chance that I’d say “yes”.’
‘And in the meantime, you have your fun here.’
‘There is hardly a shortage of men who like to chaperone a grass widow around the town. As you would find out, if you would only dip your toe into the social pool a little more often.’
‘But I am not any sort of widow,’ Fran said, suddenly weary. ‘I am separated from my husband, which makes me dangerously uncommitted and unspoken for.’
TEN
It was a slow drive up and down the steep inclines which led over the shoulder of Shap Fell, but being with Tom Dod made it shorter. They had talked almost non-stop on the way, only falling silent when they had parked the car in the lane and approached the little church in Ivegill, where a black-clad woman was handing out service books at the door. It was not a large building, but fortunately there did not appear to be many mourners requiring accommodation. The usual neighbours and church ladies had gathered respectfully in the back pews, and Fran and Tom shuffled into a vacant bench just in front of them. Along with the service book had come a neatly engraved, black-edged card bearing the words,
Funeral of Linda Ann Dexter
1893–1929
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away
‘I didn’t think she was as old as that,’ Tom whispered.
‘Well preserved,’ Fran whispered back.
They sat in silence for another couple of minutes, before Tom whispered, ‘There aren’t many people here.’
‘Perhaps they’re all following the hearse.’
By the time the funeral party arrived, there were no more than two-dozen people waiting in the church, but nor was the procession which followed the pale oak coffin a large one. There was a dark-haired woman on a man’s arm – possibly a sibling and their spouse, Fran decided – followed by two little boys, looking uncomfortable in school uniforms augmented by hastily obtained black ties and armbands. After them came a small miscellany of much older men and women, probably uncles and aunts in their dark suits and coats, funeral veterans every one.
An air of awkwardness hung over the service. There was a particularly ragged rendition of ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’, with only the church ladies at the rear putting heart and soul into it, and a reading from St John, presumably recommended by the vicar, who did his best, in spite of apparently having known little of Linda or her family. The eulogy confirmed Fran’s theory about the mourners, with its mention that Linda’s only sister, Christina, should be comforted in her loss. No one displayed any obvious emotion.
After the interment, the church ladies hastened ahead to get the kettles on at the village hall, while the remainder of the small congregation followed them up the hill at a more desultory pace. As they strolled along at the rear of the group, Tom said, ‘If we split up when we get inside, we can probably manage to speak to everyone here.’
‘Good idea.’
‘What did you think of Linda’s house?’
They had spotted the property in question – easily identifiable by the name on the gatepost – just before reaching the church, so there had been no time for discussion until now.
‘I’d say that it was a big place for one person on her own,’ murmured Tom.
‘Perhaps she wasn’t always on her own.’
‘True.’
Inside the village hall, tables of sandwiches and home-made cake had been laid out, far in excess of anything likely to be consumed. Fran found it easy to mingle and get people to talk to her. A good opener was ‘Have you come far?’ which eased them gently towards, ‘How did you come to know Linda?’
Fifteen minutes into the proceedings, Tom joined her beside the plates of ham sandwiches. ‘We’re in good company,’ he said quietly. ‘Half the people here seem to be representing other literary societies. That lot,’ he indicated a plump quartet of middle-aged women, with a sideways movement of his eyes, ‘are from the Guild of Girls’ School Stories.’
Fran nodded. ‘I’ve just been talking to a couple who could bore for England on some children’s writer I haven’t even heard of.’
‘There’s also a small contingent from the local bridge club.’
They separated again to complete their task, but as Tom made for a tall, thin man who was currently standing alone in one corner, she found the tables momentarily turned when the woman she had marked down for Linda’s sister approached to thank her for coming and asked, ‘Have you come far?’
‘The next county,’ Fran said. ‘I live not far from Ulverston, if you know it.’
‘Know it? I should think I do. I live in Kendal.’
‘Kendal?’ echoed Fran. ‘I thought you would be local – I mean, that you would live up here, near Linda.’
‘None of the family have ever lived up this way, except for Linda.’
‘I was so sorry to hear what happened,’ Fran said. ‘It must have been an awful shock.’
‘Oh, it has been. A terrible thing to happen to anyone.’
And yet, she didn’t sound exactly devastated, Fran thought. Sad, yes, but not distraught. Not the way she had been when those telegrams had come about Geoffrey and Cecil. It was the same story with everyone, she thought. No one really seemed close to Linda – not even her sister.
‘Well,’ said Tom as they walked back to his car, ‘I must say that was a pretty rum affair. So far as I can make out from my chief informant, Linda’s Aunt Lilian, unless Linda has unexpectedly left everything to the cat’s home, the sister, Christina, stands to get everything, so she’s the one we’re going to have to approach about Linda’s papers. And by the way, you were right with what you said on the way up here – it’s pretty obvious that Linda didn’t have a living husband, or a job, but there’s some substantial money somewhere in the background.’
Fran didn’t reply until they were both inside the car again and Tom had fired up the engine. Then she said, ‘Do you think we’re terrible people?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Going round, systematically quizzing everyone at a funeral. Poking our noses into other people�
��s business.’
‘Not at all. People don’t mind talking about themselves. In fact, most people quite like it. Linda’s Aunt Lilian had a lovely time explaining her entire family tree to me. I know all about Jack, who served with the navy, and young Alec, who’s done so well for himself down in London. Anyway, we’re acting in the interests of the Robert Barnaby Society.’
Fran wanted to say sod the society. We both just fancy ourselves as Sherlock Holmes, but she didn’t. The wind had turned chilly and made her nose run, so she opened her bag for a handkerchief and, as she extracted it, she caught a glimpse of the funeral card, which she had stuffed inside. Maybe we’re doing it for her as well, she thought. Because no one else seems to care what really happened. Aloud, she said, ‘Very well then. What have we come up with so far?’
‘Well, I’ve been to some funny funerals in my time,’ Tom began, ‘but that was about the funniest.’
Fran, in whose experience funerals had been events singularly lacking in comedic possibilities, was tempted to ask him for details of these other funny funerals, but decided that it was best to stay on track. ‘It reminded me a bit of a great-aunt’s funeral I went to once,’ she said. ‘No one was particularly upset because she was really old. She’d outlived pretty much everyone who was close to her, so the people who came were relatives like me who scarcely knew her, or people who’d come out of a sense of duty – neighbours and people from the church she used to go to. The only person who cried was the house parlour maid.’
‘Exactly,’ said Tom. ‘Linda was only thirty-six, but none of her relatives appeared to be close to her and she didn’t seem to have any real friends.’
‘The nearest thing to a friend that I came across was a lady who knew her from the bridge club. She said that they occasionally used to meet up in a tea shop in Carlisle, if they were both going in for shopping, but she appeared to know next to nothing about Linda and said that they always talked about general things.’
Tom nodded. ‘Very few relatives at all. Just the sister and her family, a handful of aunts and uncles and a few random cousins. The people from the various literary societies were just the same as us – they knew Linda from meetings, nothing more.’