Murder in Bloom

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘I don’t know. She must have if she came down here. I suppose he’s upstairs overseeing the search.’

  ‘They do miss things, you know,’ said Fran, remembering her own visit to a murder scene eighteen months ago where she had uncovered evidence which at the time seemed irrelevant, but had eventually led to the solution of that and a previous murder.

  ‘You won’t be able to go over this place,’ warned Libby. ‘You saw what she was like.’

  ‘I know,’ said Fran serenely, ‘but it’s not being protected as a crime scene, is it? So Lewis will let me have a look.’

  ‘When they’ve gone, yes,’ said Libby. ‘I do hope they clean up after themselves.’

  ‘Oh, I expect they will. It isn’t as if they can just walk away with crime scene tape across the door, is it? Lewis is still living here.’

  ‘Will he much longer, do you think?’ mused Libby, as they heard hurrying steps on the stairs.

  ‘Lewis.’ Libby went to him and put a hand on his arm. ‘Come and meet Fran Castle.’

  Fran stood up and shook hands. Lewis looked grey and dishevelled.

  ‘What have they been doing to you?’ asked Libby, handing a mug to Fran, then pouring one, unasked, for Lewis.

  ‘Oh, nothing. They’re just turning over everything.’ Lewis pushed his hands through his spiky hair, which accounted for the dishevelment, thought Libby. ‘And that fucking woman –’ he stopped and looked guiltily at Fran. Not at her, Libby noticed. ‘Sorry,’ he went on. ‘But she’s turning me into a wreck.’

  ‘Not a pleasant lady,’ agreed Libby. ‘We’ve just met her.’

  ‘You have? Both of you?’

  ‘I only saw her briefly.’ Fran gave Libby an amused look. ‘I think she was getting the worst of an encounter with Mrs Sarjeant here.’

  ‘Ri-ight.’ Lewis nodded. ‘That’s why she was in an even fouler temper when she came back into the room.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you she’d met me?’ Libby grinned. ‘I thought she was impressed.’

  ‘I think she was.’ Lewis picked up his mug and grinned back. ‘Cow.’ He leant forward and poked at the covered plate in front of him. ‘Is this sandwiches?’

  ‘It is. Shall I call Adam?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Lewis stood up. ‘I know where he is, you don’t.’

  He strode out of the kitchen. Fran watched.

  ‘He isn’t quite what I expected,’ she said.

  ‘No. He’s not as openly camp as you might expect, and he’s a genuinely nice bloke,’ said Libby. ‘And at the moment he’s feeling really bad because he thinks he’s been let down by Tony West, which he has, and now he feels guilty for thinking that because West’s dead.’

  ‘Nothing to do with him, though,’ said Fran.

  ‘Really?’

  Fran turned to look at her friend. ‘As far as I can see,’ she said, ‘but I’d like a look over the house and grounds when the police have gone, all the same.’

  When all the sandwiches, fruit and cheese, supplemented by a very good white wine produced by Lewis, had gone Libby loaded the dishwasher, packed her own things in her basket and suggested they start the tour with a visit to the parterre, where Adam had vanished the minute the clearing up began.

  Lewis led the way across the front lawn, which Libby hadn’t seen before. She was pleasantly surprised at the open aspect, rather than the rather gloomy side approach with which she was more familiar. At the side, an arched door was set in an old wall. Beyond this worked Adam, singing along to his MP3 player. Libby and Fran watched him playing with small sticks and pieces of string while Lewis went and stood in front of him to catch his attention.

  Adam explained the thinking behind the restoration of the parterre, and showed them where he and Mog had excavated the original outlines of the garden. Fran wandered away.

  ‘Can we see the wood now?’ she asked, when Adam had finished his explanation.

  Lewis and Adam exchanged glances.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Lewis, ‘although there’s still tape over the path.’

  ‘I’d just like to see where Adam found the bones. Not close up. Just in general.’ Fran turned and began to leave the garden, going, Libby noticed, in the right direction.

  ‘OK.’ Lewis sighed, patted Adam on the shoulder and followed.

  ‘Why did she come?’ Adam asked Libby with a frown.

  ‘She felt something I think. I told you yesterday.

  She’s intrigued despite herself. And if it helps Lewis, what harm is there?’

  ‘None,’ said Adam, ‘but I just don’t want you getting involved and Ben blaming me for it.’

  ‘Not much chance of that,’ said Libby, and ignoring Adam’s enquiring gaze, she set off to follow Lewis and Fran.

  She caught them up at the other side of the house by the smaller lawn which led to the wood. She could see the blue and white tape fluttering in the slight breeze and looked round nervously for signs that the police were still there.

  ‘No,’ said Lewis. ‘Madam’s gone, taking her bully boys with her. They didn’t find anything.’

  Fran nodded and went on towards the wood. Libby put a restraining hand on Lewis’s arm and watched. After a moment, Fran stepped neatly round the last section of tape and disappeared.

  ‘Come on,’ said Lewis, ‘we’d better see what she’s up to.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be fine,’ said Libby. ‘She won’t disturb anything.’ But she followed Lewis into the wood, where they found Fran staring thoughtfully at the ground a little way beyond the earth displaced by Adam’s digger.

  ‘This area’s been searched, hasn’t it?’ she asked Lewis.

  ‘They did a fingertip search through the whole wood.’

  ‘But they didn’t dig any more?’

  ‘All round the site of the skeleton, yes.’ Lewis waved his arm towards the swathe of disturbed ground. Fran nodded.

  ‘How old was Tony?’ she asked Lewis.

  ‘You asked me that,’ said Libby.

  ‘But Lewis will know.’

  He shrugged. ‘Late forties? We never talked about it. No reason.’

  Fran looked round at the wood.

  ‘They won’t find anything else here,’ she said. ‘Not unless they dig up the whole wood.’

  ‘Would they find something then?’ Libby asked.

  ‘Possibly. I expect the bones have been scattered by now.’

  ‘What about clothing?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I can’t see any.’

  ‘What does she mean?’ whispered Lewis. ‘Can’t see any?’

  ‘In her mind,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, you were interested in what she might find out.’

  ‘Now I’m not sure,’ muttered Lewis. ‘She’s a bit scary.’

  ‘But not a fake,’ insisted Libby. ‘Quite genuine and very ambivalent about this strange gift she’s got.’

  Fran came back to them. ‘May I see the house now, Lewis?’ she asked. ‘I think there might be something there.’

  Without a word, Lewis led them back to the house and upstairs to the solar. Fran stood in the middle of it looking round with pleasure.

  ‘The only stuff left behind after old Shepherd did his vanishing act were a few letters and photographs,’ said Lewis. ‘The police have been through the lot, but there wasn’t anything there. They were all too old.’

  ‘Have they started looking for the relatives?’ asked Fran.

  ‘There would only be the son, Kenneth, and the daughter-in-law, Cindy Dale. The one he was supposed to have run off with,’ said Libby.

  ‘And you said about three years ago?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Fran turned and looked straight at Lewis. ‘Then that body is not Gerald Shepherd,’ she s
aid.

  Chapter Twelve

  LEWIS GAPED. ‘NOT –?’

  ‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Could I see the letters and photographs he left behind? If the police haven’t kept them?’

  Recovering, Lewis went to a large, carved oak chest under the window. ‘Here,’ he said holding out a folder. ‘The police put them in that.’

  Fran took the folder to the little side table and began to leaf through the contents. Libby went and looked over her shoulder. The letters seemed to be purely personal ones, mainly from friends, with the occasional scrawled message from Kenneth, usually asking for money.

  ‘These must be from before he pulled himself together and married Cindy,’ said Libby, handing over those Fran had finished with to Lewis.

  ‘And long before Dungeon Trial,’ he said. ‘I thought there might be something there.’

  ‘A connection to Tony West? Yes, so did I,’ said Libby, ‘but he wasn’t connected to the programme at all.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why he was able to sell me the house,’ said Lewis, sitting down in one of the large leather armchairs. ‘Why did he have that thing?’

  ‘Power of attorney? I don’t know. That’s what the police are trying to find out, I expect.’

  ‘But why,’ said Fran, turning suddenly, ‘did they turn up today with a search warrant? They must have discovered something. They hadn’t searched before.’

  ‘I dunno.’ Lewis shrugged. ‘Big Bertha kept asking me about Tony this morning. Nothing about old whatsit.’

  ‘What sort of thing was she asking about?’

  ‘Same old, same old. How long had I known him, how did we meet, when did I first see this place, what did we talk about. I ask you! What sort of a question is that?’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Libby.

  ‘When we first got together nothing! It was more action, if you know what I mean.’

  Libby looked at Fran and grinned. ‘I’m sure,’ she said, ‘but what about later?’

  ‘Gawd, you’re as bad as she is,’ said Lewis.

  ‘It was your idea to ask me here,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll go if you like.’

  Lewis shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘No. Sorry. I don’t know exactly. We talked about my career, then he got me on Housey Housey, and I reckon he leant on someone for that. Then he got me me own show, and he leant a bit harder. That wasn’t why someone knocked him off, was it?’

  ‘Because he wangled you into television? I shouldn’t have thought so,’ said Libby.

  ‘But it all seems tied up with me and this place,’ wailed Lewis. ‘I love it, but I wish I’d never seen it.’

  Fran gave him a look that reminded Libby of her old headmistress.

  ‘Have a look at these photographs,’ she said, pushing them under his nose, ‘and try and be helpful.’

  Lewis, looking surprised, took them.

  ‘Recognise anybody?’ Fran was watching him.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘These are all old. They must belong to old whatsit.’

  ‘Gerald Shepherd,’ said Libby with a sigh.

  ‘Must try and remember,’ he said, a little shamefaced. ‘Like the dog.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘German Shepherd,’ he said with a grin. ‘Then I’ll remember.’

  ‘These would have been here when Shepherd still lived here,’ said Fran, effectively calling the meeting to order, ‘but do we know whether he was living here when he disappeared?’

  ‘I never thought of that!’ said Libby. ‘Was he, Lewis?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Lewis, looking surprised. ‘I mean, I didn’t know anything about him until the other day, did I?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Fran took the photographs back and flicked through them.

  ‘May I see?’ asked Libby.

  Fran handed them over. ‘See if there’s anyone you recognise in them,’ she said.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘I don’t know. You might do.’

  Libby frowned and began looking through the photographs. Some were studio prints of Gerald Shepherd, obviously taken in the era when it was considered the done thing to be seen at an improbable angle with the light behind you, and some slightly dog-eared black and white prints of young people on a beach. There were a few in colour taken in the eighties, by the look of the clothes.

  Shepherd appeared in a few, two of which where he had his arm loosely round the shoulders of a young man with a beard.

  ‘Only Shepherd himself,’ said Libby, handing them back to Fran.

  ‘Neither of you recognised the man with him?’ Fran held up the colour prints.

  Lewis shook his head. ‘No,’ said Libby. ‘Is it his son? Kenneth?’

  ‘I had a look on the Internet before I came over,’ said Fran, ‘and Kenneth was only about thirty when his father disappeared, so it can’t be.’ She looked at the pictures again. ‘Would it be all right if I borrowed these?’ she asked Lewis.

  ‘Yeah, if you want. I don’t need them, do I?’

  ‘Do you think there’s a connection with these and the skeleton?’ asked Libby. ‘The police obviously didn’t, or they’d have taken them away.’

  ‘They took some other stuff away,’ said Lewis. ‘There were some photo albums in the loft. Well, attic, I suppose. Did you want to have a look up there? Or anywhere else in the house?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Fran. ‘Coming, Lib?’

  The house was a strange mixture of immaculate restoration and neglect. As Libby had already discovered, the kitchen was half and half.

  ‘Who did it all?’ asked Libby, as they scrambled through the dusty attics.

  ‘German Shepherd started the restoration years ago, but let it go. No one had been living in it when I bought it.’ He frowned. ‘Not even Tony.’

  Fran turned from an inspection of an interesting box which had, however, nothing inside it, and looked at him. ‘When did he first bring you down here to see it?’

  ‘While I was doing Housey Housey. He thought it might make a project for the show.’

  ‘Did he say he owned it?’

  Lewis thought back. ‘I don’t think so. I just assumed he did.’

  ‘But you didn’t do it on the show?’

  ‘No. It was too big, really. I just never heard any more about it. Then he mentioned it again not so long back and I said I’d like to buy it. Well, you know the rest.’

  ‘Did he suggest you bought it, or did you?’ asked Libby.

  Lewis screwed up his face. ‘Gawd, Libby, you’re at it again. I dunno. Let me think.’ He sat down on an unstable-looking chair. ‘What it was, he said did I remember this place, and I said ’course I did, I’d loved it, and he said the owner wanted to sell, a quick sale, and he was to do it on behalf of him. The owner, that is.’

  ‘So it was his suggestion?’ said Libby.

  ‘I s’pose so. I didn’t think about it at the time. I handed over the money and signed all the bits and pieces and that was that.’

  ‘Libby said you had a threatening message,’ said Fran. ‘Why do you think that was?’

  ‘I dunno. I didn’t get the telly jobs legit, that’s all I can think of. I still reckon Tony sent it.’

  ‘Did you tell the police about it?’

  He shook his head. ‘I should have done, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘They might have been able to find out where it came from if it wasn’t Tony,’ said Libby.

  ‘Have you finished in here?’ Lewis stood up. ‘Can we move on? It’s a bit spooky.’

  Fran was quiet as they toured the rest of the house. Part of one of the wings was in such a state of disrepair they could go no further than the hallway, and they returned to the solar.

  ‘Is there any information on the histo
ry of the house?’ asked Fran.

  ‘What, deeds and things? I’ve got those somewhere.’ Lewis went to his ornate desk.

  ‘No, I mean any booklets or reference works.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lewis frowned. ‘Local library? It’s never been open to the public, so I don’t suppose anyone thought of doing a book.’

  ‘There must be archive material somewhere,’ said Fran. ‘Household accounts books, that sort of thing.’

  Lewis’s eyes opened wide. ‘Really? Why? Why would anyone want them?’

  ‘Big houses usually kept them. Housekeeper’s day books and laundry lists. They’re valuable social history.’

  ‘County archive,’ said Libby. ‘You could look there. Say you’re writing a history of the house.’

  ‘Why would you want them, though?’ asked Lewis. ‘Stuff that happened years ago don’t have anything to do with Tony or that bleedin’ skeleton.’

  ‘It might,’ said Fran, looking stubborn. ‘Do you mind if I try and find out?’

  He shrugged. ‘’Course not. Do you need my permission, or something?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but if anyone asks I’ll refer them to you, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘What about Gerald Shepherd’s will?’ asked Libby. ‘I just thought of that.’

  ‘Was it found?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Gawd knows,’ said Lewis, looking even more bewildered. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘It might explain Tony West’s right to have the Lasting Power of Attorney,’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh, is that what it is now?’ said Libby. ‘Or will it stay Enduring because it was done before the new law?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ she said, ‘I only know the term because Guy and I have been making new wills and sorting out our own powers of attorney.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Libby, ‘aren’t you sensible?’

  Fran glared and Lewis looked embarrassed.

  ‘Fran’s getting married,’ explained Libby, ‘so she and her fiancé are planning.’