Murder at the Laurels (14 page)

‘Nurse Redding?' Marion Headlam sounded surprised. ‘Well, we don't give out details of staff, you know.'

‘Oh, no, of course not,' said Libby, improvising frantically, ‘but my – er – friend saw her at the Kent and Canterbury Hospital the other day and wanted to return her –'
think, Libby, think
‘– her book. She left it in the Friends coffee shop.'

‘Did she?' There was no doubt about the surprise now. ‘I didn't know she read much. Oh, well, you can always drop it in here next time you're passing. Or perhaps give it to Mrs Castle?'

‘Yes, we'll do that,' said Libby, wondering what Nurse Redding would say when she learned that a strange man was returning her non-existent book. ‘Thank you, Mrs Headlam. I'll tell Mrs Castle you called.'

That was all very odd, thought Libby, as she got under the reluctant shower. Why was that woman so concerned about the will? She must be expecting quite a legacy. Obviously, she needed it to be found. But why so nervous? Unless …

Libby stepped out of the shower and shook her head. Unless Marion Headlam felt that she had done something for nothing? If the will wasn't found? Could she have killed Aunt Eleanor? Libby wrapped a towel round her, went downstairs, found paper and a ball point pen and began to work it out.

If The Laurels was in a financially parlous state, perhaps Marion Headlam had persuaded Aunt Eleanor to leave her enough money to keep it going. Perhaps she'd asked her first for a loan? Libby realised she had no idea of Aunt Eleanor's mental state before she died. Fran had told her that she could no longer look after herself, but that could mean anything. Anyway, if there was a codicil, or a new will, as Libby now firmly believed, in order to collect the money, Aunt Eleanor would have to die. So could Marion Headlam have got into that room between the nurses leaving it and Barbara Denver entering?

Yes, thought Libby, she could. Who would question her presence anywhere in the building. And if she heard someone coming – of course! Out through the french windows.

Libby put down her pen and went back upstairs to dress. What she really needed to do now was to talk to those nurses and find out exactly what they knew.

Chapter Eighteen

F
RAN FOUND THE DRIVE
to Nethergate with Guy far more restful than with Libby. For a start, the car was a considerable improvement.

‘So, you're thinking of moving down here permanently, then?' Guy slid a glance sideways.

‘Yes. There's nothing to keep me in London any more.' Fran looked out of the window at the hedgerows. ‘This is much more pleasant.'

‘What about work?'

‘Oh, I can probably do that down here as well as up there.' She turned towards him. ‘So you know nothing about this cottage, then?'

‘Changing the subject, Fran?'

‘Just wanted to know, that's all.' She turned back to the window. ‘It's very kind of you to drive me to see it.'

‘I wish I knew why you really wanted to go.'

So do I
, thought Fran. ‘It just seemed familiar, that's all,' she hedged. ‘I expect I've seen a picture, like Libby.'

Guy drove down the service road at the back of Harbour Street and parked behind the gallery.

‘Shall I show you which one it is?' he asked, as he ushered her inside.

‘Isn't it easy to spot?' asked Fran, privately convinced she would know.

‘Well, Lib's paintings are a view from inside. You might not recognise it.'

‘All right, thank you.' Fran gave him a small smile. Guy sighed gustily and shook his head at her
. How attractive he is
, she thought.
Why is he paying attention to me
?

Sophie appeared from the kitchen.

‘Hi, Dad. Good evening?' She raised her eyebrows slightly at Fran.

‘Excellent, thanks, Soph. Any business this morning?'

‘Oh, yes,' Sophie rummaged among pieces of paper on the desk top, ‘Mrs Denver called again about that sculpture.'

‘Really?' Guy looked at Fran. ‘Saying what?'

‘Did we know any more about it.' Sophie looked from one to the other. ‘Do we?'

‘I'm putting it on hold for the moment, so just say we can't get in touch with Phil if she calls again.' He put his head on one side and looked at Fran. ‘Is that all right with madam?'

‘Don't blame me,' said Fran, alarmed.

‘But you said yesterday …'

‘Yes, I know.' Fran frowned. ‘Thank you. I must let Charles know.'

‘Ah, yes, Charles. Your cousin.'

‘Only by marriage. I hardly know him.'

‘Hmm,' said Guy. ‘Come along then. I'll show you your cottage.'

‘Libby's cottage,' corrected Fran, as they went out into the sunshine.

As she had thought, Fran knew the cottage before Guy pointed it out. Perching on the sea wall opposite, she focussed her mind.

‘How do we find out about it, do you think?' said Guy, leaning on the wall beside her.

‘Don't you know? After all, you're almost neighbours.'

‘Of course I don't. I know some of the shopkeepers. Maybe they'll know.'

‘I can't just go in and ask!' Fran felt herself going pink at the thought.

‘Oh, come on, then.' Guy took her arm and hauled her upright, before marching them both into the nearest shop, a tiny frontage selling local ice-cream.

‘Hi, Lizzie, how's business?' he asked the cheerful-looking blonde behind the counter.

‘Better for me than you, I expect, Guy,' she chuckled. ‘What can I get you?'

‘I'd like a vanilla double,' he said. ‘Fran?'

‘Oh –' Fran was taken aback, ‘strawberry, please.'

‘And do you know anything about Coastguard Cottage, Lizzie? Is it a holiday let?'

Lizzie handed over Fran's strawberry cone and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I think it is, or at least someone's holiday home. Bloody weekenders.'

‘You don't know who owns it, then?' said Fran.

‘No idea.' Lizzie handed Guy's ice cream and change. ‘Tell you who'd know, though. Old Sheila. She cleans it, I've seen her coming out. Know who I mean?'

‘Of course I do, she does for me, too.' He beamed. ‘Thanks, Lizzie.'

‘Was you thinking of renting it, then?' she said, giving Fran an interested inspection.

‘Possibly.' Fran gave a vague smile and followed Guy out.

‘There you are then. I'll ask old Sheila. Want me to do it now?'

‘Oh, I don't want to put you to any more trouble. It can wait until you next see her,' said Fran. ‘Thanks for the ice-cream. It's lovely.'

He looked at her doubtfully. ‘If you're sure. What are you going to do now. Go and have another look?'

‘I thought I would,' said Fran diffidently. ‘There must be access round the back, isn't there?'

‘Not from this end, but from The Sloop end, yes, there's a drive that goes right along the back. Don't go trespassing.'

‘No, I won't,' said Fran. ‘I'll come and let you know what I find out.'

Savouring the last of her strawberry cone, Fran retraced her steps right down to The Sloop, and then out on to the little jetty. From here she looked back on to Harbour Street, and picked out Coastguard Cottage. There was definitely something about it. But the bedroom she'd seen in her head didn't seem to match. Perhaps Libby was right, it was hers, and somehow she'd imbued her paintings with her childhood memories. It was all very confusing.

She strolled back down the jetty and made her way round to the drive at the back of the cottages. High garden fences stood on one side and on the other the beginning of the green-covered chalk cliffs. Picking her way along the track, she counted roof tops and garden gates until she was pretty sure she stood outside Coastguard Cottage. A high fence with a sturdy-looking gate protected it from view, and, greatly daring, Fran tried the handle. Naturally enough, it was locked. Glad she was wearing jeans, she scrambled a little way up the cliff on the other side of the track and found herself in a position to look down into the garden.

It wasn't very big, and had been turned into a Mediterranean-style patio, with colourful pots and spiky leaved plants. The back door was open, and washing hung on a line strung from fence to fence. Fran stared, and now something was coming through. Something not very pleasant.

This time, there was no choking blackness, but Eleanor's face was there again. And her own mother's. Was it her mother? This dark-haired, frantic-faced woman, who was screaming? Fran's heart lurched, and she found she was trembling. She forced herself to continue looking at the back of the cottage, but nothing else came to her, and she was just looking at a sunny back yard in a seaside town.

Someone came into the little garden and Fran half slid, half scrambled down to the track, not wanting to be seen. She found she was near an alleyway on to Harbour Street, and slipped through, brushing herself down. Calmly, she walked back to the gallery and went in.

Guy was with a customer and Sophie smiled at her from behind the desk.

‘Did you get a look at it?' she asked. Fran wondered what Guy had told her.

‘Yes, I went round the back and saw the back yard. There are people in it at the moment – holiday-makers, by the look of them – you know, wellies and buckets by the back door. It doesn't look like a long-term let.'

‘Right.' Sophie nodded, then looked up to take a credit card from Guy's customer.

Fran repeated what she'd said to him.

‘I phoned old Sheila while you were gone. She said the lettings are handled by a company who pay her, so she doesn't know anything either.'

‘I'm not sure I'd want to live there, anyway,' admitted Fran. ‘There's something uncomfortable about it.'

Guy screwed up his face. ‘How do you mean, uncomfortable? How could you tell, if you didn't go inside?'

‘Oh, you know,' said Fran, trying to brush it aside, ‘when you get a good feeling about a house. Estate agents rely on it.' And she should know, she thought.

Guy nodded, looking unconvinced. ‘Do you fancy lunch?' he said, ‘or are you anxious to get back?'

‘I've got to check on buses. Libby said there aren't any from here to Steeple Martin.'

‘No, but you could get a train to Canterbury and a bus home from there. I'd take you myself, but I'd better not leave Sophie too often.' He smiled over at his daughter, who, having wrapped the customer's purchase, gave him a beautiful smile, and then pulled a face at her father.

‘I'll find out the times of the trains, then,' said Fran.

‘Ten past and twenty to each hour,' said Guy, ‘so if we go and have a quick early lunch now, you could catch the ten past one.'

‘That's very kind of you,' said Fran, ‘if Sophie doesn't mind.'

‘I don't mind,' said Sophie, ‘I shall just take most of the afternoon off.'

‘See what I have to put up with,' sighed Guy in mock exasperation.

‘So tell me why you really wanted to see the cottage,' he said, as they strolled back along Harbour Street.

Fran looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You don't want to rent it. Libby keeps painting it. What is it?'

Fran sighed. ‘I don't know why Libby keeps painting it. And it attracted me. I did think I could possibly rent it.'

Guy looked sceptical. ‘Why don't I believe you?'

‘No idea.' Fran looked out across the sea. ‘But thank you for bringing me, anyway.'

The train to Canterbury and the meandering bus back to Steeple Martin gave Fran a long time to think about the morning's events. Guy had flirted gently with her all through lunch, and given her a slightly lingering kiss on the cheek as he said goodbye at the station. This was gratifying, but unnerving, as Fran, like Libby, had had no experience of new relationships for a good many years. Like Libby, too, she had an abundance of insecurities, and very little sense of self-worth.
Perhaps we should start a society
, she thought, brooding over the dry August countryside.

But exercising her far more were the disturbing images provoked by the sight of the cottage. She had been pretty sure last night that she either knew it personally, or it had some relevance. Now she knew it did, but what was a mystery. And why had she seen her mother's face?

The flat over The Pink Geranium had been shut up all morning and was hot and airless. Fran opened the sash windows on to the high street, made a cup of tea and took it out into Harry's little garden. After staring at the whitewashed walls and the single climbing rose that had survived Harry's ministrations for a good twenty minutes, she decided she need to talk to someone. Not just someone, but Libby. Over-enthusiastic she might be, and liable to fly off in all directions, but at least she understood more about Fran than anyone else at the moment.

This, she reflected, as she climbed the stairs back up to the flat to fetch her mobile, was rather lowering. You would expect to have someone in your life who had been there for years, who understood from hay to nuts. Not someone who breezed in a few months ago and took you over.

‘So there you are. What do you think?' Fran sat in the armchair by the window and stared down at a few desultory shoppers.

‘You must have been there as a child.'

‘I'm sure I haven't. I don't remember ever having had a holiday after my father died.'

‘What about your mother?'

‘I suppose she might have gone there, but why? It had no connection with our family. It's all Charles and Eleanor's side. Frank lived in the upstairs flat at Mountville Road, we lived in the downstairs one, until after he married Eleanor. Even then, we knew nothing about the connection with Kent.'

‘And the bedroom?'

‘Doesn't seem to fit in at all.' Fran shook her head at herself. ‘I'm losing it.'

‘Don't be daft. It's got to mean something if it was that overwhelming.' There was a pause. ‘Look, Barbara Denver lived here all her life. That means Aunt Eleanor might have done.'

‘Charles lived in Steeple Mount and went to school in Nethergate. Didn't I tell you?'

‘Oh, good Lord, well, there you are then. You're seeing something from the past. Do you think they could have lived in the cottage?'

‘No, Charles would have mentioned it.'

‘Not necessarily. He might have said he lived in Nethergate.'

‘He didn't. He went to
school
in Nethergate.'

‘Well, there's a family connection, anyway. Where your mum comes into it, I've no idea, but I think you should try and find out.'

‘I don't know how I'm going to do that. I can hardly ask the Denvers, and Charles is incommunicado at present.'

‘Still? Have you tried to get hold of him?'

‘No, come to think of it, I haven't. I'll give him a ring.'

‘Do that,' said Libby, ‘and let me know what he says.'