Murder at the Laurels (16 page)

‘I'm sure,' said Libby, faint but pursuing. ‘Useful?'

But Nurse Redding had a crafty look on her face. ‘Not to me,' she said. ‘Anything else you want to know?'

‘Er – no. No, thanks.' Libby swallowed her remaining tea. ‘As long as you're sure none of the family could have got to Aunt Eleanor – I mean, Mrs Bridges.'

‘You want to find out about those two men. Ask Marion Headlam.' Nurse Redding stood up. ‘Thanks for the tea.' She made for the door, then turned round. ‘If you do want to know any more about sin, give me a ring.' She winked and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

‘Well!' Harry came out from behind the kitchen door. ‘What a performance.'

‘Can I have another cup of tea?' asked Libby. ‘I need it.'

‘I should think so, petal.' Harry took her cup. ‘Is she for real?'

‘Sexual repression and sinful urges, do you reckon? All that about sin and stuff?'

Harry looked thoughtful as he poured boiling water on to a teabag. ‘Yeah, but a bit more than that. What she was saying about New Age shops and so on.'

‘I didn't understand a word of it.' Libby took the cup. ‘I thought she'd gone off her head.'

Harry sat astride the chair vacated by Nurse Redding and leaned on the back. ‘Think about it. Sin, New Age, useful. What she said about those men. Who were they, anyway?'

‘Lorry drivers who witnessed the codicil to Auntie's will. One of them's dead.'

‘Aha!' Harry looked triumphant. ‘See!'

‘No, I don't,' said Libby fretfully. ‘I think you're as mad as she is.'

‘Well, I'll have to sit down with a bit of paper and a pencil and work it out, but I reckon,' said Harry, taking a deep breath, ‘that she's a witch.'

Chapter Twenty-one

F
RAN'S INTERVIEW WITH THE
lettings agency had been difficult. The twelve-year-old behind the desk had been deeply suspicious, and did a lot of hair flicking, treating Fran to glimpses of deliberately dark roots. Eventually, she retreated into some inner sanctum and when she emerged, grudgingly revealed that the owners were in residence at present, as was their wont during August.

The lettings agency was within walking distance of Harbour Street. Fran stopped for a coffee in a strangely nostalgic 1950s-style ice cream parlour, which, she decided, wasn't a revamp, but a lovingly preserved original. Stirring her coffee, she stared thoughtfully down the high street to the sea, deciding that, as the weather was continuing hot and sunny, the owners were likely to be out and about. A letter was required.

A card bought in a gift shop next door provided the means, and Fran walked down to a bench near The Swan and wrote a brief note. Wanting to avoid Guy, she made her way to the lane at the back and cut through the alley she had used the day before.

The sight of the green painted front door standing open left her standing irresolute with the card in her hand. Suddenly the idea of questioning the current owners didn't seem like such a good idea.

‘Can I help you?'

Fran turned to see a young woman in obvious beach clothes behind her. Two children trailed along the pavement in her wake.

‘I don't know,' said Fran. ‘I feel rather embarrassed, now. Are you the owner?'

The woman looked amused. ‘Yes, my husband and I own the cottage. If it's Coastguard Cottage you mean.'

Fran looked and noticed for the first time the discreet slate plaque beside the door. ‘Yes,' she said.

‘I'm afraid we have the cottage for the whole of the summer holidays, and the other lettings are done through an agency,' said the woman, waving the children inside the door. Reluctantly, staring at Fran, they went.

‘Yes, I know about the agency,' said Fran. ‘Actually, I wanted to find out whether you knew anything about the previous owners.'

The woman's eyebrows rose. ‘Oh?'

Fran began to feel uncomfortable. ‘My family came from here, you see,' she said, bending the truth a little, ‘and I stayed in this cottage.' All at once, she was certain that she had.

‘Oh, I see.' The woman bent to remove sandy beach shoes. ‘Why don't you come in for a moment. I must check on the kids.'

Fran followed her into the dark, cool interior, where her eyes were drawn immediately to Libby's window, and she felt a jolt of recognition. The woman watched her curiously.

‘Lovely view, isn't it?' she said.

‘Yes, it is,' said Fran, smiling. ‘My friend paints it all the time.'

‘Your friend stayed here as well?'

‘Yes,' said Fran, deciding that the full explanation would be just too long.

‘Right, well, we bought it from a speculative builder,' said the woman, shuffling through a pile of papers on a side table. ‘Here we are. He hadn't done much to it when we saw it, luckily, so we were able to stop the worst excesses.' She handed Fran a card. ‘Would you like to look round?'

‘No, no thanks.' Fran was scared she might disgrace herself as she had on that first visit to The Laurels. It seemed only too likely. ‘I'll give this person a ring and see who he bought it from. It seems to have passed out of the family without anyone noticing.'
Now, how did I know that
, she wondered.

The woman frowned. ‘I hope there was nothing wrong with the title,' she said. ‘I'm sure our solicitor checked everything.'

‘No, it was sold. I'd just like to know when. And it was lovely to see it again.' Fran smiled as reassuringly as she could. ‘Thank you so much, and I'm sorry to have disturbed you.'

Fran could imagine the woman shrugging to herself and shaking her head as she shut the door. It all must have sounded a bit odd, to say the least. Throwing the now redundant card into a litter bin, Fran sat down on the bench and took out her mobile phone. Certain now that she
had
been to the cottage and that it had some relevance to her family, she wanted desperately to have this confirmed. Somehow, she had to find out why her mother had been so terrified.

The builder wasn't answering his phone. There wasn't an address on the card, so Fran steeled herself to go into Guy's gallery and ask to borrow a telephone directory. She needn't have worried. Guy wasn't in.

‘He's gone to see Phillip about that sculpture,' said Sophie, handing over the directory, ‘you know, the one for your relations.'

‘Has Mrs Denver been on to you again, then?' asked Fran.

‘No, he's just asking him to delay things a bit. After what you were saying yesterday. What were you looking for?'

‘Oh, just a builder.' Fran leafed through the directory.

‘Oh?' Sophie's raised eyebrow invited further explanation.

‘Nothing important,' said Fran, smiling at her. ‘Here it is.' She made a note of the address and handed the book back to Sophie. ‘Thanks for that. I'd better rush off to catch the train now. Give my best to Guy.'

Walking back up the hill to the station, she congratulated herself on avoiding the questions Sophie was obviously bursting to ask. No need to tell anyone else what she was doing.

When she arrived back at The Pink Geranium, it was to see Libby and Harry sitting at the table in the corner deep in conversation. Assailed by a premonition of conspiracy, she pushed open the door and went in. Libby looked up.

‘Hello, Fran,' she said brightly. Fran's suspicions were confirmed.

‘What are you two up to?' she asked.

Libby and Harry exchanged looks.

‘Er–' said Libby.

‘I'll leave you to it,' said Harry, standing up. ‘Tea, Fran? I'll make some fresh.'

‘Coward,' said Libby.

‘I'd love tea, thanks, Harry,' said Fran, sitting on his vacated chair. ‘Come on, Libby. What have you been doing?'

‘Promise you won't be angry?' said Libby, fishing for cigarettes in her basket.

‘No, I don't. I expect I will be angry.'

Libby sighed and lit her cigarette. ‘I've got down to less than ten a day, now,' she said. ‘Except when I'm stressed.'

‘Or nervous,' said Fran.

‘OK, and nervous.' Libby took a deep breath. ‘Well, it was like this. You know I thought we ought to ask Nurse Redding about – well, about everything?'

‘And I said we ought to leave it. But you have, haven't you?'

‘Yes.' Libby looked a little shamefaced. ‘I rang her and she came here to have tea with me this afternoon.'

‘How on earth did you manage that?'

Libby told her.

‘And now Harry says he thinks she's a witch,' she finished. ‘What do you think?'

Fran thought for a moment. ‘I can sort of see why. It sounds as though she might possibly be a member of a kind of Satanist group, doesn't it?'

‘That's what Harry says, although I'm not sure how he arrived at that,' said Libby, as Harry entered with a teapot and mugs. ‘Fran agrees with you, Harry.'

‘And isn't she mad?' Harry put the tea things on the table. ‘Why aren't you mad, Fran?'

Fran sighed. ‘It doesn't seem to have any point being mad with Libby. She goes ahead anyway. And it has thrown up a couple of useful things.'

‘Like what?' asked Libby.

‘The dead driver. Redding seems to think there's something more to that, doesn't she?'

‘Isn't that just her seeing little nasties in everything?' said Harry, pouring tea.

‘You said Marion Headlam seemed distressed when she rang you up, Libby.'

‘Yes, but she supplied the names of the drivers, didn't she?'

‘But perhaps she coerced them in some way. Perhaps the codicil wasn't genuine.'

‘Well, they wouldn't have split on her, would they? They could be open to prosecution, too. If they'd signed as witnesses without seeing Auntie sign, or something like that. So she wouldn't have knocked one of them off, would she? She'd want them to confirm it for her.'

‘Oh, I don't know. It's all so confusing.' Fran sipped her tea. ‘Perhaps we ought to try and get in touch with the other driver.'

Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, there's a turn up,' he said. ‘Want to get to the bottom of it, now, do you?'

‘I always have, in a way. I ought to just walk away, really. It's nothing to do with me.'

‘Bollocks,' said Libby. ‘Of course it is. And where have you been, anyway? Your mobile's been switched off all day.'

Fran looked out of the window. ‘I went to Nethergate.'

‘Again? Is this a flourishing relationship with our Guy?'

Fran blushed faintly. ‘No, nothing like that.' She looked at both of them. ‘I didn't want to say anything, especially as Libby's bound to jump to all sorts of wild conclusions, but I need to get it into perspective. I don't think it's anything to do with Aunt Eleanor's death, but it's odd.'

Libby and Harry sat, spellbound, while Fran told them everything from the dinner party and Libby's paintings to this morning's visit to the cottage.

‘So I've got the address of this builder, and I'm going to ask him who he bought the cottage from,' she concluded.

‘Gosh,' said Libby.

Harry frowned. ‘How sure are you about this, Fran? Could it be just – well – wishful thinking?'

‘Harry!' Libby turned a shocked face to him.

‘No, Lib, he's right. It could be. But I got all sorts of feelings about it, and now I'm sure I stayed there, and I'm also sure my mother had some connection with it. What I can't understand is why she was frightened, and why Eleanor's face came up.'

‘So how will finding out who the builder bought it from help?' asked Harry.

‘I want to try and find out who owned it when I was a child, and if it belonged to my family.'

‘Or Eleanor's?' said Libby. ‘But I still don't see that it will get you anywhere. Even if it was in your family, or hers, she and your mother are dead, so no one will be able to tell you what happened.'

Fran sighed again. ‘I know. It's so frustrating.'

‘Couldn't the dodgy Denvers help?' asked Harry. ‘Aren't they Auntie's relatives rather than yours?'

‘I couldn't ask them. Not under the circumstances. Anyway, I don't expect they'd know.'

‘Why not?' said Libby. ‘Barbara's much the same age as we are, so she'd know if her family owned it. She lived in Nethergate herself, after all.'

‘I couldn't ask, anyway,' said Fran firmly. ‘Let's change the subject. Who are you going to interrogate next?'

‘I don't know,' said Libby, eyeing her cautiously. ‘Does this mean you want to be in my gang, now?'

‘Well, I've already done my bit by helping Charles find the original will, haven't I? And I've talked to Inspector Murray. So I suppose I do want to be in your gang.' She looked at Harry. ‘Are you in it, too?'

‘Tea boy only, dear heart,' he said, ‘and my best beloved will tell me off about that, I shouldn't wonder.' He stood up. ‘And now I've got to get ready for this evening, so push off, both of you.'

‘OK, Harry, we're going. Ring me if you have any ideas,' said Libby.

‘Especially about witches,' added Fran mischievously.

‘Are you seeing Ben tonight?' she asked when they got outside.

‘I don't know,' said Libby. ‘To tell you the truth, I'm still not sure where I stand with him.'

‘I thought lying down would be a better description,' said Fran.

‘Fran, I'm shocked.' Libby grinned at her. ‘No, it's just that when I was a gel, if you were courting, you actually said when you were going to see each other, you didn't leave it until five minutes before and then say “are you in?”, did you?'

‘Oh, I suppose not, but our courting days were thirty years ago. Nowadays they do it all by text anyway, don't they? And sleep together on the first date.' Fran pulled a face. ‘I know I sound old-fashioned, but I still can't get used to it.'

‘It's difficult, isn't it? I can't get used to feeling like I'm still sixteen, when I should be mature and responsible and know exactly what I'm doing.' Libby sighed. ‘First I wonder if Ben's just using me, then I think he can't be, because he could find someone much younger and better-looking, then I wonder if I should go to bed with him, or should I hold off. And of course, I can't bear the thought that he can see my appalling body.'

Fran nodded gloomily. ‘It's enough to boost recruitment for a nunnery.'

‘Anyway, why?'

‘Why what?'

‘Why did you want to know whether I was seeing Ben? What did you want to do?'

‘Borrow Peter's computer again.'

‘What for?'

‘To look up witches. And Satanism.'

‘And local covens,' grinned Libby. ‘Oh, yes! I like it!'