Murder at the Laurels (19 page)

‘Oh, come on, Fran. You've gone up and down since May. It's hardly a new experience.'

‘All right.' She sighed. ‘And thank you for forcing me into it. And for the lift.'

‘No problem.' Peter crossed his elegant legs and opened his laptop. ‘You don't mind if I do some work, do you?'

‘Not at all,' said Fran, politely and truthfully, for she was happy to have the opportunity to think through her plans for today. First, she would go to her flat and search for the photographs, then she would call Charles and see if he'd heard anything from the solicitor. If there was time, she would see if Lucy was free to meet her for lunch or a cup of tea. It was unlikely, as Rachel and Tom would still be on holiday from school and nursery respectively, but guiltily Fran realised that she had paid her daughter very little attention recently, and she should at least try.

The journey didn't seem to take as long as usual, although by the time they reached Victoria, the train was packed. Stiffly, Fran climbed out of the carriage and followed Peter, who wove along the platform with the ease of familiarity. As she made for the tube entrance, he caught her by the arm and propelled her towards the taxi rank.

‘It's all right, Peter,' she said, breathless at the speed with which he'd marched through the crowds. ‘I'll go by tube.'

‘We'll share a taxi,' said Peter firmly, and kept hold of her until they reached the head of the queue.

‘What's your address?' he asked as he pushed her inside the cab. He relayed it to the cab driver and sat back in the corner. ‘Still one of my favourite luxuries,' he said, with a sigh, ‘a cab in London.'

‘I think I agree,' said Fran, staring out at the milling workers and the gridlocked traffic, ‘although I'm not sure it's any faster.'

‘No, it isn't,' said Peter, ‘but much, much nicer, darling.'

He refused to take her share of the fare when they pulled up outside her flat, looking the building up and down with a rather disparaging air. ‘Glad you moved down with us,' he said. ‘See you at Victoria in time for the six o'clock. Got my mobile number?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘Don't be late, and keep me informed.'

‘Yes, Peter,' she said obediently, and waved him off.

Climbing the stairs up to the Betjeman flat, she agreed with Peter. She was glad she'd moved, too. Even if the future was uncertain, her temporary quarters were streets ahead, she thought, pardoning herself the pun.

The cupboard built into the eaves where Fran had stored all that remained of her mother's possessions, was draughty, damp and cobwebby. Crawling on hands and knees and wishing she hadn't worn a skirt, she managed to drag several cardboard boxes in severe danger of disintegration out into the bedroom, sat back on her heels and brushed cobwebs off her hair and face, hoping no spiders had come with them.

Half an hour later she had found all sorts of things; old school reports, a few drawings from pre-school years and several photograph albums. These, however, dated from Margaret's own childhood and included pictures of her own parents and grandparents, severely posed ladies and gentlemen in Victorian attire and serious expressions. There were some of Fran, but these were taken when her father was alive.

Before she ventured back into the cupboard, she made herself a cup of tea and phoned Charles.

‘I was just going to call you,' he said, ‘the solicitor just called me.'

‘And?'

‘The only will he knows about is the one we found. He didn't know anything about me having Power of Attorney or even that she'd moved to The Laurels.'

‘Well, I suppose there was no reason he would, was there? Eleanor wouldn't have thought to tell him, if she wasn't quite compos mentis …'

‘Oh, she had most of her marbles,' said Charles, ‘that's what's so puzzling. If she made a new will or a codicil, she knew what she was doing.'

‘So Marion Headlam couldn't have conned her into it?'

‘No! I still can't believe she would have done anything like that. I know you don't like her –'

‘She wasn't exactly your favourite person when we went there last week,' Fran reminded him.

‘No, well, I was upset,' said Charles, sounding sulky.

‘Anyway, what did he say about it? The codicil, I mean.'

‘He will proceed with the original will until something turns up. He can't go on hearsay without concrete proof.'

‘Well, that should please you and the Denvers. The Laurels won't get whatever she promised.'

‘We could make a goodwill payment to them,' said Charles, ‘the solicitor suggested that.'

‘I bet it wouldn't be as much as Marion Headlam expected,' said Fran.

‘Anyway, apparently we can't do anything until the police have finished their investigations.'

‘Oh?' Fran frowned out of the window. ‘I wonder what happens when a case is left unsolved? Does the person's estate just sit in limbo?'

‘No idea, but let's hope it doesn't happen in this case,' said Charles. ‘Did you say you were in London?'

‘Yes, I'm just sorting out a few more things in the flat,' Fran said evasively.

‘Would you like lunch? We could go to La Poule au Pot again,' said Charles, sounding hopeful.

‘I can't afford it, I'm afraid, Charles,' said Fran, ‘and I'm supposed to be seeing Lucy, anyway. And how come you've got so much time free? I've never asked you what you do, have I?'

‘Ah – well, nothing at the moment, I'm afraid.'

‘Libby said something about business commitments when you phoned the other day.'

‘An interview, that's all.'

‘For what, though? What was your career?'

She heard Charles sigh. ‘I was a salesman,' he said. ‘But not a very good one. I couldn't keep pace with the aggressive attitudes that seem to be wanted these days.'

Despite herself, Fran sympathised. ‘I know what you mean. I couldn't sell a heater to an Eskimo, let alone talk someone into something they didn't really want.'

‘I'm glad you understand,' said Charles, sounding gloomy, ‘but it doesn't help. I can't get arrested now.'

There was a short silence while they both reflected on this rather apposite statement.

‘Sorry,' said Charles, ‘that wasn't intended.'

‘I don't suppose it was,' said Fran, with a slight laugh. ‘But chin up, Charles. You might have enough soon not to worry.'

Charles sighed again. ‘I doubt it. I'll have to replace all the money I borrowed, won't I?'

‘But there'll be more than that, won't there? There's the house.'

‘Oh, I don't know,' said Charles. ‘All I had access to was her bank. I didn't bother to look into anything else. So, anyway, lunch is off, is it?'

‘I can't do it, really, Charles,' said Fran with a distinct sense of relief. ‘I've still got a lot to do, and as I said, I'm supposed to be calling Lucy.' That wasn't a lie, she told herself, she had intended to phone Lucy.

‘OK. Well, keep me posted if you hear anything.'

‘And you,' said Fran, and switched off the phone. Well, that didn't get them any further forward, did it. She swallowed the rest of her tea and rinsed the mug before going back into the bedroom and crawling once more into the attic cupboard.

Peering into a couple more boxes, she discovered nothing more interesting than some old china that she thought she remembered from her childhood. A tea service that she'd bought her mother a couple of years after they moved out of Mountville Road to replace the one they'd left behind, an old tablecloth in blue checks, with a suspicious stain on the edge, and tucked right at the back, a box with some loose photographs on top of what looked like a framed picture. She pulled it out into the bedroom.

The photographs were fading and curled at the edges, but Fran's heart lurched under her ribcage as she felt a shock of recognition. There they were, she and her mother, sitting on the harbour wall, her mother's hair blowing about her face, and the sky behind them looking grey and cloudy. How she knew that, she wasn't sure, as the photographs, naturally, were in black and white. Next there was one of Uncle Frank and Fran on donkeys on the beach, Uncle Frank's feet almost touching the ground.

‘Poor donkey,' murmured Fran, and took out the framed picture. This time, her heart didn't lurch so much as stop dead. For the picture was almost identical to those she had seen in Libby's studio.

Taking a deep breath and sitting back on her heels, Fran steeled herself to look further into the box. Wrapped in what looked like crocheted doilies were a couple of ornaments. Fran lifted them out and carefully unwrapped them.

And found herself looking at two china ponies.

Chapter Twenty-five 1964

F
RAN LAY ON HER
back and gazed out of the window at the moon. If she sat up, she would see it reflected in the sea like a shining pathway to the sky, but now it was pleasant just to lie here and look at the moon, listening to the faint slap of waves against the harbour wall, which meant that the tide was in.

It was lovely to be here, even if it was autumn half term and most of the shops were shut for winter. They had arrived today, Thursday, the first day of half term, and were to go home Sunday in time for school on Monday, but it wasn't the same without Uncle Frank. Fran sighed and sat up. Things had been different since the wedding.

Frank and Eleanor had arrived back from their honeymoon in Brighton late one night, and Fran hadn't seen them. When she got home from school the next afternoon, Uncle Frank was sitting with her mother.

‘Not as good as our holidays in Nethergate, though, poppet,' he said, tweaking Fran's plait, when he'd finished telling them all about Brighton. Fran privately agreed, for they didn't seem to have done any of the things they normally liked to do on holiday.

‘Tell you what, though,' said Frank, ‘now I've bought the cottage from your Aunt Eleanor's dad, we can all use it whenever we like. I thought you and your mum might like to go down for half term. What do you think, Margaret?'

Fran's mother looked dubious. ‘It all depends if I can get the time off work,' she said.

‘Course you can,' said Frank. ‘If you can't, perhaps Eleanor and I could take Franny down.'

Fran tried not to look horrified, and sent her mother a pleading look.

‘No, I'm sure I'll be able to manage it,' she said, giving Fran the ghost of a wink. ‘We don't want to trouble Eleanor when she's only just got married.'

Fran didn't miss the slightly brittle tone in her mother's voice.

Frank smiled, although Fran didn't think he meant it. ‘Good, good,' he said. ‘Let me know when it is, eh, Franny?' He stood up. ‘And now I'd better get back upstairs.'

‘Aren't you staying for tea?' asked Fran.

‘No, darling, Uncle Frank's got to go upstairs. Aunt Eleanor's cooking his dinner,' said Margaret, standing up herself. ‘And you've got homework to do.'

And that set the pattern of the days and weeks to follow. Occasionally, Fran would find Frank sitting with her mother when she came home, but he would always go back upstairs very soon afterwards, and the visits became fewer and farther between. Eleanor never came down, and only once or twice were Margaret and Fran asked to the upstairs flat. Margaret never complained, and when Fran did, patiently explained that Uncle Frank's life was different now, and she couldn't expect him to pay as much attention to them.

‘We were very lucky he was here for us after your father died,' she said, ‘but we couldn't expect it to go on for ever.'

Fran didn't see why not, but as she cordially disliked Eleanor, she supposed seeing Frank infrequently was better than seeing him more often but with his wife. He did, however remember his promise about sending them to Nethergate for half term, and so here they were.

Fran could hear the television downstairs, for when Frank had bought the cottage, he had installed the latest television and gramophone, which was good for Margaret, now she had no company after Fran had gone to bed. Not that she made Fran go to bed particularly early on holiday.

Fran got up and went to the window. It was almost the same view from up here as it was from downstairs. She could see the little boats bobbing in the harbour, and somewhere over to her left, the lighthouse intermittently swept the sea with bright white light to rival the moon. On the windowsill, two of her very own china ponies now sat, for this room was now hers for ever, or so Uncle Frank said. What would happen when he and Eleanor stayed here, she didn't know, although she couldn't see why they would, when Eleanor's parents and brother and sister still lived here. Why wouldn't they go and stay with them?

She was just going back to bed when she heard the front door. Turning back to the window, she opened it and peered out, but was too late to see who had just arrived. She couldn't think who it could be, for apart from a few families they met regularly in the summer, they knew no one in Nethergate.

But there was no sound of voices other than the murmur of the television, so she concluded that her mother must have opened the door for some reason and went back to bed.

She must have slept, for she awoke suddenly, her heart beating heavily. For a moment, she was disoriented, then, as she heard a male voice, remembered where she was. Uncle Frank? Coming fully awake, she realised that she shouldn't have heard his voice, but sure enough, it was his. Sounding angry. She sat up and got out of bed, frozen to the spot when she heard another, less familiar voice screaming.

Something crashed against the outside of her door, and she heard her mother's cry of pain.

‘Mum!' She stumbled to the door and pulled it open.

‘No, Fran!' Margaret whispered. She lay on the floor looking terrified, her arm reaching out to Fran. Then the screaming started again, almost in her ear, and she looked up to see Uncle Frank holding Eleanor by the arms, an Eleanor almost unrecognisable, her face twisted in fury, one hand still clutching a smashed china bowl.

It wasn't until much later that Fran remembered that Margaret had only been wearing a nightdress.