Murder at the Laurels (2 page)

Chapter Two

T
HE RHYTHM OF THE
train began to take effect, and Fran's mind began to drift into that peculiar half sleeping, half waking mode where external sounds can still be heard, yet a whole new scenario begins to unfold to accompany them. Faces slid in and out of Fran's consciousness, places revealed themselves and Fran herself was once more a guest at Uncle Frank and Aunt Eleanor's wedding. It was funny how she had forgotten Frank. Yet there he was, looking over Eleanor's shoulder, an Eleanor shrunken with age, her pretty bright hair and pale prettiness faded and wrinkled, her blue eyes opaque and bewildered. But it wasn't Frank after all, and she was looking up at the face now, while the blackness descended, muffling her nose and mouth … she couldn't breathe …

Fran opened her eyes and found herself looking into the concerned face of a middle-aged woman sitting opposite.

‘Are you all right, dear?' asked the woman. ‘I thought you were choking.'

‘I'm sorry.' Fran struggled into an upright position. ‘I was having a bad dream. How embarrassing.'

The woman smiled. ‘Oh, don't worry about it. I think we should have reclining seats, like they do on aircraft, for these long journeys.'

‘Oh, I'd never wake up in time to get off, then,' said Fran. She smiled and pushed her glasses back up her nose, picking up the magazine which had fallen closed on the table. She looked out of the window, and then at her watch, before settling back in her seat to gaze out of the window, determined not to let herself drop off again. Dreams could be very unsettling, but not usually embarrassing, although occasionally she had mistaken a dream for reality and shocked her nearest and dearest into the middle of next week by telling them things they would rather keep to themselves. Mostly, her ‘moments', as the family called them, took the form of a scene unfolding in her head, which she frequently put down to imagination, always being very dubious when they turned out to be right. ‘Just think,' she would say, ‘how many times I've seen pictures and they're wrong.' Dreams were more like the odd facts that she found herself thinking about that turned out to be true, of which, on further investigation, she could have had no knowledge. The whole business was very disturbing, and she dwelt on it as little as possible, especially when it was as unpleasant as the recent dream.

But it had led to a new career working for an upmarket estate agent, who sent her to ferret out nasties in the woodsheds of some of their top properties. And then she had met Ben, the architect, who, in turn, had introduced her to Libby, with whom she'd tried to solve a murder. The police, naturally enough, managed it without them, but in a funny way, Fran had enjoyed herself. There was something about the village community that appealed to her, although she did wonder how welcome she'd be when she turned up again, as she might provide an unwelcome reminder to some of those more closely involved.

The view outside the window was increasingly beautiful. Summer had clothed the country in a matching set of greens, with brown and cream accents. She loved the country. As a young actress she had adored touring seaside towns in summer, with their slightly raffish air of faded grandeur and tacky amenities, and large, industrial towns in winter, with comforting and fattening food specialities; all of it had charmed her. But the best part had been the tours to small market towns with Shaw and Ibsen and Rattigan revivals, surrounded everyday with beauty, both man-made and natural. Market towns had changed a lot since Fran's young days. Now they had an outer shell of new building, and Fran often thought you could age a town by its rings, much like a tree. The outer ring would comprise low rise industry and thoughtfully designed new housing in village-style developments, the next the little boxes of the sixties, with huge plate glass windows and unimaginative plastic extrusions, then the smart red brick Thirties villas, a smattering of ornate Edwardian edifices, rather more Victorian monstrosities – large and small – and finally the red, black, white and gold of the local stone and brick that looked as though it had been planned and set there from the beginning of time.

For a change, the sun was beating down with an intensity suitable for August as they drew in. A venerable Ford masquerading as a taxi waited near the ticket office and proved willing and able to transport her to The Laurels, the imaginatively named nursing home where Aunt Eleanor had breathed her last, and which had, in fact, not a laurel in sight. It stood, mellow and welcoming, at the end of a slightly sloping, curved drive. Fran peered out of the taxi window at the well-kept grounds, noting the absence of shrubbery or dense vegetation of any description. In case the inmates tried to hide, she decided, trying to imagine little old ladies in long winceyette nightdresses flying across the lawns in a futile game of hide and seek.

The wide and curving stone steps were divided down the middle by a smooth ramp. Fran walked up beside it and pushed open the swing doors. Odd that they weren't locked, or was there an inner door to prevent the prisoners escaping?

‘May I help you?' A woman looked up from behind a high counter.

‘Er – yes.' She suddenly realised she had given no thought whatsoever to what she was going to say when she arrived at The Laurels. She swallowed hard and returned the interrogative gaze of the woman behind the desk. Was she imagining it, or was it a suspicious gaze?

‘Eleanor Bridges. I'm her niece.'

The woman's immaculately made-up eyes widened and she stood up.

‘But Mrs Bridges –'

‘Died. I know.' Fran finished for her. ‘I just –' she paused. ‘Well, I just wanted to –'

‘Her immediate relatives were here, you know.' The woman's tone was frosty.

‘I know. That would be Mr Charles Wade, wouldn't it? He's my cousin by marriage. My name is Fran Castle.' Fran tried a winning smile and was gratified to detect a slight thaw in the woman's expression.

‘Marion Headlam.' The woman held out her hand. ‘I'm the owner of The Laurels.'

‘Not the Matron? You don't look like my idea of a matron.' Fran shook the proffered hand and relaxed.

‘No. I have qualified nursing staff here, obviously, but I look after the business side of things.'

And very lucrative it must be, thought Fran, looking round the well-appointed hall.

‘So.' Marion Headlam came round the desk. ‘You wanted to see where Mrs Bridges died?'

Fran was taken aback. ‘Well, yes, actually.'

‘Relatives often do. Particularly,' added Marion Headlam, with a minatory look, ‘when they haven't been in the habit of visiting regularly.'

‘I didn't even know she was in here,' mumbled Fran in apology. ‘We'd – er – lost touch, rather. There was a – well, a family disagreement.'

‘Ah, yes.' This seemed to explain everything to Marion Headlam. ‘Guilt. You'd be surprised at how much guilt a death generates. Now –' she reached over the high counter and picked up a telephone. ‘I'll just get – oh, Nurse Redding? Could you come to reception, please? Thank you.' She replaced the receiver. ‘Nurse Redding was one of the staff who looked after your aunt. You'd probably like to talk to her.'

‘Thank you, yes.' Fran was grateful that things had been taken out of her hands.

‘I'll show you into the visitor's room and send her in to you.' Marion Headlam opened a door on her right and held it open for Fran. ‘Would you like some tea? Or coffee?'

‘Tea would be lovely, thank you,' said Fran, feeling suitably humble. After the door had closed, she looked round the room.

It was quite a small room, decorated in a rich yellowy cream with blue and cream curtains at the long window, which looked out over the drive. A selection of up-market glossy magazines lay on a well-polished table and a strictly arranged vase of flowers and seasonal vegetation stood on another. No roses in here, thought Fran. They might be badly behaved enough to drop their petals.

She moved to the window and stared out at the manicured grounds. It wasn't surprising that Marion Headlam had wondered why she was here. She wasn't sure herself. Just … the strange feelings that had assailed her from the minute cousin Charles had telephoned her with the news. And then the train journey. She still hadn't recovered from that.

A brief tap on the door heralded the entrance of a dark-haired woman in the royal blue of a nursing sister's uniform. She was much the same age as Marion Headlam, but there the resemblance ended. This woman wore no elaborate eye make-up and wouldn't even when she was off duty, if her unplucked eyebrows and aggressive moustache were anything to go by.

‘You wanted to see me?' She stood just inside the room, hands held rigid at her sides.

Fran tried another winning smile. This time it wasn't so successful.

‘Nurse Redding? Or should it be Sister Redding?'

‘Not here. When I worked in a hospital, I was.' Her tone was flat and unemotional, as though it didn't matter either way.

‘Right.' Fran's smile was becoming determined and a little manic. ‘Shall we sit down?'

Nurse Redding almost shrugged, but not quite, and sat on an upright chair by the wall. Fran took one of the high-backed, wooden-armed chairs grouped around the magazine table.

‘I believe you were with my aunt when she died?'

‘No, I wasn't.' Her expression didn't alter one jot.

‘Oh. I thought Mrs – is it Mrs? – Headlam said you were.'

‘I was one of the team looking after Mrs Bridges. That's what Mrs Headlam would have said.'

‘Right.' Fran nodded immoderately. ‘And how was she?'

Nurse Redding looked surprised. ‘I don't know what you mean,' she said, peering under her beetling brows.

Fran felt herself break out in a gentle sweat. This was more difficult than she had thought. ‘I mean, was she happy? You know, contented?'

This time, Nurse Redding did shrug. ‘None of them are happy. They're all here waiting to die. Most of them try and pretend they're not, if they've still got some of their marbles. The others don't know what's going on anyway.'

‘And which was Aunt Eleanor?'

‘I thought you'd know. Mrs Headlam said you were a niece.' There was definite suspicion in the voice now.

‘I am, but I hadn't seen her for years. I didn't know she was in here. Charles Wade only told me yesterday.' Fran hoped that the introduction of Charles's name would allay the suspicion.

‘She was confused. Wanted to go home.'

‘But not ill?'

‘You can never tell. Didn't seem ill. But she had a bit of heart trouble. No surprise that she died.'

Fran thought about this. ‘But Charles did seem surprised when she died. He wasn't expecting it.'

‘Nobody expects it. It's always a shock.'

Fran was beginning to feel as though she was swimming through treacle.

‘Did she have many visitors?' she asked in desperation.

‘Mr Wade, Mrs Denver. And Mr Denver.'

Fran caught the imperceptible change in the flat voice. ‘Mr and Mrs Denver? I don't think I –'

‘Mrs Denver. Mr Wade's cousin. Paul Denver's her son. Thought you'd know.'

‘Oh, yes, well,' Fran, remembering just in time, felt the hot flush spreading again. ‘Barbara Denver. I'm Mrs Bridge's niece by marriage.'

Nurse Redding said nothing.

‘Um, I know this might sound a bit peculiar, but do you think I could see her room?'

Fran was aware of the first slight hesitation. ‘I don't know … I'd have to ask.' Nurse Redding stood up.

‘I'll come with you,' said Fran brightly, following suit. That Nurse Redding was displeased was very apparent, but she had no choice but to leave the room with Fran behind her.

Marion Headlam didn't seem in the least surprised that Fran should want to see the room where her aunt had died.

‘Of course. You'll see that it's a very pleasant room with every facility.' She handed Nurse Redding a key. ‘We keep it locked, of course, until a new client takes it over.'

Client? thought Fran. Not patient? She came to a halt behind Nurse Redding, who had stopped at a door towards the back of the building. A small metal holder held a card, which, on peering closer, Fran read: E. Bridges. Nurse Redding unlocked the door.

Almost immediately, Fran was overwhelmed by black suffocation. From a distance, she heard a voice saying ‘Are you all right?' and felt a hand on her arm. Panic gripped her, and she tried to push the hand away, but she was overborne, and thrust gently into a sitting position, her head forced forwards towards her knees.

‘Poor thing,' she heard a voice saying. ‘It takes people the strangest ways, doesn't it? Must have been fond of her old auntie after all. I'll see if that tea's ready.'

Fran's head began to clear and she sat up slowly. She was in a large, bright room that seemed to be a cross between a hospital ward, with its high metal bed, and a well-furnished hotel room. Nurse Redding stood in front of her, a frown on her heavy face.

‘Sorry,' said Fran, weakly. ‘I don't know what came over me.'

Nurse Redding managed her almost shrug again. ‘Shock,' she said succinctly. ‘Mrs Headlam's gone to see about tea.'

‘Thank you,' said Fran, wondering if she dared ask to be left alone. Nurse Redding settled the question by moving to the chair the other side of the bed and sitting down, feet neatly crossed at the ankles. Fran sighed and looked round the room.

‘This was her furniture, wasn't it?' she said.

‘No. Mrs Denver kept it all in storage.'

‘Television? Was that hers?'

‘No. She did have one, but ours had a bigger screen.'

There was a video recorder, as well, and something that Fran thought was a decoder for cable television. On the bed table lay a formidable array of electronic gadgetry: three remote controls and a white item with red buttons.