Murder at the Laurels (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-nine

O
VER THE NEXT FEW
days Libby got bored. She heard nothing more about the police investigation, or what had happened to Marion Headlam. Fran went off to a job in London for Goodall and Smythe, after reporting on her dinner date with Guy.

‘Lovely restaurant,' she told Libby dreamily, over a lunchtime drink in the pub. ‘Beautiful country house.'

‘And?' said Libby.

‘He brought me home, and went home himself.' Fran laughed at Libby's expression. ‘Sorry, Lib.'

‘Is he gay?' Libby was indignant.

‘No, of course not. Just a gentleman. And I'm not exactly the sort to inspire uncontrollable lust, am I?'

‘Hmm.'

‘Come on, Lib. Just be grateful that there are nice men out there who don't have unrealistic expectations.'

‘I have to say,' said Libby, after giving it a moment's thought, ‘that Guy usually attracts the younger element. I've seen him with some real glamour in the past.'

‘What the hell's he taking me out for, then?' said Fran, looking as though she'd gone down suddenly in a lift.

‘I don't know,' said Libby simply. ‘But he's attracted to you. Otherwise I wouldn't have pushed you together.'

‘Are you saying that this is entirely due to your intervention?' Fran was now looking amused.

‘Well, partly,' said Libby, attempting to look modest.

‘Don't forget he was chatting me up in The Swan before he knew we were friends.'

‘I did say partly,' said Libby.

But now Fran was in London, Ben was clearing out his flat in Canterbury prior to moving permanently to The Manor and Libby had nothing to do. She painted in the mornings, finishing her autumn picture, starting a new pretty peep of Nethergate Harbour, not worrying too much about accuracy. The people who bought the paintings wanted an idealised interpretation of an idyll, not a photographic rendition.

After lunch, she sat in the garden, rejoined the library, and one day drove to the supermarket just to pass the time. The weather was changing, going from the unnatural warmth of the early summer to the normal grey of early autumn, so time in the garden was limited, and Sidney began to spend more and more time indoors.

Towards the end of the week, Libby woke to a beautiful day. Two things occurred to her. One, she ought to check whether Guy's cheque had cleared in her bank account so she could buy the computer she had now set her heart on, and two, it would be a lovely day to go and see Tyne Hall and its chapel. She reassured herself that it was a purely aesthetic trip, and nothing to do with any sort of investigation.

She checked her bank account at the ATM inside the village post office, and was so excited by the sight of her balance she nearly abandoned her sightseeing plans to rush off to Canterbury and buy a computer. Deciding, however, it would preferable to have an experienced computer user by her side when she did so, she put Romeo the Renault in gear and set off for Tyne Hall.

It hadn't occurred to her that there might be a problem in getting access to the chapel. Following signs to Tyne Hall – not easy, as there were no brown and white signposts and only one or two wooden ones – she finally came upon two large iron gates set into a crumbling brick wall, where an old notice hung on a gatepost informed the public that this was Tyne Hall, and there was no entry.

Realising that she should have done a little more research before setting out on this trip, Libby fished out her mobile and rang Ben.

‘I just thought I'd come and have a look at it,' she said, after listening to his forcibly expressed exasperation. ‘It was such a lovely day. But I can't find an entrance.'

‘Tyne Hall isn't open to the public, Libby,' said Ben, ‘so you won't find an entrance. If it's the chapel you particularly want to see, you can get to it another way. But I think you're mad.'

‘It's a beautiful day, and I only want to have a look. What could happen?'

‘Oh, all right,' said Ben with a sigh, and gave her directions.

A little lane led past a few cottages and a wide stream, where Libby was enchanted to see crested grebe. She parked on a grassy verge, and crossed a small stone footbridge which lead to a track between overhanging beech trees. This lead out on to one side of a shallow grassy valley, at the top of the other side of which, surrounded by more trees, already turning golden and red, stood the chapel. In the same colour stone as the bridge, all Libby could see of it was the gothic arch of the door set into a short tower. Away to her left, the glint of water told her the stream had reappeared, and walking a little way down the slope, she saw that a lake spread away towards the ruins of the main house.

The grass was already dotted with fallen leaves, yet the day was warm enough for Libby to be wearing summer clothes. Wishing she'd worn slightly more sensible shoes, she set off down one slope and up the other, until she was in front of the chapel. Now she could see that the trees pressed hard up against the walls of the chapel and a path led off to her right from the front door. The door itself was typical arched, planked oak, with enormous iron hinges. Libby was surprised that there were no extra bars or padlocks on it if there had been trouble there, but there was nothing, and when she ventured to turn the great iron handle, it moved easily and without a sound. It must have been bolted inside, however, because it refused to budge. Suddenly nervous, she stepped back and looked round. It seemed such a peaceful place, it was hard to imagine anything remotely evil happening, but unless Flo had got it wrong, it had.

She walked a little way along the path to her right, and saw that down the side of the chapel there were three stained glass windows almost obscured by the trees, and, she was sure, another door, although she couldn't be certain. The path led only to a barbed wire fence, half hidden by undergrowth, which looked as though it hadn't been disturbed for years. If Satan worshippers, or cult or coven members met here, they must have flown in, thought Libby. She began to retrace her steps.

After a further examination of the door and the tower, she gave up, and walked back towards the track between the beech trees. As she got to the bottom of the slope, she looked back, and stopped.

In front of the chapel door stood three figures, all in black, watching her.

She fled.

Fran got back to the Betjeman flat, glad that she hadn't yet given it up. Three days of wandering round an old manor house, its mews and stable yard had exhausted her, especially as all sorts of strange images had presented themselves to her, most of which she discounted as they obviously belonged to incidents far in the past. Goodall and Smythe's client, a property developer, had been delighted with her, and planned to use some of her information in his publicity, although Fran couldn't see why anyone would want to buy a remodelled mews flat with the exciting knowledge that a stable lad had once been beaten to death there.

Tomorrow she would go back to Steeple Martin, but tonight she'd phone Charles. Not that she was interested in getting involved with any more investigations, of course. Just to see how he was. She'd told him briefly about Uncle Frank owning Coastguard Cottage, but he'd been surprised, and professed to know nothing at all about it.

‘Just wondered if there was any news,' she said, after they'd greeted one another with a wary friendliness.

‘Not that I've heard,' said Charles. ‘I gather Marion Headlam was let off the hook, but I still don't know why she was taken in. I haven't heard from Barbara, either.'

‘Now, why doesn't that surprise me?'

‘You're not still investigating, are you?' asked Charles.

‘No, Charles. And I wouldn't exactly call it investigating. The police are quite capable of doing that without our help.' Even if they don't know everything we know, she added silently.

‘Your friend Libby didn't give me that impression,' said Charles.

‘Well, she isn't doing anything now,' said Fran, crossing her fingers. True, Libby had said she wasn't going to do any more nosing about, but you never knew with Libby.

‘Tell me,' said Charles, with a heavy-handed air of changing the subject, ‘how did you come by the information that Frank Bridges owned that cottage?'

Fran's mind went blank. Then, ‘I thought I told you. I found a box of photographs and things when I was clearing out my flat.' Well, that was true.

‘Yes, you did, but what did they actually tell you? I suppose,' said Charles, with the suspicion of a snort in his voice, ‘there wasn't a picture of him signing a contract?'

‘No, of course not,' said Fran irritably, ‘but when I saw the photographs, I remembered we used to go there on holiday, and he bought the cottage from the person who let it. That was your grandfather.'

‘Oh, I see.' Charles still sounded doubtful. ‘So is that how he met Eleanor?'

‘I suppose so,' said Fran, not certain herself. ‘Don't you remember your grandfather owning property in Nethergate?'

‘No. I lived in Steeple Mount, remember, and only went to school in Nethergate. I know we visited my grandparents, and Barbara's family, but I wouldn't have known anything about any businesses they might have had. I do remember, though,' he said, with a hint of renewed interest, ‘that Eleanor was always called “poor Eleanor”. I think they were all surprised when she married.'

‘What was she like before she was married?'

‘All right. Not much interested in us children. Oh, she gave us an obligatory present at Christmas and birthdays, but that was about all. She lived at home with our grandparents. I don't know what sort of social life she had.'

Not much, thought Fran. Not back then. Frank must have come as a godsend. No wonder she flipped when she found out about Margaret.

‘So have you heard anything more about the will?'

‘No,' said Charles gloomily. ‘I don't know quite what happens there. Will I be prosecuted for fraud, do you think?'

Privately, Fran thought he would. ‘I don't know Charles. Can't you ask the solicitor? If you're the executor, you've got the right to ask him. Mind you – if you've defrauded the estate, perhaps you can't be executor?'

‘Oh, Fran, don't say that! I will get done, won't I?'

‘Charles, just ask the solicitor. I'm going back to Steeple Martin tomorrow, but if you need me for anything, just ring.'

Later that night, Fran lay in her bed and reflected how much nicer it was living in Steeple Martin. She really must see about finding a flat to rent somewhere in the area before Harry got fed up with her cluttering up his upstairs. Pity, she thought, as she turned over and began to drift away, that she couldn't afford to buy somewhere like Libby's cottage.

Chapter Thirty

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, F
RAN
packed quickly and locked up the flat. As she went down the stairs, she met Dahlia coming up, and told her that she would be giving notice. Dahlia, easily moved, showed a tendency to weep at this news, then remembered her cousin's daughter who was currently looking for a flat, and cheered up.

‘Post for you, this mornin' Miz Castle,' she said. ‘I would 'a brought it up if I'd 'a known.'

Prepared for a slew of junk mail, Fran was surprised to find a letter franked with the name and address of a firm of solicitors. Wondering if it was from Aunt Eleanor's, but if so, why, she slit open the envelope and began to read.

A minute later, she was sitting on the bottom step, heart pounding, trying to catch her breath while making a mull of punching in Charles's number on her mobile.

‘Calm down, Fran,' he said, after listening to her garbled explanation for a few seconds. ‘I can't make head or tail of this. Where are you? Shall I come and get you?'

‘No, Charles, I'm fine, I'm just about to go home – back to Steeple Martin. I just thought you ought to know. And whether it's the same firm of solicitors.'

‘No, it isn't. I wonder how they knew she was dead? I wonder what else we're going to find out?'

Fran re-read the letter after she'd switched off. Frank, it said, had put the money from the sale of Coastguard Cottage, or 34 Harbour Street, Nethergate, as it was unromantically referred to, into a trust fund for her, Fran, only to be released on the death of Eleanor Bridges. As the undersigned believed this had now taken place, would she please make an appointment to come into the office of Messrs Hallbert and Dunkin to discuss the winding up of the trust.

Trying to calm her still unruly breathing, Fran punched in the number at the top of the letter and asked for John Meade.

‘Mr Meade's not in until Monday, I'm afraid,' said the voice which answered. ‘Can anyone else help you?'

Fran explained her mission. ‘Oh, well, then, I'm afraid it will have to be Mr Meade. May I ask him to ring you as soon as he gets in on Monday?' asked the voice.

Fran agreed, and gave her number. And now to contain her soul in patience until Mr Meade got in touch and put her out of her misery.

‘I'm sure it must be a mistake of some kind,' she said to Libby, whom she called the minute she arrived back at Harry's flat.

‘Of course it isn't,' said Libby. ‘It makes perfect sense. You've pieced together all the information so far, and this confirms it. Frank wanted you to have the cottage, but he couldn't do that, because of its connection with Eleanor's family, so he sold it and put the money in trust for you. I expect he meant to give it to you on your twenty-first birthday or something.'

‘But it said not to be released until Eleanor's death,' said Fran.

‘Well, in that case, he probably thought she'd kick up a fuss and try and get it overturned or something – you know, doing her out of her just deserts.'

‘I expect she would. After all, she would expect to inherit everything from him, wouldn't she?'

‘And that's why he did it this way. Clever, I call it,' said Libby. ‘I wonder how much it's worth now?'

‘I don't suppose it's grown along with the property prices,' said Fran, ‘so I don't expect I'll have enough to buy anywhere.'

‘You could put down a deposit, though, couldn't you?'

‘Yes, but I'm not likely to get a mortgage, am I? I'm self-employed, and only work intermittently.'

‘Oh, yes. But if you had it invested and it paid out interest monthly, you could afford to get a better rented place.'

‘So I could,' said Fran, much taken with this idea. ‘Who'd know about that sort of thing?'

‘It pains me to say it, but Paul Denver would,' said Libby. ‘He might not be much cop as an estate agent, but I expect he knows all about that sort of thing.'

‘No, I'm not telling him,' said Fran, a decided note in her voice. ‘But I will go and see Barbara, and ask her what she knows about Coastguard Cottage. I bet she knows more than Charles.'

‘Good idea,' said Libby. ‘Do you want any back up?'

‘No, I'll be fine on my own, thanks, Lib.'

‘Would you like to borrow Romeo, then?'

‘Oh, Lib, I'd love to! I wasn't sure how I'd get there, otherwise.'

‘OK, then. When do you want to go?'

‘I'll phone Barbara and see when it's convenient and ring you back,' said Fran, and switching off the phone, thought again how lucky she was to have landed here with such lovely people.

Barbara, although obviously surprised to hear from her, agreed to see her tomorrow morning, which suited Fran, as, having come all the way down from London she didn't really feel like setting off again. Next, she phoned Guy.

‘I'm going to see Barbara Denver tomorrow morning,' she said. ‘What's happening about the sculpture?'

‘Nothing,' said Guy. ‘We've got it on hold. It's far too over the top, anyway, so maybe she'll change her mind.'

‘As long as the sculptor doesn't mind,' said Fran, ‘because it isn't Barbara's decision anyway, and I think Charles would prefer not to have it. Eleanor was an old cow, anyway.'

‘So I gather,' said Guy, sounding amused. ‘So, you'll be here tomorrow morning? How about lunch after the devilish Barbara?'

‘That would be nice,' said Fran, feeling a bit hot under the collar. ‘But I shall have Libby's car, so I won't be able to drink.'

Libby, when she heard that Romeo would be out on the following day, immediately rang Ben to ask for his advice.

‘You see,' she said, ‘I want to buy a computer. I told you, didn't I? But you haven't been around, so I couldn't ask for your help.'

‘I'm still not around,' he said, ‘so how can I help?'

‘I thought I'd come into Canterbury tomorrow, and perhaps you could come with me to choose one? The only thing is, I've lent the car to Fran, so I'll have to come in by bus.'

‘You've never seen the flat, have you?' said Ben.

‘No,' said Libby slowly.

‘Well, this is your last chance. I shall be moved out completely by Saturday, so why don't you come and have lunch there tomorrow, then we'll go and buy a computer.'

‘OK.' Libby felt squirmish under her ribcage. ‘What time and how do I find it?'

Ben gave her directions, and she agreed to be there as near as possible to half past twelve, buses permitting. Hugging herself with excitement because she hadn't seen him since Monday, Libby went into the kitchen to tell Sidney all about it.

Arriving in Canterbury the following morning, Libby made her way through the narrow back streets behind the high street and The Marlowe theatre to the building, beautifully converted, where Ben had his flat.

‘Did you do this conversion?' she asked, as he led her up the stairs.

‘Of course.' He grinned back at her. ‘I own the building, so I'll just let this out when I've finished clearing out.'

‘You don't seem to have done much yet,' said Libby surveying the comfortably furnished living room.

‘Oh, I have. I've packed all my clothes and personal stuff. I shall let this furnished.'

‘Oh, pity. I was thinking perhaps Fran could have rented it.' Libby wandered over to the window, which looked out over the river.

‘Frankly, Lib, I don't think she could afford it,' said Ben coming over to join her and handing her a glass of red wine. ‘I'd love to be able to let her have it at a reduced rate, but it wouldn't be fair on the other tenants, apart from any other considerations.'

‘No, I suppose not,' said Libby, and sighed. ‘But it's a lovely flat.'

‘Perhaps Fran doesn't want to live in Canterbury.'

‘No, but I think she might be able to afford it.' Libby turned to look at him. ‘She's just heard about an inheritance.'

Libby told him about Fran's surprising news while he seated her at a little table and served up soup.

‘It depends on how the trust was invested,' he said, offering French bread. ‘As long as it's been administered by someone reputable and not milked, she should have a tidy sum.'

Libby thought about Charles.

‘Fran's cousin Charles did that, you know,' she said, sampling the soup. ‘Hey, good soup!'

‘Don't sound so surprised,' said Ben. ‘I can cook, you know. How do you think I survived all those years on my own? Anyway, Charles did what?'

Libby explained about Charles and the Power of Attorney.

‘Oh, dear. No wonder the police had him in.'

‘But it takes away his motive, surely? He would want her alive, because if she died, it would all come out. I don't know what happens now, but I expect the estate will sue him or something, won't it?'

‘You say he's executor?' Ben leant back in his chair. ‘I'm not sure what the legal position is in that case. Do you want me to find out?'

‘No, thanks.' Libby shook her head and tipped her soup plate to scoop up the last of the soup. ‘There are enough solicitors lurking about the place in this case.'

‘Case? Libby, I thought you'd given up?' Ben narrowed his eyes at her.

Libby flushed. ‘I have. I just meant the police case. And that's why I don't want you finding anything out.'

They finished lunch, and Ben took her on a tour of the flat. The kitchen was shiny, functional and small, the bathroom the same, and the bedroom masculine.

‘It's a big bed,' said Libby, surveying the dominant feature of the room, covered in a dark brown quilt.

‘That's coming with me,' said Ben.

‘To your mother's?'

‘Yes, although I won't use it until we get my permanent quarters sorted out. I'm still using the spare bedroom.'

‘Was it yours when you were a child?'

‘The bed or the bedroom?'

‘The bedroom.'

‘Yes. I'm still in the single bed.'

Libby giggled. ‘Oh, dear!'

‘Now you can see why I've never invited you to stay at The Manor.' He moved behind her and his arm came round her waist. ‘Might be your last chance to try it out for a long time.' He lowered his lips to her neck and Libby felt a rush of pure desire.

It was some time later that Libby emerged from the shower to get dressed. Ben was sitting in the kitchen waiting for her, and looked up when she appeared.

‘Sure we're going to get a computer?' he asked, grinning at her.

‘Yes,' said Libby firmly. ‘I've decided I need one, and anyway, Guy's money's burning a hole in my bank account.'

‘I'll come and help you if you invite me round this evening,' he said, pulling her down onto his lap.

‘I thought you were staying here?'

‘Nah – changed my mind. I've more or less finished here now. Anyway, I've missed you.' He nuzzled her neck, and she shivered.

‘Now don't start that again,' she said, struggling to stand up. ‘You can come whenever you want, you know that.'

Ben raised his eyebrows and she blushed again. ‘Oh, you know what I mean!'

They spent a happy hour at a large computer supermarket, and Ben persuaded her to buy a small laptop which, although more expensive than most, he assured her was easily the best. And the prettiest, thought Libby, as she stroked its glossy white lid admiringly.

‘Come on, I'll drive you home and we'll get it set up,' said Ben. ‘You won't be able to connect to the internet yet, because that'll take a few days, but we'll put everything in motion.'

‘Oh, really?' Libby was disappointed. ‘I wanted to look things up.'

‘Well, if we find a hotspot, as this is wireless, we might be able to log on.'

Libby stared at him open-mouthed. ‘Sorry?' she said.

Ben opened the car door for her to climb in, and put the precious boxed computer on the back seat. ‘I'll explain later,' he said.

Libby was surprised to find Romeo parked in his normal position under the trees across from No 17. She found the keys on the mat when she opened the door, and after settling Ben at the little table in the sitting room and putting the kettle on the Rayburn, she found her mobile and phoned Fran, as Ben seemed to be busy with the landline telephone socket.

‘Was everything OK?' she asked. ‘I didn't expect you back so soon.'

‘I got home about half an hour ago,' said Fran. ‘It's not that early. And I had lunch with Guy, as well.'

‘That's nice,' said Libby. ‘I had lunch with Ben, too.'

‘Oh?'

‘At his flat in Canterbury.' Libby smiled dreamily.

‘Ah.'

‘Yes,' said Libby. ‘Anyway, I don't suppose your lunch with Guy was quite like that, was it? Even if you would have liked it to be?'

‘Libby!' said Fran. ‘Behave. I thought you wanted to know about Barbara Denver?'

‘I do, I do,' said Libby. ‘Hang on, I'm pouring water onto teabags.'

‘Oh, is Ben with you?'

‘Yes. You see,' she said proudly, ‘I bought a computer this afternoon.'

‘Oh, well done you. Can I borrow it?'

‘If you help me with how to use it, yes. Anyway, come on. Tell me what happened this morning.'

Barbara had been far more relaxed than the last time Fran saw her. Fran wondered if it was because it was just the two of them, without Paul or Charles.

‘So what can I do for you?' asked Barbara, after ushering Fran once more into the green and grey sitting room.

‘I just wanted to know if you remembered anything about Aunt Eleanor when she was young, really, and whether you remember how she met my Uncle Frank.'

‘Is it relevant?'

‘Relevant?' Fran was startled. ‘How do you mean?'

‘Relevant to Eleanor's – er – murder.' Barbara was looking wary now.