Murder at the Laurels (27 page)

‘Oh.' Libby's face fell. ‘Well, if it wasn't her, and it couldn't be Warner or Paul, it has to be either the Headlam or Barbara.'

‘Or a passing tramp,' said Fran, gloomily. ‘And I don't know why I'm bothered, it's nothing to do with me, as the Denvers keep telling me.'

‘Well, it is, in a way. Especially now you've discovered everything about you and Uncle Frank and the cottage. You're bound to be interested.' Libby tucked her feet underneath her. ‘And what's Cap'n Murray going to do about Eleanor killing Frank?'

‘I don't know. There's nothing anyone can do about that, anyway. They're both dead now.'

Libby leaned over and patted her hand. ‘And you're going to have a little bit of extra money so you can live down here with us all, go out with Guy and help me with the pantomime. Lots to look forward to.'

‘And set up in business, Harry suggested,' said Fran with a smile.

‘Eh? What business?'

‘With my instinct and your nosiness – his words, not mine – we should set up in the detective business, he thinks.' Fran laughed at Libby's expression. ‘Go on, he wasn't serious.'

‘But it's a great idea!' said Libby, sitting bolt upright. ‘Just think! You could do exactly what you do for Goodall and Smythe, and I could ferret things out. Way to go, Harry! Is he downstairs?' She scrambled to her feet.

‘He was, but listen, Libby, it was a joke. Sit down.'

Libby sat down.

‘I know it sounds great, but honestly, the only times we've been involved with anything like this it's because it's been very close to us. And that's coincidence enough. I never believed in all those amateur detectives who fall over bodies wherever they are.' She stood up and collected mugs. ‘We know nothing about investigations, and we've both realised that the police get there before we do.'

‘Except with your moments.'

‘But they're frequently not relevant.'

‘If you learnt to – oh, I don't know – channel them somehow –'

‘Libby, leave it. I'm not going to channel anything. Now, are you staying for another cup of tea, or are you going back to Ben?'

Libby took herself off to the pub, and Fran pottered around the flat, cooking herself a meal, watching some television, reading, and looking out of her window on to the darkening high street. Guy rang and invited himself over, and Fran, with heightened colour, rushed round the flat tidying up, changed and put on some make-up.

Guy had barely arrived when Fran's mobile rang.

‘Mrs Castle?' said a strange voice.

‘Yes?' said Fran, raising her eyebrows at Guy and shaking her head.

‘Detective Inspector Connell here. I believe you gave my colleague DCI Murray some information this afternoon?'

‘Er – yes,' said Fran. ‘Several pieces. Which bit?'

‘About Tyne Chapel.'

‘Oh. Oh, yes, right.'

‘Can you tell me how you came by this information, please?'

‘Which information exactly?' asked Fran.

‘That there was to be a meeting tonight.'

‘Oh, well – er – you'll have to ask Mr Murray,' said Fran, feeling uncomfortable. ‘He knows.'

‘I shall have to ask you to come to the station, Mrs Castle. This is a serious matter.'

‘Oh, God,' said Fran. ‘You'll never believe me. Can't you ask Mr Murray? And why, anyway?'

‘There was a meeting tonight, Mrs Castle.'

Fran felt a familiar suffocating blackness descending on her.

‘And someone was killed. A Joan Redding.'

Chapter Thirty-five

A
POLICE CAR WAS
already standing outside The Pink Geranium. A young police constable knocked on Fran's door and asked politely if she would come with him. Guy, equally polite, insisted on accompanying her. To her surprise, as she was ushered into the back of the car, DCI Murray turned round to greet her.

‘Am I being taken to the station?' asked Fran. ‘An Inspector Connell says I have to go there.'

‘No, you don't. He called me earlier and I happened to mention how I'd got the information. So then he called you, didn't he?'

‘Yes, five minutes ago.'

‘I thought he might. Good evening sir.' Murray acknowledged Guy, who had climbed in beside Fran.

‘This is Guy Wolfe, Mr Murray,' said Fran.

‘Oh, ah? The painter, would that be?'

‘Yes,' said Guy, surprised.

‘Mmm. Got one of yours. Only a print, of course. Got one of Mrs Sarjeant's, too. Anyway, Mrs Castle, I decided I'd pick you up on the way to Tyne chapel. I was sure you'd want to go and see, and it'll save you the trouble of going in to the station to make a statement.'

‘I'm not sure I want to go and see a murder,' said Fran, and Guy took her hand in a comforting clasp.

‘A murder? Did Connell tell you that?' Murray's head swivelled round again.

‘Yes. He said Nurse Redding had died.'

‘He shouldn't have done that. Not if he was treating you as a suspect.'

‘A suspect?' Fran almost shrieked.

Murray grinned at her. ‘Well, you've got to admit, it's suspicious that someone passes on information about a meeting and there's a death almost immediately.'

‘You don't believe it, though, do you?' said Guy, gripping Fran's hand tightly.

‘Of course I don't. I shall explain Mrs Castle's involvement in this, and my own, of course.'

‘Do you think it's linked to my aunt's death?'

‘Couldn't say, but under the circumstances you can't help wondering, can you?'

They approached Tyne Chapel from a different direction than Libby had some days previously. The darkness was already illuminated by police lamps, and to Fran's surprise, a white tent stood beyond the chapel itself.

‘Weren't they inside?' she asked in a whisper, as they approached the blue and white tape.

‘She wasn't,' said Murray. ‘I'll find out in a minute.' He strode off and in a few moments, Fran saw a tall dark man emerge from the tent and greet him. Then, they both disappeared back inside.

‘I don't understand why you're here,' said Guy. ‘Surely, if they'd wanted a statement it would have been better to go to the station, as Connell said.'

‘Murray wants to see if I'm going to pick anything up,' said Fran, looking at the shadowy figures standing around, and across at the denser darkness of the wood on the other side of the hill. Somewhere ahead glinted the lake.

‘And are you?'

‘Only fear and hatred. Normal in this sort of setting. No one's got guilt written all over their heads.'

Connell and Murray emerged from the tent and came towards them. Murray introduced Fran.

‘I've explained your part in this, Mrs Castle,' he said, ‘but Inspector Connell still wants to ask you a few questions.'

‘I'd ask you to come inside, Mrs Castle, but we haven't yet opened the chapel. The meeting, or whatever it was, was being held out here, over by those trees.' He pointed to a rough circle on the other side of the chapel, where a fire could still be seen glowing. Fran nodded and shivered.

‘When you spoke to Joan Redding about belonging to this cult, did she admit it?'

‘I asked if she was interested. She said she was. But she wouldn't admit anything else.'

‘So how did you know about Tyne Chapel?'

‘Coincidence, really. A friend –' she looked at Murray ‘– in my village heard about it.'

Connell looked as though he was bursting to say something else.

‘And Mrs Castle gets these sort of – intuitions about things, Inspector,' said Murray. ‘I've learnt to take them very seriously.'

Connell looked now as though he'd like to lock Fran up. He towered over all three of them like Lucifer, Fran thought.

‘How well did you know Miss Redding, Mrs Castle?' he asked.

‘Not well at all. She was merely one of the nurses attending my aunt when she died.'

‘And was, up to now, a suspect for her murder,' said Murray. ‘No, Inspector,' as Connell opened his mouth, ‘I think that's enough. I just wanted to give Mrs Castle the opportunity of being here to see if she came up with anything.'

Now Connell was really angry. Fran could feel it coming off him in waves, but she stepped past him and made for the circle of trees. Inside stood several cloaked figures, huddled together in groups, their faces in partial shadow, flickering in the light of the fire. Around the edges stood impassive police constables, mainly women, Fran noticed. There was more fear here, but nothing else. No images came into her mind. Nothing since the blackness when Connell had phoned.

She went back to the men and shook her head. ‘Nothing,' she said. ‘Can I ask how it happened?'

Connell and Murray looked at each other. Murray nodded slightly.

‘She was strangled. Garrotted, actually,' said Connell.

‘God,' whispered Guy.

‘Nasty,' nodded Murray. ‘Well, come on, then. Let's get you two back to civilisation.'

‘Aren't you coming with us?' said Fran, as he shut the car door after her.

‘No, I shall be involved now. Another sleepless night, I expect.' He looked almost jaunty.

‘I don't think he likes Mrs Murray very much,' said Fran under her breath, as she watched him step away from the car and wave.

‘No?' said Guy.

‘No. She calls him Donnie.'

They were silent on the journey home, mindful of the young constable driving.

‘I must phone Libby,' said Fran, as they went up the stairs to her flat. ‘It's not too late, is it?'

‘Nearly half past ten. She won't be in bed yet, will she?'

‘You never know,' said Fran absently, then blushed. ‘Well, you know what I mean.'

Guy laughed. ‘I think you ought to sit down with a large drink. You've had a shock. Can't Libby wait?'

Fran shook her head. ‘She's been in on this from the beginning. It wouldn't be fair.'

Guy sighed. ‘OK. Would you like a drink?'

Fran smiled up at him and nodded. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and went to forage for drinks in the kitchen while Fran dialled Libby's number.

Libby, disturbed only from watching an old DVD with Sidney and Ben, was, in her own words, gobsmacked.

‘So it definitely wasn't her, then.'

‘Doesn't look like it. I'm going to talk to Barbara again tomorrow.'

‘Fran, don't. If she's killed Redding, you'll be in danger. Let the police handle it. They'll find out. Besides, it might be something to do with the coven thing – nothing to do with Aunt Eleanor.'

‘No, it's connected. I know that much.'

‘Will Murray tell you what's going on, do you think?'

‘Only if I come up with a startling prediction for him. At least he's taking me seriously, but the other chap was furious.'

‘I expect it was a bit hard for him to swallow, to have a psychic thrust upon him in the middle of a load of witches.'

Fran smiled. ‘I suppose so,' she said. ‘Now I'm going to have a drink and try and forget it. I'll talk to you tomorrow.'

Guy came and sat beside her on the sofa. ‘What you need is a little life affirmation,' he said, putting an arm round her.

Fran smiled bleakly. ‘I'm not sure I feel very affirming,' she said.

‘Then just relax,' said Guy. ‘Talk if you want to.'

‘I'll shut up, I think, if you don't mind,' said Fran. ‘I'll have to do enough talking with Libby tomorrow.' She closed her eyes and leant back against his arm. ‘Wake me if I fall asleep.'

After a night of turning things over in her head and smoking too many cigarettes, something she hadn't done recently, Libby rang Fran as early as she dared.

‘Let's go and see Barbara together,' she said. ‘She can't do much against two of us. Then we could go and see the Headlam, and we might get to see Warner.'

‘It's Sunday,' said Fran, groggily.

‘So what? Nursing homes don't close on Sundays. And as it's Sunday, we might get to see Paul, too.'

‘All right,' sighed Fran, ‘but let me get up and dressed first.'

‘Are you alone?' asked Libby.

‘Yes, I am. I'm not ready for anything else at the moment.'

‘All right, all right. Don't get crotchety,' said Libby. ‘I'll pick you up in an hour.'

As they drove past Steeple Mount, Fran averted her eyes, but Libby slowed down and tried to peer through the trees.

‘No sign of anything,' she said.

‘There wouldn't be. Come on, Lib.'

‘All right. Don't be in a such a rush.'

‘You were the one in a hurry earlier,' grumbled Fran. ‘And I haven't had any breakfast.'

‘What's that got to do with anything? We'll get you something after we've been to Blagstock House.'

The beautiful autumn morning did nothing for Blagstock House. It still looked grim and forbidding as Libby swung Romeo onto the drive in a scattering of gravel.

Paul answered the door.

‘What do you want?' he said.

Fran looked at him, trying to decide whether or not Murray would have been in touch with him yet. Libby had no such reservations.

‘It's about Joan Redding,' she said. ‘When did you last see her?'

Paul's eyebrows flew up. ‘And what's it got to do with you? Who the hell are you?'

‘My – er – colleague, Libby Sarjeant,' Said Fran.

‘With a J,' put in Libby.

‘Look, we're all under suspicion, now, Paul,' said Fran, crossing her fingers behind her back. ‘I thought we ought to talk about it.'

‘You know, then?' said Paul, looking from Fran to Libby and back again.

‘That she was murdered? Yes. I was dragged out to the scene last night by the police.'

‘Why?' Paul looked astonished.

‘I was a suspect, I suppose.' Fran hurried on, not wanting to get bogged down in just why she was a suspect. ‘Look, can we come in and talk to you and Barbara? It might help all of us.'

‘Why does she have to come in?' said Paul, nodding in Libby's direction.

‘She's been helping me, and I was staying with her,' said Fran. ‘Come on Lib.' She stepped firmly past Paul, with Libby on her heels and went straight into the eau-de-nil drawing room.

‘This is Libby Sarjeant, Barbara,' she said, as Barbara rose, open-mouthed from an armchair. ‘Barbara Denver, Libby. Stone, as was.'

‘Yes, I remember you,' said Libby.

‘Do you?'

‘When I first moved down here with my husband. Yes.' Libby volunteered nothing else, which obviously confused Barbara.

‘They're here about Nurse Redding, Mum,' said Paul.

‘Oh? Why? We don't know anything about her. Do we, Paul?'

Libby watched Paul's face. It gave nothing away.

‘Except as one of Aunt Eleanor's nurses, no,' he said. ‘Do sit down.'

‘Do you live here, Paul?' asked Libby.

He laughed. ‘You've certainly got a cheek,' he said. ‘Yes, I do. Some of the time, anyway.'

‘The rest of the time he stays with his girlfriend in Nethergate,' said Barbara.

‘And is that Nurse Warner?' asked Fran.

‘Yes.' Paul flicked a glance at his mother's surprised face. ‘How did you know that?'

‘I didn't know it was a secret,' said Fran. ‘So when did you hear about Nurse Redding?'

‘Last night. The police phoned me here at about, oh, I don't know, eleven, I suppose.'

‘And you were here?'

‘Obviously, I was, if I spoke to the police. Where were you?'

‘I was at home.'

‘In London?' said Barbara.

‘No, she's staying down here now,' said Paul. ‘Were you on you on your own?'

‘No, I wasn't. Were you?'

‘Oh, for goodness sake!' said Barbara. ‘Paul was here earlier in the evening, then he went off to take Sue to work, came back here for the rest of the evening, slept here, then went back to collect Sue from work this morning. She's on nights. He's just come back to make sure I'm all right.'

‘And in case you're wondering,' said Paul, with a malicious smile, ‘my mother wasn't alone, either. She had her book group round here from seven thirty, and they were still here when I got back from taking Sue to work. So, you see, I'm afraid that any suspicion that our –
family
– might be suspects comes down to just you, cousin Frances.'

Two minutes later, Libby and Fran stood outside on the gravel. Fran swallowed down anger and disappointment and began to walk towards the car. Libby watched her.

‘No point in asking for Warner's address?' she said.

Fran sighed an exasperated sigh. ‘Libby!'

‘Oh, well, it was a thought.' Libby followed her to the car and unlocked the door. ‘Breakfast? Or The Laurels?'

‘Breakfast. I can't see any reason to go to The Laurels. Sue Warner's in bed asleep, presumably.'

‘What about the Headlam?'

‘Oh, let's leave it to the police, like you said. Come on. Let's get some breakfast.'

In a little café on the Marine Parade in Nethergate, they both ordered the traditional Full English, and were brought thick white mugs of tea. The sky had clouded over, and the breeze had whipped the sea into meringue-like points.

‘Marion Headlam, then?' said Libby gazing out at the unlit fairy lights swinging gaily over the neat promenade gardens.