Murder at the Laurels (4 page)

Chapter Four

S
TEEPLE
M
ARTIN LAY SNUGLY
in a shallow valley a few miles from Canterbury. A busy little stream skittered over a stony bed parallel with the main street, before turning sharply to the right on its way to join the River Stour.

‘You're in your usual room,' said Libby, as she let them in. ‘Can you take yourself up? I'll make us some tea.'

Fran climbed the steep, narrow stairs and turned left at the top. Just in time, she remembered to duck as she stepped down into Libby's little spare room and promptly tripped over the aggressive rug that lay in wait by the bed. Rubbing her leg, she went to the window.

The view from this room soothed her. She looked up the lane to where it petered out at the edge of the woods bordering The Manor lands, and wondered whether Ben was still living there with his parents, and what had gone wrong between him and Libby.

‘Fran? I've made the tea. Are you coming down?' Libby shouted up the stairs.

Libby's colourful and voluminous apparel was indistinguishable from the various blankets and shawls disguising the shortcomings of the cane sofa on which she was curled up.

‘This place is in a time warp,' said Fran, collapsing into an armchair similarly disguised. ‘It's like a village in a Golden Age detective story.'

‘We like it that way.' Libby leaned over to hand Fran a mug.

‘Doesn't it make everyone a bit narrow-minded?'

‘Why should it? Just because we all choose to live somewhere beautiful doesn't mean that we aren't exactly the same as everyone else.'

‘Only richer.'

Libby laughed. ‘Not necessarily. I'm not. I just happened to sell a large house. There's a lot of people like that. Mind you, if I hadn't had to give Derek his share I would have been able to afford something a bit bigger.'

‘And a lot of local people have to leave because they can't afford to buy.'

‘Well, yes,' Libby conceded. ‘And we do have a lot of weekenders.'

‘There you are then.' Fran nodded wisely. ‘You're all a lot of nimbys.'

‘I think I should be offended by that,' said Libby. ‘But I can't be bothered. Now, tell me all about Charles and Aunt Eleanor.'

‘I've told you, Charles told me about Aunt Eleanor, then she died and I came down anyway. And had the dream.'

‘Yes,' said Libby, extracting a packet of cigarettes from somewhere inside the sofa, ‘but who exactly is Aunt Eleanor? And cousin Charles, come to that.'

‘OK, well, Aunt Eleanor married my father's brother, Frank, just after my father died. When I was little, we lived in a flat in a big Victorian house in London. When my father died, Frank took over the house and we had to move out. I assume my father had left it to Frank, or perhaps it was jointly owned and it passed straight to Frank. I don't know. I was only about twelve, so all I knew was that we had to leave.' Fran stared into the empty fireplace. ‘It caused a lot of bad feeling.'

‘I can imagine,' said Libby, indignantly. ‘Why couldn't they just live in the other flat?'

‘Frank did. It was after he married Eleanor that we had to go. I don't really understand what went on. My mother wouldn't speak about it, and we didn't have any further contact with them from then on.'

‘So what about Charles?'

‘He was Eleanor's nephew. I vaguely remember him at their wedding. It was a huge shock to hear from him.'

Libby looked thoughtful. ‘Why, do you suppose? I mean, after all these years – thirty or so, I suppose – should she decide she wanted to see you?'

‘It's more than forty years, actually, and I really have no idea. In fact, Charles didn't say
she
wanted to see me. Perhaps it was his idea.'

‘I'd ask him. Will you go to the funeral? You'll see him then, won't you?'

‘Oh, yes, he's offered to give me a lift. Funny, I haven't even met him, yet.' Fran leaned down to put her mug on the hearth. ‘But I shall speak to him when I go back tomorrow, because I just have this feeling that everything's not quite – right.'

‘Because of the dream? And the feeling in her room?'

Fran frowned. ‘I suppose so. And I want to find out about this Barbara Denver, who Charles says is a sort of cousin.'

‘Barbara Denver? Good grief!' Libby sat forward.

Fran looked up, surprised. ‘Do you know her?'

‘We all know Barbara Denver. And her precious son.'

‘Great!' Fran settled more comfortably into her armchair. ‘Tell me all about them.'

Libby stared up at the ceiling. ‘She was small and pale. Fair hair and slightly buck teeth. Wore her hair in a single plait. Terribly neat. Barbara Stone, she was then.'

‘You've known her a long time, then?'

Libby nodded. ‘Known
of
her. Since we moved to Kent. She modelled for a bit, but not very successfully. Still, it brought her into contact with old man Denver, and she would never have met him otherwise.'

‘So who was he?'

Libby finally lit her cigarette and blew out a long ribbon of smoke with relish. ‘Old man Denver owned Blagstock House. 'Course, he wasn't so old, then, but he was a good twenty years older than Barbara. He was something big in the city.'

‘So how did he meet Barbara?'

‘His wife organised a charity fashion show.'

‘His wife?' Fran was surprised.

‘Oh, yes, he was married then. Large committee woman. Did a lot for charity. That's why she organised the fashion show, and, as a local girl, Barbara was included.'

‘So what happened?' Fran prompted, after Libby had fallen silent. ‘Did she divorce him, the wife?'

‘Eventually. He got Barbara pregnant.'

‘Heavens! So he did the decent thing?'

Libby shook her head. ‘Not really. He tried to keep it quiet – offered Barbara money for an abortion, you know the sort of thing. But she wouldn't have it and kicked up a terrible fuss. I don't know the details, but the upshot was that he moved out of Blagstock House and set up home with Barbara. His wife divorced him after the statutory two years, or whatever it was then, took a huge settlement and moved to France.'

‘So they moved back into Blagstock House? With the baby, presumably.'

‘Young Paul, yes. And then she insisted he married her.'

‘Which he did. And is he still alive?'

‘Good lord, no!' Libby laughed. ‘She wore him out years ago. The trouble was that his first wife took such an enormous settlement that he only just managed to keep Blagstock House going. I gather Barbara had a little money when he died, but that's gone now.'

‘They still live there, then? She hasn't sold it?'

‘No. I haven't heard of Barbara Denver for years. But I suppose she might sell up to one of the conglomerates. The house is ideal for a hotel. I'm surprised Paul hasn't already done it.'

‘The son?'

Libby nodded. ‘An estate agent.' She sniffed. ‘That's where the last of the money went, or so the story goes. He used to work for one of the local firms and then decided to set up on his own, so Barbara funded him.'

Fran nodded slowly. ‘So son Paul would be in an ideal position to sell Blagstock House to the right people.'

‘Not really.' Libby threw her cigarette end into the fireplace. ‘His business never took off. He liked the trappings of the business rather than the business itself, or so I gather. The lunches and the golf club. That sort of thing. He's still got a small shop in Nethergate, but it isn't often open.'

‘Well, I suppose they'll come in for something from old Auntie. Don't know what the relationship is, though.'

‘Ask Charles.' Libby stood up. ‘More tea, vicar?'

‘No thanks, I'm still awash with lager from lunchtime. And anyway, forget all my stuff, you still haven't told me what happened with Ben.'

Libby hesitated, then sat down again, fumbling absently for another cigarette.

‘I think we got it together as a sort of what-do-you-call-it, a reaffirmation of life. After all the traumas. For a few days after the arrest we were inseparable.' She smiled wistfully. ‘It was fantastic. Especially with me looking like an upholstered rugby ball. I haven't felt like that since I was – ooh, I don't know – in my twenties. And then it all began to fade away. Family, mainly. After all, his poor family were right in the thick of it all. He was at home with his mother and his sister more and more, because his father took a turn for the worse.'

‘And how is he now?'

‘Old Gregory, or Ben?'

‘Well, both, but I meant Gregory.'

‘He's recovered, but for how long I don't know. Susan's still living there, so after a bit Ben moved back to his own flat in Canterbury.'

‘And what? Nothing? Doesn't he phone? Take you out?'

Libby frowned down at her hands still holding an unlit cigarette.

‘I think I said a few Wrong Things.'

‘Oh, Lib! And he withdrew again? Like before?'

‘Yes.' Libby sighed and looked up. ‘Pete and Harry say he's uptight because of the family situation, but Pete's got more cause for that even than Ben, hasn't he? And he's not uptight.'

‘I know, but he's got a solid relationship with Harry. And by the way, what about Pete's mother? And James?'

‘James is back in his flat, and his mother's back up at Steeple Farm with a paid companion. I think Pete and James are paying for her between them, but there's talk of selling the farm and putting her in somewhere like the place Uncle Lenny was in.'

‘Not like The Laurels, then.'

‘Well, no, that sounds more like a nursing home. I saw Uncle Lenny's, remember. It was like a luxury hotel.'

‘And is he still down here living with Mrs Carpenter?'

Libby grinned. ‘Yes, happy as a couple of newly-weds, they are, bless them.'

‘Well, that's good. And after all, when the trial's over, everything'll be forgotten and you can go back to normal.'

‘Whatever normal is,' said Libby. ‘Don't forget, I didn't really get to know Ben until
The
Hop Pickers
was in rehearsal, and things weren't really normal then, were they?'

‘As I didn't know you until then, either, how do I know?'

Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well, I've probably blown it, anyway. At one time I thought I had a chance. But, as we've both discovered, being over forty reduces your chances of romantic entanglement by about ninety-five per cent.'

‘It's being over
fifty
, dear, and an upholstered rugby ball or, like me, a bolster on legs.' Fran smiled sadly. ‘The older men get the more they want to mate with young female perfection. It's something to do with perpetuating the genes. It isn't their fault.'

‘Then we don't stand a chance.'

‘Not unless we find men whose intelligence over-rides their survival instinct.'

‘It couldn't possibly be that men are taken in by a pretty face and figure and find it flattering to be with a younger woman?'

Fran shook her head. ‘It pains me to say it, but no. Look at how many men whom no one would believe would leave their wives or have affairs suddenly fall head over heels with a girl young enough to be their daughter? It happened to Mr Denver – whatever his name was. It happened to my husband.'

Libby snorted. ‘Old Robert Denver didn't fall in love with Barbara. He just wanted a quick bonk.'

‘Shame she got caught, then. His first wife could have put up with a quick bonk. It's the falling in love that you can't forgive.'

‘I know. And it still bloody hurts, doesn't it?'

Fran sighed. ‘Even if you know why it happened, it still hurts.'

‘Hey, you're not saying your break-up was your fault, surely?' Libby looked indignant.

‘I couldn't cope with real life, Libby. I was a hopeless wife and mother. I don't really blame him.' Fran stood up. ‘Anyway, that's enough of that. What time are we going to The Pink Geranium? Have I got time to have a bath?'

‘Help yourself,' said Libby. ‘They won't be busy tonight, so we can tip up at any time.'

Peter, who had been slightly suspicious of Fran when Ben had brought her down to help during what Harry referred to as “The Troubles”, was surprisingly pleased to see her.

‘She was worried about coming,' warned Libby, ‘so be nice.'

‘I'm always nice.' Peter looked down his patrician nose at her and tossed back the lock of fair hair that fell rather limply across his brow.

‘Oh, yeah?' Harry, in chef's whites, appeared behind them. ‘I could tell them a thing or two.' He grinned down at Libby. ‘Where is she, then?'

‘Over there on the sofa looking scared,' said Libby.

Harry surged across the restaurant and took Fran in an enthusiastic bear hug. Peter followed, to give Fran an affectionate peck on the cheek as Harry released her.

‘Lovely to see you,' he said, settling her on the sofa in the window.

‘Donna! Bottle of red wine over here,' called Harry. ‘On the house,' he added to Libby, who raised her eyebrows at him.

‘So, just down for a visit?' Peter sat on the arm next to Fran, while Libby wriggled backwards into the other end of the sofa.

‘My aunt just died. She lived near Nethergate,' explained Fran, accepting a glass of red wine from Donna, Harry's uncomplaining assistant.

‘Oh, I'm sorry,' said Peter, patting her shoulder.

‘No, I didn't really know her. Hadn't seen her for years.' Fran looked uncomfortable, a familiar look to Libby, associated with their adventures during the production of Peter's play
The Hop Pickers
. With a stab of guilt, she realised she hadn't really told Fran anything during their conversation that afternoon. Perhaps she should have made things a bit clearer, if only to prevent Fran putting her foot in it. After all, Peter's mother Millie was almost bound to come up in conversation –