Murder in Midwinter (12 page)

‘Could he be anything to do with the body in the theatre?’ asked Libby.

‘I don’t see how. Bella knew nothing about her family until she got the letter from what’s-his-name – Grimshaw. No way Orrible Andrew could have known before she did.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps he intercepted a previous letter.’

‘If he had, his reaction would have been the same as it is now, wouldn’t it?’ Fran reasoned. ‘Whoopee – sell it and make money.’

‘Oh.’ Libby nodded glumly. ‘Course it would.’ She sat up straight and looked at her friend. ‘So, are you interested in Bella’s family history, or the murder?’

Fran looked startled. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Both, I think. In fact, there’s a link. Just as Connell thought there might be.’

‘Have you only just thought of that?’

‘Yes. I was suddenly sure.’ Fran sat with her fingers to her mouth staring out of the window. ‘Oh, Lib, yes. I’m sure.’

On the journey home, Libby tried to get Fran to talk about the certainty of the link between the body in the theatre and Bella’s family, but Fran wasn’t sure of anything and refused to talk.

‘I’ll know more tomorrow,’ she said, as Libby dropped her outside The Pink Geranium. ‘I’ll tell you then.’

She was waiting outside for Guy when he arrived to collect her at half-past six.

‘No time for dalliance tonight, then?’ he said with a grin, as she got in beside him.

‘What do you mean?’ Fran kept her face down as she fastened her seat belt.

‘You didn’t invite me in.’

‘Sorry.’ Fran looked out of the side window.

‘Are you making use of me?’

‘What?’ she looked round quickly.

‘It’s all right, Fran, don’t take the bait so quickly.’ He pulled out into the High Street. ‘I offered to take you, didn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ said Fran.

‘But you don’t really want to be beholden to me, do you?’

Fran gave him a startled look.

‘See? It’s not just you who can see into people’s minds,’ he said, patting her knee. ‘Never mind. Let’s go and see Bella.’

March Cottage was positively sparkling inside now. The range in the sitting room was glowing, and Balzac lay stretched out on his back in front of it.

‘Thanks for coming,’ said Bella. ‘Can I get you anything? A drink?’

‘No thanks,’ said Fran, as Guy opened his mouth. He closed it.

‘Well, sit down, then.’ Bella indicated the two chairs, and pulled up a straight backed one for herself. ‘Here. This is what I found in the box file.’

She handed over a small pile of rather fragile documents. First there was a tiny notebook which contained several names written in a beautiful copper-plate hand, with very small amounts of money written beside them: three and sixpence, two shillings and one and sixpence.

‘Piano lessons,’ said Fran.

‘Really?’ said Bella. ‘I thought it might be payments to the Serenaders.’

‘Too variable, and all the names are female. I think she adjusted her fee according to the circumstances of her customers.’

‘But Maria did say the troupe became all female during the war,’ said Bella.

‘What about the dates?’ asked Guy, peering over her shoulder.

‘Just says 5th April, and 1st February, things like that,’ said Fran. ‘No year. But they seem to start in November and finish in April. I would guess that’s the year Maria says she ran away from her employers, so 1903 to 1904.’

‘Then there’s these.’ Bella pointed to the poster and postcards, tattered, brown round the edges and age-spotted like ancient hands. The poster advertised the Silver Serenaders on the sands at Nethergate at 11.30, 3 o’clock and 8 o’clock, if wet under the cliff.

‘The cliff?’ said Bella.

‘Where the Alexandria stands now,’ said Guy. ‘Under the cliff was an area where there were changing rooms and public conveniences. Not then, though, I suppose.’

‘No, just a cave-like area in the chalk,’ said Fran. ‘That’s where Bella got her first pitch.’

Guy and Bella stared at her. Fran kept her eyes on the poster and the postcards.

‘And these were when she’d formed The Alexandrians, look. Pictures of the performers that were sold around the town and after the performances. Holidaymakers would send them home.’

Guy took one of the sepia tinted postcards, of a group of pierrot-costumed performers looking very seriously into the camera, with the title
The Alexandrians, Nethergate
along the bottom in spidery white print.

‘When did she build the theatre?’ asked Guy.

‘I don’t know,’ said Fran. ‘Bella?’

‘Sometime between 1904 and 1914, according to Maria’s letter,’ said Bella, still looking slightly shell-shocked. ‘She was given a pitch, it said, and then bought the freehold.’

‘This was before Maria was born, so she wouldn’t have known exactly what happened,’ said Fran, her hands still on the poster and the remaining postcards. ‘The first pitch was below the cliff, but I suppose it became easier to perform on the promenade.’ She looked up to stare into the glowing coals in the range. ‘I don’t know.’

‘She was very enterprising for a woman in those days,’ said Guy.

‘Wasn’t she,’ said Fran. ‘I expect there were a lot of them but we don’t get to hear about them. I’d like to know more.’

‘So, anything else about her?’ asked Bella.

‘Nothing at the moment. If I can come and have a look through the other stuff it would help. If you trust me.’

‘Of course. I’ll leave the keys with George at The Red Lion, like I said.’ Bella took the postcards and poster back, looking at them wistfully. ‘I wish I knew more.’

‘You will,’ said Fran, ‘in fact you hardly need me. You’ve got all that lovely information in the shed.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Bella. ‘But Inspector Connell wants to know if there’s a connection between the family and the body in the theatre, doesn’t he? I couldn’t do that.’

‘It’s not a very old body, so I don’t see how there can be,’ said Fran. ‘If it had been really old, yes, there might have been, except the last thing the building was used for was – what was it – raves?’

‘Or a carpet warehouse,’ said Bella. ‘I don’t think anyone’s sure.’

‘There you are then. Nothing to do with Maria. Or you.’

‘But I’m not convinced of that,’ she said to Guy, as they drove back towards Nethergate.

‘You think she’s involved somehow?’ Guy glanced sideways at her.

‘Not exactly, but there’s a link. I’m sure of it. How I can uncover it, I’m not sure. I expect Inspector Connell will do it, though. I suppose it’s more a matter of identifying the body before anything else can happen.’

Guy stopped the car at the end of the promenade by the Alexandria, which looked positively eerie in the darkness. The lights strung between the new “vintage” street lamps were lit for Christmas, with the addition of the odd formalised tree or star in lights. Fran shivered.

‘Problem?’ asked Guy.

‘It’s a lovely place, but something nasty’s attached to it.’ Fran pulled her coat tighter round her. ‘But wouldn’t it be lovely to have live performances here, again? You could have panto in the winter, too.’

‘You’ve got enough to do with this year’s panto,’ said Guy. ‘Don’t start thinking about another one.’

‘Next year,’ said Fran, dreamily.

‘Dinner,’ said Guy firmly.

Chapter Seven

L
IBBY AND BEN WERE
invited to supper at Peter and Harry’s cottage on Sunday evening, partly, Libby understood, to discuss wedding arrangements. Not having to think about cooking, after a morning in the theatre helping the lighting designer and the set builder who was constructing the beanstalk, she decided to pay Fran a visit.

‘So where are we on the investigation now?’ she asked, perching herself on the window sill.

‘We?’ said Fran, raising her eyebrows.

‘You, then. You said you’d know more today.’

‘A bit. I know Dorinda taught piano lessons the winter after she left her employers, and I know where the original pitch was on the beach at Nethergate. And somehow, there’s a connection to this body, but I can’t work it out.’

‘That’s all Connell wanted you to do, isn’t it? So there’s no real reason for you to carry on, if you don’t think you
can
establish the connection.’

‘No, and as I said to Bella, she’s got all that information at her fingertips now we’ve found the computer and the files, so she doesn’t need me, either.’

‘She’d have found that stuff eventually, wouldn’t she?’ said Libby, pushing the window up and lighting a cigarette.

‘You’re going to fall out of there one day, you know,’ said Fran.

‘Don’t moan,’ said Libby. ‘As I said, she’d have found all that stuff. And really Connell only wanted to know if
she
had a connection to the murder, not the family, didn’t he?’

‘I suppose so. I guess my job’s done, really, isn’t it?’

‘Technically, but you said Bella wants you to go through the rest of the stuff in the shed.’

‘I think it’s more because she doesn’t know how to go about it than anything else. She wants it all laid out like a story for her.’

‘Like the letter from her old auntie.’

‘Exactly. I can’t blame her. Look at how I wanted to know what had happened in my family.’

Libby nodded. ‘Seems to be a problem with old aunties,’ she said. ‘Look at P.G. Wodehouse.’

‘I don’t think any of them were involved with murders,’ said Fran.

‘No, but most of them should have been victims,’ grinned Libby. ‘Anyway, where do you go from here?’

‘Don’t you mean where do
we
go from here?’

‘Oh, all right, of course I want to be in on it.’

‘We go and collect the keys from George at The Red Lion and plough through all the stuff in the shed. If we feel like it.’

‘Oh, I expect we will,’ said Libby. ‘When are you going to look for your car?’

As Guy was expected to take Fran car hunting any moment, Libby took her leave and went to see if the eight-til-late had a suitable bottle of wine to take to with her this evening. Educated by Peter, Harry and old Flo Carpenter, widow of one of the biggest wine buffs in the area, Ahmed supplied a very acceptable bottle of Shiraz, and was proud to show her his special
Jack and the Beanstalk
window display, to which his son and wife were putting the finishing touches before revealing it to the inhabitants of Steeple Martin.

‘Oh, Ahmed, that’s lovely,’ said Libby, touched. ‘Where did you get the idea from?’

Ahmed’s son proudly showed her a large picture book, from which the display had obviously been copied. The cow looked like the plaster one normally on display in the butcher’s, and the beanstalk had a close relationship with a garden hose, but the general effect was magical, and Ahmed had stuck the colourful Oast House posters all round the edges of the window.

‘We pull the blackout off tomorrow,’ said Ahmed, indicating the blanket tacked to the top of the window frame, hiding the display from public view.

‘I think it’s wonderful,’ said Libby, shaking his hand and bowing politely to Mrs Ahmed and their son. ‘I shall give you complimentary tickets.’

‘Complimentary?’ asked Ahmed.

‘Free,’ said Libby. ‘See you soon.’

She spent the afternoon wrapping the presents she’d bought the day before and Sidney helped by sitting on the wrapping paper. Thoroughly bored by four o’clock, she bundled everything into the cupboard under the stairs, made some tea and sat on the creaky sofa to watch an old film. Sidney, with a chirrup of relief, joined her.

They were both still fast asleep when Ben appeared through the kitchen, having resorted to his private back entrance after failing to gain a response at the front.

‘We were supposed to be there at six-thirty,’ he said, having woken her, Sleeping Beauty-like, with a kiss.

‘Oh, bother.’ She sat up, yawning. ‘I haven’t even changed.’

‘You can go as you are,’ said Ben.

‘In my working clothes? No fear. Peter will be looking smooth in silk, you can bet, and Harry will have his best leather trousers on. How many,’ she said, getting slowly to her feet, ‘pairs of leather trousers do you suppose he has?’

Ben declined to guess, and offered to feed Sidney while Libby did a quick change. Ten minutes later they were walking down Allhallow’s Lane towards the High Street, where Peter and Harry’s cottage lay just beyond the Oast House drive.

Peter, as predicted, wore a soft pale pink silk shirt, his fair hair flopping over his high patrician forehead, and Harry wore leather trousers and a slightly darker pink shirt. Libby was glad she’d changed.

‘So, how far have we got,’ she said, sitting in the collapsing chintz covered armchair she usually favoured.

Peter handed her a whisky. ‘You went to Anderson Place,’ he said, ‘that’s about it. I hear you suggested the floral decorations?’

‘Don’t you like the idea?’

‘I do, dear heart, I do. Much better than the naff pink and gold stuff.’

‘That’s what I said,’ said Libby smugly.

‘And catering? What about that?’ asked Ben.

‘Sorted,’ said Harry. ‘I brought the menus home for Pete to look at, and he’s approved them, so that’s about it.’

‘How are you getting there?’ Libby looked around for her favourite ashtray. Peter supplied it and sat down on the sofa, swinging his legs onto Harry’s lap.

‘We’re hiring a couple of chauffeur driven limos,’ said Harry. ‘I know they’re naff, too, but we thought they’d cope with the whole wedding party. You two, your mum and dad, Susan and James.’

Libby noticed the omission of Millie’s name from this list, but forbore to mention it.

‘What happens if someone wants to go home early?’ asked Ben, no doubt thinking of his father.

‘They’ll take you and come back. They hang around all evening.’

‘Great,’ said Libby. ‘And what about you two? Are you coming back here?’

‘No, we’re staying at Anderson Place, then back here for Christmas,’ said Peter. ‘We’ll have a proper honeymoon after the panto. The Caribbean, probably.’

‘All right for some,’ said Libby.

‘You wouldn’t enjoy it, you old trout,’ said Harry. ‘You’d have to take your clothes off.’

‘Eh?’ said Libby, spluttering over her drink.