Murder at the Laurels (6 page)

Charles laughed and stood up. ‘Well, perhaps you can have one of your moments and find it for us. I never was shown the secret drawer.'

Fran beamed with anticipation. ‘Goodness, a secret drawer. More storybook stuff. I can't wait!'

Chapter Seven

I
REALLY MUST GET
an upstairs phone, thought Libby, as once again she struggled out of bed and tripped over Sidney to try and beat the answerphone to it.

‘Charles is driving me down again this morning.'

Libby sat down on the bottom step and tried to unglue her eyelids.

‘It's very early, Fran.' She pushed Sidney's nose out of her ear.

‘Sorry, but we're leaving soon. He's got a meeting with Marion Headlam about the funeral. And we're going to see Barbara Denver.'

‘Really? Will you be able to come by here on your way home and tell me all about it?'

‘Charles will want to get back.'

‘Well, I know
that
. Could you bring a bag with you? Then he could drop you off and you could stay down until the funeral.'

There was a pause. ‘I suppose I could,' said Fran slowly. ‘It's quite a good idea, isn't it? Are you sure you wouldn't mind?'

‘Course I wouldn't. I've got Bel and Ad coming at some time in the next few weeks, but not imminently. And Sidney misses you.'

Fran laughed. ‘OK. I'm sure Charles won't mind making the detour. He said he wanted to meet you, anyway.'

‘Did he? What's he like?'

‘Very city gent-ish. But nice. Lots of grey hair.'

‘Like Ben's?'

‘Not a bit like Ben's. More mane-like.'

Libby sighed. ‘Lovely.'

‘Libby, stop it. Now, do you want me to ring you when I know roughly what time we'll be arriving?'

‘I suppose it would be as well. After all, you don't know what exciting things I might get up to, do you?'

After Fran had rung off, Libby hauled herself upright with the aid of the banister rail, tripped over Sidney and staggered through to the kitchen.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, her thoughts returned to Ben. What
had
gone wrong? The relationship had certainly got off to a dodgy start when they were rather thrown together during rehearsals for Peter's play, but she'd really thought they were on to a good thing eventually. But her own questioning of everyone's motives and basic insecurity had obviously pushed Ben away when she should have been there offering support. She sighed and poured water onto a teabag, wondering if there was anything she could do to retrieve the situation.

The smack of the cat flap signalled Sidney's departure on the business of the day, and Libby strolled into the conservatory to look at the latest view of Nethergate propped up on the easel. Guy Wolfe, she thought. Another one who seemed charmed by Fran. As Ben had been, she was sure. Ben had denied it, true, and proved quite conclusively that he was very attracted to Libby herself, but Libby remembered her insidious jealousy and hoped she wouldn't be dog-in-the-manger enough to resent Guy's attention to Fran. For Guy was her friend, and there had at one time been the suggestion there could be something more between them, but at the time Libby was still recovering from the break-up of her marriage and nervous of forming any sort of relationship with the opposite sex. Peter and Harry had helped her over that hurdle and Guy had retreated to the background of her life, emerging now and then to buy some more paintings and give her self-confidence a boost.

And what about Aunt Eleanor? Fran had had strange intuitions about the goings-on last spring, all of which had turned out to be correct, so was she right about this? Was there something “not right”? And if so, what was it? Surely not murder again.

A shopping trip to stock up the larder was obviously called for if she was going to have a house guest, and much as she preferred to use the village shops when possible, the occasional sortie to the supermarket was inevitable. Putting murder out of her mind, Libby went upstairs to dress.

Wandering round the aisles an hour later with only a newspaper and a bunch of flowers in her trolley, Libby became aware of the advisability of always putting on make-up no matter how trivial one's outing.

‘Hello, Lib,' said Ben.

He was leaning on the end of a freezer cabinet wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his short grey hair as neat as ever.

Libby felt dampness break out all along her hairline as her heart rate accelerated. She'd noticed these unfortunate teenagerish manifestations before when suddenly confronted with Ben, and they didn't get any easier.

‘Hi,' she said.

‘Haven't seen you for ages.' Ben looked at her intently.

‘Well, you moved back to your flat, didn't you? You haven't been in the village much.'

‘My mother had her hands full with my sister and dad.'

‘It's not been easy for any of you,' said Libby.

‘Or you.' Ben gave a small forced smile. There was a short silence.

‘I'm sorry –' They both spoke together, then stopped. Libby laughed.

‘Well, I
am
sorry,' she said. ‘Your turn.'

‘I'm sorry, too.' Ben stood away from the freezer and looked down in to her trolley. ‘I got a bit emotionally unbalanced for a time.'

‘Gee, thanks.' Libby felt her insides contract with mortification.

He looked up quickly. ‘No, I didn't mean that, Lib. Oh, lord, I'm putting my foot in it again. I meant afterwards. The family kept coming first, and it was all so awful …'

‘I know, but I was a bit – well – insensitive about it. I'm the one who put my foot in it.'

‘How about we start again, then? Come to Harry's tonight with me.'

Libby's heart jumped. ‘Oh, Ben, I'd love to, but I can't. Fran's coming down.'

‘Oh.' Ben looked nonplussed. ‘Well, couldn't she come, too?'

‘She was down the night before last and we went there then.'

‘Ah.' Ben nodded and looked down into the trolley again. ‘How long's she staying?'

‘Her aunt's just died and she'll stay until the funeral, I think.'

Ben raised his eyebrows. ‘Did the aunt live near here?'

‘In a home just outside Nethergate. I gather that part of the family came from round here originally.'

‘Coincidence. She never mentioned it before, did she?'

‘I don't think she knew before. It's all come as a bit of a shock to her.'

‘Well, how about dinner on Friday, then? That Thai place we went to before? Or we could go to the pub. Their food's got a lot better, apparently.'

Libby smiled. ‘OK, thanks. I'd like that. If Fran's here, I'm sure she won't mind.'

‘The pub?'

‘Yes, please. I think I'd prefer to be out of Pete and Harry's sight line, and it means you don't have to drive all the way out from Canterbury and back again with me. Or I could drive in and meet you, I suppose.'

‘And not have a drink? Heavens above! Wouldn't think of it.' He grinned at her, the old teasing Ben once more. ‘And I'll stay at the Manor for the night so I can drink, too.'

Libby just stopped herself from saying ‘You can stay with me.'

‘See you about seven thirty on Friday, then?' He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘And lets hope nothing happens this time.'

‘Like murder, you mean,' she said, and could have bitten her tongue out.

He smiled again, a little crookedly. ‘Yes, like murder.'

Marion Headlam looked surprised as Charles and Fran walked in through the front door of The Laurels.

‘Well, hello again,' she said. ‘Mrs Castle, isn't it? I didn't expect to see you so soon.'

Fran tried not to look as sheepish as she felt. ‘I just thought I'd keep Charles company,' she said weakly.

‘And we're going on to see Mrs Denver,' added Charles. ‘There are things to sort out.'

‘Of course.' Marion Headlam nodded, not a hair on her perfectly groomed head dislodged by the movement. ‘You'll want to sort out the funeral.'

‘Exactly,' said Charles. ‘Have any arrangements been made?'

‘Oh, yes. Mrs Denver organised it.'

‘Oh? I thought as the executor – and her power-of-attorney –' Charles was now looking exceedingly grumpy.

‘I'm sorry, Mr Wade, but I dealt mostly with Mrs Denver, as you know.'

‘I signed all your cheques.'

Marion Headlam smiled sweetly. ‘Yes, Mr Wade, and, of course, I shall send you the final account.'

Charles and Fran both looked taken aback.

‘Already?' said Charles.

‘We are a business, Mr Wade. Naturally, we won't pressure you at this sad time, but we have a waiting list for that room.'

‘I understood my cousin had cleared it of my aunt's possessions, so you could let it out right now, surely.'

‘Not completely cleared, Mr Wade. There are some clothes left. Perhaps, as you're here, you and Mrs Castle could take care of that now?'

Charles opened his mouth, looking put out, and Fran rushed into the breach.

‘That might be sensible,' she said. ‘Of course. Come on, Charles.'

Marion Headlam left them alone in Aunt Eleanor's room.

‘Bit of a cheek,' said Charles, as soon as the door had closed.

‘No, it isn't Charles.' Fran went to the wardrobe, where she'd noticed the few clothes last time. ‘You just said you were the executor. She's every right to ask you to take stuff away. And as there isn't much of it left and you live in London, best do it while you're here. It makes sense.'

Charles made a sound suspiciously like harrumph, and began to prowl round the room, picking things up and putting them down again. ‘Barbara certainly did a thorough job,' he said eventually, as Fran continued to lay faded print dresses on the bed. ‘But when did she do it? She left when I did, I'm certain of that, and she seemed too shocked to have come back the same day. And you were here the next day.'

‘She must have come in the morning. I didn't get here until the afternoon.' Struck by a thought, she swung round to face him. ‘And how come the funeral was arranged so quickly?'

‘The efficient Barbara obviously did
that
the next morning, too. What I can't understand, is why she didn't phone me first. I was the one with power-of-attorney, and she knew I was the executor.'

‘She probably thought she was doing you a favour. After all, she was the one visiting regularly, wasn't she? And her son?'

‘I couldn't visit regularly. I live in London.'

‘Exactly.' Fran began folding clothes. ‘You're operating on a double standard, here, Charles. And what did you say to me last night? You didn't know what to do about the funeral. Well, here it is, all done for you, and you're still complaining.'

Charles looked away and went to stand by the french windows.

‘You're right,' he said, ‘I'm being stupid.' He swung back. ‘I'm sorry I'm behaving badly in front of my long-lost cousin.'

Fran grinned. ‘Oh, don't mind me. And I'm not exactly a cousin, anyway, am I?'

He grinned back. ‘That's a relief. Couldn't stand another Barbara.'

‘What are we going to put these in? Shall I go and ask for a black bin bag?' Fran moved to the door.

‘I'll go. I probably need to make my peace with Mrs Headlam,' said Charles, and went.

Fran went to the french windows and looked out at the neatly manicured grounds. Nothing was to be seen except fields in the distance, and a few brownish dots she took to be cows. She supposed the road ran somewhere behind the hedge in the middle distance, and, as if to prove her point, the roof of a car appeared skimming along the top of it.

Since they'd come in to the room, she'd been waiting for a repeat of the suffocating feeling, but nothing had happened. She told herself this meant she'd been imagining it before, but didn't really believe it. Something had happened, and possibly in this room. Which of course, it had. Aunt Eleanor had died here, and probably many other occupants, too.

Charles came back with a bin bag. ‘She's most grateful,' he said.

‘I bet she is,' said Fran, as she began to slide the garments in to the bag. ‘Nothing else you can see, is there?'

Charles ran his hand along the sides of the wardrobe and inside the drawers. ‘No. No suspicious bits of paper with cryptic messages. Your magic moment must have been wrong.'

‘I was just thinking that. You see, I told you it wasn't reliable.'

They loaded the bin bag into the boot of Charles's car and said goodbye to Marion Headlam, who saw them go with a hint of relief showing on her professional face.

Blagstock House turned out to be a grey stone building with ambitions to be a castle, set at the bottom of a gravel sweep depressingly bordered by laurels and other gloomy shrubs of Victorian taste. Plenty of room here to hide little old ladies in winceyette nighties.

Fran recognised Barbara Denver from Libby's description. Smallish, her fawn-coloured hair smooth against her head and in a neat pleat at the back, her clothes had the look seen at point-to-points and upmarket beauty counters. This was somebody who wouldn't take kindly to poverty. Fran tried to imagine her buying her linen skirt in a charity shop, and failed.

‘Charles,' she said, with a slight smile, and offered her cheek to be kissed. ‘And you must be our cousin Frances?'

‘Please, just Fran.' Fran held out her hand. Looking vaguely surprised, Barbara shook it. ‘And I was Uncle Frank's niece, really, not Aunt Eleanor's.'

‘Oh, but we're still cousins.' Barbara ushered them into the hall, which could have been used as it stood for the set of a Victorian melodrama. The drawing room was slightly lighter, decorated mainly in shades of grey and eau-de-nil, which depressed Fran even further.

‘Aunt's funeral,' began Charles, before he'd even sat down on the shiny silver sofa to which he'd been directed.

‘Tea?' interrupted Barbara, indicating a tray set on a low stool. ‘I'll just boil the kettle.'

Charles looked helplessly at Fran as she left the room. ‘This isn't going to be easy.'