Murder at the Laurels (11 page)

Chapter Fourteen

T
HE COLOUR BLED FROM
Charles's face. Fran raised her eyebrows at him and held out the envelope.

‘You open it,' he said in a shaking voice.

‘I can't,' said Fran, ‘I expect it's against the law or something.'

‘If I'm the executor I can ask you to open it, can't I?'

‘I suppose so,' said Fran, doubtfully.

‘Is the solicitor's name on the front?' Charles edged a little nearer.

‘Yes.' Fran turned the envelope over. ‘It could be a different will, couldn't it? Not the one you know about.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, just open it and let's find out.' Charles sat down suddenly on the edge of a chair.

Fran opened the flap and withdrew the folded document. ‘Dated ten years ago,' she said, and read a little further. ‘Naming you as the executor.' She held it out. ‘Here. I mustn't read any further.'

Reluctantly, he took it. ‘I suppose I'd better phone the solicitor,' he said, turning it over in his hands.

‘For someone who was so concerned to find it, you don't seem very keen,' said Fran.

Charles smiled weakly. ‘It's just – I don't know – after all the worry, it's a bit of a shock.'

‘Well, why don't we go downstairs and you can ring the solicitor.' Fran got up and went towards the bedroom. ‘I'll collect the mugs.'

‘I can't ring the solicitor, it's Saturday.'

‘Oh, so it is. What a lot's happened in a week, hasn't it?'

‘I met you, for a start,' said Charles, brightening.

Oh, Lord
, thought Fran.

‘Get the mugs,' said Charles, standing up, ‘and I'll show you the flat downstairs. It's really rather nice.'

The flat downstairs had been substantially modernised, unlike the one on the first floor. The layout was the same as Fran remembered, a big living room and main bedroom at the front, and a bathroom and bedroom at the back, but the tiny kitchen had been knocked through into the second bedroom to make a good sized kitchen with a dining table in the window.

‘Very nice,' she said. ‘And the garden looks good, too.'

‘I've tried to keep it up,' said Charles, moving to stand beside her, ‘but I'm not a very good gardener.'

‘Neither am I,' said Fran, ‘but I loved the holly-hocks and the tea roses. They ought to be kept.'

‘They are,' said Charles, pointing, ‘but they're a bit out of control. So is that lilac.'

‘Well, when the will is proved, perhaps you'll be able to afford a gardener,' said Fran, turning away from the window, unexpectedly moved by the sight of the garden.

‘Yes,' said Charles, looking down at the will, which he still held as though it was about to go off in his hands.

‘Why don't you see what it says?'

Charles sighed. ‘I suppose so.' He perched on the edge of the table, spread the will out in front of him and began to read.

‘Much as we expected really,' he said at last. ‘The estate to be split down the middle, half to me and half to Barbara and Paul between them.'

‘Well, that's excellent. You could buy out Barbara and Paul and keep the house.'

‘I told you, I haven't any money.'

‘But you have half the estate, not just half the house,' said Fran. ‘Couldn't you use that?'

‘I don't know that there's any money left,' said Charles, still staring down at the will.

‘Well, you ought to know, you had Power of Attorney,' said Fran.

‘Yes, but the fees at The Laurels were very high. And what with the bills here, and the rates, we'd almost gone through her capital.'

‘Didn't she have a pension?'

‘Only a state one, and it was based on Uncle Frank's. She'd never worked.'

‘Didn't he have a proper pension plan?'

‘I don't know.' Charles looked up. ‘I didn't know anything about his affairs. I assume she sorted it all out.'

‘Well, her solicitor will know,' said Fran. ‘Let me know what happens.'

‘I suppose I'd better let the police know, too,' said Charles, standing up and sighing again. ‘This definitely gives me a motive, doesn't it?'

‘Yes, but you knew that, didn't you? So did they. It doesn't really change anything.'

‘No.' Charles put the will back in its envelope. ‘I'll ring the police station now. Should I ask for – what's-his-name – the Chief Inspector?'

‘DCI Murray. Didn't he give you a card when he interviewed you?'

‘It wasn't him.' Charles went to a drawer in a kitchen cupboard. ‘Here. DS Cole. He was at the inquest.'

‘Well, they can't be very worried about you, then. I got the DCI.' Fran grinned at him. ‘Stop worrying, Charles. It wasn't you, was it? So they'll catch whoever did it, and everything will be all right. Now,' she said, ‘I must be off. Libby's old car isn't the most reliable at high speeds.'

Charles showed her to the door, and she took a last look at the majestic frontage.

‘I loved it here, you know,' she said wistfully.

‘Well, you can always come and visit while I'm here,' said Charles, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. ‘Don't know how long that will be, of course.' He looked up at the house next door. ‘Both that one and the one the other side have been bought by developers.'

‘What!' gasped Fran. ‘They aren't going to knock them down? They can't.'

‘No, they're going to turn them into luxury flats, apparently. They wanted to buy this one, too, so that they could have communal gardens and convert the attics across all three to make a penthouse, but Aunt Eleanor refused. I bet she would have made a bundle.' He looked regretful for a moment. ‘Still, they might want it even now.'

‘They might. Shame you have to sell, though.'

‘Wouldn't you, if it was yours? Much too big for just me.'

‘You could always let out the other flat, like Aunt Eleanor did.'

‘I'd have to do it up, first. There are regulations about letting property, you know.'

It was Fran's turn to sigh. ‘I wish someone would tell my landlord that.'

‘How much does he charge you?'

‘Not much, so I suppose if he complied with all the regulations I wouldn't be able to afford it. Anyway, I shall start looking for something down near Steeple Martin, then I won't have to stay there any longer.' She gave him a return peck on the cheek and turned to unlock the car. ‘Keep in touch, Charles. Let me know what the police and the solicitor say.'

The drive down to Steeple Martin was much easier than the drive up. Fran drove into the village in the dusty heat of an August afternoon, and managed to park very close to The Pink Geranium. Harry was sitting at the old pine table in the window reading a newspaper.

‘So, there you are! Have a good time in the flesh-pots?'

‘Hectic, naturally. I've brought as much as I thought I would need. Can I unload it now?'

‘I'll take you up,' said Harry. ‘Hang on while I get the keys.'

After he'd helped Fran take her bags and boxes in to the flat, he rang Libby.

‘Thought you might want to celebrate with your mate,' he said. ‘Your car's outside, too.'

‘I'm driving that back,' said Fran loudly, so that Libby could hear. ‘I'll come now.'

Harry shook his head. ‘No, she says she's coming over with a bottle. You just potter about and wait for her. I'll probably come up and cadge a glass when she arrives.' He looked round the flat with an approving nod. ‘Going to be good having someone up here.'

Libby arrived ten minutes later and puffed up the stairs flourishing a bottle of champagne.

‘Golly, it's real,' said Fran, who seemed to have caught Libby's habit of schoolgirl exclamations.

‘It's been kicking around since – well, since
The
Hop Pickers
,' said Libby. ‘I couldn't seem to find a time to break it out. Harry's coming up with glasses in case you didn't bring any.'

‘Damn, I didn't. I didn't bring any crockery or pots either.'

‘Never mind, I expect most of that's here, or Harry can find you some. Come on, tell me all about your visit to the big smoke. Did you go and see Charles?'

Fran told her all about the search for Aunt Eleanor's will, interrupted half way through by Harry with the glasses, who opened the bottle with panache and listened avidly to the rest of the story.

‘Very suspicious,' he said, after toasting Fran and the flat. ‘Do you reckon he's been pocketing the funds and needs to sell the house?'

‘What funds?' said Libby.

‘Auntie's, of course,' said Harry.

‘There aren't any, according to Charles,' said Fran. ‘The nursing home fees and running the house took everything she had.'

‘Oh, well, nice idea,' said Harry.

Soon after that, Harry left to get on, he told them, with prepping up for the evening. Fran topped up Libby's glass and sat back in her chair.

‘So what happened to you last night?' she asked.

‘Not a lot.' Libby looked out of the window. ‘We went to Nethergate.'

‘I thought you were going to the pub here?'

‘No, Ben wanted to get away from the village. So we went to The Sloop. It's opposite the Harbour. Just along from Guy's gallery.'

‘And?'

‘And nothing, really. We had a very nice meal, then he drove me home and came in for a coffee.'

‘A coffee? A euphemistic coffee?'

Libby blushed. ‘No. A real coffee. And a whisky. He parked his car right up the lane on their land and walked home that way.'

‘I'm not prying, but was any progress made?'

‘You are prying, and yes it was. Not physically –' Libby felt the colour come back in to her cheeks ‘– but we decided we should take it slowly and see how we go.'

Fran sniffed. ‘Doesn't sound as though he's very keen,' she said.

‘It was me, really,' said Libby. ‘I'm even more wary than I was before.'

‘Wary about Ben?'

‘About the whole thing. Sex and everything.'

‘I thought you and he – well, you said …'

‘Yes, we did, but as I think I said to you, it was a life-affirming thing, I'm sure. You know, like after a funeral.'

‘No.' Fran looked surprised. ‘What about funerals?'

‘Apparently there are more frantic couplings after a funeral than any other event. It's supposed to be a need to make sure you're alive. Even if it's with an unsuitable partner.' Libby took a huge swig of champagne and coughed.

‘Sounds interesting,' said Fran. ‘Trouble is, the only funerals I've been to have had very old people as guests.'

‘Perhaps Aunt Eleanor's will change all that.' Libby topped up Fran's glass and then drained the bottle in to her own. ‘So tell me what you're going to do next?'

‘About Aunt Eleanor? Nothing. It's nothing to do with me. And now Charles has found the will there's no need to go badgering the Denvers, is there?'

‘Nooo …' Libby looked thoughtful. ‘But I'm still not sure about them. Very suspicious, if you ask me.'

‘Well, if they took the bureau to conceal the will it's just too bad, because we've got it, now, haven't we?'

‘Yes, but didn't you say something about the Headlam and a legacy? Suppose there's a later will?'

Fran looked at Libby, open-mouthed in horror. ‘Oh, my God, of course! That's what all the fuss is about.'

‘Is it?'

‘Of course it is. I don't know why. But you're absolutely right, Libby. There is a later will.'

Chapter Fifteen

L
IBBY HELPED
F
RAN UNPACK
, and discovered that the flat was, in fact, equipped with all the basic necessities, other than champagne glasses.

‘I can cook something for myself this evening, then,' said Fran happily. ‘Would you like to join me? Or are you busy?'

‘No, I'd love to. But I'll take Romeo home first.'

‘Romeo?'

‘Romeo the Renault. Sorry. I don't usually do silly things like naming cars, but it just seemed appropriate.'

Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘I won't ask why,' she said.

Libby drove the Renault home despite the two and a bit glasses of champagne, and parked thankfully on the edge of the so-called green opposite Number 17. Sidney greeted her from the front door step, demanding to be let in and fed.

‘Come on, then, horrible,' she said. ‘Then I'll go and have a shower and change. I'm dining out – again!'

By now, it was late afternoon and the brassy August sky had clouded over. Libby fed Sidney on his favourite chipped Victorian saucer and stood outside the conservatory gazing out at the fields. What a weird week it had been. First, Fran's surprise visit and the news about her dead aunt, then meeting with Ben, finding out about the murder and the inquest, then the date with Ben and finally, Fran moving into The Pink Geranium. Libby wondered what her horoscope had to say about all this. “You are entering an exciting new phase in your life,” perhaps.

She went back inside and rummaged for a bottle of wine to take with her. There were none, so that meant dropping in to the eight-til-late on the way to Fran's. Luckily, they kept a few decent bottles, so that shouldn't be a problem. She went upstairs to shower and think about Ben.

Last night he had kissed her. Once when they arrived at Number 17, and again when he left. He had understood instinctively that this was as far as she could go, despite their recent brief relationship, but it didn't stop her wishing it had gone further. She held her face up to the grumbling, sporadic water and sighed. Here she went again, all confused about middle-aged relationships. If Ben had any sense, he'd fend her off with a barge pole, and if she carried on being so erratic, he would. The trouble was, she thought, as she flung a towel round her shoulders and dripped in to the bedroom, when he got close to her, she went all breathless, and something happened to her solar plexus, whereas when she actually
thought
about it, she started wondering if all he wanted was one thing (which he'd already had), whether she was stigmatised as
easy
, as her mother would have said, and whether she was going to be abandoned for a younger model as soon as one happened along. She sighed. It was very difficult being faded, fat and over fifty.

Harry waved to her as she waited outside the door to the flat. Fat raindrops plopped on to her head from the darkening sky and she hunched her shoulders into her cape.

‘You look cheerful,' said Fran, as she opened the door.

‘It's the weather,' said Libby going past her and beginning to haul herself up the stairs. ‘And being fat and over fifty.'

‘Never mind,' said Fran, following her up and into the pleasant living room which looked out over the village street. ‘Now I'm here, we can go out on the pull. Do they have any geriatric night clubs in Canterbury?'

Libby laughed, handing over the wine. ‘There's the Over Sixties – but we'd be far too young for them. That would be nice, wouldn't it? Being the flighty young things.'

Fran, looking more casual than Libby had ever seen her, in jeans and a loose shirt, took the bottle in to the kitchen to open it. ‘Is this something to do with going out with Ben last night? Introspection and all that?'

‘Part of it. I can't seem to relax and let it happen, if you know what I mean. I suppose I'm expecting him to do a Derek.'

‘And go off with a floosie?' Fran handed Libby a glass of wine. ‘I'm sure he wouldn't.'

‘Oh, well, anyway, let's talk about the murder instead.' Libby sat down in a chair by the window. ‘Far more interesting.'

‘Charles phoned.' Fran sat down opposite. ‘He told DCI Murray about the will, and they want to see him again. Apparently, he said he couldn't come down – business commitments, or something – so someone's going up to see him tomorrow.'

‘Will they want to take the will as evidence, or something?'

‘I expect so. Oh, dear, that's awkward, isn't it?'

‘I don't think he should let them have it. Couldn't he go out and find somewhere to make a photocopy of it?'

‘I'll suggest it. But as he's now got the name and address of the solicitors it doesn't really matter, does it? They'll have a copy.'

‘And what does it matter anyway,' said Libby, leaning forward conspiratorially, ‘if there's another will?'

‘But we don't know that for a fact,' said Fran uneasily.

‘You do. And you're always right.' Libby sat back with an air of having proved her point. ‘All we have to do is find it.'

‘Oh, great. Here we go again.' Fran stood up and went towards the kitchen. ‘Come and help me with the dishes.'

Later, as they sat over the rather nice cheese supplied by the eight-til-late, Libby returned to the subject.

‘If Marion Headlam is so sure she – or The Laurels – was left something in the will, perhaps she witnessed it?'

‘No.' Fran shook her head. ‘You can't witness a will if you're a beneficiary. You can be an executor, but not a witness.'

‘How about the nurses? Those two who were at the inquest?'

‘That's a thought,' said Fran, putting down her wine glass. ‘I wonder if anyone's asked them?'

‘I bet Barbara has, if she was so concerned to find the will in the first place. By the way, has Paul organised the transport of the furniture yet?'

‘I didn't ask, but I suppose it isn't as crucial now, is it?'

Libby thought for a moment, then stood up. ‘I hope you've noticed how little I've been smoking over the last few days,' she said, ‘but now I need one. Can I go and stand on your fire escape in the rain?'

Fran laughed. ‘The rain's stopped,' she said, ‘and we can go down into Harry's little garden if you like. There's a table and chairs out there.'

Ensconced at the table, having shouted to Harry in his kitchen, Libby lit her cigarette and blew out smoke with relish.

‘So, how about I make friends with one of those nurses and find out?' she said.

‘And just how do you propose to do that?' asked Fran. ‘Go up and say “Please can I be your friend? And did you witness a will recently?”'

‘I'm sure I could find a way,' said Libby. ‘I wonder where they live?'

‘Not far from The Laurels, I would have thought. But I still don't see how you can do it.'

‘No, neither do I,' said Libby, ‘but I sure as hell intend to try.'

‘What do you suppose Charles will say?' Fran topped up their glasses from a new bottle. ‘It's nothing to do with you, after all.'

‘I'm only doing it to help,' said Libby, affronted. ‘Anyway, why would it have anything to do with him? Me making friends, I mean.'

Fran shook her head. ‘It'll end in tears,' she said.

‘What will?' Peter appeared from the kitchen door, carrying a glass.

‘Libby investigating,' said Fran.

‘Not again,' said Peter, sitting down between them. ‘You know what it does to friendships, Lib. Can't you leave it alone?'

‘This doesn't affect any friends, Pete. This is academic.'

‘Nosey, more likely. And what investigating are you going to be doing, anyway? Is it going to put you in danger like last time?'

‘Of course not.' Libby looked away uncomfortably. There were certain things she didn't want to be reminded of.

‘She's going to make friends with a couple of murder suspects,' said Fran, grinning.

‘They aren't suspects, are they? I thought we said witnesses to the will.'

‘
We
didn't say anything. And either of them could have done it, couldn't they? Before Barbara got there?'

‘Oh, well, if they were witnesses to the will they can't have done it for money, and what other reason could they possibly have had?'

‘Libby, we don't know they were witnesses to the will!' said Fran, exasperated. ‘For goodness' sake.'

Peter patted her on the arm. ‘See what she's like? Bull in a china shop. Aren't you sorry you moved down, now?'

‘It's not permanent,' said Fran hastily. ‘At least not in your lovely flat.' She stopped. ‘That sounded rubbish, didn't it? I mean, I'd love to be able to stay in your flat, but I must find somewhere permanent. And I don't regret it, not a bit. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.'

‘Well, that's good, then,' said Peter. ‘Do you want a nightcap? Harry can come and relax for five minutes before he stars the washing up.'

‘Washing up? He doesn't have to do it, does he?' Fran was shocked.

‘Who else? Him and Donna, and me, occasionally, we do everything.'

‘But he's left Donna on her own sometimes, I know he has,' said Libby.

‘Ah, well, we've got the boy.' Peter tapped the side of his nose and stood up. ‘Mind you, the “boy” does change from time to time, depending on who we can get hold of. I'll go and fetch chef.'

Much later, Libby wandered home along the damp high street, replete with red wine and Harry's brandy. All three of them, Fran, Peter and Harry, had tried to dissuade her from investigating anything to do with Aunt Eleanor's murder, and though she knew they were right and sensible, she also knew she would carry on regardless. If, she thought, as she turned in to Allhallow's Lane and stepped in a puddle, she could find a way to do it.

The red light on the answerphone winked at her when she came in. Ignoring Sidney's importuning, she pressed the button and felt her stomach go into its little routine as she heard Ben's voice.

‘Hi, Lib, sorry I didn't ring earlier, but Dad had a bit of a turn this morning and Mum and I ended up in hospital all day. He's fine now, but they're keeping him in overnight. I'm going to stay at The Manor for the time being, as now Susan's gone back home Mum's going to find it difficult to cope on her own. Anyway,' she heard him take a breath, ‘you'll never guess who I saw at the hospital? One of the nurses from that nursing home. And I bet you're wondering how I knew, aren't you? Well, give me a ring, and I'll tell you. Speak soon. Bye.'

There was a pause, then she heard the hum of the dialling tone.

‘Too late now,' she told Sidney, as she went towards the kitchen, shedding cape and basket as she went, ‘I'll have to ring him in the morning.' She found she was grinning. ‘And he wants me to.'

It was well after breakfast time when she finally plucked up courage to ring The Manor, only to be told by Hetty that Ben had gone to pick his father up from hospital. Deciding he wouldn't be able to answer his mobile on such a delicate errand, Libby left a message with Hetty, and went into the conservatory to pretend to work. The rain had eased off over night, but the blazingly hot days of earlier in the summer seemed to have come to an end. Autumn was obviously on its way. She decided on a new painting from “her” window, with a jar of red leaves on the sill, a rough sea and ominous sky.

For once, she was so absorbed in her work, it took her several minutes to realise that someone was knocking quite hard on the front door. Even Sidney, curled up on top of the unlit Calor gas heater, raised his head and glared at her reprovingly. Wiping blue paint-stained fingers on her painting shirt, she went to open the door.

‘Ben!'

He was leaning against the door jamb, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, looking for all the world, she thought, like a model for the older man.
What could he possibly see in me
? she wondered.

‘You've been working.' He stood upright and nodded at the shirt.

‘Makes a change, doesn't it?' She stood aside. ‘Coming in?'

‘I wouldn't want to disturb you.'

‘Don't be silly. It's time for a cup of tea, anyway.'

He followed her into the kitchen and perched on the edge of the table while she lifted the kettle on to the Rayburn.

So,' she said turning round to face him. ‘What's all this about a nurse?'

‘Well,' he said, settling himself more comfortably, ‘when Mum and I took Dad in to hospital yesterday, I went along to the Friends' coffee shop to get us a drink and a biscuit. You know where it is?'

Libby nodded. With three children she had frequented the hospital more than she might have liked.

‘Anyway, while I was waiting to be served, I caught a bit of conversation. So I had to listen.'

‘What conversation? What made you listen?'

‘This woman was talking about The Laurels and the murder. And she said she'd been questioned.'

‘Who was it?' Libby was excited. ‘What did she look like? Perhaps it wasn't a nurse. Perhaps it was Marion Headlam, the owner.'

‘No,' said Ben, ‘because she said she'd been looking after the victim. I didn't get a good look, because I could hardly turn round and stare, so I had a quick glance when I left. She was sitting at a table with a woman in nurse's uniform, but she wasn't.'

‘Wasn't what?”

‘In uniform. She was wearing a sort of zip-up jacket. Dark hair and no make-up.'

‘Ah. Nurse Redding. Did she have a moustache?'

Ben looked startled. ‘I didn't notice.'

‘Well, she's got one.' Libby turned round and poured water into two mugs. ‘So what was she saying?'

‘As far as I could make out, she was highly indignant about being questioned, and seemed to think it was all someone else's fault. She kept saying she could tell them a thing or two.'