Murder in Bloom (33 page)

‘Hi, it’s me,’ she said. ‘How did you get on with Frank?’

‘I’m still waiting for an answer,’ said Fran. ‘I left a message with Bren yesterday, but he hasn’t got back to me.’

‘Shall I pop in there after I’ve finished here?’

‘I don’t see what good it would do, but you might as well. I’ll meet you there unless I hear in the meantime. Then I’ll ring you.’

‘OK. Is Guy all right with you galloping around sleuthing?’

‘As long as I’m there on Saturday I don’t think he cares,’ said Fran with a laugh.

Adam came out of the library with large folders and an excited expression.

‘Something that’ll interest you, Ma,’ said Adam. ‘Look.’ He spread one of the plans out on the bonnet of Mog’s van.

Sure enough, once Libby had worked out which way was up, she could see the ice-house and one passage leading from the house. She frowned at it.

‘Only one passage,’ she said. ‘Nothing towards the church or the inn.’

‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there?’ said Adam reasonably. ‘They would be secret smuggling passages. This one would be official, like.’

‘Hmm.’ Libby peered at the faint markings. ‘No sign of a strong room, either.’

‘Too early, according to what you saw in Nethergate library,’ said Adam.

‘Yes,’ sighed Libby. ‘I just thought there might be something marked that might have been turned into a strong room later – you know with the addition of that iron door, or whatever it was.’

‘Where does the passage to the ice-house come out?’ asked Mog, turning the plan towards him.

‘Under the house,’ said Adam.

‘But it wouldn’t have been under the house, would it? It was a legitimate passage, so needn’t have been hidden.’

‘Is the ha-ha marked?’ said Libby suddenly.

‘No,’ said Mog, peering. ‘No, it isn’t. Why?’

‘Do we know when that was created?’

‘After these designs, presumably,’ said Mog, looking puzzled.

‘Well, the passage was created at this time, and once the ha-ha was formed it would have been exposed, wouldn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘It runs along the edge of the ha-ha where I fell in.’

‘So?’ said Adam, frowning.

‘Actually, I don’t know,’ said Libby, sighing. ‘I wish we could find out where it entered the house, though.’

‘It would have been the kitchens, wouldn’t it?’ said Mog, carefully gathering up the plan.

‘The kitchen’s been checked thoroughly,’ Adam said.

‘But that’s the modern kitchen,’ said Mog. ‘Edwardian, by the look of it.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Libby, turning a look of undisguised admiration on him.

‘There must be cellars where the kitchens were. There are signs of built-up ground round the outside walls.’ He turned to Adam. ‘You remember where it looked as though there was the shape of a lintel on the side facing the wood?’

‘F – blimey, yes!’ said Adam. ‘Have the police looked there?’

‘No, I bet they haven’t,’ said Libby, excited. ‘They’ve been looking in the inhabited part of the house.’

‘We’ll have a look when we get back,’ said Mog. ‘Coming, Mrs S?’

‘I’ve got to meet Fran at The Fox,’ said Libby, ‘but let me know if you find anything.’

Adam went back in the van with Mog and Libby followed slowly in Romeo the Renault. She hadn’t thought of old kitchens, and of course she should have done. The house had been there for centuries and had probably been subject to subsidence, which would mean there were quite likely to be rooms below the present ground floor. In which case, there should be an entrance to them.

Round and round the garden, thought Libby. They’d been here before.

There had been no phone call from Fran by the time she reached The Fox, but the Roller Skate was in the car park. Libby locked the Renault and went in through the back door.

Fran was standing by the bar facing a red-faced and truculent Frank.

‘Libby,’ she said with relief, turning towards her friend. ‘I’ve been trying to tell Frank –’

‘And I’m saying he’s had enough.’

Libby looked from one to another. ‘Have you told him what you want to ask Gerald?’ she said.

‘No,’ said Fran, looking surprised. ‘Sorry, Frank. I just want to show him some photographs. See if it jogs his memory.’

Frank looked suspicious. ‘What photographs?’

‘Some we found at Creekmarsh and a couple from the Internet.’

‘Show me,’ said Frank.

‘I don’t think –’

‘Or I won’t even think about taking you,’ he said.

Reluctantly, Fran took a buff manila folder from her bag and opened it. ‘There,’ she said, handing over a few pictures. Libby recognised some from the collection at Creekmarsh, and the others as printouts from the Internet. Surprised, she peered over Fran’s shoulder at two pictures of Kenneth, both looking sullen. Cindy Dale was in one of them as a blurred and shadowy figure behind Kenneth’s left shoulder.

‘Can’t see as how he’ll remember any of them,’ said Frank, pushing the photographs about on the bar, ‘but I suppose it can’t hurt, neither.’ He heaved a huge sigh. ‘It’s been a bugger these last years, keeping him quiet.’

‘Keeping
him
quiet?’ asked Libby.

‘Not him,’ said Frank. ‘Keeping quiet
about
him.’

‘Why did you?’

‘Not my place to go spilling the beans, is it?’

‘Do you recognise anyone in these pictures?’ asked Fran.

Frank pulled them towards him. ‘Gerald, Tony West and Ken, And that’ll be that little cow Cindy, I s’pose.’ He pointed. ‘Don’t know any of these. Looks like the seventies, doesn’t it? I didn’t know him that far back.’

‘So will you take us to see him?’ Fran gathered up the pictures. Frank looked uneasily towards the kitchen hatch. ‘Bren,’ he called.

Brenda appeared and stuck her head through the hatch with a friendly grin at Fran and Libby.

‘Could you cope without me for an hour?’ Frank reached out a hand to pat her on the arm. She covered his hand with her own.

‘’Course I can,’ she said. ‘Hardly a rush on, is there? Going to take the ladies to see Gerald, are you?’

Frank, Libby and Fran all showed varying degrees of astonishment.

‘Good idea. You never know – it might bring him out of himself a bit,’ said Brenda.

‘Well,’ said Libby, as they climbed into Frank’s huge SUV five minutes later, ‘I hope it doesn’t do any harm, but suppose we don’t get anything from him and only succeed in upsetting him?’

‘We’ll get something from him,’ said Fran. ‘I only hope it’s what I want.’

Chapter Thirty-three

BROOKMEAD HOUSE, LIKE SO many other houses in their present incarnations, sat at the end of a gravelled drive surrounded by manicured lawns and well tended flowerbeds. No discreet sign gave any indication of the nature of its inhabitants, although there were metal hand-rails on both sides of the shallow steps to the front door. A ramp led up separately, for wheelchairs, Libby supposed and, she thought with a shudder, stretchers.

Frank led the way into the hall which contained a row of uncomfortable looking plastic chairs and a long, high desk, behind which sat a woman with grey hair and an intimidating expression.

‘Hi, Sal,’ said Frank. Blimey, thought Libby.

Sal’s expression changed to coy. Libby blinked.

‘Frank! You back again?’

Libby looked at Fran and made a face.

‘Brought some more visitors, if that’s OK,’ said Frank. ‘Do you need to give them badges or anything?’

‘If you’d just sign in,’ said Sal. ‘Health and Safety, you know.’

‘Huh?’ said Libby.

‘So that they know who’s in the building in case of a fire,’ said Fran.

‘Oh.’ Libby took the proffered pen and signed the book Sal pushed towards her. Fran followed suit.

‘Come on then,’ said Frank and turned to a corridor on his left leading to an open French window, where a white voile curtain fluttered like a bridal veil. Libby and Fran followed him to the end, where he knocked briefly on a door and, without waiting for a reply, opened it.

Gerald Shepherd sat in the inevitable high backed hospital armchair gazing at nothing in particular. The room, with its window too high to gaze from, contained a high bed, a plethora of small tables and what looked like a door to an en-suite bathroom. There were no photographs. He didn’t look up as his three visitors entered.

‘Hey, mate.’ Frank sat down on an upright chair opposite Gerald and motioned Fran and Libby to pull up similar chairs which stood against the wall. Gerald looked at him vaguely and put out a tentative hand. Libby felt a lump in her throat. Fran cleared hers and handed Frank the folder.

‘Gerry, these ladies have come to see you.’ Frank waited for a response, then opened the folder. ‘They’ve brought you pictures to look at.’

Gerald’s eyes dropped to the folder. He understood that much, Libby realised.

‘Look, here.’ Frank pointed out the picture of Kenneth. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Kenny.’ The voice was a whisper. Frank beamed.

‘That’s it! That’s Kenny. And who’s this?’

Gerald took all the photographs with a shaking hand and dropped most of them. Fran dropped to her knees and helped to pick them up. Gerald snatched one from her, the one of young people on a beach.

‘Amanda,’ he whispered. Libby and Fran looked enquiringly at Frank.

‘His wife,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Ken’s mother. Died years ago.’

‘Kenny,’ said Gerald again, with a frown, looking at the photograph with a blurred Cindy Dale behind him.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Fran, pointing to Cindy.

‘Amanda,’ said Gerald.

‘He’s muddled,’ said Frank, stating the obvious. Fran shuffled the photographs and showed one of Tony West.

‘Tony,’ said Gerald in a firmer voice. Then he pulled out the one taken in the seventies and pointed to the young man with the moustache. ‘My son,’ he said.

The other three looked at each other.

‘No, that’s your son, Kenny,’ said Frank, showing the one of Kenneth. Gerald shook his head and pointed again. ‘My son,’ he said, and, shockingly, smiled. He picked up the one of Tony West. ‘My son,’ he said again.

‘Tony?’ said Libby. ‘Tony’s your son?’

‘Where’s Tony?’ Gerald looked up at Frank. ‘Where’s Tony?’

Frank was looking stunned. Libby gave him a nudge. ‘Don’t tell him,’ she whispered. He shook his head slightly and leant forward.

‘Away, Gerry,’ he said. ‘Tony’s away.’

‘Look after Kenny,’ said Gerald, and turned his head to the window.

Nothing more could be got from him, but he held on to the photograph of himself and the moustachioed young man, stroking it gently. Eventually, Frank jerked his head and stood up. He gripped Gerald’s shoulder, and with a soft ‘Bye, mate,’ to which he received no answer, left the room. Libby and Fran followed him. Outside, he leant against the wall and pulled out a large handkerchief to wipe his face.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

‘You never knew?’ asked Fran. He shook his head.

‘Did Kenneth know?’ said Libby.

‘No idea,’ said Frank. ‘I’d say no. I was as close to Gerry as anyone, and if I didn’t know, no one knew.’

‘But Kenneth was his son. Wouldn’t Gerald have told him if Tony was his older brother?’ said Libby.

‘Gawd knows,’ said Frank, pushing himself away from the wall and starting back down the corridor. ‘You going to tell the police?’

‘I expect so,’ said Fran. ‘It gives someone the motive for murdering West.’

‘But we know Cindy did it,’ said Libby.

‘Yes, but now we know he was Gerald’s son, which was why, presumably, he was given power of attorney –’

‘Of course!’ breathed Libby. ‘I never could work out why that was.’

‘As I was saying,’ said Fran, ‘as he was Gerald’s son, perhaps Cindy thought he stood in the way of her inheritance.’

‘Hang on, though,’ said Libby, scurrying to catch up with Frank, who had reached the entrance hall, ‘how could it be her inheritance? Kenneth was dead. So whatever happened the money, or the estate, whatever, wouldn’t go to her as Kenneth’s widow.

He pre-deceased his father.’

‘Hmm.’ Fran frowned at Frank’s back, where he was bending over the high counter to speak to Sally, who looked shocked.

‘You shouldn’t have said anything to her,’ said Fran, when he rejoined them.

‘She’s got a right to know,’ he said, striding down the steps to the SUV. ‘Tony paid her.’

‘Paid the fees, you mean?’ said Libby.

‘And paid her a bit extra to keep shtum.’ He looked back up the steps. ‘Good rottweiler, that one. She’s the only one on the staff there that knows who he was.’

‘So where did you come into the picture, then?’ asked Libby, clambering up into the high vehicle.

‘Told you. I knew Gerry in London. He come down to visit, saw old Creekmarsh and bought it. Tony was part of the crowd. Told you that, an’ all.’