Murder in Midwinter (18 page)

‘Can we start, please?’ she said to the choreographer, who gave her a look of weary gratitude.

‘Beginners, then, please,’ yelled Libby. ‘Fairy Queen? Are you there?’

The Fairy Queen appeared stage right in confusion and a flurry of draperies, and peered short-sightedly into the auditorium. Libby wished for the umpteenth time she’d stuck to her guns with Peter and insisted on playing the part herself.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Off you go. Chorus positions, please, and remember, don’t move.’

‘But we haven’t got the gauze yet, Libby,’ said one plaintive voice. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘If you get into the habit of not moving now it won’t come so hard when the gauze is in place with an audience out front,’ said Libby patiently. ‘Tabs, please.’

The curtains were closed between the Fairy Queen and the chorus, and opened slowly as the opening monologue was delivered, somewhat hesitantly. The chorus, discovered outside Dame Trot’s house, stood in sulky positions and scratched noses, heads and bottoms. Mostly their own. Libby sighed.

The rehearsal wound its weary way to the end of the first scene and Libby went to the front to give notes. She knew there wasn’t a lot of point at this stage, but there were one or two habits she had to correct. None of these, she was forced to admit, belonged to Fran.

Finally, at just after ten o’clock, she called a halt.

‘Pub?’ said Fran, as Libby climbed onto the stage to talk to the crew.

Tempted to say “Don’t we always?” Libby swallowed and smiled. ‘See you there,’ she said.

‘Unusually diplomatic,’ murmured Peter in her ear.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Libby, and went over to the construction team who were sucking their collective teeth over the state of the beanstalk.

Leaving them soothed, and with the promise that they would lock up when they left, Libby joined Ben at the auditorium doors.

‘Pub?’ he said.

‘I said I’d see Fran there,’ said Libby.

‘Ah. Forgiven her, have you?’ Ben held open the glass doors and then went out into the winter air.

‘Pete thinks the same as me,’ said Libby.

‘He was always prejudiced against her, you know that,’ said Ben. ‘I think you should both give her a chance. Her life has changed dramatically since she moved down here, and I expect it’s quite hard for her to come to terms with that, without having someone else’s problems to deal with, too.’

Libby tucked her arm through his as they reached the bottom of the theatre drive. ‘Especially as looking in to a family whose existence was never known must bring it all back, being so similar to her own experience.’

‘That’s my girl,’ said Ben, and kissed her cheek. ‘Let her find her feet.’

‘Pete says she won’t bother to keep up with us once she’s moved to Nethergate,’ said Libby, as they reached the pub.

‘Rubbish,’ said Ben, pushing the door open. ‘Now, go on, make your peace.’

Fran behaved as if nothing had happened, so Libby was able to do the same, and when Fran asked if she would like to go to March Cottage the following morning, agreed quickly.

‘I thought we’d give it one more shot and look for references to Anderson Place,’ said Fran, ‘which was what you wanted to do, wasn’t it?’

‘Well, yes, but not if you don’t think it’s worth it,’ said Libby, generously.

‘I think it will be,’ said Fran, with a smile, ‘but I’m not sure just how.’

‘There,’ said Ben, as he and Libby walked back to Allhallow’s Lane. ‘All patched up.’

‘Well, it wasn’t really a row,’ said Libby.

‘It wasn’t at all a row on Fran’s part,’ said Ben. ‘It was you feeling, as you said, sidelined.’

Libby nodded. ‘I still do, a bit, but I know it’s not really Fran’s fault. I shall be determinedly bright and cheery in the morning.’

‘Not too much or she’ll wonder what’s wrong with you,’ said Ben, giving her a squeeze and opening the front door of Number 17. ‘In you go, and get Sidney out of the way before he tries to trip me up again.’

Libby walked round to The Pink Geranium in the morning and found Fran washing the windows of the Roller-skate.

‘You’ve only had it five minutes,’ said Libby, watching admiringly.

‘It’s winter,’ said Fran. ‘The windows were filthy.’

Libby thought fleetingly of Romeo’s besmirched windows. ‘As long as we can see our way to Heronsbourne,’ she said.

‘Beautifully,’ said Fran with a grin. ‘Hop in.’

‘Will you still come and see us when you’ve moved to Nethergate?’ asked Libby as they bowled along the road past Steeple Mount.

Fran gave her a quick, surprised look. ‘Of course I will. Why on earth wouldn’t I?’

‘It won’t be like living round the corner.’

‘We’ve only lived round the corner from each other for the last few months.’

‘We’ve only
known
each other for the last few months.’ Libby turned and smiled at her friend. ‘But it’s made such a difference to me.’

‘It’s made more than a difference to me, you know that,’ said Fran, ‘and I’d hope we would never lose that friendship. Anyway, you can have your Steeple Martin life back, now, and I’ll take over Nethergate. If we want a drink when we see each other, we’ve both got spare rooms.’

‘That’s true.’ Libby gave sigh of relief. ‘I feel better now.’

‘Good.’ Fran slid a sideways look at her. ‘Now we can concentrate on Laurence and Danny.’

‘And Bella?’

‘Well, her, too, but it’s not actually anything to do with her, is it?’

‘She’s the catalyst. None of this would have happened without her.’

‘Laurence would still have been killed, and Harry would still have got in touch with us.’ Fran turned into Pedlar’s Row and drew up outside March Cottage.

‘That’s true, too,’ said Libby, much struck. ‘But we wouldn’t have known about old Sir Fred, would we?’

‘By now we would,’ said Fran, getting out of the car. ‘We looked it up yesterday, didn’t we?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m getting muddled.’

‘Come on, then,’ said Fran, ‘let’s go and get the keys from the pub.’

George was pleased to see them and asked after Bella.

‘Nice lady,’ he said. ‘Reckon she’ll move down here permanent, like?’

‘No idea,’ said Libby, hoisting herself onto a bar stool and settling down for a chat. ‘She’s got children at school in London–’

‘Has she?’ George looked surprised.

‘Doing A and O levels,’ nodded Libby. ‘She won’t want to leave them.’

‘What about her husband, then?’ said George.

‘Well –’ said Libby.

‘Libby, are you coming?’ said Fran. ‘We don’t want to be all day.’

‘OK, Fran, you go ahead. I’ll follow,’ said Libby.

Fran shook her head and left with the keys.

‘Right,’ continued Libby, resting her elbows on the bar. ‘Her husband. We don’t think they get on. I don’t think he wants her to move down here.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said George, propping a foot up on a shelf behind the counter. ‘She’d fit in here real well. Nice quiet bunch the folks here are. And I wouldn’t want to see March Cottage go to any of them weekenders.’

‘I think that’s what it will be, for the time being at least. I don’t think Bella will sell it, but she’ll only be able to get down now and then.’

‘That’s all right, then. We can keep an eye on it for her. She’s not like a proper weekender, is she?’ George shook his head. ‘And she’s got kids. Somehow I didn’t think of her with youngsters.’

‘No, me neither. She looks –’ Libby stopped.

‘Yeah.’ George grinned. ‘I know what you mean. I thought she might be a young grannie, though.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby. ‘Aren’t we awful? I’d better go.’ She slid off her stool. ‘See you later, George.’

Fran was already in the outbuilding with the computer and the heater switched on.

‘Everything isn’t catalogued here, you know,’ she said as Libby came in. ‘There’s loads more stuff in the box files than there is on the computer. We’d better go through it.’

‘Why is that, do you think?’ said Libby, unwinding her scarf and shrugging off her cape.

‘It’s mainly from the early days. Maria wasn’t born then, so I suppose she didn’t bother. Afterwards there’s a lot of detail about the costumes and the different shows. And both of them were members of something called the Concert Artistes’ Association.’

‘Really?’ Libby leant over Fran’s shoulder and peered at the screen. ‘I know a bit about them. They’ve got a building in Bedford Street in London.’

‘Oh, yes, I vaguely remember. I think I went there once for a meeting with someone about cruise ships.’

‘What were you going to do? I didn’t think you sang,’ said Libby, looking at Fran in surprise.

‘Thanks,’ said Fran. ‘What is it I do in the panto? Croak?’

‘That’s not proper singing,’ said Libby. ‘If you’re a production singer on a cruise ship you have to be a proper singer.’

‘I wasn’t going to be a production singer,’ said Fran. ‘Somebody wanted to put on small cast plays rather than the musical shows they do. It didn’t work out.’

‘Oh, pity,’ said Libby. ‘Still, you might have been sea sick.’

Fran looked at Libby and shook her head. ‘What an outlook you’ve got,’ she said.

‘Always look on the bright side,’ said Libby, and began humming.

‘Come on then, get those box files out,’ said Fran, pushing back her chair.

There were several box files holding material before 1914, as Fran had said.

‘What I can’t understand,’ said Libby as she blew dust off one of them and sneezed, ‘is why Bella only found those bits and pieces she showed you the other night.’

‘There’s only one folder on the computer labelled “up to 1920s”,’ said Fran, ‘and that box file’s over here. The others aren’t labelled. I think Maria just stuffed everything else she found in there in any old order.’

‘Oh, good,’ groaned Libby. ‘That means we’ve got to go through the lot?’

‘What I think,’ said Fran, sitting on the floor surrounded by box files, ‘is that Maria filtered out those few leaflets for the Silver Serenaders, the notebook and the letter referring to Sir Fred because they were things she knew about. She just left the rest alone.’

‘Why didn’t she throw them all out?’ Libby looked at the files in disgust.

‘Whether it meant anything to her or not, it all belonged to her parents,’ said Fran, ‘and she was obviously a hoarder.’

‘Only in this,’ said Libby. ‘Those bedrooms in the cottage are as clean as a whistle.’

‘Her history meant a lot to her,’ said Fran, opening a file. ‘Come on, let’s get on with it.’

It soon became apparent why Maria had only catalogued the few items they had already seen. Most of the rest were of little interest to anyone but a social historian. Receipts for material, for sewing, for boots and mending, letters of engagement and a few postcards from artistes enquiring about the next season, or just enquiring after Dorinda and Peter’s health. The only thing Fran found remotely interesting was the correspondence between Dorinda and the council, first negotiating for her “pitch”, and subsequently for the land on which she built the Alexandria. To her disappointment, there were no original plans or correspondence with builders, but the appearance of a programme for the Alexandria dated 1912 indicated that it was in existence by then.

‘Well,’ said Libby eventually, brushing dust and cobwebs off her face, ‘there’s nothing here.’

‘What about the newspapers?’ asked Fran, indicating a file they had put aside.

‘Oh, no,’ said Libby, ‘we can’t go through all of those.’

‘Not now, maybe, but perhaps we could take them home and go through them?’

‘We?’ Libby glowered. ‘You can. I’m not. I’ve got other things to do at home.’

‘You’re the one who wanted to become an investigator.’

Libby glowered some more. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said. ‘But Bella might not want to let us take them away.’

‘I’ll ring her now,’ said Fran, scrambling to her feet.

‘Right,’ said Libby, following her example. She began to put the files back on the shelves and stopped when she heard Fran speak.

‘Well?’ she said, when Fran switched off.

‘She says that’s fine, she knows we’ll look after them, and had we found out anything more. You heard me tell her all about Laurence.’

‘And?’

‘She didn’t know anything about him, but we didn’t expect her to, did we?’

‘When’s she next coming down?’

‘She wasn’t sure. She sounded very dithery.’

‘That’s Orrible Andrew getting to her,’ said Libby. ‘And now it’s nearly Christmas she won’t be able to get down here at all, bet you.’

Fran nodded and sighed. ‘Oh, well, let’s take this lot out to the car.’

After getting rid of Balzac, who had followed them in and gone to sleep by the heater, they turned off the computer, lights and heater and locked up.

George offered them a drink when they took the keys back, but Fran said sensibly she was driving and they ought to get back home. Libby pulled a face and, waving to George, followed Fran back to the car.

‘Sorry if you wanted to stay,’ said Fran, as she drove back towards Steeple Martin, ‘but I want to get on with those papers. I’ve got a feeling we might find something in them.’

‘Something about the building works? Would they print planning applications like they do today?’

‘I don’t know, but I didn’t mean that. There must be a reason for Dorinda to have kept all those papers.’

‘They might fall to pieces,’ said Libby. ‘They should be preserved in a museum.’

‘I expect they are, somewhere,’ said Fran. ‘Newspaper archives have copies of everything, don’t they? Local and national papers.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby, looking wise.

‘Anyway, we’ll go through them and see if anything turns up,’ said Fran.

‘What exactly are we looking for?’

‘Anything relevant. Anything about Dorinda, or Peter, or Sir Frederick or – what were they called? The family?’

‘Oh, heavens,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t remember.’

They both thought for a moment, until Fran turned into Allhallow’s Lane and pulled up outside Number 17.

‘Here, you take half of them,’ she said leaning over and retrieving the file from the back seat.

‘Thanks,’ said Libby, looking with disfavour on the yellowing bundle she was given.