Murder in Midwinter (29 page)

Balzac accompanied them into the outbuilding and attempted to help at the computer. Libby scooped him up and put him down by the heater, then began to go through the box files while Fran searched the folders on the computer.

‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ said Fran with a frown. ‘Most of this is a list of contents for each file.’

‘Nothing about diamond necklaces, then?’ said Libby.

‘No, but there’s something here about a letter to Julia. Or maybe from Julia. Wasn’t there a Julia in Aunt Maria’s letter?’

‘Was there?’ Libby looked up. ‘It was all a bit confusing, if you ask me. What date is the letter? Which file should I look in?’

‘1920 to 1925. There’s no date next to the letter.’

Libby found the right file and began scrabbling through it.

‘Ah!’ she said finally. ‘Look at this!’

Fran got down on the floor with her and peered over her shoulder.

‘There are two letters here in the same envelope,’ said Libby, ‘one from Julia and one – obviously from Dorinda – back to her.’

‘What’s the address?’

‘March Cottage – oh, I see. Anderson Place. There.’ They looked at each other.

‘That proves something, then,’ said Fran, taking the letter from Julia. ‘But, look. This is the reply, not the other way round.’

Together they pored over the two letters.

“My dear Dorinda,” Julia’s letter read. “I was pleased to receive the news of your theatre and of Maria and little Bertram. I am so glad you felt as you did about my last. Mother and I were very worried, and as I said, she would never have told me had not the unfortunate circumstances demanded it. However, rest assured we made no mention of you. Ivy wishes to be remembered to you and we all wish you well.”

Fran picked up Dorinda’s reply and read it out loud.

“Dear Julia,” it began. “Thank you for being so concerned about us, and for your discretion. Please assure your mother I bear her no ill will, for she is kindness itself. I send my best wishes to you and Ivy, whom I would be pleased to welcome at the Alexandria.”

‘Well,’ said Libby. ‘Now what?’

‘Isn’t there a first letter from Julia? There must be.’ Fran began looking through the file.

‘Something happened to Julia and her mother that Dorinda needed to know,’ said Libby. ‘They wrote to tell her, she wrote back and that is Julia’s reply. And Julia hadn’t known about it before.’

‘So presumably it was something that happened when she was a child.’ Fran sat back on her heels. ‘Dorinda running off with Peter?’

‘But by this time he’s been dead for eight years,’ said Libby. ‘What could have happened that would concern him?’

‘Unless it’s something to do with Bertram. His father was a bit of a rogue. Didn’t he go back to his wife, or something?’

‘We need to read Aunt Maria’s letter again,’ said Libby, scrambling to her feet. ‘Where is it?’

‘Bella’s got it.’ Fran stood up. ‘What about the diamond necklace? Could that be it? Was Dorinda accused of stealing it?’

Libby stared at her. ‘Oh, yes! But she can’t actually have taken it, or they wouldn’t be concerned about her. And she would have gone to prison, wouldn’t she?’

‘Unless it was covered up. Perhaps that was why she was turned off, not because she ran off with Peter.’

‘Perhaps she ran
to
him, rather than
with
him,’ said Libby, warming to the idea.

Fran perched on the edge of the computer desk, frowning. ‘It doesn’t feel right, somehow,’ she said. ‘We’re nearly there, but not quite.’

‘And what about Sir Fred and Ivy? Dorinda has been to visit them at the Place before Bertram was born, hasn’t she?’

‘For upper-middle-class Edwardians they must have been very broadminded,’ said Fran. ‘Not minding about children born out of wedlock.’

‘Perhaps they didn’t know she wasn’t married,’ said Libby.

‘They’d have known about Bertram,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, that isn’t the point. It’s what could have been revealed about Dorinda that was dangerous or embarrassing to her that we need to know.’

‘But absolutely nothing to do with murder,’ said Libby. ‘Shall I take a couple of these files back home with me to look through? There must be more we could find.’

‘Why not,’ said Fran. ‘We’ll take a couple each – the earlier ones, I think. And perhaps you could look through the newspapers again?’

‘OK.’ Libby began shovelling papers back into the file. ‘There’s no real hurry, though, is there? We’re only doing this for interest’s sake now, not to help a murder enquiry.’

Fran shrugged. ‘Suppose so. I wish I could get rid of this feeling that there’s a connection, though.’

On the way home, Libby sat in the back of Fran’s car trying to keep Balzac from crawling under the clutch pedal, an area which seemed to hold a fascination for him. Fran related her dream.

‘And you’re sure it wasn’t Laurence?’

‘In my dream I was sure,’ said Fran. ‘I haven’t a clue who he was. Who either of them were. Should I tell Ian?’

‘He might know himself by now,’ said Libby, ‘if they sent the forensics people in.’

‘I’ll tell him, anyway,’ said Fran. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, get that cat off my neck.’

She phoned Inspector Connell as soon as she got back to the flat.

‘I’m not sure I should tell you,’ he said, when she’d told him about her dream, ‘but you’re quite right. Apparently, traces were found which we were able to link to a neighbour, who’d had a row – he says – with an unknown man he saw coming out of Laurence’s flat.’

‘And nobody had asked him about this before?’ Fran was incredulous.

‘He hasn’t been there before,’ said Connell. ‘He’s some kind of commercial traveller.’

‘That sounds a bit outdated,’ said Fran, laughing. ‘Does he sell nylons?’

‘I don’t know what he sells,’ said Connell, sounding faintly put out. Fran sighed. No sense of humour.

‘So, now he’s been questioned, what about this other man?’ she asked.

‘The description doesn’t match anyone with a connection to the case so far, and there’s no DNA match from the traces found.’

‘So, back to square one?’

‘Not quite.’ Fran heard what she thought might be excitement in Connell’s voice. ‘We have a very good description, and this chap Brown’s coming in to do a photofit. We can show it to everyone and there’s a good chance someone will recognise it. We’ll also send it up to Richmond to see if anyone up there recognises it.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Fran thought about it. ‘I could have a go, too.’

There was a pause. ‘You could,’ said Connell slowly.

‘You don’t want me to?’

‘Er –’

‘Loyalty. That’s what it is, isn’t it? You think I might recognise someone and not tell you who it is.’

‘How did you know?’ Connell sounded surprised.

‘It wasn’t difficult.’

‘Of course.’ Connell was grudging. ‘What I don’t know is why you wouldn’t tell me.’

‘You think it might be misplaced loyalty. I might have a feeling that whoever it may be hasn’t got a connection to the murder so I won’t tell you.’

Another pause. ‘I think that could be it.’

‘If I promise to tell you whatever I see or feel, will you let me have a look at it? After all, I don’t want a murderer to go free.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you when we’ve got something.’

Fran rang off and punched in Libby’s number. She was sometime answering, and when she did, sounded out of breath.

‘Did I interrupt something?’ asked Fran.

‘Yes – a cat fight,’ said Libby.

‘Oh, dear. Perhaps I’d better have home after all,’ said Fran.

‘Oh, early days yet,’ said Libby, ‘but please call Bella and tell her soon. This really isn’t our problem.’

‘I will. As soon as I’ve told you about Connell’s news.’

When she’d finished, Libby said, ‘And you’ve had more thoughts about it since he told you all this?’

‘How did you know that?’ said Fran.

‘I guessed.’ Libby sounded triumphant. ‘I’m getting to know your methods, Holmes. Connell’s told you about Mr Smith –’

‘Brown,’ said Fran.

‘Brown, then, and it’s all become clearer in your mind. Am I right?’

‘Sort of. I’ve got to sort it out, but I think so,’ said Fran. ‘Not that I’ve got any idea who the other man is.’

‘Well, you phone Bella and then sit down and think about it. I’m going to try a bit more cat mediation and then I’ve got panto stuff to do before tonight. See you later.’

Libby rang off and looked down at Balzac who sat looking cowed by the door.

‘Come on, stupid,’ she said. ‘I won’t hurt you, and neither will Sidney.’ She held out a hand for him to sniff, and he allowed her to stroke his head. ‘Let’s light the fire, shall we? You’ll like that.’

From behind the kitchen door came an indignant yowl. ‘All right, all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll come and light your fire, too.’

She lit the heater in the conservatory for Sidney and shut him in there with a treat of tinned tuna, then lit the fire in the front room with a similar treat for Balzac, who deigned to be pleased. She felt very guilty about Sidney, but promised herself that she would make it up to him as soon as Balzac moved on.

Fran called back to say that Bella was very worried about the cat and would try and get down to pick him up before Christmas, but she didn’t know what she was going to do with him.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Libby. ‘Tell her not to bother. I’m sure I can cope until you move to Coastguard Cottage.’

‘Which might be sooner than you think,’ said Fran. ‘I just had the solicitor on the phone. Because of Christmas they want to exchange contracts and complete the sale by the end of this week.’

‘Blimey!’ Libby sat down suddenly. ‘Bet you can’t believe it, can you?’

‘No, it is a bit sudden,’ said Fran. ‘I can’t really organise moving in before the weekend, but as soon as Christmas is over and I can hire a van, I can go. So Balzac can come with me.’

‘Well, you won’t have much time to go looking into murders or Bella’s history, will you?’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps we’d better put it all on hold. After all, we’ve got the wedding at the weekend, and Christmas, then New Year and the panto. Too much to do.’

‘Maybe,’ said Fran, sounding doubtful, ‘but if Connell calls me I shall go and look at the photofit, whatever else I don’t do.’

‘What about packing up the London flat?’

‘All done,’ said Fran. ‘And Dahlia’s got the key already for her cousin’s daughter who’s taking over, so she’ll oversee the removal people taking it all out. I’ll have to organise that as soon as I can, won’t I?’

‘Could you be in before New Year?’

‘If I can get a firm to do it then, yes,’ said Fran. ‘Wow. I can’t believe it.’

‘Neither can I,’ said Libby, ‘when I think how long probate usually takes. I can’t believe it was this quick.’

‘Because probate was granted years ago on Uncle Frank’s will,’ explained Fran, ‘so I didn’t have to wait for anything. And then there was the trust fund, too. That came through quickly.’

‘Lucky rich person,’ grunted Libby.

‘I know.’ Fran sounded guilty.

‘Hey, I’m only jealous,’ said Libby. ‘Cheer up. It’s not your fault.’

‘No.’ Fran said. ‘Perhaps I’d better have Balzac here at the flat after all. It won’t be for long.’

‘Oh, you can’t uproot the poor old thing again,’ said Libby. ‘He’s only just got here. He’d have to move again today, then again next week. No, leave him. We’ll cope.’

Although, she thought, what with cats, panto, wedding and murders, she wasn’t sure just
how
she would cope. ‘Let’s hope,’ she said to Balzac, ‘that nothing else happens.’

Chapter
Twenty-six

L
IBBY TRIED TO INTEGRATE
the two cats at intervals during the afternoon with little success, then, after a quick meal of bread and soup, shut them in their respective rooms and went to the theatre.

The lights and heating were on and Peter emerged from the lighting box at the top of the spiral staircase.

‘Finished your investigations?’ he said.

‘For the time being,’ said Libby. ‘But I’ve got a lodger cat.’

‘I bet Sid the stomach doesn’t like that,’ said Peter, descending gracefully.

‘At the moment, no, but it won’t last. Fran looks as though she’s moving in to her cottage just after Christmas, and she’ll take him with her.’ She unwound her cape. ‘Is the lighting plot OK?’

‘You’ll need to sit down with them and make sure they’ve got all the cues,’ said Peter. ‘No need until after the holidays.’

‘You won’t be here, then.’

‘Who said I won’t? We’re not having our honeymoon until after the panto – I told you.’

‘Hmm,’ said Libby.

The set looked wonderful. Dame Trot’s cottage stood at the back of the stage with real straw stapled to the roof (and treated with fire retardant to meet the Health and Safety regulations), a wishing well stood to one side and all was surrounded by a mass of brightly coloured vegetation. Someone was up a ladder attending to the giant beanstalk which was to be lowered from the flies, someone else wandered around with a pot of paint and a brush and the wardrobe mistress stood in the middle of the stage with an armful of costumes and a harassed expression. Libby felt herself settle into the atmosphere as if into a comfortable chair.

After the cow and the Fairy had had their third tussle of the evening due to an unfortunate confluence of wand, wings and udders, she was feeling slightly less comfortable. Then the chorus got the giggles and tripped up the Princess, who landed on her bottom and howled. Libby stomped to the edge of the stage.

‘How many more rehearsals have we got?’ she demanded. ‘And when do we go up?’

There were subdued mutterings and much shuffling of feet.

‘You might think this is boring and doesn’t matter, but this is a working theatre that a lot of people have put effort into. Also, the public pay money for their tickets and it isn’t right to short-change them with an indifferent performance. We’re in competition with a lot of other pantomimes in the district, some large and some small, and I want this to be the best. So shape up–’ Libby just about stopped herself saying “or ship out” because that would be a disaster. She took a deep breath.