Murder at the Laurels (3 page)

‘What are those?' Fran stood up shakily and picked up the white object.

‘The call button. Different buttons for different things. This one –' Nurse Redding pointed, ‘for calling domestic staff, and this one for Nursing staff. This light flashed if there was a message for Mrs Bridges, and a buzzer sounded.'

‘What sort of message?' Fran looked round for a telephone. There wasn't one.

‘A visitor, or a phone message. She would buzz back if she wanted to take the message, and someone would either bring the mobile phone in, or come and tell her who the visitor was.'

‘So no one could come and see her unless she wanted to see them?'

‘Oh, no. The reception desk is manned at all times when the front door is unlocked.' Nurse Redding turned her gaze to the french windows.

‘And when is that?'

The other woman looked back at Fran with a frown, and Fran wondered if her questions had gone too far.

‘The door's unlocked between 10.30 and 12.30 in the morning and 2.30 and 5.30 in the afternoon. That's when we encourage visiting.'

‘Like hospitals.' Fran smiled, hoping to defuse the palpable hostility emanating from Nurse Redding. She failed.

There was a knock on the door, followed by the entrance of a small blonde in a blue and white striped uniform with an old-fashioned starched nurse's cap. She carried a large tea tray set with a delicate bone china cup and a plate of biscuits. She smiled nervously.

‘Mrs Headlam sent some tea,' she said.

‘Thank you,' smiled Fran going forward to take the tray, but Nurse Redding was too quick for her.

‘That'll do, thank you, Nurse Warner.' The tray was set firmly on the bed table and Nurse Redding picked up the sugar basin. ‘Sugar?' she asked.

‘No, thanks,' said Fran, watching Nurse Warner slide uncomfortably out of the room. There was something there, she thought. Something had come in to her head while that girl was in the room. Fear. Not as strong as the suffocating feeling, but quite tangible.

A high-pitched sound intruded in to the silence and Fran looked at the white device on the table in front of her. However, Nurse Redding felt under her cardigan and Fran saw that she wore a pager attached to her belt.

‘Excuse me. I'm wanted,' she said, and without any further ado, left the room, leaving the door open behind her.

Fran stood still for a moment, wondering if anyone else was likely to come in and chaperone, but it seemed that she was to be trusted, for there was only silence in the passage outside. Carefully, her heart beating like thundering hoof beats, she moved to the door and pushed it closed. The click as it latched sounded deafening, but there was no answering commotion from outside and Fran let out her breath and began to snoop.

The room contained nothing. The efficient Mrs Denver had obviously cleared everything of interest and only a few forlorn garments were left. Fran picked up her tea and sat down in the chair Nurse Redding had vacated at the side of the bed.

‘Mrs Castle?' The voice came from outside the door, and Fran realised that she had shut it and no one without a key could get in.

‘I'm sorry,' she said, smiling into the worried little face of Nurse Warner. ‘The breeze must have caught it.'

‘I came to see if you'd finished with the tea things.' The young nurse scurried over to the table and picked up the tray, casting a nervous glance around the room as she went.

‘Did you look after my aunt?' Fran asked, as she prepared to follow the girl out of the room. Nurse Warner stopped suddenly, and the cup rattled in the saucer.

‘Er – sometimes,' she said.

‘And did you think she was happy?'

‘Happy?' The big blue eyes turned on Fran in sheer astonishment. ‘Why should she be happy?'

It was Fran's turn to be astonished. ‘Good heavens, what a peculiar answer.'

Nurse Warner blushed. ‘I'm sorry. It's just – well, how can they be happy? They've no life left.'

‘They have every comfort, though, don't they?'

‘Oh, yes.' Nurse Warner nodded vigorously. ‘And the food's very good. And the doctor comes round every day.'

‘Does he?' mused Fran. ‘So did he think it was only to be expected that Aunt Eleanor died?'

‘I don't know.' Nurse Warner looked down at the tray and shuffled her feet. Waves of something – was it fear? – were coming off her, and Fran couldn't think how to get to the reason for it.

‘Sorry to leave you.' Nurse Redding appeared from round a corner and Nurse Warner, with an air of relief, shot off in the other direction.

‘That's all right.' Fran began to walk beside the other woman back to the reception area. ‘At least I know where Aunt Eleanor spent her last days.' To her own ears this statement sounded like the worst sort of maudlin falseness, but Nurse Redding seemed to accept it.

Marion Headlam was waiting for them in the reception hall.

‘Feeling better, now?' She smiled brightly at Fran. ‘It's the shock, you know. Mrs Denver fainted right away. Didn't she, Nurse Redding?'

‘I'll get back now,' said Nurse Redding, without answering the question. She nodded briefly to Fran and disappeared back the way she had come. Fran thought she heard Mrs Headlam give a little sigh.

‘Do you know if there's a bus service that I can get back to Nethergate?' she asked.

‘Well, there is, but it's a bit of a walk down the lane to the left.' Mrs Headlam looked doubtful.

‘How far, would you say?'

‘Ooh, a good twenty minutes walk, I should think. I could call you a taxi?'

Fran put her shoulders back. ‘No, I think the walk would do me good. And it's so pretty round here, isn't it?'

‘Yes, we've got lovely surroundings.' Marion Headlam looked round complacently, although Fran thought she probably thought more of her interior surroundings than the exterior. ‘Well, see you at the funeral, I expect.'

‘Oh?' said Fran.

‘We always attend clients' funerals.' Marion Headlam smiled and held open the door. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Castle.'

Fran, a relieved surge of adrenaline washing over her, walked as briskly as she could down the steps and set off down the drive. By halfway down, she wished she'd left her jacket at home, by the time she reached the lane, she wished she'd worn flat shoes instead of her favourite courts and by the time she was in sight of the bus stop, half hidden by a mass of vegetation, she wished she'd taken a taxi or, when she'd called Libby earlier to arrange their meeting at the Swan, agreed that Libby could come and pick her up. Her mobile had no signal, so she couldn't even call her now. The sun beat down remorselessly on her unprotected head and her forehead and the back of her neck were dripping. It occurred to her that she hadn't bothered to find out how frequently the buses arrived, and, of course, there was no timetable attached to the bus stop. There were no houses nearby, either, which argued that this was possibly one of the one-a-day variety, which, after a quarter of an hour, Fran was convinced was true. Although, she argued with herself, if that was the case, surely Marion Headlam would have told her? She didn't, she realised, even know whether she was waiting on the right side of the road, although she had taken an educated guess judging from the direction the taxi had come. She couldn't see a corresponding stop on the other side of the road, and was beginning to feel quite desolate when the welcome sound of a diesel engine rose above the buzz of insects and call of birds, and round a bend in the road lumbered a double-decker bus. Greeting the surprised driver with a heartfelt smile, she climbed on thankfully.

Chapter Three

T
HE
S
WAN WAS NEAR
the market cross in the very middle of the little town. A black and white building notable for its carved wooden beams, it presented two faces to the world. One was a sophisticated face that spoke of en-suite bathrooms and colour television in all rooms, the other more rustic and homely, supplying a variety of real ales to a discerning body of rather insular regulars. The restaurant attempted, occasionally successfully, to marry the two faces and was a favourite venue for tourists. Fran didn't hold that against it.

Libby hadn't yet arrived, so she hoisted herself on to a tall stool with regrettably low foot rails and, smiling diffidently at the barman, large, bald and shirt-sleeved, whose sausage-like fingers hovered over the till buttons, ordered a half of lager.

‘Good heavens,' said a voice to her left. ‘A woman who will drink by herself in a bar.'

The first thing Fran was aware of were two very bright, very dark brown eyes fastened on her own. She blinked.

‘I'm sorry. Perhaps your unconventional behaviour precludes conversation with an unknown male.'

Fran felt an unaccustomed warmth creeping up her neck. ‘Possibly,' she said.

‘Pity.' The man standing next to her was leaning on the bar, his arms folded. Above the brown eyes, tightly curling dark grey hair topped off an interestingly creased, tanned face with a neat goatee beard.

‘We haven't met before, have we?' He turned sideways, still leaning on the bar.

‘No.' Fran picked up her lager and faced him, armed.

‘Not local then? I could have sworn I'd seen you before.'

‘I'm meeting a friend.'

‘Oh, who?' He raised an eyebrow.

‘Is it any of your business?' said Fran, irritated.

‘Sorry. Curiosity is one of my besetting sins.' He grinned. ‘May I buy you a drink to make up for it?'

Fran raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you trying to pick me up?' she asked.

‘I don't think so.' He signalled to the barman. ‘I'm not trying to pick this lady up, am I, Tony?'

‘Just friendly, that's you.' The barman picked up Fran's glass. ‘Same again?'

‘No thanks.' She smiled at him. ‘I'm sorry if I sounded rude.'

‘Not in the least. A woman has to protect herself these days. I shouldn't have butted in.'

‘No, you shouldn't,' said a voice behind Fran. ‘
Have
you been trying to pick up my friend, young Guy?'

Fran beamed delightedly. ‘Libby!'

Libby, looking like an animated carnival tent, stretched up on tiptoe to kiss Fran's cheek.

‘Sorry, Libby. If I'd known she was a friend of yours I wouldn't have dared speak to her!' Guy grinned down at the little woman eyeing him with amused tolerance.

‘You want to be careful with him, Fran.' Libby hauled herself on to the stool recently vacated by Fran. ‘He likes to think of himself as the local Don Juan.'

Fran took refuge in her glass.

‘Well, you can buy me a drink, Guy Wolfe, then we are going to huddle in a corner and eat before returning to the rural delights of Steeple Martin.' Libby beamed at the barman. ‘Lager, please, Tony.'

‘My pleasure, Mrs Sarjeant.' Tony beamed back.

‘So, how are you?' Libby looked Fran up and down. ‘You look a bit pale.'

‘That's living in London.'

Tony put a glass in front of Libby and Guy handed him the money. Libby fumbled in a capacious basket and pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes.

‘Haven't you given up yet?' asked Guy. ‘You'll have to soon, when the ban comes in.'

‘Police state,' muttered Libby.

‘We'll have a nice outside area with heaters for you, Mrs Sarjeant,' said Tony, ‘don't you worry. And I bet there'll be more folks out there than in here.'

‘Thank you, Tony,' said Libby, ‘and why do you always call me Mrs Sarjeant? Nobody else does. Come on, Fran, let's eat.' She slid off the stool. ‘Can we have a menu, Tony?'

‘I hope I wasn't rude.' Fran turned to Guy and held out her hand.

‘Not at all, it was good to meet you.' Guy smiled and took it. ‘I hope I see you again.'

‘Yes,' she said vaguely.

‘Come on, then, Fran.' Libby stretched up and kissed Guy on the cheek. ‘See you, lover boy.'

The table in the corner of the bar lurched a welcome as they squeezed into the old oak settle behind it.

‘So who's Guy?' asked Fran, after peering round to make sure she wasn't overheard.

‘The Wolfe Gallery, just down Harbour Street.'

‘As in picture?'

‘As in all things artistic. Pricey.'

Fran studied the menu. ‘And is he really a Don Juan?'

Libby pulled the menu down and looked into her face. ‘Fran! Don't tell me you're actually interested in a man.'

‘I just wanted to know.' Fran was defensive. ‘In case he tries to lure me in to see his etchings.'

‘Actually, he's not, a Don Juan, I mean,' mused Libby, ‘although he could be. He's divorced, financially secure and reasonably attractive, if you don't mind the ageing-gorilla look.'

‘Gorilla?' Fran chuckled. ‘Long arms and caveman tactics?'

‘No, his face. Didn't it strike you? Perhaps more chimp-like.'

‘Can't say it did.' Fran sat back on the settle and finished her scotch. ‘I'll have the mushroom stroganoff.'

Libby squinted sideways. ‘You're not coming over all vegetarian, are you?'

‘No, I'm still a healthy carnivore. I just feel a bit delicate, that's all.'

‘Delicate? In what way, delicate?' Libby looked alarmed. ‘You can't be pregnant, you're too old.'

‘No – it's just that I had this dream –'

‘Ready to order ladies?' Tony appeared round the corner of the settle. ‘Guy said to say goodbye.'

‘Oh, right. Yes, thanks, Tony, we'll have a mushroom stroganoff and a chilli jacket. And I'll have a mineral water.' Libby smiled winningly.

Tony raised an eyebrow. ‘I'll shout when they're ready, your highness.'

‘Mineral water?' queried Fran.

‘I'm driving us back to Steeple Martin, aren't I?' Libby lit another cigarette. ‘Never believe I was trying to give up, would you? Right, so what was this about a dream?'

Fran told her. Trying to describe the feeling it had engendered defeated her, and the story dribbled to an inconclusive finish.

‘Well,' said Libby after a pause. ‘Normally I'd say it was just a dream brought on by something you've seen on television, but as you can describe it in such graphic detail, I suppose it must be one of your famous moments.' She squinted at Fran through a haze of smoke.

Fran fidgeted. ‘Don't call them that. Anyway, I don't have them any more.'

‘It seems that you do.' Libby stubbed her cigarette out. ‘Was that Tony's dulcet call just then? Come on. Let's get our food.'