Murder at the Laurels (5 page)

‘How's your mother, Peter?' asked Fran, right on cue.

‘As well as can be expected,' said Peter, smoothly, ‘back at Steeple Farm. I'm sure Libby told you. And now, would you like to order?'

When Harry and Peter had left them alone with two large menus, Fran gave Libby an apologetic glance.

‘Sorry. Did I upset the atmosphere?'

‘Not at all. You were bound to ask him, it was only good manners. I'd give Susan a miss, though, if I were you.'

‘You mean, don't ask about her?'

‘Yes. Poor woman. It isn't her fault, but it tends to be a bit of a thorn in the flesh, if you see what I mean.'

Fran did see. Ben's sister Susan would be a reminder of the events stirred up by
The Hop Pickers
that had led to murder a few months previously.

‘Steer clear of all of it, then,' said Fran, peering at the menu. ‘Can't remember, what was Hongo Quesadillas?'

It hadn't been as bad as she'd expected, she thought later, as she took a last look at the view from Libby's spare room window. Much to Fran's relief, the conversation stayed away from family and murder, and Peter, deep in writing a brand new pantomime for the Oast House Theatre, merely asked a few technical questions regarding length and timing, which caused Libby to go off into paroxysms of lewd laughter. There was no mention of Aunt Eleanor or Barbara and Paul Denver and Fran's uncomfortable mental investigator had been lulled into somnolence with red onion tart, accompanied by an excellent Sancerre spirited from an unnamed source by the heavenly Harry.

Unfortunately, the Sancerre had worn off a bit and the mental investigator had woken up. A loop tape in her head repeatedly played the dream, but what made Fran sit down suddenly on the bed with a gasp was the addition of two more faces, as clear as if they stood before her, neither of which had she seen before. As her breathing slowed to normal and her heartbeat stopped sending messages to outlying parts, she realised that it must be her overactive imagination supplying pictures of Barbara and Paul Denver. After all, it could just as easily have thrown up the faces of Nurse Warner, Nurse Redding or Marion Headlam, but she had actually seen them in the flesh. Barbara and Paul were so far still, if not figments, existing only in her imagination.

Suppressing an almost irresistible desire to go downstairs and top up the Sancerre with a large slug of whisky, Fran climbed into bed and put her head under the pillow.

Chapter Five 1964

M
ARGARET TURNED FROM THE
mirror and took a deep breath.

‘Fran, are you ready?'

Fran appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Yes, Mum.'

‘Let's have a look at you, then.' Margaret pulled her daughter further into the room.

‘Socks, Fran? I thought you wanted to wear your new stockings?'

‘The suspenders are uncomfortable, Mum.' Fran pulled a face. Couldn't I have a roll-on like yours?'

‘You're only twelve, darling! I've given in on stockings, but that's as far as it goes.'

Fran pulled a face. ‘Socks, then. Anyway, they look better with my sandals, don't they?'

Margaret looked down at the maroon sandals. Frank had bought them. She looked up hastily, smoothing down her cotton skirt.

‘Of course they do. And you look very nice in that dress, too. Green suits you.'

Fran stroked the satiny finish of the dress. ‘I like it. Thanks, Mum.' She reached up and kissed Margaret's cheek. ‘You're really clever.'

‘Come on, then. We'll be late if we're not careful.' Margaret picked up her handbag and gloves from the kitchen table and led the way out of the flat. It was high summer in Mountville Road, and the huge lime trees were dusty and lifeless. She turned right and began the long walk towards the High Street, where they were to catch the bus.

‘Why couldn't we go in the car with Uncle Frank?' asked Fran, trailing along behind her mother.

‘Because he's the bridegroom. You can't go in the car with the bridegroom. There wouldn't have been room, anyway. Mr Wallace was with him.'

‘Well, I wouldn't have liked to squash up against Mr Wallace.' Fran wrinkled her nose. ‘I really, really don't like him.'

Margaret sighed. ‘And you certainly let it show,' she said. ‘Try and be more polite when you meet him today.'

‘I don't know why he had to be Uncle Frank's best man. You'd have thought he could have had anybody. Why couldn't he have had you?'

‘Because they don't have “best women”, Fran. You know that perfectly well.'

‘But you're his best friend. At least, I thought you were, till he met the Elephant.'

‘Stop calling her that, Fran. One of these days you're going to say it to her face.'

‘Serve her right for marrying Uncle Frank.' Fran looked warily at her mother's set face, wondering if she'd gone too far.

‘It's hardly appropriate, anyway. She's tiny. And you mind your manners. I don't want everyone thinking how badly I've brought you up.'

‘Sorry, Mum.' Fran slipped her hand into her mother's. ‘And you've done a brilliant job of bringing me up. So's Uncle Frank.'

‘Uncle Frank hasn't actually brought you up,' said Margaret, her smile wry as she looked into her daughter's eager face.

‘He helped, though. Living upstairs.'

‘Of course he did.' Margaret gave Fran's hand a little squeeze. ‘So we'd better not be late for his wedding, had we? Come on, or we'll miss the bus.'

It wasn't the fairy-tale wedding Fran would have liked. For a start, the bride was wearing a little suit not unlike the one her mother was wearing, although Margaret had made her own and Eleanor's was obviously shop bought and much more expensive. They both had little boxy jackets with enlarged peter-pan collars, though Margaret's skirt was full and feminine, whereas Eleanor's was straight and sophisticated. Eleanor wore a little pill-box hat with a bit of blue veil matching her suit, and carried a prayer-book and a small sheaf of lilies. There were two bridesmaids, one a girl of about her own age with long, straight, mousey hair and another younger girl with bright red curly hair and a scowl. They wore plain pink cotton dresses and white lace gloves. Fran had hoped she might be asked to be a bridesmaid, but seeing these two in their plain, uninspired outfits, she was glad she hadn't.

The reception was held in the church hall next door, and, as it was such a hot day, they were allowed to spill out into what Fran was told was the “garth” behind. The garth was just a large enclosed, grassy area, where someone had set up a wallpaper table with a variety of bottles and glasses.

‘Bar's open, folks,' shouted Uncle Frank, as he appeared with his bride on his arm. ‘On me.'

Fran found her mother a seat, then looked up to see a good-looking boy of about fourteen offering a tray.

‘Wine or fruit cup?' he said.

‘Thank you,' said Margaret. ‘We'll have fruit cup.'

Fran would have liked to try the wine, but smiled at the boy anyway, and took two glasses of fruit cup.

‘I'm Charles, Aunt Eleanor's nephew,' he said.

‘I'm Margaret Bridges,' said Margaret, ‘Frank's sister-in-law, and this is his niece, Frances.'

Charles politely offered his hand to them both. ‘I hope I see you later, then,' he said, and moved away with his tray.

‘Nice boy,' said Margaret, peering after him.

‘Bit of a square,' said Fran.

‘Because he has nice manners?' Margaret raised her eyebrows.

Fran shrugged. ‘And his clothes.'

‘I expect he's dressed in a suit because it's a wedding. Wasn't he one of the ushers?'

‘Was he? I didn't notice,' said Fran, sipping her punch, which, predictably, was warm.

And then Uncle Frank was there, pushing his bride in front of him, smiling at both of them.

‘My three favourite girls,' he said, trying to sound hearty, but Fran knew him too well, and knew he was as uncomfortable as she and her mother were.

Eleanor, small, pale and fragile-looking, smiled tremulously. Fran saw her mother smile back and tried to do the same.

‘I'm so pleased to have a sister,' said Eleanor, in a breathy little voice. ‘And a new niece, of course.'

‘Sister-in-law, actually,' said Frank. ‘Margaret was married to Herbert.'

‘Oh, I know, darling, but at least Frances is your real niece, isn't she?'

Frank winked at Fran. ‘I hope so,' he said. ‘Enjoying yourself, Franny?'

‘Yes, thank you, Uncle.'

‘Good, good,' he said, and taking her elbow, turned Eleanor away. ‘Must circulate, you know.'

But he looked back at them as he walked away, and Fran saw his face. She looked at her mother, whose own face was as closed as she had ever seen it.

‘We don't like Eleanor, do we?' she whispered.

Margaret looked as if she'd come back from a long way away. ‘Not much. But we mustn't be rude.'

‘No, you've said that already,' said Fran. ‘But I'm going to hate having her in the house.'

‘She won't be with us. She'll be with Uncle Frank in the upstairs flat. We'll hardly see her.'

‘Does that mean we'll hardly see Uncle Frank, either?'

‘Well, not as much. We can't expect to, can we? Not now he's got a new family.'

‘Family?' Fran was horrified. ‘He's not going to have children, is he?'

‘I don't know. Eleanor's older than me, but she's still able to have children, I'm sure. And most women want babies.' Margaret looked across at the happy couple, now the centre of a group whom she took to be Eleanor's family. She saw the boy Charles look across at Fran.

‘Oh, Mum, I can't bear it.' Fran sank down on the grass at her mother's feet. ‘Not babies. Uncle Frank's always had me.'

‘He still will have,' said Margaret, patting her daughter's shoulder. ‘Don't worry. Things are bound to change, but we'll cope.'

‘Christmas won't be the same,' mourned Fran. ‘He won't be with us, will he?'

Margaret sighed. ‘No, darling, he won't.'

Fran looked across at the group of Eleanor's family. ‘I hate them,' she said, ‘and I hate it here, too. Can't we go home, now?'

‘After the speeches,' said Margaret, who didn't look too happy herself.

‘Why don't we know anyone here?' asked Fran, after a moment. ‘Where are all Uncle Frank's friends?'

‘Coming later, perhaps,' said Margaret, with another sigh.

Sure enough, a little later, Uncle Frank's friends from the Conservative Club and the golf club appeared, looking as uncomfortable as Margaret and Fran. They formed a circle round them and Fran felt more secure. Why Uncle Frank couldn't have chosen one of these nice men she'd known nearly all her life as a best man instead of that awful Wallace person, she couldn't think.

At last, Eleanor's father made a speech, Mr Wallace made a worse one and finally Uncle Frank said a few, a very few, words. Then they were free to go.

‘Come on littl'un,' said Joe, the secretary of the Conservative Club. ‘I'll give you and your mum a lift home. All right, Mrs Bridges?'

‘Thanks, Joe,' said Margaret, smiling gratefully. ‘Have you got room? I wasn't looking forward to the bus.'

‘Got the Humber, haven't I? Plenty of room for me and the missus and you two. Come on then. Let's get cracking.'

‘Shouldn't we have said goodbye to Uncle Frank?' whispered Fran, as they made their way through the church hall, where a quartet of ageing musicians were desperately trying to play a Cliff and The Shadows medley.

‘Better to just slip out,' whispered back Margaret. ‘We'll see him when he comes back from honeymoon, won't we?'

Fran felt undignified tears behind her eyes and a horrible lump in her throat. She nodded, unable to speak, and followed her mother out of the hall.

Chapter Six

‘
C
HARLES?
I
T'S
F
RAN
. I'
VE
just got back from The Laurels.'

Fran eased off one shoe holding the receiver under her chin.

‘Oh. Right.'

‘And I'm sure I'm right.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘There's something wrong.'

Fran heard Charles sigh. ‘Look, Fran, I was there, I told you. It was a perfectly normal death.'

‘I know. But apparently there was somebody else there as well?'

‘Yes, Barbara and Paul Denver. My cousin and her son. I told you.'

‘Did you always go together?' Fran finally kicked off the other shoe with a sigh of relief.

‘No – it was because it was Eleanor's birthday.'

‘Did you take her a present?'

‘Yes, I took flowers. I don't know what Barbara took. Why?'

Fran thought for a moment. ‘Just wondered. I don't really know much about Eleanor, do I?'

Charles laughed. ‘Or me, come to that. I could have been anybody, phoning the other day.'

‘Oh, no. I knew who you were.' Fran had been quite certain as soon as she heard his voice. ‘And we had met before, after all.'

‘Forty years ago, yes.' There was a pause. ‘Look, why don't we meet and I can fill you in on the details. It would be nice to see you again.'

‘We'll see each other at the funeral, won't we? You offered me a lift.'

‘And what about meeting before then?'

‘When did you have in mind?'

‘Are you too tired this evening?'

Fran looked at the clock. ‘No – but I've only just got in and I haven't eaten yet.'

‘Dinner then. There's a very nice little bistro near you. I've been there several times.'

‘The Poule au Pot? Yes, it is good.' Fran didn't say that she had never been able to afford to eat there, but had gazed longingly through the windows on several occasions. ‘What time?'

‘Half past seven? Shall I collect you?'

‘No, I'll meet you there.' Fran scowled at the cracked lino and the wheezing gas fire.

‘Fine. Seven thirty then. Will we recognise each other after all this time?'

‘No idea,' said Fran cheerfully. ‘Should be interesting, shouldn't it?'

‘Very.' Charles laughed. ‘See you later.'

Fran put down the receiver and went to the window. It was dark now, and the wet pavements were gleaming with reflected light. Through the ill-fitting frame came the hiss of tyres on the road, the sound of returning workers at the end of a long day. What were they going home to, wondered Fran. Family gathered around the television? Children glued to computer screens? A microwaved meal while the other partner rushed off to aerobics or creative writing classes? She smiled and drew the thin cotton curtains across the glass. Or were they going to have a bath in a rusting tub and get ready for a meal out with a cousin they hardly remembered?

Meanwhile, the sudden emergence into her life of long-lost relatives, even dead ones, was a welcome diversion. And a change from beans on toast for supper.

The Poule au Pot was a hangover from the late sixties. It still had red and white checked tablecloths, candles stuffed into straw-covered Chianti bottles and a menu redolent of the era. Prawn cocktail, beef bourguignon and Black Forest gateau had been retained at the behest of the clientele, despite several changes of ownership and the fads and fancies of fashionable cooks and cooking. In fact, Fran knew from reading the magazines while she lurked in the paper shop, it was coming back into fashion, as, indeed, her rather down-at-heel area of London was itself. Nowhere would escape if it boasted a London postcode, which unfortunately meant that the prices were rising almost daily. When her landlord caught on, she knew she would no longer be able to afford even the Betjeman flat.

Charles was sitting at a table at the side of the room, underneath a large and somewhat romanticised depiction of French peasants disporting themselves in a cornfield. His grey head – grey! – was bent over a menu.

‘Hello, Charles.' She sat down opposite him as he tried to struggle to his feet. ‘Don't get up.'

He subsided and sat back in his bentwood chair. ‘Fran,' he said. ‘You haven't changed much.'

‘Rubbish. I was a child then, and now I look like my mother.' She looked at him consideringly. ‘You've changed. Your hair's grey.'

He looked amused. ‘You're very direct, aren't you?'

‘Not always.' Fran looked down at her hands. ‘I can dissemble beautifully if I have to.'

‘Oh? And you feel you don't have to with me?'

Fran looked up and grinned. ‘I don't do I? I knew that. But I did at The Laurels.'

‘Before we go into that, have a look at the menu.' Charles handed it over. ‘What would you like to drink?'

When they had given their order and both had a glass of a robust red vin de table in front of them, Charles started again.

‘Now. Tell me all about The Laurels.'

Fran took a sip of wine and leaned back in her chair. ‘Do you mean tell you exactly what I did there and who I met?'

‘Yes. And try and explain again why you went.'

‘That's difficult.' Fran frowned into her glass. ‘It just came over me when you phoned. I felt suffocated. And then there was this absolute conviction that I had to go there. That's all I can say. And then …' she looked up, ‘I got the same feeling again. When I was in her room.'

‘Which feeling?'

‘The suffocating feeling. I made a fool of myself I'm afraid, but they put it down to shock and grief. I felt a complete fraud.'

‘Start at the beginning.' Charles leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. ‘I'm fascinated.'

Fran told him everything from her arrival at The Laurels to her departure, including her dream on the train. When she had finished and the waiter had served their respective starters of pate and soup, Charles poured more wine into their glasses.

‘Did you say that Barbara had cleared the room?'

‘Yes.' Fran spooned up some onion soup. ‘Except for a few dresses in the wardrobe.'

‘The bureau wasn't there?' Charles was frowning.

Fran shook her head and swallowed. ‘Nothing. Even the television belonged to The Laurels.'

Charles stared absently at the French Peasants above him. ‘No bureau. That was quick.'

‘No bureau.' Fran put down her spoon. ‘Is it important?'

‘Her will was in the bureau.'

‘Ah. Fairly important, then.'

Charles shrugged and spread pate onto a corner of toast. ‘I expect there's a copy at her solicitors' office – whoever they are.'

‘Don't you know?'

‘No, I don't, although I ought to. The solicitors wrote to me when she told me years ago she'd made me her executor. I think she was old-fashioned enough not to trust Barbara because she was a woman and at the time, Paul was too young.'

Fran pushed away her soup plate and rested her chin on her hands. ‘Is there much to leave?'

‘The Mountville Road house.' Charles looked up at her and grinned. ‘Where you grew up.'

Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Did it still belong to Uncle Frank, then? Old bugger. Must be worth a fortune now.'

‘A three-storey Victorian semi in a sought after inner London suburb? I should say so.' Charles was crumbling his last slice of toast. Fran gave him a shrewd look.

‘So that's why you're anxious about the will? To see what she's left you?'

Faint colour appeared along Charles's cheekbones. ‘Not entirely.' He sat back in his chair and picked up his wineglass. ‘I'm the executor. I need to know what I've got to execute.'

‘So, do this Barbara and Paul get anything?'

‘I would imagine so. Eleanor always treated Barbara and me equally. She spoilt Paul, though.'

‘You sound bitter.' Fran topped up her own wine glass.

‘She didn't do anything for my daughter. I suppose I am.'

Fran was surprised. ‘I didn't know you had a daughter.'

He looked up with a smile. ‘Kate.'

‘Goodness.' She chuckled. ‘What a lot I don't know.'

‘Have you any children?'

Fran nodded. ‘Jeremy's in New York being terribly high-powered and Chrissie's married. Lucy was married, and has two children, Rachel and Tom.'

‘Lucky you.' He looked up as a waiter appeared with an armful of vegetable dishes. Their empty starter plates were whisked away and Fran was soon inhaling the fragrant beef bourguignon in the rustic
marmite
before her.

‘Do you know Nethergate well?' Fran speared a piece of meat and closed her eyes as she put it into her mouth. Delicious.

‘Very well. That's where our side of the family come from. I lived in Steeple Mount when I was a child and went to school in Nethergate until I was eleven.'

‘Steeple Mount? Near Steeple Martin?' Fran's eyes were wide. ‘I don't believe it.'

He grinned and Fran noticed how his blue eyes seemed to grow warmer. Ridiculous. She'd always scoffed at the idea of the eyes containing expression. It was merely the arrangement of the skin around them.

‘It's the Nether valley. The river Wytch runs through the valley from Steeple Martin to Steeple Mount, then on past Up Nethergate at the top of the cliffs and comes out at Nethergate at the bottom.'

‘That's where I met my friend Libby yesterday. I didn't see much of it, though.'

‘It's lovely.' He grinned at her. ‘Pure storybook stuff. Sand and tea shops and caves. Just the place for the grandchildren.'

‘I didn't think children were into that sort of stuff these days.' Fran helped herself to more broccoli. ‘I thought they just wanted theme parks and computer games.'

‘You'd be surprised. Anyway, the adults love the nostalgia of it all. The whole place is in a bit of a time warp – you must have noticed.'

‘I know. Libby lives in Steeple Martin. That's where I stayed last night. I was only saying to her that she lives in a Golden Age detective story.'

Charles looked slightly puzzled.

‘Anyway, that's why you put her down there instead of London, is it?' Fran sat back to make room for another mouthful.

‘That and the fact that Barbara and Paul live near there.'

‘So I understand. And my friend Libby knows them. Or of them, anyway.'

‘Really? Coincidence.'

‘Isn't it?' Fran pushed a pea around her plate. She didn't want to get in to Libby's descriptions of the Denver family.

‘Yes.' Charles put his knife and fork neatly together. ‘So now you've caught up on the situation you can tell me what's been happening to you since you grew up.'

Fran told him. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, despite the fact that he looked more like a typical city gent than the sort of person she normally consorted with. And older. She was used to younger people. Chrissie would approve of him, she thought. Chrissie had always hoped that she would suddenly morph herself into the blue rinse and Barbour jacket suitable for a putative grandmother and Charles matched that image.

‘So.' They had ordered coffee and Charles sat back, stirring his thoughtfully. ‘You've told me everything except the reason for these suffocating feelings. Presumably you're a – what, a psychic?'

Fran bridled. ‘I'm nothing of the sort. I don't know what all that was about.' She took a deep breath. ‘And it was very embarrassing, let me tell you.'

‘Then how do you explain this suffocating feeling? Or how you knew I was the genuine article when I called you?'

‘Intuition?' She looked up. ‘Instinct? I don't know. The children always called them “Mother's Moments”.'

‘So you've had them before?'

Fran shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘Sort of. Just – you know – telling the children to be careful just before something happened. Or knowing who was on the phone before I answered it. Sort of thing that happens to everybody.'

‘Hmm.' Charles was still stirring his coffee. ‘And it was because of one of these “Moments” that you went hotfoot off to The Laurels.'

‘Sounds silly, doesn't it?' Fran laughed, embarrassed. ‘I expect it was guilt, like that Mrs Headlam said.'

‘Nice woman, Marion Headlam.'

‘Nice?' Fran frowned. ‘I suppose she was all right. Terribly mercenary, I would have thought.'

‘Oh, undoubtedly. But good at what she does. Attractive, as well.'

Fran hitched a shoulder. ‘Do you think so?' she asked coolly.

‘Oh, yes. Very well-groomed.' Charles gazed up at the Peasants again.

Fran put her coffee cup down sharply and realised that he was staring at something distinctly Rabelaisian behind a haystack. He looked back at her and quirked an eyebrow. She blushed.

‘Yes, well,' she said, clearing her throat. ‘You'll see her again at the funeral. Apparently she attends all clients' funerals.'

‘I suppose I'll have to sort that out, won't I?' Charles looked worried. ‘I think it's my job, isn't it? As executor?'

Fran stared. ‘How would I know? I've never been one. I organised my mother's funeral, but that was simple. She was living with me when she died.'

‘Perhaps I'd better go down there. Oh, God, I knew this wasn't going to be simple.' He scowled and called for the bill.

‘When will you go?' Fran picked up her bag and dropped the complimentary mint chocolates inside.

‘Tomorrow, I suppose.' Charles sighed and signed the check with a flourish.

‘Could I come with you? I'd like to meet Barbara.'

Charles looked surprised. ‘Why?'

‘I don't know. We could ask about the bureau.'

‘We?'

‘Well, you could, then. Find the will.'