Murder in Midwinter - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 14

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’

  Libby frowned. ‘Just different, I suppose. Not very – er –’

  ‘Not very you,’ finished Fran, with a smile. ‘Now I’m a bit more you.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Libby looked embarrassed. ‘Getting back to Bella and Laurence.’

  ‘I’ll do a little more research on Maria’s papers for Bella and if anything occurs to me about Laurence, all well and good,’ said Fran, ‘but I don’t see that there’s anything else I should be doing.’

  ‘Not even for Danny? You wanted to see him.’

  ‘Because Harry asked me to. Not my idea. If Danny comes up with anything, I’ll see what happens.’

  Libby looked at her from under her eyebrows. ‘Hmm,’ she said.

  ‘Right, I’m off, then. Not much point in me coming round, was there? You could have read all that to me over the phone.’ Fran stood up and reached for her coat.

  ‘I thought you might want to research further and I don’t know how,’ said Libby. ‘You could have said no.’

  Fran stopped with one arm in a sleeve. ‘Are we having a row?’ she said.

  Libby stuck her chin up. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Fran continues putting on her coat. ‘I don’t expect it will be the last,’ she said with a sigh. ‘See you at rehearsal.’

  Libby glowered at her and went to open the front door.

  ‘Cheer up, Lib. You’ll still be in on anything I do find out.’ Fran gave her a kiss on the cheek and set off down Allhallow’s Lane in the dark.

  And what about what I find out? thought Libby, as she shut the door. She went and collected the tea mugs and stood staring at the computer screen, which was now dark. Putting the mugs down, she pressed a key and the history of Anderson Place reappeared. Where could she go from there?

  She typed William Anderson into the search engine, but nothing relevant appeared. Jonathan Walker, however, produced a few items, but they all related to Anderson Place or hotels, and occasionally to the use of the Place in a film or television series. Laurence Cooper produced nothing. Following some obscure train of thought, she typed in Andrew Morleigh, and was surprised when he came up as a partner in a company of financial advisors with several branches in London and within the M25 envelope. So not exactly poor, then. Switching off the computer, Libby took the mugs through to the kitchen and rang Ben.

  ‘I just feel so pushed aside,’ she said, after explaining what had happened. ‘We’ve been the ones who welcomed Fran down here and found her somewhere to live, and now she’s got all this money she doesn’t need us any more. And she wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t us. And if it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t even been buying Coastguard Cottage. She wouldn’t even know about it.’

  ‘All right, Lib, all right,’ said Ben in a soothing voice. ‘I’m sure if she thought you felt like that she’d be horrified. We were all thrilled for her when she came into the money, weren’t we? You’re not jealous, are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Libby, squashing a horrible little flutter in her stomach which acknowledged that this was probably not the truth. ‘I just feel sidelined.’

  ‘Because she doesn’t feel she should be investigating any more you feel sidelined? I don’t get that.’

  Libby frowned. ‘I can’t explain it. I feel she’s in charge, and – well, I suppose I don’t like it.’

  Ben chuckled. ‘You’re in charge at the theatre, aren’t you? You can give her hell tonight and make yourself feel better.’

  Libby laughed reluctantly. ‘As if I would,’ she said. ‘I’m being pathetic, aren’t I?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ said Ben. ‘Go on. I’ll see you later. And forget about Bella and Laurence and Danny. Concentrate on Jack and the Beanstalk and the wicked Baron.’

  ‘All right, wicked Baron,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE DANCERS WERE DEMONSTRATING that Happy Days Were Here Again all over the stage in unitards and leg warmers that Libby thought had gone out with Irene Cara. The rehearsal pianist, who was also the musical director, was shouting at them, as was the choreographer. The dancers were, apparently, taking notice of neither.

  ‘How did the meeting with Danny go?’

  Libby swung round to face Peter.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Harry told me.’ He grinned and chucked her under the chin. ‘Can’t keep anything from me, the silly boy. Are you going to help?’

  ‘That’s debatable,’ said Libby, throwing her cape onto the back of one of the seats.

  ‘Surely you’re not losing interest?’ Peter unwound his scarf and bent a sardonic gaze on her.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Libby was indignant. ‘But I think Fran is.’

  Peter raised his eyebrows. ‘Dear, dear. Fed up with us, is she?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Libby, although remembering Peter’s attitude when Fran first came among them, she thought she knew.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Peter shrugged. ‘But she won’t be in Steeple Martin for much longer, will she?’

  ‘She’ll only be in Nethergate.’ Now, illogically, Libby wanted to stand up for Fran.

  ‘And apart from last summer’s little escapade, how often do you go to Nethergate?’

  ‘When I need to see Guy. And Ben’s taken me to The Sloop.’

  ‘Once? And how often will Fran need to come here?’

  ‘Whenever she wants to see us – me. And I’ll go there.’

  ‘Not the same as living within walking distance, is it?’ said Peter, sitting down and propping his long legs on the back of the seats in front. ‘Can’t pop out for a drink together.’

  Libby sent him a fulminating look and stomped off to the stage.

  ‘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 kno
w 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.’