Murder in Midwinter (23 page)

After half an hour of vigorous table tennis, Libby gave up and shut him in the conservatory. After retrieving the baubles Sidney had knocked into various corners of the room, she hung them on the tree and switched on the lights. Just garish enough, she told herself, as she stood back and gave it the once over. Then the cut out felt stockings were pinned to the mantelpiece and the effect was complete. Sidney was allowed in to give his opinion, and after tapping the baubles he could reach and finding them intransigent, he turned his back and began to wash.

Libby contemplated lighting the fire to complete the picture, but decided it was too early. In fact, it was only lunchtime, and the rest of the day stretched ahead without even a rehearsal to look forward to. Wondering if there was anything she could do for Peter and Harry, whose wedding was now only a week away, or for Hetty, who would be busy organising the Christmas Party, she phoned them both, and discovered that nothing was outstanding.

‘You can come and have bowl of soup with me, though,’ said Harry. ‘I haven’t got a “do” on this lunchtime and I’m bored. Pete’s in London.’

‘OK, that’d be nice,’ said Libby. ‘Ben’s doing estate business with his dad, and his mum obviously didn’t want me getting under her feet while she organises the party.’

‘Oh, yes, the great party. I’m doing some little bits and pieces for it.’

‘When will you have time?’

‘I’m here in the kitchen most of the weekend, course I’ll have time,’ said Harry. ‘Now, are you coming down or what?’

Libby gathered up her cloak, a scarf and her basket and said goodbye to Sidney. The air was damply cool, the sky a muddy grey and puddles lay down the middle of Allhallow’s Lane in the tyre ruts. Once in the High Street, though, lights twinkled in shops and on Christmas trees glimpsed through cottage windows. In many of those windows were the professional-looking posters for
Jack and the Beanstalk
, and Ahmed’s display in the eight-til-late looked wonderful.

In The Pink Geranium Harry had a tasteful tree decorated with dried chillies, raffia and other natural ingredients, and artistically arranged bunches of holly, ivy and mistletoe hung from the ceiling and wall lights.

‘Aren’t they an environmental health hazard?’ asked Libby, unwrapping her cloak.

‘If they are, no one’s told me,’ said Harry cheerfully. ‘Lentil soup, honeychile?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Libby, sitting on the sofa in the window. ‘And can I still smoke in here?’

‘Only if no one else is in here. And after July next year, never,’ said Harry, going into the kitchen. ‘Want a glass of wine? I’ve got some red open.’

Libby told him the latest developments in Fran’s investigations. ‘I don’t feel part of this one,’ she said. ‘Connell asked Fran to look into it but didn’t want me around, and now he’s actually offered to take Fran to all these places, she’s official. And probably can’t discuss them with me.’

‘I thought you said she told you all about yesterday’s shenanigans?’

‘Well, yes, she did,’ admitted Libby reluctantly, ‘but I don’t expect she was supposed to.’

‘And she still wants you to help, doesn’t she?’

‘Only like a – a – oh, I don’t know. Like a research assistant. I’m expected to go through all these old newspapers, and I haven’t got a clue what I’m looking for.’ She sighed and took a sip of wine. ‘It’s got nothing to do with Laurence Cooper, anyway. It’s all Bella Morleigh’s family history.’

‘I thought,’ said Harry, helping himself to one of Libby’s cigarettes, ‘the dashing Inspector Connell thought there
was
a connection. That’s why he asked Fran to do her voodoo that she does so well.’

‘That was the idea, but there’s no connection at all, as far as I can see. So Fran’s just looking into Bella’s family for interest’s sake. Bella isn’t even down here, so I don’t know why we’re bothering.’

‘Don’t, then. Bother, I mean.’ Harry stood up. ‘But I bet those old newspapers are fascinating. I wonder why the old auntie kept them?’

‘Fran thinks there must be something of value in them. Can’t see it myself.’

‘I’ll have a look through if you like,’ said Harry. ‘And now I’m going to get the soup, so sit yourself down at the table like a good girl.’

‘When would you have the time to look through old newspapers?’ asked Libby, when they were seated with bowls of lentil soup and hunks of fresh bread.

‘After work. I need to relax sometimes by doing something totally different.’ Harry sipped wine reflectively. ‘And at the moment as soon as I finish work, the wedding takes over. It would be good to do something else.’

Libby shook her head. ‘I still say you won’t have time. And the wedding’s next weekend, isn’t it? Maybe after Christmas. Pete’ll get all caught up in the panto and the caff’ll go quiet.’

‘I thought it would all be over by then,’ said Harry.

‘Not Bella’s family investigations. The murder might be. I don’t know anything about that, and they might have a suspect already.’

‘Fran would have told you.’

‘Hmm. Well, they’ve ruled out Danny, anyway.’

‘Do you know that definitely?’

‘He certainly didn’t murder sister Dorothy,’ said Libby.

‘That’s a comfort,’ said Harry.

After the soup, Harry brought out a large piece of banana bread, some of which had played quite a part in Libby’s unwise investigations into the death of Fran’s aunt last summer.

‘How about I come back with you and have a quick look at some of those papers?’ he suggested. ‘I haven’t got any prepping up to do until later, and Pete’s off doing something or other today.’

‘You’re really keen on those old papers, aren’t you?’ said Libby, licking crumbs off her fingers. ‘Yeah, come back if you like.’

A brisk wind had sprung up while they were eating lunch, and it whipped Harry’s blond spiky hair into even wilder spikes, and tangled his pink scarf with Libby’s multi-coloured one. ‘Cold,’ he muttered, thrusting his hands deeper into his jacket pockets.

‘Should have worn something warmer,’ said Libby, tucking her arm through his.

‘I only have to walk about fifty yards to work in the mornings,’ said Harry. ‘I didn’t think I’d be going on a hike into the past with a batty old woman.’

‘Your idea,’ said Libby, unsympathetically.

Libby lit the fire in the front room while Harry put the kettle on the Rayburn. Sidney rolled on his back in appreciation.

‘These them, then?’ Harry picked up the pile of newspapers from beside the computer on the table in the window.

‘That’s them,’ said Libby. ‘Ben and I have been through some. Maria wasn’t born until 1914, so we didn’t think it was worth looking before then.’

‘These aren’t even in date order,’ said Harry, with a frown.

‘They weren’t when we found them,’ said Libby, going into the kitchen to make the tea. ‘Not something I’ve found the time or energy to do.’

‘I will,’ said Harry. ‘Let me take them home with me. I can spend a nice mindless half hour in the evenings doing this. Just the sort of thing that appeals to my sense of order.’

‘I didn’t know you had one,’ said Libby, bringing teapot, mugs and milk on a tray. ‘Although, come to think of it, you are very organised in the caff.’

‘And at home. When did you ever see Peter tidy anything away? Or make tea?’

‘Never, I suppose,’ said Libby, ‘but I always expect him to be organised, being a journo and all that.’

‘Take it from me, he isn’t,’ said Harry. ‘And who, pray tell, organised the bloody wedding that was all his idea?’

‘That’s true,’ said Libby. ‘You’re full of surprises, you know that?’

Harry winked. ‘Not ’arf,’ he said.

He had gone by the time Ben arrived from the other end of Allhallow’s Lane, coat collar turned up and nose slightly red.

‘Harry’s going to look through those old papers for me,’ said Libby, hanging up his coat. ‘He says he needs a bit of relaxation.’

‘Too right he does,’ said Ben, rubbing his hands in front of the fire. ‘He does far too much, that lad. Pete runs him ragged.’

‘Oh, he doesn’t,’ protested Libby, ‘at least, not on purpose.’

‘Not on purpose, no,’ said Ben, ‘but Pete has all the ideas and Harry has to carry them out.’

‘The wedding,’ nodded Libby.

‘Yes, the wedding, also the caff, the cottage –’

‘How do you mean, the cottage? I thought that was already Pete’s?’

‘When Millie gutted the kitchen at Steeple Farm Pete was going to let all that lovely stuff go to a firm of house clearers, or the skip. It was Harry who stepped in to rescue it.’

‘I didn’t know,’ said Libby.

‘And Pete was supposed to be an active partner in The Pink Geranium, but what have you seen him do?’

‘Well, he waits on tables, sometimes.’

‘More often just sits in the corner reading the paper.’

‘You’re not being very nice to your cousin,’ said Libby reprovingly.

‘I adore my cousin Pete, and in a crisis I would always turn to him. He’s clever, generous and kind, but thoughtless. If you point these things out to him it’s like kicking a puppy.’

‘He doesn’t realise?’ said Libby, pouring tea.

‘Not at all. Has the ideas, and then when they come to fruition, thinks it’s all down to him.’

‘Well, in a way it is,’ said Libby, curling up on the creaky sofa. ‘Harry would never have suggested the caff, would he? Or getting partnered.’

‘True, O queen,’ said Ben. ‘Nevertheless, our Hal does all the work. What he wants to be doing with going through old newspapers I can’t think.’

‘That’s just what I said,’ agreed Libby. ‘Must be mad.’

‘So, do you expect to hear from Fran tonight?’ asked Ben, idly stroking Sidney with a foot.

‘No idea. It’s a long way to Richmond. She and Connell might go for a meal on the way home.’

‘You think so? I wouldn’t have thought he would let personal life in while he’s working.’

‘It’s hardly personal, is it? You have to eat.’ Libby frowned. ‘I just hope Fran doesn’t get carried away with him. Guy’s been sitting so patiently on the sidelines.’

‘Look, Lib, you can’t dictate people’s love lives. If Fran doesn’t like Guy as much as she likes Connell, although I can’t see why, either, she’s under no obligation to him, is she?’

‘I know that,’ said Libby, ‘I’m not stupid. When Derek went off with his floosie it was no use people saying how stupid he was, he was convinced she was the love of his life.’

‘There you are then,’ said Ben, ‘and anyway, has she actually said she likes Connell better than Guy?’

‘No-o,’ admitted Libby. ‘I just get that feeling.’

‘Well, I’d leave her to sort out her feelings, without you interfering,’ said Ben. ‘You’re not that good at sorting your own out, after all.’

‘Gee thanks,’ said Libby.

Fran’s spirits got lower and lower the nearer they got to Steeple Martin. Eventually, plucking up courage, she cleared her throat and asked Connell to stop at a service station.

‘I need milk, you see,’ she said, ‘and the eight-til-late will be closed when I get home.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly. ‘What about food? Do you need a supermarket?’

‘No, I’ve got eggs and things,’ she said. ‘I’ll be all right until tomorrow.’

‘Would you like to stop for a meal?’ Fran got the impression that the words were forced out of him. ‘I should have thought of it before.’

‘No, please don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve got food at home.’

He turned a quick smile on her. ‘Ah, but I haven’t,’ he said. ‘Take pity on me and keep me company.’

Fran was glad of the darkness in the car as she blushed. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘That would be nice.’

It wasn’t until they were drawing up in the car park of a country pub that Fran realised with a jolt that she didn’t know if he was married. There had naturally been no reason for anyone to have provided this information, and although one or two people had said they thought he was interested, that didn’t mean he was available.

The pub provided basic and unremarkable food, for which Connell apologised. ‘I should have gone somewhere I knew,’ he said, providing her with the gin and tonic she’d asked for.

‘But that would have meant going on further,’ said Fran.

He nodded. ‘And you must be hungry. All we’ve had all day is that sandwich.’

‘And biscuits at HQ,’ reminded Fran.

‘Very sustaining,’ he said, with a grin. ‘So tell me, now we’re well away from the place, any ideas?’

Fran thought about it. ‘All I can come up with is a connection to Anderson Place, which, as you said, is obvious as he worked there. But there is another connection, I’m sure. Those photographs of him and Dorothy when they were children. Why were they there?’

Connell shook his head and poked at his indifferent meat pie. ‘No connection to Mrs Morleigh’s family, then?’

‘Not that I can find at the moment,’ said Fran. ‘But don’t forget, I’m certainly not infallible, and I haven’t investigated this sort of thing before.’

‘You did with your aunt’s death,’ said Connell.

‘Only because it was forced on me,’ said Fran, feeling rather uncomfortable.

‘But you’ve investigated other things,’ persisted Connell.

‘Nothing like this,’ said Fran.

‘I gather you turned up one or two murders for Goodall and Smythe.’ He sent her a sly grin.

‘But not solving them. They’d just occurred, that’s all.’ Fran frowned at him. ‘And how did you know?’

‘I had to check you out, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘No,’ he added hastily as she opened her mouth, ‘don’t get upset. We always have to do it. You could have been a fraud.’

‘I still could be,’ said Fran grumpily.

‘I don’t think so.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘Well, I wish I could say that was a great meal, but I can’t. Sorry.’

Fran smiled. ‘Don’t worry. It was better than the plain omelette I would have had at home.’

‘And better than my beer and cheese. I don’t even know if I’ve got any bread.’ He laughed. ‘You can tell I live on my own, can’t you?’

Well, that answers that question, Fran thought, watching him as he paid the waitress. And should it matter to me, anyway?

‘I’ll buy you a decent meal to make up for it,’ he said as he held the passenger door for her. ‘If you’re free, of course.’