Death by the Sea

by Vera Morris

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Thorpeness, 1973. Wrongly exiled from London, Judge Neville Hanmer sought solace and a quiet life on the Suffolk coast. But then a face from the past unexpectedly resurfaces and he turns to The Anglian Detective Agency for help. Laurel, Frank, and the rest of the team are busier than ever trying to solve the mysterious theft of rare plants from Yoxford Hall Gardens. But when Judge Hanmer doesn't show for their meeting, they find themselves embroiled in yet another case - one that will take them to darker places than they've ever been before. With Laurel and Frank's relationship see-sawing out of control, can the team uncover the truth before it's too late? Or will a depraved killer succeed and separate Laurel and Frank forever?

Release date: October 27, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 256

Sample

Friday, 13 April, 1973

Judge Neville Hanmer, sitting on the loggia of his bungalow in Thorpeness, shivered. The air was cooling after a sunny morning and a stealthy breeze was creeping in from the North Sea. The local people still addressed him as Judge, but he no longer deserved the title; it was as false as calling this house a bungalow, for it had three stories and five bedrooms.

He went inside and sniffed; the smell of the meal Mrs Hegarty had cooked him lingered, mixed with the more pleasant smell of paint from the watercolour he’d finished before lunch. The drying colour washes always reminded him of damp beach towels. In the sitting room, light pouring in through the uncurtained window, he examined his work. He’d painted from a sketch of fishing boats beached on the Aldeburgh shore. He nodded, yes, he’d caught the scintillations from the recently rained-on shingle. Not a bad effort.

How he wished he’d never gone into the Art Gallery in Aldeburgh, never met Tucker, never bought any paintings from him. That association had been his downfall. Although he swore to them he’d never accepted the frequent invitations to visit Tucker’s house for the weekend, they didn’t believe him. He was forced to retire. He hadn’t been given a choice.

The smell of lunch won over the smell of paint. It had been a rather fatty lamb stew, more mutton than lamb. Mrs Hegarty’s cooking was adequate, but rather plain and uninspired. ‘Goodbye, Judge,’ she called after washing the dishes. ‘Remember, I won’t be in on Monday. See you Tuesday.’ She lived in Aldeburgh and cycled from there each day, to wash, clean and to cook lunch for him, if he was in. He liked her and her cheerful chatter; on some days she was the only person he talked to. He opened the kitchen window.

Time for his usual walk. He put on a tweed jacket and red woollen scarf, pausing before the hall mirror and trying unsuccessfully to smooth his crinkly hair, once dark and thick, but now thinning and shot with grey. But, not bad for seventy-one, he thought, at least his eyebrows were dark and he hadn’t run to fat, like some of his contemporaries. He shook his head; what use was his charm and wit now? Living here, isolated from his beloved courts and the companionship of his fellow lawyers and judges. He picked up his Malacca cane from the umbrella stand, opened the front door and stepped down into the garden, and out onto The Benthills, a rough road separating the six bungalows from the beach and North Sea.

The brown-green water slithered over the shore, deceptively calm, undulations replacing waves, sucking at the pebbles and hissing as it retreated. The slight breeze gently rustled last year’s bent-grass stalks in his front garden. He’d left it as it was originally planted: the grass, tamarisk and gorse, blending into the sand dunes the houses were built on.

He frowned. What should he do? He must make a decision while he walked. If something dreadful happened, how would he be able to face the consequences of his inaction?

He turned away from the sea, walked down The Dunes, past South Cottages, crossed the road leading to Aldeburgh, and stood near the boathouse looking over the wide waters of the Mere. He thought of all his boyhood holidays in Thorpeness, in the house his parents had leased when the holiday village was built before the First World War. It was now fully his; he’d recently purchased the leasehold when most of the estate was sold to pay death duties.

As a child, he remembered one year coming by train from London to the newly built station; it wasn’t much of a station, only three obsolete old Great Eastern passenger coaches adapted to form a ticket office and waiting room, but when their trunks were unloaded from the train, and men wheeled them away, the family following behind them, it was special and exciting. The railway was long gone, no trains ran to Aldeburgh, and there was only a short stretch of track at Leiston, used to bring spent nuclear fuel from Easterspring power station.

He leant on his cane as he watched the boatman helping two children into a rowing boat, their parents nervously making suggestions and telling them not to row too far. The elder child, a boy of about thirteen, grasped the oars and competently rowed away, the younger girl waved to her parents. He studied the boy – a straight nose, determined chin, already showing promise of a handsome face. Why were the parents worried? They must know the Mere was only two and a half feet deep over its entire sixty-odd acres.

When his parents told him he was going to Never-Never Land, the home of Peter Pan, for his holidays, and Daddy would row him in a special boat over the Spanish Main, to Peter Pan’s island, and he would see Wendy’s house and visit the Smuggler’s Cave, he’d been so excited he couldn’t sleep at nights. Later in life, he’d learnt how Ogilvie, the railway magnate, inspired by his friend Barrie, the author of Peter Pan, had built this fantasy village. He still loved the place, but now it was his permanent home, he felt restricted. Perhaps it was time to buy a larger house with a good-sized garden? He’d ask Pamela to keep an eye open for any suitable properties near her.

He frowned again. This wasn’t helping him to come to a decision. Was he being paranoid? Perhaps he should ignore the problem, if there was one. He gnawed at his lower lip. Should he follow Pamela’s lead, and get help? He’d many former contacts in London, but wasn’t sure if they would welcome his enquiries. Dear Pamela. She was the only true friend who lived nearby. When he’d lived in London, he’d revelled in their visits to The Royal Horticultural Society’s shows; she’d persuaded him to go with her to Chelsea last year, but although he’d enjoyed her company and their discussions on the merits of the various show gardens, all the while he’d been afraid he might bump into someone from his former life and be humiliated when they snubbed him.

Pamela knew he was a homosexual, but all he’d ever done was to admire and desire at a distance, apart from one sordid instance at boarding school, when he’d been forced by an older boy. Since then, he’d never touched, or been touched, by another boy or man sexually. The whole messy business of sex, whether with men or women, was abhorrent to him. Even when he’d weakened and pleasured himself, afterwards he was filled with self-disgust.

How he missed his former life. As a barrister he’d had a successful and lucrative practice, mainly dealing in litigation and libel. Much more fun than defending criminals. But taking silk, being a judge – it had been the fulfilment of his dreams. How proud his parents would have been if they’d lived to see that. He remembered the feel of his judicial robes; preferring the winter black robe, faced with fur, with its scarlet tippet, to the summer violet robe, lined with silk. He’d been told he cut an imposing figure in them.

The young boy continued to row vigorously; the girl dangled a hand into the clear water. ‘Robert,’ the mother shouted, ‘that’s far enough.’ The father frowned at her. ‘Do be quiet, Mildred. Stop making a fuss.’

Neville Hanmer smiled and walked away from the Mere. He turned north, up the Sanctuary into Old Homes Road, turning once more seawards, then left up North End Avenue. His guts clenched. Damn. Walking towards him was David Pemberton. When he heard Adam Pemberton, and his new wife, Ann, who’d been his former housekeeper, had bought a house in Thorpeness his heart sank. David Pemberton. In 1969, Adam’s thirteen-year-old son had been kidnapped and held for two years by Tucker. In the City there were rumours of a paedophile ring and the deaths of Tucker and his assistant, Hagger, fuelled the gossip. The full truth of the scandal never surfaced, but his dear friend, the barrister John Butterfield, came to see him at his London home. He told him how he’d accepted Tucker’s invitation to a weekend visit at his house near Aldeburgh, there he’d been attracted to a young man, another guest. He’d been secretly photographed in bed with the boy. What had followed had been blackmail, not for money, but information. He couldn’t face the humiliation if he was prosecuted. Three days later John committed suicide. Or was he removed? Shortly after, Neville was summoned to the Lord Chief Justice’s offices and told to resign. His friendship with John and his connections with Tucker were enough for him to be deemed unsuitable for his position. It was that, or he’d be removed from his office. He was told to leave London and live a quiet life in the countryside. He’d come to his house here in Suffolk; perhaps he should have moved where he wasn’t known, but although the scandal had happened a short distance from here, somehow the people of Aldeburgh and Thorpeness didn’t associate him with it. But he was sure David Pemberton did.

He couldn’t turn round; it would only confirm the boy’s suspicions. My God, but he was beautiful: tall, rangy, with broad shoulders and narrow hips; as he matured and muscled up, he would have an athlete’s body. His face was arresting, like a boy in a Caravaggio painting, oval, with pale skin and dark blue eyes; he’d inherited his looks from his beautiful mother, Carol.

‘Good morning, David? How is your father?’

The boy’s eyes were cold, like the winter’s sea, his mouth unsmiling. He nodded and did not reply.

Neville’s stomach contracted, but he nodded back, and continued on his walk. As soon as he thought David was out of view, he turned and headed home. As he came to the Country Club, situated just before his house, he decided to turn in there; if he was too late for afternoon tea, he’d have an aperitif. Mrs Hegarty had left him some sandwiches and a salad for his evening meal.

Glass in hand, he made for the balcony on the west side of the Club. There were two couples on the tennis courts: a pair of women playing a vigorous game, and on the other court a tall, blonde woman having a coaching session with Carlton Mavor. He knew Carlton didn’t like him, he suspected he’d caught him staring when he had started coaching at the Club three years ago. Carlton didn’t hide his dislike.

Goodness, the woman was good, hitting a sizzling backhand down the line. Carlton put down his racquet and applauded. They laughed. Carlton looked smitten. The woman turned and he recognised her. It was a sign.

As soon as he got back to his house, he looked for his telephone book; it was next to his diary on the desk. He found the number Pamela had given him; it was late in the afternoon to ring, especially on a Friday, but if he didn’t do it now, he might never get round to it.

‘Good afternoon, the Anglian Detective Agency,’ a man said. ‘Frank Diamond speaking. How can I help you?’

Monday, 16 April, 1973

In the office/dining room of Greyfriars House, Frank Diamond, one of the senior partners of The Anglian Detective Agency, frowned and looked at his watch. Where was Laurel? She’d said she’d be at the eight-thirty meeting, even though she was officially on holiday. They’d recently decided, as the Agency was doing well, they could afford, in rotation, to take some leave. She’d been with her parents for a few days, and now spent most of her time at the Country Club in Thorpeness, having tennis coaching from a young man she described as ‘dishy’.

‘Any idea where Laurel is?’ he asked Dorothy.

Dorothy Piff, the Agency’s administrator, former school secretary, and owner of the Tudor house, paused as she placed blotting paper and pencils at five settings on the table. ‘She was up early, had her breakfast and took Bumper out for a walk.’

Bumper was Laurel’s black Labrador.

‘It isn’t eight thirty yet, Frank. You sound tetchy. Couldn’t sleep last night?’ Dorothy asked.

Frank shrugged. ‘I always sleep well.’ He’d missed Laurel last week and wished she was coming with him this morning on a preliminary visit to a possible client. Instead, Stuart was lined up for that job.

Stuart Elderkin, once detective sergeant to Frank’s detective inspector, eased his considerable bulk into a chair, looking relaxed, pipe in hand, the top of the bowl glowing red. He raised it to his lips and inhaled deeply, then puffed blue smoke to the ceiling. ‘I’ve missed Laurel.’ He eyed Frank and raised his eyebrows, as though inviting a comment.

A door opened, a click and the sound of the kitchen radio died. Mabel Elderkin, Stuart’s wife, one-time Mabel Grill, school cook and former owner of the famous Aldeburgh Fish and Chip Shop, bustled in, untying her apron and settling in a chair next to Stuart. ‘I do like that new DJ on Breakfast, Terry Wogan, he’s got a lovely voice, but I wish he’d stop playing Cliff Richard, I can’t stand him.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s lunch prepared. You’ll be back for it, won’t you?’ She directed the question to both Frank and Stuart.

‘I’m sure we will, love,’ Stuart replied. ‘This is a different kind of case. We’ve not dealt with one like it before, have we, Frank?’

‘I’m looking forward to it; I’ve heard the gardens are beautiful, and Pamela Gage sounded an intelligent and pleasant woman when I spoke to her on the telephone. I can’t see any reason why we can’t help her. But we need to find out what she wants, bring the facts back, then we can all make a decision.’

The outside kitchen door opened; sounds of claws skittering on the stone floor.

‘I’ve just mopped it down,’ muttered Mabel.

Hearty lapping and splashing of water.

Stuart laughed. ‘There’s Bumper, cleaning up after himself.’

Mabel smiled and dug him in the ribs.

Laurel Bowman, all five eleven of her, burst into the room, bringing with her smells of the seashore. ‘Whew, didn’t think I’d make it, Bumper was acting up today, chasing seaweed in the waves.’

She looked the epitome of health and happiness, face glowing, blonde hair shining. Was she just happy to be alive, or was there some other factor? Such as an attractive tennis coach? He was too young for her, must be ten years her junior. He tapped his watch. ‘Shall we start?’

Laurel sat in the seat next to him. ‘Did you have a good weekend? How’s the love life going? Getting serious?’

He glared at her, then turned to Dorothy. ‘Have you the agenda?’

She gave him a quizzical look over her blue spectacles. ‘Have I failed you yet?’ She passed a sheet of A4 paper to each of them.

He didn’t reply, although he knew he should apologise for his brusque manner. He’d started dating a woman in Aldeburgh two months ago. Emma worked in the cinema’s office, arranging the films and the other events the cinema hosted. He’d met her at an exhibition of a local artist’s work. She was small, slight, with brown eyes, a pixie haircut and a nice sense of humour. He liked her, but she wasn’t Laurel. He’d decided it was useless hoping Laurel would change her mind. He’d accepted she didn’t fancy him; they were good friends and that would have to do, but when he’d seen her with Carlton Mavor, the tennis coach, having a drink with him and some of the other tennis players in The Cross Keys in Aldeburgh, the sour taste of jealousy invaded his mouth. He didn’t like that feeling. It wasn’t so bad when she didn’t have any romantic entanglements . . . but who was he to talk?

They worked their way through the first two items on the agenda.

‘Number three, financial report.’ He waved to Dorothy.

She passed them another sheet of paper. ‘You can see the outgoings and income for the last two months. I hope you’ll be pleased with the last figure.’

There were noddings and sounds of satisfaction from all the other members.

‘Gosh, this is very good, Dorothy, even better than before,’ Laurel said.

‘Excellent,’ Frank said. ‘We’re more than holding our own.’

‘Cliché,’ Laurel cried. ‘We certainly don’t want to hold someone else’s!’

Dorothy smiled, leant over the table and rapped Laurel’s knuckles with her biro. ‘And you a respectable former teacher!’

Frank didn’t smile. ‘Next item. Pamela Gage, who owns Yoxford Hall Gardens, contacted us to see if we could help her with a problem she has. She was cagey—’

‘Not Gagey!’ Laurel interrupted, dimpling at him.

‘Idiot,’ he replied, laughing, although he didn’t want to.

‘You’re sharp this morning,’ Stuart said. ‘I think having a holiday has done you good.’

‘Can we get back to business?’ Frank asked, trying to look stern.

‘Sorry, Frank,’ Laurel replied, ‘it’s romping with Bumper, I get as mad as him.’

‘To continue, Mrs Gage was unwilling to say too much over the phone. I had the impression someone was in the room with her, and she didn’t want to be overheard. She said it was something to do with her plants.’

‘She must have heard you had a degree in botany, Frank. Perhaps she wants you to advise her on plant propagation,’ Stuart said.

Frank went to his home-town university, Liverpool, before he joined the police force. ‘For God’s sake, what’s the matter with everyone this morning? As soon as this silly meeting comes to a conclusion, Laughing Boy Stuart and I will drive over to Yoxford and see her. Shouldn’t take too long, I can’t imagine what the problem is, but I can’t see it can be that serious.’

‘I’ll have lunch ready for one thirty,’ Mabel stated.

‘Excellent. The last item is the visit by Neville Hanmer, who phoned me late Friday afternoon.’

‘Judge Hanmer? I’ve seen him at the Club,’ Laurel said.

‘Not a judge any more,’ Stuart said. ‘Heard there was something funny about his retirement. This chap, a lawyer, told me they couldn’t understand why he retired, he was at the peak of his career. He was well thought of, a popular judge, strong, but gave fair summing ups, this man said.’

Frank nodded. ‘I rang Nick Revie and asked if he could tell me anything about Hanmer.’ They’d met Detective Inspector Nicholas Revie on their first big case, when they searched for the missing teenager, David Pemberton. That case had repercussions for many important people, and the Agency’s silence was bought by offering the future cooperation of the Suffolk police, with Nick Revie as their contact.

‘And?’ Stuart asked.

‘He wasn’t sure, but he thought although Hanmer wasn’t involved in the David Pemberton case, he had friends who were, and he was tainted by association,’ Frank replied.

‘That’s so unfair!’ Laurel said. ‘Goodness, if we were all judged by our friends, I think several of us would have to go into purdah.’

‘You’ll be all right, Frank, being as you haven’t got any friends,’ Stuart chortled, as he resumed puffing on his pipe.

Frank ignored him. That remark, plus the seductive aroma of tobacco smoke, irritated him. He decided he wouldn’t offer to stop at The Eel’s Foot on the way back from Yoxford.

‘Can we get on?’ Dorothy said. ‘I promised the vicar I’d do the flower rota for next month. If some of the ladies don’t have at least two weeks’ notice, they can’t cope.’

Frank rapped the table with his biro. ‘Like Pamela Gage, he was unwilling to discuss why he wanted to see us. When I suggested I could come over to Thorpeness, he became agitated. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m consulting you,” he said. I tried to winkle a few facts from him; all he would say is he’d possibly ask us to discreetly make enquiries about a certain local person.’

‘Intriguing,’ Laurel said. ‘Someone who lives in Thorpeness?’

‘He gave no more details. He’s due here at three o’clock. Hopefully he’ll elucidate then.’

Stuart got up and knocked his pipe out on the ashtray, resulting in a tiny Mount Vesuvius of smouldering ash.

‘I do wish you’d give it up,’ Mabel said. ‘Cigarettes are bad enough, but I’m beginning to hate that smelly pipe.’

Stuart looked hurt, his bottom lip protruded and his cheeks sagged, resulting in the return of his bloodhound look.

‘I’m sorry, love. I know you enjoy your pipe.’ Mabel paused. ‘But it isn’t good for you, you’ve only just got over that nasty cough you had for most of the winter.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re all I’ve got left, Stuart.’ Mabel’s only son, Matt Grill, by her first husband, had died last year. She was making a good recovery, but the hurt was just beneath the surface.

Stuart sighed, then blew out his cheeks. ‘I know you’re right; I’ve been lectured by these two often enough.’ He waved the stem of his pipe at Frank and Laurel. ‘I tried once, but I was a nervous wreck after a couple of days.’ He turned and pointed at Dorothy. ‘What about you, Dorothy? If I try to give up my pipe, will you give up your cigarettes?’

Dorothy looked affronted. ‘They got me through the war, with a little help from Mr Whisky. What would I do with these,’ she waved her hands, ‘if I couldn’t hold a cigarette?’

‘A bit more gardening?’ Frank asked. Not waiting for the acid reply, he nodded to Stuart. ‘Let’s get going, we need to get to Yoxford for ten. See you all at lunch.’ As he passed Laurel, he touched her shoulder. ‘Or are you heading for another tennis lesson with the handsome Mr Mavor?’

She looked up at him. ‘No, I’m staying here, I want to hear what Mr Hanmer has to say.’

‘Working in your holiday? What dedication. Learnt all you can from Mr Mavor?’

‘I’m sure there’s a few more things he can teach me.’

‘Such as?’

‘He says my net play needs improvement; I lack subtlety.’

Frank grinned. ‘I question his judgement.’

‘Are we going or not?’ Stuart said testily.

Laurel looked thoughtful, Dorothy puzzled and Mabel worried. ‘Goodbye, my lovelies, see you all soon.’

As Frank got into his Avenger GT, he smiled as he imagined the ensuing conversation.

‘I’ve never been to this place; have you?’ Frank asked as they passed through the small town of Yoxford.

‘No, I haven’t. It’s always the same, you never visit places right on your doorstep. Mind you, it hasn’t always been a nursery and open to the public,’ Stuart said.

‘When did it change?’ He glanced at Stuart as there was no instant reply.

Stuart pushed out his lower lip and frowned. ‘About ten or twelve years ago.’

‘Quite recent for these parts.’

‘Less of the sarcasm. Us Suffolk folk are slow but steady.’

‘I’ll go along with the slow. Going back to the hall and gardens, why did it change? New owners?’

‘No. The house and garden have been owned by the Bangham family for, oh, I don’t know, three hundred years?’

‘But we’re going to meet a Pamela Gage,’ Frank said as he took the A1120 out of Yoxford.

‘For once you’ve remembered who we’re going to see. She was a Bangham.’

Frank laughed. ‘I bet she was glad to change her name to Gage. She inherited the house?’

‘That’s right, and because of death duties Mrs Gage had to sell most of the contents of the house and hand over money and shares. Then she had to find a way to pay for the upkeep of the house and estate, or sell it.’

‘So, she opened the gardens and started a plant nursery. Good for her.’

‘Do you think your Liverpool will do the double? It looks like they’ve got the First Division sewn up,’ Stuart asked a few minutes later.

Frank really hoped so. ‘It’s not over yet. It’ll be tough to win the UEFA cup, Borussia are a class act, but I’ll put my trust in Shankly and Kevin Keegan.’

‘Ipswich aren’t doing too badly and with a bit of luck Norwich will get relegated.’

‘That’s very small-minded of you, Stuart. You never hear me saying derogatory things about Everton.’

Stuart sniggered. ‘There’s the turning.’ Stuart pointed to a narrow tarmac road leading off the main one. There was an eye-catching sign at its entrance:

YOXFORD MANOR GARDENS AND PLANT NURSERY

Open 10.00 a.m. to 4.00 p.m.

Entrance 50p Children free

Woodland Walks, Maze, Stumpery and Japanese Water Garden

Children’s Play Area and Treehouse

Tea room

‘Will we have time for a visit to the tea room?’ Stuart pondered.

‘That might be possible. You haven’t had your pipe out yet,’ Frank said. ‘Want a quick puff before we get there?’

Stuart sighed. ‘I thought I’d have another go at giving it up.’

‘In that case I’m sure we’ll have time for a coffee and a bun. My treat. I hope you manage to give up the deadly weed. It’ll be tough. I know. I still get the urge when you and Dorothy light up and the insidious fumes tickle at my former addiction.’

‘Really? Well, that’s another reason for trying. I don’t want to be accused of starting you back on the fags.’

The well-hedged road wound its way for about a mile before another sign, a duplicate of the first, marked the entrance to the gardens. To the left of the drive was a wooden hut with a sign saying PAY HERE. A grey-haired man stepped out.

Frank wound down his window. ‘Mr Diamond and Mr Elderkin,’ Frank said. ‘We’ve an appointment to see Mrs Gage.’

The man nodded. ‘Mrs Gage told me to expect you. No charge,’ he said, sounding disappointed.

Frank was sorry for him, it was an isolated spot, and he felt like giving him something for his lonely post. He resisted; he didn’t want to spoil his reputation. ‘Thank you. Have you worked here long?’ he asked. ‘Lovely part of the world.’

The man pulled back his shoulders. ‘I used to work in the house. Retired. I’m a volunteer now.’

His brusque but pleasant manner made Frank think he must have some military background. ‘Do you always do this job? It must be a bit lonely.’

‘No. Mrs Gage makes sure all the volunteers take turns at the different jobs. Great organiser, Mrs Gage. Known her since she was a child.’ His voice was full of affection and pride.

‘Are there many volunteers?’

‘About twenty of us. All local. Many with former connections to Mr and Mrs Bangham, Mrs Gage’s parents.’

‘She must be a popular woman if so many people are willing to help her,’ Stuart said.

‘She’s a great lady.’

‘Is there a Mr Gage?’ Frank asked.

‘There is.’ He didn’t elaborate and Frank didn’t ask for more details. The man’s tone was enough to indicate he didn’t think much of him.

‘Nice to have met you. We’d better not be late for our appointment,’ Frank said, winding up the window and slowly driving off.

‘Do you know anything about this Mr Gage?’ Frank asked.

‘Not a lot, mostly gossip. Name is Keith Gage, he’s a solicitor, has a practice in Saxmundham.’

‘Is there much work for a solicitor there?’

‘I really don’t know. They’ve been married a long time. I suppose he thought he was landing in clover when he married into the Bangham family. Must have been a shock when a lot of the wealth disappeared into the Government’s coffers.’

‘Does the husband have anything to do with the nursery?’

‘Mabel said he plays a lot of golf, and you know how much time that can consume if you’re playing regularly. He’s a member of Aldeburgh and Thorpeness Golf Clubs.’

‘I wonder if we’ll see him today?’

‘Why do you want to see him? I can’t see he’ll be able to tell us anything Mrs Gage can’t.’

Frank parked the Avenger in front of a small Georgian manor house. ‘I’m always interested in the dynamics of couples.’

‘Really? Is that why you’ve never formed one?’

Frank turned and gave him a look. He hoped it was suitably cynical.

‘What about Laurel? In December, when we all went to her old school’s Christmas concert, I wondered if she might want to return to teaching. You could see she loved being back there, and they all thought a lot of her, girls and staff.’

Frank remembered her face, glowing with joy. ‘I wondered too, but she’s still with us.’

‘Do you think she’s serious about this tennis coach, Carlton what-not? Carlton – sounds like a cinema.’

Frank shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? He’s a bit young for her.’

‘Dorothy’s seen him at church. Said he’s good-looking.’

There was a sour taste in Frank’s mouth. ‘Laurel’s her own woman. She’ll do as she pleases.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather she was your woman, Frank? I wish it had happened for both of you. I think you’d make a great pair.’

Frank smiled and shook his head, glancing at Stuart’s bulk. ‘I don’t think you’re equipped to play Cupid.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Right, enough of this gossip, at the moment we’re on time. Let’s make a move.’

‘Welcome to Yoxford Gardens and Nursery,’ said a husky-voiced, petite woman as she strode towards them, ‘Thank you, Janet,’ she said to the elderly woman, probably another volunteer, who’d brought them into the walled garden nursery. ‘Don’t forget to pick up your plant before you leave. See you on Friday?’

‘I’ll be here, Pamela, and thank you for the epimedium.’

‘Nonsense. I know it’s going to a good home.’

‘Pamela Gage.’ She had a hearty handshake, and it was a gardener’s hand placed in his: broken nails needing a good scrub, and quick, capable fingers. She must have been a pretty girl, Frank decided; about fifty, with faded blonde hair and, despite the weather-beaten skin, she’d neat features and a slim figure. Best of all was her dimpled smile, radiating energy. He introduced himself and Stuart.

‘Let’s go into the potting shed and I can tell you my problem.’ She set off at a