‘I was just interested. I wondered how far the estate stretched.’
‘Quite a way, according to the plans we’ve found.’
‘Oh?’ said Libby eagerly. ‘You’ve found plans?’
‘Yes.’ Ian grinned at her, and taking her arm, led her back to her car. ‘Andrew’s been very helpful, and found two or three maps which show the position of the house and the other buildings.’
‘And what about ownership?’
‘Nothing after the sanatorium, but then, we shall hear about that on Monday. A Home Office order does wonders.’
‘Why do you need that? I thought it wasn’t a murder enquiry any longer?’
‘We have to make sure the graves here are legal.’ Libby thought Ian was being evasive.
‘But they were buried years ago. Would it matter now?’
‘There are all sorts of issues, Libby. Now get off home and stop –’ he paused.
‘Interfering, I know.’ Libby unlocked the car. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I didn’t until I arrived to check on something. Your car tends to be a giveaway.’ He held the door for her to climb in. ‘Go on. I’ll see you soon.’
‘Will you let us know anything you’re able to?’ Libby poked her head out of the window.
‘As much as I can.’ He patted her cheek. ‘Now, go!’
OK, thought Libby, he’s still working on it. That means there’s still something to be found out. Which, of course, was obvious. Something or someone was playing the recordings of Debussy, which was suspicious, if not illegal.
She drove home slowly, past Creekmarsh and on a whim, turned off towards Heronsbourne. She hadn’t seen George at The Red Lion for ages, and it was an outside chance that he might know something about Cherry Ashton and White Lodge. She parked in Pedlar’s Row and looked over to March Cottage, former home of her friend Bella, and now let. There were unsuitable patterned net curtains at the window.
‘Libby!’ George put down his paper and came round the corner of the bar to greet her.
‘Hello, George. Have you still got your excellent coffee machine?’
‘Course I have. You drivin’, then?’
Libby hoisted herself onto a bar stool. ‘Yes. I’ve just been over to Cherry Ashton.’
George turned from inserting a cup into the coffee machine in surprise. ‘What d’you want to go there for? There’s nothing there!’
‘No, I found that out. There’s a pub, though.’
‘Yeah, that’s not bad.’ George put a foaming cup in front of her. ‘Does good food. Won’t let people in from that holiday camp place, though.’
‘Oh, “The Roses”? Why not? I heard someone say today it wasn’t very good.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I reckon it’s as good as most places of that sort, probably better than most. Quite – whatd’youcallit – upmarket.’
‘Is it? Wonder why the pub won’t let them in, then?’
‘Snobbery.’ George resumed his own seat behind the bar. ‘So what d’you go to Cherry Ashton for, then?’
‘My friend Fran – you remember Fran?’
‘Could ’ardly forget either of you, could I?’
Libby pulled a face. ‘All right. Well, Fran and I have been looking into the old workhouse over there.’
‘That’s over on the marsh road, though,’ said George. ‘The main road.’
‘I know White Lodge is, but presumably most of the workhouse buildings would have been down on the Cherry Ashton side if that’s what the place was called.’
‘Makes sense,’ said George. ‘No buildings left now, though, are there? Wasn’t it turned into a hospital, anyway?’
‘A sanatorium, yes. Do you remember it?’
‘Not really. I wasn’t living here then. Heard tell, of course. There was that ghost, wasn’t there?’
Libby sighed. ‘Everyone knows about the ghost.’
George shrugged. ‘That’s about it, then. Wasn’t the police up there the other day?’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Ah! That’s what you was over there for.’
‘Sort of,’ said Libby, licking froth off her coffee.
‘What’s it all about, then?’
‘They thought they’d found a body, but it turned out to be a patient from the hospital.’
‘How could they tell that, then? And how come bodies were buried there and not in the churchyard?’
‘Yes, it is odd, isn’t it? Perhaps as it was all TB victims they didn’t want to infect an ordinary graveyard.’
George snorted. ‘Wouldn’t matter none to they residents, would it?’
Libby giggled. ‘No.’
‘How’s that old cat, then? Your friend still got him?’
‘Balzac? Yes, he’s fine. Very friendly. Fran’s married now, you know?’
‘Is she now. That’s nice. What about you?’
‘No, I’m not. Still with my chap, though.’
‘Chap! Don’t hear that word much these days,’ said George.
‘Well, I don’t know what else to call him. Not boyfriend – not at my age.’
George shrugged again and talk turned to mutual acquaintances. Half an hour later, Libby finished her coffee and went on her way, promising to bring Fran over some time soon.
So, no more information. Just that there was a snobbish pub in Cherry Ashton and that the holiday park was upmarket. Then she remembered, with slight surprise, that she hadn’t mentioned her visit to Cherry Ashton and her meeting with the urbane Mr Vindari to Ian. Although what that would have added to his investigation was probably negligible. Still, she thought, perhaps it would be a good idea to go back to the satellite mapping website and go in a bit closer. She might be able to see the strange building. She put her foot down with new determination.
The weather had changed. Yesterday’s perfect summer holiday had turned into a pre-cursor to autumn. The sun that had trickled through the leaves at Cherry Ashton had disappeared behind an ominous yellowish-grey blanket. As Libby drew up opposite number 17 Allhallow’s Lane the first fat drop of rain hit the windscreen, and by the time she put the key in the lock her hair was damp. Sidney shot in between her legs seeking the shelter of the sofa cushions.
Libby put the kettle on and went to change into a dry top. After leaving tea to brew she woke up the laptop and found it still on the satellite mapping page. Positioning the cursor exactly over the point she wanted, she zoomed in as close as she could, and sat back with a satisfied ‘Ah!’
There was the building, surrounded by trees, not only on the side where she had parked the car, but on all sides, right up to the little cemetery that surrounded the church one side and – incredibly – almost as far as White Lodge behind. She pulled out a little way and viewed the whole estate. Sure enough, although no boundary could be seen, it appeared that the building did belong to White Lodge. There was the barbed wire, of course, but that was outside the wall she’d walked along earlier.
Where this got her, she wasn’t sure, and presumably, on reflection, Ian knew about this, as he’d been watching her. But had he, or his team, actually searched the whole of the grounds? Had they found that building? She got up and went to pour tea. Of course, Andrew had found documents, hadn’t he? So presumably the buildings would be marked on deeds. She sighed. It didn’t seem as though she was learning anything useful that wasn’t already known. She picked up the phone.
‘Harry, have you got room for me tonight instead of tomorrow?’
‘I can find you a seat by the gents, I expect. Why?’
‘I don’t fancy sitting here all on my own all evening.’
‘But you don’t mind tomorrow lunchtime.’
‘Well, no. I can do stuff tomorrow, and anyway, Ben’ll be home in the evening.’
‘My, my, life has changed.’
‘What do you mean?’ Libby was suspicious.
‘Nothing, dear heart, nothing. Don’t come too early tonight.’
‘Eight-thirty? Nine?’
�
��Nine. See you then.’
Happier now she had something to do in the evening, Libby went back to the laptop with her tea and began another fruitless search for information about White Lodge, workhouses, sanatoria and ghosts.
Adam wasn’t in The Pink Geranium when Libby arrived. A child masquerading as a waiter asked her nervously if she had booked and looked horrified when she told him she thought so. A stentorian bellow from the kitchen of “Friend” made it even worse, and Libby thought the boy would burst into tears.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, patting his shoulder. ‘I’ll just go and sit on the sofa until Harry tells me where I’m to sit. You just bring me a bottle of the house red and a glass.’
In fact it was Donna who arrived with the wine, rolling her eyes.
‘Honestly,’ she said, taking her time over pouring. ‘Harry’s not making it any easier for that poor boy. It’s his first night.’
‘Bit much, throwing him in the deep end on a Saturday night,’ said Libby. ‘Is he Adam’s replacement?’
‘Not replacement, exactly, but you know Harry’s always said Adam can choose when he works? Well, we need someone here most of the time now we’re getting busier. Adam will still work when he wants to. This Jacob’s still at school, so can only work a few hours a week.’
Libby nodded. ‘How’s the fiancé?’
Donna grinned and waggled her left hand. ‘Great, thanks. We’re not going to hang about. Getting married in October.’
‘Good stuff,’ said Libby.
Jacob came over after a few minutes to tell her that Harry had told her to sit at the table in the window when its current occupants left. Libby thanked him nicely, by name and with a smile, and he went away looking marginally happier.
An hour later, after her quesadillas con hongos, Harry joined her with another bottle of wine and a glass.
‘I haven’t finished this bottle yet,’ she said.
‘But I’m going to drink that,’ he said, pouring it into his glass. ‘So, come on. What have you been up to? How’s that investigation?’
Libby told him everything that had happened since she’d last seen him, including her inconclusive trip of this afternoon.
‘Was he a sinister Indian gentleman straight out of Sherlock Holmes?’ Harry twirled an imaginary moustache.
‘No, he was the owner of the Golden Spice restaurants. Very nice.’
‘Oh, we’ve been to the one in Canterbury. Yes. Very good.’
‘He told me to mention his name if I went again.’
‘In that case I’m coming with you. I could perhaps add a few veggie curries to the menu in here.’
‘Anyway, I haven’t got any further. Ideas?’
‘Me?’ Harry shook his head. ‘All I can see is that your Rosie knew the house when she was little, associates it with someone playing music and dreamt about it. Why she should go to all the – the–’
‘Palaver,’ suggested Libby.
‘Yeah, palaver of getting you two to investigate I can’t think. Seems to me she’s using you, but for some reason other than she’s said. And it also looks to me as if Ian has found something that’s worth investigating but hasn’t told you.’
‘Did you think she was that devious when you met her the other day?’
‘No, I thought she was quite a nice attractive elderly lady. And she was flirting like mad with the professor bloke.’
‘Was she? I thought it was the other way round. And I wouldn’t call her elderly.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. She’s not that much older than you.’ Harry ducked as Libby aimed the menu at him. ‘And she was definitely showing out.’
‘Well, good luck to her,’ said Libby. ‘And I believe her – or now I do, anyway.’
‘You didn’t at first.’ Harry opened the second bottle.
‘No. I was very suspicious.’
‘But, being the nosy cow you are, you couldn’t help barging in.’
‘If you want to put it like that. And Ian was interested, so it wasn’t wasted.’
‘Rosie could have told the police about the music the time she went there herself.’
‘I know, but I think she thought they’d put her down as a mad old woman.’
‘Hmmm.’ Harry poured more wine. ‘And she isn’t?’
‘Anyway, now I want to find out about that building. It must belong to White Lodge, and it’s logical that as it’s actually in Cherry Ashton it’s part of the workhouse. And therefore, possibly part of the sanatorium.’
‘And there will be murder victims buried inside, obviously.’
‘Don’t mock. I still can’t get over that cleared grave. That must mean something.’
Harry sighed. ‘Yes, it’s a ghost playing the piano and leaving flowers. Or someone playing an elaborate practical joke. Have you thought about that?’
Chapter Fifteen
‘NO.’ LIBBY STARED AT Harry’s sardonic expression. ‘You mean Rosie, don’t you?’
‘Who’s a novelist.’ Harry leant back in his chair. ‘I said. She’s using you.’
‘But now the police are involved. She’d have to back off. Or confess. And she hasn’t.’
‘She’d be too embarrassed. And I don’t suppose she’s done anything illegal.’
‘What about the music? She’d need an awful lot of expertise to rig that, and she’d have had to break in, too.’
Harry sighed again. ‘Wake up, Lib. Think of the most obvious explanation.’
‘Which is?’
‘She says she knew it as a child. Described it. When you find out it actually is how she said, she has to make up some cock and bull story. But suppose she did live there? Suppose she actually owns it? The agents have been told to keep the ownership quiet, and have they confirmed that she visited a year ago, or whenever it was?’
‘Oh.’ Libby was conscious of a sharp sense of disillusionment.
‘Makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’ Libby emptied her glass. ‘But why hasn’t Ian seen through her? He’s the detective.’
Harry pushed the bottle towards her. ‘I told you. He’s actually found something but hasn’t told you. It may be that he’s sussed Rosie.’
‘Oh,’ said Libby, even more gloomily. ‘How dumb can you get.’
‘Oh, much dumber than you. Look at Jacob.’
‘Harry! That poor boy. It’s his first night and you were shouting at him. You’re not some foul-mouthed TV chef.’
Harry grinned. ‘Rotten, wasn’t I? It’s OK, I apologised, he’s coming back.’
‘Good. Poor lad didn’t know what to do.’
‘So, what are you going to do about your investigation?’ Harry waved a packet of cigarettes and gestured outside. Libby followed him into the back yard, where there were a few white cast iron tables and chairs for hardened smokers.
‘I shan’t do anything else, I suppose,’ she said, bending forward to Harry’s lighter. ‘Unless anyone asks me.’
‘But not Rosie.’
‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘Not Rosie.’
‘And will you tell Fran what I said?’
‘Yes.’ Libby sighed. ‘What I don’t understand is that Fran didn’t see through it.’
‘Look, I may not be right,’ said Harry, beginning to look uncomfortable. ‘I’m only saying what it looks like on the surface. But if I am right, why, Fran attends the woman’s writing class, doesn’t she? She wants to write like her. That would be bound to blind her to anything she didn’t want to see.’
‘Maybe,’ said Libby doubtfully. ‘But things come to her. She doesn’t ask them to. And she can’t block things on purpose, either.’
‘Oh, well.’ Harry shrugged. ‘I expect the dashing Inspector Connell will find out soon enough.’
‘Dashing?’
Harry grinned. ‘Well, he is. All that saturnine splendour. He’s like a Jane Austen hero.’
‘Is he?’ Libby was surprised. ‘What do you know about Jane Austen heroes?’
&n
bsp; ‘I’ve seen them on TV, haven’t I? He’s just like that.’
‘Yes, I suppose he is,’ said Libby. ‘Although he’s mainly angry, which is a bit off-putting.’
‘Go on.’ Harry blew smoke at her. ‘You fancy him a little bit.’
‘Of course I don’t,’ said Libby carelessly. ‘Anyway, he was after Fran, remember?’
‘Course I bloody remember. She was living upstairs here, wasn’t she?’
‘So she was.’ Libby giggled. ‘With two men after her.’
‘Lucky.’ Harry stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Well, that’s me. The washing up calls.’
‘It’ll be done by now,’ said Libby. ‘Don’t kid me.’
‘I sent Jacob and the boy home, and Donna’s going in a minute. I often do it on my own. Not so much washing up, that goes in the dishwasher, but there’s the rest of the cleaning. Elf-an-safety. They’ll close me down if they find a speck of dirt.’
‘Would you like some help?”
‘Don’t be daft. Go and drink the rest of your wine. I’ll be out in a while and I’ll walk you home.’
Libby began to protest, but he pushed her before him into the restaurant, and she went back to the table to finish her wine. Most of the other customers had gone by now, and Donna came past buttoning a jacket. She waved and Libby lifted her glass. The remaining two customers stood up and stared at her as they left the restaurant. Libby looked the other way.
After a while, Harry came back with his jacket over his arm.
‘There’s no need to walk me home, you know.’
‘It’s late. Ben would have my guts for garters.’
‘I always used to walk home on my own before I met Ben.’
‘But you don’t now. Come on. Pete’s away with Ben, anyhow, so there’s no one waiting for me.’
‘That sounds vaguely illicit.’
Harry grinned down at her and tucked her hand through his arm. ‘While the cat’s away, eh? Well, you did tell me Ben was jealous of me.’
‘Yes, odd that.’
‘No, it isn’t. You use me like a girlfriend and talk to me. Not the same way that you talk to him.’
‘I do now,’ said Libby. ‘I think part of it was because he was always so against me doing things on my own, I didn’t want to discuss them with him.’
Murder to Music - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 10