Andrew looked worried. ‘I did say I wasn’t an expert,’ he began.
‘But you know a lot more about old buildings than anyone on Ian’s team will,’ said Fran.
‘Look,’ said Libby. ‘Here come the troops.’
A minibus, a white van and an unmarked car drew up alongside the house and Ian appeared from the side. Libby, Fran and Andrew watched, fascinated, as the team of men and women assembled equipment and donned blue scene-of-crime suits and disappeared in Ian’s wake back round the side of the house.
‘Now what do we do?’ said Libby after a minute. ‘Do you think he’s forgotten us?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Ian poked his head round the corner. ‘Come and show us what you did on Friday. Andrew? Will you stay and give us a hand inside?’
Libby and Fran repeated their movements, including their discovery of the “grave”.
The men and women watched and listened in silence, then put up the hoods on their suits and the masks on their faces and turned to the undergrowth. Libby saw that a dead bouquet was lying on one of the stones in a plastic evidence bag.
‘Is that what you found on the grave?’ she asked Ian.
‘It is. I doubt if we’ll get anything from it, but we can try.’
‘Do you want us any more?’ asked Fran.
‘No,’ said Ian. ‘You’d probably be better out of the way, but I may want to talk to you later.’
‘Andrew came in my car, will you give him a lift home?’
‘Of course.’ Ian patted them both on the shoulder. ‘Off you go. Don’t touch anything on the way back to the cars.’
‘They’re not going to exhume that body now, are they?’ said Libby as they picked their way through the undergrowth. ‘In broad daylight?’
‘It didn’t look like it,’ said Fran. ‘Perhaps the authority hasn’t yet come through. I thought they always did it at night?’
‘I suppose that’s probably only on the telly,’ said Libby. ‘I must say, I thought he’d have been a bit more grateful to us.’
‘Grateful?’ Fran looked at her, amused.
‘Well, we put him on to the case, and we introduced him to Andrew. He ought to be grovelling.’
‘Ian? Grovel?’ Fran laughed.
‘Didn’t he ever grovel to you?’ Libby stopped and looked at her friend, interested.
Fran turned a gentle pink. ‘No.’
‘Not even when he was – um – courting?’
Fran went a deeper pink. ‘No.’
‘And that’s all you’re saying?’
‘Yes.’
Libby shrugged. ‘Oh, well. I’m not saying you didn’t make the right choice, but he is very attractive. And sort of – I dunno – dominant.’
‘Domineering,’ said Fran, opening her car door. ‘And don’t you start fantasising about him.’
Libby was indignant. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘No.’ Fran didn’t sound convinced. ‘You’ve been a bit ambivalent about him ever since he told you off about the Morris Dancers last year.’
‘That is a very confusing statement,’ said Libby, going to her own car. ‘He assumed I was grubbing around in his murder investigation and told me to stay out of it, as usual. That’s all.’
‘He does it every time,’ sighed Fran. ‘And then asks us back in.’
‘Predictable, isn’t he?’ Libby got into her car. ‘Let me know if you hear from him before I do.’
Chapter Ten
IT WASN’T UNTIL THE next day that Fran rang Libby.
‘Ian just called. He’s going to see Rosie.’
‘Is that all he had to say?’ Libby was frustrated. She’d called Fran at least three times the previous day, finally earning herself an embarrassing telling off. ‘Nothing about Andrew? The body? The music?’
‘No. I don’t think he wanted to talk about any of it, but called me out of courtesy.’
‘For her address?’
‘No. He already had that. He’s a policeman.’
‘Well, I do call that ungrateful,’ said Libby, sitting down on the staircase.
‘You said that yesterday. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it.’
‘I bet he called you because he knew I’d ask questions.’
‘I expect so,’ said Fran. ‘You’ll just have to contain your soul in patience.’
Libby switched off the phone and, resting her chin on her hand, thought. She had nothing to do, unless she did some more to the painting sitting on the easel in the conservatory. The house had been cleaned and tidied for Hetty and Greg’s visit on Sunday, and there was a stew in the slow cooker, in case something White Lodge-related had come up and she’d forgotten about dinner again.
But now there was nothing. She stood up and went through to the kitchen. Never before had she and Fran started an investigation and been shut out so quickly, although there had been occasions where she herself had tried not to continue. But, somehow, that never happened.
She reviewed her options. She could go and visit Adam at Creekmarsh, as she knew Lewis Osbourne-Walker was there. And his mother, Edie, would enjoy a chat. Or she could go and see Flo Carpenter and Lenny, Ben’s uncle, in their bungalow in Maltby Close. It was getting on for lunch time, so Harry would be busy in the restaurant, but she could drive down to Nethergate and bully Fran. She made a face. No, that wouldn’t do. Fran had already got cross with her yesterday.
Rosie. She stopped dead in the middle of filling the kettle. She could go and see Rosie. No need to say she knew Ian was going too. But, on the other hand, Rosie was Fran’s friend and it might seem a little insensitive to go without telling her first. Or even phoning Rosie first, come to that. Libby’s friends were used to her dropping in unannounced, and for the most part put up with it, but you couldn’t really do it to someone you’d only just met. She sighed heavily and put the kettle on the Rayburn.
There was always the internet. She went into the sitting room and woke up the laptop. “TB” she typed into the search engine. Predictably, it returned over a hundred million references. It was, however, more interesting than she’d thought, especially when she found out that the disease was far more widespread today than she’d imagined. She became engrossed in reading a piece about the incidence in Africa until the phone rang and alerted her to the fact that the kettle was steaming furiously on the Rayburn.
‘Hello?’ She moved the kettle off the hotplate.
‘The body wasn’t new,’ said Fran.
‘What?’
‘Ian just called. Apparently, the grave had just been cleared. Someone had been doing a bit of gardening.’
‘Oh.’ Libby sat on the kitchen table. ‘What a bummer.’
‘That’s not the attitude, Lib. It’s good that there isn’t a murder victim in there.’
Libby sighed. ‘I suppose so. Did Ian say how old the body was, or what it died of?’
‘No, I gather they haven’t got all the forensics yet, but it was very obvious that it was old.’
‘Well, we’ve had old before, haven’t we? The bones at Creekmarsh. There was a lot of doubt about them. Oh – and I’ve just thought. How did whoever cleared the grave know it was there?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe Ian will tell us, but I think he was a bit cross at having ordered the exhumation and it turning out not to be necessary.’
Libby sighed again. ‘Don’t tell me. He’s blaming us. Or, specifically, me.’
‘He just sounded irritated. He was off to see Rosie.’
‘We could gatecrash,’ said Libby hopefully.
‘No, we couldn’t. Just wait and see. If we haven’t heard by tomorrow we’ll give him a ring.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Libby squeaked. ‘I can’t wait until tomorrow.’
‘Oh, Libby, for goodness’ sake. It’s nothing to do with us, now. Leave it alone.’
Libby moved the kettle back on to the Rayburn and warmed the brown teapot. Now she really was at a loss.
Who could she talk to about this? Fran was obviously not in th
e mood. All the objections she had thought of earlier were still in place, although, she thought, brightening, the option of Adam and Creekmarsh was still open. She poured a cup of tea and rang Adam.
‘I’m not there, Mum,’ he said. ‘Neither’s Lewis. They’ve gone back to London and Mog’s decided we have to go and do some plant sourcing today. We’re in Surrey.’
‘Oh.’ Libby felt ridiculously cheated. ‘All right. I’ll see you during the week at the caff.’
Next she rang Flo Carpenter. Flo had been useful several times in Libby’s and Fran’s investigations, having lived in Steeple Martin almost since she came there as a young hop picker during the war. She had ended up marrying farmer Frank Carpenter at the same time that Ben’s mother Hetty had married Greg, the son of the squire. It always made Libby smile to think of East Ender Hetty as Lady of the Manor. It must have been difficult for both Hetty and Greg facing the prejudices of both their social classes, but Hetty had done it. Flo hadn’t faced quite the same problems as there was less of a class distinction between her and Frank, and, luckily, she’d been there to support Hetty. Both women were strong examples of the redoubtable Londoner who had survived poverty, deprivation and the war, but Libby preferred to talk to Flo about the past as Hetty and Greg had been at the centre of a family scandal and murder, and Libby was wary of triggering the memories.
‘Yeah, you pop round, gal. Len’s just popped down the pub so I’m on me own. Want a bit of dinner?’
‘No, thanks, Flo, I’ve just had a sandwich.’ Libby knew that “dinner” to Flo was what you had at lunchtime and was likely to be substantial.
‘You driving anywhere?’
‘No.’ Libby wasn’t surprised at this question and knew why it had been asked.
‘Good. I’ll open a bottle of the Merlot. You liked that, didn’t you?’
Frank Carpenter had “kept a good cellar”, and Flo had learnt from him. Long before wine was an everyday tipple in practically every household in Britain, Flo was developing her palate.
‘Lovely. Thanks, Flo. I’ll see you in about ten minutes.’
Maltby Close was the little lane leading to the church. An existing barn had been converted into a comfortable communal sitting/dining room and the remainder into a one-storey cottage, where Flo and Lenny lived. Several more new cottages had been built, all for local residents over sixty. They were owned, not rented, and each paid a maintenance charge for the upkeep and the services of a non-resident warden. Libby arrived to find the door standing open and Flo, cigarette hanging from her mouth and her eyes squinting through the smoke, picking weeds from a window box.
‘Go on in, gal.’ Flo gestured with a hand full of weeds. ‘Bottle’s open.’
Flo’s sitting room, cluttered and old-fashioned and permanently imbued with the ghosts of long-dead cigarettes, was at least not as stuffy as it would be from October 1st until April 1st, when the heating and the electric fire would be going full blast. An open bottle of Merlot and two glasses stood on a side table.
‘So, what’s it all about, then?’ Flo shuffled into the room and dropped her cigarette into a large ashtray.
‘What’s what all about?’ asked Libby, sitting in her usual armchair by the fireplace.
‘You only come and talk to me when you’re pokin’ yer nose into something.’ Flo handed her a glass of wine.
‘I don’t!’ Libby felt her cheeks burning.
‘Mostly.’ Flo sat down. ‘I don’t mind. Nice to have a chat. So, what is it?’
‘Actually, I’m not sure I do want to know anything,’ said Libby, feeling the red tide recede. ‘I think I just wanted a chat.’
Flo lit another cigarette. ‘Go on. Bet you’re doin’ something with that Fran. Aintcher?’
‘Yes – well, I was. It’s just been taken over by the police.’
‘Doesn’t usually stop yer.’
‘No, but this time there’s nothing we can do about it.’
‘Don’t believe it.’ Flo sipped her wine. ‘Go on, then, what is it?’
Libby reflected that Flo probably enjoyed talking about her local knowledge as much as she enjoyed listening.
‘Well,’ she began, ‘Fran is taking a creative writing course with a writer called Amanda George.’
‘What’s that, then? She learning how to write that curly writing?’
‘Calligraphy?’ Libby giggled. ‘No, Flo. It means learning how to write stories and novels.’
‘Don’t know how you can learn that.’ Flo sniffed and drank more wine.
‘Well, you can. Anyway, this Rosie -’
‘Who?’
‘Rosie. Sorry. Amanda George is Rosie’s pen name. Or Rosie is Amanda’s real name. Whichever way you like.’
Flo looked confused. Libby hurried on. ‘Well, she found out that Fran was psychic and asked us to look into this house she dreamt about.’
‘More old houses. Is it a real one?’
‘Oh, yes. White Lodge at Cherry Ashton.’
‘Oh, that place.’ Flo’s eyes narrowed.
‘Do you know it?’ Libby was surprised.
‘Everyone knows it. Them children.’
‘Yes, people kept telling us about the children. It turns out they were TB victims buried in the garden.’
‘Haunted, that place.’
‘You don’t believe in ghosts, Flo.’
‘That’s as may be. There’s no arguing with some things, though.’
‘Like what?’
‘They used to see a girl. And music playing.’
‘Really? When was this? And how do you know?’
‘They dug a body up there. Years ago.’
‘Yes, Rosie said that. Do you know any more about it? When it was? How it happened?’
Flo lit another cigarette and squinted thoughtfully through the smoke.
‘This bloke that owned it wanted to build a bit more on the back. But someone – government probably – said he’d have to dig something up first.’
‘What bloke? We don’t know about a bloke?’
Flo was disconcerted. ‘I don’t know. It was in the papers. They dug up this kid’s body. Then someone in the house saw this ghost. So he stopped the building.’
‘And sold it?’ Libby leant forward. ‘Who was he, Flo? We haven’t found any references to that, and we’ve all been looking into it. Us, the police, everyone. Even a history professor.’
‘I’m sorry, gal. I just remember about the kids and the ghosts.’
‘You said kids plural. And ghosts plural.’
Flo shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t remember much about it. But everyone knew.’
‘Yes, so people keep saying, yet no one will actually tell us anything,’ said Libby, and took out her own cigarettes.
‘You looked on the internet?’
‘Course I did. So did Inspector Connell. And the history professor. And he went to his archaeological society’s library.’
Flo frowned. ‘Don’t understand it. Course I wasn’t here when it was a hospital or the workhouse, but we all knew about it.’
‘And you say a private individual owned it?’
‘Some bloke, I said.’ Flo sounded irritated. ‘P’raps Het’ll know.’
‘Or Dolly or Una?’ said Libby, referring to two of Flo’s contemporaries in the village.
‘They might.’ Flo shrugged. ‘I’ll ask ’em at bingo if you like.’
‘Would you, Flo? Thank you.’ Libby leant back and lifted her wine glass. ‘Cheers.’
Later, Libby reported her conversation with Flo to Fran. ‘There’s a bit of a mystery there, isn’t there? Why can’t we find anything about it anywhere? Even Andrew only found out about it being a TB hospital.’
‘And we never asked when it closed, did we?’ said Fran.
‘He said he’d got more research to do, remember? I wonder if he’s found out anything else? And if he found anything with Ian?’
‘All I know is what Ian told me. It wasn’t a modern body.’
�
��Could I ring Andrew, do you think?’
‘You could, if you think it’s worth it. I’ll give you his number. But I don’t suppose he’ll tell you anything about Wednesday morning.’
But she was wrong.
Chapter Eleven
‘IT WAS FASCINATING,’ ANDREW told Libby later. She’d had the bright idea of inviting him to Steeple Martin, and followed it up with another bright idea, suggesting that they go to The Pink Geranium for dinner to thank him for his help.
‘It’s Ian who should be buying him dinner,’ grumbled Ben, ‘or at least this Rosie.’
‘Oh, don’t be a grump. He’s a nice guy. In fact,’ Libby was struck with a third bright idea, ‘why don’t we ask Rosie too?’
So Andrew picked Rosie up on the way and they all met in The Pink Geranium at eight o’clock. Donna brought them menus and Harry brought a bottle of red wine.
‘I see they know you here,’ said Andrew, amused.
‘This old trout is one of my best friends,’ said Harry, throwing an arm round Libby’s shoulders. ‘But be wary. She gets into things she shouldn’t.’
‘Harry,’ warned Libby.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Harry. ‘This is one of the things, isn’t it?’
Rosie laughed. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘I’m one of the things.’
‘Oh, you’re the author?’ said Harry. ‘Oh, bugger. I’ve got to go and cook your dinners, so I can’t ask all about it. I shall be back later.’
After they’d all ordered, Libby asked Andrew about his Wednesday morning experiences and he said it was fascinating.
‘I’ve never seen one of those fingertip searches before. And they were so thorough.’
‘And did they find anything?’
‘No. We didn’t even find any speakers, but I gather Inspector Connell is going to look more thoroughly. He has to get permission from the owners and English Heritage because of the listing.’
‘So who are the owners?’
‘It’s rather complicated, apparently.’ Andrew picked up his glass of tonic water and frowned at it.
‘It’s a probate sale, isn’t it?’ asked Libby. ‘The estate agents told us that.’
Murder to Music Page 7
