‘It was the other gravestones. I think it was assumed that they were the bodies of workhouse children, but you don’t think so?’ Rosie turned to Fran.
‘What age was the body?’ asked Libby. ‘I mean, when did it date from?’
‘I don’t think they could date it very accurately in those days,’ said Rosie, ‘but they thought it dated from the workhouse period.’
‘And where is it now?’ asked Fran.
Rosie looked surprised. ‘I don’t know. Re-buried, I suppose.’
‘Who would know?’ Libby leant forward. ‘And if you know all this, why on earth did you want us to find out about it? This is all very suspicious, Rosie, you must see that.’
Rosie sighed. ‘I know. I did a certain amount of research after I’d been to see the house, and that is all I came up with. But I couldn’t come up with any more, and the estate agents wouldn’t talk to me about the music. And then I started dreaming again.’
‘The same dreams?’ said Fran.
‘The ones I told you about. But there was always music – piano music. And it began to frighten me. And I couldn’t go back to the estate agents, I’d already pestered them enough. I couldn’t seem to get any further with my research, and the only documents at the county archives seemed to be about the workhouse. Although it did appear to have been a merchant’s house before it became part of the workhouse.’
‘So then you called us in,’ said Libby. ‘Tell me, would it have hurt to have told us all this in the first place?’
‘I didn’t want to prejudice you, I’ve told you,’ said Rosie, although the blush was staining her neck again. ‘I’m sorry if I misled you.’
‘Well, it was rather a childish thing to do,’ Libby sniffed.
‘I thought it would interest Fran,’ said Rosie.
‘So you invested it with a whiff of the supernatural just to season the dish.’ Libby frowned.
‘It’s all right, Lib,’ said Fran. ‘Now, Rosie, why didn’t you go on with the research yourself?’
‘Because of your reputation,’ said Rosie, sitting up straighter. ‘You see, I know all about your career as investigators.’
‘I’d hardly call us that,’ said Fran.
‘Bunglers, more like,’ said Libby.
‘Anyway, when Fran enrolled for my classes, I was delighted, especially when she told me she wanted to write about her Coastguard Cottage experiences.’
‘Ah!’ said Libby. ‘So you made your experience as much like hers as possible to get her interest.’
‘Oh, God.’ Rosie leant forward and put her head in her hands. ‘It really does sound awful when you put it like that.’
‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘And now tell us about the music.’
‘Piano music,’ said Rosie, sitting upright once more. ‘When I heard it while I was upstairs in the house I thought it was coming from that piano downstairs, and how funny it was the same music as in my dreams –’
‘In your dream?’ said Libby sharply. ‘In the first dreams?’
‘Yes. Didn’t I say?’
Libby shook her head.
‘Oh, yes, there was always music. Debussy, mainly. The music that day was L’après-midi d’un faun – do you know it?’
‘On the day we visited it was The Girl with the Golden Hair,’ said Fran. ‘Still Debussy.’
‘Now, how would they have known that?’ asked Libby, of no one in particular.
‘They?’ asked Rosie.
‘Didn’t it occur to you that someone was playing that music?’
‘Well, of course.’
‘And you never questioned it?’
‘No.’ Rosie looked bewildered.
‘Yet you asked us in to find out about it?’ Libby went on mercilessly. ‘Not even when you realised that, by doing so, you’d be putting us in danger?’
Chapter Seven
‘DANGER?’ ROSIE REPEATED. ‘HOW?’
Libby made a sound suspiciously like a snort. ‘For a writer you’re being remarkably dense. Or are you? Perhaps you know all about it already?’
‘I really don’t know what you mean,’ said Rosie, looking bewildered.
‘We’ve reported it to the police,’ said Libby, ignoring Rosie’s gasp, ‘because if the piano was playing each time someone visited it means that someone was behind it. Some kind of recording equipment which is turned on whenever someone comes to look at the house, to scare them off. That genuinely hadn’t occurred to you?’
Rosie was now looking aghast.
‘There’s something else, too,’ said Fran in a gentler voice than Libby’s accusatory tone. ‘You said you’d been in the back garden and seen the gravestones.’
Rosie nodded.
‘And did you see that the ground had been cleared?’
‘No. It was completely overgrown.’
Libby and Fran looked at each other.
‘That means it was within the last year,’ said Libby.
‘What was?’ asked Rosie.
‘We think – a new grave.’
Rosie turned white. Fran reached forward to steady her, but she stayed upright. Libby took her cup.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘More tea.’
Rosie took it obediently and sipped, her colour returning.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
For a moment they sat in silence, then Rosie put down her cup.
‘I seem to have made a complete mess of things,’ she said. ‘First of all I should have told you everything I’d found out. And now I’ve unwittingly put you in danger.’
‘Only while we were at the house,’ said Fran. ‘But you understand why we had to inform the police. If what we found is a new grave, then the music is being played, presumably, by someone keen to keep people away, and therefore someone involved with the death.’
‘But I didn’t see the grave,’ said Rosie. ‘You said it had only been there since I saw the house. Why keep me away?’
‘Perhaps there are others,’ said Libby. ‘There has to be a reason, and it isn’t ghost music. I do wonder why on earth the estate agents didn’t report it, though.’
‘Others? You mean other graves?’ said Rosie.
‘Apart from the old ones, I mean,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, we need to talk to the agents and see what they have to say. And find out about those children’s graves, too.’
‘We were thinking we should try and find a local amateur historian,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t suppose you know anyone, do you?’
Rosie thought for a moment. ‘Actually,’ she said slowly, ‘I think I do. There’s a chap who runs adult ed classes in local history. I don’t know him personally, but he’s there on the same day I am. I’ll go and get the brochure.’
She stood up and went into the cottage. Libby looked at Fran.
‘Now what?’ she said.
‘I suppose we tell Ian what Rosie’s told us, but it won’t do him any good. And I want to find out about this Debussy connection.’
Rosie returned with the thick Adult Education brochure, flicking through and finding a page.
‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s him.’
The page had brief biographies of the tutors. Professor Andrew Wylie was listed as a retired Professor of History at one of the northern universities who now ran local history sessions and occasional walks.
‘How would we get hold of him?’ asked Libby. ‘Look in the phone book?’
‘Yes,’ said Fran, ‘but I think Rosie should make the approach as a fellow tutor.’
Rosie nodded. ‘And what do I tell him?’
‘The truth,’ said Fran, ‘but perhaps keep the modern part of the mystery to yourself. Just say you want to find out about the history of the building in the early part of the twentieth century, particularly after the workhouse was closed down. Don’t tell him about the dreams or the music, though.’
‘If he wants to go and see it he’ll find out for himself,’ said Libby.
‘Shall I tell him about asking you two to help?’
>
‘Oh, I think so,’ said Fran. ‘He can liaise with us. Unless you want to become more involved yourself?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rosie. ‘I think I’m a bit too old for that.’
‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ said Libby. ‘Go on, why don’t you ring him now?’
Rosie stared at her for a moment, then smiled. ‘All right. I’ll go and find the phone book.’
She returned a few minutes later with the telephone directory and a phone.
‘Right,’ she said, her briskness seeming to have returned. ‘Here we are – Prof. A Wylie. Oh, he lives in Nethergate. Canongate Drive. Do you know it?’
Fran and Libby looked at each other and smiled. ‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘we know it.’
‘Oh?’ Rosie’s raised eyebrows asked the question.
‘Funnily enough,’ said Fran, ‘someone who lives there helped me when I was trying to find out about my cottage.’
‘Not to mention knowing someone who lived in the flats at the other end,’ said Libby.
Fran frowned at her. ‘Lives,’ she corrected. ‘Edna’s brother.’
‘Oh, yes, who travels in stationery.’ Libby giggled. ‘Do you suppose he still does? Seems like an obsolete profession to me.’
‘Go on then, Rosie, try the number,’ said Fran.
Rosie punched in the numbers and waited. Eventually, she adopted the expression of someone listening to a recorded announcement.
‘This is Amanda George, Professor Wylie,’ she said. ‘I teach adult education classes on the same days as you do. I wonder if I could ask your advice?’ She left her number and switched off the phone. ‘There. That’s all we can do for the moment.’
Fran sat back in her chair. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve given you a shock,’ she said, ‘but we were a little suspicious –’
‘And so were the police,’ put in Libby.
‘Goodness! Were they?’ Rosie looked worried.
‘Because it seemed that you’d been to White Lodge comparatively recently and denied it.’
‘Omitted to tell us,’ corrected Fran.
‘Oh, yes. I suppose they would be.’ Rosie looked uncomfortable. ‘Will they want to talk to me?’
‘Maybe. They’ve got to find out a lot more to make an investigation viable,’ said Fran, ‘but we’ll keep you informed.’
Rosie looked at her curiously. ‘And they keep you informed?’
‘We have a contact in the police,’ said Libby, a touch proudly.
‘Oh, I remember reading about that,’ said Rosie. ‘He calls you in, Fran, doesn’t he?’
‘In a way,’ said Fran, ‘but he doesn’t like admitting it. He’s always furious if it gets into the paper.’
‘Anyway,’ said Libby, ‘he’s going to do a bit of preliminary digging. Mainly into the new grave, if it is one.’
‘Not physically, I hope,’ said Rosie, now appearing quite recovered. ‘Well, if you’ve quite forgiven me, how about some more tea? Or a glass of wine?’
Libby looked hopeful, but Fran shook her head. ‘I’m driving,’ she said, ‘and I really ought to get back.’
‘Right.’ Rosie stood up. ‘Will you ring me as soon as you hear any more?’
‘Of course,’ said Libby. ‘And you’ll let us know when you hear from the prof?’
‘I will,’ promised Rosie, ‘but it just occurred to me – he may be on holiday.’
‘Oh, bother,’ said Libby. ‘Of course. High summer. I bet he goes away on obscure archaeological digs in the Greek islands.’
Fran shook her head. ‘With your imagination it’s you should be the writer, Lib.’
‘I am,’ said Libby. ‘I write pantomimes.’
‘Do you?’ said Rosie.
‘I used to,’ aid Libby. ‘There’s only so many variations on “It’s Behind You” a girl can take.’
‘Well, that’s made things a bit clearer,’ said Fran, as they drove back to Steeple Martin.
‘As long as she’s told us the truth, now,’ said Libby.
‘I think she has,’ said Fran. ‘And she was very shocked about the new grave.’
‘I want to go back to the agents,’ said Libby. ‘And the house.’
‘We can’t until Ian says we can,’ said Fran. ‘Wait until you hear from him.’
However, the first thing Libby heard was a phone call the following morning from Fran, to say that Professor Wylie had called Rosie back. He was, apparently, intrigued by the opportunity to research a historic building, and, as a member of the Kent Archaeological Society, had access to their library at Maidstone.
‘Rosie said he sounded quite enthusiastic and wondered if he was bored.’
‘Should have gone on that archaeological dig to Greece,’ said Libby. ‘Did he say when he would get back to her?’
‘As soon as he could,’ said Fran, ‘but it means an actual visit to the library, so we can’t expect it to be that soon. He also suggested a geophysical survey in the garden.’
‘That’s all well and good, but we know – or at least, we think we know – that there are children’s bodies there. Anyway, we couldn’t afford it, and Ian wouldn’t let us.’
Ian called later in the day.
‘I went and had a look,’ he said, ‘and sure enough that music was playing. I’ve been trying to get the agents to let me see all their correspondence on the house, but they’re being remarkably reticent. Without a warrant I can’t see it, although I’ve told the boss about the music and that I’m sure someone’s scaring people off, but he’s still being uncooperative. But there is another piece of news.’
‘Go on then, what?’
‘The cleared patch of ground you saw does look like a grave, and there was a bunch of flowers when I went.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. I’m going back tomorrow, and if you’re very, very good, I’ll let you and Fran come with me. I don’t think there’s anyone actually in the house, the music is obviously some kind of mechanism with a trip switch, as I said, but I want to find that. If the agents refuse to give me the keys again, I’ll threaten them with the full weight of the law.’
‘Would they refuse? They seemed keen enough for me to view it.’
‘But they know I’m investigating, not a prospective purchaser.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I’ve got some news for you.’
‘Oh, no. What have you done now?’
‘Nothing, except what you asked us to do,’ said Libby indignantly, and told him about their visit to Rosie.
‘And finally, she’s got in touch with a historical professor who’s going to research the house for us.’
‘How?’ Ian sounded suspicious.
Libby told him. ‘And he suggested a geophysical survey in the garden.’
‘Which would no doubt show all sorts of anomalies, and as we know, or rumour suggests, there are bodies there, it wouldn’t do us any good.’
‘Yes, that’s what we thought,’ said Libby, a trifle gloomily. ‘I just wish we knew what those bodies were. Fran’s still sure they aren’t anything to do with the workhouse.’
‘Which does seem the likeliest explanation,’ said Ian. ‘Do we know what the house was before the workhouse?’
‘A local merchant’s house was the best we could come up with. And I also want to know why Rosie remembers it. Now she’s told us the truth, her memories – the early ones – seem to have been from when she was very young. Otherwise, she’d remember it far more clearly.’
‘I’d rather like to know why she was so careful with the truth,’ said Ian. ‘I think I shall have to see her for myself.’
‘We did say you might want to,’ said Libby, ‘but I think I believe her now. What about this professor? Will you want to see him?’
‘Let’s see what he comes up with first,’ said Ian.
‘OK,’ said Libby, ‘and see if he comes up with an explanation of the Debussy, as well.’
‘That’s fairly simple,’ said Ian. ‘They only had a Debussy CD when they set up th
e speakers.’
‘Oh, how disappointing. You’re far too prosaic. Will you let us know when and if you manage to go tomorrow?’
‘Of course. Regards to Ben, by the way. How is he?’
‘Oh, fine. Same as always. You know Ben.’
‘Not annoyed with you for getting involved again?’
‘Not so far,’ said Libby, ‘but that’s because it started out as a research project and he thought it would keep me out of mischief.’
Ian sighed. ‘Even I know you better than that,’ he said.
Chapter Eight
WHEN LIBBY CALLED FRAN the next day to tell her they were to meet Ian at White Lodge at mid-day, Fran also had news.
‘Prof Wylie called Rosie. I think she was right, he is bored, because he went straight to the library yesterday and did some research. He’s come up with some interesting information, he said.’
‘What?’
‘He said he’d rather tell her in person. So she said we were handling it, would he tell us.’
‘And did he say yes?’
‘She said he sounded rather surprised, so she said we would explain. He’s asked us to go to his flat.’
‘When?’
‘He said this morning, if we liked.’
Libby looked at her watch. ‘That’d be cutting it a bit fine. It’s ten now, and we’re meeting Ian at twelve.’
‘But think how good it would be if we could have this information when we went to the house. Shall I call Ian and ask if we could make it later?’
‘All right,’ said Libby reluctantly. ‘I expect he’d do it for you rather than me. I think he regards me a bit like a mosquito.’
‘But mosquitoes aren’t lovable with it,’ laughed Fran. ‘Don’t be daft. Did he ring you from his mobile?’
‘Yes. Get back to me as soon as possible, eh?’
In fact it was less than five minutes later when Fran called back.
‘He said get there when we can, and you’ll never guess what!’
‘What? Of course I can’t guess.’
‘He says if he’d like to come, the professor can come with us.’
‘Blimey! Is he getting soft in his old age?
‘Well, he did say if the information was interesting and useful. So we’d better go and find out. I’ll ring him now.’
Murder to Music - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 5
