‘Fran and I will come one day this week, if that’s all right? What time would be best? Not afternoon, you need to sleep then!’
‘Oh, anytime. Be lovely to see you both.’
‘OK, we’ll ring before we come just to make sure.’
Rather than annoy Fran by ringing her again, Libby sent a text message, then, determined to take her mind off everything else, she cleaned the bathroom.
It was while she was dishing up a rather strange version of chilli and rice that the phone rang again.
‘Ian’s going to look at the barn. I don’t think he was that thrilled about us having been exploring, but he agreed it was worth looking into.’
‘And no news on the other end of things?’
‘None. And I don’t see what we can do about it.’
‘Tell you what we could do. We could go and see Jane tomorrow morning and go and have lunch at The Golden Spice.’
‘The–? Oh, yes. You met the owner. Why would we do that?’
‘Because we want to see the baby?’
‘I meant have lunch at an Indian restaurant.’
‘Because he said to mention his name.’
‘And you think we’ll get a discount?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Libby, who had.
‘We’ll go and see Jane,’ said Fran, and rang off.
‘If you’re going to an Indian restaurant, why can’t I come?’ said Ben, who had finished dishing up and was now tucking in.
‘You can,’ said Libby. ‘Fran doesn’t want to go, so perhaps you and I should go one evening. There’s one in Canterbury, too.’
‘Be nice to get away somewhere, just the two of us.’ Ben reached over and patted her hand. She smiled at him.
‘It would. And not just for an evening, either.’
‘Are you actually suggesting we go away for a dirty weekend?’ Ben raised his eyebrows in mock horror. ‘To somewhere nobody knows us?’
‘Well,’ said Libby, forking up rice, ‘we do always seem to go to places where we know the owners or the other customers. Which reminds me, we haven’t been to the pub for ages.’
Ben laughed. ‘Which I take it means you’d like to go this evening? OK, as long as we go to that restaurant tomorrow.’
Peter joined them at the pub, and demanded an update on the progress of the investigation, only parts of which he’d heard from Harry. Libby told him the whole story from the beginning.
‘So Harry was wrong?’ he said when she’d finished. ‘She wasn’t just using you?’
‘In a way she was, but not in the way he thought. And she’s genuinely shocked about Paul Findon.’
‘You know,’ said Peter slowly, leaning back on his settle and stretching long legs out sideways, ‘he could still be partly right.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Maybe she does own it.’
Libby stared at him.
‘He’s right,’ said Ben. ‘Suppose he left it to her?’
‘She’d have known before this,’ said Libby. ‘He died when she was a child.’
‘I was thinking more of her mother. If, when he died, he left it to his sister, which would be logical if he had no wife or children, when she died it would presumably go to her child or children. Didn’t you say the agents said it was a complicated probate sale?’
Libby groaned. ‘Oh, not that again. Remember the trouble Fran had over her legacy?’
‘And she didn’t know about it, either,’ said Peter.
‘She didn’t know she was entitled to it, you mean?
‘Well, it only came to light after her old auntie died, didn’t it. Strange that this has only just emerged. I wonder when Rosie’s mother died?’
‘You’re getting as bad as she is,’ said Ben. ‘Another pint?’
‘He’s right, though,’ Libby said later, as they walked home. ‘But surely she’d have known if it belonged to her mother?’
‘Well, that’s something else to ask her, isn’t it? She’ll be sorry she asked you in at this rate.’ Ben tucked his arm through hers. ‘Now where are we going for this dirty weekend?’
Chapter Eighteen
LIBBY PARKED AS NEAR to Coastguard Cottage as she could the following morning.
‘So what do you think of Pete’s idea?’ she asked when Fran had been told of last night’s conversation.
‘It’s a possibility, but why wouldn’t her mother have known she owned it?’
‘I thought about it this morning. It’s like those programmes on TV, where companies search for missing heirs. Lots of people don’t know they’re legatees.’
‘But they do that just after someone’s died, surely? Not years later? Anyway, no one appears to be looking for Rosie. The agents were very shifty about who owned the property.’
‘Well, whoever it is, they must have the deeds and be able to prove title.’ Libby looked sideways at her friend. ‘Remember all your trouble with your legacy?’
Fran shuddered. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘Let’s have a look online after we’ve seen Jane. I expect we’ll find out how to trace missing heirs.’
Terry let them into Peel House and led them to the front room, where Jane sat, looking slightly smug, a Moses basket by her side.
‘Meet Imogen,’ she said.
Libby and Fran duly cooed over the grumpy pink face, almost hidden under a beautiful light, lacy shawl.
‘That’s gorgeous,’ said Libby. ‘Was it a present?’
‘Yes,’ said Jane, ‘my mother knitted it. I’m still faintly surprised.’
‘My, my! Coming round, is she?’
‘She’s actually being quite helpful and sensitive. Staying out of the way but there if we need her.’ Jane shook her head. ‘Can’t quite believe it.’
‘She’s all right,’ said Terry, a man of few words. ‘Tea?’
The conversation turned naturally to Jane’s labour and Imogen’s birth, and when Terry reappeared with mugs, he rolled his eyes and disappeared again.
‘So how are you getting on with your investigation?’ asked Jane.
Libby and Fran told her.
‘And we’ve you to thank for the children,’ said Libby. ‘Sorry if it upsets you.’
Jane made an involuntary movement towards the Moses basket.
‘But after you mentioned it, we managed to find out about it, and we’ve found so much since,’ said Fran gently. ‘And the children don’t come into it.’
‘Good.’ Jane smiled her relief.
‘One thing, though,’ said Libby, ‘you remember you looked to see how back your archives went for me last year?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I thought, what about Colindale? Does it still exist?’
‘Colindale?’ asked Fran.
‘The Colindale newspaper library. Part of the British Library. They have copies of everything back to about 1700, don’t they, Jane?’
Jane nodded. ‘Although it’s being digitised, and it was going to be moved to a storage facility somewhere in Yorkshire, I think, but that was under the last government. I think you can order digitised copies at the Library proper.’
‘But you have to be a member, don’t you?’
‘You have to have a pass to use the reading rooms,’ said Jane, ‘but there’s a lot you can do online.’
‘But what for?’ asked Fran.
‘Don’t they have to post details of people who died intestate?’
Jane shook her head. ‘Not any more. They do in cases of bankruptcy still, but I think it’s probably only the national broadsheets that print intestacy notices, if even they do.’
‘Oh, I see what you’re getting at,’ said Fran. ‘To see if someone other than Rosie’s mother claimed the estate?’
‘What?’ Jane looked puzzled, and Libby explained. ‘Of course, he might have actually left it to Rosie’s mother, but in that case, why was Rosie never told? And why isn’t Rosie the owner now?’
‘She might be,’ said Jane.
‘Ha
rry thought that, too, but I swear she was shocked to find out about Paul Findon.’
Fran nodded. ‘She was, that was genuine. No, I think we’ll have to try and find a way to get hold of his will. If there isn’t one, then he died intestate.’
‘But Ian should have found out by now who owns the building,’ said Libby. ‘He was going to the records office on Monday.’
‘So we’ve been talking about heirs and intestacy for nothing?’ Fran threw back her head and laughed, stopping suddenly with her hand over her mouth and an anxious look at the Moses basket. Jane peered in, but smiled and shook her head.
‘A slight twitch,’ she said, ‘nothing more. So what will you do now?’
‘Oh, nothing, I suppose,’ said Libby. ‘I think I just come up with these ideas to keep myself busy. I’d forgotten about Ian asking for the records.’
‘Even if we find out who owns the property now, it would be interesting to know who it went to when Findon died,’ said Fran. ‘We could still try and find that out.’
Libby cheered up. ‘You never know, Rosie could have a claim on the estate.’
‘After all this time? I doubt it,’ said Jane.
‘Well, it must happen,’ said Libby, ‘because I remember a case in the paper where someone had claimed an estate and the solicitors made them take out this special insurance in case someone closer to the deceased turned up, and they did. The – oh, I don’t know – brother or something had emigrated to Australia and knew nothing about it. Must happen all the time.’
‘Keep me posted,’ said Jane. ‘It sounds fascinating.’
Libby and Fran left shortly after that.
‘Shall we go to the cafe on Marine Parade?’ said Libby. ‘I never go there these days.’
‘What for? Do you want an ice cream? I’ve got to get back to the shop. Guy’s going out buying at lunchtime, so I couldn’t have gone to the Golden Spice with you, anyway.’
‘It’s all right, Ben and I are going tonight.’ Libby sighed. ‘OK, no ice cream, but if I come back to the shop with you, will you try and get hold of Ian about the owner?’
‘No, I won’t Libby. Poor bloke’s already had us pestering him –’
‘Giving him information,’ corrected Libby.
‘I know, but I still think we ought to let him tell us in his own time.’ Fran smiled at her friend. ‘You can come and keep me company, though. Sophie’s gone off somewhere with Adam, so I’ll be on my own.’
‘Funny about those two, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘My son and your daughter.’
‘She’s not my daughter,’ said Fran.
‘Step-daughter, then. Still funny.’
Libby went home when Guy got back to the shop and called Ben to remind him they were going out that night.
‘I know. I’ve even booked a table.’
‘Really? I say, do you remember where we went on our first date? That Thai restaurant in Canterbury.’
‘I do. I even remember what you wore,’ said Ben.
‘You old romantic, you,’ said Libby.
They reached the Golden Spice just before eight o’clock and were shown to their table by a beautifully suited young man with a heavy moustache.
‘Are you one of Mr Vindari’s sons?’ asked Libby, as he held her chair for her.
‘Libby!’ hissed Ben, but the young man stepped aside and smiled widely, white teeth gleaming in the forest of black.
‘I am.’ He bowed at Libby, then at Ben. ‘You know my father?’
‘Not know him, really,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve met him, though. He told me to mention his name when I came here.’
‘But of course,’ said the young man. ‘In that case you must have a drink as my guest. What would you like?’
‘There, see?’ whispered Libby, when the young man had departed barwards. ‘Free drink!’
‘You are shameless,’ said Ben, as another young man of solemn aspect presented them with menus.
The food was wonderful. As she finished off the last of the sauce with a piece of naan, Libby leant back and sighed.
‘Whoof. That was without doubt the best Indian meal I have ever eaten. I shall never go anywhere else.’
‘Thank you.’
The younger Mr Vindari had silently appeared at their table.
‘Oh!’ Libby sat up and felt heat creeping up her neck.
‘It was delightful to hear such a spontaneous compliment,’ he said. ‘Please, may I tempt you to a dessert?’
Libby shook her head.
‘I think we’re just too full,’ said Ben. ‘It really was delicious.’
Mr Vindari bowed. ‘I am delighted. I shall tell my father – but I am sorry, I don’t know your names?’
‘I’m Libby Sarjeant.’ Libby held out her hand. ‘And this is Ben Wilde.’
Mr Vindari shook hands with both of them. ‘May I ask where you met my father?’
‘Um,’ said Libby, feeling the heat creep back up. ‘At Cherry Ashton.’
‘Oh?’ Mr Vindari looked inquiring, but Libby chose to ignore it, flicking a pleading glance at Ben, who, without a beat, said ‘Perhaps we could have the bill?’
‘Of course.’ Mr Vindari flicked a finger and the solemn young waiter appeared magically with a leather bill folder.
Ben looked briefly at the bill and placed his credit card in the folder, which was immediately whisked away. When the payment procedure had been concluded, Mr Vindari and his acolyte returned to see them off the premises with much bowing and promises to return.
‘Why were you so anxious to get away all of a sudden?’ said Ben as they walked back to the car park.
‘I didn’t want to explain that I’d been poking around a derelict building and he’d come to see if I was trespassing,’ said Libby. ‘How embarrassing.’
‘I didn’t think you could be embarrassed by something like that,’ said Ben. ‘You do things like that all the time.’
‘I don’t trespass.’
‘You poke about. You nearly got yourself into trouble at Creekmarsh that way, didn’t you?’
‘All right, all right.’ Libby squeezed his arm. ‘That was a lovely dinner, thank you.’
‘It was, wasn’t it? Shall we try the Nethergate one next time? Perhaps Fran and Guy could join us. And Harry, he said he’d like to.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Libby, as he held the car door open for her. ‘Had enough of me on my own, now, have you?’
Ben laughed. ‘I’ve got you on your own now, haven’t I?’ He slid in beside her and patted her knee.
The answerphone button winked that there was a message when they got in. Libby pressed play while Ben fetched them both a nightcap.
‘Libby, it’s Fran. I’ve just had a rather surprising message from Ian. If you get in before ten, give me a ring, otherwise I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Your mobile’s switched off, by the way.’
‘Oh, damn, it’s half past ten,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t realise we’d spent that much time over dinner.’
‘Relax,’ said Ben, guiding her to the sofa. ‘If it was urgent she’d have told you to ring whatever time you got in. A message from Ian doesn’t mean life and death.’
‘No,’ agreed Libby reluctantly, ‘but now I’m seething with curiosity.’
Ben sighed. ‘End of quiet evening, then.’
‘Oh, sorry, Ben.’ Libby turned to him, put down her glass and wound her arms round his neck. ‘I shall stop seething and start soothing.’
‘So I should think,’ said Ben.
The following morning he had to prevent Libby from calling Fran almost the minute she woke up.
‘Wait until I’ve gone up to the Manor,’ he said. ‘That’ll be a more respectable hour. And you could wait until Guy’s gone off to open the shop, too.’
‘That’s not until ten!’ wailed Libby. ‘I can’t wait that long.’
Ben laughed and ruffled her hair. ‘Well, at least wait until I’ve gone. And stop trying to shoo me out the door!’
At last, after
shutting the door on him at ten past nine, Libby was free to make her phone call, which maddeningly, wasn’t answered. She then tried Fran’s mobile, which also went to voice mail. Beginning to get worried, she rang the number of the shop.
‘Sophie? I can’t raise Guy or Fran. Do you know where they are?’
‘Yes, Libby, I’m here,’ said Guy’s voice. ‘I’ve started opening at nine thirty during the summer. Did you try Fran’s mobile?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’ll have it switched off then while she’s driving.’
‘Oh, where to?’ said Libby. ‘She wanted to talk to me this morning.’
‘Exactly,’ said Guy. ‘She’s on her way to you.’
Libby leapt upstairs, had the quickest shower ever and threw on some clothes. She’d just thrust her feet into sandals when she heard the front door.
‘What is it? What’s so urgent?’ She opened the door and stood back for Fran.
‘All right, all right, let me get inside.’ Fran went straight into the kitchen.
‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ Fran sat down at the table. ‘You obviously got my message?’
‘I did. Ben and I got back from the Golden Spice too late to ring you, so I rang this morning. Guy said you were on your way here.’
‘Ian called yesterday.’
‘You said it was a rather surprising message.’
‘It was – and it wasn’t.’ Fran grinned at Libby’s cross expression. ‘It’s all right, I’ll explain.’
Libby pushed a mug across the table and sat down on the opposite side. ‘You’d better.’
‘Ian had someone look into the ownership of White Lodge.’
‘Yes, we knew that.’
‘And it was left to Rosie’s mother.’
‘What?’ Libby almost dropped her mug.
‘Apparently, it’s never been transferred into Rosie’s name, so it looks as though we were right and she doesn’t know.’
‘So he’s going to tell her?’
‘Today, apparently. There’s another thing, though. Someone leased the property through Riley’s, only it was Riley and Naughton in those days.’
‘Riley’s? Who are handling it now?’ Libby frowned. ‘And what happened to the tenant?’
‘Left after six months. After which it was just – left.’
Murder to Music - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 13
