Murder to Music - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘How did Ian find that out? Through Riley’s?’

  ‘No, the solicitor who drew up Findon’s will. Not the man himself, but his firm, they drew up the lease because Rosie’s mum wanted nothing to do with it.’

  ‘And she just ignored it for the rest of her life? And told Rosie nothing?’

  ‘Looks like it. But there must have been a reason.’

  ‘The same reason that Rosie can’t remember any of it now. Must have been a trauma.’ Libby stood up and went to the window. ‘What does Ian think now?’

  ‘He’s wondering how Findon died.’

  Libby turned back. ‘That occurred to me, too.’

  Fran put her head on one side. ‘Did it, now? And were you thinking perhaps that was the cause of the trauma?’

  Libby looked at her friend suspiciously. ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Because it’s almost too obvious to be true.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t make it less true. It fits.’

  Fran nodded. ‘Too neatly, perhaps?’

  ‘Does it matter? Ian will look into it and find out the truth, even if Rosie doesn’t remember it. Although what it’s got to do with what’s happening now, I don’t know.’

  ‘If Findon’s death wasn’t an accident, there was a reason for his death. Perhaps that’s why people are being scared off the site?’

  ‘What after all this time?’ Libby snorted with disbelief. ‘No, it strikes me it was particularly to scare off Rosie.’

  ‘So that she doesn’t stake her claim?’

  ‘Makes sense, doesn’t it? Mind you, I can’t see how the deeds have remained in her mother’s name. I would have thought there would be some kind of automatic notification to the records office.’

  ‘Considering that official bodies send communications and bills to dead people for years, I don’t know why you would think that,’ said Fran.

  ‘True.’ Libby sat down again. ‘So what now?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything we can do. But I did remember something. When we first looked up the estate agents’ details it said there was a barn, didn’t it?’

  ‘So it did! I’d forgotten that.’ Libby got up and went to fetch the laptop. ‘Hope they haven’t taken it down.’ She clicked through a few links. ‘Yes, here we are – seven bedrooms, cellar, walled garden, barn. I wonder why they’ve left it here?’

  ‘It isn’t the agents’ own site, is it?’ Fran pulled the laptop towards her. ‘Simply a link from a property site. But cellar. We haven’t seen that.’

  ‘And I don’t particularly want to,’ said Libby with a shudder. ‘I’m not a fan of cellars.’

  ‘That could be where the music’s playing from.’

  ‘I expect Ian’s found it now, anyway,’ said Libby.

  ‘I expect he has. He didn’t say much at all in his message.’

  ‘But you came dashing over here to tell me.’ Libby rested her chin on her hands. ‘Come on, you’re brewing something. What is it?’

  ‘There’s a local Records office at Dover. I bet that’s where the documents about White Lodge are.’

  ‘Dover? When we’ve been haring off to Maidstone?’

  ‘We haven’t, Andrew has. But it’s Dover where most of the stuff is. I can’t think why there wasn’t some kind of link to it when we were looking before.’

  ‘Can we go and look?’

  ‘It’s only open Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, but I think we can go. It’s in the Dover library.’

  ‘It’s Thursday today,’ said Libby standing up again. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘I thought you’d say that.’ Fran stood up. ‘That’s why I came here, it saves time.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say straight away? Honestly!’ Libby locked the back door into the conservatory and went to find her basket.

  Chapter Nineteen

  LIBBY HADN’T KNOWN QUITE what to expect at a Records Office, but it appeared to be quite straightforward. On request, documents were produced for White Lodge, the Princess Beatrice Sanatorium and the Cherry Ashton Workhouse.

  ‘There,’ said Fran. ‘If only we’d come here first.’

  ‘We didn’t know we were looking for a workhouse or a sanatorium at first,’ said Libby.

  ‘If we’d come looking for White Lodge we might have found these.’ Fran spread the fragile documents out on the desk before them.

  Unfortunately, there was little that appeared to be of use. In the workhouse papers there were some lists of items bought for a couple of years prior to its closure and some unintelligible legal documents pertaining to its adaptation as a workhouse. There was a leaflet promoting the Princess Beatrice Sanatorium as using “the most advanced techniques for the treatment of consumption”, but the best thing Libby turned up was a reference to the “isolation unit”, “at a distance from the main house and wards”.

  ‘Bet that’s the barn,’ she said. Fran nodded absently.

  They leafed through the papers for a while, unsure of what they were looking for, until Libby sat back.

  ‘The only thing I can see is that it all looks perfectly normal.’

  Fran looked up. ‘There is one thing here, though.’ She pushed a newspaper clipping across the desk. ‘It’s a report on the death of one of the TB patients.’

  Libby squinted at it. ‘What’s the date?’

  ‘1948, I think.’ Fran leaned over to look. ‘The trouble is that the patient seems to have died of some kind of poisoning.’

  Libby pulled the cutting towards her. ‘It doesn’t say she was actually poisoned, though.’

  ‘No, it’s worded as if it was a miscalculation.’

  ‘Well, it probably was,’ said Libby.

  ‘Weren’t you suspicious of the treatment of the patients the other day? Suspecting that some of them could have died through mistreatment?’

  ‘Oh-oh.’ Libby frowned down at the cutting. ‘Do you think that’s what this is?’

  ‘It might explain the burials.’

  ‘But this was reported. There was a post-mortem. Would have been buried somewhere else.’ Libby sat up again. ‘Hey, I’ve just thought. What if those bodies weren’t reported?’

  ‘Ian would have come across some evidence of that when he got the forensics on the one they dug up.’

  ‘Why? He was only looking for a date, not who it was.’

  ‘Right.’ Fran pulled the large black ledger which contained patients’ details towards her and began to flick the pages. ‘No good,’ she said eventually. ‘The entries in here stop well before the War. They must have been recorded in some other way.’

  ‘Or not at all.’ Libby was looking excited. ‘Bet you that’s it! They were trying things out on the patients. There must be evidence somewhere.’ She pulled a stack of Princess Beatrice documents towards her.

  But there was nothing. Fran asked for permission to photocopy two or three documents she thought might be relevant and once that was done, they left.

  ‘So how do we find out?’ Libby squinted in the sunshine.

  ‘If patients were guinea pigs? No idea.’ As they reached the car Fran unlocked it and gave Libby the documents to hold, as there was no back seat to dump them on.

  ‘And didn’t we assume that some of the graves were really old? From when the Princess Beatrice first opened? They wouldn’t be guinea pigs, would they?’ Libby struggled with her seatbelt.

  ‘They probably were,’ said Fran with amusement. ‘After all, they were trying out TB treatments then.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Libby stared unseeingly through the window. ‘Would Ian ask for another exhumation?’

  Fran chuckled. ‘I can’t see it. He might let us go and find the cellar, though.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that. I told you, not a big fan of cellars.’

  ‘We could at least find out where it is. Where are we going now?’

  Libby looked at her in surprise. ‘I don’t know. I thought you were taking me home.’

  ‘I can, of course, but I thought perhaps
we could go and see Rosie. If Ian’s already been, of course.’

  Libby laughed. ‘That’s not like you. It’s usually me who wants to gatecrash somebody.’

  ‘I want to see an unvarnished reaction. Even when we saw her the day she told us about Paul Findon she’d had a night to think about it. And with any luck Andrew won’t be with her.’

  ‘Oho! Suspicious of him, are you?’

  ‘No, simply that he’s come over all protective, hasn’t he? From not knowing her at all to Keeper at the Gate.’

  ‘Mmm. He obviously fancies her.’

  ‘They must both be in their sixties, though!’ Fran sounded horrified.

  ‘Fran! I’m surprised at you.’ Libby frowned at her. ‘We’re both in our fifties and in comparatively new relationships. And look how your kids disapproved.’

  Fran sighed. ‘You’re right. It’s not like me to be so narrow-minded.’

  Libby raised an eyebrow but forbore to comment.

  Fran parked up against the hedge again and Libby clambered out complaining.

  ‘Look.’ Fran pointed up the lane.

  ‘Ian’s car.’ Libby squinted at it. ‘Do we go in? Or do we wait?’

  The appearance of Ian at the garden gate made the question unnecessary. He frowned when he saw them, but waited for them to approach.

  ‘I might have known you wouldn’t be able to resist it,’ he said.

  ‘Resist what?’ Libby tried to look innocent.

  ‘Finding out how Rosie took the news.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Well, go on then. Go and ask her. But be gentle. She’s in shock.’

  ‘Did she phone Andrew?’ Libby asked.

  ‘Professor Wylie? Not as far as I know. Why?’

  ‘We just wondered.’ Libby looked at the closed front door. ‘Do you think she’ll send us away?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’ Ian looked at the documents Libby was carrying. ‘Anything you want to tell me?’

  ‘Only some old Princess Beatrice documents we found at the Dover records office,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll call you about them later. They aren’t very interesting.’

  Ian narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Really. Why do I find that hard to believe?’

  ‘They aren’t. There aren’t even patient records after the end of the forties.’

  ‘Right.’ He still didn’t look convinced. ‘Well, give me a ring if there’s anything you think I ought to know.’ He nodded at them and walked off to his car.

  ‘He’s not happy, is he?’ said Libby watching his upright back.

  ‘He often isn’t. I suspect being a policeman isn’t the happiest of jobs.’ Fran pushed open the gate and went up the front path. ‘Come on, I don’t want to be chucked out on my own.’

  But Rosie stepped aside to let them in as soon as she opened the door, not saying a word.

  ‘As though she expected us,’ whispered Libby after they’d gone into the sitting room and Rosie had disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘She probably did,’ said Fran, perching on the edge of one of the sofas.

  Rosie returned and sat down. ‘Kettle’s on,’ she said.

  Libby watched as she pleated and repleated the fabric of the long top she was wearing. She was pale, un-made-up and her long hair was loose. That, thought Libby, is not the result of Ian coming to tell her about the will. Something else had already happened.

  ‘Rosie,’ she began gently, ‘what’s happened?’

  Rosie sent her a quick look. ‘Don’t you know?’

  Libby frowned and shook her head.

  ‘But I saw you talking to Ian. He must have told you.’

  ‘Oh, the will? Yes, we know about that. It was why we were coming to see you.’ Libby leant forward. ‘I didn’t mean that, though. Something else has happened, hasn’t it?’

  Fran was looking startled. ‘Libby,’ she said warningly, but Rosie interrupted.

  ‘It’s all right.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll get the tea – or did you want coffee?’

  They both murmured agreement to tea and she went back to the kitchen.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ hissed Fran. ‘The poor woman’s in no state to be harried.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you,’ said Libby. ‘It’s usually you who spots these things. She wouldn’t be in that state just because of Ian’s visit. She was in a state before he arrived.’

  ‘How–?’ began Fran, but Rosie reappeared with the tray and cut her off. She sat down and handed out thick mugs, quite unlike the previous dainty china.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘can’t be bothered today.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Libby. ‘More what we’re used to.’ She waggled her eyebrows furiously at Fran.

  ‘How are you, Rosie?’ Fran’s voice was soothing. ‘I suppose this shock on top of the others is all a bit much.’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘It’s not that.’ She looked up at them, her eyes tragic. ‘Look, I don’t go in for confidences and I don’t have any real close friends here any more.’

  ‘What about Andrew?’ said Libby.

  Rosie suddenly leant forward and put her head in her hands. ‘That’s the trouble,’ she muttered.

  Libby and Fran exchanged glances.

  ‘Andrew is?’ Fran prompted, after the silence had stretched into at least a minute.

  Rosie sat up. ‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat and picked up her mug. ‘I’ve made a fool of myself.’

  Libby was forced to clamp her jaw shut to stop it falling open.

  ‘We all do that sometimes,’ said Fran. ‘We get over it.’

  ‘I know we do.’ Rosie put her mug down. ‘But this is different.’

  ‘If you want to talk about it we’re fairly safe,’ said Libby.

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ Rosie smiled at her, a little shakily. ‘That’s why I started by saying I don’t normally share confidences, but this time I might. I was brought up not to talk about – well – private things, and I don’t. But –’ She stopped.

  ‘Shall we talk about what Ian came to tell you, instead?’ asked Fran, after a moment.

  ‘Yes.’ Rosie turned to her gratefully.

  ‘After finding you were Findon’s niece this must have been a double whammy,’ said Libby.

  ‘Not as much as you’d think,’ said Rosie, leaning back in her chair and beginning to recover her composure. ‘I suppose getting used to the whole Paul Findon thing had made me realise that my mother must have kept it from me for some reason. It almost came as a relief. At least I know why I remember the house and why Debussy has always been a favourite.’ She sighed. ‘But I don’t want to keep it. I shall have to get in touch with the agents, although I think I need to put it in the hands of someone else. They haven’t exactly done well with it, have they? And I suppose I’ll have to find out who’s trying to sell it.’ She smiled at the other two. ‘And thank you for helping. I never would have found out without you.’

  ‘It wasn’t us,’ said Libby, ‘it was Andrew.’

  Rosie closed her eyes briefly. ‘Yes, it was, but we wouldn’t have called him in if you hadn’t suggested it.’

  There was a short, uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ said Libby eventually, ‘we’ve found out that the barn at the back of the estate was the isolation unit.’

  ‘Barn? What barn?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t know, do you?’ Libby shook her head. ‘My fault. Well, here’s what happened.’

  She proceeded to tell Rosie everything that had happened since the last weekend, including her meal at the Golden Spice and this morning’s visit to the Dover Records Office.

  ‘There still wasn’t much there,’ she finished, ‘but at least we know now that the barn is part of the estate and what it was years ago.’

  ‘And did you say cellar?’ Rosie shivered. ‘I hate cellars. I have a real phobia about them.’

  ‘I don’t think even Ian’s found a cellar in the building,’ said Fran soothingly.

  ‘So what’s your theory now
?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘I think they were experimenting on the patients,’ said Libby. ‘The post-mortem report on one of the patients in the newspaper was that she had been poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned?’ gasped Rosie. ‘No! When was that?’

  ‘1948 wasn’t it?’ Libby looked across at Fran. ‘Near the end of its life as a sanatorium.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why.’ Rosie stared down at her mug. ‘And then Paul bought it. Do you think he knew?’

  ‘We don’t know that there was anything to know,’ said Fran. ‘This is just speculation.’

  ‘It’s plausible.’ Rosie looked up. ‘And would explain the graves. I’m still puzzled as to why they’re there rather than in a churchyard. It looks as though someone was trying to cover those deaths up.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Libby enthusiastically. ‘I think Ian should dig the lot up and find out if they’ve been poisoned. That sort of evidence sticks around in the bones, doesn’t it?’

  ‘But why would he need to do that?’ Rosie frowned.

  ‘To find out why someone’s been trying to scare you off,’ said Libby.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘IT’S OBVIOUS NOW THAT’S what the music has all been about. But there’s some connection with the estate agents, too,’ Libby went on.

  ‘Yes, that’s why I need to find out who’s trying to sell it. Your Ian told me.’ Rosie gave a shaky laugh. ‘I don’t know what to call him, now. You always say Ian, and I have to say Inspector. He’s a bit scary, isn’t he?’

  Fran smiled. ‘He can be. But he’s a real charmer underneath that dark exterior.’

  ‘Oh, I can see that,’ said Rosie, with an answering smile. ‘All pent-up passion underneath his saturnine mien.’

  ‘Gosh, that’s the novelist in you,’ said Libby.

  ‘If I wrote like that I’d be dropped like a hot potato,’ said Rosie with another, more natural, laugh.

  ‘So does he still want to get to the bottom of the music?’ said Libby. ‘He hasn’t told us much.’

  ‘I expect he will,’ said Rosie. ‘He seems to keep you informed.’

  ‘Not always, but I suppose we put him on to this, so he might,’ said Fran.

  ‘You said you had a phobia about cellars,’ Libby mused, her eyes on a corner of the ceiling.