Murder to Music - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Yes?’ Rosie looked surprised.

  ‘Do you suppose the cellar at White Lodge had anything to do with it?’

  Fran and Rosie looked at each other. Fran raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

  ‘You said Ian hadn’t found a cellar,’ said Rosie slowly.

  ‘That doesn’t mean it isn’t there to be found,’ said Libby. ‘It’s in the records.’

  With another quick look at Rosie, Fran said, ‘I should think it’s been blocked up by now.’

  ‘Was there anything in those records to say there had been an earlier building on the site?’ asked Rosie after a moment.

  ‘Yes, there was, wasn’t there Libby? Didn’t it say fourteenth century?’

  ‘Yes, it was burnt down, or something. Didn’t we already know that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosie, ‘but I don’t think we knew what period it had been.’

  ‘Oh, and we know the sixteenth-century building was timber-framed, and then tile-hung in the seventeenth, and then Lutyens had a go in the early twentieth, so that must have been when it turned into the Princess Beatrice,’ said Libby. ‘The Poor Board, or whoever they were, wouldn’t have paid out for a Lutyens re-design.’

  ‘So it’s had a very chequered history,’ said Rosie. ‘No wonder there are stories of hauntings.’

  ‘We still don’t really know anything about that,’ said Fran. ‘It’s all hearsay. And it must have been around the time you were visiting.’

  Rosie frowned. ‘I know. It’s so frustrating. I still feel that the house is friendly and warm, so I must have got on well with my uncle, yet the minute I try and get further than that I get this feeling of dread and my stomach turns to water.’

  ‘Well,’ said Libby robustly, ‘we shall have to find out why. Ian’s looking into it, so he’s bound to turn up something. Meanwhile, at least part of the mystery is solved.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosie looked uncertain and Libby suddenly didn’t want to hear any more. She stood up.

  ‘Come on, Fran,’ she said, ‘I think we ought to leave Rosie to come to terms with everything on her own.’

  ‘Right.’ Fran stood up with a curious frown. ‘You’ll be all right, Rosie?’

  Rosie also stood. ‘Yes, of course.’ She leant forward and kissed them both on the cheek. ‘Thanks for being such a support and not judging me too harshly.’

  ‘I –’ began Libby, then shut her mouth with a snap. Don’t ask any more questions, she told herself severely.

  ‘That was unlike you,’ said Fran as they reached the car. ‘She still hadn’t told us what she wanted to tell us in the beginning.’

  Libby made a face. ‘I didn’t want to hear.’

  ‘Really?’ Fran’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. ‘Even more unlike you.’

  Libby sighed gustily and fastened her seatbelt. ‘I had a feeling it would be highly unsavoury and I wouldn’t know how to react.’

  ‘I don’t see how sleeping with someone can be called unsavoury,’ said Fran, putting the car into gear.

  ‘See, you knew what she was going to say, too,’ said Libby. ‘And you were the one who was horrified about people in their sixties doing it.’

  Fran laughed. ‘I didn’t say it was unsavoury.’

  ‘No, but she was upset about it. That means she did think it was. Unsavoury, I mean. Or at least a mistake. She said she’d made a fool of herself.’

  ‘She could have meant that she made a pass at Andrew. That could be all it is.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Libby looked doubtful. ‘Harry said she was the one doing the flirting.’

  ‘No use speculating now. She didn’t tell us and that’s all there is to it. And she’ll be very glad she didn’t, she would have been even more embarrassed and probably not been able to look us in the face.’

  ‘Ian didn’t tell us if he’d had a look at the barn,’ said Libby, changing the subject. ‘Do you think he will?’

  ‘Have a look or tell us? I don’t know, and you’re not to pester him. I told him I’d call him about the things we found at Dover, so he might tell me then, but until then I think we should leave things alone.’

  By the time Fran dropped Libby at home it was lunchtime. On a whim, she decided to go up and see Ben at the Manor. There was no point in taking him anything for lunch, as Hetty always fed him, a fact reflected in his expanding waistline.

  ‘Want a spot of lunch, girl?’ Hetty appeared as Libby pushed open the heavy oak door. ‘Got a pasty in the oven.’

  ‘Love some, thanks, Het,’ said Libby after a second’s hesitation. ‘Ben in the office?’

  ‘He’s over in the orchard. Be in in a minute. Come into the kitchen.’

  So Libby sat at the long table and watched while Hetty bustled about the kitchen.

  ‘How’s Greg?’ she asked.

  ‘So-so. Up and down.’ Hetty gave a brief smile over her shoulder. ‘The original creaking gate is my Greg.’

  Greg had been in a prison camp during the war and his health had suffered badly. Occasionally there were episodes where the whole family were convinced he wouldn’t last another day, but somehow he had always rallied.

  ‘So, tenants coming into Steeple Farm?’ Hetty said.

  ‘Yes. Peter’s pleased.’

  ‘You decided not to go, then.’

  Libby sighed. ‘That’s right.’

  Hetty turned round and grinned, her face collapsing into a thousand wrinkles. ‘Don’t blame you. Never liked it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. Neither did Milly when she first went there. That’s why she changed it all. She should’ve been in one o’ them executive ’omes.’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby nodded. ‘I thought that when I first went there. And I didn’t like the eyebrows.’

  ‘Eyebrows?’

  ‘The windows in the thatch. Like eyes.’

  Hetty nodded. ‘Yeah. No wonder she went a bit peculiar.’

  Libby thought there was far more to it than a weird house, but didn’t say so. ‘Anyway, I’m happy in my cottage,’ she said. ‘And I think Ben is, too.’ She waited for Hetty to agree, but she didn’t.

  Instead, she turned back to the sink and said, ‘And what about living here?’

  Libby’s heart thumped madly and she felt dizzy. Tempted to ask if Hetty had been talking to Harry, she merely coughed and made an indeterminate sound. Hetty looked round. ‘Thought so,’ she said.

  ‘Hello! What are you doing here?’

  Libby turned at the sound of Ben’s voice with relief. ‘I came to see you, of course.’

  ‘Not like you.’ He came over and kissed her cheek. ‘Are you going to feed her, Mum?’

  ‘Course. Pasties OK?’

  ‘Lovely.’ Ben rubbed his hands and Libby made a face at him.

  ‘No wonder you’re putting on weight.’

  He patted his waistline. ‘Two women’s wonderful cooking.’

  ‘And your own,’ said Libby, with a glance at Hetty, who didn’t react. Ben raised his eyebrows. Libby smiled.

  The pasties were enormous and filling. For once Hetty allowed Libby to wash the “pots” after they’d loaded the dishwasher, while she went to put her feet up in the sitting room with Greg.

  ‘So, what was the atmosphere I sensed when I came in?’ said Ben, taking a tea towel from the rack over the Aga.

  Libby sighed. ‘I really don’t want to tell you, but I suppose I’ll have to. Hetty was asking me about living here.’

  ‘She’s asked before,’ said Ben mildly.

  ‘I know. But that was about coming to live here now. I think what she meant was – well – um – later.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ben slowly dried a baking sheet. Libby turned round to face him.

  ‘It’s not something I want to think about, or even talk about, but I suppose at some point we ought to. Your parents are getting on. Hetty’s nearly eighty and Greg’s – what? Early eighties?’

  ‘Mum’s seventy-seven and Dad’s eighty-one.’ Ben let out a gusty sigh. ‘Yes,
I suppose you’re right. One or other of them’s going to get left on their own eventually and will expect to stay here. We can’t sell it while they’re still alive.’

  ‘Sell it?’

  ‘Well, we won’t want to live here, will we?’ Ben said reasonably.

  ‘Good lord.’ Libby shook her head. ‘But you won’t want to sell it. It’s been in your family for – how long, exactly?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Not that long, only a couple of generations. My great-grandfather, I think. And it isn’t entailed.’

  ‘I know, but –’ Libby shrugged. ‘It just doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘Look.’ Ben put down the tea towel and the baking sheet and took her by the shoulders. ‘You don’t want to live anywhere but the cottage, and there’s enough room for us, so that’s where we’ll stay. When Millie dies Pete and James will sell Steeple Farm and when my parents die I’ll sell the Manor. It’s the way of things.’

  ‘What about Susan?’

  ‘My sister hasn’t any interest in the Manor. She comes in for something in the wills, obviously, but the Manor comes to me in time-honoured tradition.’

  ‘Not even halves with you?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘She didn’t want it.’

  Libby turned back to the sink. ‘What about turning it into something?’

  ‘Not an old people’s home, surely?’ Ben sounded horrified.

  ‘No! I was thinking more of a – oh, I don’t know – a cultural centre.’

  ‘A what?’ Now he was laughing.

  ‘No – listen. One of those places where they have creative holidays, you know, painting courses and creative writing courses. And provide accommodation.’ Libby turned back, a look of excitement on her face.

  ‘Are there such places?’

  ‘Oh, yes. When we get home I’ll show you. It’s a brilliant idea.’

  ‘But, Libby, they’re not dead yet,’ he said gently.

  ‘Oh, bother.’ Her face fell. ‘How bloody insensitive.’

  ‘No, it’s a great idea, and if you’re still painting and your Rosie’s still teaching creative writing when the time comes we’ll have the creative core, won’t we?’ He pulled her to him. ‘And I tell you what, I bet neither Mum nor Dad will want to stay here on their own anyway. I bet they’ll want to go into one of those units with Flo and Lenny.’

  ‘Het might, but Greg wouldn’t.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have much choice,’ said Ben, ‘if we aren’t going to move in to look after him.’

  ‘Oh, that makes us sound mean,’ said Libby, pulling away.

  ‘No it doesn’t. He wouldn’t want that, anyway.’

  Libby sighed. ‘It’s all very difficult. You’ll have to talk to them about it. Het’s obviously thinking about it or she wouldn’t have mentioned it to me.’

  Ben nodded. ‘I’ll do it this afternoon. You go home and prepare a light but sustaining snack for supper.’

  Libby groaned. ‘Don’t talk about food.’

  ‘That’s why I said light.’ Ben dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘Go and say your goodbyes and I’ll see you later.’

  Libby walked slowly down the Manor drive wondering what it would be like when Ben’s parents were no longer there. They had been a part of her life as long as Ben had and the thought was incredibly depressing.

  By the time she turned into Allhallow’s Lane her mobile was ringing.

  ‘Where are you?’ said Fran.

  ‘Walking home from the Manor. Why? What’s so urgent?’

  ‘Ian called. He wants to see us.’

  ‘Wants to –? Why?’

  ‘About the barn. He wouldn’t talk over the phone.’

  Libby’s stomach took a dive. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But at least he said he’ll come to us, we don’t have to go to the station.’

  ‘Where? Are we to be interrogated separately on our own turf?’

  ‘No,’ said Fran, and Libby looked up.

  Detective Inspector Connell was leaning on the bonnet of his car with a thoughtful look on his face.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘HE’S HERE,’ LIBBY SAID into the phone.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Fran. ‘I’m on hands-free.’

  ‘Hands –? Oh, the mobile. In the car. OK, see you in a bit.’ Libby put the phone in her pocket and stopped in front of Ian. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Libby.’ Ian stood up and looked down his nose at her.

  ‘OK.’ She sighed and fished for her key. ‘What have we done now?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when Fran arrives,’ said Ian, following her into the house and tripping over Sidney. ‘Blasted cat.’

  ‘Well, she won’t be long.’ Libby went through to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

  ‘Was that her on the phone? From her car?’ Ian followed her.

  ‘Yes, but on the hands-free.’ Libby turned to face him. ‘You know how law-abiding Fran is.’

  Ian made no comment, merely folded his arms and leant against the door jamb. Libby sighed and took the teapot down from above the Rayburn.

  ‘Hello?’ Fran called from the front door. ‘You left it open.’

  ‘That was Ian.’ Libby looked at him accusingly. ‘Hardly security-conscious was it?’ She pushed past him into the sitting room. ‘Sit down, Fran. I’m making tea.’

  Ian came in and took a chair by the table in the window. ‘Do I get a cup, Libby?’

  Libby sniffed and returned to the kitchen, where she loaded a tray with mugs, milk in a jug and a sugar bowl. She poured the boiling water into the teapot and carried the tray into the sitting room.

  ‘Right,’ she said, depositing it on the table. ‘While we wait for it to draw, you can tell us what we’ve done.’ She sat down on the sofa.

  Ian looked amused. ‘I love the way you assume I only want to talk to you because you’ve done something wrong.’

  ‘Well, it’s usually that or you’re warning us off,’ said Libby.

  ‘What about when I invited you over to the White Lodge with Professor Wylie?’

  ‘You wanted information,’ said Fran. ‘Is that what you want now?’

  ‘In a way.’ Ian gestured to the teapot. ‘Is that ready yet?’

  Libby grudgingly got up and poured three mugs of tea.

  ‘Thank you.’ Ian sipped gratefully. ‘Haven’t had a chance to catch my breath today.’

  Fran and Libby exchanged surprised glances. This wasn’t like Ian.

  ‘Nice to know you come here to relax,’ said Libby. She turned to Fran confidentially. ‘He fell asleep in that chair once last winter, Fran. Poor old soul.’

  Ian put down his mug. ‘It’s not actually funny, Libby.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Which of you is going to tell me what happened when you went back to the barn?’

  ‘You know what happened.’ Fran frowned at him. ‘I told you.’

  ‘That you thought it might be a cannabis factory, yes. What made you think that?’

  ‘You don’t mean to say it was?’ gasped Libby.

  Ian looked at her. ‘I said, what made you think it was?’

  ‘It wasn’t me, it was Fran. She remembered a report on the local news.’

  ‘All right, Fran, what made you think it was?’

  ‘I thought the windows might have been blacked out. We couldn’t actually get close enough to see, and there aren’t many windows anyway. And it looked as though someone had hacked through the undergrowth but tried to cover it up.’ Fran looked nervous. ‘I’m sorry, have I wasted your time?’

  Ian sighed. ‘Not exactly. Was that all you noticed?’ He turned to Libby. ‘And you saw nothing else when you went on Saturday?’

  Libby shook her head.

  ‘I suppose,’ Ian went on, ‘I should have had you both down to the station for questioning, and I have no doubt whatsoever that I shall get hauled over the coals for not doing so, but I know you both so –’ he paused. ‘We did go in. At least myself and DS Maiden did.’

&nb
sp; He was quiet for so long, staring into his mug, that Libby began to get worried.

  ‘Ian,’ she said, ‘please. You’ve got something to tell us. Put us out of our misery.’

  He looked up. ‘You were right.’

  ‘Cannabis?’ they said together.

  ‘No. Murder.’

  Libby drew in a sharp breath but Fran just stared. ‘Not TB victims?’ she said in a shaky voice.

  ‘No, Fran, I’m afraid not. But victims plural, I’m afraid, yes.’

  ‘In the barn?’ whispered Libby through a throat that felt as if it had closed right up.

  ‘Yes. It looks as if it’s quite organised. Almost a little cemetery.’

  ‘But how?’ said Fran, who was looking anguished. ‘Why didn’t I know?’

  ‘You can’t know every time, Fran,’ said Ian. ‘And you and Libby put us on to the whole thing in the first place, so don’t feel guilty.’

  ‘It was Rosie who started it,’ said Libby. ‘Have you told her yet?’

  ‘No. After I told her this morning she owned the property I thought she ought to have a break. I shall have to tell her of course. I was wondering –’ he looked from Libby to Fran.

  ‘If one of us would come with you?’ supplied Libby. ‘Well, of course.’ She looked at Fran. ‘You don’t think we ought to see if Andrew could be there?’

  ‘After this morning?’ Fran raised one eyebrow. ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Ian snapped. ‘Have they had a row?’

  ‘Er – we’re not sure,’ said Libby, ‘but it’s possible. I think it should be one of us, anyway.’

  ‘Or both,’ said Fran.

  ‘When?’ said Libby.

  ‘Before she gets to hear about it from the radio or TV,’ said Ian. ‘SOC’s in there now, with Maiden in charge. We only went out there after I saw you this morning, so the machine’s only had a couple of hours to get going, but that much activity isn’t going to go unnoticed, especially in a place like that.’

  ‘Did Mr Vindari come out to find out what you were doing?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No one did,’ said Ian. ‘It’s a weekday afternoon, so unlikely there are many people around. House to house is getting going of course, but I don’t suppose we’ll get much response until later.’