Murder to Music Read online

  Murder to Music

  Lesley Cookman

  Libby Sarjeant and her friend Fran are invited by Fran's creative writing tutor to investigate a house that is reputedly haunted. For once, Libby can be as nosy as she likes without ploughing straight into a murder investigation, for the only deaths here appear to have occured over a hundred years ago. But perhaps someone alive today doesn't want Libby to continue? And if so, will she be safe?

  Lesley Cookman

  Murder to Music

  The eighth book in the Libby Sarjeant Mysteries series, 2011

  ***

  WHO’S WHO IN THE LIBBY SARJEANT SERIES

  Libby Sarjeant

  Former actor, sometime artist, resident of 17, Allhallow’s Lane, Steeple Martin. Owner of Sidney the cat.

  Fran Wolfe

  Formerly Fran Castle. Also former actor, occasional psychic, resident of Coastguard Cottage, Nethergate. Owner of Balzac the cat.

  Ben Wilde

  Libby’s significant other. Owner of The Manor Farm and the Oast House Theatre.

  Guy Wolfe

  Fran’s husband, artist and owner of a shop and gallery in Harbour Street, Nethergate.

  Peter Parker

  Ben’s cousin. Free-lance journalist, part owner of The Pink Geranium restaurant and life partner of Harry Price.

  Harry Price

  Chef and co-owner of The Pink Geranium and Peter Parker’s life partner.

  Hetty Wilde

  Ben’s mother. Lives at The Manor.

  Greg Wilde

  Hetty’s husband and Ben’s father.

  DCI Ian Connell

  Local policeman and friend. Former suitor of Fran’s.

  Adam Sarjeant

  Libby’s youngest son. Lives above The Pink Geranium, works with garden designer Mog, mainly at Creekmarsh.

  Lewis Osbourne-Walker

  TV gardener and handy-man who owns Creekmarsh.

  Sophie Wolfe

  Guy’s daughter. Lives above the gallery.

  Flo Carpenter

  Hetty’s oldest friend.

  Lenny Fisher

  Hetty’s brother. Lives with Flo Carpenter.

  Ali and Ahmed

  Owners of the Eight-til-late in the village.

  Jane Baker

  Chief Reporter for the Nethergate Mercury. Mother to Imogen.

  Terry Baker

  Jane’s husband and father of Imogen.

  Joe, Nella and Owen

  Of Cattlegreen Nurseries.

  DCI Don Murray

  Of Canterbury Police.

  Amanda George

  Novelist, known as Rosie

  Chapter One

  THE WIND BLEW GREY clouds rimmed with silver across a darkening sky and the house was revealed in a flash of lightning. A light shone briefly from a window on the left, turned into a flickering strobe by a whippy birch. The music came to a sudden stop and the light went out.

  Fran parked her car as close to the hawthorn hedge as she could.

  ‘I can’t get out now,’ said Libby.

  ‘You’ll have to slide across, then,’ said Fran, climbing out herself. ‘The lane’s too narrow to park anywhere else.’

  Libby levered herself across the gear stick and caught her jacket on the handbrake.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said, blowing out her cheeks. ‘This woman makes things difficult, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Difficult? Why?’

  ‘No buses, nowhere to park. Doesn’t she want visitors?’

  Fran laughed. ‘Not everyone lives in the centre of a village, Lib. Just because it’s a little off the beaten track doesn’t mean she’s unsociable.’

  Libby looked round. The lane ran between fields that stretched to further hedges, small hills and a few clumps of trees. High summer: there was a smell of meadow with an undertone of cowpat.

  ‘Come on then,’ she sighed. ‘Let’s get it over.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ said Fran, leading the way to a small slatted gate set in the hedge. ‘You were just as keen to meet her as she was to meet you.’

  ‘She’s a celebrity seeker,’ sniffed Libby.

  Fran laughed even louder. ‘She’s a famous novelist, Lib! I hardly think she thinks of you as a celebrity.’

  The cottage stood, like a Victorian painting, at the end of a short path bordered by hollyhocks, roses, lupins and a few early dahlias. All that was needed was a child in a bonnet and a kitten in a basket.

  The door opened and a woman beckoned them in.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she said. ‘Hello, Fran. And you must be Libby.’

  She held out a hand and Libby shook it. The woman was only a little taller than she was herself, and not as tall as Fran. Her hair was fashionably streaked in shades of blonde, but was obviously white underneath – and distinctly untidy. She favoured, Libby was pleased to see, the same long and floaty clothes she did herself, although baseball boots peeped out from beneath the wide harlequin trousers. She looked at the woman’s round face and found herself being equally minutely studied.

  ‘I’m Amanda George,’ she said, ‘but only on the covers of the books. Mostly people call me Rosie.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Libby, suddenly feeling a little shy. The woman was at least ten years older than she was, successful and confident.

  ‘Well, come on in, then,’ said Rosie, standing aside for them to pass her. ‘Go through to the garden. I thought we’d have tea out there.’

  The back garden was as traditional as the front. A vegetable patch appeared to be tucked away behind a ceonothus hedge and yes – here was the cat. A black and white monster who rolled on his back as soon as they appeared.

  ‘Oh, ignore Talbot,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s shameless.’

  ‘My Sidney’s just grumpy,’ said Libby, squatting to rub Talbot’s stomach. He stretched his back legs to their full extent and purred a little.

  ‘Can I do anything to help, Rosie?’ asked Fran.

  ‘No, nothing. I’m going to boil the kettle. Do you prefer tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ they said together.

  ‘Nice,’ said Libby, as they sat down on the cushioned chairs. ‘Lovely garden.’

  ‘A lot of work,’ said Fran.

  ‘Too much for me,’ said Libby. ‘I expect she’s got a gardener. All right for some.’

  ‘You’re letting your prejudice show again,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against her.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything against her,’ said Libby uncomfortably. ‘She actually seems quite nice.’

  Fran snorted, and Rosie came out carrying a tray with teapot, milk jug and mugs.

  ‘I’ve got sugar if you want it, and I’ve put my sweeteners on there,’ she said. ‘We’ll just wait for it to draw.’

  ‘I do like tea from a teapot,’ said Libby. ‘I’m fighting a rearguard action against teabags in mugs.’

  ‘I so agree,’ said Rosie, and Libby suddenly knew what people meant when they said somebody “twinkled”. ‘Mind you, it’s handy on occasions, when you haven’t got much time.’

  ‘So, what’s the mystery?’ asked Fran, leaning forward with her arms on the table.

  ‘Straight to the point, eh, Fran?’ Rosie laughed. ‘Reminds me of my writing advice “get straight into the story”. Don’t fanny around with the back story.’

  ‘But that’s what we want to know, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘The back story?’

  Rosie leant forward and picked up the teapot. ‘Of course it is. I’ll just pour this out and then we can get on with it.’

  When they all had their cups, Rosie leant back in her chair and looked at Libby.

  ‘Not that I didn’t want to meet you anyway,’ she said, ‘having read about you in the newspaper and knowin
g you were a friend of Fran’s.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘But it did seem to be a heaven sent opportunity.’

  Libby looked across at Fran and raised her eyebrows. Fran shook her head.

  ‘An opportunity for what?’ she prompted.

  ‘Well.’ Rosie sighed. ‘There’s this house, you see. I know where it is, and I know it’s been boarded up. But I need to find out more about it.’

  ‘For a book?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No, although I suppose I might turn it into a book one day. No. You see, I dream about it, and it feels as though I lived there.’ Rosie looked from Libby to Fran and made a face. ‘Sounds mad, doesn’t it?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ she said. ‘You know about my experiences.’ Fran was writing her account of how she came to be living in Coastguard Cottage.

  ‘That’s what made me think of asking you.’ Rosie turned to Libby and smiled. ‘You know Fran’s writing about Coastguard Cottage?’

  Libby nodded, although she knew little about the creative writing classes Rosie taught and Fran attended.

  ‘When we talked about it, she told me how you had stayed there as a child, too, and about the picture. She said you painted similar pictures.’

  ‘Yes. She could have shown you a postcard. Her husband makes postcards of some of the paintings.’ Libby glanced at Fran, who was looking at the cat.

  ‘Oh, she has. I’ve now got several.’ Rosie was twinkling again, and Libby warmed to her. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘it gave me the idea of trying to find out about the house and why I dream about it. I’m sure I’ve never been inside it.’

  Libby frowned. ‘But surely you must do research for the books you write? Couldn’t you find out about it?’

  ‘I could, but I think I might get sidetracked and start researching that instead of writing the next book. I don’t suppose you’ve got any more free time than I have, but you might be less likely to let it take over your life.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Fran. ‘You don’t know Libby when she’s got her teeth into something. Nothing else matters.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Rosie looked back at Libby. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be asking.’

  Libby laughed. ‘Fran’s exaggerating,’ she said. ‘And she’s as bad anyway.’

  Fran smiled ruefully. ‘She’s right.’

  ‘So what do you think, then?’ said Rosie. ‘Would you like to look into it?’

  Fran and Libby looked at each other and nodded.

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ said Libby. ‘After all, it’s not a murder or anything like that. It would be good to look into something just for interest’s sake.’

  Rosie sighed. ‘Thank you.’ She looked down at the table and straightened a spoon. ‘It’s been bothering me slightly. There’s such a strange atmosphere about the dreams.’

  ‘Where is the house?’ asked Fran after a pause. ‘Is it local?’

  Rosie looked up. ‘Oh, yes. Just on the outskirts of Cherry Ashton.’

  Fran raised her eyebrows at Libby.

  ‘Towards the coast the other way from Nethergate,’ said Libby.

  ‘Near Creekmarsh?’

  ‘Further over than that. Quite lonely.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘The house is on one of the lanes in from the main road. On its own.’

  ‘Has it got a name?’

  ‘White Lodge,’ said Rosie. ‘And I think it may once have been the lodge for a bigger house.’

  ‘Who lives there, now? Do you know?’ said Fran.

  ‘No one,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s boarded up.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby looked at Fran. ‘It’ll be difficult to find anything out about it then, won’t it?’

  ‘We’ll find a way,’ said Fran. ‘You know we will.’

  ‘And you will let me know if you start incurring any expenses, won’t you?’ said Rosie.

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll have any of those,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘But if we suddenly get a fine for trespassing, you can pay it.’

  ‘Trespassing?’ said Fran. ‘Are we going to?’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to go and look at it, won’t we? And up close. So I expect we’ll trespass. Not inside, though. It’ll be all locked up, and I’ve never been good at breaking and entering.’

  Fran sighed and shook her head. ‘See what I’m up against, Rosie?’

  Rosie laughed. ‘And why she’s the perfect person to investigate. More tea?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘Could you just tell us about the dreams?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosie leant back in her chair. ‘I thought you’d want to know about those.’

  ‘Well, that’s why you want us to look into it,’ said Fran. ‘Where are you in the dream? Inside or out?’

  ‘Both. Sometimes I’m in a garden – coming through a gate in a wall. It has a sort of old wooden lintel,’ she frowned, ‘which seems odd in an outdoor wall. And it’s a bit overgrown. There are stones, there, a bit like grave stones.’

  Fran looked at Libby. ‘And where else?’

  ‘Inside. There’s one particular place which has very long windows but no furniture. Although I can hear a piano. And you know how it is in dreams, sometimes I just look round and the whole scene has changed to something else. There’s a kitchen, but it seems to be upstairs and rather shabby. Sometimes it has a bath in the same room.’ She shivered. ‘And this atmosphere. Yet I feel almost certain it’s – or it was – a happy place.’

  ‘And you have some kind of connection to it?’ said Fran.

  Rosie nodded. ‘It won’t let me alone, you see. I seem to dream about it almost every night, and I can’t shake it off during the day. That’s why I need to find out, to lay it to rest.’ She turned to Libby. ‘And why I can’t do it myself, or it would completely take me over. Do you see?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby smiled. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find out. Won’t we Fran?’

  Chapter Two

  ‘WHAT DID YOU THINK?’

  ‘About Rosie or the quest?’ Libby squeezed back into the passenger seat of Fran’s tiny car.

  ‘Both.’ Fran started the car. ‘You liked Rosie, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, OK, I liked Rosie. Have you read any of her books?’

  ‘Of course I have. She’s my writing tutor.’

  ‘But you might not read her books. They might not be the sort you like.’

  Fran shot a quick glance sideways at Libby. ‘What’s the problem, Lib? What are you getting at?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Libby fumbled for the seat belt catch. ‘I just wondered. Would I like them?’

  ‘As I’ve never seen you read a book, I have no idea what you like.’

  ‘I read.’ Libby was indignant.

  ‘What, though? Magazines? Scripts?’

  ‘Sometimes. I like home magazines. And scripts if I have to.’

  ‘Books?’

  ‘Some. You know I do. I like crime and romance -’

  ‘Oh, not chick-lit?’ Fran snorted.

  ‘Don’t be judgemental,’ said Libby. ‘Not all women’s fiction is chick-lit, and not all chick-lit is badly written.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fran shot her friend another quick look in surprise. ‘So you do read.’

  ‘I lent Cy books last winter when he was holed up at Peter and Harry’s. I have an eclectic range. And I love the mobile library.’

  ‘I miss that,’ said Fran. ‘I have to go to the main library in Nethergate now.’

  ‘Well, surely they’ve got a better selection than the mobile one,’ said Libby.

  ‘But the mobile one stops right outside Harry’s caff,’ said Fran.

  Fran had lived briefly in Libby’s home village of Steeple Martin, staying in the flat over The Pink Geranium, the vegetarian restaurant owned by their friends Harry and Peter. Harry was the chef, Peter a sleeping partner who occasionally helped out in extremis.

  ‘Actually,’ said Libby, ‘the library comes tomorrow. I shall see if they have any of Rosie’s books. Do you call her Rosie in class?’
>
  ‘No,’ said Fran. ‘She’s a tutor because she’s Amanda George, so that’s what she’s called in class.’

  ‘And is she good? As a tutor?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Fran smiled. ‘Well, I think so, in that she’s inspiring, but I’ve never been to a writing class before, so I don’t know.’

  ‘And is she weird?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, dreams and asking us to find out about a house…’

  ‘So I’m weird, now, am I?’

  ‘Eh?’ Libby turned to look at her friend. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I did,’ said Fran. ‘And you helped me.’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘And that’s what you’re writing about, isn’t it?’

  ‘Exactly. And at least we know where this house is, so we’ve got a starting place,’ said Fran.

  ‘Although why Rosie hasn’t started research herself I can’t understand,’ said Libby. ‘It’s almost as if she’s scared of it.’

  ‘Oh, she is.’

  ‘Definitely?’ Libby turned to look at her friend again.

  ‘Oh, yes. And that wasn’t even one of my moments. It was coming off her in waves. Couldn’t you feel it?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ said Libby. ‘And even if it wasn’t a moment, you pick up those sort of things when normal people don’t.’

  ‘So I’m back to being weird again,’ said Fran.

  Libby sighed.

  Fran parked opposite Libby’s cottage in Allhallow’s Lane, just behind the increasingly decrepit Romeo the Renault in which Libby frightened the roads of Kent.

  ‘More tea?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Why not?’ Fran got out of the car and locked it.

  Sidney the silver tabby sat in the window to the left of the front door and watched their approach before disappearing as Libby put the key in the lock, and shot between their feet as she opened it.

  ‘That cat’ll be the death of me,’ said Libby, leading the way through to the kitchen, where she filled the electric kettle.

  ‘Does he trip you up on the stairs?’ Fran leant against the table.