Murder to Music - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Read online

  ‘Not so much doing things on your own, as investigations on your own.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  The village was quiet. A few cars swished down the high street, but all the lights were out in the shops and the pub. Somewhere on the other side of the road, the little river Wytch trickled along its deep gully towards the dewpond near Steeple Farm, after which it disappeared underground and eventually joined the creek near Creekmarsh. Libby and Harry turned the corner by the vicarage, where the great lilac tree overhung the wall.

  ‘At the risk of sounding even more illicit,’ said Libby, ‘do you want a nightcap?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’ In gentlemanly fashion, Harry took the key from Libby and opened the front door. Sidney glared from the third stair.

  ‘Hello, walking stomach,’ said Harry.

  ‘Scotch? Or wine?’ Libby turned on lights and went into the kitchen.

  ‘Scotch, please.’ Harry followed her. ‘Still happy here in Bide-a-wee?’

  Libby turned to him smiling. ‘I love it. I can never thank you enough for finding it for me.’

  ‘It seemed to suit. Pete and I looked at lots for you, but this one struck a chord. Still not going to Steeple Farm, then?’

  ‘No.’ Libby carried the bottle and glasses into the sitting room. ‘It doesn’t feel like home. And Ben’s accepted that now.’

  ‘I know. But I do wonder what will happen in the future.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Libby handed over a glass and offered a jug of water.

  ‘Steeple Farm is Pete’s and James’s when their mama dies, so that doesn’t come into it, but what about the Manor?’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know. We’ve never discussed it.’

  ‘Won’t he expect you to go and live there when Greg and Het shuffle off?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.’ Libby took a healthy swallow of whisky and coughed.

  ‘No. So what do you want to talk about? Grisly murder?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Libby added water to her whisky. ‘There haven’t been any, but …’

  ‘But what?’ Harry heaved a theatrical sigh. ‘Come on. You’ve got a theory.’

  ‘Well, I just wondered …’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Suppose some of those bodies, even though they do belong to the sanatorium, shouldn’t be there? Suppose there were mistakes in medication? Or people were used as guinea pigs?’

  Harry stared at her. ‘You know, you’ve got the most unpleasantly fertile imagination.’

  ‘No, but it could be, couldn’t it? After all, they haven’t been buried in consecrated ground. I always thought that was illegal.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think you have to get permission to bury someone in the garden, but I don’t think it’s illegal, exactly.’ Harry shook his head. ‘What a conversation.’

  ‘Well, you must admit it’s odd. Especially back in the fifties. I mean, most people had a normal funeral in those days, didn’t they?’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said Harry. ‘But if the body Ian dug up had something wrong with it he’d have noticed, surely?’

  ‘The cutter-up would, not Ian himself. And if something had gone wrong, I doubt if it would show after all this time. All they were looking for was a modern body, and it wasn’t.’

  ‘I assume you mean the pathologist?’

  ‘Couldn’t think of the word. Yes, him. Or her.’

  ‘So will you tell Ian your new theory?’

  ‘I don’t see how I can. Unless he gets in touch with me. With us.’

  ‘And you think he won’t?’

  ‘We-ell, he sort of said he would this afternoon. Just have to wait and see, I suppose.’

  ‘And you’re not exactly good at that, are you, Mrs S?’

  ‘No.’ Libby made a face. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

  Half an hour later after Harry had left, Libby turned on the laptop and typed “TB treatments” into the search engine. It soon became apparent that although TB was still around today, for some years it had not been considered fatal and, apart from the increasingly outdated “fresh air” treatment, was treated very successfully with antibiotics.

  There were other stories, she found, similar to the one Cameron had told her, of people being virtually incarcerated in hospital for months. And descriptions of the operation to collapse a lung, and the more frightening descriptions of tuberculosis of other parts of the body. Tales of doctors who worked in these isolation sanatoria who had the disease themselves and had the shortest possible prognosis. After a while she switched off, thoroughly depressed at the thought that there were still millions of cases diagnosed every year, and frequently those cases were also HIV sufferers.

  Nevertheless, it looked as though there were no recorded treatments of TB that could have been either unethical or illegal, so that particular theory bit the dust. Libby turned off the laptop.

  On Sunday morning, feeling distinctly on edge, she forced herself to concentrate on the abandoned painting on the easel in the conservatory. Routine, that was the ticket. Forget all about weird buildings, ghostly music and exhumed bodies. Unfortunately, all that happened was that she began a new watercolour of a weird building, a ghostly piano and an exhumed body.

  It was almost twelve o’clock when the phone rang.

  ‘Libby?’

  ‘Terry! what’s happened? Is Jane OK?’

  ‘It’s a girl!’ Terry Baker sounded exhausted.

  ‘Oh, Terry!’ Libby found herself unexpectedly close to tears. ‘How big? When? Is Jane all right?’

  ‘Six pounds eleven ounces, this morning at about nine. Jane’s fine, but it was a long time.’

  ‘When did you go in?’

  ‘Actually, she went in on Friday afternoon on her own.’

  ‘I knocked on Friday. Wish I’d known. Don’t say she was in labour since then?’

  ‘Not really. Her waters broke. So she called an ambulance. I met her there, but nothing happened until yesterday evening.’

  ‘Oh, it’s terrific, Terry. When will she be home? Oh, and what’s her name?’

  ‘Imogen, and they’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll get her to give you a ring.’

  ‘You do that. Lovely name. And I’d go home and get some sleep if I were you. Have you phoned Fran?’

  ‘No, she was next on the list. Will you do it?’

  ‘Course I will. Give Jane and Imogen lots of love.’

  Fran was at Guy’s shop.

  ‘Will we go and see them?’ she asked.

  ‘After Jane’s rung us. They’ll have enough to do getting themselves settled, and they’ve got to deal with Jane’s ma. Do you think she’ll mellow with a grandchild?’

  ‘Goodness knows. I’m not sure I did.’

  ‘You used to look after them in London, though,’ said Libby.

  ‘Of course, and I love them, but Lucy used to take advantage of me. She doesn’t now, and Jane said she didn’t want to rely on her mother, didn’t she?’

  ‘Have to wait and see, I suppose,’ said Libby. ‘Heard anything from Ian or Rosie?’

  ‘No. Have you?’

  ‘Well, in a way.’

  ‘Oh? What have you been up to?’

  ‘I went exploring.’ Libby took a deep breath, feeling guilty. ‘Yesterday. I went to Cherry Ashton.’

  ‘To White Lodge?’

  ‘Yes, but first I went to the village.’ Libby recounted her adventures of the previous day, including meeting Mr Vindari and Ian. ‘And I went to see George at The Red Lion on the way home.’ She told him what George had said.

  ‘None of that is any use, is it?’ said Fran. ‘And if Ian’s still investigating he won’t want us poking our noses in.’

  ‘No,’ said Libby slowly. ‘And there’s something else.’

  ‘What?’ Fran sounded resigned.

  Reluctantly, Libby told her Harry’s theory about Rosie. ‘And I said if that was the case you’d have seen through her,�
�� she concluded.

  There was silence at the other end. ‘Fran? You still there? Are you offended?’

  ‘No, I’m not offended, I’m thinking. Is Ben still away?’

  ‘He comes back this evening. I’ve put something in the slow cooker for him.’

  ‘Are you going to Harry’s for lunch?’

  ‘No, I told you, I went last night instead.’

  ‘Would you like to come here? Only for a snack. Or we could go to Mavis’s.’

  ‘You want a chat?’ Libby grinned to herself. ‘Yes, love to. What time?’

  Having settled on half past one, Libby cleaned her brushes and left the conservatory to go and get changed. Despite herself, she felt happier, her interest in White Lodge rekindled, yet she knew it shouldn’t be.

  At half past one, parked behind Mavis’s Blue Anchor cafe at the end of Harbour Street next to The Sloop inn, Libby wandered down to meet Fran, who appeared from her own front door.

  ‘I’ve just left some sandwiches for Sophie and Guy,’ she said. ‘We’ll have our roast this evening.’

  Libby turned, and they made their way back to the Blue Anchor. Mavis appeared with a tin ashtray and nodded at them before returning inside the cafe. Bert and George weren’t there this morning, both being out on their boats, the Dolphin and the Sparkler, taking holiday makers round Dragon Island in the middle of the bay, or along the coast to the less populated beaches.

  ‘So,’ said Libby. ‘You’ve had some thoughts?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran stared out to sea. ‘What you said about Rosie.’

  ‘Well, it was Harry who said it, really,’ said Libby hastily. ‘It just made me think a bit.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran turned to look at her. ‘And I really wondered if I’d missed something. When you look at the facts it’s quite hard to escape them, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, feeling uncomfortable, ‘but don’t forget we’ve already been back and challenged her about it once. And she admitted it.’

  ‘She admitted everything we challenged her with,’ said Fran. ‘What if we went back and challenged her again?’

  Libby frowned. ‘But I really don’t know why she’s done it, if she has. And if she has, why? And would we be in danger?’

  ‘No idea. But I think we ought to.’ Fran’s mouth set in a hard line.

  ‘This has upset you, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody right it has. I don’t like being taken for an idiot. And even if she doesn’t own it, she’s used us to a degree anyway.’ Fran looked at Libby. ‘And what about Andrew?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I wonder if she really didn’t know him? Or if he’s been in on the scheme from the beginning?’

  ‘Oh, surely not,’ said Libby. ‘And we don’t know that there is a scheme, anyway. Or if there is, what it’s for.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Fran slowly, ‘if it really is what you said at first? She’s using us to plot one of her novels?’

  ‘Bit bloody manipulative if so,’ said Libby, smiling up at Mavis who slammed a menu in front of her. ‘Just a bacon sandwich, please, Mavis.’

  ‘It was manipulative even if all she’s done is what she admitted to the second time we went to see her.’ Fran frowned. ‘Sorry, Mavis. Ham sandwich, please.’

  ‘Why don’t we just ignore what Rosie’s said or done,’ suggested Libby, ‘and take it from there? Ian’s interested in something, after all, and whoever’s doing it, someone’s using that music to scare people off.’

  ‘And yet it’s such a crude method of doing it,’ said Fran. ‘More suited to the fifties and sixties than the high tech noughties.’

  ‘I see what you mean. Yes, almost like the Victorians’ fake séances.’ Libby sighed. ‘Oh, bum. I wasn’t going to get involved any more.’

  Fran laughed. ‘You can’t help it. And this is a proper mystery. With no nasty murders getting in the way.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘WHY DON’T WE,’ SAID Fran, after Mavis had cleared away their plates, ‘go and have another look at your weird building this afternoon?’

  ‘I thought you were helping in the shop?’

  ‘Guy and Sophie can cope on their own. I only get in the way, half the time. What do you say?’

  ‘I’m up for it,’ said Libby, ‘but why do you want to go?’

  ‘To get a feel of the place. It sounds – fascinating. I’ll take my camera. My phone isn’t good enough for photos.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t think of photos,’ said Libby. ‘Mind you, my phone camera isn’t much cop, either.’

  Fran went to tell Guy she was going to play hookey and collect her camera, while Libby sat in her car studying a map. It looked, she realised, as though the road to Cherry Ashton she’d followed yesterday petered out, as indeed it did, but just beyond it was another road which at one time would have joined it.

  ‘Look,’ she said as Fran got into the car. ‘We could go that way and walk through, I’m sure of it. If Mr Vindari sees me drive up again he’ll be after me like a ferret down a rabbit hole.’

  ‘I thought you said he was nice. Why do you want to avoid him?’

  ‘He was nice,’ said Libby, driving down Harbour Street. ‘I just don’t want him thinking I’m a nosy mare, and I don’t want him to think I’m poking my nose in.’

  ‘Same thing,’ said Fran. ‘And you are.’

  They drove from Nethergate towards Creekmarsh, then on past White Lodge, where blue-and-white tape still fluttered. About half a mile further on Libby took a turning to the right, which plunged between high banks topped with wide fields. It seemed to be almost turning back on itself and they’d travelled several hundred yards when Libby slowed down.

  ‘Look,’ she said.

  On their right was what had obviously once been a lane, across which, in the distance, was an old wooden gate.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Libby. ‘When I looked yesterday, all I could see was this field here,’ she waved a hand to the cornfield on their left, ‘and this road must have been hidden because it was so low. That’s the lane to Cherry Ashton. I wonder why it was closed off?’

  ‘Are we getting out?’ asked Fran. ‘If so, you’ll have to pull over into that gateway or nothing will get past.’

  Libby parked as close to the gate as she could, and they crossed the road to the end of the lane.

  ‘It’s like looking into a tunnel,’ said Fran. ‘And look, under the leaves you can just see a faint white line. It was a proper road at one time.’

  ‘It still is further down,’ said Libby. ‘It’s odd though. Let’s have a look down this side. See if we can see anything.’

  The trees stretched away slightly to their right, now, and also ahead, following what Libby supposed to be the other side of the White Lodge estate.

  ‘Although you don’t know that,’ said Fran. ‘You couldn’t even link it up yesterday from the other end. For all we know we could be miles away and this could be a totally different wood.’

  Libby scrambled over some brambles and swore. ‘If I keep ruining jeans like this I shall put in a claim.’

  ‘No one’s asking us to do this,’ said Fran. ‘It’s self-inflicted. And better jeans than bare legs.’ She rubbed at a large scratch on her left shin.

  ‘Why you wear skirts I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘Look. There’s the same thin wire fence along this side of the woodland that I saw yesterday near White Lodge.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ said Fran. ‘And it doesn’t actually look navigable along there. Let’s go back. I want to see the building.’

  They retraced their steps and began to walk down the lane through last year’s rotting leaves. Libby managed to pull the gate a little further open and they squeezed through.

  ‘There,’ she said, and Fran stopped dead.

  Libby watched for a moment, unwilling to break in on whatever her friend had seen or sensed, then walked slowly towards the bank she had negotiated yesterday. After a minute or two, Fran scrambled up besi
de her and pointed her camera.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Libby. ‘Did you see something?’

  ‘Not see, exactly,’ said Fran in a strange voice. ‘Felt. I couldn’t get my breath.’

  Libby looked at her sharply. ‘TB sufferers couldn’t breathe. Their lungs were collapsed on purpose.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran nodded slowly. ‘It was frightening.’

  ‘Is that what was happening?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘I don’t really know, but I think so.’

  ‘So this is part of the hospital? Or the workhouse? Or both?’

  ‘The hospital, certainly,’ said Fran, her voice sounding more normal now. ‘Possibly the workhouse. The building’s more that age.’

  ‘We ought to tell Ian.’ Libby peered down the other side of the bank.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He ought to know.’

  ‘We don’t even know what he’s found to investigate,’ said Fran. ‘It might not be relevant at all.’

  ‘It might. I still think we ought to tell him.’ She stepped experimentally on to the other side of the bank. ‘Fancy trying to get a bit nearer?’

  Fran put a steadying hand on her shoulder. ‘Go on, then. Careful.’

  Helping each other, they managed to scramble over and through the vegetation to the bottom of the bank, where they stood staring up at the blank grey face of the building. Libby shivered.

  Fran set off round the side, Libby following. The trees still pressed in closely on either side until they rounded the front.

  ‘Someone’s been here,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Fran moved slowly across the roughly cleared area towards the only door, scarred metal and heavily padlocked. Two broken windows on the ground floor level looked into blackness, and from one of the two higher up a scrap of cloth fluttered forlornly, exactly the same as the one on the other side.

  ‘Well, now we will have to tell Ian,’ said Fran giving a crooked smile.

  ‘I thought you said this might not be connected to White Lodge?’

  ‘Oh, I think so.’ Fran scraped at the cleared ground with her foot. ‘This is recent. Like the grave was.’

  ‘But Ian said the body wasn’t recent.’

  ‘He didn’t say the grave wasn’t.’

  ‘How could that be?’ Libby frowned at her friend. ‘New grave and old body?’