Murder to Music Read online

  ‘I don’t fancy it. It looks impregnable. The only reason we managed to get here is that some of that undergrowth at the front had been hacked back.’

  ‘Had it?’ said Libby in surprise. ‘It didn’t look like it.’

  Fran nodded. ‘You could see cut marks. This is very like the sort of thing I used to do for Goodall and Smythe, and believe me, I got used to nosing things out even if they were down to earth physical. The smell in that shed, for instance.’ She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘What was that? You’ve never told me much about what you did then.’

  ‘You’ve never asked.’ Fran smiled and looked round at the trees. ‘Come on, let’s go, and I’ll tell you in the car.’

  After Fran had taken more photographs, they fought their way back to the overgrown bank, Libby looking all the while for signs of recent use of a saw. As far as she could there weren’t any.

  ‘Yes, there are, look,’ said Fran, reading her mind. ‘There.’ She pulled at a section of bramble, and sure enough Libby could see where branches from the trees behind had been cut off.

  ‘So someone’s using this as a way in there? But for what?’

  ‘Presumably the same reason they’re trying to keep people away from White Lodge.’

  ‘But in that case why aren’t they doing the same thing here?’ Libby lost her footing and slid down the bank into the lane.

  Fran joined her and looked down the lane towards the cottages. She stepped back and looked at what could be seen of the church. ‘I should think that’s the reason. There will be people up and down this lane every day, not only people who live here, but churchgoers.’

  ‘All the more reason to keep them away.’

  ‘No, playing Debussy every five minutes would attract attention here, exactly the reverse effect of the other side.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Libby cast one more look at the grey building and turned back towards the road and the car. ‘Come on, this place is spooking me out.’

  ‘Where does this road lead to?’ asked Fran as Libby pulled away.

  ‘I think it must join up with the road to Steeple Mount. But come on, tell me about the shed.’

  Fran sighed. ‘Goodall and Smythe were selling this rather grand house in Kensington. The lower ground floor had been let as a separate flat, but no one was there and the prospective buyers wanted to turn it back into one house. She was very nervy and didn’t like the idea of the basement, so I was sent to have a look round.’ Fran sighed again and shook her head. ‘Honestly, I think I was a mug. Goodall and Smythe didn’t really believe in what I did, I was a “service” to make purchasers feel more secure.’

  ‘So come on, what happened?’

  ‘There really was something nasty in the woodshed. I don’t talk about it because it was horrific, but it was nothing to do with my having a “moment”, it was to do with the ghastly smell.’

  ‘And?’ prompted Libby after a moment. ‘Was it a body?’

  ‘Yes. Of the former tenant.’ Fran shuddered. ‘Not that you could tell.’

  ‘Blimey! You poor thing. No wonder you gave up on it all. Was he murdered?’

  ‘Yes. It was in the papers. The bloke who was selling the house killed him and went abroad. He must have known it would be discovered as soon as someone went to view, but I think he’d gone to ground, somewhere like Brazil.’

  ‘So you’d already been involved in murder before you met me?’

  Fran laughed. ‘There’s no need to sound so affronted! And I certainly wouldn’t recommend finding a partially decomposed body.’

  ‘I wonder.’ Libby frowned over the steering wheel.

  ‘Wonder what? Decomposed bodies. At White Lodge?’

  ‘Or that barn. Looks as though it was a barn once, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Why should there be decomposed bodies there?’

  ‘I don’t know. But the whole thing’s weird. We must tell Ian.’

  ‘And he’ll tell us off again,’ said Fran.

  ‘It was your idea to come back today,’ said Libby. ‘I shall say I was misled.’ She slowed at a road junction. ‘Oh, look. It doesn’t go to Steeple Mount, it goes to Steeple Cross.’

  ‘In that case can we go back? It’s completely the wrong direction.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Libby. ‘Look, if we go right we go back to Heronsbourne. That’s a coincidence, isn’t it? Me having gone there yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re not stopping for a drink today,’ said Fran. ‘I need to get back and get the dinner on.’

  ‘So,’ said Libby a little later, ‘you think it was definitely part of the TB hospital?’

  ‘I felt as though I couldn’t breathe. There was this awful pain. There was something wrong, I’m sure.’

  ‘Are we going to tell Rosie? Or are we not friends with her any more?’

  ‘I think we might tell Andrew. Ask if there’s any evidence of that barn in the old documentation. If there’s anything wrong with Rosie’s story Ian’ll find out.’

  ‘All right.’ It was Libby’s turn to sigh. ‘Isn’t it funny how whenever we get involved with one of these investigations there comes a point where we say we’ll stop and back out.’

  ‘And we never do,’ said Fran wryly.

  Libby dropped Fran at Coastguard Cottage and drove slowly back to Steeple Martin. Fran had promised to call Ian and leave a message rather than disturb his Sunday, although, as she said, policeman often don’t get Sundays. Libby was to contain her soul in patience once more and wait until she heard from either Ian or Fran.

  ‘Can’t I even ask Andrew about the plans and stuff?’ she’d asked, but Fran had been adamant. And, as Fran was usually the sensible one, she had to agree. When she reached home, she tried to put the whole thing out of her mind and concentrate on looking forward to Ben’s return.

  Chapter Seventeen

  WHEN MONDAY AFTERNOON WAS almost over and Libby still hadn’t heard anything from Ian or Fran, she broke and rang Fran.

  ‘No, I haven’t heard either,’ she said, ‘but I was going to ring you because I’ve just heard from Andrew.’

  ‘Oh, great! What’s happened? Has he found something?’

  ‘Well, yes, but it’s all rather odd. He’s been helping Rosie and he says it’s her story, so would we like to go either to her cottage or his flat and hear all about it. He says she’s a bit upset.’

  ‘So, another false confession, do you think?’

  ‘I think we should reserve judgement. He said to go this evening, but I said it was too short notice. Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, as early as possible. You don’t think we ought not give her the opportunity to sleep on it and change her mind?’

  ‘I think Andrew will keep her to the sticking point.’

  ‘There’s definitely romance in the air there, isn’t there? Harry must have been right about her flirting with him.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Fran. ‘You must admit Harry can be a bit of a bitch sometimes.’

  ‘True. He means well, though.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Fran. ‘Right, what shall I say to Andrew? Ten o’clock?’

  After several more phone calls it was arranged that Fran and Libby should meet at Rosie’s cottage the following morning at ten thirty.

  ‘Andrew said he didn’t want to give her the opportunity not to turn up,’ said Fran, ‘so he’s a bit dubious about her, too.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s an all right bloke, then,’ said Libby. ‘And not in on the scam.’

  ‘Oh, shut up about the scam,’ said Fran. ‘You’re not in a Mafia movie.’

  Fran’s car was already parked when Libby arrived at the cottage. It was a grey, drizzly day, and the lupins, foxgloves and hollyhocks drooped and dripped either side of the path, drained of colour. Andrew opened the door.

  ‘Libby, come in.’ He stood aside for her to enter, smiling. ‘Forgive me for playing the host, but Rosie’s a little fragile at the moment.’

  Fragile? wondered Libby. What does that m
ean?

  Fran was sitting on a comfortable-looking sofa in front of the french windows, while Rosie sat in what was obviously a favourite armchair beside the fireplace. She looked washed out, and years older than the last time Libby had seen her.

  Andrew brought in a tray with coffee percolator, mugs and milk and set it on a large square footstool.

  ‘Thank you, Andrew,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m sorry to be such a sad case, ladies, but I’m a bit overcome by all this.’

  ‘By all what?’ said Libby.

  ‘You know Rosie came with me last week to Maidstone to carry on with the research?’ said Andrew, handing round mugs of coffee. ‘Well, we looked in the archaeology society’s library and the Maidstone archives. And eventually, we tracked down some evidence.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have known how to go about it,’ said Rosie, ‘but Andrew did. He found some documents relating to the workhouse, and eventually the title being transferred to the owners of the Princess Beatrice sanatorium.’

  ‘I expect Inspector Connell would have been able to find that too, eventually,’ said Andrew.

  ‘Yes, he was going to get in touch with the records office yesterday morning,’ said Libby. ‘So who bought it?’

  ‘No one we’d ever heard of,’ said Rosie, ‘but then Andrew followed a trail to some other documents.’ She shrugged and spread her hands. ‘It was incomprehensible to me.’

  ‘I found some references to piano concerts given to raise funds for the sanatorium.’ Andrew paused as both Libby and Fran drew in sharp breaths. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. Well, if Inspector Connell’s been to records, he’ll know this already. He obviously hasn’t told you?’

  ‘We haven’t heard from him,’ said Fran. ‘He doesn’t tell us everything.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Andrew smiled again. ‘Sorry. Well, what we found out was that the man who bought White Lodge after it was closed as the Princess Beatrice Sanatorium was Paul Findon.’

  Fran and Libby looked at each other.

  ‘Who?’ said Libby.

  ‘Paul Findon.’ Rosie cleared her throat. ‘You two are probably too young to remember him, but he was a concert pianist and the greatest exponent of Debussy’s work of his generation.’

  ‘No!’ said Libby.

  ‘Heavens,’ said Fran.

  ‘It doesn’t stop there,’ said Andrew.

  ‘It wouldn’t,’ said Libby. ‘Rosie remembers the music and the interior of White Lodge as it was years ago. There’s obviously a connection.’

  ‘Quite.’ Andrew raised his eyebrows at her. ‘So we looked him up online, found his birth and death dates and looked him up in the historical records.’ He looked across at Rosie.

  ‘And he’s my uncle,’ she said.

  After a short shocked silence Libby said ‘And you didn’t know?’

  Rosie shook her head.

  ‘It’s been a bit of a shock,’ Andrew continued for her, ‘and we’ve no firm knowledge because of course Rosie’s parents are dead and Paul Findon had no children and doesn’t appear to have married.’

  ‘No other relatives?’ asked Fran. ‘Cousins?’

  ‘He was my mother’s only brother,’ said Rosie. ‘So strange to think that all these years I didn’t know. And yet I must have, once. I must have visited him at White Lodge.’

  ‘There was a huge resistance in you,’ said Fran. ‘You really didn’t want to go back, did you? That’s why you asked us and didn’t tell us the whole story at once.’

  Libby looked at her in surprise.

  ‘I didn’t understand it, though,’ said Rosie. ‘I had to know, yet I didn’t want to. I suppose that makes me sound even madder.’

  ‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Simply that there’s a reason for it. Something must have happened that you’ve blocked out.’

  ‘The ghost,’ said Libby eagerly. ‘Could that be it?’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘I wonder why he bought it?’ mused Libby.

  ‘I think we know,’ said Andrew, ‘although it’s a rather strange reason. In his Wiki entry it says he was in hospital for several years with tuberculosis.’

  ‘More coincidences,’ said Libby.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Fran. ‘Simply cause and effect. He was in hospital here, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s why he gave concerts in aid of it.’

  ‘So he was in the sanatorium, grew up to be a pianist, gave concerts to raise money for it, bought the house when it closed as a sanatorium, and meanwhile his sister had married and had Rosie, who has a buried memory of the house and Debussy. It’s all perfectly logical.’

  Rosie smiled at her in relief. ‘Put like that it seems so much better,’ she said.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Libby grudgingly.

  ‘All we had to do was unravel it,’ said Fran, ‘which Andrew has done.’

  He inclined his head. ‘I merely knew where to go and what to look for,’ he said.

  ‘But it doesn’t take us any closer to the original body that was dug up, the ghost story, or why the music is played now,’ said Libby.

  ‘No, and I’m sorry about that.’ Rosie sighed. ‘But at least we know why it’s Debussy. Maybe your Inspector won’t have to carry on looking now.’

  ‘Have you told him all this?’ asked Fran.

  ‘No, but I suppose we should.’ Rosie looked at Andrew.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’ He patted her hand and Libby resisted the urge to look at Fran. ‘He still wants me to get in a buildings expert, so I expect he’ll speak to me.’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’ Fran smiled her serene, Madonna-like smile. ‘I’m glad you’re happier, Rosie.’

  The subject was subtly changed and though Libby was dying to chew over all these new discoveries with Fran, she was forced to sit through another half an hour of conversation and cold coffee before she could decently make her excuses.

  ‘What did you really think of that?’ she said, when they got to the end of the path.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fran looked surprised.

  ‘All that about cause and effect.’

  ‘I meant what I said.’ Fran frowned. ‘It was obvious.’

  ‘Was it?’

  Fran sighed. ‘Oh, come on, Libby, stop looking for more mysteries. Of course it was true. It was obvious, as I’ve said. No coincidences.’

  Libby looked at her narrowly. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. You know. Absolutely sure.’

  Libby sighed. ‘I suppose it did make sense. Wish we knew about the body and the music, though.’

  ‘What I want to know,’ said Fran, opening her car door, ‘is if the Debussy was played before Rosie went to visit a year ago, or whenever it was. Or was it dug out just for her?’

  ‘She said that the estate agent who accompanied her was already scared, so something else must have been happening before then.’

  Fran nodded. ‘Let’s go home and think about it. I’ll call you later.’

  Libby looked up Paul Findon when she got home. Apart from his Wikipedia entry, which was extensive, there were many recordings available, surprisingly, most of them digitised from the originals, most of which dated from the ten years after the end of the last war. She clicked on the listening sample for Clair de Lune and decided it didn’t sound any different from any recording she’d heard. Then she went back to his biography, to find out who his parents were and where he came from. Presumably Rosie would know this, as his parents would be her grandparents, but Libby wanted to see for herself.

  However the biography merely said “born in London” with no mention of parents. There was no mention of anything strange or mysterious in the biography, merely the fact that he’d been in a sanatorium with tuberculosis as a child. Then she realised she hadn’t looked up the Princess Beatrice and typed it into the search engine.

  The entry wasn’t long in Wikipedia, and there seemed to be very little other mention of it anywhe
re else. There was certainly nothing about buried children or ghosts.

  The phone rang.

  ‘I’ve just thought,’ said Fran.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know those windows at the barn? We couldn’t see into them, could we?’

  ‘We couldn’t get close enough, but it looked dark inside.’

  ‘Suppose those windows had been deliberately blacked out from the inside. You couldn’t tell from a distance.’

  ‘No. But why?’

  ‘Did you watch the local news last week?’

  ‘Eh? Some days. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘The police found a cannabis factory.’

  ‘They’re always doing that. Little terraced houses with the windows – ah.’

  ‘Exactly. It would be a perfect place. Out of the way, no one goes near it.’

  ‘It would, but what would that have to do with White Lodge and the music? Or the bodies, come to that.’

  ‘Probably nothing, but we ought to tell Ian.’

  ‘Would he let us know if he was going to investigate the barn place?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Fran. ‘He might tell us afterwards.’

  ‘Should we go back?’

  ‘No, of course not. We couldn’t get into the woods on Sunday, so why would we today?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Libby blew out a sigh. ‘How frustrating.’

  ‘Just be patient,’ said Fran. ‘I’m sure we’ll find out eventually.’

  The next phone call was from Jane, saying thank you for the flowers Libby had found time to send on Monday.

  ‘So when can we come and see you? Are you home yet?’

  ‘Oh, yes, we came home yesterday.’

  ‘Don’t they throw you out quickly these days? I was in for a week with mine.’

  ‘Oh, how could you bear it?’ said Jane. ‘All I wanted to do was get home.’

  ‘I wanted someone there to tell me how to do it all first. And to let me sleep when I wanted.’

  ‘Oh, Terry’s been terrific. He’s doing everything except the feeding.’ Jane giggled. ‘And he can’t do that.’

  ‘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!’