Murder to Music - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Read online

  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.

  ‘Of course. You know how he waits on the third step up.’ She set two mugs beside the kettle. ‘Go and get my laptop and we’ll see if we can look up White Lodge, shall we?’

  Fran obediently fetched the laptop, sat down at the table and opened it.

  ‘Shall I just put White Lodge, Cherry Ashton into the search engine?’ she asked.

  ‘See if anything comes up.’ Libby poured water into the mugs.

  Fran pressed some keys and sat back with a laugh. ‘Well!’ she said. ‘You’ll never guess what.’

  ‘What?’ Libby put a mug down beside her, and leant over her shoulder.

  ‘It’s for sale. Look.’ She clicked through links and came up with an estate agent’s website. ‘Oh, no, it’s not. It must have been removed.’

  ‘Go back to the original link,’ said Libby. ‘See what the date is.’

  The original link turned out to be the estate agent’s description of the property when it was registered a year previously.

  ‘Seven bedrooms,’ read Libby, ‘fab. No pictures.’

  ‘Cellars, walled garden – and look – there’s a barn.’

  ‘Rosie said it was boarded up. She must have been to see it,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think she saw it and then it triggered off the dreams? Or she dreamed it and went to find it?’

  ‘If she dreamed it first she wouldn’t know where it was.’

  ‘No, but perhaps she just stumbled across it?’

  Fran looked up. ‘Why didn’t we ask any of these questions when we were with her? They seem so obvious now.’

  Libby shrugged. ‘Surprised, I suppose, and keen to get on with another mystery. Didn’t she give you any indication of what she wanted to ask us?’

  ‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘I though it must be to ask us about one of our cases –’

  ‘Cases!’

  ‘Investigations, adventures, what you like. I thought it would be that, to use in a book.’

  ‘I wonder who bought it?’ Libby turned the laptop to face her. ‘And how long ago Rosie saw it? It sounds as though it was recently.’

  ‘Perhaps it wouldn’t sell, so they took it off the market.’

  ‘Complicated isn’t it?’ Libby clicked back to the search engine. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything else about it.’

  There were, in fact, several references to White Lodge, but only in passing, and many of them turned out to be nothing to do with the house at all, until Fran clicked on a reference to Cherry Ashton workhouse.

  ‘Look!’ she pushed the laptop back towards Libby. ‘It was part of a workhouse!’

  ‘Blimey.’ Libby peered at the page. ‘Demolished in – what? 1909? Why is the house still there?’

  ‘I should think it was the – oh, I don’t know – warden’s house? Too good to demolish?’

  ‘Let’s look up the workhouse,’ said Libby.

  It wasn’t until Ben appeared in the kitchen over an hour later that Fran realised what the time was.

  ‘Guy will think I’ve left home,’ she said standing up and giving her friend’s partner a quick kiss. Libby went to see her off.

  ‘So what have you been doing?’ Ben was looking at the computer screen.

  ‘Fascinating, actually,’ said Libby, ‘and I haven’t even thought about dinner.’

  Ben leant back against the sink and folded his arms. ‘I sense a mystery.’

  ‘Well,’ said Libby, looking guilty, ‘it is sort of.’

  ‘It must be at least six months since you’ve been involved in something, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Tell all.’

  Libby smiled in relief. ‘OK. How long is it since we ate in the caff?’

  ‘About a week.’ Ben grinned. ‘And now we might as well take out a season ticket. We end up eating there every other night when you’re sleuthing.’

  ‘It’s not normal sleuthing,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink and I’ll tell you all about it. But first give Harry a ring.’

  Over glasses of red wine, Libby filled Ben in on the afternoon’s activities. ‘And then,’ she finished up, ‘we started looking into the Cherry Ashton Workhouse.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘Nothing really. It was there, set up by the Poor Board or something, and there were elected Guardians. So we had a look at workhouses in general. There were some horrible stories, Huddersfield, Andover and Fareham, but no mention of Cherry Ashton. We did wonder, though, because it said in one of the general descriptions that the Master and Matron had apartments in the building. White Lodge is a separate building and it states that the workhouse was demolished 1909.’

  ‘Perhaps the workhouse was built round it. On land that belonged to it?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose that could be it. But from what Rosie said and the estate agent’s description it sounded a bit grand for a Master’s lodging.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow you could call the agents and ask if it’s likely to come on the market again, or if they know anything about who bought it.’

  ‘Oh, so we could.’ Libby brightened. ‘And we could drive over and see if we can find it. I said we’d look round.’

  ‘Be careful,’ warned Ben. ‘Don’t go getting yourself into trouble.’

  ‘As if I would,’ said Libby. Ben sighed.

  Later in The Pink Geranium, Donna the waitress brought over the menu.

  ‘No Adam tonight?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No, we’re not busy,’ said Donna, ‘and he’s been working hard over at Creekmarsh. Shall I see if he’s in?’

  Libby’s son Adam lived in the flat over the restaurant, where once Fran had stayed, and occasionally helped out if Harry was very busy. His proper job was as an assistant to a landscape designer who was currently working on restoring the grounds of a local mansion owned by television personality Lewis Osbourne-Walker.

  ‘No, don’t worry, Donna.’ Libby suddenly put out her hand to Donna. ‘Is that a ring?’

  Donna, unflappable, organised and efficient, blushed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your doctor?’ asked Libby. ‘Oh, congratulations!’ She stood up to hug Donna to the imminent danger of the table.

  ‘What’s all this?’ said a voice, and Harry appeared, grinning, over Donna’s shoulder. ‘Destroying my restaurant?’

  Ben stood to kiss Donna, too. ‘You know what our Libby’s like,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘Hello, Hal. Is Donna allowed champagne on duty?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Donna, flustered. ‘Thank you, but I’ve got to drive to Canterbury when I’ve finished.’ She coloured faintly again. ‘But thank you, all the same.’

  ‘Her chap’s a doctor at the hospital, isn’t he?’ said Libby, after Donna had gone to fetch a bottle of red wine.

  ‘Yes. Nice bloke, but very unsociable hours,’ said Harry, sitting down astride a chair. ‘Just hope she’s not going to start breeding and leave me.’

  ‘Harry!’ Libby slapped his arm. He grinned.

  ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Libby forgot to do dinner,’ said Ben.

  ‘You could have done it,’ said Harry, with a lifted eyebrow.

  ‘I know, I know, but she suggested we came here.’ Ben made a face at his beloved.

  ‘Oh, no, you aren’t?’ Harry peered at Libby’s face. ‘Not another investigation?’

  ‘I don’t know why you should think that,’ said Libby huffily. ‘We eat here all the time.’

  ‘There’s something about the way Ben said you forgot to do dinner,’ said Harry. ‘Come on. What’s it all about?’

  Libby relented and explained.


  ‘So you see, it isn’t a proper investigation. It’s just to find out something about the house.’

  ‘Well, it’ll keep you out of mischief,’ said Harry, standing up. ‘I shall now go back to my arduous duties in the kitchen.’

  Adam appeared just as they were finishing their meal.

  ‘Hi, Ma,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘Hi, Ben.’

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Libby peered round his shoulder. ‘Hello Sophie.’

  Fran’s step-daughter Sophie squeezed past Adam to kiss Libby.

  ‘Hi, Lib. Sorry I’ve been keeping him out till all hours again!’

  ‘Shocking. Why it’s almost ten o’clock,’ grinned Libby. ‘Will you have a drink with us?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Adam. ‘I’ll go. Red wine? Sophie?’

  When they were all settled with fresh drinks, Adam tackled his mother.

  ‘What’s all this Harry’s telling me about a new investigation?’

  ‘Oh, for f – goodness’ sake,’ said Libby. ‘Hasn’t anybody got anything better to do than poke their noses into my business?’

  Adam and Ben roared with laughter.

  ‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ said Ben, wiping his eyes.

  ‘Look, once and for all, it’s simply to find out about a house for Fran’s writing tutor. She hasn’t got time herself and knowing Fran’s – um – intuition – thought she’d be the ideal person to look into it.’

  ‘With you,’ said Adam.

  ‘Of course with me. She couldn’t do it without me.’ Libby slid a quick glance at Sophie and saw her grinning.

  ‘So there we are. That’s it and all about it. So now shut up and, Ad, tell me about Creekmarsh.’

  Chapter Three

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, LIBBY called the agent on whose books White Lodge had been.

  ‘That monstrosity,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I hope it’s nothing to do with you, but I’ve never handled a property that was so difficult.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby sat back in her chair, surprised. ‘Really? It looked rather a grand place.’

  ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘Well – no, not actually seen,’ said Libby.

  ‘You’re welcome to go and look at it if you like,’ said the agent, surprisingly. ‘We’ve still got the keys, but I’ll have to trust you to go on your own. I can’t spare anyone to go with you, and frankly, even if I could, no one would.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby’s metaphorical ears pricked up. This seemed to confirm Rosie’s dream impressions. ‘Why? Is it haunted?’

  There was a short silence. ‘I daresay it’s nothing,’ the agent said eventually, sounding uncomfortable, ‘but do you know exactly where it is?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Libby. ‘Do you mean the Cherry Ashton workhouse?’

  ‘Yes.’ The agent sounded relieved. ‘It was the atmosphere, you see. We took a few prospective purchasers to see it, but no one would go in to the attic rooms. Most didn’t even get as far as the kitchen.’

  ‘I see.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘I would like to see it, if possible, and if it’s all right with you. What about the vendor? Somebody still owns it, don’t they?’

  ‘It’s a probate sale,’ said the agent, ‘and very complicated.’

  ‘Who was the owner?’ asked Libby.

  The agent became wary. ‘I’m not sure I can tell you anything else,’ he said.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ said Libby hastily.

  ‘And could I ask you what your interest is in the property?’

  ‘A friend remembered it and asked if it was still on the market,’ lied Libby. ‘She seemed to think it was boarded up.’

  ‘It is, I’m afraid,’ said the agent. ‘Will she be coming to see it herself?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Libby lied again.

  ‘Well, you can pick up the keys any time from the office. You’ll have to sign a receipt and probably leave a deposit – because of squatters, you know.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Libby, wondering how usual it was for estate agents to let viewers go unaccompanied to empty houses.

  ‘So,’ she said later to Fran on the phone, ‘we can go any time. Today?’

  ‘You were going to go to the library, and I was going to pop in and see Jane this afternoon,’ said Fran. ‘She’s finished work now.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten,’ said Libby. ‘She’s almost due, isn’t she?’

  ‘A week or so, I think. Look why don’t you come, too? She’s as bored as hell and very uncomfortable.’

  ‘OK, and perhaps we can go and see White Lodge tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ said Fran, ‘and I shall be helping in the shop. Guy’s busiest time, a summer Saturday. I might even sell one of your pretty peeps.’

  ‘Oh, right. Monday, then, I suppose. Shall I ring the agent and make an appointment?’

  There was a short silence. Then, ‘No,’ said Fran slowly. ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Fran. ‘But he did say any time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you go and pick them up on your way to Nethergate this afternoon?’

  ‘The agent’s in Nethergate,’ said Libby.

  ‘Riley’s?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll pick them up on the way to Jane’s.’

  Libby explained about the receipt and the deposit, ‘So I’d better go,’ she finished.

  ‘Park here,’ said Fran, ‘and we’ll go together. I can be the friend who wants to view.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Libby beamed. ‘What time shall I be there?’

  ‘Why did you not want me to make an appointment?’ Libby asked, as Fran pulled her front door closed behind her.

  Fran shook her head. ‘Something –’

  ‘Something what? Did you have a “moment”?

  ‘I don’t know. I just felt that if you made an appointment something would happen to prevent you keeping it.’

  ‘Prevent me?’

  ‘Well, prevent it from happening.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said Fran, irritated. ‘I don’t know. Did you go to the library?’

  ‘Yes. They had two of Rosie’s books.’

  They walked along Harbour Street next to the low sea wall, the other side of which families played with buckets and spades, balls and frisbees as though the words “computer games” had never been invented. They waved at Lizzie in her tiny ice-cream shop and at Sophie rearranging items in her father’s shop window.

  ‘She was with Adam last night,’ said Libby.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Fran. ‘I didn’t think it would last with her being away at uni.’

  ‘It’s survived over a year despite that,’ said Libby. ‘Are we founding a dynasty?’

  ‘They’re much too young,’ said Fran firmly. ‘Come on, Riley’s is up the high street.’

  The high street climbed sharply away from the square where the venerable Swan Inn stood. A little way up on the right-hand side, Riley’s presented a bland front to the tourists and shoppers. A young man in his shirtsleeves looked up from a desk when they came in.

  ‘Hello, my name’s Sarjeant,’ said Libby. ‘I rang earlier.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ The young man opened a drawer and took out a set of keys attached to a large brown luggage label. ‘If I could just ask you to sign here.’ He pushed an open ledger towards her and indicated a space next to the printed name “Mrs Sergeant”. Libby altered it and signed.

  ‘And here,’ he said proffering a piece of paper, ‘and I’m awfully sorry, but I’ll have to ask for a £50 deposit on the key.’

  Libby produced her credit card. The piece of paper was offered as her receipt for the deposit and he handed over the keys.

  ‘Do you know where it is?’ he asked. ‘Oh, you said your friend had seen it, didn’t you?’ He nodded towards Fran, and they both smiled.

  ‘He didn’t even ask if you were the frie
nd,’ said Libby, as they made their escape down the hill and turned right up towards Cliff Terrace and Peel House.

  ‘It was a reasonable assumption for him to make,’ said Fran.

  ‘So when are we going to see it?’

  ‘We could go after we’ve been to Jane’s, unless you’ve got to get back early,’ said Fran.

  Libby’s eyebrows rose. ‘You’re keen all of a sudden.’

  ‘I just feel we should go as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Before something stops us?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Fran awkwardly. ‘I know it’s silly.’

  ‘What would stop us? Not the ghosts!’

  ‘No – I don’t know.’ Fran looked up at the front of Jane’s attractive terraced house. ‘Come on. I hope they’ve moved down on to a lower level now. She won’t want to be hauling a pram up to the top of the house.’

  ‘She won’t want to be hauling herself up to the top of the house,’ said Libby, climbing the steps to the front door, ‘let alone a baby and a pram.’

  Jane Baker answered the door quickly and beamed. ‘I’m so pleased to see you both,’ she said, stepping aside for them to squeeze past her large bump.

  ‘Oh, you’ve moved back down here,’ said Fran, as they went into the large room on the left of the hall. For some time the sitting room had been on the top floor of the house.

  ‘Well, the kitchen’s here, and the bedroom’s only one floor up,’ said Jane, ‘and I couldn’t face the climb to the top!’

  ‘We were saying that just now,’ said Libby, going to the window, ‘and you’ve still got a lovely view.’

  Libby and Fran had met Jane Maurice, as she was then, two years previously. She had subsequently married her tenant, Terry, and credited Libby with getting them together. Libby didn’t mind. It meant Jane, in her position as chief reporter and deputy editor of the Nethergate Mercury, could occasionally be useful if Libby wanted information about practically anything. Also, Terry, her husband, was large, silent and mechanically gifted, not to mention having a sister who was an accomplished singer, songwriter and pianist and useful person to know.

  ‘So how are you?’ asked Fran, following Jane into the kitchen. ‘Apart from bored?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Tired, uncomfortable and my feet swell.’ Jane indicated the mugs set out on the table. ‘Tea or coffee? Instant coffee, I’m afraid.’