Murder to Music - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Read online

  ‘So who are the owners?’

  ‘It’s rather complicated, apparently.’ Andrew picked up his glass of tonic water and frowned at it.

  ‘It’s a probate sale, isn’t it?’ asked Libby. ‘The estate agents told us that.’

  ‘I believe so. Anyway, up until Wednesday he had no idea who it was. He was also going to the Land Registry.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Rosie, ‘is why there seems to be no record of what happened to the building after it ceased to be a TB sanatorium.’

  ‘My friend Flo says some “bloke” owned it, and from what she says, wanted to extend it, probably in the fifties. That was when the body was found.’

  Rosie frowned. ‘Then why is there no record of it?’

  ‘There must be,’ said Libby. ‘We just haven’t found it yet. Although how it could have escaped Ian I don’t know. And what about this folk tale about all “the children”? Where did that come from?’

  Ben looked up from his red wine. ‘Someone put it about deliberately.’

  ‘Really?’ They all looked at him.

  ‘Someone who didn’t want anyone looking into the graves too closely,’ said Ben.

  ‘What, back then? They were murdered children?’ Rosie gasped.

  ‘It makes sense,’ said Andrew, turning to her, ‘but in that case, why is the music being played now? And why was that grave cleared and the flowers laid on it?’

  They all looked at each other.

  ‘A relative who’s still living?’ hazarded Rosie.

  ‘Could be.’ Libby peered into her wine glass. ‘But who? If it was a child in the fifties –’

  ‘No – it was dug up in the fifties,’ said Andrew.

  ‘Oh, yes. So it would be someone pretty old if it was a relative, and if it was a child who was dug up it’s hardly likely to be a descendant,’ said Libby. She turned to Andrew. ‘Did you manage to do any more research on the building?’

  ‘I haven’t been back to the library,’ he said, ‘and I need to if I’m to go any further.’ He turned to Rosie and said diffidently, ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come with me? It might be helpful for your research.’

  To Libby’s interest, Rosie blushed. ‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘Do I need a pass or anything?’

  ‘No, I sign you in as my guest. Ten o’clock all right? We can have a spot of lunch afterwards.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Rosie and they smiled at one another. Ben nudged Libby.

  ‘Don’t stare,’ he muttered.

  Donna brought a large plate of nachos to share and topped up their wine glasses. Andrew changed the subject and asked about Libby and Fran’s previous adventures. Libby, with frequent interpolations from Ben, gave highly coloured accounts, pointing up the mistakes they made and praising the police.

  ‘Especially Ian,’ said Libby. ‘He’s always willing to listen to us – well, to Fran, really. She helped him a lot over the murders connected to Anderson Place.’

  ‘Don’t you find it hard, though?’ asked Rosie. ‘After all, some of the people you suspect could be close friends.’

  ‘Not often,’ said Libby. ‘Sometimes we know them, which is why we get involved in the first place, but it’s rarely people we’re fond of.’

  ‘Sometimes it is,’ murmured Ben. Libby gave him a quick look.

  ‘Yes, sometimes.’ She patted his hand and ignored Andrew’s and Rosie’s raised eyebrows.

  ‘I mean,’ she went on quickly, ‘there was that case last summer about the Morris Dancers. I knew several of them, but I wasn’t all that fond of them.’

  ‘Morris?’ Andrew laughed. ‘I can’t imagine you involved with Morris.’

  ‘No, I’m not, but it’s a fascinating subject. All sorts of weird and wonderful things go on.’

  ‘I’ve used it as a background,’ said Rosie thoughtfully. ‘I found there were people who took it so seriously they could almost kill people who mocked it, or joined in as a joke.’

  Libby nodded. ‘And some people who use it as a cover for some rather nasty goings-on – all covered by the folk tradition.’

  ‘Like The Wicker Man?’ said Andrew.

  ‘Very like.’ Libby sighed. ‘All those pretty pictures on calendars of Morris sides outside pubs on the village green are very misleading.’

  ‘There couldn’t be anything like that involved in the White Lodge, I suppose?’ Andrew looked at Rosie. ‘You don’t remember anything like that?’

  ‘I’ve already said, I don’t actually remember anything,’ said Rosie. ‘But I doubt it.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Libby. ‘What we really need to do is find out about the grave and the flowers. And the music.’

  ‘I’ve always loved Debussy,’ said Rosie wistfully. ‘It seems so sad he should be connected to all this.’

  ‘Do you think Debussy is connected to you?’ Libby asked.

  Rosie looked startled. ‘I don’t think so! He died in 1918, didn’t he?’

  ‘Did he? That’s very precise of you.’

  ‘It’s just something I know,’ said Rosie frowning. ‘Like the dates of the wars, and 1066.’

  ‘That sounds like Fran. Facts in her head that she has no reason to know.’

  ‘But anyone could know Debussy’s dates,’ said Andrew, his hand moving a little nearer to Rosie’s. ‘Especially if he’s a particular interest.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Rosie doubtfully. ‘I’m not that musical. I was just introduced to Debussy very young.’

  ‘Oh? Who by?’ Libby leant across the table.

  ‘Libby!’ said Ben. ‘Stop it.’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t mind. After all, I started it. But I’m afraid I don’t know who introduced me. I assume it was my mother.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well. We’re not going to get much further with that, are we?’

  ‘Do we need to?’ Andrew frowned.

  ‘Ian says it’s just that whoever set up the music only had a Debussy CD to hand.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been a CD when Rosie first heard it,’ said Ben. ‘In her first dream, I mean.’

  ‘No.’ Rosie looked at him with an eager expression. ‘Of course not. No CDs then. Cassette player, perhaps?’

  ‘When did you have the dream?’

  ‘A year or so back. But the dream wasn’t about then, as Libby says. The house has been empty for years, so when I dreamt about it, it was a long time ago.’

  ‘Yes, but the Debussy could just be a sort of overlay in your brain,’ said Libby.

  ‘It could, couldn’t it?’ Rosie was looking more interested than disturbed now. ‘I see why you get fascinated with all these investigations, Libby.’

  ‘Oh, don’t encourage her,’ said Ben.

  Andrew gave him a commiserating glance.

  ‘If the Debussy is an overlay, it meant you were listening to it when you were young, but you’ve already said you were. So does it mean you listened to it in that house?’ Libby helped herself to more wine.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Rosie frowned. ‘It’s a lot more complicated than I thought.’

  ‘Especially with the addition of bodies being dug up,’ said Libby.

  ‘And the flowers on the grave,’ added Andrew. He grinned round the table. ‘I must say, I’m finding this all quite exciting.’

  Ben groaned.

  The following day Libby decided it should be a beach day. She was too involved with Rosie and the White Lodge and she needed to do something to take her mind off it. The sun was out, the sky was blue, all she needed was a book and a companion.

  Ben was out doing something to Steeple Farm, the house owned by his aunt which he had renovated with a view to living there, but Libby, after havering for some time, had reluctantly decided she didn’t want to leave her beloved, although decidedly cramped, cottage. Ben was making sure the house and garden were in a fit state to receive their first tenants in a few days’ time.

  So Libby packed some essentials into Romeo the Renaul
t and set off for Nethergate. She could always call and see if either Fran or Jane wanted to join her.

  However, neither Fran nor Jane were in. On calling in at Guy’s shop, Sophie informed her that they had gone to see Chrissie, who, apparently, had a scan picture to show them.

  ‘Couldn’t she have scanned and emailed it?’ asked Libby. ‘Or even come over here?’

  ‘She’s too worn out, it seems,’ said Sophie, pulling a face. There was no love lost between her and her step-sister.

  ‘And there’s poor old Jane heaving herself about in that house and looking after her mother.’

  ‘I thought her mother was supposed to be helping her?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Jane doesn’t want to rely on her.’ Libby shrugged. ‘Horses for courses.’

  So she ended up sitting on her cushion on the beach by herself. The sun wasn’t hot enough to cause discomfort, although she still wore an ancient sunhat, and she’d found a relatively comfortable part of the sea wall as a back rest. After a while the book palled and she found herself watching the few young – obviously middle-class – families on the beach. Suddenly a shadow loomed over her.

  ‘I was told I might find you here,’ said Campbell McLean.

  Libby struggled to sit upright and clutched her hat. ‘Hello. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was working. The crew have gone now, so I popped in to see Fran, only she’s not home. And young what’s’ername said you were here.’

  ‘Sophie. Guy’s daughter.’ Libby patted the cushion beside her. ‘Sit down. I can’t peer up at you like that. What were you filming?’

  ‘A piece about clean beaches. Some environmental group has complained about sewage in the sea during heavy rainfall.’

  ‘Here?’ Libby shuddered and looked round at the peaceful beach.

  ‘Oh, it happens everywhere. It’s only supposed to happen a few times in the season, but it’s happening almost every day. Not so bad here, as we’re dryer than most places in the UK.’ Campbell sat down heavily on the beach and took off his jacket. Libby still thought he looked like central casting’s idea of a geography teacher. Quite attractive in his way. She wondered why he wasn’t married.

  ‘I don’t pretend to understand what the significance of the south-east being dryer is, and I don’t think I want to know,’ she said. ‘Have you got a girlfriend, Campbell?’

  ‘Wha–?’ His mouth stayed open.

  ‘Oh, sorry. That was a bit of a non-sequitur, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Just a bit.’ He looked amused. ‘What prompted it? And as it happens, no I haven’t.’

  ‘I was just thinking how attractive you are.’ Libby laughed at him as a blush crept up his neck. ‘It’s all right, I’m not after you myself. I was just thinking it was a waste. Unless –’ She stopped.

  ‘No, Libby, I’m not gay.’ He patted her hand. ‘I just don’t take to commitment.’

  ‘Yet you look just the sort of guy who would.’ Libby leant back against the wall. ‘Anyway, what did you want to see Fran about?’

  ‘It was just an idea,’ said Campbell. ‘I hear they’re digging up the children’s graves at the White Lodge.’

  Chapter Twelve

  LIBBY STARED. ‘HOW DO you know?’ she said finally.

  ‘Why? Is it a secret?’

  ‘Well, no, but it’s a police operation. I didn’t think they’d broadcast it.’

  ‘Things get around. People always want to tell a TV reporter things.’

  ‘I suppose they do.’

  ‘Or ask them things.’ Cameron cocked his head interrogatively.

  ‘Oh. You got the message, then.’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t get back to you, I’m sorry. But I’ve been a bit busy this last week. I’ve been sitting in as anchor.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘Anchor. The person in the studio for the news report.’

  ‘Oh. Is that promotion?’

  ‘No, not really. And I’d hate to do it all the time. I prefer to be out and about. But John’s been on holiday. So, tell me, what did you want to ask me? Was it about the children?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘Why does everyone else know about them and we don’t?’

  ‘There’s nothing to know, really. There was a ghost story going round in the fifties when they dug up a body by accident.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Rosie said.’

  ‘Who’s Rosie?’

  Libby was wary. ‘A friend of Fran’s.’

  ‘Has she asked you to look into these children?’

  ‘Not really. We just sort of – came across them.’

  ‘And no one knew about them? I find that surprising. It’s a well known folk tale around here. What about your friend Jane?’

  ‘She knew but got upset. You know she’s pregnant?’

  ‘No, I don’t really know her. Very pregnant?’

  ‘Almost due, I think. In fact, she’s not home today, so she could even be in hospital as we speak.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t suppose it’s any more than you’ve learnt already. And I assume your interest has led to the police investigation.’

  ‘Er.’ Libby cleared her throat. ‘In a way.’

  ‘Right. I shall want an exclusive as soon as you know anything.’ Campbell leant back on his elbows. ‘Go on, ask away.’

  ‘Well, so far, a friend who’s a historian has turned up the fact that the workhouse was turned into a TB hospital.’

  ‘The Princess Beatrice, yes.’

  ‘There, see?’ Libby was even more irritated. ‘It took us an expert to find that out.’

  ‘Why? It’s online, surely?’

  ‘I was looking for the White Lodge and the Cherry Ashton Workhouse. It didn’t come up at all until our Professor Wylie found the records.’

  ‘Professor Wylie? I know him. We use him as a talking head sometimes,’ said Campbell, making himself more comfortable against the wall. ‘And the answer to that is simple. It wasn’t called White Lodge until after it was the Princess Beatrice.’

  ‘But it came up on a search as the workhouse,’ said Libby.

  ‘Yes, that’s a bit odd. Why didn’t it say “formerly the Princess Beatrice and the Cherry Ashton Workhouse”?’

  ‘I don’t know, although I expect between them Ian and Andrew will get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Ian and Andrew?’ Campbell frowned.

  ‘DI Connell – and Andrew is Professor Wylie.’

  ‘Oh, he’s co-opted him, too?’

  ‘Only because we had. So what was the story about the dug-up child?’

  ‘It was when the former owner wanted to clear the ground at the back. That was when they discovered the graveyard.’

  ‘Oh, for f – goodness’ sake,’ said an exasperated Libby. ‘How come none of this is on record anywhere? What former owner?’

  ‘The bloke who bought the hospital after it fell into disrepair. The back garden was so overgrown it needed to be completely cleared. When the child’s body was discovered they realised there were several more gravestones and decided they must be from the hospital, so they wouldn’t disturb them. Then some idiot who worked there said she’d seen a ghost and the stories grew.’

  ‘Well, that makes sense, but not why the grave was cleared recently,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘What?’ Campbell sat up and Libby cursed herself.

  ‘Look, that’s not common knowledge. Don’t you dare use it. It’s actually,’ Libby said, improvising wildly, ‘why Ian’s looking into it. Because the grave was cleared.’ Well, that was true, wasn’t it?

  ‘Why was it cleared?’ asked Campbell.

  ‘Weren’t you listening? That’s what Ian’s trying to find out. It can’t be someone left who remembers a TB victim, can it? That would be nearly a hundred years ago.’

  ‘When it did it stop being a TB hospital? People were still being put in sanatoria in the 50s, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby was startled. ‘I thought it
had died out by then.’

  ‘No, and it still hasn’t,’ said Campbell. ‘But everyone has the BCG vaccination now. And the old idea of sleeping out in the fresh air whatever the weather came to an end, too.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And they were in hospital for months and months. Years sometimes. I heard of a small child, two years old, I think, who went in and didn’t come out until she was five. Her mother was only allowed to visit every six weeks.’

  ‘That’s horrific!’

  ‘But true.’ Campbell shrugged. ‘Anyway, they don’t do it now.’

  ‘So that child could have been quite recent when they dug it up in the fifties?’

  ‘I suppose so. Anyway, it isn’t the same grave this time, is it? Can’t be.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps it is. I asked what had happened to the original body, but Rosie didn’t know. Perhaps they reburied it.’

  ‘Is that all you know?’ Campbell leant his forearms on his bent knees. ‘How did you come to be interested?’

  ‘Oh, this and that.’

  ‘That means you won’t tell me. Was it this Rosie?’

  ‘Could have been.’

  ‘But a secret?’

  ‘Well – yes.’

  Campbell laughed. ‘Honestly, you two. You expect everyone to give you information, yet you won’t give any yourselves.’

  Libby felt herself going red. ‘It isn’t that. It just isn’t my secret, and anyway, now the police are involved, I couldn’t tell you anything anyway.’

  Campbell sighed. ‘If there is anything, will you tell me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Libby patted his arm. ‘I really am sorry. When we asked you they hadn’t found a body. We didn’t know anything.’

  ‘OK. I absolve you from any blame. After all, I did try to get Fran to talk to me about being a psychic detective once, didn’t I?’

  ‘And she hated you for it.’ Libby grinned. ‘So we’re quits. But seriously, Campbell, you’re sure to get to hear of it. And you can always ring up Professor Wylie and ask him. If he knows anything, of course.’

  ‘Do you think he does?’

  ‘Well, he has been called in as a consultant, mainly because they wanted to investigate the historical records. And look at the building.’