WHEN LIBBY CALLED FRAN the next day to tell her they were to meet Ian at White Lodge at mid-day, Fran also had news.
‘Prof Wylie called Rosie. I think she was right, he is bored, because he went straight to the library yesterday and did some research. He’s come up with some interesting information, he said.’
‘What?’
‘He said he’d rather tell her in person. So she said we were handling it, would he tell us.’
‘And did he say yes?’
‘She said he sounded rather surprised, so she said we would explain. He’s asked us to go to his flat.’
‘When?’
‘He said this morning, if we liked.’
Libby looked at her watch. ‘That’d be cutting it a bit fine. It’s ten now, and we’re meeting Ian at twelve.’
‘But think how good it would be if we could have this information when we went to the house. Shall I call Ian and ask if we could make it later?’
‘All right,’ said Libby reluctantly. ‘I expect he’d do it for you rather than me. I think he regards me a bit like a mosquito.’
‘But mosquitoes aren’t lovable with it,’ laughed Fran. ‘Don’t be daft. Did he ring you from his mobile?’
‘Yes. Get back to me as soon as possible, eh?’
In fact it was less than five minutes later when Fran called back.
‘He said get there when we can, and you’ll never guess what!’
‘What? Of course I can’t guess.’
‘He says if he’d like to come, the professor can come with us.’
‘Blimey! Is he getting soft in his old age?
‘Well, he did say if the information was interesting and useful. So we’d better go and find out. I’ll ring him now.’
‘The prof? Say as soon as possible and I’ll meet you there.’
The professor would be delighted to see them whenever they cared to come, Fran reported. ‘Rosie’s right. He’s been bored.’
‘I bet we’ve given him a new lease of life,’ said Libby. ‘Does he sound as dry as dust?’
‘No, quite normal. Bit of an accent of some kind. Anyway, if you leave in the next ten minutes you’ll be there by eleven, won’t you?’
‘Quarter to, I’d say. See you there. What number is it?’
The professor’s flat was in a block next to the one Fran and Libby had visited a few years ago in the course of another investigation. Canongate Drive was a newish development, built above Nethergate by Jim Butler, a friend of Ben’s. At the other end he’d built himself a large bungalow in which he lived with his ancient dog, Lady. Although neither Fran nor Libby were fond of new houses, they could both see the advantages of the site. Jim’s bungalow and several of the houses at his end of the drive had spectacular sea views over Nethergate Bay, as did the upper flats in the three blocks this end.
Libby parked Romeo behind Fran’s Smart car and joined her at the end of the drive, where she was looking at the view.
‘I just hope,’ said Fran, ‘that they don’t start building any more below here. It would ruin the view.’
‘I don’t suppose people who need houses are worried about the view,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, I think Jim Butler gifted the bottom field to the town in perpetuity as long as it wasn’t built on.’
‘What happens if it is built on?’
‘Whoever builds on it, they and the council have to pay the legatees the current value of the land plus hefty compensation. A neat trick.’
‘If it works,’ said Fran. ‘I bet the lawyers would find a way round it.’
‘Come on, let’s not worry about it now,’ said Libby. ‘Let’s go and beard the professor in his eyrie.’
‘Shouldn’t that be “den”?’ asked Fran, as she followed Libby across the road.
‘I don’t go in for clichés,’ said Libby loftily and mendaciously.
The professor’s flat was on the top floor of his block, with a view of the bay from all windows.
‘Come in,’ he said, standing aside and waving them through. Shortish, dapper in pale trousers and a collarless shirt, he was nothing like Libby’s expectations. His grey hair was cut very close to his head, and his goatee, reminiscent of Guy’s, a darker grey. And far from being desiccated and ancient, he appeared to be much the same age as Rosie. No wonder he was bored, Libby thought.
‘It’s very good of you to do this for Rosie, Professor,’ said Fran, as soon as they were seated on the brown leather sofas in front of the picture windows.
‘Please, call me Andrew,’ he said, and Libby placed the accent. Very faintly Scottish. ‘And why am I talking to you instead of Rosie?’
‘It’s rather hard to explain,’ said Libby, who still wasn’t entirely sure herself, ‘but she asked Fran and me to look into the history of the house because she thinks she might have links with it herself.’
‘Then why didn’t she look into it herself?’ asked Andrew.
Fran and Libby looked at each other.
‘We’re not absolutely sure,’ said Fran, ‘but we think she’s frightened.’
‘Frightened?’ Andrew frowned. ‘Well, I don’t pretend to understand, but I suppose we’d better get on with the business in hand. Oh – I should have offered you coffee.’
Fran and Libby hastily declined, aware of their promise to meet Ian at White Lodge, and Andrew got up to fetch a blue folder full of notes and photocopies.
‘To cut a long story short,’ he said, laying the folder on a coffee table, ‘the house was built on the site of a former building, a fourteenth-century mansion. Or an important house, anyway. That appears to have been partly destroyed by fire, and one can only assume the person who bought the remains and the land had it knocked down in order to build this rather grand Tudor house.’
‘Who was that?’ asked Libby.
‘A wealthy farmer who owned land all over the marshes. He obviously fancied himself as gentry, although I doubt his grand house gave him entry to the social circles he aspired to.’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said Libby, remembering her Austen.
‘The family had died out by the mid-nineteenth century, which was when the Poor Board was set up and the house purchased, with the land, in order to set up the workhouse.’
‘Yes, we found that much out,’ said Fran, ‘and that the workhouse was demolished in 1909, although the house remained. But we don’t know anything after that.’
The professor’s face was alight with glee. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘And I can tell you why!’
‘Yes?’ prompted Libby.
‘The main house of the workhouse, which, of course, wasn’t called White Lodge then, contained apartments for the master and the matron, who were usually a married couple, and were in this case, and the rest was used as an infirmary.’
‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t realise they would have had an infirmary. I got the impression that if they got sick they were just left where they were.’
The professor shook his head. ‘No. If the sickness spread they would have had all the inmates unable to work, and if they ignored the problem, the Guardians, as they were called, would have investigated. I’m sure in some cases things were swept under the carpet -’
‘Yes, I found some appalling cases,’ Libby interrupted.
Andrew nodded. ‘But in most cases patients were isolated from the rest of the inmates and, if not cured, at least treated slightly better than the rest. I doubt anybody was cured, in fact.’
‘So the bodies in the garden could be from the workhouse after all?’ said Fran.
‘Some of them, possibly.’
‘But not all?’ Libby leant forward.
Andrew’s expression registered triumph. ‘Definitely not all.’ He turned over a piece of paper in the folder.
‘There. See what it says?’’
Libby and Fran peered at the document. The heading was all they needed to see.
‘The Princess Beatrice Sanatorium,’ Libby read out. ‘A sanatorium? Wasn’t that for infectious diseases?’
‘It certainly was,’ said Andrew. ‘What seems to have happened is that the Guardians decided to close the workhouse – and knock it down – and turn necessity to their advantage.’
‘How?’ said Fran and Libby together.
‘The reason the workhouse was closed down and the buildings demolished was because of infection. They didn’t know much about the workings of infectious diseases in those days, but there was an outbreak, and they decided the best thing to do was eradicate the source of infection, as they saw it. So, because the infirmary had already been used to attempt to cure the inmates, they turned it into a sanatorium.’
‘For what, though?’ asked Libby.
‘Haven’t you guessed yet?’ The professor grinned at both of them.
‘No,’ they said.
‘TB, of course! Tuberculosis. It was rife at that time, and the open-air treatment was being pioneered in Germany. A few enlightened doctors in England wanted to try it, and as TB had been killing the poor inhabitants of Cherry Ashton Workhouse, they decided to make a virtue of necessity.’
‘Why Princess Beatrice?’ asked Fran.
Andrew shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I expect they wanted to be taken seriously and remove all memories of the workhouse. Stupid really, as it had been there for over sixty years by then. I doubt if they asked the Princess.’
‘So what happened next?’ asked Libby.
‘The records aren’t all that clear, which is hardly surprising, and I’ve still got more research to do, but it would appear that the treatments weren’t terribly successful.’
‘The children,’ murmured Fran.
Andrew glanced at her with raised brows. ‘Children?’
‘Not workhouse children, victims of TB,’ said Fran.
‘In the graves,’ Libby explained.
‘Do you know they’re children?’ asked Andrew, looking surprised.
‘I think so,’ said Fran, blushing faintly. Andrew turned a questioning look on Libby.
‘It’s a long story, Professor,’ she said. ‘Let’s get on with the story.’
‘Please call me Andrew. Professor makes me feel a) old, and b) as if I’m still lecturing.’
‘Sorry, Andrew.’ Libby beamed at him. ‘This is really interesting, and I think you might be pleased to know we have an invitation for you.’
‘Really?’
‘Our friend Detective Inspector Ian Connell has invited us all, you, me and Fran, to visit White Lodge with him this morning.’
‘Really?’ Andrew’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, of course, I’d be delighted. I haven’t anything else on, and it would be fascinating, but a Police Inspector? Why?’
Fran and Libby looked at each other again.
‘Perhaps,’ said Fran, ‘we’d better let him tell you that. If you don’t mind.’
‘Certainly, if you think that’s best,’ said Andrew. ‘When do we go?’
‘Now?’ said Libby. ‘If it’s convenient and you haven’t anything else to do?’
‘Delighted,’ said Andrew, almost jumping to his feet. ‘Shall I take my own car?’
‘No, Fran’ll take you. Her car’s slightly more respectable than mine.’ Libby stood up. ‘If that’s all right, Fran?’
Ten minutes later Andrew was seated in the passenger seat of Fran’s roller skate, as Harry and Adam called it, his blue folder on his lap and an excited expression on his face. He looked, Libby thought, like a schoolboy off on an adventure.
White Lodge looked even more tired this morning, bathed in mid-day sunshine. Ian’s anonymous saloon was parked on the verge opposite, and Fran and Libby pulled up behind it.
‘It’s smaller than I imagined,’ said Andrew, as they stood looking up at the boarded up frontage. ‘How do we get in?’
‘I think we’d better go round the back to the garden first,’ said Libby. ‘See if Ian’s there.’
She led the way along the side and through the old gate, which Ian – or someone else – had managed to push right open. Sure enough, Ian was there, talking into a mobile phone. He saw them and switched it off.
‘This is Professor Andrew Wylie,’ said Libby. ‘Andrew, this is Detective Inspector Connell. Andrew’s found out quite a bit about the house, Ian.’
Ian shook Andrew’s outstretched hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Professor,’ he said. ‘But somehow, I doubt what you’ve found out will help with our particular problem.’
Andrew’s obvious confusion was reflected in the faces of Libby and Fran.
‘What do you mean?’ Libby frowned at him.
‘I mean, Libby, that what you suspected is probably true. That grave is less than a year old.’