‘IT WAS FASCINATING,’ ANDREW told Libby later. She’d had the bright idea of inviting him to Steeple Martin, and followed it up with another bright idea, suggesting that they go to The Pink Geranium for dinner to thank him for his help.
‘It’s Ian who should be buying him dinner,’ grumbled Ben, ‘or at least this Rosie.’
‘Oh, don’t be a grump. He’s a nice guy. In fact,’ Libby was struck with a third bright idea, ‘why don’t we ask Rosie too?’
So Andrew picked Rosie up on the way and they all met in The Pink Geranium at eight o’clock. Donna brought them menus and Harry brought a bottle of red wine.
‘I see they know you here,’ said Andrew, amused.
‘This old trout is one of my best friends,’ said Harry, throwing an arm round Libby’s shoulders. ‘But be wary. She gets into things she shouldn’t.’
‘Harry,’ warned Libby.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Harry. ‘This is one of the things, isn’t it?’
Rosie laughed. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘I’m one of the things.’
‘Oh, you’re the author?’ said Harry. ‘Oh, bugger. I’ve got to go and cook your dinners, so I can’t ask all about it. I shall be back later.’
After they’d all ordered, Libby asked Andrew about his Wednesday morning experiences and he said it was fascinating.
‘I’ve never seen one of those fingertip searches before. And they were so thorough.’
‘And did they find anything?’
‘No. We didn’t even find any speakers, but I gather Inspector Connell is going to look more thoroughly. He has to get permission from the owners and English Heritage because of the listing.’
‘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 Renault 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.’