‘ANDREW’S GONE THROUGH THE records he can find and apparently Ian’s demanded Land Registry information,’ said Fran on the phone the following morning.
‘And?’
‘I don’t know. Andrew thinks he’s got something, but he isn’t sure what.’
‘Can anybody look up previous ownership of houses?’ Libby was tapping various combinations of words into her search engine.
‘I think you have to pay,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, Andrew said he’d phone later. He was going to see Rosie.’
‘You’re right. It does look as though you have to pay. Did you know that the Canterbury Land Registry office is in Nottingham?’
‘How ridiculous. Well, I hope Ian has some joy with it. Although if he thinks that it’s an old body I can’t see why he’s bothering.’
Libby sat for a while in front of the laptop, wondering how she could find out any more about White Lodge. As it was Saturday, she could reasonably expect no results from either Andrew or Ian until Monday and it irked her to sit and do nothing, even if there was nothing she was expected to do.
“Gone cold” was the term she had used to Ben the previous evening when telling him about the developments. He had been careful not to show how pleased he was about this, but she’d known, and been depressed.
This morning, however, he’d gone off with his cousins Peter and James to make a rare visit to his son who lived somewhere in the north. Ben’s relationship with his children had been soured by the break-up of his marriage, and he rarely had the opportunity to see either of them, so despite the fact that it would mean a weekend on her own, Libby was pleased for him.
And, she reminded herself, it meant she could do exactly what she wanted until Sunday night. Harry had suggested she joined him at The Pink Geranium for Sunday lunch, but, other than that, she was free. So free, in fact, that she immediately decided to go and have another look at White Lodge. But first, she looked it up on the satellite mapping site to see if there was any other way in.
It was confusing, however. She could see the open road by which she and Fran had approached it, but the grounds around it looked heavily wooded and seemed to have no definitive boundary. There did appear to be a lane which led towards the back of the property, but it petered out as far as she could see. Still, she thought, it was worth a try.
The easiest way to approach the other side of the property was to go via Steeple Mount, a village which hadn’t always had happy connotations for Libby, but she drove through happily enough, noting as she did so that the baker’s shop had gone, and gave a quick glance upwards to the standing stone Grey Betty, keeping watch over the town. The road dipped down to become a cut between high, heavily treed banks, similar to many others in this part of Kent, although Libby knew that either side of the lane the fields spread out with hardly a tree in sight.
Then, she came to a crossroads. A few houses and a pub were gathered round it, and to her right what looked like a small estate of new houses. Hesitating, she looked round for clues. Nothing. As there was no one to be seen, she couldn’t ask directions, but then she didn’t know where she was aiming for herself. With a shrug, she put the car into gear and went straight on.
The lane began to climb a slight slope. On Libby’s right were a few more cottages, on her left a terrace of them and what looked like a coach-house, with a carriage entrance. Then, on a rise to her left surrounded by even more trees, a church. She frowned. This was odd. She had assumed White Lodge was quite isolated, but creeping up behind it was all this civilization. Although to be fair, she told herself, she didn’t know exactly how far away from White Lodge she was. And sure enough, as shown on her computer, the lane, by now thick with last year’s fallen leaves and almost completely shaded from the sun by huge trees, petered out. Yards ahead of her an old gate hung half open on its hinges, and to her left, a bank of rubble and tree roots, behind which the forbidding grey face of a large, stone building.
Libby got out of the car. It looked as though where she had parked had once been some kind of drive or entrance, but now access to the building had effectively been silted up. Nevertheless, she climbed over the worst of the roots and scrambled to the top of the bank, where she peered past huge tree trunks to the building itself.
At this end there were no windows, but further along there were a few. Many were cracked or simply missing, and she could see nothing of what was inside except the flutter of a piece of rag at one of the upper casements. There was little clue as to what age the building was, other than iron building ties high up on the blank wall.
She contemplated climbing down the other side of the bank but the area between it and the building was so overgrown with brambles it was even worse than the gardens of White Lodge. She looked up at the grey wall in front of her. White Lodge. Was this in the grounds of White Lodge?
She climbed back down the bank, went round the car and to the end of the lane where the gate hung open. Peering to the left, she could see nothing but a line of trees, and, in front of her, a wide, open field, full of something golden and waving. Wheat, she supposed. Well, logically, it could be the back boundary of the grounds of White Lodge, and, she thought suddenly, this could in fact be one of the old workhouse buildings. She went back to it and shivered. Above the trees the sun was still shining, but here all was cool and ominously still.
‘Can I help you?’
Libby almost screamed. When she turned round, so quickly she almost fell, she found herself being regarded politely by a dark-skinned man with a moustache and a very sharp suit.
‘Oh, goodness!’ she said. ‘You startled me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The man stepped forward a little. ‘I wondered if you were lost?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Libby, feeling uncomfortable and wondering how much she should say. ‘I was hoping to find – um – a back way to Cherry Ashton.’
‘Ah.’ The man smiled. ‘This is Cherry Ashton.’ He waved a hand behind him. ‘Not very big, you see. Were you looking for someone in particular?’
Someone, he said, not something.
‘Well, I was, actually.’ Libby gave what she hoped was a disarming smile as her brain raced. ‘The Cherry Ashton workhouse.’
He raised his brows. ‘Really? But that has been gone since the beginning of the last century.’
Bum. Think again. ‘Yes, I know, but I was hoping to find some remnants of it. You see,’ she went on, gathering confidence, ‘the main house is still standing, and it was turned into a sanatorium after the workhouse was demolished. I thought there must have been at least one other building in use as the sanatorium.’ She gestured behind her. ‘So I wondered if this was it?’
‘Yes, we all know about the sanatorium.’ He looked serious. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know if that building was ever used. Here in the village we all assume it is just a derelict building.’
‘And you don’t know if it forms part of the White Lodge estate?’ Might as well go the whole hog, now.
‘I’m afraid not.’ He nodded towards the solid looking undergrowth. ‘As you can see, no one would be prepared to try and get near it.’
Libby clambered down to stand closer to him. ‘Doesn’t anyone know anything about it? In my village there’s always someone who knows. Always a gossipy old lady who was born there.’
‘Ah. Yes. There are people who remember the sanatorium. The Princess Beatrice.’
‘But not this building.’ Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well. I expect we’ll find out on the estate plans.’
‘We?’ The man raised an interrogative eyebrow. Libby cursed herself.
‘For the sale,’ she improvised hurriedly. ‘White Lodge is being sold.’
‘Ah, of course. Although who would want to buy it with that history?’
‘What history? As a workhouse? Or a sanatorium? I understand several people died there. Children.’
He nodded. ‘Many. There are those who say it is haunted.’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘but that’s only a rumour. Nobody believes it really.’
‘Really.’ The man frowned. ‘I thought many local people believed it.’
‘You’re obviously local. Do you believe it?’
The man smiled. ‘Yes, I’m local. I live in Ashton Terrace, there.’ He indicated the row of cottages. ‘And I don’t know if I believe it or not. I have long accepted it as fact.’
‘Have you lived here long?’ Libby asked before she could think better of it.
He laughed. ‘Longer than you would think. I have restaurants. In Canterbury and Nethergate. My sons run them now.’
‘Oh, goodness. The Golden Spice?’
‘Yes. You know them?’
‘My friends and I go to the Nethergate one regularly.’ Libby held out her hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’
‘Aakarsh Vindari.’ He bowed over her hand.
‘I’m Libby Sarjeant, Mr Vindari. And thank you for your help.’
Vindari shrugged. ‘I think you knew everything I could tell you.’
‘Well, it was nice to have it confirmed.’ Libby smiled. ‘And although I know of it, I’ve never been to Cherry Ashton before. I didn’t know it was so small.’
‘That is how we like it. Of course, just down the road we have the caravan park, but that keeps other people away.’
‘Caravan Park?’
‘They call it “The Roses”.’ There was an unmistakeable sneer in Vindari’s voice.
‘Oh, that! That’s near here?’
‘If you had turned right at the crossroads instead of coming straight on, you would have seen it.’
So, thought Libby, he knew which direction I came from. But then, it’s so quiet here they probably all looked out of their windows when they saw an unfamiliar car.
‘Well, perhaps I’m glad I didn’t, then,’ she said aloud. ‘And now I’d better be going. Thank you again, Mr Vindari.’
‘A pleasure, Mrs Sarjeant,’ he said, bowing again. ‘And please, next time you visit of my restaurants, mention my name.’
‘Thank you,’ said Libby, resolving to go as soon as she possibly could.
He watched as she climbed into the car, turned it round and drove carefully back down the lane. When she got to the crossroads she wanted to turn left and go and have a look at “The Roses”, a holiday park much maligned in the area, but which she had never seen. With Aakarsh Vindari watching from the top of the lane, she didn’t dare. However, she did turn right, wondering if this road might bring her out on the main Creekmarsh road.
And that was odd, she thought. The map had indicated that the lane she followed and the Creekmarsh road both led to Cherry Ashton, but the Creekmarsh road didn’t. Unless there was yet another spur not marked on the map. However, when she finally emerged from the tunnel-like lane she found herself at a T-junction with the Creekmarsh road, and opposite her a small, old black-and-white sign pointing back the way she had come to Cherry Ashton. She must have missed it both times she had been here with Fran.
On impulse, she turned right and drove up to White Lodge, surprised to find police tape still across the gateway, although with no noticeable police presence. She parked the car on the verge opposite and crossed the road. Without going in through the gate and crossing the police tape, she walked along the boundary hedge until she came to the end. The high wall that surrounded the garden led away across an open field. Cautiously, Libby, with a glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t observed, began to follow it.