WHEN MONDAY AFTERNOON WAS almost over and Libby still hadn’t heard anything from Ian or Fran, she broke and rang Fran.
‘No, I haven’t heard either,’ she said, ‘but I was going to ring you because I’ve just heard from Andrew.’
‘Oh, great! What’s happened? Has he found something?’
‘Well, yes, but it’s all rather odd. He’s been helping Rosie and he says it’s her story, so would we like to go either to her cottage or his flat and hear all about it. He says she’s a bit upset.’
‘So, another false confession, do you think?’
‘I think we should reserve judgement. He said to go this evening, but I said it was too short notice. Tomorrow?’
‘Yes, as early as possible. You don’t think we ought not give her the opportunity to sleep on it and change her mind?’
‘I think Andrew will keep her to the sticking point.’
‘There’s definitely romance in the air there, isn’t there? Harry must have been right about her flirting with him.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Fran. ‘You must admit Harry can be a bit of a bitch sometimes.’
‘True. He means well, though.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Fran. ‘Right, what shall I say to Andrew? Ten o’clock?’
After several more phone calls it was arranged that Fran and Libby should meet at Rosie’s cottage the following morning at ten thirty.
‘Andrew said he didn’t want to give her the opportunity not to turn up,’ said Fran, ‘so he’s a bit dubious about her, too.’
‘Perhaps he’s an all right bloke, then,’ said Libby. ‘And not in on the scam.’
‘Oh, shut up about the scam,’ said Fran. ‘You’re not in a Mafia movie.’
Fran’s car was already parked when Libby arrived at the cottage. It was a grey, drizzly day, and the lupins, foxgloves and hollyhocks drooped and dripped either side of the path, drained of colour. Andrew opened the door.
‘Libby, come in.’ He stood aside for her to enter, smiling. ‘Forgive me for playing the host, but Rosie’s a little fragile at the moment.’
Fragile? wondered Libby. What does that mean?
Fran was sitting on a comfortable-looking sofa in front of the french windows, while Rosie sat in what was obviously a favourite armchair beside the fireplace. She looked washed out, and years older than the last time Libby had seen her.
Andrew brought in a tray with coffee percolator, mugs and milk and set it on a large square footstool.
‘Thank you, Andrew,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m sorry to be such a sad case, ladies, but I’m a bit overcome by all this.’
‘By all what?’ said Libby.
‘You know Rosie came with me last week to Maidstone to carry on with the research?’ said Andrew, handing round mugs of coffee. ‘Well, we looked in the archaeology society’s library and the Maidstone archives. And eventually, we tracked down some evidence.’
‘I wouldn’t have known how to go about it,’ said Rosie, ‘but Andrew did. He found some documents relating to the workhouse, and eventually the title being transferred to the owners of the Princess Beatrice sanatorium.’
‘I expect Inspector Connell would have been able to find that too, eventually,’ said Andrew.
‘Yes, he was going to get in touch with the records office yesterday morning,’ said Libby. ‘So who bought it?’
‘No one we’d ever heard of,’ said Rosie, ‘but then Andrew followed a trail to some other documents.’ She shrugged and spread her hands. ‘It was incomprehensible to me.’
‘I found some references to piano concerts given to raise funds for the sanatorium.’ Andrew paused as both Libby and Fran drew in sharp breaths. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. Well, if Inspector Connell’s been to records, he’ll know this already. He obviously hasn’t told you?’
‘We haven’t heard from him,’ said Fran. ‘He doesn’t tell us everything.’
‘No, of course not,’ Andrew smiled again. ‘Sorry. Well, what we found out was that the man who bought White Lodge after it was closed as the Princess Beatrice Sanatorium was Paul Findon.’
Fran and Libby looked at each other.
‘Who?’ said Libby.
‘Paul Findon.’ Rosie cleared her throat. ‘You two are probably too young to remember him, but he was a concert pianist and the greatest exponent of Debussy’s work of his generation.’
‘No!’ said Libby.
‘Heavens,’ said Fran.
‘It doesn’t stop there,’ said Andrew.
‘It wouldn’t,’ said Libby. ‘Rosie remembers the music and the interior of White Lodge as it was years ago. There’s obviously a connection.’
‘Quite.’ Andrew raised his eyebrows at her. ‘So we looked him up online, found his birth and death dates and looked him up in the historical records.’ He looked across at Rosie.
‘And he’s my uncle,’ she said.
After a short shocked silence Libby said ‘And you didn’t know?’
Rosie shook her head.
‘It’s been a bit of a shock,’ Andrew continued for her, ‘and we’ve no firm knowledge because of course Rosie’s parents are dead and Paul Findon had no children and doesn’t appear to have married.’
‘No other relatives?’ asked Fran. ‘Cousins?’
‘He was my mother’s only brother,’ said Rosie. ‘So strange to think that all these years I didn’t know. And yet I must have, once. I must have visited him at White Lodge.’
‘There was a huge resistance in you,’ said Fran. ‘You really didn’t want to go back, did you? That’s why you asked us and didn’t tell us the whole story at once.’
Libby looked at her in surprise.
‘I didn’t understand it, though,’ said Rosie. ‘I had to know, yet I didn’t want to. I suppose that makes me sound even madder.’
‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Simply that there’s a reason for it. Something must have happened that you’ve blocked out.’
‘The ghost,’ said Libby eagerly. ‘Could that be it?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘I wonder why he bought it?’ mused Libby.
‘I think we know,’ said Andrew, ‘although it’s a rather strange reason. In his Wiki entry it says he was in hospital for several years with tuberculosis.’
‘More coincidences,’ said Libby.
‘Not at all,’ said Fran. ‘Simply cause and effect. He was in hospital here, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s why he gave concerts in aid of it.’
‘So he was in the sanatorium, grew up to be a pianist, gave concerts to raise money for it, bought the house when it closed as a sanatorium, and meanwhile his sister had married and had Rosie, who has a buried memory of the house and Debussy. It’s all perfectly logical.’
Rosie smiled at her in relief. ‘Put like that it seems so much better,’ she said.
‘I suppose so,’ said Libby grudgingly.
‘All we had to do was unravel it,’ said Fran, ‘which Andrew has done.’
He inclined his head. ‘I merely knew where to go and what to look for,’ he said.
‘But it doesn’t take us any closer to the original body that was dug up, the ghost story, or why the music is played now,’ said Libby.
‘No, and I’m sorry about that.’ Rosie sighed. ‘But at least we know why it’s Debussy. Maybe your Inspector won’t have to carry on looking now.’
‘Have you told him all this?’ asked Fran.
‘No, but I suppose we should.’ Rosie looked at Andrew.
‘I’ll tell him.’ He patted her hand and Libby resisted the urge to look at Fran. ‘He still wants me to get in a buildings expert, so I expect he’ll speak to me.’
‘I’m sure he will.’ Fran smiled her serene, Madonna-like smile. ‘I’m glad you’re happier, Rosie.’
The subject was subtly changed and though Libby was dying to chew over all these new discoveries with Fran, she was forced to sit through another half an hour of conversation and cold coffee before she could decently make her excuses.
‘What did you really think of that?’ she said, when they got to the end of the path.
‘What do you mean?’ Fran looked surprised.
‘All that about cause and effect.’
‘I meant what I said.’ Fran frowned. ‘It was obvious.’
‘Was it?’
Fran sighed. ‘Oh, come on, Libby, stop looking for more mysteries. Of course it was true. It was obvious, as I’ve said. No coincidences.’
Libby looked at her narrowly. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. You know. Absolutely sure.’
Libby sighed. ‘I suppose it did make sense. Wish we knew about the body and the music, though.’
‘What I want to know,’ said Fran, opening her car door, ‘is if the Debussy was played before Rosie went to visit a year ago, or whenever it was. Or was it dug out just for her?’
‘She said that the estate agent who accompanied her was already scared, so something else must have been happening before then.’
Fran nodded. ‘Let’s go home and think about it. I’ll call you later.’
Libby looked up Paul Findon when she got home. Apart from his Wikipedia entry, which was extensive, there were many recordings available, surprisingly, most of them digitised from the originals, most of which dated from the ten years after the end of the last war. She clicked on the listening sample for Clair de Lune and decided it didn’t sound any different from any recording she’d heard. Then she went back to his biography, to find out who his parents were and where he came from. Presumably Rosie would know this, as his parents would be her grandparents, but Libby wanted to see for herself.
However the biography merely said “born in London” with no mention of parents. There was no mention of anything strange or mysterious in the biography, merely the fact that he’d been in a sanatorium with tuberculosis as a child. Then she realised she hadn’t looked up the Princess Beatrice and typed it into the search engine.
The entry wasn’t long in Wikipedia, and there seemed to be very little other mention of it anywhere else. There was certainly nothing about buried children or ghosts.
The phone rang.
‘I’ve just thought,’ said Fran.
‘What?’
‘You know those windows at the barn? We couldn’t see into them, could we?’
‘We couldn’t get close enough, but it looked dark inside.’
‘Suppose those windows had been deliberately blacked out from the inside. You couldn’t tell from a distance.’
‘No. But why?’
‘Did you watch the local news last week?’
‘Eh? Some days. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘The police found a cannabis factory.’
‘They’re always doing that. Little terraced houses with the windows – ah.’
‘Exactly. It would be a perfect place. Out of the way, no one goes near it.’
‘It would, but what would that have to do with White Lodge and the music? Or the bodies, come to that.’
‘Probably nothing, but we ought to tell Ian.’
‘Would he let us know if he was going to investigate the barn place?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Fran. ‘He might tell us afterwards.’
‘Should we go back?’
‘No, of course not. We couldn’t get into the woods on Sunday, so why would we today?’
‘I suppose so.’ Libby blew out a sigh. ‘How frustrating.’
‘Just be patient,’ said Fran. ‘I’m sure we’ll find out eventually.’
The next phone call was from Jane, saying thank you for the flowers Libby had found time to send on Monday.
‘So when can we come and see you? Are you home yet?’
‘Oh, yes, we came home yesterday.’
‘Don’t they throw you out quickly these days? I was in for a week with mine.’
‘Oh, how could you bear it?’ said Jane. ‘All I wanted to do was get home.’
‘I wanted someone there to tell me how to do it all first. And to let me sleep when I wanted.’
‘Oh, Terry’s been terrific. He’s doing everything except the feeding.’ Jane giggled. ‘And he can’t do that.’
‘Fran and I will come one day this week, if that’s all right? What time would be best? Not afternoon, you need to sleep then!’
‘Oh, anytime. Be lovely to see you both.’
‘OK, we’ll ring before we come just to make sure.’
Rather than annoy Fran by ringing her again, Libby sent a text message, then, determined to take her mind off everything else, she cleaned the bathroom.
It was while she was dishing up a rather strange version of chilli and rice that the phone rang again.
‘Ian’s going to look at the barn. I don’t think he was that thrilled about us having been exploring, but he agreed it was worth looking into.’
‘And no news on the other end of things?’
‘None. And I don’t see what we can do about it.’
‘Tell you what we could do. We could go and see Jane tomorrow morning and go and have lunch at The Golden Spice.’
‘The-? Oh, yes. You met the owner. Why would we do that?’
‘Because we want to see the baby?’
‘I meant have lunch at an Indian restaurant.’
‘Because he said to mention his name.’
‘And you think we’ll get a discount?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Libby, who had.
‘We’ll go and see Jane,’ said Fran, and rang off.
‘If you’re going to an Indian restaurant, why can’t I come?’ said Ben, who had finished dishing up and was now tucking in.
‘You can,’ said Libby. ‘Fran doesn’t want to go, so perhaps you and I should go one evening. There’s one in Canterbury, too.’
‘Be nice to get away somewhere, just the two of us.’ Ben reached over and patted her hand. She smiled at him.
‘It would. And not just for an evening, either.’
‘Are you actually suggesting we go away for a dirty weekend?’ Ben raised his eyebrows in mock horror. ‘To somewhere nobody knows us?’
‘Well,’ said Libby, forking up rice, ‘we do always seem to go to places where we know the owners or the other customers. Which reminds me, we haven’t been to the pub for ages.’
Ben laughed. ‘Which I take it means you’d like to go this evening? OK, as long as we go to that restaurant tomorrow.’
Peter joined them at the pub, and demanded an update on the progress of the investigation, only parts of which he’d heard from Harry. Libby told him the whole story from the beginning.
‘So Harry was wrong?’ he said when she’d finished. ‘She wasn’t just using you?’
‘In a way she was, but not in the way he thought. And she’s genuinely shocked about Paul Findon.’
‘You know,’ said Peter slowly, leaning back on his settle and stretching long legs out sideways, ‘he could still be partly right.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Maybe she does own it.’
Libby stared at him.
‘He’s right,’ said Ben. ‘Suppose he left it to her?’
‘She’d have known before this,’ said Libby. ‘He died when she was a child.’
‘I was thinking more of her mother. If, when he died, he left it to his sister, which would be logical if he had no wife or children, when she died it would presumably go to her child or children. Didn’t you say the agents said it was a complicated probate sale?’
Libby groaned. ‘Oh, not that again. Remember the trouble Fran had over her legacy?’
‘And she didn’t know about it, either,’ said Peter.
‘She didn’t know she was entitled to it, you mean?
‘Well, it only came to light after her old auntie died, didn’t it. Strange that this has only just emerged. I wonder when Rosie’s mother died?’
‘You’re getting as bad as she is,’ said Ben. ‘Another pint?’
‘He’s right, though,’ Libby said later, as they walked home. ‘But surely she’d have known if it belonged to her mother?’
‘Well, that’s something else to ask her, isn’t it? She’ll be sorry she asked you in at this rate.’ Ben tucked his arm through hers. ‘Now where are we going for this dirty weekend?’