‘IT’S OBVIOUS NOW THAT’S what the music has all been about. But there’s some connection with the estate agents, too,’ Libby went on.
‘Yes, that’s why I need to find out who’s trying to sell it. Your Ian told me.’ Rosie gave a shaky laugh. ‘I don’t know what to call him, now. You always say Ian, and I have to say Inspector. He’s a bit scary, isn’t he?’
Fran smiled. ‘He can be. But he’s a real charmer underneath that dark exterior.’
‘Oh, I can see that,’ said Rosie, with an answering smile. ‘All pent-up passion underneath his saturnine mien.’
‘Gosh, that’s the novelist in you,’ said Libby.
‘If I wrote like that I’d be dropped like a hot potato,’ said Rosie with another, more natural, laugh.
‘So does he still want to get to the bottom of the music?’ said Libby. ‘He hasn’t told us much.’
‘I expect he will,’ said Rosie. ‘He seems to keep you informed.’
‘Not always, but I suppose we put him on to this, so he might,’ said Fran.
‘You said you had a phobia about cellars,’ Libby mused, her eyes on a corner of the ceiling.
‘Yes?’ Rosie looked surprised.
‘Do you suppose the cellar at White Lodge had anything to do with it?’
Fran and Rosie looked at each other. Fran raised her eyebrows and shook her head.
‘You said Ian hadn’t found a cellar,’ said Rosie slowly.
‘That doesn’t mean it isn’t there to be found,’ said Libby. ‘It’s in the records.’
With another quick look at Rosie, Fran said, ‘I should think it’s been blocked up by now.’
‘Was there anything in those records to say there had been an earlier building on the site?’ asked Rosie after a moment.
‘Yes, there was, wasn’t there Libby? Didn’t it say fourteenth century?’
‘Yes, it was burnt down, or something. Didn’t we already know that?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosie, ‘but I don’t think we knew what period it had been.’
‘Oh, and we know the sixteenth-century building was timber-framed, and then tile-hung in the seventeenth, and then Lutyens had a go in the early twentieth, so that must have been when it turned into the Princess Beatrice,’ said Libby. ‘The Poor Board, or whoever they were, wouldn’t have paid out for a Lutyens re-design.’
‘So it’s had a very chequered history,’ said Rosie. ‘No wonder there are stories of hauntings.’
‘We still don’t really know anything about that,’ said Fran. ‘It’s all hearsay. And it must have been around the time you were visiting.’
Rosie frowned. ‘I know. It’s so frustrating. I still feel that the house is friendly and warm, so I must have got on well with my uncle, yet the minute I try and get further than that I get this feeling of dread and my stomach turns to water.’
‘Well,’ said Libby robustly, ‘we shall have to find out why. Ian’s looking into it, so he’s bound to turn up something. Meanwhile, at least part of the mystery is solved.’
‘Yes.’ Rosie looked uncertain and Libby suddenly didn’t want to hear any more. She stood up.
‘Come on, Fran,’ she said, ‘I think we ought to leave Rosie to come to terms with everything on her own.’
‘Right.’ Fran stood up with a curious frown. ‘You’ll be all right, Rosie?’
Rosie also stood. ‘Yes, of course.’ She leant forward and kissed them both on the cheek. ‘Thanks for being such a support and not judging me too harshly.’
‘I -’ began Libby, then shut her mouth with a snap. Don’t ask any more questions, she told herself severely.
‘That was unlike you,’ said Fran as they reached the car. ‘She still hadn’t told us what she wanted to tell us in the beginning.’
Libby made a face. ‘I didn’t want to hear.’
‘Really?’ Fran’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. ‘Even more unlike you.’
Libby sighed gustily and fastened her seatbelt. ‘I had a feeling it would be highly unsavoury and I wouldn’t know how to react.’
‘I don’t see how sleeping with someone can be called unsavoury,’ said Fran, putting the car into gear.
‘See, you knew what she was going to say, too,’ said Libby. ‘And you were the one who was horrified about people in their sixties doing it.’
Fran laughed. ‘I didn’t say it was unsavoury.’
‘No, but she was upset about it. That means she did think it was. Unsavoury, I mean. Or at least a mistake. She said she’d made a fool of herself.’
‘She could have meant that she made a pass at Andrew. That could be all it is.’
‘Maybe.’ Libby looked doubtful. ‘Harry said she was the one doing the flirting.’
‘No use speculating now. She didn’t tell us and that’s all there is to it. And she’ll be very glad she didn’t, she would have been even more embarrassed and probably not been able to look us in the face.’
‘Ian didn’t tell us if he’d had a look at the barn,’ said Libby, changing the subject. ‘Do you think he will?’
‘Have a look or tell us? I don’t know, and you’re not to pester him. I told him I’d call him about the things we found at Dover, so he might tell me then, but until then I think we should leave things alone.’
By the time Fran dropped Libby at home it was lunchtime. On a whim, she decided to go up and see Ben at the Manor. There was no point in taking him anything for lunch, as Hetty always fed him, a fact reflected in his expanding waistline.
‘Want a spot of lunch, girl?’ Hetty appeared as Libby pushed open the heavy oak door. ‘Got a pasty in the oven.’
‘Love some, thanks, Het,’ said Libby after a second’s hesitation. ‘Ben in the office?’
‘He’s over in the orchard. Be in in a minute. Come into the kitchen.’
So Libby sat at the long table and watched while Hetty bustled about the kitchen.
‘How’s Greg?’ she asked.
‘So-so. Up and down.’ Hetty gave a brief smile over her shoulder. ‘The original creaking gate is my Greg.’
Greg had been in a prison camp during the war and his health had suffered badly. Occasionally there were episodes where the whole family were convinced he wouldn’t last another day, but somehow he had always rallied.
‘So, tenants coming into Steeple Farm?’ Hetty said.
‘Yes. Peter’s pleased.’
‘You decided not to go, then.’
Libby sighed. ‘That’s right.’
Hetty turned round and grinned, her face collapsing into a thousand wrinkles. ‘Don’t blame you. Never liked it.’
‘Really?’
‘No. Neither did Milly when she first went there. That’s why she changed it all. She should’ve been in one o’ them executive ’omes.’
‘Yes.’ Libby nodded. ‘I thought that when I first went there. And I didn’t like the eyebrows.’
‘Eyebrows?’
‘The windows in the thatch. Like eyes.’
Hetty nodded. ‘Yeah. No wonder she went a bit peculiar.’
Libby thought there was far more to it than a weird house, but didn’t say so. ‘Anyway, I’m happy in my cottage,’ she said. ‘And I think Ben is, too.’ She waited for Hetty to agree, but she didn’t.
Instead, she turned back to the sink and said, ‘And what about living here?’
Libby’s heart thumped madly and she felt dizzy. Tempted to ask if Hetty had been talking to Harry, she merely coughed and made an indeterminate sound. Hetty looked round. ‘Thought so,’ she said.
‘Hello! What are you doing here?’
Libby turned at the sound of Ben’s voice with relief. ‘I came to see you, of course.’
‘Not like you.’ He came over and kissed her cheek. ‘Are you going to feed her, Mum?’
‘Course. Pasties OK?’
‘Lovely.’ Ben rubbed his hands and Libby made a face at him.
‘No wonder you’re putting on weight.’
He patted his waistline. ‘Two women’s wonderful cooking.’
‘And your own,’ said Libby, with a glance at Hetty, who didn’t react. Ben raised his eyebrows. Libby smiled.
The pasties were enormous and filling. For once Hetty allowed Libby to wash the “pots” after they’d loaded the dishwasher, while she went to put her feet up in the sitting room with Greg.
‘So, what was the atmosphere I sensed when I came in?’ said Ben, taking a tea towel from the rack over the Aga.
Libby sighed. ‘I really don’t want to tell you, but I suppose I’ll have to. Hetty was asking me about living here.’
‘She’s asked before,’ said Ben mildly.
‘I know. But that was about coming to live here now. I think what she meant was – well – um – later.’
‘Ah.’ Ben slowly dried a baking sheet. Libby turned round to face him.
‘It’s not something I want to think about, or even talk about, but I suppose at some point we ought to. Your parents are getting on. Hetty’s nearly eighty and Greg’s – what? Early eighties?’
‘Mum’s seventy-seven and Dad’s eighty-one.’ Ben let out a gusty sigh. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. One or other of them’s going to get left on their own eventually and will expect to stay here. We can’t sell it while they’re still alive.’
‘Sell it?’
‘Well, we won’t want to live here, will we?’ Ben said reasonably.
‘Good lord.’ Libby shook her head. ‘But you won’t want to sell it. It’s been in your family for – how long, exactly?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Not that long, only a couple of generations. My great-grandfather, I think. And it isn’t entailed.’
‘I know, but -’ Libby shrugged. ‘It just doesn’t seem right.’
‘Look.’ Ben put down the tea towel and the baking sheet and took her by the shoulders. ‘You don’t want to live anywhere but the cottage, and there’s enough room for us, so that’s where we’ll stay. When Millie dies Pete and James will sell Steeple Farm and when my parents die I’ll sell the Manor. It’s the way of things.’
‘What about Susan?’
‘My sister hasn’t any interest in the Manor. She comes in for something in the wills, obviously, but the Manor comes to me in time-honoured tradition.’
‘Not even halves with you?’
Ben shook his head. ‘She didn’t want it.’
Libby turned back to the sink. ‘What about turning it into something?’
‘Not an old people’s home, surely?’ Ben sounded horrified.
‘No! I was thinking more of a – oh, I don’t know – a cultural centre.’
‘A what?’ Now he was laughing.
‘No – listen. One of those places where they have creative holidays, you know, painting courses and creative writing courses. And provide accommodation.’ Libby turned back, a look of excitement on her face.
‘Are there such places?’
‘Oh, yes. When we get home I’ll show you. It’s a brilliant idea.’
‘But, Libby, they’re not dead yet,’ he said gently.
‘Oh, bother.’ Her face fell. ‘How bloody insensitive.’
‘No, it’s a great idea, and if you’re still painting and your Rosie’s still teaching creative writing when the time comes we’ll have the creative core, won’t we?’ He pulled her to him. ‘And I tell you what, I bet neither Mum nor Dad will want to stay here on their own anyway. I bet they’ll want to go into one of those units with Flo and Lenny.’
‘Het might, but Greg wouldn’t.’
‘He wouldn’t have much choice,’ said Ben, ‘if we aren’t going to move in to look after him.’
‘Oh, that makes us sound mean,’ said Libby, pulling away.
‘No it doesn’t. He wouldn’t want that, anyway.’
Libby sighed. ‘It’s all very difficult. You’ll have to talk to them about it. Het’s obviously thinking about it or she wouldn’t have mentioned it to me.’
Ben nodded. ‘I’ll do it this afternoon. You go home and prepare a light but sustaining snack for supper.’
Libby groaned. ‘Don’t talk about food.’
‘That’s why I said light.’ Ben dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘Go and say your goodbyes and I’ll see you later.’
Libby walked slowly down the Manor drive wondering what it would be like when Ben’s parents were no longer there. They had been a part of her life as long as Ben had and the thought was incredibly depressing.
By the time she turned into Allhallow’s Lane her mobile was ringing.
‘Where are you?’ said Fran.
‘Walking home from the Manor. Why? What’s so urgent?’
‘Ian called. He wants to see us.’
‘Wants to -? Why?’
‘About the barn. He wouldn’t talk over the phone.’
Libby’s stomach took a dive. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘That’s what I thought. But at least he said he’ll come to us, we don’t have to go to the station.’
‘Where? Are we to be interrogated separately on our own turf?’
‘No,’ said Fran, and Libby looked up.
Detective Inspector Connell was leaning on the bonnet of his car with a thoughtful look on his face.