THE FOLLOWING DAY, LIBBY called the agent on whose books White Lodge had been.
‘That monstrosity,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I hope it’s nothing to do with you, but I’ve never handled a property that was so difficult.’
‘Oh.’ Libby sat back in her chair, surprised. ‘Really? It looked rather a grand place.’
‘Have you seen it?’
‘Well – no, not actually seen,’ said Libby.
‘You’re welcome to go and look at it if you like,’ said the agent, surprisingly. ‘We’ve still got the keys, but I’ll have to trust you to go on your own. I can’t spare anyone to go with you, and frankly, even if I could, no one would.’
‘Really?’ Libby’s metaphorical ears pricked up. This seemed to confirm Rosie’s dream impressions. ‘Why? Is it haunted?’
There was a short silence. ‘I daresay it’s nothing,’ the agent said eventually, sounding uncomfortable, ‘but do you know exactly where it is?’
‘Ah!’ said Libby. ‘Do you mean the Cherry Ashton workhouse?’
‘Yes.’ The agent sounded relieved. ‘It was the atmosphere, you see. We took a few prospective purchasers to see it, but no one would go in to the attic rooms. Most didn’t even get as far as the kitchen.’
‘I see.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘I would like to see it, if possible, and if it’s all right with you. What about the vendor? Somebody still owns it, don’t they?’
‘It’s a probate sale,’ said the agent, ‘and very complicated.’
‘Who was the owner?’ asked Libby.
The agent became wary. ‘I’m not sure I can tell you anything else,’ he said.
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Libby hastily.
‘And could I ask you what your interest is in the property?’
‘A friend remembered it and asked if it was still on the market,’ lied Libby. ‘She seemed to think it was boarded up.’
‘It is, I’m afraid,’ said the agent. ‘Will she be coming to see it herself?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Libby lied again.
‘Well, you can pick up the keys any time from the office. You’ll have to sign a receipt and probably leave a deposit – because of squatters, you know.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Libby, wondering how usual it was for estate agents to let viewers go unaccompanied to empty houses.
‘So,’ she said later to Fran on the phone, ‘we can go any time. Today?’
‘You were going to go to the library, and I was going to pop in and see Jane this afternoon,’ said Fran. ‘She’s finished work now.’
‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten,’ said Libby. ‘She’s almost due, isn’t she?’
‘A week or so, I think. Look why don’t you come, too? She’s as bored as hell and very uncomfortable.’
‘OK, and perhaps we can go and see White Lodge tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ said Fran, ‘and I shall be helping in the shop. Guy’s busiest time, a summer Saturday. I might even sell one of your pretty peeps.’
‘Oh, right. Monday, then, I suppose. Shall I ring the agent and make an appointment?’
There was a short silence. Then, ‘No,’ said Fran slowly. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Fran. ‘But he did say any time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you go and pick them up on your way to Nethergate this afternoon?’
‘The agent’s in Nethergate,’ said Libby.
‘Riley’s?’ asked Fran.
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll pick them up on the way to Jane’s.’
Libby explained about the receipt and the deposit, ‘So I’d better go,’ she finished.
‘Park here,’ said Fran, ‘and we’ll go together. I can be the friend who wants to view.’
‘Brilliant.’ Libby beamed. ‘What time shall I be there?’
‘Why did you not want me to make an appointment?’ Libby asked, as Fran pulled her front door closed behind her.
Fran shook her head. ‘Something -’
‘Something what? Did you have a “moment”?
‘I don’t know. I just felt that if you made an appointment something would happen to prevent you keeping it.’
‘Prevent me?’
‘Well, prevent it from happening.’
‘But why?’
‘I’ve told you,’ said Fran, irritated. ‘I don’t know. Did you go to the library?’
‘Yes. They had two of Rosie’s books.’
They walked along Harbour Street next to the low sea wall, the other side of which families played with buckets and spades, balls and frisbees as though the words “computer games” had never been invented. They waved at Lizzie in her tiny ice-cream shop and at Sophie rearranging items in her father’s shop window.
‘She was with Adam last night,’ said Libby.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Fran. ‘I didn’t think it would last with her being away at uni.’
‘It’s survived over a year despite that,’ said Libby. ‘Are we founding a dynasty?’
‘They’re much too young,’ said Fran firmly. ‘Come on, Riley’s is up the high street.’
The high street climbed sharply away from the square where the venerable Swan Inn stood. A little way up on the right-hand side, Riley’s presented a bland front to the tourists and shoppers. A young man in his shirtsleeves looked up from a desk when they came in.
‘Hello, my name’s Sarjeant,’ said Libby. ‘I rang earlier.’
‘Oh, right.’ The young man opened a drawer and took out a set of keys attached to a large brown luggage label. ‘If I could just ask you to sign here.’ He pushed an open ledger towards her and indicated a space next to the printed name “Mrs Sergeant”. Libby altered it and signed.
‘And here,’ he said proffering a piece of paper, ‘and I’m awfully sorry, but I’ll have to ask for a £50 deposit on the key.’
Libby produced her credit card. The piece of paper was offered as her receipt for the deposit and he handed over the keys.
‘Do you know where it is?’ he asked. ‘Oh, you said your friend had seen it, didn’t you?’ He nodded towards Fran, and they both smiled.
‘He didn’t even ask if you were the friend,’ said Libby, as they made their escape down the hill and turned right up towards Cliff Terrace and Peel House.
‘It was a reasonable assumption for him to make,’ said Fran.
‘So when are we going to see it?’
‘We could go after we’ve been to Jane’s, unless you’ve got to get back early,’ said Fran.
Libby’s eyebrows rose. ‘You’re keen all of a sudden.’
‘I just feel we should go as quickly as possible.’
‘Before something stops us?’
‘I think so,’ said Fran awkwardly. ‘I know it’s silly.’
‘What would stop us? Not the ghosts!’
‘No – I don’t know.’ Fran looked up at the front of Jane’s attractive terraced house. ‘Come on. I hope they’ve moved down on to a lower level now. She won’t want to be hauling a pram up to the top of the house.’
‘She won’t want to be hauling herself up to the top of the house,’ said Libby, climbing the steps to the front door, ‘let alone a baby and a pram.’
Jane Baker answered the door quickly and beamed. ‘I’m so pleased to see you both,’ she said, stepping aside for them to squeeze past her large bump.
‘Oh, you’ve moved back down here,’ said Fran, as they went into the large room on the left of the hall. For some time the sitting room had been on the top floor of the house.
‘Well, the kitchen’s here, and the bedroom’s only one floor up,’ said Jane, ‘and I couldn’t face the climb to the top!’
‘We were saying that just now,’ said Libby, going to the window, ‘and you’ve still got a lovely view.’
Libby and Fran had met Jane Maurice, as she was then, two years previously. She had subsequently married her tenant, Terry, and credited Libby with getting them together. Libby didn’t mind. It meant Jane, in her position as chief reporter and deputy editor of the Nethergate Mercury, could occasionally be useful if Libby wanted information about practically anything. Also, Terry, her husband, was large, silent and mechanically gifted, not to mention having a sister who was an accomplished singer, songwriter and pianist and useful person to know.
‘So how are you?’ asked Fran, following Jane into the kitchen. ‘Apart from bored?’
‘Oh, you know. Tired, uncomfortable and my feet swell.’ Jane indicated the mugs set out on the table. ‘Tea or coffee? Instant coffee, I’m afraid.’
‘Tea for me,’ said Fran.
‘And me,’ said Libby. ‘No, don’t bother with biscuits.’
They carried their mugs into the sitting room and Jane lowered herself thankfully into a corner of a sofa and swung her feet up. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she said waving a hand at the feet.
‘Why should we mind? I remember what it was like trying to get comfortable at this stage of pregnancy. Night times were the worst,’ said Libby.
‘Dreadful,’ agreed Jane. ‘I get hardly any sleep.’
‘I think it’s nature’s way of preparing for the sleepless nights to come,’ said Libby.
‘Is nature that cruel?’ asked Fran.
‘Of course. Red in tooth and claw,’ said Libby. ‘It’s also why old people get grumpy and grouchy and unpleasant, so their children won’t miss them as much when they die.’
Jane let out a peal of laughter. ‘They’ll be glad to get rid of them instead?’
Libby, pleased with this evidence of understanding, nodded happily.
‘I don’t know, Libby,’ sighed Fran. ‘You have the strangest outlook on life sometimes.’
‘Anyway, speaking of children and parents,’ Libby went on, ignoring the interruption, ‘how’s yours?’
‘My mother?’ Jane wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, she’s here. You knew that.’
‘She took some persuading, didn’t she?’ said Fran.
‘A lot. Partly because she was unhappy about Aunt Jessica leaving me Peel House and she didn’t want to live in it.’
‘She overcame her scruples, though, didn’t she?’ said Libby. ‘Once she realised she wouldn’t have to pay any rent, rates or services for the flat.’ Libby, having met Mrs Maurice more than once, was disinclined to attribute any of the nicer qualities to her.
Jane looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, yes. And she did say she’d be able to help with the baby.’
‘Really? Will she look after it if you go back to work?’ asked Fran.
‘No, I wouldn’t expect her to,’ said Jane, ‘and anyway, I’m going to work from home. I’ll only need to actually go out now and then. And while the baby’s young I can take him or her with me.’
‘Don’t know what it is, then?’ said Libby.
‘No, neither of us wanted to,’ said Jane. ‘So tell me what you’ve both been up to.’
Fran reported on her recent trip to France with Guy, Sophie and Adam.
‘And what about your Chrissie?’ asked Jane. ‘She’s pregnant, too, isn’t she?’
‘She’s being an absolute monster,’ said Fran. ‘I almost feel sorry for Brucie-baby. She just lays about on the sofa and doesn’t do anything, as far as I can make out.’
‘Well, she hasn’t gone out to work for years, has she?’ said Libby.
‘No, but at least she did the washing and cooking and kept the house clean,’ said Fran. ‘Now she won’t even do that. And she’s only four months.’
‘What about Cassandra?’
‘Oh, the cat’s the only one who understands her, apparently.’ Fran snorted. ‘It spreads itself across her on the sofa and refuses to move.’
‘It’s going to be severely upset when the baby arrives,’ said Libby.
‘I told her that when she said she wanted a baby,’ said Fran, ‘but there, she’s never taken any notice of me.’
‘What does Lucy say about her?’ asked Libby, referring to Fran’s other daughter, already mother to Rachel and Tom.
‘Scathing, as you can imagine. Actually, she’s stopped being such a pain towards me now. So much so that I’m letting her come down for a week with the children.’
‘Where’s Guy going?’
Fran looked surprised. ‘He’s staying here, of course. He doesn’t mind them half as much as I do, and, I must admit, it’s much easier with a grandma and a grandpa. They don’t wear me out so much.’
‘That’s another reason I don’t want Mum to have to look after my baby too much,’ said Jane. ‘She’s on her own.’
‘But at least she’s on the premises,’ said Libby, ‘and she doesn’t work.’
‘But she’s got her own life,’ said Jane. ‘She’s actually made some friends down here. She joined some club at the library and now she seems to be out all the time.’
‘Perhaps she’s found a new man?’ said Libby with glee.
‘Mum? Don’t be daft!’ Jane laughed. ‘Anyway, what about you? What have you been doing?’
Without hesitation Libby launched into a description of the past two days’ activities.
‘Amanda George? She’s your writing tutor?’ Jane turned to Fran. ‘Do you think she’d agree to do an interview with me for the paper? Or for our colour mag?’
‘I didn’t know you had a colour mag,’ said Libby. ‘How posh.’
‘It’s only monthly and goes across the whole group.’
‘I’m sure she would. All authors love a bit of free publicity,’ said Fran. ‘Shall I ask her?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Jane. ‘Give her my email address, would you? And do you suppose she’d let me use your investigation in the piece, too? It would be terrific local interest.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Fran. ‘In fact, if you do speak to her, don’t mention that we’ve told you anything about it. We don’t know what’s behind it, yet.’
‘No, I suppose so,’ said Jane, ‘but Cherry Ashton is a very emotive subject locally.’
‘Because of the workhouse?’ said Libby.
‘Well, yes.’ Jane nodded and turned to look out of the window. ‘And the children.’