Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

‘How would we get hold of him?’ asked Libby. ‘Look in the phone book?’

‘Yes,’ said Fran, ‘but I think Rosie should make the approach as a fellow tutor.’

Rosie nodded. ‘And what do I tell him?’

‘The truth,’ said Fran, ‘but perhaps keep the modern part of the mystery to yourself. Just say you want to find out about the history of the building in the early part of the twentieth century, particularly after the workhouse was closed down. Don’t tell him about the dreams or the music, though.’

‘If he wants to go and see it he’ll find out for himself,’ said Libby.

‘Shall I tell him about asking you two to help?’

‘Oh, I think so,’ said Fran. ‘He can liaise with us. Unless you want to become more involved yourself?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Rosie. ‘I think I’m a bit too old for that.’

‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ said Libby. ‘Go on, why don’t you ring him now?’

Rosie stared at her for a moment, then smiled. ‘All right. I’ll go and find the phone book.’

She returned a few minutes later with the telephone directory and a phone.

‘Right,’ she said, her briskness seeming to have returned. ‘Here we are – Prof. A Wylie. Oh, he lives in Nethergate. Canongate Drive. Do you know it?’

Fran and Libby looked at each other and smiled. ‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘we know it.’

‘Oh?’ Rosie’s raised eyebrows asked the question.

‘Funnily enough,’ said Fran, ‘someone who lives there helped me when I was trying to find out about my cottage.’

‘Not to mention knowing someone who lived in the flats at the other end,’ said Libby.

Fran frowned at her. ‘Lives,’ she corrected. ‘Edna’s brother.’

‘Oh, yes, who travels in stationery.’ Libby giggled. ‘Do you suppose he still does? Seems like an obsolete profession to me.’

‘Go on then, Rosie, try the number,’ said Fran.

Rosie punched in the numbers and waited. Eventually, she adopted the expression of someone listening to a recorded announcement.

‘This is Amanda George, Professor Wylie,’ she said. ‘I teach adult education classes on the same days as you do. I wonder if I could ask your advice?’ She left her number and switched off the phone. ‘There. That’s all we can do for the moment.’

Fran sat back in her chair. ‘I’m sorry if we’ve given you a shock,’ she said, ‘but we were a little suspicious -’

‘And so were the police,’ put in Libby.

‘Goodness! Were they?’ Rosie looked worried.

‘Because it seemed that you’d been to White Lodge comparatively recently and denied it.’

‘Omitted to tell us,’ corrected Fran.

‘Oh, yes. I suppose they would be.’ Rosie looked uncomfortable. ‘Will they want to talk to me?’

‘Maybe. They’ve got to find out a lot more to make an investigation viable,’ said Fran, ‘but we’ll keep you informed.’

Rosie looked at her curiously. ‘And they keep you informed?’

‘We have a contact in the police,’ said Libby, a touch proudly.

‘Oh, I remember reading about that,’ said Rosie. ‘He calls you in, Fran, doesn’t he?’

‘In a way,’ said Fran, ‘but he doesn’t like admitting it. He’s always furious if it gets into the paper.’

‘Anyway,’ said Libby, ‘he’s going to do a bit of preliminary digging. Mainly into the new grave, if it is one.’

‘Not physically, I hope,’ said Rosie, now appearing quite recovered. ‘Well, if you’ve quite forgiven me, how about some more tea? Or a glass of wine?’

Libby looked hopeful, but Fran shook her head. ‘I’m driving,’ she said, ‘and I really ought to get back.’

‘Right.’ Rosie stood up. ‘Will you ring me as soon as you hear any more?’

‘Of course,’ said Libby. ‘And you’ll let us know when you hear from the prof?’

‘I will,’ promised Rosie, ‘but it just occurred to me – he may be on holiday.’

‘Oh, bother,’ said Libby. ‘Of course. High summer. I bet he goes away on obscure archaeological digs in the Greek islands.’

Fran shook her head. ‘With your imagination it’s you should be the writer, Lib.’

‘I am,’ said Libby. ‘I write pantomimes.’

‘Do you?’ said Rosie.

‘I used to,’ aid Libby. ‘There’s only so many variations on “It’s Behind You” a girl can take.’

‘Well, that’s made things a bit clearer,’ said Fran, as they drove back to Steeple Martin.

‘As long as she’s told us the truth, now,’ said Libby.

‘I think she has,’ said Fran. ‘And she was very shocked about the new grave.’

‘I want to go back to the agents,’ said Libby. ‘And the house.’

‘We can’t until Ian says we can,’ said Fran. ‘Wait until you hear from him.’

However, the first thing Libby heard was a phone call the following morning from Fran, to say that Professor Wylie had called Rosie back. He was, apparently, intrigued by the opportunity to research a historic building, and, as a member of the Kent Archaeological Society, had access to their library at Maidstone.

‘Rosie said he sounded quite enthusiastic and wondered if he was bored.’

‘Should have gone on that archaeological dig to Greece,’ said Libby. ‘Did he say when he would get back to her?’

‘As soon as he could,’ said Fran, ‘but it means an actual visit to the library, so we can’t expect it to be that soon. He also suggested a geophysical survey in the garden.’

‘That’s all well and good, but we know – or at least, we think we know – that there are children’s bodies there. Anyway, we couldn’t afford it, and Ian wouldn’t let us.’

Ian called later in the day.

‘I went and had a look,’ he said, ‘and sure enough that music was playing. I’ve been trying to get the agents to let me see all their correspondence on the house, but they’re being remarkably reticent. Without a warrant I can’t see it, although I’ve told the boss about the music and that I’m sure someone’s scaring people off, but he’s still being uncooperative. But there is another piece of news.’

‘Go on then, what?’

‘The cleared patch of ground you saw does look like a grave, and there was a bunch of flowers when I went.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. I’m going back tomorrow, and if you’re very, very good, I’ll let you and Fran come with me. I don’t think there’s anyone actually in the house, the music is obviously some kind of mechanism with a trip switch, as I said, but I want to find that. If the agents refuse to give me the keys again, I’ll threaten them with the full weight of the law.’

‘Would they refuse? They seemed keen enough for me to view it.’

‘But they know I’m investigating, not a prospective purchaser.’

‘Oh, right. Well, I’ve got some news for you.’

‘Oh, no. What have you done now?’

‘Nothing, except what you asked us to do,’ said Libby indignantly, and told him about their visit to Rosie.

‘And finally, she’s got in touch with a historical professor who’s going to research the house for us.’

‘How?’ Ian sounded suspicious.

Libby told him. ‘And he suggested a geophysical survey in the garden.’

‘Which would no doubt show all sorts of anomalies, and as we know, or rumour suggests, there are bodies there, it wouldn’t do us any good.’

‘Yes, that’s what we thought,’ said Libby, a trifle gloomily. ‘I just wish we knew what those bodies were. Fran’s still sure they aren’t anything to do with the workhouse.’

‘Which does seem the likeliest explanation,’ said Ian. ‘Do we know what the house was before the workhouse?’

‘A local merchant’s house was the best we could come up with. And I also want to know why Rosie remembers it. Now she’s told us the truth, her memories – the early ones – seem to have been from when she was very young. Otherwise, she’d remember it far more clearly.’