Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t realise they would have had an infirmary. I got the impression that if they got sick they were just left where they were.’

The professor shook his head. ‘No. If the sickness spread they would have had all the inmates unable to work, and if they ignored the problem, the Guardians, as they were called, would have investigated. I’m sure in some cases things were swept under the carpet -’

‘Yes, I found some appalling cases,’ Libby interrupted.

Andrew nodded. ‘But in most cases patients were isolated from the rest of the inmates and, if not cured, at least treated slightly better than the rest. I doubt anybody was cured, in fact.’

‘So the bodies in the garden could be from the workhouse after all?’ said Fran.

‘Some of them, possibly.’

‘But not all?’ Libby leant forward.

Andrew’s expression registered triumph. ‘Definitely not all.’ He turned over a piece of paper in the folder.

‘There. See what it says?’’

Libby and Fran peered at the document. The heading was all they needed to see.

‘The Princess Beatrice Sanatorium,’ Libby read out. ‘A sanatorium? Wasn’t that for infectious diseases?’

‘It certainly was,’ said Andrew. ‘What seems to have happened is that the Guardians decided to close the workhouse – and knock it down – and turn necessity to their advantage.’

‘How?’ said Fran and Libby together.

‘The reason the workhouse was closed down and the buildings demolished was because of infection. They didn’t know much about the workings of infectious diseases in those days, but there was an outbreak, and they decided the best thing to do was eradicate the source of infection, as they saw it. So, because the infirmary had already been used to attempt to cure the inmates, they turned it into a sanatorium.’

‘For what, though?’ asked Libby.

‘Haven’t you guessed yet?’ The professor grinned at both of them.

‘No,’ they said.

‘TB, of course! Tuberculosis. It was rife at that time, and the open-air treatment was being pioneered in Germany. A few enlightened doctors in England wanted to try it, and as TB had been killing the poor inhabitants of Cherry Ashton Workhouse, they decided to make a virtue of necessity.’

‘Why Princess Beatrice?’ asked Fran.

Andrew shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I expect they wanted to be taken seriously and remove all memories of the workhouse. Stupid really, as it had been there for over sixty years by then. I doubt if they asked the Princess.’

‘So what happened next?’ asked Libby.

‘The records aren’t all that clear, which is hardly surprising, and I’ve still got more research to do, but it would appear that the treatments weren’t terribly successful.’

‘The children,’ murmured Fran.

Andrew glanced at her with raised brows. ‘Children?’

‘Not workhouse children, victims of TB,’ said Fran.

‘In the graves,’ Libby explained.

‘Do you know they’re children?’ asked Andrew, looking surprised.

‘I think so,’ said Fran, blushing faintly. Andrew turned a questioning look on Libby.

‘It’s a long story, Professor,’ she said. ‘Let’s get on with the story.’

‘Please call me Andrew. Professor makes me feel a) old, and b) as if I’m still lecturing.’

‘Sorry, Andrew.’ Libby beamed at him. ‘This is really interesting, and I think you might be pleased to know we have an invitation for you.’

‘Really?’

‘Our friend Detective Inspector Ian Connell has invited us all, you, me and Fran, to visit White Lodge with him this morning.’

‘Really?’ Andrew’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, of course, I’d be delighted. I haven’t anything else on, and it would be fascinating, but a Police Inspector? Why?’

Fran and Libby looked at each other again.

‘Perhaps,’ said Fran, ‘we’d better let him tell you that. If you don’t mind.’

‘Certainly, if you think that’s best,’ said Andrew. ‘When do we go?’

‘Now?’ said Libby. ‘If it’s convenient and you haven’t anything else to do?’

‘Delighted,’ said Andrew, almost jumping to his feet. ‘Shall I take my own car?’

‘No, Fran’ll take you. Her car’s slightly more respectable than mine.’ Libby stood up. ‘If that’s all right, Fran?’

Ten minutes later Andrew was seated in the passenger seat of Fran’s roller skate, as Harry and Adam called it, his blue folder on his lap and an excited expression on his face. He looked, Libby thought, like a schoolboy off on an adventure.

White Lodge looked even more tired this morning, bathed in mid-day sunshine. Ian’s anonymous saloon was parked on the verge opposite, and Fran and Libby pulled up behind it.

‘It’s smaller than I imagined,’ said Andrew, as they stood looking up at the boarded up frontage. ‘How do we get in?’

‘I think we’d better go round the back to the garden first,’ said Libby. ‘See if Ian’s there.’

She led the way along the side and through the old gate, which Ian – or someone else – had managed to push right open. Sure enough, Ian was there, talking into a mobile phone. He saw them and switched it off.

‘This is Professor Andrew Wylie,’ said Libby. ‘Andrew, this is Detective Inspector Connell. Andrew’s found out quite a bit about the house, Ian.’

Ian shook Andrew’s outstretched hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Professor,’ he said. ‘But somehow, I doubt what you’ve found out will help with our particular problem.’

Andrew’s obvious confusion was reflected in the faces of Libby and Fran.

‘What do you mean?’ Libby frowned at him.

‘I mean, Libby, that what you suspected is probably true. That grave is less than a year old.’

‘REALLY?’ ANDREW LOOKED FROM Libby to Fran. ‘You didn’t say anything about that.’

‘No,’ said Libby, and explained how they’d found the grave and informed Ian. ‘And it’s the music that makes us think someone has something to hide.’ She turned to Ian. ‘So what are you doing? What’s going to happen?’

‘I’ve asked for authorisation to exhume the body -’

There was a collective gasp from the others.

‘And a search team for the house.’

‘So can’t we let the Professor in to have a look first?’ asked Fran.

‘Actually, that’s what I was hoping,’ said Ian, with one of his most charming smiles for Andrew. ‘Probably strictly against the rules, but I’ve finally got the Superintendent to sanction the investigation, and I think I’m safe in calling in an expert witness.’

Andrew looked doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t say I’m that.’

‘He calls me an expert witness,’ said Fran, ‘and I’m even less of one.’

‘You?’ Andrew frowned and Fran sighed.

‘She hates it, but Fran is a bit of a psychic,’ explained Libby, ‘and before you put on a sceptical face, she used to be employed by Goodall and Smythe to scope out properties in case something nasty had happened there.’

‘The estate agents?’

‘That’s them. Their clients are all rich and don’t want nasties in the woodshed. Or anywhere else, for that matter.’

‘Oh.’ Andrew turned and looked at Fran.

‘She’s helped us in a few investigations before now,’ said Ian gently. ‘That’s why I’m always prepared to listen to any suspicions she might have.’

Libby sent him an equivocal look.

Fran was looking distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I don’t like it, you know,’ she said to the professor, ‘and I’ve no idea how it happens, but sometimes things just appear in my head as though they’re facts.’

Andrew nodded, still looking bemused.