Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

Libby looked across at Fran and raised her eyebrows. Fran shook her head.

‘An opportunity for what?’ she prompted.

‘Well.’ Rosie sighed. ‘There’s this house, you see. I know where it is, and I know it’s been boarded up. But I need to find out more about it.’

‘For a book?’ asked Libby.

‘No, although I suppose I might turn it into a book one day. No. You see, I dream about it, and it feels as though I lived there.’ Rosie looked from Libby to Fran and made a face. ‘Sounds mad, doesn’t it?’

Fran shook her head. ‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ she said. ‘You know about my experiences.’ Fran was writing her account of how she came to be living in Coastguard Cottage.

‘That’s what made me think of asking you.’ Rosie turned to Libby and smiled. ‘You know Fran’s writing about Coastguard Cottage?’

Libby nodded, although she knew little about the creative writing classes Rosie taught and Fran attended.

‘When we talked about it, she told me how you had stayed there as a child, too, and about the picture. She said you painted similar pictures.’

‘Yes. She could have shown you a postcard. Her husband makes postcards of some of the paintings.’ Libby glanced at Fran, who was looking at the cat.

‘Oh, she has. I’ve now got several.’ Rosie was twinkling again, and Libby warmed to her. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘it gave me the idea of trying to find out about the house and why I dream about it. I’m sure I’ve never been inside it.’

Libby frowned. ‘But surely you must do research for the books you write? Couldn’t you find out about it?’

‘I could, but I think I might get sidetracked and start researching that instead of writing the next book. I don’t suppose you’ve got any more free time than I have, but you might be less likely to let it take over your life.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Fran. ‘You don’t know Libby when she’s got her teeth into something. Nothing else matters.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Rosie looked back at Libby. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be asking.’

Libby laughed. ‘Fran’s exaggerating,’ she said. ‘And she’s as bad anyway.’

Fran smiled ruefully. ‘She’s right.’

‘So what do you think, then?’ said Rosie. ‘Would you like to look into it?’

Fran and Libby looked at each other and nodded.

‘Oh, I think so,’ said Libby. ‘After all, it’s not a murder or anything like that. It would be good to look into something just for interest’s sake.’

Rosie sighed. ‘Thank you.’ She looked down at the table and straightened a spoon. ‘It’s been bothering me slightly. There’s such a strange atmosphere about the dreams.’

‘Where is the house?’ asked Fran after a pause. ‘Is it local?’

Rosie looked up. ‘Oh, yes. Just on the outskirts of Cherry Ashton.’

Fran raised her eyebrows at Libby.

‘Towards the coast the other way from Nethergate,’ said Libby.

‘Near Creekmarsh?’

‘Further over than that. Quite lonely.’

Rosie nodded. ‘The house is on one of the lanes in from the main road. On its own.’

‘Has it got a name?’

‘White Lodge,’ said Rosie. ‘And I think it may once have been the lodge for a bigger house.’

‘Who lives there, now? Do you know?’ said Fran.

‘No one,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s boarded up.’

‘Oh.’ Libby looked at Fran. ‘It’ll be difficult to find anything out about it then, won’t it?’

‘We’ll find a way,’ said Fran. ‘You know we will.’

‘And you will let me know if you start incurring any expenses, won’t you?’ said Rosie.

‘I don’t suppose we’ll have any of those,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘But if we suddenly get a fine for trespassing, you can pay it.’

‘Trespassing?’ said Fran. ‘Are we going to?’

‘Well, we’ll have to go and look at it, won’t we? And up close. So I expect we’ll trespass. Not inside, though. It’ll be all locked up, and I’ve never been good at breaking and entering.’

Fran sighed and shook her head. ‘See what I’m up against, Rosie?’

Rosie laughed. ‘And why she’s the perfect person to investigate. More tea?’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘Could you just tell us about the dreams?’

‘Yes.’ Rosie leant back in her chair. ‘I thought you’d want to know about those.’

‘Well, that’s why you want us to look into it,’ said Fran. ‘Where are you in the dream? Inside or out?’

‘Both. Sometimes I’m in a garden – coming through a gate in a wall. It has a sort of old wooden lintel,’ she frowned, ‘which seems odd in an outdoor wall. And it’s a bit overgrown. There are stones, there, a bit like grave stones.’

Fran looked at Libby. ‘And where else?’

‘Inside. There’s one particular place which has very long windows but no furniture. Although I can hear a piano. And you know how it is in dreams, sometimes I just look round and the whole scene has changed to something else. There’s a kitchen, but it seems to be upstairs and rather shabby. Sometimes it has a bath in the same room.’ She shivered. ‘And this atmosphere. Yet I feel almost certain it’s – or it was – a happy place.’

‘And you have some kind of connection to it?’ said Fran.

Rosie nodded. ‘It won’t let me alone, you see. I seem to dream about it almost every night, and I can’t shake it off during the day. That’s why I need to find out, to lay it to rest.’ She turned to Libby. ‘And why I can’t do it myself, or it would completely take me over. Do you see?’

‘Yes.’ Libby smiled. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find out. Won’t we Fran?’

‘WHAT DID YOU THINK?’

‘About Rosie or the quest?’ Libby squeezed back into the passenger seat of Fran’s tiny car.

‘Both.’ Fran started the car. ‘You liked Rosie, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, OK, I liked Rosie. Have you read any of her books?’

‘Of course I have. She’s my writing tutor.’

‘But you might not read her books. They might not be the sort you like.’

Fran shot a quick glance sideways at Libby. ‘What’s the problem, Lib? What are you getting at?’

‘Nothing.’ Libby fumbled for the seat belt catch. ‘I just wondered. Would I like them?’

‘As I’ve never seen you read a book, I have no idea what you like.’

‘I read.’ Libby was indignant.

‘What, though? Magazines? Scripts?’

‘Sometimes. I like home magazines. And scripts if I have to.’

‘Books?’

‘Some. You know I do. I like crime and romance -’

‘Oh, not chick-lit?’ Fran snorted.

‘Don’t be judgemental,’ said Libby. ‘Not all women’s fiction is chick-lit, and not all chick-lit is badly written.’

‘Oh.’ Fran shot her friend another quick look in surprise. ‘So you do read.’

‘I lent Cy books last winter when he was holed up at Peter and Harry’s. I have an eclectic range. And I love the mobile library.’

‘I miss that,’ said Fran. ‘I have to go to the main library in Nethergate now.’

‘Well, surely they’ve got a better selection than the mobile one,’ said Libby.

‘But the mobile one stops right outside Harry’s caff,’ said Fran.

Fran had lived briefly in Libby’s home village of Steeple Martin, staying in the flat over The Pink Geranium, the vegetarian restaurant owned by their friends Harry and Peter. Harry was the chef, Peter a sleeping partner who occasionally helped out in extremis.

‘Actually,’ said Libby, ‘the library comes tomorrow. I shall see if they have any of Rosie’s books. Do you call her Rosie in class?’

‘No,’ said Fran. ‘She’s a tutor because she’s Amanda George, so that’s what she’s called in class.’