Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

‘And is she good? As a tutor?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Fran smiled. ‘Well, I think so, in that she’s inspiring, but I’ve never been to a writing class before, so I don’t know.’

‘And is she weird?’

‘What?’

‘Well, dreams and asking us to find out about a house…’

‘So I’m weird, now, am I?’

‘Eh?’ Libby turned to look at her friend. ‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s exactly what I did,’ said Fran. ‘And you helped me.’

‘Oh. Yes.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘And that’s what you’re writing about, isn’t it?’

‘Exactly. And at least we know where this house is, so we’ve got a starting place,’ said Fran.

‘Although why Rosie hasn’t started research herself I can’t understand,’ said Libby. ‘It’s almost as if she’s scared of it.’

‘Oh, she is.’

‘Definitely?’ Libby turned to look at her friend again.

‘Oh, yes. And that wasn’t even one of my moments. It was coming off her in waves. Couldn’t you feel it?’

‘Not a thing,’ said Libby. ‘And even if it wasn’t a moment, you pick up those sort of things when normal people don’t.’

‘So I’m back to being weird again,’ said Fran.

Libby sighed.

Fran parked opposite Libby’s cottage in Allhallow’s Lane, just behind the increasingly decrepit Romeo the Renault in which Libby frightened the roads of Kent.

‘More tea?’ asked Libby.

‘Why not?’ Fran got out of the car and locked it.

Sidney the silver tabby sat in the window to the left of the front door and watched their approach before disappearing as Libby put the key in the lock, and shot between their feet as she opened it.

‘That cat’ll be the death of me,’ said Libby, leading the way through to the kitchen, where she filled the electric kettle.

‘Does he trip you up on the stairs?’ Fran leant against the table.

‘Of course. You know how he waits on the third step up.’ She set two mugs beside the kettle. ‘Go and get my laptop and we’ll see if we can look up White Lodge, shall we?’

Fran obediently fetched the laptop, sat down at the table and opened it.

‘Shall I just put White Lodge, Cherry Ashton into the search engine?’ she asked.

‘See if anything comes up.’ Libby poured water into the mugs.

Fran pressed some keys and sat back with a laugh. ‘Well!’ she said. ‘You’ll never guess what.’

‘What?’ Libby put a mug down beside her, and leant over her shoulder.

‘It’s for sale. Look.’ She clicked through links and came up with an estate agent’s website. ‘Oh, no, it’s not. It must have been removed.’

‘Go back to the original link,’ said Libby. ‘See what the date is.’

The original link turned out to be the estate agent’s description of the property when it was registered a year previously.

‘Seven bedrooms,’ read Libby, ‘fab. No pictures.’

‘Cellars, walled garden – and look – there’s a barn.’

‘Rosie said it was boarded up. She must have been to see it,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think she saw it and then it triggered off the dreams? Or she dreamed it and went to find it?’

‘If she dreamed it first she wouldn’t know where it was.’

‘No, but perhaps she just stumbled across it?’

Fran looked up. ‘Why didn’t we ask any of these questions when we were with her? They seem so obvious now.’

Libby shrugged. ‘Surprised, I suppose, and keen to get on with another mystery. Didn’t she give you any indication of what she wanted to ask us?’

‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘I though it must be to ask us about one of our cases -’

‘Cases!’

‘Investigations, adventures, what you like. I thought it would be that, to use in a book.’

‘I wonder who bought it?’ Libby turned the laptop to face her. ‘And how long ago Rosie saw it? It sounds as though it was recently.’

‘Perhaps it wouldn’t sell, so they took it off the market.’

‘Complicated isn’t it?’ Libby clicked back to the search engine. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything else about it.’

There were, in fact, several references to White Lodge, but only in passing, and many of them turned out to be nothing to do with the house at all, until Fran clicked on a reference to Cherry Ashton workhouse.

‘Look!’ she pushed the laptop back towards Libby. ‘It was part of a workhouse!’

‘Blimey.’ Libby peered at the page. ‘Demolished in – what? 1909? Why is the house still there?’

‘I should think it was the – oh, I don’t know – warden’s house? Too good to demolish?’

‘Let’s look up the workhouse,’ said Libby.

It wasn’t until Ben appeared in the kitchen over an hour later that Fran realised what the time was.

‘Guy will think I’ve left home,’ she said standing up and giving her friend’s partner a quick kiss. Libby went to see her off.

‘So what have you been doing?’ Ben was looking at the computer screen.

‘Fascinating, actually,’ said Libby, ‘and I haven’t even thought about dinner.’

Ben leant back against the sink and folded his arms. ‘I sense a mystery.’

‘Well,’ said Libby, looking guilty, ‘it is sort of.’

‘It must be at least six months since you’ve been involved in something, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Tell all.’

Libby smiled in relief. ‘OK. How long is it since we ate in the caff?’

‘About a week.’ Ben grinned. ‘And now we might as well take out a season ticket. We end up eating there every other night when you’re sleuthing.’

‘It’s not normal sleuthing,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink and I’ll tell you all about it. But first give Harry a ring.’

Over glasses of red wine, Libby filled Ben in on the afternoon’s activities. ‘And then,’ she finished up, ‘we started looking into the Cherry Ashton Workhouse.’

‘And what did you find?’

‘Nothing really. It was there, set up by the Poor Board or something, and there were elected Guardians. So we had a look at workhouses in general. There were some horrible stories, Huddersfield, Andover and Fareham, but no mention of Cherry Ashton. We did wonder, though, because it said in one of the general descriptions that the Master and Matron had apartments in the building. White Lodge is a separate building and it states that the workhouse was demolished 1909.’

‘Perhaps the workhouse was built round it. On land that belonged to it?’

‘Oh, I suppose that could be it. But from what Rosie said and the estate agent’s description it sounded a bit grand for a Master’s lodging.’

‘Well, tomorrow you could call the agents and ask if it’s likely to come on the market again, or if they know anything about who bought it.’

‘Oh, so we could.’ Libby brightened. ‘And we could drive over and see if we can find it. I said we’d look round.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Ben. ‘Don’t go getting yourself into trouble.’

‘As if I would,’ said Libby. Ben sighed.

Later in The Pink Geranium, Donna the waitress brought over the menu.

‘No Adam tonight?’ asked Libby.

‘No, we’re not busy,’ said Donna, ‘and he’s been working hard over at Creekmarsh. Shall I see if he’s in?’

Libby’s son Adam lived in the flat over the restaurant, where once Fran had stayed, and occasionally helped out if Harry was very busy. His proper job was as an assistant to a landscape designer who was currently working on restoring the grounds of a local mansion owned by television personality Lewis Osbourne-Walker.

‘No, don’t worry, Donna.’ Libby suddenly put out her hand to Donna. ‘Is that a ring?’

Donna, unflappable, organised and efficient, blushed. ‘Yes.’