Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

‘Weston,’ Greg repeated, screwing up his eyes. ‘Yes, I do seem to remember a Weston. Had a son a bit older than Ben who went away to boarding school.’

‘That’s the one!’ Libby was delighted. ‘Do you remember what he did? We know he had a farm, but the tenant farmer looked after that.’

‘Good heavens, Libby! How on earth would I know that?’

‘If he’d been a – oh, I don’t know – a solicitor, for instance, you’d remember, wouldn’t you?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Greg, looking amused, ‘but I didn’t know the man. He was a good bit older than me. I believe at one time he was something to do with the old hospital -’

‘What?’ Libby almost bounced out of her chair. ‘The sanatorium?’

‘Honestly, Libby, I don’t really remember. All I know is there was a hospital – all right, sanatorium – over there somewhere, and I have the feeling that he was on the board, because they used to hold fund-raising events and he was always the driving force. I don’t know what happened for a few years because I was away, as you know,’ Greg had been in a prisoner-of-war camp during the second world war, ‘and when I came back I wasn’t too well. But I do remember him trying to save the hospital.’ He frowned. ‘That was after the war, of course. Before the war there’d been piano recitals by someone quite famous.’

‘Oh, Greg! I wish I’d talked to you earlier. The hospital was the Princess Beatrice TB Sanatorium, and the pianist was a former inmate, Paul Findon. He’s our friend Rosie’s uncle.’

‘Is he?’ Greg concentrated on a corner of the ceiling. ‘Findon. Yes, I vaguely remember. We had his recording of Clair de Lune .’

‘So Colonel Weston’s father was something to do with the hospital? Oh, this is marvellous!’

‘Why?’ Greg leant back in his leather chair looking interested.

‘Hasn’t Ben told you anything about what we’ve been doing?’ No? Well, you see this is how it all started…’

Ten minutes later Libby had explained the whole story.

‘And you say Fran asked what Colonel Weston’s father did? That’s what made you come and ask me?’ said Greg.

‘You were the only person I could think of, being a local landowner.’

‘I’ll tell you who else might be able to help, and that’s your friend over at Anderson Place.’

‘Sir Jonathan?’

‘When did he buy the place?’

‘He inherited it,’ said Libby. ‘Would he have known other businessmen in the area?’

‘He was – and is – a landowner. That’s the main point, didn’t you say? There’s the local hunt, for instance. I didn’t ever hunt, but I had applications to cross my land.’ He shrugged. ‘Couldn’t really refuse, although I wanted to. Sir Jonathan would have had the same and might have even hunted. Weston, I’m pretty sure, hunted.’

‘So they could both have been members of the local hunt?’ Libby was getting quite breathless with excitement.

‘It’s an idea, isn’t it?’ Greg watched her with amusement. ‘You’d better see what you can find out on that computer of yours.’

‘I will.’ Libby stood up. ‘Say hello to Ben when you see him.’

‘Aren’t you going to?’

‘Not till this evening.’ She went over to give Greg a kiss. ‘Thank you so much. There is such a wealth of knowledge and information in this village, I don’t know why anyone goes anywhere else.’

The local hunt did indeed cover the areas of both Anderson Place and Ashton Court and had an impressive website with an informative history page, where Libby was delighted to discover a Willoughby Weston as Master immediately before and after the war. It unfortunately didn’t say anything about his business interests, but now she had a name to search for.

She rang Fran.

‘Excellent!’ said Fran. ‘Are you looking him up?’

‘Yes. It’s mainly ancestor-type pages.’ Libby groaned. ‘Oh, God. We’ve been here before.’

‘I’ll do it. You go and make yourself some tea and I’ll call you when I’ve found something.’

‘Thank you,’ said Libby. ‘That coffee at George’s seems a long time ago.’

She’d barely poured her tea when the phone rang.

‘Got it,’ said Fran. ‘You’ll never guess.’

‘He was on the board of the sanatorium?’

‘No, you’d already guessed that,’ said Fran. ‘No better than that.’

‘Oh – I don’t know! What?’

‘He was also a director of Riley and Naughton.’

‘Wh-? God! The estate agents?’ Libby sat down with a thump.

‘Yes. And what’s more, he didn’t appear until after Paul Findon died.’

‘What do you mean he didn’t appear? What does that mean?’

‘Think about it. After Paul Findon died, however he died, the house was rented out. Then the body was discovered, the ghost was supposedly seen, and at the same time this Weston buys into the estate agency and the house falls empty. It doesn’t appear on anyone’s radar until it goes on to Riley’s website a year or so ago.’

‘After which it’s taken down,’ said Libby. ‘But not by Willoughby. He’s long gone.’

‘Supposing his father left Hugh Weston not only his whole estate but business interests, too?’

Libby was silent sipping tea and thinking.

‘Do you see what I mean?’ said Fran.

‘Yes, but that would mean that if Willoughby was involved in something nasty at White Lodge way back when, his son knows about it.’

‘And why not?’

‘You wouldn’t confess nasties to your children.’

‘Perhaps he found out? Whichever way you look at it, it’s suspicious.’

‘Doesn’t help us with finding Rosie, though.’

‘It does if Hugh Weston’s guilty of covering up his father’s crime, whatever it was.’

‘Doing trials on those poor girls, I expect,’ said Libby. ‘But what does that have to do with Rosie? She only knew White Lodge after Paul Findon bought it. She wasn’t here when those girls died.’

‘So what do we do now?’ said Fran. ‘I feel we ought to let Ian know, but I’m not sure how he’d take it.’

‘You never know – he might already know.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘After all, he did warn us off this morning. Perhaps he was doing research and that’s why we beat him to it.’

‘Oh – hang on, the other phone’s going. I’ll ring you back.’ Fran switched off.

Libby took her mug into the kitchen. This was a turn-up for the books, and thank goodness for the internet. It was a wonder how detectives ever found anything out before the wonderful web came into being.

The phone rang again.

‘A bit of good news,’ said Fran. ‘Rachita’s back.’

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ said Libby, going quite weak at the knees. ‘Do we know where she’s been?’

‘Yes, apparently camping out with a friend. Rachanda’s being allowed out again now, so Sophie’s going to meet her. She said there’s quite a lot to the story.’

‘We might not get to hear about it, then,’ said Libby. ‘It might be personal.’

‘They’ve had to tell the police she’s home and someone wants to interview her, but there’s a problem there. Appropriate adults, or something.’

‘I expect they want her to be questioned without the parents and they don’t want that,’ said Libby. ‘The parents, I mean.’

‘Well, I’m sure Sophie will tell us what she can,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll keep you updated.’

‘And what do we do about Hugh Weston and Ian?’

‘Wait, I suppose. That’s all we can do.’

Libby wasn’t surprised not to hear anything from anyone for the rest of the day. The rain stopped, so she made a pretence of weeding, and, after preparing dinner, turned the television to a rolling news channel hoping for some mention of either of the local stories. There was none. The only vaguely local item was the fact that the two builders found murdered in Medway had been named. And they were both Asian.