Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

‘That would have just been Rosie’s dream making things up,’ said Libby.

‘Well, it didn’t make this up, did it?’ said Fran, and led the way up the stairs. The higher they got, the colder Libby felt.

Some of the windows at the back of the house hadn’t been boarded up. The very modern tiled bathroom and a large room next to it were as bright as the general oppressiveness would allow, but Libby’s legs still felt as though she was teetering on the edge of a very high cliff.

‘You’re right, you know,’ she said, as Fran opened another door into a pitch dark room, ‘it is very nasty here. Shall we go?’

Fran stopped so suddenly Libby bumped into her. ‘What?’

‘Look.’ Fran stepped aside and Libby peered round her.

Inside the room, which was long and narrow, she could just make out a large roll topped bath with claw feet, and on the other side of the room a deep porcelain kitchen sink. Fran pulled the door shut with a bang.

‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Come on. This is weird.’

As fast as they could in the semi-darkness, they went down the staircase and out of the front door. Libby let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

‘Now we’ll go round to the back,’ said Fran. ‘Find the door we were going to go out of.’

Libby led the way round the right side of the house through an unkempt garden, in which brambles snaked across a path with a vicious tendency to nip at uncovered legs. Libby’s jeans did better than Fran’s skirt.

‘Oh, my God.’ Fran stopped dead as they rounded the corner to the back of the house. In front of them a rotting wooden door, with a wooden lintel above it, was set into a tall wall of what looked like very old stone.

‘You know,’ said Libby, ‘Rosie must have been here. This is exactly what she described. The room with the piano, the bath in the upstairs kitchen and now this. There’s no other way she would have known. She isn’t psychic. That’s why she wanted you.’

Fran turned slowly. ‘You’re right. Even I can’t conjure up this amount of detail without some prior knowledge.’

‘So why was she here, and why doesn’t she remember? And come to think of it, it must have been since the house was empty, because that’s how she described it. And that can’t have been long ago.’

‘No. A year, the agent said, didn’t he? And it’s a probate sale. So it could actually have been empty for a lot longer if the owner was in a home, or something.’

‘And supposing it had been left to someone before then, maybe years before, and they never lived in it. He did say a complicated probate sale.’

Fran looked up at the wooden lintel above the door. ‘This looks even older than the house.’ She gave the door a tentative push. It moved a little way and stuck. ‘Come on, there’s enough room for us to squeeze through.’

The garden they squeezed into was as overgrown as the one at the side. To their left, in the middle of the back wall of the house, they saw the door into the passage and, further along, the long windows of the room with the piano. To their immediate left, two more boarded-up windows.

‘Stones, look.’ Libby pointed.

Half-hidden by undergrowth and brambles, stones leant at awkward angles, mostly against the further wall of the garden, but a few lying in the middle.

‘Gravestones.’ Fran closed her eyes. ‘The children.’

‘Workhouse children?’

Fran shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’ She opened her eyes and looked at Libby. ‘Jane didn’t seem to be referring to children in relation to the workhouse, did she? No, it’s something else.’

‘More recent?’

‘Not by the look of the gravestones.’ Fran moved forward and tried to clear the nearest. ‘Look, there’s nothing on it. Not even a faint mark.’

‘How do we know they’re gravestones, then?’

‘The shape, for a start, although some of them just look like boulders, don’t they? I just know they are.’

Libby looked round the garden. ‘I wonder how long it took for it to get this overgrown?’

‘Not long,’ said Fran, moving to another of the stones. ‘But the stones have been here for a long time.’

‘Not that long.’ Libby’s voice was muffled. ‘Look over here.’

Fran joined her standing over a cleared patch of stubbly grass.

‘This has been cleared quite recently.’ Libby bent and dug a finger at the ground. ‘Although not that recently. It almost looks as though it’s been dug over.’

Fran looked up suddenly. ‘Listen.’

‘What?’ Libby glanced warily over her shoulder.

‘That music.’ Fran looked back at Libby. ‘Piano music.’

‘I can’t hear anything.’ Libby frowned. ‘It’s just you.’

‘No, no, listen. Clear as anything.’ Fran moved back towards the house.

‘Oh, God.’ Libby backed away towards the gate. ‘I can hear it. There’s someone in there playing the piano.’

Fran walked cautiously towards the long window and peered round the edge. Then she looked back at Libby.

‘No,’ she said. ‘There isn’t.’

THEY STARED AT EACH other.

‘That’s it,’ said Libby. ‘We’re getting out.’ She turned, squeezed through the gate and almost ran down the side of the house. Fran followed more slowly, thoughtfully rubbing at the scratches on her bare legs.

‘That was no ghost,’ she said, as she caught Libby up at the car. ‘That was real music. Someone knew we were there.’

‘All the more reason to get out quick,’ said Libby, turning the key in the ignition.

‘It was to scare us off,’ said Fran, peering over her shoulder at White Lodge as Libby turned the car round. ‘I wonder if that’s what scared off prospective purchasers? Not to mention the estate agents.’

‘Surely he’d have mentioned it?’

‘Not necessarily. Remember he was almost eager for us to see it. He wants to get rid of it, and if he really thought we were bona fide viewers he wouldn’t tell us anything to put us off.’

‘But he did. He told me on the phone it was a monstrosity and about people being spooked. Why not tell us about the piano as well?’

‘Perhaps he thought it would be over-egging the pudding?’

‘Maybe. But it’s odd. In fact, it’s more than bloody odd,’ said Libby, ‘it’s terrifying. If that disturbed part of the garden is a recent grave it isn’t a legal one.’

‘Murder.’ Fran stared at her friend.

‘Oh, bloody hell, not again,’ said Libby.

They took the keys back to Riley’s, which was just about to close. A young woman took Libby’s credit card and refunded the deposit.

‘Have a nice day,’ she said, as she locked the door behind them.

Fran and Libby looked at each other in surprise.

‘She didn’t ask us anything about it,’ said Libby. ‘Why not?’

‘They’re obviously used to people not wanting the place after they’ve seen it. It must be a regular thing for them to let viewers go on their own.’

‘But not recently. It doesn’t come up on their website, remember. They’re hardly advertising it.’ Libby looked thoughtful as they turned back down the high street. ‘And you’d have thought they would be pushing it to get rid of it. I wonder if they’ve told the police?’

‘If they’ve heard the piano music, they should have done.’

‘No, I meant about the grave.’

‘If no one’s been to view they wouldn’t know. It hasn’t been there long.’

‘Well, do we tell the police, then?’

‘Would they listen?’ Fran looked dubious.

‘Ian might.’

‘Oh, poor Ian.’ Fran laughed. ‘We can’t do it to him again.’