‘Yes. And I don’t understand what’s so mysterious about them. If Jane knows about it, and Campbell McLean knows too, even though he didn’t come back to us, he must, it must be general knowledge, so why isn’t it coming up in searches?’
‘Someone will tell us. Perhaps Rosie knows.’
‘In that case why didn’t she tell us in the first place?’
‘Why,’ said Libby darkly, ‘didn’t she tell us a lot of things?’
Rosie received them a little less enthusiastically than the first time, but took them through to the garden again, where once more tea things were set out.
‘Have you made any progress?’ she asked, after pouring tea.
‘In a way,’ said Fran, ‘but we’ve got several questions.’
‘Questions?’ Rosie looked wary.
‘First,’ said Libby, ‘when did you first see the house?’
Rosie seemed taken aback. ‘Oh, years ago. Then I was driving that way to see a friend and I saw it again. And it was after that I started dreaming about it.’
‘See, the thing is,’ said Libby, ‘in your dreams you saw the place empty, and described it to us exactly as it looks now. And we don’t think it’s been empty more than a couple of years. So how would you know?’
‘You’ve been there?’ Rosie avoided the question.
‘Yes, we’ve been there.’ Fran kept her eyes on Rosie’s face. ‘And, as Libby says, it’s exactly as you described it. And if you’re a psychic, why did you ask me to investigate?’
‘I’m not a psychic.’ Rosie avoided their eyes and took a sip of tea.
When no more seemed forthcoming, Libby said, ‘In that case you have to tell us what’s behind all this. And why you don’t know the history of the house. It was easy enough to find out, even for us.’
‘At least, part of it was,’ said Fran.
‘What do you mean, part of it?’ asked Rosie, looking up.
‘That White Lodge was part of the Cherry Ashton workhouse.’
Rosie looked embarrassed. ‘Yes, I knew that.’
‘Right,’ said Fran, ‘so now tell us the rest of it.’
‘The rest of it?’ echoed Rosie.
‘Yes,’ said Libby firmly. ‘How you know exactly what the house looks like, inside and out, and why you bothered to get us involved. Are we some kind of research for one of your novels? How to hoodwink two gullible middle-aged ladies?’
‘Libby!’ said Fran, shocked.
But Rosie was looking even more embarrassed. In fact, a slow blush was creeping up her neck.
‘All right, I’ll confess.’ She leant back in her chair and cradled her cup in her lap. Her long hair had escaped from its clip and drifted over her shoulders. She looked, thought Libby, like the good witch from a fairy tale.
‘First, what I told you was quite true. I’m positive I have a connection to White Lodge, although I have no idea what it is. As soon as I saw it – oh, must be a year ago now – I remembered seeing it before, years before, as I said. But then I started dreaming about it. Not empty, as I told you, but mainly the outside and that garden, although it wasn’t overgrown. So I looked it up, as you must have done, on the internet, and found it was for sale.’
She paused for another sip of tea. ‘So I made an appointment to view. The agent who took me seemed strangely ambivalent about the viewing, as though she didn’t want to go, but on the other hand was keen for someone to buy it.’ She looked at Fran and Libby. ‘Is that how it seemed to you?’
They nodded.
‘So we went to see it. I knew the minute I went inside I’d been there before. And all the time we were going round the house I was aware that the agent was very uncomfortable. I was fine. Whatever she felt, I knew the house had been happy at one time.
‘She didn’t want to take me upstairs, so I went on my own, and saw that room with the bath and the kitchen sink. And then -’ she paused ‘then I thought I could hear piano music.’
Libby and Fran both drew a deep breath and Rosie nodded. ‘So I went downstairs to ask the agent if she could hear it, but she was already outside the front door. I insisted we go round the back and, very reluctantly, she let me lead the way. Then we saw the garden.’ Rosie stopped and looked away towards the trees, although Libby felt she wasn’t actually seeing them. ‘And I heard the music again – very faintly. So I turned to ask the agent if she could hear it, and there she was, the other side of that rotting gate, looking terrified. Of course she could hear it.
‘Anyway, she said she knew nothing about it, knew nothing about the house except that it was a probate sale, and hightailed it back to her car. I stayed and prowled round the garden for a bit, but the music had stopped and I couldn’t find anything else except those stones.’
‘So why didn’t you tell us all this to start with?’ asked Libby.
‘I didn’t want to prejudice you. I thought if I told you about the music you would be expecting to hear it, or you’d think I was a mad old fool.’
Libby’s expression could have told anybody that was exactly what she did think.
‘And about the workhouse?’ asked Fran, after giving Libby a warning glare.
‘Yes, of course I knew about that. But it was closed at the beginning of the last century.’
‘Demolished, actually,’ put in Libby. ‘In 1909.’
‘Right.’ Rosie looked at her with respect. ‘So what did you mean about half the history?’
‘The children,’ said Fran. ‘Everyone else seems to know about the children, except us. And they’re nothing to do with the workhouse.’
‘How do you know?’ Rosie was wide-eyed.
‘I don’t know, but everybody else does. So what about them? Who are they?’
‘Actually,’ said Rosie, after a minute of staring at her feet, ‘nobody
Libby looked dubious. ‘Is that all? When was this body unearthed, and how?’
‘By accident, as far as I can tell, when something was being done to the garden. Must have been sometime in the fifties, or perhaps earlier.’
‘And why did they think there were more?’
‘It was the other gravestones. I think it was assumed that they were the bodies of workhouse children, but you don’t think so?’ Rosie turned to Fran.
‘What age was the body?’ asked Libby. ‘I mean, when did it date from?’
‘I don’t think they could date it very accurately in those days,’ said Rosie, ‘but they thought it dated from the workhouse period.’
‘And where is it now?’ asked Fran.
Rosie looked surprised. ‘I don’t know. Re-buried, I suppose.’
‘Who would know?’ Libby leant forward. ‘And if you know all this, why on earth did you want us to find out about it? This is all very suspicious, Rosie, you must see that.’
Rosie sighed. ‘I know. I did a certain amount of research after I’d been to see the house, and that is all I came up with. But I couldn’t come up with any more, and the estate agents wouldn’t talk to me about the music. And then I started dreaming again.’
‘The same dreams?’ said Fran.
‘The ones I told you about. But there was always music – piano music. And it began to frighten me. And I couldn’t go back to the estate agents, I’d already pestered them enough. I couldn’t seem to get any further with my research, and the only documents at the county archives seemed to be about the workhouse. Although it did appear to have been a merchant’s house before it became part of the workhouse.’
‘So then you called us in,’ said Libby. ‘Tell me, would it have hurt to have told us all this in the first place?’
‘I didn’t want to prejudice you, I’ve told you,’ said Rosie, although the blush was staining her neck again. ‘I’m sorry if I misled you.’
‘Well, it was rather a childish thing to do,’ Libby sniffed.
‘I thought it would interest Fran,’ said Rosie.
‘So you invested it with a whiff of the supernatural just to season the dish.’ Libby frowned.
