‘It’s all right, Lib,’ said Fran. ‘Now, Rosie, why didn’t you go on with the research yourself?’
‘Because of your reputation,’ said Rosie, sitting up straighter. ‘You see, I know all about your career as investigators.’
‘I’d hardly call us that,’ said Fran.
‘Bunglers, more like,’ said Libby.
‘Anyway, when Fran enrolled for my classes, I was delighted, especially when she told me she wanted to write about her Coastguard Cottage experiences.’
‘Ah!’ said Libby. ‘So you made your experience as much like hers as possible to get her interest.’
‘Oh, God.’ Rosie leant forward and put her head in her hands. ‘It really does sound awful when you put it like that.’
‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘And now tell us about the music.’
‘Piano music,’ said Rosie, sitting upright once more. ‘When I heard it while I was upstairs in the house I thought it was coming from that piano downstairs, and how funny it was the same music as in my dreams -’
‘In your dream?’ said Libby sharply. ‘In the first dreams?’
‘Yes. Didn’t I say?’
Libby shook her head.
‘Oh, yes, there was always music. Debussy, mainly. The music that day was
‘On the day we visited it was
‘Now, how would they have known that?’ asked Libby, of no one in particular.
‘They?’ asked Rosie.
‘Didn’t it occur to you that someone was playing that music?’
‘Well, of course.’
‘And you never questioned it?’
‘No.’ Rosie looked bewildered.
‘Yet you asked us in to find out about it?’ Libby went on mercilessly. ‘Not even when you realised that, by doing so, you’d be putting us in danger?’
Chapter Seven
‘DANGER?’ ROSIE REPEATED. ‘HOW?’
Libby made a sound suspiciously like a snort. ‘For a writer you’re being remarkably dense. Or are you? Perhaps you know all about it already?’
‘I really don’t know what you mean,’ said Rosie, looking bewildered.
‘We’ve reported it to the police,’ said Libby, ignoring Rosie’s gasp, ‘because if the piano was playing each time someone visited it means that someone was behind it. Some kind of recording equipment which is turned on whenever someone comes to look at the house, to scare them off. That genuinely hadn’t occurred to you?’
Rosie was now looking aghast.
‘There’s something else, too,’ said Fran in a gentler voice than Libby’s accusatory tone. ‘You said you’d been in the back garden and seen the gravestones.’
Rosie nodded.
‘And did you see that the ground had been cleared?’
‘No. It was completely overgrown.’
Libby and Fran looked at each other.
‘That means it was within the last year,’ said Libby.
‘What was?’ asked Rosie.
‘We think – a new grave.’
Rosie turned white. Fran reached forward to steady her, but she stayed upright. Libby took her cup.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘More tea.’
Rosie took it obediently and sipped, her colour returning.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
For a moment they sat in silence, then Rosie put down her cup.
‘I seem to have made a complete mess of things,’ she said. ‘First of all I should have told you everything I’d found out. And now I’ve unwittingly put you in danger.’
‘Only while we were at the house,’ said Fran. ‘But you understand why we had to inform the police. If what we found is a new grave, then the music is being played, presumably, by someone keen to keep people away, and therefore someone involved with the death.’
‘But I didn’t see the grave,’ said Rosie. ‘You said it had only been there since I saw the house. Why keep me away?’
‘Perhaps there are others,’ said Libby. ‘There has to be a reason, and it isn’t ghost music. I do wonder why on earth the estate agents didn’t report it, though.’
‘Others? You mean other graves?’ said Rosie.
‘Apart from the old ones, I mean,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, we need to talk to the agents and see what they have to say. And find out about those children’s graves, too.’
‘We were thinking we should try and find a local amateur historian,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t suppose you know anyone, do you?’
Rosie thought for a moment. ‘Actually,’ she said slowly, ‘I think I do. There’s a chap who runs adult ed classes in local history. I don’t know him personally, but he’s there on the same day I am. I’ll go and get the brochure.’
She stood up and went into the cottage. Libby looked at Fran.
‘Now what?’ she said.
‘I suppose we tell Ian what Rosie’s told us, but it won’t do him any good. And I want to find out about this Debussy connection.’
Rosie returned with the thick Adult Education brochure, flicking through and finding a page.
‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s him.’
The page had brief biographies of the tutors. Professor Andrew Wylie was listed as a retired Professor of History at one of the northern universities who now ran local history sessions and occasional walks.
‘How would we get hold of him?’ asked Libby. ‘Look in the phone book?’
‘Yes,’ said Fran, ‘but I think Rosie should make the approach as a fellow tutor.’
Rosie nodded. ‘And what do I tell him?’
‘The truth,’ said Fran, ‘but perhaps keep the modern part of the mystery to yourself. Just say you want to find out about the history of the building in the early part of the twentieth century, particularly after the workhouse was closed down. Don’t tell him about the dreams or the music, though.’
‘If he wants to go and see it he’ll find out for himself,’ said Libby.
‘Shall I tell him about asking you two to help?’
‘Oh, I think so,’ said Fran. ‘He can liaise with us. Unless you want to become more involved yourself?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rosie. ‘I think I’m a bit too old for that.’
‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ said Libby. ‘Go on, why don’t you ring him now?’
Rosie stared at her for a moment, then smiled. ‘All right. I’ll go and find the phone book.’
She returned a few minutes later with the telephone directory and a phone.
‘Right,’ she said, her briskness seeming to have returned. ‘Here we are – Prof. A Wylie. Oh, he lives in Nethergate. Canongate Drive. Do you know it?’
Fran and Libby looked at each other and smiled. ‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘we know it.’
‘Oh?’ Rosie’s raised eyebrows asked the question.
‘Funnily enough,’ said Fran, ‘someone who lives there helped me when I was trying to find out about my cottage.’
‘Not to mention knowing someone who lived in the flats at the other end,’ said Libby.
