‘Go on in, gal.’ Flo gestured with a hand full of weeds. ‘Bottle’s open.’
Flo’s sitting room, cluttered and old-fashioned and permanently imbued with the ghosts of long-dead cigarettes, was at least not as stuffy as it would be from October 1st until April 1st, when the heating and the electric fire would be going full blast. An open bottle of Merlot and two glasses stood on a side table.
‘So, what’s it all about, then?’ Flo shuffled into the room and dropped her cigarette into a large ashtray.
‘What’s what all about?’ asked Libby, sitting in her usual armchair by the fireplace.
‘You only come and talk to me when you’re pokin’ yer nose into something.’ Flo handed her a glass of wine.
‘I don’t!’ Libby felt her cheeks burning.
‘Mostly.’ Flo sat down. ‘I don’t mind. Nice to have a chat. So, what is it?’
‘Actually, I’m not sure I do want to know anything,’ said Libby, feeling the red tide recede. ‘I think I just wanted a chat.’
Flo lit another cigarette. ‘Go on. Bet you’re doin’ something with that Fran. Aintcher?’
‘Yes – well, I was. It’s just been taken over by the police.’
‘Doesn’t usually stop yer.’
‘No, but this time there’s nothing we can do about it.’
‘Don’t believe it.’ Flo sipped her wine. ‘Go on, then, what is it?’
Libby reflected that Flo probably enjoyed talking about her local knowledge as much as she enjoyed listening.
‘Well,’ she began, ‘Fran is taking a creative writing course with a writer called Amanda George.’
‘What’s that, then? She learning how to write that curly writing?’
‘Calligraphy?’ Libby giggled. ‘No, Flo. It means learning how to write stories and novels.’
‘Don’t know how you can learn that.’ Flo sniffed and drank more wine.
‘Well, you can. Anyway, this Rosie -’
‘Who?’
‘Rosie. Sorry. Amanda George is Rosie’s pen name. Or Rosie is Amanda’s real name. Whichever way you like.’
Flo looked confused. Libby hurried on. ‘Well, she found out that Fran was psychic and asked us to look into this house she dreamt about.’
‘More old houses. Is it a real one?’
‘Oh, yes. White Lodge at Cherry Ashton.’
‘Oh, that place.’ Flo’s eyes narrowed.
‘Do you know it?’ Libby was surprised.
‘Everyone knows it. Them children.’
‘Yes, people kept telling us about the children. It turns out they were TB victims buried in the garden.’
‘Haunted, that place.’
‘You don’t believe in ghosts, Flo.’
‘That’s as may be. There’s no arguing with some things, though.’
‘Like what?’
‘They used to see a girl. And music playing.’
‘Really? When was this? And how do you know?’
‘They dug a body up there. Years ago.’
‘Yes, Rosie said that. Do you know any more about it? When it was? How it happened?’
Flo lit another cigarette and squinted thoughtfully through the smoke.
‘This bloke that owned it wanted to build a bit more on the back. But someone – government probably – said he’d have to dig something up first.’
‘What bloke? We don’t know about a bloke?’
Flo was disconcerted. ‘I don’t know. It was in the papers. They dug up this kid’s body. Then someone in the house saw this ghost. So he stopped the building.’
‘And sold it?’ Libby leant forward. ‘Who was he, Flo? We haven’t found any references to that, and we’ve all been looking into it. Us, the police, everyone. Even a history professor.’
‘I’m sorry, gal. I just remember about the kids and the ghosts.’
‘You said kids plural. And ghosts plural.’
Flo shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t remember much about it. But everyone knew.’
‘Yes, so people keep saying, yet no one will actually tell us anything,’ said Libby, and took out her own cigarettes.
‘You looked on the internet?’
‘Course I did. So did Inspector Connell. And the history professor. And he went to his archaeological society’s library.’
Flo frowned. ‘Don’t understand it. Course I wasn’t here when it was a hospital or the workhouse, but we all knew about it.’
‘And you say a private individual owned it?’
‘Some bloke, I said.’ Flo sounded irritated. ‘P’raps Het’ll know.’
‘Or Dolly or Una?’ said Libby, referring to two of Flo’s contemporaries in the village.
‘They might.’ Flo shrugged. ‘I’ll ask ’em at bingo if you like.’
‘Would you, Flo? Thank you.’ Libby leant back and lifted her wine glass. ‘Cheers.’
Later, Libby reported her conversation with Flo to Fran. ‘There’s a bit of a mystery there, isn’t there? Why can’t we find anything about it anywhere? Even Andrew only found out about it being a TB hospital.’
‘And we never asked when it closed, did we?’ said Fran.
‘He said he’d got more research to do, remember? I wonder if he’s found out anything else? And if he found anything with Ian?’
‘All I know is what Ian told me. It wasn’t a modern body.’
‘Could I ring Andrew, do you think?’
‘You could, if you think it’s worth it. I’ll give you his number. But I don’t suppose he’ll tell you anything about Wednesday morning.’
But she was wrong.
Chapter Eleven
‘IT WAS FASCINATING,’ ANDREW told Libby later. She’d had the bright idea of inviting him to Steeple Martin, and followed it up with another bright idea, suggesting that they go to The Pink Geranium for dinner to thank him for his help.
‘It’s Ian who should be buying him dinner,’ grumbled Ben, ‘or at least this Rosie.’
‘Oh, don’t be a grump. He’s a nice guy. In fact,’ Libby was struck with a third bright idea, ‘why don’t we ask Rosie too?’
So Andrew picked Rosie up on the way and they all met in The Pink Geranium at eight o’clock. Donna brought them menus and Harry brought a bottle of red wine.
‘I see they know you here,’ said Andrew, amused.
‘This old trout is one of my best friends,’ said Harry, throwing an arm round Libby’s shoulders. ‘But be wary. She gets into things she shouldn’t.’
‘Harry,’ warned Libby.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Harry. ‘This is one of the things, isn’t it?’
Rosie laughed. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘I’m one of the things.’
‘Oh, you’re the author?’ said Harry. ‘Oh, bugger. I’ve got to go and cook your dinners, so I can’t ask all about it. I shall be back later.’
After they’d all ordered, Libby asked Andrew about his Wednesday morning experiences and he said it was fascinating.
