and she needed to do something to take her mind off it. The sun was out, the sky was blue, all she needed was a book and a companion.
Ben was out doing something to Steeple Farm, the house owned by his aunt which he had renovated with a view to living there, but Libby, after havering for some time, had reluctantly decided she didn’t want to leave her beloved, although decidedly cramped, cottage. Ben was making sure the house and garden were in a fit state to receive their first tenants in a few days’ time.
So Libby packed some essentials into Romeo the Renault and set off for Nethergate. She could always call and see if either Fran or Jane wanted to join her.
However, neither Fran nor Jane were in. On calling in at Guy’s shop, Sophie informed her that they had gone to see Chrissie, who, apparently, had a scan picture to show them.
‘Couldn’t she have scanned and emailed it?’ asked Libby. ‘Or even come over here?’
‘She’s too worn out, it seems,’ said Sophie, pulling a face. There was no love lost between her and her step- sister.
‘And there’s poor old Jane heaving herself about in that house and looking after her mother.’
‘I thought her mother was supposed to be helping
‘Jane doesn’t want to rely on her.’ Libby shrugged. ‘Horses for courses.’
So she ended up sitting on her cushion on the beach by herself. The sun wasn’t hot enough to cause discomfort, although she still wore an ancient sunhat, and she’d found a relatively comfortable part of the sea wall as a back rest. After a while the book palled and she found herself watching the few young – obviously middle-class – families on the beach. Suddenly a shadow loomed over her.
‘I was told I might find you here,’ said Campbell McLean.
Libby struggled to sit upright and clutched her hat. ‘Hello. What are you doing here?’
‘I was working. The crew have gone now, so I popped in to see Fran, only she’s not home. And young what’s’ername said you were here.’
‘Sophie. Guy’s daughter.’ Libby patted the cushion beside her. ‘Sit down. I can’t peer up at you like that. What were you filming?’
‘A piece about clean beaches. Some environmental group has complained about sewage in the sea during heavy rainfall.’
‘Here?’ Libby shuddered and looked round at the peaceful beach.
‘Oh, it happens everywhere. It’s only supposed to happen a few times in the season, but it’s happening almost every day. Not so bad here, as we’re dryer than most places in the UK.’ Campbell sat down heavily on the beach and took off his jacket. Libby still thought he looked like central casting’s idea of a geography teacher. Quite attractive in his way. She wondered why he wasn’t married.
‘I don’t pretend to understand what the significance of the south-east being dryer is, and I don’t think I want to know,’ she said. ‘Have you got a girlfriend, Campbell?’
‘Wha-?’ His mouth stayed open.
‘Oh, sorry. That was a bit of a non-sequitur, wasn’t it?’
‘Just a bit.’ He looked amused. ‘What prompted it? And as it happens, no I haven’t.’
‘I was just thinking how attractive you are.’ Libby laughed at him as a blush crept up his neck. ‘It’s all right, I’m not after you myself. I was just thinking it was a waste. Unless -’ She stopped.
‘No, Libby, I’m not gay.’ He patted her hand. ‘I just don’t take to commitment.’
‘Yet you look just the sort of guy who would.’ Libby leant back against the wall. ‘Anyway, what did you want to see Fran about?’
‘It was just an idea,’ said Campbell. ‘I hear they’re digging up the children’s graves at the White Lodge.’
Chapter Twelve
LIBBY STARED. ‘HOW DO you know?’ she said finally.
‘Why? Is it a secret?’
‘Well, no, but it’s a police operation. I didn’t think they’d broadcast it.’
‘Things get around. People always want to tell a TV reporter things.’
‘I suppose they do.’
‘Or ask them things.’ Cameron cocked his head interrogatively.
‘Oh. You got the message, then.’
‘Of course. I didn’t get back to you, I’m sorry. But I’ve been a bit busy this last week. I’ve been sitting in as anchor.’
‘You’ve what?’
‘Anchor. The person in the studio for the news report.’
‘Oh. Is that promotion?’
‘No, not really. And I’d hate to do it all the time. I prefer to be out and about. But John’s been on holiday. So, tell me, what did you want to ask me? Was it about the children?’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘Why does everyone else know about them and we don’t?’
‘There’s nothing to know, really. There was a ghost story going round in the fifties when they dug up a body by accident.’
‘Yes, that’s what Rosie said.’
‘Who’s Rosie?’
Libby was wary. ‘A friend of Fran’s.’
‘Has she asked you to look into these children?’
‘Not really. We just sort of – came across them.’
‘And no one knew about them? I find that surprising. It’s a well known folk tale around here. What about your friend Jane?’
‘She knew but got upset. You know she’s pregnant?’
‘No, I don’t really know her. Very pregnant?’
‘Almost due, I think. In fact, she’s not home today, so she could even be in hospital as we speak.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t suppose it’s any more than you’ve learnt already. And I assume your interest has led to the police investigation.’
‘Er.’ Libby cleared her throat. ‘In a way.’
‘Right. I shall want an exclusive as soon as you know anything.’ Campbell leant back on his elbows. ‘Go on, ask away.’
‘Well, so far, a friend who’s a historian has turned up the fact that the workhouse was turned into a TB hospital.’
‘The Princess Beatrice, yes.’
‘There, see?’ Libby was even more irritated. ‘It took us an expert to find that out.’
‘Why? It’s online, surely?’
‘I was looking for the White Lodge and the Cherry Ashton Workhouse. It didn’t come up at all until our Professor Wylie found the records.’
‘Professor Wylie? I know him. We use him as a talking head sometimes,’ said Campbell, making himself more comfortable against the wall. ‘And the answer to that is simple. It wasn’t called White Lodge until after it was the Princess Beatrice.’
‘But it came up on a search as the workhouse,’ said Libby.
‘Yes, that’s a bit odd. Why didn’t it say “formerly the Princess Beatrice and the Cherry Ashton Workhouse”?’
‘I don’t know, although I expect between them Ian and Andrew will get to the bottom of it.’
‘Ian and Andrew?’ Campbell frowned.
‘DI Connell – and Andrew is Professor Wylie.’
‘Oh, he’s co-opted him, too?’
‘Only because we had. So what was the story about the dug-up child?’
