George at The Red Lion for ages, and it was an outside chance that he might know something about Cherry Ashton and White Lodge. She parked in Pedlar’s Row and looked over to March Cottage, former home of her friend Bella, and now let. There were unsuitable patterned net curtains at the window.
‘Libby!’ George put down his paper and came round the corner of the bar to greet her.
‘Hello, George. Have you still got your excellent coffee machine?’
‘Course I have. You drivin’, then?’
Libby hoisted herself onto a bar stool. ‘Yes. I’ve just been over to Cherry Ashton.’
George turned from inserting a cup into the coffee machine in surprise. ‘What d’you want to go there for? There’s nothing there!’
‘No, I found that out. There’s a pub, though.’
‘Yeah, that’s not bad.’ George put a foaming cup in front of her. ‘Does good food. Won’t let people in from that holiday camp place, though.’
‘Oh, “The Roses”? Why not? I heard someone say today it wasn’t very good.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I reckon it’s as good as most places of that sort, probably better than most. Quite – whatd’youcallit – upmarket.’
‘Is it? Wonder why the pub won’t let them in, then?’
‘Snobbery.’ George resumed his own seat behind the bar. ‘So what d’you go to Cherry Ashton for, then?’
‘My friend Fran – you remember Fran?’
‘Could ’ardly forget either of you, could I?’
Libby pulled a face. ‘All right. Well, Fran and I have been looking into the old workhouse over there.’
‘That’s over on the marsh road, though,’ said George. ‘The main road.’
‘I know White Lodge is, but presumably most of the workhouse buildings would have been down on the Cherry Ashton side if that’s what the place was called.’
‘Makes sense,’ said George. ‘No buildings left now, though, are there? Wasn’t it turned into a hospital, anyway?’
‘A sanatorium, yes. Do you remember it?’
‘Not really. I wasn’t living here then. Heard tell, of course. There was that ghost, wasn’t there?’
Libby sighed. ‘Everyone knows about the ghost.’
George shrugged. ‘That’s about it, then. Wasn’t the police up there the other day?’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Ah! That’s what you was over there for.’
‘Sort of,’ said Libby, licking froth off her coffee.
‘What’s it all about, then?’
‘They thought they’d found a body, but it turned out to be a patient from the hospital.’
‘How could they tell that, then? And how come bodies were buried there and not in the churchyard?’
‘Yes, it is odd, isn’t it? Perhaps as it was all TB victims they didn’t want to infect an ordinary graveyard.’
George snorted. ‘Wouldn’t matter none to they residents, would it?’
Libby giggled. ‘No.’
‘How’s that old cat, then? Your friend still got him?’
‘Balzac? Yes, he’s fine. Very friendly. Fran’s married now, you know?’
‘Is she now. That’s nice. What about you?’
‘No, I’m not. Still with my chap, though.’
‘Chap! Don’t hear that word much these days,’ said George.
‘Well, I don’t know what else to call him. Not boyfriend – not at my age.’
George shrugged again and talk turned to mutual acquaintances. Half an hour later, Libby finished her coffee and went on her way, promising to bring Fran over some time soon.
So, no more information. Just that there was a snobbish pub in Cherry Ashton and that the holiday park was upmarket. Then she remembered, with slight surprise, that she hadn’t mentioned her visit to Cherry Ashton and her meeting with the urbane Mr Vindari to Ian. Although what that would have added to his investigation was probably negligible. Still, she thought, perhaps it would be a good idea to go back to the satellite mapping website and go in a bit closer. She might be able to see the strange building. She put her foot down with new determination.
The weather had changed. Yesterday’s perfect summer holiday had turned into a pre-cursor to autumn. The sun that had trickled through the leaves at Cherry Ashton had disappeared behind an ominous yellowish-grey blanket. As Libby drew up opposite number 17 Allhallow’s Lane the first fat drop of rain hit the windscreen, and by the time she put the key in the lock her hair was damp. Sidney shot in between her legs seeking the shelter of the sofa cushions.
Libby put the kettle on and went to change into a dry top. After leaving tea to brew she woke up the laptop and found it still on the satellite mapping page. Positioning the cursor exactly over the point she wanted, she zoomed in as close as she could, and sat back with a satisfied ‘Ah!’
There was the building, surrounded by trees, not only on the side where she had parked the car, but on all sides, right up to the little cemetery that surrounded the church one side and – incredibly – almost as far as White Lodge behind. She pulled out a little way and viewed the whole estate. Sure enough, although no boundary could be seen, it appeared that the building did belong to White Lodge. There was the barbed wire, of course, but that was outside the wall she’d walked along earlier.
Where this got her, she wasn’t sure, and presumably, on reflection, Ian knew about this, as he’d been watching her. But had he, or his team, actually searched the whole of the grounds? Had they found that building? She got up and went to pour tea. Of course, Andrew had found documents, hadn’t he? So presumably the buildings would be marked on deeds. She sighed. It didn’t seem as though she was learning anything useful that wasn’t already known. She picked up the phone.
‘Harry, have you got room for me tonight instead of tomorrow?’
‘I can find you a seat by the gents, I expect. Why?’
‘I don’t fancy sitting here all on my own all evening.’
‘But you don’t mind tomorrow lunchtime.’
‘Well, no. I can do stuff tomorrow, and anyway, Ben’ll be home in the evening.’
‘My, my, life has changed.’
‘What do you mean?’ Libby was suspicious.
‘Nothing, dear heart, nothing. Don’t come too early tonight.’
‘Eight-thirty? Nine?’
‘Nine. See you then.’
Happier now she had something to do in the evening, Libby went back to the laptop with her tea and began another fruitless search for information about White Lodge, workhouses, sanatoria and ghosts.
Adam wasn’t in The Pink Geranium when Libby arrived. A child masquerading as a waiter asked her nervously if she had booked and looked horrified when she told him she thought so. A stentorian bellow from the kitchen of “Friend” made it even worse, and Libby thought the boy would burst into tears.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, patting his shoulder. ‘I’ll just go and sit on the sofa until Harry tells me where I’m to sit. You just bring me a bottle of the house red and a glass.’
In fact it was Donna who arrived with the wine, rolling her eyes.
‘Honestly,’ she said, taking her time over pouring. ‘Harry’s not making it any easier for that poor boy. It’s his first night.’
‘Bit much, throwing him in the deep end on a Saturday night,’ said Libby. ‘Is he Adam’s replacement?’
‘Not replacement, exactly, but you know Harry’s always said Adam can choose when he works? Well, we need someone here most of the time now we’re getting busier. Adam will still work when he wants to. This Jacob’s still at school, so can only work a few hours a week.’
Libby nodded. ‘How’s the fiance?’
Donna grinned and waggled her left hand. ‘Great, thanks. We’re not going to hang about. Getting married in October.’
‘Good stuff,’ said Libby.
Jacob came over after a few minutes to tell her that Harry had told her to sit at the table in the window when its current occupants left. Libby thanked him nicely, by name and with a smile, and he went away looking marginally happier.
