‘I wonder.’ Libby frowned over the steering wheel.
‘Wonder what? Decomposed bodies. At White Lodge?’
‘Or that barn. Looks as though it was a barn once, doesn’t it?’
‘Why should there be decomposed bodies there?’
‘I don’t know. But the whole thing’s weird. We must tell Ian.’
‘And he’ll tell us off again,’ said Fran.
‘It was your idea to come back today,’ said Libby. ‘I shall say I was misled.’ She slowed at a road junction. ‘Oh, look. It doesn’t go to Steeple Mount, it goes to Steeple Cross.’
‘In that case can we go back? It’s completely the wrong direction.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Libby. ‘Look, if we go right we go back to Heronsbourne. That’s a coincidence, isn’t it? Me having gone there yesterday.’
‘Yes, but we’re not stopping for a drink today,’ said Fran. ‘I need to get back and get the dinner on.’
‘So,’ said Libby a little later, ‘you think it was definitely part of the TB hospital?’
‘I felt as though I couldn’t breathe. There was this awful pain. There was something wrong, I’m sure.’
‘Are we going to tell Rosie? Or are we not friends with her any more?’
‘I think we might tell Andrew. Ask if there’s any evidence of that barn in the old documentation. If there’s anything wrong with Rosie’s story Ian’ll find out.’
‘All right.’ It was Libby’s turn to sigh. ‘Isn’t it funny how whenever we get involved with one of these investigations there comes a point where we say we’ll stop and back out.’
‘And we never do,’ said Fran wryly.
Libby dropped Fran at Coastguard Cottage and drove slowly back to Steeple Martin. Fran had promised to call Ian and leave a message rather than disturb his Sunday, although, as she said, policeman often don’t get Sundays. Libby was to contain her soul in patience once more and wait until she heard from either Ian or Fran.
‘Can’t I even ask Andrew about the plans and stuff?’ she’d asked, but Fran had been adamant. And, as Fran was usually the sensible one, she had to agree. When she reached home, she tried to put the whole thing out of her mind and concentrate on looking forward to Ben’s return.
Chapter Seventeen
WHEN MONDAY AFTERNOON WAS almost over and Libby still hadn’t heard anything from Ian or Fran, she broke and rang Fran.
‘No, I haven’t heard either,’ she said, ‘but I was going to ring you because I’ve just heard from Andrew.’
‘Oh, great! What’s happened? Has he found something?’
‘Well, yes, but it’s all rather odd. He’s been helping Rosie and he says it’s her story, so would we like to go either to her cottage or his flat and hear all about it. He says she’s a bit upset.’
‘So, another false confession, do you think?’
‘I think we should reserve judgement. He said to go this evening, but I said it was too short notice. Tomorrow?’
‘Yes, as early as possible. You don’t think we ought not give her the opportunity to sleep on it and change her mind?’
‘I think Andrew will keep her to the sticking point.’
‘There’s definitely romance in the air there, isn’t there? Harry must have been right about her flirting with him.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Fran. ‘You must admit Harry can be a bit of a bitch sometimes.’
‘True. He means well, though.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Fran. ‘Right, what shall I say to Andrew? Ten o’clock?’
After several more phone calls it was arranged that Fran and Libby should meet at Rosie’s cottage the following morning at ten thirty.
‘Andrew said he didn’t want to give her the opportunity not to turn up,’ said Fran, ‘so he’s a bit dubious about her, too.’
‘Perhaps he’s an all right bloke, then,’ said Libby. ‘And not in on the scam.’
‘Oh, shut up about the scam,’ said Fran. ‘You’re not in a Mafia movie.’
Fran’s car was already parked when Libby arrived at the cottage. It was a grey, drizzly day, and the lupins, foxgloves and hollyhocks drooped and dripped either side of the path, drained of colour. Andrew opened the door.
‘Libby, come in.’ He stood aside for her to enter, smiling. ‘Forgive me for playing the host, but Rosie’s a little fragile at the moment.’
Fragile? wondered Libby. What does that mean?
Fran was sitting on a comfortable-looking sofa in front of the french windows, while Rosie sat in what was obviously a favourite armchair beside the fireplace. She looked washed out, and years older than the last time Libby had seen her.
Andrew brought in a tray with coffee percolator, mugs and milk and set it on a large square footstool.
‘Thank you, Andrew,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m sorry to be such a sad case, ladies, but I’m a bit overcome by all this.’
‘By all what?’ said Libby.
‘You know Rosie came with me last week to Maidstone to carry on with the research?’ said Andrew, handing round mugs of coffee. ‘Well, we looked in the archaeology society’s library and the Maidstone archives. And eventually, we tracked down some evidence.’
‘I wouldn’t have known how to go about it,’ said Rosie, ‘but Andrew did. He found some documents relating to the workhouse, and eventually the title being transferred to the owners of the Princess Beatrice sanatorium.’
‘I expect Inspector Connell would have been able to find that too, eventually,’ said Andrew.
‘Yes, he was going to get in touch with the records office yesterday morning,’ said Libby. ‘So who bought it?’
‘No one we’d ever heard of,’ said Rosie, ‘but then Andrew followed a trail to some other documents.’ She shrugged and spread her hands. ‘It was incomprehensible to me.’
‘I found some references to piano concerts given to raise funds for the sanatorium.’ Andrew paused as both Libby and Fran drew in sharp breaths. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. Well, if Inspector Connell’s been to records, he’ll know this already. He obviously hasn’t told you?’
‘We haven’t heard from him,’ said Fran. ‘He doesn’t tell us everything.’
‘No, of course not,’ Andrew smiled again. ‘Sorry. Well, what we found out was that the man who bought White Lodge after it was closed as the Princess Beatrice Sanatorium was Paul Findon.’
Fran and Libby looked at each other.
‘Who?’ said Libby.
‘Paul Findon.’ Rosie cleared her throat. ‘You two are probably too young to remember him, but he was a concert pianist and the greatest exponent of Debussy’s work of his generation.’
‘No!’ said Libby.
‘Heavens,’ said Fran.
‘It doesn’t stop there,’ said Andrew.
‘It wouldn’t,’ said Libby. ‘Rosie remembers the music and the interior of White Lodge as it was years ago. There’s obviously a connection.’
‘Quite.’ Andrew raised his eyebrows at her. ‘So we looked him up online, found his birth and death dates and looked him up in the historical records.’ He looked across at Rosie.
‘And he’s my uncle,’ she said.
After a short shocked silence Libby said ‘And you didn’t know?’
Rosie shook her head.
‘It’s been a bit of a shock,’ Andrew continued for her, ‘and we’ve no firm knowledge because of course Rosie’s parents are dead and Paul Findon had no children and doesn’t appear to have married.’
