Murder to Music

‘No other relatives?’ asked Fran. ‘Cousins?’

‘He was my mother’s only brother,’ said Rosie. ‘So strange to think that all these years I didn’t know. And yet I must have, once. I must have visited him at White Lodge.’

‘There was a huge resistance in you,’ said Fran. ‘You really didn’t want to go back, did you? That’s why you asked us and didn’t tell us the whole story at once.’

Libby looked at her in surprise.

‘I didn’t understand it, though,’ said Rosie. ‘I had to know, yet I didn’t want to. I suppose that makes me sound even madder.’

‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Simply that there’s a reason for it. Something must have happened that you’ve blocked out.’

‘The ghost,’ said Libby eagerly. ‘Could that be it?’

Rosie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘I wonder why he bought it?’ mused Libby.

‘I think we know,’ said Andrew, ‘although it’s a rather strange reason. In his Wiki entry it says he was in hospital for several years with tuberculosis.’

‘More coincidences,’ said Libby.

‘Not at all,’ said Fran. ‘Simply cause and effect. He was in hospital here, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s why he gave concerts in aid of it.’

‘So he was in the sanatorium, grew up to be a pianist, gave concerts to raise money for it, bought the house when it closed as a sanatorium, and meanwhile his sister had married and had Rosie, who has a buried memory of the house and Debussy. It’s all perfectly logical.’

Rosie smiled at her in relief. ‘Put like that it seems so much better,’ she said.

‘I suppose so,’ said Libby grudgingly.

‘All we had to do was unravel it,’ said Fran, ‘which Andrew has done.’

He inclined his head. ‘I merely knew where to go and what to look for,’ he said.

‘But it doesn’t take us any closer to the original body that was dug up, the ghost story, or why the music is played now,’ said Libby.

‘No, and I’m sorry about that.’ Rosie sighed. ‘But at least we know why it’s Debussy. Maybe your Inspector won’t have to carry on looking now.’

‘Have you told him all this?’ asked Fran.

‘No, but I suppose we should.’ Rosie looked at Andrew.

‘I’ll tell him.’ He patted her hand and Libby resisted the urge to look at Fran. ‘He still wants me to get in a buildings expert, so I expect he’ll speak to me.’

‘I’m sure he will.’ Fran smiled her serene, Madonna-like smile. ‘I’m glad you’re happier, Rosie.’

The subject was subtly changed and though Libby was dying to chew over all these new discoveries with Fran, she was forced to sit through another half an hour of conversation and cold coffee before she could decently make her excuses.

‘What did you really think of that?’ she said, when they got to the end of the path.

‘What do you mean?’ Fran looked surprised.

‘All that about cause and effect.’

‘I meant what I said.’ Fran frowned. ‘It was obvious.’

‘Was it?’

Fran sighed. ‘Oh, come on, Libby, stop looking for more mysteries. Of course it was true. It was obvious, as I’ve said. No coincidences.’

Libby looked at her narrowly. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. You know. Absolutely sure.’

Libby sighed. ‘I suppose it did make sense. Wish we knew about the body and the music, though.’

‘What I want to know,’ said Fran, opening her car door, ‘is if the Debussy was played before Rosie went to visit a year ago, or whenever it was. Or was it dug out just for her?’

‘She said that the estate agent who accompanied her was already scared, so something else must have been happening before then.’

Fran nodded. ‘Let’s go home and think about it. I’ll call you later.’

Libby looked up Paul Findon when she got home. Apart from his Wikipedia entry, which was extensive, there were many recordings available, surprisingly, most of them digitised from the originals, most of which dated from the ten years after the end of the last war. She clicked on the listening sample for Clair de Lune and decided it didn’t sound any different from any recording she’d heard. Then she went back to his biography, to find out who his parents were and where he came from. Presumably Rosie would know this, as his parents would be her grandparents, but Libby wanted to see for herself.

However the biography merely said “born in London” with no mention of parents. There was no mention of anything strange or mysterious in the biography, merely the fact that he’d been in a sanatorium with tuberculosis as a child. Then she realised she hadn’t looked up the Princess Beatrice and typed it into the search engine.

The entry wasn’t long in Wikipedia, and there seemed to be very little other mention of it anywhere else. There was certainly nothing about buried children or ghosts.

The phone rang.

‘I’ve just thought,’ said Fran.

‘What?’

‘You know those windows at the barn? We couldn’t see into them, could we?’

‘We couldn’t get close enough, but it looked dark inside.’

‘Suppose those windows had been deliberately blacked out from the inside. You couldn’t tell from a distance.’

‘No. But why?’

‘Did you watch the local news last week?’

‘Eh? Some days. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘The police found a cannabis factory.’

‘They’re always doing that. Little terraced houses with the windows – ah.’

‘Exactly. It would be a perfect place. Out of the way, no one goes near it.’

‘It would, but what would that have to do with White Lodge and the music? Or the bodies, come to that.’

‘Probably nothing, but we ought to tell Ian.’

‘Would he let us know if he was going to investigate the barn place?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Fran. ‘He might tell us afterwards.’

‘Should we go back?’

‘No, of course not. We couldn’t get into the woods on Sunday, so why would we today?’

‘I suppose so.’ Libby blew out a sigh. ‘How frustrating.’

‘Just be patient,’ said Fran. ‘I’m sure we’ll find out eventually.’

The next phone call was from Jane, saying thank you for the flowers Libby had found time to send on Monday.

‘So when can we come and see you? Are you home yet?’

‘Oh, yes, we came home yesterday.’

‘Don’t they throw you out quickly these days? I was in for a week with mine.’

‘Oh, how could you bear it?’ said Jane. ‘All I wanted to do was get home.’

‘I wanted someone there to tell me how to do it all first. And to let me sleep when I wanted.’

‘Oh, Terry’s been terrific. He’s doing everything except the feeding.’ Jane giggled. ‘And he can’t do that.’

‘Fran and I will come one day this week, if that’s all right? What time would be best? Not afternoon, you need to sleep then!’

‘Oh, anytime. Be lovely to see you both.’

‘OK, we’ll ring before we come just to make sure.’

Rather than annoy Fran by ringing her again, Libby sent a text message, then, determined to take her mind off everything else, she cleaned the bathroom.

It was while she was dishing up a rather strange version of chilli and rice that the phone rang again.