Chapter Two
‘WHAT DID YOU THINK?’
‘About Rosie or the quest?’ Libby squeezed back into the passenger seat of Fran’s tiny car.
‘Both.’ Fran started the car. ‘You liked Rosie, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, OK, I liked Rosie. Have you read any of her books?’
‘Of course I have. She’s my writing tutor.’
‘But you might not read her books. They might not be the sort you like.’
Fran shot a quick glance sideways at Libby. ‘What’s the problem, Lib? What are you getting at?’
‘Nothing.’ Libby fumbled for the seat belt catch. ‘I just wondered. Would I like them?’
‘As I’ve never seen you read a book, I have no idea what you like.’
‘I read.’ Libby was indignant.
‘What, though? Magazines? Scripts?’
‘Sometimes. I like home magazines. And scripts if I have to.’
‘Books?’
‘Some. You know I do. I like crime and romance -’
‘Oh, not chick-lit?’ Fran snorted.
‘Don’t be judgemental,’ said Libby. ‘Not all women’s fiction is chick-lit, and not all chick-lit is badly written.’
‘Oh.’ Fran shot her friend another quick look in surprise. ‘So you do read.’
‘I lent Cy books last winter when he was holed up at Peter and Harry’s. I have an eclectic range. And I love the mobile library.’
‘I miss that,’ said Fran. ‘I have to go to the main library in Nethergate now.’
‘Well, surely they’ve got a better selection than the mobile one,’ said Libby.
‘But the mobile one stops right outside Harry’s caff,’ said Fran.
Fran had lived briefly in Libby’s home village of Steeple Martin, staying in the flat over The Pink Geranium, the vegetarian restaurant owned by their friends Harry and Peter. Harry was the chef, Peter a sleeping partner who occasionally helped out in extremis.
‘Actually,’ said Libby, ‘the library comes tomorrow. I shall see if they have any of Rosie’s books. Do you call her Rosie in class?’
‘No,’ said Fran. ‘She’s a tutor because she’s Amanda George, so that’s what she’s called in class.’
‘And is she good? As a tutor?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Fran smiled. ‘Well, I think so, in that she’s inspiring, but I’ve never been to a writing class before, so I don’t know.’
‘And is she weird?’
‘What?’
‘Well, dreams and asking us to find out about a house…’
‘So I’m weird, now, am I?’
‘Eh?’ Libby turned to look at her friend. ‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s exactly what I did,’ said Fran. ‘And you helped me.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘And that’s what you’re writing about, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly. And at least we know where this house is, so we’ve got a starting place,’ said Fran.
‘Although why Rosie hasn’t started research herself I can’t understand,’ said Libby. ‘It’s almost as if she’s scared of it.’
‘Oh, she is.’
‘Definitely?’ Libby turned to look at her friend again.
‘Oh, yes. And that wasn’t even one of my moments. It was coming off her in waves. Couldn’t you feel it?’
‘Not a thing,’ said Libby. ‘And even if it wasn’t a moment, you pick up those sort of things when normal people don’t.’
‘So I’m back to being weird again,’ said Fran.
Libby sighed.
Fran parked opposite Libby’s cottage in Allhallow’s Lane, just behind the increasingly decrepit Romeo the Renault in which Libby frightened the roads of Kent.
‘More tea?’ asked Libby.
‘Why not?’ Fran got out of the car and locked it.
Sidney the silver tabby sat in the window to the left of the front door and watched their approach before disappearing as Libby put the key in the lock, and shot between their feet as she opened it.
‘That cat’ll be the death of me,’ said Libby, leading the way through to the kitchen, where she filled the electric kettle.
‘Does he trip you up on the stairs?’ Fran leant against the table.
‘Of course. You know how he waits on the third step up.’ She set two mugs beside the kettle. ‘Go and get my laptop and we’ll see if we can look up White Lodge, shall we?’
Fran obediently fetched the laptop, sat down at the table and opened it.
‘Shall I just put White Lodge, Cherry Ashton into the search engine?’ she asked.
‘See if anything comes up.’ Libby poured water into the mugs.
Fran pressed some keys and sat back with a laugh. ‘Well!’ she said. ‘You’ll never guess what.’
‘What?’ Libby put a mug down beside her, and leant over her shoulder.
‘It’s for sale. Look.’ She clicked through links and came up with an estate agent’s website. ‘Oh, no, it’s not. It must have been removed.’
‘Go back to the original link,’ said Libby. ‘See what the date is.’
The original link turned out to be the estate agent’s description of the property when it was registered a year previously.
‘Seven bedrooms,’ read Libby, ‘fab. No pictures.’
‘Cellars, walled garden – and look – there’s a barn.’
‘Rosie said it was boarded up. She must have been to see it,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think she saw it and then it triggered off the dreams? Or she dreamed it and went to find it?’
‘If she dreamed it first she wouldn’t know where it was.’
‘No, but perhaps she just stumbled across it?’
Fran looked up. ‘Why didn’t we ask any of these questions when we were with her? They seem so obvious now.’
Libby shrugged. ‘Surprised, I suppose, and keen to get on with another mystery. Didn’t she give you any indication of what she wanted to ask us?’
‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘I though it must be to ask us about one of our cases -’
‘Cases!’
‘Investigations, adventures, what you like. I thought it would be that, to use in a book.’
‘I wonder who bought it?’ Libby turned the laptop to face her. ‘And how long ago Rosie saw it? It sounds as though it was recently.’
‘Perhaps it wouldn’t sell, so they took it off the market.’
‘Complicated isn’t it?’ Libby clicked back to the search engine. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything else about it.’
There were, in fact, several references to White Lodge, but only in passing, and many of them turned out to be nothing to do with the house at all, until Fran clicked on a reference to Cherry Ashton workhouse.
‘Look!’ she pushed the laptop back towards Libby. ‘It was part of a workhouse!’
‘Blimey.’ Libby peered at the page. ‘Demolished in – what? 1909? Why is the house still there?’
‘I should think it was the – oh, I don’t know – warden’s house? Too good to demolish?’
‘Let’s look up the workhouse,’ said Libby.
It wasn’t until Ben appeared in the kitchen over an hour later that Fran realised what the time was.
