LIBBY HADN’T KNOWN QUITE what to expect at a Records Office, but it appeared to be quite straightforward. On request, documents were produced for White Lodge, the Princess Beatrice Sanatorium and the Cherry Ashton Workhouse.
‘There,’ said Fran. ‘If only we’d come here first.’
‘We didn’t know we were looking for a workhouse or a sanatorium at first,’ said Libby.
‘If we’d come looking for White Lodge we might have found these.’ Fran spread the fragile documents out on the desk before them.
Unfortunately, there was little that appeared to be of use. In the workhouse papers there were some lists of items bought for a couple of years prior to its closure and some unintelligible legal documents pertaining to its adaptation as a workhouse. There was a leaflet promoting the Princess Beatrice Sanatorium as using “the most advanced techniques for the treatment of consumption”, but the best thing Libby turned up was a reference to the “isolation unit”, “at a distance from the main house and wards”.
‘Bet that’s the barn,’ she said. Fran nodded absently.
They leafed through the papers for a while, unsure of what they were looking for, until Libby sat back.
‘The only thing I can see is that it all looks perfectly normal.’
Fran looked up. ‘There is one thing here, though.’ She pushed a newspaper clipping across the desk. ‘It’s a report on the death of one of the TB patients.’
Libby squinted at it. ‘What’s the date?’
‘1948, I think.’ Fran leaned over to look. ‘The trouble is that the patient seems to have died of some kind of poisoning.’
Libby pulled the cutting towards her. ‘It doesn’t say she was actually poisoned, though.’
‘No, it’s worded as if it was a miscalculation.’
‘Well, it probably was,’ said Libby.
‘Weren’t you suspicious of the treatment of the patients the other day? Suspecting that some of them could have died through mistreatment?’
‘Oh-oh.’ Libby frowned down at the cutting. ‘Do you think that’s what this is?’
‘It might explain the burials.’
‘But this was reported. There was a post-mortem. Would have been buried somewhere else.’ Libby sat up again. ‘Hey, I’ve just thought. What if those bodies weren’t reported?’
‘Ian would have come across some evidence of that when he got the forensics on the one they dug up.’
‘Why? He was only looking for a date, not who it was.’
‘Right.’ Fran pulled the large black ledger which contained patients’ details towards her and began to flick the pages. ‘No good,’ she said eventually. ‘The entries in here stop well before the War. They must have been recorded in some other way.’
‘Or not at all.’ Libby was looking excited. ‘Bet you that’s it! They were trying things out on the patients. There must be evidence somewhere.’ She pulled a stack of Princess Beatrice documents towards her.
But there was nothing. Fran asked for permission to photocopy two or three documents she thought might be relevant and once that was done, they left.
‘So how do we find out?’ Libby squinted in the sunshine.
‘If patients were guinea pigs? No idea.’ As they reached the car Fran unlocked it and gave Libby the documents to hold, as there was no back seat to dump them on.
‘And didn’t we assume that some of the graves were really old? From when the Princess Beatrice first opened? They wouldn’t be guinea pigs, would they?’ Libby struggled with her seatbelt.
‘They probably were,’ said Fran with amusement. ‘After all, they were trying out TB treatments then.’
‘Hmm.’ Libby stared unseeingly through the window. ‘Would Ian ask for another exhumation?’
Fran chuckled. ‘I can’t see it. He might let us go and find the cellar, though.’
‘I’m not sure about that. I told you, not a big fan of cellars.’
‘We could at least find out where it is. Where are we going now?’
Libby looked at her in surprise. ‘I don’t know. I thought you were taking me home.’
‘I can, of course, but I thought perhaps we could go and see Rosie. If Ian’s already been, of course.’
Libby laughed. ‘That’s not like you. It’s usually me who wants to gatecrash somebody.’
‘I want to see an unvarnished reaction. Even when we saw her the day she told us about Paul Findon she’d had a night to think about it. And with any luck Andrew won’t be with her.’
‘Oho! Suspicious of him, are you?’
‘No, simply that he’s come over all protective, hasn’t he? From not knowing her at all to Keeper at the Gate.’
‘Mmm. He obviously fancies her.’
‘They must both be in their sixties, though!’ Fran sounded horrified.
‘Fran! I’m surprised at you.’ Libby frowned at her. ‘We’re both in our fifties and in comparatively new relationships. And look how your kids disapproved.’
Fran sighed. ‘You’re right. It’s not like me to be so narrow-minded.’
Libby raised an eyebrow but forbore to comment.
Fran parked up against the hedge again and Libby clambered out complaining.
‘Look.’ Fran pointed up the lane.
‘Ian’s car.’ Libby squinted at it. ‘Do we go in? Or do we wait?’
The appearance of Ian at the garden gate made the question unnecessary. He frowned when he saw them, but waited for them to approach.
‘I might have known you wouldn’t be able to resist it,’ he said.
‘Resist what?’ Libby tried to look innocent.
‘Finding out how Rosie took the news.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Well, go on then. Go and ask her. But be gentle. She’s in shock.’
‘Did she phone Andrew?’ Libby asked.
‘Professor Wylie? Not as far as I know. Why?’
‘We just wondered.’ Libby looked at the closed front door. ‘Do you think she’ll send us away?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’ Ian looked at the documents Libby was carrying. ‘Anything you want to tell me?’
‘Only some old Princess Beatrice documents we found at the Dover records office,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll call you about them later. They aren’t very interesting.’
Ian narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Really. Why do I find that hard to believe?’
‘They aren’t. There aren’t even patient records after the end of the forties.’
‘Right.’ He still didn’t look convinced. ‘Well, give me a ring if there’s anything you think I ought to know.’ He nodded at them and walked off to his car.
‘He’s not happy, is he?’ said Libby watching his upright back.
‘He often isn’t. I suspect being a policeman isn’t the happiest of jobs.’ Fran pushed open the gate and went up the front path. ‘Come on, I don’t want to be chucked out on my own.’
But Rosie stepped aside to let them in as soon as she opened the door, not saying a word.
‘As though she expected us,’ whispered Libby after they’d gone into the sitting room and Rosie had disappeared into the kitchen.
‘She probably did,’ said Fran, perching on the edge of one of the sofas.
Rosie returned and sat down. ‘Kettle’s on,’ she said.
Libby watched as she pleated and repleated the fabric of the long top she was wearing. She was pale, un- made-up and her long hair was loose. That, thought Libby, is not the result of Ian coming to tell her about the will. Something else had already happened.
‘Rosie,’ she began gently, ‘what’s happened?’
Rosie sent her a quick look. ‘Don’t you know?’
Libby frowned and shook her head.
‘But I saw you talking to Ian. He must have told you.’
‘Oh, the will? Yes, we know about that. It was why we were coming to see you.’ Libby leant forward. ‘I didn’t mean that, though. Something else has happened, hasn’t it?’
Fran was looking startled. ‘Libby,’ she said warningly, but Rosie interrupted.
