Murder to Music

you know exactly where it is?’

‘Ah!’ said Libby. ‘Do you mean the Cherry Ashton workhouse?’

‘Yes.’ The agent sounded relieved. ‘It was the atmosphere, you see. We took a few prospective purchasers to see it, but no one would go in to the attic rooms. Most didn’t even get as far as the kitchen.’

‘I see.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘I would like to see it, if possible, and if it’s all right with you. What about the vendor? Somebody still owns it, don’t they?’

‘It’s a probate sale,’ said the agent, ‘and very complicated.’

‘Who was the owner?’ asked Libby.

The agent became wary. ‘I’m not sure I can tell you anything else,’ he said.

‘No, no, of course not,’ said Libby hastily.

‘And could I ask you what your interest is in the property?’

‘A friend remembered it and asked if it was still on the market,’ lied Libby. ‘She seemed to think it was boarded up.’

‘It is, I’m afraid,’ said the agent. ‘Will she be coming to see it herself?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Libby lied again.

‘Well, you can pick up the keys any time from the office. You’ll have to sign a receipt and probably leave a deposit – because of squatters, you know.’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Libby, wondering how usual it was for estate agents to let viewers go unaccompanied to empty houses.

‘So,’ she said later to Fran on the phone, ‘we can go any time. Today?’

‘You were going to go to the library, and I was going to pop in and see Jane this afternoon,’ said Fran. ‘She’s finished work now.’

‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten,’ said Libby. ‘She’s almost due, isn’t she?’

‘A week or so, I think. Look why don’t you come, too? She’s as bored as hell and very uncomfortable.’

‘OK, and perhaps we can go and see White Lodge tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ said Fran, ‘and I shall be helping in the shop. Guy’s busiest time, a summer Saturday. I might even sell one of your pretty peeps.’

‘Oh, right. Monday, then, I suppose. Shall I ring the agent and make an appointment?’

There was a short silence. Then, ‘No,’ said Fran slowly. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Why? What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fran. ‘But he did say any time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you go and pick them up on your way to Nethergate this afternoon?’

‘The agent’s in Nethergate,’ said Libby.

‘Riley’s?’ asked Fran.

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll pick them up on the way to Jane’s.’

Libby explained about the receipt and the deposit, ‘So I’d better go,’ she finished.

‘Park here,’ said Fran, ‘and we’ll go together. I can be the friend who wants to view.’

‘Brilliant.’ Libby beamed. ‘What time shall I be there?’

‘Why did you not want me to make an appointment?’ Libby asked, as Fran pulled her front door closed behind her.

Fran shook her head. ‘Something -’

‘Something what? Did you have a “moment”?

‘I don’t know. I just felt that if you made an appointment something would happen to prevent you keeping it.’

‘Prevent me?’

‘Well, prevent it from happening.’

‘But why?’

‘I’ve told you,’ said Fran, irritated. ‘I don’t know. Did you go to the library?’

‘Yes. They had two of Rosie’s books.’

They walked along Harbour Street next to the low sea wall, the other side of which families played with buckets and spades, balls and frisbees as though the words “computer games” had never been invented. They waved at Lizzie in her tiny ice-cream shop and at Sophie rearranging items in her father’s shop window.

‘She was with Adam last night,’ said Libby.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Fran. ‘I didn’t think it would last with her being away at uni.’

‘It’s survived over a year despite that,’ said Libby. ‘Are we founding a dynasty?’

‘They’re much too young,’ said Fran firmly. ‘Come on, Riley’s is up the high street.’

The high street climbed sharply away from the square where the venerable Swan Inn stood. A little way up on the right-hand side, Riley’s presented a bland front to the tourists and shoppers. A young man in his shirtsleeves looked up from a desk when they came in.

‘Hello, my name’s Sarjeant,’ said Libby. ‘I rang earlier.’

‘Oh, right.’ The young man opened a drawer and took out a set of keys attached to a large brown luggage label. ‘If I could just ask you to sign here.’ He pushed an open ledger towards her and indicated a space next to the printed name “Mrs Sergeant”. Libby altered it and signed.

‘And here,’ he said proffering a piece of paper, ‘and I’m awfully sorry, but I’ll have to ask for a ?50 deposit on the key.’

Libby produced her credit card. The piece of paper was offered as her receipt for the deposit and he handed over the keys.

‘Do you know where it is?’ he asked. ‘Oh, you said your friend had seen it, didn’t you?’ He nodded towards Fran, and they both smiled.

‘He didn’t even ask if you were the friend,’ said Libby, as they made their escape down the hill and turned right up towards Cliff Terrace and Peel House.

‘It was a reasonable assumption for him to make,’ said Fran.

‘So when are we going to see it?’

‘We could go after we’ve been to Jane’s, unless you’ve got to get back early,’ said Fran.

Libby’s eyebrows rose. ‘You’re keen all of a sudden.’

‘I just feel we should go as quickly as possible.’

‘Before something stops us?’

‘I think so,’ said Fran awkwardly. ‘I know it’s silly.’

‘What would stop us? Not the ghosts!’

‘No – I don’t know.’ Fran looked up at the front of Jane’s attractive terraced house. ‘Come on. I hope they’ve moved down on to a lower level now. She won’t want to be hauling a pram up to the top of the house.’

‘She won’t want to be hauling herself up to the top of the house,’ said Libby, climbing the steps to the front door, ‘let alone a baby and a pram.’

Jane Baker answered the door quickly and beamed. ‘I’m so pleased to see you both,’ she said, stepping aside for them to squeeze past her large bump.

‘Oh, you’ve moved back down here,’ said Fran, as they went into the large room on the left of the hall. For some time the sitting room had been on the top floor of the house.

‘Well, the kitchen’s here, and the bedroom’s only one floor up,’ said Jane, ‘and I couldn’t face the climb to the top!’

‘We were saying that just now,’ said Libby, going to the window, ‘and you’ve still got a lovely view.’

Libby and Fran had met Jane Maurice, as she was then, two years previously. She had subsequently married her tenant, Terry, and credited Libby with getting them together. Libby didn’t mind. It meant Jane, in her position as chief reporter and deputy editor of the Nethergate Mercury, could occasionally be useful if Libby wanted information about practically anything. Also, Terry, her husband, was large, silent and mechanically gifted, not to mention having a sister who was an accomplished singer, songwriter and pianist and useful person to know.

‘So how are you?’ asked Fran, following Jane into the kitchen. ‘Apart from bored?’