‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Libby, as another couple of customers came in and George went to serve them. ‘People like that always had business interests.’
‘I’d like to know what they were.’ Fran drained her mug. ‘Who’d know?’
‘Bloody hell, Fran! How do I know?’
‘Would you have to go to the chamber of commerce or something?’ Fran was staring at the bottles behind the bar not seeing them. ‘Or Rotary?’
‘I thought Rotary clubs were charitable organisations?’
‘But it’s all local businessmen, isn’t it? They’d know about other businessmen.’
‘I don’t think they’d particularly want to be asked questions like that.’
‘Solicitors,’ said Fran. ‘They always know. Ian said he’d been in touch with the firm that rented out White Lodge in the sixties, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, but we couldn’t go asking about Colonel Weston’s dad! What
‘I’m not sure,’ said Fran, looking more normal. ‘I’ll have to think it through.’
‘You do that,’ said Libby, ‘and let me know when you get the answer.’
‘You do realise, don’t you,’ said Fran, ‘that Rosie and Hugh are about the same age. They could have known one another.’
‘Unlikely, isn’t it? The houses are quite far from one another, and Rosie didn’t live here, she only visited.’
Fran nodded. ‘Suppose so. Want another coffee?’
‘No thanks. I’ll get home and be a good little housewife.’
‘You’re not a wife.’
‘Good little house-concubine, then.’ Libby slid off the stool. ‘Come on.’
They waved goodbye to George.
‘Thanks for the information,’ Fran called, and George waved back.
‘Did Ian say when the cellar was bricked up?’ asked Fran, just as Libby was getting into her car.
‘I think Ben thought it was comparatively recent. In years, I mean. Don’t think it was done when Findon was killed.’
‘Oh, so you think he was murdered, too?’
‘Slip of the tongue.’
‘Someone, then,’ said Fran, unlocking her car, ‘knows about it. So the police should be able to track down who did it.’
‘Should they?’ said Libby doubtfully. ‘No one would admit to it, would they?’
‘No,’ acknowledged Fran, ‘but I feel sure they’ll be found.’
‘They?’
‘Whoever bricked up the cellar. And then – who told them to do it.’
‘But that’s got nothing to do with the honour killings.’ Libby was puzzled.
‘There’s got to be a link somewhere,’ said Fran, and got into her car.
Chapter Thirty-two
‘WHAT LINK?’ LIBBY SAID out loud to herself as she drove home. ‘How can there be a link between Paul Findon, the bricked-up cellar and the bodies in the barn?’
She began to review the whole case in her head so thoroughly that she found herself outside number seventeen with little knowledge of how she got there.
First, there was Rosie and the dreams. Then Fran and Libby had visited the house and heard the music and discovered the grave. That was another thing, that grave. Why was it a new grave with an old body? And who laid the flowers? After that, they discovered that Rosie had actually been to the house. Then came the advent of Andrew, the discovery of the archives and of Rosie’s relationship with Paul Findon. Ian’s further revelation of the legacy, Andrew’s claim that he and Rosie had become rather intimate and Rosie’s new, strange attitude.
Almost completely unconnected was Libby’s discovery of the barn, Fran’s suspicions about it and finally, the discovery of the poor mutilated bodies. And Sophie’s missing friend, Rachita, of course.
No. She shook her head as she opened the door and Sidney shot between her legs. There was absolutely nothing to connect the two cases.
Except – Libby stopped and stared hard at the fireplace. All the bodies were on the same estate. That was a given, no one had questioned it, but why were they? Simply because the barn had lain semi-derelict for years and someone knew about it? That could mean anyone in Cherry Ashton, though. So that was a non-starter.
She wandered around the cottage trying to make some sort of sense of the chain of events, then picked up her basket and left the house again. She arrived at the Manor five minutes later.
‘Het,’ she said following her knock into the kitchen, ‘have you ever heard of a Colonel Weston?’
‘Weston?’ Hetty looked up from her old-fashioned yellow mixing bowl. ‘Weston. Rings a bell, but it ain’t an uncommon name, so I coulda known lots of Westons.’
‘Do you think Greg might know? His father was a Weston out at Cherry Ashton.’
‘Go and ask him, girl. You know where to find him.’
‘Weston,’ Greg repeated, screwing up his eyes. ‘Yes, I do seem to remember a Weston. Had a son a bit older than Ben who went away to boarding school.’
‘That’s the one!’ Libby was delighted. ‘Do you remember what he did? We know he had a farm, but the tenant farmer looked after that.’
‘Good heavens, Libby! How on earth would I know that?’
‘If he’d been a – oh, I don’t know – a solicitor, for instance, you’d remember, wouldn’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Greg, looking amused, ‘but I didn’t know the man. He was a good bit older than me. I believe at one time he was something to do with the old hospital -’
‘What?’ Libby almost bounced out of her chair. ‘The sanatorium?’
‘Honestly, Libby, I don’t really remember. All I know is there was a hospital – all right, sanatorium – over there somewhere, and I have the feeling that he was on the board, because they used to hold fund-raising events and he was always the driving force. I don’t know what happened for a few years because I was away, as you know,’ Greg had been in a prisoner-of-war camp during the second world war, ‘and when I came back I wasn’t too well. But I do remember him trying to save the hospital.’ He frowned. ‘That was after the war, of course. Before the war there’d been piano recitals by someone quite famous.’
‘Oh, Greg! I wish I’d talked to you earlier. The hospital was the Princess Beatrice TB Sanatorium, and the pianist was a former inmate, Paul Findon. He’s our friend Rosie’s uncle.’
‘Is he?’ Greg concentrated on a corner of the ceiling. ‘Findon. Yes, I vaguely remember. We had his recording of
‘So Colonel Weston’s father was something to do with the hospital? Oh, this is marvellous!’
‘Why?’ Greg leant back in his leather chair looking interested.
‘Hasn’t Ben told you anything about what we’ve been doing?’ No? Well, you see this is how it all started…’
Ten minutes later Libby had explained the whole story.
‘And you say Fran asked what Colonel Weston’s father did? That’s what made you come and ask me?’ said Greg.
‘You were the only person I could think of, being a local landowner.’
‘I’ll tell you who else might be able to help, and that’s your friend over at Anderson Place.’
‘Sir Jonathan?’
‘When did he buy the place?’
‘He inherited it,’ said Libby. ‘Would he have known other businessmen in the area?’
‘He was – and is – a landowner. That’s the main point, didn’t you say? There’s the local hunt, for instance. I didn’t ever hunt, but I had applications to cross my land.’ He shrugged. ‘Couldn’t really refuse, although I wanted to. Sir Jonathan would have had the same and might have even hunted. Weston, I’m pretty sure, hunted.’
‘So they could both have been members of the local hunt?’ Libby was getting quite breathless with
