Murder to Music

Book 8: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths; Thrillers

Synopsis

Lesley Cookman's bestselling series featuring amateur sleuth Libby Sarjeant is back for its eighth instalment. Amateur detective Libby Sarjeant and psychic investigator Fran Castle are invited to look into a house that is reputedly haunted by a seemingly musical ghost. For once, Libby can be as nosy as she likes without being accused of getting in the way of a police investigation. However, when they unearth 50-year-old graves in the gardens, the police are bound to cramp their style. Someone alive today doesn?t want them interfering either, and their lives are in danger as they try to unravel the mystery of their Debussy playing ghost.

Release date: May 1, 2012

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 252

Sample

THE WIND BLEW GREY clouds rimmed with silver across a darkening sky and the house was revealed in a flash of lightning. A light shone briefly from a window on the left, turned into a flickering strobe by a whippy birch. The music came to a sudden stop and the light went out.

Fran parked her car as close to the hawthorn hedge as she could.

‘I can’t get out now,’ said Libby.

‘You’ll have to slide across, then,’ said Fran, climbing out herself. ‘The lane’s too narrow to park anywhere else.’

Libby levered herself across the gear stick and caught her jacket on the handbrake.

‘Blimey,’ she said, blowing out her cheeks. ‘This woman makes things difficult, doesn’t she?’

‘Difficult? Why?’

‘No buses, nowhere to park. Doesn’t she want visitors?’

Fran laughed. ‘Not everyone lives in the centre of a village, Lib. Just because it’s a little off the beaten track doesn’t mean she’s unsociable.’

Libby looked round. The lane ran between fields that stretched to further hedges, small hills and a few clumps of trees. High summer: there was a smell of meadow with an undertone of cowpat.

‘Come on then,’ she sighed. ‘Let’s get it over.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ said Fran, leading the way to a small slatted gate set in the hedge. ‘You were just as keen to meet her as she was to meet you.’

‘She’s a celebrity seeker,’ sniffed Libby.

Fran laughed even louder. ‘She’s a famous novelist, Lib! I hardly think she thinks of you as a celebrity.’

The cottage stood, like a Victorian painting, at the end of a short path bordered by hollyhocks, roses, lupins and a few early dahlias. All that was needed was a child in a bonnet and a kitten in a basket.

The door opened and a woman beckoned them in.

‘Come in, come in,’ she said. ‘Hello, Fran. And you must be Libby.’

She held out a hand and Libby shook it. The woman was only a little taller than she was herself, and not as tall as Fran. Her hair was fashionably streaked in shades of blonde, but was obviously white underneath – and distinctly untidy. She favoured, Libby was pleased to see, the same long and floaty clothes she did herself, although baseball boots peeped out from beneath the wide harlequin trousers. She looked at the woman’s round face and found herself being equally minutely studied.

‘I’m Amanda George,’ she said, ‘but only on the covers of the books. Mostly people call me Rosie.’

‘Hello,’ said Libby, suddenly feeling a little shy. The woman was at least ten years older than she was, successful and confident.

‘Well, come on in, then,’ said Rosie, standing aside for them to pass her. ‘Go through to the garden. I thought we’d have tea out there.’

The back garden was as traditional as the front. A vegetable patch appeared to be tucked away behind a ceonothus hedge and yes – here was the cat. A black and white monster who rolled on his back as soon as they appeared.

‘Oh, ignore Talbot,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s shameless.’

‘My Sidney’s just grumpy,’ said Libby, squatting to rub Talbot’s stomach. He stretched his back legs to their full extent and purred a little.

‘Can I do anything to help, Rosie?’ asked Fran.

‘No, nothing. I’m going to boil the kettle. Do you prefer tea or coffee?’

‘Tea, please,’ they said together.

‘Nice,’ said Libby, as they sat down on the cushioned chairs. ‘Lovely garden.’

‘A lot of work,’ said Fran.

‘Too much for me,’ said Libby. ‘I expect she’s got a gardener. All right for some.’

‘You’re letting your prejudice show again,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against her.’

‘I haven’t got anything against her,’ said Libby uncomfortably. ‘She actually seems quite nice.’

Fran snorted, and Rosie came out carrying a tray with teapot, milk jug and mugs.

‘I’ve got sugar if you want it, and I’ve put my sweeteners on there,’ she said. ‘We’ll just wait for it to draw.’

‘I do like tea from a teapot,’ said Libby. ‘I’m fighting a rearguard action against teabags in mugs.’

‘I so agree,’ said Rosie, and Libby suddenly knew what people meant when they said somebody “twinkled”. ‘Mind you, it’s handy on occasions, when you haven’t got much time.’

‘So, what’s the mystery?’ asked Fran, leaning forward with her arms on the table.

‘Straight to the point, eh, Fran?’ Rosie laughed. ‘Reminds me of my writing advice “get straight into the story”. Don’t fanny around with the back story.’

‘But that’s what we want to know, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘The back story?’

Rosie leant forward and picked up the teapot. ‘Of course it is. I’ll just pour this out and then we can get on with it.’

When they all had their cups, Rosie leant back in her chair and looked at Libby.

‘Not that I didn’t want to meet you anyway,’ she said, ‘having read about you in the newspaper and knowing you were a friend of Fran’s.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘But it did seem to be a heaven sent opportunity.’

Libby looked across at Fran and raised her eyebrows. Fran shook her head.

‘An opportunity for what?’ she prompted.

‘Well.’ Rosie sighed. ‘There’s this house, you see. I know where it is, and I know it’s been boarded up. But I need to find out more about it.’

‘For a book?’ asked Libby.

‘No, although I suppose I might turn it into a book one day. No. You see, I dream about it, and it feels as though I lived there.’ Rosie looked from Libby to Fran and made a face. ‘Sounds mad, doesn’t it?’

Fran shook her head. ‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ she said. ‘You know about my experiences.’ Fran was writing her account of how she came to be living in Coastguard Cottage.

‘That’s what made me think of asking you.’ Rosie turned to Libby and smiled. ‘You know Fran’s writing about Coastguard Cottage?’

Libby nodded, although she knew little about the creative writing classes Rosie taught and Fran attended.

‘When we talked about it, she told me how you had stayed there as a child, too, and about the picture. She said you painted similar pictures.’

‘Yes. She could have shown you a postcard. Her husband makes postcards of some of the paintings.’ Libby glanced at Fran, who was looking at the cat.

‘Oh, she has. I’ve now got several.’ Rosie was twinkling again, and Libby warmed to her. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘it gave me the idea of trying to find out about the house and why I dream about it. I’m sure I’ve never been inside it.’

Libby frowned. ‘But surely you must do research for the books you write? Couldn’t you find out about it?’

‘I could, but I think I might get sidetracked and start researching that instead of writing the next book. I don’t suppose you’ve got any more free time than I have, but you might be less likely to let it take over your life.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Fran. ‘You don’t know Libby when she’s got her teeth into something. Nothing else matters.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Rosie looked back at Libby. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be asking.’

Libby laughed. ‘Fran’s exaggerating,’ she said. ‘And she’s as bad anyway.’

Fran smiled ruefully. ‘She’s right.’

‘So what do you think, then?’ said Rosie. ‘Would you like to look into it?’

Fran and Libby looked at each other and nodded.

‘Oh, I think so,’ said Libby. ‘After all, it’s not a murder or anything like that. It would be good to look into something just for interest’s sake.’

Rosie sighed. ‘Thank you.’ She looked down at the table and straightened a spoon. ‘It’s been bothering me slightly. There’s such a strange atmosphere about the dreams.’

‘Where is the house?’ asked Fran after a pause. ‘Is it local?’

Rosie looked up. ‘Oh, yes. Just on the outskirts of Cherry Ashton.’

Fran raised her eyebrows at Libby.

‘Towards the coast the other way from Nethergate,’ said Libby.

‘Near Creekmarsh?’

‘Further over than that. Quite lonely.’

Rosie nodded. ‘The house is on one of the lanes in from the main road. On its own.’

‘Has it got a name?’

‘White Lodge,’ said Rosie. ‘And I think it may once have been the lodge for a bigger house.’

‘Who lives there, now? Do you know?’ said Fran.

‘No one,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s boarded up.’

‘Oh.’ Libby looked at Fran. ‘It’ll be difficult to find anything out about it then, won’t it?’

‘We’ll find a way,’ said Fran. ‘You know we will.’

‘And you will let me know if you start incurring any expenses, won’t you?’ said Rosie.

‘I don’t suppose we’ll have any of those,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘But if we suddenly get a fine for trespassing, you can pay it.’

‘Trespassing?’ said Fran. ‘Are we going to?’

‘Well, we’ll have to go and look at it, won’t we? And up close. So I expect we’ll trespass. Not inside, though. It’ll be all locked up, and I’ve never been good at breaking and entering.’

Fran sighed and shook her head. ‘See what I’m up against, Rosie?’

Rosie laughed. ‘And why she’s the perfect person to investigate. More tea?’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘Could you just tell us about the dreams?’

‘Yes.’ Rosie leant back in her chair. ‘I thought you’d want to know about those.’

‘Well, that’s why you want us to look into it,’ said Fran. ‘Where are you in the dream? Inside or out?’

‘Both. Sometimes I’m in a garden – coming through a gate in a wall. It has a sort of old wooden lintel,’ she frowned, ‘which seems odd in an outdoor wall. And it’s a bit overgrown. There are stones, there, a bit like grave stones.’

Fran looked at Libby. ‘And where else?’

‘Inside. There’s one particular place which has very long windows but no furniture. Although I can hear a piano. And you know how it is in dreams, sometimes I just look round and the whole scene has changed to something else. There’s a kitchen, but it seems to be upstairs and rather shabby. Sometimes it has a bath in the same room.’ She shivered. ‘And this atmosphere. Yet I feel almost certain it’s – or it was – a happy place.’

‘And you have some kind of connection to it?’ said Fran.

Rosie nodded. ‘It won’t let me alone, you see. I seem to dream about it almost every night, and I can’t shake it off during the day. That’s why I need to find out, to lay it to rest.’ She turned to Libby. ‘And why I can’t do it myself, or it would completely take me over. Do you see?’

‘Yes.’ Libby smiled. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find out. Won’t we Fran?’

‘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.

‘Guy will think I’ve left home,’ she said standing up and giving her friend’s partner a quick kiss. Libby went to see her off.

‘So what have you been doing?’ Ben was looking at the computer screen.

‘Fascinating, actually,’ said Libby, ‘and I haven’t even thought about dinner.’

Ben leant back against the sink and folded his arms. ‘I sense a mystery.’

‘Well,’ said Libby, looking guilty, ‘it is sort of.’

‘It must be at least six months since you’ve been involved in something, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Tell all.’

Libby smiled in relief. ‘OK. How long is it since we ate in the caff?’

‘About a week.’ Ben grinned. ‘And now we might as well take out a season ticket. We end up eating there every other night when you’re sleuthing.’

‘It’s not normal sleuthing,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink and I’ll tell you all about it. But first give Harry a ring.’

Over glasses of red wine, Libby filled Ben in on the afternoon’s activities. ‘And then,’ she finished up, ‘we started looking into the Cherry Ashton Workhouse.’

‘And what did you find?’

‘Nothing really. It was there, set up by the Poor Board or something, and there were elected Guardians. So we had a look at workhouses in general. There were some horrible stories, Huddersfield, Andover and Fareham, but no mention of Cherry Ashton. We did wonder, though, because it said in one of the general descriptions that the Master and Matron had apartments in the building. White Lodge is a separate building and it states that the workhouse was demolished 1909.’

‘Perhaps the workhouse was built round it. On land that belonged to it?’

‘Oh, I suppose that could be it. But from what Rosie said and the estate agent’s description it sounded a bit grand for a Master’s lodging.’

‘Well, tomorrow you could call the agents and ask if it’s likely to come on the market again, or if they know anything about who bought it.’

‘Oh, so we could.’ Libby brightened. ‘And we could drive over and see if we can find it. I said we’d look round.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Ben. ‘Don’t go getting yourself into trouble.’

‘As if I would,’ said Libby. Ben sighed.

Later in The Pink Geranium, Donna the waitress brought over the menu.

‘No Adam tonight?’ asked Libby.

‘No, we’re not busy,’ said Donna, ‘and he’s been working hard over at Creekmarsh. Shall I see if he’s in?’

Libby’s son Adam lived in the flat over the restaurant, where once Fran had stayed, and occasionally helped out if Harry was very busy. His proper job was as an assistant to a landscape designer who was currently working on restoring the grounds of a local mansion owned by television personality Lewis Osbourne-Walker.

‘No, don’t worry, Donna.’ Libby suddenly put out her hand to Donna. ‘Is that a ring?’

Donna, unflappable, organised and efficient, blushed. ‘Yes.’

‘Your doctor?’ asked Libby. ‘Oh, congratulations!’ She stood up to hug Donna to the imminent danger of the table.

‘What’s all this?’ said a voice, and Harry appeared, grinning, over Donna’s shoulder. ‘Destroying my restaurant?’

Ben stood to kiss Donna, too. ‘You know what our Libby’s like,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘Hello, Hal. Is Donna allowed champagne on duty?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Donna, flustered. ‘Thank you, but I’ve got to drive to Canterbury when I’ve finished.’ She coloured faintly again. ‘But thank you, all the same.’

‘Her chap’s a doctor at the hospital, isn’t he?’ said Libby, after Donna had gone to fetch a bottle of red wine.

‘Yes. Nice bloke, but very unsociable hours,’ said Harry, sitting down astride a chair. ‘Just hope she’s not going to start breeding and leave me.’

‘Harry!’ Libby slapped his arm. He grinned.

‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Libby forgot to do dinner,’ said Ben.

‘You could have done it,’ said Harry, with a lifted eyebrow.

‘I know, I know, but she suggested we came here.’ Ben made a face at his beloved.

‘Oh, no, you aren’t?’ Harry peered at Libby’s face. ‘Not another investigation?’

‘I don’t know why you should think that,’ said Libby huffily. ‘We eat here all the time.’

‘There’s something about the way Ben said you forgot to do dinner,’ said Harry. ‘Come on. What’s it all about?’

Libby relented and explained.

‘So you see, it isn’t a proper investigation. It’s just to find out something about the house.’

‘Well, it’ll keep you out of mischief,’ said Harry, standing up. ‘I shall now go back to my arduous duties in the kitchen.’

Adam appeared just as they were finishing their meal.

‘Hi, Ma,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘Hi, Ben.’

‘Hello, darling.’ Libby peered round his shoulder. ‘Hello Sophie.’

Fran’s step-daughter Sophie squeezed past Adam to kiss Libby.

‘Hi, Lib. Sorry I’ve been keeping him out till all hours again!’

‘Shocking. Why it’s almost ten o’clock,’ grinned Libby. ‘Will you have a drink with us?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Adam. ‘I’ll go. Red wine? Sophie?’

When they were all settled with fresh drinks, Adam tackled his mother.

‘What’s all this Harry’s telling me about a new investigation?’

‘Oh, for f – goodness’ sake,’ said Libby. ‘Hasn’t anybody got anything better to do than poke their noses into my business?’

Adam and Ben roared with laughter.

‘That’s. . .