AFTER A MAMMOTH EFFORT, Libby was actually ready before eight o’clock on Saturday evening. The cold starter and the dessert were in the fridge, all the main course dishes in the warming oven, the table was laid and the glasses polished. Libby descended the stairs and was handed a scotch by Ben.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Now sit and relax for a few minutes.’
Ten minutes later, and the guests arrived. Libby was pleased to see Ian looked relaxed and cheerful, although Fran didn’t.
‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered, bearing her friend into the kitchen on the excuse of checking the food.
‘Being in a taxi with those two,’ said Fran.
‘But Guy’s not jealous, you said. And Ian’s a perfect gentleman.’
‘I know, but it’s your fault, bringing it all up again. I felt so awkward.’
Libby frowned at her. ‘Sure it was just you feeling awkward, and not one of your moments?’
‘Oh, no.’ Fran sighed. ‘It was just me. And they chatted away about all sorts of things. Football, cricket, the government…’
‘Well, just you relax, now, and forget all about it. And I promise not to tease you any more. Here.’ Libby fetched a bottle of Sancerre from the fridge. ‘You like this, don’t you?’
‘I do, indeed!’ Fran leant forward and kissed her friend’s cheek. ‘Thank you. And did I ever say thank you for introducing me to my husband?’
‘Gosh, no! You never did!’ Libby laughed. ‘Go on. Ben’s got the bottle opener in there.’
When everyone had been served with drinks, Ian looked across at Libby and grinned.
‘Go on then, Mrs Sarjeant. Start the catechism.’
Libby coloured. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Everyone laughed.
‘All right then, I’ll start without you,’ said Ian. ‘Where were you up to?’
‘We came with you on Thursday to tell Rosie about the bodies in the barn,’ said Fran.
‘And you said they were all female as far as you could tell,’ said Libby.
‘And then you two and Rosie all turned up in Cherry Ashton yesterday lunchtime.’
Libby and Fran looked at each other.
‘We discussed that,’ said Fran. ‘Was it the policemen who told you?’
‘They told Maiden, who was also informed by a couple of the constables who were resuming house-to-house enquiries yesterday afternoon. He told me.’
‘Right,’ said Libby. ‘So it was Mr Vindari?’
‘And Colonel Weston at Ashton Court.’
‘Who?’ said Ben and Guy together.
Fran explained.
‘I think Rosie took rather a shine to him,’ said Libby.
‘According to one of the constables, Weston was trying to find out who you all were. I think he assumes you’ve got something to do with us. That or the media. Incidentally, you didn’t tell any of your pals about this, did you?’
‘If you mean Jane or Campbell, no, we didn’t,’ said Fran.
‘But Campbell already knew about the bodies at White Lodge,’ said Libby. ‘He told me that last week.’
‘I didn’t think you had, but nevertheless, the Kent and Coast van turned up in the village late yesterday afternoon, complete with your friend Campbell. And then of course, it was on the local news, but we managed to fob them off by telling them it was all part of the same investigation.’
‘Well, it is,’ said Libby.
‘In a way,’ said Ian, ‘but the forensics on the bodies so far are completely different. The bodies in the barn are far more recent. And they’re all murder victims.’
No one said anything for a moment, until Ben stood up. ‘Refill?’ he asked.
After the glasses were refreshed, Ian took a healthy sip of his gin and tonic and continued.
‘The bodies at White Lodge are all young victims of TB who had been poisoned, but the pathologist doesn’t think it was deliberate. She thinks it was someone trying an experimental treatment who got the dosage wrong.’
‘That’s what I said,’ said Libby in triumph.
‘But,’ said Ian, fixing her with a look, ‘not an experimental treatment for TB.’
‘Eh?’ They all stared at him.
‘Apparently, the compound was being investigated back in the early fifties but was never used because it was thought to be too dangerous. So someone was testing it on those poor kids and killing them. That’s why they were buried in the garden.’
‘Then why mark their graves with stones?’ asked Ben.
Ian shook his head. ‘They were misleading. We discovered a chapel just beyond the garden, and most of those gravestones belong to that. We managed to get a conservator to clean some of them up and the dates are mostly mid-eighteen-hundreds. The bodies are nineteen-fifties. Mostly girls between eleven and fifteen, as far as the pathologist can make out.’
‘What about the re-burial?’ asked Fran. ‘And the flowers?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘So how did the pathologist find out that it was poison? None of the organs would have been there after all this time,’ said Ben.
‘It’s very complicated, but the compound was of arsenic and something else. Arsenic apparently stays in bones and even back in the thirties tests were being done on bones over nine years old finding quite high concentrations. There was hair present in most of the burials, too. The only reason we looked for it was that report of so called “accidental” poisoning in the newspaper clipping.’
‘So what about the bodies in the barn?’ asked Guy after a moment.
Ian looked round at them all. ‘Are you sure you want to hear about this? Wouldn’t you rather wait until after dinner? I don’t want to spoil your appetites.’
‘Oh, glory, is it that gruesome?’ said Libby.
‘No, but it’s murder. Always unpleasant.’
‘All right, we’ll wait,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, I don’t want the food to spoil.’
At the end of the meal, Libby took the cheese board into the sitting room, Ben topped up glasses and they all prompted Ian to continue with his story.
‘We haven’t had time to do full post-mortems on the bodies yet, nor get back toxicology results,’ he said, leaning back in his armchair. ‘It’s not quite as quick as it is on television. But they are all female.’
‘And were they poisoned?’ asked Libby.
‘He just said they’ve got no results yet, Lib,’ said Ben kindly.
‘Oh.’ Libby’s colour crept up her neck.
‘It’s a serial killer, then?’ said Guy.
‘We can’t be certain. The women were certainly all attacked physically, and as far as we can tell none of them are more than a couple of years old. The bodies, I mean. The ages of the women are merely speculative so far, but in the region of late teens and early twenties.’
‘So not the same as the previous victims?’ said Fran.
‘As far as we can see, again, there’s no connection at all.’
‘Then it’s a coincidence?’ said Libby. ‘That’s pretty remarkable.’
‘As we’re working completely in the dark there’s nothing to link them, but it does seem odd.’
‘Have you looked at Paul Findon?’ said Fran.
‘Why in particular?’
‘Weren’t you going to look into how he died?’
‘We did. There was an inquest, and a report in the local paper. I expect it made the national press at the time, as he was still reasonably famous.’
‘Well, how, then?’ said Libby.
‘Oh, he died after a fall. Hit his head apparently. His sister found him.’
‘Well, that’s suspicious for a start! And that sister was Rosie’s mum.’
‘The inquest found nothing suspicious, and the police did investigate – again because he was quite a famous local personality.’
‘Was Rosie mentioned?’ asked Fran. Ian turned to her in surprise. ‘No, of course not. Why should she be? She was a child and probably wasn’t even there.’
‘No, that’s not right,’ said Libby. ‘If her mother was there, she would have been, too.’
‘I think you ought to look into it,’ said Fran.
Everyone became fractionally more alert.
‘Do you?’ said Ian. ‘From what angle?’
‘Where did he fall in particular. Was it in the cellar?’
‘Cellar? What cellar?’
‘Haven’t you found it yet? It was in the estate agent’s details.’
‘I haven’t seen them,’ said Ian. Libby got up and fetched her laptop.
‘There,’ she said, bringing up the familiar site. ‘It isn’t on their current site, you can only get them by going through this old link.’
Ian felt in his pocket and brought out a pen drive. ‘May I?’ he said holding it up. Libby nodded. They all waited while Ian copied the link and then watched in silence as he read through the details.
‘This is very useful,’ he said as he took out the pen drive and gave the laptop back to Libby. ‘For a start there are actually details of the barn and it mentions the cellar and where the door is, yet we haven’t found it yet.’
‘Which means in the last two or three years it’s been blocked up,’ said Libby.
‘Um – I suppose you wouldn’t like me to have a look, would you?’ asked Ben diffidently.
‘Of course!’ said Ian. ‘Why didn’t I think of that before? You’re an architect.’
‘A retired architect, but yes, I am.’ Ben smiled round at them all. ‘I should quite like to be involved if I’d be any use.’
‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it, either,’ grumbled Libby. ‘Or why you didn’t mention it earlier.’
‘Well, you had the prof, and it didn’t seem as though I would be much use. And he did say he could put you on to a specialist. But if this is a case of looking for hidden rooms I’d probably be as good a bet as anyone.’
‘It’s got everything, this case, hasn’t it?’ said Guy. ‘Secret rooms, spooky music, disinterred bodies, hidden family history – you name it.’
‘I’d just as soon it didn’t,’ said Ian, ‘but I suppose I ought to thank you two for bringing it to our attention. Although there’s nothing much we can do about the bodies of the TB victims, hopefully we’ll be able to find the modern murderers.’
‘Modern murderers?’ said Libby. ‘Not a serial killer, then?’
‘We think so.’ Ian was cautious.
‘But you’re not going to tell us why,’ said Ben.
‘I can’t really,’ said Ian. ‘I’ve told you more than I should already. As usual.’
‘But you said you wouldn’t know about it without us,’ said Libby.
‘Although it was pure – wrong – guesswork about the barn,’ said Ian.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby, and subsided.
‘When could you come and look at the house, Ben?’ asked Ian.
‘When you like. Monday?’
‘Can I come with him?’ asked Libby.
Ian sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He looked over at Fran. ‘And you’ll want to come, won’t you?’
Fran grinned at him. ‘If Libby’s going I’m not going to be left out.’
‘And meanwhile,’ said Ian, ‘I promise I’ll see if I can’t find out more about Findon’s death.’
‘And perhaps his life,’ said Fran.