Murder on the Old Road (16 page)

‘Did you go straight to the pub? Did you look for Hugh?'

‘No. I nipped back to check on Matthew, so when I got to the pub and saw Hugh wasn't there, but Jessica was, I assumed he might be doing the same as me and checking on his baby Julian. Although in his case it would have been an excuse to avoid the row breaking out again. Then Jessica and Val came back from the manor and said Hugh wasn't there after all. I began to feel scared then. Nothing seemed right.'

‘Did you go on the search party?'

‘Yes, but I hung back. I was scared by then, really scared. Mrs Wayncroft was leading it; Vic Painter was there, and Mr Val of course. They'd both have been about twenty and full of the joys of spring. Not that day, though, even though Mr Val was just as keen on developing the place then as he is now. He never got on well with his stepfather, and least of all over that.'

‘It must have caused a terrific uproar in the village.' Georgia tried to imagine the horror of it. ‘It's still surprising to me that the talk seems to have died down so quickly after Hugh's death. You'd think that it would go on being discussed for decades, but it doesn't seem to have been.'

Lisa's mouth took on the set look with which Georgia was becoming familiar. ‘Don't see why. We were all shocked, no matter which side we were on – and some of us had seen Hugh's dead body. So we never talked about it much.' Georgia saw her swallow. ‘Have another slice of cake.'

The subject of the Wayncrofts was closed.

When Georgia returned to the Marsh & Daughter office at Haden Shaw, she found Peter in a familiar position, peering at his computer screen. Nothing new about that, nor about his opening grumpy comment as he swivelled round to greet her.

‘What kept you?'

‘Lisa Moon.'

‘To good effect?'

‘I think so.' Georgia had a moment's doubt. Had Lisa's story sounded just too good to be true? She proceeded to recount all she had been told – often a good policy. Peter could make his own decisions about whether it added up. His reaction this time was predictable.

‘As full of holes as a sieve.'

‘Don't exaggerate.'

‘Some holes,' he amended. ‘Time for Suspects Anonymous.'

This software, created by her cousin Charlie to keep track of Marsh & Daughter evidence and theories, was Peter's pride and joy. Sometimes, Georgia grudgingly admitted, it could be helpful, but for her it was a distraction that often misdirected them. Peter would hear no ill of his favourite toy, however.

‘I didn't know you'd begun a file for Hugh Wayncroft,' she said.

‘Indeed I have, and most interesting it is. All the witnesses' stories run in more or less parallel lines, but occasionally one makes a dash for the victim.'

‘What happens then?'

‘So far, he or she gets back in line and the victim goes merrily on in good health.'

‘Not helpful. Anything else?'

‘Oh yes. A flag of omission waving in the evidence.'

‘Sparked off by what?'

‘Lack of trace evidence. Lack of dovetailing statements for that pilgrimage.'

‘Who does Suspects Anonymous fancy?' she asked.

‘Hardly surprisingly, Val Harper. He'd clashed with his stepfather over the Becket ruins, only to find out after his death that the estate reverted to Robert, on whose charity he, Julian and his mother became dependent.'

‘We don't know that Val and Jessica Wayncroft were ignorant of the arrangement. If they knew it, that does away with their motive, but I wouldn't mind betting they didn't. At Hugh's age, and being younger than Robert, it would hardly have seemed a pressing problem as regards his family's future. Far more interesting is why Anne Fanshawe bequeathed the ruins back to the Wayncrofts, whose plans for development she was strongly resisting. And then, of course, there's Aletta.'

‘She wasn't around in 1967.'

‘But she is now. And so is Val.'

There was no sign of Luke when Georgia at last reached Medlars, although it was getting on for eight o'clock. He must still be working in the oasthouse office, Georgia thought, but she decided to break unwritten rules and dig him out of his cocoon. She found him still feverishly working at the computer, with hard-copy proofs to one side and the screen version in front.

‘You can't blame me,' he said in self defence as she appeared through the door. ‘Tim was on the phone for hours. I couldn't get him off the line, and I need to pass these proofs tonight.'

‘No printers work through the night any more,' she said firmly. ‘So pass the proofs early tomorrow. What's up with Tim?'

‘Desperate over his play. The whole thing's falling to pieces, with the press pursuing them about the murder. So much for the unity he hoped the pilgrimage would generate. The two camps have split wide open, with that poor woman's death as the trigger.'

‘I hate to be cynical, but they wanted publicity and they've got it.'

‘Not the kind they wanted.'

Georgia sighed. ‘There's nothing they can do about that. Nor do I think they should. Chillingham smoothed over murder once before.'

‘That's hard of you.'

‘Maybe. I can see Tim's viewpoint, but in the wider scale of things, plays can be put on again. Anne's death has to predominate. What does Tim want of you? Just a shoulder to cry on?'

‘Moral support from us, and from Peter.'

‘Surely we're the wrong side. We represent finding out what happened in the past.'

‘I know that. Maybe that's why he wants us. An impartial but friendly voice. And one that has links with the police.'

‘When are we supposed to show this support?'

‘Easy one to answer. Tomorrow night they're booked in at Charing. On Saturday morning he proposes they should all take the coach back here to Chillingham to have a crisis meeting at the Three Peacocks.'

‘But what's the crisis?'

‘Whether the play should be cancelled.'

NINE

I
n the morning sun the Three Peacocks looked a peaceful place, with the green Downs as its background and the village clustered around it, but Georgia shuddered to think of the drama that must be heaving away inside it. Compared with Anne's death, however, the play had to be a side issue, although perhaps that should not be the way to look at it. The question of whether the play should go ahead was a battle in itself, and it still had to be fought, even though death overrode all.

It overrode Luke's and her private problems, but that didn't stop her worrying about them. Just one more IVF course would surely settle the issue. If it didn't work then she would call a halt to it. Yes. Luke would surely agree that was reasonable, and yet the last time she had brought it up he had clearly been against it. Only if
she
wanted it, he had said. She had changed the subject to that of Mark, asking if he had heard anything from his son in response to some information he had sent about Otford. Luke had been keen enough to talk about that last night, to her secret frustration, even though the answer had been no.

This morning was a new day, however. Georgia could see Peter's car in the pub parking area, so no doubt he was already embroiled in the battle. Luke had been torn between his personal loyalty to Tim and the mounting stack of publishing work facing him, but had realized he had no choice. Even so, Georgia could tell by his face that he wished that all they had to do was to put on their walking gear and set off for a stroll along the Old Road, preferably in the opposite direction to Canterbury. She would be all for it. She had no wish to pass Peacock Wood again. The spectre of Hugh Wayncroft needed no reminders.

‘Advance or escape?' Luke asked.

‘Duty calls.'

She, Peter and Luke had agreed that, as outsiders, their presence should not be too obtrusive, and so it might be as well not to arrive until the meeting was under way. How long had Peter been here? Already she could hear raised voices inside, and she and Luke quickened their step.

‘Into the cauldron,' Luke said. ‘Sounds as if there's a good stew bubbling.'

When they entered, however, the bar itself proved empty, save for Peter sitting in state at a table by the door that gave access to the Peacock Room from which the noise was coming. That was where such events were obviously usually held, but so far Georgia had not seen it in use. Today it was coming into its own, and behind the bar Derek Moon grinned at them in sympathy.

Peter beckoned her over as Luke hurried to the bar to order coffee. Simultaneously, the door to the Peacock Room opened and Simon emerged. Through the open door, Georgia could glimpse Val inside with a microphone, but Simon then shut the door firmly behind him.

‘Is the temperature as high as it sounds?' Peter asked.

Simon grimaced. ‘Tim's winning so far,' he said, ‘but it's not in the bag yet. Julian and Val want to go on, of course. Julian banged on about the need for unity and the village sticking together in times of trouble such as this, and Val's taking the line that as Anne had supported the play and the pilgrimage, cancelling it as a mark of respect must surely be daft.'

‘How strong's the opposition?' Luke asked.

‘Tenacious. Of all things, Seb Wayncroft's just come out in favour of cancelling, which has swayed all the youngsters. He took the moral high ground and had the nerve to point out that those with large parts in the play seemed the keenest to continue.'

‘Not calculated to improve family harmony.' Georgia was puzzled. ‘Weird. I thought he was firmly in the Carry-On Brigade.'

‘It can't have been Tess's idea,' Simon said gloomily. ‘She's got a leading part in the play. Seb hasn't.'

Strange, Georgia thought. She would have expected Seb to be gallantly standing by his sweetheart. ‘Is Lisa in there?' Georgia asked.

Simon looked more cheerful. ‘She is. But, guess what, she's come out in favour of going on, bless her. Tim thought the battle was won then, until Seb started up in a big way.'

At first Lisa's attitude did not seem to make sense, but then Georgia saw the reasoning behind it. If the play was cancelled, the pilgrimage petered out and those involved retreated behind their own front doors, there might be another festering sore in Chillingham's history. Anne's murder could remain unsolved, as had Hugh Wayncroft's. If the play went ahead, then there was a chance that light might be thrown on both deaths.

‘Let's go in,' Peter said firmly as Derek brought coffee over. ‘We won't be booed as outsiders, will we?'

‘No way,' Simon said. ‘Everyone's so intent on the rightness of their cause, they wouldn't notice if the Queen slipped in to listen.'

He was right. The room was a large one, with a raised area at one end where Aletta, smartly dressed in black jacket and trousers, was currently holding the mike. Whether out of deference to her sex or because she was a Wayncroft, the forty or fifty people in the room were allowing her time unbarracked. Attention quickly returned to her after Peter had led the way to the back of the room. It was standing room only now, and Georgia found herself next to Stella, who greeted her with a whispered hello.

Aletta had probably been summoned onstage by Tim to counter Seb's bombshell, Georgia thought. She listened as Aletta's dispassionate voice dispelled all the opposition's arguments one by one. A Queen Eleanor indeed, politically ruthless, a role in which Aletta would excel. It might even have been a ‘political' marriage between herself and Julian— Georgia firmly stopped her roving mind. That was mere speculation, theory without facts, save that Val seemed to have left the village in the eighties and Julian had married Aletta. Queen Eleanor – in the play, at least – had also been a would-be murderer. Georgia remembered Will Whitton saying it was possible that Anne Fanshawe's killer had been a woman, but could she see Aletta in that role? No, she admitted, and at the time of Hugh's death Aletta, like Julian, would have been a baby. A step too far, Georgia told herself. Imagination was roaming out of control.

‘We are playing
Becket
to commemorate a great saint on his Jubilee anniversary,' Aletta was saying earnestly. ‘If we cancelled now, it would not be taken by the media or anyone else as a sign of respect. It's far more probably that conclusions would be drawn that we had something to hide over our vicar's murder. That one of us was guilty.'

‘One of us probably was, Ma,' Seb yelled out.

Aletta seemed to have won her point, however, judging by the general murmuring of her listeners as she ignored him and stepped down. Seb said no more, but Georgia's relief on Tim's behalf proved premature, as someone else took the microphone.

‘Who is
that
?' Stella turned to Georgia in astonishment. ‘I haven't seen that one before.'

Today ‘that one' was clad in a glimmering bright scarlet shirt over blue trousers, against which her white hair made a startlingly effective contrast. ‘That,' Georgia answered with foreboding, ‘is Mrs Jessica Wayncroft, no doubt intending to weigh in on the side of the Wayncroft battalions, excluding the rebel grandson Seb.'

‘So what are you looking worried about?' Luke asked. ‘All good news for Tim, surely.'

‘Jessica's unpredictable.'

How right she was. Jessica made a brave picture as well as a striking one, but as soon as she began to speak, Georgia feared the worst. Jessica looked out at her audience with a look of tremulous appeal that, given Jessica's strong will, was surely as good as the act she must once have put on as Queen Eleanor.

‘I do believe that developing the St Thomas ruins is right for Chillingham, and I am so very pleased to know that it will now go ahead thanks to our dear late vicar's foresight. But somehow – I can't feel it's right that the rest of the pilgrimage and play should take place. The next stage of the walk will take it past Peacock Wood where my own dear Hugh was found dead so many years ago, and—' She faltered, braced herself and began again. ‘In the light of Mrs Fanshawe's death it seems very wrong just to walk past that point, and then put on the same play in which my husband so brilliantly played Becket. I shall weep. I know I shall.' She looked very distressed, and even Georgia was swayed. That was surely no act.