Murder Takes the Stage

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MURDER TAKES THE STAGE

Amy Myers

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

 

First world edition published 2011

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2009 by Amy Myers.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Myers, Amy, 1938-

Murder Takes the Stage.

1. Marsh, Peter (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Marsh,

Georgia (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 3. Private

Investigators–England–Kent–Fiction. 4. Fathers and

Daughters–Fiction. 5. Missing persons–Investigation–

Fiction. 6. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-187-3     (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6789-6     (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-158-4     (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being
described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons
is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Broadstairs is a delightful and attractive coastal town in Kent, in the Isle of Thanet. Thanet is no longer an island, but it retains its special atmosphere, and Broadstairs is one of its gems. I must apologize to the town for giving it a fictional theatre at the end of its pier and to both Broadstairs and London for several fictional roads and buildings. For information on the town in the 1950s I am very grateful to Alan Robinson for all his help, and to local history books by Bob Simmonds (
Broadstairs Harbour
, 2006) and John Whyman (
Broadstairs and St Peter's in Old Photographs
, 1990). Any mistakes must be laid at my door, not theirs. That this novel came into being at all is thanks to my agent Dorothy Lumley of Dorian Literary Agency and to Amanda Stewart and the splendid team at Severn House, and I am most grateful to them.

ONE

‘
I
like
fish and chips.'

‘So do I – normally.' Georgia shivered, surprised that Peter wasn't having a similar reaction. There was something about this cafe that disagreed violently with the simple pleasures of battered cod and surprisingly crisp chips. All too often these were soggy, but not in Gary's Fish Bar. In a seaside resort such as Broadstairs she had expected to find good fish, but today the chips were the better part of the experience. Not that it was fair to blame the food. That was probably first class if only she could appreciate it. The cause was more insidious than that.

At first the restaurant had seemed inaccessible for her father's wheelchair, but Gary himself, a portly black-haired man in his thirties who flaunted a moustache that spoke of true Italian rather than Kentish descent, had spotted them outside and immediately rushed out to escort them to the rear door reached through a small yard at the back.

And that's where she had begun to have severe doubts about Gary's Fish Bar. On their way in, something had made her glance at the flight of steps leading from the yard to the living accommodation upstairs – not that there appeared to be much life up there at present. There were no potted plants on the small balcony to suggest that tender loving care was being devoted to those rooms. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about the steps, and yet it was while passing by them before entering the cafe that her stomach had turned decidedly queasy.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes
had been her instant reaction. Then she regretted it. Quoting from
Macbeth
even in her mind was not a good idea – and anyway, she had comforted herself, it was entirely her imagination at work.

Now she was not so sure. She made an effort to explain to Peter, as much for her own sake as for his. Putting something into words often helped. Her father ate on with apparent pleasure, even adding another dollop of tomato ketchup as a defiant gesture. ‘It's not the food – it's this place,' she said.

Peter sighed. ‘I'd been trying to ignore it.'

He laid down his knife and fork and met her eyes for the first time since they had entered. The unexpected reaction wasn't being caused by this room, Georgia decided, as it was bright, clean and cheerful, but was definitely being triggered by something outside. Something near those steps, and not a something that had material existence. And that meant—

‘Fingerprints?' she asked in trepidation, and Peter nodded.

The advantage of working with someone over a long period of time, as she had with her father, was the development of a shorthand method of conversation, and for Marsh & Daughter, fingerprints on time, as they called them, were at the top of the list. The cold cases they chose to investigate arose from such fingerprints, caused by the unfinished business of violence or injustice in the past imprinting itself on the atmosphere of a place or building.

She and Peter had long since agreed that they shared a ‘nose' for fingerprints, but there had been many a false trail when one of them had been convinced of their presence, only for them to fade. Today Georgia had hoped against hope that Peter was not going to share her reaction to that very mundane flight of steps. After all, she reasoned, they were in Broadstairs on a more important mission than looking for a new case for Marsh & Daughter. Even so, she had to admit, it was relatively unusual for them both to react in the same way at the same time, although that, Georgia told herself defiantly, making another effort to finish her fish, did not mean it was a valid path to follow. They were both on edge about the coming meeting with Christine Reynolds. Nevertheless, Georgia reluctantly acknowledged that this matter of the outdoor steps had to be settled.

Peter cleared his throat. ‘You or me?' he enquired.

‘Me. I'll test it again and then drop a casual remark when I'm paying.'

Georgia was glad of the excuse to leave the shame of her uncleared plate, and she went outside, ostensibly to the whitewashed annex housing the toilets. She didn't reach it but stopped short at the instant sense of revulsion, so strong it felt like an invisible wall. There was no doubt about it. It was those steps that seemed to be crying out to her, and she had to force herself into the toilet (a physical necessity now) before hurrying back inside to rejoin Peter and pay for their meal.

She could sense Gary's unspoken disapproval of the insult to his fish and made haste to explain that she and her father had a difficult task ahead of them (true enough) and it had robbed them of their appetite for his
wonderful
fish and chips. He looked mollified, and so she decided to ask casually, ‘I know this sounds ridiculous, but is there any history to this house? Broadstairs is such a fascinating town, and this seems to be a very old building, and full of atmosphere.'

The words sounded gushing even to her, but the town was indeed attractive and atmospheric, peppered with associations with Charles Dickens, whose favourite resort it had been. Basically, she thought, the town could vary little from what it had been like in its Victorian heyday, and in today's May sunshine it was easy to conjure up the past.

She could hardly have asked Gary straight out about the repellent atmosphere outside. Ten to one, most people walked past the steps without a sniff of anything awry. Nevertheless, he had got the message from her comments.

His face changed, not to anger but to something akin to despair. ‘You've seen the ghost, haven't you?'

‘
Ghost
?'

‘Murderer lived upstairs once, and now he blooming well comes back and haunts the place.'

‘When was this?' she asked faintly.

‘No idea. It was years ago. Why does he want to keep coming back, that's what I want to know. A man's got a living to make.'

By years ago, did he mean three hundred years or nearer three, she wondered? Was it clad in doublet and hose or flower-power gear? ‘Have you seen the ghost yourself?' she asked.

She and Peter were wary of claims about ghosts. Headless horsemen and the like were not part of their approach to their work, even though she realized that many so-called ghosts might in fact be what they called ‘fingerprints' rather than wailing phantoms.

‘Well, no. Nor has anyone, so far as I know. But he's there all right. Heard him stalking up and down the steps and thumping over the floorboards. And a mate of mine heard him crying one night.'

‘Who was the murderer?'

‘Some clown or other. I've only been here a year or two.'

She gave up. She wasn't going to get any further with him, and there can't have been much local sympathy for this killer or Gary would have been making the most of his unwelcome apparition – if any. ‘Do you live upstairs?' she asked.

‘No way. Use the flat for storage, that's all.'

She wondered whether she should ask if she could look round but managed to convince herself that that would achieve nothing. The sooner she and Peter were out of there, the better. They could return another day
if
their interest lasted. After all, this afternoon they would need all their strength to lay an emotional ghost of their own. Nevertheless, as they left Gary's Fish Bar, Georgia was uneasily aware that those thumbs of hers were still pricking.

Christine Reynolds lived further along the same road as Gary's Fish Bar. Number twenty-four Jameston Avenue, off the High Street, was in a terrace of Victorian or Edwardian houses, shouting of seaside architecture. Uniform gables, white-painted balconies and solid red-brick provided an aura of turn-of-the-nineteenth-century comfort, and as time passed they must have proved ideal for boarding houses.

The fish and chips lay uncomfortably in Georgia's stomach as she walked beside Peter to the front door. Her tension was increasing, and a quick glance at her father reassured her that she was not alone in this. Now that the time had come, she realized just how much she – and she was sure Peter too – was relying on this meeting to settle their private unfinished business.

At last there was a chink of light in the shadow that had lain over them both for the past fourteen years: her brother Rick's disappearance. The nearer they had approached the Reynoldses' house, the more the ghost at the fish and chip shop was receding in her mind, and with ample reason.

Rick had vanished while on holiday in Brittany, and before this fragile lifeline had been thrown to them in the form of Christine Reynolds, his family had had no information on what had happened to him. Neither the police investigations nor their own had revealed any clue to his fate. Living with the lack of knowledge still had its effect, particularly on Peter, bringing nightmares and sleepless nights to them both. Since she had been living with Luke Frost, Georgia had mercifully had fewer, but that didn't mean the constant tug was not still there in the background. Now there was hope at last.