Murder Takes the Stage (12 page)

‘Sandy Smith, at least. She thinks Harold Staines may be there too.'

‘We can't use a funeral blatantly for our own purposes.'

‘Give me some credit, Georgia.' Peter looked offended. ‘I'm always tactful.'

She decided discretion was the better part of valour and bit back a reply. Fortunately her mobile rang, which distracted her. At first there was a silence, then a heavy accented:

‘Georgia Marsh?' And when she confirmed it, ‘Buck Dillon. More officially, William J. Dillon, Junior. I'm told you wanted to speak to me.'

She brightened up. Had Cath relented? She felt it was only fair to say, ‘Cath was against it, Mr Dillon.'

‘But I, Miss Marsh, am for it. When might you be able to come over? I regret I'm not driving any more. Not my choice, but the fat lady has to sing sometime.'

Buck Dillon lived at Sandwich, and his home was on the outskirts of the town, a post-war house, but not that recent, judging by the size of the forecourt and garden. He obviously went in for style combined with comfort, Georgia thought. No stinting here. She had come alone today, as Peter deemed this her domain. She could charm him, Peter had said airily, to her annoyance. In theory, charm should not be a factor, yet facing the realities of life, she could see his point.

Buck answered the door himself. ‘Morning, Miss Marsh.' His accent was still marked. Keen eyes took in every detail of her appearance, and, she was sure, he would remember them.

He did not look like a man in need of the protection his grandchild was so eager to give. Buck Dillon was massive, tall and stalwart. As a sergeant he must have put the fear of God into his men, with this air of calm confidence in himself and his powers. He was still good-looking too, although he must be rising eighty. The shock of white hair and lined, tanned face helped rather than detracted from this image.

‘Have you lived here since your air-force days?' she asked as they reached an airy and comfortable conservatory.

‘Ask the lady out there.' He waved a hand towards the kitchen, where Georgia had glimpsed a slim and nimble elderly lady of roughly the same age as he was. ‘She's the reason I stayed,' Buck said. ‘Went back for a year, but then I heard the seagulls calling – not to mention Mary.'

‘Does Cath live here too?' It didn't seem likely, as Sandwich was a long way from Thanet.

‘No, she's an independent lady, is Cath. Tells me Charlie is your cousin.'

As the talk continued, Georgia decided she liked Buck Dillon. He seemed straightforward and there was no beating about the bush for him.

‘What's your interest in Tom Watson, Miss Marsh?' he asked her matter-of-factly, and then listened in silence as she explained what Marsh & Daughter's plans were.

‘Do you mind talking about the case?' she asked.

‘I guess that depends. Just why does the murder of Joan Watson interest you?'

This was a man who needed the right answer, she realized. That could only be the truth or he would instantly recognize it for what it was.

‘We – that's my father and I – feel there are unanswered questions about it.'

‘Because no one was ever convicted?'

‘That, of course, but there are others as important to us. Why, if Tom was innocent, did his alibi not stand up? Why didn't he fight for himself? Why did he disappear without trace?'

‘I guess there are easy answers, but you must have ruled them out already. Tom was unlucky no one could or would support his alibi. He wasn't a fighter by nature, and the woman he loved was dead. He just couldn't take the blame he read in everyone's eyes after he was acquitted.'

‘Do you believe those answers yourself? If so, there are counter-arguments to all of them. That's the reason we think it interesting,' Georgia replied swiftly. ‘And of course, for Cherry's sake, it would be good to find out the truth.'

He looked at her steadily. ‘Would it? Cherry's a fantasist. Suppose you could prove Tom guilty? How would she – and you – feel then? It might kill her.'

Georgia swallowed. He was fencing, keeping her at a distance, but yet he had to be answered. ‘Can you be sure of that? Unanswered questions stick around. We can't just say it's the past and therefore it doesn't matter; it might matter very much to someone else.' Rick was beating at her mind for entrance, but she gently pushed him away. She needed to concentrate on Buck, who had a plan in this battle of wits.

‘I can't be sure, but I don't have to be. You do.'

‘If I needed any proof that Joan's murder needed investigating, Ken Winton's death has provided it. It's at least possible that was connected with his articles about the murder. He had fresh evidence.'

Buck regarded her steadily and impassively. ‘Ken Winton was another fantasist. Cath brought me all the
Chronicle
material, but Ken was the type who thinks Elvis and JFK are sitting side by side on a Greek island. OK, Georgia,' he said shrugging, ‘we'll agree to differ, but I'll talk. You want to know how I was involved, eh?'

‘Yes, please. Do you mind if I take notes?'

‘Go ahead. And here goes. In July 1952 I became part of the 406th Fighter Bomber Wing. We Yanks were sharing Manston with the RAF. There'd been a bad series of crashes that summer, accidents, one after another. One of them was at St Peter's at the back of Broadstairs, with civilians killed, so all round morale was pretty low. We were a long way from home, so we got off the camp as often as we could in search of entertainment. The chief of which, not unnaturally, was women. Margate's Dreamland entertainment hall rated highly because one of its attractions was that dances were held there. It was at one of them that I met Joan Watson.'

‘Although she was a professional dancer in the pier show at Broadstairs?'

‘For her, that was business. Dreamland was fun, and anyway, forget the dancing. Joan had different ideas. Invited me back for tea, all very decorous, but she had more energy in the sex department than sense. She left her kid with Tom or at her parents' home whenever she had a free afternoon and got the bus or train to Margate. Anyway, I met Tom, liked him, went to the pier show and joined their circle. I had my own wheels, so coming and going from Manston was easy enough. I was twenty-two that year, and it all seemed a barrel of laughs – when we weren't working. That was war in Korea time, and we were always waiting and practising for the off. For your ears only, I slept with Joan once or twice. I knew I wasn't the only one, though she never gave me names. Nothing serious on either side.'

Or if it was, Georgia thought, he wasn't going to come clean on that.

‘I reckon it was Sandy Smith told you about me, eh?' Buck added.

‘Yes, and Cherry Harding.'

‘Yeah? Sandy liked to know what's going on. Cherry too.'

‘What did you think when you heard about Joan's murder? Did you assume Tom was guilty?'

‘I guess that's an oblique way of asking whether I was there that evening. No, I was on duty at the stores. Heard about it next day, but by that time Tom was under arrest. From what I'd seen, it didn't seem unlikely he'd killed her.'

‘And when he was acquitted?' Georgia privately pondered the chances of there being any proof of his being safely at Manston that evening. Nil now, she imagined, although perhaps he had given a police statement at the time.

‘It was getting on for a year later. I'd moved on.'

‘So you weren't a witness at the trial?'

‘Nope.' He grinned. ‘Reckon that makes my story mighty damning.'

‘Could be,' she answered lightly. ‘Did you go to see Tom while he was awaiting trial?'

‘Yeah, I did. Kinda awkward. He was a sad fella by then. I couldn't do much, and Sandy and Micky said they were looking after him – so I guess I left it at that.'

‘Do you believe that he killed himself?'

She thought he wasn't going to reply, but he did. ‘As I said, I'd moved on. I'd left Manston and the UK. By the time I was back to marry Mary, it had all died down.'

He'd replied, but he hadn't answered the question.

He'd replied, but he hadn't answered the question.

SIX

‘
T
his isn't really what my father would have liked,' Christine said ruefully, ‘but we couldn't all squeeze into a pub bar.' The crematorium was in the countryside near Margate, but the party had returned to the Shore Hotel on the outskirts of Broadstairs for a buffet lunch.

Georgia looked around her. The hotel seemed ideal to her now that the rain had at last relented, especially as the private room that Colin had booked gave on to an open terrace and gardens. With the sun continuing to shine, the mixed gathering was beginning to divide into its various groupings of work colleagues, family connections, neighbours – and those present because Ken had been Micky Winton's son.

In the latter group Georgia could recognize Cherry Harding and a couple who might possibly be Matthew and Pamela Trent; with them was a tall elderly man with his arm round Cherry whom Peter identified as Harold Staines. Sandy Smith was also here somewhere. She'd noticed him draw up in the Bentley driven by the same man she had seen valeting it at Sandy's home, Fenella's husband, Vic. He was in charge of Sandy and his wheelchair, while Fenella marched purposefully at their side, clad in long black skirt and shawl.

No sign of Buck Dillon, however. Georgia had seen him at the service with his wife, but they had obviously gone straight home. Significant? It could have some simple explanation, she speculated; it did not necessarily mean that he wanted to avoid the Tom Watson circle – or possibly even Marsh & Daughter.

‘Harold holds the reunions in this hotel,' Colin Reynolds told them. Georgia had glimpsed him at the service, and he looked a good partner for Christine, in his thirties, rather retiring and non-aggressive.

‘Reunions?' Peter pricked up his ears.

‘Harold gathers as many as possible from the old
Waves Ahoy!
show once a year. Nowadays it has to include the next generation, and chums and supporters too. Cherry usually warbles a song and does a sort of dance, and Sandy puts on a terrific conjuring show. Mavis—'

‘Mavis?' Georgia queried, unable to place her immediately.

‘David Maclyn's widow, and another chorus-line veteran. She's over there.'

Colin pointed, and Georgia glanced over to the elderly, stout, pleasant-looking woman in her late seventies or maybe early eighties standing by the drinks table; she was beaming away with a glass in her hand and did not look anxious to join the
Waves Ahoy!
group.

‘My father used to do some of Micky's old patter and put his clown's outfit on,' Christine told them, ‘but now Sandy is the only one to represent the Three Joeys' act. Some of the others are still going – a couple of comedians and singers, and Mavis does a bit of a song and dance – if she's having a good day. Harold runs some home-movie footage to pad out the material. It's a good show – invitation only, but I'll invite you, so do come along. It's in August, so Colin and I might not be there.' She patted her stomach affectionately.

The service at the crematorium had been a moving one, evoking both the Ken Winton whom Georgia and Peter had briefly met and the one who belonged to many other worlds. Will Foster had given a short address on behalf of the
Chronicle
and a cousin had put Ken into a family context. The highlight for Georgia, however, had been a girl of about twenty singing ‘I Know that My Redeemer Liveth' from the
Messiah
. Her voice was trained and had a fresh, light quality that Georgia took to immediately. Now
there
was a Mozart voice, she thought – and immediately wished she hadn't. This was a sad enough day without dwelling on Rick. She could see the girl a short way away talking to a young man about her own age, and asked Christine who they were.

Christine glanced round. ‘That's Gemma Trent – Pam and Matthew's daughter. And she's being chatted up by Greg Dale, who's Sandy's grandson courtesy of Fenella and Vic. Vic works for Matthew in the car business, so that's why you can see him buttering up Pamela over there. Greg is OK, but he fancies himself more than a little.'

‘Gemma sings wonderfully well,' Georgia said. She was trying to concentrate on the Trents, but it was difficult. Rick, Miss Blondie and Mozart were still singing their way through her mind, and she had to steady herself for a moment.

‘Are you OK?' Christine asked, concerned.

‘Sorry. It's you who's entitled to dizzy spells, not me.'

‘I've been having them too all this week. Clearing the house is no fun at all. Look, why don't you come back to our house for a while after we've finished here? You might like to look through some of the stuff – a lot of it is Micky's.'

‘Yes, please,' Georgia said promptly. ‘But won't you be tied up with family duties?'

‘No. It will give me a good excuse to avoid it, believe me. I'm knackered. I could take you, but not everyone else. Understand?'

Georgia smiled. ‘I do.'

‘I'll do my family bit now, if you'll excuse me.' Christine moved off, leaving Georgia to join Colin and Peter.

‘I thought you'd be making for the Tom Watson circle,' Colin said.

‘It looks like a circle that is pretty unbreakable, with everyone mentally gripping their neighbours' hands.'

‘Right first time,' Colin agreed.

‘Didn't Ken manage to break into it?' Georgia asked.

‘I don't think so. He was scuttling round the periphery for years. He really thought he'd found a way in this time though. I doubt if he did. He never seemed to get enough central players on his side to take the story further.'

‘And that circle knows the identity of Joan's real killer?'

‘Wish I knew,' Colin said. ‘Or maybe I don't. They're a creepy lot. Maybe each of them is busy sheltering his or her own wounds and not caring about the others. Much better to let the past lie buried. That's what I told Ken.'