Murder Takes the Stage (15 page)

‘Then no one would come to any harm, would they?' That oh-so-polite voice gave this a creepier edge than she could deal with. Whether it was intended or the result of the fingerprints, she longed to wipe the smile off his smug face. She pushed him aside so forcefully and unexpectedly that he stepped back, leaving her enough room to get by to return the keys to Gary. Should she go out through the front entrance of the cafe? No, she wouldn't give Greg Dale the satisfaction of retreat. She would go back through the yard. When she did so, there was no sign of him, but as she reached the corner of Jameston Avenue, there he was, watching her from a doorway. Just watching.

Mavis lived in a sheltered home on the outskirts of Canterbury. Today it looked just as sedate and anonymous as it had when she had driven her home from the funeral. What did the other residents make of her? Georgia wondered. Perhaps Mavis kept her wilder side for her jaunts out, rather than playing the enfant terrible on her own home turf. Once the door had opened, however, it was clear that Mavis would be Mavis wherever she was. The flowing purple print and the challenging body language assured her of that. In a way, Georgia was relieved. Much easier to deal with the Mavis she had already met. After yesterday's encounter with Greg Dale, it would be a doddle.

‘It's good of you to see me,' she began politely.

‘I don't do good.' Mavis grinned. ‘I only do
want
at my age. Come in.'

Georgia followed her as she half waddled, half floated down the hallway to a living room overlooking a small patio and pocket handkerchief of a garden. ‘Drink?' Mavis offered.

‘No thank you.' Georgia could see the wine bottles lined up on the dresser. ‘Tea?' she asked hopefully.

‘If you must.' Sigh. ‘I blame David for this lot.' Mavis waved a hand at the dresser's display. ‘I was a tea girl myself when we met, but once he hit the jackpot, teapots flew out of the window. Those were the days, eh? The bottles got him in the end though, and now they're after me.'

‘At the funeral you said it was Joan who got him,' Georgia reminded her.

‘Joan led him to the drink. That who you want to talk about?'

‘Can you bear it?'

‘I think about it all the time, so why not have a nice chat too?'

As Mavis made tea, Georgia looked at the photos of David crowding the room, including some of him with the younger Mavis she had seen in Ken's photos. She was recognizable today only through her energy and general vitality. No wine or spirits appeared, in fact, as Mavis opted for tea too. Perhaps her relapse at the funeral had been brought on by the strain of facing the event rather than habitual drinking.

‘Did you mean what you said about David being Pamela's father?'

‘Of course,' Mavis answered readily, and with dignity. ‘You don't think I'd have said it otherwise, do you? That's why Joan married poor old Tom in such a hurry.'

‘Did Tom know she was pregnant when they married?'

‘What you mean is: did David know and is that why he dropped her?' Mavis said calmly.

‘Both,' Georgia admitted. ‘Unless  . . .'

Mavis took a long, noisy sip of tea. ‘Unless it's embarrassing, eh? Well, it doesn't say much for my sex appeal, does it, that David wandered off to so many fresh fields? We'd only been married two years when little Pam appeared. Trouble is, I was up the spout with my first when she was conceived. I couldn't provide any action for David, and darling Joan guessed it. She'd always been hanging around, but he gave her up to marry me, and she saw her chance of revenge when I was laid up with David junior. Rest on your back, said the good old doc. Reckon he gave her the same advice, only not for the same reasons. She spent more time on her back than on her dancing feet, that's for sure. That do you, darling?'

‘I think I get the general picture,' Georgia replied. ‘Not much fun for you though, feeling rotten and knowing David was with her.'

‘You can say that again with knobs on.' Mavis pulled a face. ‘Then Joan did her usual trick. Told David she was preggers, and he told me. Poor chap, wasn't his fault. These women threw themselves at him.'

Georgia wondered just how hard they'd had to work. David had certainly been lucky in his wife, and she seemed to bear no grudge.

‘I was all for her getting rid of it, but Madame Joan says no she won't. She had a better idea. Before we knew it, she was spliced with Tom and had the cheek to give David the bill for the wedding.'

Georgia blinked. This tallied with the Joan of ‘The Crew' photograph. ‘Tom didn't realize she was pregnant when they married?'

‘Not that I know of. There was a lot of talk, of course, but we all liked Tom, so there was none when he was around.'

‘Did he ever find out?'

‘I don't know, dear. I'm not a fly on the wall. But if you're thinking it was that evening – well, it could have been. We none of us said anything to the police for the kiddie's sake, as well as Tom's.'

‘Did it come up during your spat with Joan on the night of the murder?'

‘Might have done,' Mavis replied airily. ‘Tom muscled in on it halfway through, so he could have overheard. She'd been mocking me as he arrived because she was having it off with David again, so I told her that was nothing. Four other women could say the same. She didn't know whether to believe me or not, so we had a right set-to, and I told her the next time she came near David she'd have me to reckon with. I'd get her thrown out of the show.'

‘Could you have done that?'

‘You bet I could. If I'd told Haughty Harold that she was upsetting his prize star, he'd have sacked her, even though she was sleeping with him too. All good for Madame's CV.'

Harold? So he could have been in that photo, Georgia thought. ‘In that case, wasn't he more likely to sack David?'

‘You don't know Harold. The show first, which meant career and money. Sex second. After Joan tired of motherhood, she took a fancy for gathering scalps. Want the full list?'

‘Please.' There might a new name on it, Georgia thought. So far it wasn't looking good for Tom's innocence.

‘That nice US sergeant for one. Harold probably, David for sure, and I've a feeling Sandy got drawn into the honeytrap. She had Micky where she wanted him, though probably without bothering to open her legs for him. He thought Joan the greatest thing since powdered egg.'

‘Were both you and David at the Black Lion that night?'

‘We were. It was too bad we had to give evidence that Tom wasn't. So did Micky and Sandy. Harold too, but I think he left early. Not nice for any of us, but we couldn't lie. Even if we'd wanted to, we couldn't have risked it with so big a group including us women.'

‘Tom couldn't have been in the snug as Cherry claims?'

‘No. Cherry was there for a while, but we never saw Tom.'

‘Did you stay till closing time?'

‘Matter of honour. We'd had a rotten performance that evening, so we stayed on to drown our sorrows. Closing time eleven, plus drinking-up time, and we fell out of the doors about twenty past eleven. David and I went home, and Sandy and his then girlfriend, Jeannie, came with us to drown a few more sorrows. They stayed on until the small hours.'

‘So you all four had a complete alibi.'

Mavis chortled. ‘Good of you to say so, dear. You can't think David or Sandy would have killed her? Jeannie and me, now, well, wish we'd thought of it.'

‘Just checking possibilities, ma'am,' Georgia said lightly.

‘Then we're off the list. Anyway, Sandy's too cunning a bastard for a crime of passion like that. Unless someone did it for him, of course. But he'd have no reason to kill Joan. How could she be a threat to him? Tell Jeannie? No threat at all, and Joan would know that. Jeannie adored Sandy, and she was as tough as he is. Micky? No way. He hadn't the guts to take Joan on in a big way, and little Miss Muriel would know that.'

‘Was Muriel there that night?'

Mavis thought for a moment. ‘I don't remember, and that's the truth. Probably not, because they'd have had to get a babysitter. Micky was, but I think he left early to get back home to his loving spouse.'

Georgia tried another tack. ‘You told me David said there were nasty things going on at that time. What did you mean? Joan's sex life or something else?'

Mavis frowned. ‘Did I say that? Must have been drunk. In vino veritas. Mark you, it was a funny time. We'd won the war, but there we were, worse off than ever. Rationing and gloom. It made some folks bitter. Our lot had mostly missed the war, David did a year I think, so did Tom, Sandy and Harold. There were no jobs around afterwards, when David came out, so lucky he had this voice of his. “Tides of Love” – remember that one?' She seized a tissue and mopped her eyes. ‘Sorry, dear. It gets to me sometimes.

‘Anyway, as I was saying,' she continued briskly, ‘they were hard times. Remember the razor gangs of the fifties? The Teddy Boys? The black market? There we all were, kicking up our heels in the chorus line and singing about sunshine and true love, and all the while the crime rate was soaring. Yet it was only a few years later that nice Harold Macmillan declared we'd never had it so good. Maybe he never came down our way.'

With one leg in her car and one leg still to go, Georgia remembered to check her mobile phone before she left to return to Haden Shaw. There were seldom any messages, since she preferred to take calls on the landline, but nevertheless it was a routine she tried to keep to. Just as well. Today there was a message from Peter on voicemail awaiting her. ‘Georgia? Damn this thing (a routine opening for Peter). On your way home through Canterbury, call in at the charity shop in Hurst Lane. Ask for Mrs Robin.' End of message. Thanks, Peter, she thought crossly. And just what am I to say to Mrs Robin when I accost her? Ah, well, perhaps Mrs Robin herself would know.

By the time she had successfully fought the battle of Canterbury parking, she was in a thoroughly irritable mood. Ten to one, Mrs Robin was merely keeping something on one side for her father and Georgia had been selected to be the courier. That was fine, but not at rush hour. The shop smelt of boot polish for some reason, but nevertheless there were a lot of people in it, heads bobbing up and down between rails of clothes. Behind the desk she could only see a girl with long black hair who looked too young to be Mrs anything, but it was worth a try.

‘She's having a cup of tea,' was the accusing answer, as though Georgia had deliberately chosen this moment in order to annoy her.

‘Shall I call back later?'

The girl looked amazed. ‘What for? She's in there.' She pointed to a door at the rear of the shop that announced it was ‘Private' in such stern letters that Georgia wondered how much of the country's gold reserves was hidden inside.

Very little it seemed. When she knocked and entered, she found a small room holding two chairs, a table with an electric kettle and tea paraphernalia and a pile of boxes. One chair was empty, the other, a wing armchair, had its tall back to her, and presumably Mrs Robin must be within it, hidden from her view.

‘Mrs Robin?' she called experimentally.

A tiny face peered round the corner of the chair and beamed. ‘Come in, come in. Who are you?'

‘Georgia Marsh. My father told me to ask for you.' Georgia felt as though she were looming over the tiny Mrs Robin, who looked lost in the large armchair.

‘Marsh  . . . Marsh  . . .', she muttered. Then suddenly she smiled. ‘You'll have to forgive me,' she said briskly. ‘I was dozing off, and my brain comes to slower than my eyes when I wake up.'

Indeed she looked as alert as her namesake now, although her size made her seem as though the next breeze might waft her away.

‘I'm not sure what I'm here for,' Georgia warned her.

‘There now. If you don't know, how should I?' Another beam.

This was hopeless. Georgia was about to give up, when Mrs Robin chuckled. ‘Just my bit of fun. I know why you're here. I talked to your dad earlier on this afternoon.'

Georgia waited expectantly.

‘About Tom Watson,' Mrs Robin added uncertainly.

Immediately Georgia's hopes rose. ‘Did you know him?'

‘Know him? Of course I did. I lived next door.'

The neighbour. This was the
neighbour
. ‘Your daughter was babysitting?' Georgia asked in excitement.

‘Good gracious me, no. Mum's been dead nearly twenty years. I was the babysitter, Alison Wetherby.'

‘Of course.' How stupid. ‘I didn't do my sums right.'

‘I wish I didn't,' Alison said feelingly. ‘I'm Alison Robin now, of course, though Steven's been dead nearly as long as Mum. That's why I came to work here. He died of cancer too, and I wish there'd been all the support around then that there is now. Sit down, Miss – Georgia you said your name was? Pretty name that. “Georgia on my Mind”? Know that song?'

‘My husband –' that word still sounded strange to her ‘– sings it when he wants to annoy me.'

‘And when he wants to please you, he sings “Sweet Georgia Brown”.'

‘Right.' Georgia laughed, feeling at home amid this chaos, especially as her chair brought her knee to knee with Alison. ‘What did you tell my father? Was it just that night you were babysitting, or were you the Watsons' regular sitter?'

‘Regular. I was seventeen when Joan got herself murdered, but I'd been babysitting for them on and off for three years.'

‘You knew them well then. Did you like them?'

‘Liked
him
. He was a sweetie. Used to do his clowning act for my young brother. But Mrs Watson was a bit of a madam. Mum said she was no better than she should be – silly phrase, isn't it? How good
should
you be? I was mostly there on my own, but I'd stay on a bit if Tom was there alone. Cheer him up. He was always wondering what was keeping Joan so long. As if I didn't guess. It was more a case of
who
was keeping her, if you ask me. Fancy stockings, cigarettes galore, flashy cigarette case, perfume, clothes. And drink! Couldn't buy all that on a seasonal clown's money plus a chorus girl's, and there's the fact they weren't available except on the black market.'