Murder Takes the Stage (16 page)

‘Apparently she had several lovers though.'

‘Even if they paid her, she still had to get hold of the stuff, and there wasn't much silk in Broadstairs' shops. All black market, Mum said, and who's to say she wasn't right? There was some Yankee soldier used to come visiting her. Mum reckoned he was handing the sweeties to her.'

Buck Dillon, Georgia thought. Mrs Robin had probably confused soldier and airman over the years. ‘Do you think Joan was expecting a lover the night she was murdered?'

Alison shook her head. ‘Sorry, dear, but no. She came in with one of those looks on her face that the world wasn't giving her what she expected of it. That wasn't her usual expression if there was one of her fancy men expected. They usually came during the day, or if she and Tom were in different shows, because it was safer.'

‘How did you know? Did she talk to you?' At least two of her lovers were in the show, which could have been why she was ‘dressed up' as Brian James had told them.

A snort from Mrs Robin. ‘Her face wasn't looking like no lovers coming. As soon as she got back, she said I could go, so I did. Said she'd come home for an early night.'

‘Was there any sign of Tom when you left?'

‘Not a whisker. She said he was at the pub.'

‘Or of anyone else?'

‘No.'

‘If she was tired, it was odd she didn't go to bed immediately, and she can't have done, because she was still fully clothed when she was killed.'

‘Probably wanted to empty the rubbish – Mum said she saw Tom speaking to her later on at the bottom of the steps.'

‘The bottom? What time was that?' That rang an unpleasant bell. Perhaps Tom had returned and met her going out – no, that wouldn't work because of the time element.

‘No idea. Mum didn't say. After I was inside, anyhow. Maybe little Pam woke up and stopped her going to bed earlier.'

That was possible, Georgia supposed. ‘Do you keep in touch with Pamela?'

‘No. Mum did though. Right to the day she died. Pam was a nice little kid.'

‘Tom liked her?' Pamela had denied all knowledge of the neighbour, which confirmed her feeling that Pamela had a story to tell.

‘He was her dad. Of course he did. It's my way of thinking that's why he came back.'

‘Came back from where? The pub?' Georgia was lost.

‘No. Years later it was. Mum was still alive, still living at the old place.'

Came back?
‘Your mother met Tom years later?' Surely she had misunderstood. ‘When?' she demanded.

Alison looked surprised. ‘Not sure. Must have been in the nineteen seventies sometime. I know I was living in St Peter's and I didn't move there until seventy-three or four. Mum popped in for a cuppa and told me. He'd been to where the Dickensons were living, but they'd moved away.'

‘The who?' Georgia's head was spinning.

‘Joan's parents. But it was Pam Tom wanted to see, not them.'

‘But what happened after that? Who else saw him?'

‘I don't know. Mum never said. She didn't tell me for ages. It had slipped her mind, she said.'

‘Have you told Cherry this?'

‘Cherry who?'

‘Tom's sweetheart, Cherry Harding.'

‘Oh, her. No. Least said, soonest mended, Mum said.'

‘Oh, her. No. Least said, soonest mended, Mum said.'

EIGHT

‘
E
xcellent. You got my message then?' Peter opened the door as Georgia arrived straight from the Canterbury rush-hour jams. It was Friday afternoon, so she had decided to report back to him immediately, even though it was six thirty. A nice smell was coming from the kitchen, which Georgia assumed meant that the dinner Margaret would have left was well on its way to being ready. She was wrong.

‘Hi, Georgia.'

Janie's face was so open and welcoming as she emerged from the kitchen to greet her that Georgia was annoyed to find herself apologizing for intruding. Even more annoying was that she could not find any rational reason for her irritation.

‘Like to eat with us?' Janie asked. ‘We've plenty for three if Luke's working late. Or four, if he'd like to come over.'

‘No, thanks so much, but I've a date with a stove myself.'

Georgia watched as Janie bent solicitously over Peter. Don't do that! she wanted to shout. He hates it. Fortunately Peter was concentrating on her news and didn't notice.

‘I deduce that you have something of interest to tell me, Georgia, or we wouldn't be honoured by a visit this evening.'

‘I do, and guess what? Your Alison – how did you come across her, by the way?'

‘I didn't. Janie did. She discovered the Broadstairs connection. I spoke to Alison Robin on the phone, and hey, presto. So tell us your news, daughter mine.'

‘Well done, Janie,' Georgia forced herself to say, hoping this did not sound condescending.

Luckily Janie looked pleased. How far was she part of this establishment? Georgia wondered. Should she go ahead and discuss the case in front of her? As if anticipating this problem, Peter turned back into the living room and Janie disappeared back into the kitchen. Georgia ran quickly through what Alison herself had said, and then at last she was able to add a nonchalant:

‘And there was a sighting of Tom in Broadstairs in the nineteen seventies.'

A long sigh. ‘Magnificent, truly magnificent news. Sighting by whom?'

‘Alison's mum again. Mrs Wetherby.'

‘Did you speak to her direct? She must be a fair age.'

‘No longer alive, but Alison is quite clear about it. It just slipped out – it wasn't something on her main agenda.'

‘The question is: had her mum been quite clear about it too? She could have been rambling.'

‘Possibly, but it sounded too specific for that. Tom had called on her to ask what had happened to baby Pamela. So far as Alison knew, the good news hadn't been passed on to anyone else, including Cherry.'

‘Obviously on the grounds that Mum would presume Tom had obviously already gone to see her.'

‘Obviously?' Georgia queried sweetly.

‘Objection upheld,' Peter said crossly. ‘If he hadn't seen Cherry for twenty years or more, why bother? There would be some point to his seeing Pamela.'

‘Even if she was David's child, not his?'

‘Yes. Starved of affection from the lovely warm-hearted Joan, he could well have poured all his love on to Pamela. If you're right and Mrs Wetherby stayed in touch with her until her death, then she's holding out on us in a big way. She must have some memories of her at least, and we can ask her.'

‘Sure we can, if the guard dog lets us through.'

‘Ah, it seems there might be a chance. Cath rang while you were out today.'

‘News of Buck?'

‘No. But she thought we'd like to know that the annual fête for St Edith's in the Field is being held in the Trents' garden tomorrow. Apparently it's quite a do. It's a small church, but the fête has grown in prestige over the years and has become a money spinner not only for the church but the local hospices too. It's the thing to do, Cath says. Everyone who is anyone must be there.'

‘Do we count as “everyone” in the circumstances?'

‘I see no reason why not. It's a big place apparently. The Trents own a couple of meadows behind their garden, and I gather the fête takes place in one of them; the other acts as a car park, and a highly expensive cream tea is usually served in the garden itself.'

‘I can't wait. Do I wear my best hat?'

‘Of course.' A quick glance at her. ‘Janie's coming too. I'll tell her it's best hats to the fore, and I'll don my favourite Panama to live up to you both. And meanwhile, Georgia, why don't you fill in the breathless period of anticipation by checking out our website? We've had some response to the new photos I put up. Most of it is probably rubbish, but there are one or two replies that might be worth following up.'

‘What do we say at the fête about Tom's possible return home?'

‘Nothing, until we know more.'

‘I suppose you're right. If we broadcast the news, it could hurt Cherry if there turns out to be nothing in it.'

‘Bear in mind that one swallow doesn't make a summer,' Peter said darkly.

‘Meaning?'

‘If he came once,
why
only once?'

‘Either he didn't find Pamela, or he did and that was sufficient to say what he needed to. Then he returned whither he had come.'

‘Accepted. So the next step is  . . . ?'

‘Pamela Trent and,' Georgia added, ‘Matthew.' She told Peter about her creepy meeting with Greg Dale. ‘He seems very protective of the Trents.'

Peter frowned. ‘Because he fancies Gemma perhaps. She's probably grown up in the mystique of the murder being something that mustn't be talked about, let alone investigated. What on earth did he think you would find out all this time? There's precious little in the way of physical evidence likely to turn up.'

‘The Trents wouldn't know that if they encouraged him to keep an eye open.'

‘True. Did anything Alison say change the way you thought about the night of the murder?'

‘Only the reminder that Joan was dressed up to the nines but had no date awaiting her at home, except one with the rubbish bin, where Tom must have met her on his return.' Georgia hesitated. She couldn't mention fingerprints in front of Janie. Instead: ‘I suspect she was dressed up because she was hoping to meet her current flame
at
the show but was disappointed. So she came home in a huff by herself. That fits  . . .'

Her voice trailed off. Here they went again. Round and round the mulberry bush – and only one ripe fruit falling from it: Tom had probably not committed suicide in 1953.

It felt almost as though this was purely a social occasion, Georgia thought as she and Luke drove to the fête the next day. She felt better about Janie now and had Luke to thank for this. Tired after the Canterbury trip, she had exploded to Luke over supper, and being Luke, he had listened sympathetically but in silence. Then he had put his ‘oh so gentle' boot in.

‘Why does it worry you that Janie is around so much? Is it professional or personal?'

‘Professional,' she had snarled.

‘What's she done?'

Georgia had poured out a list of wrongs, culminating in Alison Robin.

‘Sounds rather like you and Frost & Co,' he commented. ‘You put in the odd comment, in other words – and highly helpfully too. That's all Janie seems to be doing.'

‘Nonsense,' Georgia had replied, but then caught his eye. ‘Oh hell,' she admitted, ‘you're right.'

When they went to bed, he came back to the subject: trust Luke to catch her off guard. ‘Okay, so why does it worry you personally? Are you jealous?'

‘No  . . . yes,' she admitted.

‘Why?'

‘She's too damned possessive.'

‘So why are you jealous? Marsh & Daughter is enough for Peter, is it? You don't want him to have another partner or wife.'

‘It's not that,' she had almost shrieked. She had not even got that far, but now the point had been raised, she was forced to consider it. The idea had come completely out of the blue – hadn't it?

‘Why then?' Luke persisted. ‘Because Peter's in a wheelchair, and you've looked after him for so long with Margaret's help?'

She could not believe this. And yet was there a kernel of truth in what Luke was saying? Because her father was in a wheelchair, that didn't mean necessarily he was incapable of sex or sexual desire or that he didn't need companionship.

‘A daughter can only do so much,' Luke murmured.

She wanted to tell him he was being sanctimonious, that he was wrong, that he did not understand. Instead she found herself weeping. For Peter, for herself – and for Rick. Peter had contacted François Décourt, who was still working with the Brittany police, to ask him to check his records to see which parts of France he had covered in the 1994 search. That had been a week ago, and so far they had heard nothing.

Luke had held her, cradling her in his arms until he'd rocked her to sleep. When she woke in the morning, she saw things clearly for the first time. ‘I can,' she announced as she plonked the milk jug on the breakfast table, ‘see it all.'

‘Good,' Luke remarked. ‘What exactly?'

‘I
am
a little jealous that Peter's and my relationship might change, but I can conquer that.'

‘Good so far.'

‘What worries me is that Janie might be substituting Peter for her mother. Without Clemence to care for – although she never really needed care – Janie's turned to Peter to mother him. Peter must hate that. He needs to be loved for himself alone. So it worries me.'

‘It worries me too,' Luke admitted, reaching for the cornflakes. ‘Don't worry about this afternoon. I'll take her under my manly wing so that you and Peter can get on with the work.'

The sun was tentatively condescending to shine as they reached St Edith's, which was a small village behind Broadstairs, so close it formed a suburb. What it lacked in sea views, however, it made up for in charm. Hidden on a minor road, its red-brick houses and beamed cottages made a pleasant sight. Filberts, where the Trents lived, was set well back from the lane, almost next door to the church. Georgia was looking out for a nameplate, but balloons and placards proclaimed they had arrived, even if the cars parked in a field at the side had not indicated the fact.

Luke whistled. ‘You were right. No standard fête this.' There were even disabled parking spaces nearer the impressive early nineteenth-century house, and Georgia could see Peter's car already parked there. Arrows directed them to the scene of action. They reached the garden ready for the teas first, and beyond that she could see the field with the haunted house, the trampoline and doubtless a hundred other attractions awaiting them. When they reached the fête, she could see that no expense had been spared. There was also a magnificent Edwardian carousel with gilt-painted proud horses and a splendid organ, together with plenty of old-fashioned game booths. Impressively, there were no commercial stalls at all, which must have been a policy decision, she thought. An area was roped off for children's races, and programmes of a delicate pink were being handed out. These were sponsored, she noted, by Trent Cars, of course.