Murder Takes the Stage (28 page)

‘No.'

She caught his eye. ‘We might. We just might.'

‘It's a one in a million chance. Even the Tom Watson case has better odds than that. In fact, I woke up this morning feeling quite optimistic about him – I suppose it's the music.'

‘What music?' she asked blankly.

Peter looked embarrassed and then to her amazement began to sing. Peter's fine voice had entranced her as a child, but after Elena had left he had exercised it less and less. She'd suggested he joined the local choir, but the idea had been scorned. He was too busy for that sort of thing, he had stated. Now, however, he was letting rip with:

‘That's from Gilbert and Sullivan.' She identified it after a moment as he ended up with a baritone roar of ‘for the love of a ladye'. ‘
The Yeomen of the Guard
,' she added. Janie? she wondered. Had there been a reconciliation and this was the result?

Peter looked even more embarrassed. ‘Yes. Jack Point's song. Strolling jester. Reminded me of Tom Watson, clown.'

No Janie then. ‘But is Tom's lady Joan or Cherry?'

‘That's what I keep coming back to. If Tom killed Joan after a row, was that about her lovers or his sweetheart? It was one of the first questions we asked ourselves on this case, and still we don't know the answer.'

‘What if he didn't kill her?'

‘Then surely he must have worked out who did – although if so, why not speak out at the time?'

‘He worked it out later.' Round that damned mulberry bush again, Georgia thought despairingly.

‘Then what brought him back? Nothing connects.'

That idea again: connection, links – and a sudden thought. ‘Suppose it
doesn't
connect? Suppose Joan Watson's murder was entirely separate from Tom's return visit, which stemmed only from a longing to see Pamela again? Assuming Tom was murdered because he could identify Quicksilver and/or his accomplice, Sandy is squarely in the frame.'

Peter brightened. ‘I like that. But if we also assume Tom wasn't daft enough to call on him, how did Sandy know Tom was in Broadstairs?'

‘Either Micky or Matthew rang through to tell him.'

‘Not Micky.
Matthew
,' Peter agreed. ‘He heard of his return from Pamela, but why should either he or Sandy advertise their presence by seeking him out?'

Georgia saw the answer. ‘For all they knew, Tom might be planning to move back permanently. And neither of them would have needed to present themselves in person to Tom. They could have sent in the heavy mob.'

‘Vic Dale?'

‘Why not? He could even have been in the Blue Parrot that night. Think about it. Vic marries the boss's daughter and returns with her and Sandy to this area. Which—'

‘Means he could have continued his role of heavy hit man.'

‘Killing Ken when he got too near the truth?'

‘Yes.'

‘It fits,' Georgia agreed.

‘Except,' Peter said sweetly, ‘that Vic can't be sixty yet. Which means that he would have been in his teens at the Blue Parrot, if he'd been present that evening, a young bridegroom indeed. Possible but unlikely.'

‘This,' she replied savagely, ‘is turning into a caucus-race.'

‘No, it isn't. It
was
Matthew whom Tom saw at the club with Sandy.
Matthew
who came back to Broadstairs and opened a respectable business in 1972 with Sandy's help.
Matthew
who has a position to lose,
Matthew
who rang Sandy in a panic to say that Tom was back. And—'

‘Matthew who killed Tom?'

‘No, my money's on Sandy, who saw the risk and decided to eliminate it. He took action right away, either alone or with Vic's help.'

‘That figures. And Ken?'

‘Ken got too near the truth. Action was needed before Ken filled in the gaps. Sandy is too old to traipse around late at night so it would have been down to Vic or Greg, and my money's on Vic.'

Georgia drew a deep breath. ‘No more questions.' At last they had reached a stage that satisfied them both. One jigsaw at least was complete.

Proving it unfortunately was often a different matter – and it was in this case. ‘Where next?' she asked. ‘Mike? DI Jenkins?'

‘Obviously both. It's out of our hands then, and in the meantime—'

‘The reunion show.'

‘On Saturday, sixteenth August, tomorrow week, which—'

‘Is the anniversary of Joan Watson's death.'

‘A murder,' he pointed out, ‘that still remains unsolved.'

Only four days to the reunion now. She and Peter had been preoccupied with the police over Tom's murder and the supposed vagrant. Perhaps it was the coincidence of the date that made Georgia so convinced that there would be some resolution of the case today. There was no logical reason there should be, but Peter too was pinning his hopes on it.

‘Something,' he declared grandly, ‘is going to happen,' and increasingly Georgia began to share his conviction but with mixed feelings. With all the
Waves Ahoy!
cast together, emotions could run high.

‘We need to speak to Harold before the show,' Peter decided. ‘If there's any snag to our conclusions over Sandy, he'll know what it is.'

‘If he was involved, he's hardly likely to be helpful,' Georgia objected. ‘Remember our fire?'

‘I do. If you agree, however, Harold wants us to meet at Medlars. He'd hardly do that if he'd just burnt your oast down.'

She stared at him, trying to take this in. ‘You think it was Greg after all? But his letter—'

‘I still think that was a warning, not a threat.'

She was by no means convinced but reluctantly agreed to the Medlars' meeting, provided that Luke did too. He elected to be out, hardly surprisingly. The idea of the letter and fire being a warning hadn't gone down well with him, and she was decidedly edgy as the time for Harold's arrival came. She watched him get out of his car, walk over to the oast and gaze at the ruins of the storeroom. Rustling up all the control she could muster, she walked over to him.

‘Would I be right in thinking that Armageddon is getting nearer, Georgia?' he asked. ‘Perhaps even expected at the reunion on Saturday?'

‘Yes. At least as far as Tom's visit in the seventies is concerned,' Georgia answered him as she led him through to Medlars' living room, where Peter was waiting, and established him in a comfortable chair.

‘Ah. So Joan's death still remains a mystery,' he continued after he had greeted Peter. The armchair she had picked was a low one, in the hope that it might diminish his control of the situation. It didn't seem to work.

‘I'd be annoyed,' he continued, ‘if my reunion were hijacked, even though I do agree this investigation can't go on. Ken's death alone proved that. I came here to confess to you both that I've not been entirely frank.' A disarming smile. ‘And before you ask me why, let me tell you it was for old times' sake. If the story about my involvement in petty smuggling in the fifties comes out, it would only be a few days' wonder, so I can live with that, and I've no doubt you have worked out who organized that little deal. Not me, I hasten to add.'

‘Sandy Smith,' Peter said matter-of-factly.

‘Correct. However, there's another matter,' Harold continued. ‘It came as no surprise to me that Tom visited Pamela in the seventies. I had met him not long before in London.'

‘By chance?' Georgia asked. So he must have been the old friend whom Tom had mentioned to the Eastleys. At least that was established.

‘No. He asked to see me at the theatre one day. He gave his real name, which meant nothing to my staff, but of course it did to me. I had believed him dead long since, so it was a shock.'

‘Did he tell you why he had cut off ties with his earlier life?'

‘No. He just said the only person he really regretted leaving behind was Pamela. He didn't want her to think that he'd abandoned her. He adored her, for all she was David Maclyn's child, not his. Funny that, you'd think there'd be bad blood between David and Tom, but there didn't seem to be. Pamela was officially Tom's child, although quite a few of us suspected she wasn't.

‘What Tom really wanted to know that day,' he continued, ‘was if I knew what had happened to Sandy. Well, I didn't, except that he was back in Broadstairs still doing the odd show. Tom asked me if I knew Sandy had been living in London, and I told him no. Tom had always refused to join Sandy's smuggling ring in Broadstairs, and Sandy was suspicious of him because of that. Sandy liked the excitement and the big lights, and there was no way I could see him eking out a living for the rest of his life as a kids' conjurer. After I'd got over the surprise when Tom visited me in the seventies, I decided I didn't want to poke my nose in too far. I had a career of my own to think of, and it wasn't going to include crime, especially major crime. Tom told me he thought Sandy had been mixed up with one of those big London gangs but had given it up. He was thinking of going down to Broadstairs on Pamela's birthday, and he seemed worried about running into Sandy. It would be only a brief visit.'

‘It was,' Peter said baldly. ‘We think Sandy murdered him.'

Georgia's was one of the first cars to arrive at the Broadstairs hotel on the Saturday, as she and Peter had decided to lunch in the bar before the show began. Perhaps they were relying too much on this reunion. Its importance seemed to have grown in their minds, and even Mike had declared his intention of being present if Sandy Smith was to perform and Vic Dale to be present. What's more, DI Jenkins would be with him. Dale was apparently the suspect for the shooting in south London last year, and therefore possibly in the frame for Ken's murder too. A full investigation was under way, Mike had told them. Perhaps, Georgia thought, Sandy Smith had still not fully retired from crime, if Vic was in full operation.

She was glad to arrive, despite the tension building up inside her. Peter's humming and singing in the car had grown worse. ‘All for the love of a lady  . . .' He had blushed as she asked him to lower the volume. ‘Sorry. Janie's persuaded me to join the Fernbourne Choir. She's a rattling good alto.'

The odd thing about working closely with other people, Georgia thought, was that the closer one grew, the more one's thoughts drew closer together. Ever since Peter had begun to sing Jack Point's song, it had stayed in her mind, and one day she had caught Luke humming it too. The song seemed to be haunting all of them, bringing not only Rick's disappearance but also Tom Watson constantly into her mind. Romantic fancy? Perhaps, but every time Peter hummed the tune, both Tom and Rick swirled round and round in her imagination. It could indicate a path forward at last, she thought hopefully.

It was sorely needed. Luke had postponed publication plans for the Watson book – or lack of it. After all, he had pointed out to her, you don't know the ending yet. Galling but true. This afternoon might change that.

Making Waves
, as the reunion show was called, was to be held in the same room as Ken's funeral. Perhaps lunching in the bar had been a mistake, for it simply increased her edginess, which Peter was sharing. Did he have a plan? She had no idea, and she knew that if she asked him at this stage, he wouldn't tell her anyway. Since Harold had told them about Tom's visit to him in London, she had begun to form her own ideas of how Joan Watson had died and longed to know if Peter was working in the same direction. The sooner the afternoon began, the better, so far as she was concerned.

‘Now?' Peter said at last as they finished lunch.

‘Yes. Let's go.'

They had to reach the hall through the hotel corridors, as the doors to the terrace were closed, presumably for noise reasons. The one door open led to what must be in use as the changing room for the cast, a tiny room squeezed on the end of the building. This had an entrance both to the outside and to the wings of the small stage. All very efficiently planned, although on a rather smaller scale, Georgia imagined, than Harold was used to in the West End.

As they took their places, she could see the room was well filled, although there were another fifteen minutes to wait before the show began. Automatically she began picking out familiar faces: the Trents, Fenella, Greg  . . . No Christine, but then Georgia had not expected her to be there. She couldn't see Cath either. From behind the red stage curtains there came the sounds of furniture and scenery being dragged into position and a buzz of conversation. To her, the closed doors now seemed symbolic; there was no turning back now. And yet never had she wanted fresh air so much.

‘No Mike yet,' Peter observed. ‘What's keeping him?'

‘I'll try and track him down.'

It was just an excuse, and Peter probably realized it. Four walls could get claustrophobic when one was waiting on tenterhooks – especially when she had no idea exactly what they were waiting for.

She hurried along the terrace and down the steps to the gardens, intending to skirt the hotel buildings to get through to the car park. As she approached the corner, however, something made her glance over to the edge of the far flower borders.

Dear God, it's a
clown
, was her first reaction, her heart leaping into sudden fright.
It was Tom Watson.
The ghost was here.

No, it couldn't be. She felt herself swaying with shock and had to force herself to be calm. Then she looked again. The clown was still there, sitting motionless on a bench. It was no ghost. It was a real clown, asleep, his head drooping. Not Tom Watson's ghost, thank heavens, but someone from the show. It must be Sandy. A flood of relief. How stupid of her—

But he was
very
still. Perhaps it was a dummy, an inflatable clown – could it really be Sandy beneath that hat and that paint, lolling with the white costume billowing around him, the red—