by Amy Myers
‘There’s no doubt about its being Damien, I suppose?’ she asked Mike as he stopped on the last SOCO ‘stepping stone’ to the tent.
‘Not much. Identified by the licensee at the pub, but a relation is on his way to double-check. Trent booked in at the King’s Head three days ago, and was supposed to be leaving today. He was shot. Feeble attempt to make it look like suicide by leaving the gun at his side.’
‘Is accident ruled out?’
‘Pretty nearly. Poaching by night is out of fashion anyway, so I doubt if he got in the way of a man and a pheasant. He was killed roughly between nine p.m. and midnight.’
‘Gun?’
‘Smith and Wesson.’
‘Registered to?’
‘Unregistered. There was a lot of noise in the village last night. Party and music at the pub. Could have masked the shot.’
Georgia looked round. The path disappeared into the thick woodland. Where could Damien have been going or, more likely, coming from? This would be a creepy choice of route from the manor late at night, and so why bother when its driveway would have been so convenient for the pub? She tried in vain to suppress the question of whether his death had any relevance to Alwyn Field, whose tombstone was close by.
‘Do you want to talk here, or rejoin Peter?’ Mike asked.
No doubt about that – the latter. Peter had gone to the pub to wait for them and it was a bad sign that Mike wasn’t making the usual ‘Marsh and Daughter’s fancy ideas aren’t needed here’ noises.
The pub itself was full, no doubt after word had spread of the murder, and Peter had remained in the garden where there was less chance of being overheard.
Mike pounced for the kill straightaway. ‘Right. So you sniffed a case for Marsh and Daughter?’
He wasn’t usually so aggressive. Perhaps even as a DCI he didn’t like to be reminded of his days as Peter’s sergeant. No, Georgia couldn’t believe that Mike was as petty as that. Probably his wife or children were presenting problems, though that too was unlikely from what she knew of them. Besides, Mike was a skilled performer in keeping his life compartmentalized. It was more likely that this case looked to Mike as if it might be a tricky one, and the suggestion it was a ‘Marsh’ sort of case would, alas, only make it trickier in his eyes.
During his work with Peter in the Kent Police, Mike had once explained to her that some incidents informally became categorized as ‘Marsh cases’, and it was only later that, accentuated by Rick’s disappearance, Peter himself had begun to assess his vague hunches as attributable to fingerprints on time. Mike, for all his apparent straightforward approach to his work, had a keen sense that if something worked, it worked – and Peter’s hunches had often fitted that bill. It’s what had made them a good team until Peter’s accident had put an end to it. Now the combination did not work so well.
‘Not really.’ Georgia tried to answer Mike’s accusation. ‘It was Shaw Cottage that intrigued us, and that’s some way from the village. It was only later we discovered it had a link to the Fernbourne Five arts group. That’s all,’ she finished lamely, aware it still didn’t sound convincing. The truth often didn’t, she thought crossly.
‘So you immediately rushed off to see this tombstone, where you met Damien Trent. Why?’
Why not, would be the natural reply, but Georgia suppressed it. ‘Idle curiosity. Nothing more.’
Mike loosened up. ‘Tell me again what Damien Trent said to you.’
She related the conversation as clearly as she could remember it.
‘A journalist,’ he repeated. ‘Sure of that?’
‘Positive.’
‘Would it surprise you to know that when the police broke the news to his mother, she said he worked at Gatwick Airport?’
Georgia was taken aback. Surely not. Damien had behaved like a journalist – though how one could define that, she wasn’t sure. ‘He could have been a freelancer.’
‘He could,’ agreed Mike, ‘but if so he kept remarkably quiet about it. No one seems to know what he was doing in Fernbourne. The name meant nothing to his mother. His home was in the Haywards Heath area and neither she nor his girlfriend knew he was here, let alone why. He’d said he was taking a few days off to see some old friends on the south coast.’
‘Did he live with this girlfriend?’ Georgia asked practically. A live-in partner would probably be better informed.
‘No.’
Pity. She, more than the mother, might have known why he had such an interest in the Fernbourne Five, Georgia thought. Maybe he’d just been reading about them and, realizing he was nearby, drove in to investigate their home territory. This explanation didn’t satisfy her, as it would have been odd to book in for three days on a mere whim. Nevertheless, it didn’t seem long enough to stir up any reason for his murder involving the Five. If there was a link, she would be furious with herself for not pushing for more information from Damien – not least because she might have prevented his death. Or, it occurred to her belatedly, she might have shared it, if there were such a connection. And she could still. The thought was not pleasant.
‘Is there still a doubt that it was murder?’ Peter asked.
‘Just possible, I suppose.’
‘Even if poaching is old hat, he might have disturbed badger hunters or some other nocturnal activity.’
‘If you count drugs as nocturnal activity, that’s more likely to be on the cards. The churchyard is, or was, a favoured spot for deals. Even so, why leave the gun?’
Peter grunted. He liked to leave no stone unturned. ‘Is it certain that Trent has no contacts here?’ he probed. Georgia held her breath, but fortunately Mike seemed to be giving them leeway.
‘We’re not far enough into it yet. He did ask whether a Joe Baker was still alive, and there are still Bakers in the village. One owns the village shop.’
‘Emma’s mum?’ Georgia queried. At least there was a line of enquiry that was nothing to do with the Fernbourne Five.
Mike grinned. ‘It must be a hard fate being known as that young lady’s mum. No, is the answer. Mum’s only a Baker by marriage and her husband Ken is the legal owner. This Joe Baker turns out to have been his grandfather’s brother and died in the 1980s – although with such a common name there might have been other Joes. Ken says he was in his early twenties when Joe died. He knew him, of course, but only as a jolly uncle figure. He asked Trent if he was a long-lost relative, and Damien said he was looking into it. Hardly likely to have led to his death, is it?’
‘But it fits Damien’s statement to me that his father had recently died,’ Georgia said thankfully. If this had been a family history search for Damien, that meant his death could be one step further from the Fernbourne Five, lessening her responsibility over not probing further.
Mike took his departure, leaving them in the garden. ‘What next?’ Georgia asked Peter after he had gone.
‘Another pint, as you’re driving.’
She went in to fulfil his request and emerged bearing the drinks, reflecting on pub gardens in general, now that the question of Damien Trent seemed to have receded as something in which they might be deeply involved. Pub gardens could often tell as much about the pub and its clientele as the interior. This one was more of a problem as the interior was somewhat neglected, whereas this garden was neatly mown, clipped and weeded. No love-in-a-mist would dare to seed itself here and spring up expecting to be welcomed. Neat begonias, dahlias and French marigolds formed the army of flowers disciplined here into strict regimental order. Was this Bob Laycock’s wife’s domain? Or Ted’s? And if so, what did that tell her about Ted? Nothing, she answered herself cheerfully, as she placed Peter’s pint and her own decorous fruit juice on the table.
‘Do we take this further or do what Mike clearly wishes and clear out?’ she asked hopefully on her return to Peter. ‘We could just put the Fernbourne Five on the shelf.’
There were a lot of such files on the shelf – or more literally nowadays in the computer. What rema
ined in the shelf files were newspaper cuttings, Internet printouts, photographs and other paraphernalia of cases that might one day develop, but which lacked the vital key to whether they progressed or not.
‘What about Alwyn Field?’ Peter asked. ‘We can’t abandon him.’
‘A troubled end for a troubled life. We’ve nothing more to go on.’
‘Except curiosity,’ Peter pointed out.
‘Which killed the cat.’
He grinned at her. ‘But the cat has nine lives.’
Georgia spent the intervening weekend after Damien’s death reading The Freedom Seekers. It would be one step forward in combating her reservations about this case – if a case it was. Even though it looked as though it had nothing to do with Damien Trent, she still had an uneasy feeling of responsibility, illogical though it seemed.
As she and Peter turned into the manor drive on the Monday afternoon, she had managed to put Damien temporarily aside, in favour of keeping a clear mind over the Fernbourne Five, particularly Clemence Gale. Peter often left such spadework meetings to her, but on this occasion he had been insistent on coming himself. When she asked why, he had merely replied vaguely, ‘It’s the way in.’
‘To the manor perhaps, not necessarily to Shaw Cottage,’ she had argued. ‘Are you shifting emphasis?’
He had looked worried. ‘Let’s agree that it’s a side gateway to Alwyn Field.’
This was some gateway, she now thought. Whoever designed the manor had built in the maximum potential for impressing the newcomer through this curved driveway; it was bordered with huge rhododendrons, so that when Peter rounded yet another bend the house was revealed in all its glory.
And glory it was. In front of them was a magnificent brick building of three storeys, the same red brick as the rest of the village cottages and the school. This building, however, had a stone portico and matching window ledges, and its shape suggested there had been later extensions.
From her photographs Clemence Gale looked a formidable lady, but Peter had told Georgia that Clemence had sounded most welcoming on the telephone and she had even suggested Matthew Hunt should be present today. Peter wasn’t surprised at that. He’d given their reason for the visit as general interest after having read Matthew’s book, but Marsh & Daughter’s occupation could well have been known to them.
‘Hence the reception committee,’ Peter had commented. ‘They’ll probably be lined up on the front steps to greet us.’
Clemence Gale was now in her late eighties, and was still actively painting, according to Peter. She’d made a passing reference on the telephone to ‘studio time’. There proved to be no reception committee lined up on the front steps, only a ramp for the wheelchair and the door opened by Clemence’s daughter, Janie Hunt, as she introduced herself. She looked in her late forties, and a throwback to the 1970s in her style of dress, with dangling earrings amid long wild hair, floating long skirt and sandals. She seemed friendly, however, despite the anxiety lines Georgia could see on her face, and her smile was valiantly fighting those. An interesting woman, Georgia thought, and obviously her mother’s carer, but what else?
‘Come in. I hope the ramp holds up,’ Janie joked.
‘I’m not that heavy,’ Peter said cheerfully as he embarked on the journey up. It held.
So far, so good. The house seemed welcoming too; its polished floors and carpets didn’t clash with its atmosphere of run-down comfort. Georgia could see this was a home, not just a house, and the paintings and objects in this large entrance hall suggested a random selection that pleased its owner rather than one to impress visitors. Janie led the way into a large room on the left, where four long sofas were set in a square with a low table in the middle. Clemence Gale, as her photographs suggested, was a short, impressive lady with grey cropped hair and clad in an array of clothes that offered nothing to fashion. She was not seated but leaned heavily on her stick, and her determined lively face made the idea of a carer somewhat redundant. At her side was Matthew Hunt, who looked a well-preserved seventy-something, with a mop of curly well groomed white hair, suntanned face, lithe figure, and an air of being leader of the pack. This was, as Peter had expected, the modern face of the Fernbourne Five on display.
‘Clemence tells me you’ve read my little book, and hence your interest in the Fernbourne Five. Excellent, especially as I’ve been reading yours,’ Matthew began with polished flattery. ‘The one about the Spitfires and the Battle of Britain. I spent many days in my childhood lying on the lawn watching dog fights in the air by day and sleeping in Anderson shelters by night.’
‘You were a WAAF, if I recall correctly, Mrs Hunt.’ Georgia turned to Clemence after suitable murmurs of appreciation all round.
‘I was called up in late 1942. I was a driver at RAF Manston. It’s left me with a long standing aversion to black shoes, thick stockings and blue-grey heavy skirts,’ agreed Clemence, waving to Georgia to sit down, and following suit. There was a glint in her eye which suggested that she knew exactly how Georgia was summing up this formal welcome.
She tried to imagine what it would be like to be painted by Clemence, suspecting those keen eyes would probe further into one’s psyche than might be comfortable. Janie took her position at her mother’s side while Matthew sat in lonely state on one of the other sofas, one arm casually draped along its back. Oh, yes, the leader of the pack all right.
‘Your interest in the Fernbourne Five was sparked off not so much by my humble book as by Shaw Cottage, so I hear,’ he observed.
Peter laughed. ‘Glad to hear that Fernbourne has the usual efficient village communication system. Yes, you’re right. The cottage is a sad place, isn’t it?’
‘Empty houses always are,’ remarked Janie.
‘Shaw Cottage isn’t empty,’ Clemence said firmly. ‘It’s full of memories.’
‘Of Alwyn Field?’ Peter leapt in. ‘Yet he doesn’t seem prominent in your book, Matthew.’
‘Or in the group, Mr Marsh,’ was the soft rejoinder. ‘Poor Alwyn never felt that he measured up to the rest of you, did he, Clemence? He was wrong, of course. He was very gifted. My mother would not have loved him otherwise. And, of course,’ Matthew moved on, ‘Clemence meant the cottage has memories of her too.’
‘You don’t mind talking about that aspect?’ Georgia asked. She had been surprised to find there was plenty about Elfie and Alwyn’s affair in The Freedom Seekers. No shirking the issue, even though Elfie had been Matthew’s mother.
‘Of course not,’ was Matthew’s reply. ‘It’s a major part of the Fernbourne Five story. I have little personal memory of the affair to upset me. My mother rarely talked to me about it, but it’s a necessary factor if you are to understand the Fernbourne Five.’
‘Did you live in Shaw Cottage with your mother?’ Georgia asked.
‘No. I saw her, of course, but lived at the manor. I was at boarding school and only in Fernbourne for holidays. In due course Clemence came to live here.’ A smile in her direction. ‘And then I had two mothers.’
Georgia saw Clemence glance at him, but her expression was unreadable. And expressions could be misinterpreted, she reminded herself, as the danger was that one would see what one wanted to see. But what would that be in this case, she wondered. Love, or just the bonds created by the past?
‘I should explain,’ Clemence said, ‘that Gavin and Elfie’s parting was by mutual consent. After that, in due course, he came to love me. Elfie had moved out by then, she and Gavin were divorced and in due course we married. I remained on good terms with Elfie too – naturally, because she was one of the group and so was I.’
‘She moved into Shaw Cottage after Alwyn died, didn’t she?’ Georgia still thought that strange.
‘After she had satisfied herself that I was happy at boarding school,’ Matthew picked up smoothly. ‘Before that she devoted herself here to her writing and illustrations. She had given up the chance of a happy married life with Alwyn. It is a remarkable story and her work was very
fine, even if not in today’s fashion. If you read her books and poems and look carefully at the illustrations, you can glimpse sadness behind them as well as the magic and charm. She had a knack of combining all the elements of the child’s world together; the magic, the music, the fantasy, the quest for the unknown, the unexplained on the one hand and everyday life and realities on the other. The fun and quirkiness of her work, plus a world to which one can relate, often remind me of the Harry Potter books.’
Not the impression that Georgia had received so far. It sounded too sweet for words, Georgia thought, and yet perhaps she was only judging from hindsight. Children’s books did have those elements then, and sometimes still did, though in different form.
‘What sort of person was she?’ she asked.
Matthew considered this. ‘She was my mother, so that’s hard for me to answer. Let’s say she wasn’t like me.’
Clemence laughed and took over. ‘Elfie and I were chalk and cheese too, if that’s any guide. Elfie was, as her nickname suggests, very much an other-worldly person. The realities of life left her bewildered. She needed to be looked after, but unfortunately Gavin required this too, and eventually the two clashed too much. This makes her sound a selfish person, but I assure you she wasn’t. She was loving, gentle and unselfish, a fairy story in herself.’
‘And no wicked witches around?’ Georgia couldn’t help asking. This still sounded too good to be true, and perhaps Janie realized it because she broke in with her own opinion.
‘Every fairy tale has its darker side. Elfie’s certainly did. After all, she did have to give up Alwyn to look after Matthew.’
‘That wasn’t so dark a fate,’ Matthew laughed, but with none too friendly a glance at his half-sister.
‘Her happiness disappeared with that decision,’ Janie stubbornly maintained.
‘With Elfie,’ Matthew rejoined, ‘her dreams were her happiness, and who knows what they were?’
‘Oh, come on, Matthew,’ Janie snorted. ‘How can you say that?’