by Amy Myers
‘I took the poem scripts to Charlie today, so we’ll have to give it a week at least. I know time’s running short. It’s already October and with the opening in June you’ll have to move quickly.’
‘The advantage of being a small outfit is that I can do just that. Speaking of moving quickly, it’s time for dinner.’ Luke smiled at her. ‘One thing though: I see no reason not to encourage Marsh and Daughter on this project.’
‘Encourage as in contract?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Maybe next month. I’m still a bit pushed till I can repay the bank loan.’
This reminded her uncomfortably that she still had not decided about the house. Selling it wouldn’t be a cure for Luke’s problems, but it would provide a comfortable personal reassurance once the cash was banked. Perhaps he saw her hesitation, because he joked: ‘Plenty of dark woods beyond my stream at present. Good job I’m well armoured.’
It didn’t seem a joke to her. Elfie’s dark woods could well have been the dark shadow hanging over Alwyn’s death. If Peter was right and Gavin was in the frame for murder, as well as Joe Baker, it would explain why she fretted in silence and produced that book a year or two later.
‘If The Flight of the Soul is ruled out, would you still want to publish the other books?’ she asked.
‘At the moment I wouldn’t want to touch anything controlled by those trustees under Mr Hunt’s leadership until I’m sure there are no submerged icebergs. Between them those trustees have a lot of axes to grind, but I’m not sure they’re grinding the same way. I can’t see how they can hold the copyright, but they’re throwing their weight around, which translates into trouble.’
Luke decreed he would cook supper so Georgia fulfilled her table-setting duties, much relieved at his reply. Moving the usual small pile of books off the table she saw it included another of Elfie’s books, which seemed earlier than The Woods Beyond the Stream although it predated the need for a copyright line with the year of publication. Certainly the style was lighter. In this one – Princesses I Have Known – stories were mixed with poems and charming colour illustrations. One in particular caught her attention, a scene of bluebells – no, it was love-in-a-mist, of course. Elfie’s flower. With mixed feelings, she remembered the poem in that disastrous publication Janie had shown her. This book was different. Between the flower heads on the frontispiece was a beautiful princess, with a crown of tiny flowers, her loose hair glowing in sunshine, and her face intent on the goldcrest pecking at her side. There was something about the expression on the face and tilt of the head that she couldn’t quite place, and she put the book aside. But then, as Luke brought the supper in, it came to her.
‘It’s Alice Laycock,’ she exclaimed in surprise.
‘Chicken risotto actually.’
‘This drawing, stupid.’ She snatched the book up and showed it to him.
‘Could be,’ he agreed, as he set the dish down. ‘If so, she was a looker, wasn’t she?’
Georgia was certain now. The elusive Alice had been a model for the Five too, perhaps replacing Jenny. Ted, her husband, was now a trustee. Was that coincidence, or just the endless circle of village life? But either way, did that bind Alice into the web of the Fernbourne Five story?
Nine
Georgia had still had no luck in speaking to Alice. She had hoped that by ringing reasonably early in the morning she might do better, but it appeared that Alice was ‘off-colour’ and couldn’t be troubled with visitors today. Especially her, Georgia had ruefully realized. There were compensations, however. It was Wednesday and over a week had passed without news from Charlie Bone, but when she answered a ring at Peter’s doorbell, she found Charlie waiting.
‘Morning, Georgia. Uncle Pete up yet?’
‘Uncle Pete most certainly is,’ came a roar from within. ‘Margaret,’ he called through to the kitchen where she was busy preparing his lunch, ‘our guest has arrived. Let wine and cakes be brought forth.’
‘Green tea will do.’ Charlie followed in Georgia’s wake, as Margaret appeared from the kitchen bearing a tray of cups and biscuits, always ready to hand if Charlie was coming. She had a soft spot for him, deeming him an influence for the good in her constant battle to get Peter to eat healthily.
‘About that Fernbourne lot again, is it?’ Margaret enquired of Charlie. ‘Funny folk there. Always happens to places out in the wilds.’
‘You make it sound like the backwoods of the Rocky Mountains, Margaret.’ Georgia took the tray from her, reflecting that maybe Margaret wasn’t too far off the truth.
‘Where Fernbourne’s concerned,’ she replied darkly, ‘I reckon it is. I had an aunt lived there once. All twisted up they are, like bindweed.’
Georgia agreed. With Alice unexpectedly turning out to be part of the inner group, this case was proving one of ever-decreasing circles – although she hoped with a more positive outcome than its proverbial one.
‘Ahem,’ Charlie put in plaintively, ‘I take it no one is particularly interested in my news?’
‘I am,’ Georgia declared promptly, handing him the plate of Margaret’s home-made biscuits. (Snacks were apparently excluded from Charlie’s rules for healthy eating, as were his mother’s eclairs.)
‘I’ve an unofficial report from Rob Lawley on those handwriting samples – unofficial because no one paid him to do it,’ Charlie announced.
‘I owe you, Charlie,’ Peter said gratefully.
‘Good.’
‘Now can I see it?’
Charlie handed it over, and munched his way onwards while Peter read it, with Georgia peering over his shoulder. ‘So,’ Peter said, ‘preliminary tests indicate that there’s something here to get to grips with.’ He breathed a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Samples One and Two are copies of Samples Three and Four; and Samples One and Two –’ he double-checked – ‘are those that appear to be in Roy’s handwriting and therefore are almost certainly forgeries. So all we need to do is check is that Samples Three and Four are indeed Alwyn’s originals.’
‘Almost certainly?’ Georgia queried.
‘It’s not conclusive,’ Peter said regretfully. ‘Roy could have copied these two poems for some reason before he died.’
Charlie coughed ostentatiously. ‘But this is conclusive, unless you’ve got the master forger of all time at work here.’ Charlie dangled a second envelope before them. ‘The lab report on the paper – you owe Rob for this too, incidentally. As you’ll see, all samples are written on cheap flimsy paper, which seems consistent with wartime paper rationing, but the watermarks clearly date Samples One and Two to the later 1940s, and Samples Three and Four to the early forties.’
‘So prima facie it looks as if the plagiarism issue was a trumped-up charge,’ Peter said delightedly. ‘Charlie, I shall make you an honorary member of Marsh and Daughter for this.’
‘Seconded,’ Georgia chimed in.
‘No way,’ Charlie said promptly. ‘Too much like hard work. So if the charge was trumped-up, who’s your trumper?’
‘Only one candidate with reason to do it, although as yet unproven,’ Peter said immediately. ‘Gavin Hunt.’
‘That novelist bloke?’
‘It is indeed that novelist bloke. The head of the Fernbourne Five. Father of the present chair of the trustees for the Fernbourne Trust, whose grand opening of the arts centre is in eight months’ time.’
‘Another fine mess you’ve got yourselves into,’ Charlie said cheerfully. ‘How’s Suspects Anonymous doing with it?’
‘A lot better now that we can feed your news into it.’ Peter looked gleeful. ‘There are some other useful indications too.’
Were there? Grateful though she was to Charlie, Georgia could see quicksand ahead – especially where Clemence was concerned. How would she take it if it turned out to be true that Gavin had faked the evidence? And even worse, suppose Gavin had had an eager helper in Clemence? No, that she could not believe.
Nor could Luke believe it when Georgia told him of this
new development that evening.
‘Clemence won’t incriminate Gavin, that’s for sure,’ he said, ‘and I don’t see her a party to it.’
‘Nor do I.’ Georgia sighed. ‘Will you speak to Molly or shall we? She’ll have to know.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to, even though I’ve served notice of withdrawal of my offer.’ Luke frowned. ‘It’s odd I haven’t heard from her.’
‘Perhaps Matthew never passed on your ultimatum.’
‘He did. I spoke to Molly after that fiasco.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘Compartments, Georgia. We have to have them. She said she’d smooth things over.’
‘To which you replied …?’
‘That I’d consider my position then. Since when, silence. So now is an excellent time to call about this,’ he decided.
‘Even though it’s not cast-iron proof?’
‘That’s the best thing about it,’ Luke said firmly. ‘I’ll call tomorrow.’
The pie for supper was no sooner ready than there was a call, however, and Georgia froze when she heard the familiar deep voice. What did Clemence want? Surely Charlie’s news couldn’t have reached her yet?
‘I’m sorry Mr Frost had backed out of his desire to reprint the Five’s work, Georgia. I’m doing my best to make Matthew see sense,’ was all Clemence appeared to have telephoned to say.
‘He didn’t back out. He was put in a position where he had no alternative.’ Georgia was rewarded by seeing Luke’s nod of approval. ‘He’s still in touch with Molly, however.’
She expected to hear Clemence’s amused chuckle at her diplomatic reply, but it didn’t come. Instead: ‘One other matter. Janie tells me that someone has disturbed the scripts in the proposed study room. The cleaner perhaps.’
Another truthful answer, even if a specious one. ‘Certainly not me, Clemence. I didn’t get as far as the manuscripts before I was thrown out,’ she replied. ‘But as that is to be a study room, would there be a problem if I had?’
A silence, then a sigh. ‘My dear Georgia, when dealing with the past, there is always a problem where the successors are concerned. I wish you well, but I’m afraid Davids don’t automatically win against Goliaths.’
Phew. Georgia realized that her hand was trembling as she put down the receiver.
‘Well done,’ Luke said.
‘Not so well done. Clemence is a sharp lady. She knows about your scavenging in the study room, although I doubt if Janie could tell that anything is actually missing. She’s warning us that the trust has too much at stake to stop the steamroller now.’
‘They are all going to know very shortly, and the steamroller will start anyway. Do you mind?’
Georgia considered this. ‘That’s a problem Dorothy Sayers once posed in one of her crime novels: does one follow the truth no matter what, or let it pass by for the best of emotional reasons?’
‘You think you’ll have a clash here?’
She nodded. ‘A loud one.’
‘Justice for Alwyn Field against your liking for Clemence?’
‘More than that. Justice for Damien Trent,’ she said soberly. ‘Would you think it pretentious if I said that he’s handed me the baton, and I can’t drop it?’
Luke took her into his arms. ‘No. I’d say you had no choice.’
Next morning she waited in Peter’s office on tenterhooks, hoping to hear that Luke had spoken to Molly. She even manufactured an excuse to return to Medlars when she couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. Luke saw through this ploy right away.
‘She’s out,’ he said briefly.
Damn. All day? All week perhaps? A horrible thought. Was Molly at the Frankfurt Book Fair – that was usually about this time in October. She rushed back to the office and checked the Internet. No, that was last week. She could hardly return to Medlars again, so she forced herself to consider other paths to follow to keep her mind off Molly. Was Alice still ‘off-colour’? Pursue the Damien Trent case? Not until Mike gave them permission. What then?
‘Stop drumming your fingers on the desk,’ Peter said crossly. ‘You’re disturbing me.’
‘At what?’ she retorted. ‘Suspects Anonymous?’
‘No problem with that. At last it’s showing a healthy interest in this case. Two icons, Joe Baker’s and Gavin Hunt’s, have been slugging it out for top place for Field’s murder, and now Gavin Hunt has won by a small margin.’
‘And that’s good news?’ she asked ironically.
He looked at her in surprise. ‘At least it’s a tenable thesis.’
Normally she would be tackling him with the ‘what ifs’ and ‘whys’. Now she couldn’t. Everything seemed to stop still with Molly Sandford, and she told Peter so.
‘I see why you’re worried. It’s Clemence. You’re afraid she could have been involved.’
‘Exactly,’ she said gratefully.
‘I’m inclined to think not, but all we can do until we hear is go back to Alwyn Field, still the centre of the puzzle. What do you suppose he made of all this, assuming he was the real author? He would have known he was being stitched up. He must have been fighting his corner very hard – especially when he discovered the original scripts had disappeared. The Five would have been in and out of each other’s houses all the time, so they could have been pinched from the Shaw Cottage studio, or he could have taken them to Gavin Hunt when he first raised the charge of plagiarism. We only have hearsay evidence that he said the originals were lost. Then Hunt did the dirty on him.’
Yes.’ She took a leap forward. ‘And suppose the rape charge was also false.’
Peter looked interested. ‘With Joe incited by Gavin to lay on the rough music? Are you suggesting Gavin was the father?’
The man in the portrait, yes, but Georgia hadn’t got as far as thinking of Gavin as Jenny’s rapist. Surely that wasn’t possible. She felt as if she were fighting her way through a Kafka-type web in this case from which there was no escape. The ring of her mobile made her jump and she answered it shakily.
‘I thought you might like to know,’ Luke’s voice informed her, ‘that I’ve just spoken to Molly.’
‘Did all hell break loose?’
‘In a brisk, clipped way, yes.’
‘And?’
‘She’ll be in my office at ten tomorrow morning.’
‘What about the trustees?’
‘Subject to availability, they’ll meet tomorrow afternoon. Either way, if Molly agrees there’s a case to answer, they’ll be there. If she doesn’t, I can shut up and get lost, while they meet to decide a different course of action over the reprints.’
‘Sounds risky to me. Don’t hand that evidence over, will you? I can see the whole lot disappearing.’
‘Strangely enough, I trust Molly, though I share your cynical thoughts. She won’t tell the trustees about the plagiarism charge until the meeting.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past Matthew to dash off and destroy everything if he sniffs something afoot. He can’t have known it was there.’
‘He’d have to reckon with Janie and Clemence, who—’
‘Are unknown factors,’ Georgia finished for him, wondering whether her head or her heart would win this particular battle. She ended the call and told Peter the news. ‘So where does that leave us?’
‘In a hole if the trustees stand firm over the poems being Roy’s,’ he replied. ‘The onus of proof would be on us if we went ahead with our book claiming otherwise, and I doubt if our publisher would like that.’
‘And Molly Sandford? She has her biography at stake. Roy’s reputation centres on The Flight of the Soul. She won’t abandon that lightly. The best cards are in their hands.’
‘Then we need an ace.’
***
‘What do you want to see her for?’ Ted Laycock’s voice was mild, but there was no getting past his stalwart presence behind the King’s Head bar, guarding the door to the private quarters. Perhaps that was reasonable, since Alice was distinc
tly eccentric, and he must see himself as her guardian. Unable to bear the tension of waiting to hear from Luke about the outcome of his meeting with Molly, she had decided to take the bull by the horns and present herself on the Laycock doorstep. Despite Adam’s more sympathetic presence while he was cleaning up the previous night’s detritus, it seemed her journey was once again in vain.
‘I was looking at Elfie Lane’s illustrations,’ she answered truthfully, ‘and wondered whether Alice had been her model. There’s a similarity of features.’
His eyes grew hard. ‘You think so? No, Miss Marsh. Whether she was or wasn’t, I won’t have you raking up those days for her.’
To Georgia’s surprise Adam spoke up in her defence. ‘Won’t do any harm, Grandpa. She’s always talking about her Elfie anyway.’
‘And what do you know about it?’ Ted turned on him angrily.
Adam was made of sterner stuff than Georgia had given him credit for. ‘As much as you,’ he rejoined. ‘You were only a kid in those days.’
‘I was sixteen or seventeen.’
Adam shrugged. ‘There you are then. You’re always telling me I’m a kid.’
‘Shut up, lad,’ Ted said, not unkindly. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘What are we talking about?’ Georgia asked politely, and slightly puzzled. ‘I only want to talk to your wife about Elfie Lane, and you’ll both be doing a lot of that next year anyway. You can’t have a grand opening in silence.’
‘Alice is out,’ Ted said quietly and with that the subject was closed.
Frustrated, Georgia finished her coffee and went across to the shop to buy some toothpaste. That was her ploy in the hope of seeing Emma, but that too failed. Someone she didn’t recognize was behind the counter, and told her the family was in Canterbury. Feeling it was one of those days when the world was against her, she returned to the church car park where she had left her car.
‘Cuckoo!’ came a voice from behind the churchyard wall, as she unlocked the door. It startled her but when she turned there no sign of anyone – at first anyway. Then a woolly red hat emerged, followed by Alice’s face. Alice then strolled down to the gate into the car park and walked up to Georgia, peering into her face. ‘Adam said you wanted a chat.’