by Amy Myers
She strolled on through the village, taking in the mixture of houses, old cottages sandwiched in between nineteenth-century village houses. No new estates, it seemed. The going could be tough out here in winter. But perhaps Friday Street was so far off the map that the developers had never driven their elegant BMWs this far. The village had the appearance of having grown in fits and starts as need occurred, with little planning behind it. She walked past the pub, where through the window she could see Luke, pint in hand, chatting at the bar to a rather pleasant-looking dark-haired woman in her forties, at a guess. So he hadn’t met a wall of silence, unless he was remarkably thick-skinned today.
The Montash Arms stood at a crossroads, or rather cross-lanes, one of which must have been the original Friday Street, she reasoned. Whether or not it originally led to the gallows, Lady Rosamund’s tower lay down that way, according to the ordnance survey map. She, however, kept straight on for Downey Hall, which was set in spacious grounds, fortunately with a public footpath through it. Useful for taking a peek at the house, she thought, for Peter would expect a report.
The footpath led through a huge, gently sloped rough grass area. A few cows munched in the distance near a large oak tree, their calves protected amongst them. Beyond them Downey Hall was clearly visible on the crest of the incline, gleaming white, well proportioned and with an impressive columned entrance. A long white wall on both sides of the house divided this more public part of the grounds from what must be their private gardens behind, and that was probably where the gig had taken place, she imagined. What must it have been like for Frances Gibb, she wondered, coming back after years away as a famous singer? What thoughts were in her mind? Pride? ‘See what I’ve done’? Fear, even? But fear of what? That it might not be the perfect haven she dreamed of? Or fear of what she might have to face? But if so, why come at all?
The footpath circled round back to a lane joining the road that would eventually reach the A20, but she crossed over to the fields opposite where another path would take her back to the village.
It also took her past, so she had noted on the map, the site of an old church. That made sense, since the one she had seen could only have been late medieval. If so, why not build it on the site of its predecessor, she wondered? Unfortunately a site was all it was. When she reached it, there was nothing to be seen save uneven ground that suggested geophysical surveys might well produce something of interest.
She found Luke still chatting at the bar, no longer to the dark-haired woman, but to the proverbial old man in the corner, although this man was not so old. In his early sixties, she thought, and hardly retiring. Just as she was about to join him, however, she saw a familiar face. A young man. For a moment she could not place him, but then she recognized him. It hadn’t been Jake Baines playing that tune at Christmas; it was him. Before she could move towards him, however, Luke saw her, and it was too late.
‘Come and meet Josh Perry.’ Luke used prearranged anonymity towards her. She was impressed. He hadn’t wasted any time. ‘Josh used to be the landlord here, and now his son Bob has taken over.’
‘Now driving from the back seat,’ Josh drawled. As Luke coped with drinks and sandwiches, Georgia settled down to talk further. She remembered the name Perry from the witness statements that Peter had passed on to her, so she’d go carefully here. No hostility from him, she noted immediately, though his eyes were shrewd, even wary.
‘Don’t get many walkers here,’ he observed.
‘I’d have thought it would be a good stopping-off point for pilgrims in need of a drink,’ she joked.
‘Too far off the Canterbury Road for that. Most of ’em stick to the Pilgrims’ Way.’ That ran along the downs well south of Friday Street. ‘You’re local history anoraks, I gather.’
‘That’s right.’ Luke published local history books after all.
‘Not much history round here. We’re a backwater, and glad of it.’
‘You’re on a minor through route over the downs to the A2,’ Georgia pointed out as Luke returned with the drinks.
‘Thanks, cheers.’ Josh took a sip of his pint. ‘Not so you’d notice. The Doddington route to Faversham and the Charing road to Canterbury are the trade routes, as you might say. We’re just a farming community.’
‘Not from what I’ve heard,’ Luke said cheerily. ‘Didn’t there used to be smuggling round here?’
Did she imagine it or was Josh giving Luke a distinctly old-fashioned look? If so, why? It seemed a harmless enough topic, and served to establish good relations so that she could ask her question.
‘Used to be,’ he agreed. ‘Stuff came over from Whitstable way. Masterminded from what’s now Downey Hall with the help of the parson. The goods were stored round the village though, and some say a few cottages have tunnels or storerooms under them. Old wives’ tale, if you ask me. Anyway, those days are long gone. Bring it in free nowadays. And a fat lot of good that’s done the pub trade.’
‘You seem to be doing well here,’ Georgia observed. ‘By the way, who’s that young man over there?’ She pointed towards the bar. ‘I saw him before, when I passed through at Christmas.’
‘Did you now? Not surprising, that. He’s my grandson Tim. In for his lunch, no doubt.’ Josh heaved himself off his barstool and departed for the inner regions. ‘Take care, both of you.’ Pause. ‘And don’t forget to take a look at Lady Rosamund’s tower. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?’
He spoke easily, but there was no smile on his face. Cordiality had gone.
‘Shall we leave it at that?’ she asked Luke when they were outside again. ‘With any luck he thinks we’re standard gawpers.’ She felt shaken, but Luke urged her on.
‘No. He was challenging us, and anyway, I want to see this tower.’
‘That was the boy playing the flute music at Christmas. I thought it was Jake Baines, but it wasn’t.’
‘Is that important?’
‘It might be.’
‘Onwards then. To the tower. Don’t let Friday Street beat you,’ Luke told her. ‘After all, if we get lost in the dark we’ve got your emergency bag.’
The walk took them deep into the countryside again, past some remote cottages, until at a turn in the lane the tower came into view: stark, tall, three-floored, judging by the pigeon-hole windows. She had expected more of a tumble-down pile of stones, but this looked more or less complete, at least from the outside. There were even some crenellations remaining at the top.
There was no way in, however. The gate was firmly padlocked, and marked ‘Private Property’. Like Friday Street itself, it was saying ‘Keep out’.
Georgia was irrationally annoyed. Here the Lady Rosamund of legend had met her death and now, centuries later, so had Alice Winters. At Downey Hall, Fanny the bright star had met her death. Why should they keep out? ‘Never send to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.’ No man was an island. Even so, Peter might be right. Should she report to him that they should keep out of Friday Street, at least until they had inquired more deeply into these murders? Surely someone had to. Wasn’t that just why the music had been played?
Chapter Three
‘If I was a ghost,’ Georgia said, drawing a deep breath as they confronted the full glory of Pucken Manor, ‘I’d move in right away.’
Hollywood could have invented no better home for phantoms than Pucken Manor, which was a hotchpotch of medieval hall house, extended and patched up with Tudor brick, and with occasional later flourishes poked in all over it as later generations decided to do their bit for architecture. Ivy shrouded it in appropriate places, dark trees overshadowed it on both sides. The owners of Pucken Manor had clearly not had money to throw away, since this desirable residence for ghosts must be much less hospitable for more solid flesh, she thought. Tiles were missing from the roof, wood and paint were in sore need of attention, and there was a general air of dilapidation.
One look at the website and Peter had sent off for tickets immediately. ‘It’
s so awful,’ he pronounced with glee, ‘we have to see it.’
Georgia agreed. Pictures of ‘phantoms’ rivalled those of the Cottingley Fairies, and where no pictures could be presented, graphic illustrations of ghastly murders provided keen competition. The grisly coachman, the dairymaid done to death in the dairy, and a panoply of noble ancestors – all, it seemed, victims of violence – regularly returned to Pucken Manor to complain of their treatment.
To do Toby Beamish justice, there did indeed seem some respectable authentication for the haunting, enough to have brought serious students of the occult here over the last hundred and fifty years, judging by the enthusiastic critiques. Nevertheless the effect of the website was to make the memory of Alice Winters, who had died during such a tour, all the more poignant. Murder past and present. If there were any conceivable link between them, Georgia decided Marsh & Daughter could do no better than begin their closer acquaintance with Friday Street here, especially since Toby Beamish had been a witness at the trial. Apart from his statement about Fanny’s plans to go solo, he had seen her leaving the Hall after the dinner, and must therefore have been one of the last people to see her alive.
The tour group numbered twelve. ‘The maximum our ghosts will permit,’ Toby explained heartily, as he swung open the ancient wooden door to allow them to enter. It groaned on its hinges in protest. How, Georgia wondered, did he manage to get it to do that? He scored a point in her eyes, however, since he didn’t even blink at Peter’s wheelchair.
Toby Beamish fitted the stereotype of mad collector perfectly, even including a touch of the sinister. Like Josh from the pub, he must be in his sixties. He was rounded both in face and figure, wore large, black-rimmed glasses, and was as manic about his ghosts as the immortal Mr Toad for motor cars. Not so lovable, however, she thought. Toby was distinctly lacking on the charm front. His enthusiasm for his subject was, however, tempered with some nervousness – and no wonder, considering the terrible outcome of the previous tour. She and Peter waited until last to enter and, once inside, found not exactly an ancient retainer, but certainly an extraordinary woman.
‘By the reception desk shall a house be judged,’ Georgia whispered to Peter.
She was tall and angular, and, Georgia judged, in her late forties or early fifties; her hair was secured unfashionably high on her head, with strands escaping from it as fast as they could with each shake of her jangly earrings. To match Toby Beamish, her eagerness had more than a touch of Joyce Grenfell. Hands waved ecstatically as her high-pitched voice screamed welcome at her new brood of ghost hunters.
‘Welcome to the house of the Montashes. You must enjoy the tour. You shall. I said to Lord Montash only this morning, pray make your best materializations this afternoon.’
‘So you’re Lord Montash, are you?’ a member of the group asked Toby.
Toby looked suitably reproving. ‘His lordship, the fifth baronet, died three hundred years ago, poor fellow. We’ll meet him soon. Cadenza, the wheelchair. Would you officiate?’
Cadenza? Could that really be her name? Georgia wondered as the lady flowed towards Peter. She was even dressed the part, in a long Indian-fabric dress that suited the ambience. Was she wife or volunteer? From the adoring look she shot at Toby, the latter seemed the more likely.
‘I’m afraid that you will be confined to the ground floor,’ Cadenza explained earnestly to Peter, ‘but some of our best ghosts do materialize here from time to time.’
‘In that case I shall stick closely by your side for protection,’ Peter informed her graciously.
‘Oh.’ Cadenza blushed. ‘I shall be gratified to keep you company. I could perhaps introduce you when I feel a presence.’
‘Please do,’ Peter said gravely.
If the rest of the entertainment lived up to this, Georgia thought, it was going to be an interesting afternoon, and worth it for that alone. If any of the group were nurturing macabre hopes that Alice Winters would materialize there was no hint of it. Today’s crimes were a grisly reality, a world away from this plunge into fantasy land. Georgia doubted if there would be any mention made of Alice. Or of Fanny Star. Well, she could soon change that.
Toby Beamish must have been living here at the time of her murder, since a quick look around the entrance hall established that the family had lived here for generations. One fairly modern oil painting was clearly – from the dress fashions – of Toby’s parents, with a toddler held aloft. A younger Toby, presumably. If Toby took after his father, he must have been good looking in his youth. There were few traces of it now.
The group was a varied one, with a family, several tourists, and, she realized, the dark lady whom Luke had been talking to in the pub. He’d said she was an estate agent in Faversham. Georgia picked her out as a possible voice of reason should one be called for. Pucken Manor promised to be a relaxing diversion from the hostility of the Montash Arms, especially since Toby Beamish seemed only too eager to reveal Friday Street’s secrets to the world, as least as far as the manor was concerned. Georgia bought one of the guide books to read in bed later that night. It would make up for not having Luke, who was visiting his sister for the bank holiday weekend.
The inside of the manor lived up to its exterior. Dark panelling promised hidden glories. Deathwatch beetle looked to be positively encouraged in this house. Creaking stairs and the odd cobweb completed the illusion. The ghosts, however, dated from well before the time of Sweet Fanny Adams.
Toby obviously knew his history, Georgia thought, as he flung open cupboard doors and they peered up chimneys in search of manifestations. Perhaps too much so, for she decided she wouldn’t want to argue the toss with him as to how solid his ghosts were.
With Peter left on the ground floor, she was all the more aware of the strange atmosphere of this house. Like Friday Street, the house seemed claustrophobically closed in upon itself, and what had begun as a potentially enjoyable experience began to assume a much darker edge. This was not least because of Toby himself. He could almost, she thought in a moment of fantasy, be an incarnation of a particularly nasty ghost himself, a spook resurrected to introduce his ancestors one by one.
‘Is that the Lady Rosamund I heard about?’ demanded one of the group, in a bedroom that would have done justice to Dickens’ Miss Havisham. The bed had been provided with a dummy of a strangled woman, no doubt to attract her ghost.
‘No, this is Lady Montash,’ Toby explained. ‘Done to death by her coachman lover.’
Georgia saw her chance. ‘Ghosts always seem to date from hundreds of years ago,’ she complained. ‘Why don’t more recent tragedies leave ghosts behind?’
‘What an interesting question.’ Toby cast her a displeased look. He was obviously thinking out the answer. ‘Perhaps it’s because ours is such a fast-moving generation that ghosts don’t have time to linger. In the past they imprinted themselves on to a rarely disturbed atmosphere. It’s hard to find such places now.’
‘So Fanny Star wouldn’t be haunting Friday Street?’ Georgia asked innocently. Put the cat among the pigeons and see what it catches.
What it caught was a distinct wariness on Toby’s part. ‘Far too recent,’ he said briefly, and hastily excused himself to summon Cadenza. ‘Miss Broome, the rods, if you please,’ they heard him calling.
Cadenza duly arrived clutching an armful of what appeared to be coat hangers mutilated into suitably pronged shapes. ‘We shall see what power comes through today,’ Toby announced, handing them out. ‘Do any of us have the gift?’ he enquired, as Cadenza demonstrated how the rods should be held.
It appeared one of the children had, as they all moved round the room holding their rods out solemnly. The hanger held by one of the little girls was definitely quivering, but Georgia had no such luck. She might have had suspicions of this particular child, had it not been for the fact that the dark lady of the pub also seemed to be experiencing quivers.
‘I’m clearly not receptive,’ Georgia whispered to her. ‘Could I place m
y hands over yours to feel what it’s like?’
The woman shot her an amused look. ‘Be my guest.’
As soon as Georgia laid her hands on top of hers, she felt the sensation coming through, and so far as she could tell it wasn’t faked. Impressive, and despite her attempt to apply reason to the situation, she realized she was shivering. Suppose, just suppose, Fanny Star had been summoned here by the concentration of their thoughts on her. Nonsense, she told herself sharply, watching Cadenza’s hanger quivering violently. It was extended dramatically before her, Cadenza’s eyes were closed, and her head held back. Georgia half expected her to launch into an ‘Is anybody there?’ routine, but fortunately she did not. As soon as she lowered the hanger, Georgia took the opportunity to say chattily: ‘My father’s always been so interested in Fanny Star. He’ll be disappointed if she doesn’t materialize.’
Cadenza stiffened. ‘The poor girl has no need to do so. Justice was done and the murderer convicted.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
Cadenza looked indignant. ‘Of course. Everyone is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to your father.’
That pigeon had scuttled away rather quickly, Georgia thought, as Toby concluded the tour. It had, however, flushed another one out. The dark lady approached her as they walked to the minibus, which would take them to Rosamund’s tower. It would have accommodated Peter’s wheelchair, too, but he and Cadenza had vanished. Obviously they had already departed in Peter’s car, which suggested he must find her good value.
‘So what brought you here?’ enquired the dark lady.
Easy one. ‘My father and I dropped into the pub here at Christmas, liked it, and thought we’d come back for the tour. And you?’