The Marsh & Daughter Casebook

by Amy Myers

  ‘She didn’t. She just went. She was in the bar one night . . .’ Josh stopped, as though it were too painful to continue.

  ‘Tell us, Josh. It’s important,’ Georgia said gently. She won no brownie points for her consideration.

  ‘Can’t see how. She finished washing up and was putting on her raincoat – it was pouring with rain that night – and just said, “I’m going, Josh. Won’t be here tomorrow or ever again.” I thought she meant she was throwing in the job so I didn’t take it too seriously. Except when she kissed me. On the lips, as if she meant it, you know. I knew it then, but it was too late; she’d gone by morning. She’d disappeared up to London, her mother said. Took nothing, except every bit of cash she could lay her hands on. She’d saved up all her wages.’

  ‘Didn’t her parents try to find her?’

  ‘Once they realized she wasn’t returning, her mother did. But the police never found any trace at all, and after a while her mother just said nothing if any of us asked. “Where do you start looking?” she’d say. Her dad didn’t care. Pretended he was worried, but he wasn’t.’

  ‘Had she had a row with anyone in the gang?’

  ‘Not that I know of. You can ask Sheila about that – if she’ll talk to you.’

  ‘Ah,’ Peter said reflectively, ‘Fanny’s great friend.’

  ‘That’s right. At that time they had a lot in common.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You’ll remember,’ Josh said to Peter, ‘things could be a lot simpler in those days. Some of us were village, some the other side of the posh fence. Sheila, me, Frances, Hazel were all one side, even though when the gang was together it didn’t seem to matter. Odd, really.’

  ‘Sheila and Michael say they don’t want to resurrect the past,’ Georgia pointed out. ‘Is there anything you can do about that?’

  ‘I might. Try Toby first.’ Josh hesitated. ‘Go careful though.’

  ‘Someone told me he’s had a hard life,’ Georgia said, not relishing the thought of a tête-à-tête in Pucken Manor.

  ‘Meaning that Cadenza says so. She would. Toby’s Number Two to Michael in this village, just as he was in the gang.’

  ‘Did he ever marry?’ Georgia asked bluntly.

  ‘Yes. His wife ran off with another man. That satisfy you, does it? And for all Cadenza’s hopes, Toby’s not likely to try marriage again.’

  ‘Was he always as fixed on ghosts as he is now?’ Georgia quickly moved to a safer subject.

  ‘Much the same. Always some crazy passion. Trains as we grew up, then it was girls, now it’s ghosts. So, now I’ve told you all I can . . .’

  ‘Not quite,’ Georgia said firmly. ‘What about the day of the murder? You can tell us about that without going over your halfway mark. Was all the gang there?’

  ‘Most of us. We were flattered to be asked – by 1968 the gang had more or less broken up. They were inviting Fanny back, Henry told us, and so we should all be there to make it a reunion as well as a celebration. I don’t know whose idea it was, Michael’s or Henry’s, but there we all were, together with relatives and other friends and so forth, not to mention Fanny’s entourage.’

  ‘What did you think of Fanny? Did you find her changed?’

  ‘She wasn’t the girl I’d known. She might have been deep down, but she was brittle and wild that day. The entertainer, local girl made good. She’d crept away in ’61 but she came back with a huge bang all right. Poor girl.’

  ‘Do you think, looking back, that there was any doubt that Adam killed her – leaving the Friday Street music out of it?’

  ‘There was no one else.’

  Co-operation or not, this was still Friday Street and she’d get nowhere without pushing. ‘Forgive me, but no old scores in the gang?’

  ‘If there were,’ Josh said steadily, ‘it would have been difficult to settle them that day, whether by murder or anything else. We were all hanging around on the terrace waiting for the concert. Think of the risk.’

  ‘Not so great,’ Georgia said. ‘If someone used the side entrance to the house, past the kitchens, and then kept to the far wall of the garden, there are enough bushes and trees to hide one very securely.’

  Josh flushed. ‘It would have taken time for one of us to rush to Owlers’ Smoke and stab someone. It would mean planning it, grabbing that dagger and pursuing the poor girl. What about the blood, for one thing?’

  ‘There might not have been much blood with the dagger left in the wound, and, if Adam was telling the truth, that’s what happened.’

  Josh blenched. ‘A risk, even so.’

  ‘Were you aware of anyone not being in the main group after dinner?’

  ‘Michael swept Henry off for a chat at one point. Adam left with Ron and Doreen Gibb. Nothing else. I’d help if I could, but I just don’t remember. Any more questions?’ He was clearly getting narked now, Georgia thought. Or was the word rattled? ‘If you ask me, you’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s that fellow Powell who has the key to what’s going on.’

  ‘You may be right,’ Georgia answered, surprised, ‘but why do you think so?’

  ‘None of us had seen Frances Gibb for seven years. Why on earth would any of us take it in our heads to murder her? The ones with the main reason had to be closest.’

  ‘Jonathan and Adam,’ Georgia said.

  There was a slight pause before Josh answered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d like to know who Toby Beamish married,’ Peter said out of the blue.

  ‘Nothing to do with Frances Gibb’s murder,’ Josh said flatly.

  ‘The answer could be checked on the internet with patience,’ Peter pointed out.

  Josh glared at him. ‘He married Liz Smith, if you must know.’

  ‘She who left the village?’

  ‘She left with Oliver Ludd nine or ten years or so after marrying Toby. She married Toby a couple of years after Fanny left. She and Oliver were both at the gig in 1968, and that’s probably where she met Oliver again. She’s still with him so far as I know and they live in the States. Satisfied?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Peter said mildly.

  That explained a lot, Georgia thought, especially about Toby. She was beginning to see the point of Angela Tanner’s comment on the private life of Friday Street. ‘Is that why the Ludds and Beamishes don’t speak?’

  ‘One reason.’ Josh, it was clear, wasn’t going to volunteer anything further. She’d still play her best shot though.

  ‘There’s one person you still haven’t mentioned in the gang. Tom. Was he at the party?’

  Somewhat surprisingly, this time he gave a sour grin. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  ‘Try us,’ Peter invited.

  ‘Tom isn’t a he, it’s a they. There was no such person as Tom. It was Frances’s joke. We had plenty of them. “You, Josh,” she’d say. “It’s you and me against the rest.” And the rest for her were Toby, Oliver and Michael. See? Tom. Michael always had it in for her, as well as fancying her, because he was jealous of her popularity. Oliver just followed his elder brother’s suit. He was quite a bit younger, six or seven years. Toby . . . well, Toby really fancied her. Pawed her whenever he got the chance.’ Josh looked Peter full in the eye. ‘Just a joke, was Tom.’

  Peter said nothing, and Georgia held her breath. Peter would win this one.

  ‘Okay,’ Josh said at last. ‘It wasn’t a joke, all right? She’d try to joke about it, but she was scared of them. Or, rather, not of any one of them in particular, but there was something about the three of them as a whole, that was Tom.’

  ‘My prong of the carving fork, Georgia,’ Peter said soberly. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

  His cordless phone was ringing on the table at his side. Yes, she would agree, she thought as she watched him answer the call. Even sitting a yard or two away she could hear it was Mike Gilroy. Peter listened, said a few non-committal words, and put the phone down again.

  ‘There’s been a development in the Alice
Winters case.’ He looked first at Georgia and then at Josh. ‘They’ve released Jake Baines. The CPS is offering no evidence.’

  Chapter Six

  Georgia drove into Friday Street, looking at the village with a fresh eye. Josh’s support, albeit partial, would make a difference. In fact, it had already. The news about Jake’s release had clearly shaken him, and he had asked whether it meant the police would be opening the case again. Peter had no idea. Marsh & Daughter were meeting Mike next Tuesday, 24th May, he said, and until then they would not know. Nevertheless, Josh had made his mind up quickly.

  ‘Whether they do or don’t,’ he’d said grimly, ‘there’ll be trouble in the village. You’ve spread some half-baked idea that Frances’s murder could have something to do with Alice’s. I don’t hold with that, but the sooner you get what you need about Frances, the sooner you’ll leave us in peace to lick our wounds over Alice and Jake. To my mind, it’s that Powell fellow you want, not Tom. So let’s get it over with, shall we?’

  It was another bargain – of sorts.

  ‘He’ll give just what he thinks is necessary and not a word more,’ was Peter’s opinion after Josh had left.

  ‘That’s something at least.’

  ‘Is it? If you saw a signpost saying London, you might follow it. But suppose someone had broken off the bit that read “via Edinburgh”?’

  ‘I’d feed it into Suspects Anonymous and see what it could make of it,’ she retorted.

  ‘Talking of which, I’ll activate the Alice Winters file. And,’ he added happily, ‘take Tom out as a Burglar Bill.’

  ‘I haven’t finished with Tom yet.’

  Thankfully she’d now been handed the necessary tools by Josh. With luck she’d at least be tolerated in Friday Street, if not welcome.

  At Peter’s urging, Josh had agreed to organize a reconstruction in Downey Hall of the events on the day of Fanny’s murder. He had been reluctant at first, muttering that it could achieve nothing, but had obviously thought of it as a chance to see the end of Marsh & Daughter’s presence. That would be tomorrow, Saturday, but today she had her sights on the man she saw as Master Tom himself: Toby.

  She decided to leave her car in the pub car park, rather than the public one tucked away down a side lane opposite the entrance to Pucken Manor. She had too much respect for her Alfa Romeo to tempt fate. She walked briskly along towards the entrance gates, contemplating the delights of the manor. Would Toby still be enthusing about ghosts in his role of Mine Host, or would a more natural side emerge?

  If Fanny was scared of anyone, it would be him. Even though the sun was out, it was chilly, and in the dark driveway, shielded by huge bushes, she wondered how many unseen ghosts might be striding along beside her. One of them might even be Fanny, and at her side Adam Jones, bewailing a false conviction like Piers Brome. In this gloomy garden it was not hard to imagine that they still laid their fingerprints on the present.

  Toby opened the door himself, and her heart sank. He was still Host of the Manor. Perhaps that was his natural self. Now there was a depressing thought. The only difference was that the Mine Host suit of the ghost tour had been replaced by cords and sweater. A strand of his still-dark (or dyed?) hair fell over his forehead, meeting the thick rims of his spectacles, and his ruddy complexion spoke more of a nightly drink or two than of good health. Certainly the garden did not suggest that he bounded out at dawn to chop down a tree or two. It had more the air of being tended by a man desperately trying to keep nature at bay. Or perhaps the garden was purpose-grown to inspire ghosts.

  ‘Come in, come in, Georgia. I may call you Georgia, I trust? Or isn’t that appropriate for the Miss Marples of this world?’

  She managed to smile politely. ‘I don’t normally turn into Miss Marple until after twelve o’clock. You’re quite safe.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid.’ He led the way into what he termed his sanctum, which again looked purpose-designed, this time as a Victorian gentleman’s library, complete with leather chairs, occasional tables, and wall to wall books – the latter chiefly about ghosts, interspersed with bound copies of Punch and Surtees’ sporting novels. What did the real Toby Beamish read in bed, she wondered? Pornography? A light romance or two? Or Captain Hornblower? From what this man was prepared to display of his private life, she doubted she’d ever know the answer.

  ‘You want to talk to me about poor dear Frances, of course. There’s not much—’

  She had to interrupt, before she was caught up in the familiar patter. ‘No. I’d like to begin with Adam Jones.’

  Sheer surprise stopped the flow and his answer took a moment or two to come. ‘I’d be delighted to do so, but what could I tell you about him?’

  ‘He visited Friday Street on the day he died.’ There was no proof he did, but unless she sounded confident she’d get nowhere.

  The affable host vanished. ‘I saw no sign of him myself, and indeed why should he have come back to Friday Street?’

  ‘He always claimed he was innocent. Perhaps he came to see the person he thought was guilty.’

  ‘A vivid imagination, Georgia.’

  ‘Reasonable deduction,’ she retorted. ‘When his body was found, were there any rumours that he had come back here?’

  Toby folded his hands carefully and unattractively across his stomach. ‘It was nearly twenty years ago now, but if there had been any such gossip, I would have heard it. Poor Frances’s death was still vivid in our memories.’

  Thank you, Toby, Georgia thought, for the opening. ‘In the statement you made to the police and from the trial reports in the press I gather you were present at the quarrel between Fanny and Adam that afternoon.’

  ‘Not present,’ he said, looking injured. ‘I was with Hazel Perry near the walled rose garden when we heard them quarrelling on the other side of the wall. Quite unmistakable. They were talking about their future: Fanny was saying that she would be much better on her own with Jonathan, and Adam crying that she was out of her mind. Most distressing.’

  ‘With the implication that Jonathan was her lover?’ She remembered the wording of Toby’s statement, and it varied slightly from Hazel’s.

  ‘I thought so at the time.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Those were the sixties. There was love and love, and I have always thought it strange . . .’ He grinned. ‘But my lips are sealed.’

  ‘You couldn’t unseal them?’ she suggested politely. ‘We don’t want dirt, only the truth.’

  ‘Then I should not spread rumours.’ Another smirk.

  Be blowed if she’d let him get away with that. She’d attack his weak point.

  ‘The Friday Street music was heard the evening Fanny died. Somebody believed Adam innocent. Who else here would have wanted Fanny dead?’

  Toby looked vague. ‘Who can tell? Practically the whole village came to Downey Hall that day. The grounds were not locked, and who knows who might have lingered to wreak revenge?’

  Revenge for what? ‘It’s true anyone might have lingered,’ she allowed tartness to enter her voice, ‘but not just anyone could have marched into the house to pick up that dagger.’ She was imagining Toby as young man, pawing Fanny, thick-lipped and lascivious. He’d have been the kind to hover on the outskirts of a group, awaiting an opportunity. Had he found it with Fanny?

  ‘Ah, now.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘Miss Marple showed her true colours.’

  He was beginning to get to her like a knife squeaking across a plate. ‘If only I were,’ she rallied, and took a way-out step into the dark. ‘The music,’ she said. ‘Is there perhaps a tradition that the player of the music might be the true guilty party? Is it an admission to his peers?’

  Toby’s eyes flickered. ‘Ingenious, Georgia, but unlikely, given human nature. Your theory might almost make a deodand out of the flute.’ He rose to his feet, beckoning her to follow. ‘Come with me. I’d like to show you my collection again.’

  Somewhat puzzled, she followed him to the museum �
� still unlocked, she noted – and he switched on the lights. ‘Gloomy, isn’t it?’ he said gaily. ‘It’s a place of death, you see. Easy to forget that, when one’s looking in a museum. Everyone thinks my passion is weird, but if I had letters after my name, and a professional lab out here called Beamish Laboratories, no one would think it at all strange. Where do all the objects that cause death now land up, eh? With the police, in labs, in storage, so that they can have fingerprints lifted, glove prints, DNA, bloodstains, and goodness knows what else. They’re the path to the murderers. Not so very different to deodands, or indeed to your quaint idea about the flute. What do you think about it, eh?’ He was looking at her expectantly.

  ‘You mean all these objects that caused death in the past are evidence in the same way, but we didn’t have the means to extract it then?’

  ‘Precisely. Let’s say they’re all here waiting to tell their tales. They were present at the crime. Take that carver fork that intrigued you on your last visit or this knife. It was used by a butler to kill a housekeeper in the eighteenth century. One wonders what illicit passions had been at stake there. Dear me, a pun of sorts. I do apologize.’

  He beamed at her. ‘Or take this axe,’ he continued. ‘It killed a girl in Chatham in the early nineteenth century. The villain was never caught. In the case of Frances, he was, although you now doubt that.’

  She began to understand. ‘Is that what intrigues you about the deodands? That the evidence remains here waiting?’

  He gave her a strange smile. ‘That’s right. What a clever girl you are. And poor dear Frances’s story is waiting for you to record it.’

  She wanted out. She wanted to be in the fresh air, away from the claustrophobia induced by this man. She struggled to define what she found objectionable about him, but the only word that came to mind was glutinous – unwieldy, sticky – and one might never be rid of him. Cadenza loved him, Georgia told herself, but could not, in her heart, understand that. She fought for calm, as though there were nothing unusual about this place. And indeed perhaps there was not. But just for a moment, faced with Toby Beamish, she had sensed an abyss that would engulf her – as had happened to Rick, her brother, who had disappeared into a black hole of life, never to reappear. It was usually her father who suffered these strange turns, but for some reason one had now hit her. She breathed deeply as they walked back into the house, and realized she was strong again.