by Amy Myers
‘Did he abuse her sexually?’
Henry looked genuinely startled. ‘Dear me, this is an unpleasant world where such things should even be talked about, let alone take place. The answer is no, not to my knowledge.’
‘Sheila told me he did.’
‘That is strange. I wonder if she got the wrong end of the stick? Frances, as I told you, was a kind girl. Sheila was always very keen on Michael, but unfortunately as a youth he seemed to prefer Frances. I watched carefully, but I saw no signs of her showing him anything other than the mutual friendliness of gang members.’
Henry changed the subject, clearly eager to do so. ‘I’d like to tell you about Doreen. Let me show you this.’ He reached inside his trouser pocket and extracted a locket which he opened and passed to her. Immediately she saw it, she remembered the sketch in Brian Winters’ collection.
‘Adam Jones brought me this the day he came here in 1987,’ Henry told them. ‘It’s a locket I once gave Doreen. If I needed any proof of his innocence, this was it. He was given it by Doreen when he went to their home the night of the murder, and Doreen confirmed this. She asked him to go all the way back to the cottage because she had something to give him to pass on to Frances. She had been deeply affected by seeing our daughter again. That’s why Adam, despite what Ronald Gibb testified at the trial, could not have returned in time to find, quarrel with and then kill Frances. Unfortunately, so he told me, when he returned to Downey Hall he went in search of her immediately to give her this locket, especially as it was getting near the time of the concert. The true murderer could not have counted on this stroke of good fortune.’
‘Why did Ronald Gibb lie?’ Georgia was puzzled. ‘He must have known it would help get Adam convicted.’
‘I believe he saw it as his chance to get back at Doreen and Frances, even though she was dead. He resented the fact that Doreen gave Adam the locket, for it brought back bitter memories. Adam had kept the locket, knowing it would have meaning for me, and brought it here. He naturally had no desire to meet Ronald Gibb again. Let me show you what it contains.’
He leaned forward, took it from her, and opened it. Inside were two small photos, one of Doreen, much like the one Dana had shown her, and one of Henry as a young air force officer. Then he opened the other side, revealing a small lock of fading ginger hair.
‘Frances’s hair, of course,’ he said quietly. ‘We could never work out where the colour came from, Doreen so blonde and I was – well, mousy, once upon a time, and now . . .’
‘Distinguished white,’ Georgia said stoutly.
‘You’re kind. When I look at this, I see no such distinction. I see a raw RAF airman, unhappily married, posted away, and falling in love for the first and only time in his life. In 1941, when an injury put paid to active flying, I was posted to Downey Hall, then an RAF HQ. There was an advanced landing airfield nearby then. Doreen was working at the Hall. She’d married Ronald just before the war, as I had Joan. Ronald was then in the Navy, and Michael a toddler. I hardly saw him, or even Joan, who was still living near Biggin Hill where she had been in what was then called the Women’s Emergency Service, and I had been stationed with Thirty-two Squadron in 1938. I was regular RAF, you understand, not hostilities only. We married quickly – too quickly perhaps – and Michael came quickly too.
‘My love for Doreen began as an innocent friendship between young people, and ended with deep love. We were very different. She was outgoing, with a golden heart to match her hair; I was diffident and far from outgoing. I was intent on moving here after the war, and my wife raised no objection. My affair – that word again – with Doreen finished not long after the war, when Oliver was born, but of course we remained in love, and often met just to talk or to play with Frances. It was easy enough if we had the children with us, or the dogs.’ He stopped and looked very tired, asking with obvious effort, ‘Have you met Doreen?’
‘Yes,’ Georgia answered, ‘I went to the nursing home.’
‘Can you imagine what she was once like? Is like, if only one could penetrate the haze.’
‘I think so. Do you still visit her?’
‘Of course. And does she recognize me?’ Henry smiled. ‘In a way. When Ronald died I thought we might have a sort of life together, but illness has taken her away from me more effectively than death. At least it is not dementia; she is the same gentle person that I first knew.’
Georgia thought of the blowsy, giggling, hapless Doreen, and realized how differently he saw her.
‘If Frances wasn’t killed by Adam Jones, it’s at least probable that someone here in Friday Street either murdered her or knew who did. Yet still the village prefers to keep its secrets,’ Peter said, bluntly changing the subject. ‘We’re having to bludgeon them out, and there seems no reason why that should be so.’
Henry regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps we all cling to a tiny piece of knowledge, or even guilt, which we presume to be irrelevant. No one fits the story together, not even Josh. Perhaps we are too afraid. Perhaps we no longer have the strength.’
‘Someone does,’ Georgia said sharply. ‘Someone killed Alice Winters.’ She had touched a very sore nerve, judging by his stiff reaction.
‘You are of course correct, if you assume one death is linked to the other. Josh tells me this is so.’
‘Alice inherited the results of her father’s and grandfather’s researches into the case. That seems a good enough reason to look into any possible links,’ Peter said.
Henry bowed his head. ‘I accept that. And as Brian Winters was a member of the gang, I must talk about that.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘Frances had the unconscious gift, or rather curse, of attracting male attention and desire, although without provocation on her part. Her mother had the same curse. They both only sought the love of one man, but attracted far more. This was so in the gang, from what Oliver has since told me. They were all young, but Frances never showed sexual interest in any of them – apart, perhaps, from Josh, for whom she had genuine affection, which might have flowered had it had the chance.’
‘Did the other girls in the gang resent this?’
‘It annoyed them. Jealous? I gather not. They might have been had they thought their own interests threatened, but I don’t think they did.’
‘Sheila, for example, or Liz, or Hazel?’
‘Sheila was very close to Frances and knew Michael was attracted to her, but also that Frances was no danger to her interests.’
Henry spoke with great detachment. Did extreme age achieve that? Georgia wondered. Could it distance one from one’s own family as well as friends?
‘Hazel,’ Henry continued. ‘No. She was a sensible girl and only married Josh some years later. Liz? Now, Liz is temperamental. It is a nice thought that chum Toby Beamish was the object of passionate desire not only to Liz but also to Frances. Alas, I cannot see it, although it is true that Master Beamish has taken a great interest in Frances since. He often asks me questions, I suspect merely to upset me.’ A pause. ‘When Mr Powell returned to the village – I believe on the day of Alice’s murder – he brought Dana Tucker to see me about the cottage. I recall he told me he was going to Pucken Manor. He thought he might take the ghost tour.’
*
‘And so we come back to the gang again, with Jonathan Powell in the middle like a maypole,’ Georgia said crossly. Having had the weekend to mull the case over, she’d hoped things might make more sense, but at the moment she felt as though she was dancing round to the Friday Street tune herself. Monday morning had not brought enlightenment.
‘If Powell took the tour, he couldn’t have murdered Alice. Did you believe what Henry told us? Are you sure it’s Powell and not Henry Ludd who’s playing maypole?’ Peter asked.
‘With reservations, but Henry surely can’t be guilty of either murder.’
‘The strings are in the dancers’ hands,’ Peter pointed out. ‘Henry said some strange things. Don’t you find it odd his wife knew about his affair but
didn’t mind living in the same village? And he was quite happy to set Michael up in business even though he’d just discovered Michael had raped his half-sister. It seems to me Henry’s like one of those contraptions for cats; they press the right button and a measured dose of water arrives in the tray. He’s releasing information on a need-to-know basis.’
‘We can’t be sure of that.’
‘The possibility is there. Now, about the autopsy report . . .’
Georgia was still thinking about Henry. ‘Powell taking the ghost tour – that is odd, isn’t it?’
Peter sighed. ‘Very well. Have it your way. He wanted, so Dana said, to see Downey Hall – that’s understandable, given the circumstances – and Pucken Manor. Why the latter?’
‘To talk to Toby.’
‘About what?’
‘Toby was in the gang.’
‘So was Josh.’
‘He could already have talked to Josh. He’d been in the pub earlier. Alice was there that day, he talked to her – in answer to her letter. That’s why he was there.’ Coulds, woulds, whys . . . Georgia could have cried with frustration. ‘I want something positive,’ she stormed. ‘When, oh when, will it come?’
‘Right now, if you’d only be quiet and listen to me for a moment,’ Peter said plaintively.
She stopped instantly. ‘What about?’
‘The autopsy report.’
‘And?’
‘Fanny Star had had at least one baby at the time of her death.’
Georgia tried to assimilate this. ‘You mean there was no abortion? She kept the child?’
‘Possibly. Or else she went on to have another.’
‘Let’s assume the first. Search for both certificates?’ she asked eagerly.
‘Of course,’ Peter said speculatively, ‘there’s been no hint of a child since.’
‘It could have died.’
‘That’s one possibility. Or . . .’ He fiddled with a pen on the desk, looking very smug. ‘Perhaps it was adopted.’
Her brain snapped into first gear. ‘Is it possible—’
‘Likely—’
‘A chance anyway.’
‘That it was a girl.’
‘In her early forties. In whom Powell and Henry Ludd seem to have taken great interest. The Gibb cottage, incidentally, is owned by Henry Ludd.’
‘Dana,’ Georgia breathed with conviction. ‘It would explain so much.’
‘Leaping to conclusions.’
‘We’re not acting on them – yet.’
‘We’re entitled to leap.’
‘Not too high.’
They looked at each other. ‘The poisoning,’ she said eventually, then remembered. ‘No, the pie was for both of us.’
Peter sighed in exasperation. ‘The pie was blameless. So was the cake.’
‘My car was sabotaged.’
‘A false scent. It didn’t kill you.’
‘But it could have done.’ Didn’t anyone care?
‘Would that have mattered – to our murderer?’ Peter added hastily. ‘One or two murders to his name already.’ He reached for the phone.
‘What’s that for?’ she asked.
‘I think I’ll suggest to Mike he might like to keep a guard on Dana now she’s showing signs of recovery.’
Georgia shivered, trying to sort the rational out of fantasy land. ‘No one’s going to creep in with a dagger.’
‘No. Any visitor could poison the tea though, once she’s off drips.’
A jolt ran through her. ‘The tea,’ she said. ‘The poison could have been in the tea at the fete, not the cake. Why didn’t I think of that earlier? Anyone could have added it,’ she finished uncertainly.
Peter eyed her. ‘Who was in charge of the tea?’
‘Cadenza Broome.’
*
The office was beginning to hum, and so was the new Suspects Anonymous file on Dana, peopled with Burglar Bettys this time. They still called them that, but now they had lost any thought of it being a game. Every time they moved the magnifying-glass cursor, it brought home the growing nightmare of Friday Street.
‘Tell me again, Georgia,’ Mike commanded. He had been on his way to Friday Street, and had called in after Peter’s phone call.
Georgia closed her eyes, and visualized that tent again, step by step. Her own haziness, the people moving slowly like stickmen as they moved around. Henry, over there, Toby coming in for a word with Cadenza, cups of tea, slices of cake, Dana saying, ‘Try Sheila’s cheesecake, it’s delicious.’ It was also innocent of poison. Did she see Dana drinking tea? Did she see a teacup near her? She couldn’t swear it. Teacups were arriving and leaving all the time and she had been feeling dizzy anyway.
‘Sheila was in overall charge,’ she said. ‘Cadenza was handing out teacups, mostly, though Hazel I think did some too.’
‘But it was Cadenza’s job?’
‘I didn’t check the hierarchy. I just remember seeing her do it, but Dana had – if she had any tea – already finished hers when I arrived. Cadenza offered some to me, though. Hazel was cutting the cakes. But you know what those stalls are like . . .’
‘Never served on one, Georgia.’
The idea of Mike’s large figure whizzing around at a garden fete amused her. ‘Everyone mucks in and does whatever’s necessary. If someone’s held up on cakes, the person taking the money will help out, and vice versa. I can only tell you what happened to me.’
‘This plant, thorn apple. You say you’ve seen it at Downey Hall, but it could be anywhere in the village. I can’t search every garden. The juice is most poisonous, I gather, and it wouldn’t take much to extract it, pour into a small bottle and, bingo, into a cup. This Cadenza. What do you make of her?’
‘Devoted to Toby, rather than to ghosts, though she does a fair job of pretending to be. Old-fashioned sort of woman. You must have her statement from the Alice Winters enquiry.’
‘Sure. We’ve got that, and Powell’s recent one, and Beamish’s. Powell swears that he talked briefly to Alice Winters in the pub about some detail on the day of the Star murder. He went on the tour, had a private talk with Toby for ten minutes in the middle of it, during which Cadenza took over the festivities. Miss Broome claimed she stayed at her desk for the entire tour. Toby Beamish says that his talk with Powell lasted forty minutes, while Cadenza took over. At which Cadenza remembered she had taken over the tour, but can’t remember for how long. Over to you, Georgia. Ferret out any links to the Star case.’
Asked to do something to help. Now that was something.
*
‘Henry Ludd’s granddaughter, as Henry must know full well,’ Peter remarked to Josh. They had arrived at the beginning of visiting time together. Georgia stared at the unconscious Dana. Where was she inside? Fighting to get out, or in a peaceful world of her own? The police had found sufficient evidence in birth and adoption certificates amongst Dana’s papers to confirm she was indeed Fanny’s daughter. And therefore Michael’s, Georgia thought sadly. A tough legacy for Dana.
‘Why would anyone want to kill her, Josh?’ she asked wearily.
‘Like I told you, Georgia. Could be the sins of the fathers, coming home to roost.’
‘I can’t think of Henry sinning.’
‘Nor me,’ Josh replied quietly.
Then whose? Georgia wondered. Michael’s sin? Brian Winters’ sin? Ronald Gibb’s or Josh’s himself? Or was it Henry’s, who by his affair with Doreen had innocently set all this in train?
‘Killing her just because she’s Fanny’s daughter seems an odd motive,’ Peter said.
‘Is it? Henry still hasn’t made the house over to Michael and Sheila.’
‘Unlikely,’ Peter said dismissively.
Georgia was stung. ‘Dana was here the day of Alice Winters’ death. Perhaps she saw something that could be important. Something she told Toby Beamish the night before she was poisoned. Something that explained why and how he could have killed both Fanny and Alice.’
/> ‘Powell wasn’t here to make the attack on Dana, even if he did chat to Toby the day Alice died.’
The two-pronged carver snapped. At last she was willing to put the Powell prong to one side. Peter could be right. The answer lay in Friday Street now.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Who begins?’ Peter demanded, logging on to Suspects Anonymous.
Did she want to be challenger or challenged? Georgia considered. They had one suspect, Michael, who had no motive and no opportunity (if Henry was to be believed), and another, Toby, with no apparent motive and plenty of opportunity. No contest. Toby was on the screen. Time to activate him.
‘You,’ she decided. Normally she was more confident as to where they were heading. Usually when they held such reconstructions there was an obvious line to challenge, but this one would be more like a puzzle maze. In there somewhere was the centre, and they were growing closer to it all the time, but still the tantalizing solution had no straight path to it. Perhaps there wasn’t one, she thought gloomily. Perhaps the Fanny Star and Alice Winters link was a false alley and they had come bang up against a hedge instead of the maze’s centre. At least if Peter took the lead, she would have something firm to strike out against.
Peter began in suitably formal tone. ‘What is your impression of Beamish?’
‘He’s a creep.’ If all the questions were as easy as this one, she’d have no problems.
‘Always a creep? When he was an eighteen-year-old boy, for instance?’
‘Yes.’
‘Evidence?’
‘Remember Tom? It begins with a T; T for Toby.’
‘Accepted. Liz married him though. What did you think of Liz?’
‘Iron fist, soft heart.’
‘A mania for rescuing the weak?’
‘Perhaps.’ She hadn’t thought of that. There were indeed women who consciously or unconsciously saw it as their mission to save people from themselves.