by Amy Myers
This was disappointing. ‘Waiting for more evidence?’
‘I presume so.’
‘And Cadenza?’
‘The same.’
‘Which may never come. There’s only one thing can advance this case now. The rest of Brian Winters’ statement and evidence.’
‘Where is it?’ Peter groaned. ‘This damn thing,’ he said savagely, slapping the side of his wheelchair, ‘means it’s up to you.’
*
Georgia tossed and turned that night, half awake, half dreaming. She was an eighteen-year-old girl, full of her own importance, off to university in the autumn and seeking money to do so. She worked hard, but that didn’t bring in enough dosh. She’d try blackmail. But it wasn’t really blackmail, she reasoned, for Toby Beamish was a murderer, and so it was justified. After all, when she’d got the money she could go to the police at any time. True, she would no longer have the evidence, but nevertheless she could spin an interesting tale. She might even keep some of the evidence back. Take it to the police later. She’d arrange a meeting in a place where she knew that lots of people would shortly be arriving, and anyway she wasn’t afraid of him. He was just old Toby.
Just a minute. Georgia jolted herself full awake. If she, Georgia, thought Toby Beamish was a creep, then Alice would too. She would be scared of him – or perhaps she would think she knew him well enough, because she worked for him. He would never dare harm her, she’d assume.
So far, so good. Now Alice had to hide that evidence, and it must be close at hand to give to Toby when he had handed over the money.
Or would Alice keep it somewhere far away, for safety’s sake? No, she wouldn’t get the money then, and she wanted it safely in the bank. Where did she hide it?
Back to the beginning. Georgia was an eighteen-year-old girl. Good grief. The same girl who had gone up to university herself, fallen for a conman and married him a few years later. Who was she to talk about girls being sensible? On the other hand, she did have one fleeting memory of her eighteen-year-old self. She’d had a confidant, her roommate Jennie, who had strenuously tried to warn her off Zac.
Who would Alice have as a confidant? Drew Ludd? Tim Perry? No, she might flirt with them, but she wouldn’t confide in them. Dear, reliable, Jake Baines? That’s whom she’d confide in, not that he would necessarily know all about it, or think it important. But it was worth a try.
*
‘What you want now? Harassing me again, you are. It’s the police, innit?’
‘Not so far as I know,’ Georgia said truthfully. ‘Have you got a job yet?’
‘Winters’ Farm again. She’s taking me back.’ Jake’s face lost its suspicion, and momentarily glowed. Good for Jane, Georgia thought. She’d decided to take the chance.
‘We’re looking for something that Alice might have hidden near the tower and I thought you might have an idea.’
He looked blank. ‘Nah. What sort of stuff?’
‘Letters, papers. Did you write to each other? No private postbox for you both?’ She had plucked the idea from a past which it was clear was more romantic than Jake could grapple with.
He stared at her in amazement. ‘You’ve got to be joking. We texted, didn’t we?’
‘She had something she might have wanted to hand to someone else, and keep safe in the meantime. In the barn probably.’
‘Nah. The tower maybe. She was there a lot. We both were.’
‘Did Toby allow that? Surely it must be dangerous.’
‘Didn’t know, did he?’
‘There was only one key, he said.’
‘Yeah, well. There’s a spare too. By the stone near the fence.’
‘When you went into the tower, what did you do? Where did you go?’
He looked awkward. ‘Her joke it was. She used to dash up them steps to the top and yell down at me when she heard the bike in the lane. “Oh, Piers, Piers, bring up your pipe and fuck me, do. Tis Lady Rosamund summons you.”’
‘And did you?’ she asked out of interest, imagining young love on top of the tower.
He blushed. ‘Yeah. Every time.’
*
The tower. It all came back to that tower. Georgia decided to park her car in the church car park, which was less open to view than the one at the Montash Arms or the public one. She didn’t want to shout her mission aloud to the village and she’d seen Toby as she drove through the village, just going into the pub. Parking here would cause less attention.
Some hopes. As she parked, Cadenza walked by and greeted her. She didn’t seem to blame Georgia for her ordeal at the police station, thank goodness, and Georgia hoped she wouldn’t be interrogated. Fortunately Cadenza was in a hurry.
‘Tea and cakes in the church just starting,’ she announced. ‘Do come in. We’ll all be here.’
Georgia had planned to take the footpath to the tower, but that would be to invite curiosity as Cadenza was lingering, assuming she’d come with her. She would be harder to throw off than the Duchess hanging on Alice in Wonderland’s arm. Georgia made an excuse about needing something from the shop and dived back for the main road. She’d walk along through the village and down the lane instead, trying not to let Toby see her.
As she walked down the lane, the July sun was warm and comforting, but even so it was all too easy to remember this was the lane to the gallows. It was the original Friday Street, along which Piers Brome had walked to his death, pausing to pay his respects to the late Lady Rosamund, done to death by dagger, by one of the local lords attached to the Hospitallers. Piers had been playing his tune, the tune that had later proclaimed his innocence, and this was a lane of memories. Behind her to the left she could see the church tower. The church where they’d all – whoever all were – be guzzling tea and gorgeous cakes. Without hyoscine in them. The church . . . A thought passed through her mind so fleetingly she could not grasp it. No matter.
It was hard to recreate the legend here now, even though in her imagination there was a sense of loneliness and loss about this lane. She was glad when the trees came into sight, anxious to get her mission over. She had decided the top of that tower was the most likely place for Alice to have hidden the material. Even though Toby would have had ample time to return and hunt for it, it was still worth looking on the off chance. Nobody else would know about that key, she reasoned.
In the stillness the squeak of the hinges grated on her, setting her nerves on edge. She walked through the gate, feeling a thousand eyes upon her. But when she looked up, half fearful of seeing Toby Beamish, there was no one, save a curious cow in search of company. She found the key easily enough, opened the padlock, and went in to the tower. She looked upward at the roof. It seemed very high, and, never good at heights, she quailed at the thought of the climb ahead. Did the steps really lead all the way up there? She could see crumbling masonry even from here. She took a deep breath and went over to the steps. She’d take them one by one. After the first turn, she was greeted by the smell of decay and trapped air, but she forced herself on. Some steps had almost crumbled away, and there was no grip at the side. She told herself that if Alice had done it, then she could too – even though she was only relying on Jake’s word, she remembered uneasily. Suppose – no, that word was banned. She wasn’t heavy for her height, which was just as well, she thought.
At one point she glanced down to see the ground beneath where the side masonry had entirely gone and her head swam. Ahead was another turn, and she forced herself to look upwards. Now she could see the remains of the entrance to the roof. To her horror there was a gap of about two feet where there were almost no footholds and nothing to cling to, save the roof of the tower above her to her left. If she fell she would fall right to the ground inside the tower. No, upwards. She must think upwards.
Half hauling herself, half sprawling, she managed it, wriggling on to the roof itself and breathing the fresh air. Here it would be safer, and she could hunt for Alice’s treasure trove. Only then would she think about the d
escent.
The top of the tower was about ten feet square, larger than it looked from below, with nothing, not even a wall on one side, and just crumbling crenellations on the others. Look, she told herself, look. She inched round what had once been the walls, and quickly found it, to her relief. A loose stone behind which was a cavity – and Alice’s bag. A waterproof holdall, containing papers. She didn’t stop to look at them, she tucked it under her arm and prepared to descend.
There was a sound below. No, it was her imagination. It must have been in the lane. But it wasn’t. There was somebody below.
‘Jake?’ she called out, her voice cracking with fear.
There was no reply, for Toby – who else? – must be mounting the steps; she could hear the slight sounds. She could sense his presence coming nearer. It might be the cow, she tried to joke to herself, but imagination squashed it. This was danger coming, no friendly face. She could sense the threat in the air.
She was trapped here. Any moment now he would reach the gap, and then she would see his owlish face, the face of a murderer. Even if he couldn’t cover the gap himself, he had her trapped. She couldn’t stay here for ever. She clutched the bag in her arms, wondering whether to yell, but there was no one to hear but the rooks in the trees, and the empty road. Any moment he would be at the last turn, and then she would see him. She sensed it near . . . and then the face appeared.
To her relief it wasn’t Toby Beamish.
It was Sheila Ludd.
‘Oh, thank goodness—’ She was cut short.
‘You’ve found it then,’ Sheila said pleasantly. ‘I thought if I followed you, you would. It’s a small village, I’m afraid. Word travels quickly when Jake has his lunch in the pub. Suppose you just give me the bag. I’ll see it reaches the police.’ She sounded perfectly normal. Was she here on Michael’s behalf? Henry’s? Toby’s? Idiotic thoughts rushed through Georgia’s mind.
But then she knew.
‘It was you all the time.’ Georgia sounded calm, which was odd for she was frozen with terror.
‘Just give the bag to me, then we can go home safe and sound.’
What to do? Nothing. She began to back towards the corner, no plan in mind. Sheila still had to cover the gap and get on to the roof. If Georgia hit her, she would fall to the ground. If she didn’t, Georgia knew she might die herself. Why should Sheila stop now? Reasonable force? Would that be reasonable if Georgia hit her first? Mind stopped body, frozen with fear.
Too late. Sheila was on the roof. ‘Let me have it,’ she said, not even hurrying. ‘Come now.’
No more murders. There would be a tragic accident as Georgia was pushed over the tower to the ground beneath. There was only one thing she could do to save herself.
Sheila was on her feet now and moving.
‘I’ll throw it over,’ Georgia shouted, using all her remaining strength and waving the bag. She had to count on surprise to stop Sheila realizing that this would achieve her nothing. With luck Sheila might rush downstairs to pick it up.
She didn’t. Sheila made a pounce for the bag, the rush taking her off balance – and off the tower, over the crumbling masonry, to the ground beneath.
The inevitable scream, the inevitable crash.
Georgia’s breath came in short gasps, as she reached for the mobile phone in her pocket. The sound of those gasps in the still air would remain with her for ever.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Are you ready, do you think?’
Peter was looking at her doubtfully, but Georgia had made up her mind. Nearly a month had passed since it had all happened, and her father had taken on the main burden of the work since then, sitting in on her interviews with Mike, then taking over from there. Phone calls, post, emails, updating Suspects Anonymous, all had wafted by her. Now she was sloughing off that protective chrysalis to test the feel of normal life once more. She needed to know what had happened, how they could have been so wrong. After Sheila Ludd’s death it had been clear, even through the little that Peter had told her, that Michael Ludd had co-operated fully with the police and had made a complete statement, not only for them, but for Marsh & Daughter, which was brave of him. Georgia hadn’t enquired further, although even in her semi-stupor she thought of the shock waves that must be flooding Friday Street.
‘Very well,’ Peter began. ‘First, we don’t blame ourselves for what happened. We were on the right track, but we got off at the wrong station. Okay?’
Georgia grimaced. ‘It’s hard to think even now of Toby Beamish being squeaky clean. As I walked along that lane, I nearly got it, but the thought went. It’s come back now. The church flower rota. Hazel was in Canterbury the afternoon that Alice died, but on the rota I had seen in the church Saturday was her day, not Sheila’s. But I was so stuck on Toby, I paid no attention. Even though,’ she remembered, ‘the Friday street tune was running through my head. Power of association, do you think? Or the effect of hindsight?’
‘Just Friday Street, Georgia.’
‘Of course,’ she said gratefully. ‘In Friday Street one always sees through the glass darkly.’
‘Especially in the Montash Arms.’
She managed a laugh. ‘I don’t think I can blame Josh. I suspect the glass was as murky for him. He only did what we’re all tempted to do. Dismiss suspicion as just that, and not follow it through.’
Peter cleared his throat. ‘This is based on Michael’s statement and Brian Winters’ evidence. Here goes: Fanny told Sheila the truth about the rape, not realizing how keen she was on Michael and how jealous she therefore was that he seemed to prefer Fanny. Michael claims he was goaded by Fanny beyond endurance, egged on by Toby, and that he had no idea about the coming child. Sheila urged Fanny to have an abortion, and leave the village. Fanny didn’t need much persuading apparently. Why Sheila was so determined to marry Michael, knowing or even suspecting him of rape, is mystifying. Probably she did indeed persuade herself that Fanny had asked for it.’
‘Or,’ Georgia suggested, ‘that Fanny was lying and that Josh or Ron was the father of the child. Then that became truth in her mind as the years went on.’
‘We’ll never know. The afternoon went pretty much as we already know except that Henry tells Michael he is not as forgiving as Fanny and he’s still in two minds about handing over the cash. Fanny, furious with Oliver and Powell, is in a foul mood at dinner, and when Sheila rushes after her, vents her spleen on her, saying that there are still a few secrets Henry doesn’t know. She means that Dana is alive and kicking, not aborted. Perhaps Sheila tells Michael this, who sees his chances blown sky-high if the result of an incestuous relationship could walk in at any moment, particularly since Henry is so fond of Fanny.
‘Financially, Michael’s situation was far from rosy, as we know, and matters were at a delicate stage. Fanny could have ditched them with a few words. Sheila hopes Michael can scare her into silence. Michael says Sheila (although it might have been him, of course) seized the dagger merely to scare Fanny, and went in search of her. Fanny has vanished, however, and it’s at that point that Brian Winters spots Sheila. Sheila tracks Fanny down to Owlers’ Smoke, they have a row, and Fanny is killed. Sheila returns via the side entrance in order to change her clothes in case any blood is on them, despite the mac, and returns to the party to await developments.
‘Michael believed, so he claims, that Adam had killed her, since Sheila told him that she had left Fanny after ten minutes or so and come looking for him – by that time he was chatting to Henry at his request. The music played that night troubled Michael, but he believed if it wasn’t Adam then it was Toby who killed her. He had no evidence to offer, so didn’t come forward.
‘Enter Alice Winters, who was off to university and realized she needed a source of money. She’d worked out the significance of the evidence she had. Now we know what that evidence was. When Brian saw Sheila setting off across the grounds, she was wearing the plastic mac and evening gloves. He noticed the gloves because they looked
incongruous with the mac, as they were pink silk ones. They were the same ones found on Fanny’s body, and the blood on them was put down on the autopsy report as having come from Fanny’s attempts to defend herself. Sheila couldn’t afford to meet anyone and blood be noticed, so she left the mac and gloves with the body. When Brian did his ferrying around for the Gibbs, these must have been amongst her effects returned after the trial, and he kept them, assuming they wouldn’t want such a grisly record. Then he began to think about them, and how they had come to be on Fanny’s hands.
‘Only when Jake was released did Michael begin to realize Sheila must have been involved in both murders. She swapped her day of flower duty in the church with Hazel and went to the Manor to pick up the key from Cadenza. Then she nipped in to pick up the dagger on the way out. Why the dagger? She knew it was there – and, to be blunt, that it worked. Then she went to the church, performed her duties there, and walked across the footpath to her meeting with Alice to finish this matter for good. She wasn’t so concerned about the actual evidence linking her with Fanny’s murder, which after all this time could well be thrown out by the court. But if the slightest rumour reached Henry that Fanny’s death was at her hands then their old age would be seriously prejudiced. When we began to sniff around though, the problems mounted.’
‘You mean it was her who fixed my car?’ Georgia asked incredulously.
‘Of course. That was easy, and done merely so that attention wasn’t drawn to Dana. You had enemies in the village. She didn’t. Sheila had discovered who Dana was, but didn’t know whether Henry was in the picture or not. It couldn’t be long before he was, she reasoned, and the truth of his learning at his age that he had a new granddaughter and great-granddaughter, as a result of rape by his son, would have been fatal to her hopes, and probably to Henry too. Though I doubt if she worried much about that.’
‘I’m beginning to think that Henry’s in every picture,’ Georgia said. ‘How did Sheila know who Dana was?’ Then she realized there was only one answer. ‘Don’t tell me. It was Toby Beamish who told her.’