by Amy Myers
‘Two weeks later, back in London, I realized I was pregnant. Norman Lake was a dear man. He was shortly to be called up, he was very fond of me, and when I told him my story, he suggested we should be married. In those days that seemed the right solution. The children were born five months later, by which time Norman was in the forces. At the end of the war Alan came to see me. He told me what the diary had contained, and the evidence that he had collected to support it. He also told me that he thought it possible that Oliver had been deliberately murdered, but that there was no proof of that.’
She paused. ‘That much you might know or have guessed. Now for the hard part. You have met Helen, but you never asked about her twin, Hilary, who died eight years ago in New Zealand. When the twins were twenty-one I told them the truth about their father and about the LMF charge, I told them it was a mistake and that he was really a brave man and a kind and gentle one too. Neither appeared to react strongly to the news, and I assumed therefore that it had been quietly stored away and forgotten. That was 1962 after all, over twenty years since Oliver had died. It was never mentioned again. Then one day Richard came home from the aviation club very puzzled because he’d seen Hilary working at Woodring Manor Hotel.’
‘As a barman,’ Peter said.
Sylvia looked at him. ‘Yes.’
‘I’d assumed,’ Georgia said ruefully, ‘that Hilary was Helen’s sister. It was only when I saw the full birth certificate that I realized otherwise. The index only gave the name Hilary.’
‘I’m afraid we let you assume that,’ Sylvia confessed. ‘You saw the photograph of the two babies and naturally assumed them both girls. I was exceedingly anxious to keep Hilary from suspicion so I let you continue to do so. He was, after all, my son – Oliver’s son. We asked Hilary what he was doing there – this was several weeks before the murder. It was just the coincidence rather than the job itself that surprised us. He had never settled to anything and seemed content to drift from job to job. He had his own flat in north London, so we were never quite sure what he was doing. We had no idea he was working at Woodring under a false name, of course.’
‘Did your husband see him there the afternoon Fairfax died?’ Peter asked.
‘Yes. But naturally he thought nothing of it by that time. He had a few words with him, but had left long before Patrick was killed. Hilary had told us he was there simply because Richard had talked so much about the aviation club and the hotel that he thought he’d come down to see them. He hadn’t realized it was so closely connected with his father’s old squadron.’
She looked at them in appeal. ‘When we heard about Patrick’s death, naturally we talked to him about it, and it was then he told us he was working under a false name, but that was nothing. He often did it, he said. It made things easier. We wondered what things of course, but with Hilary one didn’t enquire too far. He had this way of staring at you and just shutting up, going inside himself. We were uneasy, but felt reassured because he went on working at the hotel. If he’d been implicated, Richard reasoned that he would have run away immediately. We waited and waited for someone to be arrested but no one was. Hilary told us that Matt Jones was the chief suspect, and Richard said that was entirely likely. But later Hilary suddenly disappeared and we had a letter to say he was working his passage to New Zealand. I think we guessed then, and . . .’ She looked at her daughter. ‘Helen did too.’
‘You want me to tell them, Ma?’ Helen asked doubtfully.
‘Yes,’ Sylvia replied firmly. ‘This is the time. Georgia and Peter can decide how much to put in their book and how much to omit. When Jack Hardcastle came to see me not long before he died, I wasn’t prepared, but now I am. We both have to be.’
Helen took a deep breath. ‘Mum was wrong. I took it OK – after all, I didn’t know the full story about Fairfax, but Hilary was obsessed with it. I know twins are supposed to be close, but we weren’t close in everything. I could tell when Hilary was lying and when he was genuine, but his thought processes were a mystery to me. We complemented each other rather than duplicating. Does that make sense?’
Peter nodded.
‘After Mum told us about Oliver, I thought it was tragic but it was in the past. It didn’t seem to bear much reference to me; I wanted to go forward. Hilary was different; he kept wondering what our father was really like. If Mum was telling us the truth. And if so, there must be more to find out. He was always one for absolutes was Hilary. All coward or all hero. He seemed to forget it after a while, and I thought he was over it, but in the 1970s with the new thirty-year rule at the Public Record Office over releasing records I discovered he spent hours there, poring over documents. One day he was very excited. A chap called Joseph Smith, who’d been in the same squadron, told him he reckoned Fairfax was inclined to be yellow himself, and that Oliver had been the cat’s whiskers. It was then that Hilary left home and I lost close touch. Then a year or so after Fairfax’s death, this New Zealand plan came out of the blue. It turned out that Hilary was gay. We heard from him occasionally, but never saw him again. Then we heard he’d died.’
Georgia looked at Sylvia’s face and realized how much this was costing her.
‘He hadn’t left a will,’ Helen continued, ‘so I had to go over to New Zealand to sort it out. His partner had found a holdall stuffed full of papers and thought we should have them. It was packed with information about 362, and a sort of journal that Hilary had kept of his researches, full of hatred for Patrick Fairfax – and of what had happened that day. You can copy it if you wish.’ She delved into her handbag and produced it.
‘You’re sure about this?’ Georgia asked Sylvia.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Georgia opened the journal and turned to May 10th 1975.
So I gave him the message that his dollybird was waiting in the rockery garden for him. Nice touch. That’s where I reckon he killed my dad. Thanks, chum. And the same to you. May it was, and the bluebells were ringing. Really pretty. Only it was drizzling. What the hell’s she gone there for? Fairfax muttered. I’d seen a picture of Mum and him together in the hotel gardens – what kind of a creep would let that happen? He’d only murdered my dad a week or two before. Sick, really sick. I took my time; I’d brought ammo with me, took the gun out of the cupboard in the bar and walked after him.
He stopped short when he reached that dell and she wasn’t there, so I ran up to him. Sorry, just met her, I said. She’ll be here in a minute or two. His sort never question a mere barman. Why should I lie, he’d think. I’ll tell you why. Because he did. Lied and lied and lied about my dad. I’ll never forget his face when he turned and saw the gun. Oh boy. What the devil . . . That’s for Oliver Tanner, I said, cutting across him. That did it. Fear? He was yellow. As yellow as a Texas rose, was old Patrick. This is for my dad, I said, and pulled the trigger.
Epilogue
Georgia stood by Peter’s wheelchair at the back of St Mary the Virgin’s church in West Malling as the coffin with the skeletal remains of Oliver Tanner was borne down the aisle on its way to a private burial. Only Sylvia and her family and Oliver’s brother would be present at that, but it was fitting that the short memorial service should be held here, in the presence of his former squadron members. Georgia didn’t know what had passed between them. All that had appeared in the press was a notice that the film was postponed due to production difficulties, and that there would be a note on the squadron records about the removal of an LMF charge on a pilot called Oliver Tanner. The new edition of This Life, This Death had been cancelled. One reputation restored, and one still officially intact.
She watched as Sylvia, a small figure in black, followed the coffin with Helen and Robert Tanner, and then came the five pilots, their wives and carers. With them were Eddie Stubbs and Alan Purcell, leaning heavily on his stick. The pilots knew the truth now – and it had been Alan who had broken the news to them. What exactly he had told them, she had no idea. Not the whole truth, perhaps, but enough of it to reinstate Tanner�
�s memory.
She and Peter followed them out into the churchyard, where Eddie stopped to speak to them. ‘We’re off for a noggin at Woodring Manor. Why don’t you come? The chaps all want you to.’ The six other pilots stopped too and gathered round, nodding their confirmation.
An olive branch. ‘We had no choice,’ Georgia said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Bill Dane put his hand on her arm. ‘It’s we who are to blame, not you. We refused to see it. We saw Patrick that night, we saw the terror on his face; we thought it was an accident, you know. Even now, we can’t believe it was murder – not planned at least. All we can say is that many pilots crashed during the war without graves save the ruins of their aircraft. To us Oliver was LMF, which put us all at risk. Our other friends who had died deserved our sympathy more, we felt. Now we know that is not true, and it’s too late.’
‘A rock crashed down on his head,’ she said quietly. How could she and Peter go to Woodring with them in those circumstances?
He regarded her gravely. ‘Why do you think we have met all these years?’
‘You were drawn together by this secret hanging over you.’
‘No. That would have driven us apart, not kept us together. The main reason was Patrick. Worthy, or unworthy as we now know, then he kept us together. As Alan says, he believed himself a brave man and therefore unified us with his presence. And for that, we may owe him our lives.’
‘Will you go on meeting?’
‘I believe we shall. Yes, I do believe that, so long as we are able. We’ll go on now for Tanner’s sake. Eddie will join us, of course, and Alan too when he is able. And we trust that today you and Peter will do that too.’
She wanted to walk away, be rid of the case, not to have to think about the dell. But there was a book to be written. King Arthur must be banished from Peter’s desk. And there was a house to move into, a house called Medlars. A house with a permanent ramp for wheelchairs. A house without ghosts. A house with Luke. She had all this before her. Could she walk away from what she and Peter had stirred up?
She glanced at Peter, who nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We’d love to join you.’
MURDER AND THE GOLDEN GOBLET
© Amy Myers 2007
Amy Myers has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2007 by Severn House.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Much of this story of Sir Gawain and King Arthur, as regards their connections with Dover Castle in Kent, is to be found either in legend or in historical records. The bones and skull of Sir Gawain are indeed mentioned by Caxton and John Leland, antiquarian to Henry VIII, as being on show at the St Mary-in-the-Castle. A nineteenth-century edition of Malory’s Morte D’Arthur states that the bones have disappeared since Leland’s time. My theory of what might have happened to those bones after Leland had recorded their presence is, however, fictitious, as is (so far as I know!) the goblet, although since Malory claims that Gawain was given the last rites it isn’t at all unlikely that a goblet survived . . .
I have also added a fictitious dimension to Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s work. Although he was indeed in Paris with Lizzie Siddal, and did indeed use Arthurian subjects for his work, I have added four such paintings for the purposes of this novel. The contribution made to its plot by John Ruskin is also fictitious, although he was Rossetti’s patron. Wymdown, too, will not be found on any map, although its neighbouring villages will.
I am indebted to the following for their help while I was writing this novel, although the use I have made of their information is my own: Phil Wyborn-Brown at Dover Castle, Lorraine Sencicle of the Friends of Dover Museum for her charming story in the Dover Mercury about the Lady of Farthingloe, and Mike McFarnell of the Friends of Dover Castle. I could find very few references to the Dover story in other sources, but among the many I have consulted about the King Arthur period and stories, I found Mike Ashley’s magnificent Mammoth Book of King Arthur of enormous help.
I am also grateful to Bob and Pauline Rowson, and, as always, to my agent Dot Lumley of the Dorian Literary Agency and Amanda Stewart of Severn House for their constant support. The marvellous Severn House team has once again provided its expert help throughout.
Chapter One
‘Lost at sea, 1961.’
Georgia fought to concentrate her thoughts on the plaque on the church wall and not on the man sitting beside her. Did it mean literally lost: did he silently disappear or was he killed in an accident? A Navy man? Fisherman?
‘Survived the ordeal?’ Luke asked after the service, as they at last made their way down the aisle in the wake of the bridal couple.
‘So far, thanks,’ she replied amicably. After all, her aunt’s marriage to Terry Andrews was a happy occasion. It was a second marriage for Gwen and everyone liked Terry. It was merely that marriage was a delicate subject between herself and Luke, and one Georgia was trying her best to avoid. She’d taken one big step by moving in to live with him, so surely it would be sensible to have a breathing space before the next?
‘Who was Lance Venyon?’ her father asked, as he shot his wheelchair past them out of the church, to the annoyance of the photographer who had just positioned Gwen and Terry neatly against the porch.
‘Lance who?’ she asked him, once this was sorted out.
‘The fellow whose name you were staring at in the church.’
Georgia was forced to laugh. Trust Peter to have noticed. His ex-cop’s eye never missed a trick. She’d already forgotten the plaque. She had been caught out, so now Luke would guess exactly why she’d turned her face to the wall. ‘I’ve no idea, except that someone obviously holds him or held him in loving memory. Nothing odd about it.’
Peter pounced on that. ‘Then why should you feel the need to point that out?’
For want of anything else to do while the fifty or so guests were shunted to and fro in various groupings, Georgia considered this question. ‘I was wondering how he was lost, a naval rating, a fisherman—’
‘Or a yachtsman or day tripper to France,’ Luke put in.
Peter wouldn’t give up. ‘Is that all?’
‘I think so.’
‘Weak, Georgia,’ he replied with some satisfaction – justifiably, she acknowledged.
Marsh & Daughter, her partnership with her father, needed more than ‘thinks’ or mere curiosity to work on. The past had to speak to them clearly before it decided there might be a case for them to look into. But why on earth should she even be considering that plaque in such terms? The past could throw up ghosts from injustice or unsolved tragedies, but she felt no such vibes in this case, and therefore there was no reason for Marsh & Daughter to be involved. The plaque was a memorial to someone in the past, of great importance to his loved ones, but not to others, save in the general sense that ‘no man is an island’. If anything, it was the church itself that reeked of the past.
Wymdown was an interesting village. On a spring day such as this it presented a peaceful face to the world. A duck pond, a village green, a pub, a main street lined with old cottages, some twentieth-century development on the outskirts, and a farm shop. (Georgia envied Gwen for the latter.) Nevertheless the village lay close to the busy A2 dual-carriageway road between Canterbury and Dover, which roughly followed the route of the old Roman road. It was on the higher side of the road, where villages sheltered i
n the lee of the North Downs, but despite this in winter Wymdown would present a far bleaker picture than it did today. A few miles further towards Canterbury, on the open Barham Downs, the winds could howl to their hearts’ content. Over the centuries warrior tribes and armies had gathered there to fight out their grievances – or rather their leaders’ grievances. She had walked the North Downs Way once with Luke, and on the Barham stretch when the sun no longer shone it was easy to believe that the past was still stamping its mark on the present, and that given their head the elements would win over all that man could build or try to cultivate on this land.
So who was Lance Venyon? Nobody to worry about today, she told herself, as she and Luke obediently took their places to be photographed beside Gwen and Terry’s best man, her cousin Charlie Bone. He winked at her as she equally obediently ‘cuddled closer’ at the photographer’s demand.
‘Going to catch the bride’s bouquet, Georgia?’ he asked.
‘Good grief no, I never tamper with fate. I might catch you instead of Luke.’
‘Fair enough,’ Charlie conceded.
He was in his mid-thirties, as was she, and showed no signs of settling down, as Gwen would sigh from time to time. There was no reason he should, given Gwen’s example. She had married at twenty-nine, and had spent most of the preceding ten years or so tramping round the world with a rucksack. She had kept her energetic figure but nevertheless, looking at her now, one could easily take her as a cuddly grey-haired old lady for whom a visit to Canterbury would be the highlight of adventure. One, Georgia thought solemnly, can never tell.