Murder on the Old Road

by Amy Myers

  Recent Titles by Amy Myers from Severn House

  MURDER IN THE QUEEN’S BOUDOIR

  MURDER WITH MAJESTY

  THE WICKENHAM MURDERS

  MURDER IN FRIDAY STREET

  MURDER IN HELL’S CORNER

  MURDER AND THE GOLDEN GOBLET

  MURDER IN THE MIST

  MURDER TAKES THE STAGE

  MURDER ON THE OLD ROAD

  Writing as Harriet Hudson

  APPLEMERE SUMMER

  CATCHING THE SUNLIGHT

  THE MAN WHO CAME BACK

  QUINN

  SONGS OF SPRING

  THE STATIONMASTER’S DAUGHTER

  TOMORROW’S GARDEN

  TO MY OWN DESIRE

  THE WINDY HILL

  WINTER ROSES

  MURDER ON THE OLD ROAD

  Amy Myers

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2010

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2010 by Amy Myers.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Myers, Amy, 1938-

  Murder on the Old Road.

  1. Marsh, Peter (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Marsh,

  Georgia (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 3. Private

  investigators–England–Kent–Fiction. 4. Fathers and

  daughters–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9’14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-186-6 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6952-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-283-3 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Old Road of the title is generally known as the Pilgrims’ Way, running from Winchester in Hampshire through to Canterbury in Kent. Much of it now forms part of the North Downs Way, which has followed the earlier route as far as was possible by the time it was established. By walking it, it is still easy to imagine what it was like for pilgrims making their way to the shrine of Archbishop Thomas Becket. The village of Chillingham, however, the central setting for this novel, is fictitious, as are its inhabitants and the pilgrimage. Apart from that of the three peacocks, the legends surrounding the Old Road and St Thomas are ‘real’ ones, including the story of Seivia, which can be found in the books of St Thomas’s miracles written a few years after his death in 1170. I have taken the liberty of transporting the miracle from a nameless location to Chillingham, however. St Thomas, Canterbury Cathedral and its treasures provide an inexhaustible source for imagination to build upon fact, and the genesis for this novel was one such fruit. Some years ago a short story of mine called ‘The Pilgrim’ was published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and later in Best British Mysteries IV, edited by Maxim Jakubowski. Then I began to think, But what happened next? This novel is the result.

  It would not have been possible, however, without the help of Christopher Maude – who, as well as sharing his knowledge of the Cathedral, recommended to me the fascinating book by John Butler, The Quest for Becket’s Bones; the Reverend Dr E.V. Binks; and Mike Cockett, my discussions with whom about Hilaire Belloc’s The Old Road first gave me the idea of linking the Pilgrims’ Way to the Becket story in this novel. My thanks also go to my ever inspiring agent, Dorothy Lumley of the Dorian Literary Agency, and to Severn House for their patience and expertise.

  ONE

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’

  Georgia Marsh blinked as she pushed open the gate to the Three Peacocks garden. As this was a pub in a remote village on the Kentish North Downs, she could hardly have expected to see thirty or forty people, young, middle-aged and elderly, mostly clad in long rust-brown robes with full sleeves and big hats, caps or wimples. Some sported short tunics and tights, a few were adorned with crowns. The grass was littered with hefty sticks, and music played a part in this gathering, judging by the number of lutes and recorders lying around.

  ‘Maybe it’s one of those mythical villages that only appears once in a hundred years,’ Luke commented.

  ‘Morris dancers,’ Peter grunted. Not his favourite spectator sport.

  ‘No bells on their legs,’ Georgia reassured him. Anyway, Morris dancing didn’t seem likely at a Thursday lunchtime, even if it was June. This was the only pub in the small village of Chillingham, and it was so crowded that she had to look hard for a table that had enough space not only to accommodate Luke and herself, but also her father’s wheelchair.

  ‘Come and join us.’ A hand of hearty welcome shot up. A long table was only half occupied by the ‘elite’. No russet gowns here. This was apparently the crowned ‘King’ himself, a tall sturdy man probably in his forties, who was booming out his welcome. Sitting next to him, also crowned, was his ‘Queen’, an elegant dark-haired petite woman, wearing what looked a rather smart medieval grey job designed to match the King’s dark green tunic.

  Their companion was a suave-looking silver-haired man, perhaps in his early sixties, who seemed annoyed at their arrival, which amused Georgia, although to do him justice the frown was quickly quashed. Instead of a crown, he was sporting a rather splendid golden tea-cosy on his head, matched by a full length golden cape.

  ‘Murder’s off the menu today.’ The King laughed heartily at his somewhat unusual declaration. ‘I won’t be slaughtering anyone until we get to Canterbury, so do feel free to join us.’

  No choice but to obey the royal command, and so, weird though it was, Georgia surrendered. In any case, Peter, always one for the eccentric side of life, was already eagerly propelling himself to the table. She followed with less enthusiasm. She never trusted control freaks, and the King had every sign of being one. Luke, as usual, seemed more tolerant.

  ‘Who are you planning to murder?’ he enquired.

  ‘My dear brother, of course.’ The King indicated Mr Tea-cosy, who glared back at him. ‘Also known as Archbishop Thomas Becket, who will be foully done to death by this merry band in due course.’ A lofty arm indicated the peasants busily tucking into their sandwiches and pints of beer.

  Dear brother? The tension between the two men was all too obvious. Little fraternal love there, Georgia thought, and a big age difference. There seemed to be two battles going on here, the spoken and the unspoken. Luke must have felt it too, as he rose rather hastily to go into the pub for food and drinks.

  ‘I’m looking forward to my fate,’ Becket replied smoothly, before delivering his put-down. ‘And even more to your subsequent humiliation, mighty majesty.’

  ‘Well worth it.’ Another guffaw from the King.

  The Queen quickly stepped in as peacemaker. ‘We’re the Chillingham Drama Group,’ she explained sweetly. ‘We’re staging our play in Canterbury in two weeks’ time. Do come. It’s at the Stour The
atre.’

  ‘Murder in the Cathedral – T.S. Eliot’s drama?’ Peter sounded merely polite, but Georgia could see his eyes were gleaming in curiosity – and not just over the play. She’d worked with him for a long time and could read the signs.

  ‘No. It’s the Tennyson play, Becket.’ Becket’s languid drawl – surely affected – began to grate on Georgia’s nerves, and the King’s loud bluster was little better.

  ‘Chillingham likes to be different,’ Becket continued, ‘especially as the Archbishop was one of Henry Irving’s great roles. Much neglected masterpiece. It adds another dimension to the familiar story, doesn’t it, dear half brother? Not only the power struggle between the King and Becket, but the domestic triangle of the King, his mistress Fair Rosamund – and the poisonous Queen Eleanor.’ A grin at the Queen. ‘Ah, we happy band of actors.’

  No doubt about it now. For whatever reason, Georgia realized, they had walked into the midst of a family ‘situation’ – one that had obviously been running for a long time. The fact that they were only half brothers made more sense of it. The King looked as if he’d like to carry out Becket’s murder personally here and now. Becket himself was clearly bent on provocation – and the Queen? Georgia wouldn’t mind betting that the real power lay in her hands. If, as implied, she was playing the poisonous queen, then not much acting would be required. This lady was made of steel.

  ‘You’re here for a rehearsal?’ Peter asked blandly, although Georgia was sure he had picked up exactly the same vibes as she had.

  ‘Far from it. Today sets the whole venture in motion.’ The King then recollected his noblesse oblige. ‘Let me introduce ourselves. My wife Aletta, my half brother Valentine Harper, and I am Julian Wayncroft—’

  ‘Lord of this manor,’ Valentine finished for him in deeply grave – and mocking – tones.

  Aletta pointedly ignored him. ‘Our plan is to walk to Canterbury today, then take our hired coach to Winchester for our first performance tomorrow evening. And then begins the great pilgrimage on foot back to Canterbury over the next two weeks, followed by five performances.’

  Aletta had been blessed – or cursed – with a high, rather tinkling voice, and her general air of sweet condescension made Georgia instinctively recoil. Her mind boggled at the sheer scope of the undertaking. A two-week walk from Hampshire and then put on a play? For an amateur drama production it seemed a challenge, to say the least, and Peter clearly agreed with her.

  ‘A pilgrimage before your murder, Archbishop Becket?’ he joked to Valentine.

  ‘This pilgrimage of yours. You’re taking the Old Road?’ Luke asked, having returned with the drinks.

  Julian jumped in to take ownership of the conversation before his brother could reply. ‘All the way from Winchester to Canterbury, the old Pilgrims’ Way, trodden for thousands of years. That’s a comparatively modern name, of course, as the track was used long before pilgrims set foot on it – and, as you say, colloquially called the Old Road, notably by Hilaire Belloc in his book of that name.’

  ‘See my edition thereof, price fourteen pounds ninety-nine, available at all good bookshops,’ Luke joked. ‘I publish local history books. My wife Georgia, her father Peter Marsh, and I’m Luke Frost.’

  ‘Marsh?’ Valentine glanced from Peter to Georgia. ‘Of Marsh & Daughter? The true crime book series? Old murder cases?’

  As Peter nodded, Georgia saw Julian stiffen. ‘Is that why you’re here today?’ he shot at them, with an attempt at a laugh that didn’t work. Why would that be? she wondered. Only a few minutes ago he’d been joking about murder himself. He seemed to be a man of swift-changing emotions, and in a power struggle she would put her money on smooth-talking Valentine.

  ‘Good heavens no. Better brains than ours have studied Becket’s death.’

  Peter’s light-hearted remark dispelled the tension, and Georgia relaxed. She was probably imagining a situation that did not exist. After all, sibling rivalry was hardly an unknown phenomenon. Nevertheless, she wondered how Aletta fitted into this uncomfortable relationship. Was she peacemaker or partisan?

  She reproved herself for letting her imagination roam out of control and smiled across at a young man who had just joined the table. His likeness to Julian was so apparent that this must surely be his son. No princely splendour for him, although he cut a dashing figure, with a shock of black curly hair peeping out from under a sort of chain-mail beret, a mock chain jerkin, black tights – and trainers, which rather spoiled the effect.

  ‘When are we off, then?’ he demanded of his father.

  ‘My son Sebastian,’ Julian said, introducing him briefly, then glanced at his watch. (On a Plantagenet king’s wrist?) ‘The coach arrives at two o’clock. Finish our lunch, load the coach and up to the North Downs Way.’

  ‘Why are you walking to Canterbury?’ Peter queried. ‘Not taking the coach?’

  ‘The great god Publicity.’ Sebastian grinned. ‘That’s what this pilgrimage is all about. There’s a reception organized to greet us as we stagger down into the city with our banners. We want to be overwhelmed with—’

  ‘Seb—’ his mother broke in warningly. ‘Obviously media presence. Desperately.’ She turned apologetically to them. ‘That’s why we’re opening the play on the day of Becket’s traditional anniversary on the seventh of July. Silly, really, since he actually died on the twenty-ninth of December. But I suppose that month wasn’t so good for pilgrimages, so July was chosen instead, the anniversary of the day his bones were moved to the shrine in Trinity Chapel.’

  ‘Or not, as the case may be,’ Seb drawled. ‘That man has more bones scattered around than a can of sardines.’

  ‘Seb—’ Julian said sharply.

  Not a man she would like to cross, Georgia decided, but his son only laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Pa. I’m all for it. Can’t wait to get to Canterbury this afternoon.’ He yawned ostentatiously, and Julian’s face grew even darker.

  ‘I’m still grappling with the idea of you all marching the whole of the Pilgrims’ Way,’ Georgia put in hastily, seeing yet another family situation erupting. ‘You’ll all be exhausted by the time you come to perform the play itself.’

  ‘It’ll be a doddle,’ Seb replied blithely. ‘Even Ma can manage it.’ Aletta awarded him a cool smile.

  ‘Tim Hurst suggested Georgia and I share the doddle with you this afternoon,’ Luke said. ‘What do you think, Georgia? It’s only four or five miles to Canterbury. We’ve got our walking gear in the car, and Tim says the coach that’s taking them on to Winchester can drop us off on the way back.’

  What did she think? The idea seemed horrific. Nothing she had so far seen of the main players in this pilgrimage recommended a longer acquaintance with them. Unfortunately Tim Hurst, who was the co-owner of the Three Peacocks, had once worked with Luke, and Luke was obviously thinking that they should support him. Perhaps Tim had some role in the play. If Luke went, she should too. After all, all drama groups had their tensions, and this was only for an afternoon.

  ‘Fine,’ she said bravely. ‘If you don’t mind, Peter?’ She turned to her father.

  ‘I’m relieved to say this wheelchair isn’t footpath friendly,’ Peter replied blithely, ‘so don’t worry about me. I’ll drive home and read a good book.’

  Georgia deduced from this that Peter was silently egging her on for some reason known only to himself. A reference to good books was usually a euphemism for research, either by Internet or through his vast collection of reference books. If a new Marsh & Daughter case was on the horizon it meant the starting pistol had been fired. If the case then developed they would work on it to the point where they could write it up for their true crime non-fiction series. But at the Three Peacocks there was no case – or even the sniff of one, unless Julian’s odd reaction to the name Marsh & Daughter counted. Marsh & Daughter usually investigated past mysteries, but there had been no mention of one so far except for Becket himself, and even Peter wouldn’t have the gall to rush in where so
many learned historians had trodden before. So what could have caught his attention? True, the Wayncroft family situation was highly charged with emotion, but that was no concern of Peter or hers. Yet that gleam in Peter’s eye clearly said: Trust me, something wicked this way comes.

  She must have missed something, she decided, so she surrendered gracefully. Marsh & Daughter were between books at present, always a difficult time. Their last case had been completed and written up, and Luke, their publisher, hoped to get it on the market in time for Christmas.

  ‘Why’s Tim going on the pilgrimage?’ Luke said to Julian. ‘Does he have a role in the play?’

  ‘Nothing important. He’s merely our all powerful director.’ Julian grinned, good humour again to the fore.

  ‘I’d no idea Tim was keen on drama.’

  Luke had been surprised to re-meet Tim Hurst earlier that year. Georgia remembered the day well. They’d come here by chance and discovered that Tim ran and owned the pub with his partner Simon Bede. They’d lived here six years and were trying to turn the Three Peacocks into a combination of gastro pub and village community rendezvous. Not as yet, she and Luke had gathered, very successfully.

  Georgia had immediately liked Tim. In his mid-thirties, he was outgoing, quick-witted and talented. A bundle of nerves, she guessed, and he held his body like a coiled spring. Simon was older by, she guessed, about seven or eight years. He was the sturdier of the two, both physically and mentally, and was affable without being extrovert, but so far as their relationship was concerned, it seemed to be he, not Tim, who was insecure. He looked the perfect ‘mine host’ for a tavern, and Tim the inspirational cook, but in fact it worked the other way round. Simon was the chef, Tim the business and outside man.

  As departure time drew near and Georgia saw the coach draw up, there was a general move inside the pub to pick up luggage. She saw Tim emerge with Simon, who was carrying what looked like a rolled up banner, presumably to advertise the play.

  ‘No pilgrim’s garb, Tim?’ Luke joked.