Murder on the Old Road

by Amy Myers

  ‘They have this pilgrimage and play every year?’

  ‘No. It’s the first time since 1967.’

  ‘But that really is creepy.’ Too creepy, she thought with foreboding.

  ‘Someone had the bright idea that it would be good to recreate it. The pilgrimage and play presumably, rather than the murder. The plan is to put the village on the map, rather than just to promote the play. They had an identical plan in 1967, which doesn’t seem to have come to anything. You’d think the murder would have achieved that by itself, but everything went quiet. The sixties pilgrimage, as is this one, was to celebrate the July anniversary. As Aletta said, winter is not a good time for pilgrimages, and my guess is that the monks realized that it wouldn’t attract so many pilgrims as the summer date. And we think we’re publicity conscious. In 1220, fifty years after Becket was murdered, his tomb was moved from the crypt to the Trinity Chapel, and fifty years after that came the first Jubilee remembrance of it. I wonder if the 1967 Chillingham pilgrimage was some sort of trial run for a really big do in 1970?’

  ‘Was there one?’

  ‘Not so far as I can see.’ Peter frowned. ‘Strange that. The excitement all died down again, along with all reference to Hugh Wayncroft’s murder. Chillingham seems to have sunk back into slumber again until this year.’

  ‘Because of the murder, do you think?’

  ‘Perhaps. But, if so, why the repeat performance?’

  ‘Doesn’t Simon know why?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. Of course, he wasn’t in Chillingham in 1967.’

  ‘Nor was the vicar, the Reverend Fanshawe.’

  ‘Oh yes, she was.’ Peter looked smug at pulling this new rabbit out of his hat. ‘Her name was then Anne Riding, daughter of the village historian and teacher Bill Riding. She was ten years old and played the role of Geoffrey in Becket, the small son of Fair Rosamund, the king’s mistress.’

  Again, Georgia was taken aback. She was sure Anne had made no mention of that, only that she had been back in Kent seven years. Perhaps there had been no intention to mislead her, and yet every antenna Georgia possessed was waving as furiously as a hazel twig in the hands of a water-diviner. Was there a conspiracy of silence in Chillingham? Or had life simply moved on after a tragic episode? But if the latter, surely some people must still feel the wounds.

  ‘Go ahead. Tell me,’ she said.

  She could see Peter was itching to spill out the whole story, and she wanted to hear it. Hugh Wayncroft had been murdered over forty years previously, but the family was still at odds with itself, and perhaps Chillingham itself was too. In a small village unrest could spread from the centre out.

  At the back of her mind she registered that Janie would be fuming if she and Peter stayed talking much longer, but consoled herself that, far from being annoyed, it was possible Janie might be grateful. This puzzle, virtually on his own doorstep, might distract Peter from his other preoccupations, which she suspected were also driving Janie crazy.

  Peter needed no urging. ‘Let’s start with Hugh Wayncroft’s murder. He was forty-five, married, with a small child, Julian. His body was found in woods close by the Old Road – or, if you, prefer Pilgrims’ Way – which at that point is now the North Downs Way. He was still clad in his Becket costume, but the pilgrimage was nearing its end. The company had walked the whole length of the Old Road from Winchester to Canterbury, so far as was possible, because by 1967 parts of it had long disappeared. Tennyson’s play had been performed in Canterbury, and on Sunday, the ninth of July, the happy pilgrims had walked the last few miles back from their triumph to an intended celebratory welcome in the Three Peacocks.’

  ‘I wonder who sparked off the notion that repeating it would be a good idea. And what happened to the final celebration? Was it still held?’

  ‘As to the first question: no idea. As for the second, yes, in a way. With the largish cast, and all the production staff and so, over forty people were involved. Only some time after they had reached the Three Peacocks, where the publican Fred Miller had arranged for the welcome home, was it realized that Hugh Wayncroft was no longer with them. When it was discovered he hadn’t returned to Chillingham Place either, a search party set out and found his body. He’d been strangled, and there the matter rests.’

  ‘What do you mean, rests? There must have been a police investigation. Motives? Passing tramps? MI5 plot . . .?’

  ‘I haven’t had time to consult Mike yet—’

  ‘But you will,’ Georgia said resignedly. Mike Gilroy had been Peter’s sergeant for some years before Peter’s enforced retirement, and Peter was under the happy impression that Mike liked nothing better than to break off from the pressure of being Detective Superintendent Gilroy and throw himself into the archives of his and other Kentish police areas in order to ‘help Peter with his enquiries’.

  ‘Possibly.’ Peter’s turn to be indignant. ‘Neither the local papers nor The Times carried the story after the initial furore. That suggests to me that there was plenty of gossip, but it was wrapped up in the small local community of Chillingham and didn’t wing its way beyond its boundaries.’

  ‘So for motive – first, look at the family,’ Georgia said. ‘Is eagerness to grab the estate on the cards?’

  ‘Dear cynical daughter, I have clearly trained you well. Money is usually the root of all evil. But not, it seems, in this case.’

  ‘Because Julian was only a year or two old, and therefore unlikely to be planning a murder,’ she chimed in. ‘Valentine as a stepson would not inherit. What about Hugh’s widow, anxious to get her hands on the property while she could rule in Julian’s name? Or come to that, as Valentine would have been twenty-odd in 1967, maybe the widow saw her chance to set her first son up for life as well as her son by Hugh?’

  Peter looked smug. ‘Good one, but here’s where the family history really kicks in. Hugh was the younger brother of Robert Wayncroft, who only died two years ago. Robert seems a mysterious character. The Wayncroft family has lived in Chillingham Place probably since medieval days; certainly they were well installed by Tudor times. They are, or were, staunchly Roman Catholic in religion, and must therefore have come not only under Tudor pressure, but also under even heavier oppression during the Civil War. Nevertheless the Wayncroft family somehow managed to hang on to its lands, probably because it’s not a sizeable estate.

  ‘Robert Wayncroft inherited the estate from his grandfather unexpectedly young; it was during the Second World War when he was a lieutenant in the army. He survived the war, but after it he seems to have had some religious conversion or calling, because thereafter he devoted his life to charitable work, much of it overseas. In 1957, therefore, he decided to give the manor and estate to his younger brother Hugh, who had recently married one Jessica Harper, a widow with a small child – our Valentine.

  ‘There was only one proviso,’ Peter continued, ‘and that was that if Hugh predeceased him then the whole estate would revert to Robert. Accordingly, when Hugh was murdered in 1967, the whole caboodle did revert to Robert. He never married or had any known children, and therefore after Hugh’s death he bequeathed the bulk of the estate, including Chillingham Place, back to Hugh’s descendants, currently represented by Julian and his son Sebastian. It passed to them on Robert’s death two years ago. Until then Hugh’s family had lived in the manor house for a peppercorn rent by courtesy of Robert; the house had been turned into several apartments. For the last five years of his life Robert lived in one of them, Hugh’s widow Jessica in another, and Julian another. I gather from Simon that Valentine left the village for many years, and only returned on Robert’s death. He, too, now lives in Chillingham Place, courtesy of Julian – presumably.’

  Georgia grappled with this oddity. ‘So the widow’s eagerness to grab the estate is ruled out as a motive for getting rid of Hugh, as is Valentine’s. They needed to keep Hugh alive in order to be sure of their future there. Robert could have turned them out lock, stock and barrel when Hugh died, for
all they knew at the time.’

  ‘Talking of time . . .’

  Georgia glanced up at Luke’s voice to see him standing in the doorway, no doubt dispatched by Janie to hurry them up.

  Peter was too engrossed to take note of the warning. ‘Even Mitchison’s Village Murders doesn’t mention the case, except that it was unsolved. Odd.’

  ‘Maybe the publishers took it out for libel reasons,’ Luke intervened in a voice heavy with meaning.

  Peter glared at him. ‘Quite possible. Publishers are notoriously overcareful in such matters.’

  Luke grinned. ‘They have some crazy idea that they’d prefer to stay in business.’

  Peter brushed this aside. ‘It’s a question of where we go next.’

  ‘To join Janie and me. There’s a question of supper.’ Luke’s pointed remark was again ignored.

  ‘Mrs Moon strikes me as a possibly entry point to the village community,’ Peter continued blithely.

  ‘I agree. Simon said the Moon family rules Chillingham.’

  ‘Did he tell you she played Fair Rosamund in the 1967 production?’

  ‘No.’ Georgia was intrigued, trying to imagine the Lisa she had met as a young and beautiful blonde. It was hard to do so. Her involvement in the production must have been what Simon had been about to mention before Lisa stopped him. Why though? Lisa would surely have been proud of it. ‘Did she tell you anything about the murder?’

  ‘Not a whisper. I found out about it from the local newspaper review of the play. Our Mrs Moon obviously believes in keeping a very tight mouth indeed.’

  Unlike Janie, who blew in like a storm cloud to join her protest to Luke’s. ‘What on earth’s keeping you, Peter? I thought David was a workaholic but you beat him hollow.’

  ‘My fault, Janie,’ Georgia said immediately. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’ Who was David? she wondered.

  ‘Yes, you should,’ Peter shot back. His expression conveyed the message that Janie didn’t own this house – or own him. Georgia’s heart sank. There was trouble ahead.

  Janie cast them both a scathing look. ‘Peter doesn’t need any encouragement to glue himself to the computer.’

  ‘Why don’t we all go out to the pub?’ Luke quickly suggested. ‘Then none of us will have to cook.’

  Thank heavens for Luke. Georgia clutched at this solution, especially as she saw Janie’s face lighten. Battle lines were being drawn all too quickly between her and Peter. Something was clearly amiss with their relationship, but Georgia knew better than to intervene. If she did, both of them might turn on her. Far better to go to the pub!

  The White Lion in Haden Shaw always produced excellent food, and once they were established inside the familiar bar, Georgia felt she could relax. Tempers resumed their normal levels, and at least a truce seemed declared.

  On the short walk back to Peter’s house, where Luke had left their car, however, Janie raised the subject again. ‘Sorry, Georgia. My fault. Things have been bad ever since we got back from Linz. I thought if I went there with him, it would not only confirm what happened to your brother, but lay it to rest for good, so that Peter and I could start with a clean slate. It hasn’t worked that way. He’s still obsessed with Rick, so if you and he are embarking on a new case, I suppose I should applaud it. At least I could put my oar in from time to time. Up till now he’s been emotionally living in Austria, and he doesn’t want company there. Not mine, anyway.’

  Georgia froze. The mystery of her brother’s Rick’s disappearance in France many years ago had at last seemed solved, and so it had been as far as she was concerned. Not for Peter, however. He had insisted on travelling to Austria to visit the relevant authorities and demand physical evidence of how Rick had died. Mental certitude was not enough. Georgia should have been accompanying Peter herself, and she still felt guilty that she had not been able to do so. Even though Luke kept pointing out that she could have done nothing else, it still hurt, and in her darker moments she felt she had betrayed both Rick and Peter.

  By terrible coincidence the date for her second round of IVF treatment had unexpectedly materialized for the very week the Linz trip had been booked and travel, hotels and appointments fixed. She had agonized over whether to put off her own appointment, but that meant more waiting when the clock was already ticking so loudly on her ever conceiving a child. Keep your appointment, said Peter. He would go with Janie. Keep your appointment, said Luke. Didn’t that suggest that he was as hell-bent on having children as she was? Every time she asked him he denied it was that important, but she argued to herself that he could have been saying that for her sake. So she had kept her appointment, and Janie had stepped into her place eagerly, it had to be said. Result? Georgia was no further forward on her own desired result, but Peter returned from Austria with as much evidence about Rick as there would ever be. Short of going for permission for exhumation of several unidentified bodies there was nothing more they could do. They had, Janie told them, even been shown the records of the Omega Seamaster wristwatch he had been wearing, but Peter had insisted Rick’s had been a different model, a De Ville, and was adamant that further enquiries should be made. Where, when and what? she had asked. He had no idea, but the subject was not closed, and Janie was clearly at breaking point.

  ‘It will pass, Janie.’ Georgia sounded more confident than she was. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

  Janie shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t need to. If it is not now, yet it will come. Isn’t that what Hamlet said? David—’

  ‘Who is this David?’ Georgia asked curiously as Janie broke off.

  Janie flushed. ‘The new head of the Fernbourne board of trustees. He’s making things happen at the museum. It’s exciting now. I’ve got the go-ahead to follow up my own ideas too.’ Janie ran the Fernbourne Museum, which was devoted to the works of the Fernbourne Five, a group of writers and artists working in the years before, during and just after World War II.

  Georgia put all the enthusiasm she could muster into her reply. ‘That’s good. It could make all the difference, your having such support there.’

  Janie wasn’t fooled. ‘It does. But I love Peter, Georgia.’

  THREE

  Could a village really be as peaceful as Chillingham appeared? Georgia parked her car in the church car park, having decided on a peaceful ramble round the village before deciding on her next move. No community was ever as tranquil as it appeared to the outsider. It was possible the murder of Hugh Wayncroft might still be leaving its mark on the village, but it was equally possible that the tensions of today might be due to some completely different reason. It was her job to weigh up whether past or present was ruling Chillingham, and from that Marsh & Daughter could decide whether or not to look further into his death. The subtext – that word kept cropping up – was all important.

  ‘People don’t change,’ Peter had said. ‘Despite all the new houses and incomers, there’s always that bottom layer waiting to be discovered if you dig deep enough. As with people. All of them, all of us. So find out what makes Chillingham tick, Georgia.’

  Mission understood. How to put it into practice, however, was rather more problematic, she had thought wryly.

  Now she was here it seemed even more difficult. She’d left this visit until after the weekend in the interests of not appearing to be on a witch-hunt, but on a Monday morning, Chillingham almost seemed to be mocking her as it slumbered in the sunshine. You can’t get at me, it seemed to be saying. How could you hope to – you’re an outsider.

  Well, she could and she would. In a place this small, she would begin with the church, which was dedicated to St Thomas. She presumed that was Thomas Becket, rather than the apostle or St Thomas Aquinas. Given its situation, there seemed little doubt, even though, from its late medieval architecture, this building might not have been standing at the time most of the pilgrimages took place. It was positioned on a corner of the lane that led up through the village to the North Downs and an even narrower lane that followed the boundary o
f the Chillingham estate and eventually wound round to Chilham.

  Inside the church it was cool and calm. It was secure in itself; it had seen centuries and people come and go. The Queen Anne arms were painted on a panel above the door as all churches had at one time to display, as if to declare that the earthly monarchs come and go, but the church of God endures. There were monuments to the world wars and at the far end a Wayncroft chapel, with the splendid full length Elizabethan tombs of Sir Edward Wayncroft and his wife Cecilia. Interesting, she thought, that somewhere the Sir had become lost over the years. There was also a brass on the floor to a Sir Geoffrey Wayncroft, who according to the inscription had died in defence of his faith. This, too, was Tudor. She remembered that the Wayncrofts were Catholic, but at some periods of British history they would have had to have kept that very secret indeed. The most recent memorial was to Hugh Wayncroft, a simple brass plaque with only his name and the dates of his birth and his death inscribed on it.

  She wandered into the churchyard to see if she could find Hugh’s grave there, but there was no sign of it, although there were some later Wayncroft tombs. Nevertheless, it was a helpful guide to the families that had dominated this village for a long time. Moons were prominent, so was another family, the Painters, and there were plenty of Millers to be seen. Hadn’t the Three Peacocks publican in 1967 been a Miller? She found Bill Riding’s grave and wondered what part he had played in the 1967 production. If Anne had played a role in it, her parents must surely have also been involved.

  Her eye was caught by a wicket gate. Public footpath? There was no indication that it was, but it would be natural enough for a public footpath to lead to the church from the Old Road and beyond. The meadow on to which the gate opened looked as if it might stretch as far as the Old Road itself. A few sheep were grazing in it, and at the far end she could see some stone ruins, perhaps of a former barn. Curiosity made her walk over to them to have a closer look, with sheep scattering reproachfully from her path.