Murder on the Old Road

by Amy Myers

  ‘They could only have been toddlers in 1967, and you would have had other things on your mind than village politics, but can you remember how you felt about the development project then?’

  She thought Lisa was not going to answer, but she did after a moment. ‘Just the same, but I wasn’t so bothered. I was a mum with a small child of three. Derek didn’t come along until ’sixty-nine. I look at things differently now. The Wayncrofts want to change the village for good, with theatres and visitor centres and what have you. They say the shops, pubs and bed and breakfasts will flourish, but what about the cost of houses, eh? That will go up, planning permissions will turn the place into a building site, and then where will we be? And, what’s more important, where will St Thomas be, you tell me that,’ she added amiably. ‘Lost in the middle of a pile of money.’

  ‘But he’s nowhere now,’ Georgia pointed out as gently as she could. ‘There are only ruins left.’

  ‘If you think that, then you’re not the lady I took you for. If you were standing by those ruins with a bus-load of tourists I’d agree. St Thomas won’t bother to pop in. But you try standing there alone by them, as I do, with the Old Road running close by, and the green grass as green as ever it was, and in the silence he’ll come. He always does. It’s his chapel, his well.’

  Georgia felt humbled, but she had to go on. ‘To the ruins, maybe. But what about the village? It has to survive or it will just be a dormitory for Canterbury.’

  ‘St Thomas is here in the village too. Don’t you feel him?’ Lisa could have been discussing the shopping list for all the passion in her voice, Georgia thought. Thomas Becket was clearly an everyday presence for Lisa, however, so Georgia did not doubt her sincerity. For her he was a living entity. ‘He’s here all right,’ Lisa continued, ‘but he’s not going to stroll around a blinking visitor centre with a load of gawpers or sell ice creams to overstuffed playgoers.’ Lisa laughed. ‘You think I’m barmy, don’t you?’

  Georgia grinned. ‘No. I think you have a valid viewpoint, but a personal one. All villages change over time; even Chillingham has changed. Look at these Victorian cottages here, and the church. That’s only Tudor-built. People must have grumbled about all these new buildings when they came around.’

  ‘They came gradual like, with Thomas leading the way. But the Wayncrofts will manage to kick him out. He’s here, I tell you. You just follow me.’

  She turned and walked across the road to a row of cottages set at right angles to the main street and facing a stretch of grass. They looked eighteenth-century to Georgia, but it was hard to tell – for the bricks were patched where, over the years, doors and windows had varied their place or size.

  ‘Here’s where we Moons live. I’m here, next to the road. Derek’s in the middle with his wife, Joannie. His kids are still living here. Matt is at the end of the row with Alison, Tess and Will. That’s where I’m taking you. They won’t mind. Well, we won’t go to his house, but the workshop at the end.’

  When they reached it, Georgia saw a building completely different in style to the red-brick cottages. This had once been a ragstone barn; it had now been converted to have windows, and the roof was ancient corrugated iron. It looked solid and workmanlike, but hardly state of the art, so Georgia wondered why Lisa had been anxious for her to see it.

  As soon as Lisa unlocked the door and ushered her in, the smell hit her.

  ‘Wood,’ she exclaimed.

  Lisa nodded. ‘Special, that is.’

  There was wood everywhere: on the long middle table running the length of the barn, on the shelving, in piles under the side work bench that had lathes and equipment on it.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ Lisa continued.

  Georgia watched as Lisa bent down to open a cupboard and brought something out. She half expected to see a wooden statue of St Thomas, but this was not so intricate. It was a simple box, maybe a foot square, with an arched lid and old-fashioned lock. It gleamed golden brown, the polish bringing out the varying shades of colour, and it seemed almost to be crying out for her to touch it.

  As if reading her mind, Lisa said softly, ‘The living wood. You can see it. Run your hand over it. It likes being touched. Matthew’s good with wood. This is his special favourite.’

  As Georgia put her hand on the rounded lid, it did indeed feel not only smooth, but also warm, and most of all alive, as if it were bonding her to it. Would she have felt that way if the room were full of people? She doubted it. This was a personal experience, and she saw what Lisa had meant by being alone with the Becket ruins.

  Lisa was watching her carefully. ‘See what I mean? Not like stone, is it? Stone’s death to my mind, but it’s easy to believe St Thomas lives on here, isn’t it? Maybe you’re right, and he doesn’t, but if you feel he does, that’s what counts, isn’t it? The Moons and the Painters, you might be told we’re the living village, but it’s not us. It’s old Thomas. He wants us to carry on.’

  ‘But Lisa,’ Georgia began hesitantly,’ there was a murder in 1967. And another one only two days ago. What if they were committed in St Thomas’s name?’

  For the first time she saw Lisa’s calm confidence shaken, and she shook her head violently. ‘Mrs Fanshawe killed because of that? That would be real wickedness, that would.’

  ‘St Thomas was murdered too,’ Georgia said. ‘Good has to fight evil.’

  ‘Wickedness,’ Lisa repeated, her eyes on Georgia’s hand, which was still caressing the wood. Then, abruptly: ‘You’d best go on with that book of yours.’

  The official sanction? Georgia could hardly believe it, but she had to be sure. ‘If Peter and I do go ahead, it would not be Anne Fanshawe’s murder that we investigated, but the 1967 death.’

  ‘My golden year,’ Lisa murmured. ‘When I played Rosamund, and look what happened.’ A pause, then she looked straight at Georgia. ‘You go ahead. The time’s come. I know it.’

  Time for what? Lisa seemed to be in a place Georgia could not reach. Time that the truth was known? That Hugh Wayncroft received justice at last? Had the Moons been implicated? Had Clive been Hugh’s murderer? Reluctantly, Georgia withdrew her hand from Matthew’s box, and Lisa returned it to the cupboard as a signal it was time to leave, to begin the quest – presumably – that she had now sanctioned. Georgia knew she was right. She’d been given the open sesame to Chillingham.

  ‘You’d best meet the Painters first,’ Lisa said briskly, and she led Georgia back the way they had come – across the road, past the church and along the lane that she had driven along before. First came the entrance to Chillingham Place, with the lodge on its corner. ‘That’s Vic’s place,’ Lisa said, ‘but it’s his sister Molly you need to know first if you’re going to stay here.’

  Stay here? What was this?

  Already, a formidable picture was beginning to build up in Georgia’s mind as they walked into the forecourt of Becket House. What would this Molly be like? A Mrs Danvers as in Rebecca? The forecourt was full of cars, suggesting that the press were encamped here too. It was noisy as several cars were about to leave; with laughing, slamming of doors and engines roaring, it hardly seemed a quiet backwater. She had assumed that the Painters, like the Moons, were against development, but their business and the name of this house suggested otherwise.

  Lisa led her round to the back of the house, opened the kitchen door and called out: ‘Client for you, Molly.’

  It wasn’t Molly, but a man, a surly-looking one in his sixties. Would this be Bill Jones or Vic Painter, she wondered, aware that she was being summed up by the man’s unexpectedly piercing blue eyes. He merely grunted an acknowledgement as Lisa introduced her, before disappearing back inside and muttering that he’d call Molly.

  ‘Don’t take no notice of Vic,’ Lisa told her. ‘He’s a caution, that one. Comes in to help out when Bill can’t. He works part-time in Canterbury.’

  Molly, when she arrived, also looked in her early sixties, and was no Mrs Danvers, to Georgia’s relief. Sh
e was a pleasant looking woman, with a contented face, the sort that would be unfazed by anything less than an earthquake. ‘Full up,’ she announced. ‘Couldn’t squeeze a lemon in here. What a shame.’

  She said it not with the usual triumph at being able to turn people away, an attitude all too common, but apparently with genuine regret. It was just as well, if the idea of her staying here took root. Georgia began to feel she was being manipulated, but had no objection. If Lisa wanted her closer to Chillingham, she must have a reason for doing so.

  ‘It wouldn’t be for today,’ Georgia explained, ‘but maybe soon.’

  ‘She’s writing a book, Molly.’ A familiar female voice sang out from the kitchen table, its owner obscured from Georgia’s view. But she knew that voice.

  ‘Her Ladyship’s here,’ muttered Lisa.

  Georgia could now see Her Ladyship, Jessica Wayncroft, clad today in bright magenta and sitting regally at the table. She could also see what Lisa meant by her still keeping an eye on things.

  ‘I hear,’ Jessica remarked, ‘that you were on that walk on Saturday when the poor vicar died.’ Then came an artificial start of surprise. ‘Oh, Lisa, how delightful to see you. I didn’t notice you at first.’

  ‘Sentiment not returned,’ Lisa replied.

  For a moment Georgia thought she had misheard, but from the atmosphere it was clear that she had not. Fortunately, Jessica seemed to think this a great joke. ‘Come, Lisa, not in front of guests to our village.’

  ‘Don’t see why not.’ Her voice still cool, Lisa advanced into the kitchen and Jessica switched subjects.

  ‘I’m told you were talking to Mrs Fanshawe on Saturday, Georgia. Julian is very upset, and so are Aletta and Val. I haven’t quite taken it in yet; it seems so extraordinary to think it happened on a pilgrimage just like the one during which my poor Hugh died. But then you weren’t there this time, were you, Lisa?’

  ‘I wasn’t, Mrs Wayncroft. Not like Mr Valentine.’

  The darts flew to and fro with a vengeance that startled Georgia. What on earth was going on?

  Jessica ignored the mention of her son. ‘Dear Tessa is playing Rosamund this time, isn’t she? The casting isn’t quite so convenient as last time.’

  Lisa said nothing, and Georgia was torn between hope that the cat fight was over and longing for it to continue. It wasn’t over, as Lisa said very deliberately:

  ‘I remember that. You being Queen Eleanor out to poison me.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ Jessica said blithely. ‘Fair Rosamund was the King’s paramour.’ A pause. ‘However, I was more concerned with your relationship with your protector and saviour, Becket. I’m sure Lisa has explained to you, Georgia, that she was my Hugh’s dearly beloved mistress?’

  EIGHT

  ‘Hugh was gentle. Kind too. I’d never met anyone like him before,’ Lisa said at last as Georgia walked back along the lane with her. ‘Never since, either. He’d look at you in a way that made you want to be as good as him, not reproving like, or holier-than-thou. Hugh didn’t need to prove he was a good man. He was good. And before you say, how does that fit with him having a bit on the side, it doesn’t. Maybe outsiders wouldn’t agree, but Chillingham still looked on him as good. And that includes me.’ A pause. ‘So how about coming in for a cup of tea.’

  Georgia willingly accepted. Far from being thrown by Jessica’s outburst, Lisa seemed to be taking it in her stride. She had behaved so matter-of-factly as they left Becket House that Georgia assumed Jessica’s accusation must be general knowledge in the village. Georgia was an outsider, however, so today could have been a declaration of war on Jessica’s part – but against Lisa or herself? It explained a lot, but whether it affected Hugh’s death remained to be seen.

  ‘I’ll get the tea,’ Lisa said, once they were back at her cottage. She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Georgia in the cosy living room. There was still an open fireplace, which suggested that in winter time it would be even cosier. There were photographs displayed of Matt and Derek as children, a portrait of Clive in perhaps his thirties, which Georgia studied, and a wedding photo of them both. Fair Rosamund indeed, Georgia thought as she studied it. This girl with the dancing eyes and long flowing blonde hair was hard to see in the Lisa of today. Her beautiful face shone out with hope and expectations of life and love. The bridegroom was good-looking, earnest and proud. By the time the later portrait of him had been taken he had lost that look. He was still handsome, but maturity had given him a wary, almost sly appearance. Georgia knew it was unfair to judge by photos, but nevertheless she decided she would not have liked Clive Moon, and she wondered how happy a marriage it had been. Presumably he had known about the affair with Hugh, especially if it had continued after their marriage. They’d married, according to the photo, in 1963. Had the affair still been going on at the time of Hugh’s death?

  Lisa reappeared first with a tray, then a teapot, then a cake – of course Lisa would be a cake-maker, Georgia thought enviously. And it would be delicious.

  ‘Now you’ll be wondering whether Mrs Wayncroft was right about Hugh and me,’ Lisa said comfortably as she cut a slice of cake for Georgia.

  ‘Yes, I was. Jessica’s quite what one might call an attention-seeking lady,’ she added.

  ‘Always was.’

  ‘Was her marriage to Hugh unhappy then?’

  ‘Never asked,’ Lisa said. ‘You’d think it was, seeing that Hugh fell for me, but you can never tell. He was a simple sort of fellow, and Jessica, well, you can see, she stirred him up, got things going. To my mind, looking back, he loved us both.’

  A remarkably objective summary, Georgia thought. ‘She didn’t get her way over the Thomas Becket remains.’

  ‘No.’ Lisa grinned. ‘Hugh could be real obstinate, and over that he was. Surprised me. I was all for a bit of excitement in Chillingham at first, and so was Clive. He thought the Becket well a hoot and was all for milking it dry – if you can say that of a well. Being young, we thought the village needed to wake up a bit. But then Hugh talked to me as no one had before. He told me all about St Thomas and the Old Road, and even risked taking me to the pictures to see that film A Canterbury Tale. It was made near the end of the war to get folks worked up about D-Day, but it was sometimes put on in Canterbury for years after that. I didn’t think much of it at first, wasn’t like the Hollywood stuff I was keen on. This was the time of the Beatles and brave new worlds opening up, so a film about an old country road and war didn’t hit the right buttons. Then Hugh explained to me about the pilgrimages along the Road in the old days and how we were all here not just for ourselves but as guardians of what was to come. Just look at us now, eh? Acting as though there were no tomorrow for the poor old world.’

  ‘Did you love Hugh, or were you just bowled over by him?’ Perhaps this was a step too far, but she felt sure that Lisa was well able to field anything she didn’t feel like answering. But this question she did.

  ‘No doubt about it. I loved him. Clive had been courting me for a year or two, but I wasn’t too sure about him. Then I met Hugh, and it all began. I didn’t have no stars in my eyes. He won’t leave Mrs Wayncroft for you, my girl, my mum said, and I knew that. So after a while I married Clive, had Matthew and later Derek. I didn’t see so much of Hugh for a while, but the play brought it all back. On stage as Becket with his arm round me, saving me from that she-wolf, murmuring, “Come with me,” I could feel him trembling. Everyone knew about him and me, but no one much cared, not even Mrs Wayncroft.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Unusual, to say the least, and with anyone but Lisa Georgia would have dismissed this out of hand.

  ‘I should be. She came to tell me herself. I was married by that time and had Matthew, and she could see I wasn’t much of a threat. She came steaming round to size me up, told me she was pregnant at long last and having a hard time carrying the kid. She said if I didn’t cause any trouble, and didn’t flaunt around, she’d live with it. She didn’t want no upset, probably th
ought I was just a passing fancy because she was pregnant and out of action.’

  ‘And was she right about that?’

  ‘No. But I didn’t tell her that. Hugh wouldn’t go mistreating her though. He loved her in his way.’

  ‘So the affair went on for some years.’

  ‘Off and on. That’s the way it can go in a village. If you make a fuss about it, it’s high drama, but if you don’t shout it from the housetops, everyone knows, but no one talks about it. That way no one’s hurt.’

  ‘Mrs Wayncroft was shouting from the housetops today.’

  ‘Yes. Odd that.’ Lisa frowned. ‘Not Her Ladyship’s style. But then –’ she looked hard at Georgia – ‘you’re writing about what happened in the 1960s, aren’t you?’

  ‘We hope to. It’s Hugh’s death that interests us from the professional point of view; the vicar’s would only come into it if it links back to Hugh’s. Could it?’

  Lisa sighed. ‘I don’t know, m’dear, and that’s the truth. I don’t know who killed my Hugh, and I don’t know who killed the poor vicar. I get along by steering my way through the shallows; deep water needs more than I can manage.’

  ‘And yet you’re talking to me.’

  The sharp eyes fixed on her. ‘Think I like it, do you? Well, I don’t, but it’s time someone found out who took Hugh away from me. You’re clever, you and your father. Before long you’d have found out about Hugh and me and be off on the wrong track. Clive, Mrs Wayncroft, Hugh and me – we’re the wrong track for you. We’d sorted out where we all stood long before. If there was any high drama to be made of it, it would have happened much earlier than 1967. There weren’t no question of me leaving Clive for Hugh or for Hugh leaving his wife for me. It was all sorted.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask this. Did Clive mind about Hugh?’

  ‘’Course he minded,’ Lisa said. ‘We had a few rough patches, but it sorted itself out.’

  Before or after Hugh’s death, Georgia wondered, but Lisa had clearly decided she had said enough on that point because she continued, ‘There were plenty of walkers on the path, even in those days, and some odd characters all right. The police questioned one or two of them and ruled them out. The village went quiet after that, numb you might say, and the case was closed. But someone knows more than they said. Must do.’