by Amy Myers
‘That’s right.’ Vic looked pleased, which meant they must be on the right track – to wherever this was leading. ‘Dad saw Mr Robert struggling to restrain a soldier who’d gone wild, but before he could pull him away a wall came down on him and he was killed. Mr Robert was pulled clear of it though. Dad always reckoned it was one of these two.’ He pointed to the last two names on the plaque.
‘Shouldn’t this memorial be in the Cathedral itself?’ Peter asked. ‘It seems strange to have it here.’
‘Mr Robert lived in Chillingham. Seems natural enough to me,’ Vic said non-committally.
‘Why did you want us to see it?’ Georgia asked.
‘It could have been that raid changed Mr Robert for good, that’s why,’ he replied, and Georgia knew better than to push him. If the Painters or Moons had something to say they would do so in their own good time, not when it suited Marsh & Daughter.
Nevertheless, patience was not one of Peter’s virtues – nor indeed one of hers, Georgia would admit.
‘Did Robert get on well with Lisa and Clive Moon?’ Peter asked Vic as they left the church. ‘He obviously did with your family.’
‘I’d have said that was their business, but seeing as how Lisa and Molly think it’s time to speak out, I’ll tell you,’ he grunted. ‘Mr Robert liked Lisa. Clive were a different matter.’
Georgia could not see that this was advancing Marsh & Daughter’s case, but she supposed it was good that Vic at least thought he was contributing. Little by little she and Peter had tacit permission to dig away the layers of silence that led back to 1967. Or further, if this plaque had some relevance.
‘Did you get on with Clive Moon?’ she asked.
‘I’d no time for the chap. Led Lisa a dog’s life. Mind you,’ he added fairly, ‘it didn’t help, her and Hugh being what you might call close. But even after Mr Wayncroft died Clive never let her forget it. Took it out on the kids, especially Matthew, until Lisa had it out with him. Said, Catholic or not, she’d leave him and take the kids with her. That shut him up, and shut up wagging tongues too. It was over. Done with.’
Georgia hesitated. ‘Julian Wayncroft told me earlier today that Clive went overboard in pushing ahead the plans for the Becket ruins because he hated Hugh Wayncroft so much. Would you agree?’
‘’Course I would,’ Vic answered with a snort. ‘You’ve got to bear in mind that the police never knew about Lisa and Hugh. Even Mrs Jessica never told them, and whether Clive did him in or not, Lisa reckoned her kids needed a dad. One thing I can tell you –’ Vic paused to cup his hands over his pipe as he lit it – ‘Clive had it in for Hugh. I remember him clear as day saying he’d get him one day.’
‘He threatened him to his face?’
‘He did. I was there and told him flat: Clive, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder. Keep it for your woodwork. Reckon he did,’ he added, giving them a sideways look.
Georgia grinned. ‘I heard he’s faked the wooden relics of St Thomas.’
‘He was real annoyed that they got put away and never used. He was a true carpenter was Clive, and when he told me about it later, I reckoned I could see what he was after doing. There were those monks hiding behind the screen ready to pull the strings of St Thomas. One pulled the staff so it struck the ground for the water to gush out; another one pulled his hand up and down so it could bless any pilgrim who put his penny in the monks’ slot. They’d all have been on their knees, young and old, no matter what in those days. No hip replacements then. Maybe St Thomas did something about hips too.’ Vic cackled. ‘Clive told me and Dad it had only been a bit of fun, but fun it weren’t. We knew that. He was going to see Hugh Wayncroft done down, one way or the other.’
THIRTEEN
To Georgia’s pleasure, Peter had elected to join her at Becket House, urged on by Molly. Perhaps this was only for extra trade, but it was also possible that Lisa’s mandate about it being time to talk had been taken to heart. Peter was obviously convinced of the link between the two deaths, even if Clive Moon had been responsible for Hugh’s. It was tantalizing that the missing clue could be within their grasp, but still eluding them.
When she came down for breakfast on the Thursday morning, she found Peter already at the table. The breakfast room was conveniently handy for staring out of the window towards John Painter’s Shrine, and she noted that his table gave him the best view of it. As she arrived, he was taking full advantage of it. She was less sure than he was, however, that the Shrine had anything to do with the Becket story or had any relevance to Hugh Wayncroft’s death. Whatever Val and Jessica might have hoped to find, it looked as if they had failed. Molly would surely have known if those flagstones had recently been moved, and there was nowhere else for anything to be hidden.
Molly came to serve her as she sat down, but Peter apparently had more important things on his mind than Georgia’s breakfast. ‘Do you have a photo of Fred Miller around, Molly?’
He had the magic touch with Molly, even if he seemed to have lost it with Janie, Georgia thought, seeing Molly beam as though fulfilling this request would make her day. She reappeared some minutes later with the photo and a cooling teapot.
‘Fred Miller’s been a silent witness for too long,’ Peter commented as she handed him the photo.
‘He’s dead,’ Molly pointed out cheerfully.
‘Witnesses can speak from beyond the grave,’ Peter replied portentously.
‘True enough. Also true that there was talk at the time that Fred and Clive were in it together. They were very vocal in trying to get Mr Hugh to think different about St Thomas, and they were in front of him in the column.’
‘Look at him, Georgia.’ Peter handed her the photograph. ‘Taken in 1965.’
‘Not long after he took over the Three Peacocks,’ Molly said. ‘He was a cocksure lad. Eager to get ahead.’
‘Did Fred do food at the pub, like Simon?’
‘Not like nowadays. His wife did a bit, but most pubs didn’t in those days. Fred wasn’t keen because no one saw food as a way to get ahead. Jeannie did though. She was a goer.’ Molly grinned. ‘And one day she did go. A Frenchie came to the village, tracing one of his ancestors. Jeannie helped him out, and that was that. She flew the nest in the 1980s sometime. Served Fred right. He was all for development, but did he listen to her? No way. After Mr Hugh died, Fred thought the path was clear, but then Mr Robert told us there wasn’t a hope of that. So Fred let the pub go to rack and ruin. No wonder she left. None of your hail-fellow-well-met about Fred. More of a surly glare. One word out of turn, and he’d kick you out, Vic said. Not good for custom.’
‘Did you think Fred, with or without Clive, murdered Hugh?’
‘All talk, no proof,’ Molly said firmly. ‘No one knew for sure, and that includes me. We all knew Mr Wayncroft was at the back of the column, but people were moving up and down all the time. Mostly though Mr Hugh, Fred and Clive were at the back and Mr Harper and Mrs Jessica at the front because they were all the stars of the show. Mr Hugh liked being at the back, so he could linger when he liked. He liked the peace of the Old Road. When we got near Chillingham, Mrs Jessica nipped back to tell us that the lute players would strike up when we’d nearly reached the village, then would come two of the villains, herself and Mr Val, then at the end would come Fred, Clive and Hugh in all their glory. She left to return to her earlier place, and I heard the lute players strike up. I looked round and saw Mr Hugh then ambling along behind Clive and Fred, quite happy.’ A pause. ‘But you’ll be wanting your breakfast, Georgia,’ she said pointedly.
‘Yes please.’
Peter grinned as Molly went out to the kitchen.
‘You look very satisfied with life,’ Georgia said.
‘I am. I spoke to Mike earlier.’
Poor old Mike. ‘It wasn’t even his case.’
‘He rang me.’ Peter was indignant. ‘There’s something new on Anne Fanshawe’s murder.’
‘What?’
‘The landlord’s wi
fe remembers seeing her hanging up her anorak in the hall as she arrived that evening.’
‘So? That explains why Anne wasn’t wearing it.’
‘She was behind the bar when Anne Fanshawe left, and shortly afterwards she went to the loo and saw the anorak still hanging there. She said she didn’t worry about it as it was a warm night and Anne wouldn’t have missed it. When she went to lock the outside doors however, twenty minutes or so later, it wasn’t there, so she assumed Anne had come back for it.’
‘But Will’s team found it there the next morning.’ Georgia had a sudden cautious hope that this might be leading somewhere at last. ‘She’s sure it was Anne’s?’
‘Yes. It was bright red, and she complimented Anne on it when she arrived at the pub.’
‘And she wasn’t wearing it when she was found. So that means—’
‘She came back (as I said),’ he added complacently, ‘probably not for the anorak itself, but because her credit cards were in it. Her killer saw her do so and went out to talk to her. An unexpected opportunity for murder.’
‘What about the torch that you said would require advance planning?’ Georgia asked innocently.
Peter brushed this aside. ‘In the killer’s hotel room. He or she noticed the anorak still there, watched to see if she would return, saw her, came down, took the coat out to her, and accompanied her as she made her second trip towards the farmhouse. He’d then have to take the anorak back to the hotel, as he couldn’t take the risk that someone had noticed the coat while it was still hanging there and so would deduce from its absence that Anne had returned. His luck ran out, because someone did. Nevertheless, where does this take us?’
‘Alibis are blown to pot. Oh, Peter, are we there?’
‘Mike thinks so. Now he merely has to find evidence.’
‘Someone staying overnight.’
‘The King? Becket himself? Both anxious to give his heartily disliked half-brother an alibi only because it also gave him one?’
‘Could be. Or Seb or Aletta?’
‘Seb was camping, which makes it less likely, but Aletta could have accompanied the killer – which would have given Anne confidence that she was in no danger. There’s Tim and Simon too, who have to be considered, tough though that would be for Luke. All the main pub bedrooms are all overlooking the front of the pub, and I’m sure Will Whitton is well aware of it.’
Georgia contemplated the days ahead. It was countdown. The last performance of the play would be on Saturday, and on Sunday the group would return to Chillingham along the Old Road. Just as it had in 1967. Every time she thought of that it grew more ominous.
Peter was watching her. ‘Don’t worry, Georgia. There has to be a resolution soon.’
‘Yes.’ Was he talking of Hugh’s murder though, or of her IVF treatment, or of Janie? All problems for which there had to be some cure.
‘Meanwhile, it’s time,’ he continued, ‘that we had a thorough look into the Shrine, or the Poo-House as it was elegantly nicknamed.’
‘You’re fixated on that. Why not the St Thomas ruins if you have the bones in mind?’
‘Because of the ease with which Anne Fanshawe signed the ruins back to the Wayncrofts. Almost, don’t you think, as if she knew they would find nothing.’
It was hard to judge Molly’s reaction when they approached her about the ‘more thorough’ look at the Shrine. All she said was: ‘I’ve been expecting this. I suppose it has to happen, no doubt about it.’
‘You think there’s something still hidden there.’
‘I don’t know nothing of the sort, but Vic and I can’t keep putting you off trying to find out. Not now. We always reckoned Dad had a reason for staying out there so much. When do you want to do it?’
‘Now?’ Peter asked.
Molly grinned. ‘How about tomorrow? Vic’s up at Chillingham Place today, and my Bill’s at work in the mornings. Matthew’s popping back from Canterbury tomorrow. He’s handy with a pickaxe and that.’
‘What about the play?’
‘He’ll get there in time,’ Molly said firmly. ‘He don’t need to be in Canterbury till the evening.’
Matthew had obviously received his instructions because at breakfast on Friday morning Georgia saw him outside on the terrace unpacking tools and chatting to Vic. She and Peter hastened to join them, and Molly followed them out.
‘What are you hoping to find?’ Matthew asked bluntly.
‘Not sure,’ Peter replied truthfully. ‘A hiding place perhaps, ideally with its contents.’
‘St Thomas’s bones, for preference,’ Georgia added.
Matthew took his time to consider this. ‘Good,’ he said finally. ‘Best to get it over with then. Ready, Vic?’
He pulled the door open, and he and Vic began dragging the contents out, while Georgia and Molly formed the end of a chain to distribute them on garden tables and the terrace flagstones.
‘Lot of junk in here, Molly,’ Vic grunted.
Georgia could see he was right, and removing the contents one by one was a time-consuming task. At last – with the chair removed and, one by one, the old boxes – the end seemed in sight.
‘Remember Dad sitting on that chair, don’t you, Vic?’ Molly said.
A nod. ‘Wearing that old panama of his. Don’t know why he bothered. He had enough hair on his head for the sun to do him no harm.’
‘He said Mr Robert gave it to him.’
‘Did he come out here too?’ Georgia asked.
‘Not that I remember,’ Vic answered.
‘Might have done that day not long before Dad died. Remember that, Vic?’ Molly said. ‘Dad told us he wanted to be left alone with Mr Robert, so Bill and I came over to you for the day.’
‘Now you mention it, yes. He was doing lots of odd things then though.’
Matthew was working onwards, beginning to pull off the carpet, which was so rotten that it tore off in pieces. When, at last, the flagstones were laid bare, there was a silence as Vic and Matthew studied them. Georgia could hear her heart thumping, Molly looked tense, and Peter was drumming his fingers impatiently on the arm of the wheelchair.
Georgia was almost beginning to believe that the bones of St Thomas were indeed secreted under this flagstone floor. Watching Matthew and Vic alternately heaving at the flagstones, she felt first apologetic at the labour involved in what might be a fruitless venture and then caught up in a wave of hope and curiosity. It took an hour and two cups of coffee before the flagstones were removed and the sand and grit beneath them revealed.
‘Ready, Vic?’ Matthew asked again.
‘Yup.’ Vic took over for the next stint, but that didn’t take long, because almost immediately he struck something underneath the sand.
‘Concrete, blast it,’ he grunted. Neither he nor Matt looked fazed, however, as they took it in turns to prod the bedding inch by inch to see if the concrete covered the entire floor. Matthew was a good man, Georgia thought, apropos of nothing. Lisa might not have been blest in having Clive as a husband, but she was in this son, at least, and probably in Derek too.
‘Try here, Vic,’ Matt said. ‘There seems to be a hollow patch by the window.’
Vic took over, and Matthew emerged to allow him room to manoeuvre.
‘Any idea what it is?’ Georgia asked him. ‘Just sand?’
‘Maybe.’ Matt remained his usual calm self.
Vic was hard at work on scraping away the sand, with Matt reporting progress from the doorway. At last a breakthrough. ‘Something metal,’ Vic called. ‘Could be a box.’
‘The Crown Jewels,’ Molly joked, but even so she looked excited.
‘Yup,’ Vic called. ‘Stand back, coming out.’
Now that there was really something to be found, Georgia realized how little she had expected it. Peter, however, was looking as though he had been right all the time – deservedly so, she acknowledged.
Between them Vic and Matt tugged their find free of its surroundings, and out on to the
terrace. It was a tin box about two feet square. ‘You look, Molly girl,’ Vic said gruffly.
Georgia held her breath as Molly lifted the lid and peered inside. And then a great cry of disappointment. ‘It’s empty,’ Molly said indignantly.
Georgia’s hopes plummeted down into anticlimax. There was indeed nothing in this box, nor anything to show what it had once held. Surely no one would have buried something so securely for no reason at all, however? The let-down was hard to take, especially since she had come so close to believing that St Thomas’s bones had indeed lain beneath in that box. The box itself, of course, was modern, but who knew how old its contents might have been? Their original covering could have rotted away, making their rehousing imperative.
‘Was there ever anything in it, do you think?’ she asked.
‘I reckon so, don’t you, Vic?’ Molly said. ‘Something important to Dad that made him sit out here day after day.’
‘If it’s bones you’re after, Georgia,’ Vic said, ‘they’ve gone long since, and nothing here has anything to do with Mrs Fanshawe’s murder.’
Peter was keeping very silent, but Georgia could see the obstinate look on his face. He still didn’t agree.
She reasoned that Vic and Molly must have expected to find something too, or they wouldn’t be wasting their time humouring Marsh & Daughter. Or perhaps, she thought with sinking heart, that’s exactly what they were doing. They could have been hoping that the sight of an empty hole would lay the story to rest.
Peter did not seem as daunted as she did, however. ‘This link between your father and Robert Wayncroft,’ he asked Vic and Molly. ‘Did it begin with the 1942 raid or had he met the Wayncrofts before the war?’
‘Began with the raid,’ Molly answered. ‘That’s what he said. Then he came to work at Chillingham for Mr Robert after the war.’
‘Those two servicemen listed on the monument, Vic. You thought one of those was the soldier Robert tried to save in the raid, but failed. What about the other one? One was French, wasn’t he? What was he doing in Canterbury?’
‘Plenty of Free French servicemen were around in the years after Dunkirk, waiting their chance to get back home,’ Vic replied. ‘I told you about that night of the raid that turned Mr Robert’s head. Now I’ll tell you a bit more. Dad heard Tugboat Annie – that’s what the special inner warning system for the city was called. It usually came a while after the sirens, to warn folks the raid was nearly at the city. That night the sirens and Tugboat Annie came more or less together, and then the whole city seemed alight. Mr Robert was caught in it. I wasn’t born then, but I listened to Mum and Dad telling us about it later. How they thought the end of the world had come with all those bombs and incendiaries. Dad was near the Cathedral library when the fires started – it was hit to blazes. He and the other guards were in there trying to throw out the incendiaries so they could save as many of the papers and books as they could.’