by Amy Myers
Val Harper was blocking her way back to the path.
‘It was here,’ he said pleasantly, ‘if that’s what you’re wondering. I know that because I found the body.’ There was no emotion in his voice at all. She was gripped by terror for herself, but he grinned. ‘Give up,’ he said. ‘You’ll never prove it.’
As she pushed past him, she was afraid he would catch her arm, but he didn’t. He let her pass. It had been he who came back to Hugh right at the end of the pilgrimage. Told him to stay back, and that other principal players would be joining them. But Val had an alibi, didn’t he? She made a grab for memory. Yes. He’d been with Jessica. She stumbled along the Old Road through the wood, catching up with the rear of the column, forcing herself not to look back. Val would be following her, he must be, but she would not look behind her.
And then came the blessed sight of Chillingham, nestling at the foot of the Downs. There was only the slope to walk along, and then she would be on the road that led into Chillingham village. Georgia could even glimpse a welcoming party, waiting for them where the path ended. She could see cars parked, and she hoped desperately that Luke’s would be one of them. Luke, all she wanted, all she needed. As she emerged into the open again and followed the group down the slope to the road, she could see no Luke, however. Only Peter, two police cars, and some curious onlookers.
The police were there, Peter told her, to arrest Valentine Harper for the attempted murder of Julian Wayncroft.
The Three Peacocks was humming, but not for the expected reasons of celebration of the play. The whole of Chillingham seemed gathered here. Those who knew talked, those who didn’t speculated and pestered. Georgia had managed to find a table in the corner of the conservatory, but only because of consideration for Peter’s wheelchair, and when Luke at last came in he looked completely bewildered at the maelstrom around them.
‘What on earth’s going on?’ he asked. ‘I couldn’t park. I had to drive back to Becket House and walk here.’
‘You can have a drink then,’ Georgia said shakily, hardly able to believe she was safely here.
‘Thanks. If I can fight my way to the bar, I will.’
The table was barely large enough for two of them, let alone three, but Luke managed to squeeze in with his drink. After Luke had been given the news of Val’s arrest, he asked the obvious question: ‘What about Anne Fanshawe, and, come to that, Hugh Wayncroft? Is it just that attempted murder of Julian is the easier charge to hold him on?’
‘Good thinking,’ Peter said. ‘But you’re wrong. Who isn’t here?’
Puzzled, Georgia looked round the sea of faces. ‘Stella, Tessa, Seb.’
‘And who else?’
Then all was clear, even in her fuddled state. ‘Aletta.’
Peter nodded. ‘Not forgetting Julian.’
Georgia looked at her celebration drink, which no longer seemed so enticing. Her stomach began to churn. ‘Anne’s murder?’ she asked. ‘They did it together?’
‘Will Whitton is sure that’s it. After I told him the full story of what happened at that table before Anne left, he began to take a closer interest in Lady Macbeth and husband, as he called them. He thinks much as we did. They – or probably Aletta – saw Anne’s anorak still hanging there when they left the bar and kept an eye on the window from their room in case she decided to come back for it. Even if they had her mobile number they wouldn’t have been able to risk ringing it, because she’d simply tell them to hold on to the anorak until the next day. It was her bad luck that they did see her return. So easy for them then to come downstairs, take it outside for her and even insist on walking back with her to express their gratitude over the proposed will bequest. They may or may not have intended to kill her. Macbeth could have hoped that one last quiet appeal would work and that she’d agree to open up the ruins after all. But, if so, she didn’t oblige them, and Julian, whose temper is erratic, lost it – with or without his Lady’s encouragement.’
‘And the Regale?’ Georgia asked, no longer able to bear the thought of Anne’s last moments.
‘My theory is that when Robert wrote his will, I don’t think that came into it. Robert was not only firmly set against development, but also highly suspicious of Julian’s character, not to mention Val’s. So, as we said earlier, he could have decided to skip a generation and leave it to Anne either to bequeath them back to the Wayncrofts or if Julian predeceased her to give them back to Seb straight away. Seb might be of a different calibre than Julian, so Robert took a chance.’
Georgia forced herself to think his through, but still wasn’t happy with it. Chance didn’t sound like Robert. ‘There’s a hitch. What’s happened to the Regale?’
‘It’s a loose end,’ Peter admitted, ‘and I’ll have to leave it dangling, I suppose, but—’
‘I hate to come the heavy publisher,’ Luke said politely when Peter came to a halt, ‘but the proposed Marsh & Daughter book is about Hugh Wayncroft.’
‘Patience, patience,’ Peter said crossly. ‘I’m getting there. That has something to do with Becket. It has to.’
‘Val?’ Georgia said. ‘The problem with his motive is that he was young enough in 1967 to have the world before him. If the Becket development idea didn’t work, he’d find something else. As he eventually did – a well-connected wife. He had no need to kill Hugh.’
‘No, not Val,’ Peter said, deep in thought. ‘Becket not Becket. That’s the answer,’ he cried, crashing his fist on the table.
‘Very clear,’ Luke observed.
‘Becket the play, not the man. That was the motive.’
‘What was?’ Georgia was lost now.
‘There were personal reasons for killing Becket, as well as the power struggle. It was sheer hatred.’
‘Val’s hatred of his stepfather? Just as he tried to kill Julian for hatred?’
‘No, no,’ Peter said impatiently. ‘He did that because he saw his last lifeline – living at Chillingham Place disappearing after Julian’s threats.’
‘But are you sure he didn’t kill Hugh? I know he had an alibi, but he practically told me he’d done it. He said I’d never prove it, but—’ And then Georgia saw. ‘Of course. He meant his mother. Jessica killed Hugh Wayncroft.’
Jessica Wayncroft had aged since Georgia had last seen her at the after-show party, even though only a few days had passed. She looked her full years now. The lively eyes were indifferent, her movements those of an old woman.
‘Come in,’ she said, and she took them into the living room. She might be dressed in bright yellow, but it did her no favours today, Georgia thought. It was Jessica who had asked to see them, so it would be a difficult meeting from all points of view.
‘How’s Julian?’ Georgia asked. He was still in hospital, but under arrest and about to be charged when fit enough. Aletta had been released on police bail, and so had Val.
Jessica looked surprised, as though Georgia’s question had no relevance to her. ‘He seems to be recovering well,’ she replied. ‘However, I wished to see you for another reason. I suppose you still intend to write a book about my husband’s death. In it you no doubt wish to blame poor Val.’
‘No,’ Peter said. ‘He isn’t guilty of that.’
The eyes flickered slightly. ‘I am much relieved. He has enough to contend with, merely because he gave way to impulse after Julian’s vile accusations. I take it, therefore, that you’ve decided who did kill my husband?’
‘Yes,’ Peter said quietly. ‘You.’
Jessica’s only reaction was surprise. ‘I had not thought you were so intelligent.’
‘Thank you.’ Peter’s voice held no hint of sarcasm.
‘I gave Valentine his alibi, of course. Which made him my alibi also. I thought it out quite carefully. I told you about devising the order of arrival, which was true. It was also true I returned to join Val. However, I then slipped back again to join Hugh at the right moment. At that point the path is enclosed as it goes through the wood, but the
tree line on the right between it and the orchards is, or was then, thin, and it was easy to take the field path unnoticed to reach Hugh at the end of the wood, draw him on one side and kill him. It was all so very quickly done. Val never even noticed I was gone because he was talking to the musicians.’
‘But why, Jessica? Why kill Hugh and not Lisa if you resented their relationship so much?’ Georgia was incredulous that she could be discussing her husband’s murder so calmly. She showed no sign of fear, no sign of the enormity of what she had done.
‘I had nothing to gain from killing her, Miss Marsh. That’s why.’
‘And you did for killing your husband?’
‘I thought I did. It was the worst mistake I ever made. When we were married in the 1950s it was a different world to today. At Hugh’s level of society, at least, women were not permitted to trouble their pretty little heads with business affairs. They should sit in a parlour and sew a fine seam. No one, not Robert, not Hugh, not my solicitors, thought to mention to a mere woman that in the event of Hugh dying before Robert not just the ruins but the whole estate went back to him – or rather what was left of it after Hugh’s mismanagement. His stupid idea of management was to change nothing, repair nothing, let it all be. The fool. Gallivanting around with a girl half his age, when he had me. He wouldn’t let me run the estate. I could have made it profitable. I asked Robert to let me run it after Hugh’s death, but he turned me down. He referred so little to Hugh’s murder either to me or publicly that I sometimes think he might have suspected me of Hugh’s murder. Even if he did, he was a fool not to let me manage the estate. It has grown poorer and poorer.
‘Then I found out about the Regale ruby from Val after Robert’s death. Robert had that ruby all the time. A fortune, and he just sat on it. And now it’s vanished. Julian’s a fool; he takes after his father. He must have it, because Val hasn’t, but still Julian denies it. Can you wonder Val lost his patience? Tell me,’ she added, when neither Peter nor Georgia spoke, ‘how did you come to the conclusion that I had killed Hugh? Unusual for a woman to strangle a man, isn’t it? I imagine a jury would never believe it, especially without evidence.’
‘Your first husband was in the Special Forces, Mrs Wayncroft,’ Peter said, ‘and that you told us you met him in the services, which I presume would be the SOE. I believe the training, even for women, included methods of instant killing.’
‘Another silence. Then: ‘A jury still wouldn’t believe it.’
‘No,’ Peter agreed. ‘And there’s no evidence, as you say. I imagine, however, that a life sentence for one son and a long jail term for the other is life sentence enough for you.’
A pause. ‘Julian’s a weakling,’ she said scornfully. ‘He takes after Hugh. He’s a weakling, and he’s stupid. But Val, ah, my Val, he takes after his father.’
They left her there in her chair, unbending and ramrod straight.
SIXTEEN
‘Do you fancy a trip to the Old Road, Georgia?’ Peter asked.
‘At Chillingham?’
‘Yes.’
‘Work or pleasure?’
A pause on the phone. ‘In-between. Private business. I’ll stand you and Luke lunch. You and I can have our trip and leave Luke in the pub with a drink. If he doesn’t mind, that is.’
‘Which bit of the Road?’ she asked, after she’d parked the car as near to the Old Road as she could get it. ‘I don’t have to go past Peacock Wood again, do I?’
‘No. The other way is flatter. It will take this old bone-shaker. One of these days,’ Peter ruminated as he manoeuvred himself into the chair from the car, ‘I’m going to invest in one of those new thingummy machines that take inconvenienced folks like me up mountainsides and so on. I could even go to the Himalayas.’
‘Good idea, but today you only have me. Sure you don’t want Luke to come with us?’
‘Not today. Do your best. We’ll just go a little way.’
At first the path was quite wide and flat, but the further they got from the road the narrower it became, and finally, as they skirted round some woodland, Peter said, ‘This is far enough. Just wanted to see the view from up here and feel what it was like for myself.’
‘Can you smell the Old Road?’
‘Oh, yes. I can even hear the pilgrims.’
‘I can too. I can understand why they believed in miracles.’
‘Did we achieve anything in this case, do you think?’ Peter asked abruptly. ‘The result seems to be one good woman murdered, three people in gaol as a result, and another killer probably dying of grief. An unlucky jewel it seems, the Regale, wherever it is. Not much of a heritage for the Wayncrofts.’
‘No,’ she agreed.
‘Do people still believe in miracles, Georgia?’
‘Yes, but they come in different forms.’
‘Such as?’ Peter asked.
‘I suppose we begin to see things differently. Isn’t that a form of miracle?’
‘Coming to terms with illness and disability, like this?’ Peter indicated the wheelchair.
‘Yes. But maybe Rick too.’
A pause. ‘You touch a tender spot, rightly, Georgia. That watch – if only I knew the truth behind that.’
‘Then something else would make you unsure again. It has to come from you, not the watch.’
‘That’s what Janie said. She’s right. You’re right. But how does that help? How do I replace doubt? Does old Thomas have a cure for that?’
‘You don’t replace it. You look at your grief for Rick from time to time, dust it down, give him a loving kiss and put it aside again. And you take on something new—’
‘Janie?’ he interrupted. ‘No, that was the mistake I made. She knew it. I knew it too. We both jumped too quickly. This David—’
‘The museum trust manager?’
‘He sounds a good chap. She agrees. That’s all. I bow gently out.’
‘So what’s your “new” going to be?’ Georgia asked.
His eyes turned to the Old Road. ‘Even if I buy the thingummy to take me up mountains, it won’t bring Rick back, but I can travel along this path to Canterbury whenever I like. What about you? What’s St Thomas got in mind?’
‘I have to discuss it with Luke, but I think St Thomas has already given me the answer. It’s Luke. If we have children that’s fine; if we don’t, that’s fine too.’
He laughed. ‘Hand me that bit of wood down there, please.’
Puzzled, she picked up the branch and gave it to him. He promptly banged it on the ground at his side. ‘See any gushing water yet?’ he asked.
‘Afraid not. Only a muddy puddle.’
‘That’s it. Thomas’s miracle, performed on the Old Road, eh? An answer for both of us.’
When they returned to the Three Peacocks, Luke was nowhere to be found, but eventually he returned, after ten minutes or so.
‘There’s a house down the road for sale,’ he said.
‘You don’t want to leave Medlars, do you?’ she asked in alarm.
‘Good grief, no. Um –’ he glanced at her doubtfully – ‘I forgot to tell you, Georgia. Mark rang me from the States. He’s got a job down this way and said he fancied living in a village called Chillingham. He asked me to keep a lookout for a house.’
‘That’s really good news,’ Georgia said warmly. ‘How come you forgot to tell me though?’ That wasn’t like Luke.
‘He told me Jill’s pregnant,’ Luke said awkwardly. ‘The baby’s due at Christmas.’
A variety of emotions swept through her: agony, jealousy, regret and then a sort of peace. It was done, the decision made; Luke would have a grandchild, and in a way so would she. ‘Great,’ she said, laughing and weeping at the same time. ‘We can take him or her for walks along the Old Road. We can leave a heritage of our own after all, Peter.’
‘That makes me a step great-grandfather. I wonder if he’d like the Himalayas? By the way, talking of heritage . . .’ He looked at her meaningfully.
�
�The Regale,’ she said in dismay. ‘We’d forgotten it. If it existed, where is it?’
‘I can make a guess.’
A ramp over the steps was already in place when Georgia and Peter arrived at Lisa’s cottage the following afternoon. As they got out of the car, however, Seb and Tess had just emerged from her home and were walking towards them.
Seb stiffened. ‘You walk on, Tess. I’ll catch you up.’
What to say to him? Georgia wondered. His family life had disintegrated around him, his parents and, if he knew the truth, his grandmother all wearing faces he could not have dreamed existed.
Seb swallowed. ‘I just want you to know . . .’ He stopped and then tried again. ‘I just want you to know that it’s going on.’
‘It?’ Peter asked gently. ‘The Becket development or . . .?’
‘The “or”. The Becket development is easier – I’m planning to call a village meeting about it. We’ll discuss the issues and plans democratically before anything’s decided. In any case, there may be inheritance problems now that my father . . .’ Seb made a visible effort for control. ‘So Stella and lawyers will have to be in on it throughout.’
‘That’s good.’ Georgia approved of that, even though the task might be rather more Herculean than Seb was assuming. But he was young enough to weather it.
‘As for this Wayncroft thing,’ he muttered. ‘I just want you to know . . . I’m a real Wayncroft. My job to put things right, yes? Tess has just told me she’s off for the rest of the summer and then it’s university in the autumn. She’s going to make her own life, and so shall I. I’ll need a mission, so Becket will do me very well. OK by you?’
Peter nodded. ‘OK.’
Visibly pleased, Seb raced after Tess, just as Lisa opened the door to them.
‘You come in, both of you,’ she said. ‘I’ll get tea. And a nice slice of cake.’ The traditional welcome, as though nothing out of the ordinary had or would happen. They had expected to be alone with Lisa, but awaiting them in her parlour Georgia saw Molly, Vic and Matthew, crowded together on upright chairs as if assembled for a business meeting. As perhaps this was.