Murder in Abbot's Folly

by Amy Myers

  On Monday morning, therefore, it had to be faced. Georgia arrived at Haden Shaw somewhat early and prepared to tread gingerly, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that wasn’t necessary. Margaret greeted her from the kitchen, and Peter was already at the computer. There were signs that he had actually breakfasted, an impressive array of reference books was piled on the desk, and Marsh & Daughter’s website was on the screen.

  ‘I’ve been looking back over our case,’ Peter announced without preamble. So that was that. Robert Luckhurst was ‘our case’. Did she mind? No, she realized. So far it had not seized her imagination, but after Laura’s murder, it began to seem inevitable that Marsh & Daughter should pursue the earlier tragedy.

  ‘I’ve set Cath on to the problem of tracking Max Tanner down,’ he continued.

  ‘Good.’ Georgia was pleased. Cath Bone was newly married to Charlie, Georgia’s cousin. She was a journalist and shared Charlie’s inquisitive nature into anything that took her fancy, not only the stories she was asked to cover for her newspaper. ‘Useful income,’ she said practically, and, put that way, Marsh & Daughter had had no hesitation in hiring her services when something suitable came up. This seemed an ideal opportunity.

  ‘Isn’t it premature though?’ she asked.

  ‘The fingerprints were shouting loud enough,’ Peter pointed out.

  She couldn’t deny that they certainly suggested there was more to Robert Luckhurst’s story than she and Peter had heard so far. ‘Tanner claimed he was innocent, and if so are there any candidates for guilty?’

  ‘Rather premature, but we can tentatively list a few. Mike offered his help over that.’

  ‘Offered?’ she queried ironically. Mike had looked too busy to be in an offering mood when they had last seen him on Saturday.

  ‘Agreed, then. Apart from the toughie Tom Miller, Amelia Luckhurst is one obvious candidate. Mike also suggested we talk to Barbara Hastings, who was barmaid at the Edgar Arms at the time of the murder and in charge of the catering at Stourdens on Saturday – I think I remember her. She also does the teas there on open days. Her son Craig was at the bar. He’s barman at the Dunham pub, plus part-time plumber. Remember him?’

  She did. In his twenties, stocky, brown hair, rather fresh, round pleasant face. She remembered his mother too – and her remarkable cooking. ‘I do. He can’t be on the suspect list for 1985; he’d have been a babe in arms. Anyone else?’

  ‘Not yet. We’d better start with Tom the toughie.’

  ‘Toughies who lead protest marches don’t usually carry guns with them.’

  ‘They might if they were particularly eager to solve the issue quickly, which Miller did. He had a small struggling fruit farm which was heavily dependent on the track through Stourdens’ estate. Without it he was undoubtedly out of business.’

  ‘Did that happen?’

  ‘No. Because of strong local feeling, Amelia Luckhurst made it a condition in the sale of Stourdens that farm traffic could continue to drive through, and the Fettises were happy about that. It does no harm to the gardens, only to the fields let out to farmers, one of which unfortunately ran quite near Abbot’s Folly – the field Miller rented. Luckhurst might have seen it as a threat to his beloved collection.’

  ‘I bet Jane Austen didn’t have this neighbour trouble.’

  ‘Who knows? Her brothers, especially the one who owned Godmersham, must have done. Mud was a big problem in her day, so he was probably always being badgered to maintain the tracks better.’

  So easy to have an image of Jane sitting on her own quietly scribbling away without a thought in her head save who was to marry whom, and the niceties of social life, but it must bear little relation to the truth, Georgia thought.

  ‘You seem to be getting interested in Jane Austen,’ she commented. ‘You’re getting as bad as the Clackingtons.’

  ‘Mike says he dislikes coincidences, but I love them, because they’re so often not coincidences. When you look at this one . . .’

  She sighed. ‘There’s nothing to suggest that Robert Luckhurst’s murder had anything to do with Austen. Nothing about Jane Austen changed at Stourdens when Luckhurst died, except that the collection went with the house and the Fettises inherited it. Nothing was stolen though, which is the important point.’

  ‘You can’t avoid the fact that Laura was murdered on the day when she might have been going to announce that Jane Austen was going to become big news at Stourdens.’

  ‘Granted, but one could equally argue that since Jack the Ripper’s cases were all committed in East London they must have links to East London history.’

  ‘Far-fetched, isn’t it? We need to find out what this big news will consist of, other than this TV documentary. And we don’t even know the theme of that yet. My guess is that it’s Jane Austen’s secret love affair and the Stourdens collection.’

  She agreed. ‘But we’ve no idea whether Laura’s death will change anything about whatever plans she had in mind. Even if we’re really sure there was trouble at the family mill on Saturday, we can’t barge into the Fettises’ affairs.’

  ‘Ah, but we can barge into the Clackingtons’. I’ll ring them up.’

  She was forced to laugh. ‘I don’t see any problem there.’

  ‘Tomorrow OK?’

  ‘Elena will still be there. She’s not going till Thursday.’

  ‘We can’t let her rule our lives.’

  She gave in. ‘Agreed. Once we’ve seen Dora and Gerald though, who comes first? Still Tom Miller?’

  ‘Depending on what we learn at Edgar House, yes. Then there’s Barbara Hastings, who still lives locally. Pity Amelia Luckhurst’s whereabouts aren’t yet known. Dora thought she saw her at the Gala on Saturday, but she isn’t on the police list of attendees. I asked.’ Peter hesitated. ‘About Elena, Georgia. She seems serious about returning to England for good. Are we going to be able to live with that?’

  ‘Bless you for that “we”.’ Georgia grappled again with the myriad consequences that this might bring.

  ‘We need to plan together.’

  ‘Comforting words, but that might not be possible. Not when it’s a reality.’

  ‘I’ll try. I can’t pretend it will be easy. Nor for you?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but I’ll try too. After all, if she lives in Canterbury—’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself, Georgia. Wherever she lives in England, she’ll ensure that we fall over her left, right and centre. Could we take it?’

  She tried to think carefully about this. ‘Remove the centre, and I think I could take the left and right.’

  Peter understood immediately. ‘You mean if she leaves Marsh & Daughter alone?’

  ‘Yes, but not just because it’s work.’

  ‘No interference between father and daughter?’

  ‘It sounds hard put that way. Unreasonable – and, worse, impractical.’

  ‘Will you take the risk?’

  A watershed. Could she face it? She’d faced one – no, two – watersheds in the last year. But in future if she looked back after having said no, what then? Didn’t that run the risk of driving a wedge between herself and Peter? There were still signs of a tie existing between Peter and Elena. If she tried to snap it artificially, wouldn’t that be fatal? What way was there, but forward? Even if forward meant actively trying, not just accepting.

  ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. If she drowned in the Rubicon she was crossing, so be it.

  Tentatively, she explored what reasons there might be for her to be shying away from contemplating a future with her mother close at hand. Resentment immediately occurred to her. She could deal with that. Regret was another matter. Regret for the childhood memories, both of laughter and tears, that would always now be blurred because of what had happened more recently, when the way Elena had treated Peter had made her realize that the fluttering butterfly who had brought such pleasure and excitement into their lives was in reality supremely self-centred, her love only superficial while it su
ited her. Was that fair? Perhaps not, but while the thought stayed in her mind no real relationship could be established. Did that matter? Could she manage with her mother living locally but without having close involvement with her? No. There was the possibility that in the not-distant future Elena too might need care. Would she give it? Of course she would. She knew that she could not turn her back as Elena herself had done fourteen years ago. Did she want to walk away? Agonizingly, amazingly, the answer was no.

  ‘I feel the same, Georgia,’ Peter told her. ‘If our rock centre stays solid, we can help her without needing her – that’s when the trouble starts.’

  ‘It’s a deal, guv,’ she growled.

  Peter laughed. ‘You must admit it will make life interesting,’ he said.

  ‘So does a volcano.’

  FIVE

  ‘Darlings!’ Dora threw her arms wide open in welcome at the door of Edgar House the next day, and then emerged to hug Georgia. Dora was still tearful, naturally enough. She had obviously been very fond of Laura, and the shock itself would take time to wear off, let alone the loss.

  Gerald strode out purposefully towards Peter. ‘Good to see you, old chap. Show you round, shall I?’

  Peter grinned at this tactfulness. ‘Thanks.’ He had had only limited success. The Clackingtons were very happy to let them see the whole of Edgar House, but Gerald had awkwardly explained they felt they could not talk freely about Jane Austen without the Fettises’ permission.

  ‘We’ll all go that way, Georgia,’ Dora suggested. ‘It will take us past the old kitchens – there are still traces of how they used to be.’

  Dora was clad in serviceable trousers and top this morning, and wearing everyday clothes rather than the flowing tea-gown or Regency costume, Georgia found it much easier to talk to her. ‘Where’s Elena?’ she asked.

  ‘Making us coffee. She has already had the tour of Edgar House, so she’ll join us later.’

  ‘It’s good of you to let us come, with so much on your minds.’

  ‘Takes our minds off it,’ Gerald replied, embarrassed. ‘Sorry we have to hold back on too much talk about Jane Austen’s love affair until the Fettises have declared open season.’

  ‘We don’t know when that will be now,’ Dora said. ‘We don’t like to ask Roy and Jennifer what their plans are. Dear Jennifer says they’ve no idea when the funeral will be yet. I suppose that’s inevitable. The police . . .’ Her voice faltered, and she began again. ‘Tim is so talented, though – he has just the right touch. He will know when it is proper to talk about Stourdens. As if it mattered now.’

  ‘I take it that Edgar House is involved in their plans?’ Georgia asked, as casually as she could.

  Dora and Gerald exchanged a glance, halting at the side door. ‘Well, yes,’ Dora said. ‘When you see the old Assembly Rooms you’ll appreciate the potential. We’ve always hoped that they could be restored and used again, perhaps for recitals, but it would require a great deal of money. And now – who knows? All we can think of is Laura.’

  ‘And the police,’ Gerald added practically.

  Georgia longed to ask if they knew how the investigation was going, but decided that it wasn’t tactful to ask.

  Peter had no such reservations, however. ‘The Stourdens’ plans might be relevant to Laura’s murder,’ he pointed out. ‘And your involvement also. The police will naturally be following that up.’

  ‘Ours?’ Dora went white with terror. ‘But we had nothing to do with her horrible death.’

  Peter explained. ‘I know how the police work. They have to consider every angle just in case. One possible avenue, unlikely though it seems, is the coincidence that Robert Luckhurst was a collector of Jane Austen memorabilia, and Laura Fettis was killed on the day of a Jane Austen gala. On the face of it, it might seem as though someone didn’t want some facts about Jane Austen to come out. That’s the reason,’ he added, looking very innocent, ‘that both we and the police need to hear the story about the plans for Stourdens – if only for your own security.’

  Gerald understood immediately. ‘You mean this murdering devil might have a potshot at us?’

  It took Dora longer, but then the message came through loud and clear. ‘Us?’ she shrieked. ‘You mean someone might try to murder us just because of our modest contribution to the story?’

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ Peter said gravely.

  Oh, how unfair, Georgia fumed, to use this kind of pressure. Surely Peter did not really think Laura was killed for that reason? It wouldn’t make sense, as other members of the family would carry on where she left off. Or was Peter in earnest? It was a sobering thought, if so.

  ‘Gerald,’ Dora announced firmly, ‘we can explain more about the Assembly Rooms and their connection to The Watsons. Jennifer and Roy wouldn’t mind that.’

  ‘All right, Dollybird,’ Gerald said affectionately, putting his arm round her. ‘We’ll do just that. And I’ll have a word with Roy about the rest.’

  The rest? Just what did it consist of? Peter did not comment, however, as they went into the corridor leading past the kitchens. The kitchens were on their left, although the one in use might be vastly changed from how it must have been in Jane Austen’s time. The fireplace, however, was original, except that it now sported a fine array of copperware rather than a fire and spitjack.

  Gerald ignored the passageway leading to the right, which would have taken them back to the drawing room, and continued straight ahead until he came to an old but quite narrow wooden staircase. ‘This takes us up to the first floor and through to the Assembly Rooms on the other side of the house,’ he explained.

  She saw Peter’s face drop. No way was his wheelchair going up there. Dora too had seen his expression. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We have a lift. Gerald’s mother lived here for some years and insisted on installing it. The staircase at the other end of this wing wasn’t suitable for a stairlift, and nor was this one.’

  ‘The lift creaks a bit,’ Gerald said cheerfully, ‘but it’s regularly serviced.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Peter replied gravely.

  The stairs brought Georgia and Dora up to the first-floor landing where Peter and Gerald joined them – and then to a passageway leading along the wing. It was enclosed now, but Gerald explained it was once open, looking down to the courtyard beneath. At the end of the wing, it turned right into a small room which would, Georgia worked out, clearly eventually link up with the east wing, at least at this level. Under it must be the archway at the rear of the courtyard.

  ‘This is one of the former Assembly Rooms,’ Dora announced with pride as they went into it. ‘It was the tea room, hence the stairs to the kitchens.’

  ‘It’s been used for all sorts of things since then, although not in Tanner’s time. Not much to look at,’ Gerald said apologetically.

  He was right. The room was empty, although the walls had once been wallpapered. Enough had been torn off to reveal a painted wall beneath, and old gas mantels indicated where oil lamps or candles must once have been. No spiders or even cobwebs though, Georgia noticed, so the rooms were still being cared for up to a point; they were merely barren of life.

  But to Dora, they weren’t, Georgia thought. It was clear from looking at her rapt expression that to her Jane Austen still walked these floors. It must have given Dora pleasure, because she was much brighter now that the subject of Laura’s death had been temporarily put aside.

  ‘Dear Jane describes this room so clearly in The Watsons,’ Dora said. ‘Remember? The tea room was a small room within the card room, and in passing through the latter, where the passage was narrowed by tables, Mrs Edwards and her party were hemmed in. And, Georgia,’ Dora added, ‘Mr Howard was nearby.’

  Who? Georgia nearly asked, then remembered he was a character in The Watsons and probably the man that Emma Watson was destined to marry.

  The room beyond the tea room was also empty. ‘The card room,’ Gerald explained gruffly. Georgia could see that this opene
d off the large Assembly Room itself, into which Dora led the way. Disappointingly – though Georgia didn’t know quite what she had expected – this too was empty. She had hoped for candelabras, polished floors, and potted palms, but this had few hints of what it had been like in its heyday.

  ‘Not like Bath, of course, or Tunbridge Wells,’ Gerald admitted, ‘but, after all, Harblehurst was only a village then, even though the Edgar Arms was well known locally.’

  ‘Remember Emma Watson, Georgia?’ Dora trilled. ‘Can’t you just see her dancing with Master Charles Blake? Remember Emma being told by her sister that the party would arrive early as Mrs Edwards might then get a good place by the fire? And there it is!’

  It was an impressive – and atmospheric – Georgian fireplace with two rather battered chimney-board figures flanking it. Somehow the hearth succeeded where the rooms themselves alone failed. Georgia could imagine the music of the violins, the dancing master calling the moves of the sociable country dances and the excitement of the cotillion.

  ‘Oh, what fun it must have been,’ Dora said wistfully.

  Perhaps, Georgia thought, but now it was cold and smelled of disuse. It was a room in waiting – but waiting for what?

  Peter echoed her thoughts. ‘What are you planning to do with the rooms?’ he asked politely.

  Dora glanced at Gerald, who gave a warning cough, and she evaded the question. ‘The potential is enormous,’ she replied dutifully. ‘You’ll remember, Georgia, that The Watsons is set in Surrey, but clearly Jane is describing Kent and the Edgar Arms. The Edwards party enters the courtyard of the inn and takes a wide staircase up to the first floor where there is a short gallery, in which they pass a bedchamber out of which Tom Musgrave appears. We’ll go down that way, for at the foot of the stairs is a very special room. While they are in these rooms they hear the sound of horses and a carriage entering the courtyard. The Osbornes are coming, the Osbornes are coming, everyone cries. Can’t you see it happening, Georgia? Of course the novel was set here. Come, you shall see the staircase.’