Murder in Abbot's Folly

by Amy Myers

  ‘But the signatures are very well known,’ Peter said.

  ‘How often are your own signatures identical, Peter? Seldom, I suspect. So the art lies in controlling the pressure, stroke quality, the loops and angles of the characters, the way the signature is concluded and begun, making the spacing uneven as would normally happen and so on. Too exact a copy of a signature is suspect. It is the overall impression of the true signature that is required.’

  ‘They were authenticated, however.’

  ‘I flatter myself that my work is so good that it would pass the keenest eye. Fortunately, there was no need for that, as I myself was asked to authenticate the original small collection, together with Bob’s acquisitions, and to re-authenticate them for the Fettises and Clackingtons. As regards the Austen script and signatures, I composed a letter from a fictitious friend who was a graphologist who had submitted the letters to computer analysis as well as his own considered opinion.’

  Amidst this avalanche of mind-boggling claims, Georgia managed to seize on one point. ‘Those watercolours had been in the family for a long time, though, and they had signatures on them.’

  Douglas nodded his head approvingly. ‘Forged, I’m afraid, by me. When Bob first found them in the Stourdens’ attics or wherever, they had no signatures on them. I therefore had to pretend I had exposed the watercolours to a microscopic examination with a jeweller’s loupe, which had revealed signatures that had vanished with age. I pretended my skills stretched to restoring their visibility. Bob was a simple man at heart, and with my help the idea grew that there must be some story behind these watercolours. I must confess that the challenge began to appeal to me. I began to believe in this great love affair myself. I discovered that Captain Harker had indeed married Lady Edgar of Stourdens, a widow considerably older than himself, but that he died two years later at Trafalgar and that after her brief marriage Her Ladyship had reverted to her previous name. When I thought of The Watsons, well, it quickly became apparent to me what had happened. While morally if not legally bound to Lady Edgar, William Harker had met someone younger, the delightful witty Jane Austen, who had a meddlesome sister, Cassandra. And so the collection sprang into being. It was an intriguing puzzle to fit fictitious dates, houses, and people with the known facts. Many of the people actually existed, of course: the Wildmans at Chilham, the Kemble family and so on.

  ‘It is a strange phenomenon,’ he observed, ‘that after a while fact comes to the illusionist’s aid. I explained to Bob that, as is true, very little is known of Jane Austen’s life between the years of mid 1801 to 1804 and no letters were known to exist. All I did was to fit clues together from established facts. Not all the facts, I admit, but Bob was happy. I explained to him that Cassandra was always vague about the gentleman with whom Jane had fallen in love for reasons of her own. It was Cassandra who wove the fiction, not us. We were just filling gaps in order that the truth might come to light.’

  Georgia struggled to tread a tightrope between wanting to hurl contradictions at him and succumbing to his persuasive tongue.

  ‘So how did Amelia and Tanner affect this harmonious arrangement?’ Peter asked drily.

  ‘Tanner was desperate to realize his own dreams.’ Watts smiled. ‘As desperate as his son is now. I’m sure you’re aware of that. Stourdens and Jane Austen are their own personal property. Ideally, Max wanted to live in Stourdens, but if that were not possible then he wished to restore the Edgar Arms to run as a tourist attraction side by side with Stourdens. Unfortunately, Bob threatened his plans. Bob did not want to exploit Stourdens and Jane Austen. He wanted to treasure his collection alone.’

  ‘He knew it was mostly fake then?’

  ‘Not at all. He believed in the basic truth of it and understood that gaps had to be filled.’

  ‘The moral issue didn’t affect him?’ Georgia found that hard to believe.

  ‘It disappeared. Bob did not want to share his dream with anyone, even me. He reached the point where he could blank out the fact that I had faked documents to link to the true ones. The gap between what was fact – the original watercolours and oil painting and the few letters that had long been in the Luckhurst collection – and what I had produced in my studio grew narrower and narrower, until it began to vanish altogether, like the Cheshire Cat’s smile.’

  ‘But then Bob died,’ Peter said bluntly. ‘Murdered by Amelia?’

  ‘I would not know.’

  ‘You heard that man in the Bat and Trap say there was a woman’s voice in the folly just before Bob was murdered.’

  ‘I so enjoyed our chat in the pub, Miss Marsh, but I don’t recall that.’

  Georgia glared at him. Never had she felt so impotent in the face of brazen nerve.

  ‘How long have you lived in this area, Mr Watts?’ Peter asked abruptly.

  ‘I was wondering if that would occur to you. Ten years. Before that I lived and worked in south London. Are you by any chance wondering whether I might be Max Tanner? After all, I am a declared illusionist.’

  ‘I’ll consider that possibility,’ Peter said evenly. ‘Could you tell us why Laura Fettis visited you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Watts said agreeably. ‘Amelia guessed long ago, as did Tanner, that the collection was fake, but she scented money. On the strength of the Jane Austen story, she sold Stourdens at an inflated price to the Fettises, leaving Tanner in prison. Recently, she must have read about the increased visibility of Stourdens and decided to raise a little more cash. I can’t be sure, but I suspect her visit to Laura was therefore less altruistic in nature and more for reasons of blackmail. She had long known who had worked with Bob on the faked collection and tried to put a little pressure on me a week or two before the Gala, hence her telling Laura that she knew the collection was fake but not mentioning my real name. I told dear Amelia to publish and be damned, knowing nothing could be proved against me, and gave her my Jane Austen business number in case other interested victims wished to speak to me. Laura Fettis was not a woman to be easily blackmailed, however. She had a warped sense of morality, whereby everything had to be judged by the law of the land. It is a point of view, but not one I share.

  ‘After Laura knew the collection was faked,’ Douglas continued, ‘she decided to call all the plans for Stourdens off, having refused to be blackmailed. But first, as Amelia had predicted, she had to confirm this extraordinary story with me on the number Amelia provided. Not under the name of Douglas Watts, naturally, whom she knew as a retired antiquarian, golfing friend of Roy’s, Jane Austen expert and her proposed trustee if she died young.’

  ‘How could you accept that position?’ Georgia asked. ‘Trustee means just that – trust.’

  ‘Correct. I am trustee to ensure the good of Stourdens. What would you judge to be in Stourdens’ best interests?’

  ‘Making money to keep it going,’ Georgia groaned, seeing the trap ahead.

  ‘And the best way to achieve that?’

  ‘Follow the original plans and ignore the faking aspect, but—’

  ‘Quite. However, Laura’s death put a spoke in that wheel. Once I had confirmed that the collection was fake, she was all for stopping the exploitation, as she called it, in its tracks, no matter what harm was caused to innocent people. She would rewrite her will, she told me, cancelling the trust, or at least removing me as trustee, although that naturally only came into effect after her death.’

  ‘And what was your reaction?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘I tried to make her see sense, that there was more good in going ahead than in calling it off. She would not have it. She was going to tell all those most closely concerned before the Gala, which was the next day. I suggested she keep my name at least temporarily out of it, and she reluctantly agreed when I pointed out she had no proof and that libel and slander are powerful weapons of offence as well as defence. I gather she slept on the problem and the next morning told Tim, Roy, Jennifer – and probably Philip, Jake and Barbara too – that she had changed her mind ab
out developing Stourdens commercially.’

  Not Jennifer, Georgia remembered, because Laura asked her to take her own place supervising the catering tents. She had been going to talk to her later, obviously about the commercialization issue and perhaps even about the fakes – if, of course, Douglas Watts was telling the truth about them.

  Peter picked on the same point. ‘How do we know that what you’re telling us isn’t just another game for your amusement?’

  ‘I am still Laura’s trustee,’ he said complacently. ‘I have the future of Stourdens to consider.’

  ‘Even though you know the collection is faked and that Laura had changed her mind over developing Stourdens?’ Georgia asked in amazement. ‘I presume that’s why Jennifer was kept away from the meeting yesterday.’

  ‘Possibly. I would not know. I did not attend as I understood it was focused on the planning of the film.’

  ‘Which as trustee you would allow to go ahead.’

  Any sarcasm fell on deaf ears. He simply replied: ‘As trustee, yes.’

  ‘Even though it’s based on a lie?’ This was unbelievable.

  ‘I dislike the word lie. That too is an illusion. It depends which world one is living in at the time. I was hoping you wouldn’t use it. I can prove it to you that I am telling you the truth, about the collection. Do you wish me to do so?’

  Peter glanced at Georgia and nodded.

  ‘Then we have one difficulty. I need you to travel in my car, as I have no wish for you to identify where we are going. However, my car is—’

  ‘Not equipped for wheelchairs,’ Peter finished for him. ‘In that case, I will follow your car.’

  ‘I fear not. If you cannot accompany me in my own car, then I have to deny you the proof you say you wish, although of course Miss Marsh may come with me.’

  ‘The police will no doubt need to know too.’

  ‘Not without proof that proof exists. Dear me, what a puzzle of logic. I am still willing to take you, Miss Marsh. I should mention, however, that if you should decide to follow me, Mr Marsh, I shall merely take you on a circular and pleasant drive through the Kentish lanes. Unfortunately, this inn closes shortly, but there is a pleasant summer house where you may await our return. We shall not be long.’

  Peter had hated giving in, but Georgia had signalled to him that he should do so. There was a chance that Douglas Watts meant what he said, and that could be valuable. She comforted herself that she could hardly be at physical risk, as she was fully trained in self-defence. Unless, of course, he had a gun – the gun perhaps that had already killed two people. She firmly put that thought behind her. It was not, she guessed, his style.

  She lost count of the narrow single-track lanes that Douglas Watts chose to follow – with unusual care, she noticed. She began to suspect that the route was chosen not only to avoid recognizable villages but any signposts at all.

  He eventually drew up outside a house so unattractive that she could not believe it belonged to an antiquarian. On second thoughts, to this particular antiquarian perhaps it could. It was certainly anonymous although unusual in design. It was sturdy, it was functional, not old, not new, once painted white and crying out for similar treatment, and it stood in a row of smaller red-brick houses.

  ‘Welcome to Osborne Castle,’ he said. The nameplate at the gate read ‘Number 3’. That added up, she thought – it looked suitably anonymous.

  Slightly to her surprise he rang the bell at the front door, which was opened by a harassed-looking youngish mother with two small children clinging to her. ‘Morning, Mr Osborne.’

  ‘And to you, Mrs Smith.’

  This was clearly a well-worn routine, because with the formalities over he simply led Georgia past her, up the stairs, along a narrow corridor and entered a room on the right at the rear of the house.

  ‘I trust this will convince you that my story is fact not illusion,’ he said as he threw open the door. ‘My den,’ he announced.

  A den? It looked more like a research laboratory, save for the bookshelves lining the far wall. All were full, with both antiquarian leather-bound books and more modern volumes on art and artists. There was a small sink with running water under the window, with work tops, more shelves with paint, varnishes, sulphuric acid, and paraffin, and behind her was what looked like a state-of-the-art X-ray machine and an ultraviolet light. A large modern table held computers, cameras, a scanning electron microscope and what looked like a magnifier – maybe the jeweller’s loupe to which he had referred. There were canvases and frames stored against the wall behind the door, and on the worktops were countless boxes and pots whose contents she could not see save for those with paintbrushes, chalks and pencils in them. Two functional chairs completed the array.

  ‘Are you convinced, Miss Marsh?’ Douglas asked politely.

  She was determined to remain cool, faced with this overwhelming display. ‘Sufficiently, though I’d need more expertise to be sure enough for a court of law.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear you say so. You will doubtless therefore be informing the police, who will discuss the allegation with whomever they think fit.’

  ‘We shall,’ she said evenly, and he merely smiled. She walked over to the shelves to look at the books more closely.

  ‘You referred earlier to one of your alter egos,’ she said. ‘Are there more collections such as the one at Stourdens?’

  He smiled. ‘Time will tell, Miss Marsh. I hope well after I discover that death is no illusion.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘This,’ Peter remarked as they drove back to Haden Shaw, ‘is what one might call a humdinger. The sort of tornado that lands us in the merry old Land of Oz.’

  Georgia tried to rally her wits, which seemed to have gone missing ever since Douglas Watts had driven her back to the pub to pick up Peter, who was impatiently awaiting them. He had grown tired of the summer house and was back in their own car with his laptop. Douglas had then politely paid his farewells and left. She had to admit that he had behaved impeccably – if there were an etiquette for a situation such as this. He had not sounded smug, he had not gloried in his hoax, he had not shown a remorse that he clearly did not feel.

  ‘If we believe him,’ she replied.

  ‘Don’t you? Rather an elaborate joke, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘He seems to specialize in them.’

  ‘Even so,’ Peter ruminated as they pulled off the Ashford Road into Shaw Lane, ‘I’m inclined to believe him. Which means—’

  ‘We have to report it to the lovely Diane.’ A prospect to which she would not look forward.

  ‘Who may or may not thank us.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant. It puts him, as he must be aware, in the front line as a suspect for Laura’s murder. She has to know.’

  ‘No contest. If Laura told her loving family – with a query over Jennifer – on the morning of the Gala that the collection was fake, it’s a remarkable coincidence that she died before the day was out and moreover that no one has mentioned the question of fakes during the investigation. Not merely did Laura not want to commercialize Stourdens but she had very good reason not to do so.’

  ‘There’s another point,’ Georgia said. ‘Did the interested parties believe Laura when she said she’d changed her mind? Did she tell them it was fake, even if she didn’t give Douglas’s name? It seems fairly certain that Laura had been convinced by Douglas’s story. If the family did know it was fake, though, they’ve kept unbelievably quiet about it. If they didn’t, then they still had reason to want Laura dead, if she was flatly refusing to go ahead with the plans for Stourdens.’

  ‘Perhaps they decided to go ahead anyway. All in all, a puzzle maze,’ Peter remarked. ‘Fortunately, it’s Diane Newton who has to find a way out of it, not us.’

  At Mike’s request, Georgia drove to Charing Police HQ the next morning, but once again her reception was hardly warm. She had expected detachment – which was the nature of Diane’s job – and she had expected her story
to be probed. Instead she was presented with a gruelling session with DI Newton which was building up her resistance.

  Diane was patently disbelieving. ‘Let’s get this straight. You can’t say exactly where the house is, except that somewhere you remember passing a windmill and a road sign to Ramsgate. Nor do you know who owns the house, but it isn’t lived in either by Douglas Watts or by Alfred Wheeler or by Howard Osborne.’

  ‘I believe it’s owned by him.’

  ‘Not under either of those three names in the Thanet area.’

  Georgia could have kicked herself. Of course it wouldn’t be. Watts would be too careful for that. ‘The house was in that general direction,’ she said steadily. ‘There was a small village nearby which I didn’t recognize; the house was outside it in a terrace of six red-brick houses and the one I was taken to was Number Three. It was near a crossroads of two lanes. Here –’ she pushed a sheet of paper across the table to Diane, for which she received no thanks – ‘this is a rough layout of what it was like, not that it can tell you much more than I have.’

  ‘You don’t think that this man might have been hoodwinking you?’

  ‘Of course that’s possible,’ Georgia agreed, ‘but why should he bother?’

  ‘He sounds like a joker to me. Jokers get their kicks from taking the mickey out of others. You must admit, Georgia, that your investigation into Robert Luckhurst’s death must sound ripe for mockery – to some,’ she added.

  ‘You’re too kind,’ Georgia said drily.

  DI Newton must have decided to let her off lightly. ‘We’ll look into it when we’ve a moment.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ Peter said, when she reported back during the afternoon in gloomy mood. ‘We didn’t expect much else. She’s in the hot seat though, because if Watts is speaking the truth, it’s undoubtedly relevant to her case and to the Met’s. In fact we’re in the more interesting position, because the Luckhurst murder is the basic one if all three of them are connected. If Watts was not kidding us, then Bob Luckhurst knew on one level at least that the collection was fake, and so did Amelia and Tanner. Tanner had built up his hopes of exploiting it for the advancement of Edgar Arms, and Amelia for Stourdens. Midnight struck when Bob Luckhurst refused to budge and their dreams turned into pumpkins.’