Murder Takes the Stage

by Amy Myers

  ‘How long does it take you to write up the cases?’

  This was a familiar question to Georgia, but it seemed an odd one, coming from a journalist. ‘About nine months, once all the evidence is in place.’

  ‘Right,’ he said slowly. The matter seemed to have been settled to his satisfaction, because he added, ‘Don’t see why I shouldn’t help you then.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Just in case Tom gets to be one of your few. Sounds like the Battle of Britain, doesn’t it?’ Another laugh. ‘You wrote one on that too, didn’t you?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Peter said politely. ‘We’d appreciate anything you could tell us about the case, even at this early stage.’

  Georgia was beginning to warm to Ken. He might appear to ramble on, heading nowhere in particular, but she thought there was more to him than that. He seemed a kindly man but not one to whom life would offer many unexpected boosts in his career, or one with the power to fight his way to success. As a result, however, he seemed far more contented than many journalists she had met.

  ‘Local stories are my cup of tea.’ He chuckled. ‘I can reel them off till the cows come home. How about this for an idea? I’ll give you the background to Tom’s story, every blinking detail you want, but not my pet angle. Not till it’s published. If you do decide to take the story on after I’ve had my scoop, we can pool resources. It will be in the Broadstairs Chronicle very shortly.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ Peter agreed. A white lie, if ever she had heard one, Georgia thought, even if in a good cause. Peter wouldn’t be against sharing information, but he would think long and hard before working with a third party on a book project. Such an arrangement was too open to conflict. A big thank you in the acknowledgements was more usual for Marsh & Daughter.

  ‘I need to get my story out on the street quickly.’ Ken gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘The enemy on your trail?’ Peter joked.

  It didn’t go down too well. ‘You never know,’ Ken muttered, and Georgia was afraid he would clam up just as she had hoped they were getting somewhere. Did he really fear retribution?

  She held her breath as Peter tried to rescue the situation. ‘You’re right. All we’d like from you today is the basic story.’

  ‘Nineteen fifty-two then,’ Ken began, settling back in his garden chair like an ombudsman now that the situation was clarified to his satisfaction. ‘Night of Saturday the sixteenth of August, when Joan Watson was found murdered. Stabbed with a kitchen knife.’

  ‘Did you know her?’ Georgia could have kicked herself for asking such a stupid question.

  Ken grinned. ‘Do you mind? I was two years old then, and didn’t have my future profession in mind; otherwise I’d have taken notes. Most of what I know about Joan, I’ve learnt from my dad Micky, or from the press – and of course there’s Sandy; he was the third Joey. And Cherry. Know about her, do you?’

  ‘Yes. Christine mentioned her. It must have been very hard for her.’

  ‘She was a nice kid, Dad said. Still is, though not a kid any more. She was over the shock by the time I got to know her, though she’s never got over Tom. She stayed on here for a year or two after Tom’s trial, so Dad said, then married Harold Staines, the producer of the show, went up to London with him and disappeared off the radar. Then the marriage vanished too, and back she came. No kids. Never had much luck, did Cherry. Got a job as a dancer at the Margate Lido for a year or two, then married again. Then he died. Anyway, best start at the beginning,’ he said guiltily. ‘I always put my big feet in before my head, so my dad always said.’

  ‘First,’ Peter said quickly, ‘could you tell us whether there was any doubt over who murdered Joan? Any suspects other than Tom?’

  ‘Plenty of them, but Tom never denied killing her.’

  ‘Did he admit it though?’ Georgia asked. This did not add up with the fingerprints at the cafe being Tom’s; where was the unfinished business?

  ‘Ah-ha,’ Ken said maddeningly. ‘Like I said, let’s start at the beginning. With the show itself. Waves Ahoy! it was called. It began in Ramsgate just after the war, then moved here. Know Broadstairs, do you?’

  ‘Slightly,’ Peter said ambiguously. In fact Georgia remembered it from seaside visits when she and Rick were young, and Peter knew it even better, but it would be good to have Ken’s take on it.

  ‘The show was at the end of the pier. Heard of Uncle Mack, have you?’

  ‘Yes, a Children’s Hour presenter on the radio,’ Peter said promptly.

  ‘Not that one. The really famous one, here in Broadstairs, who put on minstrel shows right from the year dot, round about 1900, I think; they were on the sands in the daytime and in the evenings under the shelter on the pier. I never saw it, of course – too young – but I heard so much about it, I felt as if I had. He was an institution was Uncle Mack. Went right on until he died in the late forties. Then Harold Staines brought over Waves Ahoy! from Ramsgate and the show ran for three or four years in a temporary canvas-enclosed theatre on the pier.

  ‘We had other theatres in the town too,’ Ken continued proudly. ‘One in the High Street, the Bohemia, the Playhouse in Westcliff Avenue and the famous Garden on the Sands – that’s still there. Waves Ahoy! was more downmarket, catering only for holidaymakers, day-trippers and kids for the summer season, but that’s where the Three Joeys came in. Clowns for the kids, cancan dancers for the dads, and comedy sketches to keep grandma rolling in the aisles.’

  ‘And for the mums?’ Georgia enquired, amused.

  ‘David Maclyn,’ Ken replied promptly, to her astonishment.

  It was a name she knew well, even though it predated the age of the Beatles. He was a crooner who had hit the big time in the fifties. What had happened to him? She racked her memory and decided he must have lost his popularity after Elvis, rock and roll and the Beatles supplanted fifties’ melodies.

  ‘He sang here regularly?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure did, before he made it big time. After the murder, he left here pretty quickly.’ Ken hesitated. ‘Not that he’d any reason to kill Joan, of course. He died of drink years ago, when his career and voice ran out of steam. Anyway,’ he added before Georgia could leap in with another question, ‘you need to know about the Three Joeys first. None of them really called Joe, of course.’

  ‘Could we take Tom first?’ Peter asked firmly.

  Ken still came at this obliquely, to Georgia’s amusement. Peter always liked firming up on the central characters before he broadened his approach. Perhaps Ken sensed this – there might be more steel to him than she had realized. ‘You need to understand the trio to see Tom’s place. There were Sandy Smith, Micky and Tom. Sandy was the frontman, the conjurer and comedian, Dad was the acrobat and Tom was the general knockabout and, it has to be said, stooge.’

  ‘Did Tom mind that?’

  ‘Not a bit. It wasn’t in Tom’s nature, Micky said, to want to stand out; he liked being one of the trio and was only too happy to play wimp – both in his career and marriage.’

  ‘Joan ruled the roost?’ Georgia asked. Was this a case of worms turning? Had Tom been guilty after all? As he had never denied it, it looked at least possible at this early stage.

  ‘She wasn’t the nagging kind, but she did what she pretty well liked, and Tom had to put up with it. She was a cracking dancer, Micky said. There has to be a pivot in any group, and Joan was to the chorus line what Sandy was to the Three Joeys.’

  ‘Does Sandy still live in Broadstairs?’

  ‘Very much so. He’s over eighty now, so he’s not as active as he was, but he’s still in reasonably good nick. His daughter looks after him. They live out on the cliffs towards Kingsgate.’

  ‘What happened to the Three Joeys after the murder? Did the show go on during the trial and after the acquittal?’ Peter asked.

  ‘The show went on for another year or two without Tom, both before and after his acquittal. Then Harold Staines married Cherry Harding and left for more profitable fields. No o
ne had the heart to find a permanent replacement for Tom after he was acquitted, so Dad and Sandy carried on the act alone. When Harold left they split up. Sandy said he was leaving Broadstairs to travel the country; he did that for fifteen years or so, then decided to return to his roots. Micky was more sensible. He just stayed put, like me. When you find a good place, stick to it.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Harold Staines,’ Peter commented. ‘West End producer? Highly acclaimed musicals and so on?’

  ‘Right. He’s retired now, but he went on to fame and fortune in London. Not straight away though. David Maclyn hit the top quicker, but only Harold lasted the course. He worked his way up. Waves Ahoy! wasn’t a bad show, so Micky said. After it folded, Dad got regular work in Margate or Ramsgate or here in Broadstairs on the strength of it. He’d built up a bit of a reputation with the kids here, he said, and that stood him in good stead.’

  ‘Was Cherry in the show too?’ Georgia asked. Cherry was the marker with whom she could identify. The one who waited.

  ‘Sure. She was in the chorus line, so Joan could keep a beady eye on her when she realized Tom was having it off with her.’

  Peter pounced on this. ‘Was his affair the reason for the murder? Was his wife standing in the way?’ He was beginning to get hooked, Georgia thought.

  Ken looked smug. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. My fault. It wasn’t only Joan who was the victim of this marriage. Tom was too. The prosecution case was that Tom discovered Joan was having an affair. In fact it was affairs in the plural. She liked to spread her favours around, did Joan. Cherry and Tom just held hands, Micky said. She was an innocent, and so was Tom, till he got driven mad by Joan.’

  ‘So Tom was jealous, but what was she like? You’re not giving her a good press so far,’ Peter pointed out.

  ‘On the contrary, Micky liked her a lot,’ Ken said. ‘Everyone liked her, that was the problem. Dad said she was one of those beautiful, warm-hearted women who believed in having a good time but not in hurting people.’

  ‘She presumably didn’t mind hurting Tom,’ Georgia pointed out.

  ‘Micky didn’t think she meant to. To her sex was natural, he said, and she couldn’t understand why Tom was so mean-spirited about it.’

  Unusual, to say the least. Georgia wasn’t convinced by Ken’s endorsement of Joan. Maybe his father had been one of those who fancied her.

  ‘Did Tom only find out about her lifestyle on the night of the murder?’

  ‘So the prosecution suggested, but who knows what goes on in a marriage?’

  The way Ken looked at them made Georgia suspect they were getting rather less than the full story here, but that was to be expected after the ‘rules’ he had laid down. ‘Was this public knowledge?’ she asked.

  ‘You know what showbiz is like. Hotbeds of little intrigues while the show’s on. When it’s over, everyone goes his own way. The jigsaw pieces are shaken up, and next season you begin again.’

  Rather glib? Georgia wondered. Surely some little intrigues got taken further, as Tom Watson’s certainly had. ‘Presumably there was a performance on the night the murder took place?’

  ‘Yup. The season began in June and went on until the end of September. It might have been only a tuppenny ha’penny pier show, Micky said, but there were some good acts in it.’

  ‘About the murder itself. I assume it took place in the flat over the fish and chip shop. Was that there then?’

  ‘No. It was an old-fashioned dress shop run by two elderly ladies, and the Watsons lived in the flat above. Tom’s story was that he came home and found Joan dead. She’d come straight home after the performance because she was tired, but he’d been to the pub first. Only trouble is no one could be found to back him up in this, except for Cherry, but no one believed her, of course. Their regular was the Black Lion in the High Street, but no one had seen him there. Unfortunate for him. Dad told me the flat was a mess, as though there’d been a struggle, although I don’t suppose he saw it for himself. It was a knife attack. One vicious deep stab to the heart, which managed to strike lucky – or unlucky if you were Joan – first go.’

  ‘Forensic evidence?’ Peter asked.

  ‘His prints on the knife – that do for you?’

  ‘Was the knife left in the wound?’

  ‘No, but there wasn’t much blood around.’

  That might be one point in Tom’s favour, Georgia thought. It would suggest Joan was dead when he pulled it out. If he had found her like that, it was just possible he might instinctively have removed the knife immediately. On the other hand, he could have been overcome at the horror of what he had done and waited some time until he pulled it out. Ken obviously had plenty of facts at his fingertips, which meant he had been into the subject thoroughly. She longed to ask what his pet angle was, but there wasn’t a hope he would spill the beans on that. She wouldn’t, if she were in his shoes.

  ‘Was the knife from their own kitchen?’

  ‘Not known. No one could or would identify it.’

  ‘So why was Tom acquitted?’ Peter asked. ‘The evidence you’ve cited so far seems pretty damning.’

  ‘One member of the jury couldn’t be bullied into agreeing on a guilty verdict and talked all the rest round. And before you ask, that’s privileged information, not generally known. Don’t ask me how Micky found out, I’ve no idea, but the good lady’s been dead many a long year. It was a shock verdict, Dad told me.’

  ‘Did anyone else other than Cherry and the jury member think he was really innocent?’

  After what she’d heard, she expected the answer to be no, and so was surprised when Ken said, ‘Dad always thought he was. Said Tom hadn’t the strength to do it.’ Christine had not mentioned this, Georgia thought. Did she just forget, or had Ken only just found that out? Was this part of his scoop? she wondered.

  ‘But Tom was a clown – a general knockabout, you said,’ Peter immediately objected. ‘He must have been fairly strong.’

  ‘I reckon Dad meant mental strength. Tom adored Joan – or he’d never have put up with her fancy men.’

  ‘Assuming he knew. Was the prosecution case challenged at the time? It could be – sorry – hearsay, Ken.’

  Ken didn’t take offence. ‘Fair enough. Reckon I could find out if we needed to. The kid won’t like it, but—’

  ‘What kid? Did they have a child?’ Peter interrupted.

  ‘Sorry. Should have said earlier,’ Ken replied airily. ‘Yes. Pamela Trent she is now. Married to Matthew Trent, local tycoon. Joan and Tom had been married in the late forties, and Pamela was only three or so when this happened, so you won’t get much from her.’

  ‘Except presumably she’d like to knock the rumour that she was a murderer’s daughter on the head once and for all,’ Georgia said. Ken was just a mite too casual about this daughter. ‘Is she still in Broadstairs?’

  ‘Nearby.’

  ‘Could we have her address?’ she persisted, but was hardly surprised when he replied:

  ‘Best not at this stage. Take it slowly, eh?’

  Georgia could see Peter’s increasing interest. He liked facing challenges such as this, and Ken’s reply suggested there might be something juicy to discover.

  ‘Do you have any photos we could look at?’ she asked hopefully, with the daughter avenue at least temporarily closed.

  Ken, as she had hoped, seized on this as a diversion from Pamela Trent. ‘Sure. Mostly of Micky but some group pictures. There’s a couple of Joan. Snapshots – you know the sort of thing.’

  Georgia did. Fuzzy black and white jobs, although they were often better at conveying atmosphere than colour. Ken disappeared indoors and reappeared with a box file, which he proceeded to empty on the garden table. Fortunately there was no wind, but even so Georgia found herself scrabbling on the grass for stray photos that had slipped off.

  ‘Not sorted,’ he told them unnecessarily. He made up for it by searching through the pile and picking out some, which he thrust under their noses one
after the other. ‘Here we are. The Joeys. That’s Tom.’

  Georgia had a brief glimpse of three men in street clothes, arms round one another’s shoulders, standing on what was clearly Broadstairs pier. Tom was the one in the middle, the shortest of the three, which made him look the stooge straight away. The one in the middle of the sandwich, the fall guy. Or was she reading too much into the situation, given what Ken had told them? Certainly he looked like Mr Ordinary Man in the Street, but then it was hard to tell from such an old snapshot. Sandy Smith was the one with the sleeked-back – Brylcreemed? – hair and Micky the one with the happy grin.

  ‘Where’s Joan?’ Peter asked. Ken whisked through the pile and pulled one photo out. This was a studio picture, head and shoulders, Hollywood forties style, and it instantly brought her to life for Georgia. She looked a typical pin-up girl.

  She recognized David Maclyn without Ken’s help. No studio picture, this. He was snapped strolling along the promenade with his arm round a short, energetic-looking girl who looked as if she was about to leap at the camera.

  ‘Mavis,’ Ken said briefly. ‘Married her just after the war, 1947, I think.’ He took the photo from her to pass on to Peter. ‘Look happy, don’t they? I tell you, there’s a story there. And that’s not the only one, believe me.’

  ‘Your scoop?’ Peter asked, not exactly in a loaded voice but hardly innocently. Obviously Ken picked up on this, because he began to gather up the photos. At the bottom of the empty box Georgia glimpsed a white envelope, but if there was anything interesting inside it, they clearly weren’t going to get the opportunity to see it, as the photos were being heaped on top of it.

  ‘Do you have one of Tom on your computer?’ Peter asked. He was clearly trying not to sound too eager, and Georgia guessed he wanted one for their website.

  ‘Might have,’ Ken said. He was fencing, Georgia realized.

  ‘I wonder if you could send me one. I like having relevant photos pinned up in the office. It helps us to focus better.’