by Amy Myers
‘We were. It was too bad we had to give evidence that Tom wasn’t. So did Micky and Sandy. Harold too, but I think he left early. Not nice for any of us, but we couldn’t lie. Even if we’d wanted to, we couldn’t have risked it with so big a group including us women.’
‘Tom couldn’t have been in the snug as Cherry claims?’
‘No. Cherry was there for a while, but we never saw Tom.’
‘Did you stay till closing time?’
‘Matter of honour. We’d had a rotten performance that evening, so we stayed on to drown our sorrows. Closing time eleven, plus drinking-up time, and we fell out of the doors about twenty past eleven. David and I went home, and Sandy and his then girlfriend, Jeannie, came with us to drown a few more sorrows. They stayed on until the small hours.’
‘So you all four had a complete alibi.’
Mavis chortled. ‘Good of you to say so, dear. You can’t think David or Sandy would have killed her? Jeannie and me, now, well, wish we’d thought of it.’
‘Just checking possibilities, ma’am,’ Georgia said lightly.
‘Then we’re off the list. Anyway, Sandy’s too cunning a bastard for a crime of passion like that. Unless someone did it for him, of course. But he’d have no reason to kill Joan. How could she be a threat to him? Tell Jeannie? No threat at all, and Joan would know that. Jeannie adored Sandy, and she was as tough as he is. Micky? No way. He hadn’t the guts to take Joan on in a big way, and little Miss Muriel would know that.’
‘Was Muriel there that night?’
Mavis thought for a moment. ‘I don’t remember, and that’s the truth. Probably not, because they’d have had to get a babysitter. Micky was, but I think he left early to get back home to his loving spouse.’
Georgia tried another tack. ‘You told me David said there were nasty things going on at that time. What did you mean? Joan’s sex life or something else?’
Mavis frowned. ‘Did I say that? Must have been drunk. In vino veritas. Mark you, it was a funny time. We’d won the war, but there we were, worse off than ever. Rationing and gloom. It made some folks bitter. Our lot had mostly missed the war, David did a year I think, so did Tom, Sandy and Harold. There were no jobs around afterwards, when David came out, so lucky he had this voice of his. “Tides of Love” – remember that one?’ She seized a tissue and mopped her eyes. ‘Sorry, dear. It gets to me sometimes.
‘Anyway, as I was saying,’ she continued briskly, ‘they were hard times. Remember the razor gangs of the fifties? The Teddy Boys? The black market? There we all were, kicking up our heels in the chorus line and singing about sunshine and true love, and all the while the crime rate was soaring. Yet it was only a few years later that nice Harold Macmillan declared we’d never had it so good. Maybe he never came down our way.’
With one leg in her car and one leg still to go, Georgia remembered to check her mobile phone before she left to return to Haden Shaw. There were seldom any messages, since she preferred to take calls on the landline, but nevertheless it was a routine she tried to keep to. Just as well. Today there was a message from Peter on voicemail awaiting her. ‘Georgia? Damn this thing (a routine opening for Peter). On your way home through Canterbury, call in at the charity shop in Hurst Lane. Ask for Mrs Robin.’ End of message. Thanks, Peter, she thought crossly. And just what am I to say to Mrs Robin when I accost her? Ah, well, perhaps Mrs Robin herself would know.
By the time she had successfully fought the battle of Canterbury parking, she was in a thoroughly irritable mood. Ten to one, Mrs Robin was merely keeping something on one side for her father and Georgia had been selected to be the courier. That was fine, but not at rush hour. The shop smelt of boot polish for some reason, but nevertheless there were a lot of people in it, heads bobbing up and down between rails of clothes. Behind the desk she could only see a girl with long black hair who looked too young to be Mrs anything, but it was worth a try.
‘She’s having a cup of tea,’ was the accusing answer, as though Georgia had deliberately chosen this moment in order to annoy her.
‘Shall I call back later?’
The girl looked amazed. ‘What for? She’s in there.’ She pointed to a door at the rear of the shop that announced it was ‘Private’ in such stern letters that Georgia wondered how much of the country’s gold reserves was hidden inside.
Very little it seemed. When she knocked and entered, she found a small room holding two chairs, a table with an electric kettle and tea paraphernalia and a pile of boxes. One chair was empty, the other, a wing armchair, had its tall back to her, and presumably Mrs Robin must be within it, hidden from her view.
‘Mrs Robin?’ she called experimentally.
A tiny face peered round the corner of the chair and beamed. ‘Come in, come in. Who are you?’
‘Georgia Marsh. My father told me to ask for you.’ Georgia felt as though she were looming over the tiny Mrs Robin, who looked lost in the large armchair.
‘Marsh . . . Marsh . . .’, she muttered. Then suddenly she smiled. ‘You’ll have to forgive me,’ she said briskly. ‘I was dozing off, and my brain comes to slower than my eyes when I wake up.’
Indeed she looked as alert as her namesake now, although her size made her seem as though the next breeze might waft her away.
‘I’m not sure what I’m here for,’ Georgia warned her.
‘There now. If you don’t know, how should I?’ Another beam.
This was hopeless. Georgia was about to give up, when Mrs Robin chuckled. ‘Just my bit of fun. I know why you’re here. I talked to your dad earlier on this afternoon.’
Georgia waited expectantly.
‘About Tom Watson,’ Mrs Robin added uncertainly.
Immediately Georgia’s hopes rose. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Know him? Of course I did. I lived next door.’
The neighbour. This was the neighbour. ‘Your daughter was babysitting?’ Georgia asked in excitement.
‘Good gracious me, no. Mum’s been dead nearly twenty years. I was the babysitter, Alison Wetherby.’
‘Of course.’ How stupid. ‘I didn’t do my sums right.’
‘I wish I didn’t,’ Alison said feelingly. ‘I’m Alison Robin now, of course, though Steven’s been dead nearly as long as Mum. That’s why I came to work here. He died of cancer too, and I wish there’d been all the support around then that there is now. Sit down, Miss – Georgia you said your name was? Pretty name that. “Georgia on my Mind”? Know that song?’
‘My husband –’ that word still sounded strange to her ‘– sings it when he wants to annoy me.’
‘And when he wants to please you, he sings “Sweet Georgia Brown”.’
‘Right.’ Georgia laughed, feeling at home amid this chaos, especially as her chair brought her knee to knee with Alison. ‘What did you tell my father? Was it just that night you were babysitting, or were you the Watsons’ regular sitter?’
‘Regular. I was seventeen when Joan got herself murdered, but I’d been babysitting for them on and off for three years.’
‘You knew them well then. Did you like them?’
‘Liked him. He was a sweetie. Used to do his clowning act for my young brother. But Mrs Watson was a bit of a madam. Mum said she was no better than she should be – silly phrase, isn’t it? How good should you be? I was mostly there on my own, but I’d stay on a bit if Tom was there alone. Cheer him up. He was always wondering what was keeping Joan so long. As if I didn’t guess. It was more a case of who was keeping her, if you ask me. Fancy stockings, cigarettes galore, flashy cigarette case, perfume, clothes. And drink! Couldn’t buy all that on a seasonal clown’s money plus a chorus girl’s, and there’s the fact they weren’t available except on the black market.’
‘Apparently she had several lovers though.’
‘Even if they paid her, she still had to get hold of the stuff, and there wasn’t much silk in Broadstairs’ shops. All black market, Mum said, and who’s to say she wasn’t right? There was some Y
ankee soldier used to come visiting her. Mum reckoned he was handing the sweeties to her.’
Buck Dillon, Georgia thought. Mrs Robin had probably confused soldier and airman over the years. ‘Do you think Joan was expecting a lover the night she was murdered?’
Alison shook her head. ‘Sorry, dear, but no. She came in with one of those looks on her face that the world wasn’t giving her what she expected of it. That wasn’t her usual expression if there was one of her fancy men expected. They usually came during the day, or if she and Tom were in different shows, because it was safer.’
‘How did you know? Did she talk to you?’ At least two of her lovers were in the show, which could have been why she was ‘dressed up’ as Brian James had told them.
A snort from Mrs Robin. ‘Her face wasn’t looking like no lovers coming. As soon as she got back, she said I could go, so I did. Said she’d come home for an early night.’
‘Was there any sign of Tom when you left?’
‘Not a whisker. She said he was at the pub.’
‘Or of anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘If she was tired, it was odd she didn’t go to bed immediately, and she can’t have done, because she was still fully clothed when she was killed.’
‘Probably wanted to empty the rubbish – Mum said she saw Tom speaking to her later on at the bottom of the steps.’
‘The bottom? What time was that?’ That rang an unpleasant bell. Perhaps Tom had returned and met her going out – no, that wouldn’t work because of the time element.
‘No idea. Mum didn’t say. After I was inside, anyhow. Maybe little Pam woke up and stopped her going to bed earlier.’
That was possible, Georgia supposed. ‘Do you keep in touch with Pamela?’
‘No. Mum did though. Right to the day she died. Pam was a nice little kid.’
‘Tom liked her?’ Pamela had denied all knowledge of the neighbour, which confirmed her feeling that Pamela had a story to tell.
‘He was her dad. Of course he did. It’s my way of thinking that’s why he came back.’
‘Came back from where? The pub?’ Georgia was lost.
‘No. Years later it was. Mum was still alive, still living at the old place.’
Came back? ‘Your mother met Tom years later?’ Surely she had misunderstood. ‘When?’ she demanded.
Alison looked surprised. ‘Not sure. Must have been in the nineteen seventies sometime. I know I was living in St Peter’s and I didn’t move there until seventy-three or four. Mum popped in for a cuppa and told me. He’d been to where the Dickensons were living, but they’d moved away.’
‘The who?’ Georgia’s head was spinning.
‘Joan’s parents. But it was Pam Tom wanted to see, not them.’
‘But what happened after that? Who else saw him?’
‘I don’t know. Mum never said. She didn’t tell me for ages. It had slipped her mind, she said.’
‘Have you told Cherry this?’
‘Cherry who?’
‘Tom’s sweetheart, Cherry Harding.’
‘Oh, her. No. Least said, soonest mended, Mum said.’
‘Oh, her. No. Least said, soonest mended, Mum said.’
EIGHT
‘Excellent. You got my message then?’ Peter opened the door as Georgia arrived straight from the Canterbury rush-hour jams. It was Friday afternoon, so she had decided to report back to him immediately, even though it was six thirty. A nice smell was coming from the kitchen, which Georgia assumed meant that the dinner Margaret would have left was well on its way to being ready. She was wrong.
‘Hi, Georgia.’
Janie’s face was so open and welcoming as she emerged from the kitchen to greet her that Georgia was annoyed to find herself apologizing for intruding. Even more annoying was that she could not find any rational reason for her irritation.
‘Like to eat with us?’ Janie asked. ‘We’ve plenty for three if Luke’s working late. Or four, if he’d like to come over.’
‘No, thanks so much, but I’ve a date with a stove myself.’
Georgia watched as Janie bent solicitously over Peter. Don’t do that! she wanted to shout. He hates it. Fortunately Peter was concentrating on her news and didn’t notice.
‘I deduce that you have something of interest to tell me, Georgia, or we wouldn’t be honoured by a visit this evening.’
‘I do, and guess what? Your Alison – how did you come across her, by the way?’
‘I didn’t. Janie did. She discovered the Broadstairs connection. I spoke to Alison Robin on the phone, and hey, presto. So tell us your news, daughter mine.’
‘Well done, Janie,’ Georgia forced herself to say, hoping this did not sound condescending.
Luckily Janie looked pleased. How far was she part of this establishment? Georgia wondered. Should she go ahead and discuss the case in front of her? As if anticipating this problem, Peter turned back into the living room and Janie disappeared back into the kitchen. Georgia ran quickly through what Alison herself had said, and then at last she was able to add a nonchalant:
‘And there was a sighting of Tom in Broadstairs in the nineteen seventies.’
A long sigh. ‘Magnificent, truly magnificent news. Sighting by whom?’
‘Alison’s mum again. Mrs Wetherby.’
‘Did you speak to her direct? She must be a fair age.’
‘No longer alive, but Alison is quite clear about it. It just slipped out – it wasn’t something on her main agenda.’
‘The question is: had her mum been quite clear about it too? She could have been rambling.’
‘Possibly, but it sounded too specific for that. Tom had called on her to ask what had happened to baby Pamela. So far as Alison knew, the good news hadn’t been passed on to anyone else, including Cherry.’
‘Obviously on the grounds that Mum would presume Tom had obviously already gone to see her.’
‘Obviously?’ Georgia queried sweetly.
‘Objection upheld,’ Peter said crossly. ‘If he hadn’t seen Cherry for twenty years or more, why bother? There would be some point to his seeing Pamela.’
‘Even if she was David’s child, not his?’
‘Yes. Starved of affection from the lovely warm-hearted Joan, he could well have poured all his love on to Pamela. If you’re right and Mrs Wetherby stayed in touch with her until her death, then she’s holding out on us in a big way. She must have some memories of her at least, and we can ask her.’
‘Sure we can, if the guard dog lets us through.’
‘Ah, it seems there might be a chance. Cath rang while you were out today.’
‘News of Buck?’
‘No. But she thought we’d like to know that the annual fête for St Edith’s in the Field is being held in the Trents’ garden tomorrow. Apparently it’s quite a do. It’s a small church, but the fête has grown in prestige over the years and has become a money spinner not only for the church but the local hospices too. It’s the thing to do, Cath says. Everyone who is anyone must be there.’
‘Do we count as “everyone” in the circumstances?’
‘I see no reason why not. It’s a big place apparently. The Trents own a couple of meadows behind their garden, and I gather the fête takes place in one of them; the other acts as a car park, and a highly expensive cream tea is usually served in the garden itself.’
‘I can’t wait. Do I wear my best hat?’
‘Of course.’ A quick glance at her. ‘Janie’s coming too. I’ll tell her it’s best hats to the fore, and I’ll don my favourite Panama to live up to you both. And meanwhile, Georgia, why don’t you fill in the breathless period of anticipation by checking out our website? We’ve had some response to the new photos I put up. Most of it is probably rubbish, but there are one or two replies that might be worth following up.’
‘What do we say at the fête about Tom’s possible return home?’
‘Nothing, until we know more.’
‘I suppose you�
�re right. If we broadcast the news, it could hurt Cherry if there turns out to be nothing in it.’
‘Bear in mind that one swallow doesn’t make a summer,’ Peter said darkly.
‘Meaning?’
‘If he came once, why only once?’
‘Either he didn’t find Pamela, or he did and that was sufficient to say what he needed to. Then he returned whither he had come.’
‘Accepted. So the next step is . . . ?’
‘Pamela Trent and,’ Georgia added, ‘Matthew.’ She told Peter about her creepy meeting with Greg Dale. ‘He seems very protective of the Trents.’
Peter frowned. ‘Because he fancies Gemma perhaps. She’s probably grown up in the mystique of the murder being something that mustn’t be talked about, let alone investigated. What on earth did he think you would find out all this time? There’s precious little in the way of physical evidence likely to turn up.’
‘The Trents wouldn’t know that if they encouraged him to keep an eye open.’
‘True. Did anything Alison say change the way you thought about the night of the murder?’
‘Only the reminder that Joan was dressed up to the nines but had no date awaiting her at home, except one with the rubbish bin, where Tom must have met her on his return.’ Georgia hesitated. She couldn’t mention fingerprints in front of Janie. Instead: ‘I suspect she was dressed up because she was hoping to meet her current flame at the show but was disappointed. So she came home in a huff by herself. That fits . . .’
Her voice trailed off. Here they went again. Round and round the mulberry bush – and only one ripe fruit falling from it: Tom had probably not committed suicide in 1953.
It felt almost as though this was purely a social occasion, Georgia thought as she and Luke drove to the fête the next day. She felt better about Janie now and had Luke to thank for this. Tired after the Canterbury trip, she had exploded to Luke over supper, and being Luke, he had listened sympathetically but in silence. Then he had put his ‘oh so gentle’ boot in.
‘Why does it worry you that Janie is around so much? Is it professional or personal?’
‘Professional,’ she had snarled.