Murder in Hell's Corner

by Amy Myers

  Today would bring problems either way. If – and it was a big if – the police had their warrant, it was going to cause great distress. Indeed they might even postpone their arrival for that reason. Oliver Tanner’s reputation meant nothing to them, only the killer of Jack Hardcastle and, in Jennings’ case, Patrick Fairfax. All the accumulated evidence they had amassed in the last week would be for nothing. At last the final certificates had arrived through Family Records and at last avenues miraculously unblocked themselves.

  ‘We owe this case to the tying-up of loose ends,’ Peter had said complacently last night.

  ‘And to Charlie,’ she had pointed out.

  He had arrived to clean up her hard disk, and wisely or unwisely she had expressed her doubts about Suspects Anonymous fairly forcefully. He had been highly indignant and marched her next door for a joint session with Peter.

  ‘Confidential information,’ she had muttered. ‘Data Protection Act and all that.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m a service provider. Even MI6 has to have its computers serviced. I’m an invisible shadow. I don’t count,’ Charlie said crossly. ‘And look at this, Georgia. No wonder you don’t get much out of Suspects Anonymous.’ He was scanning the folder lists. ‘From what little you’ve told me, these Burglar Bill icons are your suspects, rights?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Who do you count as suspects?’

  ‘Those who had opportunity and motive.’

  ‘Quite,’ Charlie snarled. ‘I knew you’d be using it all wrong. You’ve qualified it. How do you know who had motives? Everyone present should go in, until disqualified.’

  ‘Define everyone,’ she countered.

  ‘The postman, the dustman, the head chef, the plumber’s mate, the owner’s Auntie Maud if she was upstairs in the rocking chair. Otherwise you’re looking at the case upside down – only why you can envisage someone wanting to murder your victim. Bit limited, isn’t it?’

  Peter had sat smugly by as Georgia defended her wicket. ‘Of course we’ve considered someone could have been there, but not recognized. Alan Purcell for example.’

  ‘No, Georgia,’ Peter said patiently, ‘Charlie means not could have been there, but was there, although not recognized as a possible player in the game.’

  She was there now. How could she have been so blind? ‘You mean G. K. Chesterton’s postman theory. The man who escapes notice. And that suggests—’

  ‘The barman,’ she finished in triumphant unison with Peter. Of course. So blindingly obvious when one thought about it – like the million-pound question on the TV quiz show.

  And that had been the beginning of the end. It had seemed so simple when they had discussed it between themselves, even with the police, but now faced with the reality of what revelation of the truth might mean, it wasn’t so simple at all.

  As she walked into the marquee, the first person she saw was Jean Fairfax queening it at Martin Heywood’s side, poor woman. Close behind her was her bodyguard Mary. A myriad unknown faces, of course, but here and there a familiar one. She saw Sylvia Lee with Helen at her side, plus an unknown man – brother Harvey perhaps? Seated round one of the tables were six other familiar figures. 362 Squadron was here in force, including Eddie Stubbs. Did that suggest a symbolic equality after all these years, or a unity in the face of what they might perceive – rightly – as a threat? Or did it mean nothing? She was getting hypersensitive, she decided.

  The day’s official plan was straightforward, according to the programme thrust into her hand by a PR lady. An official welcome from Martin, now in his element, then a buffet lunch followed by a screening of extracts from the film in the improvised cinema in one of the conference rooms – this one was in the converted stable block. After that there would be a press free-for-all. Publicity packs were to be seen everywhere.

  ‘I miss David Niven. He always looked good in an Irvin jacket,’ Luke whispered ruefully as the film extracts began in the cinema.

  ‘I bet Sylvia does too,’ she whispered back. The female lead was a sultry beauty called Sharon Cross, who in Georgia’s view looked as if she lived up to her surname, but perhaps she was only being soulful.

  Leo Jakes, the star of the film, was well cast as Patrick, she thought, looking much like the real Patrick and possessing his charm and sexiness. Sexiness, that is, to the world at large. Not to her. She preferred Luke. Unbidden, Zac reminded her of his particular brand of sexiness. Time had moved on, she told him. What was sexy at twenty-four was less so over ten years later. Then why are we having this conversation, Zac enquired gently. Go away, she ordered him, and surprisingly he did.

  It wasn’t her style of film but she had to admire the expertise with which Patrick had been brought back to life. She was even gripped by the extracts from his student life, then the war hero, then the jewel in the crown: the aviation club. He came over as a man of vision as well as action. The film gave a good overview, so far as she could judge, cleverly twisting past values to accord with something recognizable today.

  Even Paul Stock was impressed when she met him after the presentation. He was with Jean Fairfax, who raised a cool eyebrow of welcome to Georgia as if daring her to comment adversely, and then departed with Cerberus.

  ‘As the only one here who hated his guts,’ Paul quipped, once Jean was out of earshot, ‘I was impressed. Maybe I could get to like the fellow.’

  Janet Freeman had strolled up to join them. ‘Why not? I did,’ she countered coolly. ‘I came to tell you someone was enquiring for you at the desk, Georgia.’

  ‘Did he have a gun in his hand?’ she was tempted to ask. But then, the answer might be yes.

  ‘There,’ Janet pointed to a casually dressed young man walking towards Peter, who was just emerging from the conference room. Curious, Georgia left Luke with Paul and Janet, and went to join them.

  ‘My daughter, Georgia. She met your grandmother,’ Peter said to the young man. ‘Madame Fleurie’s grandson, Philippe,’ he explained.

  ‘Monsieur Arthur?’ she immediately asked him, alarmed. Had he come to tell her he had died?

  ‘He is well,’ Philippe said hastily. ‘This is from him.’ Georgia glanced at Peter, her heartbeat quickening in sudden hope as Philippe produced from his canvas holdall an old-fashioned ledger and a smaller bound notebook. ‘You are to see these, if you please, and do what you wish with them. They were in my grandmother’s house, and therefore not burned. He asked you please to greet his old comrades.’

  Georgia handed the smaller notebook to Peter, and quickly looked inside the ledger. What she saw there made her heart race. Columns, dates, careful entries in one handwriting: Alan’s. There were lists of operations, and Fairfax and Tanner’s names, and source notes.

  ‘Merci, merci,’ she heard herself babbling, even as she turned to see what treasure Peter might be holding. He seemed glued to the notebook, and she peered over his shoulder. Dates – and a familiar handwriting.

  ‘Tanner’s diary,’ Peter almost choked. ‘The real McCoy. You take this, Georgia.’ Peter handed her the diary. ‘Leave the ledger with me. I’ll look after Philippe and wait for the police.’

  It was three o’clock now and there was no sign of them. She began to panic. The afternoon was scheduled to end in two hours’ time, and perhaps this meant the police weren’t coming. Or were they deliberately leaving it late to avoid the full glare of the press?

  She had to read this diary, for there, if anywhere, would be the evidence they needed. She needed a place where she wouldn’t be disturbed by curious eyes. Inside the hotel? No, she would see this story through and go where it had begun. No one would pry on her there. Besides, it would be a test for her.

  When she came to the point in the path where she had stopped in May, however, she regretted her decision. It seemed unnecessary, even melodramatic, but it would be equally melodramatic to turn back. The leaves were falling now, and without the bluebells the dell seemed a forlorn place indeed. It was in all probability still the grave
of Oliver Tanner and it was all she could do not to turn and run. With a great effort of will, she sat down on a rock and opened the diary. Immediately she forgot her surroundings:

  Airfield under fire again today. One of the airmen copped it. Joe took a shovel to help fill the craters in; he’s bearing up well. Unlike our noble section leader. Straight for the quickest way through and no matter what happens to the rest of us. Does he even think? Probably not. Two days ago I found him stuck in the cockpit staring glassy-eyed at the black specks heading for us. He blanks out, I reckon. Doesn’t remember a thing about it afterwards. Hauled him out, pushed him to the shelters, and jumped into the crate myself. Only just made it.

  Another entry caught her attention.

  Who is Sylvia? She is the best of me. She is my life, the reason to see this bloody war through, so that we can roam this green and pleasant land without jackboots bearing down on us. Last night . . . ah, last night!

  ‘I thought I might find you here.’

  Georgia froze. What a fool she’d been.

  ‘Is that Purcell’s file so-called proof?’ Martin Heywood continued easily. ‘I realized you’d tracked him down. Well done. Shall I take it?’ He sounded as casual as if they were speaking on the phone and yet she was terrified. He was standing between her and the only accessible way out of the dell. His voice offered no threat, but his body language suggested otherwise.

  ‘Here.’ He held out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’ He moved further towards her, and trying not to display fear she stood up, retreating slowly down the dell.

  ‘I didn’t believe a word of this nonsense,’ he continued, ‘when Jack told me he had doubts about Patrick’s place in history. And I still don’t believe it now. You do know Patrick was my grandfather, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she managed to say. Talk, that was the best way. Talk. ‘But only when I saw your mother’s maiden name on the birth certificate. I’d forgotten she was divorced. I thought of your brother’s children being involved, but not hers. Foolish of me.’

  ‘What was foolish was to believe all these lies about Patrick. You saw the truth today on that screen and that truth isn’t going to be wrecked by any dirt you or that devil Purcell can throw at it. It’s too late.’ He moved impatiently towards her, and involuntarily she stepped back again.

  Talk, she commanded herself.

  ‘I presume it was you who hacked into my computer and kept a watch on me?’

  ‘My son, actually. He’s a bright lad. He’s here today because he believes in the family name too.’

  ‘You let him follow Purcell home and set fire to his house?’ She was appalled.

  ‘No. I did that. That rubbish you’re holding has to be destroyed. Jack told me Purcell had some kind of nonsense he called proof. I had to act. I couldn’t let him besmirch Patrick’s name. Or you.’

  She saw his fist coming out, she saw him lunging towards her, then the pain as the blow struck and she felt herself tumbling downwards and hitting the ground, with something jabbing sharply into her. His voice above her almost pleading, ‘I have to have that diary. You see that, don’t you? I have to have it.’ It must have been lying beneath her, for she felt herself being hauled up. The cavalry, where are the cavalry? Crazy thoughts jumped around in her spinning head as another fist hit her.

  *

  She opened her eyes and something seemed to crash into her head. Then she remembered the dell. She wasn’t there any more; she was in a room – no, a tent, and it was Luke, not Martin Heywood who was bending over her now. She seemed to be lying on a couch – the first-aid tent?

  ‘My lovely,’ he said, kissing her lightly. Even that hurt.

  ‘The cavalry,’ she managed to stammer.

  ‘They came. Now keep quiet.’

  ‘The diary – did he get it?’

  ‘No. The police did.’

  ‘The mounted police cavalry?’ This wasn’t making sense but her head couldn’t cope with it.

  ‘No. The ordinary sort, I’m afraid. They picked Heywood off the ground where he was investigating the dell’s soil content.’

  ‘Then who was the cavalry? Me? Did I hit him?’ She had to get to the bottom of this.

  ‘I was the cavalry, my pet.’

  ‘Oh, Luke.’ She closed her eyes again.

  When she next woke up she was much clearer. ‘Where’s Dad?’ For some reason that seemed easier to say than Peter.

  ‘Talking to the St John’s ambulance chaps who want to cart you off for a check-up, and to the police who need a statement from you. They seemed to think I was the one who knocked you out, so you might put them clear on that. They’ve got his nibs though.’

  ‘Is it,’ she asked, trying to keep the wobble out of her voice in case she burst into tears, ‘acceptable for a publisher to interfere in his author’s research? What about moral rights?’

  ‘You can’t claim any. You’re about to become an immoral woman and move in with someone you aren’t married to. Yet.’

  She considered this proposition. It sounded a pleasant, homely idea. One thing was for sure: Zac wouldn’t have joined the cavalry.

  ‘. . . keep your own house or office, at least for a while,’ Luke seemed to be saying. ‘Not too many nights working late though. Anyway, Medlars won’t be fit for habitation right away. We might be looking at Christmas if we’re lucky.’

  Christmas. A Christmas tree. With lights on it and a fairy at the top. Like the ones Peter and Elena had dressed for her as a child. And for Rick. Unbidden, the tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  ‘Don’t you like Christmas?’ he teased.

  ‘Yes,’ she managed to say. ‘I do.’

  *

  Sunday lunch never tasted better than when someone else cooked it. Today Luke had. Or rather he’d arranged with the White Lion to send their best over when he arrived at Haden Shaw. The hospital had insisted on keeping her in overnight and sent her away with Luke on condition she rushed straight back in at the slightest ominous symptom. Eating lunch was not forbidden. Nor was talking. Provided, Luke said, she didn’t do too much herself. Mike had promised to look in to tell them what had happened after her dramatic disappearance yesterday.

  ‘DI Jennings arrested Heywood for assault on you. Pullman was most grateful to you, Georgia. While Heywood’s being held, he has a chance of sorting out the other matter.’

  ‘Jack’s murder,’ she said.

  ‘Correct. They’re expecting a match for his nibs’ tenprints and DNA for that. Tenprints already here, DNA takes a little longer but before tomorrow’s out it should be OK.’

  ‘Has he confessed?’

  ‘Not even to assaulting you. Apparently you got in the way of his fist while he was demonstrating a left punch at your request,’ Mike told her straight-faced. ‘Alternatively it was self-defence.’

  ‘My guess,’ Peter said, ‘is that Jack warned him when he first mentioned the film that he thought Fairfax’s reputation was suspect. Heywood must have watched him like a hawk after that. Of course, Jack probably didn’t have the benefit of knowing he was talking to Fairfax’s grandson, otherwise he might have held his horses, knowing how besotted Jean Fairfax is about his memory. Heywood is even more of a fanatic than his grandmother.’

  ‘It’s often left to the next generation to carry the flame, so Mary Fairfax remarked,’ Georgia said. ‘Not the sons or daughters, but the grandchildren.’

  ‘Quite. When Heywood saw you talking to that boy he was on your case. He knew it must be the diary and Purcell’s records that Jack had told him about. Luckily Luke managed to remove the diary from Heywood’s grasp before he could eat it,’ Mike said straight-faced.

  ‘I said something to him ages ago that must have made him think I was on to this question of Fairfax’s reputation.’ At Tangmere, she remembered wryly. Just a few idle words misinterpreted, a man killed, a house burnt down and its owner badly burned, not to mention two punches to her face as a result. ‘But at one point he was anxious to help me,’ she pointe
d out, struggling to work it out.

  ‘Of course,’ Peter said, ‘but only to draw you out. He must have been desperate to find out where Purcell lived and what lines we were working on. He thought you might tell him if he cosied up to you.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Georgia said. ‘But he did send Barnaby’s statement.’

  ‘Which supported Fairfax’s noble nature. Barnaby was the other evader who was given a free pass to Blighty. It probably included a cruise liner from Bordeaux, rather than a stiff climb over the mountains.’

  ‘All the same, murder and attempted murder on Heywood’s part seem over the top, even if both were spur of the moment reactions.’

  ‘Not to him. He firmly believed and still does that this is a dirty-tricks campaign to throw mud at the Fairfax name, in some misguided attempt to make excuses for Oliver Tanner.’

  Georgia’s thoughts went sickeningly to Jean Fairfax. ‘How is she?’ she asked.

  ‘As you might expect. Furious. All your fault. The worst is still to come. They think he’s only arrested for assault at present. There was much discussion amongst the pilots afterwards, but I doubt if it touched the Fairfaxes.’

  ‘At least some of the truth about Patrick will have to come out if Heywood’s charged with murder or even with manslaughter.’

  ‘I don’t think they would believe it. Heywood doesn’t, so why should they? It’s all part of the conspiracy against the man they love. It’s knocking heroes time, they will argue to themselves.’

  ‘There’ll be enough proof now. The press will leap on it during the trial.’

  ‘Will they? Isn’t there something you’re forgetting, Georgia?’ Mike asked.

  She was. It must be the bruises and bumps to blame.

  ‘The motive for Hardcastle’s murder doesn’t depend on its proof, only that Jack made these allegations,’ Mike continued. ‘And . . .’

  Georgia could finish that for herself. ‘No one has yet been accused of Fairfax’s murder. And of that, Heywood most certainly can’t be guilty.’

  *

  Georgia was amused to see Peter’s reaction to welcoming Sylvia Lee to Haden Shaw. She and Helen had stayed the night at Woodring Manor in view of the attack on Georgia and Martin’s Heywood’s subsequent arrest. Now Sylvia had taken the initiative, and suggested that if convenient they would drive over to see them later that afternoon.