[Peter and Georgia Marsh 05] - Murder in the Mist

by Amy Myers

  ‘Or the woods beyond the stream,’ Georgia murmured.

  Clemence looked startled. ‘Ah. Elfie of course. Gavin assumed that everyone around him was as honest as he was. He protected those he loved. And he loved Elfie. You’re right that I was in love with him right from the time I joined the group in 1938, but it was love from afar. He was totally wrapped up in that woman and it was only much later that he turned to me for comfort and then love.’

  ‘After she had left him, following Alwyn’s death?’ And Roy, Georgia wondered? Was he going to come into this?

  ‘Yes.’ Clemence paused. ‘It was clear that she no longer loved Gavin. But Gavin would never, never have faked that material, no matter if it was Alwyn, or as your latest theory seems to go, Roy, whom Elfie loved. He wouldn’t betray himself and nor would he hire anyone to do the dirty work for him.’

  Luke broke in. ‘But it was he who brought the charge. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, there’s no doubt over that. I recall it well.’

  ‘Then who brought the forged material to his attention, or at least put it somewhere where Gavin would find it?’

  ‘Elfie and Birdie had the skills, but not the motive. But I did wonder …’

  ‘Please go on,’ Georgia pleaded when Clemence stopped.

  ‘Mere rumour.’ Clemence dismissed her impatiently.

  ‘It’s too late for holding back,’ Peter said bluntly.

  Clemence surrendered. ‘You’re right. I thought Betty might have done it,’ she said reluctantly. ‘That’s why I mentioned her to you. Did she tell you that she hated Alwyn?’

  ‘No,’ Georgia said, startled. ‘She said she thought him a twerp. But she believed the poems were his, not Roy’s.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Clemence said drily. ‘She was convinced Alwyn had written The Flight of the Soul, which was more than I was. I believed Gavin. But Betty’s feelings were stronger than merely thinking Alwyn a twerp, I’m afraid. She blamed him, and Birdie too, for luring Roy away from the family nest. You know what attachments little sisters can have to big brothers. She would have been a teenager when Roy was living here.’

  ‘I can’t believe that,’ Peter said flatly. ‘She was hardly flattering about Roy.’

  ‘Now perhaps,’ Clemence rejoined. ‘It was somewhat different then. She hung around here whenever she could to keep an eye on him. Roy thought it highly amusing.’

  Peter was clearly turning this over in his mind. ‘Nevertheless it’s a far cry to faking that whole charge against Alwyn.’

  ‘What about Roy’s death?’ Georgia decided to plunge right in. ‘Was there any doubt that he died in the air raid?’

  She’d gone too far. Clemence froze in obvious shock before she robustly replied, ‘Hardly. What on earth do you mean?’

  Georgia couldn’t go back now, but neither Luke nor Peter was giving her any help on this one, either verbally or in their expressions. ‘The body was never identified in itself, was it?’

  ‘There was hardly sufficient to do so after it was torn apart by a bomb,’ was the tart reply. ‘He was identified by other means.’

  ‘Was there any doubt that he was going to the Café de Paris that day?’ Peter asked, to Georgia’s relief. She was beginning to think she was on her own, out of her mind.

  There was ice in Clemence’s voice. ‘I’m afraid there were no tracker dogs available that afternoon.’

  ‘Did the Sandford family raise any doubts as to whether it was Roy’s body?’ Georgia forced herself to ask, although the image of Rick was supplanting Roy’s now, and she felt sick. Suppose …

  ‘Georgia, Peter, leave this ridiculous idea alone, I beg of you.’ The ice had gone from Clemence’s voice now, and had been replaced with some different emotion that Georgia could not identify. Was it fear? And if so, of what?

  ‘Are we sure we want to go to this?’ Georgia asked. She and Peter were having an early meal at the King’s Head at Janie’s suggestion. Janie had arrived as they were leaving. It turned out that she had been at a writers’ meeting in London, and so again Clemence had carefully chosen her time to meet them. Janie had mentioned that they could stay for the Bonfire Night celebrations in the manor grounds.

  ‘It’s usually quite fun,’ she assured them. ‘Hot chestnuts, mulled wine, fireworks and the Fernbourne Monster as well.’

  ‘What on earth’s that?’ Peter had asked, intrigued.

  ‘A former owner of the manor, who managed to murder not one but several wives. Seventeenth century, I think. Caught when he tried to burn the house down with the last one in it. Not long before that, Guy Fawkes had tried the same trick with parliament, and the two became rather confused in Fernbourne minds.’

  ‘What happened to the lord of the manor?’ Georgia had asked.

  ‘He met his fate,’ Janie replied. ‘The village reckoned he’d brought disgrace on it and pre-empted a court hearing with a lynching. Hardly surprisingly his heir sold the manor after that.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Peter had suggested. ‘It sounds good.’

  Now Georgia watched through the King’s Head window as small groups of people made their way in the darkness to the manor. She wasn’t so sure as Peter that this was something not to be missed, even though she had telephoned to ask Luke to join them. He had arranged to meet them outside the coach house, at Janie’s suggestion, and she and Peter decided to take their car up there too.

  When they reached the manor drive after meeting Luke, she could see lanterns illuminating a huge bonfire, which wasn’t yet lit. Nearer the manor, a bar had been set up under a canvas awning and tended by Bob Laycock. As she, Luke and Peter reached the assembled crowd by the bonfire, Ted and Adam walked past them, both whistling – it was obvious now where Adam had learned his skills. She could see a large guy on top of the fire, clad in breeches, jacket and wig, ready to meet his comeuppance for wife-murder. Ted and Adam were black silhouettes in the lantern light as they prepared it for lighting.

  ‘Nice pile of wood,’ she called out to them stoutly.

  ‘Old tricks,’ Ted answered, friendly enough. ‘My dad taught them to me. Knew every tree in the greenwood, he did, and Bonfire Night was the highlight of the year.’

  So even this was a job that was apportioned out. Ted was in charge now, and doubtless Adam was being trained for his turn. Janie had told them that Christopher Atkin was in charge of the firework display, and Georgia spotted him in a roped-off area beyond the fire, talking to someone whom she identified as Sean Hunt. He seemed to be strutting around self-importantly too. She wondered whether the Bakers ever played a role in this village affair, or whether it was solely manor-led.

  The appointed hour for the festivities to begin was seven o’clock, and by fifteen minutes to the hour the crowd looked fully assembled.

  ‘Shall we get closer?’ Georgia suggested uneasily. They had all three purposely remained on the edge of the crowd so that Peter would have a better chance of seeing in his wheelchair, but something about this felt wrong to Georgia. Furthermore they were nowhere near the chestnuts or drink – though plenty of other people were keeping that revenue up.

  ‘If you’re sure we’re not to be the guys,’ Peter joked mildly. ‘I have an uneasy feeling that a lot of Fernbourne sees us in just that role.’

  A joke, but, as with all jokes, there was some truth to it. It might have been her imagination, but the groups making up the total crowd looked very tight-knit, and the three of them were excluded either by design or chance.

  ‘It’s well organized,’ Luke remarked casually. ‘Not even a sparkler in a child’s hand.’

  Instead of making the ritual seem more civilized, however, for Georgia this seemed to increase the air of spookiness. The woods surrounding them were very dark, and the flickering lanterns only pierced the gloom rather than lighting it, throwing the occasional light across the watchers’ faces, all intent now on the bonfire.

  Perhaps it was better to remain here on the edge, Georgia decided, even if with the gathering
crowds they were being pressed further back towards the woods. At least here the wheelchair could not be turned over by a sudden surge forward, and the back route to the coach house was easily accessible. Why on earth should that be necessary, she asked herself, but no answer came. As the magic hour of seven approached there was a noticeable increase in the volume of noise, and all faces turned to focus on the pyre. The funeral pyre of an effigy of someone who had displeased the village, she recalled.

  That rang plenty of bells. She shivered slightly and saw Luke frown. Perhaps it was getting to him too. She stared at the straw effigy of the villainous lord of the manor. What would it have been like to have been married to that monster? It put her own relationship with Luke into reassuring perspective. She put her hand in his and felt it close around her own. How stupid to be feeling so unsafe just because it was dark, she told herself, but she didn’t move her hand.

  Promptly at seven Matthew appeared – of course, it would be his duty as heir to the manor – to light the fire. Sean was thrusting out the lighting tool towards him and his grandfather put it to the fire. Immediately flames began to curl round the smaller pieces of wood, insidiously making their way upwards. From the snatches she caught, Matthew appeared to be making a traditional speech about the Fernbourne Monster.

  ‘… see the law’s respected. We’ll have no murderers here, nor no lawmen either. No house-burners, no wife-killers … to bring shame on the house of Fernbourne. What say you?’

  ‘Burn him, burn him,’ came the chant from the waiting crowd.

  Burn … burn … burn … The flames had caught the effigy now, to a chorus of approving cheers. The crowd was surging forward, pressing all round her, and she was caught up in its movement. As she looked round at Peter someone barged between herself and Luke, and her hand was torn away from his by the assault. All she could hear were shouts and cheers, not what Luke was yelling at her.

  Then she lost sight of him. The eyes of the villagers were glued to the fire, and the chants were of one voice. No one cared what was happening in this mass of people. Ancient grudges were not yet over, and could be fuelled again by the flick of a match.

  ‘Luke!’ she shouted, but there was no reply. She and Peter had been cut off and in the group of young men that surrounded them the only one she recognized was Sean Hunt, a flaming brand in his hand, and his minions around him.

  Her immediate thought was for Peter, and she sprang across to shield the wheelchair as the group closed in on them menacingly. Immediately she was shoved to one side by two of the yobs, with the remainder pushing the chair over and toppling Peter out. She heard his shout for help, but then his voice was swamped by the general noise and she herself was being pulled away. She thought she glimpsed Luke being held back by a large group of other youths, but then Sean pushed in front of her.

  ‘Your turn, Georgia darling,’ Sean sneered, so close to her face that she felt his heat, while other hands were groping under her coat, her sweater and between her trouser legs. Her clothes were being tugged, and she pushed down, drowning in a sea of black and aware only of foreign hands and noise and unidentifiable moisture.

  Then suddenly it stopped. More space, more light. No hands, thank God. She struggled unsteadily to her feet, aware that she was sobbing, and saw that the youths were fighting amongst themselves – no, it was obviously a new gang arriving. One had got Sean in his grip – and it was someone she recognized. Nick Baker was shaking Sean like a puppy by the scruff of his collar. Behind him she caught a glimpse of Ken and realized that the Bakers had come to their rescue.

  ‘Dad,’ she heard herself croak, as Luke materialized out of the darkness and began to heave Peter upright with Adam’s help. So Adam too had come to their aid, and the sound of police sirens was comfortingly close.

  ‘I think Peter’s all right.’ Luke seized hold of her anxiously, supporting her in his arms, and his face close to hers. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Now I am,’ she said, and must have fainted, because the next time she opened her eyes, she was in the Bakers’ home with Sarah and Luke at her side.

  Twelve

  ‘Time’s running out,’ Peter said quietly the next morning.

  ‘For what? Do you mean the end of the investigation or –’ Georgia made a feeble attempt at a joke – ‘for us?’

  There was no laugh in response. Apart from bruises and cuts none of them had suffered physically in the Bonfire Night attack, but despite the fact that the Bakers had weighed in splendidly on their behalf, neither she nor Peter was under any illusion that Fernbourne would now be united on their side.

  Peter regarded her sombrely. ‘The former, but don’t rule out the latter. We’ve been given our marching orders.’

  ‘Was it our focus on Roy that sparked this off?’ Georgia frowned. ‘If so, Clemence must be involved unless Molly’s playing a double game.’

  ‘Surely that’s still the problem. Why is the village so caught up in this affair? Fernbourne doesn’t strike me as another Friday Street, with its boots in the muddy waters of the past. This seems to be a living issue, which implies personal involvement. Would you agree?’

  ‘Yes, especially now the Bakers have declared themselves in our favour.’ Not like their earlier case, as Friday Street had remained suspicious to the end.

  ‘They’re beginning to see this affair goes deeper than the rape. It stems back to murder.’

  ‘Alwyn’s?’

  ‘I think further back than that. To Roy’s.’

  Now that the issue was out on the table for discussion, she was reluctant to accept it. ‘Everyone liked Roy.’ The words sounded lacklustre even to herself. ‘Everyone’, so Peter often pointed out, was rarely used as a scientific term.

  ‘He was a selfish monster to his sister. I think what surprised Betty was that we were talking of Alwyn’s murder when it was Roy’s she thought more likely. Perhaps she even thought that Alwyn had murdered Roy, and that was why she hated him so much. Look at Suspects Anonymous,’ Peter continued. He clicked on the software, and selected Roy’s icon. ‘OTC at Oxford. Came down in 1935. A blank year. Then moves into Shaw Cottage in 1937. Reservist, flying planes at weekends from West Malling. Called up into the RAF September 1939. In early 1941 he was based at Biggin Hill with 609 Squadron. Forty-eight-hour pass. Failed to report back on the Monday – which set off a panic at Shaw Cottage. Went by train to Shaw Cottage on the Saturday, found Alwyn and Birdie setting off on night duty. Not proven of course. Nothing certain thereafter either.’ Peter paused. ‘We’ve heard no watertight evidence that he went to the Café de Paris, despite a presumption of death, or that he ever left Shaw Cottage. Thank you, ladies and gents,’ he added wryly, ‘I’ll take your questions now.’

  ‘Plenty of them. How did he get to London? Train? Someone would have driven him back to the station, unless there was a bus. Who? Were the chums he went with to the Café de Paris also killed? And where was Clemence? Where were Gavin and Elfie? Alice said they were all digging – does that include Clemence?’

  ‘Is that the lot?’ Peter asked mildly as she stopped to draw breath.

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘Then I’ll start. Can we rely on Alice’s evidence that he did come to Fernbourne and that Joe Baker brought him to the cottage?’

  ‘Almost certainly. Do you recall if Matthew Hunt covered it in his book?’

  ‘He didn’t. Only that Roy died in London. So, as you say, who gave him a lift to the train? As it stands, we have been told that Roy later had a phone call from a friend or friends and went to join them in London. That probably checks out by the way. A group of doctors and nurses who had just come down from Liverpool after escorting a Canadian convoy were at the Café de Paris that night. Biggin Hill reported his absence on the Monday and meanwhile Gavin had heard an account of the evening from a friend who had been there, and knew that there were uniformed officers present. The family identified the body but there must have been some doubt, to say the least. On the other hand, Roy might never
have left the cottage.’

  Silence. ‘Pure fantasy as yet,’ Georgia said uneasily.

  ‘So it comes back to Clemence. Was she there digging for victory? If so, she must be able to tell us one way or the other whether Roy left, unless of course …’

  ‘No,’ Georgia said firmly. ‘Not Clemence. I won’t believe she was involved in murder – if there was one. I’ll check with Alice first, since Clemence has warned us off the subject.’

  ‘Why did she do that? Matthew’s orders? Fear of upsetting Birdie? Is there any love lost between the two of them?’

  ‘Maybe not, but the milk of human kindness might still exist.’

  ‘Fear for Gavin is more likely – unless of course the warning was out of concern for us. It’s possible, as Damien Trent was most certainly murdered.’

  Georgia agreed. ‘But why would any of them want to murder Roy?’

  ‘Or all of them …’

  She clutched her head. ‘One at a time,’ she pleaded. ‘Let’s take Birdie first. Not possible.’

  ‘Why not? Suppose Roy had rejected her?’

  Georgia sighed. ‘What would she do with the body? She’s a slight little thing.’

  ‘Helped by Joe Baker, who drove him from the station. Suppose Birdie knew that Roy had raped Jenny and told him so?’

  ‘But seven years later he was punishing Alwyn for the same reason,’ Georgia pointed out scathingly. ‘Suspects Anonymous won’t like that. Next?’

  ‘Alwyn. Motive?’

  Georgia cast round in desperation. ‘Suppose – oh, I don’t know – suppose he found Roy planning to steal his poems?’

  ‘Overruled. Roy was flying Spitfires in the RAF, and Alwyn was teaching by day and air-raid warden by night. Not much time to plan or spot plagiarism. Next?’ Peter fixed her with a stern eye.

  ‘Elfie,’ Georgia said firmly. ‘Suppose she did fall in love with Roy, the bright flame.’