by Amy Myers
‘Join the club,’ Georgia said with feeling.
‘But with this news of Clemence, it seems wrong to be dwelling on Roy. I can’t see that there would be any connection.’
‘There must be,’ Georgia replied. ‘He’s the key. I’m still sure of that. Alwyn followed, Roy led.’
‘But key to what? His murder? And how on earth do you find out the truth about that now? And if someone killed him, they couldn’t be alive today, and so it can’t be a reason for killing Clemence.’
‘There’s a missing link. There has to be. And we’ll find it.’
Molly did not look convinced. ‘How did you first get the notion that Alwyn was murdered? Something must have kick-started you.’
Georgia longed to say the fingerprints of time, but drew back. Luke had not been told and therefore no one else should know. It was a Marsh & Daughter internal concern. ‘Suicide seemed so unlikely,’ she said instead. ‘So long after the events that were supposed to have caused it. Elfie choosing Gavin not Alwyn. The plagiarism issue settled.’ It sounded weak.
Molly gave her a long look. ‘I’m not sure I believe you, but it will do for now.’ She glanced at Luke. ‘We’d better get on with the business talk, not that I feel much like it. I suppose it will get it out of the way, though.’
Georgia took her cue. She didn’t mind, since she wanted to return to Peter as quickly as possible rather than leaving him at home alone. She needed to be part of Marsh & Daughter, not pacing the room alone at Medlars with Clemence’s death so much in her mind – and heart.
Peter was delighted to see her. ‘Good. To take my mind off Clemence, I’ve been playing with Suspects Anonymous till I’m blue in the face,’ he said gloomily. ‘The only thing it comes up with is throwing in Roy’s icon in connection with Alwyn’s suicide. Or,’ he corrected himself, ‘murder.’
‘What do you mean by throwing him in?’
‘As a factor. It keeps putting him in a suspect, even though it knows perfectly well he died in 1941. Do you think Roy Sandford is alive and well and living in Fernbourne all this while? Or – no, I’ve got it. He’s Great-Aunt Betty in disguise.’ Peter stopped. ‘I suppose joking is a good idea?’
‘Trying to is,’ Georgia agreed, feeling her voice wobble.
‘I’ve another titbit for you. Not much of a joke.’
‘What is it?’ She knew she wasn’t going to like this.
‘I’ve been advertising in as many local newspapers as I could find over the whole of Kent, not just the coast.’
Rick. Of course. She should have known he wouldn’t leave it alone. ‘Advertising for a girl who visited Brittany, on two occasions in the course of about twelve years, asking after a man called Rick. Not much chance, is there?’
‘No, and there’s nothing so far. But I suppose it takes time. The ads started appearing at the end of October. That’s only a couple of weeks. Any other ideas?’
It was a needle in a haystack, no matter how frustrating it was that someone out there could have a mite of information for them. Even if they found this girl by some miracle, she had been looking for Rick herself when she called at the farm. She didn’t know he had disappeared. The problem was how to answer Peter.
‘Yes, I have. We can’t solve Rick’s disappearance, so let’s make up for it by doing what we can to solve Clemence’s murder, and that means, if we’re on the right lines, solving Alwyn Field’s and possibly Roy’s too. A tall order, but somewhere is the master key that will open all the doors.’
Peter’s eyes lit up. ‘I agree. It’s a way forward. Roy is the master key. There must be something that strikes us as odd somewhere. What’s his link to Clemence?’
Peter’s putting this into words had an immediate effect. Georgia saw a possible answer, and the link could have been there all the time. ‘Clemence had brought her painting of Roy as a double Janus into her bedroom. It was in the studio when I last saw it. Is that something you would call odd?’
‘Not in itself.’ Peter concentrated. ‘What’s odd is the title. “Double Janus” – why?’
‘It isn’t a straight portrait. It’s Picasso-like, almost cubist. Faces looking in all directions, six at least. The bright flame, Clemence said. Roy reached out in all directions.’
‘If there are six directions, why call it “Double Janus”?’
‘Janus was the Roman god who was custodian of the universe and had two faces.’
‘I know that, but it was two, not six or more.’
‘Near enough,’ she said impatiently. ‘She said it wasn’t a literal title. He’s merely looking in every direction he fancies.’
‘Artistically?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that what she said?’
‘Yes – well, I presume so. At least that’s what she then talked about.’
‘She would. What about sexually?’
She stared at him. ‘Sexually?’ she repeated stupidly. ‘He was always chasing different women.’ But Peter didn’t mean that, did he? A great fear started to take hold of her that they had been looking at this case the wrong way round from the beginning, sucked in by the legend of the Fernbourne Five.
‘The melody, Georgia; we’ve been fed the melody together with the rest of the world,’ Peter was saying. There was conviction in his voice now, not doubt. ‘The great love affair between Elfie and Alwyn didn’t exist. The bright flame of Roy. The great love story of Birdie and Roy. That didn’t exist either. Or at least it was one-sided, if so.’
‘Roy was gay?’
Of course, she thought. It had been there all along for those who had eyes to see and minds to think. Clemence had misled her. No, Georgia changed her mind. Clemence had given a hint to her, but she had not picked it up.
‘Alwyn was gay,’ Peter corrected her. ‘Roy probably looked both ways. Bisexual. The Double Janus. Janus with two faces sexually and several artistically.’
She swallowed. ‘Are we sure? Or is this another theory?’
‘Look at the facts. They were at Oxford together. A year or so later Roy moves into Shaw Cottage, not the manor, when he joins the group. It could have been because of Birdie, but the mere fact that Matthew didn’t even deem that love affair important enough to record in his book suggests the love was all on her side, and that was generally known to be the case.’
‘But Birdie would surely have guessed about Alwyn and Roy? She was living in the same house, for heaven’s sake. It would have been obvious.’
‘Not necessarily. In all likelihood Roy and Alwyn wouldn’t have shared a room, especially if Roy was bisexual. You told me that there was one bedroom apart from the others, round a corner and thus separated from the main corridor rooms. If that was Birdie’s, all manner of shenanigans could have gone on in the other rooms without her necessarily knowing.’
Georgia began to feel sick. The whole basis of their understanding of the Fernbourne Five, including her relationship with Clemence, was being knocked away beneath her. She felt as if she were being swept away by an unstoppable tide of comprehension.
‘Look at the poetry,’ Peter continued, hauling down volumes from the shelves behind his desk with the help of his long stick with the manoeuvrable claw. ‘Verses to Dorinda. Big joke. Dorinda did exist, but she was Alwyn. Look at these poems in that new light:
“I seized Love in my arms
To crush him to my will.”
Or:
“Myself I’d lay before you
But for my heart which still lies lost.”
‘Typical Roy,’ Peter added. ‘He didn’t know which way he preferred, AC or DC. He enjoyed the power, the control.
“I told you I must leave, my love,
That some day this time would come.”
‘And then there’s Alwyn,’ he continued in excitement. ‘His A Mourning in Spring isn’t a panegyric to his lost love, Elfie. It’s a collection of his love poetry written over the years and presented as an elegiac whole in honour of Roy, killed five years earlier. Listen:<
br />
“Only you
Will mourn my passing soul;
Only you
Have loved the whole of me.”
‘See?’ he concluded. ‘Obvious, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Georgia steadied herself. ‘And the tombstone and suicide messages from “The Piper”.’
‘Oh, yes. Roy had gone beyond the mountain into paradise. Roy was taken before his time, and he, Alwyn, was limping behind, as in Browning’s poem. The boy who couldn’t keep up. Alwyn had lost his whole world, Roy. His poems were said to be Roy’s, not his, and to cap it all he’s accused of raping …’ He broke off. ‘I’m supporting the suicide theory,’ he said in amazement. ‘But if Alwyn was murdered, that couldn’t have been his own choice of epitaph.’
‘Nor were they his suicide notes.’ Georgia was up to speed now. ‘The poems were originally written for Roy, not Elfie and Birdie. They were fakes too.’ She stared at Peter, who was looking as flabbergasted as she felt. ‘Let’s stop,’ she continued. ‘Let’s take the path you were on. Keep going with Roy and Alwyn being the key relationship. Where does that leave Elfie? Is her love for Alwyn completely fictitious?’
‘My guess is not. But equally importantly, did the rest of the Five, including Elfie, know that Roy and Alwyn were an item?’
‘Clemence did, or had guessed. I think they must all have known at some point or another – except perhaps for Birdie.’
‘Could that be why Clemence died, because she refused to follow the party line any longer?’
‘But she did follow it.’
A silence, broken only when Peter said heavily, ‘Why does this damned jigsaw never fit?’
Fourteen
There were more ghosts than Clemence’s at this funeral, Georgia thought. When she had arrived in Fernbourne today, the familiar intimacy of the church, manor and pub had felt claustrophobic. The Fernbourne Five seemed to be presiding here as a group, and the fact that this was a private funeral emphasized, rather than dispelled, this impression. Janie had decreed that the press and public could have their day at a memorial service later, and so Georgia had been surprised that she and Peter had been specially asked to attend. Janie had rung Peter to tell him that she would welcome their presence. Whether Matthew would be as eager was debatable, but today of all days, he seemed to be living up to the courteous urbane image he so carefully promoted, even though he looked strained and pale. Perhaps it was the presence both of Birdie, pushed by Christopher in a wheelchair, and of Great-Aunt Betty that made Georgia think that by some unspoken assent the ghosts of the Fernbourne Five, as well as their living descendants, were drawing together to present a completed jigsaw puzzle at last. Or, it occurred to her bleakly, to prevent its completion.
Even Alice had managed a degree of conformity in her dress, perhaps bludgeoned into it by Ted and her family. The younger generation was also present. Sean, looking scrubbed and for once angelic, stood next to Adam, and Emma sat with her brother and parents. Then Georgia forgot about the Five and about the village, and thought only of Clemence as the service began.
‘You will come back to the manor, won’t you?’ Janie said once they were outside again. She was dry-eyed, and clearly intent on getting through the ordeal before collapsing.
Peter was doubtful. ‘We’re not popular here, Janie. We shouldn’t come while feelings are so raw.’
‘But so are mine,’ said Janie quietly. ‘Come, please. There has to be an end some time.’
At least the gathering wasn’t in the coach house. In the more impersonal surroundings of the manor it was easier to keep emotion at bay in the interests of seeking Janie’s ‘end’. Georgia didn’t have to wait long. As Luke chatted to Molly and Peter kept Janie company, Matthew headed straight for Georgia.
‘This all has to stop,’ he said almost apologetically, as though the form of funerals should not be abandoned in any circumstances. He was right, so why the need to raise this now?
‘Yes, we reached that conclusion.’
‘And what do you propose to do about it?’
‘Discover whether our theories are fact or not. If we don’t continue, your arts centre opening will have the cloud of two murders over it forever.’
‘You hope to prove that Roy Sandford was murdered, when there’s no body? Difficult at the best of times, let alone over sixty years later.’ When she didn’t reply, Matthew continued, ‘I presume you think he was killed here in Fernbourne.’
‘That would be our assumption.’
‘So do you propose to dig up the manor grounds and Shaw Cottage too?’ He still sounded tired rather than accusatory.
‘Not without permission.’
‘Ours or the police’s? If it’s ours, you won’t have it. Not the board’s anyway. Or mine, and after Clemence’s death the manor is mine. The coach house goes to Janie. Ridiculous arrangement, but inevitable. I’ll also refuse permission,’ he added, almost too much as an afterthought, ‘to dig at Shaw Cottage. Not because I fear you will dig something up, but because I won’t tolerate your meddling any longer. It’s undoubtedly led to one death, if not two.’
If he’d spoken in his usual hectoring tones, she could have taken this, but the flat normality of his voice sent a chill through her. This man meant what he said.
Before she could answer though, Peter did it for her. He and Janie had overheard Matthew’s words, and both were clearly furious. ‘So there is obviously something to discover, then?’ Peter kept in control, but was rigid with anger.
‘If there is,’ Janie answered for him, ‘for God’s sake, Matthew, let’s find it and get this over with.’
‘Janie …’ he began warningly.
‘No,’ she cut in. ‘I’m sick of you speaking for the whole board, Matthew. You’ve got a bloody nerve. First, Birdie is still nominally on the board and has a say in what happens at Shaw Cottage, as does Christopher; secondly, I’m on the board and you’re not speaking for me. Or, I imagine, for Molly.’
‘That still leaves me with a majority if Birdie and Christopher see things my way. Ted certainly will.’
‘Then call a meeting and put the issue on the table. Meanwhile,’ she said shortly, ‘sod off, big brother.’
Georgia blenched at the pressure Janie must be under. Surprisingly, however, Matthew looked strained and white, and almost pleaded with her. ‘I can’t, and you know it.’
Janie stared at him. ‘I don’t know it, whatever it might be. But whatever it is, it’s time I did. And the whole world too, if this arts centre is to work.’
‘Could part of this great secret,’ Peter broke in, obviously trying to end the deadlock, ‘be that Alwyn Field was gay?’ Then, when there was no answer, he added, ‘And Roy bisexual?’
Janie looked completely thrown, but Matthew still managed to keep control, Georgia noticed. So it was not news to him.
‘There is no proof,’ he said with a distinct edge. ‘And why should the art of the Fernbourne Five be degraded because of their sexual leanings?’
‘Because your book,’ Georgia immediately replied, ‘leaned heavily on the sexual affair between your mother and Alwyn Field.’
‘I didn’t know the situation,’ Matthew almost snarled. ‘My mother died while I was writing the book, and a lot of things became clearer then. Too late I realized that although my mother had told me the truth about her love for Alwyn, it was not returned, at least not sexually. That was in her mind. Does that make it less real? He didn’t look at them, only deliberately at his empty glass, muttered something and strode away.
‘I didn’t know that,’ Janie said wearily. ‘I’d feel some sympathy for the poor old chump if he wasn’t so pigheaded. He is my half-brother, after all. What’s he still holding on to?’
‘My guess is,’ Peter replied, ‘that he knows who murdered Roy, and where the body is hidden.’
‘But there have been two murders since. Including my mother’s. Doesn’t he worry about that?’ Janie’s voice was almost a wail now, and Georgia put her a
rm round her.
‘Peter and I shouldn’t have come. This kind of spat was likely to recur.’
‘I don’t think my mother would have minded,’ Janie said. ‘It’s me who minds. Clemence had so much bottled up from the past that she never talked about. That much was obvious. So much about what she said to me about the Five when I grew up didn’t fit in with the official line – I don’t mean major facts, just odd anecdotes and impressions of people and things that they did. You know, it was a happy group basically, from what she told me, although thinking back that could have been the pre-war days. It was the later times that she didn’t talk about. And no wonder, if there was all that going on. Having bottled it up so long, I think she might have been amused that the cork flew out at her funeral.’
It was an age away from the summer’s day when they first visited Shaw’s cottage. No sign of flowers now, except an odd rose straying from summer into December. There was desolate and dying undergrowth, as far as Georgia’s eye could see. She had had no intention of coming to the cottage after the funeral, but in a way it had been forced upon both Peter and herself. Peter had suggested it might be fitting, and in view of what was pasted to Peter’s windscreen when they had returned to the car, it was obvious that if any answers were to be found at Shaw Cottage, today would be the time to find them. A crude message scribbled on a Post-it had been stuck on it: ‘You’re next’.
‘Charming,’ Georgia had muttered. Perhaps Sean wasn’t feeling quite as angelic as he looked today. She had looked round to see if the perpetrator was hanging around. He wasn’t, but Alice had been, and strolled over to join them as Luke gave them a wave and drove off. He obviously hadn’t taken in what was happening, and was returning with Molly to Medlars.
‘That Sean,’ Alice had said with great satisfaction, ‘ran like blazes when he saw me, in case I’d brought a bucket of water with me. What’s he left you? An early Christmas present?’
‘Not really. A get out of town warning.’
