The Marsh & Daughter Casebook

by Amy Myers

  ‘Spirit of the times is acknowledged after the time has past, not during it. When one is living through it, it seems perfectly normal. I suppose I was aware of conventions breaking down. I remember Elena –’ Peter hesitated, but then continued smoothly – ‘your mother deciding, with great daring, to defy her mother and not wear gloves to the theatre.’

  Elena. He never called her that now, Georgia thought. A rare slip. Her mother now lived in France with her second husband, having been unable to take the pressure of her son’s disappearance and, a year later, Peter’s accident. Georgia’s brother, Rick, had vanished while on holiday in France and there had been no explanation then or since. No body, no voice at the end of the phone. It was the Marsh family’s own unfinished business.

  ‘Looking back now,’ Peter continued, ‘I can see how great the change was, especially in music. At the time it seemed like a craze that would pass, then it became an irremovable wart on the side of “real music” and only gradually passed into being part of “real music” itself. Sweet Fanny Adams was on the wilder edges. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Dusty Springfield, the Seekers – somehow SFA managed to epitomize them all, and that was due to Fanny. She was the magnet, she was life.’

  Extreme words for Peter. Georgia was impressed that he felt so strongly. ‘Tell me about the music,’ she asked. ‘I only know the famous album, the one of folk songs in rock and roll beat, “SFA’s United Kay”.’

  ‘The one we all remember. I don’t know the earlier ones either. Only that because “United Kay” came out sufficiently long after the Beatles’ “Sergeant Pepper” and before the Rolling Stones truly hit the target. Not too much peace and harmony, but urging a positive, if wild, life force – not destruction and violence. Then two months after its release she was murdered.’

  ‘Why though? What was Adam Jones’ motive?’

  ‘According to the prosecution, she was the leader of the two. She wanted to go solo. Adam didn’t. For all his fame, it was unlikely he’d be able to go it alone.’

  ‘Murdering her would seem to defeat his purpose then,’ Georgia pointed out drily.

  ‘True. But in the heat of the moment would he think of that?’

  ‘She was stabbed. Was it usual in the 1960s for young men to have a knife handy in case things got heated?’

  ‘No, Georgia, it was not. The prosecution also claimed that more was involved. Sex, in fact. According to witness statements, there was someone else in her life, their manager Jonathan Powell, and since Adam and Fanny were living together it was easy to make a case of personal jealousy as well as professional rancour. An “if I can’t have her, you certainly won’t” situation.’

  ‘Possible,’ Georgia granted. ‘Who were the witnesses for that?’

  ‘I’ve read two statements by people present on the day of her death, including our friend Toby Beamish. Jonathan Powell was at the gig. It seems to have sparked off fireworks.’

  ‘Where exactly was it held?’

  ‘In the grounds of Downey Hall. I don’t think we saw it while we were there. A Henry and Joan Ludd owned it then. It’s an eighteenth-century house marked on the ordnance survey map, as there had been two ancient houses preceding it on the site. Also rumoured to have smuggling connections, but that might be just to rival Pucken Manor’s ghosts. The event on the twenty-second of June, 1968, was to celebrate the engagement of the elder son, Michael Ludd, to one Sheila Hawkins. There was a public show in the afternoon to which the whole village was invited, then a dinner in the evening which was to be followed by a private performance for invited guests only. Fanny was found dead shortly before the latter was due to begin. She was in the woodland area in the far corner of the grounds, lying on a plastic mac, the dagger lying by her side.’

  ‘A plastic mac seems out of character,’ she commented. ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘Adam Jones. Crying his eyes out, when found, and still with her body when the next arrivals came, Henry and Michael Ludd.’

  That sounded pretty final. In Peter’s mind anyway. She was on the side of caution. ‘What about evidence against Adam?’

  ‘He admitted he and Fanny had a row earlier that day. Her blood was on his clothes, his fingerprints on the sharp instrument. He claimed, just as Jake Baines did, that he found it still sticking in her chest. Unlike Jake, he says he instinctively withdrew it, spattering some blood on himself and around the body. There was already some on the mac.’

  ‘There would have been more than some if he’d killed her and withdrawn it straightaway.’

  ‘Good thinking. There must have been enough not to make it a point in his favour.’

  ‘Sharp instrument,’ Georgia picked up. ‘Not a kitchen knife then, or a handy Swiss army knife?’

  ‘No. A sixteenth-century French dagger.’

  That took Georgia aback, as it was probably meant to. ‘Why on earth would anyone be carrying that around unless with malice aforethought? And even then there must have been plenty of easier alternatives.’

  ‘There is cause for speculation.’ Peter looked smug.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘It’s the same dagger that killed Alice Winters last month.’

  Her stomach churned. Out of the realms of the logical, back into that quagmire of the past. Then she realized that she was extremely annoyed. Peter had been holding back on her. This was vital information and he’d kept it to himself.

  ‘How could that be?’ she shot at him.

  ‘Quite easily. It’s a deodand.’

  *

  ‘It seems,’ Peter explained over a Kentish cream tea in Wye, ‘the majority of deodands are not instruments of murder, but of death by violent accident. It caused the death, so it takes the blame. “Deodamdun” means surrendered to God, but the good old English legal system made it okay to give it to his agent on earth, the English king. It wasn’t even necessary for the owner of the offending cartwheel or horse – or in later days, ships and even locomotives – to be the offending party in the death. The king didn’t always get the booty himself – usually the local sheriff sat on it as the king’s representatives, often the local lord of the manor. Sometimes the object appears to have been passed on to the victims’ family in compensation, though as a kindly act rather than through legal compulsion.’

  ‘Did you say locomotives?’ Georgia asked curiously. ‘You mean if a man was killed by a railway train then the train was forfeit?’

  ‘Under some circumstances, yes. Fortunately for British Rail, its predecessors and successors, deodands were abolished in the mid nineteenth century, but at least one had already been handed over.’

  ‘And this dagger was one of the forfeited objects.’

  ‘Yes again. It was originally a murder weapon, in fact. It’s listed in the deodand museum owned by Toby Beamish at Pucken Manor.’

  ‘The dotty ghost lover?’

  ‘The same. The deodands are a private hobby, not as much of a money-spinner as the ghosts.’

  ‘And the same dagger was lifted from there not once but twice to perform a murder?’ Surely Peter must have this wrong, Georgia thought doubtfully.

  ‘You sound like a particularly vicious prosecution,’ Peter complained. ‘In fact, no. It used to belong to the Ludd family at Downey Hall, although it was a genuine deodand. It was surrendered at the inquest of Arabella Nevers, who was killed with it by her philandering French husband in late Elizabethan times. It landed up with the Ludd family, either because Arabella was a daughter of the family then living in the house that preceded Downey Hall, or because the local lord of the manor lived there, and it remained part of the house’s chattels. It was kept in a case in the entrance hall. Toby Beamish’s father and grandfather, who had been at daggers drawn – if you’ll excuse the phrase – with the Ludds, coveted it for many a long year. The fever for collecting deodands had been rife in the family ever since they were abolished. After the dagger was pinched for the murder of Fanny Adams, Ludd let Toby’s father have it. He didn’
t fancy it in the house any more, so it was from the museum that it was taken for the murder of Alice Winters.’

  ‘An adventurous little dagger,’ Georgia said. ‘Was it by chance or design that Jake Baines used it to kill Alice Winters? The Adam Jones story is more understandable. Adam could have grabbed the dagger from Downey Hall and rushed out to kill Fanny.’

  ‘As Adam admitted he had a blazing row with Fanny, he could have done just that, though I don’t think the times fit.’

  ‘What was the row about?’

  ‘Going solo, he claimed.’

  ‘No mention of lover boy Powell?’

  ‘Adam denied there was anything in it.’

  ‘Was there any doubt about the verdict at the time?’

  ‘Nothing permanent. There was a protest, but it died down, chiefly, reading between the newspaper lines, because Adam Jones himself didn’t co-operate. After all, look at the weight against him. He had access to the weapon, he had a motive, he had opportunity, there was forensic evidence. All might be explainable,’ Peter added hopefully.

  ‘Dr Crippen probably thought the same.’ Georgia demolished him briskly. ‘Did Adam Jones ever admit his guilt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And . . .’ Was this taking things too far too quickly? ‘What about his death?’

  ‘He was found in the River Medway. Near Maidstone.’

  ‘Any doubt that he drowned himself?’

  ‘The verdict was clear that he did.’

  ‘Where did he do his stretch?’

  Peter grinned. ‘You’re on the path, Georgia. A long way from Maidstone is the answer you want. And, moreover, he was a Dorset lad by birth and upbringing.’

  ‘So why come to Maidstone to drown himself?’ she asked slowly. She wasn’t sure where she was heading but it might be significant.

  ‘The newspapers considered he wanted to die where he last saw Fanny.’

  ‘If he murdered her, that seems strange.’

  ‘It does indeed, daughter dear.’

  Now for the big question: ‘And the Friday Street music? Was that mentioned anywhere in connection with Adam’s arrest?’

  ‘Not a word about it.’

  She was irrationally disappointed.

  ‘But there wouldn’t be, would there?’ Peter continued. ‘As Ted told you, Friday Street keeps itself to itself.’

  ‘So there isn’t a case to answer yet.’ There was nothing firm to cling to, not even a tune.

  ‘There might be,’ Peter still argued. ‘There are unanswered questions. What about Powell, for instance? And what – surprised you haven’t yet asked, Georgia – made Fanny come back for this particular gig? It was small beer for the likes of Sweet Fanny Adams.’

  She agreed. ‘If something other than fame and fortune drove her from the village, it’s hardly likely to have been sentiment that brought her back.’ She hesitated. She didn’t want to start Peter steaming off on a false scent, but it had to be placed on the table. ‘The dagger links the two murders. Could there be other links?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Peter asked blandly.

  ‘Mike says that the Alice Winters case is straightforward.’

  ‘They often are until one looks below the surface.’

  ‘We only have coincidence at present.’

  ‘And our Christmas experience.’

  ‘All villages on the downs are sad at Christmas time,’ she countered. ‘The skies are bleak, the fields are bleak, and it’s family time, not be-jolly-to-strangers time. And,’ she finished firmly, ‘might I remind you that the police have the Alice Winters case in hand, and as regards Fanny and Adam, SFA is exactly what we have. We don’t even have a rumour of the music being played. I submit, my lord, that there is no case to answer.’

  Peter’s eyes gleamed, as though, damn him, he realized she was only waiting to be convinced. ‘Very well. I challenge you. Go back there, armed with our knowledge of Adam and Fanny, plus what little we know about Alice Winters, and then come back and tell me we shouldn’t enquire further. The trouble with you, Georgia, is that you don’t believe that cases on our own doorstep can be valid. They are. The nearer to home, the greater the mote in one’s eye. Look at the number of people who tell the press with great excitement that mass murderers were ever such nice neighbours.’

  Georgia snorted. ‘Generalization.’

  ‘Don’t get off the point.’

  ‘Very well, I accept your challenge. I’ll drive over . . .’ She thought for a moment. ‘No, I won’t. I’ll go anonymously.’

  ‘Large hat and dark glasses?’

  ‘I’ll be a bone fide rambler.’

  ‘A conspicuous one on your own.’

  Georgia laughed. ‘I won’t be on my own.’

  *

  ‘Publishers,’ Luke announced loftily, ‘do not traipse across fields in pursuit of their authors’ research. They expect a nice word-processed synopsis to be presented to them plus a summary of sources.’

  ‘In that case, no dinner.’ Georgia smiled sweetly. ‘But come with me and I’ll buy you a sandwich in the Montash Arms.’

  ‘Poisoned, no doubt,’ he remarked. ‘Friday Street seems to be a village of serial killings.’

  ‘You like walking.’

  ‘Strolling under the leafy boughs of a French forest or through Italian vineyards is hardly comparable to muddy Kent fields with footpaths untrod by human foot for generations.’

  ‘Where’s your spirit of adventure?’

  ‘Tiptoeing away behind my duty to my desk.’

  ‘You don’t have one. It’s Saturday. You don’t really object, do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Luke smiled at her, and Georgia laughed. ‘Good. I’ve already packed the emergency bag.’

  ‘For the Kent downs? Not much need for hypothermia survival packs, is there?’

  Georgia ignored this. ‘Let’s go. There are three miles to walk before lunch. That’s to get us in the mood.’

  He shot an amused look at her. ‘Bodes well for tonight.’

  ‘You never know your luck,’ she agreed. It was at times like this that she thought how easy it would be to slip into marriage again. With Luke, at any rate. What scared her was the fear of the gates clanging behind her, leaving her alone with a man she thought she knew – only to find that she didn’t. Suppose, just suppose, he was another Zac Taylor. It was an unfair thought, but insidious.

  Luke often stayed with her over the weekend, and occasionally she would go with him to South Malling. In consideration for Peter, however, Haden Shaw was preferable. Not that Peter appeared to care, she often thought, even though he enjoyed Luke’s company.

  As Luke had predicted, the footpath to Friday Street was scarcely well used, but it was a fine day and there were only a few patches of mud. With spring apparent in the young growing crops, and the signs of green in the trees, it was hard to imagine that these windswept fields presented anything other than a normal rural scene. Nevertheless, when the outskirts of Friday Street appeared on the horizon Georgia felt her heartbeat quickening. Ridiculous. They were going to wander round a village and drop into a pub, that was all.

  ‘I won’t be prejudiced by what happened at Christmas,’ Georgia told herself as they approached. Friday Street must have experienced quite a few outsiders in the weeks following the murder, even with the limited publicity surrounding Alice Winters’ death. If anyone had linked the murder with Sweet Fanny Adams then the village would have been inundated with media attention. Two more curious individuals would hardly be noticed.

  The main road – if that was the right word for what was little more than a lane – turned a sharp corner at the point the footpath joined it. Across the road a stile led into the churchyard and, on the grounds that the church was the centre of a medieval village, they climbed over it. True, the church looked very late medieval.

  ‘We might be lucky and find Lady Rosamund’s grave,’ Georgia joked. As they walked up the path, however, it was the name Winters on several tombs
tones that drew her attention, a grim reminder of why she was here.

  ‘Locked,’ Luke called, rattling at the door of the church.

  Another sign for outsiders to keep away? She was being paranoid, Georgia decided, most churches were locked nowadays. She studied the notices in the porch, hoping to find the name of Gibb. Fanny might have had brothers, even if her father were no longer alive. She scanned the church flower rota in vain. Sheila Ludd – she must be the former Sheila Hawkins, whose engagement to Michael Ludd was the event being celebrated on the day Fanny Star died. She appeared to alternate her Saturday afternoon duty with Hazel Perry. Not a very onerous duty, it seemed, since services were only once a fortnight. Hazel was last on duty on Easter Saturday, the day Alice Winters had died, and not on duty again until a month later, which was this coming Saturday. Church coffee mornings and afternoon teas were also once a fortnight, all these being under the stewardship of one Miss C. Broome.

  ‘Pub?’ Luke enquired plaintively at her side.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Soon?’

  She relented. ‘Why don’t you go to the pub while I explore? You never know, the great brotherhood of chaps together might work wonders.’

  Luke considered this. ‘Good idea. I might even sense this weird atmosphere of yours. Together it might not work so well. If I find a real clue of my own, do I get a mention in your acknowledgements?’

  ‘You always do, darling,’ she reminded him. ‘Don’t you read your own publications?’

  She watched him disappear down the road. There was something about his back view that inspired confidence. It wasn’t just that he was tall and broad-shouldered, but his walk displayed what she could only sum up as a purposeful amble. Whatever it was, it seemed to get him what he wanted. Except her – so far. And probably one day . . .

  No, think Sweet Fanny Adams, she reminded herself, as she set off on her exploratory walk. Luke was right. Alone one could sniff a place more clearly.

  The church must once have been on the Pucken Manor estate, for she passed its driveway a little further along the road. The house was set well back, however, and was shielded from view. All that faced her was a wooden signboard, bearing an obviously home-generated poster headed ‘Next Ghost Tour’, which she stopped to read. The tour was to be on the Saturday of the bank holiday week at the beginning of May. Tickets £10, including tea. www.puckenghosts.com. Now that was a nice present to take home to Peter. He’d be on the internet in a flash.