by Amy Myers
‘I’m new to the village, renting a cottage till I find a place of my own.’
‘The village must be deeply affected by the murder,’ Georgia said. What luck – a disinterested resident. ‘It’s too small to be otherwise.’
‘Yes. Not a good time for me to arrive.’
‘It doesn’t strike me as a place that would welcome outsiders even at the best of times.’
‘You came back,’ the woman observed. ‘Anyway, I’m not making a claim on the place.’
‘An interesting way of putting it.’
‘Friday Street,’ said the woman brightly, ‘is interesting.’
Press her now, Georgia wondered, or later? The latter, she decided. If her new acquaintance had something to say, as she suspected she had, then she’d make another overture.
Peter was already waiting outside the tower with Cadenza, who was in full throttle. Peter made a good listener for one so voluble – when it suited him, as it clearly did now. Toby explained in hushed tones that today the re-enactment of the story of Lady Rosamund would not be held, owing to recent sad events. Only the tower would be shown. The tower had a modern door and surprisingly was wheelchair-accessible. The only upper flooring that remained was the flat roof itself, though the beam marks showed where two higher floors had once lain. The roof seemed to be intact – restored, perhaps – although in one corner she could see that the stone circular staircase, which twisted out of sight, petered out in places higher up, where masonry had crumbled.
‘Lady Rosamund’s tower,’ Cadenza began in ringing tones. ‘Legend has it that that was her name, but in fact she was a miller’s daughter, who caught the eye of a local nobleman. She would not submit to his foul desires as she loved another, a village lad by the name of Piers Brome. The nobleman locked the fair Rosamund in the tower until at last he forced her to submit to his dastardly will.’
No one else, thought Georgia, could possibly have got away with this, but from Cadenza even such words as dastardly sounded quite natural.
‘Every day,’ the story continued, ‘her sweetheart would pass the tower and call out to her. Then through treachery he came to believe Rosamund had betrayed him with the nobleman. He devised a way into the tower to rescue her, or, as some versions have it, to murder her. He found her dead, and was taken up for the crime. It was, we believe, the lord himself who murdered her. On his way to the gallows, it is said that her sweetheart doffed his cap but nevertheless cursed her for her unfaithfulness. Ever since, her ghost has haunted the tower, pleading that she was faithful to him.’
‘How did he kill her?’ Peter’s voice boomed out. ‘Was she stabbed?’
Cadenza looked grave. ‘It is believed so.’
‘Did Piers play his flute on the way to the gallows as a sign that he was innocent?’ Georgia chimed in. ‘Is that how the legend of the Friday Street music began?’ She had no evidence that Tim Perry’s flute melody had originated with Lady Rosamund, but it was a reasonable guess.
Her question could have meant nothing to most people there, but Toby went very white, and there was an audible intake of breath from Cadenza. Knocked from his routine patter, Toby admitted reluctantly, ‘Some say he played the pipes, yes.’
‘I believe it to be true,’ Cadenza declared loudly, her cheeks red. ‘Indeed I do.’
‘There’s fact behind the legend.’ Toby began to recover his form. ‘This used to be Knights Templar country. There was a Templar preceptory not that far away, in Waltham, where they owned considerable land to raise funds for the fighting of crusades and protection of pilgrims in the Holy Land. When the Templars were overthrown early in the fourteenth century, the Knights Hospitallers, their rival order, benefited by taking over most of their lands, though not without a hell of a legal fight in many instances. I’m reasonably sure they took over this land and established a priory here.’
‘Opposite the pub?’ Georgia asked, raising an unintentional laugh. The priory church might easily have been the site marked on the ordnance survey map.
‘This would once have been a road over the downs used by pilgrims and soldiers heading for refuge at the lodging house at Ospringe.’ Toby was not to be swayed from his patter. ‘The priory here was a holy order, of course, but it probably had civilian help, not only in working on their lands, but also running them. Younger sons of noblemen often found themselves a living like that. And it could be that the miller’s daughter was a serving maid at the priory.’
‘And is Piers Brome factual?’
‘Most certainly. He was a shepherd who was hung in 1335 for the murder of one Rose Smith.’
‘And Rose became Rosamund in the legend, I suppose,’ Georgia said chattily.
Toby swelled once more with tour-leader pride. ‘Rosamund was a popular name for ladies murdered in towers, stemming from Henry II’s mistress who was bumped off by Queen Eleanor, in what’s known as Fair Rosamund’s bower. Ours is clearly one version of it.’
‘Assuming Piers Brome was innocent,’ Georgia said, ‘and unjustly accused, one can assume the tune that has survived is what he played.’
Now he looked distinctly hostile. ‘There’s no proof at all. Good gracious.’ He made great play of inspecting his watch. ‘Is that the time? We must be getting back for tea and the museum.’
By the time the tea was over, most of the party had drifted away, and only Georgia, Peter and the dark lady, who introduced herself as Dana Tucker, remained to see the deodands. Georgia could see that Toby was torn between eagerness to display his beloved collection and doubt as to whether the Marshes seemed worthy of the honour.
The museum collection was in a converted barn behind the house, and Toby, once she had forced herself to overcome her distaste for the man, proved an interesting guide. Each object was ticketed with the details of the deed it had apparently committed. Hardly surprisingly, the collection stopped short of including locomotives or ships.
One case was conspicuously empty, which enabled Peter to pounce. ‘I presume that usually houses the dagger that killed Alice Winters? Would that be the one that Jake usually used in the drama played in the barn?’ Peter was now openly declaring their mission, since to Georgia’s knowledge no newspaper reports had released this detail.
‘In fact, yes.’ Toby scowled. ‘Though wildly out of period.’
‘And where is it now?’
‘It’s with the police.’
Poor Toby. They were rapidly turning into the tourists from hell.
Peter had no intention of letting him off the hook. ‘So was I at one time,’ he said casually. ‘Is this museum kept locked?’
Peter’s revelation roused Toby’s hackles again. ‘At night, but not during the day,’ he replied reluctantly. ‘Its value to anyone but a collector like myself is minimal.’
‘Apart from the French dagger.’
‘Correct.’ Toby looked increasingly bullish. ‘Though how could I know anyone would want to steal it? This case is kept locked.’ He pointed it out proudly. ‘The pride of my collection. The Montash Carver, forerunner of the table fork which was not introduced in this country until the seventeenth century and then not common. This carving fork dates from much earlier.’
Georgia gazed at the crude but sharp-looking double-pronged carver and its ornate carved handle. ‘A deodand?’ she asked. Stupid question, of course it was.
‘Lady Montash killed the sixth baronet with it, and her family naturally treasured it.’
Naturally? She tried not to catch Peter’s eye.
‘We, the Beamishes,’ Toby continued, ‘are descended from the Montashes, despite the claims of others in Friday Street that the Montashes lived where Downey Hall now stands. Alas, the title has now vanished.’
‘Owing to there being the odd murderer or two in the family,’ Peter suggested jovially.
‘You must have known Fanny Star quite well.’ Georgia switched subject, as if to help an awkward situation. ‘Since you accepted the deodand that killed her, when the Ludds offered it
to you.’
‘I’m a collector,’ Toby retorted angrily.
‘I hope I haven’t upset you,’ Georgia said anxiously. ‘You seem so interested in the murders that have taken place in the village that I assumed you’d know all about Fanny Star.’
Toby did not reply, but Cadenza did for him, and with some dignity. ‘Naturally we are interested, Miss Marsh.’
Peter had obviously introduced himself to her during their tête-à-tête. That must mean he saw her as a useful contact.
‘I shall explain why, Toby. Why should I not?’ Cadenza continued. ‘Cadenza is a traditional family name meaning one who is musical. My father was descended from the Piers Brome who went to the gallows, though we now spell our name “Broome”.’ (The Miss C. Broome of the church teas, Georgia realized.) ‘I am proud of my ancestor,’ Cadenza continued, ‘and I am quite certain he was innocent. Justice has not always been done in Friday Street. Our poor ghosts are evidence of that. It is for those who live to clear their names. That, Mr and Miss Marsh, is what we try to do in our small way.’
‘Did that answer your question?’ Dana asked casually as they left.
‘We’re just curious by nature,’ Georgia stonewalled.
‘Don’t worry,’ Dana said. ‘I’m an incomer and my shoulders are broad. My interest in Fanny Star and Friday Street is as keen as yours.’
‘You’re a fan of her music?’ Peter asked.
‘I am. You might like to see my cottage. It’s the one where she was born and brought up.’
‘The Gibbs’ home?’ Georgia asked in excitement.
Dana laughed. ‘I suspect your interest goes beyond the casual.’
Peter glanced at Georgia and she nodded. Time to come clean. Peter explained their job and their purpose in coming to Friday Street, while Dana listened intently. ‘So there’s a rumour that this music was played after the Alice Winters murder. How about Fanny Star’s?’ she asked.
‘Nothing yet. The village clams up at any mention of it.’
‘Why, I wonder?’
‘And I wonder,’ Georgia added, ‘who plays it?’ Had it been Tim Perry after Jake’s arrest? One thing was certain: Friday Street was unlikely to tell her.
End Cottage – not the most original of names, Georgia thought – was set well back from the road along a gravel lane. ‘Nineteenth-century, converted piecemeal over the years,’ Dana explained, when Peter parked the car. ‘When Fanny was growing up there was probably still a privy in the garden and a well for water. It still doesn’t have mains drainage.’
‘Is there anything left to link it with the Gibb family?’
‘Not that I know of. What you see is what you get.’
What they saw was a standard nineteenth-century cottage with functional furniture, some nice prints and books, and a long cottage garden behind the house. ‘I’ve made a start, as you can see,’ Dana said. ‘But I’ve got my work cut out. It hasn’t been tended for years, not since Mrs Gibb left.’ A small area had been cut back for cultivation and to provide a sitting area.
Georgia had been hoping for a sense of unfinished business in this house, but she was disappointed. ‘When did Mrs Gibb die?’
‘She didn’t,’ Dana replied. ‘She’s still alive and well in a home.’
‘Here? In Friday Street?’ Peter demanded.
‘I don’t know where. I can find out if you eager sleuths wish, but don’t get your hopes up. I was told she has Alzheimer’s and her husband died some years ago.’
Georgia’s hopes plummeted again. Still, it would be worth visiting her in due course – if, she reminded herself, they went ahead with this case.
Dana paused, hands stuck in pockets staring out to the open fields beyond. ‘This legend about the music,’ she said. ‘Does it imply that Jake Baines could be innocent?’ When Georgia nodded, she added, ‘So if it was heard when Fanny died, it implies that Adam Jones was too.’
‘That’s right.’ Georgia looked at her curiously, wondering what was on her mind.
‘In that case,’ Dana rallied briskly,’ you must meet the Ludds. Fortunately, this being May bank holiday weekend, the grounds of Downey Hall are open tomorrow, and from what I know of Michael, he’ll be right there.’
‘Is he the owner now?’
‘I presume so. He’s Henry Ludd’s son. His father now lives in a house in the grounds, I gather. Probably to keep an eye on the place. He’s frightfully keen on family and tradition, even though the Ludds have only scored a little over half a century there so far. I was told he’s rising ninety, but he doesn’t look it. Michael and his wife Sheila live in the main house and their grandson Drew is living with them a lot of the time. Dynasty creation, you see. He’s a student at Canterbury and a mate of Tim Perry. I suppose he’s sacrificed freedom for cheap lodgings. He’s all right, is Drew.’
‘Will you be going to the hall?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I like prowling in the steps of two famous sleuths.’
‘We’re hardly Poirot and Marple,’ Peter protested mildly.
‘Even they might be baffled by Friday Street.’
*
‘Are we being encouraged?’ Peter asked as he drove home.
‘Definitely prodded.’
‘Why?’
‘Newcomer’s curiosity? Friend of the family? Friend of Adam Jones’ family? Or just that Dana’s living in Fanny Star’s birthplace? Anyway, let’s go. We could have lunch at the Montash Arms. We’re known faces now so there’s no harm to be done.’ Indeed, Georgia thought, with a place like Friday Street the mud needed to be stirred a little before it would yield its secrets.
When they arrived on the Sunday, the restaurant was crowded and the garden tables too, though they managed to beat the competition to the last table. Or rather, Peter did, by driving his wheelchair up full tilt, which as usual left him the victor. It could have been any pub anywhere, for the general air of hostility they had encountered earlier was now dispersed by the holiday crowd.
As she walked through the bar to the toilets, she caught a sight of the burly man whom she had seen at Christmas and, hearing him addressed as Bob by Josh, sitting in his familiar place, confirmed that this was his son – Alice’s employer. Tim resembled Josh more than Bob. At that moment Josh glanced up, and she waved at him, conscious that his eyes followed her. On her way out he beckoned her over.
‘Who are you rambling with today then?’ He glanced at her summer suit and sandals.
‘I’ve brought my father. He’s in a wheelchair and I thought he’d like to see Downey Hall gardens.’ Brought? No one brought Peter anywhere, but it made a good excuse.
‘Taken a fancy to our village, have you?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘Look, Josh, I’m very sorry. I heard about the murder of your barmaid, but didn’t want to put my foot in it by mentioning it last time I came.’
Josh looked at her oddly then nodded slowly. ‘Put your foot in it if you like, Georgia. Just make sure it comes out safely again. Sins of the fathers. That’s the story of Friday Street.’
He called her Georgia. Deliberately. ‘So he’s known all along,’ she told Peter wryly once back in the garden. ‘Through Dana, do you think, or Toby?’
‘Simpler than that,’ Peter said. ‘Ted Mulworthy. I bet you Friday Street knew we were interested in its murders before that tasty hunk of fore rib was even roasted.’
‘If he knows who we are,’ Georgia frowned, ‘what did he mean by “the sins of the fathers”?’
‘Don’t put too much money on it. He’s a Perry, and wouldn’t be referring to his own family. It was probably a generalization to mislead outsiders. Game players all, these Friday Street folk.’
*
‘Impressive,’ Peter commented as they drove up through the grounds of Downey Hall and parked in front of the house. At the wheel of a car her father had the dash of a mad charioteer whipping his steeds onwards, which was why she preferred to drive herself, but on occasion it was diplomatic to bow
to his wishes. Her father manoeuvred himself out of the car, and they joined Dana who was waiting for them.
‘Is the house open too?’ Georgia asked her.
‘Good heavens, no. From what little I know of her, Sheila would faint at a muddy boot in her house.’
‘Who plays squire in this village?’ Peter asked. ‘Toby Beamish or Michael Ludd?’
‘Interesting question. Toby, technically, but he seems to leave it to the Ludds. He’s not interested in the community. Michael is a JP, and General Lord High Execut— Whoops. Crass of me,’ Dana said ruefully.
‘Big Bossy Boots, then,’ Georgia suggested.
‘Precisely. The Ludds haven’t been here long enough to earn the gate money to admit them to full Friday Street approval so they have to work extra hard to win brownie points. That’s why Michael and Sheila are sure to be around today. Look, there’s Drew at the gate, doing his chip-off-the-old-block act.’
Through the iron gate in the wall to one side of the house Georgia could see the entry desk, and Drew had the job of directing visitors through the gate. He was a good-looking lad with a shock of dark hair and classical features, and Dana’s comments were pertinent. Drew was almost too welcoming.
The pathway led straight to the terrace and down to the formal gardens, with the estate stretching out on both sides. As they reached it, she could see a marquee to one side, obviously the tea tent, and on the other side lay a large natural arena of grass surrounded on one side by trees and bushes and on the further two sides by woodland. At present the bushes were a riot of colour with rhododendrons and azaleas coming into flower.
‘That must have been where the shows took place,’ she observed.
‘Only the evening one,’ Dana said. ‘The afternoon one was held in the public area in front of the house for those who forked out their entrance fee.’
‘They paid?’ Georgia queried. ‘On the Ludds’ engagement day?’
‘The family doesn’t seem averse to the odd penny,’ Dana replied. ‘Not that it’s short of cash.’
‘How does it make its money?’
‘Used to make it, so far as Michael’s concerned. I think he’s a retired businessman. Owned a thriving catering company, or something of the sort. Henry, his father, was in the RAF during the Second World War. He was stationed here and fell in love with Downey Hall, which was an RAF HQ in those days. So he popped back and bought the place a few years later. Must have come from a rich family I imagine, and then he compounded his luck by going into the family food industry and making another pile.’
