by Amy Myers
‘You’re doing pretty well for a newcomer.’ Georgia tried not to sound patronizing or sarcastic, but must have failed because Dana looked amused.
‘Village gossip travels faster than Spitfires. Gossip, that is, which isn’t considered a Friday Street secret. The Beamishes and the Ludds aren’t, and so they’re a subject of never-ending speculation. They don’t speak to each other, you see. As a result, it’s not done to refer to a Beamish in the presence of a Ludd or vice versa. So don’t boast here about our going on the ghost tour yesterday.’
‘Why the feud?’ Peter demanded. ‘Are the Luds fighting over the right to call the Montashes theirs?’
Dana laughed. ‘Sounds good, but I don’t know.’
Peter drove into the centre of the grassy area and studied it. He always liked to sit for a while, ‘getting his orientation’ as he put it, though quiet meditation was hardly possible today with half the village wandering around the gardens.
‘If the stage was there . . . No, can’t have been,’ he mused aloud. ‘It must have been there.’ He pointed to the far side of the arena, away from the house, and behind which they could see the wooded area extending for quite a distance. ‘It won’t tell us much, but I’ll take a look,’ he declared, whirling his wheelchair round.
He was forestalled by Dana calling, ‘Michael, the gardens are looking magnificent.’ Georgia turned round to see Mine Host of Stately Homes of England.
‘Splendid,’ he announced cordially as Dana introduced them. ‘I’ve heard of you, of course. Marsh & Daughter, the righters of wrongs.’ Michael seemed genial enough, Georgia thought, well built, well dressed, well intentioned, apparently. Poured out of a middle-class mould. Despite the over-heartiness, he was at least welcoming them, which boded well. She thought back to the statement he had made to the police at the time of the murder. This was the man who, together with his father, had found Adam with the body.
‘And what brings you to Friday Street?’ Michael continued. ‘Professional reasons? Poor little Alice Winters?’
Georgia answered. ‘No, the Fanny Star murder.’ No point in reticence.
‘We wanted to see the scene of the crime,’ Peter said, doing his own brand of genial.
Michael didn’t even blink. So he knew all about them already. Hardly surprising, she supposed. ‘That’s natural enough,’ he said. ‘I’m amazed we haven’t had the whole of Grub Street here this afternoon. Do you have a book in mind?’ It sounded a casual question, but he looked keenly interested in the answer.
‘We always do. It’s the process from being “in mind” to decision-making that takes time,’ Peter stonewalled. ‘After all, there’s never been any doubt about Adam Jones’ guilt, has there?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. I’ll have to get back to my post, but I’ll get Drew to show you round. He’s fascinated by the murder on his own doorstep, so he feels possessive about it, but he might cough up a few facts for you.’
Exit Mine Host rather rapidly, Georgia thought, but he was replaced remarkably quickly by Drew, who arrived before Peter had even had a chance to drive straight for the wooded area to sniff it out for himself. Keeping an eye on the suspects, were they?
‘So you’re interested in the Fanny Star murder?’ she began. ‘Why’s that?’
Drew was immediately animated in a way his welcoming smile at the gate had failed to achieve. ‘It’s the music, isn’t it?’
Someone at last prepared to talk about the Friday Street tune? No such luck. Perhaps, it occurred to her, she was blowing that tune up to proportions it did not warrant.
‘It’s lasted,’ Drew was saying. ‘That album of theirs was . . . well, seminal. Taking tradition, shaking it up inside out, rejecting the false and sterile, creating a platform for the future. God, when you think what they might have done if she hadn’t been killed like that. I’ll show you where it happened if you like.’
He led the way to the wide strip of thick bushes and trees on the far side of the arena. They followed him along a pathway, and then he disappeared into what seemed an impenetrable screen of bushes. Pushing after him, both she and Dana helped Peter steer his way through. They found themselves in a dark clearing screened by bushes and about five yards in diameter with a wooden bench in the middle. Who would want to sit in this dark place, she wondered, where it was all too easy to imagine the inert body and the weeping young man at its side?
‘Here,’ Drew said, almost with pride. ‘Owlers’ Smoke.’
‘What on earth’s that?’ Dana asked.
Drew regarded her pityingly, to Georgia’s amusement. ‘Where the smugglers brought their dope and that.’
‘Dope?’ Peter queried with a straight face. ‘They smuggled opium all the way from China when it wasn’t even illegal?’
‘Yeah, well. Tobacco, brandy, that stuff. This place is riddled with tunnels if you know where to look. This was one of their dumps. There’s some kind of stone cellar under here.’
‘And the bench is where they took their pinch of baccy?’
‘Great-Grandpops had it put there.’
That seemed odd. Henry Ludd? ‘Why?’ Georgia asked, ‘and how did Fanny come to be here? Was her body moved here?’
‘No. This is where they met, didn’t they?’
‘Who?’ Peter asked sharply. ‘She and Adam?’
‘No. The gang.’
‘What gang?’ Smugglers raced through Georgia’s mind.
Drew began to look hunted. ‘Her gang. The gang they all belonged to before she left the village.’
‘Who,’ Georgia asked patiently, ‘are they?’
‘I don’t know them all. Grandpops will know.’
‘Your grandfather and great-grandfather found the body, didn’t they?’
‘Yeah. Then half the party came along to have a look. No crime scene managers in those days to keep the punters away.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve made quite a study of it.’
He shrugged. ‘I grew up with it, and then got interested in the music. Grandad thinks I’m weird and Grannie that I’m even weirder. Memories of nasty corpses are a stain on her beloved garden. Understandable. It was their engagement party after all.’
There proved to be more than a seat in this eerie place. Dana pointed out a memorial stone as well, and Georgia went to join her there, though the ground was too soft for Peter’s wheelchair. It was not the usual engraved granite block she would have expected, but a cairn built of Kentish ragstone with an inscribed slate memorial, and etched borders of guitar and musical notes. It read: ‘In memory of the bright star, Frances Gibb, 1944–1968. Rosa Mundi. Free from cold and care.’
Georgia shivered. It conjured up vivid images. ‘Who erected the memorial?’
‘Village subscription, I think. The body was lying here on an old mac.’ Drew indicated with his arms.
‘Huddled on one side,’ Dana said briefly, ‘at least by the time other people arrived.’
‘Adam might have moved the body when he pulled the dagger out, except that the mac underneath her suggests that if so it couldn’t have been very far,’ Georgia said.
Drew began to inch away, his face slightly green. ‘I’ll introduce you to my great-grandfather – and Grannie too if you like. You can ask them the details.’
When they reached the tent, Dana pointed out Sheila Ludd, who was supervising the teas, and while Drew took Peter to find his great-grandfather, Georgia and Dana tackled the hostess. It wouldn’t have been hard to pick her out. The ice-queen hostess: cool, calm, collected, well groomed, beautifully dressed with short fair hair with grey carefully interspersed.
‘You must be Georgia Marsh,’ she said, having greeted Dana. Her voice was tinkly, as befitted an ice queen. ‘Michael told me about you. I understand you’re interested in our grisly murder. The most recent, that is.’
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Georgia said frankly. ‘It must be both tedious and upsetting for you constantly to be reminded of such a terrible time.’
&nb
sp; Sheila inclined her head in acknowledgement, though little emotion crossed that calm face. ‘It’s a long time ago, and Adam Jones has been dead for many years too. We see it more objectively now.’
‘Did you know Fanny well?’ Georgia was fascinated by the lines on Sheila’s face, which didn’t quite fit her smile when she relaxed it. Dana was right, she decided. She wouldn’t wear muddy shoes if she went calling at Downey Hall.
‘Yes, I did. We were all much of an age, and I was brought up quite close to this village. Nevertheless, on that dreadful day, it was rather like meeting a stranger, for Frances had changed so much. Of course years get shorter as we grow older, don’t they?’ She addressed this to Peter who had just driven up.
‘Georgia, come over and meet Henry,’ Peter suggested very firmly, after exchanging courtesies, and she made her excuses to Sheila with some relief. It had felt like circling round the picket fence with Stonehenge in the middle: much to be admired, but keep your distance.
Henry Ludd was altogether different. She could see the RAF in this man, she thought as she was being introduced. Even though he was nearly ninety, he was still reasonably erect and straight-shouldered. He even had the classic RAF moustache, and his eyes were summing her up keenly, she noticed.
‘You’re interested in Frances Gibb, I understand,’ he said.
‘Yes. You must have known her quite well as she grew up in the village.’
‘I did.’ The calm grey eyes looked straight at her. His tone suggested that was the end of that topic, but then she decided to continue anyway.
‘Did she show any signs as a child of her later wildness?’
‘No. Frances was a gentle girl. And kind, yes, very kind.’
Kind, she wondered? That wild, drug-addicted whirling dervish of a singer? Had the hard edge of experience caused that much difference?
‘Did she spend the whole day here, or go to see her parents and friends?’
‘All day – she arrived for a buffet lunch, I recall, and was here all the time after that. Mr and Mrs Gibb came here. So far as I know, Frances did not visit her former home.’
‘Were her old friends here to greet her?’ Georgia continued, trying to get a picture of what had happened that day.
‘The gang was here, of course.’
The ‘gang’ again. Georgia glanced at Drew. ‘Who were they?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t recall all of them,’ Henry said politely. ‘They used to go around as a group in their early and middle teens. Michael would know; he was one of them, and that dreadful fellow at Pucken Manor. Oliver tagged along, and Josh Perry and Sheila.’
‘Gran? Was she one of them?’ Drew looked surprised.
‘Indeed. She was Frances’s best friend.’
Best friend? Georgia grappled with this image. Sheila had merely said she knew her well. True, their conversation had been brief. Nevertheless, today’s elegant cash-confident Sheila bore little resemblance to the wild creature that had been Fanny Star. People changed, but did they change that much?
‘Did you know Adam Jones?’ she asked Henry.
‘I met him for the first time that day. We all did. He seemed such a nice lad. I couldn’t understand it.’
‘And was the Friday Street music heard when he was arrested?’ Georgia held her breath, waited for the usual dismissal.
It didn’t come. He smiled at her. ‘Yes,’ he said gently. ‘I believe it was.’
Chapter Four
‘Convinced?’ Peter chortled triumphantly. He had saved the dissection process until he was back in his own den, as usual. Georgia sometimes thought he drove in a make-believe world of his own, steering Dr Who’s telephone box.
‘By the music or by our next book being about Fanny Star?’ she asked.
‘Both, but number two first.’
‘With reluctance, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Still not a shred of evidence that Adam Jones was innocent.’
‘Why else drown himself in the Medway?’
‘Why drown himself if innocent? Unless . . .’ She caught Peter’s eye.
‘Don’t go there.’
‘Why not? It seems logical to me. Perhaps he didn’t drown himself.’
‘I thought,’ Peter gloated, ‘you required evidence. There is none over Adam, only an interesting tune. Incidentally, do you recall how it went?’
‘It’s in my head,’ Georgia admitted reluctantly.
‘Would it emerge on to Elena’s piano?’
For a moment she thought she’d misheard. Her mother’s baby piano sat forlornly in the corner of their office serving as a base for potted plants and a dumping ground for piles of papers. It had become part of the scenery and was never, never played.
‘Why?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘All that’s important is the fact that it exists and we’re still not sure it’s the same tune as that of the Friday Street legend.’
‘Dearest Georgia. Play or sing it to Cadenza. She is our one possible ally, it seems to me, and it might serve to loosen the tongue, if only through shock that you know it.’
‘You,’ Georgia retorted, ‘are a hard taskmaster.’
‘So glad you’re convinced about our next collaboration.’
‘I’m not. Is it wise to attack the village on its sorest point?’
He looked at her reproachfully. ‘Since when has that deterred you, daughter mine?’
‘Never.’ She gave in. ‘I’ll take it one stage further and tackle Cadenza. What will you be doing?’
‘I thought I might educate myself on the sixties pop scene, not to mention trial reports, and also endeavour to track down this interesting gentleman Jonathan Powell.’
‘Who?’ For a moment Georgia had forgotten who he was.
‘Supposedly Fanny’s lover.’
*
‘I thought you might like to have these.’ Georgia thrust out her prepared package with what she hoped was a winning smile.
Cadenza looked completely taken aback, as well she might at an erstwhile ghost-tour customer turning up unannounced on her doorstep. Especially an awkward one.
Greeted by aghast silence, Georgia took two tentative steps back, to indicate she was no threat.
‘How very kind.’ Cadenza took the package and looked at it helplessly.
‘They’re copies of some articles I’ve dug out on the Fair Rosamund story and its connections to classical labyrinth legends,’ Georgia explained brightly.
‘Oh.’ Colour began to return to Cadenza’s cheeks. ‘That’s most thoughtful.’ She hesitated, and Georgia could read her mind all too clearly. I ought to invite her in. I don’t want to, but . . . Very well, Georgia would make the idea irresistible.
‘Of course,’ Georgia said, ‘you must know there’s a link with ancient Troy?’ She pitched her voice to rise invitingly.
‘No. No, I didn’t.’ The zest for knowledge was winning. ‘Would you have time for a cup of tea?’
Georgia would. Georgia also breathed a great sigh of relief even though it would mean she would have to expound on labyrinths, mazes and Rosamund Clifford for some considerable time – subjects in which she had become an overnight expert.
‘So fascinating,’ Cadenza breathed, enthralled as several cups of tea and much talk ensued. It proved no great hardship, in fact. It was a delightful cottage, as Cadenza had clearly taken it over lock, stock and barrel from her parents, and seen no point in changing anything. The same nineteenth-century iron fireplace, with its colourful tiles, the willow-patterned china on the dresser, and even an old radiogram from the fifties. There was a reasonably modern television, but even that seemed to live comfortably with the world of Cadenza’s youth.
‘Of course, I doubt if our tower would contribute to world learning,’ Cadenza added wistfully.
‘Why not? You have fascinating legends here,’ Georgia pointed out. ‘And the main one involves your ancestor.’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ Cadenza clasped her hands together.
‘T
he tale of his flute is unique,’ Georgia prompted her.
Instant silence. Damn, I’ve fouled up, Georgia thought, furious with herself for going too far too quickly.
Eventually Cadenza replied awkwardly, ‘Toby does not like me to talk of that.’
Georgia struggled for lost ground. ‘Oh, but that’s such a pity when your own ancestor is involved. Why is that?’ She injected a note of anguish into her voice, at the same time wrestling with her conscience, which told her it was unfair to wind Cadenza up.
‘He feels it would encourage imitators.’ That took Georgia aback. ‘If,’ Cadenza continued, ‘the tune were generally known, it might be used in circumstances that did not warrant it, Toby says. True villains might escape their just desserts.’
She had a point, Georgia supposed. ‘Nevertheless,’ she continued, equally validly, ‘it is a signal to Friday Street of innocence. If the tune is not to be generally known outside the village, it becomes worthless since its value therefore depends on what happens thereafter.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Cadenza said flatly.
‘If the music is heard, does anyone investigate to discover the truth?’
‘I don’t know the answer, I’m afraid.’ Cadenza’s voice was becoming clipped. ‘After all, it isn’t played often. There was a case when the Winters’ barn was burnt . . .’
She stopped, and Georgia realized she was again going too fast. She had to rescue the situation. ‘Listen to this,’ she began gently. There was a piano in the room but she didn’t want to run the risk of a refusal. Instead she hummed the tune that she had heard at Christmas, hoping that sheer surprise would produce the right answer.
‘Is that the tune?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Cadenza, obviously horrified. ‘But how do you know it?’
