by Amy Myers
‘I heard it here last Christmas. Tim Perry was playing it in the pub.’
‘But that was before . . .’ Cadenza flushed at her indiscretion.
‘Alice Winters’ murder,’ Georgia finished for her. ‘Don’t worry.’ She comforted her. ‘I think he was playing it for a joke, not realizing there were strangers in the bar. Do you think it was Tim playing it when Jake Baines was arrested?’
‘I don’t know.’ Cadenza was very firm about this. ‘No one does.’
‘Tim’s a friend of Jake Baines, isn’t he? He could have been playing it in the hope he was innocent, rather than in the knowledge that he was.’
Cadenza was in command of herself now. ‘He wouldn’t dare. Tim works at Jane Winters’ farm, as Jake did. Jane is Alice’s mother and he wouldn’t want to upset her. If he was the player after dear Alice’s death, he would have to have known Jake was innocent. Friday Street is very strict about that. You see . . .’
‘I won’t use this information without permission,’ Georgia said gently, when Cadenza once again halted. Tim Perry had as close a link to Alice as Jake? Could that be significant? ‘But if Friday Street doesn’t pursue an injustice itself,’ she continued, ‘then someone else should.’
Cadenza kept her lips firmly shut this time. The message was clear, and Georgia obeyed it.
‘It’s not Jake Baines I’m interested in. It’s Fanny Star.’
Cadenza looked a little less obstinate. ‘Adam Jones murdered her. There was no doubt about it.’
‘But the music was heard then, even though it seems no one followed it up. Is it always a flute?’ she added, when Cadenza made no reply. ‘The same flute?’
‘We do not know. Anyway,’ she snapped, ‘the name “flute” came in much later than Piers Brome’s time. More probably his instrument was a simple three-holed pipe.’
‘And what’s used now?’
‘Any such wind instrument, I presume.’ Cadenza was clearly in agony at having inadvertently been drawn back into the subject. ‘It is only the music that is handed down, and that’s orally, not in written form. I was only a child when Adam Jones was arrested, but,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘I heard the music during the night. It came over the amplifiers at Downey Hall. The whole village heard it.’
‘So someone at Downey Hall must have played it?’ Georgia knew she should not seem overeager, or she’d frighten Cadenza again. To her relief, the opposite happened. Cadenza must have realized she wasn’t going to give up, and bowed before the wind.
‘Anyone could have played it,’ Cadenza said earnestly. ‘It’s part of the tradition that no one asks. It’s anonymous, a call to the village that something is wrong, and that anyone with knowledge of the crime must reveal it. We’re all on our honour. That’s how it works.’
Or doesn’t work, thought Georgia. Gone were the days when villagers could be so shamed before their peers.
‘So no one person would have been forced to go to investigate the crime,’ Cadenza continued. ‘One examines one’s own conscience and memory.’
Georgia could see a flaw or two in Cadenza’s system. If there was no one person responsible for seeing that something happened after the music was played, nothing would. ‘So why alert the whole village, not just the police?’
‘One can have knowledge without having evidence such as the police would accept.’
Georgia accepted that. ‘Was the music amplified when Jake Baines was arrested?’
‘No. It was in the middle of the night. A flautist went round all the streets, piping short snatches of the tune in each one.’
‘And no one caught him?’
‘Why should we want to? He – or she,’ Cadenza added fairly, ‘is one of us.’
The Pied Piper of Friday Street, thought Georgia, only in this case the residents of the village did not flock out to follow him. They preferred to close their eyes in sleep – and perhaps their minds too. Why not, indeed? One person’s ‘knowledge’ of guilt might not bear investigation. Time to switch subjects, she thought. She’d upset Cadenza enough.
‘Just one more thing. I’d like to meet Mrs Gibb. I asked Dana Tucker where the home was, but she didn’t know. She was going to ask you about it, but as I’m here . . .’ She let her voice trail off invitingly.
Cadenza looked surprised. ‘That’s strange. I thought dear Dana visited her quite recently.’
Odd, Georgia thought. Dana had seemed willing enough to share her information with them, so why not mention that? ‘Perhaps Mrs Gibb doesn’t like visits from people she doesn’t know.’
‘She loves all visitors, for I’m afraid we’re all strangers to some extent to her. She tells us all the same thing.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘That she’s the Queen of Sheba. She’s in the Beeches at Charing. Now, you won’t tell anyone what I’ve told you, will you? Toby would be very cross with me.’
‘You haven’t told me anything I didn’t basically know already,’ Georgia reassured her. ‘You just enlarged it a little.’
Cadenza was easily convinced. ‘You’re quite right. And if there really was injustice over Fanny Star then it should be followed up. But I don’t think the village discovered anything new as a result of the music or Toby would know about it. He’s very clever about such things, And very kind. After all he’s been through, it’s quite amazing, the dear man.’
After all he’s been through? Georgia pondered this as she went back to her car. She’d been hard put to it not to demand elucidation, but discretion won this time.
She found the Beeches nursing home set some way off the A20 near Charing. It was a splendid red-brick, almost gothic, nineteenth-century residence, now converted rather well, Georgia thought, as she was conducted to the public area. This was a large room with a splendid huge conservatory beyond it in which some of the more lively residents were sitting.
Doreen Gibb was not one of them. She was inside, though she looked hale and hearty. For some reason Georgia had expected a small, anxious-looking woman and was somewhat taken aback to find a plump woman in an armchair, with a mop of grey hair – once ginger, she wondered? Directly Mrs Gibb saw her she burst out laughing, more like the old fairground laughing-sailor machine than a victim of a cruel disease.
‘She gets plenty of visitors,’ said the nurse. ‘All her old friends come over to see her. Not a lot they can talk about, but they do their best, chatting away.’ Georgia had not yet decided on her own approach, but it was irrelevant. As soon as it was clear she was coming to see her, Doreen Gibb began waving wildly, still laughing.
‘Hallo,’ she cried. ‘I wondered when you were coming, Frances.’
‘I’m Frances’s friend,’ Georgia amended.
‘I’ll have some of that Ponds face cream when you next come, Fran.’
‘I’ll remember. You’re Fran’s mother, aren’t you, Mrs Gibb?’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘I’m the Queen of Sheba.’
‘So you are,’ Georgia replied politely.
Mrs Gibb roared with laughter. ‘You’d better hang on, darling. The gang will be here in a jiff.’
Georgia misunderstood. ‘The nurses?’
‘No. What’s his name. The Jug.’
Georgia grasped this one. ‘You mean Toby?’ she asked.
Mrs Gibb crowed with laughter. ‘Tom, there’s Tom and her and the others.’
Firm ground at last. ‘Does Tom still come to see you?’
‘No.’ The laughter stopped. ‘Good thing too.’
‘And Adam? Does Fran talk about him too?’
Mrs Gibb looked puzzled. ‘Don’t know him, but I’m the Queen of Sheba.’
*
‘So who’s Tom?’ Georgia concluded her account to Peter on her return.
‘He probably doesn’t exist. Nevertheless I’ll make him a Burglar Bill.’
‘You’ll what?’ Georgia then realized that Peter was looking highly pleased with himself.
‘Our new toy. Courtesy of
Charlie.’
‘He’s been over?’ Charlie Bone was her cousin, the son of Peter’s sister Gwen. He was dear to them both. His cheerful face surrounded by a mop of unruly black hair was guaranteed to liven up any day. He was a computer wizard, and their guru in times of trouble.
‘More than that. He’s installed Suspects Anonymous in both our machines.’
‘Thanks,’ Georgia said dubiously. ‘Just what is it?’ Charlie’s ideas could either be brilliant or scatterbrained.
‘Software he’s invented specially for us, either as a game or a tool. Look, I’ve been playing with it all day.’ Peter clicked on the icon and she watched entranced as a cursor in the form of a Sherlock Holmes’ magnifying glass whizzed over a succession of different coloured ‘Burglar Bills and Bettys’ – so named, Peter told her, because they resembled old-fashioned burglars complete with stripy tee shirts, caps, eye masks (removable, Peter explained) and a bag marked ‘swag’ over their shoulder.
‘Evidence goes into the swag bag,’ Peter said. ‘Look.’
He clicked on one of them, and an evidence menu popped up. Under ‘artefacts’ only one item was listed: a flute.
‘Very clever.’ Georgia meant it. She found it charming, as Peter moved the magnifying glass so that Burglars tiptoed on and off screen. ‘But what does it do, apart from cheer us up?’
‘For one thing, we can feed data such as suspects’ movements, alleged or proven, into the respective Burglar files, and then activate the game to reveal discrepancies.’
She began to see. ‘Everybody present on the day of Fanny’s death can be a Burglar Bill; we put in the information we have, press OK and see it as it would have played out that day. Do we have manual control as well?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then we can work out who’s fibbing. I can’t wait.’
‘If they meet in a head-on collision we know someone’s lying.’
‘Let’s go. It won’t get us anywhere with Friday Street but at least we’ll go down laughing.’
‘If you take that attitude, we never will get anywhere.’
‘You’re right.’
There was no point getting ready to throw in the sponge so early on. That being so, Friday Street was the hardest nut to crack. She was beginning to realize just how close-knit the village was, and that being the case, how much closer it must have been in Fanny’s day. This tradition of the music was no sweet legend; it pointed to a much darker side of Friday Street which still existed. Alice Winters’ murder could be proof of that.
He grinned. ‘How about a drive to the West Country?’
Peter had flummoxed her. ‘Why and where?’ she asked.
‘To meet Jonathan Powell.’
‘Really? The manager and lover himself.’ Not what she’d expected, but if anyone could provide a solid reason for their continuing this investigation, he could.
‘Possible lover,’ Peter amended. ‘I’m rather pleased with myself. He took some ferreting out with the help of my best persuasive techniques. In the 1980s he joined a large management group. He’s now retired, not unnaturally since I gather he’s about seventy. Living in Sherborne.’
‘Dorset.’
‘The same. Nice place. You should be grateful to me for letting you see the world.’
‘I am. And you to me for obeying you so readily.’
*
Georgia felt rather like Mr Toad herself as she drove her Alfa Romeo 147 down to Dorset two days later. She’d chosen the A30 out of sheer sentimentality, despite its winding curves and bends, since it spoke so much of happy trips in the past. So what if some of these had been with Zac? Even more had been with her parents, and one or two with Luke. She was looking forward to discussing Friday Street with him, but not perhaps until she had made up her own mind about it. She’d thought of asking if he’d like to come today, but resisted the temptation. The request would have been for private pleasure not for work purposes, and she tried to apply the same discipline in this as the Inland Revenue did in judging her expenses, bless them. She dragged her thoughts away from Luke and on to Jonathan Powell, lover and – if it wasn’t going too far – at least witness to murder.
What sort of man could she expect? She’d conjured up an image of a former pop group manager, showing signs of heavy drink and drug usage, and thus wasn’t prepared for the real Jonathan Powell or for the elegant town house that greeted her when she arrived.
The house was tastefully decorated and elegant antiques abounded. Zac would have felt at home here – except that in his case most of the latter would have been dishonestly acquired. Not stolen, he would say indignantly, but acquired by discussion. She hadn’t visited Sherborne before and was impressed by the elegance of the town. Not the sort of place to entertain the pop world of Sweet Fanny Adams.
Nor did Jonathan Powell fit her image of him. He suited his cultured, almost academic voice; he was slender and white-haired, with a quiet manner and keen eye.
‘Do come in, Miss Marsh. It’s a splendid afternoon. Shall we repair to the garden?’
They duly did so. It was very much a town garden, small, paved, and brought to life with pots and bushes, but it was restful and secluded.
There was no mention or sign of a wife, she noticed, though the house didn’t have the feel of a bachelor or gay pad. Photographs were everywhere, one of a middle-aged Jonathan with a woman. His wife? There was one of Fanny, which was outstanding, reminiscent of the famous photo of Jacqueline du Pré with her cello. It showed Fanny with a mike in her hand, mid-song, obviously transplanted into a realm of her own. There was no photo of her with Adam, but two of him alone, one in a studio, and one in a garden, looking almost shyly into the camera.
A pleasant interlude with Lady Grey tea and petits fours preceded business talk, and Georgia took her cue from Jonathan over leaving all discussion until tea was finished. She was interested by this. He wants to size me up, she thought. Why? Is he wondering how gullible I am, or just whether he feels he can trust me?
‘Your father mentioned on the telephone,’ he began at last, ‘that you’re wondering whether Adam Jones might have been innocent. You wish to discuss that possibility?’
‘Yes, please, but first my father and I need to get the flavour of what happened. So far as we can discover there’s never been a whole book devoted to either Sweet Fanny Adams or the murder trial. Did you ever think of writing one?’
‘I did not.’
‘Did you give evidence at the trial?’
She had read his statement to the police but it had told her little. At about eight forty he had walked over to the stage to check with the soundmen that everything was ready for the show. He was surprised not to see Fanny there, as he hadn’t seen her in the house since she left the dining table so abruptly. He went back to the house assuming he’d see her there, and when he didn’t he raised the alarm. That would have been about ten to nine. Someone suggested Fanny might be in Owlers’ Smoke, and Michael and Henry went to search there while others searched the house. Henry had then come back to break the news.
‘I was prepared to take the stand, but I wasn’t called.’
‘That’s surprising,’ Georgia said, ‘as you were their manager.’
‘Not really. The defence was reluctant to call me in case I was forced to reveal that Fanny wanted to go solo, thus confirming the prosecution’s claim that Adam killed her in his fury.’
‘Then why didn’t the prosecution call you?’
‘Because I would vehemently deny that Adam had any personal motive for killing her, especially any involving myself.’
‘There were allegations in witness statements about that. And in magazine articles.’ Several in fact. One boasted of a love affair between Fanny and Adam, two others between Fanny and manager Jonathan. Another claimed that Fanny wanted to strike out on her own.
‘The witnesses who claimed to have heard Fanny and Adam arguing about my personal part in their lives were attacked by the defence in that respect, howe
ver correct they might have been over Fanny herself wishing to go solo.’ Jonathan Powell began to seem more human with that out of the way. ‘Am I being taped?’ he asked.
‘Not if you don’t wish it. I can take pencil notes.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Notes only at this stage,’ he replied briskly. ‘If it comes to a book, you may come back to me for taped quotes.’
‘Does Sweet Fanny Adams still seem close to you?’
‘If Brian Epstein were still alive and had been in the same position with his group, I think he’d still find it very close. That’s how I feel about Sweet Fanny Adams.’
‘Were you with them from the beginning?’
‘From the beginning of Fanny Star herself. I first saw her by chance in a Woolwich pub with a group that was fast going nowhere giving lacklustre imitations of Tommy Steele’s “Singing the Blues”. No talent, no spark. Fanny stood out head and shoulders above the rest, even though she hadn’t yet found her niche. It was 1963. The pub was hardly the club centre of the world, and I thought she might develop into something, so I followed her progress for a while, then persuaded her to come off the booze and go solo. I decided it might be worth my supporting her financially for a while, and, no, I didn’t sleep with her. Finally she cut her first single at the end of 1964. It had a moderate success, bringing enough bookings to keep her going, but I felt she needed something more. Then I ran into Adam in the West Country, not far from here, and I had a hunch their voices might go well together. I was right. It took a year or so to work their act out, and then it went off like a firecracker. Sweet Fanny Adams was born at just the right time, sufficiently before “Sergeant Pepper” to get established and then to use it as an inspiration for their own future direction.’
‘Where did Fanny’s wildness come from?’ Georgia thought of Henry’s ‘Kind child’ remark. ‘From Adam, or from within herself, or both? Was it born into her, or did it develop during her upbringing?’
‘It came from her, but I don’t know whether it was genetic or in reaction to her past. You can’t just acquire that kind of fever because the music demands it. You bring the fever to the song.’
