by Amy Myers
‘One thing,’ her voice still sounded strange, however, ‘seems odd to me. I’ve been told – forgive me – that the Ludds and the Beamishes have never got on, and so it seems peculiar that you, Michael and Oliver were all in the same gang, and were even invited to his engagement party.’ Tom, she thought, these three who together had scared Frances. No wonder. Toby alone was beginning to scare her.
‘Perhaps you don’t understand how villages work.’ Toby bestowed a patronizing smile on her. ‘You are quite correct that our two families are not on good terms, but at some events it is necessary to show a united social front. I was indeed a member of the gang – children fortunately are above such pettiness –’ Were they? thought Georgia. Not in her experience ‘– and Henry Ludd invited both me and my parents. He was then reasonably well established in the village, and my parents thought it only polite to accept. I recall my mother commenting, “Of course, they’re trade.” Neither Joan nor Henry could, in her eyes, be considered gentry, and such things were then still important. Joan was born a farmer’s daughter in the Darenth Valley, I believe, and Henry came from a prosperous flour-milling company that had diversified into what were then called fancy cakes. The cake-maker was my dear father’s humorous name for him – he had met Henry and Joan during the war. My father used to say the RAF offered opportunities to smooth out infelicities of birth. The gang had the same effect.’
Georgia looked at a photograph of the Beamish wedding, which was standing on the window ledge at her side. Judging by the bride’s dress the wedding was in the middle to late thirties. Charles Beamish was a handsome young man in RAF uniform (obviously a regular, not hostilities-only) and his bride a pretty, rather insipid dark-haired girl. Poor man, to produce the Toby of today, she thought, but told herself she should be impartial.
‘When did the estrangement start between your two families?’
‘Do you know, I’m not sure. Such a long time ago. There was always dislike, and as I am sure dear Josh has told you, my wife saw fit to prefer a Ludd to me after many years of marriage. This certainly put an end to any pretence of liking between the Ludds and Beamishes.’
‘Even though Michael was your best friend in the gang?’
‘Was he?’ Toby’s eyes flickered. ‘I’m not sure I would express it that way. Did he? There was a bond between all gang members, still is. I’m not sure friendship enters into it. Loyalty expresses it more correctly.’
Interesting. Did it glue them together even where murder was concerned? It was time to try surprise tactics again. ‘Was there sexual rivalry between you over Frances?’
A creepy smile came to his lips. No smile in his eyes though, she noticed. ‘Why should there be? My former wife was a member of the gang, as was Sheila Ludd. Michael and I had our own sweethearts. Dear Josh was Frances’s swain.’ He was challenging her, that was clear. She took a sip of the coffee that had arrived courtesy of Cadenza who had wafted in and out with a forgiving smile in a whirl of unsuitably girlish Indian cottons.
‘Nevertheless, Fanny was an attractive girl and so over the years there must have been tensions.’
‘If so, they had all vanished by 1968,’ Toby said smoothly, ‘the year in which you are interested. I was long married and Michael engaged to Sheila.’
‘Someone, possibly in the gang, must have disliked Fanny enough to murder her.’
‘The fact that nothing transpired after that proves the player was mistaken.’
‘And who decides that?’
The mousetrap snapped shut at last. Toby looked distinctly thrown. ‘The question was naturally much discussed in the village,’ he said sharply. Then, obviously realizing she would not be satisfied with that, added, ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this, but on the slight possibility there was a miscarriage of justice – and we in Friday Street are not omnipotent – I should confess that poor Frances was indeed a sexual creature, and there had formerly been tensions in the gang because of it. I recognized her attractiveness myself, though I quickly realized she was not my sort of woman. Liz was, unfortunately.’
‘And Michael?’
A pause. ‘He too liked Frances. He was older. Twenty-two when she left the village, and his brother Oliver fifteen. He too liked Frances.’ Another pause. ‘I should remind you there were many outsiders present that afternoon in 1968, one –’ a waggle of the finger ‘– very close to Fanny.’
For a moment, deep in thought about Tom, she did not understand. Then realization came: Jonathan Powell. So it wasn’t only Josh who was anxious to point out the likelihood of Jonathan’s involvement.
‘And,’ Toby continued reflectively, ‘there is poor Josh himself.’
‘He told me he was fond of her.’
‘Rather more than fond, my dear. No, I shouldn’t so address you, should I? Most politically incorrect.’ Toby giggled. ‘Josh was so protective that the rest of us hardly dared address her. It’s my belief, though I hate to say this, that that is why she left the village. Certainly she wished fame and fortune in the music world, but she was only seventeen when she left. I have always thought she felt squashed between her parents and Josh’s devotion. Frances sought freedom, not suffocation. Josh was always there, her . . .’
‘Her pet spaniel?’ Georgia suggested when he paused.
Toby laughed. ‘Her rottweiler.’
*
There were unexpected prickles at the back of Georgia’s neck as she drove up to Downey Hall the following day. She had an odd feeling that she was covering a route already mapped out for her. As, indeed, she supposed it was. Josh had arranged for Henry, Michael and Sheila Ludd, and for Toby and Josh himself to be present. All members of the gang, in fact, including Hazel Perry. Or perhaps, as reason re-established itself, it was the thought of what might depend on this afternoon that was causing these prickles.
Peter had preferred to come separately and she could see his car parked in front of the house. The interior of Downey Hall was not as she had expected. Neat and tidy, yes, but not a bow to modern, gracious living. Instead, as Sheila ushered her through, she saw a treasure trove about the history of the house and the Kentish downs.
‘When my father-in-law first moved here,’ Sheila explained when Georgia commented on this, ‘he scoured every antique and second-hand shop he could find for prints of Downey in earlier years, both this building and its predecessors on the site. Henry even dug out an old oil painting, which he swears is the last of the Montashes and painted in Downey, for all the Beamishes claim them for the Manor. I think he’s still hoping there’s a family link between them and the Ludds. A great sense of dynasty, has my father-in-law.’
The Ludds, too, were well represented, Georgia noticed, stopping before an oil painting of a woman in a 1950s strapless evening dress with billowing skirts. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.
‘My late mother-in-law, Joan. She was a beauty . . .’
Georgia agreed, but she looked a cold one. She remembered Jonathan’s description of a sour-faced woman and could easily see how it could be so. The pout of provocativeness in the painting could have become permanent with the passing of the years and ceased to be so attractive.
‘I gather she was born in the north of Kent.’
‘Yes. She met Henry when he was stationed at Biggin Hill in 1938. With war looming, it was a whirlwind romance and marriage. Result: Michael. Then there was a gap of nearly seven years before Oliver, thanks to the war. Still, the Ludd family history isn’t what you came for, is it? There’s plenty of it to be seen here, though. We were living in the cottage until about 1990. We call it that as a joke, but it’s a house. You’ve probably seen it, a white one next to this estate with an entrance in Green Lane. Henry and Joan lived in the Hall up until then, and he still likes things kept as they were here.’
She ushered Georgia into the drawing room where the rest of the party was already gathered around Peter in his wheelchair, almost as if they were posing for a family portrait. No, that wasn’t it, Georgia realized
. It was as if they’d been called in to face the headmaster. In their faces, she could see the young men and women of 1968, as conflicting emotions fought in them. Hazel was belligerent, ready to be on the offensive at any slight, Michael was the head boy hurt at being unjustly accused, but nevertheless distinctly flustered. Sheila was, well, Sheila, confident that no blame attached to her. Toby (this must be the first time he had set foot in this house in a long while) was sweating, looking the picture of guilt; Josh was the good lad, determined not to grass on his chums. And Henry? Henry was the outsider, and surely must always have been, the English gentleman who was automatically above suspicion.
‘Shall we begin?’ Peter suggested lightly. Let battle commence would be more like it, Georgia thought.
Peter let the following silence run for just the right amount of time before breaking it. ‘Where was lunch held?’
There was instant relaxation at this innocuous beginning. ‘I believe,’ Henry answered, ‘that Fanny, Adam and their entourage arrived shortly before it began at about one o’clock. I seem to recall that a buffet lunch was laid out in the dining room and people came and went. There was equipment and testing and so on to deal with. Our party gathered for the concert in front of the house shortly before it began at three p.m.’
‘Shall we see the scene of the lunch?’ Peter suggested. ‘We might as well follow the entire route.’
‘By all means.’ Michael sounded heartier than he looked as he led the way to the dining room.
‘How were Fanny and Adam when they arrived?’ Georgia asked. ‘Was there any animosity between them then? The witness statements – yours and Toby’s, Hazel – placed their quarrel after the first concert.’
‘If I said so, that was it,’ Hazel snapped back. ‘How do you expect us to remember now? It was over thirty years ago.’
‘Because of what happened, there’s a chance we might remember,’ Josh said quietly, taking her arm. He was right, Georgia thought; extremes of tragedy or happiness could fix surrounding details for ever in the mind. Not necessarily accurately, she had to consider; it was scary how different her and Peter’s recollections of the past could sometimes be. Of Rick, of Elena – stop right there, she told herself. Why had they popped up now of all times? Was it by communal thought transference, because everyone here was thinking of the traumatic events of that June day in 1968 – or trying not to think about them?
‘Waste of time, all this is. I’m due at the church.’ Hazel looked at the rest of the party, as if inviting support, but no one spoke.
‘Did Fanny’s parents attend the lunch?’ Peter took over again. ‘Or did they arrive afterwards for the concert?’
There was some discussion on this. ‘The latter, we believe,’ Henry answered, sliding open the doors to the terrace. ‘This is the way I left that day; I can’t speak for the others. Frances and Adam had already left to prepare for the concert, as had the rest of their party. I found myself with Mr and Mrs Beamish. I remember that as – forgive me, Toby – I could not recall inviting the family to lunch. They were to join us later, as did Fanny’s parents.’
‘That’s all right, Henry.’ Toby beamed. ‘We realized it was an oversight on your part, Henry. No offence taken.’
What was that all about? Georgia wondered. Clever of Toby, but the glance he gave Henry didn’t suggest a warm, forgiving heart. It was the first time Georgia had seen steel in Henry. Not so much the outsider, perhaps. His face remained impassive, but the tension in the room had increased.
Michael hastily led them out of the house – he or Sheila had thoughtfully provided ramps for Peter, and Georgia’s opinion of them shot up. She let Peter do the talking as they followed the path round the house to the side gate, passing the side entrance to the house, through the gate and into the front grounds, where the cows replaced the crowds that must have been here that day. Walking over the grass, she tried to imagine it packed with people, eagerly awaiting a pop concert, loudspeakers blaring out SFA music.
‘Did you have chairs set out here?’ she asked Michael.
‘No, we all sat on the grass. Chairs would have been out of place, don’t you think? In any case, we couldn’t run to that many chairs.’
Georgia found it hard to see even a younger, slimmer Michael Ludd flopping casually on the grass, let alone the elegant Sheila.
‘Did you know Fanny’s parents well?’ she asked Henry.
‘I didn’t care for Ronald Gibb.’
‘Frances must have hated it. She loathed Ron Gibb,’ Sheila said decidedly. ‘We were all sitting in a group in front of the stage, while she and Adam were preparing to sing. I saw the look on her face when Doreen and Ron came to join us. Her feelings hadn’t changed.’
‘She did a good job in hiding it,’ Josh said defensively. ‘She came right down to greet them, had quite a chat, so far as I remember.’
‘Even if her dislike of her father made her leave the village,’ Peter said, ‘there was probably some one incident that sparked off her decision to go when she did. Any ideas, Josh?’
He didn’t reply. Instead he addressed the group, almost as if he were asking permission to speak. And that, she realized, was just what he was doing. ‘Well?’ he said. Nothing. And there wasn’t going to be unless she took a hand, Georgia realized. No problem. She’d had enough.
‘Don’t any of you even care what happened?’ she stormed. ‘One after another of you assures us that the gang stuck together, that loyalty was so important. How about showing some loyalty for Frances Gibb?’
Another silence, but a shocked one this time.
‘We need answers,’ Peter said, supporting her. ‘Not half truths and dances round the merry maypole.’
It could go one way or the other. Georgia held her breath.
Josh eventually took the lead – of course. ‘I’m prepared. Are you, Toby?’
‘As you like, dear boy.’
‘Hazel?’
‘Tell them and get it over with. For heaven’s sake, it’s time.’
‘Michael?’
Michael hesitated. ‘Yes. You’re right, I suppose.’
‘I don’t agree,’ Sheila said sharply. ‘It would be a betrayal of her. Henry? What do you think?’
Henry nodded. ‘Tell them, Josh.’
He looked uncomfortable, forced into a limelight he wouldn’t have chosen. ‘Frances left Friday Street because she was pregnant.’
So that was it. So obvious, Georgia thought. Why on earth hadn’t it occurred to her earlier?
Peter took it in his stride. ‘Did you all know that in 1961, when she left?’
Sheila gave a short laugh. ‘I knew; I was close to Frances. And he did.’ She looked at Josh. ‘Only too well.’
‘Just what do you mean by that?’ Hazel yelled at her.
‘Quiet, love,’ Josh said sharply. ‘We know what she means. That Frances confided in me. It’s no secret that I loved her then. She told me she was leaving, she was pregnant and going to get an abortion. I tried to stop her – she appeared to believe me when I said I’d help – but by morning she was gone. I never heard from or saw her again until I saw her on the telly as Fanny Star. That’s what you meant, isn’t it, Sheila?’
She shrugged, and Peter stepped in for her. ‘Were you the father of the child, Josh?’
He flushed in anger. ‘No, I bloody wasn’t. I loved her. You think I’d let her go away to get rid of my kid? No way. I’d have chained her down if I had to, to stop her leaving.’
Peter wasn’t deterred. ‘Then who was?’
Silence. It was still the silence of secrets, not of ignorance, Georgia thought. The group in the headmaster’s study was sticking together to protect the guilty, whether present or not.
‘She wouldn’t tell me,’ Josh said. ‘She just went.’
‘But she came back,’ Georgia intervened. ‘Was that to see the father?’
Sheila’s ice-cold voice answered her. ‘Why do you think she didn’t get on with Ron Gibb?’
Dea
r heaven. Georgia felt sick. The image of the famous pop star had been a cover for the scummy reality of her earlier life. ‘Her father had been abusing her? Is that true, Josh?’ Whatever Sheila said, she wasn’t going to believe this without his word too.
‘She never told me, but I reckoned so then,’ he said stiltedly. ‘He whacked her around, she had odd bruises a lot of the time. I could believe it of him.’
‘She told me it was him,’ Sheila confirmed. ‘I helped find the abortionist. Not easy in those days.’
‘And you kept in touch with her?’
‘I wanted to.’ Her cool voice broke a little. ‘When I didn’t hear from her, I followed it up with the abortionist, but she hadn’t used that one after all. I never heard from her again. When she hit the charts, I tried to contact her, via her manager, but she didn’t reply. “No more Friday Street” was the obvious message.’
No wonder. Georgia could understand that all too well. And yet Fanny had returned. Why? To see her mother, even if it meant seeing her abuser too? Nothing had been said to suggest that that was the case; there’d been no mention of any tête-à-têtes between the two.
‘What happened after the concert?’ Peter had clearly decided it was time to move on. He must have seen the impasse too.
The head boy took over the reconstruction as he led them back through the gate into the rear gardens. ‘The village audience gradually dispersed,’ Michael explained, ‘and the rest of us came back here or into the house. Tea was served from four o’clock but not many of us dropped in to have any. We were too busy chatting. Dinner was an early one, with drinks at six, and the meal half an hour later. Some of us needed to change. So for a couple of hours we were all wandering around drinking tea or alcohol and talking.’
