by Amy Myers
‘You speak of him in the past tense. Aren’t they in touch?’
‘Henry plays his cards close to his chest. Oliver and Liz don’t keep up with anyone else in the village, so far as I know, but Henry’s another matter. Up to a year or two ago he used to go over to the States and, though we never asked, it must have been to see Oliver.’
‘When did they leave?’
‘Late 1970s.’ A pause. ‘Too late for you to snap the handcuffs on them for Frances’s murder.’
‘Damn. My little grey cells will have to think of another villain,’ she replied in kind. ‘Did you like Oliver?’
‘Yes. He was the peacemaker in the gang, even though he was the youngest. He had a way of making you laugh that made you see how daft you were being.’
Was that a shot at her? she wondered, then decided she was getting oversensitive. ‘And Brian?’ she asked. ‘What was his role?’
‘Elder statesman. He was a few years older than most of us, and a year or so older than Michael. He had an air of gravitas that everyone respected, even the mighty Michael. Slow but sure, was Brian. And now you want me to tell you about how he came to give Adam Jones a lift, eh?’
‘Anything you can. It would save me bothering Jane Winters. Unless you think . . .’
Josh looked at her quizzically. ‘Not like you to beat round bushes, Georgia.’
‘Do you think she’d talk to me now Jake has been released?’
‘I’ve already suggested it to her.’
Georgia was staggered. Josh going out of his way to help? ‘That’s very good—’
Josh held up his hand to stop her in mid-flow. ‘Not good of me at all. It’s for her benefit, not yours. What do you think she feels like? She only just got used to the idea that her farmhand murdered her daughter, and lo and behold he’s released for lack of evidence. What does the poor woman do? Welcome him back to work with open arms? But is it fair to deprive him of his job if he’s innocent? She’s still working that one out. My guess is that the police are scratching their heads over whether to pursue this case or not. I reckon that’s why you and your dad were at the tower with the Old Bill the other day. You’re in the business of healing wounds – here’s one you might be able to help with. Jane Winters. If there’s a link between these two murders – and that still sounds a load of cobblers to me – then you can persuade the police to get going again over Alice. If they drop the case, Jane will never know the answer. She needs closure and all that, and quick. If there isn’t a link, well, at least she’ll think something’s being done, and you might – you might, Georgia – stumble across something that the police haven’t thought of. And if so, it’s my belief it will lead right back to Jonathan Powell.’
Georgia saw her opportunity. ‘I’ll try. But you can play your part, Josh. I need to be in the picture about the Friday Street flute music. Someone thought Jake wasn’t guilty. Did the village have any kind of investigation or not?’
‘I told you we followed up on Frances.’
‘A bone to keep me quiet. Either this legend of the music trying to put right an injustice is true, or it’s a joke or try-on. Which is it?’
‘It means something to someone, Georgia,’ Josh threw back at her. ‘There’s no rule that says everyone has to report in to the Montash Arms if they’ve something to tell. I imagine that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I’m asking you what actually happens. Cadenza told me that in effect you examined your own consciences. The playing of the tune is a plea, presumably to tell the police of any evidence, or to give yourself up if guilty. But I’m not convinced it ends there. At the very least there’d be a lot of tongues wagging the next day if the whole village has been woken up by the music.’
Josh did not comment. That didn’t mean, she was beginning to realize, that he wasn’t going to, merely that he’d speak in his own time, not hers. At last he said, ‘You’ve heard of the old hue and cry system, Georgia? Used before there was a police force.’
‘Yes. The local manor court or village jury or whatever decided who was guilty, but if the culprit had skipped the village they had no way of enforcing their verdicts, so a hue and cry was set up. The villagers sent out couriers to neighbouring villages, who had a duty to bung the culprit back to face the music . . . Oh!’ It was an unintentional play on words and Georgia pulled a face.
Josh grinned. ‘Exactly. Face the music. That’s how we think this legend got going. Not that that phrase went back as far as our legend, but that was the intention behind playing it. It was our internal hue and cry. Will the real villain stand forth? If the village disagreed with the court verdict on someone, it was up to anyone in the village to come out and play the tune to express dissent and produce more evidence. Those with any fresh evidence or a guilty conscience could gather—’
‘In the local pub,’ she suggested innocently.
‘Or church. That was usually the main local gathering place. Then they’d decide what to do about it.’
‘And now?’
‘It isn’t played often, Georgia. There’s no set routine. But on the odd occasion people have gone to the vicar.’
Of course, Georgia thought. ‘Who was the vicar at the time of Fanny’s death?’
Josh thought back. ‘Reverend Carter, but he would have been about sixty then, so he’d be safe from you now.’
She wasn’t going to be put off by jolly jests. ‘So there wasn’t a rush to the pub or church to talk it over in 1968?’
Josh sighed. ‘We were all shell-shocked, Georgia. Think of it. Frances had been the live wire in our gang, then world-famous, and now she’d been murdered on our patch. There was no talk then of whether Adam Jones was guilty or not.’
‘Even after the music was heard?’
Josh reddened again. ‘No. Only what I told you earlier.’
‘Don’t you think that’s strange?’
‘Put like that, yes,’ Josh said steadily. ‘But we’re dealing with real life here. We remember Frances Gibb here, Georgia. Having her die right here amongst us made a finger of blame point at us, even though Adam Jones was arrested. Of course we talked about it, but it was like we didn’t really want to know, especially the gang. We went through the motions, all of us. We even met in Owlers’ Smoke just the once.’
He caught her look of surprise. ‘Our way of forcing ourselves to discuss the issue. The more we went over it, we concluded there was no other explanation than that Adam Jones was guilty. Nevertheless we didn’t want to find another explanation, because that would have brought her death home to us with a vengeance and we couldn’t face it.’
That had the ring of truth, Georgia thought. ‘It’s a memorable tune. Haunting.’ She could hear it in her mind. ‘You have no idea who played it when Adam was arrested?’
‘Who plays it is not the point. The tune isn’t written down; it’s passed on by ear from one generation to the next. Incomers aren’t taught it.’
‘Or its meaning?’
‘They know that. They have to.’
‘Then how do they recognize the tune?’
He laughed. ‘They complain about it next day.’
‘Don’t tell me. To the publican of the Montash Arms.’
‘Who else? No resident vicar, no policeman, no doctor. That’s modern civilization for you.’
‘Did Brian Winters have reservations about her death? Did he play the music?’
‘Could be. I don’t know. After Frances’s death, he looked after Doreen Gibb. Ron Gibb wouldn’t put himself out to help his wife with the formalities, and as Frances wasn’t married they were her official next of kin. Brian stepped in and together with Powell cleared out the flat she had shared with Adam, and did other odd jobs for the Gibbs. He also went to see Adam Jones a couple of times while he was inside. He must have taken a liking to him, because when he knew Adam was due to be released he tried to help him.’
‘He thought him innocent?’
‘Hold your horses, I’m coming to that. Adam tol
d him he wanted to visit Friday Street when he was released, and Brian offered to pick him up at Maidstone and take him back. He assumed he wanted to see the Gibbs – remember, only Sheila and I knew about her pregnancy – but Adam only wanted to visit Downey Hall.’
‘Why?’ Simply to play a song to Henry didn’t seem enough.
‘Who’s telling this story? He duly picked Adam up about two thirty, dropped him by the Green Lane side entrance to Downey to avoid notice, not that anyone would have recognized Adam Jones straight off, but Brian didn’t fancy being lynched. He said he’d be waiting at the same entrance at five p.m. to give Adam plenty of time to do whatever he wanted. And that’s what happened. Adam got out of the Land Rover at Maidstone, thanked him and left. When Brian got home he discovered Adam had left his guitar behind – and purposely too, for he’d shoved a note on it addressed to Brian, saying he’d no more use for it. By the time Brian found it, it was too late.’
‘Did Brian have any idea why Adam killed himself? Was it because he wasn’t guilty or because he was?’
‘Adam Jones always told Brian that he wasn’t. Brian believed him.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘We’d have to ask Brian that and that’s not possible.’ Josh looked awkward. ‘Here’s where I held back on you, Georgia. Poor old Doreen had been lying to Hazel and me when we went to see her after hearing the music. Scared stiff of Ron, she was, so she kept mum during the trial about Adam coming home with her and Ron. Adam confirmed to Brian that Gibb had lied at the trial when he said Adam had left them at the gate to Downey Hall. He confirmed he’d gone right back to End Cottage. Doreen had whispered to him as they left the Hall after the dinner that she’d decided to give him something to hand to Frances, so be sure to come home with them.’
‘What was that?’ And what else might Josh be holding back on? Georgia wondered with frustration.
‘No idea.’
‘Did Adam tell him why he wanted to go to the Hall?’
‘No. Or if so, Brian didn’t tell me.’
‘If he was innocent, he can only have come to proclaim the fact. But why to Henry Ludd?’
‘If it’s relevant, Brian was convinced not only that Adam really loved Frances, but that he knew who killed her.’
Georgia drew a slow breath. ‘You do believe in dropping bombshells, don’t you? Did he,’ she added hopefully, ‘name someone?’ Not that Josh was likely to cough up the name. His style was to whet the appetite and leave her to munch through the meal.
‘Brian wasn’t too happy when Adam told him that on the way to Friday Street, because he was afraid he might be driving him on a revenge mission. Adam reassured him and said no. He did know who’d killed Fanny, but he didn’t live in Friday Street.’
Jonathan Powell. Who else?
*
Josh was still reluctant to be drawn on Alice Winters, but he did go so far as to take Georgia back to the pub, where Tim was busy having a late lunch. She needed an introduction to Jake Baines, and who better than Tim?
‘Cheers,’ Tim grunted. ‘I’ll take you there on the way back to work. Not that I’m Number One at the moment. Jake still reckons I killed Alice.’
If this was meant to draw a reaction either from her or his grandfather, he would be disappointed. Josh remained impassive, and all she said was: ‘And did you?’
He gave her a scathing look. ‘I wanted to give her one, not murder her.’
‘Lucky girl,’ Georgia murmured.
Tim shrugged. ‘Look, that’s not disrespectful. That was Alice. Everyone was after her and she liked that. We had a sort of race, Drew, me and Jake. She’d, like, toss a coin between us. First it was one. Then another. I reckon she enjoyed the game, ’specially between me and Drew. Thought it fun to watch the cockfight. She was a nice kid, don’t get me wrong, but Drew’s already at uni, and I’m off in September. We’re too young to get serious. Jake was different. He did. He was the one she fancied in the sack,’ he told her candidly. ‘Me and Drew were her bit on the side.’
‘But you don’t think Jake murdered her?’
‘I know he bloody didn’t. He was telling me about his row with her while we were fencing Long Field that day. He was hurting, you could tell, but he could see her point. She told him she wanted freedom, so she could choose to come back to him. Load of bollocks. She wanted out, but he didn’t see it. He was anxious to make things okay with her when he got to the tower.’
‘His mood could have changed when he got there, or she might have provoked him.’
‘Look, I saw him leave on his bike. I told the Bill he didn’t leave here till after a quarter to four. By the time we got that fence fixed, he barely had time to get to the tower, let alone go up to the ghostie house to pinch that knife. Even if he’d pinched it earlier, and planned to murder her, he wouldn’t have had time. Why would he? He wanted her alive, not dead. Anyway, who’d leave a murder till five minutes before a busload of witnesses arrived? No, Jake’s okay, Georgia.’
Tim walked her to Jake’s parents’ home, where he was living. It was a 1960s council house, one of the few in Friday Street. Jake was working in the garden behind the house, and Tim hailed him from the rear gate.
‘Hi, Jake. Lady wants to talk to you. She’s not the pigs.’
As an introduction, it could have been bettered, but it would have to do. Jake Baines’ photo in the paper sprang to life for her as he stuck his fork in the ground and sullenly walked over to her. ‘What d’yer want? Nice chatty interview for Hello?’
‘I wanted to talk about Sweet Fanny Adams.’
‘Hey. The Sweet album?’ He looked more interested.
‘No. The sixties singing duo, Fanny Star and Adam Jones.’
‘Oh, yeah. What’s it to do with me?’
Behind his belligerence Georgia could see a scared, wary lad, which was hardly surprising given what he’d been through. Indeed, she had to remember, perhaps deservedly.
‘Not much. She was murdered in this village, and the same dagger was used to kill Alice, the one used in the ghost tour show. I understand Toby usually brought the dagger down with him in the visitors’ bus. That means that whoever killed Alice actually planned to use that dagger, because he or she must have stolen it. Alice wouldn’t have brought it herself for any reason?’
‘I’ve bin through this a million times. I didn’t have nothing to do with the dagger. Old Beamish would have had a fit if I’d brought it down myself. Or Alice, come to that. Why would she? All I had to do was bike down there, climb into me poncy tights and remember my pipe.’
‘Pipe?’
‘I had to play the sodding ghost of Piers Brome, and prance along piping at the end.’
‘You played the Friday Street tune?’
‘Nah. I’d get shot if I played that. It’s some old rubbish Toby knew. “The Banks of Allan Water”.’
That rang a bell. ‘Allan Water’ was the song Adam had played to Henry.
‘I loved Alice. No one thinks of me. Getting there, finding her there like that,’ Jake continued, aggrieved. ‘I thought she was messing about; she did that sometimes. “Oh, Jake,” she’d say, clutching her boobs, “I could kill myself for love of you,” sort of thing, and then collapsing to give me a fright. So that’s what I thought, even when I saw the dagger in her.’ He gulped. ‘She was dead though.’ The frightened boy was all too visible now.
‘You told the police Alice had said she was meeting someone in the barn, and asked you to come later.’
‘Yeah. First I thought she meant someone from Spookie Manor – one of the visitors or maybe Harry, my uncle. Or even Ted. They’re the gardeners there. Ted fancied her too. Or maybe it was Drew or Tim. It would be like her to have a quick one with one of them while I was biking over and could arrive any minute. Liked living dangerously, did Alice.’ He gulped.
‘But you didn’t see any sign of anyone?’ she asked gently. He looked near to tears.
‘Nah. She told me not to get there till about five to four
,’ he repeated obstinately. ‘No problem. After the row we’d had the night before, I didn’t want her shouting at me all over again. Or to walk in and find Tim on the job. So I got there later, like she wanted. And that’s what I found. So,’ he glanced suspiciously at Georgia, ‘now you know all about me, what’s this about Fanny Star?’
She tried to make this sound casual. ‘Did Alice ever talk about Fanny Star?’
‘Bloody right she did. Never stopped.’
At last. Georgia could hardly believe it. There could, just could, be a way forward here. ‘Did she think Adam Jones was innocent?’
‘Dunno. She’d often hint she knew things. Then she’d laugh and say it was a wind-up. Not that I cared. It was the murder itself that got Alice going though. Blow Lady Rosamund. She was always trying to get Toby to let her play the ghost of Fanny Star. That would really pull in the punters, she told him.’
‘What did Toby think?’ Georgia asked.
‘Said he didn’t want to entertain no ghosts who belonged to Downey Hall, and nothing in Fanny Star’s story pinned her to Spookie Manor. Alice said she’d make up something about that in a jiff. But he wasn’t interested. Told Alice to forget her. Very sharp he was, she said.’
*
Georgia walked up the drive of Winters’ Farm, through a well-kept garden, to the large farmhouse. There seemed to be an untold wealth of such farmhouses in Kent. Forget the stately homes. There were Old Wealden, Tudor-brick, eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-century houses, all serving in the role. Some were mansions in themselves, and Winters’ Farm was no exception. Early-nineteenth-century brick, she thought, roomy and comfortable. She’d decided to telephone straightaway, now she felt she was on a winning streak, and Jane had told her to come right up.
The driveway led to the farmyard rather than the house itself, which was reached, she could see, by a path at one side. Ahead, she could see Tim Perry working on a tractor inside a barn, and a woman – presumably Jane herself – hosing down the yard. She put the hose down when she saw Georgia, smiled and came to meet her. She was of medium height, sturdy, with short, blonde curly hair, and a sensitive, weary-looking face. Not, Georgia decided, the sort of farmer’s wife who ran after mice with a carving knife.
