by Amy Myers
‘Poor Dana.’
‘Poor you.’ Luke made a grand entrance into the garden. He’d been coming over daily, bless him. ‘You could have died if you’d been unlucky, and it wouldn’t have been much comfort that you weren’t her ultimate target.’
‘And then you come waltzing into the church car park,’ Peter picked up the story again, ‘and word flies through the pub, courtesy of Jake, that you’re interested in hiding places in the tower. Sheila is in the church, and hears about your arrival from Cadenza, and bingo. She follows you to see if you have any more luck than she does. After all, she wanted that evidence, and even a sad accident for you might have been avoided and the whole matter wound up. If you’d only gone up the tower, found the stuff and come down again, she could have pinched it from you, destroyed it, and left you shouting “Foul” in vain. We couldn’t publish anything damaging without firm evidence.’
Georgia began to feel tired. She still wasn’t entirely convinced, but it was all too easy not to pursue it. There was something, logic told her, that was weak, and instinct (Suspects Anonymous couldn’t do everything) added that it still had something to do with Tom.
*
Georgia marched up the drive to Pucken Manor, pleasantly relieved that Friday Street now seemed to have an entirely different feel about it. In the pub Josh had been friendly and sympathetic over her ordeal at the tower. No one had said anything about the Ludds. It was, she realized, just an ordinary village after all. Or had the fingerprints of time vanished with Sheila’s death, both from the village itself and from her?
Only Toby remained to be vanquished. Her sense of humour showed signs of returning. What would the ghosts of his ancestors feel about being joined by these new ones? She contemplated her former opinion of him: Toby the lech, Toby the watcher, Toby the creep, Toby the ghost hunter, Toby the possible rapist and murderer. Could that Toby ever be banished?
‘Come in, come in.’ It looked hopeful. Toby seemed the same, but Cadenza no longer looked like the witch of Endor; she was merely a middle-aged woman with a penchant for floaty summer dresses. Georgia was ushered into the living room, and Beamish ancestors looked down on her benignly. It was a dark, comforting room, not spooky at all.
‘I suppose I have you and your father to thank for our interrogation at the police station,’ Toby began jovially.
‘Thank Friday Street,’ Georgia said gently, but extremely firmly.
Toby actually laughed. ‘Point taken. Too much past history, eh?’
‘And some still to be explained.’
‘Ah, Cadenza,’ Toby turned to her innocently, ‘I wonder if our friend might like some coffee. A few private family matters to discuss.’
‘Oh.’ Cadenza put her finger to her lips and tripped out of the room.
Toby sighed. ‘A dear lady. I suppose I’ll have to marry her one of these days.’
‘Excellent,’ Georgia said heartily, by no means sure that it was. ‘Tom,’ she began firmly. ‘I’ve read Michael’s statement. Something lacking, I feel.’
‘Do you?’ Toby beamed as though this was praise indeed.
‘The Ludds and Beamishes didn’t get on, yet Tom was a cabal of three: Michael, Oliver and yourself.’
‘I don’t recall a cabal.’ He pushed his spectacles further up his nose.
Frontal assault necessary. ‘You knew that Michael raped Fanny; why didn’t you make a fuss about it?’
Toby regarded her thoughtfully. ‘None of my business, Georgia.’
‘Come on, Toby. You can do better than that. Were you blackmailing him?’
He went pink in the face. ‘Certainly not,’ he spluttered. His indignation sounded genuine.
‘Then why keep silent?’
He looked trapped as though he might fly to the safety of Cadenza’s arms at any moment. ‘It was a family affair,’ he muttered.
‘What?’ She thought she had misheard.
‘A family affair,’ he repeated more loudly, and distinctly red in the face.
‘Can you explain that?’
‘Yes. You might find this foolish, but there was a bond between myself and Michael that has never been broken. I felt, shall we say, some loyalty towards him.’
‘And the bond is?’
He hesitated, then: ‘In view of what you have been through, and since Michael intends to leave the village – not entirely to my regret – and on the presumption that this would not be revealed without Henry’s consent . . .’
Henry again! Her mind whirled. Where on earth was this leading? Would Toby never get to the point?
‘In short, Michael is my half-brother.’ He looked at her quickly, as if wondering whether she was about to faint. Her head certainly swam. He must be joking. Or was he?
‘You see,’ Toby said, emboldened, ‘that I therefore had a tug of loyalty. Firstly to Frances, of whom I was very fond indeed. I can never hear that tune, “Allan Water”, without a little weep. To have it played during my drama on Lady Rosamund was a private tribute, although I could never countenance a reconstruction of Frances’s story as dear Alice had so innocently suggested.’
He looked genuinely distressed, Georgia thought. ‘I also had loyalty to Michael, however,’ Toby continued. ‘I have seen his statement to you, and there are one or two little things he does not mention. Unfortunately Fanny told Sheila in the bathroom that night in 1968 that there were still a few secrets Henry did not know. Michael must have leapt to the conclusion that it was his own parentage that Fanny was referring to, not Dana’s. In fact, Fanny did not know of our little secret. With his pride in family Henry would never have countenanced Michael’s illegitimacy after the revelations of the afternoon that Michael had raped Fanny. He is so proud of his family, is dear Henry. Oliver or Frances would most certainly have been his heir.’
‘You mean Henry still doesn’t know?’ Georgia asked, appalled.
‘He knows now. It rather popped out at Sheila’s funeral.’ He caught her look. ‘Michael told him. Rather brave, I felt. Michael’s hopes for his business ventures would have vanished. It was I who discovered it and rather too eagerly told Michael in our youth. I regret to say I rather enjoyed doing so, and then when I showed him the – er – letters to convince him, he was eager that Henry should not know.
‘As I understand the story, Joan was pregnant by my father, who was already married. Joan was not then married, and speedily married Henry as a result. They were all serving at the same RAF station. When Henry wished to move here, Joan was all too eager. My mother, as I told you, was not, although my father was, shall I say, ambivalent. In 1968 Michael was terrified, believing Fanny knew his parentage by that one simple remark, and he was convinced she would tell Henry about his and Joan’s bastard son. Rather self-centred, is Michael,’ Toby reflected. ‘I assured him I would tell no one, but I doubt if he believed me. Poor Frances and then poor Alice lost their lives probably as a result of that.’
‘What about Dana?’ Georgia asked weakly, wondering where this family saga might end.
‘Michael was upset at being obliged to me,’ Toby said complacently. ‘When he discovered – again I’m afraid from me – that Dana was Henry’s granddaughter and therefore his own daughter, he was even more terrified. Another little financial crisis was brewing. Once again Sheila became his Lady Macbeth, to rid him of his woes. No paternal feelings for Dana, I’m afraid. Or many for his son. Philip lives in Australia, as far away as he can get. I admit Michael’s relationship with Drew is good. Or was,’ Toby added. ‘Michael still believed I would go hotfoot to Henry with this information, when Dana told me. I was rather annoyed at that. How could I sneak on my half-brother? Not done in the best of English families. The ghost of my father would rise up indignantly.’
Georgia began to laugh, obviously to Toby’s surprise, at the idea that with all the moral issues surrounding Fanny’s death, gentlemanly behaviour should seem a major one. ‘I’m sorry we even suspected you. We saw nothing here clearly.’
Toby sighe
d. ‘Friday Street is like that, I fear. Or should I say was. You seem to have successfully cleaned the Augean Stables.’
*
To Georgia’s pleasure, Dana was sitting up in bed when she and Luke walked in. Very thin, very pale, but alive and even eating, she told them proudly.
‘No more pies for you,’ Georgia said firmly.
‘Actually it was delicious, from what I remember, though I gather from Josh that you and I only received it as a decoy from the poisoned tea. I must say poisoned tea at the village fete seems rather a cliché.’ She grimaced. ‘What a mess. I’m sorry I caused you all so much trouble. If I’d declared who I was from the beginning I’d have saved a lot of this. I was trying to be tactful until I’d got to know my grandfather. Do you know, he’d been hunting for me for the best part of twenty years, ever since he knew I existed? Adam Jones told him. Humbling, isn’t it? That’s what I came here for the day Alice was killed. He wanted to meet me.’
‘What happens now?’ Georgia asked.
‘I’m moving into the house he’s living in now,’ Dana said happily. ‘Michael’s moving out of the Hall, Henry’s moving back in, Drew’s staying with him, and I’ll be on hand for jolly chats. Sarah, my daughter, can meet her new great-grandfather, and my parents – sorry, can’t think of Michael that way – are moving to Faversham, which is nice. So I’ll be a sort of neighbour of yours,’ she finished.
Was that good? Georgia had mixed feelings. With Dana’s recovery, worms of suspicion were rising again.
*
‘You’re very silent,’ Luke complained when they reached home.
‘Contemplating my new neighbour,’ she said truthfully.
‘You might have two.’
She froze. Was he breaking bad news to her? He seemed very casual about it if so. ‘You mean you and Dana are an item?’ She could hardly get the words out.
Luke looked at her as though she had taken leave of her senses, and pray God that she had. ‘Is that what’s been wrong with you all this time? You thought I was slowly ditching you for Dana? Are you crazy, Georgia?’
‘Sometimes I think I am. Why did you keep meeting her, Luke?’ She tried to keep the panic out of her voice.
‘I didn’t. Only twice. She’s an estate agent, for heaven’s sake. She had a house she thought I’d be interested in.’
‘In South Malling?’ Was this still a cover-up?
‘Here, you chump,’ he said affectionately. ‘Near Haden Shaw. My mountain decided it would be a good idea if it rolled along nearer to your Mahommet. I couldn’t expect Peter, and therefore you, to uproot – and oh, Georgia, I’m so damned sick of commuting. And of a weekend arrangement only for my bed.’
She found herself locked in his arms. No, he was locked in hers. It was she who had moved. So what did that mean?
‘You know I want to marry you,’ he continued matter-of-factly. ‘Okay, you don’t want to, but if I’m on the doorstep it’s going to get more difficult to keep refusing me.’
‘Did you buy the house?’
‘No.’
She began to laugh. ‘Big talker, eh?’
‘But there is another one. And there’s always tomorrow, thank God.’
*
Just one more duty to Friday Street and Fanny Star. A visit to Doreen Gibb from herself and Peter. All this trouble and it hadn’t touched Doreen at all, she reflected, as Peter steered himself towards her.
‘Hello, dear,’ Doreen greeted her in delight, and to Peter, ‘You’re new here, aren’t you? Settled in, have you? Don’t die on us, will you?’
Peter took it on the chin. ‘Not for thirty years or so.’
A slight worry crossed her face. ‘What are you here for, dear?’ she asked Georgia.
‘To show you these photos of Frances.’ Georgia had dug them out of their files on purpose.
‘Oh yes. Very nice.’ Doreen glanced at them, but then up again to the door beyond them. She let out a squeal of delight at seeing a new visitor.
Henry Ludd was strolling across the floor to greet her. He bent down to kiss her, handed her a bunch of flowers, took it away again to hand to a nurse and put a bottle of whisky at her side. It was obviously a well-worn routine, for Doreen watched each step keenly.
‘I’m glad to see you,’ he said courteously to them.
‘And we’re delighted about Dana,’ Georgia told him.
‘Shall we talk?’ he asked.
‘Please.’ Georgia went to move but he stopped her.
‘Doreen likes to listen. It means nothing. It’s all right.’ Of course it was. Doreen wasn’t in this world. Stupid of her.
Henry said gently. ‘Thank you for what you did for dear Frances, despite all the pain it has brought.’
‘Did you know about Michael’s . . .?’ she started to ask, but could not complete the question.
He answered anyway. ‘Michael told me. However, I had known for a long time. My late wife had told me about Michael’s parentage very early on; it was one of the reasons I needed Doreen’s love. I was unaware that Michael had discovered it, and it saddens me greatly. For that, I find it hard to forgive Toby Beamish, especially as I fear it did play a part in Frances’s death. Quite unnecessarily. “The sins of the fathers”, dear Josh says. Charles Beamish, Henry Ludd. It is true I have a belief in family, but how does one define that word? Growing together, living together, affection – these can count as much as genes. When Frances was killed, I suspected Michael might have done it. He was rather too anxious to have a little chat with me to provide an alibi. I continued to do so until I learned of Sheila’s involvement after her death. I had no evidence, and regardless of his genes he was my son. I have a grandson I love, and now, thanks to Adam – whom I failed – I have a granddaughter, and great-granddaughter. I spent a considerable time in hunting for Dana, and now, thank heavens, she is with me. She is a dear girl, like Frances returned to me.’
‘You said you had no evidence,’ Peter said. ‘So you took your own steps. Am I right?’
Henry smiled. ‘You are. I played the music that night.’
‘Did it achieve anything?’
‘No. Josh was right. Everyone believed Adam guilty. Michael was my son; how could I speak to the police without proof in such a case? And when Alice died, Michael was definitely with me. It seemed to me there could therefore be no link between the two cases, even when Jake was released. I heard the music then, but had nothing to offer the player.’
‘It was Tim Perry?’
‘I believe so. I heard it, and thought of Frances. The music had done no good then, and I doubted if it could now. No one came forward.’ He added gently, ‘Except you, of course. The music brought you.’
‘We’ll leave you with Doreen,’ Georgia said. ‘I’m sorry . . . Does she recognize you?’
‘Let’s try.’ He leaned forward, and took her hands. ‘Do you know who I am, Doreen?’
She laughed in excitement. ‘Of course I do, you silly man. You’re my Solomon, and I’m the Queen of Sheba.’
MURDER IN HELL’S CORNER
© Amy Myers 2006
Amy Myers has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2006 by Severn House.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
West Malling airfield was heavily bombed by the Luftwaffe during the Battle of Britain in 1940, as were other airfields in Ke
nt and Sussex, in order to render them unusable prior to invasion by Germany. Although for the purposes of this novel the fictitious 362 Squadron was operating there, in fact no Spitfires flew from West Malling until the battle was virtually over at the end of October that year. During the battle only an army co-operation squadron, No. 26, flying Lysanders, was operative at this airfield. Robin J. Brooks’ From Moths to Merlins provides an invaluable history of the airfield, which has now closed and is the site of a housing and business development. I would like to thank the aviation historian Norman Franks for so patiently and authoritatively answering my questions, and also Marion Binks, Douglas Tyler and Tangmere Aviation Museum. However, any blunders in the novel are solely down to me. My gratitude also goes to Edwin Buckhalter and my editor Amanda Stewart at Severn House for their interest in this project, and to my agent Dorothy Lumley of Dorian Literary Agency for her constant support. Lastly, my gratitude for the memories that the true Spitfire pilots of the battle left with me both in person and in their memoirs during my years in publishing with the firm of William Kimber.
Chapter One
‘No, let’s go this way.’ Georgia Marsh fought back instant, irrational panic. She tried to speak casually, but Luke wasn’t easily fooled.
‘It’s not like you to mind a shoeful of mud. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ Stupid, but what else could she say? Luke was Marsh & Daughter’s publisher; he was also her dearly beloved partner, but he was still trespassing in an area barred to all except herself and her father. How could she explain to Luke the Calm (apparently), Laidback (superficially) and Practical (when it suited him) that this overgrown dank path through the undergrowth, which disappeared so enticingly round a corner, offered only threat? Some places had an atmosphere implanted in them by human passions that still cried out to be heard, and one of them lay ahead. She was sure of it, and it scared her.
