by Amy Myers
‘How did you guess? Dad’s doing, of course.’
‘Is that why your brother went into the RAF?’ She had no hesitation in asking. After all, this was relevant to Patrick Fairfax. Two determined parents must have made this a hard family to be born into.
‘Went through hard time. Not set on it, but did his best, a respectable one. Now that he’s retired from the RAF, he’s switched off aviation to Mother’s disgust. Taken up ornithology, as he always wanted. It’s left to the next generation to carry Mother’s flame. It often skips one, doesn’t it?’
It did. Her mother was an excellent needlewoman, a skill that had bypassed Georgia. If she ever had children . . . Don’t go there, she warned herself. She might end up doing the right thing by Luke for the wrong reasons, as T.S. Eliot once put it.
‘I gather you were speaking about Roger, Mary.’ Jean Fairfax had reappeared in the room, and obviously had sharp hearing. ‘A sad disappointment, Miss Marsh. Now please, do not hesitate to ask me anything you wish. I will try to answer objectively.’
Anything? Such as asking how she could speak about her son in such terms to a stranger? ‘We haven’t seen the police files, Mrs Fairfax,’ she began instead. ‘But we have spoken to the investigating officer. Do you have any theories of your own as to what happened?’
‘Of course. You would expect that, wouldn’t you? You would also know that such opinions would be useless without proof.’
‘Not necessarily. I’m used to picking out the proven from the unproven.’
‘If you are telling me that I need not fear to speak out whether I have proof or not, you need not be concerned. I shall do so. Why not? It’s been discussed with the police many times.’
‘Do you think they did a good job or were you frustrated at the result?’
‘They did what they could, in view of the fact that there was little hard evidence, or so I gathered. The gun – poor Patrick’s own – was missing, and has never been found. The display cupboard where it was kept – without ammunition incidentally – was available to all who visited that downstairs bar. The new bar on the ground floor was already in use by 1975, but for reunions such as on that day the old bar remained open too. It was then referred to as the Cockpit rather than Hell’s Bells.’
‘Was the cupboard left open?’
‘It was supposed to be locked, but the key was on top of the cupboard, a fact known to most regulars, I imagine.’
‘But not to a casual visitor to the hotel.’
‘And useless anyway, unless he had ammunition for a Webley revolver in his pocket.’
‘One theory might be,’ Georgia pointed out, impressed by Jean Fairfax’s quick mind, ‘that your husband could have loaded it for his own purposes only to have it turned against him.’ She held her breath, waiting for an explosion.
It didn’t come. ‘That is possible,’ Jean conceded, ‘but unlikely. My husband was not in fear of his life to my knowledge, nor did he have any reason to shoot anyone else. He had seen too much killing during the war to turn to that method of solving a problem.’
‘I met five of the seven other pilots who were present that day, although not to talk to at length. Matthew Jones seems to have been the only police suspect, and he was one of the five.’
‘A so-called business partner of my husband’s. Jealous of course.’
Georgia was startled. ‘Of what?’
Jean sighed. ‘Everyone will tell you that Patrick was driving Matthew into bankruptcy.’
‘That wasn’t true?’
‘It was true that the hotel was failing, but not that it was Patrick’s fault. Matthew Jones was a poor businessman. No vision. He refused to let Patrick promote the hotel in a way that would attract a younger generation. Consequently the hotel remained firmly stuck in the 1950s.’
‘As a memorial to what they went through in the war?’
‘No. One could understand that. It came about through Mr Jones’ lack of expertise in applying improvements. It was a mishmash of dull post-war furniture set against hideous wallpaper. The food was even duller: traditional English at its worst, such as prawn cocktail with tomato mixed with commercial salad cream, tough roast beef and disgusting trifle. By the 1970s customers required something rather better. The only people brave enough to stay there were those seeking a quiet refuge where they didn’t have to speak to anyone and could read the newspapers in an armchair all day long. Occasionally one or two might venture into the conservatory to gaze out upon a rose bed. That would be the height of adventure for Matthew Jones’ ideal customer.’
Georgia laughed, as she hoped she was meant to. ‘But that would be no reason for killing your husband,’ she pointed out.
‘That, Miss Marsh, is for you to discover. Is there not a natural tendency to blame one’s own failure on a more successful business rival? Particularly when that rival is as popular as was my husband.’
‘Perhaps.’ It still didn’t seem likely to Georgia.
‘Patrick’s aviation club had many members of substance. He told me he had persuaded some to put money into the hotel to bail it out of its difficulties, and wished to entertain them at the hotel to show them its potential. Matthew refused to permit free hospitality, and on the last occasion Patrick had done this Matthew had the nerve to present him with the bill. On the day of his death he threatened to do the same again regardless of the fact that these were potential investors. I gather he was later extremely rude to them, with the result that Patrick was upset, and the investors left.’
‘Do you know who they were?’
‘Lord Standing, as he then was, was one, there was some industrialist, and Sir Richard Vane—’
‘Sylvia’s Lee’s husband?’ Georgia interrupted. Her mind began to spin with possibilities.
‘You have done your homework well, Georgia. She was briefly my husband’s girlfriend during the war, long before he knew me, of course. She retained an affection for him, however, and her husband took flying lessons, then flew with the club. She never came herself, to my knowledge.’
‘I noticed her photograph in a scrapbook.’
‘Yes. She was a part of Patrick’s life, albeit a small one, and it seemed fair to include it in the Fairfax Memorial Trust.’
So that was its name. ‘Did anyone else seem to have a motive? The club itself was in difficulties, wasn’t it?’
‘Who claims that?’ Jean whipped back. ‘I suppose,’ she continued tartly when Georgia did not reply, ‘you never reveal your sources. Let me assume therefore that it was Jack Hardcastle.’
‘It wasn’t in his biography.’ Jack had told her, of course, but diplomacy was necessary here.
‘Of course not. It was not true. The club was not failing. My husband told me he was about to sign a new lease with the MOD. I’m afraid that over the years speculation tends to become fact. Doubtless you have run into this before.’
‘I have, but it is usually possible to explore deeply enough to reach the truth, or what one can satisfy oneself to be the truth having investigated all sources. After all –’ Georgia decided to deflect the conversation, since detours could provide a useful breathing space – ‘people now believe that they know the truth about Richard III and the princes in the tower, despite Shakespeare’s best efforts to pervert the course of justice – if he did.’
Cerberus growled. ‘Nonsense to blame Shakespeare,’ Mary said. ‘Followed the historical line of the day, just as we do now.’
‘As presented by the so-called historian Holinshed on whose work Shakespeare based his,’ her mother rejoined. ‘Both writing posthumously and in the age of Elizabeth, who would not wish to see her grandfather indicted for murder, and thus they put the blame on Richard.’
‘All circumstantial evidence,’ Georgia commented lightly. Time to return to Patrick Fairfax now that she had a clearer playing field. ‘I need to get some idea of the people who belonged to the aviation club. Anyone who had a grudge against him, for example. Even the most popular of figures has a
disagreement with someone, sometime. It’s a consequence of having a high profile.’
‘I am aware of that,’ Jean rejoined stiffly. ‘You need look no further than Mr Stock.’
‘Oh, Mother, no!’ Cerberus interrupted wearily.
‘I have no idea why you feel I am speaking out of turn, Mary. Miss Marsh has reassured me that she investigates smoke and fire separately.’
‘Who is or was Mr Stock?’ Georgia asked politely.
‘Paul Stock was the manager at the aviation club. He accused my husband of wasting money. In fact it was he who had his hand in the till.’
‘Smoke or fire?’ Georgia asked with interest.
The gimlet eye fixed on her, although the sweet smile was still in place. ‘Fire, Miss Marsh, undoubtedly.’
‘But why would he want to go so far as to kill your husband?’
‘Because Patrick had discovered the truth. It is obvious enough.’
‘The police . . .’
‘Mr Stock was a creative accountant. There was no hard proof.’
‘Was?’ Georgia decided not to enquire whether in that case there would have been need for murder.
‘I spoke incorrectly. He is still alive, although I trust no longer in charge of others’ money.’
This was one line to be followed up, and she would do so, even though it was puzzling that if such an obvious motive existed that Christopher Manners had not mentioned it. There was another interesting line, however. ‘No one else had clashed with him?’ How else could she gently suggest rumours of affairs? ‘The police heard there was some kind of quarrel that afternoon.’ She expected to be slapped down, and was surprised when Jean answered immediately.
‘No doubt over Bill Dane’s wife, Alice. Patrick had told me about it himself some time before. A common little thing, for all Bill made great play of her being a bishop’s daughter. Dane had the notion that Patrick’s affair with her had been serious.’
Mary again stepped in. ‘Emphasis on serious, Georgia. Dad was not entirely faithful to my mother, but there was no serious affair. Good-looking man was Dad, and women tended to throw themselves at him.’
‘And usually they missed,’ Jean added tartly. ‘I met Mrs Dane once. She was one of those who threw herself and was briefly caught. One would have thought to look at her that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but I assure you it did. It not only melted but sizzled. It was some time ago in any case.’
Georgia was puzzled. ‘Then surely it would have provided no motive?’
‘I’m afraid Patrick was sometimes rather naughty. He liked to stir things up. I was later told that he had done so that afternoon.’
‘You may think, Georgia,’ Mary said bluntly, ‘that Dad wasn’t the paragon that he’s been painted. He was. Today’s media plays hero-bashing by revealing flaws, but some reputations remain intact. We don’t think the less of Kennedy as president because of his sexual flings. Chip away at my father’s reputation all you like, but it won’t make a dent.’
*
‘How was the doughty dowager?’ Peter looked up eagerly as Georgia came into his office, after a restorative tea break with Luke on her way home. She had spent an hour in the Fairfax museum with the Wormshill Aviation Club scrapbooks, compiling a list of the members from around the time of his death on her laptop, together with other snippets of interest. When she emerged into the fresh air again, she had drunk it in with relief. London – even Putney – was no place to greet the arrival of June, particularly immured in a room so claustrophobically dedicated to the past.
‘Overwhelming, but I rose again.’ She decided not to tell him the odd thing that had happened as she turned to walk down the hill to the tube station. Ten to one she was imagining things. No one could really have been watching her, save perhaps Cerberus from an upstairs window, and yet she had felt under scrutiny all the way down Putney Hill. She had even succumbed and turned round once, but there was no one but a teenager in the distance, a postman turning into a drive and a couple of students wrapped in each other’s arms. The prickles on her back had vanished as she got further from the house, and she had forgotten them, until her thoughts had been redirected to Putney on her return.
Obediently she related the results of her visit, together with the list of aviation club members, so far as she had been able to gather from the scrapbooks. ‘Patrick Fairfax seems to have had three particular cronies at the club, judging by the frequency in which they appear in snapshots. One was Lord Standing—’
‘Now a duke,’ Peter interrupted.
‘Another was Vincent Blake, a local business tycoon. And the last –’ she paused impressively – ‘was Sir Richard Vane, Sylvia Lee’s husband. Interesting, but no evidence that she ever came to the club herself.’
Peter was looking as alert as a March hare, ears metaphorically pricked up. ‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ he observed.
‘There was also,’ Georgia added, ‘an alleged crooked manager, Paul Stock.’
‘Ah, I wonder if Mike could find out . . .’
‘Don’t go there.’
‘Very well. I had another chat with Manners about forensic evidence. He’s been curious enough to ask around, and no, he doesn’t have the file. That’s strictly tucked away awaiting proof that it’s not idle interest on our part. There was a consensus however that the gun was never traced, nor was the one decent footprint. The cartridge was consistent with the Webley missing from the hotel. There were thought to be various other items of evidence and lines of enquiry, including your Mrs Dane, incidentally, but everything petered out.’
‘No mention of this Paul Stock?’
‘Yes, that’s why I recognized the name.’ Peter consulted his notes. ‘No dice. He’s mentioned as having been present, that’s all.’
‘Not a suspect?’
‘Apparently not. Anyway, Manners reports that Fairfax wasn’t shot from point-blank range, but beyond that it wasn’t possible to tell. The footprints suggested about seven feet. Various people said they heard what they thought to be a shot, but not loud enough to investigate. The disco was starting up and Fairfax seems to have had the grounds to himself. And another thing—’
‘What about blood spots?’ Georgia interrupted. ‘He’d surely have checked to make sure Fairfax was dead.’
‘He could have discarded his outer clothes, particularly if he thought it out in advance. The hotel wastebins and grounds were searched, of course. Nothing found. Quite a few were tested for residue on their hands, without success, including Matt Jones and the waiter who found the body.’
‘Gloves?’
‘A possibility. No evidence.’
‘So it’s probable the killer didn’t go back to the hotel.’
‘Why should he? Even if he was one of our Magnificent Seven the party had broken up long since. Remember that it’s seven because Tom Armstrong and Nat Dodds were there.’
‘Yes. The two who’ve since died.’
There was a peremptory knock at the door, and Georgia went to answer it since Margaret had left for the day. She fully expected yet another smiling would-be persuader from a gas or electricity company, but she had a pleasant surprise.
‘Charlie!’ she cried in delight.
‘Hi.’ Her cousin gave his familiar grin, the mop of black hair as untidy as ever, as he stepped inside, presenting her ceremoniously with a sticky paper bag.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I brought you some buns for tea.’
‘Excellent.’ By buns Charlie usually meant éclairs, for which he had a sweet tooth – particularly the soggy ones at which his mother Gwen excelled. He had solved countless problems, he claimed, while her particular mix of mushy choux pastry, chocolate and cream melted in his mouth.
‘Tea in the garden?’ he suggested hopefully as she led him into Peter’s office. ‘Got something to tell you.’
‘By all means,’ Peter roared belligerently. ‘After you’ve checked out Suspects Anonymous. This
monster has gone to sleep.’
‘Eclairs first.’ Charlie marched past Peter towards the conservatory and garden.
‘Done,’ said Georgia thankfully. It was ages since they had seen Charlie, since he was London-based, living in a flat in Clapham. Gwen’s longing for grandchildren looked doomed to despair so far as Charlie was concerned. Ladies appeared and disappeared, chiefly because he was wedded happily to a single life and his work on computer software. He surveyed the garden before them, and threw himself down happily on to an old-fashioned deckchair that Peter insisted on keeping as a souvenir. Georgia was never sure of what.
‘Eclairs ahoy!’ Peter made his appearance, shooting his wheelchair skilfully down the ramp from the conservatory to the lawn.
‘Not so excellent for waistlines.’ Georgia departed inside to make tea and Charlie ambled after her.
‘Luke’s a man to appreciate a fine body on a woman,’ Charlie teased her.
‘What,’ she asked to distract him from this subject, ‘are you doing down here? You didn’t come all this way to deliver buns.’
‘I was in Canterbury on a job. Wanted to tell you about my neighbour’s aunt.’
‘Don’t tell me she has a wonderful story for a book.’
‘Just you wait.’ He grinned and waited till they were outside again with the tea. Then his attention was distracted by an old Victorian chimney pot. ‘What do you keep in there?’
‘Slugs. Now tell us me about this aunt of yours, Charlie.’
‘In my young day,’ Peter observed, ‘Charley’s Aunt was a much loved farce.’
‘Today she could be the answer to your dreams.’
‘Convince us,’ Georgia said. This sounded good but things often did with Charlie.
‘She’s a widow who lives in Essex,’ he proclaimed.
‘So far so good,’ Peter retorted caustically.
‘Her husband was one Thomas Armstrong.’
‘Not Thomas Armstrong of 362 Squadron?’ Georgia cried with mixed feelings. Back to 1940 again.
‘The very same.’
‘He’s a Burglar Bill suspect, Charlie.’
‘Well, Burglar Bill’s missus came to visit her nephew, my nerdish neighbour. I met her, made the same deduction as you, when she mentioned the RAF, and told her about Suspects Anonymous and your current case.’
