The Marsh & Daughter Casebook

by Amy Myers

  Before she could tackle Jack on what he meant, however, he pointed towards the forecourt where the coaches were just pulling in. ‘Here come the troupers.’

  The occupants of the coaches were descending rapidly or slowly according to age, women in bright colours, men in the occasional RAF blue uniform, now and then a familiar face. She saw Bob McNee limping towards the garden, and Matt Jones, shuffling on two sticks guarded by two women. Harry Williams also had two sticks, while Bill Dane and Jan Molkar were walking slowly but unaided behind. Well over sixty years ago, these young pilots had jumped down from the station brakes taking them to and from Town Malling and their messes. Time was an odd thing, she thought not for the first time. Suppose there were parallel universes side by side and that one only had to press a computer button or make a wish and the walls between them would dissolve. She could imagine this now. To each other they were in the world of 1940, divided only by time from everyone else here.

  Whom to tackle first? Peter was still talking to Jack, who nodded, and walked over to Matt Jones.

  ‘Gentleman’s offering you a cup of tea, Matt,’ she heard him say jovially. ‘That’ll chase the whisky down nicely.’

  Matt looked over and smiled, turning his sticks and then his steps towards them, flanked by the two women – wife and daughter presumably. He sat down at their table with a sigh as the women and Jack went off to order tea.

  ‘Do you feel up to talking about what happened at the 1975 reunion?’ Georgia asked gently. ‘We realize it must be a sad memory for you.’

  His unfocused eyes wandered over her. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  There was no answer to that. ‘I met Mr Stock this morning, and he told me you talked about business with Mrs Dane after the other pilots left the hotel.’ She’d mishandled it, leapt in too deep, too soon. There was no response or any sign that he had heard her.

  ‘The hotel,’ Peter prompted. ‘You ran the hotel, and it was in financial trouble.’

  Suddenly Matt was quite clear. ‘Patrick of course,’ he snapped. ‘He would do it. Fancy bringing them to the reunion. No taste at all. That was our time. All four of them towering over me. Nothing comes of mixing business with pleasure. Wanted to put money into the hotel. I tried to tell them it was no use, they’d lose it all, but they wouldn’t have it. Patrick was shouting the odds at them and me. Then he was dead.’

  ‘Did Patrick return later?’ If Paul Stock was right, this was an important point because it could only have been shortly before he died, and it occurred to her it might account for the trace evidence the police found.

  There was no answer, and Matt Jones continued to drink his tea.

  ‘Do you remember the police coming?’ she tried again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Stomping all over my office. Talked to everyone. Staff, restaurant customers, even the kids in the discos. Fat lot of good it did them.’

  ‘Your RAF friends had all left by the time Patrick was killed, and Mr Stock told me that the aviation club members had too. Could anyone have stayed on without your knowing?’

  He looked at her as though she were simple-minded, and amused she saw a glimpse of the masterful flight commander of the past. ‘Can’t be everywhere. Lots of rooms in that hotel. Car park too. Didn’t check that. Why should I? Not a blasted traffic warden.’

  ‘Was there a car park attendant?’ Could one of the group have stayed there unnoticed?

  ‘Couldn’t afford one. Bad enough getting staff as it was.’

  This was hopeless. They were getting nowhere. ‘Who were your staff then? Would there still be a list?’ If only they could get at those police files.

  ‘My dear young lady,’ he explained patiently, back in flight commander mode, ‘today it would be immigrant labour. In the Seventies, it would have been immigrants, students, other seasonal labour. Some of our staff were regulars, but the chambermaids, waiters and bar staff came and went. I hardly knew their faces let alone their names.’

  A different tack. ‘The party hadn’t gone well that day, had it?’ Peter asked casually. ‘You’d had a bit of a row.’

  ‘Had we?’ He smiled politely with tired eyes. ‘I really don’t remember.’

  They were grasping at will o’ the wisp shadows. ‘There had been a quarrel,’ Georgia said. She took a risk. ‘Was it because Bill’s wife was your partner in the hotel?’ Nothing in response. Talk about leading the witness, she thought in despair.

  He flushed red. ‘Very naughty of Patrick, inviting outsiders.’

  She gave up. Was this just the effects of age, or did the magic ring binding this quintet still hold firm? For perhaps the best of reasons, no one would remember anything about that day. Anything that would take Marsh & Daughter forward, that is.

  *

  After the museum had officially closed to the general public, the squadron drew together as they made their way to the memorial garden. The sun was getting lower, but it was still warm, as Georgia and Peter followed them, not to the main part of the garden where the squadron gathered round the memorial to the fallen, but to one of the smaller areas devoted to small plaques commemorating individual loved ones. Here they could watch without intruding, together with the carers, wives and children. Not that anyone would notice their presence. The former pilots were gathered round, as again Bill Dane recited from ‘High Flight’. A blue-clad officer in his late thirties – the current CO perhaps – read out the roll of those in 362 Squadron who had died either during the Second World War or after it in the course of duty. The list seemed endless. Two names struck her: Joseph Smith and Oliver Tanner, the two LMF sergeant pilots. What did that indicate? Acceptance of frailties? Forgiveness?

  Patrick Fairfax’s name was not on the roll, which surprised her until she remembered that he had not died in service. And yet to her he seemed here, a dancing, laughing presence, defying them to find the truth.

  As if reading her mind, as the ceremony ended she realized that the five pilots were coming towards them, and only belatedly did she realize that she and Peter were blocking some of the individual memorials – and one of them must be to Fairfax. Hastily, they moved aside. Bill Dane led the quintet, and glanced over to them as he did so. He seemed to be looking at her closely, but whether in challenge or appeal, she was not sure. Perhaps it was just a flight of fancy because when they finished the ceremony, he beckoned to them to join the quintet.

  ‘Mr Hardcastle tells us you want to write a book about Patrick’s death,’ he said quite normally.

  ‘That’s so,’ Peter answered. ‘It won’t conflict with either the film or his new edition of This Life, This Death, if that’s what worries you.’

  ‘Worries?’ Harry Williams answered, his voice still deep and confident. ‘I should think not. We’re all for it. Good old Patrick deserves it.’

  ‘Anything we can do to help, we shall,’ Bill added. ‘The only worry we have is that Patrick’s murder will remain unsolved. We want the case reopened officially. Can you do that?’

  ‘If we produce a credible case,’ Peter told him.

  ‘The police did not succeed,’ Bob McNee reminded them in his soft Scottish accent. Georgia had been aware that he had been watching them carefully. ‘If there’s unfinished business, it’s better we know.’

  Georgia was too dumbfounded to speak as contact details were exchanged. Why had she assumed that the quintet would decide as a whole not to assist? Did that mean that they were sure none of them were involved? Or, it occurred to her, did it mean the opposite? They might wish to monitor what the Marshes were up to.

  ‘We thank you.’ Jan Molkar made a quaint bow. ‘It is most fitting that we have met you again.’

  ‘We shall do our best,’ Peter promised gravely. ‘Tell me, do you feel that the reason for Patrick’s death stems from 1975, or . . .’ He looked from one to the other.

  ‘Or?’ Bill Dane picked up evenly. ‘What were you going to say, Mr Marsh?’

  ‘From his earlier life. From the war perhaps.’r />
  Georgia saw amazement on their faces, even on Matt’s, but it was followed by something else that she could not define.

  ‘How could that be?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Are you asking whether one of us fired the shot?’ Bob McNee laughed. ‘I think you’ll be a wee while proving that.’

  ‘I should leave us out, old man,’ Harry joked. ‘Plenty of folk Patrick rubbed up the wrong way in the course of his life, creditors, husbands . . .’

  He stopped as his friends looked at him. Including Bill Dane. ‘Only joking,’ he continued hastily. ‘Poor old Patrick.’

  *

  That night Georgia slept badly. Images of the five pilots descending one by one from the coach grew more and more vivid. As black silhouettes following one behind the other the steadily advancing line began to turn from weirdness to nightmare, as she and Peter looked on. Then the line stopped, and at a sign from one she half recognized as Bill Dane they turned direction to walk slowly, inexorably, towards them, grinning not in welcome but menace. Peter retreated, but the line came on. And on. Chuckles now. Leers. Whispers. Implacably advancing on them. Finally she and Peter could retreat no more. His wheelchair stuck and she was powerless to intervene. Bill Dane leant over the wheelchair, stick outstretched. A hoarse whisper reached her.

  ‘We only want to help you.’

  As the stick crashed down, she woke up sweating.

  Chapter Six

  She was still shaken the next morning, and her mood was not lightened by finding Peter already at his desk. On Sundays this was officially forbidden except in emergencies, and she took herself into the garden for the rest of the day since she’d be seeing Luke tomorrow. Weeding provided a clearer perspective, and when on Monday she found Peter in exactly the same place she felt better able to cope.

  ‘This case is like a football match,’ Peter said gloomily. ‘A foul’s called and the team’s ready to kick off again, but in our case, who blows the whistle?’

  ‘Elucidate, O great Plato.’

  ‘We have a clear path forward if we agree that the Fearful Five genuinely want us to find the truth, but suppose only four of them do?’

  She saw his point. One of the group might have been Fairfax’s murderer, unsuspected by the others. She peered over his shoulder at the playing area on the Suspects Anonymous screen. It was blank, with Burglar Bills and Bettys waiting for the off.

  ‘Suppose the pilots just throw us sticks to run after and bring back to them wagging our tails, while all the time the real business is going on between them.’

  ‘I don’t follow that. If they are genuine about helping us, any other real business, as you put it, can have nothing to do with the case.’

  ‘Or they believe it doesn’t,’ Peter pointed out.

  ‘You’re right.’ Georgia’s optimism was rapidly vanishing.

  ‘Such sweet words.’

  ‘That could have been the police’s problem in 1975.’

  ‘With hindsight we do better.’

  ‘Not always,’ Georgia said fairly. ‘Remember that woman who claimed her sweetheart had been murdered for knowing too much about the Falklands War. Turned out to be a total fantasist, as Mike had warned us, and—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Peter cut her off impatiently. ‘But that was then. This is now, and there’s still a gate through somewhere, I know it. It could be Sylvia Lee.’

  ‘Only if we think the 1940s are the key to what happened in 1975. And we haven’t a shred of evidence to suggest that. There’s far more on the aviation club members.’

  ‘Sylvia’s husband was one of the people present in 1975. He’s no longer alive, but she is. Why don’t you pop up and see her – just in case?’ he added placatingly.

  ‘But why?’ she wailed. ‘I have to have a reason.’

  ‘Background,’ Peter said firmly. ‘Make an appointment for next week. How do you fancy tackling Bill Dane right away?’

  Georgia considered this. ‘Yes.’ Instinct told her this might not achieve anything either, but she couldn’t justify it. It might still be the thought of the nightmarish stick crashing down.

  ‘Good. Now, this house you’re going to see with Luke. Is he serious about it?’

  ‘It’s his second look. He’s never got that far before or invited my opinion before.’

  The butterflies fluttered in her stomach. How ridiculous of me, she thought. A step too far, her cautious side said; a step in the right direction replied her rational self. But suppose his living so close brought a different perspective? Changed things? Ah, but suppose doing nothing proved a signal for Luke to drift out of her life. He’d been generous, he was taking the first step, whereas it should have been her. She should signal acknowledgement of that fact.

  Peter’s eyes gleamed. ‘I’ll treat you both to lunch in the White Lion afterwards to celebrate.’

  ‘He’s unlikely to have contracted and completed the sale by then,’ she quipped blithely.

  ‘Georgia, do try.’

  This was the only direct piece of advice her father had ever given her, she realized with surprise, as she unlocked her Alpha Romeo. On a good day the distance to Medlars, the house Luke had his eye on, might be walkable. Then she realized the way her thoughts were moving and laughed at herself. A small part of her must think this was a done deal. Two lovers strolling hand in hand along a country lane made an idyllic picture – even if it did mean their leaping into the hedgerows every so often when a car swept by.

  Medlars was on the road to Old Wives Lees, a name which Luke had deemed propitious. She had retorted that the postal address of the house was still Haden Shaw. In fact it was in a tiny hamlet called Cot Street, which had a lane direct to the Canterbury Road. For a business such as Luke’s this was a plus, even though his main distribution was carried out by a firm in Folkestone.

  She was surprised to find her heart beating very loudly as she turned into the Old Wives Lees road. This wasn’t one that she normally used, and so she didn’t know precisely where Medlars was. First of all she saw a For Sale sign, then the white gates Luke had described. They were open, but she paused for a moment before driving in. She needed to get this important first impression. It was an old Wealden House, not from the look of it in good repair, but comfortable in its skin, as the French would say.

  She could see immediately what attracted Luke. There was an old oast with a barn attached on the left of the large forecourt in front of the house. The barn was pretty dismal-looking with black painted clapboards, and the oast must be the only one in Kent with chipped, worn paint, but they could do something about that. They? She felt a sudden stab of panic. Was it going to be difficult to think in terms of he and she if Luke moved in here, only of some amorphous blob called ‘they’? She’d done blobs with her ex-husband, Zac. Never again.

  She disciplined herself into sense and advanced into the forecourt. It was gravelled with trees and shrubs on the side facing the oast, all in need of a prune. It looked welcoming – and expensive, despite its dilapidation. Oasts didn’t come cheap, particularly with Wealden houses guarding them. Luke would be making a big commitment. Stop making reservations, she told the butterflies, which were beginning a dance of victory.

  To her pleasure, Luke was already there, his car parked by the oast, and he was lolling against it eyeing the house speculatively. He already looked as though he belonged there. The moment her car crunched on the gravel, he looked round and strolled towards her as she parked next to him.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked her.

  ‘Too good to be true,’ she answered frankly.

  ‘Possibly. Every deathwatch beetle in Kent might have been incubated here.’

  ‘Can you afford it?’

  ‘With a little help from a poor survey so that they’ll accept an offer.’

  ‘Plus a best-seller or two,’ she joked. ‘Does the barn have a business licence?’ It seemed unlikely.

  ‘You won’t believe this, but yes. The owner’s son was going to move in to use
it as a regional office, but the firm went bust before he got going. Should be no problem over it. A publishing company should be considered a desirable presence. Let’s hope so anyway.’

  Yes, she thought with some surprise, let’s hope.

  It was obvious as soon as she stepped in the door that this should be Luke’s home. He would fit into it like a comfortable old boot. The building itself had been extensively patched up over the years with Tudor red-brick walls at the rear of the house, and inside it had greatly changed from its original medieval layout. Not, thankfully, by a 1960s modernizer, as in other houses she’d seen. The changes here had been to larger rooms and a decent-sized kitchen. The passage could still be traced back to its medieval ancestry, however.

  The oast barn had been half fitted out as an office, then abandoned. ‘Potential,’ the owner said genially as they looked at the piles of planks and paint left awaiting the realization of this dream. Luke agreed wholeheartedly. His office could be in the oast and storage and open plan offices fit into the barn.

  ‘More light,’ she heard him murmur to himself. ‘They’ll need more light.’

  ‘They?’ She hadn’t dared ask about his staff. One step at a time. Luke looked so relaxed and excited that she wasn’t going to take risks.

  ‘I can see Frost Books, here, can’t you?’ He glanced at her tentatively.

  ‘Yes.’ No doubt about that. She could. Could she see herself in the house – either as ‘she’ or ‘they’? Honesty forced her to admit yes. Given time.

  *

  ‘Do you want to come on our next visit, Peter?’ Luke said an hour later at the White Lion.

  ‘Certainly,’ Peter said promptly. ‘I need to see our publisher won’t be making a gigantic mistake. Are you going to make an offer?’

  ‘Yes. The fellow’s had a survey done already, which is a help. I’ve made an offer subject to my own survey anyway and my checking out the business licence. So it’s full steam ahead. With Georgia’s permission,’ he added straight-faced.

  ‘Full permission,’ she said, firmly subduing a rebellious butterfly.