The Marsh & Daughter Casebook

by Amy Myers

  St Alban’s Church lay at the end of a long lane leading up from the village centre towards the higher downland. The tarmac ended at the church, and beyond that the lane degenerated into farm track, which must once have been wild heathland. The church was small, with a squat tower, and built of Kentish ragstone. No high towers here, for the winds could blow strongly, and the church was sheltered by ancient yew trees, protecting its secrets. Now that was a ridiculous thought, Georgia acknowledged. All churches held secrets; that’s what they were there for. There were two types of secret, however: those of knowledge lost through time, and those that deliberately avoided discovery. Which, she wondered, did St Alban’s guard?

  ‘There was a Mary Venyon buried in the churchyard,’ Luke remarked idly, as, with the photo session over, they struck out across a footpath to Gwen and Terry’s home. Peter and some of the guests were driving round to Badon House, but for the more able at a village wedding it seemed right to walk the footpath. It wasn’t a long one, although the drive by road entailed a half-mile back to the village, then up the main street and along another lane, which in effect completed three sides of an oblong. The footpath provided the fourth, and provided a splendid view of the Jacobean chimneys of Badon House as they approached – albeit Georgia’s high heels suffered from mud, not to mention the frequent cowpat.

  ‘She’s buried right next to your Lance,’ Luke added.

  ‘He’s not my Lance,’ Georgia replied. The momentary thought flashed through her mind: why did he need a grave and a plaque? ‘He was lost—’ she said to herself, unfortunately out loud.

  ‘And must have been found again,’ Luke supplied helpfully. ‘If the body turned up later, they wouldn’t have taken the plaque down, would they?’

  Putting love to one side (and there was plenty of that), was it a good idea to be living with one’s publisher, Georgia wondered. Luke and she had been together in Medlars for nearly six months, and she had been taken aback – scared? – at how easy it had proved. True, they both had their own bolt-hole: Luke ran his publishing business from the oast-house workroom only thirty yards from their front door. This was his working space, just as she had hers in her old home next to Peter’s in the village of Haden Shaw a mile or two away.

  Anyway, that was enough about Lance Venyon. ‘Let’s think weddings,’ she suggested, ‘not graves.’

  ‘Glad you’re so keen,’ he murmured.

  Damn. There was no answer to that, and she had to ignore it. If you step in a cowpat, deal with it yourself.

  *

  Badon House was a seventeenth-century building, architecturally altered over the years, and now looking just a little down at heel. Terry had lived here since the 1980s, and it had suited him and his first wife, Anna, admirably, since they, like Gwen, were both great walkers and country-lovers. Terry was at his happiest when his tall, grey-haired figure was either marching pole in hand along a remote pathway on the downs, or delving deep into Kentish history in search of the past. Badon House had suited him in that respect too, since there had been a dwelling on the site for centuries before the present one.

  Gwen was now moving into Badon House ‘properly’, as she explained gravely, for the first time. It was a welcoming home. It was the first time Georgia and Luke had come here, since they had previously met Gwen and Terry either at her former home or at a pub, and Georgia was pleasantly surprised. Wellington boots stood side by side with Victorian jardinières, and on the dresser a chipped Staffordshire eighteenth-century highwayman rode cheek by jowl with a fluffy pink pig. The kitchen range well pre-dated the nineties’ vogue for them; one of the lavatories, she later discovered, still possessed an overhead flush, not to mention a tasteful blue rose painted inside the bowl, and the layout of the house had remained all but unchanged since before the Second World War.

  ‘Ah.’ Terry’s eyes were somewhat glazed by the time they arrived, as the champagne was already flowing. It was a warm day for April, and the party was beginning to spill out on to the brick terrace. ‘News for you, Peter. Remember I told you about the medieval foundations we found in the cellars? I’ve done some more homework. The place is said to have been some sort of dosshouse for monks.’

  ‘Rather far off the road, isn’t it?’ Georgia commented. ‘What would they do up here?’

  ‘Maybe they liked peace and quiet,’ Terry laughed. ‘Too many wagons thundering by and jolly minstrels disturbing the peace on the A2. Anyway, the church goes way back, and I suppose there were tithes and so forth to collect.’

  ‘Is St Alban’s Anglo-Saxon?’ Peter asked. There were quite a few such churches in Kent, and several cemeteries too.

  ‘Earlier,’ Terry said with some pride. ‘There was a Romano-British church or chapel here before the Saxons took it over.’

  ‘A Christian church?’ Georgia asked surprised.

  ‘Certainly. Christianity had been around since at least the fourth century, though I guess when the Anglo-Saxons arrived they gave it a bit of a bashing until St Augustine came steaming over to convert them all again. Early Christianity is big in Wymdown. Ever wondered why this place was called Badon House, Peter? King Arthur himself. There’s a village tradition that he’s still snoozing in them thar hills. Plenty of tumuli and barrows around on the downs, so why shouldn’t his royal majesty be tucked inside one, waiting to come back in the hour of England’s need?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she groaned.

  Peter was chortling, of course. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t guess, Georgia. Badon was Arthur’s big battle.’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ she said firmly. Books on King Arthur had littered Peter’s desk for weeks when they’d been investigating and writing up their last case stemming from the Battle of Britain period. She had banned all mention of the gentleman, and for some month or two now all had been mercifully quiet.

  Terry chuckled. ‘Sorry, Georgia. It’s only a tradition. There’s not a Round Table in sight in Wymdown.’

  ‘No T-shirts and mugs of Camelot in Kent?’ Georgia asked sweetly.

  ‘You may laugh, young woman, but I can tell you,’ Terry said firmly, ‘there’s folk around here reckon they’re related to Julius Caesar.’

  ‘You don’t have the Ring of the Nibelung in the village pond, do you, or Hobbits running around?’

  ‘Wymdown,’ Terry said cheerfully, ‘is an odd place. Wouldn’t surprise me if I dig up Excalibur round here one day.’

  ‘Keep hoping, your majesty.’ Gwen came to join them, linking her arm through her new husband’s. ‘Meanwhile, Guinevere’s here to tell you the Battle of Badon-Lunch is about to begin.’

  *

  Hats off to Gwen, Georgia thought, some time later after the magnificent buffet she had produced. Even if she hadn’t coped with it all herself, she’d clearly had a hand in it. Peter was equally enthusiastic, when Charlie came to join them on the terrace. ‘It’s a magnificent old pile, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lunch or the house?’ Charlie enquired.

  ‘The house,’ Peter replied.

  ‘Yes. Terry and Anna couldn’t afford to do much to it, and then as soon as he had the money, she died and he didn’t have the heart. He’s getting interested again now, though. He bought it from a young couple who had ideas about running it as a B-and-B but got divorced instead, and before that it was rented out. So one way and another, poor old Badon House needs some TLC, and tender loving care is what it’s going to get under Gwen, if I know my mother.’

  ‘I envy her this garden,’ Georgia said, looking at the lawns, trees and flowerbeds stretching, it seemed, into infinity. ‘How will Gwen cope with that?’ She was no gardener as Georgia knew well.

  ‘Terry’s keen enough for two. Also there’s an ancient garden retainer.’ Charlie pointed to an elderly man, who looked so smart he couldn’t have been near a slug in sixty years, Georgia thought.

  ‘Anyway,’ Charlie continued, ‘the garden isn’t quite as big as it looks. There’s a ha-ha out there . . . and the meadow beyond doesn’t be
long to Terry. It’s grazed, so Ma will have the pleasure of seeing the cows wandering around from time to time. By the way, I asked Terry about your Lance Venyon.’

  ‘He is not my Lance,’ Georgia repeated patiently.

  Charlie grinned. ‘Luke says he is. Got the story for you anyway. Lance and Mary Venyon were well known in the village in the late 1950s. Mary seems to have been the domestic type, Lance more of a rip-roaring adventurer. Liked sailing, kept a boat at Hythe. Drowned in 1961. Body later found, duly buried. Wife and daughter moved away shortly afterwards, but wife wanted to be buried next to husband.’

  ‘How on earth did you find all this out?’ Georgia felt unexpectedly deflated. A sad story but one that had an ending. Marsh and Daughter’s noses twitched at those that lacked closure.

  Charlie looked mysterious. ‘I have my methods.’

  ‘If entirely lacking in little grey cells,’ she threw back at him. ‘What methods?’

  ‘His daughter’s here.’

  Georgia laughed, her interest reviving. ‘Really? Where?’

  He pointed. ‘The lady in mauve and inclining to the non-slender. Elaine Holt is her name.’

  Georgia could see the woman he meant. She looked fairly formidable, and the mauve was a mistake – which suggested a lady of firm opinions. She moved towards her, then wondered why on earth she was bothering, and stopped to talk to Peter instead.

  ‘Good do,’ he announced with satisfaction.

  ‘Did Gwen do all this food herself?’

  ‘No, some friend of hers helped. Elaine something.’

  ‘Holt,’ Georgia supplied. ‘Lance Venyon’s daughter.’

  Peter’s eyes gleamed. ‘Have you talked to her?’

  ‘No point,’ Georgia said. ‘A sad story, but nothing for us.’

  ‘Every story should have something for everyone,’ Peter said sanctimoniously.

  She made a face. ‘Then you chat her up. She looks your cup of tea.’

  ‘I will,’ he declared, letting this slur go by. She watched as Peter wheeled himself up to Elaine, then her attention wandered, and she was addressed by the elderly man Peter had been talking to. He must be in his eighties, and his mane of white hair was impressive, beautifully soft and smooth. His white eyebrows matched exactly. Mane or not, he looked more lamb than lion.

  ‘I heard you mention Lance Venyon,’ he said.

  ‘Did you know him?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Retired vicars tend to have had the privilege of knowing everybody, in a village this size. I took another parish, an urban one a year or two after Lance died, but there’s something about Wymdown brought me back here in retirement.’

  ‘Familiar faces?’ she asked tritely.

  ‘Perhaps. Though not the Venyons, of course.’

  ‘Were you here when the body was found?’

  ‘I was. Most distressing for his wife, Mary, especially since it was well over a year after the accident.’

  ‘Accident? So it’s known what happened?’

  ‘The boat was found drifting, and Lance was most certainly not the suicidal type. I don’t think I ever heard the suggestion mooted.’

  ‘What type was he? His daughter describes him as adventurous.’

  He considered this. ‘Then let’s leave it at that.’

  If anything was calculated to encourage her not to leave it at that, this was. Nevertheless she could hardly say, ‘Tell me all.’ Discretion was necessary. ‘Did you like him?’

  His answer was prompt. ‘Oh, yes, everyone liked Lance. That was the problem.’

  ‘Problem?’ She tried to make it sound casual. What sort? she wondered. A line of lady friends? Work-shy? A series of illegitimate children? Cheated at cards? Ran off with the church funds? She realized with some surprise that her nose was beginning to twitch again.

  ‘Do you have a particular reason for asking?’ he asked courteously.

  ‘I have to admit, no. Just general curiosity.’

  ‘Quite understandable.’ He didn’t volunteer anything further. Feeling rebuffed, though aware she deserved it, she went to claim another glass of champagne. Luke was nowhere to be seen – yes, he was in the garden talking to Gwen. He had nobly offered to drive Peter and herself here, so he was stuck on orange juice. On the way to join them, however, she was accosted by a good-looking man in his twenties; how flattering, her champagne-befuddled head told her.

  ‘Colin Holt,’ he introduced himself.

  ‘Elaine’s son?’ she asked, glancing over to where Peter was deep in conversation with the Mauve Lady.

  ‘Yeah.’ He studied her. ‘You’re Marsh and Daughter, aren’t you?’

  ‘Only half of it.’ How stupid small talk could get.

  ‘I’ve read a couple of your books. Is that your dad there chatting up my mother? I heard him ask about my granddad,’ he added when she nodded.

  ‘Lance Venyon?’ Her interest quickened. Maybe she could get to the heart of the vicar’s mysterious ‘problem’. ‘It sounds as if he was a nice guy,’ she began cautiously.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Nor would Mum, really. She was only a babe in arms when he died. But his photos look great.’

  ‘An attractive man?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Too attractive for his own good?’ The champagne was pushing her on, probably unwisely.

  ‘Yeah. Mum always reckoned he was done in.’

  ‘Murdered?’ She was jolted out of her stupor, as scenarios rushed through her mind.

  ‘Yeah. Did he fall, did he jump or was he pushed?’ He grinned at her. ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘He was alone on the boat?’

  ‘Who knows? Mum, being aged two at the time, didn’t exactly get every detail first hand, but from what I’ve read, no one’s suggested otherwise, except obviously my grandmother. Anyway it’s just like Mum to blow it up. Can’t be a straightforward accident, has to be more to it.’

  Georgia began to dislike this man. ‘Perhaps there was.’ At the very least there was some mystery here.

  He shrugged. ‘My grandmother kept all the cuttings. No mention of a police investigation into suspicious death.’

  ‘Not even when the body was found?’ At least it was found, she thought, which would have provided some kind of ending for poor Mary. She wouldn’t have continued to suffer the worst of all unanswered questions, which Peter and she still endured, after her younger brother Rick had gone missing over twelve years ago. His body had never been found. Georgia pulled herself up quickly. Get away from this subject.

  ‘Did your mother have any reason for thinking he was murdered? Did he have enemies?’

  ‘Anyone like my granddad has enemies.’

  ‘But you didn’t know him, so how can you be sure what he was like?’

  Another shrug. ‘Family, friends, you know how it is. Easy to think of a granddad with whiskers and runny eyes, but when you look at his photos, well, you see him as he was. A go-anywhere, do-anything party-animal sort of chap. One of life’s jokers.’

  ‘What did this sort of chap do in life?’ Georgia enquired. A joker? Had one of his jokes taken him a step too far?

  ‘Not sure,’ he admitted. ‘Something in the art world, I think. Not my line. I’m a car salesman.’

  He would be. ‘A painter?’

  ‘Don’t know. Ask Mum.’

  ‘My husband’s in art.’ A blonde bombshell in her late twenties, too much make-up, too frilly a dress, and four-inch heels too spindly to withstand the onslaught of too much champagne, infiltrated herself with aplomb between Georgia and Colin.

  ‘Is he an artist?’ Georgia asked the new arrival’s back, since the front was very firmly facing Colin.

  ‘He’s got a gallery down in Dover. Sells stuff.’ This was tossed over her shoulder in her shrill voice, while Colin got the full force of the follow-up in lower key: ‘I’m Kelly. Kelly Cook.’

  Georgia decided it was time to fade away gracefully – not that they would notice. And why should they? Colin was at least te
n years younger than she was, and Kelly was hunting prey. Georgia faded towards Luke, who was ambling towards the table where Terry and Gwen were awaiting the cake. When it arrived, borne by Charlie, it proved to be a massive replica of Terry’s classic old Porsche 356, linked bumper to icing bumper with one of Gwen’s Ford Fiesta.

  ‘Different, anyway,’ Peter said admiringly. He had owned such a classic before his accident, but he seemed genuinely not to be thinking of that.

  ‘What have you got against poor old King Arthur?’ Luke asked, while they waited for the cake to come round. ‘Terry says you’re a cynic on the subject, yet I gather Arthur’s as much of a local as Lance Venyon.’

  ‘Nothing personal,’ Georgia explained. ‘Don’t you remember how obsessed Peter became with him as a diversion from our case about the Spitfire pilots?’

  ‘Yes, but why did he? It’s a vast subject to dabble in.’

  ‘He became interested in the Ringlemere Cup, the gold one dug up in Kent a few years ago. Now in the British Museum.’

  ‘That was nothing to do with King Arthur,’ Luke pointed out. ‘It was Bronze Age, wasn’t it? Well before the Romans anyway, let alone King Arthur’s time in the fifth century.’

  ‘I suppose in Peter’s mind, it got linked because it was so like the cup found in Cornwall in the nineteenth century. Near Bodmin Moor I think, which isn’t a million miles from Tintagel.’

  ‘All that proves is that there was an ancient trade route going from Cornwall to the Kent coast. We know that anyway. The Pilgrims’ Way covers some of it.’

  ‘I sometimes suspect Peter of being a romantic at heart. Cornwall to him equals Lyonesse, Tristram and Isolde, Camelot – and King Arthur.’

  ‘What about Wales and King Arthur? Not to mention the rest of Britain, Ireland and half of mainland Europe. Not forgetting Dover.’

  ‘Dover?’ she asked. This was a new one.

  ‘Peter must have told you. Malory’s Morte D’Arthur sets Arthur at Dover Castle, not to mention a battle at Dover against the dreadful Moriarty – sorry, Mordred. Got my villains mixed. You could say Arthur’s link with Dover is because the medieval kings of England owned the castle, and their spin doctors advised it would be good to represent themselves as the new King Arthur – but then one might ask how did the pre-Malory kings know about Arthur, if there wasn’t considerable evidence for his existence?’