The Marsh & Daughter Casebook

by Amy Myers

  ‘Please don’t name a living murderer, that’s all I beg of you.’

  *

  Georgia finished her last set of notes, printed them out for Peter – he liked it that way, even though as they shared a computer system he could easily read it on screen or print it out himself. ‘Days of feudal grandeur of having secretaries,’ she regularly mocked him, but he simply agreed with her, so teasing him was no fun.

  She left her own small house in Haden Shaw guiltily. It always seemed to be looking at her reproachfully for neglecting it. She still kept her office here, and put up occasional visitors, since Medlars was only being ‘sorted out’ little by little. Most of her time was spent in Peter’s office next door, although her own house provided valuable thinking and writing space.

  ‘I’ve been studying the newspaper reports of the death and later inquest again,’ Peter greeted her glumly. ‘Not much to go on, are they?’

  She agreed. Two weeks had passed, but all their endeavours had produced were two short reports of the inquest in local newspapers, one in the Dover Herald, the other in the Canterbury Express, together with one of the memorial service six months after Lance’s disappearance and one of the funeral. Apart from a list of principal mourners at the funeral, in which the only recognizable names were Mary Venyon and Jago and Jennifer Priest, it told them little. The yacht had been a classic all-wood eighteen-foot Hillyard, and Lance had sailed from Hythe at seven in the morning on 14 September 1961. His car was found parked on the seafront. His wife had said he had left in the mid-afternoon of the day before to meet someone, intending to stay in Hythe overnight on the boat and go sailing the next day – she didn’t know whether it was alone or with someone. The boat had been found drifting about four miles off the French coast the following day with the dinghy still on board.

  The inquest reports, still closed to the public, had been available to Mike, but had given little relevant information on the body that they didn’t already know from Jago, save that there was no indication from the remains of how Lance had died. Due to their poor condition, the remaining organs, which to some extent had been protected by adipocere, having been in the water so long, revealed nothing that could indicate the cause of death, such as the presence of water in the lungs.

  ‘Leading to an open verdict,’ Peter had said gloomily, ‘and the obvious assumption that it was an accident, especially since the dinghy was still on board.’

  What was interesting was Mike’s revelation, having seen what police records there still were, that Mary Venyon had clearly been a thorn in the police’s side, with her constant demands to view every possible body washed up.

  ‘Which could be a sign of how distraught she was,’ Peter had pointed out, ‘or the contrary.’

  ‘A guilty conscience? Scared that the body might display signs of her attack on him. After all, why didn’t she create a stink at the time if she thought it was murder?’ Georgia said.

  ‘Perhaps she did, and they told her politely to go away,’ Peter said fairly.

  ‘What about the yacht? Could she have found something on it when it was recovered that made her suspicious that it was murder, such as signs that two people had been on board?’

  ‘Again, why not tell the police?’ Peter replied. ‘We’re getting nowhere fast on this, even on the Daks front. Mike has spoken to Kenyon’s daughter, but she couldn’t help over Daks. She knew of no family connection and had never spoken to him herself or been approached by him. She did give Mike a family tree proving the Venyons are all Brits, no East European connections so far as he could see. So where now? Do we press on for evidence of murder? And if so where?’

  Georgia decided she should come clean. ‘There’s the churchyard,’ she said flatly. ‘The fingerprints on time were shrieking at me.’

  ‘Of course. You’d just seen a murdered body there.’

  ‘Give me credit, Peter,’ she said patiently. ‘It went beyond that.’

  ‘As far as Lance Venyon?’

  ‘Suppose that’s where his grave is?’ she blurted out. So far as she recalled, Luke hadn’t told her at Gwen’s wedding exactly where the grave was. ‘I was in too much of a state to look at whose gravestones they were when I found Sandro.’

  Peter looked taken aback, but he rallied. ‘Suppose you check that out before I get excited and wheel myself over there.’

  ‘In the hope that King Arthur is calling faintly from the hills?’ she managed to joke. ‘Where are you in the hour of his need?’

  ‘He’s probably hoping he won’t be accused of murdering Lance Venyon,’ Peter said caustically. ‘You leave King Arthur to me.’

  ‘Have you put him on Suspects Anonymous?’

  ‘Do not, I tell you do not, speak lightly of Charlie’s modus operandi.’

  It had been her cousin who had invented the software designed to digest all evidence and spit it out in visible form with all its clashes and contradictions. As with so many contributions from the computer world, Suspects Anonymous was helpful within limits. The footslogging soldiers still had their part to play.

  *

  Maureen Jones was hardly welcoming when Georgia at last managed to arrange a meeting for Wednesday – this time at her home, which was a cottage on the green facing the pub. At least this was a tangible line to follow up. All too tangible. Georgia could picture Maureen’s lean angular form at the head of a crusaders’ army holding her own particular banner of uprightness and holiness aloft. She wondered how her affable and informal aunt was faring in this village if all its matriarchs were so rigid and unbending. Even Maureen’s garden proclaimed a military approach to life. Despite the rain, the flowers were not allowed to spread in the usual May joyousness of spring, but were neatly trimmed and kept to their own patch of ground. No sprawling by the troops stationed here.

  ‘I have explained already to the police that I did not feel well that evening,’ Maureen explained stiffly, ‘and so decided to do my flower duty early the following morning. I did so with some difficulty owing to various police impediments.’

  Georgia made sympathetic noises, although they were more for the police than Maureen. Any thoughts the police might have about her involvement with the murder would surely be conquered at one blow when faced with the Mighty Maureen herself.

  ‘I expect Gwen explained it was I who found the body when I came to look for you,’ Georgia began, ‘although it wasn’t about the murder that I wanted to see you today.’

  ‘Indeed? Gwen implied it was when she rang this morning.’ Her tone suggested that Gwen would be hearing about this.

  ‘Only indirectly,’ Georgia amended. ‘When Sandro Daks came to the village he mentioned that he wanted to see a Lance Venyon, who in fact had died in 1961. My father and I are investigating that death, and I understand that Lance was a friend of your mother’s.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him, of course, but not through my mother.’ The reply was very firm. ‘She has never referred to him so far as I recall. She hasn’t lived in the village for a great many years.’

  This was hopeful. ‘She’s still alive?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘Yes. She is not in good health.’

  Keep away, in other words. Maureen’s tone made it clear that Georgia hadn’t a hope of meeting her.

  ‘I would of course travel to see her, but if she doesn’t want me to contact her then I quite understand,’ Georgia said warmly. ‘I’d be so grateful if you could ask her, however.’ She made her request sound entirely reasonable.

  ‘Very well.’ It was ungracious, but at least a concession.

  ‘Thank you,’ Georgia said smoothly, handing over her business card. It seemed to be her bad luck always to be running into the guardians of those who didn’t want or need to be guarded. With any luck Venetia Wain might prove one of them. Unless, of course, Lance Venyon’s former lover had something to hide.

  Just as she rose to go, the doorbell rang, and Maureen went to answer it. To Georgia’s pleased surprise it was Elaine Holt, and she decid
ed to take instant advantage. Today Elaine looked less matronly than in her mauve wedding outfit, but her black trousers, blouse and jacket still suggested this was a lady of firm opinions – a suitable chum for Maureen.

  ‘You were responsible for that delicious food at Gwen and Terry’s wedding.’ Answer that, Mrs Gorgon, she thought to herself.

  To her guilt, the Gorgon proved far from being one the moment her face broke into beaming – and, it seemed, genuine – appreciation.

  ‘You’re Georgia Marsh, aren’t you? I had a long chat with your father. Lots of fun. Remember, Maureen? We both talked to him.’

  A good start, but where to go from here? Maureen was still clearly edging her out, but to her relief Elaine detained her. ‘Colin told me he’d been spilling the beans on the family skeletons to you.’

  ‘Only one, and not hidden in any closet,’ Georgia replied.

  ‘I never paid much attention to it. I hardly recall my father, being only a toddler when he died, and so it didn’t upset me. The police asked me about my father, too – thanks to you, I imagine.’

  She didn’t seem to mind, fortunately. ‘My father used to work with DCI Gilroy in his police-career days, and still does consulting work for them,’ Georgia explained. True enough, even if not quite so officially as this sounded.

  ‘I remember someone did come to the village years and years ago, asking for my father. It was just after we moved here, so it would have been about 1990 or so. My mother talked to him. Good-looking chap, foreign, that’s why I remember him.’

  ‘Do sit down,’ Maureen suggested. It was a lukewarm invitation to Georgia at least, but even so the atmosphere was warmer, and she accepted. After all, Maureen wouldn’t want to miss out on gossip as juicy as this. Georgia reproved herself. If she went on this way she’d be turning into a village matriarch herself.

  ‘My father wasn’t the sort to have an accident, so my mother argued,’ Elaine told her, settling herself on the sofa. ‘He was careful on the boat, so she said. He’d learned to take care of himself because of his job, and perhaps he had need to.’

  ‘There was no private motive for anyone to want him dead, enmities with friends, for instance?’ Georgia asked as delicately as she could. She could hardly ask if one of Lance’s mistresses might have had reason to kill him.

  ‘No,’ Elaine said firmly. ‘Nor is there a question of suicide. My father and mother were very happy together, so my mother told me. They had different lifestyles, but they dovetailed. My mother was content pottering in the garden, my father loved Wymdown, but also needed the buzz of dashing all over Europe.’

  ‘In search of stolen art works,’ Georgia said.

  ‘You know about that?’ Elaine looked surprised. ‘Did the police tell you?’

  ‘No, Jago Priest.’

  ‘My godfather. Of course. A great chap. I love him to bits. A great support after my mother died in 1995. He told me a great deal about my father’s war days.’

  ‘Anything to suggest any reason for murder there?’ If Elaine loved Jago to bits she was hardly likely to see him in the role of murderer, Georgia reasoned.

  ‘None that I can think of. Jago might have some ideas. My mother is less likely to have known. We went to live in Dorset shortly after my father’s death, where my grandparents lived.’

  ‘What brought you back to Kent? You must have been too young to remember much about it.’

  ‘I was. Pure coincidence brought me here. Pete – that’s my ex – took a job in Canterbury and saw a house out on the Barfrestone Road that we liked. Now I live at the top end of the village.’

  ‘Nice and close,’ Maureen commented warmly.

  It was also a coincidence, Georgia thought, seeing the obvious friendship between the two (which made her think more kindly of Maureen). There was after all a tenuous connection between their two families: Maureen’s mother Venetia Wain and Elaine’s father had allegedly been lovers.

  ‘Why do you think your mother believed that Lance was murdered? I’m still not clear,’ Georgia said.

  ‘I don’t blame you. It’s pretty hazy,’ Elaine replied. ‘My mother first told me when I was about twelve, and as a child you embed your first impressions so firmly that any misconceptions are less likely to be chucked away. So far as I recall, the basis of the argument was that he was off to meet someone that afternoon, and it must have been important because Mum said he was very het up about it.’

  ‘Excited or afraid, did you gather?’

  ‘From the way Mother talked about him, I didn’t get the impression my father was ever afraid. Derring-do and tally-ho were his approach – or at least,’ she added frankly, ‘how my mother chose to remember him.’

  ‘The inquest report didn’t mention any visitors coming forward. Did they later?’

  ‘Apparently not. Ma was still on about it to the day of her death. Not an obsession, but a niggle, if you know what I mean. She had an idea it was someone from his working life since he’d said he was on an exciting case. But then if it was a rival in his affections she would say that.’

  ‘Any mention of which case?’ Georgia asked, hoping for a mention of the Pre-Raphaelites.

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  New tack needed. ‘There were quite a few people at the funeral – would you know who they were if we sent you a copy of the report?’

  ‘I might. You could try me. My father had a lot of friends, so my mother said. Everyone liked him. Except – before you say it – his murderer, if any.’

  ‘Jago Priest was his closest friend?’

  ‘No idea. He was the best man at their wedding, and I can’t remember my mother talking about anyone else by name. I don’t think my mother cared for Jago, but that was natural if my father was close to him. She didn’t care for any of my boyfriends either – mind you, she was right over Pete. Anyway, send me the list, and I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I know you gave the police family details, but would you have any objection if we advertised for former friends and work contacts of your father? In the press obviously and on our website.’

  Their website, as well as Suspects Anonymous, was hosted by her cousin Charlie and the ‘Can you help’ information page was an idea so obvious that they had kicked themselves for overlooking it. It had been going for about six months now, and had produced one or two good results to add to their files. Although an excellent tool, it had nevertheless taken much discussion as to whether such prior heralding of their areas of interest might cause as much harm as good by alerting interested parties before they’d decided on taking a case. She’d agreed with Peter to risk it, but with sufficient variety of names and subjects that the main subject of current interest would be partly masked. So far as Lance Venyon was concerned, it could surely do no harm at all.

  Elaine didn’t take long to consider the matter. ‘Go ahead. I’m far enough away from it not to be upset at raking up the past and my children won’t care. There’s no other close family to consider. He was an only child and his parents died when I was a child. Contact petered out with the rest of the family soon after his death. I can give you some old addresses, but I doubt if they would help you or the police. My mother implied he more or less wiped the soil of his native Hampshire off his feet when he went off to war, and after it he began a new life.’

  ‘Just one more thing,’ Georgia asked. ‘How do you feel about the fact that if there is a crime uncovered there could be a book about it?’ She was aware of Maureen stiffening.

  ‘It depends on what you find,’ Elaine replied briskly. ‘If he was murdered, I’d want my children to know the truth, and I’d like to myself after all this. So dig away, by all means.’

  ‘Although it strikes me, Georgia,’ Maureen put in sweetly, ‘that you may be digging without success.’

  Was that a hope or a threat? Georgia wondered.

  *

  The crime scene in the churchyard had been wound up by now, and Georgia found herself once more alone there. This time it was broad da
ylight, however, not evening; the sun was out and birdsong very audible. There was a world of difference from her last visit. So had her impression then been entirely subjective? She retraced her steps of that night, stopping where she had first seen that glimpse of white. She walked towards the dark corner again, just as tense as before. All traces of where the body had lain and the crime scene were gone, although the trampled-down grass and mud around betrayed how busy this place had recently been. There was nothing save the quiet and peace of country churchyards, as she began her search for Lance Venyon’s grave.

  Almost immediately she knew she had been mistaken. It was still here, that sense of darkness and horror. The mere fact that she was in a hurry to leave suggested that. She felt her heart racing again. The sun now seemed to have a false brilliance, as though doing its best to bring light into an area that had chosen to remain dark. Hurriedly, she began to check the gravestones: Edward Robinson, died 1959. Beloved father and husband. Josephine, wife of Robert Jones, died 1960. Alan Peters, 1958. This was the gravestone across which Sandro’s body had lain, but it was clear of blood now. All the gravestones around showed signs of erosion by weather, save for one or two that were clearly regularly tended. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, she could see no sign of one for Lance Venyon.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  She jumped as a voice came from behind her and whisked round quickly. It was the vicar or curate, she presumed, as a dog-collared young man strolled up to her. It hadn’t been he who officiated at the wedding, and she didn’t recognize him. She smiled, relieved to have company.

  ‘I’m looking for Lance Venyon’s grave.’

  ‘Wrong place, I’m afraid. I believe it’s over here.’ He led the way to the far side of the churchyard, pointed it out and tactfully retreated. This grave was well tended, and every word on the stone was readable. Lance Venyon’s dates: 1922 to 1961. ‘Beloved husband of Mary, father of Elaine. With the Eternal Father.’ Next to it was Mary’s grave.