by Amy Myers
The name Wychwood means a dwelling place in the wood and has nothing to do with witches. You could have fooled me. Granted, it would have to be a fairly rich witch to choose to live here, but at first sight the house was Disney gone crazy. There seemed no rhyme or reason to its gables, pinnacles, turrets and roof lines, which were all set at odd angles as though the builder had begun with a straightforward square building and then built on pieces higgledy-piggledy as the fancy took him. The red roofs with the black-and-white mock timbered house beneath gave the whole building a crazy, yet somewhat exotic appearance. Welcoming it was not.
There was a VW Polo parked in front of the house which I took to be Josie’s, but no other car was visible, although there was a single garage to the right of the house where the owner’s car might be.
I walked up to the house, already with a sense of unease about this visit. The night has a thousand eyes, as the poet says, and so it seemed did Wychwood, each one of them peering evilly out at me as I approached the door. When it was opened, my first thought was that Josie Gibson could have passed for a student witch quite easily, and I had to discipline myself to rid myself of such unfair assumptions. I could see that once she had been beautiful, with her dark hair and dark eyes, and, as she told me to come in, her voice had a husky quality that must once have been mesmerizing. Now her lean face was lined and suspicious and her shoulder-length hair, already greying, was lank and looked little cared for.
‘You’re Eva Colby’s husband then,’ she informed me accusingly as she led me through the witch’s house. It was dark and felt unused and unloved as we passed full bookshelves that had a sad, unread look about them. There were few personal signs to suggest that living people chatted in the passageway or ate in the formal dining room we passed.
‘We were married for a few years, yes,’ I told her. ‘Long divorced.’
She did not comment, but even so I felt I had been judged and found wanting as she led me into an equally cheerless living room with no sign of Ambrose Fairbourne. This room seemed to be her domain, judging by the photographs of herself when younger. No sign of one of Carlos, however, nor even of the Charros.
‘So what are you after, then? Carlos got what was coming to him,’ she remarked almost casually.
I decided not to ask whether she meant in the marriage or by his murder. ‘Gathering background, to put myself in the picture.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Jon told me. Well, we’ve nothing to hide, so why not?’ The belligerence was back, but at least she was talking.
‘I was told Carlos rang to tell you he was back in this country?’
That animated her. ‘He had the cheek of the devil, that man. Rang me up, and when I told him to get lost he pretended he had the wrong number and hung up mighty quickly.’ She looked at me almost defiantly. ‘We none of us wanted nothing to do with him.’
‘We?’
‘The group, Mum, Mrs Fever, Matthew, Jon, Clive—’
‘Mum being Betty Gibson, who worked at the May Tree?’
‘She was working there when the band got set up. That’s how I got into it. She knew I wanted to sing – it was an opportunity. That’s what I thought, anyway. Four years I wasted there till your wife came barging in. What do you want to know all this for?’ She glared at me.
‘For my daughter’s sake. Her mother’s been charged, so naturally we both want to find out the reason Carlos came back here.’
‘Leave it to the police. They’ve already been round to see us all, and they won’t want you poking your nose in,’ she snapped.
‘Mrs Fever didn’t have any such objections.’
‘Belinda talked to you about the Charros?’ She looked amazed. ‘She normally keeps her mouth shut, does Belinda.’
‘She told me what a wonderful singer you were.’ I paused as I saw her eyes soften, then took mean advantage of it. ‘She told me about your annual reunions. Do you also meet on other occasions?’
‘Our business. No one else’s,’ she muttered.
‘You said the Charros have nothing to hide.’ I tried to sound bewildered and received a glare for my pains.
‘They come over every so often. We have a bit of a sing-song for Dr Fairbourne.’
‘Any plans for resurrecting the band?’
A cynical laugh now. ‘Who’d want us? My voice has gone, anyway.’
Curiouser and curiouser – not just the annual reunion, but sing-songs. Then Josie became a lot more cooperative. ‘Listen, we none of us have any time for Carlos after what he did, and we can’t say we’re sorry he’s dead, but going out and shooting the guy twenty years later doesn’t make much sense, does it?’
‘No,’ I agreed.
‘So,’ she said, grinning, ‘I suppose there’s no reason you and I shouldn’t chat away like old friends. Except I know you’re a copper’s nark. So Mum says.’
‘Why does she think that? I do freelance work for the car crime police, but that’s hardly being a nark. Anyway, Carlos’s death has nothing to do with that and a lot to do with me. Could I ask you how long your mother was at the May Tree?’
She debated for a moment or two then decided to cooperate. ‘Started when she was eighteen. Year or so before the shoot-out. She met Tony when he was manager there.’
‘Tony Wilson? The man who went inside for the shoot-out murder and robbery?’
‘Right. When he came out in ’ninety-three she married him. Mum and my dad got divorced in the eighties, and Tony’s wife did a vanishing act with the loot from the robbery in ’seventy-eight and he hasn’t heard a whisper from her since, so he divorced her while he was in prison and then married Mum.’
‘I’d like to meet her. Is that possible?’ I asked. If she, like Belinda, was there through the Charros period, it could be helpful.
‘Suppose so. I’ll ask her. She holds no brief for Eva Colby though, any more than the rest of us. She’d no time for Carlos either. Mind you, it was Eva caused all the trouble, with her making a dead set for Carlos and filling him with talk of how rich she was. Money. Comes down to that. I grant you,’ she added reluctantly, ‘she was a bit of a looker too, your Eva.’
‘Her riches were a slight exaggeration,’ I said. ‘Her relations are wealthy, as no doubt Carlos discovered, but they aren’t given to throwing cash away.’ I knew her father was a wealthy man, and Eva had had expectations, as they say, as well as a generous allowance from her grandparents. Whether they had materialized, I had no idea.
Josie cheered up considerably at this news. ‘Poor old Carlos. Having to work for his money after all.’
‘You liked him?’ I realized too late I’d put my foot in it, but we all make mistakes. I’d been so busy thinking about Josie in the context of the band singer that I’d temporarily forgotten she’d been his lover too.
‘Skunk,’ she said unemotionally. ‘We were an item for three years until your Eva came waggling her hips. You learn as you get older. But I took it hard then.’
‘You still had your magnificent voice as an asset.’
‘Had’s the word. Croaking my way through a song or two when the Charros come over isn’t how it was meant to be. Dr Fairbourne enjoys it though.’
I changed the subject quickly. ‘Are you happy working here?’
‘It’s a job. Mum got it for me. She and Ambrose go way back. He liked his pint, did Dr Fairbourne. No more pubs for him though. Want to meet him?’
‘I would.’
She led me into an overheated room at the rear of the house – presumably his study, as it was surrounded by books shelved on all four walls, leaving room only for the door in and for small patio doors overlooking the garden. There was a large desk with an old computer on it, photographs pushed into every available spot and two display cases with – from what little I could see from the doorway – archaeological finds. The room’s occupant was in an armchair watching – or at least facing – a television screen. I saw the veins standing out starkly from the hands clutching the arms of his chair, the thinning hai
r and the gaunt face. His eyes remained closed as Josie went up to him.
‘Ambrose,’ she shouted. ‘Visitor for you.’
His head turned towards me and I saw vacant eyes. ‘Are you taking me to Eastry?’ he asked eagerly.
‘You told me early last week that you’d gone there on my day off, Ambrose,’ Josie said quietly. ‘Thursday.’
‘Did I?’ Then his face cleared. ‘Oh yes, I went with Muriel.’
‘Don’t worry – he thinks everyone who comes here is about to take him to Eastry,’ Josie said as Ambrose nodded off.
‘Who’s Muriel?’ I whispered.
‘His wife. Died donkey’s years ago. Early seventies, I think.’
Now I understood. Ambrose Fairbourne, poor chap, had Alzheimer’s.
His eyes promptly shot open. ‘Are we going to Eastry or are we not?’
‘Not today,’ I told him regretfully.
He sighed. ‘Tomorrow. We could go tomorrow.’
I agreed. It was easiest, and he clearly would not remember. What he would remember is the past. ‘What’s at Eastry?’ I asked him. I did know the village, but telling me might give him pleasure. Eastry is a few miles inland from Sandwich, which is on the Kent coast near Deal and Dover and chiefly known for its golf and the Roman fortress of Richborough.
Dr Ambrose Fairbourne was only too eager to tell me about Eastry. Indeed, he looked shocked that I needed telling. ‘In Anglo-Saxon times it was the capital of Kent,’ he told me with almost personal pride. ‘Not just a village – the whole area around it was then known as Eastry.’ A pause while I wondered whether his archaeological memories had deserted him too. I could see that a whole shelf of the books in the study were written by him, but there would be no more, however good his memory for the past was. I thought he had stopped speaking, but he took us both by surprise.
‘Murder!’ he yelled.
‘Whose?’ I asked cautiously.
‘King Egbert. Seventh century. Don’t you know his palace was at Eastry?’ He spoke with great indignation. ‘Lambarde relates the story of the murder, admittedly based on Mathew of Westminster, who is now thought never to have existed, although the work cited, the Flores Historiarum, certainly does. The bodies are buried somewhere.’
‘King Egbert’s body?’ I asked cautiously when he paused.
Ambrose beamed at me. ‘Yes, young man. Probably in St Augustine’s Abbey, but also there at Eastry. It is. It’s there all right.’
‘Who murdered the king?’
He stared at me aghast. ‘No, no, no. You will never make a historian, young man. Legends spring from fact, however far removed. His nephews, or cousins – sources vary – Ethelbert and Ethelred. Some term him Ethelbright. The king murdered them, afraid they would take the throne from him. Or perhaps it was his steward Thunner on his behalf.’ He half rose from his chair, and his arm swept through an arc. ‘The bodies were hidden, but a great shining beam of light showed where they lay. The ley line. That’s the answer, my friend. The true answer. Egbert gave land for an abbey to their sister – minster not abbey – in restitution and became a good Christian.’ A pause, and a sly look. ‘Grave goods. Gold.’
Josie was giving me no help, so I had to proceed cautiously. ‘Buried treasure?’
‘Certainly. Gold.’
I thought I saw where this was going. ‘Is this something to do with the legendary golden statue of the Norse god Woden thought to be buried near Woodnesborough?’ I knew it was only a mile or so from Eastry. ‘And the prehistoric golden Ringlemere cup was found near there too.’ If I’d hoped to please him with my feeble knowledge of the subject, I’d failed miserably.
Ambrose frowned. ‘Eastry. It’s there at Eastry.’
‘Of course,’ I said hastily.
‘They say,’ he told me confidentially, ‘that the bodies were moved to Romsey abbey. The king lies elsewhere, but I shall find him.’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s settled then,’ he said briskly. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go to Eastry, young man. You’ll pack my equipment, Josie?’
‘Yes, Ambrose. It’s always ready.’
‘Then I’ll leave it to you. You’re both dismissed.’ He changed his mind. ‘No, stay. I don’t get many visitors. I had one yesterday or the day before, and there will be one tomorrow too. I’m sure of that. I’m going to Eastry. Do you know it?’
‘A little,’ I said. ‘Tell me about it.’ While he did so and his eye was not on me, I stole a look at some of the photographs of a younger, healthier Ambrose. One was at a book launch, another a wedding photo with his wife – mid nineteen fifties? – and another with her, standing by, yes, a grey Morris Minor 1000 outside an unmistakable May Tree Inn. I put that one as late sixties or early seventies, judging by the clothes.
‘Do you remember Carlos and the Charros?’ I shot at a whim, after I’d thanked him for telling me about Eastry again.
He looked doubtfully at Josie. ‘Do I?’
‘Yes, Ambrose. Remember? I was the singer and we performed at the May Tree Inn.’ She took one of the photos to remind him. ‘You liked that pub.’
‘Bang, bang,’ he said, beaming. ‘Murder. Egbert, Eastry. Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs. King Richard the Second. I shall go tomorrow – with you, if you like, young man.’
I extricated myself with promises I would try to keep, though I doubted if he would remember them even as long as it took to leave the room. ‘Does his son live near?’ I asked Josie as she showed me out.
‘Not that far. Canterbury. He’s an archaeologist too. Keith has power of attorney or I’d never get paid. I live in with a relief at weekends and if I’m lucky a day off. It’s a roof over my head, and Mum’s not far away. She and Tony come over regular.’
‘I saw the wedding photo of his wife. Was she the Morris Minor fan?’
‘Yes. Both of them, really. She must have been dotty about them, because there are quite a few pics of that Minor. Ambrose thinks he still has one sometimes, poor lamb.’
‘He doesn’t have one though?’
A short laugh. ‘No way. He’s seventy-eight now and been like this for eight or nine years and hasn’t driven since. There’s still a car in the garage – a Renault estate – in which Keith takes him out sometimes. Ambrose likes familiar things.’
I went away saddened. It was only later I remembered that I hadn’t asked her about Matt Wright, the fourth member of the former Charros.
SIX
I tried to concentrate on Matt, but I couldn’t get a fix on him as memories of Daisy’s indignant face kept coming back to me. Try as I could to wedge Melody into a spare corner of my mind where she wouldn’t get lost but would stay quietly until I got round to her, my brain was forever doing U-turns much neater than she could ever achieve. I told myself once again that Carlos’s murder came first, otherwise I would have been drifting round Kent in the forlorn hope of pinning down a lost car. I would assuage my conscience by trying Bluebell Hill one more time, however, as soon as I could fit it in.
The plan worked, because as I drove through the gates of Frogs Hill I realized that I had been focusing so much on the Charros that I had overlooked one possible factor. The May Tree itself, whose living history did not begin with the band. Barmaid Betty Gibson went back much further than that, and even Carlos had known the pub when he visited Matt before the band was formed. Matt, too, had been a regular at the pub.
Belinda had given me Matt’s mobile number but I had tried it several times without success. Messages left on voicemail brought no response, which was frustrating to say the least. He was an odd-job man so why not reply to phone messages? Had he been warned about me? If so, why? I remembered Josie’s casual reference to the missing ‘loot’ from the May Tree Shoot-Out in 1978. Was it stretching imagination too far to wonder whether Carlos or his chum Matt had discovered where it was? Could that have been the root of the ‘business’ meeting at the lock? A meeting with – my ignition fired up – Tony’s missing wife? Carlos spec
ialized in wives. Suppose he’d run into her before or after Eva’s explosion into his life, perhaps in Mexico? It was possible, although unlikely, that either through her or otherwise he had got information on the whereabouts of the proceeds from the raid that had caused the shoot-out, and so it was worth considering.
Try home resources first – that was Dad’s maxim. So I did. I marched into the Pits in a meaningful manner, which received the usual amount of attention – none – so I resorted to cunning.
‘Nice work there, Len. Glad you solved the Jowett mystery.’
This resulted in an immediate reaction – well, as immediate as Len ever gets. We had lift-off on the communication front. He blushed. ‘Only used my eyes. We all have them. Rust round the engine blocks. Water leaks through the cracks. Just got to strip the engine down, weld and remachine the block, reassemble, then realign the engine.’
I made duly impressed noises, then said as casually as I could: ‘You were around these parts in ’seventy-eight, weren’t you, Len?’ I could see his eyes still on the Jowett, however. He was itching to get started.
‘No. At Brands.’
He’d worked at Brands Hatch racing circuit for many years, but that’s in West Kent and quite a way in towards London. ‘But were you living around here at the time of the May Tree Shoot-Out?’
He nodded. Len saves on words that way, so that he can get back to welding things that matter all the quicker.
‘What happened to the gang that carried out the raid? That was local, wasn’t it? I know Tony Wilson went inside for shooting one of them, but what happened to the wife and the others in the gang?’
