by Amy Myers
‘What a surprise. Anyone would think she wanted to keep the saint all to herself.’
‘Explain please?’ Georgia asked hopefully.
‘With all the pleasure in the world. The village’s future depends on St Thomas. The ruined chapel and well are both attributed to him. The medieval tourist trade ordered chapels to be built after the saint’s martyrdom, and the well in particular is a miracle site. St Thomas had a starring role in hundreds of miracles. The first was reported only three days after his death, and five years later the then Prior of Canterbury produced his huge Book of Miracles, all ascribed to Thomas Becket and taking place not only in Canterbury and the rest of Britain, but also in France, Scotland, Ireland . . . Everyone joined in. The Canterbury monks were all too eager to boost the cathedral’s tourist takings, and masses of miracles occurred both locally and all along the Old Road. Chapels and wells dedicated to him sprang up like mushrooms, including ours; as wells and water are a vital part of any religion, so they’re often attached to chapels. So here we are in Chillingham with a Holy Well of our own, undoubtedly attributable to St Thomas.’
‘With what evidence?’
‘The Book of Miracles itself. There was a blind girl called Seivia who was on her way to Canterbury and had a vision of St Thomas at Chillingham. He told her that her sight would be restored and that the first person she would meet would be a young man called Robert. She should tell him that St Thomas commanded him to build a cross on the spot. Robert duly did so, St Thomas appeared again and struck the ground with his staff, and that’s how our chapel and healing well came into being. From then on, the well was reputed to cure any ailment under the sun. As, indeed, for all I know it might have done. Faith can achieve miracles.’
Georgia was impressed. ‘Anne kept quiet about Miss Seivia. I can see why you’re eager to develop the village now. Even so, the ruins wouldn’t attract too many coachloads on their own.’
‘Ah, but a school of thought has it that St Thomas’s bones are buried here.’
Now that really could draw the crowds. ‘Does that have any validity?’
‘That’s the question. There’s some circumstantial evidence that makes it a sporting chance they might be here. There are plenty of theses about where his bones are, or aren’t, so I don’t see why Chillingham shouldn’t be represented too. At Chillingham Place if you’re very privileged you can see the St Thomas figure, which was a sort of medieval wooden puppet worked from behind the scenes by monks in the chapel you saw. The punters thought the saint was speaking directly to them, so if he turned his head or the corners of his mouth down, it meant he disapproved of their offering and another groat or two had to go in the cash box. It gave the monks a lot of pocket money when St Thomas blessed the sick. So yes, Chillingham had something special.’
Georgia remembered Luke telling her about something similar. ‘Wasn’t there one at Boxley Church?’
‘Yeah. But the Boxley Rood of Grace has vanished long since. Chillingham is luckier. Bits of the St Thomas figure are safely under lock and key.’
‘I can see why Julian and Val Harper want to exploit it. But what would the masses today actually get out of it, apart from seeing the ruins and bits of wood? Even with the legend of the bones, it still doesn’t seem enough to do the trick.’
‘Believe me, Georgia, the minute the button’s pushed for the go-ahead, we’re off. Val has it all in hand. There are plans for visitor centres, books, websites, tours, walks, a theatre called Beckets to put on full-scale productions, including a short drama on the murder and miracles. Nothing overlooked – that will also be available on DVD. He’s designed badges and tokens copied from the ones bought by the pilgrims at St Thomas’s shrine. He’s stopped short of providing phials of the saint’s blood, thankfully, but all the other plans are in place. There’s just one little snag.’
‘The opposition party, just as in 1967?’
‘Then led by Hugh Wayncroft, with the support of the vicar and half the village.’
‘And on the 1967 pro side?’
‘Jessica Wayncroft, which can’t have made for domestic bliss. Val Harper, of course. Fred Miller, Clive Moon, and the other half of the village.’
‘But with Hugh’s death the way should have been clear to go ahead, so why didn’t it?’ Then Georgia realized the probable answer. ‘Robert Wayncroft?’
‘Precisely. The estate reverted to Robert, and he, too, was against it.’
‘But he is no longer alive, so it’s a different matter. However much people may object, the Wayncrofts can go ahead.’
Simon grimaced. ‘Afraid not. Robert bequeathed the manor and estate to Julian, with one little exception. St Thomas’s chapel and well, together with the field they are in.’
This grew weirder by the moment. ‘So who owns them?’
‘Anne Fanshawe does.’
So that was it. The last piece of the jigsaw, and it made sense of it all. That was the reason for the clear-cut split in the village. Anne was leading the opposition, and Val Harper and Julian the progress group. That was why Anne felt under an obligation to Robert Wayncroft. And that was why Anne had suggested she speak to Lisa Moon.
Who wouldn’t speak to her. There was still one last strand to be tackled, though, and Georgia clutched at it.
‘Could I talk to Jessica? If she’s still in reasonable health?’
Simon glanced towards the doorway, where Lisa was standing, listening to them.
‘Oh yes,’ Lisa said neutrally. ‘The old bat’s going strong.’
FOUR
‘The pilgrim returns.’ Peter took his eyes briefly from the book he was reading.
‘With honours.’
‘Chillingham seems to be a mass of anthills,’ he commented, when Georgia had finished relating both the fruits and aggravating dead ends of her visit. ‘Fine on the surface, but stir them a little and the armies begin to march.’
‘The queens might be living a whole lot deeper than I’ve dug,’ she warned him. ‘I’ve only scratched the surface.’
‘You seem to have got the lie of the land, though,’ Peter said approvingly. ‘So far Thomas Becket seems the main link back to 1967, but it’s not a bad start.’
Peter seemed remarkably enthusiastic, she thought with some surprise as she went to the kitchen to make some coffee. His carer Margaret had already left for the day, but Georgia noted that Peter had actually eaten his lunch. All too often he forgot all about it. Margaret had left a dinner ready for him to cook that evening, which was significant as that was usually Janie’s province.
‘Dining alone tonight?’ she asked, when she returned to the office.
‘Yes. I told Janie I was busy.’
Georgia knew better than to probe further. Peter was a past master at this game when it suited him, so it was best to ignore it. She wouldn’t even ask him what he would be ‘busy’ doing.
‘The hullabaloo over St Thomas must have died down after Hugh’s death,’ she commented, ‘because Robert Wayncroft put his foot down. As he was living abroad most of the time, he was conveniently unobtainable for any lobbying to be effective.’
‘Quite. And as soon as Robert dies, Val Harper gallops back and it springs up again. Moreover, some of the same personalities are around. An interesting situation, wouldn’t you say?’ He cocked an eye at her. ‘Even dangerous? How about joining the merry band for a while?’
‘Thanks a bunch. You mean that pilgrimage?’ Her first instinct was sheer horror. The last thing she wanted was to be away from home at the moment when her chances of conception were reducing all the time. She had underestimated her father, however, as Peter continued briskly: ‘Of course you can’t go. Stupid of me.’
That made her struggle with the idea. ‘Perhaps for a day or two.’
‘Excellent.’ Peter beamed. ‘So that’s settled.’
‘Not quite.’ Damn. As so often, she’d played into her father’s hands. ‘Are we sure we’re taking this case on?’
‘We are.�
�� Peter looked at her in amazement. ‘It’s a challenge. We’ve never picked up the gauntlet with so little to go on.’
He must have seen her expression, because he flushed and turned quickly back to his book. Wasn’t he doing the very opposite over Rick? All the evidence in the world wasn’t going to convince Peter that Rick was no longer alive.
‘Let him go, Peter,’ she said quietly.
‘How?’ He didn’t even look up.
It was a plea for help, but she had no answer. It had to come from within him.
‘Not this week at least. No way. There’s the new gazetteer to edit, plus I have to get ready for John Waites on Friday.’ Luke looked contrite. ‘Why don’t you go though? Usually, you’d jump at the chance to get away from me.’
The joke didn’t amuse her. The gazetteer was a big job, and John Waites was Frost & Co’s distributor so Luke had justification on his side. Even so, he should think of her. ‘Not now,’ she said mutinously.
‘Ah.’
Too late, Georgia fumed at her own stupidity. Bad enough to worry herself over the passing time, but the one thing she had vowed was not to involve Luke in her anxiety. That would seem as if it wasn’t his company she wanted, only his part in the conception process.
‘A few days away might help you relax,’ Luke continued. ‘Get involved in something new.’
A typically male response. ‘Such as the Chillingham feuds?’ she asked. She knew Luke was right, and yet . . . and yet . . .
He shrugged, which she read as a message that he couldn’t care less provided she left him alone with his precious work. ‘Village feuds and sibling rivalry. If you and Peter are thinking of making this a Marsh & Daughter case, the pilgrimage might be just the place to immerse yourself in it. Take care though.’
‘Over what?’ she threw at him, irrationally annoyed that he was so willing for her to go.
‘Trouble looks as if it’s marching right down the road – or, in this case, the Old Road.’
‘Trouble? Your chums Tim and Simon see progress as the only way out of trouble.’
‘Wait till the tourists arrive and they’re still cooking chips all day long instead of the gourmet fare they’re dreaming of.’
That made her laugh. ‘Not as bad as that, surely?’
‘Worse,’ Luke said mock-gravely. ‘Look, I really am going to be tied up this week so it’s an ideal time for you to go.’
Compromise, she decided. ‘How about my going just for the day on the Otford stretch? Simon’s planning to do much the same. The group is only at Farnham as yet, and won’t reach Otford until the weekend at least. If you don’t want to come with me on the walk, you could come over to dinner in the pub they’re staying in and drive me home.’
‘Thank you.’ Luke’s turn to laugh. ‘I’ll see how things go.’
‘OK. I’ll mug up on Otford and St Thomas. I seem to remember he spent a lot of time in the manor house that preceded the Tudor archbishop’s palace. Isn’t there a story about his forbidding nightingales to sing because they were disturbing his train of thought? Doesn’t seem a very saintly thing to do.’ Georgia forced herself to be positive. ‘I’d like to check out the St Thomas sights in Otford. The well’s not open to the public, but the ruins of the palace can be seen. I’ll check it on the Internet.’
‘You will not, woman! Not while I have a book at hand. A reliable book, a comprehensive book, a book whose pages turn flexibly and smoothly, a book that can be treasured and studied, a book that can be admired, and best of all a book that’s published by Frost & Co.’
Georgia gave in. ‘I grovel.’
‘Good. That stretch is only about six or seven miles, and you should be able to stagger that far.’
‘Thanks. Got a book around to tell me the weather forecast?’
‘Blast you, no,’ Luke said amiably. ‘So I grant you computers do have their uses. By the way, talking of Otford, I had a letter – a real one, not one of his twittering emails – from Mark. He’s planning to return to England if he can get a job. He mentioned Otford, as that’s where he grew up.’
‘That’s good news.’ Georgia was delighted for Luke. Mark was his son by his first marriage; he was now in his early twenties and had settled in the States after university when he’d married a fellow student. ‘Whereabouts is he looking?’
‘It’s dependent on where the jobs are, I gather. There aren’t too many opportunities around.’
The ringing of the phone interrupted them, and Georgia went to answer it. It was Peter, and she was instantly worried because it was unusual for him to ring in the evenings. ‘A problem?’ she asked him immediately. His night ‘turns’ caused by Rick’s disappearance had seemed in the past, but as he still dwelt on it so much it was possible they had returned – and they wouldn’t be helped by the pattern of his up and down relationship with Janie.
‘Far from it. I had a phone call from the lady herself.’
‘The lady being . . .?’
‘Mrs Jessica Wayncroft. She is not requesting, but demanding to see at least one of us tomorrow, and, sweet daughter, I nominated you.’
Demanding? Fine, Georgia thought. She, too, could be demanding. Hugh Wayncroft’s widow must be well into her eighties by now. She conjured up a picture of Jessica, the ‘old bat’ as Lisa had described her, as a dowager in black, sitting upright on an ancient chair in a cobwebby room like Miss Havisham. Even though Dickensian days were surely over, this image would not fade. The word ‘demanding’ implied an imperiousness that went side by side with it. Why was Jessica demanding to see her? To tell Marsh & Daughter to steer clear of the subject of her husband’s death? Probably, but that would only convince Peter and herself that there was something to look into.
As she drove into Chillingham, Georgia felt ready for the attack. No church car park this time. Instead, she passed it, and with a mental flourish turned right further along into the drive of Chillingham Place. A large B and B sign pointed with an arrow further along the lane, and a red-brick lodge stood to one side of the drive. It looked occupied, so she half expected a gateman to rush out and challenge her, but only a distant cow raised its head and gazed soulfully at her car. She followed the long winding drive through fields with grazing cattle, then through some woodland with late azaleas and rhododendrons; then came a lawn and the forecourt of the house itself. Chillingham Place was of pleasant Tudor construction, or so it looked from the outside. The inside might reveal remains of an earlier medieval dwelling.
Discreet bells by the old wooden door reminded her that this stately home had been converted into several apartments. With some trepidation, she pressed the bell marked Mrs Hugh Wayncroft, half expecting the door to fly open to reveal a parlourmaid clad in black with a white lacy pinny and headdress.
It wasn’t. Nor was it opened by a Miss Havisham who had tottered to the door clad in black with clunking pearl necklaces. Jessica Wayncroft was definitely twenty-first century, not Dickensian. The formidable dowager proved to be a merry-eyed little lady about five foot high, lithe on her feet, slim of body and clad in bright turquoise designer trousers and silk tunic, which set off her snow-white coiffured hair admirably.
‘Come in, come in – oh, what a pretty jacket. I wish I could wear red. Of course, I do sometimes. You’re not a bit as I expected. I was quite in awe of Marsh & Daughter . . . but now I see you wear red, I do feel quite at home.’
Georgia laughed. ‘As you are, of course.’
‘So I am.’ A giggle. ‘Now follow me, Miss Marsh – or do you prefer Mrs Frost? I do so admire your husband’s list. I believe I possess every single book he’s published. And that includes the works of Marsh & Daughter. I am an addict for crime, Miss Marsh. I really am.’
Georgia heaved a sigh of relief. The worst was over. The words, ‘Call me Georgia,’ trembled on her lips, but she held them back. Softly, softly at first. This lady had charm, but behind the charm might lie a different picture. ‘Thank you, Mrs Wayncroft. Luke will be delighted to hear he has
a fan. And my father too.’
‘Oh, but I told him that on the telephone last evening. Such a pleasant, polite gentleman. We had quite a chat.’
Georgia decided not to disillusion her that being pleasant and polite wasn’t always top priority for Peter.
‘I’ve made coffee,’ Jessica continued. ‘At least, I think I have. Sometimes it comes out as tea, you know. No, you wouldn’t know. You’re not old enough. But you will.’ The giggle was more like that of a fourteen-year-old than an octogenarian, Georgia thought, beginning to warm to her. Not a Miss Havisham; more a Miss Bates from the pages of Jane Austen.
The large living room – surely a transformed medieval Great Hall – was full of a comfortable array of sofas, pictures and china. A dozen or so eighteenth-century Staffordshire dogs formed a watchful pack in the fireplace, which also held a modern stove in front of an ancient fireback of Adam, Eve and the Tree of Life. Photos on the tables, and paintings – including miniatures and silhouettes – made Georgia feel she could happily live in a room such as this. The coffee – and it was – took time to serve, and Georgia decided to wait for Jessica to make the first serious conversational move. This might pander to Jessica’s desire to control, but it left Georgia freer to assess why her presence had been demanded.
‘My son tells me you walked into the midst of our village revels last week and have become interested in Chillingham’s affairs,’ Jessica began. Her eyes were shrewd, and the faint smile on her lips made Georgia suspect that not only did she think she was in control, but also intended to remain that way. Which son? Georgia wondered. Julian or Valentine? And why was Marsh & Daughter’s visit last week so important that whichever son it was had taken the trouble to tell his mother, presumably on the telephone?
Time to play enthusiastic visitor, Georgia decided. There was no indication yet of why she had been summoned. ‘There’s certainly a lot of history around here. Simon Bede was telling me about the legend of the peacocks, and the vicar showed me the ruins connected with St Thomas.’ Nothing like starting a chess game with your queen.
