by Amy Myers
‘Indeed. The ruins are central to Chillingham’s heritage. My son Valentine believes they should be nationally publicized. He has great plans for a theatre here. We shall become another Bayreuth, with a St Thomas festival every few years, perhaps even annually.’
Georgia blinked. It seemed a far step from an unbuilt theatre to emulating Wagner’s world-famous opera venue, but there was no harm in thinking big, she supposed. ‘Is Julian also involved in this theatre project?’
‘Naturally. My sons support each other.’ A sly look, as if Jessica herself were acknowledging that this wasn’t always the case. ‘And Sebastian too. After he graduates, he will play a big role in the St Thomas development. Julian will run the visitor centre, Valentine oversee the entire project, and Sebastian the theatre, website and marketing of Becket products. St Thomas’s connections with Chillingham have to be recognized. After all, his bones probably lie here. It’s a most exciting time, and I have decided not to die before the festival is established. I’ve been busy designing St Thomas badges – researching, I believe you writers call it. And also a special Peacock badge to denote a visit to Chillingham itself. And mugs. One must have mugs.’
‘I understand you also have pieces of a medieval wooden statue of Becket with movable parts?’
She had stepped too far. Jessica’s face froze for a moment, but then she laughed. ‘Indeed we do. There were a few pieces of old decaying wood found in the chapel, and research into family papers suggests there was such a figure. There is no real provenance, but certainly they seem to be genuine.’
Georgia wondered about that, but let it pass.
‘Hugh was the real historian,’ Jessica continued. ‘When first I came to this house I found several centuries of history were lying around and their weight was rather too much for me at first. My darling Hugh took his duties very seriously.’
‘He was the younger Wayncroft brother, I understand.’
Jessica nodded. ‘You have been doing your homework, Miss Marsh – or shall I call you Georgia? My name is Jessica, as I’m sure you know. So much pleasanter to be informal. Nevertheless, one did know where one was in the old days, when barriers were so easy to erect. With more formal customs in the interests of politeness, it was so easy to be impolite by intentional accident, if you see what I mean.’
‘I do,’ Georgia assured her. ‘The art of the gentle put-down.’
‘Quite. But now it’s so much easier to chat, is it not?’
Provided, Georgia thought, one was sure of where one stood – socially, emotionally and psychologically – and with Jessica that wasn’t yet clear. Jessica had not yet declared her hand.
‘Hugh was only three years older than I was,’ Jessica continued, ‘but it often seemed to me that I was the elder. Of course, I had been married before, to Peter Harper. Peter died in December 1944, a few months before Val was born, and so I had to struggle on for many years as a single parent. But then I met Hugh. We married in 1956, but Julian wasn’t born for another nine years. Such an emotional time, waiting and hoping. Do you have children, Georgia?’
Georgia was well used to this question, but this time it clean-bowled her and she had to fight for composure. ‘Not yet,’ she managed.
That should do it, and with luck Jessica would not enquire further. There was a thoughtful look, and Georgia held her breath. But there were no more questions, and she relaxed again. Too soon, perhaps, because Jessica took her by surprise with a forthright: ‘I want to talk to you about Hugh’s death.’
Approach with care. This had been planned. Hence the demanding, Georgia realized. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘I do, very much. However, when I know enquiries are being made on the subject, either out of curiosity or because someone wishes to write about it – and you might, mightn’t you? – I feel I have a duty to speak out. The wrong impression can so easily be gained. Julian was only a baby at the time of his father’s death, and my Val a young man. Young men see things differently, but can change their views in later life. Everyone else connected with the murder has died. Dear Fred Miller, at the Three Peacocks. Darling Bill Riding – have you met his daughter? – oh, of course you have. Our vicar.’
‘The Moons are still living here,’ Georgia pointed out.
A pause. ‘Ah yes. Dear Lisa is alive and well, but her husband Clive, who played such a big role in the 1967 production, the King himself, has now died. But she can have little to say on the question of Hugh’s death. It was Clive who was so active.’
‘On the stage or over the question of promoting Becket attractions? I understand the ruins belonged to you at the time.’
‘They did, but alas no longer. Hugh was against what he termed their exploitation. So now, Georgia, I must tell you about my Hugh. When I came into this family it seemed to me that I had married not only Hugh, but also the whole Wayncroft family. I can introduce you to them. Do come.’
She sprang up with the liveliness of a twenty-year-old and led the way out of the room into a hallway with a grand staircase up to the next storey. Family portraits stared disdainfully down at Georgia from every point. They lined the walls of the staircase; they filled those of the hallway too. Mature Wayncrofts, Wayncroft children, Wayncroft women, military Wayncrofts, country squire Wayncrofts and aged, severe-looking, bewigged Wayncroft worthies.
‘I see what you mean,’ Georgia said. ‘It can’t have felt like your home.’
‘Indeed not. And these are just the minor portraits. Julian has the important collection in his apartment, and Sebastian has one or two to remind him of his heritage, poor lad.’
‘How would you define that?’
A keen glance. ‘Plenty of families have lived in one house over the centuries, so what is so special about the Wayncrofts? I can only suppose it was the Roman Catholic connection, which kept a link with royalty in Jacobean times even after the Restoration.’ She laughed. ‘Plus a nose for self survival.’
Not in Hugh’s case, alas, was Georgia’s immediate thought. Perhaps Jessica read her mind, because she immediately led the way back to the living room. ‘The Wayncroft Roman Catholic tradition has been somewhat diluted now, but Robert and Hugh held strongly to it. Nevertheless, they also felt an obligation to the village and therefore to the Anglican church here. After all, it is dedicated to St Thomas.’
‘Is that why the St Thomas ruins now belong to Anne Fanshawe?’
Jessica sighed. ‘The Wayncroft family sometimes had odd notions. Whereas Julian and Sebastian are in favour of fully honouring St Thomas, Robert and Hugh firmly believed that the best way of so doing was not to put them at risk from tourists and to keep the remains holy. Robert saw that as his duty, and so he left them to Anne and not to Julian, the foolish man.’
‘But why to her personally, not to the church?’
‘I have no idea. You will have to ask her that, though I have to say she is unlikely to tell you.’ Jessica tittered. ‘I presume Robert took that course because Anne shared his personal commitment to leaving the ruins undisturbed. How very foolish. In my view we should honour history, not ignore it. But Anne will not be moved. Just as Hugh, too, could not be so persuaded.’
‘Did you never share his views?’
‘I had a son of eleven when I married Hugh and a second son who was born nine years later,’ Jessica said almost apologetically. ‘With Julian to think of, as well as Val, I needed to see a future, and all I could see was a pile of mouldering bricks at Chillingham Place, which we could not afford to run. I also had a husband who seemed to believe more in history than in the need for educating his children. Without children I might have felt differently, but I did not then, and I do not now. There is the future of the family to consider. I am not as impetuous as I was once, when I could not understand Hugh’s viewpoint. He was serious-minded – and that’s what both infuriated me and drew me to him. I was such a flighty thing, and so was my first husband – not flighty exactly, I suppose, but Peter was a risk-taker. I met him in the special forces
during the war; we married, and then came his death and Valentine’s birth. Hugh was so different. A brilliant actor, but withdrawn as a person. He played Becket and I was Queen Eleanor, Henry II’s wife – such a splendid part, such a wicked woman. And who knows, perhaps her scheming to kill her husband’s mistress, the so-called Fair Rosamund, really did have bearing on Becket’s murder, as Tennyson’s play suggests. In it, Becket saves Fair Rosamund from my evil hands.’
‘So far as I recall, legend-cum-history claims you managed it in the end,’ Georgia said lightly.
Jessica smiled. ‘Queens usually win. On the Sunday afternoon after clearing up the theatre, we marched back home along the Pilgrims’ Way to Chillingham. There had been an after-show party on the Saturday night, so there was a bit of a mess, and as we were only amateurs there were no professional stage staff to do the dirty work. We arrived at the Three Peacocks about six o’clock for the celebratory evening that Fred had arranged. I thought Hugh had gone straight home for some reason and would be joining us, but he didn’t arrive. Val and I dashed off to see if he was there, but he could not be found, and so we realized something must be wrong. All we could think was that Hugh had had an accident during the last part of the walk. He was inclined to straggle on walks, since he was a keen birdwatcher and often fell back because he had spotted something or other. I set off immediately with Val and Clive – and, I think, Fred. Others came along after us. We found Hugh – or rather Clive and Val saw him; they wouldn’t let me near at first – lying at the edge of the wood. They told me to stay where I was because there was no doubt that he was dead.’ She grimaced. ‘They did not tell me how he died until later. Even from where I stood I could see he was dead from the way he was lying.’
She gave a little shrug, as if to say it was all a long time ago, but it didn’t convince Georgia.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said sincerely. ‘This must be very hard for you.’
‘I relive it each time I think of it. Age doesn’t change emotion, it merely hides it in a cupboard until one opens the door. But sometimes one has to do just that, to brush away the cobwebs. That’s why I wanted to see you.’
‘There must have been a full police investigation.’
‘Of course. And an inquest too. Murder was the verdict. I was so shocked at the time that I couldn’t take in all the details, but it must be on record somewhere and you could find it if necessary. But I hope it won’t be – not for my sake or my family’s, but for the village’s. There are troubles enough around today without any need for delving into the past.’
‘What would you like? To know more?’
‘My dear Georgia – how odd, already I think of you as dear Georgia – I still would like to know who killed Hugh. I can’t believe the truth would hurt now, but nevertheless, in the greater interest, I ask you to let it lie.’
‘I have to ask why. Is it because you think the St Thomas issue was the motive for his death?’
Jessica bowed her head. ‘It’s possible; the village felt very strongly, then as now. All the more reason for not stirring old ashes.’
‘Because whoever killed your husband was on that pilgrimage with you?’
Jessica hesitated. ‘Probably, although many of the villagers turned out to welcome us home and came to greet us. It’s possible that someone who hated Hugh lingered and killed him.’
It was time to enter difficult territory, and Georgia braced herself. ‘Could there have been other, more personal motives for his death?’ She could hardly name Val, but she wondered very much what the relationship had been between him and his stepfather, given their opposing views.
Jessica stiffened, very obviously reading the implication correctly. ‘Hugh had enemies, because of his beliefs, but as a man everyone loved him. Valentine had his differences with him, as one would expect. He was headstrong and twenty-two. Hugh was gentle, but a martinet where the family and Chillingham were concerned. He saw Val as an outsider, but that was no reason for Val to kill him. In fact, Val had everything to lose and nothing to win. With Hugh’s death, he, Julian and I were left penniless, and it was only thanks to Robert’s generosity that we had Chillingham Place as a roof over our heads all those years.’
‘And what about the rest of the cast? Would any of them have had reason to kill him?’
Georgia had been wary about asking so bluntly, but in fact Jessica laughed, perhaps because the main effort of speaking about Hugh had been surmounted. ‘Have you ever belonged to a drama group, Georgia?’
‘Briefly.’ She had done so for one or two years, until Zac had come. He had swept her into marriage and refused to allow any distractions from her sole reason for existence as he saw it: to be devoted to him.
‘Even brief experience should remind you that emotions run high in drama groups. One is thrust so closely together that private emotions swell up – often as a grand finale to the performance itself. Hence the attraction or otherwise of after-show parties in such groups. We were saving our real celebration for our return to Chillingham, but the after-show party was quite exciting. I seem to remember pouring a glass of very expensive wine over Lisa Moon’s head. She was playing Fair Rosamund, and I fear I carried Queen Eleanor’s vendetta from the play on too long. Hugh was very annoyed with me, and so was Clive. I do assure you Lisa didn’t mind. She thought it rather amusing.’
FIVE
‘Mike. This is a nice surprise.’ That was only half true. As soon as Georgia saw him in the office, when she returned from Chillingham to see Peter, she feared the worst. Her father was calling in the heavy brigade far too soon. And Mike Gilroy was definitely heavy. Mild he might seem, a gentle ambling giant of a man in height, and patient. Up to a point. Peter didn’t believe in keeping forces in reserve, however, and so far Georgia did not feel their investigation into Hugh Wayncroft’s murder had progressed to the stage where Mike’s help should be invoked.
‘No surprise to me.’ Mike greeted her with a kiss. ‘The minute I heard Peter’s voice on the phone, I knew I could abandon such unimportant matters as crime figures, terrorists and world emergencies.’
‘Why not?’ Peter returned, apparently astonished. ‘Hugh Wayncroft’s murder remains unsolved.’
‘In 1967 I was one year old so I can’t help you from personal experience.’
‘Of course not. I’m not unreasonable. However, you do still keep files somewhere, don’t you?’
‘We do. Tucked away according to age, carefully tied up with red tape.’
‘Very well. What did the Wayncroft case tell you?’ Peter cut through any Gordian knots that might be presuming to threaten his path.
Mike capitulated. ‘Not enough for you to set the hounds of hell loose, Peter. I do admit it looks weird on the surface. It took some working out just why it had been abandoned.’
‘Because they knew the answer but couldn’t prove it?’
‘Probably. It was an interesting case, in fact. He’d definitely been strangled. The hyoid bone was broken, but there were no signs of a ligature being used, or anything definable as prints. What you might call a quick clean job.’
‘Any signs of struggle?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Taken from behind?’
‘Unlikely. There seem to have been three lines of enquiry. One was a travelling fruit picker, who was traced but nothing could be proved. The second was a young man in the group called Valentine Harper.’
‘Wayncroft’s stepson,’ Peter said. ‘And the last?’
‘A local carpenter, Clive Moon. Also in the group.’
‘He’s no longer alive. Evidence?’
‘No DNA then, of course. Precious little trace evidence, and those most closely involved weren’t talkative. As most of the village seems to have been closely involved that didn’t help. There was heavy emphasis on the fact that odd-looking characters had been seen in them there woods around that time. Possibly true enough, but apart from the fruit picker they’d vanished like ghosts in daylight come the investigatio
n.’
‘What did they have on Harper and Moon?’
‘Motive: Clive Moon had organized a village petition and march to the manor about some project to do with Thomas Becket, which didn’t please Wayncroft. Valentine Harper marched with him – and was known to have it in for his stepfather.’
‘Alibis?’
‘I’m beginning to feel like your sergeant again,’ Mike said good-humouredly. ‘Unbreakable is the answer to that. Hugh Wayncroft had been dead an hour or two before he was found, during which time Harper claimed to have been firstly in the pub with his mother, and then to have walked back to Chillingham Place with her to see if his stepfather was there. Clive Moon was with his wife the whole time.’
‘What about the last stages of the pilgrimage?’ Georgia put in. ‘I met Jessica Wayncroft, Hugh’s widow, this afternoon and she told me Hugh often stayed at the rear of the column. He could have been killed, therefore, before anyone even reached the pub.’
Mike flicked through his notes. ‘Harper said he was at the front of the column with his mother. Everyone testified to that; Lisa Moon swore her husband Clive was walking behind her with someone called Fred Miller towards the rear of the column.’
‘Fred Miller’s dead too,’ Peter said crossly. ‘Who else was interviewed?’
‘Judging by the size of the file, everyone on the march. There was a chap called Bill Riding; even his young daughter Anne was questioned. Fred Miller, the vicar, and a local gardener called John Painter.’ Mike looked at them both. ‘So where does that take you?’
‘To the word why, Mike,’ Peter replied. ‘Why is the same situation currently being recreated: the same play, the same pilgrimage, the same two opposing factions, the same issue?’
‘The same apart from the murder,’ Mike pointed out.
‘I only hope you’re right.’ Peter looked worried. Surely, Georgia thought, he didn’t seriously think there was anything as threatening as that in the tensions they’d run into so far?
After Mike had made a polite escape, Georgia recounted her interview with Jessica. ‘Do you still think I should drop in on this pilgrimage? Hugh Wayncroft’s death isn’t likely to be a topic of conversation, and if, assuming the wild improbability that you’re right about there being a very dark cloud over this whole venture, I wouldn’t be able to stop any trouble that gets stirred up.’
