Murder on the Old Road

by Amy Myers

  ‘Hostilities halted?’ she asked Tim.

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘No way.’ Tess giggled, at which Anne gave her what Georgia interpreted as a warning glance. ‘Not till hell freezes.’

  ‘Why not?’ Georgia held her breath, hoping that tongues might be loosening.

  Luckily Tess wasn’t put off by the vicar’s presence. ‘Naughty old Queen Eleanor. She had a thing going with Becket years ago, and King Julian didn’t like it one little bit.’

  ‘Legend or history?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘Legend,’ Anne said quickly.

  ‘History,’ Tess said simultaneously. ‘Even Seb knows that’s why Val got out of town and Aletta married Julian. He was the better bet.’ She gave a nervous glance at Anne, in case she’d gone too far.

  Maybe she had, but Georgia was glad of it. In compensation she switched to a safer topic, the play, although her mind was still on the antipathy between the two half brothers despite their present common cause. Where did Aletta stand in this? Val was in his sixties, but he was still a personable man, and old attractions might die hard.

  By lunchtime, the rain had ceased. Half the party split off to walk down the hillside to a pub, while the others took advantage of a lull in the rain to eat sandwiches where they were and enjoy the view. Georgia opted for the latter. There’d be enough joint community eating this evening at the Dog and Duck pub, the far side of Wrotham, where some of the party were staying. The rest, she gathered, were either camping or had been fixed up at B and Bs, but for dinner everyone would be at the pub.

  Anne had also chosen to enjoy the view, and she and Georgia perched on a rock in amiable companionship. ‘I didn’t lay the drama on this morning just for you, you know,’ Anne dropped casually into the conversation. ‘Or for the cameras.’

  ‘Wasn’t it avoidable?’

  ‘Regrettably not, more’s the pity. I’d have liked to have enjoyed today.’

  ‘The pilgrimage experience, or the Old Road itself, rain and all?’

  ‘Both. You can’t think I wanted to have our differences aired before the cameras.’

  Georgia considered this. ‘I’ll plump for no.’

  Anne made a face. ‘Public sympathy usually lies with the underdog, and I don’t seem to be doing too well in that respect. Cranky old female vicar thwarts village wishes.’

  ‘That bad still? I thought I saw you talking to Val and Julian quite amicably earlier.’

  ‘Val perhaps. He and I are old sparring partners,’ Anne said. ‘Julian’s another matter altogether, not to mention his wife. But Val and I used to dance in the dew occasionally before I married and moved away.’

  ‘Serious dancing?’ Georgia found it hard to imagine suave Val and down to earth Anne having even a mild fling together.

  Anne laughed. ‘On his side – and not entirely honourably. I was a lot more attractive at twenty-one than I am now and not so obstinate. In his younger days, Val was a man of the world, and I could see we wouldn’t suit, so he got a quick brush off. But we do still get on well – or did.’

  ‘Did?’ Georgia queried.

  ‘Before this Becket division arose. Val always rushes in where angels fly away screaming.’

  ‘There’s gossip that he made a play for Aletta before she married Julian. The two brothers and the lady in-between make the kind of story that, given several centuries of folk history, would turn into a legend.’

  ‘Legends are dangerous things, Georgia –’ Anne turned to her impulsively – ‘but some, at least, are based in truth. The problem is that faced with the truth of a legend, what does one do? One holds it in one’s hands and looks at it, too scared to take the next move and say this is not fiction, this is real. That step has to be taken, and Robert Wayncroft knew that.’

  ‘Which legend, Anne?’ Georgia asked quietly. Anne wasn’t speaking of Aletta now.

  Anne seemed to regret having spoken, because she laughed. ‘Only speaking generally, of course. Just generally.’

  There was a silence, which Anne was evidently not going to break. ‘Are you staying overnight?’ Georgia asked eventually.

  ‘Yes. I managed to get a bed in a local farmhouse. So I’ll eat with you all in the pub first of course.’

  The Dog and Duck, on a minor lane on the slopes of the downs between Wrotham and the hamlet of Delmont, proved to be large and comfortable, with a garden, outside tables, dogs roaming around, and an extensive interesting menu. For a moment Georgia regretted her decision to leave that night, especially as the youngsters in the group were larking around and it seemed the whole atmosphere of the day was about to change. They had arrived mid-afternoon and had plenty of time to enjoy it. She watched Seb and Tess playing a game of croquet in the garden. Romeo and Juliet she thought. ‘A plague on both your houses’: the Wayncrofts, who thought it their right to brush away all obstacles to their goal; the Moons, firmly established in tradition. The Wayncrofts would win – were it not for Anne Fanshawe standing shoulder to shoulder with the Moons. And yet, in the late afternoon sunshine that had grudgingly appeared, it seemed possible that the tension of the morning would vanish.

  ‘Hi.’ Luke appeared from nowhere and bent over her shoulder to kiss her. ‘Survived all storms and tribulations?’

  ‘The rain or the dramas?’

  ‘Either.’

  ‘Both – I hope.’Even now she could not be sure she was right. The afternoon had been a mere lull in hostilities, not an ending. People came and went as they checked into their varying accommodation facilities, but by seven o’clock they were all gathered in the pub’s dining area. Seated at a table by the window overlooking the forecourt and lane, with Luke, Tim and Simon, Georgia was relieved to be away from contentious issues, and it was easy to hope that the rest of the group was similarly contented.

  It was not. Voices raised above the otherwise cheerful buzz of conversation quickly told her that. Three tables away, nearer the arc of the bar, Anne Fanshawe by bad management – or perhaps someone’s design – was sitting with Aletta, Julian and Val, and at the next table were Seb, Tess and Matthew. As the general buzz halted for a moment, Anne’s voice rang out loud and clear:

  ‘No chance. No chance now or ever that I would agree to open the ruins to the public. Any public. I’m sorry, but there the matter rests.’

  Georgia could see her sitting there on the far side of the table. Everyone was very still. There was a red flush on Anne’s cheeks, and she looked very angry. The Wayncrofts were watching her in silence. Then Georgia’s attention was diverted, and when she next looked Seb had gone to join his parents, leaving Tess with her father. The Wayncrofts and Anne seemed to be talking very earnestly but quietly now, and she could hear nothing.

  ‘Phew.’ Tim let out a long breath. ‘Now reassure me that that will blow over, Si, and that harmony and light will prevail for the good of the play. Still believe that?’

  Simon did his best. ‘It might.’

  Luke tried too. ‘These outbursts could just be the effect of the pilgrimage. Actors are selfish by nature. Once they get on stage, all else but them, their part and the play is wiped out.’

  ‘Any other time, any other play,’ Tim muttered, ‘perhaps. But not this time. Stay on, Si, will you? Until we get back to Chillingham?’ He was looking desperate.

  Should she stay over too? Georgia wondered as Simon reassured Tim. No, she decided. Her task was to concentrate on the last pilgrimage, and everyone here was far too intent on the disputes of the present one.

  As she and Luke left, there was a general movement towards departure, and as they reached their car Anne passed her, obviously on her way back to the farmhouse where she was staying.

  ‘Want a lift?’ Georgia called as Anne said goodnight.

  ‘No thanks. I need some air. See you in Canterbury, if not sooner. I imagine your bulldog approach means you won’t be abandoning Chillingham yet awhile?’

  Georgia laughed. ‘No way. Too many interesting sticks for Peter and me to cha
se.’

  She watched Anne set off along the road before climbing gratefully into Luke’s car. Anne looked a lonely figure as she walked away from the light of the pub and forecourt and into the dark lane with only the flickering light of a torch to guide her. See you in Canterbury, Anne had said. And what would that bring forth? Georgia wondered. It seemed that, just like the pilgrims of old, they were all making this pilgrimage for differing reasons. What was Anne’s?

  SIX

  Georgia struggled to open her eyes, as somewhere a phone was ringing. Whose? Luke’s mobile? Hers? The landline? It was only seven thirty in the morning, for goodness sake, and the previous evening they had arrived home late from the Dog and Duck. Thankfully, Luke must already be on his way to answer it, as the ringing stopped, and she sank back into sleep again. Not for long. It was only an instant before something in his voice as it drifted upstairs made her register that something was wrong. Peter? Immediately, she was fully awake, just as her own mobile began to ring. She sank back in relief because it was Peter’s voice at the other end.

  ‘Georgia? Thank heaven. Where are you?’

  ‘In bed.’ It took a moment or two for it to dawn on her that something was indeed wrong.

  ‘Then get up. I’ve just had a call from Val Harper.’

  That didn’t make sense. ‘What on earth did he want?’ But almost as soon as she’d said that, she knew it must be bad news. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Anne Fanshawe – she’s been found dead, and not from natural causes.’

  Dead? ‘But I was talking to her yesterday,’ was her inane reply. Shock makes idiots of us all, she thought as she struggled with the enormity of what Peter was telling her. Her forebodings over this pilgrimage had been proved right. ‘How?’ she asked.

  ‘He didn’t say. They need you and Luke over there as you were at the Dog and Duck last evening, and I’m coming too.’

  Of course they must all go. All Georgia could think of was that last image of Anne walking off into the dark night. No point in questioning Peter any more. It would wait. She thought fast. ‘I’ll pick you up in half an hour.’ Her car was adapted to take Peter, and there was room for Luke too.

  Even as she switched off, Luke came back into the bedroom. One look at his face told her he’d had the same news. ‘So you know,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Call from Tim. Yours?’

  ‘Peter – he’s had Val Harper on the phone. Peter wants to come with us, so we’re picking him up in half an hour. What did Tim tell you?’

  ‘He was all but incoherent – in a complete panic. I couldn’t make much sense of what had happened. He just said we should get back to the pub. The police are there and will start questioning everyone soon. Did Peter tell you any more?’

  ‘Nothing apart from the fact that it wasn’t natural causes. It could be a car accident, or she might have fallen downstairs in the farmhouse.’

  Luke’s silence reinforced her own lack of conviction in these explanations. Eventually, he said, ‘From what I could glean from Tim’s gabbling, I don’t think that she died in the farmhouse. Wherever it was, she was found early this morning, and the police roused the farmer, who directed them to the pub.’

  One scenario after another rushed through Georgia’s mind as she could well imagine the chaos there must be now amongst the pilgrims. The sooner they got going the better.

  Luke had not been exaggerating. When they arrived at the Dog and Duck Tim looked even worse than he had yesterday evening. His nervousness was stamped all over his face. There was no point in wondering whether this arose from the murder or the uncertainty that must now hang over his play. He probably didn’t know himself.

  As if in mockery of the dark horror that had befallen the group, the day was fine, and when they arrived Georgia could see the party was spread out across the terrace and gardens. The pub would not officially open until twelve, and so the Chillingham group had it all to themselves until then, although with the camping contingent having joined them again, there were so many people gathered here it was hardly quiet. The coach, baulked of its purpose of picking up luggage, was still in the car park. There was also a police car there, but there was no sign of SOCO or control vans nor of a police cordon, which suggested Anne must have been killed some way from where Georgia had last seen her. She could see two constables sitting apart from the rest of the group, however, no doubt busy with recording details of potential witnesses. The rest must still be at the scene of crime together with all the SOCOs.

  Simon disappeared to fetch some coffee for them – very welcome, as breakfast at Medlars had been non-existent except for a snatched slice of bread – and they found a table on the terrace outside. Julian and Aletta were not far away, but it was Val who came over to them, looking very drawn, with Julian and Aletta following him.

  ‘Good of you to rush over to help in our little local difficulty.’ Val tried to make it sound light-hearted, but failed miserably, which was hardly surprising in the circumstances.

  Julian and his wife seemed in shock, naturally enough. ‘She was strangled,’ he told them. His face was drained of colour, and his voice held nothing of its usual heartiness. ‘She was found by a local dairyman early this morning in the lane leading to the place where she was staying.’

  Murdered then, Georgia thought; the last doubt had to be dismissed.

  ‘There’s nothing else on that lane but the farmhouse, so the police tried that first,’ Julian continued. ‘The woman who runs it recognized who she was and told them she was part of the group at the pub.’

  ‘So here we are,’ Aletta added shakily, ‘awaiting the police’s pleasure. They arrived just as we were getting up at about eight and told us to stay put. Since then it’s been nothing but phone calls for all of us. There’s the next of kin issue, of course.’

  ‘Who is her next of kin?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Her daughter. I’ve met her once or twice.’

  Aletta was usually one of those cool women, Georgia thought, who despite the worst fate could throw at them always looked immaculate, not a hair out of place. Today her calm had deserted her, even though that was evident more in her voice and body language than in her appearance. She still seemed in control, however, as she laid her hand on her husband’s arm and persuaded him to sit down.

  ‘Do you know where the crime scene is and how far it stretches?’ Peter asked.

  ‘From the farmhouse, up to where that lane joins the one running past this pub,’ Val said. ‘They’d have liked to have closed part of this road too, but some traffic has to get through somehow. No doubt about it, though, we’re all suspects until proved otherwise.’

  His usual suavity had deserted him, and he, too, was clearly in shock. Georgia remembered Anne saying that he and she used to dance in the dew together, which suggested there could still have been a tie between them.

  ‘It might have been an opportunist murder,’ Georgia said. Always a good starting point, even though she didn’t believe that was likely in this case.

  ‘Of course. But meanwhile we’re all on the list.’ Aletta laughed nervously. ‘Remember that production of The Mikado you produced, Val, back in the early eighties? The Lord High Chancellor who had a little list of those who would not be missed. That’s us. We’ll all be dragged in one by one.’

  Val smiled at her, but Julian’s face, caught off-guard, suggested he did not appreciate his wife’s attempt at light-heartedness.

  ‘Do you know who’s the senior officer yet?’ Peter asked him. Georgia guessed Wrotham would come under Darenth Area, which was not one Peter knew well.

  ‘DI Whitton,’ Val replied promptly.

  That could be good news at least. There had been a Will Whitton who had been Mike Gilroy’s sergeant at one time. Georgia remembered him as having a cheerful easy-going manner, a rosy cheeked complexion and a sense of humour. Unusual qualities in an ambitious sergeant, and they hid an astute mind. Mike had said he’d go far. Luckily for them, he seemed to have gone no furt
her than Darenth Area.

  Them? Georgia realized with some surprise that she was identifying herself with the pilgrimage, which must mean she felt a sense of unity with it, more than her obligation to be present as perhaps the last person to see or talk to Anne – apart from her murderer.

  This must have struck Luke too because he went over to the police table to announce their presence. A woman PC turned round to look at Georgia appraisingly, as if sizing her up for a grilling. Fine, she thought, she would help all she could. Even the short time Georgia had known Anne had been enough for her to realize that they were on the same wavelength, if not always in accord, and that she felt personally involved in the hunt for her murderer.

  Tim and Simon brought the coffee over to them and sat down at the table as the Wayncrofts moved away. ‘Dare I ask what difference this makes to your pilgrimage plans?’ Luke asked. ‘Or don’t you know yet?’

  ‘No idea,’ Tim replied helplessly. ‘I’m hoping we can move on tomorrow, if not tonight, using the coach to catch up for lost time.’

  ‘What if one of us is arrested?’ Simon said matter-of-factly.

  Tim looked so appalled at this prospect that Georgia hastily tried the rational approach. ‘Just because there was tension between Anne and quite a few of you here, that doesn’t mean the police will assume that one of you killed her. They’ll need evidence.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Tim said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

  Peter added his dose of common sense. ‘The investigating officer has to assess the evidence first, and see where it’s pointing. That could take time. They can’t hold you all here indefinitely, so my guess is that it will be up to you whether you go on with the pilgrimage or disperse.’

  One look at Tim’s face made Georgia realize this was an aspect he hadn’t considered.

  ‘They’ll be looking for other answers to this, not just from us,’ Simon said reasonably, and Tim looked slightly consoled.

  If only Anne had taken the offered lift to the farmhouse, Georgia thought. No, that way of thinking would lead nowhere. She had not yet thought of Anne as a friend, but after yesterday, she had been coming to think they could become friends. She thought she understood her, and although they were very different in character, they shared common ground. Perhaps it had been partly the Old Road that had brought that about. Its sense of having been trodden over so many years, by individuals and groups just like theirs, was a unifying one. In a way, the past provided fingerprints on the Old Road other than those that had led to the Marsh & Daughter cases. There were good vibes imprinting themselves on the atmosphere as well as those of violence and injustice. Tranquil fingerprints could survive even the jungle of modern so-called civilization, which was encroaching ever more steadily. It was these she might have felt with Anne yesterday.