Murder on the Old Road

by Amy Myers

  ‘Has there been any gossip about shady characters in the area?’ Luke asked.

  ‘There’s hardly been time,’ Tim replied, ‘but the landlord told us about a dog walker who had a scare a week or two ago, and he reckoned he’d had one or two odd casuals in the pub.’

  ‘Then fix your thoughts on them, not on your flock,’ Luke advised.

  ‘My flock?’ Tim grimaced. ‘You can guess what we’re all secretly thinking, but don’t dare to put into words. And it isn’t the play. Si and I haven’t even got as far as that.’

  ‘It’s natural enough,’ Georgia said. ‘I imagine you’re wondering what will happen to the Becket ruins.’ Someone had to name it, because of the terrible possibility that Anne had been killed because of them. She shrank away from thinking this through though. It was too soon, much too soon.

  Tim nodded. ‘They’ll probably go to her daughter. And that’s the trouble.’

  ‘Why? Have you met her?’

  ‘Yes. She’s a chip off the same block as Anne, but worse.’

  By lunchtime the pub’s clientele was swelling visibly, both inside and out. News had obviously begun to spread, and media representatives were gathering. With the weather remaining fine, by unspoken assent the Chillingham group remained close together outside. Periodically one or two would peel off or be collared as likely prospects by the media to be interviewed as witnesses. Georgia was beginning to find it unbearable. Through TV and the press, the whole nation was going to hear what a wonderful person Anne Fanshawe was, and what an inspiring vicar Chillingham had lost. All probably true, had not the issue of Thomas Becket come between her and her parishioners. Today, however, that subject would be taboo, conveniently sidestepped.

  At last more police cars arrived, and Georgia saw the guardian PCs going out through the garden gate to greet their colleagues. Now it would start. Now it would become real. She recognized Will Whitton right away, although he looked older. So must she, of course. All too old. A sudden stab reminded her of the pressing decision she and Luke still had to make over whether or not to go ahead with a third course of IVF. She made herself put that aside. Anne Fanshawe deserved all her concentration now.

  Will Whitton must have had prior warning that Peter was here, as he immediately came over to their table, and Tim and Simon took the hint by moving away. Will greeted Peter like a long lost friend, despite the fact that by the time Will had joined the force Peter had already left it (officially). Their subsequent acquaintanceship had been through Peter’s periodic eruptions into Mike’s working life.

  ‘I gather you were here last night, Peter,’ Will began, after the personal chat was over.

  ‘Not me. Georgia and Luke were.’

  ‘Remember me, Inspector?’ she asked.

  Will grinned. ‘Who could forget the dashing Georgia Marsh?’

  ‘Now a dashing Georgia Frost.’ She introduced Luke.

  Friendly relations established, he got down to business. ‘Tell me about Anne Fanshawe.’

  ‘We were recent arrivals on her scene,’ Peter explained. ‘You need Chillingham residents to talk about her.’

  Will wasn’t having that. Georgia knew all too well that he might look like a cherub, but angelic he was not, when it came to his job. ‘You knew her, and you know who was here. I’m told you were the last person to talk to her, Georgia.’

  ‘Probably. I offered her a lift just as she was leaving. Luke was unlocking the car in the car park, and I saw her walking past. She turned it down.’

  Will looked at her sympathetically. ‘You must feel badly about that. But life and death can turn on small decisions. What did you do then?’

  ‘Drove back to our home near Old Wives Lees, not far from Chillingham. That meant we turned right out of the car park here, and then left down to join the A20, which meant that we didn’t pass Anne again. As you know, she turned left out of the car park.’

  ‘Did you see her walking along the road?’

  ‘Yes. I watched her for a few minutes before I got in the car, to be sure she didn’t want to change her mind. She had a torch, but it was a dark night, so she disappeared from sight quite soon. She had a dark dress on too. I suppose that’s not the reason . . .’

  ‘No chance,’ he said briefly. ‘She was definitely strangled, not run down, and her body was dumped in the ditch. Did you pass any other traffic going that way?’

  Georgia glanced at Luke. ‘I don’t remember anything, do you?’

  ‘No. And I would have done because this road and the one to the A20 are mostly single track.’

  ‘Was she robbed?’ Peter asked. ‘Could that be the motive?’

  Will gave him an amused look. ‘That’s loaded, isn’t it? I take it you’d like that simple explanation. Well, the jury’s out. Or rather I am. No sign of a coat, but the night was warm. Her bag was chucked in at her side, credit cards missing, but cash left in it. No signs of sexual attack. Could be robbery therefore, but unlikely.’

  ‘No credit cards at the farm?’

  ‘No, so at present I’m not giving odds. My turn: was the victim popular with this group, would you say?’

  Georgia decided to take this one on. ‘She wasn’t walking the whole pilgrimage with them, only the odd day.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘She had four churches to look after so her job was the main reason, I imagine. Also she wasn’t in the play, only a supporter. And – ’ she knew she had to say it – ‘she wasn’t popular with everyone.’

  ‘Thanks for that. It’s the impression I’ve got, or rather my trusty team has. Choice of words and tone of voice can tell one a lot that doesn’t register on the written witness statements. You’d know that, Peter.’

  ‘All too well,’ he agreed.

  ‘Care to tell me the reason for the victim’s non-popularity?’ The very mildness of Will’s manner seemed to Georgia to underline the fact that he wasn’t going to be sidetracked, but she still hesitated.

  Peter did not. ‘The vicar was at the centre of a row over village development, chiefly because she owned the land and buildings that were the key to its success.’

  How straightforward that sounded, Georgia thought, grateful she had left it to him. If she had been the one to tell Will, she would probably unwittingly have conveyed more of the angst invested in that subject. From Peter’s lips it sounded a perfectly logical dispassionate situation. To listen to him, the heightened emotions towards Anne might not have existed.

  ‘I take it that as she was the landowner she was keen for development,’ Will said.

  ‘Far from it. She led the opposition,’ Georgia said.

  Will looked surprised. ‘Strange,’ he commented. ‘Usually it’s the landowner who wants to make a killing—’ He broke off at this unfortunate choice of words and made a face. ‘Sorry.’

  So he had already sensed that Georgia felt emotionally involved. ‘Not in this case. She believed her duty was to oppose it.’

  ‘Duty to whom or duty to what?’

  ‘Twofold. The late Robert Wayncroft and Archbishop Thomas Becket.’

  He groaned. ‘Say no more. I can see why matters clearly got heated. Feeling duty to the past, especially to a saint, is difficult to fight. Just give me a rough idea of who was on her side and who wasn’t.’ He must have noticed her look towards Peter for guidance. ‘This development,’ he added, ‘I take it the Wayncrofts, being the bigwigs of the village, were also against it.’

  ‘No.’ Luke took over to Georgia’s relief. She didn’t feel up to dealing with this. ‘You’ll have to ask them, but basically they were in favour of it.’

  ‘Again, that’s weird. Traditionally, the bigwigs fight tooth and nail to resist change. Or,’ Will added dispassionately, ‘in this case perhaps they fought with hands.’

  Georgia froze, not understanding why she felt so torn. She wanted Anne’s killer found, and yet feared it coming too close to home. Someone here, someone she’d talked to, could have done this. She was getting too emotiona
lly involved, and perhaps Luke realized because he stepped in again.

  ‘I assume it’s a man you’ll be looking for.’

  ‘Not necessarily. If the victim was taken by surprise from behind, it’s possible it could have been a woman, although it’s less likely. Now tell me what you were doing here yesterday, and why you’re here today, Peter. None of you lives in Chillingham, so are you on a case, Peter?’

  She had almost forgotten Hugh Wayncroft, Georgia realized guiltily. He, too, had been strangled. Was that coincidence? It must be.

  ‘Hugh Wayncroft,’ Peter explained, ‘was murdered in Chillingham in 1967 on a stretch of the nearby Pilgrims’ Way, north of the village, at the end of a pilgrimage just like this one. He had played Becket in the same play as that scheduled for next week in Canterbury by this group. His murder was never solved. Ask Mike Gilroy.’

  A long pause. ‘Most interesting,’ Will said at last. ‘I will ask him. Indeed I will. Any connection between the two murders, do you think?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Peter replied levelly. ‘Coincidence has a long arm.’

  ‘So does the law,’ Will replied. ‘It seems we should pay particular attention to exactly what was happening during the pilgrimage yesterday, and the dinner yesterday evening. We know about you two, Georgia. Could any others have left the pub about the same time and caught her up, without your seeing them or without being noticed by the others?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone, but it’s possible.’

  Will looked at her. ‘Anything happen during the evening?’

  He’d picked up her reluctance to talk, and so she had no option. ‘Another row broke out, but . . .’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said when she stopped.

  ‘She refused point blank to open up the ruins of St Thomas’s chapel and well to the public.’

  The phone rang yet again, but to Georgia’s relief Luke went to answer it. Will Whitton had released them to return home late in the afternoon, although the pilgrimage party was still being kept at the Dog and Duck. On the way home, Georgia had suggested to Peter that he should stay with them at Medlars overnight, and rather to her surprise Peter had agreed. She had in mind that it had been a long day for him, but he, apparently, had other ideas. They could discuss Anne Fanshawe’s death in relation to that of Hugh Wayncroft.

  Georgia had rung Janie to suggest she joined them there, but to her dismay it turned out that Peter had forgotten to tell her that he’d be out all day. The museum was closed on Sundays and Mondays, and so today had been a free day for Janie. She had come over to Haden Shaw, had had a wasted journey, and, when Georgia rang, informed her that she had no intention of setting out again.

  If it had not been for the fact that Anne Fanshawe was dominating her thoughts, Georgia would have tried harder to persuade her to change her mind, but she lacked the energy. There was always a question mark over including Janie when the primary cause of a meeting with Peter was work, chiefly because Janie would go to such lengths to make it clear that she didn’t mind one bit being excluded from the conversation. That made it all the worse. How complicated relationships could get, Georgia thought. Another reason that she hadn’t talked Janie into coming was that Peter had a face like a thundercloud when she suggested it.

  Luke had been busy preparing his special spaghetti in the kitchen when the phone had rung.

  ‘What’s the news?’ she called when she heard the receiver replaced.

  ‘It was Tim.’ Luke appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘They’ve just been told they’ll be free by tomorrow evening, and so they can carry on with the pilgrimage on Tuesday. That’s the Cuxton stop, and on Wednesday they’ll be crossing the Medway on to the Downs and Boxley.’

  ‘Are the police marching with them?’

  ‘No. Tim said Val offered to keep in touch daily and to be responsible for keeping the group together. There are plenty of mobile numbers they can ring if Will Whitton wants to speak to any of them. Anyone leaving the group has to be reported.’

  ‘Soon they’ll be reaching Mike’s area,’ Peter said reflectively.

  Georgia realized with resignation that Peter would be planning close cooperation with him. Fortunately, Mike had his own ways of saying ‘no’.

  ‘How’s Tim feeling?’ she asked Luke. ‘Better?’

  ‘Worse. Can you imagine ploughing along the Old Road wondering whether there’s a murderer marching behind you?’

  ‘Murder isn’t unknown, even on the Old Road,’ she pointed out. ‘There was Hugh Wayncroft.’

  ‘There’s also the play. I know it seems a minor matter to worry about in comparison with Anne’s death, but it means Tim’s whole future, and Simon’s too, so there’s plenty for them to be worried about.’

  ‘But if this daughter inherits her estate and is as thought to be a chip off the old block, couldn’t that be a good thing?’

  Luke looked blank. ‘How? She won’t want to open up the ruins either.’

  Peter saw what she was implying, however. ‘You mean if the daughter takes the same position as her mother, the Becket ruins can’t have been the motive for her killing. So unless someone present last night had more personal reasons for killing Anne, the group in the pub might be off the hook.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wrong,’ he pointed out. ‘That would depend on who the murderer thought would inherit the land.’

  ‘No, I’m right,’ Georgia argued. ‘It was generally known that Anne had a daughter, so she would be the obvious person to inherit them.’

  Peter glared. ‘Perhaps. But –’ a last ditch attempt – ‘it all depends what was in her will, if she made one, and in Robert Wayncroft’s. And if it’s true about its being generally known. If not, she could well have left everything to the church, which is a much easier target for the pro-development side.’

  ‘Call it a draw,’ Luke said before Georgia could reply. ‘Supper’s ready. Incidentally, do Georgia and I have to regard ourselves as suspects?’

  ‘No, assuming Whitton doesn’t find trace evidence that implicates you, and it’s hard to see how he could,’ Peter said almost grudgingly. He was in a really bad mood, Georgia realized. ‘You didn’t kiss her goodnight, did you, Luke?’ Peter shot at him.

  ‘No, and nor did Georgia. Neither of us was on kissing terms with her.’

  ‘Good. Now about our case, Georgia.’

  Back to square one. ‘Do you think Anne’s death is linked to it?’ she asked. What did she hope the reply would be? Yes or no? She couldn’t decide, and nor could Peter from his answer.

  ‘I don’t know. I usually have a good nose for such things, but in this case I don’t. The only link I can see is Thomas Becket, and for the life of me I can’t see that Anne’s death is going to affect that much, if the daughter and half the village are still opposed to it. Including the Moons.’

  Georgia had to force herself to visit Chillingham again. It was only five days since Anne’s murder, and she still felt raw inside about it. The pilgrims, so Tim told Luke last evening, had reached Boxley and were doing the short seven mile haul to Hollingbourne today, Thursday. He had said that Simon was planning on returning to Chillingham, which meant he might even be back by now.

  The publicity for the pilgrimage was ironically all Tim could have longed for when they’d first set out. Now it was unwelcome as the murder dominated every interview, and the play and its longer term objectives had slipped into second place even amongst the cast.

  She could not bear to park by Chillingham church with its memories of Anne, and so she drove on to the Three Peacocks – only to find the car park full again. Good news for Simon, although she doubted if his present customers would be gastro diners, and even more whether they would be regular customers. She found a spot to park on the street and went into the bar, which was also packed. Some were obviously from the media, but many seemed to be curious sightseers. Chillingham as well as Wrotham had been much photographed and filmed in the press and on TV.

  Derek was behi
nd the bar, and she could glimpse Simon in the kitchen, but there seemed no sign of Lisa. Then she spotted her sitting at a corner table with a smartly dressed woman in her early thirties, with long blonde hair and sharp features. She set her down as an interviewer and was surprised that Lisa was cooperating.

  Even more to her surprise, Lisa beckoned to her to join them. There seemed no trace of the hostility or defensiveness that Lisa had shown her earlier. It was as if she had relaxed her guard, and from her face and body language, Georgia could at last see why Simon referred to her as a gentle soul. What had made the difference – the news of Anne’s death?

  ‘Georgia, this is Stella Hales, Mrs Fanshawe’s daughter,’ Lisa introduced her. ‘I’ve been telling her about you and how you’re interested in the village history.’

  Point noted. How, Georgia wondered, had the subject arisen? She was aware that as she greeted Stella alert eyes were summing her up. This, she decided, was one high-powered lady. She could easily believe that she was a chip off the old block, perhaps more to be feared than Anne herself.

  Stella rose to greet her. ‘Do join us,’ she said. ‘Simon told us that you were talking a great deal to my mother the day she died. I’d like to hear about it.’

  Georgia began to think she’d judged too hastily. There was a humanity in Stella’s face as there had been in Anne’s, and she told her as much as she could about her talks with her mother. Excluding that final row she had overheard. ‘I liked Anne very much. I wish I’d known her better,’ she finished.