by Amy Myers
‘Were there fireworks on the pilgrimage, or at the play?’
‘I wondered when you’d ask me that,’ Lisa said with satisfaction. ‘Answer’s yes. We had everything from damp squibs to rockets in the way of temper tantrums, together with a few fancy Catherine wheels in-between. It started off all hunky dory. We took our summer holidays so we could do the pilgrimage, and those who could walked it, just as they’re doing now. I had Matthew though, and Mrs Wayncroft had Julian, so neither of us did the whole lot. I joined in for the last twenty miles or so while my mum looked after Matthew, and Mrs Wayncroft got Hugh’s mum to do the same. By that time things were getting edgy on the Old Road. I could tell that. I remember waiting for them at the Hollingbourne stop. The old vicar was with me. Funny old chap, but we felt the same about St Thomas. Mr Riding did the whole stretch, but not little Anne. His wife brought her along on the last stretch from here to Canterbury. So excited she was at the thought of the play and walking with the grown-ups. Fred Miller did the same – never liked him much. He and his wife owned the Three Peacocks and were always arguing. She ran off with a soldier in the 1980s, and after that he didn’t make such a song and dance of what a great chap he was. Nasty piece of work was Fred. He was always at loggerheads with Hugh over the St Thomas chapel. He and Mr Valentine were the worst for that. Never saw anyone’s point of view but their own.’
‘What was your husband like? In the photos he looks quite dashing.’
‘Clive was a funny old cuss. Loved wood, like Matt and Derek. He was the temperamental sort, emotional. Sometimes he’d retreat into himself, and I couldn’t get a word out of him for days. He’d stomp off into his workroom and carve away endlessly. Liked his football, though. He’d come out for that. Look I’ll show you something.’ Lisa fetched a photo album from a bookshelf and rummaged through it until she found the one she wanted. ‘The happy band of pilgrims, look at them.’
Georgia studied the snapshot. The party had been photographed in a field presumably on the Pilgrims’ Way; they were in a group yet somehow didn’t look united. She managed to pick out a much younger Val Harper and Lisa herself.
‘There’s my Hugh,’ Lisa said, pointing to a tall slender man with light coloured hair who stood to one side of the group as if to declare he was indeed merely one of the gang. Julian, Georgia thought, would automatically have taken centre stage.
‘Which side were the Painters on in the St Thomas argument?’ Georgia asked her.
‘Funny you should ask that. You’d expect them to be all for development, given what their livelihood is, but they’re not. They want St Thomas to lie in peace. John now, Molly and Vic’s dad, sided with Mrs Wayncroft way back, but when he bought Becket House blow me if he didn’t change his mind, even though he needed the trade. He was an odd chap. Only died in 2004, spent the war in Canterbury because of a bit of a limp, no good for the forces. He was a cathedral fireguard on the night of the big air raid in 1942 and said he felt he’d done his bit overall. But it rankled. Vic and Molly have always stayed on our side, against tourism for the sake of it. He don’t mind chatting to outsiders who are generally interested though. Bit of a historian is Vic.’
‘One could argue that pilgrimages were merely the medieval form of tourism.’
‘They were God-fearing folk,’ Lisa said firmly. ‘Not like today’s gawpers.’
Time to change direction, Georgia thought. ‘So what happened on the 1967 pilgrimage?’
Lisa was willing enough to talk about it. ‘There was a funny atmosphere, and I began to get worried the nearer we got to Canterbury. The group was beginning to divide up, and that didn’t seem right to me. It was the same in the evenings. Different groups, different rounds of drinks.’
‘And what happened when you reached Canterbury?’
‘The play? We gave a rattling good performance, but the cast divided into two sides, just like the pro-Beckets and the anti-Beckets in the play. Hugh was the perfect Becket – he was a wonderful actor. He’d blossom on stage. You’d not look twice at him if you passed him in the street but on the stage he’d come out like a king. Mr Val was good – he was Fitzurse, the chief murderer, and Clive Moon was the king. He was all bluster, no finesse, not like Hugh. I hated it when Clive kissed me. Had to pretend it was Hugh. Bill Riding was directing the play, and Fred Miller was one of the other murderers.’ She paused. ‘You’ll want to know about the last night. Well, I’ll never forget the look Hugh gave me in the last scene when they murdered him. I was doing my Rosamund act sobbing in the background, and Hugh seemed to be looking at me as though it really were the last time.’
‘Were there any fireworks after that?’ Georgia remembered Jessica’s story of the glass of wine and was intrigued to know what Lisa’s version would be.
‘Oh yes. At the after-show party. That’s the usual place to let off steam. We had a party on stage in the theatre, when we were still on a high. Clive was full of his own importance and booze, and I suppose we were all pretty tanked up. It was a little thing that began it. Bill Riding said something about it being a pity the play couldn’t have a longer run, and Mr Val said quick as a flash, “Let’s put it on in Chillingham, outside St Thomas’s own chapel.” In a minute it all seemed settled. Hugh went very white and stayed out of the discussion though, until someone – can’t remember who – thought to ask him if it was OK by him. Hugh just said no, it wasn’t. Even I was a bit surprised, as it would only have been a one-off event, but it triggered off a row. His wife was laying into him, until she saw he was really upset and changed sides. Hugh said he might think about it, which was a mistake, because everyone took that as a yes and immediately there were big plans for opening up the ruins for cash – at which Mrs Wayncroft changed sides again. It was Hugh, me, the vicar and Bill Riding against everyone else. The result was that Hugh refused point blank to let the ruins be used, and the atmosphere got very nasty. Mrs Wayncroft threw a glass of wine over me and accused me of being his whore. Poor old Hugh. Doubt if he knew what the word meant. It quietened down, but that was almost worse. The clearing up next day was done in silence, and we were all pretty miserable on the walk back. We couldn’t get back home quickly enough.’
‘But you celebrated in the pub when you arrived.’
‘Only because it had been prearranged. No one had the heart for it, and that’s the reason we didn’t hunt earlier for Hugh. We all thought he’d gone straight home to avoid more conflicts.’
‘When did you last see him on the walk back?’
‘Hugh and I tried to keep apart, so I don’t remember talking to him there. We had a quick kiss at the clearing up. He looked so apologetic, as though it was his fault; he explained he had to take that position because it was the Wayncroft heritage. That was the last time I saw him properly – only glimpses after that, if I turned round. I know he was at the back of the column during the walk home, but I tried not to look at him. Clive was behind me, and he’d have had his eye on me, you can count on that. I saw Hugh with his wife at one point before she stalked off. She must have been nagging him about the ruins, because as she passed Clive and me she had a face like a thundercloud. She said, “He still won’t budge. Says Robert wouldn’t like it.” Then she went up to join Val. I looked back and saw poor Hugh all alone and wanted to go back but thought I’d better not. Clive was still watching me. Then we paused a bit and might have got into a different order. I don’t know what happened then. As we went round the corner of Peacock Wood, we were too busy picking our way along the path – not so well kept as it is now, and so we spread out a bit. The word went back that we were going to have a ceremonial entrance on to the road, with the band at the front and the main characters at the front and rear. And that was about it. I didn’t see him again, just thought he was so fed up that he’d gone home.’
‘What did Jessica mean by Robert not liking it? What was it?’
‘The whole idea of opening up the ruins for cash. I don’t know why. Hugh never talked about Robert much, but sometimes
it felt like he thought Robert was still owner of the house, so whatever he said went.’
‘The discovery of the body must have been terrible for you.’
Lisa looked back over the years and grief filled her face. ‘One of those nightmares you don’t revisit,’ she said steadily. ‘It was beginning to rain and so we were all hurrying to get home through the wood and weren’t so much in the column. I couldn’t see Hugh, but the path or paths at that point kept twisting.’
‘Did you go straight to the pub? Did you look for Hugh?’
‘No. I nipped back to check on Matthew, so when I got to the pub and saw Hugh wasn’t there, but Jessica was, I assumed he might be doing the same as me and checking on his baby Julian. Although in his case it would have been an excuse to avoid the row breaking out again. Then Jessica and Val came back from the manor and said Hugh wasn’t there after all. I began to feel scared then. Nothing seemed right.’
‘Did you go on the search party?’
‘Yes, but I hung back. I was scared by then, really scared. Mrs Wayncroft was leading it; Vic Painter was there, and Mr Val of course. They’d both have been about twenty and full of the joys of spring. Not that day, though, even though Mr Val was just as keen on developing the place then as he is now. He never got on well with his stepfather, and least of all over that.’
‘It must have caused a terrific uproar in the village.’ Georgia tried to imagine the horror of it. ‘It’s still surprising to me that the talk seems to have died down so quickly after Hugh’s death. You’d think that it would go on being discussed for decades, but it doesn’t seem to have been.’
Lisa’s mouth took on the set look with which Georgia was becoming familiar. ‘Don’t see why. We were all shocked, no matter which side we were on – and some of us had seen Hugh’s dead body. So we never talked about it much.’ Georgia saw her swallow. ‘Have another slice of cake.’
The subject of the Wayncrofts was closed.
When Georgia returned to the Marsh & Daughter office at Haden Shaw, she found Peter in a familiar position, peering at his computer screen. Nothing new about that, nor about his opening grumpy comment as he swivelled round to greet her.
‘What kept you?’
‘Lisa Moon.’
‘To good effect?’
‘I think so.’ Georgia had a moment’s doubt. Had Lisa’s story sounded just too good to be true? She proceeded to recount all she had been told – often a good policy. Peter could make his own decisions about whether it added up. His reaction this time was predictable.
‘As full of holes as a sieve.’
‘Don’t exaggerate.’
‘Some holes,’ he amended. ‘Time for Suspects Anonymous.’
This software, created by her cousin Charlie to keep track of Marsh & Daughter evidence and theories, was Peter’s pride and joy. Sometimes, Georgia grudgingly admitted, it could be helpful, but for her it was a distraction that often misdirected them. Peter would hear no ill of his favourite toy, however.
‘I didn’t know you’d begun a file for Hugh Wayncroft,’ she said.
‘Indeed I have, and most interesting it is. All the witnesses’ stories run in more or less parallel lines, but occasionally one makes a dash for the victim.’
‘What happens then?’
‘So far, he or she gets back in line and the victim goes merrily on in good health.’
‘Not helpful. Anything else?’
‘Oh yes. A flag of omission waving in the evidence.’
‘Sparked off by what?’
‘Lack of trace evidence. Lack of dovetailing statements for that pilgrimage.’
‘Who does Suspects Anonymous fancy?’ she asked.
‘Hardly surprisingly, Val Harper. He’d clashed with his stepfather over the Becket ruins, only to find out after his death that the estate reverted to Robert, on whose charity he, Julian and his mother became dependent.’
‘We don’t know that Val and Jessica Wayncroft were ignorant of the arrangement. If they knew it, that does away with their motive, but I wouldn’t mind betting they didn’t. At Hugh’s age, and being younger than Robert, it would hardly have seemed a pressing problem as regards his family’s future. Far more interesting is why Anne Fanshawe bequeathed the ruins back to the Wayncrofts, whose plans for development she was strongly resisting. And then, of course, there’s Aletta.’
‘She wasn’t around in 1967.’
‘But she is now. And so is Val.’
There was no sign of Luke when Georgia at last reached Medlars, although it was getting on for eight o’clock. He must still be working in the oasthouse office, Georgia thought, but she decided to break unwritten rules and dig him out of his cocoon. She found him still feverishly working at the computer, with hard-copy proofs to one side and the screen version in front.
‘You can’t blame me,’ he said in self defence as she appeared through the door. ‘Tim was on the phone for hours. I couldn’t get him off the line, and I need to pass these proofs tonight.’
‘No printers work through the night any more,’ she said firmly. ‘So pass the proofs early tomorrow. What’s up with Tim?’
‘Desperate over his play. The whole thing’s falling to pieces, with the press pursuing them about the murder. So much for the unity he hoped the pilgrimage would generate. The two camps have split wide open, with that poor woman’s death as the trigger.’
‘I hate to be cynical, but they wanted publicity and they’ve got it.’
‘Not the kind they wanted.’
Georgia sighed. ‘There’s nothing they can do about that. Nor do I think they should. Chillingham smoothed over murder once before.’
‘That’s hard of you.’
‘Maybe. I can see Tim’s viewpoint, but in the wider scale of things, plays can be put on again. Anne’s death has to predominate. What does Tim want of you? Just a shoulder to cry on?’
‘Moral support from us, and from Peter.’
‘Surely we’re the wrong side. We represent finding out what happened in the past.’
‘I know that. Maybe that’s why he wants us. An impartial but friendly voice. And one that has links with the police.’
‘When are we supposed to show this support?’
‘Easy one to answer. Tomorrow night they’re booked in at Charing. On Saturday morning he proposes they should all take the coach back here to Chillingham to have a crisis meeting at the Three Peacocks.’
‘But what’s the crisis?’
‘Whether the play should be cancelled.’
NINE
In the morning sun the Three Peacocks looked a peaceful place, with the green Downs as its background and the village clustered around it, but Georgia shuddered to think of the drama that must be heaving away inside it. Compared with Anne’s death, however, the play had to be a side issue, although perhaps that should not be the way to look at it. The question of whether the play should go ahead was a battle in itself, and it still had to be fought, even though death overrode all.
It overrode Luke’s and her private problems, but that didn’t stop her worrying about them. Just one more IVF course would surely settle the issue. If it didn’t work then she would call a halt to it. Yes. Luke would surely agree that was reasonable, and yet the last time she had brought it up he had clearly been against it. Only if she wanted it, he had said. She had changed the subject to that of Mark, asking if he had heard anything from his son in response to some information he had sent about Otford. Luke had been keen enough to talk about that last night, to her secret frustration, even though the answer had been no.
This morning was a new day, however. Georgia could see Peter’s car in the pub parking area, so no doubt he was already embroiled in the battle. Luke had been torn between his personal loyalty to Tim and the mounting stack of publishing work facing him, but had realized he had no choice. Even so, Georgia could tell by his face that he wished that all they had to do was to put on their walking gear and set off for a stroll along the Old Road, pref
erably in the opposite direction to Canterbury. She would be all for it. She had no wish to pass Peacock Wood again. The spectre of Hugh Wayncroft needed no reminders.
‘Advance or escape?’ Luke asked.
‘Duty calls.’
She, Peter and Luke had agreed that, as outsiders, their presence should not be too obtrusive, and so it might be as well not to arrive until the meeting was under way. How long had Peter been here? Already she could hear raised voices inside, and she and Luke quickened their step.
‘Into the cauldron,’ Luke said. ‘Sounds as if there’s a good stew bubbling.’
When they entered, however, the bar itself proved empty, save for Peter sitting in state at a table by the door that gave access to the Peacock Room from which the noise was coming. That was where such events were obviously usually held, but so far Georgia had not seen it in use. Today it was coming into its own, and behind the bar Derek Moon grinned at them in sympathy.
Peter beckoned her over as Luke hurried to the bar to order coffee. Simultaneously, the door to the Peacock Room opened and Simon emerged. Through the open door, Georgia could glimpse Val inside with a microphone, but Simon then shut the door firmly behind him.
‘Is the temperature as high as it sounds?’ Peter asked.
Simon grimaced. ‘Tim’s winning so far,’ he said, ‘but it’s not in the bag yet. Julian and Val want to go on, of course. Julian banged on about the need for unity and the village sticking together in times of trouble such as this, and Val’s taking the line that as Anne had supported the play and the pilgrimage, cancelling it as a mark of respect must surely be daft.’
‘How strong’s the opposition?’ Luke asked.
