by Amy Myers
Georgia began to warm to the idea. If they could fit her in for a day or two it would – apart from anything else – give her space to think about her own problems, as well as giving Luke a breathing space to catch up with his own work.
Peter, evidently already presuming the matter settled, moved on to the next item on his agenda. ‘Mike’s coming to see me today or tomorrow, but I presume that Hugh Wayncroft’s death isn’t top of his list, although it’s possibly a relevant factor.’
‘Only if the same person committed both murders.’
‘Val Harper couldn’t have killed Hugh unless his mother was lying when she told the police she was with him, but witnesses confirm they were together in the front of the column.’ A pause. ‘He could have committed Anne’s murder, however.’
‘Police territory,’ she warned him.
‘Nonsense,’ Peter declared. ‘It’s ours too, as Mike is coming here. Tell me again about that evening in the pub and the row you overheard.’
‘Anne had had some kind of set-to with Val earlier in the day so it was hardly surprising it broke out again.’ Georgia did her best to remember both that and the evening quarrel word for word, but with Peter best was never enough.
‘Was Anne still at that table when you and Luke got up to go? Had she gone to the Ladies? Was she at the bar? Getting her coat?’
Georgia concentrated on her images of that evening, but had to give up. ‘I don’t remember, and since I saw her in the car park it can’t be that relevant. There was one interesting thing about the row, however.’
‘What is it?’ Peter asked sharply.
‘It stopped. That’s what was odd. There’s usually a grim silence at the very least after a row such as that, or people leave the table. But, in this case, Anne stayed there, and so did Aletta, Julian and Val. Seb joined them, in fact, and they were all talking.’
‘How talking? In surrender, would you say?’
‘Anne wasn’t the sort to surrender over such an issue, and the others couldn’t afford to do so.’
‘How long did this possible reconciliation last?’
Georgia considered. ‘I can’t be sure, but Anne must have left the pub very shortly after Luke and me because we were only unlocking the car as she passed us by. And, since you asked, I don’t remember seeing her wearing a coat, and Will Whitton said she wasn’t wearing one. Most of the coats were hung in the corridor by the toilets off to one side of the main bar.’
‘What about an overnight bag?’
‘Anne checked in at the B and B before she came to the pub. She had an anorak on during the day, so that could have been left in the B and B.’
‘I’ll ask Mike. Could it be that Anne saw you leave, wanted to say something to you, paid her farewells to the others and tried to catch you up?’
‘No. If she’d wanted to talk to us, she’d have done so in the car park. She didn’t, and you’ll remember she turned down our offer of a lift to drive her back.’ That still stung – shouldn’t she have tried harder to persuade her? Georgia replayed the scene in her mind. She remembered Luke fiddling with the key to get it into the lock. ‘It was pretty dark by then, even in the car park. I was watching Luke, and then I saw Anne passing us, which must have been perhaps three or four minutes after we came out.’
‘Enough time for someone to see Anne leaving and either decide to leave himself or make an excuse such as going to the toilets or to the bar.’
‘Yes.’ Georgia began to warm to the theme. ‘The pub’s layout would help. There was a side door, which opened into the corridor with the toilets and coats. The corridor had an outside door and went past the bars and the stairs to the first floor for overnight guests.’
‘And presumably residents could use the door to the outside with a key if the main pub was shut?’
‘Probably, although the pub was still open at that point, so that door, too, might have been open.’
‘Good. So our chum might have escaped notice.’
‘Yes.’ Georgia thought this through. ‘Anyone staying overnight in the pub wouldn’t be noticed if they disappeared for a while. It would be assumed they’d retired for the night. Of course, if her killer hurried out to catch Anne up, he’d have been gone for some time, because she was a fair way along by the time we left. If he had a room in the hotel, though, that wouldn’t matter so much.’
Peter ruminated. ‘He’d need a torch, which would suggest a degree of planning. Who was staying there? Valentine Harper . . .’
‘Julian and family, Tim and Simon, Matthew and a few more. It was more the youngsters who were camping. However,’ Georgia added firmly, ‘could I remind you that this takes us no further forward on Hugh Wayncroft?’
‘But how tempting to think it might,’ Peter said gently.
TEN
Georgia groaned. ‘Ever decreasing circles, Peter. The most likely link is that legacy of the ruins. Or seems to be. But there’s no evidence that the Wayncrofts knew about Anne’s will. It doesn’t add up that Anne should have been so adamant at the Dog and Duck about not opening the ruins up for development now, if the Wayncrofts knew perfectly well that they’d inherit sooner or later. A row yes, if she refused to open them immediately, but not on the scale I remember.’
‘In that case we’re back to why Robert left them to Anne in the first place. If Anne was willing to bequeath them to the Wayncrofts, and presumably assumed she wouldn’t die for another thirty or forty years, what would be so different about the Wayncroft family by then?’
‘Because Julian might by then also have died?’ she ventured. ‘Did she or Robert not want to leave them to Julian, but wouldn’t mind their going to Seb? No, that doesn’t make sense. Anyway, there’s a snag,’ she pointed out. ‘Sebastian was already growing up fast when Robert came back to Kent. He’d have consulted him.’
‘Seb’s as much in favour of development as his father. It was putting on the play that he got hot under the collar about.’
‘It might have been a gamble that Robert thought worth taking. Exclude Julian because he didn’t share his views on what should be done with the ruins and hope that Seb would see things differently as the years went by. And yet it was the Wayncroft heritage, so he . . .’ Peter broke off. ‘Why does that word bother me?’
‘It bothers me too. It’s like a bolt across a door. It tries to forbid open discussion. A sort of: “Oh, it’s the heritage, that’s that, then.” Anyway,’ Georgia continued, ‘there’s a flaw in our argument. The development issue didn’t rear its ugly head again until after Robert died – obviously, but also after Val came back to Kent. We can’t be sure of Julian’s views before that.’
‘Unfortunate that the two brothers don’t get on personally, but see their futures tied up together,’ Peter speculated. ‘That word heritage, though. Didn’t you say Hugh used it at the after-show party in 1967 or after it?’
Georgia patiently flipped back to the notes she had recorded after meeting Lisa. ‘Yes. Hugh told her that he had to take a stand over the ruins. It was the Wayncroft heritage, he said. Julian himself used the same word to me.’
‘But what does it mean?’
‘That’s what I asked him. He said it was the Becket connections, of which the ruins are a part. Including the bones, if any. But Lisa,’ Georgia said, remembering, ‘took it to mean that the manor and the ruins of St Thomas passed down the line via the eldest son, in Hugh’s case baby Julian.’
‘But that must have been obvious, even to Lisa. Why should Hugh bother to point that out to her? He said “it” was the heritage, if Lisa remembered it correctly. “It” wouldn’t apply either to the ruins or to Becket.’
‘Perhaps he was really trying to explain why he couldn’t leave his wife and marry her?’
‘Good shot,’ Peter said patronizingly, ‘but Lisa claims he loved his wife just as he loved her. She would hardly admit to such a thing unless she believed it. Unless –’ he quickly caught himself before Georgia could say it for him – ‘Lisa was anxi
ous to make a case out to you that she was innocent. I take it you don’t think Lisa killed Hugh?’
‘I don’t, but it was forty years ago, so how sure can I be?’
‘I don’t either, although I’m with you – it could have happened. So we come back to Hugh, heritage and it, bearing in mind that everything reverted to Robert after the murder.’
‘You’ve missed a shot,’ Georgia said triumphantly. ‘Hugh didn’t know he was going to die long before Robert did.’
Peter looked appalled and clutched his head in his hands. ‘Do you know, Georgia, you’re right. I’m slipping. Is this old age rearing its head?’ He looked at her hopefully.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘You’ve just got too much on your mind.’ She nerved herself to speak out. ‘You’re still thinking about Rick, aren’t you?’
Peter looked mutinous. ‘All right. Rick, then. I suppose it was that word “heritage” set me off. What heritage do I have if he doesn’t return?’
Georgia froze. She had to step very carefully indeed. She might wade through the endless shallows into the deep mud all too easily and become embroiled in Peter’s nightmares, whereas she had one of her own to cope with.
‘Rick isn’t your heritage, Peter. Nor mine. Heritage is not only human succession, it’s what you’ve achieved; what you contribute for others to build on.’
‘And what might that be?’ Peter waved a disparaging hand over the bookshelves in front of him that held the file copies of Marsh & Daughter works. ‘Only books that no one will read in twenty years’ time.’
‘Plenty of people have read them now. We can’t know how what we’ve written affects them – those that might have been involved in the cases, those who care whether the right answer is recorded where there was only a question mark before. Even if it affects them just a little, it could change lives.’ Georgia stopped. ‘Am I making sense?’ she asked awkwardly.
‘Yes, but you’re being highly sanctimonious,’ Peter said savagely. ‘How does this “just a little” compare with having Rick back? Tell me that.’
Tackle this head on, she thought. If she could. ‘I’m sorry Austria didn’t do the trick for you. It has for me.’
‘No, it didn’t. And what trick? Tell me that. It’s a question of whether he’s alive or not. How can I believe—’
‘That Rick’s dead? Well, I’ll tell you how.’ Georgia was beginning to fume, but tried to stay cool. ‘By looking at the facts, just as you do in our work. Including this case.’
‘I am looking at facts. The records of that bloody watch – it wasn’t Rick’s.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I know.’
She was in too far to retreat now. ‘How often have you refused, rightly, to accept those words from witnesses? True views, honestly held, but which turn out to be false memories. Look at all those miracles St Thomas was supposed to have performed. They were believed to be fact at the time. Fact expands and changes like a plume of smoke and can settle down into mere fantasy. What were facts of St Thomas’s miracles are now legend for most people.’
His jaw jutted out in fury. ‘Are you saying I’m wrong, Georgia? Just look at this.’ He pulled open a drawer at his side and took out what looked like an old bill. It must be no coincidence that he kept whatever it was so near at hand. Peter had been brooding more deeply than she realized. The worst had happened, and Peter’s nightmares could return in full force.
She stared at the bill. It was for an Omega De Ville watch, dated a month before Rick had disappeared.
‘That was Rick’s watch, not the model they had recorded.’
She thought frantically. Where could she go now to convince him? ‘In that case,’ she said steadily, ‘you must be right. But, Peter, if he were still alive, where is he? The fact that the watch might not have been his, doesn’t make Rick alive. It just means they ascribed the wrong model or artefact to him or that he still kept his Seamaster as well as the new watch and had it with him when he died.’
‘Damn it, Georgia, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘And there lies the problem.’
She returned to Medlars still smarting from the clash. How dared he, how dared Peter say all that stuff about heritage when he knew full well what she was going through in order to present him with a grandchild. Didn’t she count? Was a daughter’s offspring not as good as a son’s? Maybe feudalism hadn’t entirely vanished from the scene. The succession had to be male to count. How could her own father ignore her plight just when she needed support?
Stop, she told herself, stop. She felt wretched and had hoped to be on her own for a while to recover when she reached Medlars, but as luck would have it, Luke had finished his work and was in the kitchen preparing lunch when she came in.
He noticed something was wrong straight away. ‘Why back so soon?’
‘Didn’t feel like staying any longer.’
Luke was immediately on the alert. ‘Why not?’
She shrugged as though it were merely an everyday occurrence. ‘We had a row over Rick.’
‘That all?
‘All? Isn’t that enough?’
‘Not usually. You take that problem in your stride.’ He looked at her carefully. ‘Ah, the word usually. Could there be something dragging you down? Something to do with us?’
She couldn’t meet his eye. ‘I want to have that third course of IVF. Shouldn’t I?’ she added illogically.
‘Oh, Georgia.’ He took her into his arms, and it felt good. ‘How many times do I have to tell you it doesn’t matter. It’s you I love; it’s you I want at my side for the rest of our lives. If children come, I’ll be happy. If they don’t we’ll have lost nothing that brought us together in the first place.’
‘But do you really mean that?’ she choked.
‘What would convince you? You don’t seem to have done a very good job in convincing Peter over Rick’s death. Aren’t you shutting your own eyes in the same way?’
‘No. This is something much more basic than that. The need to leave some mark behind.’ She grappled with the fact that she had been fighting Peter on that issue, but pushed it away. This was different, and Luke didn’t understand. He had a son after all, and she didn’t. Didn’t he want a shared child? Didn’t he care? He must. He just wasn’t admitting it.
‘Life’s what you make it, Georgia, not how other people think we should live. Even if we had a child, in less than a hundred years’ time we’ll just be a photo in an album or tucked away deep inside a computer in a landfill site—’
Just the same argument as Peter had made. She managed an attempt at a grin. ‘You mean computers will be no more? Oh, I hope I live that long.’
A pause, then Luke said, ‘You’re sure the last IVF course has failed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s leave it at that, shall we? Move forward?’
‘I don’t know, Luke. I’ll think about it some more.’
‘Say no,’ he said gently. ‘Begin the healing now.’
‘Perhaps one more . . .’
He sighed. ‘I can’t take this decision for you, or even with you, just as you can’t help Peter. He has to take the final step himself.’
It wasn’t the same, but she knew Luke was right. It was her decision. ‘It’s been suggested I book in for a day or two at Becket House. Peter thought it a good idea. Want to come?’
She couldn’t bear to see the sadness in his face. ‘You know that’s impossible,’ he answered. ‘You do it, if you think it might help. It’s the first night of the play on Tuesday, isn’t it? I’ll stay over that night. I presume you and Peter will be going?’
‘Peter would be on the Stour Theatre doorstep every night if it were practical. But I’m plumping for the first night and Saturday, the last night. I’ll book in to Becket House for tonight if she’s got room.’ She wanted to say, ‘Please come with me,’ but pride would not let her. She’d be better on her own, she told herself. ‘They need the trade,’she ended lightly,
then turned away so that she could not see that sadness any more. Why the sadness though? For her, as he claimed, or for the children they might never have together? Unless she took that third course.
Becket House, its forecourt now almost empty of cars, looked more imposing than Georgia had remembered. On her earlier visit it had looked unremarkable, but now its red brick and elegant windows shone out far more grandly.
‘Come in, m’dear.’ Molly’s warm welcome gave no hint of the drama Georgia had run into on her first visit. No mention was made of that, or of Jessica Wayncroft, as Molly showed her up to a large double bedroom, plainly but appealingly decorated with obviously home-embroidered cushions and bedpane. The windows were Georgian, too, as was the ceiling, but the bathroom, thankfully, was modern.
‘You should have seen it when Dad moved in. I thought it was wonderful,’ Molly said. ‘The Georgians liked baths, you know. He said the original bath had been about eight foot square, like a sort of swimming pool, and in the basement, and when he moved in there was still a Victorian free-standing bath right in the middle of the room, all claw feet and an interior with a Union Jack and God Save the Queen painted on it. It felt disrespectful at first having a bath in it, but then I loved it. I was really sorry when Dad went all modern and had the bathrooms revamped a year or two later.’
Georgia laughed. ‘I wonder what Thomas Becket would have used. The well, I suppose.’
Molly chuckled. ‘Maybe he did. Dad always reckoned he could have slept over in Becket House on his way to and fro from Otford to Canterbury.’
‘Not this one though.’
‘No, but there was a house on this site long before that, just as there was at Chillingham Place.’
‘Your brother told me you had some of the old stones at the back of the house and they could have come from the St Thomas chapel.’
‘That’s right,’ Molly said. ‘Dad used to feel very personal about them. There was a ruined outhouse he restored and called Becket’s Shrine. We kids weren’t so reverent. To us it was the Poo-house, till Dad found us mucking around in it one day and walloped us.’
