by Amy Myers
‘Why would he mind, if it was just an outhouse?’
‘Dad said it was just a ruin when he moved in, but now it was his. It was maybe an outside larder or dairy when this present house was built. Why he bothered to restore it, beats me. Too small to be of much use. He said he’d use it for tools and that, and he did, but we certainly weren’t welcome to play in it.’
‘What’s it used for now?’
‘Nothing. Go and have a look if you like. It’s not locked.’
‘Thanks. Did it have any other connection to Becket?’ A sudden thought. ‘Your father didn’t think Becket’s bones were hidden there, by any chance?’
Any growing excitement was quickly dampened, when Molly replied, ‘Not that I know of. It’s the well and the chapel where they’re hidden, if anywhere. I reckon it’s only a legend though. Nothing to it. Dad liked making legends up about Becket, after having worked so long at the Cathedral, so I suppose he just wanted one or two of his own. He said once that looking up at all that glory in the nave and hearing those bells could drive a man mad if he didn’t tear his eyes and ears away soon enough.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ To Georgia, Molly, like Lisa, seemed a curious mixture of the practical present and the inescapable past.
‘Well, I didn’t think at the time, but afterwards I saw what he meant. It sort of hypnotizes you if you go on staring long enough. You get sucked into it, instead of taking its strength and going out into the world and doing. There’s an atmosphere about this place too – not here in this house, but out by those chapel ruins – that makes you feel the same. They’re just a load of old stones, so most people think, but then they haven’t really looked. It makes you feel weird, thinking of all the pilgrims who tramped up to that well years ago, hoping to get cured of whatever was wrong with them by drinking the holy water and praying in Thomas’s chapel. I’m not a Catholic myself, but I can see what it can do for you. Faith, you see, faith. That’s why I’m against making Chillingham into a real tourist place. Folk would never stop long enough to get the real message. They’ll just look, chatter to their chums, and move on. They’ll look, but they’ll never see.’
Becket House provided only bed and breakfast, and so Georgia made her way to the Three Peacocks that evening for a light meal, still thinking over what Molly had said when she’d echoed Lisa’s words about the ruins. There were deeply held views in Chillingham, and only now did Georgia really feel she was drawing closer to the village. Lisa had been right to suggest she stayed here.
Doubts came back once she entered the pub. Again it was all but empty, and tonight it seemed soulless as well. She saw little of Lisa or of Simon, and Derek Moon was uncommunicative. A waitress Georgia did not recognize brought an admittedly delicious warm salad, but nevertheless she was glad to leave, armed with the large flashlight Molly had lent her, as it was well past ten o’clock. She had chosen to walk not drive, so that she could get some air and enjoy the silence of the countryside (and a glass of wine). The village, shrouded in darkness the further she got from the lamp posts, had an air of unreality – a stillness, as if it were waiting for something or someone.
Fanciful, Georgia told herself firmly, but she quickened her step past the vicarage, now in darkness. As she walked along the lane to Becket House, she thought uneasily of Anne Fanshawe setting off along that country road only to meet her death. There was nothing to be heard tonight – not a night bird, no traffic, nor even the sound of her own footsteps – and she found herself glancing over her shoulder every so often as though the murderers of Thomas Becket were dogging her footsteps. Why think of that? she wondered. She supposed it was because in this place it was all too easy to do so; the centuries had made little difference because basically, when the sun disappeared and night fell, everyone was a lone pilgrim in the dark.
Home, woman, home, she told herself. Even if tonight Becket House had to be home, it was a welcome one, and she reached the still unlocked door with something like relief. Tomorrow she would begin again, tomorrow she would look at the Becket Poo-house, or Shrine as John Painter had termed it, and on Tuesday she would join Luke at the play. She’d be going in the hope that the hunt for Hugh’s murderer might be advanced. How she did not know, but many quests had ended in Canterbury over the centuries, and this might be one of them.
Feeling lost without Luke, she watched the TV news. Missing him was stupid, because she had often spent nights away from Medlars in the course of work, and yet this seemed different. Probably that was because of the momentous joint decision – she still thought of it as joint – hanging over them. To take or not to take the course. That indeed was the question, despite Luke’s claims not to mind.
Her heart sank. Why did she have to start thinking about that, just as she was about to go to bed? Her mind would be whirling all night. Concentrate, think of something else, of the play, of the Wayncrofts, of Thomas Becket. Her mind immediately sprang into life again, and turning the TV off she walked restlessly to the window to look out at Chillingham in the dark. Out there was the Old Road to Canterbury, and on this Sunday evening all was still. Over to her right, she could see the pinpricks of light from the village, but nearer at hand there was nothing but quietness and the sky. No moon, only the dark, dark night.
She was wrong. She could see a pinprick of light, a moving light. It must be a car – no, it wasn’t far enough away to be coming from the road or from the manor house. She felt herself tensing up as she realized it seemed to be by the ruins. Surely she must be wrong. Who would want to look round Becket’s well and chapel at this time of night? They held no attractions either for lovers or homeless wanderers, and it was too far into the fields for someone merely to be taking cover for a call of nature or for a dog-walker to be out. The light was definitely at the ruins, but for what reason? A drugs’ handover venue? Unlikely. There would be many more suitable and accessible places in Chillingham than Becket’s ruins, and Anne would have seen off any attempt for them to make them a regular meeting place.
Georgia looked at her hotel keys, lying on the dressing table, and was tempted. It wouldn’t take long to go over to investigate. Dangerous? Of course it was, but she was cautious and karate-trained. Stupid? Of course it was, but she’d be careful. Even so, when she let herself quietly out of Becket House and walked over to the field, she had qualms. Curiosity was not going to kill this cat, however, and if there was some mystery about those ruins, she needed to know.
Her torch led her stumbling over uneven ground until she found a path in the Becket House garden that led to a gate into the meadow where the ruins lay. The path probably continued as far as Chillingham Place, but halfway across the field it deteriorated, and she began to stumble over tufts of grass. For a moment she thought the light had vanished and its bearer with it, and all seemed silent and dark as she approached the well.
Then there was noise shattering the quiet, an exclamation and the light appeared again wavering up and down. ‘Who’s there?’ The voice was male, sharp and nervous, as Georgia herself was. It was a voice she knew, but couldn’t place because of the fright it had given her.
‘Georgia Marsh,’ she called more steadily than she felt. ‘Who are you?’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ The light came towards her as the voice rang out again, and this time she recognized it.
Valentine Harper’s.
She stood still, waiting for him to reach her.
‘I might ask the same of you.’ She sounded so cool that she amazed herself. It was all she could do not to turn and run.
The nearer he loomed towards her, a dark shape behind the torchlight, the more she had difficulty in standing her ground. Half of her wanted to turn and run, the other half told her to face it out. That half won, but only just.
‘I saw the light from my bedroom window and thought it might be vandals,’ she said.
‘Well, it’s not. It’s me. And these grounds belong to my half-brother.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Don’t quibble. They will be soon. So now if you’re satisfied that I’m not here to steal the crown jewels, perhaps you’ll leave.’ Val sounded almost as rattled as she was, and that gave her confidence.
‘What are you here for?’
‘I could explain, but I don’t see why I should.’ His voice was mild, but it held a note of threat that did not escape her.
‘I’d be interested to know.’
‘I’m sure you would. Would you be satisfied though? Would it be dramatic enough for you? You’re searching for something to pop into that book of yours that we’ll never let be written, but I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I can’t produce anything exciting. The reason I’m here is sheer self-interest; the ruins will soon be mine – or –’ he caught himself – ‘Julian’s, which amounts to the same thing where our plans are concerned. I’m already planning and working on ideas – I have to – but I couldn’t envisage the ruins clearly enough for my satisfaction. Poor Anne was not overgenerous in allowing access to them, and it was some years since I had seen them close up. Except, of course, when Stella kindly brought us here yesterday, but I could hardly indulge my curiosity too far then. It would not have been seemly. And if you ask why I choose dead of night to come here – well, to come during daylight would hardly be seemly either.’
‘That’s reasonable,’ Georgia conceded.
‘Good.’
Was there sarcasm in his voice? Had there been in hers? She didn’t care, because she did not believe a word of what he’d said, and so retreat was her only and best course now. She bade him goodnight and strolled – she longed to run – back the way she had come. She imagined his eyes on her every moment as she did so, prickles at the back of her neck mounting. Had Anne had the same sensation? And with the same man? Her murderer?
As if reading her thoughts, she heard Val hurrying after her. She could even hear his deep breathing in the night air. Run or stand? She’d never outrun him, much better to face him. She stopped, and he walked round her, placing himself in front, barring her way.
‘Oh Georgia,’ he purred, ‘just in case you are considering a high-profile role for me in your book, I should point out that whoever killed Anne Fanshawe, it could not have been me, or indeed Julian. We had no idea that Anne was going to leave the ruins to us. And even if I had known Anne’s plans, the inspector in charge of the case –’ heavy emphasis – ‘knows I am, so to speak, out of the running. I, Aletta and Julian remained at the table for a full ten minutes or so after Anne had left – ample time for her to reach home before my murderous self could catch up with her. So very sorry to disappoint you.’
ELEVEN
On Monday morning, after a restless night, Georgia woke up with a sense of doom. Today the dress rehearsal at the Stour Theatre would be taking place and the pilgrims would be dedicating themselves to the play. It couldn’t have helped Tim that the last leg of the pilgrimage must have been completed without Val. By daylight his mission to the ruins last night seemed even more curious.
Breakfast, she decided, came first, after which her brain might condescend to work properly. When she entered the pleasant breakfast room overlooking the terrace at the rear of the house she seemed to be the only customer, but Molly was bustling about as if the room were full. Despite her frequent visits to Georgia’s table, with orange juice, tea, toast and requests for anything else she might like, there was little opportunity for opening discussions on Chillingham’s problems.
To Georgia’s astonishment, however, as the ‘full English’ was carefully set in front of her, its bearer also planted herself firmly before her. ‘There’s something needs to be said, Georgia, and it’s this. Us Painters and the Wayncrofts go back a long way. So you enjoy your meal, and then you and I can have a talk.’
That suited Georgia admirably, relieved it had proved so straightforward. Molly was as good as her word. Georgia’s empty plate was removed (it would not have been diplomatic to leave the mushrooms untouched, although she heartily disliked them), the teacup was replenished and Molly sat down opposite her.
‘Are you including Jessica as a Wayncroft?’ Georgia asked lightly.
‘Take one, you take them all,’ Molly replied enigmatically. ‘And if you’re wondering why she comes a-visiting here, she told you right. She came to talk to Vic. He does odd jobs for her now and then, but he’s been busy here this summer. Ain’t been up to see her like he said he would, so the mountain popped down to see Mahomet. Only he wasn’t here.’
Not totally convincing, Georgia thought. Jessica could have used the telephone to summon Vic.
Molly might have realized that doubt was lingering, however, because she added, ‘Got a real interest in local history, has Mrs Wayncroft. She likes talking to Vic about the old days, and listening to his stories.’
This was news to Georgia. She’d had it from the horse’s mouth that Jessica couldn’t stand history, at least not Wayncroft history. ‘About the Becket ruins?’
‘Anything to do with St Thomas. Even had a look at the old Poo-House the other day. She brought Mr Val too. He had a good nose round.’
Did he, indeed? All the more reason, Georgia thought, for her to look at it herself as speedily as possible.
‘Anyway, what I wanted to tell you about,’ Molly continued firmly, ‘is this. It’s about Mr Robert. Dad worked for the Wayncrofts for twenty-five years: for Mr Robert, then Mr Hugh, then Mr Robert again.’
Georgia was fully alert now. ‘What sort of person was he?’ She’d heard his name often enough, but not much about the man himself.
‘A hothead when he was younger, so Dad had heard. When he went into the army for the war, he was as full of himself as young Sebastian is now. Dad started working for him right after the war, but the war had changed a lot of people, and Mr Robert was one of them. His father had died way back, and his grandad, Mr Alfred, was running Chillingham when war broke out. Then he died in ’forty-two and Mr Robert – lieutenant he was then – came back to Chillingham on compassionate leave. Whether it was that, or the war itself, he became broody and preoccupied. He was out at Dunkirk, then later got posted to the Desert, then Italy, then Germany. Won himself a DSO, he did. He never did settle down here again after the war. Came back regular to see his Mum, while she was alive, but Mr Hugh managed the estate until Mr Robert handed it over to him. All Dad would say was that it was his belief something happened to him during the war that changed him, and I reckon Dad knew what that was. He never told us though. He’d stayed close to Mr Robert though, especially when Dad knew he hadn’t got long to go. Very set he got on that towards the end. “I got to,” he said to me. “It’s only right. It’s his.”’
‘What was?’ Georgia was on tenterhooks. Could this be the key to the whereabouts of St Thomas’s bones?
‘He never said, but one day I remember Dad was near to tears. “What’s wrong, Dad?” I said. “Wrong?” he asked. “Murder’s wrong, that’s what.”’
‘Whose murder?’ Georgia asked sharply.
Molly sighed. ‘Again, he never said. Dad was like that. But he and Mr Robert got even closer, if that were possible, and Dad seemed happy enough. One of the last things he said to me was, “You go on looking out for the Wayncrofts, Molly girl. They’re good people at heart. It’s just the heritage. They can’t escape it. I did wrong, but it’s been put right now, so don’t you worry.” Now, Georgia m’dear.’ Molly grew brisk. ‘I’ve been telling you this in case you can make head or tail of it. I can’t. I’m taking a risk, speaking out, but we can’t have no more murders.’
‘You mean that Anne Fanshawe might have known what your father meant?’
‘If anyone did, I reckon it was her.’
The Becket Shrine, which John Painter had taken so much time in restoring, was not as Georgia had imagined it. She had followed Molly’s directions and gone out through the French windows to the terrace, in front of which was a sizeable garden, chiefly given to trees, bushes and grass. On the right she could see the pa
th she had taken last night, but that had led her only along one side of the garden. Becket’s Shrine was to her left, however, where there was a row of separate self-contained accommodation apartments, converted from the old stables, and one or two modern outbuildings. The Shrine looked so insignificant that she passed it by at first, but eventually found it tucked back between the main house and the stable rooms.
It was hardly in the ancient monument league. It was about six foot square, with a modern door and tiled roof. Molly had told her that the door was unlocked, and at first Georgia could see only a jumble of tools, which looked as if they had been accumulating since the house was first built. Old hoes, rakes, spades and forks, a pile of seed boxes – garden junk, in other words. The modern garden mower that this garden surely required must be kept somewhere else. Then she saw that the ‘shrine’ must once have served another purpose. Amid the jumble was an old chair, and a small grimy window with an ashtray on its sill suggested a hideaway, rather than an outside toilet.
Could this building be holding Becket’s bones? It would explain Painter’s closeness to Robert Wayncroft, and why Jessica and Val were so interested in it. Excitement began to stir inside her. It was a credible theory, surely? The more natural place for them would have been in the chapel, perhaps in front of the altar, or in the well, but this building was near enough to them to have formed part of the Becket complex. He might even have owned a house of his own on this site, a forerunner of Becket House. Steady, she warned herself. Not too far too quickly.
Without much hope, she peered behind the tools to see if there were loose stones, although other investigative hands would have found anything obvious. The roof? She peered upwards, but there seemed no possible hiding place, and in any case, the roof had been constructed by John Painter.
Only the floor remained as a possibility. It was covered with old lino, but she managed to lift one side of it an inch or so. There seemed to be flagstones underneath it, perhaps to match the terrace, and there was no way she could get any further. Under them, buried deep, might indeed lie the bones of St Thomas, and John Painter, Robert Wayncroft, Jessica and Val might have come to the same conclusion. If so, where did that lead her? Given the remote chance that they were indeed here, what would the result if they were exhumed? Apart from years of discussion by experts on their provenance, and publicity for Chillingham, could they have had any bearing on Hugh’s murder? In 1967, Becket House had still been part of the Wayncrofts’ estate.
