Murder on the Old Road

by Amy Myers

  Julian’s apartment was at the other end of the building from Jessica’s, and fortunately, as there was no lift, it had a downstairs room, which looked as if it served both as reception room and study. Georgia noticed there was no sign of Aletta, who had probably stayed in Canterbury. Aletta, like T.S. Eliot’s Mystery Cat Macavity, ‘wasn’t there’ whenever there was trouble around. The power, in her case, stayed behind the throne.

  ‘Good to see you. How can I help?’ Julian asked heartily. He seemed to have recovered from his reluctance to see them – probably because, Georgia thought, of their genuine praise of the play and his performance. His tall and well-built figure seemed to dominate the room physically and mentally, a role he was obviously used to. ‘My father’s death again. That it?’ he continued.

  ‘It is,’ Peter agreed.

  ‘Not sure I can help, but try me.’

  Peter did. ‘As head of the Wayncrofts, you’re still a power in this village, aren’t you? Unspoken now, but generally the case.’

  Julian looked taken aback. ‘I’m honoured you should think so, and there’s some truth in what you say. What bearing does that have on my father’s death?’

  ‘The path to solving it, perhaps. The link with Anne Fanshawe’s death.’

  ‘There is no link.’ Julian’s voice grew icier.

  ‘I would say there is – the link is the Wayncroft heritage.’

  Julian gave a theatrical heavy sigh. ‘Not again. I’ve been through that with you, Georgia. Look, no one knows why my father was killed, and it’s a rash assumption that because he refused to open the Becket ruins to the public, that is the reason he was murdered. It could have played a part, but that’s as far as I or anyone else can go. There were other reasons – personal motives – that have to be taken into account. Because of the strong feelings over the ruins, the personal side gets overlooked.’

  ‘And what was it?’

  ‘Having grown up with the situation, it’s always been my opinion that pure hatred was the reason for my father’s death, with personal gain as an added incentive. One does not wish to speak ill of the dead, and so I will not name—’

  ‘Fred Miller?’ Peter suggested, to draw him out.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it was Clive Moon.’

  ‘Yes,’ Julian unwillingly admitted.

  ‘Do you have evidence, or is it only your opinion?’

  ‘He was the obvious candidate. He was a bad-tempered sullen man when I knew him, and I can’t imagine he was much different at the time of my father’s death. He certainly loathed him.’

  ‘And he led the protest march, I understand.’

  ‘In my opinion that’s why he did it. He wasn’t the sort of man to get worked up about the future of the village, especially as his trade would not be affected. But the chance of revenge on Hugh Wayncroft would be irresistible.’

  ‘But why then and in such a public place?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘There had been an incident the night before at the after-show party when Clive perhaps thought he had been publicly humiliated. My mother’s patience snapped, and she poured a glass of wine over Clive’s wife, whom she saw as her rival. Clive would not have taken that in his stride. So that, Peter, Georgia, is my view on my father’s death.’

  ‘Does your mother have the same view?’

  ‘You may ask her, but please do not upset her. She may not talk of it, as I suspect she feels a degree of responsibility because of that incident. But I am as certain as I can be that it was Clive.’

  ‘But partly linked to the heritage question, as you said.’

  A fractional pause before Julian’s reply. ‘If I said that, I was wrong.’

  Retreat was good, thought Georgia. It meant Peter could make the running.

  ‘Can you talk about it openly?’ Peter asked innocently. ‘Or is it forbidden territory for non family members?’

  This caught Julian on the raw. ‘Yes – no. Yes. It’s the eldest son’s responsibility, and no one else’s concern. I can only refer to it in the most general terms.’

  ‘Responsibility towards whom or what? The Becket ruins?’

  Julian seemed reasonably happy with this question. ‘Yes, but in my case the situation was different. I was under two years old when my father died, and so my uncle resumed the responsibility until I was twenty-one.’

  ‘And then he coached you?’

  ‘Yes. Nowadays the heir knows in general terms what’s involved, but when he inherits there may be specific instructions. In this case, came the shock that he’d left the ruins to Anne.’

  ‘Without any intimation that they might one day return to you?’

  ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘And before you condemn me for supporting their development, I would point out that it is the only way of preserving them for the nation. And preserving Chillingham Place.’

  Julian was in full lord of the manor flow, but too late he must have seen the pitfall ahead. ‘And if you think this provides your link to Anne’s death, you are mistaken, and furthermore my father’s death is an entirely different situation.’

  ‘In what way? The trouble is,’ Georgia put in earnestly, ‘there’s a flaw in what you’re saying. The heritage, as you describe it, is fairly straightforward, but the legalities surrounding it seem to imply a much more formal obligation.’

  Julian managed a laugh. ‘Believe me, Georgia, I’d like nothing better than to be able to tell you of priceless relics handed down in secrecy to the Wayncroft heir. Perhaps you’d like me to produce a golden chalice with St Thomas’s DNA on it? Alas, I fear not.’

  ‘I was thinking of something just as valuable,’Georgia said.

  A raised eyebrow. ‘And that would be . . .?’

  ‘Becket’s bones.’

  That laugh again. ‘The old chestnut. I told you my uncle believed the bones might be here, but he told me that with a pinch of salt.’

  ‘Your half-brother seems more committed.’

  A frown. ‘Val? What do you mean?’

  Georgia decided to forget Jessica’s request for silence. ‘I met him at the Becket ruins late on Sunday night.’

  Julian looked astounded. ‘What the hell was he doing there? What were you doing there, come to that?’

  ‘I saw a light flickering and went out to investigate.’

  ‘And you assume he was looking for Becket’s bones? Did he say so?’ Julian asked sharply.

  ‘No, but it’s possible. Finding them would be a linchpin for your publicity.’

  Surprisingly, Julian did not shout her down. ‘I’ll ask him about it. Anyway, they’d be impossible to authenticate.’

  ‘Like the remains of the wooden St Thomas figure I believe you have,’ Peter said.

  Julian stiffened. ‘You’re well informed on our affairs. They, too, I agree, are impossible to authenticate, but the wood is thirteenth or fourteenth century.’

  ‘Have you ever had them looked at by the Church or British Museum?’

  ‘No.’ Julian was definitely holding back now, although he was not, Georgia thought, hostile.

  ‘Could we see them?’ Peter asked.

  That produced a stronger reaction. ‘No. They’re with the heritage papers.’

  A split second silence before Peter gently enquired, ‘And they are?’

  ‘Not for outsiders,’ Julian blustered.

  ‘Even if they hold the clue to your father’s death?’

  ‘They don’t.’

  ‘They might.’

  A hesitation now. ‘My father died over forty years ago. Let it rest.’

  ‘It’s rested long enough. And Anne Fanshawe died possibly as a result.’

  ‘Keep her out of it.’

  ‘The police won’t,’ Peter countered. Will was pitted against will now, and Georgia would not intervene.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ Julian asked, almost wearily.

  ‘No. Telling you that there really could be a link.’

  ‘I will therefore tell you that I believ
e Clive Moon killed my father. I admit, however, that although personal motives were behind it, the Becket development might also have played a part. And for that I do have evidence.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Peter said simply. ‘Can we see it?’

  Julian wavered. ‘I can’t bring it down here . . .’ He looked at the wheelchair.

  ‘That’s OK. I’m used to that. You go, Georgia,’ Peter said. Thus boxed into a corner, Julian surrendered, and Georgia followed him upstairs to his living room. Peter was well used to such frustrations, but nevertheless Georgia felt for him as she saw his downcast face as they left.

  Julian led her across the room to a small door at one end, so well disguised that she had not spotted it.

  ‘It once served as a small chapel and priest’s hole combined when religious times were tough,’ Julian explained stiltedly. She could see that he was an unwilling guide. ‘We Wayncrofts are good at surviving. We got through the Reformation and the Civil War. We lost the baronetcy, but kept our heads. The last baronet was Sir Bevis, in the mid seventeenth century. He began to get cold feet about where the family might be heading, so he decided to record the traditions, just in case the eldest son ended up on the chopping block. It was just as well because he was murdered by his younger brother. My father and Robert got on rather better, thankfully.’

  The room was about ten feet square, and Georgia looked around it in fascination. Chapel it might once have been, but now it was a glory-hole of books, papers, and more paintings – a Wayncroft treasure house. Julian marched over to a bookshelf on which stood a large wooden box, which he brought over to a small table. He opened it to reveal what looked little more than a collection of small branches and pieces of bark at first glance. Then she noticed the woodworm holes as she picked out a piece that could have been a thumb and part of a forefinger, then another that could be part of a long robe.

  ‘Do you think these are genuine?’ she asked.

  Julian hesitated, but must have decided he had nothing to lose. ‘The wood is. But they were Clive Moon’s work. Evidence, Georgia, the evidence you wanted. When we begin our development it won’t include these. Far too risky nowadays. My mother admitted they were fakes when I was grown up enough to hear the truth. Clive Moon was a brilliant carpenter, and he concocted these out of authentic wood, not hard to get in a village of this age. They were all part of the earlier development plans, but after my father’s death and my uncle’s stance on the ruins, they were locked away. Now can you believe how eager Clive was for personal revenge?’

  ‘Did you ever talk to him in later years about these fakes?’

  ‘I did. He told me with great pride that he’d used no tools that weren’t authentic to the period. The only modern addition was pesticides for the wormholes. When I told my unscrupulous brother that these were fakes, however, he suggested we ask Matthew Moon to produce a declared modern replica of what the figure would have been like.’

  ‘Hold on. There was no such figure, was there?’

  ‘No. It would be a replica of a fake idea, and therefore I have vetoed the suggestion. The ruins have plenty to say of their own, without resorting to such means.’

  ‘And the bones? He doesn’t want to fake them too, does he?’

  ‘No. They will be declared as legend – unless, of course, they really do turn up,’ Julian replied.

  ‘I take it there’s no mention of them in the Wayncroft papers?’

  She had thought this would receive a prompt and dismissive reply, but to her surprise Julian beckoned her over to a modern desk in one corner. He pulled open a drawer and withdrew a box file, inside which was a small pile of paper sheets. ‘One of my ancestors fortunately made transcripts of the papers, and the originals have now vanished. The transcripts themselves are locked away; these are photocopies taken ten years or so ago.’

  ‘Could we take these down to show Peter?’ she asked.

  ‘No. They stay in this room.’

  Co-operation was only going so far then. Julian was adamant, and there would be no point arguing about it. There were about ten sheets covered in copperplate handwriting, and with Julian breathing down her neck all she could glean was that they seemed to go on ad nauseam about the duty to protect and preserve the saint’s memory, relics and buildings. There was nothing, as Julian had said, about his bones, unless they were included under ‘relics’. Again, she could not see that, even if the bones were unearthed, it could help Marsh & Daughter’s work. The last page ended up with: ‘Your heritage is wisdom. Guard it and honour it until the true faith is restored and St Thomas returns to claim his own.’

  A clarion call to the Wayncrofts, but she was no further forward.

  ‘Pray tell me everything, daughter mine,’ Peter said as soon as they were back in the car. ‘Spare not a single word.’

  ‘Clive Moon faked the medieval St Thomas figure remains. He admitted it to Julian himself, and I can’t see any reason that Julian would be lying about it.’

  ‘Which backs up Julian’s theory about Moon killing Hugh Wayncroft, but doesn’t prove it to the slightest extent.’

  ‘It does hang together as a story.’

  ‘Doesn’t it just. Almost too well. He was very anxious to dwell on Hugh’s death, not Anne’s, wasn’t he?’

  ‘We let him,’ she said in Julian’s defence. ‘We could have pressed him harder.’

  ‘We could, though we would have got precious little out of him in my view. Did you see those heritage papers?’ he asked, turning left out of the drive. ‘Lunch, I think. The Three Peacocks. You do have something more to tell me, I trust?’

  ‘Not much.’ As he pulled into the car park, she described as fully as she could what she had read.

  ‘Wisdom,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Presumably wisdom in dealing with the ruins and/or simmering threats to the Wayncrofts practising their faith. As regards the ruins, that wording might give them licence to restore and develop them of course, so why, I wonder, did Robert and Hugh so adamantly interpret it as leaving the ruins as they were?’

  ‘Because of the bones?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘That surely implies that the clue to where the bones are would be in the recorded traditions somewhere.’

  ‘There didn’t seem to be.’

  ‘Leaving it to the heir to interpret as he will. The primal curse.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘In this case, the curse of being the eldest son.’

  ‘Relevance?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s always the primal curse of the murder of Abel by Cain in Genesis. Murder of the younger brother.’

  ‘If you’re thinking Robert killed Hugh, no way,’ she replied. ‘He was abroad.’

  ‘There’s our two half brothers, Val and Julian,’ he ruminated. ‘No love lost there.’

  ‘Julian was in the dark over Val’s excursion to the ruins on Sunday. He wasn’t pleased.’

  ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ Peter quoted with relish. ‘Sibling rivalry breaks out no matter what Wisdom says.’

  ‘Irrelevant, however, for Hugh Wayncroft’s murder, and that’s our focus.’

  ‘As Julian is all too eager to make clear.’

  ‘Could I remind you that all the Wayncroft family have an alibi for Anne’s murder? They’re known to have been in the pub long enough for Anne to reach the farmhouse.’

  ‘Unless, of course,’ Peter said, ‘she came back to the pub. Let’s go in and eat.’

  ‘Been to Chillingham Place, I heard,’ Lisa greeted them as she brought the menu over.

  ‘News travels fast.’ Georgia laughed, hoping the news did not include the discussion of Clive Moon.

  ‘Vic’s a speedy worker,’ Lisa agreed. ‘Went to see Mrs Jessica and heard you were with Mr Julian. He remembers the upset in sixty-seven, especially where Mrs Wayncroft was concerned. She was beside herself, he said. Natural enough because of Hugh’s death – and what it meant.’ Lisa grinned. ‘The estate going back to Mr Robert. Couldn’t have expected that,
could she, him being the younger brother? Now, what can I get you?’

  She busied herself with writing down their order, but Georgia could see there was something else on her mind.

  ‘Anyway,’ Lisa added, ‘Vic says if you give him a knock, he’ll take you into the church. That’ll be a start. Takes his time coming round, does Vic.’

  ‘And what’s this in aid of?’ Peter asked blankly when Lisa had gone, having said she knew no more than they did what Vic meant. ‘Anything you remember in particular about the church?’

  ‘Only the Wayncroft memorial chapel.’

  ‘Well, we’ll find out in due course. In the meantime . . .’

  ‘So you’ve come then.’ Vic nodded. ‘Thought you would. I’ll just get my pipe and I’ll be with you.’

  What was so special about St Thomas’s that she hadn’t noticed before? Georgia wondered as Vic helped Peter steer his wheelchair down the ramp. It felt wrong to be coming into this church with its vicar so recently and horribly dead. Whatever secrets the church held, however, Anne could well have known about. One she shared with Robert Wayncroft? Whatever it was, it wasn’t in the chapel, because Vic was leading the way to the far aisle. He stopped in front of a brass plaque, one of the world war memorials.

  Looking at it more closely than she had on her first visit, Georgia realized that it was unusual, in that it was dedicated specifically to the memory of those who died in the air raid on Canterbury, on the second of June, 1942. A list of names followed, the last two separated by a scroll ornament. These two were servicemen, the others civilians. At the foot of the memorial was inscribed the legend: ‘The price of wisdom’. Wisdom again – a coincidence? She could not understand the context it was used in here, however. A terrible raid the price of wisdom? Did that make sense? She asked Vic, but he just shook his head.

  Peter had his own questions. ‘Why just that raid?’ he asked Vic. ‘There was a second one two days later and another one after that. Not so heavy, it’s true, but nevertheless people died.’

  It was Georgia who replied, however, not Vic. ‘Perhaps it was because Robert Wayncroft was caught in this one,’ Georgia said. ‘Did he erect it? And your father was caught in the raid too, wasn’t he, Vic?’