Murder on the Old Road

by Amy Myers

  ‘But—’ She was instantly springing to the defence of her own interpretation and took a deep breath. ‘A long shot, Peter. All sorts of questions. It’s a big jump from our guess to assuming that Julian has this jewel—’

  ‘Or Val, according to what you told me. They each assume the other has it.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No, but I really smell rubies. That does make sense. Think of all that lovely money Val could make just for himself if he had it, without Julian having any legal claim on it. And Julian the same.’

  ‘It’s too way out.’

  ‘Is it? Val married into the Bonneur family. There would be a big market for the jewel in France if he has it, together with provenance for it. It would have not only the value of the jewel itself, but also the accompanying prestige of France having regained its own. Val needs money for himself, not for the Chillingham estate.’

  ‘I accept that, but Val denies his wife was part of the family.’

  ‘He would, wouldn’t he?’ Peter said reasonably. ‘And remember a Bonneur came over in the 1980s to hunt for an ancestor. He might also have been looking for the jewel.’

  ‘So what’s your thesis?’ Georgia was slowly beginning to think Peter could be on the right track.

  ‘More of a hypothesis than a thesis. A thesis suggests evidence, and ours is heavily circumstantial. The Regale seems to have disappeared from the public record after the reign of Queen Mary, and it is presumed to have been sold amongst other crown jewels when the monarchy was hard up in the seventeenth century. Queen Mary was a Catholic, believing devoutly in the need to restore the Roman Catholic faith to England, together with St Thomas and all his brother and sister saints. Now if you had a big jewel like that, which had been stolen from a saint’s shrine, might you not want to bequeath it back to its home?’

  ‘Yes, but I’d send it straight back to Canterbury Cathedral.’

  ‘Mary wouldn’t. She would have been all too well aware that Elizabeth would succeed her and not turn the country back towards Rome. If Mary sent it to Canterbury, Elizabeth might well pinch it back again. Where, therefore, would Mary send it?’

  ‘To France? That was still Catholic enough, and it was the Regale’s original home.’

  ‘Perhaps. But the Bonneur family thinks it’s here with the Wayncrofts. Let us theorize that, in the mid twentieth century, Christophe heard a rumour of its survival and whereabouts and tried to claim it or steal it, according to your point of view. He was killed in an air raid and no more was heard of him. Forty years later his son or nephew came over to check this out and was told about the war memorial in Chillingham church. Robert Wayncroft was away, and whom else he met apart from Jeannie Miller is unknown, but Val comes to mind. Christophe and Jeannie are no longer alive. Natural causes, I’m sure.’

  ‘If you’re right, Peter, where is the Regale now? Either Julian or Val is lying – or both, in which case it’s still hidden. And it’s not in the Shrine, even if it ever was.’

  ‘It should have gone to the heir after Robert’s death. I doubt very much if he would have given that to Anne for safe keeping. But it doesn’t seem to have done so. Hence Julian’s fury yesterday evening. In his view the Regale is his heritage, and not to be sold by Val to the highest bidder.’

  FIFTEEN

  Canterbury had always been a gathering point, the end of the quest; once for pilgrims, now tourists. Just as the pilgrims before her, Georgia walked through Westgate towards the cathedral, in pilgrim times the abbey church of the Augustinian monks. There had been many changes to the building they knew, through fire and reconstruction, and today’s cathedral was vastly different to the one St Thomas had known. There were still guided tours around the cathedral, however, even though tourists no longer had to kneel at the appointed stations on their way to the shrine, each stop heightening expectation of the final ‘show’, the shrine revealed in all its glory.

  Including the Regale.

  Georgia was still unsure about Peter’s theory, tempting though it was. It hit most of the right buttons, and yet not quite all. The religious war between the Roman Catholic and Anglican church had passed with the advent of freedom of worship, so the Wayncrofts’ duty would be to hand it back, not keep the jewel for ‘protection’.

  As she turned into Mercery Lane she could see the group waiting outside the gatehouse into the cathedral complex. Some were sitting, some standing, but most preparing to leave, removing sweaters and putting on backpacks. The weather couldn’t be helping the general mood, she thought. Hazy sun might seem ideal for walking, but today it felt oppressive, hindering not helping. As she approached, with retreat impossible, her stomach knotted up with more tension than the hurried cheese sandwich that she’d had for lunch would have generated. Val was clearly in charge here, but unsurprisingly seemed to be having difficulty in assuming his usual leadership role.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tim,’ she said as he came over to greet her. ‘How’s Julian?’

  ‘I’m told he’s pulling round,’ he said, ‘but not yet out of the woods.’

  That reminded her unpleasantly of Peacock Wood, which she would have to walk past this afternoon. Some triumphal return home this would be.

  Val turned round to add, ‘There’s a couple of nice policemen guarding him, so that might be holding his progress back.’ He must have seen her expression because he continued, ‘Sorry. Not quite myself.’

  ‘Understandable,’ she said, forcing herself to be ‘normal’. ‘How’s your mother coping?’

  ‘Not well. She insisted on staying at the hospital with Aletta and Seb, but the shock’s beginning to tell. Excuse me,’ he said pointedly, ‘I should do my bit now, and then we can leave.’

  His bit? Georgia realized he must mean an announcement, although she would have thought that would be Tim’s job. From the look of it, however, Tim had no problem in Val taking over from him, and called for silence. ‘I’m sure I’m speaking for my brother and mother,’ Val began, ‘when I say that today isn’t the last lap. It’s the first step to a new era for Chillingham, and if my brother were here he would be the first to say so.’

  He received a dutiful but lacklustre reception, which he deserved, Georgia thought, considering he knew well that this group held many who did not support his plans for the village. It was a bad mistake, in her view, to move straight into the assumption that the plans were going ahead, especially with his brother so ill.

  ‘Turning our back on St Thomas,’ Matthew said firmly as they moved off, but his words were picked up by Val.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he declared. ‘The very opposite. He’s given us his blessing to put him on the map.’

  ‘Looking at this place,’ a wit grunted, ‘he’s already there.’

  Val ignored him, this time with a certain dignity. ‘I suggest we begin our march today with a short silence praying for my brother’s recovery.’

  It did seem to have some effect, for the group seemed to pick up spirit as it moved into St Peter’s Street to walk out through Westgate. Even by the time they crossed the river, Georgia was wishing she’d worn shorts, rather than trousers, and her backpack began to feel sticky. She dashed into a shop to buy a bottle of water, and when she came out she was surprised to see Aletta hurrying towards them from the station car park, with Seb loping along in front of her.

  ‘Good. We thought we’d missed you,’ Aletta said.

  ‘How’s Julian?’ Georgia asked.

  Aletta looked shattered, unlike her usual self. ‘They think he’ll be OK. He’s awake anyway, and he wanted Seb and me to come. He said it was important,’ she added. ‘There had to be an end. I don’t know what he means, do you, Georgia?’

  Aletta seemed to be appealing to her for help, and Georgia was taken aback. She did her best, however. ‘Just the pilgrimage, I expect.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Aletta said gravely.

  As they walked along the old Watling Street and up towards the downs, Georgia began to feel better, either b
ecause she was out in the open or perhaps because of the pull of the Old Road. Her companions, too, were chatting more freely now, as though everyone had broken out of some kind of chains, at least temporarily. Nevertheless, she was not looking forward to the rest of this stretch of the Road. Tim told her that Simon had driven back to Chillingham, rather than walk with them, so that he could help Lisa prepare for the ‘celebration’ this evening – although that was hardly the right word in the circumstances. She was relieved that Peter and Luke would be at the pub this evening. It was something to cling to, once she had faced the ordeal of passing the spot where Hugh Wayncroft had died. She knew from experience, however, that there must be a good reason for Peter being so insistent on her coming.

  ‘Bigbury, folks, said to be Julius Caesar’s camp,’ Val called out as they entered the first woodland stretch of the walk. On the way to Canterbury, the group had been in too much of a hurry to stop here, but now Val seemed determined to assert his leadership. ‘Plans are afoot to make more of it; not much to see now.’ A footpath led up from the Old Road track to the camp itself, and from the highest point there was a steep drop down to the valley below, where the sight of Canterbury ahead would have greeted the eyes of pilgrims. Today, the camp itself looked only a bed of leaf mould, although its shape among the trees suggested something of importance might have happened here.

  She could hear the rooks in the trees, much as Hugh Wayncroft must have done. Much as Julius Caesar must have done when he arrived in this alien land with his legionnaires, intent on conquering this wayward island. Not knowing what lay ahead of him, this must have seemed the perfect stop. The river ran along the valley beneath, and there would be a clear view of any imminent attack. Legend had it that the Romans fought at Chilham, a few miles further on, before turning back. What made Caesar decide on retreat? Defeat by the natives? A message from home? She thought fancifully that Bigbury could have been a turning point for Julius Caesar, as it was in a way for Marsh & Daughter. She and Peter, like Caesar, were inching along the Old Road towards a goal, but how it was to be achieved was still a mystery.

  Rubbish, she told herself, although not totally convinced it was. This track had a way of bringing about solutions, no matter whether it was Caesar’s troops involved, pilgrimages to St Thomas or a case for Marsh & Daughter.

  Georgia told herself this was the twenty-first century. Problems were solved by people, not by ancient roads. Problems such as whether it was in her stars to have a child, or how Peter was ever to live with himself if he could not accept that Rick was dead – or problems such as who killed Hugh Wayncroft. Nevertheless, out here on the Old Road it was easier to understand what had brought people to St Thomas’s healing well in earlier times. They’d had physical or mental problems, and in such a place of peace and quiet it would have been easy to think that the saint himself had guided them there, that he had appeared in person to them and that the water had blessed them with a cure.

  Almost reluctantly, Georgia turned away from Bigbury Camp to rejoin the track. The group had moved on, and she had to hurry to catch it up. Tim was walking at the end of the group, alone, and still looking despondent.

  ‘What’s wrong, Tim?’

  He just shrugged, and so she tried again. ‘You had a success this week, and none of the horrors you’ve been through can affect that.’

  ‘Can’t they? I’m not so sure, Georgia. It all seemed plain sailing. We have a good reception for the play, we go back home, celebrate it, then get together to plan the next stage and how it’s to be financed. Val was talking about setting up a trust, which seems a good idea. The path ahead looked paved with gold – yesterday. Today – I just feel there’s too much fighting against us. Julian’s accident – if it was – is the last straw. Why’s it all happening?’

  ‘It’s old Tom’s fault.’ Seb, walking in front with Aletta and Val, turned round to grin at them.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Seb,’ Aletta said wearily.

  ‘I’m not, Mum.’ Seb looked affronted. ‘Dad was murmuring about it while he was only half awake.’

  ‘Murmuring about what?’ Aletta asked sharply.

  ‘Well, Becket, and stuff. And something about a ruby.’

  Georgia froze. Peter’s theory could be right. She waited on tenterhooks to hear Val and Aletta’s reactions, and she saw Seb’s expression change to realization that something was wrong. Aletta’s face, however, registered nothing but polite interest, and Val remained silent. Nevertheless, Seb’s flippant side had vanished, and Georgia could see the Wayncroft in him now.

  ‘Dad told me about that old ruby a week or two back. Is that the reason he’s in hospital?’ he threw at Val. ‘He said you’d got it.’

  Val retained his control remarkably well. ‘Julian had an accident,’ he said gently, ‘so don’t let’s make it worse. The ruby’s not important, whatever it is.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Aletta asked woodenly.

  ‘Aletta darling,’ Val said sadly, ‘it’s Wayncroft business. I only know about it because Robert told me.’

  Georgia found that hard to believe.

  ‘Julian overheard a private conversation between my mother and myself,’ Val continued. ‘But don’t upset yourself, please, Seb. Julian doesn’t have the ruby, and I don’t either.’

  Seb stared at him in contempt. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘If I’d inherited it,’ Val retorted, ‘it would no longer be in my possession. It belongs in France, and I would, unlike the Wayncrofts, have delivered it to its rightful owners.’ He tried a laugh. ‘Believe me, I’d have been out of here and living in the lap of luxury again, instead of facing the prospect of having to work for my living in St Thomas’s cause, noble though that is, and willing though I am. As you see, however, I’m still here.’ He sounded bitter. ‘You may, therefore, all assume that I don’t have the Regale.’

  The heat and tension began to mount, and Georgia stopped to take a drink from her bottle of water. The path was running through a public orchard now and would soon lead the pilgrims down to the village of Chartham Hatch. The pilgrims of the past must have looked forward to convivial drinks of ale in the local taverns, but convivial was the last thing Georgia felt today. Let this ordeal be over soon, she prayed.

  In the pubs they went by, people still seemed to be enjoying the aftermath of Sunday lunch, but the Chillingham group was marched relentlessly past on its way to rejoin the Old Road track that would take them on to Chillingham. Georgia felt a terrible sense of inevitability now that she and her fellow travellers had crossed the lane leading down to the Canterbury Road, and thus were committed to going onwards. That meant passing Peacock Wood.

  Val had done a good job in protesting his innocence over the Regale ruby. Did she believe him? Yes, oddly enough, at least as far as the Regale was concerned. The clash between him and Seb did not bode well, however, and she could see a tight-lipped Seb with his arm firmly round Tess and not his mother. Wayncroft he might be, but he had his own mind. As for the celebration that lay ahead, the only thing Georgia wanted to celebrate would be seeing Medlars again.

  And yet Peacock Wood could surely hold no threat for her now . . . or could it? Hugh Wayncroft’s murder was still unsolved, and although she felt she and Peter were inching their way closer, that did not yet mean success. She thought of how this scene would have looked in 1967. A younger Val would have been prancing along; so would Lisa, Jessica, Clive and Fred.

  The Old Road was taking them past farmland and orchards, with views far out over the Weald, and she could see the River Stour snaking its way through the valley to their left. On their right, the appositely named Fright Wood was coming to an end, and then there would be only one stretch of open land before she had to face Peacock Wood. She could almost hear the tramp, tramp, tramp of Caesar’s legionnaires as they marched on Chilham; she could hear the trotting of pilgrims’ horses and the crunch of the rough boots of those who could not afford to ride as they inexorably made their way to an u
nknown fate. There was a sense of ‘what will be, will be’ about the Road, because of its antiquity. Had Hugh Wayncroft felt it as he walked along here in 1967 – that just as nothing could change the Old Road, his job must remain to look after the estate and the St Thomas ruins? And the Regale too? No, he would probably not have had the custody of that. Robert would probably have had it. But what had happened to it when he died? Only Julian could have it, surely.

  Ahead, Georgia could see Tess and Matthew walking together. From behind Tess’s long blonde hair made her look just as her grandmother did forty years back. Lisa Moon had been in front of Clive and Fred, with Jessica leading the column with Val. Today Aletta was there with Tim – or was that Val? Georgia was feeling dizzy with the heat and all too aware that Peacock Wood was coming ever closer. She could no longer think rationally as to which was 1967 and which was today. Ahead of her she could see the front of the column had reached the wood. It was disappearing round the corner, while she herself was at the rear, just as Hugh had been. Hugh, who had had so little time left to live.

  The plan was being drawn up in front of the column for the ceremonial arrival. Now or then? She could hear the lutes and the wooden balls rattling on the staves of the pilgrims. She knew Becket and the King were at the rear, as was she. Jessica had taken the news of the plan down the column right to the very end where Hugh was. She had then returned to the front, so who had come next? Who else brought Hugh news? Either Clive or Fred had killed him, or someone else must have dropped back to speak to him, but who? She could not see the picture in her mind, and her head began to swim again. Nothing had changed here. Just as before she was reaching the spot where Hugh had died.

  She forced herself to halt and walk on to the scrubby ground to the side of the path as it entered the wood. There were bushes there; passers-by could easily not have seen the body. The column was nearly all into the wood now, and so his killer would be alone with Hugh. She began to realize that the dizziness she was experiencing was unlike the ‘fingerprints’ she had endured three weeks ago. Today it was only the heat, surely. Didn’t that mean that the solution to Hugh’s murder was close at hand? She looked up, startled by movement.