by Amy Myers
She hurried them both out of the assembly room and into the gallery somewhat faster than necessary, it seemed to Georgia. Whatever lay in Tom Musgrave’s bedchamber or the other rooms on this floor they were not to know, for Dora was intent on returning to the ground floor by the wooden staircase, while Gerald escorted Peter back to the lift. This staircase was much wider and more ornate than the kitchen stairs, and at its foot a door led back into the entrance hall of the house. To its left, however, was a room looking on to the street, which was the Clackingtons’ dining room.
‘A private room in Austen’s time,’ Dora explained while they waited for Gerald and Peter to arrive. ‘We believe this is where lady passengers waited for their carriage or post-chaise so that they didn’t have to mix with the hoi polloi.
‘And where,’ she added grandly as Gerald arrived with Peter, ‘Jane and Cassandra were waiting for the Godmersham carriage when Captain William Harker walked into their lives.’
‘Dora!’ Gerald said warningly.
She hesitated. ‘We should really leave it to dear Jennifer to tell you the full story, but I can’t resist—’
‘Dora!’
‘Oh, listen,’ Dora said hurriedly. ‘I think Elena’s ready for us.’
Georgia was both annoyed and irked. She wasn’t deeply into Jane Austen, but if it was going to be relevant to Bob Luckhurst’s death then the sooner she and Peter heard the story the better. Peter was already signalling that he couldn’t see any future in pursuing the subject, and so she followed meekly when Gerald firmly led the way back to the living room.
Wasn’t it suspicious, Georgia thought, that this great love affair had only just come to light? It was true that such treasure troves were still found nowadays, leading to new interpretations. Lost poems, music and plays were found, and unknown paintings by the masters discovered. Meanwhile she realized there was Elena to face. She was waiting for them in the living room and jumped up eagerly when she saw them, coming over to kiss them both.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ Georgia asked, tongue-tied over what to call her. Elena no longer seemed right, and yet any form of Mother wasn’t right either. She’d stick with Elena, she decided.
‘Darling, thank you. A little. And isn’t it impressive?’ she asked. ‘Here I am serving coffee in a room where Jane Austen might have taken tea.’
She and Dora fussed with cups and plates of biscuits while keeping up a determined conversation about the rival merits of Persuasion and Pride and Prejudice. To Georgia’s relief, it was clear that no personal topics need be broached. When she and Peter left, however, Elena followed them out to the car, Georgia presumed to talk about her future life in Kent. Once again she was wrong.
‘I’ve been plucking up the courage to talk to you both,’ Elena began hesitantly, ‘but I can’t wait any longer. I just can’t.’
‘About your moving back to Kent?’ Georgia asked.
‘No, about Rick.’
Georgia felt as if she’d been punched in the face. She could have stood Canterbury coming up for discussion, but this had come out of the blue. So this was what had really been worrying Elena. Of all things to happen, just as she and Peter had come to terms with the fact that there would never be any more information about Rick’s death than they had already unearthed.
‘What about him, Elena?’ Peter asked.
His voice sounded quite normal, although he must have been as jolted by this as Georgia had been.
‘I went to Austria,’ Elena started nervously.
‘As I did. So we both know,’ Peter said, ‘all that’s ever going to be known about his death.’
‘But I heard about one of the survivors from the boat.’
A terrible silence as old wounds began to seep their own kind of poison again. Rick’s story had been finished, laid gently to rest, and now Elena threw this bombshell in their midst, which would stir up once more that insidious feeling that there might be more to know.
‘Is this survivor alive?’ Peter asked evenly.
‘I think so.’
‘Where does he or she live?’
‘He, but I don’t know,’ Elena said helplessly. ‘I can find out. I wasn’t going to speak about it until I found him, but I couldn’t bear it alone.’ She burst into tears. ‘I did right to tell you, didn’t I?’
‘Straight clean bowled,’ Peter said ruefully when they had returned to the office. He hadn’t referred to Elena or to Rick on the journey home, and Georgia wasn’t going to raise the subject. She wondered whether she should do so in case he brooded once he was alone, but she had to struggle to sort out her own feelings first. Elena had put the cat amongst the pigeons, and so all Georgia could do was try to shoo them off. Don’t attack the cat. Shooing away in this case would probably amount to giving Elena her head in trying to track this survivor down, but Georgia vowed to try not to get too emotionally involved. If Elena found this survivor, that would be the time for her and Peter to decide whether they wanted to meet him. If her mother failed, then she did not want to be disappointed.
‘My tactics are to retire from the pitch until summoned to bat again,’ Peter continued, to her relief.
‘Agreed.’
‘And meanwhile a good antidote might be Barbara Hastings, so that we can continue filling in the background to the Luckhurst murder while we’re waiting to talk to the Fettises. So far as we know, Jane Austen’s love life is unlikely to have anything to do with Luckhurst’s death.’
‘I like knowing all the background though, not just parts of it, and Austen is certainly part.’
‘Patience, daughter, patience. Be like me.’
She laughed, as he had meant her to.
Georgia drove to Dunham on Thursday morning, without great expectations of its producing anything other than background colour. Barbara Hastings had been more curious than welcoming on the telephone, which was hardly surprising, Georgia supposed. She must have been shocked by Laura Fettis’s death, as she had worked for her, and it must seem odd to her that Marsh & Daughter were enquiring about events twenty-five years earlier at a time when Laura’s death was on everybody’s mind and lips. She lived on the outskirts of Dunham, in a farmhouse set well back from the road. The house was old and detached, with a former garage-cum-barn which Barbara explained had been converted recently into a dedicated kitchen for professional cooking. Her own kitchen had been large enough for the days she cooked for open days at Stourdens, but now she wanted to expand, and the look she gave Georgia suggested that expansion could well have to do with Stourdens. The kitchen was state of the art, but didn’t look to be greatly used as yet. Barbara did not comment but led her into the garden where coffee and biscuits were duly produced – both excellent, as was the garden itself. When she complimented Barbara on its blaze of colour and thriving looking vegetables Barbara grunted.
‘Got time to do it now the farm’s gone.’
‘Farm?’ Georgia asked.
‘Farmed by my late husband, but when Bill passed on I sold it to Tom Miller, since it was next to his place.’ A pause. ‘You were at the Gala on Saturday,’ she said almost accusingly. ‘I remember you. You had the pork frigasy.’
‘And it was delicious. I came back for tea later.’
Georgia was glad at least that Barbara remembered her for the pork and not for being the woman who had found the body. It had been a mistake to mention ‘later’ though, with its reminder of Laura’s death, but if it struck a wrong note Barbara Hastings showed no signs of resenting it. ‘The frigasy was one of Mrs Raffald’s recipes,’ she told her. ‘Book handed down by my granny. Mrs Fettis was very fond of it.’
‘I’m sorry about her death,’ Georgia replied. ‘You must have known her very well.’
‘Worked for her for ten years or more. Nicer lady you couldn’t hope to find.’
‘And Roy Fettis?’ Georgia hadn’t seen enough of him to get any clear impression.
‘Didn’t deserve her is all I’ll say. But,’ she immediately added, ‘
he’s a lazy lout. Her money, of course. Stourdens belongs to her, not him. He just wants to cash in. I’ve a lot of time for young Jennifer, though.’
‘And Tim Wilson?’
‘I wouldn’t know about him.’
Georgia understood. Barbara did know about him, but end of subject. Did that mean there could be tensions in the Fettis family? If so, the police would presumably be hot on the trail. ‘I haven’t come to talk about Mrs Fettis,’ Georgia said, ‘if only because it must be very painful for you. It’s Robert Luckhurst who interests my father and me.’
‘So you said on the phone. Why’s that?’
‘We write a series of books about forgotten cases of the past. My father used to be in the police force before he was disabled, and the Robert Luckhurst case is one that interests him.’
Barbara said nothing, just waited and watched her.
‘I understand you were working for the Tanners as barmaid at the Edgar Arms at the time of the murder, so I wondered if I could ask you what you remember.’
‘About what?’ was the stony reply. There was distinct hostility now.
Good, Georgia thought. Hostility is a defence, and the need for defence has a cause. ‘Such as whether you think Max Tanner could have been innocent. He accused Tom Miller of being the killer.’
Barbara’s answer was surprisingly sharp. ‘He would. Blame anyone but himself, he would, and poor old Tom was the natural one to pick on. Mind you, Max was not the sort to go and blow a man’s brains out over something that happened twelve month earlier like losing that licence. The trial said that was the reason he killed him. But he was a hothead. Is, rather. He’s still going somewhere, I’m sure of that. A hothead,’ she repeated. ‘If he got an idea into his stupid head, it wouldn’t go.’
‘There was a rumour he was having an affair with Mrs Luckhurst.’
Barbara was eager to answer, and Georgia thought she seemed almost relieved at the question. ‘Maybe that’s right, maybe it’s wrong. I’d no time for the woman myself. She was always nipping in and out. Poor Esther Tanner had a daughter and a baby son to look after, just like me, so I knew what it was like. Max was a womanizer, easy come, easy go, but that Mrs Luckhurst wouldn’t let him go that easily. Had him by the short and curlies.’
‘Did you like Robert Luckhurst?’
‘Nothing to dislike. Mind you, I was only twenty-two so to me he was just the old chap to whom one had to be polite because he owned Stourdens. I preferred him to his wife, but I wouldn’t go out of my way for him.’
‘Did he often come into the pub?’
‘Only when there was one of those car meetings on. He had this old car; Craig – that’s my son – said it was a Lagonda. Mr Luckhurst liked showing it off.’
‘Was he popular with the village?’
‘Not when he got this bee in his bonnet about closing off the farm track. Then the sparks flew, obstinate old devil. Still, he didn’t deserve what happened to him.’
‘Did you believe Tanner was guilty at the time?’
‘He had a fair trial. Seemed he’d done it. Who else could have? That gun was his. He got back while I was still working there. I didn’t see the gun, but it was found afterwards down in the cellars. I was in the pub between twelve and two for opening hours plus an hour or so either side. I’d have seen if anyone had nipped in to pinch it and replace it.’
‘It could have been stolen from the pub the previous day and hidden there before the police came.’
A frosty look and a frosty reply. ‘It could have been, Miss Marsh, but don’t you go saying it was, because I wouldn’t know one way or the other. Max said he didn’t know how it got there.’
‘Did you like him?’
‘A great chap if you kept on his right side; if you didn’t, there was hell to pay, especially if he was drunk.’
‘Barmen don’t usually drink much.’
‘Max didn’t. Not while the pub was open. But afterwards he went at it like a man possessed, effing and blinding about what great things he was going to do with the Edgar Arms. He had ideas above his station, did Max Tanner, and eyes bigger than his bank balance. He was going to convert the old Assembly Rooms for private hire, Jane Austen weekends, posh hotel restaurant and goodness knows what. Looking forward to that, I was, but it never happened. Never had the cash.’
‘Was the drink problem the reason his licence was taken away?’
‘Not really. After-hours drinking got him. He said he’d closed the bar, but someone – he reckoned it was a pal of Mr Robert’s – grassed on him.’
‘What about his family? Did he have children?’
‘A couple, boy and a girl, and Mrs Tanner, she was devoted to him – until they fell out over Amelia Luckhurst. Then the trial came and that was that. Divorce.’
‘Was it Mrs Tanner who was the Jane Austen fan?’
‘No. She went along with it, but it was Max did the running. Doubt if he ever read the novels though. Just saw a path to fame there. Why do you want to know that?’ Barbara looked suspicious.
‘Only because the Clackingtons said they bought the pub for its Austen connections.’
‘Mrs Clackington lives in cloud cuckoo land, unlike Mrs Fancy Herself Luckhurst, who made a pile when she sold Stourdens to the Fettises on the strength of Jane Austen even though the house was falling down.’
‘Are you still in touch with Mrs Luckhurst?’ Georgia asked hopefully.
A snort. ‘What, her? No way.’ A glimmer of humour. ‘I don’t reckon she’d bother to keep up with the likes of a barmaid.’ A pause. ‘But I know where she lives if that’s what you’re after.’
Amelia Luckhurst had agreed to see them on the following Monday, albeit reluctantly. Georgia supposed this was not surprising, as she had remarried and was living in Putney. The past must seem very far behind her.
‘Shall we both go?’ Peter had asked.
‘Yes.’ Amelia was so central to their case that it would be sensible for both to meet her.
As soon as Amelia opened the door, Georgia recognized her, despite the fact that she was now wearing jeans and a shirt-top and not Regency dress. ‘We met,’ she exclaimed. ‘In the food queue at Stourdens.’
‘Did we?’ A split-second pause. ‘Of course. I remember now. Though it’s not the first thing I connect to that day.’
Polite put-down, Georgia thought ruefully. Bob Luckhurst had been a reclusive non-aggressive man who had stepped out of his normal pattern and ruffled feathers. But he’d been murdered, and there was a big gap between the two facts. She wasn’t at all sure that his widow was going to be able to fill it for them. She must, after all, have been a suspect at the time of the murder, even if Mike had not mentioned that to them.
‘I didn’t see your name on the police list of Gala attendees,’ Peter said as she led them round the side of the house into the garden. It was a small modern garden designed to within an inch of its life, as if waiting for the next Sunday magazine to spot it. ‘But then I was looking for Luckhurst on the list, not Collier,’ he added.
‘Why look at all?’ Amelia retorted. Not rudely, Georgia thought, merely cool. This lady would not suffer fools gladly.
‘I thought you might be there because of your former association with Stourdens, and I wanted to meet you both for that reason and because you must have known Laura Fettis,’ Peter replied mildly.
‘I did, if you call selling someone a house a basis for knowing them.’ Then Amelia relented. ‘Forgive me, I’m rather prickly on the subject of Stourdens. I gave in to the temptation to see what was going on at the old place. Too many recollections though. I was pretty shaken by what happened, so I escaped from the horror as soon as I could. That must have been before the police imprisoned everyone in the grounds.’
‘It must have brought back your former husband’s murder,’ Peter said sympathetically.
‘Believe me, it did. That seems foolish since that was a long time ago, and I’ve been married to John for yonks. But I really needed that
quick getaway last Saturday. The last thing I wanted to do was talk again to the police about Bob’s murder, if the subject came up. So if I sound unwelcoming that’s for the same reason. Question though: I can’t see why on earth you want to nose into Bob’s death now.’
‘I don’t want to distress you—’
‘Distress?’ Amelia gave a bark of laughter. ‘I couldn’t stand him by that time. That was why it was such a strain. We’d have divorced if it hadn’t been rendered unnecessary.’
‘We got the impression he was usually a quiet, mild man.’
‘He was. Didn’t stick his neck out anywhere. That was the trouble. Retired early, no pension, but wouldn’t make use of the one asset he had: Stourdens.’
‘Max Tanner always protested his innocence. Rightly, do you think?’ Peter asked – deliberately naively, Georgia suspected.
‘Of course he’d say he didn’t do it,’ she replied briskly. ‘He was a dreamer. He’d do anything to link up with Stourdens and live in the reflected glory of Jane Austen, and being a murderer didn’t fit that image. As far as I recall, Bob found two or three letters concealed in a painting Max owned, and Max got grand ideas about how to use them and how Bob could help. No chance there.’
Letters? Georgia pricked up her ears. Were they part of the Clackingtons’ ‘modest contribution’?
‘So you don’t think there was any doubt that he’d killed your husband?’ Peter asked again.
