Murder in Abbot's Folly

by Amy Myers

  ‘I do not. Guilty as hell. He had threatened Bob on several occasions, but my husband chose to take no notice, and that was the result.’

  ‘Threatened him over what? The licence?’

  ‘Partly. Tanner was an ambitious man and hated playing second fiddle to his wife when she had to take it over. He resented it and blamed Bob. The other reason, as I said, was that Bob was reluctant to let the world know about the Stourdens Austen collection. Max was full of plans to upgrade the Edgar Arms, but they depended on our cooperation. They couldn’t do it alone. Bob wouldn’t budge. I think Max saw a kind of literary trail – lunch at the Edgar Arms, and tour and entertainment of some sort at Stourdens. He became fairly manic about it and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Something must have tipped him over the edge that day. I saw him drive up that morning and fondly hoped that with the other classic car owners about to descend on us, he meant no harm. I was wrong. He knew about the planned protest march and decided to use that as a cover to kill Robert and cast the blame on Tom Miller who was leading the march.’

  ‘What did he hope to achieve by Bob’s death?’

  ‘Knowing Max, I doubt if he thought that far. Or perhaps the idiot thought he could persuade me to help.’

  ‘Were you at the Folly when all this was going on?’

  ‘No way. I stayed with the classic cars and directed the march to the folly to present its petition. I thought that would scotch any plans Max had, but I was wrong.’

  ‘Petition?’

  ‘Yes, signed by virtually the whole of Dunham. It was meant to be a peaceful protest though. I stayed inside the main house seeing to the nibbles and drinks and so on – and if you’re interested –’ she grinned – ‘I stayed there well after twelve fifteen. Bob was killed about twelve thirty, and I couldn’t have sprinted along the path in time. Happy with that?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Peter said, on his best behaviour. ‘Have you seen Tanner since his release?’

  ‘No, and before you ask, I am perfectly well aware of the rumours of an affair between us. I can only say that it was another figment of that man’s overactive imagination. He began the rumours himself. He saw himself as lord of the manor even if it wasn’t true.’

  ‘Were you as devoted to the Jane Austen collection as Bob was?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘No. I indulged him in it though. It seemed a harmless hobby.’

  ‘Yet he never wanted to exploit it, with or without Max Tanner?’

  ‘There you have it. Exploit. Bob liked the thrill of ownership, to know that he alone knew about Jane Austen’s love life. You’ve been told about that, I’m sure.’

  ‘Only a little, until the Fettises are willing to talk about it. Your husband seems to have been the sort of man to hug the collection to himself, not share it. Would you agree?’

  Amelia looked at him quizzically. ‘I imagine what you really want to know is what sort of man Bob was. I take it you never met him?’

  ‘I remember hearing about him, and I think I saw him at community events once or twice, but our paths never crossed more specifically.’

  ‘I don’t remember you either, so that’s fair enough.’ Amelia considered. ‘Difficult to describe a relationship so far in the past. It ought to give you a different perspective, but somehow it just seems to smooth things out and blur the pertinent points. But so far as I recall, here goes. Bob wasn’t an extrovert, he wasn’t a mixer, although he liked talking about Jane Austen with enthusiasts, and he liked talking about cars with enthusiasts. He wasn’t a womanizer – as far as I know, anyway.’

  ‘Did you share any of his interests – cars for instance?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘None. I just let him lead his own life. I had my own car, and I ran a travel business for a long while, then opened an antiques shop.’

  ‘From what you say you were in favour of developing Stourdens too,’ Peter said.

  ‘True enough, although developing tourism wasn’t so much of a fashion then as it is now. The most I got Bob to agree on was to open the gardens for an annual fête – not a Jane Austen fête, incidentally.’

  ‘The Fettises seem to be very enthusiastic about developing it.’

  Amelia chuckled. ‘I know. Laura got in touch with me some time ago about the Gala. I suppose I should confess that as a result I went to see Laura at Stourdens on the Wednesday before it took place.’

  ‘At her request?’ Georgia asked. Perhaps at last she and Peter might get some idea of what Laura had intended to announce.

  ‘Yes. Laura was upset and said she’d asked to see me because of all people I would be able to understand. Naturally, that fed my ego. She said there were great plans ahead for Stourdens using the collection, but she was beginning to have cold feet. Would commercialization be the wrong thing to do in Jane Austen’s interests? Jane Austen had plenty of exposure, anyway, with the wonderful societies and films and documentaries devoted to her, so it seemed wrong to exploit her for their own financial interests.’

  Peter whistled. ‘That must have thrown a spanner in the works.’

  ‘Not at all. I think Laura just needed persuading that she was doing the right thing. She seemed happy enough when I left.’

  ‘So why did she look so upset three days later?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ Amelia said blandly. ‘A family matter, perhaps?’

  SIX

  ‘Any news from Dora and Gerald?’ Georgia asked hopefully when she arrived at the office on Tuesday morning. She could tell from Peter’s expression that there probably wasn’t. The Clackingtons had promised to let them know if they had any information about the funeral or if the Fettises had contacted them over their future plans for Stourdens.

  ‘Not a word, and nothing from Mike either. He said he’d tell me when the crime scene was lifted. It’s been over a week now – it can’t be taking that long. Meanwhile, the Bat and Trap awaits us.’

  ‘The what?’ Then she remembered passing it in the car. It was the Dunham pub, named after the old Kentish game played with a racquet and a ball lodged in a trap at one end of a see-saw. ‘Why on earth are we going there?’

  ‘Because a disagreeable-sounding gentleman by the name of Tom Miller declares that’s the only place he can be found most of the time. Just as in 1985, it seems he’s still a protester.’

  ‘Or petition presenter.’

  ‘According to one’s point of view,’ Peter conceded. ‘I wonder how he sees himself nowadays?’

  So did Georgia. He sounded an awkward cuss, and Peter might get more out of him than she would. ‘Do you want me there or is it a man-only event?’ she asked.

  Peter considered for an untactful length of time. ‘I need you there,’ he finally said. ‘I told him I’d go today, and I don’t want to find myself surrounded by a group of Millerites all eyeing me to work out my evil intentions.’

  ‘So my job is to fend off aggressive cronies,’ she said resignedly.

  ‘Plus pick up interesting crumbs.’

  Georgia laughed. ‘Understood. You’re definitely seeing the Luckhurst case as one for us?’

  Peter was cagey. ‘Aren’t you?’

  Her turn to consider her answer carefully. ‘Meeting Barbara and Amelia hasn’t brought us a clear way forward – isn’t that a worry, in case there might not be one? We’ve no lead at all on Max Tanner’s current whereabouts – and even if we had, nobody so far seems to be convinced of his innocence except himself. The victim is squarely in our sights, but I don’t feel I know Bob Luckhurst sufficiently for that alone to give us an incentive.’

  ‘Explain, please.’

  ‘His wife couldn’t stand him, although Barbara thought he was nice enough. At least Amelia was honest, but it might have been a biased view, not least because he might have been blocking her plans rather more forcefully than she implied. On the other hand, if she hated him enough for murder, she wouldn’t have admitted even dislike to us. He’d have changed into her favourite person.’

  ‘Why?’ Peter asked mild
ly. ‘It was safe enough. Legally, the killer was found and put behind bars.’

  As they drove to Dunham, the July countryside was looking its best with the wooded slopes of the hills providing a soft green background to the sleepy clusters of houses. It was hard to connect with the gruesome murder of Laura Fettis. As Peter turned into the pub car park, the Bat and Trap looked a dismal place. There was no attempt to attract passing traffic in the way of hanging baskets or a prettied-up forecourt.

  There was a gate into the garden and Georgia walked over to peer into it. This was not a pub that offered customers parasol-shielded tables and chairs. There were only a couple of broken-down seats to be seen, lodged against the pub wall, and a gravelled area, now half weeds, roped off – where presumably the bat and trap game had been played, judging by the see-saw. The game was still very active in Kent, but this pitch looked unused and the wood of the see-saw was rotting.

  A blackboard outside the pub unconvincingly claimed to provide good food, but to her the Bat and Trap looked to be one of those rare establishments, a pub that was still surviving on regular clientele – save that from the outside at least it looked only just alive. A lick of paint might help.

  Inside, however, the pub presented an amazingly different image. It was spartan, but light, clean and welcoming, even cheerful. Georgia recognized Barbara’s son Craig behind the bar and wondered what his take on his mother’s catering projects was, and whether he was playing an active role in them. Barbara would need help.

  Gathered round the bar was a group of regulars, judging by their body language, and there were no prizes for guessing which one was Tom Miller. The leader of the pack – in his fifties and red-faced – was centrally placed in the group, one elbow on the bar, and his shout to Peter of: ‘Over here, mate,’ left no doubt about his identity.

  Peter wheeled himself up to the group, but Georgia received a less cordial welcome and decided to retire to a watching position from the sidelines. There were few other customers, although she was aware of an elderly man watching her from a table near the window. His face seemed vaguely familiar, but she could not place him, so she took a few moments to sip her drink and then strolled over to sit near him, but not too obviously near. At his age – maybe early seventies – he could well have been living in Dunham for a long time and known Robert Luckhurst.

  Once she was seated the conversation at the bar held her attention for a while. Some of the group had dispersed, but two cohorts remained flanking Tom Miller. Peter must have established his position remarkably early or else Miller was uncommonly eager to talk, because the discussion certainly seemed animated, and with so few people in the pub, it was easily audible. Miller’s voice was – like his ego, she suspected – loud.

  ‘Just what was it like that day, Tom?’ Peter was saying. ‘Long time ago, I appreciate that, and it must have been a confusing situation with so many people crowding into the folly. Still, it seems odd that Tanner consistently claimed his innocence.’

  ‘So would Jack the Ripper,’ one of the cohorts snarled.

  ‘I read that Tanner had a witness to support him,’ Peter continued blithely.

  ‘Yeah,’ Tom drawled. ‘Mick Rider swore blind he walked back with him.’

  ‘But he didn’t?’

  ‘I never saw Tanner after we left that folly place. I was at the back of the crowd, so he’d have been in front of me and he weren’t. And before you ask, Frank here can tell you we walked back to the house together, didn’t we, Frank?’

  Frank received a dig in the ribs, and nodded. ‘Bloody Luckhurst.’

  ‘Did you actually talk to him at the folly?’ Peter persevered.

  ‘Yeah. It was like this, weren’t it? When we got inside, we could hear Tanner and Luckhurst going at it hammer and tongs in that study of his. Door was shut. So we stood there like chumps, not knowing what to do.’

  ‘What you want to know for?’ Craig put in from behind the bar. ‘All this is old stuff.’ He seemed a Miller partisan, which was natural enough, Georgia thought. He would have been a babe in arms at that time, though.

  ‘I prefer it from the horse’s mouth,’ Peter replied blandly, which earned him a suspicious look. ‘Could you hear what they were talking about, Tom?’

  ‘Not a lot. There was a lot of shouting and yelling.’

  ‘From inside the room or outside?’ Peter asked.

  Tom grinned. ‘Both.’

  ‘Tanner picked on you to blame for the murder. Was that only because of the footpath issue?’

  Tom carefully replaced his glass on the counter and demanded a refill. ‘What else?’ he said casually. (Rather too casually, Georgia thought.) ‘Anyway, like I said, I had this petition to hand over,’ he continued, ‘so I banged on the door to get some action going. But it was that bastard Tanner who came out, wouldn’t let us in. The chaps behind me started to push, and we were in what you might call a warlike situation instead of the quiet chat I wanted. I’m a quiet sort of fellow, ain’t I?’

  The cohorts speedily agreed.

  ‘But you did speak to Luckhurst himself?’ Peter asked.

  Tom Miller gave him a caustic look. ‘He weren’t dead then, if that’s what you mean. Far from it. Yeah, he moved his fat bum from the desk and came out to talk gentleman to gentleman.’

  ‘Any sign of a gun?’

  ‘Weren’t looking for one.’ Tom chortled. ‘And yes, unless he had a twin brother, it was Luckhurst, and Tanner wasn’t having him waste time talking to the likes of me. Told us to get out. Some of my lads didn’t like that, and a real shindig brewed up. I told Luckhurst that I’d see him another day with the petition, and I got my chaps out of there. It was turning ugly, and I don’t like that sort of thing,’ Tom said virtuously. ‘That was the last I saw of Bob Luckhurst – and of Tanner too, except in the dock.’

  ‘How many of you were there on the march?’

  ‘About thirty, maybe.’

  ‘Quite a lot. Would you have noticed where Tanner was while you were talking to Luckhurst?’

  ‘He wasn’t in the room if that’s what you’re after. Outside in the lobby place. Must have nipped back in once we were out of there.’

  ‘But you didn’t see him do so.’

  Tom stared at him. ‘Look, mate, we chewed it over afterwards. The Old Bill took all our names and talked to the lot of us one by one. Satisfied?’

  ‘This witness of Tanner’s – did you see him as you were on the way back?’

  ‘Sure did. But not Tanner. Look, chum, if Tanner had been fool enough to walk back with us he’d have been torn limb from limb for mucking up our march. We were fired up about it at the time, I can tell you. It was only thanks to Mrs Fettis that we kept the right of way, and now someone’s done her in.’

  Peter steered clear of that topic – rightly, Georgia thought. ‘Did you know Tanner well?’

  Tom picked up his glass and drained a large portion of its contents with a flourish. ‘Sure. Used to go over to the old Edgar every now and then. But we weren’t what you might call mates.’

  ‘News of the murder must have come as a shock.’

  ‘Too right it did. We was all back in the pub here. Heard the Old Bill’s cars screaming by. “Summat’s up,” I said. Then the police came barging in and wanted to know what we knew about it. We told ’em. They already knew Tanner had been there. Mrs Luckhurst told ’em.’

  ‘She wasn’t at the folly though.’

  Frank snorted. ‘Some woman was. Heard her voice.’

  This was a new angle, Georgia thought hopefully. There had been no suggestion of this before.

  ‘Imagination, Frank,’ Tom said unfazed. ‘I never saw her, and I was in that study.’

  ‘Heard it as we got there. It was some woman.’

  Peter abandoned the mysterious female. ‘Apart from the footpath issue, did you like Bob Luckhurst?’

  Georgia saw a general shaking of heads.

  ‘No,’ Tom replied forcefully, ‘and here’s for why. If you’re g
oing to be a country squire and lord of the manor you got responsibilities. He never took ’em on. Never showed his face except to complain about something. There were too many tractors, and not on the path. Too close to his blooming folly. Why should he worry? He had enough in the bank to put food on the table. Even if he didn’t, he owned all that land. Had a duty to look out for us, know what I mean?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘He didn’t have no love for the common man,’ Tom continued viciously. ‘We could starve in our beds and he wouldn’t have noticed. Respect has to be earned, don’t it, and he didn’t.’

  ‘He’s wrong, you know.’

  Georgia jumped at an unexpected voice and turned to look at the elderly man on her right. And now she remembered who he was. ‘I know where I’ve seen you before,’ she exclaimed. ‘At the Gala.’ It was the ‘peasant’ who had bowed to her.

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘So come a bit closer, m’dear, and I’ll tell you why he’s wrong.’

  Georgia promptly did so. ‘Did you know Bob Luckhurst?’ From his long lugubrious face she had put him down as a retired professional, but she was wrong.

  ‘Delivered his milk for thirty years,’ he told her. ‘Very nice gentleman was Mr Luckhurst. He liked his milk fresh from the cow, or as fresh as the regulations let you. Quite a joke we used to have. Is it Buttercup’s or Daisy’s? “Daisy’s,” I’d say. “It’s a bit on the frisky side.” I had a herd myself once.’

  ‘You must have liked him a lot,’ Georgia encouraged him.

  ‘Used to play chess with him most Monday evenings.’

  Chess? ‘Was he a serious player?’

  The man grinned. ‘Is there any other sort? But if you’re asking if he minded me winning, no. “Your turn, Alf, I’ll get my own back next week.”’

  ‘Did you play in Abbot’s Folly or in the house?’

  ‘That folly. He liked it. It was his space. He was a kind sort of chap by nature. Not a good-deeder, but he kept his eyes open.’

  ‘One of the men standing at the bar was saying that he heard a woman’s voice at the folly on the day he died. Was it usual for Mrs Luckhurst to go there with her husband? Could it have been her?’