by Amy Myers
‘Because you wouldn’t be investigating it otherwise, would you?’
Damn. ‘You’re a good fencer,’ she said. Play to his vanity. She could fence too. ‘Have you ever met your father again, either in prison or after his release? We need to find him.’
‘My only father is David Wilson. No one else, and my mother would tell you the same.’ Before she could reply, he added, ‘Look to your left.’
She’d been so intent on Tim that she hadn’t noticed that the passageway had widened yet further, and the torch now revealed a semicircular cave arched out on the left. It seemed lighter than it had in the passageway, and she could see a domed roof high up above them. It couldn’t be at ground level, she guessed, because she could see no light, but it must be near to it.
‘Air holes,’ Tim said briefly.
Now her eyes were adjusting, she could see something distinctive about the walls. They were covered in shells, some plain and some coloured, with designs on them. It was not nearly as large as the famous Margate shell grotto, about which people still argued whether it was a nineteenth-century creation or ancient Phoenician work. Whichever it was, it was still spectacular. There was no doubt that the Mad Abbot’s hand was behind this one, however. The designs were not ancient trees of life but Bacchanalian revels.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, ‘from what I can see of it.’ Then she changed her mind. Not beautiful at all. There was a feeling of decay here that even the rest of the tunnel did not reflect. ‘Why hasn’t it become better known?’
‘No idea. Maybe Bob Luckhurst wanted it to be kept secret.’
A quick shine of the torch revealed a floor where falling shells had collected and a stone table to one side of the grotto.
‘What did the Mad Abbot use this for?’ she asked, stupidly playing into his hands.
‘Nameless orgies, Georgia,’ Tim taunted her. ‘He probably came down here for nasty ceremonies to deflower virgins. Or maybe read a good book. Or perhaps he just wanted to keep out of the rain, as the legend says.’
‘I think we should move on,’ Georgia said coolly. ‘Do you know who did the maintenance work on the tunnel?’
‘As I told you, I didn’t know any had been done. There would have been a health and safety issue when the police wanted to search it, but I managed to find some bills amongst Laura’s papers showing that work had been done and there was some insurance of a sort. Can’t remember the firm. Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not, except that I wonder why she had it carried out.’
‘Because, dear Georgia, she wanted to put Stourdens on the map. Please do forget this nonsense about her changing her mind. She’d begun some years ago to restore Abbot’s Retreat and to catalogue the collection and so forth. It was she who first launched the Gala years ago. These ideas for Stourdens’ future that everyone’s making such a fuss about are only taking the improvements a stage further. The house is falling down – that much must be obvious – but Laura never moved quickly on anything. She was still wavering about what to do when she died. There’s no great drama about it, whatever Dora told you.’
Put that way, it sounded reasonable, but was that the way it had actually happened? The behaviour of Laura and Jennifer on that fatal morning, and even Roy’s, suggested not. Georgia heard in her mind that heartfelt cry of Dora’s: ‘Laura would never go back on something as definite as that. Not Laura.’
‘And now it’s Roy’s and my job to shoulder the task of restoring Stourdens,’ Tim concluded.
‘Isn’t Jennifer involved?’
A silence. Then, ‘Tell me what you would do with this grotto, Georgia,’ came Tim’s whisper. His face moved near to hers in the torchlight, and involuntarily she stepped back. ‘Put on some nice orgies for tourists? Charge them five hundred quid to have dinner here and stay overnight in Jane Austen’s bed? And what about Jane and William having sex down here on the Abbot’s table? I grant you Laura might have baulked at that.’
Georgia’s dislike of Tim Wilson increased several notches. The sooner she was out of here the better, but Tim was still blocking her way, seemingly transfixed by the grotto. He was staring into it as if he could see its builder sitting there enjoying a goblet of wine.
‘How did the Mad Abbot die?’ she asked. If she could keep Tim talking she might be able to push past him to continue through the tunnel herself, which would be better than retreat.
‘Percival, youngest son of the third Lord Edgar, died peacefully in his bed at the age of thirty-four, so the records state. I must say I’m looking forward to merry trips along here when we develop Stourdens.’ He must have realized he was too far out of tune. ‘Let’s move on,’ he suggested.
That suited her. ‘How much further is it?’ she asked. Perhaps this was playing into his hands again, but she didn’t care.
‘Not far. This place does get to one, doesn’t it? Laura must have wanted to get to Abbot’s Retreat in a hurry if she did come this way at the Gala.’
‘It could have been used for Bob Luckhurst’s murder too.’
‘I never met him, but you want my take on him? He was as mad as the Abbot.’ The taunting tone had gone, and Tim sounded quite serious.
‘In what way?’ she asked.
‘Abbot’s Folly was his favourite place, which tells you something. He seems a shadowy sort of person. Some liked him, some hated him, and some thought him crazy. Perhaps that’s all you’ll ever know about him, Georgia.’
Perhaps it was imagination, the oppression of the tunnel getting to her, but his voice held threat. When he stopped suddenly, her heart jumped in fright. ‘What’s the matter?’ She tried to keep the squeak out of her voice.
‘This is the garden exit.’ He sounded mildly surprised. ‘The police were very interested in that. But I know it’s Luckhurst you’re concerned with, so we won’t take this route but go on to the folly. I’ll let you have the fun of going first. Flash the torch and shortly you’ll see a door ahead. Just push.’
For one moment she had a panic that he intended to disappear through the garden exit and leave her in here with the darkness and the rats. But he stayed behind her, and she saw a short flight of steps ahead of her. Please, please, please, she thought. No more of this. Let me out of here quickly.
She reached the door, which was reassuring. Taking a deep breath she pushed harder than she had meant to. The door flew open, wrenched from the other side, and she jumped. She was face to face with an angry Philip Faring.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘You gave me the fright of my life.’
‘Thought the Mad Abbot was coming for you, Phil? Sorry,’ Tim said from behind. ‘Forgot you might be working here.’
Sorry, my foot, Georgia thought in annoyance. He had known full well Philip was here, and that was why he had urged her to go first.
Philip had clearly been working at the desk, which was piled high with papers. A laptop with an Excel sheet on the screen was open at the far end.
‘Are you working on another book?’ she asked fatuously, trying to get her breathing steady again.
She deserved the put-down she received. ‘Of course,’ he said coolly. ‘Aren’t you? We’re both writers.’
‘Another on Jane Austen?’
‘No.’
‘Georgia and I have had a jolly chat about Stourdens,’ Tim said as Philip looked daggers at her. Was she imagining it, or was there some kind of warning in Tim’s voice? And if so, was it for her or for Philip?
‘I’m compiling a guidebook if you must know,’ Philip said stiffly. ‘Jake needs some stuff to hand out as background for his film.’
No one seemed ever to have doubted that the film was going ahead, least of all Jake, but was that really the case? Georgia wondered. ‘If Dora was right and Laura did change her mind about developing tourism,’ she asked, ‘wouldn’t she have cancelled the film too?’
A quick glance between Tim and Phil. ‘No way,’ Tim answered. ‘Whatever she felt about this house, Lau
ra wouldn’t have let Jake down – or Phil. There’s his book to consider. Plenty of houses have documentaries made about them. It was the other facets of commercialization, such as the residential courses and so on, that she must have been doubtful about. They would have involved Roy and Laura moving out of Stourdens and into the former Dower House – quite nice, but not exactly Austenesque.’
‘Dora always makes a drama of everything,’ Philip said sulkily. ‘I’m surprised she doesn’t want to turn the ballroom at Edgar House over to tourism irrespective of Stourdens. I can just see her dressed up in a frilly frock as Jane Austen and opening the ball with Gerald in full sea-captain rig. Isn’t that what Max Tanner planned, Tim?’
‘As I said,’ Tim said firmly, ‘David Wilson is my father. Max Tanner is long past. Except, of course, to dear Georgia.’
Her hackles rose. ‘What “dear Georgia” and particularly “dear Peter” would like is to talk to your mother. Could you arrange that?’
A long pause. ‘Why not?’ Tim said at last.
TEN
‘Interesting that young Master Tim did not think to mention his parentage earlier, although he knew we were looking into Luckhurst’s murder,’ Peter remarked on the drive to Burwash where Esther Wilson lived.
‘Diffidence, perhaps,’ Georgia suggested. ‘It could have been a taboo subject as he grew up.’
‘Does Tim Wilson strike you as diffident?’
‘No.’
‘And he wasn’t pleased when I tactfully turned down his offer to drive us to Sussex.’
‘Tactfully’ wouldn’t have been Georgia’s description. Tim had raised no objections when Peter had rung him to arrange a date, which had been agreed for Tuesday, 27th July. On the other hand, she was sure Tim had expected to accompany them. He was quite capable of putting obstacles in their path, yet he had not chosen to do so – yet.
Esther lived on a modern estate not far from Burwash, a Sussex village that Georgia knew reasonably well because of its associations with Bateman’s, Rudyard Kipling’s home. She remembered seeing his beloved Rolls-Royce on display there and wondering how he managed to drive it along the narrow lanes. There wouldn’t have been so much traffic before the Second World War, but tractors and hay wagons would be more numerous. On the other hand, the pace of life was slower then – or was that a myth?
When she pulled up in front of the Wilsons’ bungalow, a tall, bearded, sturdily built man in his late fifties, presumably Tim’s stepfather, was mowing the lawn of the neat front garden. He stopped to watch Georgia park, then came across to see if Peter needed help emerging from the car. He didn’t, but for once amiably pretended he did. David Wilson introduced himself.
‘Come inside.’ He led the way. ‘Esther’s waiting for you. I’ve cleared a path for the chair, and I’ve been appointed coffee-maker. I wasn’t around in Luckhurst’s day so I can’t help much otherwise, but I do have my uses.’
Esther came to the door to meet them, and Georgia was surprised. The press photographs of the trial had suggested a steely quality that twenty-five years later was no longer evident. She was slim, dark and full of nervous energy in a way that reminded Georgia of Tim, but first impressions suggested she lacked the push that Tim possessed in spades. Perhaps she was happier now. She’d achieved what looked like a secure and contented way of life, which was a million miles away from the roles of, first, publican’s wife and then publican at the Edgar Arms. They were difficult enough in themselves, let alone when her then-husband was enthused over ambitious but unrealizable schemes.
She led them to a comfortable living room with chairs, sofa and television, unadorned with memorabilia of the past. No knick-knacks, no photos – and perhaps understandably so.
‘Is it going to be painful for you to talk about Stourdens and the Edgar Arms, Mrs Wilson?’ Georgia asked. Tim had made it clear that his mother purposely kept away from the area, although the funeral and his wedding obviously had to be exceptions.
She frowned as she considered the question. ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘I’ve drawn a line underneath those days and prefer not to think of them, but it’s not painful. They’re just over. I don’t seek out anyone I knew then – especially my former husband.’
‘So you can’t have been very happy when Tim met Jennifer and is presumably now going to live at Stourdens.’
Esther shrugged. ‘I wasn’t, but coincidences happen. Tim worked in London, and now Canterbury, and has clients all over the place. I couldn’t stop him going to Kent. He knew about his father’s connections with the Edgar Arms and –’ her voice trembled – ‘the murder, but as he was only two when it all happened, and he’s had no contact with Max since, he was intrigued rather than disturbed by it. I told him the bare minimum, of course, but no doubt he looked up the records.’
‘Does Jennifer know who you are?’ Georgia asked. It was a question she had not put to Tim, but she should have done so.
‘I’ve no doubt she does, but you’ll have to ask Tim.’ A certain amount of ice had entered her voice, and Georgia now saw how this Esther could have survived at the Edgar Arms. She did have a tough side to her, a side that Tim had inherited.
‘Do you mind talking about Max Tanner?’ Peter asked, just as David arrived with the coffee.
He laughed. ‘Shoot away,’ he said. ‘Don’t mind me.’
Esther took her cue from him. ‘I don’t mind either. I haven’t heard a word from Max since the divorce went through, so it’s well behind me. Off with one of his other women, I suppose. He always had a way of getting round women.’
‘Would that include your former barmaid, Barbara Hastings?’ Georgia asked.
‘She was Barbara Merryworth in those days. I was afraid she might recognize me at the funeral,’ Esther said dispassionately. ‘As for her being one of his floozies, Max usually had the good sense to keep them off his home patch.’
So Barbara could well have been unmarried at the time of the murder, Georgia realized, stowing the information carefully away in her mind – together with her recollection of Barbara’s saying he was a womanizer. ‘A difficult question I know, but did you think Max was guilty?’
‘No.’
The answer was too quick, Georgia thought. Esther would have been expecting this question, and so it was reasonable to assume she’d considered it in advance.
‘He told me he was innocent,’ Esther continued, ‘and that was enough for me. Max never lied. The licence motive was rubbish. He minded about it, but not that much. We were going along nicely.’ Her words were coming rapidly now. ‘So why would he muck it up by suddenly losing his cool? He was annoyed that morning and said he was going to see Bob about something, but whatever it was he wouldn’t have shot Bob for it.’
‘The gun was his though,’ Peter pointed out.
Esther brushed this aside. ‘Back in 1985 the rules about where they were kept weren’t quite so strict. Max kept it in a drawer of the dresser in the hallway. Our part of the house, but easy for anybody to get to. Anyone could have taken it and put it back in the cellar where it was found. We were running a pub not Fort Knox.’ She was flushed with annoyance, and Georgia hastened to switch subjects.
‘Did you know Amelia Luckhurst well?’
‘Naturally. We didn’t get on. She was Max’s department, not mine. She was always pestering him, but she wasn’t his type.’
‘Tim said you knew about the tunnel at Stourdens.’
A split-second pause, but Esther recovered well. ‘I don’t remember telling him, but I could well have done so when he told me about Stourdens. I suppose I knew about it from Max. Does it matter?’
Peter quickly cut in. ‘We heard that Max had great plans for the Edgar Arms. Were you a Jane Austen fan too?’
‘Not me. I was all for expansion if it made us some cash, but it was Max who was so keen on this Austen story. Amelia was up for our having a joint approach to the development of Stourdens and the Edgar Arms together, and he liked that idea. Once Bob was dead,
though, she dropped the plans and dumped Max in the firing line.’
‘Are you suggesting she might have killed her husband?’
‘Why not? Tough as old nails is Amelia, and nothing gets in her way. Poor Bob was wet putty in her hands. The only time I knew him dig his heels in was over the Austen collection. Refused to go along with her plans.’
‘That must have upset Max too, if his ideas for the pub depended on Stourdens?’ Peter asked mildly.
Esther wasn’t fooled. ‘If you mean, did it give him a motive for killing Bob, no it didn’t. Max was ambitious but not an idiot. He knew there were plenty of Jane Austen connections in Kent and other organizations and houses, and that he might be able to link up with them. Or go it alone.’
‘Was Max a Jane Austen fan irrespective of the pub and the letters?’ Georgia asked.
‘Good grief no. She was part of his plans for the pub, so he got interested in this love affair story. He walked into those rotten floor-boarded, sad old Assembly Rooms and saw them through rose-coloured specs, all romantic candlelight, fires, violins playing and pretty ladies dancing the cotillion.’
‘Do you by any chance have a photo of Max?’ Peter asked casually.
David chuckled. ‘Do me a favour. Think I’d want to see his face everywhere I went?’
‘Nor me,’ Esther chimed in. ‘I threw them all out.’
‘Wouldn’t Max feature on photos of Tim as a baby?’ Georgia pushed.
‘I only kept the ones of Tim alone.’ Esther looked apologetic. ‘There are times in life when you need a clean break and this was one of them.’ A pause. ‘Give my regards to Barbara. She went through a rough patch when Craig was born, but Tim tells me they’re both on to a good thing when Stourdens pulls its socks up.’
On Thursday morning, Georgia found Peter sitting with a mug of coffee staring into space, and there were no signs that he had done anything else for some while.
‘What’s wrong?’ Georgia asked guardedly. She had not been to the office the previous day, but there seemed a big change from his confidence when they had left Esther Wilson’s home. He’d been sure then that they were getting to grips with this case.
