by Amy Myers
This annoyed Esther. ‘There’s no way Max would have been in some kind of conspiracy. He thought it was real, he really did.’
‘Isn’t it possible that he found out it wasn’t, realized he’d been duped, and went storming up to the folly to have it out with Bob?’
‘Whatever he went there to do, Amelia got there first, through the tunnel.’
A dead silence, and Georgia broke it. ‘You mean she killed him?’
‘Of course,’ Esther said. ‘Who else?’
‘You did know about the tunnel then? You were rather vague about it when we last talked.’
‘Lots of people knew about it,’ Esther flashed angrily back. She was on the defensive, and Georgia could see her husband becoming agitated on her behalf.
Georgia cut in before he could speak. ‘Why didn’t Max speak out at the trial and say Amelia was guilty?’
‘He did. No one listened, because he had no proof,’ Esther said.
That could be so, but Esther was hiding something. She must be, Georgia thought. This didn’t make sense. Amelia could not have killed Bob before Max (and then the protesters) arrived, so did she hide in the tunnel?
Georgia knew she must keep the pressure up. Esther was looking to her husband in appeal now. ‘Isn’t it more likely that Max and Amelia were working together?’ Georgia shot at her.
‘No, it bloody isn’t,’ David Wilson intervened on her behalf.
Push or not push? Georgia debated. Push, but not too hard or she’d lose the momentum. She felt her voice losing control and fought to regain it. ‘How would you know that, David? Your wife—’
David interrupted her, red in the face. ‘Because I’m bloody Max Tanner, that’s why.’
SIXTEEN
‘I should have guessed,’ Peter said bitterly. ‘We’ve been fools.’ He had been steaming for the last hour over the fact that Max Tanner had been effectively right under his nose. Georgia had rung Peter immediately in the hope that he could reach Edgar House quickly enough to speak to Esther and David. It was still easier to think of him that way. As she clicked off, however, she saw them already driving out of the forecourt. Fortunately, she’d been in time to stop Peter leaving. Jennifer had followed her, and she too had watched her prospective parents-in-law leave.
‘They’re probably going straight over to see their darling son,’ Jennifer had ruefully suggested. ‘It’s beginning to look as if it’s Stourdens that Tim wanted to marry all along.’
Georgia had reassured her, even though she thought Jennifer was probably right.
Back at the office Peter shared her view. ‘Why didn’t it occur to us that Elspeth could have remarried him under another name? And having fooled us, why did he suddenly decide to tell the world?’
‘That’s easier,’ Georgia said. ‘Barbara had recognized him despite the beard and ageing process, that’s why. He’d taken the risk, and it hadn’t worked.’
‘Did he admit to knowing the letters were fake?’
‘No way,’ Georgia replied. ‘His line is that it was all a plot by the Luckhursts.’
‘Did he support Esther’s claim that Amelia killed Bob?’
‘No. That’s weird, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed it is. Does he still claim he’s innocent? And if so, who does he think was guilty?’
‘Guess who? Tom Miller.’
Rather to her surprise, instead of growling in frustration, Peter looked interested. ‘I’ve got something to contribute too. Suspects Anonymous.’
She groaned. ‘Not again. It’s software, Peter. It doesn’t know what’s outside the box. Which in this case is an ugly black monster sitting on your desk.’
‘And therein lies its value,’ Peter said smugly. ‘It sees everything objectively and together. No prejudice.’
‘What has the Great Box produced this time that is so relevant?’
‘Craig Hastings.’
Georgia began to laugh. ‘He’s an old chestnut. What’s Suspects Anonymous’s thesis? That he popped up out of the cradle to kill Bob Luckhurst?’
‘He wasn’t in his cradle if you remember. He had burst upon the scene nearly two years earlier. I got his birth certificate fast-tracked to me, courtesy of Mike.’
‘What made you ask for it?’
‘Suspects Anonymous.’
‘Silly of me to have asked,’ she said resignedly.
‘It pointed out that as a player in the 1985 murder, Craig was a loose thread to be followed up.’
‘We knew that,’ she said impatiently. ‘Who was the father?’
‘Tom Miller.’
She immediately remembered the photo of Miller’s arm around Barbara’s shoulders so carelessly and possessively. He’d claimed only to have visited the Edgar Arms occasionally, but the photo implied he was a regular. ‘Would an apology for stupidity placate Suspects Anonymous?’ she asked.
‘None needed,’ Peter replied graciously. ‘I’ve double-checked that Barbara was still Barbara Merryweather when Craig was born. Miller was already married and clearly preferred to stick with what he’d got. But where does this leave us on the murder? Miller had a pretty solid alibi. Even if theoretically he could have managed it, it would have been one hell of a risk.’
‘Barbara couldn’t have been the woman involved, although Amelia and Tom seem unlikely conspirators.’
‘Only one person talks of a woman’s voice – Tom’s chum in the pub,’ Peter pointed out. ‘A staunch chum who perhaps has no objection to throwing in a red herring. And what about the gun? It was Max’s.’
‘Max claimed Tom could have pinched it, knowing it had a silencer on it, and that he seized the opportunity to get rid of Bob once and for all.’
‘Doubtful,’ Peter said. ‘Opportunism and planning don’t sit easily together.’
‘He said Tom knew where the gun was kept, and the drawer was unlocked. Tom could easily have nicked it on the way to the Gents and just as easily thrown it down in the cellars afterwards.’
‘He couldn’t,’ Peter came back instantly. ‘He was at the Bat and Trap.’
Georgia was only thrown for a moment. ‘We don’t know when the police checked the cellars.’
‘Barbara could have picked the gun up for him.’
‘Risky. And there’s motive to consider, Peter. Surely murdering someone over a footpath issue isn’t very likely, especially as Miller would have had no guarantee that Bob’s successor Amelia would take a more lenient view. She didn’t strike me as a soft touch.’
‘Would you say from our brief knowledge of him that Tom Miller was an intelligent man?’
‘No,’ Georgia said immediately.
‘Easily led?’
‘Easily influenced,’ she amended. She shot a doubtful look at him. ‘Barbara again?’
‘With young Craig,’ Peter added. ‘An ambitious lady with a son’s future to think of.’
‘She might have stolen the gun in the first place,’ Georgia agreed. ‘Killing Luckhurst might or might not have solved Tom’s footpath problem, but what she wanted was the development of the Edgar Arms. That adds up, Peter. Barbara was good-looking and capable.’ Then she saw the flaw. ‘Problem: she might in theory have had a good future ahead at the pub, but not if Max Tanner went to prison for murder. So why should she return the gun which would point right to him?’
Peter looked taken aback, but then rallied. ‘Esther was the current licensee. With Max in gaol she would need a deputy, and Barbara was right there.’ He glowed in satisfaction. ‘It fits, and there’s only the simple matter of proof to find.’
‘Hold on. What about Douglas Watts?’
Peter looked blank. ‘You mean criminal charges for fraud?’
‘You had him slotted in as a suspect for Laura’s murder. Doesn’t the same hold true for Bob’s?’
‘Very tempting,’ Peter said crossly, ‘but although I would put him high on the list for Laura’s death if I were DI Newton, I’m told he was still living in south London in 1985, and he doesn’t se
em to have been interviewed by the police at the time.’
‘He told us he was at a camp site in Clacton when Bob was murdered.’
‘How about going to the Bat and Trap tomorrow?’
Georgia blinked. ‘Why so suddenly?’
‘Because Douglas Watts rang. He’d like to meet us there. I didn’t tell you earlier in case you exploded before we had talked Tanner through.’
The cheek of it. ‘Too right I would,’ Georgia agreed. ‘We’re not going, are we?’
‘If we don’t, we play into his hands.’
‘If we do, we play into his hands,’ Georgia said crossly.
‘Suspects—’
‘No. Absolutely not, Peter. We decide, not a machine.’
‘Let’s go. Craig and Miller might be there.’
The Bat and Trap was crowded, but Georgia quickly spotted Craig and Tom Miller. Both seemed ostentatiously busy, however. Douglas Watts was by the window at the same seat as before.
Peter immediately joined him. ‘May I buy you a drink?’ he asked him politely.
‘Thank you. A pint of bitter would do me nicely.’
All very civilized, Georgia thought, although she would have liked to have thrown it over Douglas’s smug civilized face. She left Peter talking to him and went to buy the drinks.
‘Film going well then, Craig?’ Tom conversed at the top of his voice as she reached the bar.
‘Suits Mum OK, but this Jane Austen stuff’s a right bore. Dressing up like kids.’
‘I’d like to take their precious collection and ram it down their smug Fettis throats.’ Tom looked pleased with himself.
‘Steady on, Tom,’ Craig said uneasily, with an eye on Georgia. No doubt he was thinking of his future career, she thought.
Tom was not to be steadied, however. Young though the day was in pub terms, he had obviously partaken to the full and over.
‘Leading us up the garden path, they were,’ he roared. ‘And your mother, Craig. Telling us what big things were going to happen. Nothing has and nothing will and that’s all we’ve got – nothing. Not now they’ve changed their high and mighty minds about what to do with that pile of old stones. I’d like to rip the living daylights out of them.’
‘No talking like that, Tom.’ The landlord came hastily over, though Georgia wouldn’t mind betting that it was only because of her presence and Peter’s. Tom spat elegantly at her feet and walked off.
When she had finally returned to the table with drinks, Douglas thanked her, then added, ‘I should offer you an apology, Georgia. And you, Peter.’
‘Why not?’ Peter said encouragingly. ‘Now it’s generally accepted that the Austen collection is fake.’
Douglas considered this. ‘Not quite. It depends on whom Jennifer has consulted.’
‘Immaterial,’ Peter answered. ‘We know it’s fake, because you told us yourself.’
‘What exactly did I tell you? I recall talking about poor Bob Luckhurst during our delightful lunch together, and I believe I might have mentioned his and my common interest in Jane Austen.’
‘Do you recall driving me to your tenant Mrs Smith’s home, Number Three Beech Cottages, where you keep your faking studio?’ Georgia asked politely.
He frowned. ‘I’m afraid not. I can’t think where you got that idea. I do have tenants, but I don’t recall visiting them with you. It must have been so dull for the police having such a wasted journey.’
‘And so will we have,’ Peter said impatiently, ‘unless we stop talking about our last visit and talk about this one.’
‘Excellent idea, Peter. Very well. I have decided to admit that I did do a little work for Bob Luckhurst to fill in one or two gaps in his already existing collection. It is possible that Laura Fettis and you yourselves gained the erroneous impression that the collection was all by the hand of Jane Austen and her friends, and that my additions were not the pure fantasy they were created to be. There is no proof to the contrary, and so I consider it is generous of me to go as far as this.’
‘Not far enough, Mr Watts,’ Georgia replied. ‘Not only we but Jennifer need to know exactly how much and what you did fake. Remember that I did see your studio.’
‘Now that is a creation of yours, Georgia,’ he remarked good-humouredly.
‘It existed and it will be found.’
‘I doubt it, but even if it is,’ Douglas said, ‘has any crime been committed? If anyone had any legal cause to complain it would be Jane Austen herself. I merely carried out a commission for a private customer who kept my work in a private collection for his own satisfaction. No one else’s. Any preliminary enthusiasm I displayed about wider publicity can be disregarded. My work has no commercial value at all, unless it were to be used against my wishes as part of the Stourdens’ plans for its future. Plans which dear Jennifer has apparently scuppered, and thus it remains private.’
It was an unexpected holiday. An afternoon for enjoying the garden. Peter had wanted thinking time before the filming at Stourdens the following day, which he was determined to attend. There were no lifts necessary at Stourdens, and invited or not she and Peter would be present. Her plans for the afternoon, however, changed with a phone call from Jennifer. Could she come to Medlars and see her urgently – and if Peter could be present too that would be even better. That implied her visit was work related and not private, Georgia realized. Peter forgot about his thinking time and came over right away.
As Jennifer arrived and Georgia took her through to the garden where Peter was waiting it was clear that she was under strain.
‘Tim, Dad and I went to see the solicitor this morning,’ she began immediately. ‘I needed to know where we stood if we wanted to sack Douglas from the trust. He’s looking into it, but the snag is that even if we could prove what he told you about the collection, it doesn’t affect the trust, so it could be tricky. Luckily, Dad’s gradually coming round to my side.’
‘And Tim?’
‘He’s being amazingly meek ever since we found out about his father. He’s busy sorting out the new film schedule with Jake. You know he based the filming at Edgar House on The Watsons – well, Jake’s got a whole new line for Stourdens now, based on a paragraph in Northanger Abbey. He’s planning to use the tunnel, so Tim’s helping sort that out. As for Tim and me, it’s a bit of a facer.’ Jennifer hesitated. ‘I think it might sort itself out in time, though. I have a good feeling about it.’ She looked at them. ‘Does that sound crazy? If taken with care over the winter?’
‘Can we ask what Tim told you about his father?’
‘Of course. That’s what I wanted to explain before I get caught up in the filming tomorrow. He’s told me that his father is a dreamer, who had this notion that he was meant for greater things. That he had been fixated on Stourdens, partly because Amelia had been so scornful of him, after having earlier buttered him up to be on her side in persuading Bob to commercialize Stourdens. Max really thought that they were all going to work together and put both Stourdens and the Edgar Arms on the map. Then when he came out of prison he remarried Esther – Tim knew all about that at the time – but Max wasn’t happy at living in a house just like everyone else’s. He never forgot Esther and he never forgot Stourdens, and then fate played into his hands when Tim met me, so it all started again. I imagine he saw himself as the power behind Stourdens. Tim had other ideas though.’
A house like everyone else’s, Georgia thought. Why did that phrase seem significant? She searched through her memory, and at last it came to her. Someone had used it in conversation about the row of houses to which Douglas had taken her. Isn’t that exactly what she had thought about Beech Cottages – and what DI Newton’s team would have thought? Was that the point? Had the police somehow searched the wrong house?
She tried to subdue rising excitement and think logically. If so, that meant Douglas must have planned it. It could not have happened by chance. Was there anything to make Number 3 stand out from its neighbours? As far as she remembered they
were all painted roughly the same colour. Only the number plate drew attention. That big Number 3 stood out at the gate. Had the other houses had similar number boards? She hadn’t looked. Of course she hadn’t. Suppose . . . Suppose . . .
Georgia felt as tense when she arrived at Stourdens for the first day of filming as if she and Peter were playing starring roles. Thankfully they were not, they were only spectators, and she didn’t have to climb into Regency dress or talk before the cameras. Peter had fallen on her theory about the Beech Cottages house number like a dog with a particularly attractive bone and told her he would be along later after he had discussed it with the police. Luke too was delayed but would arrive with Mark by lunchtime, although Jill was already on set. Georgia was glad they were all coming because their presence would make the event seem more of a family occasion, masking the work element. She knew DI Newton would have a couple of men present, but not what they were expecting or whether they would be uniform or CID. Did Diane hope that today might jog memories about Laura Fettis’s murder?
Jennifer had suggested Georgia come to the house first, but she was not surprised to find that Jennifer was not there but already in the thick of the filming. The vans were parked on the forecourt, including Barbara’s again, but there had been no other sign of life there. Filming had been due to begin at seven a.m. so it must be well under way. As she walked through the gateway to the terrace, her first reaction was that it looked like the day of the Gala. The significant difference was that a uniformed policeman stopped her to ask for identification, and recorded her name.
Jennifer spotted her and came up to the terrace to greet her. ‘No Regency dress for you?’ Georgia asked, seeing her classic skirt and blouse.
Jennifer smiled. ‘This is my lady-of-the-manor outfit. I don’t have to look learned, just posh and confident. That’s not easy right now.’
‘You’ll do fine,’ Georgia assured her.
‘I don’t feel fine. You name it, I’m worrying about it.’
‘What’s top of your anxiety list?’
