by Amy Myers
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MURDER TAKES THE STAGE
Amy Myers
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First world edition published 2011
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2009 by Amy Myers.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Myers, Amy, 1938-
Murder Takes the Stage.
1. Marsh, Peter (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Marsh,
Georgia (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 3. Private
Investigators–England–Kent–Fiction. 4. Fathers and
Daughters–Fiction. 5. Missing persons–Investigation–
Fiction. 6. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9'14-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-187-3 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6789-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-158-4 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being
described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons
is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Broadstairs is a delightful and attractive coastal town in Kent, in the Isle of Thanet. Thanet is no longer an island, but it retains its special atmosphere, and Broadstairs is one of its gems. I must apologize to the town for giving it a fictional theatre at the end of its pier and to both Broadstairs and London for several fictional roads and buildings. For information on the town in the 1950s I am very grateful to Alan Robinson for all his help, and to local history books by Bob Simmonds (Broadstairs Harbour, 2006) and John Whyman (Broadstairs and St Peter’s in Old Photographs, 1990). Any mistakes must be laid at my door, not theirs. That this novel came into being at all is thanks to my agent Dorothy Lumley of Dorian Literary Agency and to Amanda Stewart and the splendid team at Severn House, and I am most grateful to them.
ONE
‘I like fish and chips.’
‘So do I – normally.’ Georgia shivered, surprised that Peter wasn’t having a similar reaction. There was something about this cafe that disagreed violently with the simple pleasures of battered cod and surprisingly crisp chips. All too often these were soggy, but not in Gary’s Fish Bar. In a seaside resort such as Broadstairs she had expected to find good fish, but today the chips were the better part of the experience. Not that it was fair to blame the food. That was probably first class if only she could appreciate it. The cause was more insidious than that.
At first the restaurant had seemed inaccessible for her father’s wheelchair, but Gary himself, a portly black-haired man in his thirties who flaunted a moustache that spoke of true Italian rather than Kentish descent, had spotted them outside and immediately rushed out to escort them to the rear door reached through a small yard at the back.
And that’s where she had begun to have severe doubts about Gary’s Fish Bar. On their way in, something had made her glance at the flight of steps leading from the yard to the living accommodation upstairs – not that there appeared to be much life up there at present. There were no potted plants on the small balcony to suggest that tender loving care was being devoted to those rooms. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about the steps, and yet it was while passing by them before entering the cafe that her stomach had turned decidedly queasy. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes had been her instant reaction. Then she regretted it. Quoting from Macbeth even in her mind was not a good idea – and anyway, she had comforted herself, it was entirely her imagination at work.
Now she was not so sure. She made an effort to explain to Peter, as much for her own sake as for his. Putting something into words often helped. Her father ate on with apparent pleasure, even adding another dollop of tomato ketchup as a defiant gesture. ‘It’s not the food – it’s this place,’ she said.
Peter sighed. ‘I’d been trying to ignore it.’
He laid down his knife and fork and met her eyes for the first time since they had entered. The unexpected reaction wasn’t being caused by this room, Georgia decided, as it was bright, clean and cheerful, but was definitely being triggered by something outside. Something near those steps, and not a something that had material existence. And that meant—
‘Fingerprints?’ she asked in trepidation, and Peter nodded.
The advantage of working with someone over a long period of time, as she had with her father, was the development of a shorthand method of conversation, and for Marsh & Daughter, fingerprints on time, as they called them, were at the top of the list. The cold cases they chose to investigate arose from such fingerprints, caused by the unfinished business of violence or injustice in the past imprinting itself on the atmosphere of a place or building.
She and Peter had long since agreed that they shared a ‘nose’ for fingerprints, but there had been many a false trail when one of them had been convinced of their presence, only for them to fade. Today Georgia had hoped against hope that Peter was not going to share her reaction to that very mundane flight of steps. After all, she reasoned, they were in Broadstairs on a more important mission than looking for a new case for Marsh & Daughter. Even so, she had to admit, it was relatively unusual for them both to react in the same way at the same time, although that, Georgia told herself defiantly, making another effort to finish her fish, did not mean it was a valid path to follow. They were both on edge about the coming meeting with Christine Reynolds. Nevertheless, Georgia reluctantly acknowledged that this matter of the outdoor steps had to be settled.
Peter cleared his throat. ‘You or me?’ he enquired.
‘Me. I’ll test it again and then drop a casual remark when I’m paying.’
Georgia was glad of the excuse to leave the shame of her uncleared plate, and she went outside, ostensibly to the whitewashed annex housing the toilets. She didn’t reach it but stopped short at the instant sense of revulsion, so strong it felt like an invisible wall. There was no doubt about it. It was those steps that seemed to be crying out to her, and she had to force herself into the toilet (a physical necessity now) before hurrying back inside to rejoin Peter and pay for their meal.
She could sense Gary’s unspoken disapproval of the insu
lt to his fish and made haste to explain that she and her father had a difficult task ahead of them (true enough) and it had robbed them of their appetite for his wonderful fish and chips. He looked mollified, and so she decided to ask casually, ‘I know this sounds ridiculous, but is there any history to this house? Broadstairs is such a fascinating town, and this seems to be a very old building, and full of atmosphere.’
The words sounded gushing even to her, but the town was indeed attractive and atmospheric, peppered with associations with Charles Dickens, whose favourite resort it had been. Basically, she thought, the town could vary little from what it had been like in its Victorian heyday, and in today’s May sunshine it was easy to conjure up the past.
She could hardly have asked Gary straight out about the repellent atmosphere outside. Ten to one, most people walked past the steps without a sniff of anything awry. Nevertheless, he had got the message from her comments.
His face changed, not to anger but to something akin to despair. ‘You’ve seen the ghost, haven’t you?’
‘Ghost?’
‘Murderer lived upstairs once, and now he blooming well comes back and haunts the place.’
‘When was this?’ she asked faintly.
‘No idea. It was years ago. Why does he want to keep coming back, that’s what I want to know. A man’s got a living to make.’
By years ago, did he mean three hundred years or nearer three, she wondered? Was it clad in doublet and hose or flower-power gear? ‘Have you seen the ghost yourself?’ she asked.
She and Peter were wary of claims about ghosts. Headless horsemen and the like were not part of their approach to their work, even though she realized that many so-called ghosts might in fact be what they called ‘fingerprints’ rather than wailing phantoms.
‘Well, no. Nor has anyone, so far as I know. But he’s there all right. Heard him stalking up and down the steps and thumping over the floorboards. And a mate of mine heard him crying one night.’
‘Who was the murderer?’
‘Some clown or other. I’ve only been here a year or two.’
She gave up. She wasn’t going to get any further with him, and there can’t have been much local sympathy for this killer or Gary would have been making the most of his unwelcome apparition – if any. ‘Do you live upstairs?’ she asked.
‘No way. Use the flat for storage, that’s all.’
She wondered whether she should ask if she could look round but managed to convince herself that that would achieve nothing. The sooner she and Peter were out of there, the better. They could return another day if their interest lasted. After all, this afternoon they would need all their strength to lay an emotional ghost of their own. Nevertheless, as they left Gary’s Fish Bar, Georgia was uneasily aware that those thumbs of hers were still pricking.
Christine Reynolds lived further along the same road as Gary’s Fish Bar. Number twenty-four Jameston Avenue, off the High Street, was in a terrace of Victorian or Edwardian houses, shouting of seaside architecture. Uniform gables, white-painted balconies and solid red-brick provided an aura of turn-of-the-nineteenth-century comfort, and as time passed they must have proved ideal for boarding houses.
The fish and chips lay uncomfortably in Georgia’s stomach as she walked beside Peter to the front door. Her tension was increasing, and a quick glance at her father reassured her that she was not alone in this. Now that the time had come, she realized just how much she – and she was sure Peter too – was relying on this meeting to settle their private unfinished business.
At last there was a chink of light in the shadow that had lain over them both for the past fourteen years: her brother Rick’s disappearance. The nearer they had approached the Reynoldses’ house, the more the ghost at the fish and chip shop was receding in her mind, and with ample reason.
Rick had vanished while on holiday in Brittany, and before this fragile lifeline had been thrown to them in the form of Christine Reynolds, his family had had no information on what had happened to him. Neither the police investigations nor their own had revealed any clue to his fate. Living with the lack of knowledge still had its effect, particularly on Peter, bringing nightmares and sleepless nights to them both. Since she had been living with Luke Frost, Georgia had mercifully had fewer, but that didn’t mean the constant tug was not still there in the background. Now there was hope at last.
Georgia could hear her heart beating as they waited for the door to open, and she had a sudden impulse to turn and run, in the hope of returning to the grey no-man’s-land they had lived in for so many years. Surely that would be better than reaching yet another dead end and facing that inevitable blow of disappointment? Suppose – but Peter thankfully cut short her train of thought.
‘Que sera, sera,’ he muttered as she heard footsteps approaching the door from inside. He had been a Doris Day fan in his youth, and his singing of her hit song ‘Whatever Will Be, Will Be’ had driven both Elena, his now divorced wife, and Georgia crazy over the years. The platitude had irritated her then, but now it seemed a relief.
The door opened, and the die was cast. No turning back now. Christine Reynolds looked about thirty-five – the same age as Rick would have been now. She was fair-haired dulling to brown, looked somewhat harassed and was very obviously pregnant. Practical loose trousers were offset by a jaunty tank top and an overblouse with penguins on it. Georgia rather liked the look of Christine, and her hopes rose.
‘My first baby,’ Christine announced with pride. ‘Due in August.’ She had explained on the phone that she was a teacher but would be at home that day, where it was easier to talk than at the school.
‘I hope you’re not expecting too much,’ she continued worriedly as she led them through the house to the rear. Peter’s wheelchair only just made it along the passageway, which had obstacles in the form of a table and two chairs. More concern, more reassurance from them.
‘Expecting no, hoping yes,’ Georgia replied. ‘It’s good of you to see us. We wanted to meet you rather than just talk on the phone. We’ve waited a long time for any news at all, and it will seem more real this way.’
Last year her mother, Elena, had come over from her home in France and thrown a bombshell at them – or lifeline, whichever way one looked at it. She had learned that a year or so after Rick had disappeared a girl had called at the farm where he had been staying in Brittany to ask if anyone knew where he could be contacted. The farmer could not help, and all he remembered about the girl was that she had lived on or near the Kentish coast. In the slight hope that even all these years later this mysterious girl might be able to provide a fragment of a clue to Rick’s disappearance, Peter had advertised in every local newspaper in Kent, not to mention Internet sources.
For months there had been no reply, and he had all but given up. Then something – perhaps Georgia’s marriage to Luke at Easter two months ago – had sparked a new hope in him, and Peter had tried one last round of advertisements. And this time Christine Reynolds had replied. She had just returned to Kent to live nearer her father in Broadstairs and had seen the curious advertisement.
Georgia went to help Christine make tea in the kitchen, disciplining herself not to burst out with the questions she longed to ask, until Peter could hear the answers too. But as soon as the tray was put down in the living room, she began nervously:
‘Did you know Rick before Brittany?’ Oh, the relief of simply being able to speak about him to anyone other than Luke and Peter.
‘No. I met him there. We were both staying at the same farmhouse. I was backpacking my way round the world on a gap year – I’d just graduated. That’s why I didn’t know he was missing.’ Christine looked worried again. ‘I’d come to Brittany to see the Carnac megaliths, but I was really on my way south. I went to Marseille and on from there, ending up in Australia. I wasn’t back for ten months or so, and by then I suppose the publicity about his disappearance had died down. I had no reason to contact Rick – didn’t even know his surname, th
ough I remembered he mentioned living in Kent.’
Georgia’s hopes plummeted. She had hoped for a brief summer romance, but this had obviously been a much more casual relationship.
Peter wasn’t giving up so soon. ‘So what made you call at the farmhouse again?’
‘It was just a whim. I was in Brittany again, a year or so after my return. I was doing a PhD in archaeology, and Rick had some interesting ideas that might have been useful if I could get in touch with him again. I thought he might have left his address in the farmhouse visitors’ book.’ She caught Georgia’s eye. ‘Nothing sexy about it,’ she added. ‘I only knew him for a few days, but we got on well – we both wanted to change the world, of course, or failing that just help it along a bit. We’d a lot in common. As well as archaeology we both had a passion for music.’
‘Music?’ Peter asked, looking as surprised as Georgia felt. ‘What in particular? I know he played the clarinet at one time, but I thought he’d dropped that by the time he reached university. Languages were his forte.’
‘Scarborough Fair’ – that was all Georgia could think of. It was Rick’s favourite song as a child. Had that led Rick on to something that his family hadn’t known about? She felt her stomach lurch at the thought of all the untaken opportunities to know him better. And yet . . . and yet . . . she had thought it impossible that anyone, even Peter or Elena, could have known him better than she did.
Christine looked equally astonished. ‘He talked about music all the time. It was his passion, whereas archaeology was only an interest.’
Georgia was still incredulous. The words ‘Are you sure?’ came to her lips but she suppressed them. Of course Christine was sure. This was the Rick she had known, albeit probably for only a few days. Rick had had many passions during his short life, most of which he had dropped after a month or two. Perhaps music was one of them and Christine had hit a particular moment when it was top of the list.
‘Mozart was his particular idol,’ Christine continued. ‘He talked endlessly about him. That might just have been because of Miss Blondie, of course.’
