Murder Takes the Stage

by Amy Myers

  ‘No to the first; he was reliable at least. Yes to the second.’

  ‘But obviously he didn’t this time. Could he have typed the story on the computers here?’

  ‘Nope. I checked,’ Cath said. ‘We’re doing a big feature on him, of course, and it would have been good to use his story, scoop or no scoop. But I can’t get at his home computer – even if it’s still there. It’s an official crime scene, because of the break-in. I’m waiting for his daughter to give me the all-clear.’

  ‘I’ve met Christine. It must be very tough for her.’

  ‘She’s a trouper though. She’ll help if she can,’ Cath said. ‘We’re going to make a big thing of Ken having been Micky Winton’s son, and the Watson murder.’

  Georgia felt more hopeful. This could spark public interest back to the point where interesting details might emerge from the woodwork. Would that make or mar the case for Marsh & Daughter entering the scene? She had a stab of guilt at this self-interest when Ken’s death was so recent and could have been due to the same cause.

  ‘I suppose he gave you no idea of what the scoop might have been? Though I realize,’ Georgia added hastily, ‘that you couldn’t tell me what it is.’

  Will grinned. ‘No. But I can tell you his pet theory was that Tom Watson did not commit suicide. He just disappeared off the radar and created another life somewhere.’

  ‘Is that really possible?’ Even if it was, it seemed low-key, and only reproduced what Cherry Harding believed. Unless, of course, Ken had actually discovered a line on what that other life had been. ‘Did he have evidence for that?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. That’s the problem.’ Will leaned back in his chair. ‘You say you met Christine Reynolds, Georgia. She’s writing a piece about Ken to go with Cath’s feature on the family, and bringing in the Watson murder. How about adding a bit from your professional standpoint? Interesting case and all that. Might do a book on it, etcetera.’

  ‘You’re on,’ Georgia agreed promptly. ‘But would Christine be up to it?’

  ‘She sounds as if she’d be glad of anything and anyone to occupy her mind,’ Cath said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Cath was right. Georgia had been ready to back out, if Christine could not take both her and Cath arriving together. As Cath had predicted, however, she seemed eager to see them both, even though her face looked as if she had not slept since the news of her father’s death had been broken to her.

  ‘Colin’s in France,’ Christine explained, ‘and can’t get back until tomorrow. I’m going quietly spare here on my own. At least this gives me something to do. I’m going crazy telephoning people with the news, unable to say anything about the funeral or what’s going to happen, and just going over the details time and time again either with the police or to myself. That’s the worst bit.’

  ‘Would you like to get out of the house?’ Georgia suggested, knowing all too well how four walls could so easily close in at such a time. ‘We could do the feature story later.’

  ‘Yes, I would. That’s why I particularly wanted to see you. The police have rung. I can go round to the house, but I didn’t feel like going alone. I went to see them there yesterday to see if anything had been taken, but today I’d be alone. So I need company – and the more professional, the better, so I can pretend it isn’t happening.’

  Georgia knew how that felt. She’d often done that herself, and sometimes it helped. Sometimes, however, it just put off the evil moment when the situation had to be faced. As they walked out of Christine’s home, the sun came out as if in encouragement. Christine looked even more heavily pregnant now than when she had seen her three weeks earlier, and perhaps the sun would help to raise her spirits just a little. Not only did Christine have to deal with the death of a father she had clearly been devoted to, but now she had to cope with the aftermath.

  Number 59 struck a sombre note even from the outside, although no police were present, as Christine had predicted. ‘The police think that whoever killed my father took his keys and then helped himself,’ she explained. ‘That included Dad’s computer, I’m afraid, which would tie in with a random killing and a follow-up burglary, or I suppose the computer could have been the real target.’

  This was no more than Georgia had expected, but even so it was a hard blow. Nevertheless, there might be something here to help. She steeled herself to enter the house; it was hard enough for her, after having visited Ken so recently, so she could imagine how terrible Christine must be feeling. An empty house has an atmosphere all its own, and one with a story such as this was even more depressing, with all the signs of life suddenly interrupted, the unwashed mug and glass, the supper plate not yet consigned to the dishwasher. There were no signs of upheaval in the kitchen, however, unlike Ken’s office, which was a mess. Georgia could see files and drawers emptied on to the floor in heaps, which would make it difficult to tell what was missing.

  ‘Did Ken have a backup for his computer?’ Georgia asked. It was a forlorn hope that whoever had done this had not thought of this obvious possibility. If it was a chance burglary, however, it would have been the laptop that would be marginally worth pinching.

  ‘He had a backup hard disk. I don’t see that either.’

  Only the printer remained on Ken’s desk, and helped by Cath, Georgia began to tidy up the mess on the floor, though with little chance of finding anything of interest. The papers seemed to be all tax and bill related, not work notes.

  ‘Were any other rooms raided?’ she asked Christine.

  ‘The bedrooms. Look at them if you like.’

  They too presented a depressing scene. It persuaded Georgia, however, that it was Ken’s work the thief was after, not valuables. Drawers had been emptied, and yet a gold watch had been ignored.

  ‘The photos,’ Georgia remembered. ‘Ken showed a box of them – have they gone too?’

  Christine’s face lit up. ‘I know the one you mean. I didn’t check. He kept it in the living room, not his office – don’t know why, except that there were family photos in it.’

  Georgia followed Christine downstairs, hardly daring to hope.

  ‘They were kept in here.’ Christine opened up a box chest that doubled as a stool and could therefore have escaped the intruder’s notice. Inside was the box Georgia recognized, and she was conscious that Cath was peering over her shoulder and equally excited. Christine looked from one to the other and managed a grin. ‘Let’s take these back to my home. You can fight over them in comfort. Besides, I need to get out of here.’

  ‘This should stir something up.’ As Georgia arrived on Friday morning, Peter was scanning the Broadstairs Chronicle, which she had asked the Haden Shaw newsagent to order for them. ‘Well done. You come over as quite an authority on Tom Watson.’

  The newspaper had not only devoted its front page to the murder but also included a double-page feature on Ken written by Cath. Another whole page was devoted to his obituary, and facing that was Christine’s tribute, plus an article focusing on the interest still felt in the Watson murder, together with her own contribution.

  ‘Georgia Marsh,’ she read, ‘of the Marsh & Daughter partnership, well known for its true-crime studies, spoke to our reporter Cath Dillon: “The trial of Tom Watson for murdering his wife, which ended in his acquittal, is an interesting one. I am sure there are still avenues to be explored. According to Ken Winton, there are unanswered questions, and that always attracts Marsh & Daughter. Tom Watson’s ghost is popularly thought to haunt his former residence – could it be that he too thinks that justice has not yet been done? After all, the true murderer of Joan Watson was never found.”’

  ‘That might bring a few creepy-crawlies out of the woodwork,’ Peter said with satisfaction.

  ‘Perhaps too many.’ Georgia was uneasily aware that now the die was cast. Marsh & Daughter had firmly nailed their colours to the Tom Watson mast and now needed to set sail in earnest. Ken had not sent them any photos by email, as Peter had asked, but she had now had
time to look far more carefully at the box of photos than Ken’s rushed overview had provided. It had convinced her that Marsh & Daughter could not abandon ship on this case, which now included not only Tom but possibly Ken.

  Some of the photos of the groups of young men and women in the fifties had been identified on the back, but many were not. There were a lot of family photos, of a smiling Micky, wife and son. Some of these had been taken much later than the fifties, judging by the use of colour and the clothes. Christine had looked equally at a loss when asked to identify the fifties photos. But then Georgia had discovered the white envelope she had noticed while the box was open in Ken’s garden. These photos were a mixture, and one in particular had struck her. It was of Tom and Cherry together, taken on the pier, and just seeing their obvious happiness had convinced Georgia that the fingerprints at Gary’s Fish Bar had not lied. There was a story there, which needed to be followed up.

  Christine had been reluctant to let the photos out of her possession, and no wonder at such a time, but she offered to scan those that Georgia was interested in and send them with their captions by email – and to do the same for Cath. Full marks: she had done so right away, and Peter had pounced on them, not least with the Marsh & Daughter website in mind.

  The publicity in the Chronicle brought quick results, in the form of a phone call from Fenella Dale on behalf of her father, Sandy Smith.

  ‘My father,’ Fenella said, ‘would greatly like to meet you. Would you be free to visit him next Tuesday, the tenth?’

  Georgia could see Peter nodding vigorously as she agreed. ‘She made it sound like an imperial summons,’ she commented uneasily as she put the phone down. Hadn’t this response been just a little too prompt?

  ‘Carers,’ remarked Peter, somewhat bitterly. ‘They’re all like that.’

  Sandy Smith’s house was along the North Foreland Road on the way to Kingsgate. Set well back from the sea and high above it, it was the sort of home that a retired naval man might choose, rather than a conjurer. Plenty of sea air and open space around. The grounds of the house were large, and parking was easy, which pleased Georgia, as Peter had been particularly keen to come on this visit.

  As Fenella Dale had not sounded overfriendly on the phone, Peter could well be right that she was a protective carer, especially as she had warned them that her father was very upset over Ken’s death. She had made it sound as though it were their fault, and pray heaven she wasn’t right, Georgia had thought. Had Sandy Smith been outraged at the Chronicle story’s implication that there was more to be discovered about the Watson murder? She braced herself for a difficult time.

  Sea View – the house’s anodyne name – was a relatively modern house, nineteen sixties perhaps, with bland white-painted woodwork. There was a double garage to one side, with an old Bentley parked outside. The car was being washed by a tall, heavily built middle-aged man, perhaps Fenella’s husband, with such pride that he must have been either the owner or the chauffeur, or both.

  Fenella, who opened the door, looked about fifty and a late flowering product of the sixties or seventies, as she was clad in flowing Indian robes, making her a majestic figure. In that way she reminded Georgia of Janie, who also had a penchant for such flowing garments, although Janie had a much gentler, softer face and was younger and slimmer.

  Fenella seemed to be sizing them both up keenly as she offered them coffee, indicating that Sandy was to be found in his study to the left of the front door. ‘Don’t upset him,’ she barked ominously.

  It was more likely to be the other way round at this rate, Georgia thought crossly as they made their way in. The sight of the room startled her so much that the old man sitting in the wing armchair by the window went unnoticed for a moment. This was both a clown’s room and a magician’s. Puppets in clown costumes, blown-up photos of the Three Joeys, boxes of conjurer’s gear, colourful scarves swathed round a magician’s recess – it was an Aladdin’s cave, so stuffed with memorabilia that Georgia expected a genie to loom up any moment. There were framed programmes on the walls, and more photos of the Three Joeys, like the ones she had seen in Ken’s box. There were others in magician’s gear, indicating, she guessed, Sandy’s career post-Broadstairs while travelling round the country with his show. It was the clowns who drew her attention most, however. Distance of time had bestowed sadness on those supposedly merry faces, especially considering how they had ended. There was also a clown’s outfit displayed in one corner, as though Sandy were about to leap into it. A top hat and wand lay by its side, and a large picture of the entire cast of Waves Ahoy! took pride of place on one wall.

  ‘I’ve got a war record, you know.’ The voice from the armchair startled her into awareness that Sandy Smith had been watching their reactions to his room.

  ‘That’s a fine thing,’ Peter said politely.

  ‘Yeah. Vera Lynn’s. Get it?’ A cackle, and Sandy Smith stretched out a hand that could have been a claw. ‘Sandy Smith, late of the Three Joeys. And the three Cs. Conjurer, Clown, Comedian.’

  ‘The Two Ms,’ Peter responded, wheeling the chair up to him. ‘Georgia Marsh and Peter Marsh.’

  ‘Of Mystery and Murder?’ Sandy chuckled.

  ‘Strictly in written form,’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Hear that, Fen?’

  Fenella had brought four mugs on a tray into the room, cleared a space on a table for it, and sat down to superintend proceedings. Oh yes, the perfect carer, Georgia thought. Sandy had a blanket over his knees, but his face and eyes were as alert as a man half his age. It was easy to see that this man had been the leader of the Three Joeys. He had the energy and verve that the others – probably nicer men – lacked, if their photos were anything to go by.

  ‘Now, what’s all this about Tom?’ Sandy asked. ‘Bad do about Ken being killed. Micky Winton was a nice chap, and so was his son. Who did it? Do they know yet?’

  ‘No arrests yet.’

  ‘Not the same thing.’

  Peter grinned. ‘No, but it’s the only news we’re getting ourselves. We’re on the periphery of the case.’

  ‘But you’re thinking of writing up old Tom’s case though?’

  ‘If there’s more to find out, it’s possible.’

  ‘Always more to find out. It’s whether it’s worth doing is the point.’

  ‘Would you be against it?’

  ‘Why should I be? Ken used to rattle on about Tom and how his dad thought he was innocent, but I couldn’t see the attraction of the theory myself. Tom killed himself, and that was that. It’s over. History.’

  ‘According to Ken, you couldn’t back up Tom’s claim that he’d been in the pub with you.’

  ‘No, and you know why not? Because he wasn’t in the Black Lion that night.’

  ‘Could it just be that you didn’t see him there? Cherry says they were in one of the smaller bars.’

  He snorted in disgust. ‘Cherry would. Believe me, we’d have seen them. It’s not that big a place.’

  ‘Did you see her there?’

  ‘Yeah, I think she popped in, and so did Micky and Harold, but I do know Tom wasn’t there. And you know why? I still reckon he put the knife in Joan. I’m soon joining the vast majority up above, and so I’ll cast my vote with the majority here on earth too.’

  ‘Micky didn’t think he did it.’

  ‘Didn’t he? He talked as if he did, until after the verdict. He was a softie was Micky. No one spoke out in public. But Micky and me, we talked it over.’

  ‘Tom didn’t admit to the murder to the police.’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘My guess is,’ Peter said, ‘that Ken didn’t think he was guilty either. He had fresh evidence.’

  Sandy cackled. ‘Poor old Ken. He wanted his scoop. So first Tom was guilty, then he wasn’t. Then he decided Tom was still alive – Cherry liked that one – then he wasn’t. No use going by what Ken thought. It changed every few weeks.’

  ‘Why,’ Georgia persisted, ‘are you so sure
Tom was guilty?’

  ‘Joan was a real corker, that’s why. Treated Tom like dirt. She left him to look after the kid, while she flung her legs around wherever she liked. Tom got tired of it, that’s all.’

  ‘And that evening, he snapped?’

  ‘We’d had a bad performance. Nothing special, but flat. Everyone was off-colour. We said we’d go the pub to cheer up, but I reckon Joan had other ideas. Tired, she said. That woman was never tired. Not of sex, anyway. I should know. She made big eyes at me, and I wasn’t married, so I thought why not?’

  A step forward? If Sandy was on Joan’s list, it certainly was.

  Sandy must have noted her sudden interest. ‘Not on the cards that night, ducky. Me and my Jeannie were going steady then, married a year or two later, so I was on my best behaviour. We were both in the Black Lion.’

  ‘If Joan was expecting company, it must have been with someone else in the show or she couldn’t have been sure that she would be going home alone,’ Peter pointed out.

  Sandy’s eyes shifted slightly. ‘No names, no pack drill, but she’d plenty to choose from,’ he told them nonchalantly.

  ‘Did you notice anyone else’s absence from the pub? I realize,’ Georgia added hastily, ‘that it’s over half a century ago now, but you must all have discussed it at the time.’

  ‘Likely we did, but then we all thought Tom was guilty, so we weren’t doing any Hercule Poirot stuff.’ There was an edge to his voice, which suggested the barriers were going up, and Georgia hastily changed tack. ‘And his suicide? Do you believe he could still be alive?’

  Fenella intervened quickly. ‘You’ve been talking to Cherry Harding, haven’t you? From what I gather, Tom wasn’t what I’d call a survivor. He’s gone, and that’s for sure.’

  Sandy nodded, looking at them with the hooded eyes of age. ‘I reckon he meant to go to the pub but changed his mind. He walked home and scotched Joan’s plans.’ A pause.