by Amy Myers
‘Gemma sings wonderfully well,’ Georgia said. She was trying to concentrate on the Trents, but it was difficult. Rick, Miss Blondie and Mozart were still singing their way through her mind, and she had to steady herself for a moment.
‘Are you OK?’ Christine asked, concerned.
‘Sorry. It’s you who’s entitled to dizzy spells, not me.’
‘I’ve been having them too all this week. Clearing the house is no fun at all. Look, why don’t you come back to our house for a while after we’ve finished here? You might like to look through some of the stuff – a lot of it is Micky’s.’
‘Yes, please,’ Georgia said promptly. ‘But won’t you be tied up with family duties?’
‘No. It will give me a good excuse to avoid it, believe me. I’m knackered. I could take you, but not everyone else. Understand?’
Georgia smiled. ‘I do.’
‘I’ll do my family bit now, if you’ll excuse me.’ Christine moved off, leaving Georgia to join Colin and Peter.
‘I thought you’d be making for the Tom Watson circle,’ Colin said.
‘It looks like a circle that is pretty unbreakable, with everyone mentally gripping their neighbours’ hands.’
‘Right first time,’ Colin agreed.
‘Didn’t Ken manage to break into it?’ Georgia asked.
‘I don’t think so. He was scuttling round the periphery for years. He really thought he’d found a way in this time though. I doubt if he did. He never seemed to get enough central players on his side to take the story further.’
‘And that circle knows the identity of Joan’s real killer?’
‘Wish I knew,’ Colin said. ‘Or maybe I don’t. They’re a creepy lot. Maybe each of them is busy sheltering his or her own wounds and not caring about the others. Much better to let the past lie buried. That’s what I told Ken.’
But he had ignored it, and the result might well have led to this funeral, Georgia thought with a shiver.
‘Unless one takes Ken’s murder as coincidence,’ Peter said, ‘someone must have broken out of that circle to kill him. Question is: do the remainder know who it is?’
‘If I were in their shoes, I’d be playing ostrich,’ Colin said matter-of-factly.
Georgia could see his point, but she and Peter were past that stage. As she studied the group’s body language she decided that Harold Staines was indeed the pivot of the circle and should be their next target. Cherry was deep in conversation with him and the Trents, but Harold was glancing round as if planning his escape. She was right, for as Colin moved away, he came ambling across. He was still a commanding and robust man and even now had an air of leadership about him.
‘You must be Georgia and Peter Marsh. Cherry had been telling me about your project.’ He made it sound like a schoolroom module, Georgia thought with amusement.
‘I’m afraid she’ll still be expecting us to produce him alive,’ Peter said ruefully.
‘No disagreement there, but I don’t see what you two can do after all these years,’ Harold commented. ‘Not much forensic stuff for your magnifying glasses to pick up, is there?’ A hearty laugh might have been meant to indicate that no offence was intended – although of course he was using the art of gentle put-down.
‘Fortunately people remain much the same over the years. Only the lines on our faces get deeper,’ Peter retaliated, equally jovially. ‘Where do you stand on Tom Watson?’
‘He was a dear chap,’ Harold replied promptly.
‘Who committed a murder? Or was innocent as the jury decided?’
Harold studied him for a moment. ‘I remember only a man who was broken,’ he replied quietly.
An act? Perhaps not, Georgia thought. ‘The jury acquitted him.’
‘You were there that night,’ Peter said. ‘Was there no sign that you later wished you’d picked up on?’
‘He was no different then than on any other night.’
‘We were told there was an argument between Mavis and Joan, which he joined in.’
Harold laughed. ‘My dear chap, have you ever had anything to do with theatre? There are always temper tantrums. It’s one way of getting rid of the tension.’
‘In high drama perhaps, but in a variety show?’
‘It’s still performance,’ Harold said shortly. ‘Just offstage. Joan was the kind of woman who attracted trouble, and that depressed Tom. That’s all.’
‘Were you in the Black Lion that night?’
‘Not for long. Fifteen minutes or so. Look, there really seemed nothing different about the performance that night.’ Harold began to look his age. ‘Joan would arrive vibrant, enthusiastic and conscious of her looks. She lit up the room, you know. She really did. Tom would always be in her wake, the quiet kind. He was also genuinely pleased to see you, but he never showed anger, or jealousy. Even so, they had plenty of spats offstage, as with all the rest of the cast. We were all squashed together, so it was to be expected that tempers would flare. I wasn’t surprised when Tom went over the top. It was all boiling up inside him, with no outlet.’
‘But you didn’t want him back in the show after he walked free?’
‘I can see I’m already down as chief villain in your script.’ Harold pulled a face. ‘Tom didn’t want to rejoin the show, in fact. I did offer – and meant it – but he said no.’
‘Cherry said you were looking for a replacement for him after his arrest and acquittal.’
‘Not guilty.’ Harold looked annoyed. ‘Tom was in prison, not on bail. We all had livings to earn, including Sandy and Micky. We got a replacement immediately after the murder until the end of the season – only a month or so. We did without one for the following season, and when he was acquitted, I told Tom he could come back for the 1954 season.’
‘Did Tom accept?’ Georgia was inclined to believe him, for this sounded a reasonable story, even if it did slightly contradict what they had been told.
‘A bit of humming and hawing for pride, and then he said yes. I asked him how he’d get through the winter and spring, and he said he’d had one or two offers.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘Frankly, no, but I couldn’t tell him that. I thought I’d keep an eye on him through the winter to make sure he wasn’t starving to death. And I tried. Before you ask me, no, I didn’t think he would ever walk away and kill himself. It was hard to tell what he wanted to do. It wasn’t a case of “shall I do this or shall I do that?” but sheer apathy.’
‘Can you define the reason for that?’
‘No. Maybe he’d thought he was in for the big jump and was so surprised at being let off that he didn’t know what to do next. Maybe it was just losing Joan – and the kid. He adored Pamela, but Joan’s parents were a cussed, obstinate couple; he hadn’t a regular job and they weren’t giving her back. It was the last straw in my opinion.’
‘You kept in touch with him?’
‘After his release I used to pop round on a Sunday during the season. Then I got a bit erratic because I was trying to cast a pantomime in Margate and not doing well. I saw him one Saturday night in September, and he seemed much the same as usual, quiet and depressed. The following Saturday there was no reply, and no one had seen him during that week. He’d vanished.’
‘With or without his possessions?’
‘Hard to tell. I gather he left the flat just as it was when he was with Joan, but there was no one, not even Micky and Sandy, who could tell whether he’d taken some of his stuff.’
‘Had Cherry seen him that week?’
‘You’ll have to ask her that,’ he answered shortly, looking across to where his former wife was talking to Sandy. The look, Georgia thought, was far from loving. She wondered what kind of marriage they had had: with Cherry on the twittery side and Harold verging on the pompous, it seemed an awkward fit, which perhaps accounted for the marriage’s brevity, once the first ardour was over. ‘I doubt if you’ll get much more information from her though. No one has yet,’ Harol
d continued. ‘Some people are against raising the matter again,’ he said.
‘To the extent of murdering Ken?’
‘What?’ Harold looked as if he had been caught completely off guard. ‘Is that some kind of joke?’
‘No.’
Harold sat down heavily on one of the terrace chairs. He was very pale. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Bit of a shock. Is this your theory or the police’s?’
‘More than just ours, and the police are considering it.’ A slight exaggeration, but it was technically true. Peter was in touch with both Mike and the Thanet Area force.
‘I’d no idea. No idea at all.’ He looked up as Cherry came to join them and rose to his feet with some difficulty, still looking uncertain of his balance.
‘Darling Harold, are you telling Peter and Georgia all about the old days?’ Cherry said cheerfully. Without waiting for his reply, she rushed on, ‘We are having our reunion this year, aren’t we?’
‘Of course,’ Harold replied, though Georgia could detect little enthusiasm in his voice.
‘It will be Ken’s memorial,’ Cherry said. ‘He did so much for Tom.’
‘You mean Micky did?’ Georgia asked.
‘No, Ken,’ Cherry corrected her indignantly. ‘He came to see me after your visit, Georgia, and do you know what he told me? He knew exactly what had happened, and my Tom really was still alive.’
‘Cherry,’ Harold said sharply, ‘Tom would be in his mid to late eighties now. There would be over fifty years of his life that didn’t include me or you. You’re living in dreamland as usual.’
She looked at him with hurt eyes. ‘He wouldn’t die without coming to see me.’
‘Unless—’ Harold began, but he must have thought better of it. Unless what? Georgia wondered. Unless Tom had found another woman?
‘You’ll go on trying to find him, Georgia, won’t you?’ Cherry pleaded anxiously.
Find Tom himself? It was very unlikely. Fortunately a smile sufficed in answer as Cath Dillon came over to them. Georgia separated herself from the group, braced for the inevitable reproaches over her grandfather.
‘Grandpops told me you visited,’ Cath began, though to Georgia’s relief she seemed far more sanguine than she had expected.
‘I enjoyed meeting him.’
Cath shrugged. ‘I did my best, but I reckoned without him. Did you grill him like a sardine?’
‘We prefer our sardines to speak for themselves.’ Peter joined them as Harold and Cherry moved away. ‘Georgia tells me he’s the sort to do his own grilling.’
‘That’s true.’ Cath smiled. ‘It worries me,’ she added more seriously, ‘that he was involved with the Watsons. I didn’t know that – but why not? I’d talked to him often enough about the case. Isn’t that weird?’ She looked anxious.
‘Not necessarily.’ Georgia felt she could hardly shout out yes.
Cath’s eyes gleamed. ‘No need for fence-sitting. Do you think Grandpops is hiding something, or did he tell you all his little secrets?’
Georgia hesitated. ‘At present I prefer to think he’s not telling me everything.’
Cath dismissed this. ‘Because if so, I agree.’
One hurdle overcome, and with Cath on the same side as her, Georgia thought with relief, Charlie might continue to regard her as his cousin.
‘So,’ Cath continued, ‘can we call it quits and work together?’
Georgia hesitated. ‘Supposing we find out something hurtful to you?’
‘That’s a risk I have to take. I put my faith in Grandpops.’
‘Then yes, provisionally.’ Georgia had one eye on Peter, who was nodding. ‘You might feel differently if push comes to shove.’
‘And for starters,’ Peter said, ‘any hope of getting us near the Trents?’ Obviously he had overcome any prejudice against information sharing, Georgia thought. ‘We don’t seem to be their favourite people.’
‘Then you’re in the vast majority. Look at them.’ Cath waved a hand in their direction. ‘What do they look like to you?’
‘Rich fat cats?’ Georgia looked at the exquisitely suited couple in late middle age. Matthew was holding forth, taking centre stage, while Pamela’s face looked blank. She was a striking woman though, and in her youth must have been a stunner. But now? The face said nothing to her – yet. Matthew looked in his mid sixties and his wife in her late fifties, so as she had thought, first-hand knowledge was unlikely for both of them.
‘That’s a stereotype,’ Peter observed.
‘When they open their mouths to us, they’ll be people,’ Georgia shot back.
Cath smiled. ‘I can see why Charlie is so fond of you both. You’d better meet Gemma first.’
‘Are she and Greg Dale an item?’
‘Don’t know. Childhood friends at least.’
Gemma’s headed for the bright lights, Georgia thought as Cath marched them over to the couple. Greg, however, struck her as the sort of lad who would think his own great talents were being belittled if his companion’s were extolled, and his arrogant stance diminished the effect of his good looks.
‘Are you training professionally, Gemma?’ Georgia asked, having praised her singing. With her fair hair and wonderful voice, it was hard to keep Miss Blondie out of her mind.
‘No. I’m reading maths at uni.’
‘Maths and music often go together.’
Gemma grinned. ‘Maths are more useful.’
The sight of Marsh & Daughter chatting to Gemma brought her parents quickly over to them, as it must have been obvious who they were.
‘I believe we’ve spoken on the telephone, Miss Marsh.’
To Georgia’s surprise, Matthew’s tone suggested it had been the jolliest chat ever, which was useful as it paved the way for Peter to engage him in light conversation while Cath, with practised ease, took Gemma away. Once alone with Pamela, Georgia was relieved to find that she was a great deal more approachable than her husband.
‘I’m sorry we had to be so firm,’ Pamela said immediately. ‘Ken was really going over the top with one theory after another, and we had to call a halt. We’ve had quite a few such approaches over the years.’
‘Theories about the trial or about what happened to your father later?’ Georgia tried to look concerned solely on Pamela’s account.
Pamela looked ill at ease, however, and Georgia regretted she had rushed in so quickly. ‘All sorts,’ Pamela answered vaguely. ‘Mostly just rehashes of the same old story, trying to get my angle for a quote. Of course, Tom wasn’t my real father. My mother was married twice and my real father died before I was born.’
Georgia tried not to look as stunned as she felt. Tom not her father? That had been blindingly obvious, she supposed, if they’d thought about it – but no mention had been made of it by anyone else. Was it publicly known, she wondered? She was so busy working out the ramifications that she jumped in shock at a loud guffaw behind her – not from Pamela, but from Mavis, who had crept up without Georgia being aware of it.
‘Come off it, Pam darling. Of course Daddy didn’t die. Not then anyway.’ Mavis lurched forward and wagged her finger in Pamela’s face. ‘Naughty, naughty. Second marriage indeed.’
In a trice Matthew was back with them, trying to lead Mavis away from an appalled Pamela, who was staring at Mavis as though she couldn’t even remember who she was.
Mavis promptly threw his restraining arm off. ‘Keep out of it, Matthew. Get a drink for your dear old mother-in-law.’
It took a moment or two for Georgia to work this out, but when she did the answer to Pamela’s parentage was clear. David Maclyn had been her father – if Mavis had it right, of course.
‘That’s not true, Mavis,’ Pamela managed to whisper. ‘My father’s name was Sidney Wilson and he died of war wounds.’
‘Quite right, dear.’ Mavis nodded vigorously. ‘Let’s all be posh and pretend it didn’t happen.’
Pamela was so white Georgia thought she might be about to faint. ‘Let’s think
of Ken, shall we?’ she said, with the only intervention she could think of.
Mavis took a caustic look at her. ‘Pardon me for asking, but who the hell are you?’
‘Georgia Marsh.’
This met with Mavis’s favour, surprisingly. ‘Oh yeah. Ken told me. You and the chap in the wheelchair are writing that book. Well, well, what a brave couple to walk into the lions’ den. And you’re quite right, of course. Frightfully bad form to chat about adultery at a funeral.’
‘Mavis . . .’ Cath tried to help, but was faced down as Mavis simply handed her the empty glass that Matthew had not rushed to refill.
‘Kindly look after this, my dear. I want a few words with Sherlock and Watson here.’
Pamela was trembling with what seemed genuine shock as Mavis planted herself firmly in their path. ‘You just come to see me, ducky,’ she crooned to Pamela. ‘I’ll tell you all about your daddy.’
‘More lies?’ Matthew shouted at her.
‘And more truth about darling Joan, of course. Pamela’s lovely mummy, who drove my husband to his death.’
After that it was a race between Cath and Georgia as to who would distract Mavis first, and Georgia won. ‘Why don’t we get another drink, Mavis?’ she suggested, slipping an arm round her. ‘Then you can chat to Cherry.’
Mavis beamed at her. ‘Lovely idea, darling. Do I know you?’
‘You will, Mavis,’ Georgia assured her, acquiring an orange juice for her at the bar. Mavis looked at it, turned it upside down, flooding herself and Georgia with juice, then handed the empty glass back with great aplomb. The ploy – if it was – worked, Georgia thought ruefully, as when she’d finished mopping herself down, she saw Mavis chatting to Cherry. They looked as if they were the best of friends – perhaps because Joan had been the bête noire of both ladies.
‘Ring a ring o’roses, all fall down,’ Peter mused on the way home. Georgia had offered to drive Mavis home too, and she was now sound asleep on the rear seat, together with a box of Micky’s diaries, a treasure trove from the pile that Christine had just shown them. Georgia had made her apologies for not staying longer and explained about Peter and Mavis awaiting her outside. Christine had seemed relieved, in fact, which was hardly surprising. ‘Which of the ladies falls down?’ Peter finished. ‘No contest. The one on our back seat.’
