Murder Takes the Stage

by Amy Myers

‘Why shouldn’t I? It was his wife after all, and I loved Tom. We were going to marry as soon as we could.’

  ‘When did you tell Tom about Harold?’

  ‘Well, it’s such ages ago, I can’t be sure,’ Cherry replied, looking perplexed. ‘I’m really not. I don’t think it was long before she died.’

  Georgia waited – and sure enough it came.

  ‘In fact,’ Cherry looked close to tears, ‘it could have been that night. I really don’t remember. But if it was . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Georgia forced herself to say quickly. ‘It couldn’t have made any difference.’

  But it might have done. Talk about last straws. That evening Tom might have heard that Pamela was not his child, or perhaps now that Joan might have had yet another lover, or both. What would that have done to him?

  It would have to be Matthew Trent she met first, not Pamela. Georgia took the bull by the horns, and in this case a particularly nasty bull. He had been friendly enough at the funeral, but this was his own turf, and she didn’t rate her chances highly. ‘I thought your speech was excellent – and it’s such a good fête. Sandy’s show was great fun.’ Nothing wrong with gushing every now and then.

  ‘Thank you.’ It wasn’t exactly gracious, but it was an olive branch, or at least a twig. ‘He’s a great chap, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. He hesitated, and she thought he was about to give her another earful. He did not, however, but simply murmured, ‘If you’ll excuse me . . .’

  Time to attack. ‘We’re progressing on Tom Watson,’ she told him, ‘but I do want to assure you I wouldn’t want to upset your wife.’

  Matthew Trent did not look angry as she had expected, but he muttered something in reply and hurried on to the next group. He clearly had something on his mind, and out of curiosity she followed him as he walked towards the tea garden, where he sat at a table with Sandy Smith. Sandy was in his wheelchair, but there was no sign of Fenella or Greg. Vic Dale made a third at the table, however.

  Did that mean the Tom Watson case could not have been quite so far from Matthew’s mind as he pretended? Georgia decided she was going over the top. Vic worked for Matthew after all. However, it did mean it might be an excellent moment to speak to Pamela. There was no sign of her on the tea lawn, and she tracked her down eventually to the coconut shy, where she was talking to Peter and apparently enjoying having a go at the coconuts herself. Peter was now accompanied by a giant teddy bear, but not by Janie, who must have been with Luke. As Georgia joined them, they seemed to be talking about Charles Dickens, but on her arrival, Peter promptly changed tack. ‘Georgia met Alison Wetherby the other day.’

  ‘Who?’ Pamela looked blank.

  ‘She used to babysit at the Jameston Avenue flat when Tom and Joan were at the show.’

  Pamela stiffened. ‘Yes, you mentioned a neighbour. I don’t remember her.’

  ‘She remembered you, naturally enough, and so did her mother.’ Georgia waited to see if this would bring any results.

  Pamela swallowed. ‘I don’t remember anything about an Alison. I do remember a Beryl Wetherby. That must have been this neighbour. I only remember my grandparents clearly.’

  ‘They must have hated Tom, if they still believed he killed your mother, despite the trial verdict.’

  ‘They did.’ There was a silence, which Georgia was determined not to break, and nor did Peter. It worked, for Pamela gave way. ‘I suppose I should tell you, but please don’t quote me on this, as they say.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’d like you to see it from my point of view.’

  ‘No quoting without permission,’ Peter said.

  Pamela seemed reassured. ‘My grandparents never talked to me about the murder. People didn’t in those days. All I remember were the heavy silences if my mother was mentioned as I grew up. The general atmosphere of mystery and hatred. They were at such pains to tell me my mother was married twice and Tom was not my father that I knew something was wrong. As I got older, I found out, of course, but not through them. I tackled them about it, and then I did get the story – after a fashion.

  ‘My mother was the most lovable, dutiful, beautiful girl in the world, according to my grandparents,’ she continued, ‘and Tom a monster who beat her and finally killed her. Of course I believed it, but then I discovered he had been acquitted, which didn’t tie up. In my adolescence I began to get more inquisitive. Nothing made sense. I talked to Micky, Sandy, Harold and even poor Cherry, though at home she had been branded as a scarlet woman who doubtless drove Tom to murder on her behalf. I got an overall picture of my mother being promiscuous, and Tom a henpecked husband who wanted his freedom and probably murdered to get it. But I could see for myself that Cherry was no scarlet woman, just a kid who’d never grown up. What I didn’t find out until Ken Winton’s funeral was that David Maclyn was my father. I guessed there’d been no first marriage for my mother, but I’d presumed my father must be Tom and therefore that I had either a wimp or a murderer, or both, for a parent. So I put the whole thing behind me.’

  ‘And then we came along.’

  Pamela managed a smile. ‘Don’t blame yourselves. Ken was always buzzing around like a wasp waiting for his big coup.’

  ‘Did you know what it was?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, if he told me, I’ve no recollection of it.’

  ‘Did your grandparents ever give you reason to think Tom wasn’t dead? And did they move home in Broadstairs?’ Interesting, Georgia thought. Pamela wasn’t in eye contact any more.

  ‘Yes, to the latter,’ Pamela replied. ‘They moved to Ramsgate to get away from the gossip. That’s the home I remember. As to Tom not being dead, he had every reason to kill himself. Cherry never believed it, of course, but when Ken Winton started questioning me about it, I did get upset.’

  Pamela stopped speaking, as though she’d gone a step too far, so now was the time. Peter must have realized that too, for he said, ‘We have a witness who said that Tom Watson came back in the nineteen seventies, especially to see you. Did Ken know that?’

  Pamela tensed up, and for a moment Georgia thought she was going to walk away from them, but she controlled herself. ‘This is most definitely off the record,’ she said wearily. ‘When Ken pestered me – and he did pester – about Tom, I remembered something that had happened ages ago, which I’d successfully buried. He knew about it, or at least suspected, or I wouldn’t have told him. He said he’d publish the story anyway.’

  ‘Would you tell us?’

  She shrugged. ‘It almost doesn’t matter any more. What harm can it do? I was married by that time and living in St Peter’s, at the back of Broadstairs past the railway bridge. I thought the old story was well buried in the past. Well, it was my birthday, the fourteenth of July, and I think it was 1974. Gemma hadn’t been born anyway. I was stopped almost at my doorstep by this peculiar-looking man. Not exactly a vagabond but hardly smart, yet it was his look that alerted me to something odd – wild and sort of despairing. Not violent though, so I wasn’t frightened in that way. “Are you Pamela?” he asked. “Pamela Watson?” I was very wary, but the name Watson drew me up. “Trent,” I said. “I’m married.” “Be careful,” he replied. He was looking so anxious. “Do be careful.” “About what?” I answered. “Everything,” he said hopelessly. I thought he was mad, so tried to walk on home, but he stopped me again. “Are you happy?” he asked. I was, so I told him so, and it seemed to cheer him up. “I’m Tom,” he said. “I came to wish you a happy birthday, but I won’t come again. Don’t be upset.” He walked away, but I really was worried by that. “Tom who?” I called, but I think I already guessed. “Tom Watson,” he replied. I was so stunned, I just let him walk off, and by the time I’d recovered there was no sign of him. I rang Matthew, and when he got home an hour or two later, we discussed what to do – nothing, was our decision. My grandparents would be upset if we told them. Tom was officially dead by this time, and there was no proof it was him anyway. He could h
ave been a madman who happened to find out it was my birthday. We never told anybody, and certainly not Cherry. If she had seen him, it would have been all over Broadstairs, but there was no sign of that.’

  ‘Alison Wetherby knows. He called at her mother’s home first.’

  ‘Thankfully she must have kept quiet too.’

  ‘Thankfully?’ Peter queried.

  Pamela flushed. ‘I’m sorry. It seems cruel, but I’m not good at coping. I couldn’t cope if he were still alive. It’s best to forget it, so I have.’

  The Magic Flute – of course. On this afternoon of surprises, Georgia supposed it was inevitable that there would be one last twist. She could never have guessed that ‘Singalong’ with Gemma Trent would include the duet between Papageno and Papagena, especially with Greg supplying the baritone role, rather than the audience, for this ‘singalong’. His voice hardly matched Gemma’s, but he held his own, partly because he turned out to be such a good actor. Too good perhaps, because by the end of the duet, they had ceased to be Greg and Gemma in Georgia’s mind. All she could see was another young man and a girl with long blonde hair.

  ‘Why did you choose that, Gemma?’ she asked her afterwards, rather shakily. Peter seemed to have had a similar reaction, for he left quickly with Janie. Internet hunting was under one’s own control to do as and when one pleased, but this unexpected reminder might have pushed him a step too far. Like Janie, Georgia thought ironically. She had seen Janie put her hand on Peter’s shoulder at one point in the afternoon – a hand Peter ever so gently removed.

  Gemma looked pleased. ‘Greg knew the piece as we do it at concerts, so I thought why not? After all, Mozart was the pop star of his day, and he deserved a whirl here too. How’s your Tom Watson hunt going?’

  So she knew about that. Hardly a surprise, Georgia thought, and Greg must have picked up on the story from the Trents. ‘Lots of loose ends,’ she replied lightly. ‘Not many knots tied yet.’

  ‘That’s what the Flute is all about, isn’t it?’ the girl replied. ‘A quest with lots of serpents and baddies and trials turning up en route until you reach journey’s end. It’s a path to the truth.’

  ‘It never seems as clear as that when you’re actually on the path,’ Georgia joked, trying to keep Rick well distanced. Greg had come to join them, and she was aware he was sizing up the situation, perhaps wondering how to make his mark on it.

  ‘Maybe you’re not using your own magic flute. You need a few guiding boys to show you the way, like in the opera,’ he said with a straight face.

  ‘Feel like having a go, Greg?’ Georgia shot back.

  ‘Sure. Suits me down to the ground. The lads don’t do much in the Flute anyway, just hang around and watch where the hero’s putting his big feet. Best stick to the straight and narrow and keep your feet clean – don’t you agree, Georgia?’

  ‘Sure. Suits me down to the ground. The lads don’t do much in the Flute anyway, just hang around and watch where the hero’s putting his big feet. Best stick to the straight and narrow and keep your feet clean – don’t you agree, Georgia?’

  NINE

  ‘What about Pamela’s story?’ Peter asked on Monday morning. ‘Do you put it down as at least part fantasy? Long-lost father who pays her one magical visit and then vanishes?’

  Georgia had been asking herself this question throughout the remainder of the weekend and was still in two minds. ‘Cherry makes no secret of her fantasies, whereas Pamela most certainly guarded this secret. You still think we shouldn’t talk to Cherry about Tom’s return?’

  ‘No. Firstly, even if we made no mention of Pamela, Cherry would be round to see her like a shot. Secondly, Tom didn’t go to see her or, as far as we know, any other old chums in Broadstairs, apart from Mrs Wetherby. The story would have spread if he had. Thirdly, it doesn’t affect our core issue of who killed Joan Watson.’

  ‘It does,’ Georgia argued. ‘What about Ken? It’s a living issue, not a dead one, if his murder was connected with Tom’s return here.’

  ‘Point to you.’ Peter drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘What does Luke think about this case? He sounds committed enough, but is he going to give us a contract?’

  ‘There’s been talk of it,’ Georgia said cautiously. Work overlapping with marriage was a quicksand area in more ways than just talking shop out of hours.

  Luke had been so full of a problem over another book – not one of Marsh & Daughter’s, luckily – that she hadn’t wanted to distract him. She suspected she was taking the wrong approach, however, and perhaps it was one she would not have taken a year ago. Why had marriage made a difference? she wondered. Had it made her feel more emotionally involved in Frost & Co? Logic said no, but it still seemed a possibility.

  ‘Talk to him some more,’ Peter said briefly. ‘We need publisher backup.’

  She was inclined to agree with him. ‘So where next? If the old gang did see Tom in the 1970s, they’re holding back for their own reasons, and we won’t get any further.’

  Peter groaned. ‘Nothing for it but to tackle it from the other end. One more dive into the website replies.’

  She shared his reluctance. There on the desk lay a hard copy of the list, with added notes based on Peter’s email follow-ups. These were always of limited help, as a human voice was needed for them to sum up the potential of each one. So far they were only a fraction of the way through. ‘Now?’ she asked.

  ‘I fear so. Let colour-coding battle commence.’

  Each reply, whether hopeful or not, had to be colour coded accordingly with the sighting and witnesses’ own locations indicated on maps, not to mention also be fed into the Suspects Anonymous software. Colour-coding was the quickest way to eliminate the hopeful from the irrelevant. Some ruled themselves out immediately (flagged in green), some were definitely hopeful (red), some less so (blue) – and yellow indicated a grey area. Yellows were the hardest to deal with.

  As Margaret brought coffee in, Georgia was still hard at it. ‘There’s a nice bunch together,’ Margaret casually commented.

  Surprised, Georgia sat back and looked with some surprise to where Margaret’s finger was pointing; she had been too close to it to notice how they were accumulating. On the London map there were four reds in the Edgware Road area and three in Soho. ‘Thanks,’ she said gratefully.

  ‘I know that bit of the world,’ Margaret told her. ‘Dave had an auntie and uncle up the Edgware Road somewhere. We used to see them once a year or so and do a show in town.’

  ‘When would that have been?’

  She pondered. ‘Late seventies maybe? We hadn’t been married long. They were just beginning to smarten up the area.’

  ‘It’s more likely Tom Watson lived there than in Soho then,’ Peter said.

  ‘I’d have thought so,’ Margaret replied. ‘A good place to disappear. Mind you, so was Soho. You could bury yourself for good there and no one would notice.’

  ‘Now that,’ Peter commented, ‘is what I call a good omen. Two good places to disappear, if Tom wanted to be anonymous. Let’s try Edgware Road first.’

  With coffee and renewed hope, Georgia tackled the job again and prepared to face ordeal by telephone. More decisions to be made. ‘We don’t know that the red sightings are necessarily correct,’ she pointed out. ‘Witnesses are going to know where they are but could be less sure about where they think they saw Tom.’

  ‘Unwillingly accepted,’ Peter groused. ‘Those living in, say, the Soho area may have sighted Tom in the Edgware Road area.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Georgia said viciously, ‘I wish life would just be straightforward.’

  ‘Nonsense. Think how dull that would be.’

  ‘Think how much easier,’ she retaliated, picking up the receiver. One was a mobile number – no reply, no voicemail. One was a landline with no reply, but the third struck gold. A nervous-sounding man by the name of Ron Eastley thought the photo on the website looked rather like his parents’ long-term lodger. He couldn’t be sure but i
t did look very like him. And yes, Ron Eastley still lived near the Edgware Road.

  The area between Edgware Road and Lisson Grove was a new one to Georgia, although she knew London reasonably well. That was the nice thing about London; you turned a corner and there was a surprise: something new, something old, but seldom anything to make you blue. Massive roads ran overhead, vast new office blocks adorned the road that had once led to Tyburn gallows in one direction and the open countryside in the other. Off the main streets, it was still surprisingly quiet, however. Beech Road, where Ron Eastley lived, had individual houses rather than large blocks of flats. It had clearly come up in the world since Tom Watson’s day, so the fact that Ron lived in the family home suggested he might still be a bachelor. Number thirty-six must have been worth a fortune now, but to Georgia it had the forlorn air of being a bastion to the past in the midst of a new generation. It wasn’t neglected, but its steps and windows indicated that nothing had much changed for fifty years, whereas neighbouring houses sported porches, bay windows, a little balcony or two and a general air of going places. Nevertheless, number thirty-six looked comfortable in its skin, as the French say, and the kind of house she liked.

  The man who opened the door was about sixty, she guessed, a gentle giant in a pullover and casual shirt and with an anxious expression. ‘Are you Miss Marsh? Come in.’

  He led the way along a hallway to a room at the rear of the house overlooking the small garden – which was perfectly kept. ‘You’re a gardener, I see,’ she said. Always a good opener, for her as much as for the person she was visiting.

  Ron looked pleased at this icebreaker. ‘It keeps me occupied. I’ll be retiring one of these days. Got to have something nice to look at.’ He explained that he worked at a local electrical shop.

  He went into the kitchen to get the ritual coffee, which tasted amazingly good, together with some apparently home-made biscuits. ‘A cook too, I see,’ Georgia murmured, although her eye was already on the pile of photograph albums lying on the table.