by Amy Myers
‘No doubt. About the murder or the sports fields?’
‘Both and neither. To be blunt –’ he looked apologetic – ‘against you two, especially you, Georgia, since you’ve had the highest profile here.’
‘In what way?’ Georgia put her cappuccino carefully down on the table.
‘The way you seem to be heading for position of chief scapegoat for arousing trouble between Elgins and Todds.’
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ she exploded. ‘The sports fields are the problem. Surely you’ve got it wrong, Mike? I clashed with George White, but I’ve hardly met any of the others.’
‘The Elgins know that they’re in the hot seat over the murder, Georgia. Their line is that your bringing up the Ada Proctor case sparked off the old trouble again. Whether it’s the Todds or Elgins responsible, there’s been vandalism in the churchyard. Ada Proctor’s grave has been daubed with red paint.’
Georgia went cold. This trouble went much deeper than she thought. Desecration of a grave in a village like Wickenham was as bad as it could get – short of murder. ‘What did it read?’ she asked levelly. ‘Or was it just splodges of paint?’ Please, the latter. Please.
‘It read: Get out, bitch,’ Mike replied. ‘And that’s you, Georgia, not Ada. See what I mean by linking the two of you?’
She was appalled. ‘They can’t say I killed Terence. I wasn’t there.’
‘They’re not wanting to pin the murder on you, just shifting blame for the uproar. Get you silenced, so the thinking is going, and Wickenham might start pulling together. I may be wrong,’ Mike added hastily, ‘but that’s how they’re talking to me, a copper, so there must be a lot more going on that I don’t know about.’
‘Who is the ringleader?’ asked Peter grimly.
‘George Elgin White. Behaves like the village chieftain, and a nasty piece of work if you ask me. You said you’d met him, Georgia?’
‘You could say that. He ordered me out of his house.’ Next time, Georgia vowed to herself, she’d research the village more deeply before even thinking about the crime.
‘The other side of the family, descended from Mary’s sister Emmie, aren’t so bad. Those are the Parsons. There’s a lot of grandchildren around though from both families making a nuisance of themselves. The older ones don’t tend to go sticking knives into people, but the kids – there were a lot of them there Thursday night – could easily have done. The young ’uns are dividing into their clans now, and it’s coming to the fore. There’s Patrick Todd, he’s descended from Davy’s older brother, Alfred. He’s a real tearaway, and George’s grandson Max is a chip off the old block on the Elgin side.’
‘You’ve been doing your homework, Mike.’ Peter didn’t often offer compliments, and Georgia too was impressed at how quickly Mike had enveloped himself in Wickenham matters. ‘What about the fight itself? Anyone admit to seeing what Scraggs was doing?’ Peter continued.
‘Yes, a few of them are anxious to help, chiefly the oldies. The consensus seems to be that Olly Todd and wife, and his sons Nigel and Mark, were in front when Trevor Bloomfield and his sons came out, and Terence was on the far left of the line. They all seem to have closed around the Bloomfields, until someone shouted, “Here come the Elgins”, or something less polite. They pushed the women out of the way, and immediately were rushed, fell back and lost touch with what was going on.’
This more or less confirmed what Lucy had said, Georgia thought – though being a mother hen she hadn’t mentioned Nigel or Mark.
‘Even in fights there’s usually a bit of verbal before they get down to the physical. Are you telling me the Elgins just came straight in and went for the Todd jugulars?’ Peter asked.
‘Not quite. According to the Todds, George and his sons came straight at them, so did the rest of the Elgin kids. The older more sensible ones tried to get their brood out of harm’s way by pushing them away from the Todds. Young Max White got hold of Scraggs, and starting shouting at him to get lost. He helped one of the Bloomfields tear the placard out of his hands, and when he saw a Todd tackling his younger brother, used the board to separate them. He swears he didn’t see Scraggs again.
‘Oliver Todd says at some time he caught sight of Terence pushed towards the bushes,’ Mike continued, ‘but the physical had started in earnest and no one seems to know what happened next. The Bloomfields say they made themselves scarce as soon as they were separated from Oliver – who was the person they wanted to deal with. First two of them, then the other, retreated into the house. Trevor Bloomfield claims he didn’t mind discussing the situation with the villagers but Scraggs was an outsider.’
‘And no one heard yells for help?’ Peter queried. ‘I’d like to see that scene video,’ he added hopefully.
‘Too much racket, I gather. And don’t push your luck. Anyway, the result is that we’re asking for DNA buccal swabs to be taken from the Elgins, Todds and blooming Bloomfields thought to have been near the centre of the fight. It seems we have got a fair proportion of the village represented in the lab.’
‘But,’ Georgia objected, ‘you’d think that if the Elgins were going to stab anyone it would be a Todd and not an outsider.’
‘Maybe he was another scapegoat,’ Mike pointed out. ‘We don’t know what enemies he might have made in his time here. I meant what I said, Georgia, word’s got round that you’re raking up Ada Proctor, and in the mood they’re in now, they don’t like it, the Elgins in particular. The way they see it is that the Todds seduced an Elgin, then murdered another woman and now here you are trying to clear his name by saying an Elgin lied under oath. That’s what it amounts to, isn’t it?’
‘And suppose he did lie?’
‘Then the Elgins don’t want to know. Not now. Let everything quieten down a bit.’ Mike hesitated.
‘We’re leaving today,’ Peter told him. ‘That should satisfy the bloodhounds.’
‘We’re not abandoning the case though,’ Georgia said vehemently. ‘If they’re so het up over me, it must mean there’s something to discover.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Mike groaned. ‘You can sniff it. I’d like to see DCI Lockhart’s face if I told him I could sniff evidence.’
More shaken that she had realized, Georgia went out to the car park to drive back to Country Stop for her luggage. As she turned into the entrance though, she immediately saw something was wrong. Heart in her boots, she walked up to her Alfa Romeo to find all four tyres were flat and on the windscreen was another painted suggestion that she get out of town.
‘Contradictory,’ she pointed out ruefully to Peter when she returned to the Manor to ring the garage. Half of her wanted to have it out with – with who? Oliver Todd? George White? The other half wanted to go to the churchyard right away with bucket and scrubbing brush. She at least owed that to Ada.
Her father looked grave. ‘It’s only lowgrade at present, but Mike’s right. Georgia, my love, it seems that our fingerprints on Time have talons in this instance.’
*
Oh, the luxury of reaching home, of garaging her car, dumping her bags inside, taking off her shoes and padding through the blissful quiet of 4 The Street, Haden Shaw. Although she had reluctantly agreed with her father that they should leave as soon as her car was ready, there had been no sign of hostility at Country Stop. On the contrary, Lucy had been quite wistful when she left. ‘You will be back?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Don’t take any notice of those dreadful Elgins. They’re all mouth, they are.’
Maybe, but someone had vandalized Ada’s grave, as well as Georgia’s car, and someone had killed Terence Scraggs. Until the police found out who, it would clearly not be wise to have too high a profile. With police permission, therefore, she had packed Terence’s belongings into Peter’s car while her own was being attended to.
Distance, she told herself, would lend objectivity. Haden Shaw, with its unassuming streets, its post office-cum-general store, surviving by the skin of its teeth, and its friendly pub, small green and part
-time church, seemed a haven. The White Horse would shortly be open, and there she would find amiable neighbours. No Elgins, no Todds, no ancient feuds, no murders. She wondered if this were really the case, or whether if the dust were disturbed here, as it had been in Wickenham, nasty things would crawl out of the woodwork, turning friend into stranger. Such tragedies, as had happened here, seem to have been absorbed into the village psyche; there were no mysteries left in Haden Shaw. Or was it that she could not see them, because she was part of the village?
How blissful to change, make some tea, and then to wander next door for a quiet Saturday evening with her father, sharing a takeaway from the pub (a special courtesy for Peter).
Did she say ‘quiet’? The moment she let herself into his house, she knew she was wrong.
‘Is that you, Georgia? In here, quickly.’
She dumped their dinner on the kitchen table and ran back to the study. It sounded like a three-line whip, and so it was for Peter was crouched over his computer.
‘Look what’s happened,’ he invited her. ‘I thought I’d glance at my emails and then for fun flicked to the Internet. What do you know! Gwendolen Norgood’s daughter has materialized.’
‘Who, father dear, ‘she emphasized since this was out of office hours, ‘is Gwendolen Norgood, let alone her daughter?’
‘You disappoint me, Georgia. Gwendolen Randolph to you. She married.’
Randolph? She should have guessed it. The blessed name was everywhere, unlike Proctor. She cast her mind back, and became more interested. ‘You don’t mean Guy’s sister?’
‘Yes, but this is Gwendolen’s daughter, Mrs Jean At water. She must be a fair age herself, but here she is large as life. I asked for anyone knowing where the Major, his wife and Gwendolen moved to in the 1920s, and of any descendants. Apparently they moved to Hassocks in Sussex.’
‘Is the daughter still there?’
‘This is a family search request for information over the Internet. She hasn’t mentioned her address obviously, so I’ve put a message on asking her to ring me, and giving my credentials as a bone fide researcher. Great!’
Georgia agreed. ‘A step forward, I grant you.’
‘You see,’ Peter crowed, ‘perseverance is all one needs.’
‘Perhaps if we go on persevering, a Proctor will appear.’
‘Nothing yet. I did try. There was also a message from Darenth about fixing a time to view the artefacts of Denehole Man. I’ve fixed it for Hallowe’en, which seemed appropriate. You don’t have to come.’
‘Try and stop me.’ Perhaps she’d call in to see Luke on her way back. No. The fright over Zac was too close. If she saw too much of Luke now, she might be flying to safety to escape the night for the wrong reasons. Her father might have been right; something lodged within her might need to be exorcised before, not after, she stepped into the future.
*
There was nothing like a motorway (or two in this case) to dull one’s mind. Perhaps this was a good thing, for she needed to be calm to face Terence Scraggs’s family. Georgia wasn’t looking forward to handling this. Terence had only been dead a week, and his parents, William and Celia, could hardly have taken in his death, let alone adjusted, even though they had sounded calm when she telephoned them. It remained open as to whether she should ask them anything about him. She’d have to keep her antennae going at full tilt.
They lived at Beaconsfield, and Terence had had a flat in High Wycombe. Mike had told them it had been searched as a matter of form, but no priority had been given to it since the crime was being taken as a result of the fight. She turned off the M40, and had some lunch in a small restaurant in the main street of Beaconsfield. It tasted amazingly good and fortified her for what was to come. She found the house easily enough afterwards, and braced herself for what seemed certain to be an ordeal. As the door opened, she saw what she had expected and feared. His parents were on the point of, if not actually, retired, and their expression was the puzzled vacancy of those who have been faced with a tragic reality that they couldn’t yet grasp. What they saw in Georgia must have reassured them for they invited her in almost eagerly, even helping bring in their son’s belongings.
‘It’s good of you to come.’ Eager or not, Georgia felt the vibes of sadness even as she entered the living room, where there were photographs of what was obviously the Scraggses’ wedding and of Terence himself. Celia saw Georgia looking at a much younger Terence.
‘We hoped Terry would marry soon, but he told us he hadn’t met the right person.’
The usual story and Georgia wasn’t surprised. She didn’t think Terence had been gay; more likely he was one of those people for whom absorption in a cause occupied their entire life. If they chanced upon a like-minded soul, fine; if not, they would not set out to seek one. What really hit home to her was this photograph of a ten-year-old boy with an eager look and engaging smile. Déjà vu. Seventy years earlier it could almost have been Davy Todd. Judging by the era of the photo, it had to be Terence, but there wasn’t a lot recognizable as the man she had breakfasted with.
William Scraggs looked away, as if knowing exactly what she was thinking, and cleared his throat. ‘You would like some tea?’
‘That would be lovely.’
She didn’t really want it, but she guessed it would be helpful for them to be able to replace thoughts even with this small action.
‘Who did you say you were? I didn’t take it in when you rang, I’m afraid,’ Celia asked diffidently, as she brought in an already prepared tray.
‘I was staying in the same guesthouse as Terence. I know one of the policemen involved in the case, so rather than having his belongings delivered by courier it seemed more personal for me to bring them back to you. I had met him, you see.’
‘You knew Terry?’ Their eyes immediately lit up, as if by Georgia’s presence their son had somehow come close to them again, and they could connect with him through her.
‘I talked to him, and I saw him in the village quite often. I’m so sorry. He was doing a great job for the village. You must have been very proud of him.’
‘Oh, we were. Such a talented artist. His lovely pictures. And now it’s all gone,’ he mother said dully. ‘We don’t even know when we can bury him.’
‘No, I’m sorry. That must be terrible.’ It was. She knew that so well.
‘What did you talk about to him? How was he? Happy?’ asked Celia fiercely, as though this might compensate in some small way for what happened to him.
Georgia thought carefully about this, instead of giving an instant answer. ‘I think he was. You know he was involved in a protest to stop the sale of the sports fields?’
‘He was always doing that sort of thing. He had a social conscience, did Terence. And look where it got him,’ William Scraggs put in bitterly.
‘A valuable job though. It sets an example.’
William looked doubtful at this platitude, but Georgia meant it. And seeing the conversation going the right way, she pushed it a little further.
‘Do you think that was why Terence chose Wickenham to visit? He did some nice paintings there as well. I looked at the portfolio that I brought back to you. I hope you don’t mind.’ Everything had been placed out of sight in an understairs cupboard, obviously to wait for a day when they had the courage to look at it all. It was one thing helping her with it in her presence, quite another for them to see it there when they were alone.
‘He was very talented,’ Celia murmured.
‘His paints and easel and so on are there too,’ Georgia added desperately, wondering what to say next.
‘I suppose we should keep them. Perhaps Judith would like them for the children. That’s his sister.’
Georgia sensed she had taken a wrong turn. She’d brought reality too close, and made haste to swing it back. ‘One of the paintings was interesting. May I show you or would it upset you?’
They looked at each other. ‘Fire away,’ William said – too hastily. Hati
ng herself, Georgia fetched the portfolio and showed them the painting of Hazelwood House. It was clear it meant nothing to them, though. ‘I was in Wickenham to look up some of its history,’ Georgia told them diplomatically, ‘so this house interested me, since it’s no longer standing.’
‘Yes, I remember now. Terence told us on the telephone about you. Ada something. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’ So Terence found Ada Proctor interesting enough to mention to his parents. Was that significant? ‘Hazelwood House once belonged to a family called Randolph and Ada—’ She broke off because both William and Celia reacted instantly, and were looking at her in amazement.
‘That’s funny. My father was a Randolph,’ Celia told her.
It was the last thing Georgia had expected, especially since the Randolph connection with Wickenham had obviously been a surprise to them. Anyway, it couldn’t be the same Randolphs, she realized. ‘I don’t think your father could have lived in Hazelwood House because the Randolphs moved away in the early 1920s. Their only son was killed in the First World War, so it must be a different family.’
‘My father didn’t live in Kent. He couldn’t have done. He was French and brought up in France.’
Georgia remembered Alice and the French officer, and struggled to think logically. Was this coincidence or a jigsaw at last beginning to take shape? ‘Was he in the Free French air forces during the second war?’ she heard herself asking, already imagining Peter’s jubilance.
‘Yes, he was.’ Celia looked even more surprised. ‘He met my mother and settled down here. Look, I’ll show you a picture of him.’ Eagerly she hurried to a bookshelf, the bottom shelf of which was stacked with photograph albums. She extracted one to show Georgia, and turned to a black and white photograph of a posed handsome uniformed young man. No wonder Alice remembered him. He was stunning. There followed a series of family photographs in which the young man gradually aged.
‘Did he ever mention Wickenham?’ she asked.
‘Not that I can recall. He might have done to Terence, because Terry got interested in the war and all that. Dad gave him all his medals and stuff just before he died. That was nearly five years ago.’
