Murder in Abbot's Folly (24 page)

Both men began to speak, but Tim won. ‘All Laura told us is that she didn't feel up to making any announcement about Stourdens that day,' he said firmly.

‘Odd,' Georgia said. ‘She told Jennifer that she was going to change her will, which sounds pretty drastic.'

Tim's face was bright with anger. ‘Leave Jennifer out of this. You've meddled enough in my private affairs.'

‘Jennifer and Roy are the beneficiaries, and Douglas the trustee. Not your private affair, Tim.'

‘It's Douglas's affair.'

‘So you're still going ahead, with or without investigating further to check if the collection is genuine?' Surely he would not be such a fool, Georgia thought.

‘Already done,' Philip whipped back. ‘I had to be fully confident before I began writing.'

‘Using Douglas Watts as your authority?'

‘He
is
an authority, and others backed him up.'

‘He's also a self-confessed faker, as he told us. Neat.'

‘It would be extremely strange if he did tell you that,' Philip said. ‘His task as trustee is to promote the story, not shoot it down.'

‘Time will tell,' Peter said. ‘Does it not worry you that the whole of the Jane Austen world will have its teeth into that collection the moment it's made public knowledge? Every detail will be examined detail by detail. Or are you banking on all publicity being good, no matter whether based on truth or falsehood?'

‘Our business, I believe,' Tim said coldly.

‘Which will be everyone's affair, once you go public,' Georgia said.

‘They'll still flock to Stourdens,' Tim shot back. Even Philip looked aghast at that.

‘Some weeks just don't go well,' Peter remarked as Georgia arrived on Wednesday morning. ‘Mike's on his way over, and he doesn't sound happy.'

When he reached them he didn't look happy either. ‘OK,' he said grimly. ‘Just convince me that the pair of you haven't gone raving mad.'

‘Trouble over Douglas Watts, I presume,' Georgia said. It was depressingly likely. She and Peter had been set up and were now entwined in a web not of their making.

‘For you, yes, and a fine mess for us. Newton's team tracked down the house in which you said you found the faker's paradise. It's Number Three Beech Cottages, not far from a village called Warmden.'

‘So that's good news?' Georgia was relieved, even as it struck her that the long tour on which Douglas had taken her was a drive round in circles.

‘No. The occupant, a Mrs Green, agreed she rented the house, but the landlord bore no resemblance to Douglas Watts. The landlord is a woman called Mary Barclay, whose father had lived there. And the father's name was not Watts, or Wheeler, or Osborne. When DI Newton talked to Watts himself, he said you all left the pub together and departed on your separate ways. You told him you had an appointment in Canterbury.'

‘But—'

‘No point in buts, Georgia. That's it, as far as we're concerned. Mrs Green let the team tour the house to see if they could find whatever it was they were looking for, but they couldn't. They found the room, but it bore no resemblance to the one you described. It was a child's bedroom, with posters on the walls, and nothing more sinister than a teddy bear or two, a chest of drawers, and a lot of toys. There was no sign of the bookshelves you mentioned, or the apparatus or the sink and worktop. The child has slept there for four years. In other words there is nothing to suggest that Douglas Watts is anything other than he seems: a retired antiquarian book-dealer who plays golf and is a responsible citizen. After all,' Mike added, ‘you must admit it would be odd to take a trusteeship over something he has faked.'

‘Just what Tim Wilson said,' Peter commented.

‘And what do you say?'

‘That it's not odd at all. Who better to monitor the fake's progress? That's the way Watts' mind works.'

‘So why tell you he's a crook?'

‘Because he knew no one would believe us, and for some reason I can't yet work out that suits him.'

A pause. ‘I'd love to say I'm on your side and believe you one hundred per cent,' Mike said, ‘but I can't. You're usually right, and unless you've both had a brainstorm there has to be something more to this. I've nothing to go on though, so I can't call the tune over Newton's investigation. All I can suggest is that you plough on with the Bob Luckhurst line but with a
very
low profile and keep me in the loop. And don't step on the toes of the Met the way you do ours. They're working with Newton over the Amelia Luckhurst murder. Understood?'

‘Yes, Mike,' Peter said meekly. ‘Last point though. If Watts was telling the truth about the fakes, doesn't it widen the scope over who killed Laura Fettis?'

‘It may strengthen it but doesn't widen it.'

‘Wrong. You could include Douglas Watts himself.'

To her relief Georgia found Jennifer alone at Stourdens. When Jennifer rang to ask her to come over that afternoon she had feared the worst: that Jennifer might have joined Tim's side over the matter of Douglas and the fakes. Far from it, however.

‘It's hell here,' Jennifer said despondently. ‘Tim has a face like a thundercloud but refuses to leave me alone. Dad looks hurt beyond belief at my lack of commitment to what was apparently Mum's greatest dream. How can he be so blind? Jake looks as if he has blinkers on, staring only at his film, and Philip like Julius Caesar betrayed by Brutus.'

‘I take it you were here when the police came. So you've heard what Douglas Watts told us and what Tim thinks.'

‘Both – at length. Why would you lie about it? How can Tim deny it? How can Dad? At the very least Mum told them that morning that she wasn't going ahead with the plans and why. Even if the story didn't fit my memories of Mum in that last day or two I would believe you. But it does. She looked awful that evening after she got back from Canterbury.'

‘Have you spoken to Douglas yourself? Does he claim to have been merely spinning us a yarn?' Georgia asked.

‘Not in so many words. He says he only talked about the Luckhursts, Georgia. Jane Austen was barely mentioned. That's why I wanted to see you. I need you to tell me exactly what he said and what you saw when he took you on this trip. I've heard Tim's version.'

Jennifer listened carefully as Georgia recounted the full story, including the police's fruitless search. ‘And do you believe the police found nothing?' she asked when Georgia had finished.

‘I have to.'

‘Douglas must have counted on your telling the police and only shown you the room because he knew he could fool them. What's your explanation of how he did it?'

‘I haven't got one. I can only think there was some kind of hidden room. But how could you get a child of four years old to lie about where he slept? There has to be an answer and I'll find it. But I'm sorry, Jennifer. It's hard for you being so close to Douglas.'

‘I'm not, in fact. Dad is. Mum was pretty neutral about him. I believe he told you the truth. It's too elaborate a story for it merely to be mischief-making and—'

She broke off as Tim came storming into the room, furious at seeing Georgia. ‘I thought that was your car outside. What the hell are you doing here?' he demanded. ‘Haven't you done enough damage?'

‘Georgia's here because I invited her, Tim,' Jennifer said coolly. ‘I take it you don't object to my doing so?'

‘Then you're an idiot. Douglas is here himself. He'll tell you what a fool you're being.'

Georgia steeled herself as he strolled in behind Tim. ‘I'm delighted to see you,' she said. ‘It will give you a chance to confirm to Tim and Jennifer what you told Peter and myself.'

Douglas regarded her with amusement. ‘A most interesting story you seem to have concocted around that innocent little meeting, Georgia. I hardly recognized myself in such a guise.'

She managed not to retort, realizing that she was again out of her depth.

‘Flattered though I am at having such faking skills attributed to me,' Douglas continued, ‘I'm afraid I have to deny the story you're recounting. I'm not capable of dashing the Fettis and Clackington dreams to quite such an extent. I'm far too kind-hearted. And I
am
the trustee for Stourdens' future.'

‘So as we have all now heard it from the horse's mouth, I take it you'll apologize and leave, Georgia,' Tim commanded.

‘Just a minute,' Jennifer interrupted. ‘This is my house, Tim, not yours. Mine and Dad's.'

‘A house for which Douglas is the trustee and can make all the decisions about it.'

‘Not all of them,' Jennifer said coolly.

Tim changed tack. ‘Look, Jen, you're going through a rough time. We all are. But this stupid story of the Marshes' has changed nothing. Jake's documentary is going ahead next week, and Douglas has decided we should begin provisional plans for the tours next year.'

‘Based on the Jane Austen collection?' Jennifer asked.

‘Of course.'

‘Even if I denounce it as at least of dubious authenticity?'

Douglas looked pensive. ‘I suggest you don't bring my name into it in that connection. You have no proof, Jennifer dear, that there is anything wrong with it. And, of course, I have already authenticated it. There is a law of slander as well as libel.'

‘Don't worry,' Jennifer said. ‘There's no need to name you, Douglas. As you say, I have no proof of your involvement in any fakes. I shall get it authenticated elsewhere and then act accordingly.'

‘Ah,' Douglas replied. ‘I wonder, can you do that? The collection is part of the trust.'

Jennifer smiled. ‘I'm afraid you're wrong. Stourdens itself is under the trust, but the collection was willed to me alone.'

Georgia laughed at the naked horror on both Tim's and Douglas's faces.

‘Is that true?' Tim turned on Douglas, white-faced.

To Georgia's pleasure, Douglas looked genuinely shaken. ‘I was not aware of that. I can't believe it.'

‘You can safely do so. Dad's been in such a state that he didn't take it in at the solicitors. I did. And Mum told me why she'd done it, too.' Jennifer began to both cry and laugh. ‘It wasn't because of you, Douglas, or Dad. She said she loved it too much and wanted me alone to have it.
Loved
it!'

It was happening at last. This was the first time that Georgia had been in the same car as both her parents since Elena had left. The odd thing was that she was feeling nervous not because it felt so strange but because it seemed so natural. True, Elena was unusually quiet and Peter falsely jolly, which was not a normal role for either of them, but considering the circumstances the pressure was at a low level. To Georgia's relief the hotel where Lucien Marques was staying on the South Bank of the Thames had its own large parking lot. The visit would be nerve-racking enough without adding driving problems to it.

Lucien had arranged to meet them in the entrance hall, and they would obviously be easily identifiable. Georgia saw him coming towards them as soon as Peter's wheelchair was safely inside the door, and she had an immediate shock. Rick had been dead sixteen years, and she had therefore expected Lucien to be a middle-aged man, perhaps in his forties or fifties. Rick himself would have been in his late thirties now. But this man looked only in his mid-twenties.

‘You must have been a child when the accident happened,' Georgia said, after the introductions and business of settling themselves into a secluded part of the bar.

‘I was,
madame
. I was nine years old. I have much to be grateful to Rick for. Certainly for what I am today, and I think also for my life.'

‘And what are you today?' Peter was trying his best to seem composed. Elena, however, looked as if her smile were fixed permanently on her face, which made Georgia realize that it would be up to her to help her mother through this.

‘I am a musician, a cellist.'

Georgia felt as if she would choke, caught out by the unexpected. Rick's love of music . . . his happy final weeks with the singer he had met in Normandy. This man, too, was a musician.

‘He talked of music to me. Nothing but music. My parents had made me learn to play the cello, but I hated it. It was difficult, pointless, I would rather be playing football. But when Rick talked, he made music so alive, so important.' He smiled at them. ‘But I should start at the beginning. You know where the accident happened?'

‘On the Danube near Linz.' Peter had visited it last year with his then girlfriend and with Josephine Mantreau, who had told them so much about Rick's last weeks.

‘It was dark, and our boat collided with another vessel in the dark. We had no warning, nothing. Your son—'

‘Rick, call him Rick, please,' Elena said.

Hearing the tremble in her voice, Georgia stretched out her hand to take her mother's in hers. It felt warm and familiar.

‘Thank you,' Lucien said. ‘We were downstairs in the boat. My parents had been talking to Rick, and I was listening. Then it happened, a bang, the lights went out, the darkness came and then the screams. It was so quick; suddenly I felt water and Rick's hand grabbing hold of me as it swept us away. There was no time for lifebelts, nothing. We seemed to be in the river immediately, just the two of us. Rick sang to me—'

‘Sang?' Peter repeated.

‘A song. I have heard it since. “Scarborough Fair”.'

The choke in Georgia's throat returned in full force. ‘Scarborough Fair' had been Rick's favourite song in childhood days.