Murder on the Old Road (21 page)

‘Even supposing we did dig up a casket of bones, would that advance our case much further?'

‘No,' she agreed, somewhat reluctantly. ‘But it was surely the reason that Jessica and Val were interested in it, and the reason that Val was prowling around the Becket ruins last night. If the bones were found in either place, the very idea that they might be Becket's would bring Val the publicity he's so eager for.'

‘Glad you said
might
. Becket's bones are one of those never-ending puzzles like the
Marie Celeste
and Jack the Ripper. There are so many theories that the true one could lie nestling amongst them and never be proved or even be generally taken as “the truth”. In Becket's case, it's not even certain that the bones of St Thomas were
in
the shrine when Good King Henry's Commissioners came to destroy it. They were generally quite careful over bones, but even if those they found
were
Thomas's, they could have been burnt or reburied somewhere by the Commissioners themselves. If the monks themselves spirited them away, they could still be in the Cathedral crypt, where bones were discovered in 1888, or countless other places.'

‘What are the odds on their being at Chillingham?'

‘Very long, but you never know. The monks might have decided to get them right out of the Commissioners' way, and quite apart from the Wayncrofts, Chillingham church has always had a link with what is now the Cathedral and once an abbey church. Chartham had one too. The snag is that there's no evidence, save family tradition and legend, that these stones were anything to do with Becket lore – and yet dear Val is sniffing around so eagerly that he can't even wait for probate.'

‘He's the type . . .' Georgia began, uncertain where this was going.

‘What exactly would you say
is
Val's type?' Peter shot back.

‘Ruled by self interest alone.'

‘How would you define his self-interest in relation to Thomas Becket?'

‘Money for the estate . . .' She pulled a face. ‘Oh.' False step.

‘Precisely. For the estate. Which only indirectly means his mother, and thus even more indirectly means Val.'

‘And Val and brother Julian don't exactly hit it off. So his self-interest presumably lies in keeping a roof over his head, and a possible income through tourism and the planned theatre.'

‘I agree. But is Val really trying to keep on good terms with brother Julian? We haven't seen many signs of it. He, Julian, Aletta and Jessica are an unlikely collection of ingredients to make a successful pudding.'

‘That's very culinary of you.'

‘But good observation?'

‘Yes. Although Aletta, Julian and Seb are his alibi for Anne's murder.'

‘It's Hugh's we're investigating.'

‘He has an alibi for that, too.'

‘Provided by his mother. Keeping it in the family, eh?'

‘Very much so,' she agreed. ‘But there are other families: the Painters, the Moons, not to mention Tim and Simon. They're all sticking together.'

‘Like the Glueman's game in the Michael Powell film about Canterbury that Lisa mentioned to you,' Peter said. ‘Everyone has his or her own quest where the Old Road and Canterbury are concerned.' He paused. ‘Switching subjects, I haven't yet told you about Mike's visit. He brought Will Whitton with him.'

‘How are they getting on?'

‘Some good news, some bad. The only DNA evidence they recovered is hers. Will's team is pursuing a local man slung out of a pub for being drunk about that time, but he hasn't taken his eye off the ball so far as Anne Fanshawe's legacy is concerned.'

‘And the good?'

‘That
was
the good news. The bad is that, interesting though that battle royal Anne Fanshawe had with the Wayncrofts is, it doesn't seem to be relevant, as their alibis are backed up by plenty of other witnesses. Anne left, they stayed on. It's true that her departure seems to have sparked off a general drift towards leaving. She left about ten fifteen, but the landlord confirms that his overnight guests were there until last. The place seems to have emptied not long after ten thirty.'

‘And the camping ground that the youngsters were using was to the right of the pub, back towards Wrotham. Anne turned left.' Georgia frowned. ‘You said no DNA but hers?'

‘Yes.'

‘But her credit cards were missing. You'd think there'd be some on her bag if the cards were pinched.'

‘That's the other news. Her anorak and credit cards were found by Will's team, hanging in that corridor you told me about.' Peter's turn to frown. ‘Even Suspects Anonymous can't make anything out of that.'

The Stour Theatre was not on the River Stour itself, but out near the ruins of St Augustine's Abbey – a good situation for producing this particular play, Georgia thought. She and Luke knew the theatre quite well. It mounted both professional and amateur productions, it was small, it had a bar, and it was welcoming. Tonight was, hardly surprisingly in view of the publicity, a sell-out. Georgia could see the Full House sign standing proudly outside as she drove past the theatre to the car park. Peter had driven here separately, and by a miracle she could see he had found the one disabled spot available.

By the time Georgia reached the theatre, though, having battled to find a space for herself, the idea of sitting through a long Victorian verse play was not an attractive one. She told herself that duty and loyalty were at stake here, but nevertheless she was glad that Luke was coming too.

‘Like waiting for Godot, isn't it?' Peter said cheerfully as she joined him in the auditorium. She could see what he meant. There was a tension here far above the expectancy level of a normal first night.

Luke must have felt the same when he finally arrived. ‘What are they hoping for?' he muttered. ‘Just Becket's or another murder thrown in?'

She shushed him, as Lisa Moon was just taking her place in front of them. Jessica's white hair could clearly be seen in the front row; another reminder of why she and Peter were here. There was no rational reason that this play was going to provide any indication of why Hugh Wayncroft was killed so many years ago, and yet – as Peter had implied about the Michael Powell film – it was beginning to feel as if this were a pilgrimage of their own. But what pilgrimage? Even as she pondered this, Tim came on to the stage to make a brief speech about Anne's tragic death. And then the curtain rose.

Tennyson's play was not nearly as inaccessible as she had expected, and what was even more of a plus was that the standard of acting was exceptionally high for an amateur group. She became absorbed in the relationship between Becket (Val), the man of God, and the King (Julian), the power of the state. Julian was playing the King excellently, she thought, as an intemperate changeable man all too easily manipulated by the cunning of others. In particular he was at the mercy of the formidable Queen Eleanor, and torn between her and his beautiful mistress Rosamund, mother of his ten-year-old illegitimate son Geoffrey, whom Anne had played in the 1967 production.

‘How dost thou know I am not wedded to her?' the King threw petulantly at Becket.

An interesting point. Georgia toyed with the notion that Hugh might have married Lisa, but had to discard it immediately, if regretfully. Jessica and Hugh had been married in 1956, when Lisa would have been in her early teens.

There were strong emotions between Julian and Val. Superb acting? Or was their offstage relationship helping things along? A play, she told herself, a
play
. Where did Aletta come into this? She played the role exceptionally well, but that's all it was. A role. She had no offstage quarrel with Tess Moon, so far as Georgia was aware.

‘What do you think?' Peter asked her when the interval arrived.

‘Impressive.'

Peter waved this aside impatiently. ‘No, the play itself. Tells you a lot, doesn't it? Just think about the 1967 production; think of Clive Moon as the King, of Val as chief murderer Fitzurse, and Hugh their victim. All that passion on stage. And then comes the cast party, when once again the row breaks out over development of the Becket ruins. And Hugh holds his ground. “I must die for that which never dies,” he says in this play. He meant heritage, Georgia, heritage.'

‘But Val's playing Becket now,' Georgia said uneasily. ‘And Julian's the King.'

‘The King, Georgia, the King. He who wields the power.'

‘But is manipulated by others. Don't forget that.'

TWELVE

‘
T
he King's in residence,' Peter shouted over her mobile. Georgia's eyes were barely open as yet, and the glories of Becket House breakfast awaited. The King? Ah, she remembered Peter's proclamation of the night before. Now his phone call made some sort of sense. ‘How about an audience this morning?' Peter continued.

‘In Canterbury?' she asked, puzzled.

‘No, no, no. Chillingham. He drove Jessica back last night.'

‘I'm not sure.' Surely they wouldn't get anything of interest from Julian in the middle of the play's run?

‘I am. We're already booked in. Eleven o'clock. I'll be with you fifteen minutes before.'

‘He can't have been pleased,' Georgia demurred.

‘He wasn't. Not at first, anyway.'

Her heart sank. She had originally planned to return to Medlars later this morning. Luke had left earlier for his office, leaving her asleep. Peter had suggested last night that she should stay on here for the week, and Luke had backed him up. She had agreed only very reluctantly, interpreting Luke's stance on this as wanting to avoid
the
issue. Peter's only comment on why she should stay on had been vague: ‘Something might happen.'

Looking through her window at the village roofs, Chillingham seemed peaceful enough, sheltering in the lea of the Downs, and she tried to think of what it would be like visiting it as a tourist in future years. On a day like today, the summer sun would make the village seem so united and tranquil. She could imagine bowling up in a coach, stepping out in some future enormous car park, in happy anticipation of a pleasant stroll round the St Thomas ruins, a pub lunch and perhaps even a theatre visit. Her situation today was not quite like that. She was now enmeshed in Chillingham, and there could be no departure, at least mentally, until this case was solved. But what if it never was? She refused to face that possibility, because she and Peter had often been stuck in the doldrums over an unsolved case. It was too early to assume that there could never be a fair wind behind them, when it was less than three weeks since they had walked into the Three Peacocks and met the Chillingham Drama Group.

What, Georgia wondered, had Peter meant by his reference to the King wielding the power? And, come to that, what had
she
meant by her own instant response that kings could be manipulated by others? Was Julian a pawn in a chess game being played by others, and was that game the Becket development or Anne's death? It couldn't be Hugh's, because Julian played no part in that, except as Hugh's heir. It occurred to her that Peter might have meant something entirely different, however. In the play they had seen last night, the King had been driven to rid himself of that ‘turbulent priest' Becket. Brother Val.

It was no use. She could not see what Peter's own game was. He duly drove up to Becket House at ten forty-five to pick her up, and she hopefully asked, ‘Clarification, please. What are we looking for?
How
are we looking?'

‘Don't ask me,' Peter replied happily. ‘Something will turn up. There's something there. I know there is. It all comes back to that word “heritage”.'

Julian's apartment was at the other end of the building from Jessica's, and fortunately, as there was no lift, it had a downstairs room, which looked as if it served both as reception room and study. Georgia noticed there was no sign of Aletta, who had probably stayed in Canterbury. Aletta, like T.S. Eliot's Mystery Cat Macavity, ‘wasn't there' whenever there was trouble around. The power, in her case, stayed
behind
the throne.

‘Good to see you. How can I help?' Julian asked heartily. He seemed to have recovered from his reluctance to see them – probably because, Georgia thought, of their genuine praise of the play and his performance. His tall and well-built figure seemed to dominate the room physically and mentally, a role he was obviously used to. ‘My father's death again. That it?' he continued.

‘It is,' Peter agreed.

‘Not sure I can help, but try me.'

Peter did. ‘As head of the Wayncrofts, you're still a power in this village, aren't you? Unspoken now, but generally the case.'

Julian looked taken aback. ‘I'm honoured you should think so, and there's some truth in what you say. What bearing does that have on my father's death?'

‘The path to solving it, perhaps. The link with Anne Fanshawe's death.'

‘There is no link.' Julian's voice grew icier.

‘I would say there is – the link is the Wayncroft heritage.'

Julian gave a theatrical heavy sigh. ‘Not again. I've been through that with you, Georgia. Look, no one knows why my father was killed, and it's a rash assumption that because he refused to open the Becket ruins to the public, that is the reason he was murdered. It could have played a part, but that's as far as I or anyone else can go. There were other reasons – personal motives – that have to be taken into account. Because of the strong feelings over the ruins, the personal side gets overlooked.'

‘And what was it?'

‘Having grown up with the situation, it's always been my opinion that pure hatred was the reason for my father's death, with personal gain as an added incentive. One does not wish to speak ill of the dead, and so I will not name—'