Murder on the Old Road (7 page)

‘Over what?' she threw at him, irrationally annoyed that he was so willing for her to go.

‘Trouble looks as if it's marching right down the road – or, in this case, the Old Road.'

‘Trouble? Your chums Tim and Simon see progress as the only way
out
of trouble.'

‘Wait till the tourists arrive and they're still cooking chips all day long instead of the gourmet fare they're dreaming of.'

That made her laugh. ‘Not as bad as that, surely?'

‘Worse,' Luke said mock-gravely. ‘Look, I really am going to be tied up this week so it's an ideal time for you to go.'

Compromise, she decided. ‘How about my going just for the day on the Otford stretch? Simon's planning to do much the same. The group is only at Farnham as yet, and won't reach Otford until the weekend at least. If you don't want to come with me on the walk, you could come over to dinner in the pub they're staying in and drive me home.'

‘Thank
you
.' Luke's turn to laugh. ‘I'll see how things go.'

‘OK. I'll mug up on Otford and St Thomas. I seem to remember he spent a lot of time in the manor house that preceded the Tudor archbishop's palace. Isn't there a story about his forbidding nightingales to sing because they were disturbing his train of thought? Doesn't seem a very saintly thing to do.' Georgia forced herself to be positive. ‘I'd like to check out the St Thomas sights in Otford. The well's not open to the public, but the ruins of the palace can be seen. I'll check it on the Internet.'

‘You will not, woman! Not while I have a book at hand. A
reliable
book, a
comprehensive
book, a book whose
pages
turn flexibly and smoothly, a book that can be treasured and studied, a book that can be admired, and best of all a book that's published by Frost & Co.'

Georgia gave in. ‘I grovel.'

‘Good. That stretch is only about six or seven miles, and you should be able to stagger that far.'

‘Thanks. Got a book around to tell me the weather forecast?'

‘Blast you, no,' Luke said amiably. ‘So I grant you computers do have their uses. By the way, talking of Otford, I had a letter – a real one, not one of his twittering emails – from Mark. He's planning to return to England if he can get a job. He mentioned Otford, as that's where he grew up.'

‘That's good news.' Georgia was delighted for Luke. Mark was his son by his first marriage; he was now in his early twenties and had settled in the States after university when he'd married a fellow student. ‘Whereabouts is he looking?'

‘It's dependent on where the jobs are, I gather. There aren't too many opportunities around.'

The ringing of the phone interrupted them, and Georgia went to answer it. It was Peter, and she was instantly worried because it was unusual for him to ring in the evenings. ‘A problem?' she asked him immediately. His night ‘turns' caused by Rick's disappearance had seemed in the past, but as he still dwelt on it so much it was possible they had returned – and they wouldn't be helped by the pattern of his up and down relationship with Janie.

‘Far from it. I had a phone call from the lady herself.'

‘The lady being . . .?'

‘Mrs Jessica Wayncroft. She is not requesting, but
demanding
to see at least one of us tomorrow, and, sweet daughter, I nominated you.'

Demanding
? Fine, Georgia thought. She, too, could be demanding. Hugh Wayncroft's widow must be well into her eighties by now. She conjured up a picture of Jessica, the ‘old bat' as Lisa had described her, as a dowager in black, sitting upright on an ancient chair in a cobwebby room like Miss Havisham. Even though Dickensian days were surely over, this image would not fade. The word ‘demanding' implied an imperiousness that went side by side with it. Why was Jessica
demanding
to see her? To tell Marsh & Daughter to steer clear of the subject of her husband's death? Probably, but that would only convince Peter and herself that there was something to look into.

As she drove into Chillingham, Georgia felt ready for the attack. No church car park this time. Instead, she passed it, and with a mental flourish turned right further along into the drive of Chillingham Place. A large B and B sign pointed with an arrow further along the lane, and a red-brick lodge stood to one side of the drive. It looked occupied, so she half expected a gateman to rush out and challenge her, but only a distant cow raised its head and gazed soulfully at her car. She followed the long winding drive through fields with grazing cattle, then through some woodland with late azaleas and rhododendrons; then came a lawn and the forecourt of the house itself. Chillingham Place was of pleasant Tudor construction, or so it looked from the outside. The inside might reveal remains of an earlier medieval dwelling.

Discreet bells by the old wooden door reminded her that this stately home had been converted into several apartments. With some trepidation, she pressed the bell marked Mrs Hugh Wayncroft, half expecting the door to fly open to reveal a parlourmaid clad in black with a white lacy pinny and headdress.

It wasn't. Nor was it opened by a Miss Havisham who had tottered to the door clad in black with clunking pearl necklaces. Jessica Wayncroft was definitely twenty-first century, not Dickensian. The formidable dowager proved to be a merry-eyed little lady about five foot high, lithe on her feet, slim of body and clad in bright turquoise designer trousers and silk tunic, which set off her snow-white coiffured hair admirably.

‘Come in, come in – oh, what a pretty jacket. I wish I could wear red. Of course, I do sometimes. You're not a bit as I expected. I was quite in awe of Marsh & Daughter . . . but now I see you wear red, I do feel quite at home.'

Georgia laughed. ‘As you are, of course.'

‘So I am.' A giggle. ‘Now follow me, Miss Marsh – or do you prefer Mrs Frost? I do so admire your husband's list. I believe I possess every single book he's published. And that includes the works of Marsh & Daughter. I am an addict for crime, Miss Marsh. I really am.'

Georgia heaved a sigh of relief. The worst was over. The words, ‘Call me Georgia,' trembled on her lips, but she held them back. Softly, softly at first. This lady had charm, but behind the charm might lie a different picture. ‘Thank you, Mrs Wayncroft. Luke will be delighted to hear he has a fan. And my father too.'

‘Oh, but I told him that on the telephone last evening. Such a pleasant, polite gentleman. We had quite a chat.'

Georgia decided not to disillusion her that being pleasant and polite wasn't always top priority for Peter.

‘I've made coffee,' Jessica continued. ‘At least, I think I have. Sometimes it comes out as tea, you know. No, you wouldn't know. You're not old enough. But you will.' The giggle was more like that of a fourteen-year-old than an octogenarian, Georgia thought, beginning to warm to her. Not a Miss Havisham; more a Miss Bates from the pages of Jane Austen.

The large living room – surely a transformed medieval Great Hall – was full of a comfortable array of sofas, pictures and china. A dozen or so eighteenth-century Staffordshire dogs formed a watchful pack in the fireplace, which also held a modern stove in front of an ancient fireback of Adam, Eve and the Tree of Life. Photos on the tables, and paintings – including miniatures and silhouettes – made Georgia feel she could happily live in a room such as this. The coffee – and it
was
– took time to serve, and Georgia decided to wait for Jessica to make the first serious conversational move. This might pander to Jessica's desire to control, but it left Georgia freer to assess why her presence had been
demanded
.

‘My son tells me you walked into the midst of our village revels last week and have become interested in Chillingham's affairs,' Jessica began. Her eyes were shrewd, and the faint smile on her lips made Georgia suspect that not only did she think she was in control, but also intended to remain that way. Which son? Georgia wondered. Julian or Valentine? And why was Marsh & Daughter's visit last week so important that whichever son it was had taken the trouble to tell his mother, presumably on the telephone?

Time to play enthusiastic visitor, Georgia decided. There was no indication yet of why she had been summoned. ‘There's certainly a lot of history around here. Simon Bede was telling me about the legend of the peacocks, and the vicar showed me the ruins connected with St Thomas.' Nothing like starting a chess game with your queen.

‘Indeed. The ruins are central to Chillingham's heritage. My son Valentine believes they should be nationally publicized. He has great plans for a theatre here. We shall become another Bayreuth, with a St Thomas festival every few years, perhaps even annually.'

Georgia blinked. It seemed a far step from an unbuilt theatre to emulating Wagner's world-famous opera venue, but there was no harm in thinking big, she supposed. ‘Is Julian also involved in this theatre project?'

‘Naturally. My sons support each other.' A sly look, as if Jessica herself were acknowledging that this wasn't always the case. ‘And Sebastian too. After he graduates, he will play a big role in the St Thomas development. Julian will run the visitor centre, Valentine oversee the entire project, and Sebastian the theatre, website and marketing of Becket products. St Thomas's connections with Chillingham have to be recognized. After all, his bones probably lie here. It's a most exciting time, and I have decided not to die before the festival is established. I've been busy designing St Thomas badges – researching, I believe you writers call it. And also a special Peacock badge to denote a visit to Chillingham itself. And mugs. One must have mugs.'

‘I understand you also have pieces of a medieval wooden statue of Becket with movable parts?'

She had stepped too far. Jessica's face froze for a moment, but then she laughed. ‘Indeed we do. There were a few pieces of old decaying wood found in the chapel, and research into family papers suggests there was such a figure. There is no real provenance, but certainly they seem to be genuine.'

Georgia wondered about that, but let it pass.

‘Hugh was the real historian,' Jessica continued. ‘When first I came to this house I found several centuries of history were lying around and their weight was rather too much for me at first. My darling Hugh took his duties very seriously.'

‘He was the younger Wayncroft brother, I understand.'

Jessica nodded. ‘You have been doing your homework, Miss Marsh – or shall I call you Georgia? My name is Jessica, as I'm sure you know. So much pleasanter to be informal. Nevertheless, one did know where one
was
in the old days, when barriers were so easy to erect. With more formal customs in the interests of politeness, it was so easy to be impolite by intentional accident, if you see what I mean.'

‘I do,' Georgia assured her. ‘The art of the gentle put-down.'

‘Quite. But now it's so much easier to chat, is it not?'

Provided, Georgia thought, one was sure of where one stood – socially, emotionally and psychologically – and with Jessica that wasn't yet clear. Jessica had not yet declared her hand.

‘Hugh was only three years older than I was,' Jessica continued, ‘but it often seemed to me that I was the elder. Of course, I had been married before, to Peter Harper. Peter died in December 1944, a few months before Val was born, and so I had to struggle on for many years as a single parent. But then I met Hugh. We married in 1956, but Julian wasn't born for another nine years. Such an emotional time, waiting and hoping. Do you have children, Georgia?'

Georgia was well used to this question, but this time it clean-bowled her and she had to fight for composure. ‘Not yet,' she managed.

That should do it, and with luck Jessica would not enquire further. There was a thoughtful look, and Georgia held her breath. But there were no more questions, and she relaxed again. Too soon, perhaps, because Jessica took her by surprise with a forthright: ‘I want to talk to you about Hugh's death.'

Approach with care. This had been planned. Hence the
demanding
, Georgia realized. ‘You don't mind?'

‘I do, very much. However, when I know enquiries are being made on the subject, either out of curiosity or because someone wishes to write about it – and you might, mightn't you? – I feel I have a duty to speak out. The wrong impression can so easily be gained. Julian was only a baby at the time of his father's death, and my Val a young man. Young men see things differently, but can change their views in later life. Everyone else connected with the murder has died. Dear Fred Miller, at the Three Peacocks. Darling Bill Riding – have you met his daughter? – oh, of course you have. Our vicar.'

‘The Moons are still living here,' Georgia pointed out.

A pause. ‘Ah yes. Dear Lisa is alive and well, but her husband Clive, who played such a big role in the 1967 production, the King himself, has now died. But she can have little to say on the question of Hugh's death. It was Clive who was so active.'

‘On the stage or over the question of promoting Becket attractions? I understand the ruins belonged to you at the time.'

‘They did, but alas no longer. Hugh was against what he termed their exploitation. So now, Georgia, I must tell you about my Hugh. When I came into this family it seemed to me that I had married not only Hugh, but also the whole Wayncroft family. I can introduce you to them. Do come.'

She sprang up with the liveliness of a twenty-year-old and led the way out of the room into a hallway with a grand staircase up to the next storey. Family portraits stared disdainfully down at Georgia from every point. They lined the walls of the staircase; they filled those of the hallway too. Mature Wayncrofts, Wayncroft children, Wayncroft women, military Wayncrofts, country squire Wayncrofts and aged, severe-looking, bewigged Wayncroft worthies.