Murder on the Old Road

Recent Titles by Amy Myers from Severn House

MURDER IN THE QUEEN'S BOUDOIR

MURDER WITH MAJESTY

THE WICKENHAM MURDERS

MURDER IN FRIDAY STREET

MURDER IN HELL'S CORNER

MURDER AND THE GOLDEN GOBLET

MURDER IN THE MIST

MURDER TAKES THE STAGE

MURDER ON THE OLD ROAD

Writing as Harriet Hudson

APPLEMERE SUMMER

CATCHING THE SUNLIGHT

THE MAN WHO CAME BACK

QUINN

SONGS OF SPRING

THE STATIONMASTER'S DAUGHTER

TOMORROW'S GARDEN

TO MY OWN DESIRE

THE WINDY HILL

WINTER ROSES

First world edition published 2010

in Great Britain and the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2010 by Amy Myers.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Myers, Amy, 1938-

Murder on the Old Road.

1. Marsh, Peter (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Marsh,

Georgia (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 3. Private

investigators–England–Kent–Fiction. 4. Fathers and

daughters–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-186-6 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6952-4 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-283-3 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The Old Road of the title is generally known as the Pilgrims' Way, running from Winchester in Hampshire through to Canterbury in Kent. Much of it now forms part of the North Downs Way, which has followed the earlier route as far as was possible by the time it was established. By walking it, it is still easy to imagine what it was like for pilgrims making their way to the shrine of Archbishop Thomas Becket. The village of Chillingham, however, the central setting for this novel, is fictitious, as are its inhabitants and the pilgrimage. Apart from that of the three peacocks, the legends surrounding the Old Road and St Thomas are ‘real' ones, including the story of Seivia, which can be found in the books of St Thomas's miracles written a few years after his death in 1170. I have taken the liberty of transporting the miracle from a nameless location to Chillingham, however. St Thomas, Canterbury Cathedral and its treasures provide an inexhaustible source for imagination to build upon fact, and the genesis for this novel was one such fruit. Some years ago a short story of mine called ‘The Pilgrim' was published in
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
and later in
Best British Mysteries IV
, edited by Maxim Jakubowski. Then I began to think, But what happened
next
? This novel is the result.

It would not have been possible, however, without the help of Christopher Maude – who, as well as sharing his knowledge of the Cathedral, recommended to me the fascinating book by John Butler,
The Quest for Becket's Bones
; the Reverend Dr E.V. Binks; and Mike Cockett, my discussions with whom about Hilaire Belloc's
The Old Road
first gave me the idea of linking the Pilgrims' Way to the Becket story in this novel. My thanks also go to my ever inspiring agent, Dorothy Lumley of the Dorian Literary Agency, and to Severn House for their patience and expertise.

ONE

‘
W
hat on earth's going on?'

Georgia Marsh blinked as she pushed open the gate to the Three Peacocks garden. As this was a pub in a remote village on the Kentish North Downs, she could hardly have expected to see thirty or forty people, young, middle-aged and elderly, mostly clad in long rust-brown robes with full sleeves and big hats, caps or wimples. Some sported short tunics and tights, a few were adorned with crowns. The grass was littered with hefty sticks, and music played a part in this gathering, judging by the number of lutes and recorders lying around.

‘Maybe it's one of those mythical villages that only appears once in a hundred years,' Luke commented.

‘Morris dancers,' Peter grunted. Not his favourite spectator sport.

‘No bells on their legs,' Georgia reassured him. Anyway, Morris dancing didn't seem likely at a Thursday lunchtime, even if it was June. This was the only pub in the small village of Chillingham, and it was so crowded that she had to look hard for a table that had enough space not only to accommodate Luke and herself, but also her father's wheelchair.

‘Come and join us.' A hand of hearty welcome shot up. A long table was only half occupied by the ‘elite'. No russet gowns here. This was apparently the crowned ‘King' himself, a tall sturdy man probably in his forties, who was booming out his welcome. Sitting next to him, also crowned, was his ‘Queen', an elegant dark-haired petite woman, wearing what looked a rather smart medieval grey job designed to match the King's dark green tunic.

Their companion was a suave-looking silver-haired man, perhaps in his early sixties, who seemed annoyed at their arrival, which amused Georgia, although to do him justice the frown was quickly quashed. Instead of a crown, he was sporting a rather splendid golden tea-cosy on his head, matched by a full length golden cape.

‘Murder's off the menu today.' The King laughed heartily at his somewhat unusual declaration. ‘I won't be slaughtering anyone until we get to Canterbury, so do feel free to join us.'

No choice but to obey the royal command, and so, weird though it was, Georgia surrendered. In any case, Peter, always one for the eccentric side of life, was already eagerly propelling himself to the table. She followed with less enthusiasm. She never trusted control freaks, and the King had every sign of being one. Luke, as usual, seemed more tolerant.

‘Who are you planning to murder?' he enquired.

‘My dear brother, of course.' The King indicated Mr Tea-cosy, who glared back at him. ‘Also known as Archbishop Thomas Becket, who will be foully done to death by this merry band in due course.' A lofty arm indicated the peasants busily tucking into their sandwiches and pints of beer.

Dear
brother? The tension between the two men was all too obvious. Little fraternal love there, Georgia thought, and a big age difference. There seemed to be two battles going on here, the spoken and the unspoken. Luke must have felt it too, as he rose rather hastily to go into the pub for food and drinks.

‘I'm looking forward to my fate,' Becket replied smoothly, before delivering his put-down. ‘And even more to your subsequent humiliation, mighty majesty.'

‘Well worth it.' Another guffaw from the King.

The Queen quickly stepped in as peacemaker. ‘We're the Chillingham Drama Group,' she explained sweetly. ‘We're staging our play in Canterbury in two weeks' time. Do come. It's at the Stour Theatre.'

‘
Murder in the Cathedral –
T.S. Eliot's drama?' Peter sounded merely polite, but Georgia could see his eyes were gleaming in curiosity – and not just over the play. She'd worked with him for a long time and could read the signs.

‘No. It's the Tennyson play,
Becket
.' Becket's languid drawl – surely affected – began to grate on Georgia's nerves, and the King's loud bluster was little better.

‘Chillingham likes to be different,' Becket continued, ‘especially as the Archbishop was one of Henry Irving's great roles. Much neglected masterpiece. It adds another dimension to the familiar story, doesn't it, dear
half
brother? Not only the power struggle between the King and Becket, but the domestic triangle of the King, his mistress Fair Rosamund – and the poisonous Queen Eleanor.' A grin at the Queen. ‘Ah, we happy band of actors.'

No doubt about it now. For whatever reason, Georgia realized, they had walked into the midst of a family ‘situation' – one that had obviously been running for a long time. The fact that they were only half brothers made more sense of it. The King looked as if he'd like to carry out Becket's murder personally here and now. Becket himself was clearly bent on provocation – and the Queen? Georgia wouldn't mind betting that the real power lay in her hands. If, as implied, she was playing the poisonous queen, then not much acting would be required. This lady was made of steel.

‘You're here for a rehearsal?' Peter asked blandly, although Georgia was sure he had picked up exactly the same vibes as she had.

‘Far from it. Today sets the whole venture in motion.' The King then recollected his
noblesse oblige.
‘Let me introduce ourselves. My wife Aletta, my half brother Valentine Harper, and I am Julian Wayncroft—'

‘Lord of this manor,' Valentine finished for him in deeply grave – and mocking – tones.

Aletta pointedly ignored him. ‘Our plan is to walk to Canterbury today, then take our hired coach to Winchester for our first performance tomorrow evening. And then begins the great pilgrimage on foot back to Canterbury over the next two weeks, followed by five performances.'

Aletta had been blessed – or cursed – with a high, rather tinkling voice, and her general air of sweet condescension made Georgia instinctively recoil. Her mind boggled at the sheer scope of the undertaking. A two-week walk from Hampshire and
then
put on a play? For an amateur drama production it seemed a challenge, to say the least, and Peter clearly agreed with her.

‘A pilgrimage
before
your murder, Archbishop Becket?' he joked to Valentine.

‘This pilgrimage of yours. You're taking the Old Road?' Luke asked, having returned with the drinks.

Julian jumped in to take ownership of the conversation before his brother could reply. ‘All the way from Winchester to Canterbury, the old Pilgrims' Way, trodden for thousands of years. That's a comparatively modern name, of course, as the track was used long before pilgrims set foot on it – and, as you say, colloquially called the Old Road, notably by Hilaire Belloc in his book of that name.'

‘See my edition thereof, price fourteen pounds ninety-nine, available at all good bookshops,' Luke joked. ‘I publish local history books. My wife Georgia, her father Peter Marsh, and I'm Luke Frost.'

‘Marsh?' Valentine glanced from Peter to Georgia. ‘Of Marsh & Daughter? The true crime book series? Old murder cases?'

As Peter nodded, Georgia saw Julian stiffen. ‘Is that why you're here today?' he shot at them, with an attempt at a laugh that didn't work. Why would that be? she wondered. Only a few minutes ago he'd been joking about murder himself. He seemed to be a man of swift-changing emotions, and in a power struggle she would put her money on smooth-talking Valentine.

‘Good heavens no. Better brains than ours have studied Becket's death.'

Peter's light-hearted remark dispelled the tension, and Georgia relaxed. She was probably imagining a situation that did not exist. After all, sibling rivalry was hardly an unknown phenomenon. Nevertheless, she wondered how Aletta fitted into this uncomfortable relationship. Was she peacemaker or partisan?