Murder on the Old Road (11 page)

‘Nothing apart from the fact that it wasn't natural causes. It could be a car accident, or she might have fallen downstairs in the farmhouse.'

Luke's silence reinforced her own lack of conviction in these explanations. Eventually, he said, ‘From what I could glean from Tim's gabbling, I don't think that she died in the farmhouse. Wherever it was, she was found early this morning, and the police roused the farmer, who directed them to the pub.'

One scenario after another rushed through Georgia's mind as she could well imagine the chaos there must be now amongst the pilgrims. The sooner they got going the better.

Luke had not been exaggerating. When they arrived at the Dog and Duck Tim looked even worse than he had yesterday evening. His nervousness was stamped all over his face. There was no point in wondering whether this arose from the murder or the uncertainty that must now hang over his play. He probably didn't know himself.

As if in mockery of the dark horror that had befallen the group, the day was fine, and when they arrived Georgia could see the party was spread out across the terrace and gardens. The pub would not officially open until twelve, and so the Chillingham group had it all to themselves until then, although with the camping contingent having joined them again, there were so many people gathered here it was hardly quiet. The coach, baulked of its purpose of picking up luggage, was still in the car park. There was also a police car there, but there was no sign of SOCO or control vans nor of a police cordon, which suggested Anne must have been killed some way from where Georgia had last seen her. She could see two constables sitting apart from the rest of the group, however, no doubt busy with recording details of potential witnesses. The rest must still be at the scene of crime together with all the SOCOs.

Simon disappeared to fetch some coffee for them – very welcome, as breakfast at Medlars had been non-existent except for a snatched slice of bread – and they found a table on the terrace outside. Julian and Aletta were not far away, but it was Val who came over to them, looking very drawn, with Julian and Aletta following him.

‘Good of you to rush over to help in our little local difficulty.' Val tried to make it sound light-hearted, but failed miserably, which was hardly surprising in the circumstances.

Julian and his wife seemed in shock, naturally enough. ‘She was strangled,' he told them. His face was drained of colour, and his voice held nothing of its usual heartiness. ‘She was found by a local dairyman early this morning in the lane leading to the place where she was staying.'

Murdered then, Georgia thought; the last doubt had to be dismissed.

‘There's nothing else on that lane but the farmhouse, so the police tried that first,' Julian continued. ‘The woman who runs it recognized who she was and told them she was part of the group at the pub.'

‘So here we are,' Aletta added shakily, ‘awaiting the police's pleasure. They arrived just as we were getting up at about eight and told us to stay put. Since then it's been nothing but phone calls for all of us. There's the next of kin issue, of course.'

‘Who is her next of kin?' Peter asked.

‘Her daughter. I've met her once or twice.'

Aletta was usually one of those cool women, Georgia thought, who despite the worst fate could throw at them always looked immaculate, not a hair out of place. Today her calm had deserted her, even though that was evident more in her voice and body language than in her appearance. She still seemed in control, however, as she laid her hand on her husband's arm and persuaded him to sit down.

‘Do you know where the crime scene is and how far it stretches?' Peter asked.

‘From the farmhouse, up to where that lane joins the one running past this pub,' Val said. ‘They'd have liked to have closed part of this road too, but some traffic has to get through somehow. No doubt about it, though, we're all suspects until proved otherwise.'

His usual suavity had deserted him, and he, too, was clearly in shock. Georgia remembered Anne saying that he and she used to dance in the dew together, which suggested there could still have been a tie between them.

‘It might have been an opportunist murder,' Georgia said. Always a good starting point, even though she didn't believe that was likely in this case.

‘Of course. But meanwhile we're all on the list.' Aletta laughed nervously. ‘Remember that production of
The Mikado
you produced, Val, back in the early eighties? The Lord High Chancellor who had a little list of those who would not be missed. That's us. We'll all be dragged in one by one.'

Val smiled at her, but Julian's face, caught off-guard, suggested he did not appreciate his wife's attempt at light-heartedness.

‘Do you know who's the senior officer yet?' Peter asked him. Georgia guessed Wrotham would come under Darenth Area, which was not one Peter knew well.

‘DI Whitton,' Val replied promptly.

That could be good news at least. There had been a Will Whitton who had been Mike Gilroy's sergeant at one time. Georgia remembered him as having a cheerful easy-going manner, a rosy cheeked complexion and a sense of humour. Unusual qualities in an ambitious sergeant, and they hid an astute mind. Mike had said he'd go far. Luckily for them, he seemed to have gone no further than Darenth Area.

Them
? Georgia realized with some surprise that she was identifying herself with the pilgrimage, which must mean she felt a sense of unity with it, more than her obligation to be present as perhaps the last person to see or talk to Anne – apart from her murderer.

This must have struck Luke too because he went over to the police table to announce their presence. A woman PC turned round to look at Georgia appraisingly, as if sizing her up for a grilling. Fine, she thought, she would help all she could. Even the short time Georgia had known Anne had been enough for her to realize that they were on the same wavelength, if not always in accord, and that she felt personally involved in the hunt for her murderer.

Tim and Simon brought the coffee over to them and sat down at the table as the Wayncrofts moved away. ‘Dare I ask what difference this makes to your pilgrimage plans?' Luke asked. ‘Or don't you know yet?'

‘No idea,' Tim replied helplessly. ‘I'm hoping we can move on tomorrow, if not tonight, using the coach to catch up for lost time.'

‘What if one of us is arrested?' Simon said matter-of-factly.

Tim looked so appalled at this prospect that Georgia hastily tried the rational approach. ‘Just because there was tension between Anne and quite a few of you here, that doesn't mean the police will assume that one of you killed her. They'll need evidence.'

‘I suppose so,' Tim said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

Peter added his dose of common sense. ‘The investigating officer has to assess the evidence first, and see where it's pointing. That could take time. They can't hold you all here indefinitely, so my guess is that it will be up to you whether you go on with the pilgrimage or disperse.'

One look at Tim's face made Georgia realize this was an aspect he hadn't considered.

‘They'll be looking for other answers to this, not just from us,' Simon said reasonably, and Tim looked slightly consoled.

If only Anne had taken the offered lift to the farmhouse, Georgia thought. No, that way of thinking would lead nowhere. She had not yet thought of Anne as a friend, but after yesterday, she had been coming to think they
could
become friends. She thought she understood her, and although they were very different in character, they shared common ground. Perhaps it had been partly the Old Road that had brought that about. Its sense of having been trodden over so many years, by individuals and groups just like theirs, was a unifying one. In a way, the past provided fingerprints on the Old Road other than those that had led to the Marsh & Daughter cases. There were good vibes imprinting themselves on the atmosphere as well as those of violence and injustice. Tranquil fingerprints could survive even the jungle of modern so-called civilization, which was encroaching ever more steadily. It was these she might have felt with Anne yesterday.

‘Has there been any gossip about shady characters in the area?' Luke asked.

‘There's hardly been time,' Tim replied, ‘but the landlord told us about a dog walker who had a scare a week or two ago, and he reckoned he'd had one or two odd casuals in the pub.'

‘Then fix your thoughts on them, not on your flock,' Luke advised.

‘My flock?' Tim grimaced. ‘You can guess what we're all secretly thinking, but don't dare to put into words. And it isn't the play. Si and I haven't even got as far as that.'

‘It's natural enough,' Georgia said. ‘I imagine you're wondering what will happen to the Becket ruins.' Someone had to name it, because of the terrible possibility that Anne had been killed because of them. She shrank away from thinking this through though. It was too soon, much too soon.

Tim nodded. ‘They'll probably go to her daughter. And that's the trouble.'

‘Why? Have you met her?'

‘Yes. She's a chip off the same block as Anne, but worse.'

By lunchtime the pub's clientele was swelling visibly, both inside and out. News had obviously begun to spread, and media representatives were gathering. With the weather remaining fine, by unspoken assent the Chillingham group remained close together outside. Periodically one or two would peel off or be collared as likely prospects by the media to be interviewed as witnesses. Georgia was beginning to find it unbearable. Through TV and the press, the whole nation was going to hear what a wonderful person Anne Fanshawe was, and what an inspiring vicar Chillingham had lost. All probably true, had not the issue of Thomas Becket come between her and her parishioners. Today, however, that subject would be taboo, conveniently sidestepped.

At last more police cars arrived, and Georgia saw the guardian PCs going out through the garden gate to greet their colleagues. Now it would start. Now it would become real. She recognized Will Whitton right away, although he looked older. So must she, of course. All too old. A sudden stab reminded her of the pressing decision she and Luke still had to make over whether or not to go ahead with a third course of IVF. She made herself put that aside. Anne Fanshawe deserved all her concentration now.

Will Whitton must have had prior warning that Peter was here, as he immediately came over to their table, and Tim and Simon took the hint by moving away. Will greeted Peter like a long lost friend, despite the fact that by the time Will had joined the force Peter had already left it (officially). Their subsequent acquaintanceship had been through Peter's periodic eruptions into Mike's working life.

‘I gather you were here last night, Peter,' Will began, after the personal chat was over.

‘Not me. Georgia and Luke were.'

‘Remember me, Inspector?' she asked.

Will grinned. ‘Who could forget the dashing Georgia Marsh?'

‘Now a dashing Georgia Frost.' She introduced Luke.

Friendly relations established, he got down to business. ‘Tell me about Anne Fanshawe.'

‘We were recent arrivals on her scene,' Peter explained. ‘You need Chillingham residents to talk about her.'

Will wasn't having that. Georgia knew all too well that he might look like a cherub, but angelic he was not, when it came to his job. ‘You knew her, and you know who was here. I'm told you were the last person to talk to her, Georgia.'

‘Probably. I offered her a lift just as she was leaving. Luke was unlocking the car in the car park, and I saw her walking past. She turned it down.'

Will looked at her sympathetically. ‘You must feel badly about that. But life and death can turn on small decisions. What did you do then?'

‘Drove back to our home near Old Wives Lees, not far from Chillingham. That meant we turned right out of the car park here, and then left down to join the A20, which meant that we didn't pass Anne again. As you know, she turned left out of the car park.'

‘Did you see her walking along the road?'

‘Yes. I watched her for a few minutes before I got in the car, to be sure she didn't want to change her mind. She had a torch, but it was a dark night, so she disappeared from sight quite soon. She had a dark dress on too. I suppose that's not the reason . . .'

‘No chance,' he said briefly. ‘She was definitely strangled, not run down, and her body was dumped in the ditch. Did you pass any other traffic going that way?'

Georgia glanced at Luke. ‘I don't remember anything, do you?'

‘No. And I would have done because this road and the one to the A20 are mostly single track.'

‘Was she robbed?' Peter asked. ‘Could that be the motive?'

Will gave him an amused look. ‘That's loaded, isn't it? I take it you'd like that simple explanation. Well, the jury's out. Or rather I am. No sign of a coat, but the night was warm. Her bag was chucked in at her side, credit cards missing, but cash left in it. No signs of sexual attack. Could be robbery therefore, but unlikely.'

‘No credit cards at the farm?'

‘No, so at present I'm not giving odds. My turn: was the victim popular with this group, would you say?'

Georgia decided to take this one on. ‘She wasn't walking the whole pilgrimage with them, only the odd day.'

‘Why was that?'

‘She had four churches to look after so her job was the main reason, I imagine. Also she wasn't in the play, only a supporter. And – ' she knew she had to say it – ‘she wasn't popular with everyone.'

‘Thanks for that. It's the impression I've got, or rather my trusty team has. Choice of words and tone of voice can tell one a lot that doesn't register on the written witness statements. You'd know that, Peter.'

‘All too well,' he agreed.