Murder on the Old Road (19 page)

Just the same argument as Peter had made. She managed an attempt at a grin. ‘You mean computers will be no more? Oh, I hope I live that long.'

A pause, then Luke said, ‘You're sure the last IVF course has failed?'

‘Yes.'

‘Let's leave it at that, shall we? Move forward?'

‘I don't know, Luke. I'll think about it some more.'

‘Say no,' he said gently. ‘Begin the healing now.'

‘Perhaps one more . . .'

He sighed. ‘I can't take this decision for you, or even with you, just as you can't help Peter. He has to take the final step himself.'

It wasn't the same, but she knew Luke was right. It was her decision. ‘It's been suggested I book in for a day or two at Becket House. Peter thought it a good idea. Want to come?'

She couldn't bear to see the sadness in his face. ‘You know that's impossible,' he answered. ‘You do it, if you think it might help. It's the first night of the play on Tuesday, isn't it? I'll stay over that night. I presume you and Peter will be going?'

‘Peter would be on the Stour Theatre doorstep every night if it were practical. But I'm plumping for the first night and Saturday, the last night. I'll book in to Becket House for tonight if she's got room.' She wanted to say, ‘
Please
come with me,' but pride would not let her. She'd be better on her own, she told herself. ‘They need the trade,'she ended lightly, then turned away so that she could not see that sadness any more.
Why
the sadness though? For her, as he claimed, or for the children they might never have together? Unless she took that third course.

Becket House, its forecourt now almost empty of cars, looked more imposing than Georgia had remembered. On her earlier visit it had looked unremarkable, but now its red brick and elegant windows shone out far more grandly.

‘Come in, m'dear.' Molly's warm welcome gave no hint of the drama Georgia had run into on her first visit. No mention was made of that, or of Jessica Wayncroft, as Molly showed her up to a large double bedroom, plainly but appealingly decorated with obviously home-embroidered cushions and bedpane. The windows were Georgian, too, as was the ceiling, but the bathroom, thankfully, was modern.

‘You should have seen it when Dad moved in. I thought it was wonderful,' Molly said. ‘The Georgians liked baths, you know. He said the original bath had been about eight foot square, like a sort of swimming pool, and in the basement, and when he moved in there was still a Victorian free-standing bath right in the middle of the room, all claw feet and an interior with a Union Jack and God Save the Queen painted on it. It felt disrespectful at first having a bath in it, but then I loved it. I was really sorry when Dad went all modern and had the bathrooms revamped a year or two later.'

Georgia laughed. ‘I wonder what Thomas Becket would have used. The well, I suppose.'

Molly chuckled. ‘Maybe he did. Dad always reckoned he could have slept over in Becket House on his way to and fro from Otford to Canterbury.'

‘Not this one though.'

‘No, but there was a house on this site long before that, just as there was at Chillingham Place.'

‘Your brother told me you had some of the old stones at the back of the house and they could have come from the St Thomas chapel.'

‘That's right,' Molly said. ‘Dad used to feel very personal about them. There was a ruined outhouse he restored and called Becket's Shrine. We kids weren't so reverent. To us it was the Poo-house, till Dad found us mucking around in it one day and walloped us.'

‘Why would he mind, if it was just an outhouse?'

‘Dad said it was just a ruin when he moved in, but now it was his. It was maybe an outside larder or dairy when this present house was built. Why he bothered to restore it, beats me. Too small to be of much use. He said he'd use it for tools and that, and he did, but we certainly weren't welcome to play in it.'

‘What's it used for now?'

‘Nothing. Go and have a look if you like. It's not locked.'

‘Thanks. Did it have any other connection to Becket?' A sudden thought. ‘Your father didn't think Becket's bones were hidden there, by any chance?'

Any growing excitement was quickly dampened, when Molly replied, ‘Not that I know of. It's the well and the chapel where they're hidden, if anywhere. I reckon it's only a legend though. Nothing to it. Dad liked making legends up about Becket, after having worked so long at the Cathedral, so I suppose he just wanted one or two of his own. He said once that looking up at all that glory in the nave and hearing those bells could drive a man mad if he didn't tear his eyes and ears away soon enough.'

‘What did he mean by that?' To Georgia, Molly, like Lisa, seemed a curious mixture of the practical present and the inescapable past.

‘Well, I didn't think at the time, but afterwards I saw what he meant. It sort of hypnotizes you if you go on staring long enough. You get sucked into it, instead of taking its strength and going out into the world and
doing
. There's an atmosphere about this place too – not here in this house, but out by those chapel ruins – that makes you feel the same. They're just a load of old stones, so most people think, but then they haven't really
looked
. It makes you feel weird, thinking of all the pilgrims who tramped up to that well years ago, hoping to get cured of whatever was wrong with them by drinking the holy water and praying in Thomas's chapel. I'm not a Catholic myself, but I can see what it can do for you. Faith, you see, faith. That's why I'm against making Chillingham into a real tourist place. Folk would never stop long enough to get the real message. They'll just look, chatter to their chums, and move on. They'll look, but they'll never
see
.'

Becket House provided only bed and breakfast, and so Georgia made her way to the Three Peacocks that evening for a light meal, still thinking over what Molly had said when she'd echoed Lisa's words about the ruins. There were deeply held views in Chillingham, and only now did Georgia really feel she was drawing closer to the village. Lisa had been right to suggest she stayed here.

Doubts came back once she entered the pub. Again it was all but empty, and tonight it seemed soulless as well. She saw little of Lisa or of Simon, and Derek Moon was uncommunicative. A waitress Georgia did not recognize brought an admittedly delicious warm salad, but nevertheless she was glad to leave, armed with the large flashlight Molly had lent her, as it was well past ten o'clock. She had chosen to walk not drive, so that she could get some air and enjoy the silence of the countryside (and a glass of wine). The village, shrouded in darkness the further she got from the lamp posts, had an air of unreality – a stillness, as if it were waiting for something or someone.

Fanciful, Georgia told herself firmly, but she quickened her step past the vicarage, now in darkness. As she walked along the lane to Becket House, she thought uneasily of Anne Fanshawe setting off along that country road only to meet her death. There was nothing to be heard tonight – not a night bird, no traffic, nor even the sound of her own footsteps – and she found herself glancing over her shoulder every so often as though the murderers of Thomas Becket were dogging her footsteps. Why think of that? she wondered. She supposed it was because in this place it was all too easy to do so; the centuries had made little difference because basically, when the sun disappeared and night fell, everyone was a lone pilgrim in the dark.

Home, woman, home, she told herself. Even if tonight Becket House had to be home, it was a welcome one, and she reached the still unlocked door with something like relief. Tomorrow she would begin again, tomorrow she would look at the Becket Poo-house, or Shrine as John Painter had termed it, and on Tuesday she would join Luke at the play. She'd be going in the hope that the hunt for Hugh's murderer might be advanced. How she did not know, but many quests had ended in Canterbury over the centuries, and this might be one of them.

Feeling lost without Luke, she watched the TV news. Missing him was stupid, because she had often spent nights away from Medlars in the course of work, and yet this seemed different. Probably that was because of the momentous joint decision – she still thought of it as joint – hanging over them. To take or not to take the course. That indeed was the question, despite Luke's claims not to mind.

Her heart sank. Why did she have to start thinking about that, just as she was about to go to bed? Her mind would be whirling all night. Concentrate, think of something else, of the play, of the Wayncrofts, of Thomas Becket. Her mind immediately sprang into life again, and turning the TV off she walked restlessly to the window to look out at Chillingham in the dark. Out there was the Old Road to Canterbury, and on this Sunday evening all was still. Over to her right, she could see the pinpricks of light from the village, but nearer at hand there was nothing but quietness and the sky. No moon, only the dark, dark night.

She was wrong. She could see a pinprick of light, a
moving
light. It must be a car – no, it wasn't far enough away to be coming from the road or from the manor house. She felt herself tensing up as she realized it seemed to be by the ruins. Surely she must be wrong. Who would want to look round Becket's well and chapel at this time of night? They held no attractions either for lovers or homeless wanderers, and it was too far into the fields for someone merely to be taking cover for a call of nature or for a dog-walker to be out. The light was definitely at the ruins, but for what reason? A drugs' handover venue? Unlikely. There would be many more suitable and accessible places in Chillingham than Becket's ruins, and Anne would have seen off any attempt for them to make them a regular meeting place.

Georgia looked at her hotel keys, lying on the dressing table, and was tempted. It wouldn't take long to go over to investigate. Dangerous? Of course it was, but she was cautious and karate-trained. Stupid? Of course it was, but she'd be careful. Even so, when she let herself quietly out of Becket House and walked over to the field, she had qualms. Curiosity was not going to kill this cat, however, and if there was some mystery about those ruins, she needed to know.

Her torch led her stumbling over uneven ground until she found a path in the Becket House garden that led to a gate into the meadow where the ruins lay. The path probably continued as far as Chillingham Place, but halfway across the field it deteriorated, and she began to stumble over tufts of grass. For a moment she thought the light had vanished and its bearer with it, and all seemed silent and dark as she approached the well.

Then there was noise shattering the quiet, an exclamation and the light appeared again wavering up and down. ‘Who's there?' The voice was male, sharp and nervous, as Georgia herself was. It was a voice she knew, but couldn't place because of the fright it had given her.

‘Georgia Marsh,' she called more steadily than she felt. ‘Who are you?'

‘What the hell are you doing here?' The light came towards her as the voice rang out again, and this time she recognized it.

Valentine Harper's.

She stood still, waiting for him to reach her.

‘I might ask the same of you.' She sounded so cool that she amazed herself. It was all she could do not to turn and run.

The nearer he loomed towards her, a dark shape behind the torchlight, the more she had difficulty in standing her ground. Half of her wanted to turn and run, the other half told her to face it out. That half won, but only just.

‘I saw the light from my bedroom window and thought it might be vandals,' she said.

‘Well, it's not. It's me. And these grounds belong to my half-brother.'

‘Not yet.'

‘Don't quibble. They will be soon. So now if you're satisfied that I'm not here to steal the crown jewels, perhaps you'll leave.' Val sounded almost as rattled as she was, and that gave her confidence.

‘What
are
you here for?'

‘I could explain, but I don't see why I should.' His voice was mild, but it held a note of threat that did not escape her.

‘I'd be interested to know.'

‘I'm sure you would. Would you be satisfied though? Would it be dramatic enough for you? You're searching for something to pop into that book of yours that we'll never let be written, but I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. I can't produce anything exciting. The reason I'm here is sheer self-interest; the ruins will soon be mine – or –' he caught himself – ‘Julian's, which amounts to the same thing where our plans are concerned. I'm already planning and working on ideas – I have to – but I couldn't envisage the ruins clearly enough for my satisfaction. Poor Anne was not overgenerous in allowing access to them, and it was some years since I had seen them close up. Except, of course, when Stella kindly brought us here yesterday, but I could hardly indulge my curiosity too far then. It would not have been seemly. And if you ask why I choose dead of night to come here – well, to come during daylight would hardly be seemly either.'

‘That's reasonable,' Georgia conceded.

‘Good.'

Was there sarcasm in his voice? Had there been in hers? She didn't care, because she did not believe a word of what he'd said, and so retreat was her only and best course now. She bade him goodnight and strolled – she longed to run – back the way she had come. She imagined his eyes on her every moment as she did so, prickles at the back of her neck mounting. Had Anne had the same sensation? And with the same man? Her murderer?

As if reading her thoughts, she heard Val hurrying after her. She could even hear his deep breathing in the night air. Run or stand? She'd never outrun him, much better to face him. She stopped, and he walked round her, placing himself in front, barring her way.

‘Oh Georgia,' he purred, ‘just in case you are considering a high-profile role for me in your book, I should point out that whoever killed Anne Fanshawe, it could not have been me, or indeed Julian. We had no idea that Anne was going to leave the ruins to us. And even if I had known Anne's plans, the inspector in charge of the case –' heavy emphasis – ‘knows I am, so to speak, out of the running. I, Aletta and Julian remained at the table for a full ten minutes or so after Anne had left – ample time for her to reach home before my murderous self could catch up with her. So very sorry to disappoint you.'