Murder on the Old Road (2 page)

She reproved herself for letting her imagination roam out of control and smiled across at a young man who had just joined the table. His likeness to Julian was so apparent that this must surely be his son. No princely splendour for him, although he cut a dashing figure, with a shock of black curly hair peeping out from under a sort of chain-mail beret, a mock chain jerkin, black tights – and trainers, which rather spoiled the effect.

‘When are we off, then?' he demanded of his father.

‘My son Sebastian,' Julian said, introducing him briefly, then glanced at his watch. (On a Plantagenet king's wrist?) ‘The coach arrives at two o'clock. Finish our lunch, load the coach and up to the North Downs Way.'

‘Why are you walking to Canterbury?' Peter queried. ‘Not taking the coach?'

‘The great god Publicity.' Sebastian grinned. ‘That's what this pilgrimage is all about. There's a reception organized to greet us as we stagger down into the city with our banners. We want to be
overwhelmed
with—'

‘Seb—' his mother broke in warningly. ‘Obviously media presence. Desperately.' She turned apologetically to them. ‘That's why we're opening the play on the day of Becket's traditional anniversary on the seventh of July. Silly, really, since he actually died on the twenty-ninth of December. But I suppose that month wasn't so good for pilgrimages, so July was chosen instead, the anniversary of the day his bones were moved to the shrine in Trinity Chapel.'

‘Or not, as the case may be,' Seb drawled. ‘That man has more bones scattered around than a can of sardines.'

‘Seb—' Julian said sharply.

Not a man she would like to cross, Georgia decided, but his son only laughed. ‘Don't worry, Pa. I'm all for it. Can't wait to get to Canterbury this afternoon.' He yawned ostentatiously, and Julian's face grew even darker.

‘I'm still grappling with the idea of you all marching the whole of the Pilgrims' Way,' Georgia put in hastily, seeing yet another family situation erupting. ‘You'll all be exhausted by the time you come to perform the play itself.'

‘It'll be a doddle,' Seb replied blithely. ‘Even Ma can manage it.' Aletta awarded him a cool smile.

‘Tim Hurst suggested Georgia and I share the doddle with you this afternoon,' Luke said. ‘What do you think, Georgia? It's only four or five miles to Canterbury. We've got our walking gear in the car, and Tim says the coach that's taking them on to Winchester can drop us off on the way back.'

What did she
think
? The idea seemed horrific. Nothing she had so far seen of the main players in this pilgrimage recommended a longer acquaintance with them. Unfortunately Tim Hurst, who was the co-owner of the Three Peacocks, had once worked with Luke, and Luke was obviously thinking that they should support him. Perhaps Tim had some role in the play. If Luke went, she should too. After all, all drama groups had their tensions, and this was only for an afternoon.

‘Fine,' she said bravely. ‘If you don't mind, Peter?' She turned to her father.

‘I'm relieved to say this wheelchair isn't footpath friendly,' Peter replied blithely, ‘so don't worry about me. I'll drive home and read a good book.'

Georgia deduced from this that Peter was silently egging her on for some reason known only to himself. A reference to good books was usually a euphemism for research, either by Internet or through his vast collection of reference books. If a new Marsh & Daughter case was on the horizon it meant the starting pistol had been fired. If the case then developed they would work on it to the point where they could write it up for their true crime non-fiction series. But at the Three Peacocks there was no case – or even the sniff of one, unless Julian's odd reaction to the name Marsh & Daughter counted. Marsh & Daughter usually investigated past mysteries, but there had been no mention of one so far except for Becket himself, and even Peter wouldn't have the gall to rush in where so many learned historians had trodden before. So what could have caught his attention? True, the Wayncroft family situation was highly charged with emotion, but that was no concern of Peter or hers. Yet that gleam in Peter's eye clearly said: Trust me, something wicked this way comes.

She must have missed something, she decided, so she surrendered gracefully. Marsh & Daughter were between books at present, always a difficult time. Their last case had been completed and written up, and Luke, their publisher, hoped to get it on the market in time for Christmas.

‘Why's Tim going on the pilgrimage?' Luke said to Julian. ‘Does he have a role in the play?'

‘Nothing important. He's merely our all powerful director.' Julian grinned, good humour again to the fore.

‘I'd no idea Tim was keen on drama.'

Luke had been surprised to re-meet Tim Hurst earlier that year. Georgia remembered the day well. They'd come here by chance and discovered that Tim ran and owned the pub with his partner Simon Bede. They'd lived here six years and were trying to turn the Three Peacocks into a combination of gastro pub and village community rendezvous. Not as yet, she and Luke had gathered, very successfully.

Georgia had immediately liked Tim. In his mid-thirties, he was outgoing, quick-witted and talented. A bundle of nerves, she guessed, and he held his body like a coiled spring. Simon was older by, she guessed, about seven or eight years. He was the sturdier of the two, both physically and mentally, and was affable without being extrovert, but so far as their relationship was concerned, it seemed to be he, not Tim, who was insecure. He looked the perfect ‘mine host' for a tavern, and Tim the inspirational cook, but in fact it worked the other way round. Simon was the chef, Tim the business and outside man.

As departure time drew near and Georgia saw the coach draw up, there was a general move inside the pub to pick up luggage. She saw Tim emerge with Simon, who was carrying what looked like a rolled up banner, presumably to advertise the play.

‘No pilgrim's garb, Tim?' Luke joked.

‘My robe's in here.' Tim flourished a backpack. ‘I didn't wear it behind the bar in case any normal people dropping in for a pint took fright.'

‘Are you both going?' Georgia asked. Tim was clearly pleased that she and Luke were to accompany them, even though Tim looked strained, and his light banter had a false note.

‘Just me,' Tim replied. ‘Can't both be away two weeks. Simon doesn't mind, do you, Si?'

‘Simon does, in fact,' he answered wryly, ‘but we bow to necessity. We need the publicity.'

‘Badly.' Tim pulled a face.

So they expected the play and pilgrimage to help the pub as well as the drama society. Georgia remembered Seb's talk of the great god Publicity – more, surely, than the need to cover costs in a local production would require. There had been real emphasis on it, and Aletta had even used the word ‘desperately'. Was there something here she wasn't getting? The subtext of village life was seldom available for strangers to read, but this particular subtext disturbed her. Had it had that effect on Peter too? It might explain why he was keen for her to join the merry band this afternoon.

‘Tough times for pubs now.' Simon pulled a face. ‘The Three Peacocks is in every pub guide we can break into, but we really need word of mouth local trade as well.'

Georgia felt guilty that she and Luke had come so seldom since their first visit. The Three Peacocks' prices were far from cheap, however. Gastro food demanded gastro rates, and she wondered how long it might be before standards – or menus – had to be downgraded.

‘Can you cope on your own, without Tim?' Luke asked.

‘Should be able to,' Simon replied. ‘Derek Moon comes in to run the bar, and his mum Lisa will give me a hand front of house and in the kitchen. We'll manage.' He didn't look happy at the prospect.

‘It's worth it, Simon,' Tim said quietly.

‘
If
it works.' The reply was even quieter and obviously destined for Tim alone.

If what works? Georgia wondered. It couldn't be the play, because if Tim were directing it, Simon would surely never suggest it might fail. The pilgrimage? Perhaps. Or was this a different subtext altogether?

There was an awkward silence, which Peter broke with a jovial, ‘So, the lord of the manor and a pub owner are going on a pilgrimage today. Don't you need to complete the village establishment with the vicar? Is he blessing the pilgrimage with his presence?'

Another pause, then Tim replied quietly, ‘She has to come. It's a village event, isn't it?'

‘Good thing we keep our trainers in the car boot,' Luke said, opening it up.

Was it? Georgia's misgivings had returned. Perhaps, she told herself, her personal problems were beginning to cast their pall over daily life – and if she were not careful they would suck Luke in too. So far her lack of success in conceiving a child had seemed to affect only her, but where Luke was concerned she could never be sure. He was a past master at disguising his true feelings – admirable in a publisher, but it could be tricky in a husband. This afternoon she would force herself to push the personal aside, however, and concentrate on what might, after all, be an enjoyable walk.

In the two years she and Luke had lived at Medlars they had walked most of the local footpaths, including most of the old Pilgrims' Way. Medlars was only a mile or two from here and quite near the track. Their walks had always been towards Old Wives Lees or Charing, however, not eastwards to Chartham Hatch, probably because of the urban sprawl as Canterbury was approached, and so this stretch of the Old Road was unfamiliar.

The name ‘the Old Road' had a touch of magic about it, Georgia thought, giving it an atmosphere of its own, at times almost creepy and at times comfortably humbling. It brought back an age when travelling was an experience to be enjoyed in itself and a pilgrimage a devotional journey that added meaning to life. It could also be a holiday, it could be made for penance, it could be to pray for the restoration of health, it could even be an escape from paying taxes, since pilgrims were exempt from such burdens – let the Chancellor put that one in his Budget! It could be for all those reasons that pilgrims took to the road. When a shrine was visited, they could buy badges and other signs to fix to their robes or hat, as proof that they'd visited the saint. They rode if they were rich, they walked if they weren't. They went barefoot if seeking penance.

Georgia had a fleeting image of Julian Wayncroft hobbling along barefooted and falling on his knees in penance once he got to the shrine. King Henry II had done so after he ordered Becket's murder, and the relations between Julian and Valentine seemed to lack as much cordiality as those between the King and Becket.

She began to cheer up as the group moved off from the pub, heading for the track that ran along the top of the village. When it was established in the 1970s, the North Downs Way followed the route of the Old Road or Pilgrims' Way, where that was still possible. If she remembered correctly, the route of the Old Road was unclear between Chilham, Old Wives Lees and Chillingham, but from this point on the new track was following the original one. The group even began to look a merry band, with the banner held aloft, the hum of voices and even singing to the lutes, not to mention a peculiar clanking, which came, she was told, from the wooden balls attached to the tops of the walking staffs.

‘Very traditional,' Luke remarked.

‘Are you two new recruits?'

Georgia turned round at hearing the unfamiliar voice behind her. It belonged to a woman perhaps in her early fifties, whose identity was easy to guess. She was wearing a long black cassock, presumably the nearest she could get to a medieval pilgrim priest's habit.

‘Very temporary.' Georgia stopped to wait for the vicar to catch up. ‘We're merely hangers-on for the afternoon.'

‘Splendid. Very medieval. I'm sure that's what the villagers must have done in the old days. Turned out to follow the pilgrims, and then went back home when they were tired – thus winning both ways.' The vicar was having to shout over the noise now. ‘Anne Fanshawe,' she introduced herself. ‘Vicar of Chillingham, together with several other parishes in the neighbourhood.'

Georgia introduced herself and Luke. She liked the look of Anne Fanshawe. A strong face, but a kind one, she thought. ‘Luke's a friend of Tim's,' she explained, ‘so he couldn't resist joining in.'

‘Luke Frost? You're the publisher, aren't you?'

‘I am. Currently planning a new book on tea shops for pilgrims,' he joked.

Anne Fanshawe didn't laugh. ‘That would be good. The Old Road's a shivery experience at times.'

‘Is that why Fright Wood got its name?' Georgia had been studying the map, and she had seen the name on the way to Chartham Hatch. The track was running along the hillside, and at first there had been apple orchards on their right, and in the distance the blue haze over the fertile Weald of Kent. Now they were walking past woodland, little changed, Georgia imagined, over the centuries, save that it must have been much thicker on both sides then. Apart from the Old Road, this hillside would have been impenetrable.

‘I doubt it,' Anne replied. ‘This is Peacock Wood.' She seemed disinclined to say more, and at that moment the music stopped and there was silence, save for marching steps. And no bird sang, Georgia thought uneasily, remembering Keats' creepy poem – and no pilgrims either. Just an eerie silence, broken at last by one solitary bird's warning call.

Luke went ahead to chat to Tim, and Anne fell back to talk to someone else, leaving Georgia briefly alone as the woodland closed in on both sides. Trees were arching over the path to form a tunnel, with the sun blotted out. As the trees began to thin out she could see open countryside ahead. But then it happened. Her stomach churned, with a sickness that seemed to be stifling her. The path turned a corner, and the woodland was almost behind her. Ahead, however, the line of walkers looked misty, almost unreal, as though they were the pilgrims who had trodden the Old Road in the past. Luke was not far in front, but even so she felt isolated, nauseous and choking with no reason. She recognized these symptoms all too clearly as she forced herself to stumble onwards. They had nothing to do with lunch, and everything to do with the place through which she was walking.