Murder on the Old Road (20 page)

ELEVEN

O
n Monday morning, after a restless night, Georgia woke up with a sense of doom. Today the dress rehearsal at the Stour Theatre would be taking place and the pilgrims would be dedicating themselves to the play. It couldn't have helped Tim that the last leg of the pilgrimage must have been completed without Val. By daylight his mission to the ruins last night seemed even more curious.

Breakfast, she decided, came first, after which her brain might condescend to work properly. When she entered the pleasant breakfast room overlooking the terrace at the rear of the house she seemed to be the only customer, but Molly was bustling about as if the room were full. Despite her frequent visits to Georgia's table, with orange juice, tea, toast and requests for anything else she might like, there was little opportunity for opening discussions on Chillingham's problems.

To Georgia's astonishment, however, as the ‘full English' was carefully set in front of her, its bearer also planted herself firmly before her. ‘There's something needs to be said, Georgia, and it's this. Us Painters and the Wayncrofts go back a long way. So you enjoy your meal, and then you and I can have a talk.'

That suited Georgia admirably, relieved it had proved so straightforward. Molly was as good as her word. Georgia's empty plate was removed (it would not have been diplomatic to leave the mushrooms untouched, although she heartily disliked them), the teacup was replenished and Molly sat down opposite her.

‘Are you including Jessica as a Wayncroft?' Georgia asked lightly.

‘Take one, you take them all,' Molly replied enigmatically. ‘And if you're wondering why she comes a-visiting here, she told you right. She came to talk to Vic. He does odd jobs for her now and then, but he's been busy here this summer. Ain't been up to see her like he said he would, so the mountain popped down to see Mahomet. Only he wasn't here.'

Not totally convincing, Georgia thought. Jessica could have used the telephone to summon Vic.

Molly might have realized that doubt was lingering, however, because she added, ‘Got a real interest in local history, has Mrs Wayncroft. She likes talking to Vic about the old days, and listening to his stories.'

This was news to Georgia. She'd had it from the horse's mouth that Jessica couldn't stand history, at least not Wayncroft history. ‘About the Becket ruins?'

‘Anything to do with St Thomas. Even had a look at the old Poo-House the other day. She brought Mr Val too. He had a good nose round.'

Did he, indeed? All the more reason, Georgia thought, for her to look at it herself as speedily as possible.

‘Anyway, what I wanted to tell you about,' Molly continued firmly, ‘is this. It's about Mr Robert. Dad worked for the Wayncrofts for twenty-five years: for Mr Robert, then Mr Hugh, then Mr Robert again.'

Georgia was fully alert now. ‘What sort of person was he?' She'd heard his name often enough, but not much about the man himself.

‘A hothead when he was younger, so Dad had heard. When he went into the army for the war, he was as full of himself as young Sebastian is now. Dad started working for him right after the war, but the war had changed a lot of people, and Mr Robert was one of them. His father had died way back, and his grandad, Mr Alfred, was running Chillingham when war broke out. Then he died in 'forty-two and Mr Robert – lieutenant he was then – came back to Chillingham on compassionate leave. Whether it was that, or the war itself, he became broody and preoccupied. He was out at Dunkirk, then later got posted to the Desert, then Italy, then Germany. Won himself a DSO, he did. He never did settle down here again after the war. Came back regular to see his Mum, while she was alive, but Mr Hugh managed the estate until Mr Robert handed it over to him. All Dad would say was that it was his belief something happened to him during the war that changed him, and I reckon Dad knew what that was. He never told us though. He'd stayed close to Mr Robert though, especially when Dad knew he hadn't got long to go. Very set he got on that towards the end. “I got to,” he said to me. “It's only right. It's his.”'

‘What was?' Georgia was on tenterhooks. Could this be the key to the whereabouts of St Thomas's bones?

‘He never said, but one day I remember Dad was near to tears. “What's wrong, Dad?” I said. “Wrong?” he asked. “Murder's wrong, that's what.”'

‘Whose murder?' Georgia asked sharply.

Molly sighed. ‘Again, he never said. Dad was like that. But he and Mr Robert got even closer, if that were possible, and Dad seemed happy enough. One of the last things he said to me was, “You go on looking out for the Wayncrofts, Molly girl. They're good people at heart. It's just the heritage. They can't escape it. I did wrong, but it's been put right now, so don't you worry.” Now, Georgia m'dear.' Molly grew brisk. ‘I've been telling you this in case you can make head or tail of it. I can't. I'm taking a risk, speaking out, but we can't have no more murders.'

‘You mean that Anne Fanshawe might have known what your father meant?'

‘If anyone did, I reckon it was her.'

The Becket Shrine, which John Painter had taken so much time in restoring, was not as Georgia had imagined it. She had followed Molly's directions and gone out through the French windows to the terrace, in front of which was a sizeable garden, chiefly given to trees, bushes and grass. On the right she could see the path she had taken last night, but that had led her only along one side of the garden. Becket's Shrine was to her left, however, where there was a row of separate self-contained accommodation apartments, converted from the old stables, and one or two modern outbuildings. The Shrine looked so insignificant that she passed it by at first, but eventually found it tucked back between the main house and the stable rooms.

It was hardly in the ancient monument league. It was about six foot square, with a modern door and tiled roof. Molly had told her that the door was unlocked, and at first Georgia could see only a jumble of tools, which looked as if they had been accumulating since the house was first built. Old hoes, rakes, spades and forks, a pile of seed boxes – garden junk, in other words. The modern garden mower that this garden surely required must be kept somewhere else. Then she saw that the ‘shrine' must once have served another purpose. Amid the jumble was an old chair, and a small grimy window with an ashtray on its sill suggested a hideaway, rather than an outside toilet.

Could this building be holding Becket's bones? It would explain Painter's closeness to Robert Wayncroft, and why Jessica and Val were so interested in it. Excitement began to stir inside her. It was a credible theory, surely? The more natural place for them would have been in the chapel, perhaps in front of the altar, or in the well, but this building was near enough to them to have formed part of the Becket complex. He might even have owned a house of his own on this site, a forerunner of Becket House. Steady, she warned herself. Not too far too quickly.

Without much hope, she peered behind the tools to see if there were loose stones, although other investigative hands would have found anything obvious. The roof? She peered upwards, but there seemed no possible hiding place, and in any case, the roof had been constructed by John Painter.

Only the floor remained as a possibility. It was covered with old lino, but she managed to lift one side of it an inch or so. There seemed to be flagstones underneath it, perhaps to match the terrace, and there was no way she could get any further. Under them, buried deep, might indeed lie the bones of St Thomas, and John Painter, Robert Wayncroft, Jessica and Val might have come to the same conclusion. If so, where did that lead her? Given the remote chance that they were indeed here, what would the result if they were exhumed? Apart from years of discussion by experts on their provenance, and publicity for Chillingham, could they have had any bearing on Hugh's murder? In 1967, Becket House had still been part of the Wayncrofts' estate.

She wondered very much what had sparked off Jessica's interest in this Shrine.

Jessica welcomed her like the first day of spring – clad in bright green, with a jaunty vivid bow to set off her white hair. ‘Molly tells me you're staying at Becket House,' she began as she led Georgia into her living room. ‘Such a fascinating building. When I first came to live in Chillingham Place, Hugh's mother moved into Becket House, as she was by then a widow. She never remarried, and nor have I. Now do tell me how can I help you.' Not waiting for an answer, Jessica swept on, ‘Are you attending the play tomorrow night? I've decided to go after all, despite my earlier misgivings. Val would be so disappointed if I missed it.'

No mention of Julian being disappointed, Georgia noted. ‘Yes. Peter, Luke and I are all going.'

‘Dear me. A statement, you might say. We must all guard our tongues most carefully.' She giggled. ‘Always so difficult with someone so pleasant to talk to as you are, Georgia. Now, what was it you wanted to ask?'

Flattery? Georgia smiled to herself. Obvious though it was, it still smoothed the path. ‘Molly Jones was telling me of your interest in local history, and I've just been looking at the little outbuilding that her father restored at Becket House. Have you seen it?'

Jessica looked mildly surprised. ‘Indeed I have. Val and I popped down to see it one day. It's one more site that we would like to add to the official village tour, which we shall be organizing. There's not much to see, but Vic Painter believes there is a case for claiming St Thomas might have once lived on the site.'

Georgia awarded Jessica full marks for quick recovery, but decided to go for gold. ‘Especially if that could include the legend of Becket's bones being buried there.'

‘Ah.' Jessica looked pensive. ‘Now that it is a
big
question. Has it occurred to you that Anne had a good reason for leaving us the chapel and well in her will?'

‘It has.'

‘And that the reason might have been because she'd discovered that the bones were not in the well or the chapel ruins, but in Becket House?' Jessica was smiling blandly at her as she delivered this head-on punch.

Georgia pulled herself together. ‘It hadn't,' she admitted, speedily running the possibilities through her mind. ‘I can't see how that ties in however. Robert, who was so keen on the Wayncroft heritage, had sold Becket House to John Painter, and he would surely never have done so if he had believed the bones were hidden there.'

Jessica had an answer for that. ‘Perhaps because
he
believed that the bones were in the chapel.'

‘Like Valentine? He didn't find anything there last night, did he?'

A mischievous smile at this turning of the tables. ‘Ah, he did mention he'd run into you. I told him it was unwise to go exploring there as yet, but the dear boy is so impetuous. He takes after his father, and the special forces were chosen for their fearless nature. I told Val he has only a month or two to wait until probate is granted and then he can go there any time he likes. He's gone to Canterbury today, of course, to join the others, as foolishly he decided not to do the walk yesterday. Julian would not be pleased, nor dear Tim, to hear of his clandestine activities. Please don't tell them.'

Georgia skirted round this request. ‘Will you drive there tomorrow?'

‘No. I do get tired in the evenings,' Jessica admitted. ‘Simon has kindly said he will drive me over.' A pause. ‘The police came to see me this morning, and it rather upset me.'

‘To talk about Anne's murder?'

‘Of course. Because Julian is inheriting the ruins, they seem to assume we Wayncrofts must have hastened her on her way. How short-sighted of them, not to mention annoying. We had no idea of her intentions.'

‘She didn't consult you or Julian about it?'

Jessica sighed. ‘No. Anne was a very private person. Furthermore, she was only just over fifty and could hardly have believed she would die so soon. She might have been assuming that Sebastian would inherit them, not Julian, and that he, in time, would change his views.'

The theory she had had herself, Georgia remembered. Could that indeed be the answer? She could not convince herself of it – it was too risky, and Robert Wayncroft did not strike her as a risk-taker where family was concerned. ‘Sebastian came out in favour of abandoning the play at the meeting,' she said, ‘so have his views on development changed too?' It was worth asking.

‘Absolutely not.' Jessica sat ramrod still, very much the insulted grande dame. ‘I too, if you recall, would have preferred the play cancelled. But that is a long way from being opposed to ensuring Chillingham's future. That is something I would never endorse, and nor, I trust, will my sons or grandson.'

When she returned to Becket House, Georgia was surprised to see Peter's car parked there, but then she remembered that when she had rung him earlier he had expressed great interest in coming to see the Shrine. She tracked him down to the rear garden, where she saw him sitting in his chair at a garden table, drinking coffee, presumably courtesy of Molly.

‘What brought you here?' she asked.

‘Escaping Janie.'

‘Oh,
Peter
.'

‘Joke,' he said hastily. ‘She can't come to the play tomorrow night. I did ask her.'

There was a note in his voice that said step no further, and she obeyed it. ‘Want a pub lunch?'

‘Sounds good. I want to see this so-called Shrine first.'

‘Over there.' She escorted him back there, and he peered into it with great curiosity.

‘Shrine, eh?' he said, at last. ‘It would take a Becket miracle to make this into one.'

‘What did you think of my bones theory?'

‘I'm nothing if not gracious. Brilliant, but theory only.'

‘The only place would be under the flagstones, and we can't prise them up on mere conjecture. I can't see any sign that there's been any recent digging there.'