Murder on the Old Road Read online

  ‘So do I. Isn’t that what daughters always think when they lose their mothers? That they never really knew her as a person, only as a mother?’

  Georgia thought of her own mother, Elena, happily not dead, but living in France with her second husband. Georgia had been on strained terms with her after she had walked out on Peter, but they had been reconciled over the discovery of what had happened to Rick. Elena had listened to the explanation and accepted it. Georgia was relieved at that, but an unexpected ache persisted. It was almost as if, with that settled, Elena had broken the last tie not only between herself and Peter, but with her daughter too. She lived in another country, and had another life. Georgia was sure that if she visited her there, Elena would be delighted to see her; if she needed help, Elena would give it as far as possible, but the tie had been broken. If she had a grandchild . . . Georgia stopped herself. She must face the probability that she would not. She and Luke had agreed that if IVF did not work, they would share their lives, they would love, they would move on. But would it work like that? Perhaps just one more session . . . With great effort Georgia pushed it from her mind. Stella had just lost Anne, and that was what mattered now.

  ‘You must have a lot to do here,’ Georgia said. ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘There’s no date for the funeral yet. I’m still waiting to hear when that can take place, and so no, there isn’t, thanks. The house belongs to the church, and Mum owned the house in Blackheath that I’d been renting. So it’s only the personal possessions, the car and so forth to be sorted, and then I can go.’

  ‘But the land—’ Georgia said without thinking.

  ‘What land?’

  Lisa was unperturbed. ‘Georgia will be talking about St Thomas, his land, his well and his chapel. She doesn’t know, you see.’

  ‘Nor did I until the solicitor told me, but I thought the whole world knew by now,’ Stella apologized. ‘News usually travels fast.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘My mother bequeathed them back to the Wayncrofts.’

  SEVEN

  Georgia was doubtful about joining Stella and Lisa at the table, but Stella insisted. She had to struggle to make sensible conversation, however, probably because she was still reeling from the astonishing news of Anne’s legacy to the Wayncrofts. They opposed everything that Anne and Robert had believed in. Could it have come about because Robert had asked Anne to will the ruins back? If so, why leave them to Anne in the first place? Stella would probably not have an answer to that, and nor would Lisa, even though she was looking sympathetically at Georgia.

  The situation became even more awkward. ‘Mrs Moon tells me,’ Stella said, ‘that you and your father write books about the crimes you investigate.’

  Subtext: she doesn’t read them, Georgia thought. There had been a disdainful note in Stella’s voice. Hardly surprising, considering her mother’s murder, Georgia supposed, and the fact that the whole pub must be buzzing with the story. A large part of its clientele must be here for just that reason, and Stella was lucky that her identity had apparently not yet been disclosed to them.

  ‘We do,’ Georgia answered, ‘although—’

  ‘Crimes such as my mother’s death?’ Stella’s voice was cool as she interrupted.

  ‘It’s Hugh Wayncroft’s death forty years ago in which my father and I are interested.’

  ‘But now you have another more recent one handed to you on a plate, you can broaden your scope.’

  ‘Unless it’s linked to Hugh Wayncroft, there’s no way your mother’s death would concern us.’ Georgia did her best to sound neutral. ‘The police would not take kindly to our poking our noses into their area of responsibility.’

  ‘But the past is fair game, open to all.’ Stella wasn’t going to give up.

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it; the other is that just because something happened in the past there is no reason that it should be forgotten or remain unsolved.’

  ‘Provided the living don’t suffer,’ Lisa murmured.

  ‘With the exception of Hugh Wayncroft’s murderer, if he’s still alive,’ Georgia amended. ‘Otherwise, I agree with you.’

  Lisa looked at her thoughtfully – and, Georgia decided, more kindly. ‘Isn’t that God’s business?’

  ‘Not if the living are still suffering because of what happened.’ Where did that come from? Georgia had surprised herself. She hadn’t consciously considered that might be happening in Chillingham because of Hugh Wayncroft’s death. Her response seemed to have satisfied Lisa, because she said no more.

  Stella’s belligerence must have also softened, because she leaned spontaneously towards Georgia. ‘The police won’t tell me anything, which I suppose is to be expected, so, tell me, do you think there really could be a link between Mum’s death and this other one you’re investigating? I remember she told me once she was pally with this Hugh’s brother Robert. Or are you putting two and two together just because the circumstances are so much the same?’ She seemed genuinely concerned, and Georgia sought for the right answer.

  ‘Your mother was a brave woman and in holy orders. She could have been carrying secrets that she could not share.’

  ‘Did you get any hint of that? Was she worried when you saw her on Saturday? What did she say?’ The questions were tumbling out now, and Georgia did her best to answer them. The first was the most difficult and so she left it until last.

  ‘As for secrets,’ she finished, ‘yes, I did think your mother was holding back on me.’

  ‘About those ruins?’

  ‘I can’t be as precise as that. She talked a little about them.’

  Lisa promptly took her up on this. ‘She don’t seem to have told you she was leaving them to the Wayncrofts.’ Her voice had a hard edge to it.

  ‘Did you know about it, Lisa? It must have been a shock,’ Georgia said, ‘especially coming at such a time.’

  Lisa was caught off guard. ‘No, I never knew,’ she said woodenly. ‘I dare say she had her reasons.’

  Stella turned down Georgia’s renewed offer of help as she departed after lunch for the vicarage. Good relations had been restored, although Georgia sensed this might be because Stella needed allies not enemies. Some day, she decided, she would talk to Stella about her mother, when emotions were less fragile and when she would not be preoccupied with work for Marsh & Daughter.

  Lisa returned to the kitchen after bidding Georgia goodbye, but then changed her mind and came back to the table again. ‘I’ll be free in thirty minutes or so, Georgia. Like to see a bit more of Chillingham?’

  This was an olive branch she could not refuse. Whatever Lisa had in mind it could hardly be a simple sightseeing tour, and so Georgia accepted. If the apparent head of the Moon clan was extending such a hand of welcome it could be significant.

  The waiting period provided a good opportunity to ring Peter with the mind-boggling news about the Becket ruins. Stella was definitely the horse’s mouth as regards its accuracy, and the legacy could have a significance that she herself had not spotted. So far the Marsh & Daughter case was stalled, and Anne’s death conjured up sombre possibilities.

  The noise level in the pub was still high, and so she went outside to make the call. A long sigh of satisfaction greeted her news.

  ‘Ah,’ was Peter’s illuminating reaction. ‘This could change everything, both for the police case and for us.’

  He didn’t need to spell it out. It was obvious that if Julian and Val had learned of the bequest in advance, then a motive for Anne’s death immediately sprang up. It could even have been Anne who had told them about it. It put Julian, Val and anyone else who felt strongly on the development issue in the spotlight – even, though she hated to think of it, Simon and Tim.

  The same motive must have existed for Hugh’s murder. His rigorous opposition to development gave all those who supported it, including Val Harper, Jessica, Clive Moon and Fred Miller, a motive. In Jessica and Val’s case they would have been cutting off their no
ses to spite their faces however, as the property they wanted to control reverted to Robert. Nevertheless, Val’s presence was a factor common to both pilgrimages.

  When Lisa appeared, right at the promised time, Simon was with her. ‘You must be pleased about the news on the St Thomas ruins,’ Georgia said, uncomfortably aware that it was hardly good news for Lisa.

  ‘Yes, but it’s hard to deal with at the moment.’ Simon, too, glanced at Lisa.

  Most of the customers had left now, but a group of press were still clustering in the car park. ‘Quaint old village shocked by vicar’s murder,’ he added wryly.

  ‘We’ll need to be getting used to crowds, Simon,’ Lisa observed.

  ‘Thomas Becket is one thing, this is quite another,’ he replied. ‘I’m proud of my cooking, but I doubt if the crowds we’re getting at present even notice what they’re eating. Tim says the pilgrim band is swelling hourly too. When they reached Boxley yesterday, the cameras were waiting for them, and today the more determined sightseers have donned their walking boots.’

  ‘How is the cast taking it?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘They’re split. Some of them want to come back home, either because of the press or because they think it’s not respectful to Anne for the play to go on. The rest want to continue as if nothing had happened. A lot didn’t know Anne well at all, so I suppose it’s understandable. Val, Julian and Aletta are all for going on. All grist to their publicity mill.’

  ‘You and Tim changed sides then, Simon?’ Lisa asked caustically.

  He gave her a hug. ‘Nothing is ever as clear cut as that. I’m still in favour of publicity, but not through Anne’s death. Tim feels torn in two, and I’m much the same. Whatever the reason, I can’t ignore the fact that we did ninety covers at lunch, and we’re fully booked this evening. So is Molly Jones.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘One of the Painters.’

  ‘Artists?’

  ‘No,’ Simon answered and too late she remembered the name from her walk around the churchyard. ‘The Painters are like the Moons,’ he continued. Another affectionate hug for Lisa. ‘They’re built into the Chillingham fabric. Molly’s husband Bill Jones is regarded as an incomer like Tim and me, the difference being he’s been living here forty years and is still seen as an outsider.’

  ‘Molly’s dad was John Painter,’ Lisa explained. ‘He were one of the gardeners on the estate, but he was a canny chap,’ Lisa told her. ‘He bought the house off the estate when he was getting older, with Mr Robert’s help, and began the bed and breakfast business in it when the North Downs Way was set up. That would be in the late seventies. Molly and Bill ran it for him, together with Vic Painter, Molly’s brother. He lives in the lodge by the entrance to Chillingham Place.’

  An incomer after forty years. By that reckoning Georgia thought Peter would still be regarded as an incomer to Haden Shaw. As for Luke, he was so new to the area he was not even in the reckoning yet. He was probably still considered a tourist.

  ‘I’ll show you Becket House,’ Lisa offered. ‘That’s their place.’

  Becket House? No need to ask which side the Joneses were on, Georgia thought.

  ‘Before you think this is more village politics –’ Simon laughed, echoing her thoughts – ‘it was always called Becket House, even when it was part of the estate. Before John worked for the Wayncrofts I gather he had a job in Canterbury Cathedral grounds, so he was dead set on local history. He only died a year or two back, so I knew him reasonably well.’

  Simon made his way back to the kitchen as Lisa and Georgia left for their tour. Georgia had assumed that all she had wanted was a quiet chat, but as soon as they set out, Lisa began to talk knowledgeably about the origins of the village in Saxon times as a farming community bordering the Old Road, and how it had developed in Norman times. Georgia was somewhat puzzled. Why was this seemingly prototype silver-haired lady equipped with sensible walking shoes choosing to give her a historical tour of Chillingham now? After all, she must have been close to Anne, and the aftermath of her murder seemed an odd time for mere goodwill cooperation and history tours. Could it be that this was Lisa’s way of hinting that the answer to Anne’s murder lay here in Chillingham itself? She waited patiently for a clue.

  ‘Where do you live, Georgia? A villager, are you?’

  ‘Not quite. Luke and I live quite close in fact, in a hamlet outside Old Wives Lees. I was brought up in Haden Shaw.’

  ‘I know Haden. Clive’s sister used to live there. Hasn’t got Chillingham’s history, has it?’

  ‘Chillingham is more of a community,’ Georgia agreed.

  ‘Bit too much of a community sometimes,’ Lisa grunted. ‘Mind you, the village shop is all we’ve got left here. Alison – she’s my daughter-in-law, Matt’s wife – she’ll tell you. They’re going to take away her post office, so she and Matt have to start running a posting service down to Chartham. Government doesn’t even know we’re here, let alone care. If you ask me they’re cutting us off in the hope we oldies will die off without a fuss.’

  Georgia duly laughed, as she was meant to, but she could tell how intense the feeling was behind Lisa’s words.

  ‘We’re a community though,’ Lisa continued. ‘I agree with you there. Have to be. We depend on each other; we mostly know everyone else here. You see this building?’ She pointed to a large ragstone house on one side of the road. ‘The old church school house, that is. It’s over a hundred and fifty years old, and that’s still reckoned new round here. The almshouses are seventeenth century, and Becket House, where we’re going, I reckon it was here when old Thomas himself came galloping along the Old Road. If not, then it started life as a pilgrim hostel.’

  ‘Do you think Becket really know Chillingham well?’

  ‘Dunno, reckon so. After all, he liked that old manor at Otford, where he told the nightingales off good and proper. He might have liked it here in Chillingham because of the peacocks. Rather have the nightingales, myself.’

  ‘He left a well too.’

  ‘So they say.’

  They were skirting around the central issue, Georgia thought, and it was time to call a halt. ‘Why did you suggest this walk, Lisa?’ she asked forthrightly. ‘Is it something to do with Anne’s murder?’

  She didn’t think Lisa would answer, and indeed she took her time. ‘If you’re going to find out about Hugh Wayncroft, you have to understand how Chillingham came to be. Can’t write about it as an outsider.’

  ‘Don’t you think that it might need an outsider’s eye?’

  ‘That eye only gets so far,’ Lisa answered drily. ‘You can look at these buildings all you like, but they’re like a painting. It depends on what you see. You need to know how it got this way before you can begin to understand it.’

  ‘Beginning with the Wayncrofts, I suppose. They must have first owned, then dominated, the village for centuries. Most villagers must have worked for them in one way or another. But now it’s different.’

  ‘Not really. It’s like my kids,’ Lisa replied. ‘They lead their own lives, but I’m still their mother. They can’t change that. I just take a different place in their lives. It’s like that with the Wayncrofts and the village, I reckon. Mrs Jessica still totters down to the service most Sundays and does what else she can. Mr Julian does a lot; so does Mr Val now he’s back.’

  ‘And Sebastian?’

  ‘Him as well. But he’s young.’ The expression on Lisa’s face read ‘don’t go there’, Georgia noticed. All the more reason to push ahead.

  ‘He seems very fond of your granddaughter.’

  ‘That’s as maybe. She’ll be leaving the village soon, though, and going to uni.’ Lisa was brisk.

  So why didn’t Sebastian endear himself to Lisa? A touch of Tess needing to ‘know her place’ perhaps? Lisa seemed too sensible for that. It must be that Lisa considered that as Tess was a Moon, she should be opposed to development, even though Seb was all for it. Strong feelings indeed.
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  ‘If the village looks to Chillingham Place and the Wayncrofts, why is there so much opposition to their views over the chapel?’ Georgia tried to avoid singling Lisa herself out, but Lisa was not fooled.

  Nor, it seemed, was she upset. ‘I’m a Roman Catholic, m’dear. That’s why.’

  ‘So were the Wayncrofts,’ Georgia said reasonably. ‘And the Roman Catholic Church exploited gullible pilgrims too in medieval times, just as I’m sure the Anglican church would have done in the same circumstances. There was the Rood of Boxley—’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ Lisa cut her off. ‘There’s dark and there’s light to everything. And there’s darkness in Chillingham Place just the same as there was in the inn.’

  Georgia didn’t follow this. ‘In the Three Peacocks?’

  ‘The inn that turned Mary and Joseph out into the stable,’ Lisa said.

  Was this matter of fact statement as straight as it seemed, or was Lisa trying to direct her attention away from Chillingham? The going was getting heavier.

  ‘I heard your husband supported the Wayncrofts over village development.’ She waited to see if Lisa would take offence, but again she did not.

  ‘Everyone’s entitled to their own view,’ she answered. ‘And my Clive had his. If that meant supporting Mrs Wayncroft and young Mr Harper he would do it, he said. He believed in progress, but I takes it with a pinch of salt. One step forward, two steps back if you’re not careful. Clive wasn’t a Catholic like me, but we brought our children up in the true religion.’

  ‘You’ve two sons? A daughter too?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just Matthew and Derek.’ She stopped by a row of cottages set back from the road and explained their history at such a length that Georgia was sure she was deliberately changing the subject. But again Lisa surprised her by briskly returning to her sons.

  ‘Everyone likes Matt and Derek. Derek’s a chip off Clive’s old block, but Matt takes after me.’