Murder in Abbot's Folly (21 page)

‘You seem very low,' Georgia said sympathetically, frustrated that Barbara had halted so abruptly.

‘I am. I asked His Nibs what I was to do over the Austen jams and jellies now nothing's happening on the Stourdens front. Answer? Carry on as planned. He don't realize what's involved, or doesn't care. There's something wrong at that place, something going on that's not to do with the police,' she declared. ‘He booted me out of the meeting early the other day, so he could talk secrets – wouldn't even let Jennifer in. What's up that's so secret? It's my money involved
and
hers.'

‘Perhaps he's embarrassed at not being able to tell you more about the future because he doesn't know it.' The reply sounded weak, even to her own ears. ‘Jennifer said you have the contract for catering for the film shoot.'

‘Five days' work if I'm lucky,' Barbara pointed out grudgingly. ‘It's not that I'm not grateful, but I've gone and had this extension built and the company set up. Craig's as mad as hell.'

‘Was he going to work full-time for you?'

She snorted. ‘That was the plan. He was seeing it as a step towards having his own licence. Now what?'

‘Could you market your produce locally – at farmers' markets and so on?'

Barbara dismissed this. ‘You can cook or you can sell. You can't do both, and there's not enough money in it for both Craig and me full-time.'

Georgia tried again. ‘Until the murder's solved, I doubt if anyone is clear about the future.'

A short laugh. ‘Too true. And what if one of
them
did Mrs Fettis in, eh? Going to be a fine mess. What with her telling me that morning she might be calling it off—'

‘She told you
herself
?'

‘As good as. She said whatever happened she'd always do her best for me. More than that lot will.'

But would that ‘best' have been good enough, Georgia wondered as she drove back to Haden Shaw? Barbara had shown her the plans for increasing the product range, and it went far beyond the occasional event at Stourdens. Moreover, bearing in mind Tim's joke, Barbara had had second thoughts about hinting at Craig's paternity – and if the father had been the late Mr Hastings she would have had no reason to.

When she returned, Peter had been busy in her absence. ‘I managed to get hold of Vic Hamlyn at last,' he told her. ‘The SIO of the Luckhurst case. He's been away on a long trip,' he added in tones of disgust. ‘Lucky for some.'

‘You never want to go,' Georgia pointed out mildly, but Peter brushed this aside.

‘Want to come?'

‘You bet.'

‘You'll have to give up part of your weekend, because it's tomorrow. And after that,
then
we can try Mr Osborne again.'

When Vic Hamlyn opened the door, Georgia vaguely remembered his face and that she had met him when she was a teenager. A hearty man, hearty talker, hearty eater, and a mind like a razor. The first three were still in evidence now. The fourth remained to be proven. He lived with his wife (currently out shopping), in a flat with a view of the sea at Tankerton near Whitstable. On an August day such as this it seemed idyllic, she thought, but in winter when the winds would blow and the storms rage it must be a bleak place.

‘Max Tanner – do I think he dunnit? That's what you want to know, isn't it?' Hearty laugh. ‘The answer's yes.'

‘Even though Bob Luckhurst's wife has now been murdered?'

‘That's you all over, Peter. Nosing around in the past over what's self-explanatory in the present. Don't make waves is my advice.'

Which Peter ignored. ‘What did you think of Amelia Luckhurst?'

‘From what I remember, which isn't a lot, a first-class bitch. Her husband seems to have been OK, but Madam Amelia was a different kettle of fish.'

‘Any chance that she could have been in collusion with Tanner? There's a suggestion that a woman was in the folly at the same time as Tanner and Bob Luckhurst. If it was his wife, she could have reached it without being seen via a secret tunnel from the house.'

‘Tunnels?' Vic chortled. ‘Been reading too many whodunnits, Peter. I don't remember any fancy stuff in the case.'

‘That's because you might not have been told about the tunnel,' Georgia said.

Hamlyn was unfazed. ‘Too late now – if it was ever relevant.'

‘What about Tom Miller?' Peter asked. ‘The chap who led the protest march. Tanner accused him of having killed Luckhurst. Remember him?'

Vic thought for a moment. ‘With effort. Bit of a slippery fish, that one. He had a good alibi. We followed him up, of course, but I couldn't see him as a killer even if he did have the motive for it. Am I right about that?'

‘Yes. The motive could have been that his livelihood could have been ruined by Luckhurst's decision to close the footpath. He might have had the same sort of motive for killing Laura Fettis, because she would have backed out of a deal to buy his land.'

Vic was getting interested. ‘How do you get round the fact that Tom Miller left that folly place with Bob Luckhurst still alive, while Tanner stayed?'

‘Can't do it yet,' Peter admitted, ‘unless Tanner went back along the tunnel and Amelia did the deed herself.'

Hamlyn looked amused. ‘If so, why didn't Tanner spill the beans? Too much of a gentleman? No way. What's happened to him, incidentally?'

‘Disappeared, but his son is on the scene.'

‘Typical Tanner to keep a stake in the game.'

‘The son's doing nicely on his own. He is or was engaged to Laura Fettis's daughter. Did you follow up the rumours that Amelia Luckhurst was having an affair with Tanner?'

Hamlyn had to think about this. ‘Now you're asking. Not seriously. Tanner thrived on his fantasies, and she was at the top of his list.'

‘And fantasists don't give up,' Peter remarked to Georgia after they had left. He had decided he wanted some sea air and ice-cream, and she stopped the car by the seafront to fulfil both requests. ‘On the contrary, the fantasy can grow until it becomes a real world, alternate or otherwise, only inhabited by self.'

‘Are you thinking Tanner might have paid a call on Amelia, or that he liked keeping a stake in things and Tim was it?'

‘Fantasists prefer solo performances. He might well have seen Amelia, but he would have been recognized if he had come anywhere near Canterbury.'

‘Prison life could have altered Max's physical appearance considerably.'

‘So where is he now?'

‘Perhaps he's our mystery man who likes playing jokes. Now you see him, now you don't. Now you hear him on the phone, now you don't.'

Peter finished his ice-cream with great satisfaction. ‘Good point, so let's go. The twenty-four hours are up.'

As soon as they reached Haden Shaw, Peter insisted Georgia came inside for the great moment, and she waited in suspense as he picked up the phone.

‘It's ringing and
here we go
,' he said triumphantly. ‘Ah. Mr Osborne,' he purred. ‘Peter Marsh here. We were wondering –' he switched to hands-free mode so that Georgia could hear – ‘what went wrong. My daughter Georgia and I had a most interesting visit to Sturry yesterday.'

‘My apologies. I quite forgot my address.'

Mr Osborne's voice rang a faint bell in Georgia's mind.

‘Care to tell us why?'

The reply sounded remarkably cheerful. ‘I've been considering that option for some time. You'll be pleased to hear that I would. Could I suggest we meet at the Dryden Arms near Warmden on Monday? I'd be honoured if you would be my guests for lunch.'

‘I'd prefer—'

‘The venue is not open for discussion. I assure you the wheelchair will prove no problem.'

‘Most interesting,' Peter said as he put down the phone. ‘How does he know I am wheelchair-bound?'

The Dryden Arms was between two small villages buried in the countryside between Canterbury and the south coast. This was no Bat and Trap, however, and to Georgia it had all the appearance of being a thriving gastropub at any other time than Monday lunchtime. There were only three other customers, two at the bar, the other sitting in a window seat at a table. She recognized him instantly.

‘Alfred Wheeler!' Georgia exclaimed. ‘I met you at the Bat and Trap.' It was the elderly man with whom she'd been talking there, the ‘peasant' from the Gala. No wonder the voice on the phone had struck a chord. This surely could be no coincidence; this was the so-called Mr Howard Osborne. So what was going on here? Whatever it was, she had a deep sense of foreboding.

‘I should have paid more attention to your story, Georgia,' Peter said grimly as he drove himself over to the table. ‘Mr Osborne,' he queried, ‘or Mr Wheeler?'

Their host rose to greet them. ‘In fact, neither. Nor am I a milkman, Miss Marsh. I regret that I might have misled you there.'

‘Then is there any point to our being here?' Peter enquired politely.

Their host laughed. ‘They do an excellent lunch.'

‘So does my carer,' Peter said tartly.

‘I apologize. Yes, there is a great deal of point to your being here, although my real name need not concern you yet. Pray join me.'

He was a most studious host, and fastidious. Drinks and the selection of food from an interesting menu took some time, and it was only twenty minutes later that Peter lost patience.

‘Your real name might not immediately concern us, but it does concern the Fettis family and the police.'

‘You are right. My real name – which I'd decided to tell you – is Douglas Watts.'

Georgia's mind whirled as she struggled to grapple with suspicion turning into nightmare. ‘You're the trustee chosen by Laura Fettis to look after the Stourdens trust – her and Roy's friend. What's going on? I presume that you arranged our earlier meeting at the Bat and Trap? How did you know we would be there?'

‘You do me too much credit. I was present for much the same reason as I suspect you were. I felt the groundswell of village opinion about Laura's death might better be gleaned there than in a more distant pub. I knew of Marsh & Daughter – who doesn't? – and I heard from Tom that you were coming to chat to him at the pub. He was rather proud of the fact.'

‘But we were there to talk about Bob Luckhurst's murder.'

‘Come now, Miss Marsh. I'm the trustee of Stourdens. Anything concerning it concerns me. Which brings me to an interesting moral question.'

He has charm, Georgia conceded, even if she wouldn't trust him an inch. Peter did not seem to be succumbing to it, luckily.

‘I need to understand this situation,' he said firmly. ‘If you're the trustee of Stourdens, why was your mobile number so hastily scrawled in Laura Fettis's diary? She must have rung you many times before.'

‘Because, like you, she did not know it was me whom she was calling. Amelia Luckhurst had given her the number on which I prefer to be called.'

‘So that you can choose not to answer it?' Georgia enquired mildly. The lunch was superb, which was annoying when she needed to have all her wits focused on the conversation.

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘I can only apologize again, but if you wish to know about Laura's visit to me, then I suggest we put other matters behind us. I'm afraid Laura believed she would be meeting an Alfred Wheeler until she arrived at our meeting place in Canterbury. Another pub. So useful when one shifts addresses. She was, I fear, somewhat shocked to find Douglas Watts awaiting her.'

‘Why the need for such a charade?' Peter asked patiently.

‘I use the number you rang for one of my alter ego businesses, in this case Jane Austen.'

Despite its infuriating her, Georgia admired his calm. Douglas Watts was in control, and that's what Peter didn't like. He liked to be in control himself and was ill at ease when this was not the case. Nevertheless, he was obviously as keen as she was not to interfere with whatever Watts seemed about to tell them. Whether that would be the truth or not was another matter.

‘I am a retired antiquarian book dealer,' Douglas explained, ‘and one of my specialities is Jane Austen, a fact that has helped me to give great assistance to Dr Faring over his book as well as to Jake Halliday. I play golf with Roy Fettis and was at Laura's side throughout her involvement with the Jane Austen galas and plans. Before them I knew Amelia and Bob, the latter much better than his wife.'

‘Of course. As his milkman, you played chess with him,' Georgia could not resist saying.

Douglas Watts laughed. ‘The chess games were real enough, although the milkman was a conceit of my own. In fact Bob employed me on other matters.'

‘Which were?' Peter enquired.

‘To make his Jane Austen collection.'

The lunch suddenly looked unappealing to Georgia, and from the instant stillness she knew that Peter too had been taken unawares.

‘
Make
it?' he asked carefully. ‘You mean buy and sell on his behalf?'

‘I am as careful with words as with ink and pen, Mr Marsh. I meant
make
it.'

‘You mean . . .' Even now Georgia thought she must be misunderstanding him.

‘I do,' Watts replied gently. ‘Ninety-five per cent of the Jane Austen collection is fake.'

She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry. The truth should have been plain from the beginning for anybody who poked far enough below the surface to see, and yet she and Peter had not followed that line up. And why? The bigger the lie the easier it is for people to believe it. She thought of the numerous financial scams of the twentieth century. She thought of the South Sea Bubble, and of the many brilliant art fakers and forgers over the centuries, but
still
she found it hard to believe the truth of what this gently smiling man was telling them. The psychology was, she supposed, that she, as so many hoodwinked people in the past, had
wanted
it to be true.