Murder Takes the Stage (17 page)

Georgia had finally decided against wearing a hat, especially if Janie was going to wear one, but had made some effort towards traditional frilliness in her dress. She was glad of that, as although plenty of casual clothes could be seen, there were also a fair number of people definitely ‘dressed up' and not all of them elderly. She could see that Gemma, for instance, was wearing a large pink picture hat. Then she spotted Peter, looking more relaxed than she had feared, and made her way towards him. Janie was at his side – and in a posh hat, though it was a smaller affair than Gemma's.

‘I know this is a working day for us,' Peter said, ‘but would you mind if I got lost for a while? I rather like throwing coconuts.'

Georgia laughed. ‘Win all the cuddly toys you like – you too, Janie, although they'll look a bit odd in the Fernbourne Museum.'

True to his promise, Luke ambled off with them, leaving her to study the programme. It was traditional in approach. ‘Conjuring Display with Alexander Smith' caught her eye, and ‘Singalong' with Gemma Trent. The fête was to be opened shortly by Matthew, she noted, which was hardly a surprise. She had now done some homework on Mr Trent. Born in Canterbury, brought up in Broadstairs, he had worked in London for some years but had returned to open a car business in Medway in 1972. It was obviously a highly profitable one, judging by this house. There was nothing to suggest he was other than what he seemed, a prosperous businessman and councillor. It was clear from this fête alone that he filled the role of unofficial lord of the manor – not a big parish, but an influential one, Georgia guessed, listening to the smooth charm with which the words fell from his lips as he began his speech. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had spat venom at her on the telephone so recently.

Pamela was at his side in a silk turquoise two piece, fulfilling her lady-of-the manor role splendidly. Don't stereotype her, Georgia warned herself. At the funeral, after all, she had seen another Pamela Trent, a nervy woman probably dominated by Matthew. Perhaps she had been judging her harshly. The terrible death of her mother, young as Pamela was at the time, must have set her apart from other children when she was old enough to understand. In a town the size of Broadstairs, she might have been marked by a constant reminder that she was the daughter of Joan Watson, and no doubt Pamela's attitude to Tom was similarly coloured. Had Tom tracked her down on his nineteen seventies visit, assuming there had indeed been one? She would have been in her twenties and able to think for herself.

There was no sign of Peter, so Georgia strolled over to watch Sandy's conjuring show, which had drawn a large crowd of both children and adults. There was no Fenella to be seen, although she could see Vic Dale onstage with Sandy. So he was conjurer's assistant as well as chauffeur. Fenella must have caught sight of her in the crowd, because when the show was over, Georgia saw her coming towards her. She immediately felt guilty about comparing her to Janie, because Fenella was a much stronger, even pig-headed, woman than Janie could ever be.

‘Are you never tempted to share his limelight?' Georgia asked lightly after she had greeted her.

‘Dad prefers to go it alone, with Vic hovering in the background in case. Besides –' she flashed an unexpected smile at Georgia ‘– I'm hardly a grade-one decorative object at my age. Let the young folks take over, that's my view.'

There was no honest reply to that. ‘Sandy's good, isn't he?' Georgia said instead.

‘Do you mean for his age – or just good?' Fenella asked with ironic eyebrow.

‘Good,' Georgia said firmly and truthfully. ‘Does he practise at home?'

‘All the time. You were lucky not to be commandeered as audience when you came. Always one for party pieces is Dad. Which reminds me: how is the Tom Watson investigation going?'

Georgia suppressed the reply that her own son should be able to enlighten her. ‘Progressing nicely, with new leads,' she rejoined. Two could play at being non-committal. ‘You know all about the Watson murder?'

‘Of course. Dad rarely talked about it, but Mum rattled on and on.'

‘Was she a Joan Watson fan?'

‘Hardly. Few women were, as I'm sure you know. She was all right to work with, I gather, but when a man came on the scene, it was a different matter.'

‘Was your mother jealous of Sandy working in the same show as Joan?'

Fenella shot a glance at her. ‘Let's say wary. But it was a crowded field round Joan. It's my guess that Dad and Joan were amicably disposed to each other, but no bed. She was a bright lady, by all accounts, and Tom, so Dad says, was lacking in the quick wits department.'

‘Although he was a clown?' Georgia decided not to enlighten her that her guess was wrong, according to Sandy himself.

‘Dad led the trio.' Fenella began to look uneasy. ‘Look, if you'll excuse me, I should get back to Dad.'

As she set off, either with duties as carer in mind or to avoid further questions, Georgia took the opportunity to follow her on to the stage. Fêtes and fairs were fascinating events. They often had two layers, the gaudy, noisy message of universal enjoyment that they put out – but also the undercurrent of an unstoppable roller coaster that could so easily obliterate the individual response. What nonsense, she told herself – and yet the idea lingered.

To her left the carousel was in full swing, and the rise and fall of the horses made a colourful sight. It would not seem incongruous if a clown called Tom rode astride one, his private face hidden.

‘We enjoyed the show, Dad,' Fenella congratulated him as she and Georgia reached the stage. Vic was busy clearing up props, and Fenella began to help him.

Sandy winked at Georgia. ‘What did you think?'

‘Terrific.' It was the truth. ‘I liked the vanishing parrot.'

‘Ah, yes. I was born too late, you know. I should have been one of those great nineteenth-century illusionists, vanishing ladies, magic cabinets – masterpieces, they were, filling the whole theatre with one great illusion. Trouble is, that takes money, too much for today's budgets. I can't even afford to vanish Fenella now, can I?' He grinned at his daughter.

‘Good job you don't want to,' she retorted.

‘I'd do it in a flash,' Vic joked.

He was eyeing Georgia speculatively, whether sexually or otherwise, she could not tell. Perhaps it was part of his carer's job to study every comer. Perhaps putting his son Greg on her tracks was also part of it, but on second thoughts, Greg's mission was more likely to have stemmed from the Trents, not the Dale household. On the whole, Vic looked a lot jollier than his son, even if she wouldn't want to meet him in an alley on a dark night. He was a big man, well suited for his job – and for Fenella.

‘You still on about Tom Watson?' Sandy asked her.

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘She'd like to know if you slept with Joan,' Fenella put in meanly.

Sandy roared with laughter. ‘I told you I did. Straight out, didn't I, love? I was only one of many though. Too many other fingers in her pie.' Another guffaw. ‘She was a good sort, was Joan, but as she told me, when you've got one clown round your neck – meaning Tom – you don't need another. Not Micky, not me, not for longer than a quick one. We were more mates, Joan and I. She needed a listening ear. She was cut up over David. Determined to punish him by doing well for herself and making him see it. That sergeant—'

‘Buck Dillon?'

‘Yeah. I told you about him. And there was our Harold. Joan had a good eye for men going places. She was serious about him, but he wasn't. He had an equally good eye for avoiding trouble, and Joan had it written all over her. Still, he wasn't above taking what was on offer, and like me he wasn't married then.'

Sandy was taking rather too much pleasure in this banter, Georgia realized. This case, she decided as she left them, was becoming very much like that carousel, with Joan in the centre conducting the music and at least four of her cavaliers circling round and up and down on their colourful prancing horses.

But then the music had stopped.

‘At last, Georgia. Cherry was looking for you.' Cath Dillon pushed her way through the crowd to join her. ‘She's over there, talking to Harold.'

‘Good. I'll go now. Is your grandfather here?'

‘No way.' Cath laughed. ‘I mentioned it, but when I said that Sandy and the gang would be here, he opted out. He's taken a fancy to you though. He said if you wanted to see him, you knew where to find him.'

‘Did that imply he had something to tell me?'

‘No idea.' Cath pulled a face. ‘He won't talk to me, anyway. How are you doing generally on the case?'

‘One lead.' Georgia hesitated. Should she risk this? Peter had said they should keep it under wraps, but Cath was a special case. ‘But off the record. Agreed?'

‘Yes.' Cath looked surprised. ‘Don't look so anxious. I'm used to it. Scouts' honour.'

‘It came from Alison Wetherby, who was the babysitter that night. Her mother told her years afterwards that Tom had come back sometime in the 1970s.'

Cath pounced immediately on this new lead. ‘You mean Ken and Cherry were right? Was that Ken's scoop? Any proof?'

‘Give me a chance. This only happened yesterday.'

‘Is that my role then?'

‘Not yet,' Georgia said hastily. ‘And particularly no word to Cherry.'

‘Wot me? Never.' Cath laughed. ‘Truly, Georgia, I'm not daft. I see and hear evil, but I'm mighty careful about what I say. Ken wasn't – and look what happened.'

There was no sign of Harold by the time Georgia reached Cherry. She was chatting to a group of women Georgia did not recognize and looked as if she would be installed for a long time. No help for it. She'd have to deflect her.

‘Cath said you wanted to see me,' she murmured lightly.

Cherry spun round in pleasure. ‘Oh, yes, I did. I wondered how you were getting on. Georgia,' she explained to her companions, ‘is investigating where my Tom is now.' The group looked both interested and embarrassed but luckily decided this was a hint for them to leave, especially when Cherry suggested they should have a nice cup of tea so that Georgia could tell her all about it.

Not quite all, Georgia thought as they sat down at one of the white-painted tea tables set out on the lawn. A real tablecloth, she noted. A very special fête, this. ‘My treat, Cherry. In return for that lovely walnut cake you baked.'

‘I like making cakes,' Cherry said simply. ‘It will be a forgotten art soon, the way the world's going. Everyone is so frightened of getting fat, but they forget that cakes are a great comfort, and that's important too.'

‘You're not fat and you eat them,' Georgia pointed out.

‘Nicely filled out are the words you're looking for.' Cherry giggled. ‘You wait, Georgia, it will happen to you too. No gym in the world can compensate for age.'

‘You don't look old. Do you feel it?' Georgia carried on the small talk to ease her way in.

‘I'm seventy-four,' Cherry announced with pride, ‘but I feel just the same as when I was a girl in love with Tom. Time stands still inside you, doesn't it?'

Pamela Trent was helping to serve teas, but Georgia saw a look of anxiety cross her face as she noticed her. The hostess role immediately came into play. ‘Now, what can I get you two ladies?' Once it had been established that the two ladies would like a cream tea apiece, she promptly departed. No way was she going to linger there.

‘With extra cream for the elderly,' Cherry called after her.

Pamela turned to smile, but the gesture didn't reach her eyes, and it was with some difficulty that Georgia forced her mind back to Cherry. She decided to continue small talk in the hope that when Pamela returned with the tea she would feel more like sitting with them, but once again she whisked off on hostess duties.

‘What did you want to see me about, Cherry?'

Cherry looked surprised. ‘I wanted to know how your search for Tom was going, of course.'

How could she answer that? Truthfully, but not completely, Georgia decided. ‘We've put his photo on our website, but there's been no significant response yet.'

‘Oh.' Cherry stared at her teacup, now full of milky tea. ‘Harold doesn't think he's alive any more, but he's wrong.'

‘You were married to him—'

‘Very briefly,' Cherry interrupted, almost indignantly. ‘I came back here in 1960, and I married Billy Johnson a year later. He was a dear man. He reminded me of Tom, but Harold never did. Billy died twenty years ago. He was older than me, so I was on my own again. We never had children, you see. I think it was meant, as Tom wouldn't have wanted me to marry anyone else. It seems disrespectful to have done so, when he's been waiting all this time for me.'

A chill ran through Georgia. This was taking it too far, but Cherry seemed quite serious.

‘I used to pretend sometimes that Tom and I had a child,' Cherry continued. ‘He had lovely fair curls like Tom, and his name was Angel. But I'm afraid –' a nervous look at Georgia ‘– he grew up. Just like Peter Pan. He didn't want to, but he had to, and so he left me too.'

Georgia made the appropriate noises, but she could see what Harold meant by her living in dreamland.

‘Harold wasn't married when you were all in
Waves Ahoy!
,' Georgia began, uncertain what effect this would have.

‘No,' Cherry said happily, helping herself to a large dollop of cream on a scone, ‘and he was a very naughty flirt, I'm afraid. He flirted with me during the show even though he knew I loved Tom.'

‘Perhaps that was just his way,' Georgia said tritely.

She received a slightly frosty look. ‘It was a very strange
way
if so. A woman knows, you know. I could tell. I told Tom that Harold was after Joan—'