Murder Takes the Stage (27 page)

Georgia could wait no longer. ‘So Sandy was the ringleader of the Botany Bay smuggling ring?'

‘You know about that, do you?' Mavis looked impressed. ‘Not sure he was Number One, that might have been Harold, but he was in it all right.'

‘Was David involved?'

‘No, he was not,' Mavis said firmly. ‘He was straight, and so was Tom. As for me, I'd have liked to snaffle a bit of the fancy stuff – they were grim days – but I knew David would go spare if he found out, so I kept well away. David said he was going to make his money through his voice and his career. He liked Harold but didn't like the way he was dabbling in the black market. Wouldn't think it, would you, to see him so high and mighty now? No, dearie, my David died of drink, but at least he died straight.'

‘And Tom? Did David think Tom died a murderer?'

Mavis grimaced. ‘We differed there. I thought Tom was a weakling who killed Joan in a fit of rage, poor devil. David thought he'd been set up, but he couldn't see how. David wouldn't lie though, and he knew Sandy and Jeannie had been with us all the time. Believe me, do you?'

‘Yes.' She wished she didn't, but there was no doubting Mavis's account.

‘We walked back from the Black Lion together, and Sandy and Jeannie were locked together in front of David and me,' Mavis said. ‘I reckon Sandy would have fallen down otherwise. He'd had a skinful. Once back at the house he collapsed on the sofa, had another drink and proceeded to become life and soul of the party again, with Jeannie hanging on his every word.'

‘Why, if you and David didn't like him, did you invite them back?' A chink of light here? Georgia wondered. If so, it was quickly extinguished.

‘Jeannie and me were good mates, so we put up with his lordship for her sake. She thought he was as magnificent as he did himself. So, sorry, love, but no vanishing for Sandy that night. You and your dad coming to the reunion, are you? Only two weeks to go now.'

‘We are.'

‘Good,' Mavis said. ‘Funny thing, us old codgers getting together every year for so long. And what for? To remember an old show that's brought about two murders. Maybe three. Some show, eh?'

‘You've done better than I have,' Peter conceded gloomily. ‘Buck still wouldn't budge. He was shaken but not stirred by the news of the body.'

‘Despite the fact that it could have been linked to the Silver Gang? After all, suppose that had links to the local post-war smuggling ring Buck was involved with?'

‘Despite all that. Anyway, it's not smuggling we're interested in. We began with Joan Watson's murder. Fingerprints, remember them?'

‘I do. At the bottom of those steps though, not in the room where the murder took place. I still think that's odd,' Georgia said.

‘Probably where Tom first encountered Joan that evening. She might have been going out – and he tackled her as to where she was going and whether the child had been left alone. Going back to more solid ground, with Sandy out of the picture, we're left with Harold and Micky who left the pub early, and Buck with a question mark. He too has a strong alibi—'

‘Probably uncheckable,' Georgia felt obliged to point out.

‘Accepted. For Tom's murder we also have Matthew hovering in the frame – especially if Tom had killed Joan. Revenge, although highly unlikely.'

‘Cath won't like the question mark over Buck.'

‘Nor do I,' Peter agreed, ‘but I've been playing with Suspects Anonymous—'

Georgia groaned. ‘It can't do more than we can at this stage.'

‘You're wrong. It is of the opinion that Matthew Trent is more prominent in this affair than we are giving him credit for. Several question marks appeared. So I went on the Web to do a bit of investigation about his company. There was nothing immediately obvious, but with the help of a few suggestions from Luke I winkled out some information. Nothing in the list of directors was particularly interesting, but one of our
Waves Ahoy!
chums has a forty-five per cent interest in the company.'

‘Harold?'

‘No, Sandy Smith.'

Georgia blinked, thinking back to that meeting at Sandy's house. Nothing had seemed to indicate close contact between Matthew and Sandy, but then why should it? she reasoned. And was it even material to the Tom Watson case?

‘It could be just that Sandy helped Matthew get started for Pamela's sake,' she suggested. ‘It would be quite natural if he could afford it. The business began in 1972. If Sandy was back from his travels by then, he could have looked up Pamela for old times' sake, seen a good business opportunity and bingo.'

‘I don't know how much it would cost to set up a car dealership, but is it likely that a jobbing clown would have that kind of cash available?'

‘It's possible. Maybe Sandy's dad was a millionaire and Sandy a dropout who later inherited.'

‘Kindly depart from fantasy land, Georgia.'

‘Very well. There's the arson attack. That followed quickly on from Harold's letter.'

‘But was that a threat or a warning? And if a threat, Harold was unlikely to have committed arson in person.'

‘More likely Greg Dale. And he,' Georgia was forced to point out, ‘is Matthew Trent's stooge. Remember his stalking me on that visit to the Watson flat?'

‘Back to Matthew,' Peter said in triumph. ‘I told you so. Daughter, the reunion is in two weeks' time. Wouldn't you agree this case has to be settled by then?'

She did. At some point Marsh & Daughter had to come to a decision as to whether they should continue this case or not. So far they had never had to back out of a commitment at such a late stage as this. ‘We'll have to force some kind of resolution.'

‘Big words,' he answered her. ‘How? Just stroll up to Matthew or Harold and suggest they confess?'

She thought for a moment. ‘Words, Peter, stray words.'

‘Carry on,' Peter said ironically. ‘You're gripping me with excitement.'

‘That word “connection” again. And something Janie said: now you see him, now you don't.' Mistake. She sensed an instant loss of rapport.

‘And when did Janie let this little gem drop?'

Georgia tried to redeem the situation. ‘That doesn't matter. The case does.'

‘Janie is nothing to do with this case.
Or
with me.'

‘She is. You're making a big mistake—'

‘Did I presume ever to say that about Zac?'

‘Yes.'

A pause. ‘Nevertheless, I don't need your views on Janie. Or her daft statements.'

‘I think perhaps we both do. Now, listen. Now you see him, now you don't. What do those words mean?'

‘Magic,' was Peter's dour answer. ‘And thus Sandy Smith.'

‘And what did you tell me about the Silver Gang and Quicksilver himself?'

‘He vanished with a price on his head, and so did the gang.'

‘He
vanished.
Let's assume Sandy is Quicksilver himself. He became an anonymous clown again hiding behind his job. Suppose Tom went to see him in Broadstairs. He went to see Micky, so surely he would see Sandy too for old times' sake? Yet Tom might be the only man who could link Sandy Smith with the Silver Gang, and this is a man with a price on his head who has successfully hidden from his enemies for about five years.'

Peter looked at her pityingly. ‘Anything strike you as wrong with that thesis, Miss Marple?'

What had she missed? Then she realized. ‘Oh, damn. Tom would not have been stupid enough to seek Sandy out if he knew he was the leader or part of the Silver Gang. And someone at the Blue Parrot would have been sure to have enlightened him, even if the two men Tom recognized there wouldn't go out of their way to mention it.'

‘Two people?' Peter picked up.

She realized what she'd said. ‘Harold?' She was beginning to see the pattern now, and surely, surely it was right.

‘Could be. Hold the horses, Georgia. Let's think about Sandy Smith being Quicksilver. Apart from the police with a few murders still unpaid for, there are going to be people with a grudge against him. The underworld has a long memory. No wonder he hides away in a house with “magician” displayed all over it.'

‘With a handy henchman as a son-in-law,' Georgia added.

‘Dale – yes. He's old enough to have been in that gang when he met Fenella. Micky Winton's Giant Rat?'

‘No, that must be Sandy.'

‘Agreed. If Tom told Micky about Smith's London life, Micky would be very wary, as Sandy was living in the town, hence the cryptic clues. But, dammit, there's Joan's murder,' Peter said crossly. ‘I take it Mavis isn't lying about Sandy being with her that night? He had motive enough if Joan was threatening to expose his moonlighting activities.'

‘Unfortunately I don't think she is.'

‘Hell,' Peter muttered. ‘We'll sleep on it.'

‘It's only ten o'clock in the morning.'

‘Metaphorically. Anyway, what's Janie doing poking her nose in? Have you two been chatting about me behind my back?'

‘No,' Georgia said crossly. ‘She came about Rick.'

‘What about him?' Peter asked wearily.

Georgia had not wanted to tell him, but now she was forced to. As she explained, Janie's suggestion sounded weak, and Peter clearly thought so too.

‘Whom did she suggest you ring up? Dame Nellie Melba?' he asked.

‘No, Janet Charing, Josephine Mantreau  . . .'

Peter began to groan but stopped, his interest caught. ‘There was a Josephine in Mozart's life too, wasn't there? Josephine Dušek? She and her husband lived in Prague and had a country villa where Mozart used to stay. Isn't she supposed to have locked him in his room until he'd finished writing some piece for her – some say she was locked in with him?'

‘It rings a bell,' Georgia said doubtfully. ‘But that's just a coincidence. Miss Blondie called herself Pamina, not Josephine.' On second thoughts? ‘And yet  . . .'

‘It just might fit.' Peter whirled round in excitement and clicked on to the Web. ‘Damn these safety passwords – they take forever. Hurry up, damn you  . . . What a wonderful thing the Internet is!' A whoop of joy. ‘Look at this – Bertramka, that was the Dušeks' villa. It was in the countryside in Mozart's time, now on the outskirts of Prague. Glory be, there's a website  . . . in English too.'

‘Peter—' Georgia tried to calm him down, but it was impossible. Even her own pulse was racing.

‘And they run Mozart concerts in the summer, sometimes in the gardens.'

‘Let me look.' She looked over his shoulder, ordering herself to be logical. ‘Coincidence, just a common forename, that's all. Even if a famous soprano happens to be called Josephine, that doesn't mean there's any connection with Josephine Dušek.'

‘But there might be. Suppose Miss Blondie had a special interest in the Dušeks because of it? Mrs D was a singer, after all. Did you check out Bertramka?'

‘No. Did you?'

‘No. But I'm going to. Right now.'

Peter was right. Computers could never go fast enough sometimes. Come on, come on, she willed it as Peter first searched for the website, then clicked. She almost turned away as the prospect of this thin chance proving positive became too much, especially as Peter's voice dropped. ‘Hardly surprising, I suppose. There don't seem to be details of past concerts.'

Plenty else though. One look at the website showing the elegant white-painted low building, and the green, green gardens stretching away behind it made it seem just the sort of place Rick would have loved.

She was the one to be excited now. ‘They were giving concerts in 1994 though. Look. Bertramka's been a museum since 1956. Concerts in the garden in July and August.'

‘No mention of opera.'

‘Perhaps we were wrong about that. But just look at this site. Mozart stayed there, composed there, was inspired there. What more special place for a concert?'

‘We could telephone them.' Peter began to rally.

‘Before we do that, shouldn't we do as Janie suggested: see if Josephine Mantreau is the right age and blonde? I know it's illogical, but  . . .'

‘But what?'

‘I feel there's something magic about this lead,' Georgia said diffidently. ‘And this isn't a case like Tom Watson's; it's about us, so magic is permitted.'

A glance at her, and Peter fed Josephine Mantreau into the search engine. ‘A million entries,' he cursed.

‘Pick her own site,' Georgia urged. She knew he was as eager as she was, but equally fearful of taking this last step when the potential for disappointment was greater.

She could not bear the waiting, and she leaned over his shoulder so far that she was almost breathing down his neck – a thing he usually objected to. Not today.

‘She's thirty-six,' he said as the website came up. ‘Look, that's blondish hair, surely. Graduated in 1994.'

She couldn't speak and nor for a moment could he. Then he said nonchalantly, ‘Her agent's address is here. It might be worth risking the cost of a first class stamp.' And then a casual: ‘I should ring Janie to thank her.'

She couldn't speak and nor for a moment could he. Then he said nonchalantly, ‘Her agent's address is here. It might be worth risking the cost of a first class stamp.' And then a casual: ‘I should ring Janie to thank her.'

FOURTEEN

‘
D
id you send that letter?' Over a week had gone by, and Georgia had not dared to ask in case Peter had changed his mind. She could not bear the thought of exposing this fragile hope to scrutiny all over again, and yet now the time had come when she must know.

‘Yes.'

Relief, but she wanted to be prepared for the worst. ‘We won't hear anything of course.'