Murder Takes the Stage by Amy Myers Page B

point, but on the whole decided it was best to face dragons as soon as they started breathing fire. Turn your back on the problem and the heat would grow.
    Deep breath, and she rang the number. ‘Mr Trent? Georgia Marsh.’
    She could sense the atmosphere at the end of the line without a word being spoken in reply.
    â€˜You wrote to my wife asking whether she would be prepared to give you information pertaining to her father. The answer is no.’ Neutral voice. Icy edge. ‘Our view is that the case was over fifty years ago, and there is no point in raking over old coals.’
    â€˜I can understand that point of view, particularly when your wife’s mother was the victim. I hoped to be able to explain face to face why my father and I are investigating it.’
    â€˜That would be pointless, as she has no interest in discussing the matter.’
    â€˜The subject is hardly dead. It comes up regularly in the Chronicle .’
    â€˜No one who knows anything about the case would take Ken Winton seriously.’
    â€˜And yet Ken was murdered.’ She had crossed the Rubicon now, but she was not going to achieve anything by dithering about on the riverbank.
    The ether almost crackled in fury. ‘Do you have any proof that Mr Winton’s death is connected with Joan Watson’s?’
    â€˜His laptop was stolen.’ Was that privileged information? She couldn’t remember, but it was out now.
    â€˜Laptops are often stolen,’ came the sharp response – too sharp, too quickly? ‘But rarely for information inside them.’
    â€˜Forgive me, but your wife’s father was acquitted, so you must both wonder who did kill her mother?’
    â€˜If we do, Miss Marsh, it is in the privacy of our family, not for public muckraking.’
    â€˜The public is already involved as the trial was a public one. But,’ she hastened to add, ‘I do understand it’s upsetting for your wife even though she was only a toddler at the time.’
    â€˜Quite. She was a child and has no recollection of this neighbour or the babysitter. Is that clear? And whatever rumours might be flying around, she is in no position to comment on them.’
    â€˜Would your wife not want them scotched by an outside examination of the facts?’
    â€˜That rather depends on what your line would be.’
    â€˜The truth, so far as we can establish it.’
    â€˜I doubt if you could. And I have to add, Miss Marsh, I doubt if you should .’
    He rang off abruptly, and Georgia put the receiver down, shaken. She was being warned off, and this must be why Ken had hesitated over putting her in contact with the Trents. But why the need for secrecy on Matthew’s part? Devotion to his wife? His reaction was excessive, if so. Knowledge of what really happened? That would depend on his age. If he was roughly the same age as Pamela, his knowledge would be second-hand. To have first-hand knowledge, he would have to be about fifteen years older and his voice did not sound like that of a man in his seventies.
    Gwen and Terry’s home, Badon Lodge, set under the North Downs, was an ancient house built on an even more ancient site. The house was of never-ending interest to Terry, who dug for archaeological artefacts and fossils happily in the cellar and garden and spent much of his time striding the hills with a resistivity machine in search of clues, while Gwen battled with keeping the lawn borders and vegetable garden in order, and preserving the resulting produce. Housewife at heart she was not, however. In her younger days she had been as much of a traveller as Terry, perhaps greater, but now she pursued this interest through books and the Internet.
    Georgia had thought that Charlie, her only child, lived in London, but now it appeared from what Gwen told Luke and herself on arrival that he had bought a house near Whitstable. Peter and Janie had already arrived, and Georgia found her father in