Murder Takes the Stage Read Online Free Page A

for the wheelchair.’ He was right. The wheelchair would not have passed easily through the house, as his hallway looked even more clogged with furniture than Christine’s had been.
    The house was a lookalike for Christine’s, at least structurally, and with seagulls calling overhead and the freshness of the sea breeze, there seemed to be a slight air of unreality hanging over this visit. It was almost as though she and Peter had stepped temporarily into the world of Narnia, Georgia thought. Perhaps, however, that was less due to Ken’s home than to the fact that her surge of hope over Rick’s disappearance was insidiously draining away. They would almost certainly be on another hiding to nothing if they pursued this, and perhaps the same would be true of the fish-bar clown.
    Ken Winton was about sixty or perhaps in his late fifties, and his pleasant, rather insipid face and blue eyes seemed to look trustfully out upon a world that had failed to offer him his big scoop but might remedy that at any moment.
    Where had that thought come from? Georgia was amused as she and Peter followed him through the side entrance into the garden at the rear. Much nicer to be outside on a reasonably nice day such as this. One look around her told her that Ken was a keen gardener. Pots of flowers were dotted at strategic intervals and different heights for maximum effect, and what bulb leaves could still be seen blended happily into the new greenery of May leaves and the army of blooms preparing its march to blossom.
    â€˜We visited your daughter,’ Peter explained, after Ken had established Georgia and himself in garden chairs, ‘about another matter, and we got to talking about Tom Watson. She said you had written about his case. The nineteen fifties, wasn’t it?’
    Ken had no hesitation in replying. ‘Nineteen fifty-two was the murder. Trial the next year. It doesn’t get as much coverage as some other cases because it ended in acquittal. Less scope for lurid speculation, even though poor old Tom did himself in. Disappeared in autumn 1953, officially presumed dead in 1963. No libel risk therefore, but his case still gets overlooked. Not by me though. Chris probably told you my dad worked with Tom.’
    â€˜She did. The Three Joeys.’
    â€˜Right. My dad doesn’t bother to pop back to see me, like Tom’s ghost. I take it that’s what you’re after? The ghost story? We have lots of you folks down here from time to time. Lunch at the haunted house, that sort of thing. You’d think Gary would make a fortune, but he just doesn’t get it. Make a feature of it, old boy, I tell him, but will he? He will not. So it’s ghosts that you’re after?’
    â€˜No,’ Peter said. ‘We leave that to the Society for Psychical Research. We’re interested in the murder case itself.’
    Ken looked taken aback. ‘Who did you say you were?’
    â€˜Georgia and Peter Marsh.’
    He reacted with some alarm. ‘You write true crime books, don’t you? I read the one about the Goblet. So that’s why you’re interested in old Tom? Well  . . .’ He was backing off fast and the situation had to be remedied.
    â€˜Not necessarily,’ Georgia said hastily, afraid that he foresaw a conflict of interest as the journalist in him began to hear alarm bells. ‘We listen to a lot of interesting stories, but we can’t look into them all. Only a few make that stage.’
    â€˜How long does it take you to write up the cases?’
    This was a familiar question to Georgia, but it seemed an odd one, coming from a journalist. ‘About nine months, once all the evidence is in place.’
    â€˜Right,’ he said slowly. The matter seemed to have been settled to his satisfaction, because he added, ‘Don’t see why I shouldn’t help you then.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Just in case Tom gets to be one of your