by Simon Brett
‘Did she admit she’d sent it?’
‘No, of course she didn’t! She denied it. But then she would, wouldn’t she?’ Francis Carlton realized his anger was taking him over and paused to regain control. When he spoke next, his voice was quieter, but very tense. ‘I can’t wait to get on that plane tonight. I tell you one thing, Alan, whatever else I do in the rest of my life, I’m never coming back to bloody Fedborough.’
Having voiced the thought, he seemed anxious to depart as soon as possible. Alan Burnethorpe made a halfhearted offer to pick up the tab, which Francis accepted with alacrity. In spite of his denials, he really was very mean. Even with Jonelle’s money, he would remain mean. Jude wondered whether his new wife had yet found out about this little characteristic of her husband. To Jude’s mind, it was the worst flaw a man could have.
With hurried insistence that he must go and get his bags from Debbie’s and perfunctory thanks for the lunch, Francis Carlton was suddenly gone. The barmaid at that moment appeared with the Tuna Bake, so Alan Burnethorpe had to wait at the bar before he could settle up.
He looked across to where the girl was, and Jude shrank into her booth. But she wasn’t quick enough. Alan Burnethorpe didn’t make any acknowledgment, but there was no doubt that he’d seen her.
And no doubt he’d deduced that Jude had overheard his conversation with Francis Carlton.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘You know Debbie. Do you think it’s in her nature to send anonymous letters?’
‘I don’t know her that well, Jude. And, anyway, divorce tends to change people’s natures,’ said Carole with feeling. ‘When a relationship comes to an end, perfectly rational adults start behaving like playground bullies. I’m always amazed at the levels of petty vindictiveness that divorce can bring on.’
Jude nodded. She had witnessed the same. May even have witnessed the same in her own life, Carole thought suddenly. Again, she felt frustrated by how little she knew of her friend’s past. Now the subject had come up, maybe it would be a good moment to fill in some of the gaps.
But, as ever, the opportunity passed, as Jude said, ‘And, from what you say Debbie and Francis respectively got out of the settlement, I’d imagine she was pretty bitter.’
‘She tried to sound grown-up and philosophical, but clearly she was very hurt. Her with her little flat in Fedborough, and him with his rich wife and two homes. And that was before she found out about the baby.’
‘Yes.’
‘That really hit her hard. I told you.’
‘Mm . . .’
The pensive silence that ensued offered another opportunity to elicit a bit of information. Carole snatched it. ‘Do you regret not having children, Jude?’
Her friend looked up, smiling mischievously. ‘Who says I haven’t had any?’ And, once again, before the supplementary question could be put, Jude had moved on. ‘I can see the satisfaction in it, from Debbie’s point of view. She hasn’t got much she can do in the way of revenge. Dragging Francis all the way back from Florida, putting him through a few nasty grillings with the police . . . not bad, is it?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Carole grumpily, still resentful of the way Jude had evaded the personal question. Unambiguously that time, as well; Jude had definitely been playing with her curiosity.
‘Mind you,’ her neighbour went on quickly, ‘if Debbie was responsible for the anonymous letter, then that probably rules out Francis Carlton as a suspect.’
‘It was only her desire for revenge that made him look like a suspect in the first place?’
‘Exactly. So that might rule him out, in spite of the fact that we now know that he had an affair with the dead woman.’
‘Strange, isn’t it,’ said Carole, ‘that, whenever murder’s discussed, anyone who’s had an affair with the victim becomes an immediate suspect . . .’
‘Why’s that strange? Seems pretty logical to me.’
‘I suppose I meant strange in the way it comments on human relationships. If you love someone, that means you want to kill them.’
‘“Yet each man kills the thing he loves . . .’”
Carole hadn’t expected Jude to quote Oscar Wilde. She kept encountering inconsistent details in her friend’s character. Carole Seddon liked to categorize people; then she knew what she was up against. But Jude made that process very difficult.
‘Anyway,’ Jude went on, ‘Francis Carlton wasn’t the only one to have had an affair with the lovely Virginia Hargreaves.’
‘Alan Burnethorpe too.’
‘Yes. The saintly image she projected seems in retrospect a little tarnished. How did she get away with it, in a wasp’s nest of gossip like Fedborough? Do you really think they were all seduced by the glamour of her title?’
‘Yes,’ Carole replied firmly. Then, in response to Jude’s sceptical look, she went on, ‘You haven’t lived down here as long as I have. There’s a level of snobbery associated with the aristocracy you just wouldn’t believe. Everyone wants to invite them to everything, and they’re given a much freer rein than ordinary people. There’d have to be a really monumental scandal for people in a place like Fedborough to start thinking badly of someone with a title.’
‘I thought that kind of nonsense had gone out in these so-called egalitarian times.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’
‘Hm. Right.’ Jude rubbed her hands together in a business-like manner. ‘So . . . where do we go next? Presumably Francis Carlton is back in the States. Be good to talk to Debbie again – and I’d like to meet her this time. Have you run out of credibility on interior design consultations?’
‘I think I have a bit. Unless I actually say I’m going to go ahead with the job.’ Her face clouded at the recollection this brought to her – of the euphoria prompted by her relationship with Ted Crisp, which had made her full of plans for brightening up her life. ‘And I’m certainly not going to do that,’ she concluded tartly.
‘Ooh, but just a minute, though . . .’ A new thought came to Carole. ‘If we wait till Friday, we’ve got the perfect opportunity to go and see Debbie.’
‘What?’
‘The Art Crawl we heard so much about from Terry Harper.’
‘Right. Debbie Carlton’s exhibiting. Yes, I remember him saying that.’
‘So we can wander at will through a selection of the private homes of Fedborough . . . on the pretext that we’re art-lovers. Debbie described the Fedborough Festival Art Crawl as a Snoopers’ Charter.’
‘Good. Any other houses we ought to investigate?’
‘Wouldn’t mind having a look in Terry Harper’s. I don’t know whether he’s actually part of the Crawl, but there’s nothing to stop anyone from walking into an antique shop.’
‘I get you. You’re thinking that used to be the grocer’s?’
Carole nodded. ‘The last place, from the information we have, where Virginia Hargreaves was seen alive. On February the twentieth, three years ago.’
‘Yes.’ Jude ruefully jutted out a lower lip. ‘Though it has to be said that the information we have is verging on the sketchy. We really need to find out more detail about Virginia Hargreaves’s last weekend.’
‘Which brings us back to James Lister.’
‘Right. How’re we going to justify getting in touch with him again? The Listers’ house isn’t part of the Art Crawl, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Actually, I can’t see the lovely Fiona being that interested in art . . . though I suppose she might have her husband’s balls mounted and framed.’
Carole blushed instinctively. Lines like that always made her blush . . . though she couldn’t help finding the image rather funny.
She made no comment on it, however. ‘Not a problem. We have the perfect excuse to get back in touch with the Listers.’
‘What?’
‘Have you called them to say thank you for the delightful evening on Friday?’
‘No, I haven’t yet.’
‘Nor
have I.’ Carole reached for the phone.
Fortunately, James Lister answered. His wife was off poisoning the atmosphere somewhere else. He was fruitily grateful for her fulsome thanks. ‘It was my pleasure. Can’t have enough pretty women around me, you know. Though don’t let the wife hear me say that.’ He chuckled rather feebly. Even when she wasn’t there, Fiona still cast a shadow of anxiety over his life.
‘Well, it was a great pleasure, James. So kind of you to invite us.’
‘We enjoyed seeing you.’
‘And do thank Fiona for the magnificent dinner, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And I hope we’ll see you again soon, James.’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘When you say “we”, you mean you and your friend Jude?’
‘That’s right.’ Carole winked at Jude across her sitting room. ‘Have you heard from her since Friday?’
‘No, but don’t worry. I’ll pass on the thanks from both of you to Fiona—’
‘That seems rather—’
‘Did you hear, incidentally,’ James Lister went on, ‘the reason why poor old Roddy Hargreaves wasn’t with us on Friday?’
‘Yes, I did. A terrible tragedy.’
‘Mm.’
‘It must be dreadful for you, James.’
‘Why?’ He sounded instantly suspicious.
‘Well, to lose one of your regular drinking mates.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, that happens, I’m afraid. Increasingly, these days.’
‘But it won’t stop you using the Coach and Horses?’
‘Good Lord, no.’ He let out a heartily masculine laugh. ‘Death’s a tragedy, but stopping going to the pub would be an even worse tragedy.’
‘So you’ll still be there on a regular basis?’
‘You bet, young lady. Six o’clock on the dot every weekday evening. Erm, except Fridays, that is, because, erm . . . well, as you know, Fiona gives her dinner parties then.’
‘Of course. Well, James, thank you again for last week . . .’
‘From you and Jude, yes.’
‘ . . . and I’ll hope to see you in the Coach and Horses one of these evenings.’
‘That’d be splendid,’ said James Lister, not realizing he had just made a definite appointment.
But he didn’t look surprised when Carole and Jude appeared in the Coach and Horses shortly after six that evening. In fact, he was delighted to see them. James Lister was alone at the bar. His cronies hadn’t turned up. One of them would never turn up again. Maybe the others wouldn’t appear at all that evening. The women saw him before he saw them; he looked old and forlorn.
But he perked up the minute he caught sight of them. ‘Well, this is a double pleasure. Fiona will be so interested to hear that I’ve met up with you again. So what brings you here?’
Carole gaped. She hadn’t thought to prepare a cover story.
‘Oh, we’re just stupid, Jimmy,’ said Jude smoothly. ‘I’d got it into my head that this Art Crawl thing, you know, that Terry Harper was talking about at your dinner party . . . well, I thought it started today.’
‘No, that’s Friday. Third of July. Well, most of the Private Views are on Thursday evening. Fiona and I will have to put in an appearance at a few of those.’ His tone of voice didn’t suggest he’d had an overnight conversion to the joys of visual art. ‘But the Crawl proper opens to the public on Friday afternoon.’
‘I know now. I’ve seen the posters all over the town. Anyway, since we’d come here on a wasted journey, we thought we’d have just a quick drink before we went back to Fethering.’
‘Your mistake is my gain,’ said James Lister with elaborate courtesy.
‘Stupid of me.’ Jude shook her head pitifully.
He responded to the dumb blonde routine. ‘Women, eh? Can’t be trusted out of the kitchen. Or the bedroom.’ He cackled. Carole and Jude resisted their instinctive responses to his words and smiled winsomely. They weren’t going to put this information opportunity at risk. ‘Now come on, let me get you pretty little things a drink.’
Skittishly, Jude requested a white wine. Carole did the same, although she was less good at being skittish.
When they were supplied with glasses, Jude looked around the bar and sighed. ‘Sad to think last time we were in here we were talking to Roddy Hargreaves.’
James Lister looked suitably reverent. ‘Yes. Poor bugger – pardon my French. I knew he was in a bad way, but I didn’t ever imagine he’d go and do that.’
‘Do what?’ asked Jude innocently.
‘Well, jump in the river.’
Carole joined in the questioning. ‘Is everyone in Fedborough assuming it was suicide?’
‘Obviously. What’s the alternative?’
‘He might just have fallen in. He drank a lot. Very unsteady, I would imagine, when he was walking around.’
‘Oh yes, but he knew the riverbank well. He wouldn’t have fallen in by accident.’
‘Someone might have pushed him in,’ Jude suggested innocently.
‘Why would they do that?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, my lovely young thing . . .’ James Lister took the opportunity to give Jude’s shoulder a more than avuncular pat. ‘ . . . but I’m afraid the truth is poor old Roddy topped himself.’
Jude continued to play the innocent. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Once the police had identified Virginia’s body, he knew it was only a matter of time before they arrested him. He couldn’t face that, so . . .’
‘Are you saying he murdered his wife?’
‘That’s what everyone in Fedborough’s saying.’
‘Is everyone in Fedborough usually right?’ asked Carole.
About most things, I’d say, yes. Once you hear a rumour in this town, nine times out often it’ll turn out to be true.’
Neither woman believed this, but they both nodded, unwilling to stop his flow.
‘Poor old Roddy.’ James Lister shook his head lugubriously. ‘Must’ve been nursing that ghastly secret all these years. Probably what drove him to drink.’
‘But I thought he drank a lot while his wife was still around,’ Carole objected.
‘Yes, but he was worse after she’d gone. Now we know why.’
‘How long ago was it all this happened?’ asked Jude, still playing the ingénue.
‘Three . . . three and a half years. I know that, because it was my last year in the business. I sold out... I suppose about six months after Virginia disappeared.’
‘Must’ve been a wrench for you after all that time, giving up the family business.’
‘Well, in some ways it was. In a lot of other ways I was pleased to be shot of the whole thing. Butchery’s changed, you know, not the profession it was. When I started, Fedborough could support two butchers. There was my dad’s, and old Len Trollope on the corner of Dauncey Street. And both of them thought their business would be passed on from father to son for all eternity.
‘But now every supermarket has its own meat counter, it’s hard to make a living as the old traditional local shop. And butchers nowadays have all this Brussels and BSE nonsense to deal with ... I think I got out at the right time. Didn’t do too badly out of it, either. Property prices in Fedborough have gone up very satisfactorily, you know.’
‘Good,’ said Carole, reckoning that was the required response.
‘Oh yes.’ He nodded, pleased with his business acumen.
‘So were you one of the last people to see Virginia Hargreaves alive?’ asked Jude breathlessly.
The idea of being part of the drama appealed to him. ‘Yes, I suppose I was.’
‘Ooh, how horrid,’ said Jude, continuing to play daffy. ‘Do you remember when it was exactly?’
He smoothed his white moustache with the effort of recollection. ‘Let me see. I think it was late on the Friday afternoon before she vanished . . .’
Neither Carole nor Jude made any reaction, but
the same thought was in both their minds: when Roddy was already on the ferry to France.
‘Mm, because I remember, just before closing time, I’d dropped into Stanley Franks’s shop next door . . .’
‘The grocer’s?’
‘That’s right. He sold up round the same time I did. But we were still both in business then . . .’
‘I gather he’s now very ill,’ said Carole.
‘Yes, poor bugger – pardon my French again. Physically in very good nick, I gather, which means he’ll probably last for years. But the mind’s totally gone. Very sad. He used to be so good at what he did. All right, I know running a shop’s not the most glamorous of professions . . .’ (a fact of which his wife had left him in no doubt over the years of their marriage) ‘ . . . but there’s a lot of skill involved in doing it well, and the best people in the retail trade really take a pride in their work. I like to think I was one of those, but I couldn’t hold a candle to Stanley Franks. He was a real perfectionist, ran that shop like a finely oiled machine. Spotlessly clean, all the best produce, a lot of it prepared on the premises. Really sad to see him now.
‘Used to be a great drinking mate of mine, Stanley. You know, we’d both built up our businesses in the town next door to each other, but . . .’ He shook his head gloomily. ‘Used to go and see him when he first moved into The Elms, but pretty soon stopped. No point. He didn’t know who I was.’
‘I met his wife, Billie. She said she thought he was getting better.’
‘Deluding herself, I’m afraid, Carole my love. There’s no way back from the road old Stanley’s gone down. Billie’s had a rotten deal of it. Had to sell the family home and move into a houseboat to pay for his care and, as I say, he looks like he could last for ever. Don’t know what she’ll do when the money runs out.’ His head shook mournfully.
‘Sorry,’ Jude prompted, ‘but you were telling us about the last time you saw Virginia Hargreaves.’
‘Oh, right, so I was.’ With relish James Lister resumed his position centre stage of the tragedy. ‘When I popped into Stanley’s shop that afternoon, Virginia was there and I remember thinking at the time . . . she looks in a bad way.’ He paused for effect.
