by Simon Brett
‘Yes.’ The response was toneless. Joan Durrington was still locked away in her own despair.
‘You said the police had talked to your husband about it, and he had talked to you.’ A listless nod. ‘Does Donald often talk to you about his work?’
This question dragged her back to the present. ‘Not very often. He doesn’t talk to me much at all. He talks at me quite a lot. And he certainly finds it easier to talk about his work than about anything I might be interested in.’
‘So you didn’t have a medical background?’
‘Why should I have?’
‘It’s quite common for doctors to marry nurses – or other people connected with their profession.’
‘I was a schoolteacher when we met. Not a bad one, actually. Very dedicated to the cause of education. But then I had the children and Donald wanted me around, holding things together at home.’ She sighed. ‘Too late for me to go back to that now.’
The gulf of despair was opening up again, so Carole moved quickly on. ‘You also said last Friday that Virginia Hargreaves had been in a bad state just before she disappeared . . .’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. I wondered if you knew her well . . .?’
‘Not very well.’
‘Was she Donald’s patient?’
‘She was registered with him down here. I think if there was anything major, she had people in London she went to.’
‘What kind of “major”?’
‘I don’t know. I do remember her talking about having a gynaecologist in London.’
‘But she didn’t say why she’d been consulting him?’
Joan Durrington shrugged. ‘Usual sort of women’s problems, I imagine. At least I don’t have to worry about that any more.’ Her glass was nearly empty. She looked at the gin bottle, calculating the moment of her next refill.
‘When you said Virginia Hargreaves was in a bad state at that time, did you mean emotionally or physically?’
‘Physically. I didn’t know her well enough to have any idea of her emotional state.’
‘So what was wrong with her?’
‘She had an upset stomach. Some virus, or perhaps something she’d eaten. Donald reckoned it was the latter, because the vomiting and diarrhoea came on so quickly.’
‘Did she go to the surgery?’
‘No, no. Far too plebeian for her to sit in a waiting room with all the common riff-raff.’ Joan Durrington’s lips twisted cynically. ‘Donald almost never makes house calls, but he moved remarkably quickly when Lady Virginia summoned him.’
‘Was she actually called Lady Virginia? Because that would have meant that she was the daughter of a peer?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what people called her round the town, but whether it was really her title or just a nickname . . . I’ve no idea.’
‘So your husband went to see her . . . ?’
‘Yes, and he prescribed something to stop the vomiting and diarrhoea . . .’
‘Which day of the week was this?’
Joan Durrington shook her head wearily. ‘I can’t remember. We’re talking three or four years ago.’
‘Yes, but back then did he do house calls every day?’
‘As I said, he tried to avoid making them at all. But he still had to do some. Normally, except in an emergency, he’d try to fit them in mid-week – Tuesday, Wednesday. Thursday he’s down at an old people’s home, The Elms.’
‘So it was probably the Tuesday or Wednesday?’
‘That would be usual, yes. But he might have made an exception for Lady Virginia.’ The fascination the gin bottle held for the doctor’s wife was increasing.
‘You don’t know whether she made a quick recovery, do you?’
‘I would assume so. The stuff Donald had prescribed is usually pretty effective. Stops the symptoms within twenty-four hours. She might have felt washed-out for a couple of days afterwards, but should have been fine. All I do know is,’ Joan Durrington went on with mounting anger at the recollection, ‘that when Donald gave her the prescription, Lady Virginia said that her housekeeper was not there and would it be possible to have someone get the medicine from the chemist for her? And he said – well, I wasn’t there, so I don’t know the exact words, but I’ll bet he said, “Oh, Joan hasn’t got anything better to do. She’ll collect it for you.”
‘That’s certainly what I ended up doing. It happens quite often, actually. Everybody in Fedborough knows that Dr Durrington has got this difficult wife, but there are some little tasks she’s still capable of. When it comes to going down to the chemist to pick up a prescription, there’s no one to beat her.’
As the bitterness in her words grew, Joan Durrington moved her hand unconsciously towards the gin bottle.
‘Tell me . . .’ Carole’s words halted the hand’s progress. Joan’s eyes turned towards her, bleary with pain and frustration. ‘Did your husband ever find out what it was that poisoned Virginia Hargreaves?’
The doctor’s wife shook her head slowly. ‘Well, if he did, he didn’t tell me. Why do you ask?’
‘I was just thinking . . . Virginia Hargreaves seems almost definitely to have been murdered the weekend after she was ill. I was wondering if the poisoning had been an earlier, unsuccessful attempt to get rid of her.’
‘I suppose it’s possible.’
Joan Durrington could wait no longer. Her hand reached its destination, picked up the gin bottle and upended it over her glass.
Chapter Thirty-One
‘OK, give me a list of suspects,’ said Jude. ‘And some motives wouldn’t hurt either.’
It was the Saturday morning. Her sitting room was as cluttered as ever, the original outlines of all the furniture obscured by throws, rugs and cushions. The windows were open and sunlight twinkled on the disarray of ornaments and artefacts that crowded on to every surface. From somewhere, wooden wind chimes made gentle percussion. To Carole’s considerable amazement, she found the sound rather soothing.
Though it wasn’t yet twelve, Jude had insisted on opening a bottle of white wine. ‘Help the thought processes.’ Carole wasn’t sure about that. Her inbred puritan instinct told her that alcohol could only befuddle the thought processes. But it was undeniably pleasant, and there was an edge of decadence to sitting drinking wine on a Saturday morning.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘taking as our starting point the fact that Roddy Hargreaves didn’t kill his wife, let’s concentrate on those motives. Who had something against Virginia Hargreaves?’
‘An increasing number of people, it seems. The more we find out about her, the less flattering the picture becomes.’
Carole started itemizing on her fingers. ‘Alan Burnethorpe had had an affair with her . . .’
‘As had Francis Carlton. So, following the well-known principle that anyone who’s had an affair immediately wants to murder the other person involved, both men are very firmly in the frame.’
‘And Debbie Carlton isn’t out of it. She was quite convincing in her doubts about the anonymous letter, but if she’d found out about Francis and Virginia . . .’
‘Following the second well-known principle that any woman who’s discovered her husband’s having an affair immediately murders the other woman . . .’ Jude found herself at the receiving end of an old-fashioned look. ‘Sorry. Sorry. I am taking this seriously – honestly.’
‘So . . . Debbie’s mother’s also a potential suspect, I suppose . . . for . . . for reasons going back into Fedbor-ough’s past,’ Carole concluded lamely.
‘So’s her father. Stanley. Remember, the last sighting we’ve got of Virginia Hargreaves was by the Rev Trigwell in their grocery shop.’
‘That’s true.’
‘And Jimmy Lister also went in and saw her that same afternoon.’
‘Does that make him a suspect?’
‘Could do. Remember, Virginia Hargreaves snubbed the dreaded Fiona.’
Carole snorted. ‘I can’t really see her in a Lady Macbeth rol
e.’
‘Urging her husband to murder? Don’t rule it out. Also, don’t let’s forget . . .’ As she spoke, the image of the dismembered corpse in Pelling House cellar came to her mind. ‘Jimmy Lister was a butcher.’
‘Yes,’ said Carole thoughtfully. ‘You said the torso looked as if it had been neatly dismembered, didn’t you?’
Jude nodded, still subdued by the picture she had conjured up.
‘You know,’ said Carole, ‘I think we should talk further to James about that.’
‘Mm.’
‘He’s one of the few leads we have.’
‘Yes.’ Jude tapped the arm of her chair in frustration. ‘There is another lead we haven’t followed up, and I can’t for the life of me remember what it is. There’s something, someone’s been mentioned who might be relevant.’
‘I don’t think there is,’ said Carole. ‘I’m sure I’d have remembered.’
Once the words were out, she realized they sounded a bit smug, but Jude seemed unworried. ‘Then perhaps you weren’t there when the person was mentioned.’ The frustrated tapping was now on her chin. ‘So maybe it was something someone said at the Roxbys’ dinner party or . . .’ The brown eyes glowed and she snapped her fingers. ‘Bob Bracken!’
‘Oh yes, I remember Roddy Hargreaves mentioning that name in the Coach and Horses. He’d owned the boatyards before Roddy, hadn’t he? But we can’t call him a lead. We don’t know if he’s still living round Fedborough – or even if he’s still alive. And we haven’t got any means of contacting him.’
‘But we do. We know someone who knows him.’
‘Who?’
‘That’s why you don’t know the contact. You weren’t there. I had lunch in the Crown and Anchor and Ted Crisp told me he knew Bob Bracken.’
‘Oh.’ Instant permafrost settled over Carole.
‘He’ll be worth following up,’ said Jude, apparently unaware of the cold blast emanating from her neighbour. ‘Bob Bracken must know a lot of background stuff about—’
The telephone interrupted her. Jude picked up the receiver. ‘Hello? What? There is someone here, actually, but . . . All right, I’ll take it upstairs.’
As she put the phone down, she raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Harry Roxby. Playing Cold War espionage games.’
Carole sat peacefully sipping her wine, lulled by the arrhythmic clinking of the wind chimes. The front doorbell rang.
‘Could you get that?’ Jude’s voice called from above.
It was the postman. There was a large Jiffy bag he couldn’t get through the letter-box. He grinned at Carole as he handed it across with three other letters. The package was heavy, felt like books. ‘Thought for a moment there I was getting my round wrong. Expect to find you next door.’
‘Oh well, as you see, I was just . . .’
‘Don’t apologize. Wonderful thing, friendship. Wish there was more of it around. Cheerio then. Isn’t anything for you today, Mrs Seddon, as it happens.’
As the postman walked cheerily away, Carole had a moment of doubt. Surely the rumour going round Fedborough hadn’t had time to reach Fethering? Surely the postman didn’t think that she and Jude . . . ?
Briskly she pulled herself back from the brink of speculation. She was just being paranoid.
A new thought came to her. She was holding letters addressed to Jude. There was no way they would just say ‘Jude’ on them. There had to be a surname. She held in her hands the means of solving one of her neighbour’s enduring mysteries.
She hesitated, but only for a moment, and then she looked down. Ironically, the top letter was simply addressed to ‘Jude’. The name and address were neatly typed on a small blue envelope. Carole might have stopped there, except that she couldn’t.
She shuffled the letters. On the second was printed ‘Mrs J. Metarius’.
What a peculiar name. Typical of Jude, that a revelation about her life did not resolve anything, only gave rise to more questions.
The main ones being: Who was Mr Metarius? What nationality was he, with a name like that? And where was he now?
Carole moved the top two and looked at the third letter, only to find a new obfuscation. This one was handwritten and addressed to ‘Jude Nichol’. The same name was on the Jiffy bag.
So she had two names. Was the ‘Nichol’ her maiden name? Or was it another married name? How many times had Jude been married? How many more names were going to turn up?
Alternatively, perhaps she only had one surname. Nichol. The letter addressed to ‘Mrs J. Metarius’ might have been misdirected.
Carole heard footsteps from upstairs, and guiltily shoved her neighbour’s post down on to the hall table. She felt soiled, as if she had done something cheap. Looking up at Jude coming down the stairs, she said awkwardly, ‘Just the post.’
‘Thought it would be. He’s getting later and later on a Saturday.’ Jude, totally unfazed by Carole’s discomfiture, swept past into the sitting room. ‘Don’t fancy another trip into Fedborough, do you?’ she called over her shoulder as she shut the windows.
‘Wouldn’t mind.’
‘Harry’s being extremely cloak-and-daggerish, but he says he’s got some important information to give me about Roddy Hargreaves’s death.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what I mean about him being cloak-and-daggerish. He wouldn’t say on the phone. Do you mind giving me a lift?’ Jude consulted her large wristwatch as she gathered up a floppy straw basket and other belongings. ‘I said I’d meet him near the bridge at one. All very mysterious and Checkpoint Charlie.’
‘One o’clock’s pretty soon. What would have happened if I hadn’t agreed to give you a lift?’
‘I’d have got a cab. But will you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Great.’ Jude moved back to the hall and looked at the pile of post. ‘Oh, those have come,’ she said unhelpfully, on seeing the Jiffy bag. She gathered up the three letters and shoved them into her basket. ‘Ooh, I’ll take the mobile.’ She picked that up too.
Carole followed her to the front door. ‘I actually want to see if I can track down James Lister again. Got a few more questions to ask him.’
‘You do that then, while I deal with Harry, who, needless to say, insisted that I should meet him unaccompanied. I stopped him before he told me what kind of flower I should wear in my buttonhole.’
‘Fits perfectly then. Good idea, dividing the investigation between us.’
‘Oh, I agree. What’s more, working separately we won’t be adding any more fuel to the flames of Fedborough gossip, will we?’
And Mrs Metarius, or Miss Nichol, or whoever she happened to be, roared with laughter.
When they arrived that morning, they found Fedborough en fête - or as en fête as a middle-class English country town is capable of being. Had they had a Fedborough Festival programme, they would have known that the Saturday had been designated ‘Street Theatre Day’. The result of this had been an invasion of the town by a wide variety of ‘performance artists’, each of whom had a personal definition of what constituted a ‘performance’, not to mention what constituted ‘art’.
There was a predictable ration of clowns sounding hooters and scattering streamers, white-faced mimes feeling their way round the inside of invisible glass boxes, and people who apparently made their living by being sprayed gold and standing still for hours on end.
There were also more inventive displays. Huge butterflies on stilts stepped their delicate way up the steep incline of the High Street. A black-face chain-gang in striped American prison uniforms straggled along, stopping every now and then to perform tuneless spirituals. In and out of the shops, Henry VIII and his Six Wives played hide and seek for no very good reason.
The reactions of the good people of Fedborough to these antics varied. Some, particularly those with small children, stopped and marvelled at the free entertainment. Others, mostly of the older generation, got extremely English about the whole thing, resolutely pretendi
ng it wasn’t happening. Elderly tweeded men and women walked past figures dressed as traffic islands and benappied adult babies without the slightest flicker of an eyebrow. They hadn’t survived the worst that Hitler could throw at them to be fazed by a group of show-offs.
Jude and Carole, predictably enough, differed in their reactions to the spectacle. Jude looked around in giggling wonderment, while Carole’s body language reflected her long-held dread of audience participation, fiercely resisting the notion that any of the performers might make her do anything.
A clown in eccentric Victorian frock coat and steeple hat urged them to pose for his ancient camera. Carole was not quick enough to walk away, and while he fiddled under a black cape before the inevitable explosion from his flash-pan, Jude grabbed her in a hug for the photograph.
With some vigour, Carole moved away. One didn’t want to give any fuel to the misapprehensions of Fedborough.
Jude found this reaction terribly funny, and was still giggling after they had parted and she had set off down the High Street towards Fedborough Bridge.
The rendezvous Harry Roxby had chosen for them once again revealed him to be a rather young fifteen. Following the instructions he’d given her on the phone, Jude crossed over the bridge, away from the main part of the town. She walked along the deserted towpath. The side of the river nearer the town was the tourist route, past the old boatsheds which had proved the financial undoing of Roddy Hargreaves. In that direction people could follow the river for miles, go into the open country, even join up with the South Downs Way. The side where Jude was, the path led only to the houseboats that rode up and down on the tide along the Fether. Most of them were in such a state of dilapidation that, but for James Lister’s assurances to the contrary during his Town Walk, she would have doubted whether any were still inhabited. Presumably, though, their owners were unworried by the outside appearances of their homes and lived in cosily neat interiors.
The houseboat nearest to the bridge was the only one that looked smart. The high windows of the main section were shrouded by pale cotton blinds. Behind these, rows of portholes, diminishing in size, punctuated the hull towards the back of the boat. Burnished wood gleamed; so did the spotless brass of the boat’s fittings. The conversion made such a design statement that Jude didn’t need to see the neat sign reading ‘Alan Burnethorpe – Architect’ to identify its owner.
