The Fethering Mysteries 11; The Shooting in the Shop tfm-11

by Simon Brett

  “It’s the perfect present!” Jude continued.

  “For whom?”

  “Georgie.”

  Carole had a rule with herself, that she would never ask for information about her neighbour’s friends. If such information was volunteered, fine, but she didn’t want to appear curious. It was a rule she broke frequently, as she did now, asking instinctively, “Who’s Georgie?”

  “Former client of mine. Came with a terrible pain in the neck.”

  “And you cured her of it. You healed her?” asked Carole, failing to keep her distaste out of the word.

  “Well, she got better. I think getting divorced probably was more effective than anything I did for her. Her husband was the real pain in the neck. Anyway…” Jude rattled the box – “Georgie’s hooked on numbers. She’ll love this.”

  Carole couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Well, I wouldn’t like it.”

  “Nor would I. But that’s the point about presents. They aren’t meant to appeal to you. They’re meant to appeal to the recipient. And this particular jigsaw will suit Georgie down to the ground.”

  “Good,” said Carole flatly. Then a new thought came to her. “Is Georgie going to be at your open house?”

  “Possibly. I think I invited her.” Yet more inappropriate vagueness about the serious matter of giving a party. “But I’m spending Christmas Day with her. First one she’s had without the husband around. Which in one way makes her quite ecstatic, and in another way worried about being lonely. So I said I’d join her.”

  This was new information. Jude had said she was Christmassing in Fethering, without being more specific about exactly where in Fethering. But Carole didn’t comment, instead focusing her attention on the potential presents on display. She couldn’t see anything that came within a mile of suitability for either her son or daughter-in-law. Who could possibly want a wind-up skeleton? Or an apron in the pattern of a Friesian cow? Or a Russian Father Christmas doll, inside which was a smaller Russian Father Christmas doll, inside which was an even smaller Russian Father Christmas doll, inside which…? Yes, Gallimaufry really was a place for people with more money than sense.

  On the other hand, the discounted prices were not bad. Assuming, of course, that there was an appropriate price for something you wouldn’t give houseroom to.

  “Oh, look, these are great!” Jude enthused.

  “What on earth are they?”

  “They’re finger puppets of famous philosophers. Look!” And in no time one of Jude’s hands was playing host to Socrates, Spinoza, Descartes, Nietzsche and Wittgenstein.

  “But what use are they? Who could possibly need anything like that?”

  “‘Oh, reason not the need!’” Jude quoted. “King Lear got it right, you know. If we stuck only to what we needed, life would be a very dull business. It’s the things we don’t need that make it bearable.”

  “I thought you were supposed to have green principles.”

  “What on earth gave you that idea?”

  “Well, come on, Jude, you’re into healing and wind-chimes and essential oils and joss sticks and crystals and – ”

  “And all other kinds of New Age mumbo-jumbo?”

  “Now I didn’t say that.”

  “No, because I saved you the trouble.” There was the shadow of a grin on Jude’s rounded face. She enjoyed these sparring sessions with her neighbour. For her they contained a strong element of teasing, and even Carole didn’t take them quite as seriously as she used to. “Anyway,” Jude went on, “just because I believe in some things you don’t believe in, it doesn’t mean I believe in everything you don’t believe in.”

  “So you’re not worried about saving the planet?”

  “Yes, I am, but not to the exclusion of everything else. I don’t want to save a planet that ends up dull because nobody allows themselves any kind of indulgence. It’s the little embellishments of life that make it worth living. And those embellishments needn’t be expensive. There’s an old Chinese proverb – ”

  “Is there?” said Carole, with a sniff that summed up completely her view of old Chinese proverbs.

  “Yes. It says, ‘If I had one penny left in the world, I would spend half of it on bread, and the other half on flowers.’”

  Carole sniffed again. “The penny isn’t legal tender in China. It never has been.”

  “I think the proverb may have been translated for English audiences.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway…” Jude’s brown eyes twinkled as she waved her hand, wiggling Socrates, Spinoza, Descartes, Nietzsche and Wittgenstein in front of her neighbour’s face. “Do you think these’d be suitable?”

  “Suitable for what?”

  “As presents.”

  “For whom?”

  “For Stephen or Gaby?” Jude replied innocently, precisely aware of the response her words would attract.

  She was not disappointed. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Well,” said Jude, full of mock-penitence, “you know them so much better than I do. I was just thinking something like this” – another wiggle of philosophers – “might appeal to their sense of humour.”

  Carole wondered momentarily whether her son had a sense of humour. Gaby did, she felt sure, and Stephen had relaxed so much since their marriage that maybe by now he had developed one too. Maybe a sense of humour was contagious, like chicken pox.

  “I think,” she said, “I’m going to do better sticking to the M and S shirts for Stephen.”

  “Well, all right, but you still can’t give Gaby toilet water.”

  Carole grudgingly conceded that there might be some truth in that. She looked around at the display of discounted knick-knacks with something approaching despair. “But I still haven’t a clue what would be right for her.”

  “It’s always struck me,” Jude began tentatively, not wishing to be too pushy with her suggestions, “that Gaby’s full of fun. She’s got a very bubbly personality.” Carole agreed that this was the case. “She’s also very girly in some ways.”

  “Ye-es.”

  “So I think you should give her something to put on.”

  “Clothes, you mean? But I don’t know her size.” Carole anxiously surveyed the hanging garments in Eastern silks, crumpled linen and PVC. “I wouldn’t begin to know what Gaby would like to wear.”

  “Oh, come on, you’ve seen her enough times. You know the kind of stuff she likes.”

  Carole tried to focus on what her daughter-in-law did actually wear. Jeans and sweatshirts mostly these days, as she spent most of her time at home looking after the baby. While she was still working as a theatrical agent, Gaby had had a couple of dauntingly businesslike trouser suits, but those hadn’t seen the light of day since Lily’s birth.

  “She likes sparkly things,” Jude prompted.

  Yes, now Carole came to think of it, a lot of Gaby’s tops did have glittery designs on them. And she wore quite a bit of costume jewellery in what her mother-in-law would have described as diamanté. “So you’re saying I should get her a brooch or something?”

  “No, I’m saying you should give her something frivolous. Something like this perhaps?” Jude’s hand, by now denuded of Socrates, Spinoza, Descartes, Nietzsche and Wittgenstein, reached up to pull something down from its hook. It was a six-foot long stole formed by sprays of feathers alternately white and silver.

  Carole scrutinized the object. “Well, it wouldn’t be very warm, you know, as scarves go.”

  “It’s not a scarf, it’s a boa.”

  “Maybe, but what for?”

  “For fun!” Jude replied with something approaching exasperation. “For when Gaby wants to glam herself up a bit. For when she wants to forget that she’s a wife and mother and remind herself she’s a girl.”

  Carole continued to look dubiously at the boa. “Do you think she’ll like it, though?”

  “I’m sure she will. And I can guarantee that Lily will like it too. In a few years’ time she’ll be usi
ng it for dressing up.”

  The granddaughter argument swayed Carole, and when she looked at the cost of the boa, she was won over completely. Originally, it had been twenty-five pounds, which would definitely have come under her definition of overpriced. But that had been slashed to ten pounds, and then a further reduction had been made to four pounds fifty. Carole decided she had found Gaby’s present.

  Emboldened by this success, she started wavering about the Marks and Spencer shirts for Stephen.

  “You could still give them to him,” Jude suggested, “so that he doesn’t die of shock at not getting them after all these years. But then you could give him something else as well.”

  “What kind of ‘something else’?” asked Carole suspiciously.

  “Something frivolous.”

  “Stephen’s never going to wear a feather boa.”

  “No, I know he’s not,” Jude replied, though she couldn’t deny that the image was quite amusing. “But there are other frivolous things in here.”

  Carole looked around the shop. In her view, a Santa Claus Willy Warmer was simply in bad taste. And she wouldn’t have dared to be present when Stephen opened such a thing. Nor was she attracted by a key ring with a small Rubik’s cube attached. The combined digital stopwatch and bottle opener didn’t do much for her either. And as for the thought of giving anyone a sumptuously boxed, gold-plated Belly Button Fluff Extractor…

  “Maybe I should just stick to the shirts…” she announced uncertainly.

  “No, Carole, don’t give up so easily. Put yourself in Stephen’s shoes for a moment. What would he like? What are his interests?”

  “Work, mostly.”

  “And his work involves…?”

  “Money and computers, in some combination which I have never quite worked out.”

  “Well, I’m sure Lola stocks something for computer buffs.”

  “I doubt it. This isn’t a technology shop.”

  “Ah, look, the very thing!” Jude swooped on a basket full of wind-up toys. “A Glow-in-the-dark Computer Angel!”

  “What?” asked Carole weakly, as the package was thrust towards her. Under a plastic bubble there was a translucent green plastic figure of an angel. Printed above it were the words: “Your Computer Angel deals with all your computer problems, glitches and viruses. Just wind her up and her flapping wings will spread her protection over your desktop or laptop. And when you turn the lights off, your Computer Angel will glow in the dark.”

  “How does it work?” asked Carole.

  “Blind faith.”

  “No, I mean how does it work as anti-virus protection?” After long resistance to the idea of computers, Carole had recently become something of an expert on the subject. “There isn’t a software CD with it, as far as I can see. And it doesn’t have a USB plug.”

  “Carole,” said Jude patiently, “it’s a joke. It’s just a fun thing. To bring a smile on Christmas Day to the face of a computer obsessive like Stephen.”

  Her neighbour still didn’t look convinced. But then she saw the price tag: £7.50 reduced to £4.00, then reduced again to £1.50.

  As she paid for her purchases, Carole and Anna at the till exchanged half-smiles, as if to say, “Yes, we have seen each other before.” But neither took the opportunity to embark on conversation.

  And so Carole completed her Christmas shopping. Which meant that, as well as the Marks and Spencer shirts, Stephen Seddon would shortly be the proud owner of a Glow-in-the-dark Computer Angel.

  ∨ The Shooting in the Shop ∧

  Five

  Carole at first demurred at Jude’s suggestion they should lunch at the Crown and Anchor. Some atavistic instinct told her it was self-indulgence to go out for a meal so near to Christmas. But, as it often did, Jude’s more sybaritic counsel prevailed, and so they made their way from Gallimaufry to Fethering’s only pub and the lugubrious welcome of its landlord, Ted Crisp.

  A large man with matted hair and beard, he nodded acknowledgement of their arrival and started pouring two large glasses of Chilean Chardonnay before they gave an order. The interior of the pub was decorated for Christmas, but there weren’t that many Christmas customers. Therein lay the cause of his lugubriousness, as he wasted no time in telling them.

  “Look at the place. Empty as a barn. This should be the time of year I’m coining it, doing all the local office Christmas lunches. Should be packed out for the whole of December, and what have I had? Bugger all.”

  They looked around and saw his point. A few frail Fethering pensioners had braved the cold weather to take advantage of the Crown and Anchor’s Midweek Special deals. A small, thin woman sat in an alcove nursing a pint of Guinness. Low winter sun through the pub’s windows turned the long hair, cascading down over a flowered smock, a golden colour, giving her the image of a hippy chick from the Sixties. But neither she nor any of the other customers looked as if they were big spenders.

  “Is it still because of what happened in the summer?” Jude asked Ted tactfully. She was referring to the time when the Crown and Anchor had been invaded by Hell’s Angels and a murder had taken place on the premises. The pub had nearly been closed down and, although it subsequently emerged that Ted Crisp had been the victim of criminal harassment, memories in Fethering were long and adverse publicity slow to dissipate.

  The landlord nodded assent. “Yeah, that’s it. Going to take years to build up the business again. And now with all this financial chaos going on, people are even less inclined to come out and spend their money down the pub. They’d rather sit at home with a pile of half-price cans of supermarket lager.”

  “It’ll get better,” said Jude.

  Carole picked up the baton of reassurance. “Of course it will. You’ve still got Ed Pollack as your chef, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, he seems happy to stay…”

  “That’s good news.”

  “…as long as I can afford to keep him on,” Ted continued gloomily. “I sometimes worry about how long I’ll be able to keep Zosia on, too.” He was referring to his Polish bar manager, who had been introduced to the Crown and Anchor by Jude.

  “Don’t be silly,” Carole said. Then, looking around, asked, “Where is Zosia, by the way?”

  “Got some Christmas drinks thing at the university.” The girl was managing to fit a degree in journalism around her work at the pub. “So I’m on my own here today.” He looked mournfully around the bar. “Not that I’m exactly rushed off my feet.”

  “Ted, it’ll all be all right,” said Jude soothingly. “This is a great pub. Ed’s a great chef. Word’ll soon spread again about how good the food is at the Crown and Anchor. By the summer you’ll have a waiting list for tables.”

  “If I’m still here then.”

  When he was in this kind of mood Ted was not to be comforted, so Carole and Jude thought their best course of action was to order their lunch. He handed menus across and stood with ballpoint pen and pad poised. “Can’t tempt you to the full Christmas menu, can I? It’s very good.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Carole, “but I’ll be doing all that on Christmas Day.” And she felt a little flurry of excitement at the thought.

  “I might go for it,” said Jude.

  “What, the full Christmas menu?” asked her astonished neighbour.

  “Why not? I like turkey and stuff – not to mention turkey and stuffing.”

  “But you can’t have all that before Christmas.”

  “‘Ere, are you trying to restrict my trade?” asked an aggrieved Ted Crisp. “If the lady wants to order a full Christmas menu, don’t go putting her off.”

  “I’m sorry, Ted,” said Carole contritely. The teasing element with which he usually made such remarks seemed to be absent that day. The lack of business really was getting to him.

  To compensate, Carole ordered a fillet steak, the most expensive thing on the menu and, while Ted took their orders through to Ed Pollack in the kitchen, the two women moved to one of the pub’s alcove
tables. The thin woman with the Guinness seemed to be giving them the once over. Closer to, she no longer looked like a hippy chick. Out of the sunlight, her flowing hair was grey and the contours of her face were scored with wrinkles, like an apple that had been stored for too long. Carole and Jude were aware of the curious stare from her faded brown eyes, but quickly forgot about her when they sat down. Their conversation soon homed in on Lola Le Bonnier. Carole was intrigued as to how Jude had met the owner of Gallimaufry.

  “Just going in and out of the shop, really. Then one of her kids, her baby Henry, had a problem with asthma, so she brought him along to me for a session.” Professional discretion prevented Jude from mentioning the condition which had brought Lola herself to Woodside Cottage for a consultation.

  “Can you actually heal asthma?”

  “I can sometimes ease it a bit.”

  At another time Carole might have asked more about that, but on this occasion she was more interested in Lola Le Bonnier, who, she observed, didn’t conform to the usual image of a shopkeeper.

  “No, I think Gallimaufry for her is really just a rich girl’s hobby.”

  “And she’s rich through her husband, is she? The Ricky she mentioned?”

  Jude shrugged. “Lola may also have money of her own, I don’t know. But certainly Ricky never seems to lack for a few bob.”

  “Have you met him too?”

  “Only a couple of times recently. But I saw a bit of him in London in the early seventies.”

  “When you say you ‘saw a bit of him’…?”

  Jude grinned. “I do not mean we were lovers, no. He did try it on with me a couple of times, but I was a rather conventional teenager and – ”

  “You mean you were a virgin?” asked Carole, intrigued by this potential new insight.

  “God, no. But I was sleeping with someone else and at that stage was very much a one-man woman.”