The Fethering Mysteries 11; The Shooting in the Shop

by Simon Brett

  “Which, I would say, is a measure of quite how seriously that mind is disturbed.” Then Carole, ever practical, went on to ask, “What does she live on? Fresh air, or does she have a private income?”

  “She’s got a job. Ted filled me in on a few details after she’d left. She does the books for Ayland’s, one of the boatyards along the Fether – one of the few that are still in business. Apparently she’s had that job for most of her life. Still, from what I gather, she has a fairly frugal lifestyle. So she doesn’t need much money.”

  “Just enough to keep her in crystals and joss sticks?”

  Jude ignored the gibe and went on, “But I think Kath’s a reliable witness.”

  “What, because she has instincts and can sense people’s auras?”

  “No,” said Jude patiently. “Because she keeps a very clear division between what you call her ‘instincts’ and things she has actually seen with her own eyes. And she definitely saw Ricky and Lola in the Mercedes 4×4 on the evening of the fire.”

  “Yes, that’s odd, isn’t it, because when Ricky came to see us, he implied that he had gone straight home to Fedborough after he left your party. What time did he leave, by the way?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but everyone had gone by half past six. And so far as we know, the only other time he went out that evening was to take Polly to catch the seven thirty-two at Fedborough Station.”

  “So if your oh-so-reliable witness Kath is right, he’s been lying.” Carole drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “The other thing I’ve been thinking about is the gun.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “The fact that there was a gun. I mean, if Polly had been found stabbed or strangled, well, all right, there are plenty of suitable murder weapons available anywhere. But a gun – in Fethering? It’s not as if we’re talking about south London, or the back streets of Manchester, or the slums of Glasgow. I can’t think that many people in Fethering have guns – except for legitimate purposes like shooting at targets or pheasants.”

  Jude smiled inwardly at the Daily Mail sensibility which informed all of her neighbour’s views on criminal demographics. But Carole had, nonetheless, raised an interesting point. “You’re right. And the police statement said that Polly was killed by a single bullet wound, which suggests that the weapon used wasn’t the kind of shotgun which most people in shooting parties would use. It’s a rifle or a pistol.”

  “Well, who in Fethering would have one of those? And, more importantly, where is it now? If the murderer had any sense, he would – ”

  “Or she.”

  “Yes, absolutely right. He – or she – would have got rid of the weapon as soon as possible.”

  “And, given the geography of Fethering, where would you do that – speaking as a murderer who had some sense?”

  “Well, the sea’s the obvious place. Except, of course, the coastline’s so flat here, you might have to go quite a long way out to find deep enough water. Mind you, the same’s not true of the Fether. Even at low tide, in the river there’s enough water – not to mention a lot of extremely glutinous mud – to hide a gun very effectively.”

  Jude nodded agreement. She looked thoughtful. “I was just thinking back to that boy who was drowned in the Fether…”

  “Aaron Spalding? That was the first time we got involved in a murder investigation, wasn’t it, Jude?” Carole sounded fondly nostalgic.

  “Yes. But remember the interesting thing about what happened to the boy’s body. He was what is called locally a ‘Fethering Floater’.”

  “That’s right. He was swept up on Fethering Beach twenty-four hours after he’d gone into the river. Of course I remember, Jude. I was the one who found him.”

  “Yes…” Jude mused and unconsciously tapped at her chin.

  “What?”

  “Well, I was just wondering whether what happens to a body might also happen to something small and heavy like a gun…?”

  “That if it was thrown into the Fether, it, too, might get washed up on Fethering Beach?”

  “Do you think it would?”

  At that moment there was a loud knock on the front door of Woodside Cottage.

  ♦

  There were two detectives, a man and a woman, and they’d clearly attended all the latest training courses on dealing with the public. Their approach was politeness itself, apologizing for interrupting things, but asserting that police work didn’t stop because it was a holiday season. They explained they were making general inquiries to try to ascertain the cause of the death at Gallimaufry, and they had been informed that the deceased, Polly Le Bonnier, had been at a party given by Jude on the Sunday, the day – or perhaps the day before – she died.

  At this juncture Carole suggested that perhaps she should leave, so that the detectives could question Jude on her own.

  “I think you should stay,” said her neighbour. She explained that Carole had also attended the party and had, in fact, spent longer talking to Polly than she had.

  The police questioning was courteous and thorough, but if Carole and Jude had been hoping to be brought up to date on the official inquiry into the death, they were doomed to disappointment. Inquiries about how Polly had died were deflected by the information that forensic investigations were still continuing. When there was any news that could be made public, the media would be informed. In the meantime, the detectives would be very grateful if the ladies could just answer the questions to the best of their ability.

  So they did. And no amount of prompts – such as Carole’s assertion that during their conversation Polly had seemed far from suicidal – made the detectives divert by a millimetre from their party line. They certainly never once mentioned the word ‘murder’.

  After the detectives’ departure, the two women felt rather flat. It was so frustrating to have spent time with people who, undoubtedly, knew infinitely more about the case than they did, and to end the encounter without even the most meagre scrap of new information.

  “All we do know,” Carole announced huffily, “is that their investigation is ongoing. Which means they haven’t yet solved the case…otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered coming to see you.”

  This was so self-evident that Jude didn’t think it worthy of comment. Instead, she began slowly, “The only good thing about their visit – ”

  “Oh, there is a good thing, is there?”

  “Yes. They’ve given me an excuse to ring Lola.”

  “What?”

  “I can just tell her that the police have been questioning us. I’m sure she’d want to know. And Ricky certainly would, he said so.”

  “Well, I think I’ll be getting along.” Carole rose to her feet. “Gulliver was covered in sand when I brought him back from his walk. I came straight round here, so I’d better go and do some sweeping up. Let me know if you hear anything new from Lola.”

  “Of course I will,” Jude called out to Carole’s retreating back. Then she dialled the Le Bonniers’ number. She was relieved it was Lola who answered, and quickly passed on the news of her visit from the police.

  “Thanks for letting me know. I must say, their investigations are very thorough. They seem to be contacting everyone who had anything to do with Polly or anyone else in the family.”

  “Is that a problem for you?”

  “Not really. Well, it’s just another thing that takes time, like Mabel’s ear infection, and the Dalmatian puppies, and Piers reappearing from his parents’ place in Gloucestershire, and Flora needing full-time attention for the last couple of days…”

  “How is she, by the way?”

  “Better today, thank God. She’s a tough old bird. The iron discipline she exercises over her emotions has reasserted itself. It’s in the genes, you know. If you asked, Flora would tell you that her upper lip has been permanently stiffened by generations of aristocratic in-breeding.”

  “How long is she staying with you?”

  “Till New Year’s Day.” Lola d
idn’t quite manage to prevent this from sounding like a prison sentence.

  “Where does she live?”

  “Service flat in a big block in St John’s Wood in London. Very exclusive, very tasteful, very soigné.” A gloomy thought intruded. “Though God knows how much longer she’ll be able to manage there on her own. Her hands are virtually useless now.”

  Apparently casual, Jude changed the topic of conversation. “The detectives who came to see me were very pleasant.”

  “Yes, they all have been. I mean, heaven forbid you should ever be involved in an investigation into an unexplained death, but if you were, you couldn’t ask for a more sensitive and efficient bunch of cops in charge.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of them?”

  “And how. Well, obviously they’re going to be asking us a lot of stuff, since Polly was Ricky’s stepdaughter. But they have been as pleasant as their job allows them to be. Mabel’s taken a definite shine to one of the young detective constables. And, incidentally, she keeps asking about you too, Jude. You made quite an impression on her when we went to the swings that day.”

  “I’m honoured.”

  “So you should be. Mabel’s very picky about who she favours with her friendship. At the moment the list only includes you, the detective constable and Lisa Simpson.”

  “I’m doubly honoured.”

  “Well, be careful. Or you could find I’m dragooning you into babysitting duty. There are very few people who Mabel will allow to babysit her.”

  “I will await the call. How is her ear infection, by the way?”

  “Getting better. Antibiotics finally kicking in.”

  “About the police…” Jude gently nudged the conversation back on track. “What kind of stuff have they been asking you? Checking alibis and things like that?”

  “Oh yes. A lot of very gentle probing along the lines of ‘Where were you on the night of the twenty-first?’ But at no point have they suggested that we’re suspects in any criminal actions. Instead, they’ve done a lot of circuitous talk about how important it is to be able to ‘eliminate you from our inquiries, Madam’.” The accent she dropped into for the last few words reminded Jude of Lola’s background in Footlights revues.

  “And I assume that you and Ricky could both account for yourselves throughout the night of the fire?”

  Jude had made the question sound as flippant and unimportant as she could, but still detected a guardedness in Lola’s tone as the reply came back, “No problem. One of the only advantages of Mabel’s ear infection – and it wouldn’t be an advantage for anyone who wasn’t looking for an alibi – is that it makes her sleep very badly. She kept waking up through Sunday night, so Ricky and I could give firmer accounts of our whereabouts than usual.”

  “And you weren’t in Fethering earlier in the day, you know, on the Sunday?”

  “Ricky was. You should know, he came to your party. I was stuck at home, looking after poor little Mabel. She was feeling really sorry for herself. That was the worst day of the ear infection…well, that and the Monday. She just lay on the sofa, hardly reacting to anything. She didn’t even perk up for Polly, and she adores Polly. That is, adored.” Once again, Lola winced from the pain of bereavement.

  “Yes, at my party Polly told Carole she was going back to your place to see ‘the little ones’.”

  “Not that she saw much of them. When it comes to parties, Ricky’s a great ‘stayer’. He never leaves when he says he’s going to. As a result it was after six when they got back here, and Polly only had about half an hour with the kids before Ricky had to take her to the station to catch her London train.”

  “The seven thirty-two?”

  “I think it was that one.”

  “Except, of course, she never caught it, did she?”

  “No.” Again Jude could hear a slight wobble in Lola’s voice.

  “So you weren’t in Fethering at all on that Sunday?”

  “I’ve told you – no.” The answer was almost snappish, but maybe Lola was being extra-vehement to hide her emotional lapse.

  Well, thought Jude, somebody’s lying. Kath is positive she saw Ricky with Lola in his Mercedes 4×4 near Fethering Yacht Club at around eight o’clock on the Sunday evening. Lola denies being there.

  And, in spite of the woman’s loopiness, Kath’s was the version of events Jude was inclined to believe.

  ♦

  Television schedules are over-stuffed at Christmas. The best offerings – and here ‘best’ is very definitely a relative word – are reserved for the main days of celebration – Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. And the less important parts of the holiday are padded with all kinds of rubbish, particularly lots of superannuated movies.

  And so it was that that Saturday evening Carole found herself watching a black and white film, starring Flora Le Bonnier. Entitled Her Wicked Heart, it was a typical Gainsborough production, a melodrama set in a vaguely eighteenth-century period with lots of cloaks, knee-breeches and buckles (and quite a lot of swash to go with all the buckling). Flora played Lady Mary Constant and it was her wicked heart that featured in the title. Disappointed by her loveless marriage to the dissolute Sir Jolyon Bastable, she develops a secret life as Black William, a highwayman. In this guise, while holding up his coach, she meets and falls in love with the handsome but penniless aristocrat Lord Henry Deville. Their budding romance is impeded by two obstacles – one, Lord Henry believes her to be a man and, once that situation is clarified, two, she is still married to Sir Jolyon. Only when her husband dies in a fortuitous duel, can Lady Mary and Lord Henry be together. They ride off into a greyish English sunset, determined to ‘rid this country of the scourge of highwaymen’.

  Carole thought the whole thing was tosh, but quite watchable tosh. What struck her most, though, was the beauty of Flora Le Bonnier, which glowed through the dusty monochrome print. Probably in her early twenties when the film was shot, she had the kind of natural good looks which would have made men do stupid things, like giving up families and careers just to be near her. Carole Seddon, whose looks were never going to cause comparable upheavals, could still appreciate such beauty when she saw it. And she could still wonder how it must feel for someone like that to see the depredations of age on her face and figure. In the film Flora’s hands were particularly beautiful, slender and expressive, unlike the ugly claws they had become. Though Flora Le Bonnier remained a fine-looking woman and looked good for her age, she had declined considerably since her glory days.

  And although Carole knew there was no genetic link between the two women, she kept being struck by the actress’s likeness to her dead granddaughter. Polly’s face had more character than sheer beauty, but the two shared an expression of unshakeable determination. And when in the film Lady Mary faced some reverse, the set of her mouth was exactly the same as her granddaughter’s look of dogged resentment.

  The effect this perception had on Carole was, almost for the first time, to make her confront the reality of Polly Le Bonnier’s death. She felt restless and, after she’d completed her bedtime routine, unready for sleep. So, as happened increasingly, she found herself sitting down in front of her laptop.

  She started, as so many researchers do these days, with Wikipedia. The entry for Flora Le Bonnier was, like most Wikipedia entries, incomplete and full of unsupported detail. There was an exhaustive listing of the film and television productions in which she had appeared, but very little personal history. Flora Le Bonnier’s rule about not speaking directly to the press appeared to have paid off.

  The only parts of the entry that alerted Carole were the following sentences: “Flora Le Bonnier was adopted as a baby by George Melton, a solicitor, and his wife Hilda, but subsequent research revealed her to be a descendant of the long-established Le Bonnier family which became extinct with the death in action of Graham Le Bonnier in the Western Desert in 1941. The accuracy of this link to the aristocracy has been questioned in various press reports.”

  And then
, just when she got to the interesting bit, there were two words in brackets, printed in blue: ‘[citation needed]’.

  The following morning, Sunday, Carole dropped in at Woodside Cottage on her way back from Gulliver’s walk and told Jude of her online findings. They agreed that Flora Le Bonnier’s background deserved further investigation.

  “Needless to say, when I googled her name there were thousands of references. I suppose I’ll have to work through all of them.”

  “If you’ve got the energy, Carole. It may not be that important, anyway. I mean, does it matter these days whether people have an aristocratic background or not?”

  “It matters to Flora Le Bonnier.”

  ∨ The Shooting in the Shop ∧

  Eighteen

  After Carole had left, Jude was not really surprised to have a call from Piers Duncton asking if he could come and see her. Ever since Lola had said he was back in Fedborough, she’d been expecting to hear from him. She hadn’t yet decided on his motives, but she knew the young writer was as keen as Carole and she were to find out the exact circumstances of Polly Le Bonnier’s death.

  “Did you manage to have any kind of Christmas?” she asked, once she’d got him settled in the folds of an armchair and supplied him with a cup of black coffee and an ashtray for the cigarette he kept taking nervously in and out of his mouth.

  “It wasn’t the most relaxed couple of days I’ve ever spent. My parents are a bit formal at the best of times, and so they wanted all the Christmas rituals observed, even though I was feeling shitty because of what happened to Polly.”

  “Did they ask you about it?”

  “No. In some ways I was grateful that they didn’t. I suppose that made it easier for me to control my emotions. But at the same time I kept wishing that they would say something, acknowledge her death. I mean, they’d known her for over ten years. But I suppose everyone finds their own way of coping with tragedy.”