The Fethering Mysteries 02; Death on the Downs tfm-2

by Simon Brett

  “A dog who then stacked up the bones in fertilizer bags?” demanded Carole sceptically. “I must see if I can teach Gulliver that trick.”

  “No, no. I’m not saying that’s what happened. I accept that some human agency was involved in gift-wrapping the bones and popping them in the barn, but we have no means of knowing where the body came from or what happened to it.”

  Jude chewed her lip. “Frustrating, isn’t it? I bet the police know more about it than we do.”

  “It is their job,” Carole pointed out, reasonably enough.

  “Not fair,” said Jude. “They have all those advantages of forensic labs and fingerprints and DNA and they still get it wrong most of the time.”

  Ted Crisp chuckled. “Well, that’s good for you, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Police getting it wrong. If they got it right every time, wouldn’t be any openings for talented amateurs, would there?” And the wink he gave seemed to be specifically targeted at Carole.

  “Oh, shut up,” she said.

  Jude pursed her lips and slowly shook her head. “If only we had one piece of information, we could move forward…”

  “What piece of information’s that?” Ted pointed at their glasses. “Another large white wine in there, is it, Jude?”

  “Yeah, go for it.”

  “Carole?”

  “Certainly.”

  As he turned to open a new wine bottle, he called over his shoulder, “Sorry, Jude. You said you needed one piece of information. What’s that then?”

  “Exactly how old the bones were. When the person died. The police must know that by now.”

  “Oh, well, why don’t you just ring up and ask them? Keep reading in the papers how user-friendly the police’re trying to make themselves, how touchy-feely. I’m sure they’d be only too pleased to share their laboratory reports with you.”

  “Ha, ha.” Jude stuck her tongue out at him. “But if we did have that information, then we could concentrate our enquiries on that specific time…You know, find out who went missing from Weldisham round then.”

  “‘Concentrate our enquiries’?” Ted echoed. “Who do you think you are – the West Sussex Constabulary.”

  “No, we’re just interested, that’s all,” said Carole.

  “Interested’s one way of putting it. Another’s bloody nosy.”

  “Don’t listen to him. We’ll find out what happened up in that village, don’t you worry.” As she spoke, Jude patted her arm. Carole found the gesture of solidarity strangely reassuring. “Ooh, I’m starving,” Jude went on. “I’m going to order something to eat. What about you?”

  Carole’s freezer contained a clingfilm-wrapped portion of fish designated for that evening, but it wasn’t a plan that couldn’t be shelved. “Yes. Excellent idea.”

  “What’s good to eat tonight?” asked Jude as Ted put their wine glasses down on the counter.

  “Apart from me?” Ted Crisp simpered coyly, but, getting no reaction, moved quickly on. “You won’t go wrong with the Kate and Sidney.”

  “Sounds great to me. I’ll have one of those.” Jude picked up her glass. “We’ll be sitting over there by the fire – OK?”

  “Sure,” he called after her. “I’ll find you. Not exactly crowded out tonight, am I? And what are you going to eat, Carole?”

  “I think I’ll have the steak and kidney too.”

  “You won’t regret it. Two Kate and Sidneys, right.” He was silent for a moment, holding her eye. Then he said, “Nice jumper you got on,” before abruptly turning away to the kitchen.

  As she moved across to join her friend, Carole Seddon thought that Ted Crisp wasn’t really such an unattractive man, after all.

  ∨ Death on the Downs ∧

  Seventeen

  It was clear from the moment Carole walked through the door on the Friday evening that the Forbeses were very used to giving dinner parties. There was a professionalism about the way Graham greeted her and took her coat which revealed him as a veteran of much entertaining. The beautifully tailored dark suit he wore had the look of a dinner jacket and his shoes were highly polished. In his various British Council postings, he must have played host to innumerable writers, musicians, dance groups, theatre-companies and conference delegates. An easy social manner was an essential qualification for the job.

  In a way, that seemed to diminish Carole’s invitation a little. Through the week, part of her had thought that Graham Forbes had asked her to dinner because, on very brief acquaintance, he’d found her intelligent and interesting. But the professionalism of his manner suggested simply that someone had dropped out and she’d been invited to make up the numbers.

  To counterbalance that, though, Carole felt a degree of relief. She’d always found it daunting to walk into a room full of people she did not know, and since David’s defection that anxiety had increased. But she knew a host as professional as Graham Forbes would ensure she was meticulously introduced to everyone and offered starting points for conversation.

  Warren Lodge, situated next door to the Lutteridges’ Conyers, was one of the Weldisham middle range. Probably at first a farm worker’s cottage, it had grown organically, as different owners had added rooms and extensions. The result was a hotchpotch of architectural styles. Though the original cottage would have been flint-faced, the whole exterior had been pebble-dashed to give some kind of conformity.

  If the outside was not a thing of beauty, inside the house breathed taste and character. It was full of mementoes of a long life spent mostly abroad. On the walls of the hall hung African masks and Japanese silk paintings. A plate rack supported dishes of Indian silver. Graham Forbes was a collector of beautiful things.

  But the most treasured item in his collection was in the sitting room. Adoration glowed in his faded brown eyes as he introduced Carole to his wife, Irene.

  She must have been a good twenty years younger than her husband. Dressed in a cheongsam of scarlet and gold, she was dwarfed by him. Her thick black hair was cut in a neat helmet and her eyes when she looked at Graham left no doubt that their adoration was mutual.

  “Hello, Carole. A great pleasure to meet you,” she said as she stretched out her hand. Her English was excellent, but with that slight chopped-vowel quality that the Chinese have. “Now what will you have to drink?”

  And she gestured elegantly to a stout woman in waitress uniform who stood by the drinks table. As Carole asked for a white wine, she looked again at her hostess.

  There was no doubt about it. Irene Forbes was the woman Carole had encountered sobbing in St Michael and All Angels.

  ♦

  As anticipated, Graham Forbes’s social efficiency provided instant introductions to other guests. His task was made easier, though, by the fact that only one other couple had arrived. The man, thick-necked and crammed into a double-breasted suit, and his wife, vague and beaky, like a seabird blown off-course, were introduced as Harry and Jenny Grant. He was ruddy in complexion, she very pale, as if the husband had appropriated all of the available family colour.

  “I’m sure you’ll have seen some of Harry’s work around the area,” said Graham Forbes jovially. “He’s been responsible for some of the biggest residential developments along the South Coast.”

  “Except in Weldisham.” The man’s voice was big, as if his suit had difficulty holding that in too.

  “Except in Weldisham,” Graham agreed, and chuckled, as at some private joke. The way Harry Grant smiled suggested it was a joke his host found funnier than he did.

  This impression was confirmed, when Graham Forbes went off to answer the doorbell and Irene took Jenny aside to compliment her on what was in fact an over-fussy dress. “No, they don’t take to my ideas in Weldisham, Caroline,” said Harry Grant grimly.

  “Carole.”

  “Sorry. Misheard. As I say, I’m not welcome here, professionally. What’s that thing about prophets being without honour in their own country?”

  Carole w
as surprised. He didn’t look like the sort of man who’d know the reference. Once again she reprimanded herself for her habit of too readily pigeonholing people. “Do you mean that you were actually brought up here?”

  “Yes, my father worked for the Estate. I lived here till I was twenty-four.”

  “So you must have known Detective Sergeant Baylis?”

  “Lennie Baylis? Sure. His family lived two doors along. We were at school together. Always out on the Downs, playing these elaborate war games, me, him and the others. Always building forts, we were, thinking up daft names for them. Fort Welling. Fort Pittsburgh. Fort Deathtrap.”

  “It must’ve been a great place to grow up.”

  “Mm.” He didn’t look certain about that. “Quite spooky at times. There are some nasty places out on the Downs…Marshy bits…Chalk pits…Caves…We used to scare ourselves witless, some of the games we played. Tying each other up, that kind of stuff. Not very nice to each other, kids…Certainly we lot weren’t.” With an effort, he pulled himself out of these recollections. “How do you come to know Lennie, though?” For the first time there was a twinkle in his eye as he said, “You don’t look the sort to get on the wrong side of the law.”

  Quickly Carole explained how she had met the sergeant.

  “Oh, it was you who found them, was it? Must’ve been a nasty moment.”

  “Bit of a shock, yes.”

  “I bet. I’m not surprised Lennie Baylis is interested, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t know if you heard, but his mother ran off when he was round fifteen.”

  “I hadn’t heard that, no.”

  “The dad was a real brute, and no one blamed her for going. But, at the time…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “There were people in the village said she’d never have left Lennie on his own and in fact…the old man must have done away with her.”

  “Good heavens. Was there a police investigation?”

  “No, it was just village gossip. Probably rubbish, like most village gossip. I’m sure Ma Baylis’d had enough, went off with some fancy man and set up home at the other end of the country.”

  “But you’re suggesting it might have been her bones that I found?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just saying it’s a thought.” He seemed to regret having gone so far, and steered the conversation in another direction. “I doubt if you were in much of a state to appreciate it, but that South Welling Barn’s a nice structure. Make a good conversion into a house. Except, of course, the Estate still owns that one, and they’d never agree to it. And if they ever did, then the Village Committee’d put a spanner in the works, like they keep doing with the other one.”

  “Other one?”

  “Don’t know if you’ve seen it, but there’s an old barn behind this house…”

  “I have seen it.”

  “Well, I bought that from the Estate six years back.” Anger and frustration grew in his voice, as he went on, “And since I’ve been the owner, I’ve tried time and again to get planning permission to turn it into a house. I want to live there. But every time the planning inquiry comes up, the Village Committee gets it kicked out.”

  “Bad luck. You must rather regret your investment.”

  “No way. Even in that state, the barn’s appreciating by the minute.” The thought of profit soothed his anger. “And we’ve now got a government who’s urging more housing in West Sussex. And new people get appointed to the County Council Planning Committee and…they may be persuaded to take a less blinkered view…”

  “Oh no, don’t worry. I’ll get what I want in the end…Maybe even next week – there’s a planning meeting on Thursday. And when I do succeed and move into my own barn conversion in Weldisham…then, people like Mr Graham Forbes may be laughing the other side of their faces, eh?”

  He smiled triumphantly, just as the subject of his conversation approached, leading a thin-faced pinstriped man with the expression of someone who always counted his change.

  “Carole, may I introduce Barry Stillwell. Barry – Carole Seddon.”

  The newcomer was effusively polite in his greeting.

  “And of course you two know each other.”

  Harry Grant nodded.

  “I dare say Barry’s done some of your conveyancing for you, Harry.”

  “No way. He’s too bloody slow for me. When I want some legal work done, I go to a specialist.”

  Graham Forbes might have used his diplomatic skills to ease this rather sticky opening to their conversation had not the doorbell once again rung. He scurried off, leaving the three of them together.

  But not for long. Harry Grant moved away with a mumbled, “Oh well, better circulate.” Since his wife and Irene Forbes were the only other people available to circulate with, it could be deduced that Barry Stillwell was not his favourite person.

  “I gather you’re a solicitor,” said Carole, clutching at the conversational hint Graham Forbes had dropped for her.

  “Yes, that’s right. Partner in a practice in Worthing.”

  “Ah.”

  There was a silence. Carole had a nasty feeling she knew exactly the kind of man she was up against. Barry Stillwell, she reckoned, like many country solicitors, having limped through some exams in his early twenties, had thereafter made a comfortable living involving no intellectual effort of any kind. And, so long as people continued to buy houses, divorce and die, that comfortable living would remain secure.

  “Are you connected with the law at all, Carole? I may call you Carole, I hope?”

  “Please do. No, I’m not a lawyer myself. I used to come in contact with a lot of lawyers when I worked for the Home Office.”

  “The Home Office? That’s interesting.” She’d suspected Barry Stillwell would be a dreadful bore, and his use of the word ‘interesting’ confirmed it. The seriously boring claim to find everything interesting, maybe in the hope that some of it may rub off and they’ll be found interesting too.

  “But you’re not still there?” he went on.

  “No. Retired.”

  He curled his lips into a thin smile. “It must have been a very early retirement.”

  Oh dear, thought Carole. Is there only one compliment available in Weldisham?

  “It was a bit early,” she conceded. “Have you thought about when you’ll retire, Barry?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I might not.” He assumed an expression of pious suffering. “Since my wife died a couple of years back, my work has rather been my life.”

  “Ah.”

  “Though I live in hope of course that I will one day recover my joie de vivre.” He simpered.

  Oh, my God, thought Carole. I know why I’ve been invited to this dinner party. He’s a spare man.

  ∨ Death on the Downs ∧

  Eighteen

  She was relieved that the seating plan did not put her next to Barry Stillwell. In fact, she was well placed between her host and Harry Grant, but it was Graham Forbes who enlivened her evening. She was surprised. In the Hare and Hounds the evening she’d found the bones, he’d sounded very right-wing and intolerant. Maybe he’d taken on that role for the benefit of the regulars, because in his home environment he showed himself to be a man of genuine wit and sophistication. At first Carole thought he might have a tendency to name-drop, but after a while she realized that he did actually know all the people he was talking about. His work at the British Council meant that he had acted as host to some of the most eminent figures in the arts world.

  He’d just concluded a hilarious anecdote about William Golding at an event in Cairo, when Carole said apologetically, “I’m afraid I don’t know many writers.”

  “Your loss, my dear lady. They’re most of them paranoid depressives, serial philanderers and improvident alcoholics, but enormous fun. I think I’ve had more pure unadulterated fun getting drunk with writers than from anything else in my life…” He grinned at Irene across the table. “Possib
ly excluding sex.”

  Graham Forbes certainly had a relish for drink and a well-educated taste in wine. He was putting away a lot himself and ensuring that none of his guests ever had an empty glass for long. Carole had to keep putting her hand across the top of hers, or she was never going to drive safely back to Fethering. The West Sussex police, she knew, were notoriously vigilant about drink-driving.

  “There was another rather amusing incident,” Graham went on, “while I was based in Kuala Lumpur, where, um…I’d better call her a distinguished literary novelist out on a tour…developed a passion for one of the British Council drivers. Lovely chap called Shiva, my absolute favourite, I always got him to drive me everywhere. So, our, um…lady novelist…Sorry, the story’d be a lot better if I used her name, but I really can’t. Anyway, she started in unambiguous pursuit of Shiva, and I could see she was making life very difficult for him. I think her culture and sexual mores were rather less inhibited than his. Then one day, quite suddenly, she appeared to have lost interest in him, and when I was next alone with Shiva in the car I asked how he’d managed to get her off his back. And Shiva said…” He dropped into the slightest of Indian accents, “‘Very easily, Mr Forbes. I told her I had started one of her books and that I had found it unreadable.’” He chuckled. “Very sensitive plant, you know – writer’s vanity.”

  Carole thought she should try to contribute to the conversation. “I met – well, I saw – a writer in the Hare and Hounds the other day. Local writer.”

  “We haven’t got any local writers,” said Graham. “Not what I’d call writers, anyway. Who was this?”

  “His name’s Brian Helling.”

  “Brian Helling? Oh, for heaven’s sake, I said ‘writers’!” In spite of the vehemence, he managed to retain his charm and courtesy. “I’m sorry, Carole, but I’m afraid you can’t mention Brian Helling in the same breath as William Golding, led Hughes, Margaret Drabble and the other people I’ve been talking about. Brian Helling is a…is a…”