by Simon Brett
‘No idea. I assumed it had some private meaning for Denzil Willoughby. Reviving something they had argued about before maybe?’ What Carole didn’t say was that the words could, in retrospect, be understood as a suicide threat. Fennel could have been saying that her former lover would have been the cause of her killing herself. If indeed she had killed herself.
Bonita Green seemed somehow relieved by the answer. But there remained an anxiety about her. Maybe she was still feeling bad about the row with her son.
‘Do you know where Giles has gone?’ asked Carole, with uncharacteristic gentleness. ‘Back to London?’
‘No. I assume he’s shacked up with the girlfriend. She’s living with her parents at the moment, I gather. Somewhere near Chichester.’
‘Butterwyke House.’
‘Oh, do you know them?’
‘I’ve met them. Butterwyke House is an enormous pile. They’d certainly have room for Giles there.’
Bonita Green’s shrug demonstrated how little interest she had in the Whittakers.
‘Do you think,’ asked Carole, fishing tentatively, ‘that Friday’s events will really have done harm to the Cornelian Gallery?’
‘In the short term, yes. I know my business strategy there has not been very adventurous, but I have built up quite a loyal client base. A few of them might have been put off by the scene.’
‘I don’t think you need to worry about that. Although they may look embarrassed, people in Fethering love dramas like that. Gives them something to talk about for weeks. Then they’ll revisit the Cornelian Gallery as they would the scene of a fatal car crash.’
A tired grin crossed Bonita Green’s face. ‘You may be right. Actually, having had Denzil Willoughby’s works on display may have done more permanent damage than the row.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that. The speed with which you’ve got rid of them will commend itself to your loyal customers.’
‘I hope so. It’s quite important, actually, because I’ve been thinking of selling up for some time.’
‘Selling up the Cornelian Gallery?’
‘Yes. I’m not getting any younger.’ Her words made Carole think for the first time how old Bonita Green must be. The dark hair and make-up was an efficient disguise, but the woman underneath it was probably nearer seventy than sixty. Quite a lot nearer seventy.
‘But obviously I want to sell the gallery as a going concern. Anyone interested is going to check out the turnover figures, so I don’t want any blips.’ She sighed. ‘I should never have listened to Giles. I knew from the start that putting on a Denzil Willoughby exhibition was a bad idea, but I let myself be persuaded. Mothers can be very blinkered when it comes to dealing with their sons.’
‘Yes,’ said Carole, wondering whether ‘blinkered’ had ever been the right word to describe her dealings with Stephen.
‘Still,’ Bonita Green went on, ‘I’m going to survive this setback. The Cornelian Gallery is my baby and when I come to sell it, I will ensure that all my hard work has been properly rewarded. And no one – family or not family – is going to prevent that from happening.’
Carole was surprised by the ferocious determination in Bonita Green’s tone. Beneath her faintly ridiculous dated appearance there was a core of steel.
FIFTEEN
On the Tuesday morning, Jude had a phone call from Chervil Whittaker. No mention was made of Fennel’s death. ‘I just wondered if you’d thought any more about my idea?’
‘Which idea?’
‘Of you doing some healing sessions at Walden?’
‘Well, I still don’t want a permanent commitment of the kind you were talking about . . . you know, with a financial retainer.’
‘No, OK, that’s cool. But I’d just like to list you as an available service . . . you know, for the right people and obviously according to your availability.’
‘Well . . .’
‘I mean, at Walden we’re now offering acupuncture, reiki and hot stone massage.’
‘You’ve found people to do those?’
‘Yes, been doing a bit of local research. And I’d love to add your “Total Healing” service to the list.’
‘I wouldn’t really want it to be called that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Somehow “Total Healing” sounds too all-embracing. If I read that in a brochure, it’d set alarm bells ringing for me.’
‘What kind of alarm bells?’
‘I’d suspect charlatanism.’
‘Ah. If I just called it “Healing” . . .?’
Jude was torn. She didn’t like the idea of her services being offered as an optional extra for holidaymakers with more money than sense. On the other hand she did want to find out the truth about Fennel Whittaker’s death and having an ongoing link with Butterwyke House might prove very useful to the cause of her investigation . . .
‘I’d be happier with that,’ she said.
‘Great.’ Chervil took the words as full assent to her proposition. ‘I wonder . . . would you be free this Saturday?’
‘Possibly. What for?’
‘We’re having the official launch of Walden.’
‘The one postponed from last weekend?’
But the girl wasn’t going to go down that route. She seemed to be deliberately avoiding any mention of her sister’s death. ‘It’s really only in the last couple of days that I’ve decided to make the launch more public. I’m inviting the local papers along, and some of the trade press. You know, holiday magazines, catering journals, that kind of thing.’
‘Isn’t it going to be rather short notice for them to come this Saturday?’
There was a confident canniness in Chervil Whittaker’s voice as she said, ‘It might be for some events, but I happen to know that the press have been desperate to get into Butterwyke House for some time.’
Of course. Though Ned and Sheena Whittaker were familiar figures on the charity entertainment circuit of West Sussex, they were notoriously jealous of their privacy when it came to their home. Their daughter knew the publicity value of what she’d be offering the local press.
‘Also, I think I might be able to organize a few celebrities at the launch.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. So would you be able to make it to Walden this Saturday?’
‘I’m sure I could.’
‘I wonder . . . You live in Fethering, don’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Look, I’m coming over there shortly with my boyfriend.’
‘Giles.’
‘Oh yes, of course, you’ve met him. I forgot. Anyway, he’s got to pick up some stuff from his mother’s flat.’
‘I heard he was moving out of there.’
‘Mm. Anyway, we’ll be over in, I suppose, about half an hour. Wondered if we could just meet for a chat about your involvement in the Walden project?’
‘Fine,’ said Jude instantly. She wasn’t going to turn down an investigative gift like that.
‘What, shall we come to your place?’
‘Why don’t we meet for a drink in the Crown and Anchor?’
Jude got to the pub before her visitors and was served by the landlord himself. And, as was so often the case, Ted Crisp had a joke for her. ‘How do you recognize a dyslexic Yorkshireman?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied dutifully. ‘How do you recognize a dyslexic Yorkshireman?’
‘He’s the one wearing a cat flap!’
Jude quite liked the joke, but didn’t laugh at it as loudly as Ted himself did. ‘Again, how much the stand-up circuit must miss you,’ she said.
‘Ooh, incidentally, you must come to this. Week tomorrow.’ He shoved a printed flyer across the bar to her. The space was dominated by an image of Elvis Presley in his sequinned romper-suit phase. The text read: ‘FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY – ELVIS COMES TO THE CROWN AND ANCHOR! RECAPTURE YOUR YOUTH, THRILL TO THE HITS! LET ELVIS LOVE YOU TENDER. 8.00 p.m. TICKETS: £5.’
‘What on earth’s this?’ asked Jude.
‘Like it says – Elvis.’
‘The real one?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh yes? And he’ll be arriving with Lord Lucan, both of them riding on Shergar?’
‘Uncanny, Jude. How did you know that?’
‘Instinct. Unless, of course, you prefer to give me the real explanation . . .?’
‘That bloke Spider.’
‘The one who does the framing at the Cornelian Gallery?’
‘The very same. I got talking to him at that Private View. Turns out he does the full Elvis impersonation schtick.’
‘That would at least explain his haircut.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, I said I’d give him a night in the function room. See what he’s like. You’ll come?’
‘Sure.’
‘And bring Carole.’
Jude looked dubious. ‘I’m not sure that Elvis would be exactly Carole’s sort of thing.’
‘Bring Carole,’ Ted Crisp repeated forcibly.
‘OK,’ said Jude with a grin, and took her large Chilean Chardonnay across to one of the alcove tables.
Chervil Whittaker and Giles Green appeared only moments later. Both were wearing pinstriped City suits, hers with the understated perfection of cut for which the best designers charge a small fortune. His was more conventional, but pretty expensive too. Having checked Jude had a drink, Giles got fizzy mineral waters with ice for both of them. Clearly this was going to be a business meeting.
‘I just wanted to run this text by you,’ said Chervil, handing across a rough of a flyer for Walden. As with the website which Carole had shown her, the quality of the printing and detail was very slick, set over professional photographs of the glamping site. And the ‘Deeply Felt’ pun featured again. ‘It’s there, under “Therapeutic Services”.’
Jude read the indicated paragraph. ‘An expert healer may also be booked by arrangement for one-hour sessions. She has wide experience in dealing with a variety of conditions, both physical and mental.’
She didn’t like what it said; she was still alienated by the thought of her skills being sold off in convenient chunks like carpet tiles. But she did want to keep Chervil Whittaker onside in the cause of investigation. So the only objection she made was to the description of ‘one-hour sessions’.
‘You mean the healing takes longer?’ asked Chervil.
‘It can do.’
‘How long?’
Jude puffed out her cheeks and spread her hands helplessly wide. ‘How long is a piece of string? I’m afraid I can’t predict the duration of a healing session. Sometimes it just works and only takes ten minutes. Other times it doesn’t work at all. The energy’s just not flowing.’
‘Well, suppose,’ said Chervil, ‘that I just cut the “one-hour” and say: “An expert healer may also be booked by arrangement for individual sessions”?’
Jude still didn’t feel quite comfortable with the wording – or indeed the whole concept – but she didn’t raise any further objections.
‘Good,’ said Giles. ‘We can get these printed this afternoon and email the text to the press list.’
He spoke with authority, and Jude wondered whether he was now muscling in on his girlfriend’s business, just as he had with his mother’s. If that were the case, Chervil didn’t seem to resent the intrusion.
‘I’ll talk to Gale Mostyn,’ he continued.
‘Fine,’ said Chervil.
‘Sorry, who’s she?’ asked Jude. ‘Gale Mostyn.’
‘It’s not a she,’ replied Giles. ‘It’s a PR company.’
‘One of the best in the country,’ said Chervil. ‘Mum and Dad have used them for yonks.’
‘And are they organizing the launch on Saturday?’
‘Giles and I are actually organizing it, but Gale Mostyn will have quite a lot of input. A couple of their people will be attending.’
‘Ah,’ said Jude, and then went on. ‘I couldn’t help noticing, Giles, as I went past the Cornelian Gallery, that the Denzil Willoughby artwork was no longer on display.’
‘No,’ he agreed airily. ‘I’m afraid there was – as so often happens in the art world – a slight difference of opinion between artist and gallery-owner. Denzil had a bit of a row with my mother, I’m afraid, and so he decided to withdraw from the exhibition.’
That wasn’t the way things had happened according to what Bonita had told Carole, but Jude didn’t argue with the facts. ‘And have you had a row with her too?’
Giles looked at Jude in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I heard you’d moved out of her flat.’
He grimaced. ‘Not much escapes the gossips of Fethering, does it? There was a social network here long before Facebook and Twitter were invented. Anyway, with regard to my moving, that was always part of the plan. I was only camping with Mother on a temporary basis . . . until I moved in with Chervil.’
‘Which he has now done,’ said the girlfriend with considerable satisfaction. ‘We’re sharing one of the guest flats at Butterwyke House.’
‘Not one of the yurts at Walden?’
Chervil grinned. ‘No, I think there’s a strong argument for us not living over the shop.’ She spoke as if the glamping site was already an established business, and one in which she and Giles were equal partners. ‘Besides,’ she continued bullishly, ‘we’re hoping to have all the yurts full of paying customers. I’ve a feeling we’re going to get a lot of coverage for the launch on Saturday. Gale Mostyn are bloody good at securing column inches. They’ll see to it that Walden gets maximum publicity.’
‘But presumably,’ suggested Jude, ‘only the right sort of publicity.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help observing that you haven’t mentioned your sister.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Well, it was only a few days ago that—’
‘Listen, Jude, the fact that I don’t mention Fennel doesn’t necessarily mean I didn’t care about her. I’ll find time for my grief, just as my parents will for theirs.’
‘Your father’s in a pretty bad state. He came to see me yesterday.’
‘I know. He said. But look, Walden is a business proposition. I’ve given up a high-paying job in the City to bring my skills to bear on it.’
‘What were you actually doing in the City?’
‘Oh, you know,’ replied Chervil with a shrug. ‘Kind of PR.’
Jude got the impression that perhaps Chervil Whittaker’s previous career hadn’t been as successful as previously implied. Maybe her parents hadn’t been so much taking advantage of her skills as bailing her out with the Walden project.
‘Anyway,’ the girl went on, ‘I’m going to make this thing work, and I’m not going to let anything – even my sister’s suicide – stop me from realizing that dream.
‘I’m very sorry for Fennel, sorry for the illness that she suffered from, and sorry that she couldn’t see any other way out of that illness than taking her own life. But I’m not going to let thoughts of her stand in my way. For too long I’ve had to worry about her, worry what effect anything I did would have on Fennel’s –’ she put the next two words in quotation marks formed by her fingers – ‘“fragile psyche”. Well, I’ve had enough of that. From now on I don’t have to worry at all what she thinks; and let me tell you, it’s a bloody relief. Getting on with my own life from now on will be a lot easier without Fennel around!’
Chervil seemed almost shocked by the vehemence of her own words. In the ensuing silence, Jude heard from the bar the voice of Ted Crisp asking yet another customer, ‘How do you recognize a dyslexic Yorkshireman . . .?’
Then she said to Chervil, ‘Presumably, if you’re having the opening on Saturday, the police have finished any searches that they have been making at Walden?’
‘Yes, they’ve cleared the site.’
Which, Jude reckoned, must mean that they were concluding their i
nvestigations; that they had categorized Fennel Whittaker’s death as the straightforward suicide it appeared to be.
‘Oh, and incidentally, Jude . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘At the launch on Saturday, no mention of what Fennel did. We don’t want that spoiling all the positive publicity we’re going to get for Walden.’
‘You mean you’re hoping to keep Fennel’s death out of the press?’
‘We are not hoping to, Jude. We are definitely going to keep Fennel’s death out of the press.’
‘You’ll be lucky in a place like—’
Chervil Whittaker smoothly rode over her words. ‘We are going to keep it out of the press. Gale Mostyn are very good at that sort of thing, you know.’
SIXTEEN
‘So they’re just trying to airbrush Fennel’s death out of history, are they?’ asked Carole.
‘Seems that way,’ said Jude.
‘But can they? I’d have thought, given the amount of gossip there is around an area like this, the news’ll get out, won’t it?’
‘They can’t stop people talking, no, but they can keep the story out of the media.’
‘By using the Gale Mostyn company?’
‘Certainly. Privacy may come expensive, but it can usually be bought. Think of all those footballers taking out super-injunctions to keep the press away from their mistresses.’
‘Huh. And we’re supposed to be living in a society that prides itself on the rights of free speech.’ Carole turned a beady eye on her neighbour. ‘You don’t seem too worried about it, Jude.’
‘No, I’m not really. Having talked to Ned on Monday and seen the state he’s in, I’m in no hurry to make things worse for him. He can do without having reporters camping on his front doorstep.’
‘I can see that, but, on the other hand, if Fennel Whittaker was actually murdered . . .’
Jude screwed up her face wryly. ‘And what are we basing that supposition on?’
