by Simon Brett
Carole felt she had to intervene. ‘Just a minute, we are talking about fifteen-odd years here.’
‘Very common in cases of “RIADBSC”,’ said Nessa. ‘The longer the perceived offence has had time to fester, the more violent the explosion when it is finally unleashed.’
‘And why suddenly should all that violence be unleashed?’
‘Well, obviously in this case, because of Burton St Clair’s second marriage. His mistress has nursed the fantasy of his being exclusively hers for many years, put up with all kinds of lapses and infidelities, because finally she believes he will see reason and devote himself to her. No doubt he has also provided her with a plethora of reasons why the two of them cannot be married. But when he remarries someone else, that fantasy is no longer sustainable. The disillusionment is total. The long-term mistress, the woman who broke up his first marriage, realizes the only means she has to prevent her former paramour from the enjoyment of his new-found love is to kill him. So that is what she does.’
‘Hm.’ Carole let this sink in for a moment. Then she said, ‘And can you put a name to this homicidal ex-mistress?’
‘No,’ came the frustrated reply. ‘I suppose the police will have to sort that out.’
‘They still haven’t talked to you about the case?’
‘No. Which is extremely lax of them. You’d have thought, having a homicide expert right on their doorstep, they would have made contact with me.’
‘Perhaps,’ Carole suggested gently, ‘they are unaware that they have a homicide expert on their doorstep?’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ the Professor conceded. ‘Though I am internationally known and respected, that is probably more in academic than police circles. It would probably make sense for me to get in touch and put them out of their misery.’
‘Might be a good idea, yes.’
Nessa Perks nodded to herself and then became aware of her hostess duties. ‘Would you like some more tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ll make a fresh pot.’
While the Professor busied herself with her English tea ceremony, Carole reflected that communicating her theory to the police would not be very helpful to Jude’s cause. The scenario Nessa had outlined was all too close to the one that the official enquiry seemed to be favouring.
Once they were both set up with more Earl Grey, Carole ventured to ask the homicide expert where, if she were investigating the murder, she would next direct her enquiries.
‘Oh, I don’t do hands-on investigation,’ said the Professor. ‘I’m a theorist, an armchair detective.’
‘Of course. But who, connected to the case, would you talk to next?’
‘The victim’s second wife, Persephone St Clair.’
Which, Carole reflected, was the first sensible idea Professor Vanessa Perks had had all afternoon.
NINETEEN
Jude was getting sick of what felt to her like house arrest in Woodside Cottage, but at least Zosia had offered her a subject for investigation to which Detective Inspector Rollins could offer no objection. The disappearance of Uncle Pawel could not possibly have anything to do with the murder of Burton St Clair. After the confusions of the last few days, it would do Jude’s soul good to feel that she was helping one of her fellow creatures.
And she was not without ideas for ways of tracking down the old reprobate.
Though Zosia had not voiced the anxiety, it had been clear she was worried that her uncle might be dead. She knew how vulnerable he could be when drunk, and had mentioned the anti-immigrant feeling which seemed to be growing along the South Coast. Her fears had probably also been exacerbated by constant talk in the Crown & Anchor about the murder at the library.
But Jude was not ready to be so pessimistic. There were many other explanations apart from death for the disappearance of someone in Uncle Pawel’s condition. And through her work as a healer, there were plenty of avenues Jude could explore.
But before she could translate her intentions into action, the phone in Woodside Cottage rang. Part of her was relieved to hear the voice of Oliver Parsons.
‘Just calling to bring you up to date on the official investigation into Burton St Clair’s death,’ he said languidly.
‘I thought I told you I’d been warned off showing any interest in that subject.’
‘Yes, you did. But I don’t see why that stops me from ringing and giving you updates.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think it’s quite possible that my phone’s bugged.’
‘Oh, Jude, now you’re just being paranoid.’
‘Am I?’ She wished she felt as certain as Oliver sounded.
‘Well, even if you are being bugged, I’m at liberty to call you when I think fit. I haven’t been warned off the investigation, have I?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I can assure you I haven’t. And I have the kind of personality for whom being warned off only makes me keener to do whatever I’ve been forbidden. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I have recently been interviewed by the police.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, I’ve now had my one-to-one – one-to-two, I should more accurately say – with Detective Inspector Rollins and Detective Sergeant Knight. Presumably they’re working through everyone who was in the audience on Tuesday night.’
His words gave Jude an absurd little flicker of encouragement. Maybe somebody who’d been at Fethering Library that evening would be able to produce some evidence that would point to the real murderer of Burton St Clair, and that might let her off the hook.
Oliver Parsons’ next words nurtured that hope. ‘Anyway, in the course of interrogating me, Rollins and Knight did let slip something I found of interest.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’d made it clear to them that I was up to speed with the background to the case.’
‘I doubt if they were very pleased to hear that.’
‘I got the impression they’d heard something similar from everyone they’d interviewed. As you know, everyone in Fethering has their own views about the murder.’
‘Yes.’
‘So I didn’t hold back on my own.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t.’
‘And I mentioned what seems to be common knowledge in the village …’ He speeded up as he went through the familiar rigmarole. ‘… that Burton St Clair is believed to have been poisoned by some walnut product infiltrated into the red wine bottle, which subsequently got broken.’ He slowed down again. ‘And that led to an interesting exchange between the two coppers.’ He paused for effect.
‘Oh, come on, Oliver, don’t keep me in suspense!’
‘Well, Detective Inspector Rollins then said, “That’s just speculation. We have no proof that’s how the murder happened.” And her sidekick chipped in, “In fact, we now have forensic proof that that isn’t how it happened.” Well, she nearly bit his head off when he said that. Clearly, he was giving away more information than she thought appropriate. I had the feeling there was already a bit of friction between them.’
‘Oh yes, there certainly was.’ Jude was excited now. ‘So you got the impression that forensic examination of the broken wine bottle had revealed no traces of walnut extract?’
‘That is exactly the impression I got,’ said Oliver.
‘That’s marvellous!’
‘I thought you’d be pleased to hear it.’
‘I am – ecstatic. Because if there was no trace of walnut in the bottle, then I couldn’t have put it there!’
‘Precisely. So, if it was the walnut allergy that killed Burton St Clair, then the offending nut extract must have been fed to him some other way.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t have any idea what that other way might have been … do you, Jude?’
She felt really energized by Oliver’s phone call. It offered the first hint of solid proof that she had no connection with Burton St Clair’s murder. Her first inst
inct was to ring Detective Inspector Rollins immediately and challenge her adversary with the new information.
But it was an instinct she curbed. She’d no wish to antagonize the police any more than she had already. Wait till they came back to her, that was the way to play it. Leave the Fethering Library investigation to Carole for the time being. And concentrate on the case where her involvement wouldn’t upset anyone – the disappearance of Zosia’s Uncle Pawel.
There have always been many secrets hidden behind the placid exteriors of English country villages. Long before Agatha Christie popularized the crimes of the locations, there had been an undertow of drunkenness, debauchery, domestic violence and murder. And such antisocial tendencies had not diminished in the twenty-first century, even in a place as outwardly genteel as Fethering.
Through her work as a healer, Jude encountered much evidence of the darker side of village life. It was rarely that clients came to Woodside Cottage with ailments that were purely physical. (Indeed, Jude doubted whether any human ailments were purely physical.) The tension in a woman’s back could arise from her husband’s bullying. A schoolgirl’s anorexia could be triggered by her parents’ divorce. Depression could be exacerbated by a drug or alcohol problem. Jude always had to find the root cause of her client’s suffering before she could begin the process of healing.
And it might have surprised an outsider to find out how many nice middle-class façades in Fethering masked serious problems with drugs and alcohol. Though Jude’s ministrations in these cases could make some initial headway, often to achieve long-term benefits the sufferer would need to be referred for specialist treatment. As a result, Jude had contacts in all of the local organizations which dealt with the problems of substance abuse and alcohol dependency.
Her first call was to Karla. Of mountainous proportions and multiple tattoos, this woman had survived two decades of using drugs and abusing booze, with all the concomitant baggage of domestic violence, unwanted pregnancies, children being taken into care and prison sentences. Her shattered life turned around by courses run by a local charity, Karla had then decided to devote her remaining years to helping others out of the hell from which she had emerged. Nothing could shock her, she was unflappable, and every day for her was still a battle against the temptations offered by her former chemical supports.
That Sunday afternoon, Jude could tell as soon as Karla spoke that something had upset her. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Just a boy, someone I’d been working with, topped himself.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes. Really thought we were getting somewhere with him. He’d come to a lot of meetings, been clean for nearly three months. Then fell in with some of his old crowd, they offered him some stuff. He jumped off the top of a car park in Worthing.’
‘It must be hard for you.’
‘He was getting somewhere and …’ A deep, throaty sigh sounded from the other end of the line. ‘Anyway, what can I do, Jude? Someone else needs referring?’
‘No, it’s not that this time. I’m trying to track down a guy who’s in with a bunch of drinkers.’
‘Living on the street?’
‘Well, he has got somewhere to live, but I gather he spends a lot of time on the streets drinking.’
‘Where?’
‘Fethering, Littlehampton, gone as far as Brighton sometimes, I gather.’
‘What’s your contact with him?’
‘I know his niece, works in our local pub.’
‘Is that the old Crown & Anchor?’
‘Yes. You know it?’
‘Know it, yes. Never been in it. A bit upmarket for me back in my drinking days. Anyway, didn’t do pubs when I was really drinking. Been barred from most of them in Littlehampton, apart from anything else. I was more cans of supermarket lager in a seafront shelter.’
‘This bloke who’s disappeared did that too.’
‘Right, let’s get a few basics. What’s his name?’
‘Pawel.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s Polish.’
‘Right. There are a few of them around. Surname?’
‘Haven’t got one for him. I’ll find out from his niece.’
‘It’s not that important. Most of them just use first names.’
‘His niece, who’s called Zosia, is putting him up in her flat, but she hasn’t seen him since last Tuesday.’
‘I’ll ask around and get back to you,’ said Karla.
Which was very comforting to hear. The investigation into Uncle Pawel’s disappearance could not have been in better hands.
TWENTY
Jude woke on the Monday morning in a totally different frame of mind. The news from Oliver Parsons about the negative forensic tests on the wine bottle from the library staff room, though not yet officially confirmed, had brought back her old joie de vivre. She berated herself for the unaccustomed gloom into which she had sunk over the previous few days.
Now she no longer felt she had to find Burton St Clair’s murderer to save her own skin. But that had not diminished her interest in the case. If anything, it had increased her enthusiasm for solving it.
After breakfast, she went on to her little-used Facebook account and made the contact she wanted to. Then she bounced ebulliently round to High Tor.
Even before Carole had produced coffee, Jude announced, ‘I’m back on the case. I’m no longer going to be bossed around by the likes of Detective Inspector Rollins.’
‘That’s very good news, but can you tell me what’s made you change your mind?’
Quickly, Jude brought her neighbour up to speed with what she’d heard from Oliver Parsons.
‘Excellent,’ said Carole, though an unworthy part of herself felt a little put out. She had been pleased with the way the investigation had been proceeding with her in sole charge. The idea of having Jude back at full throttle caused a momentary pang. From a child, Carole Seddon had never been that good at sharing.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I have decided that, for the next stage of our investigation, we need to contact—’
‘Persephone St Clair!’
Carole was miffed by the interruption, because that was exactly what she had been about to say. And her nose wasn’t immediately set back in joint by Jude going on, ‘What’s more, I’ve just this morning made contact with her.’
‘How? Have you got their home number?’
‘No, I did it through Facebook.’ Carole’s sour expression said everything about her views of social media. ‘And what’s more, she’s agreed that we can go over to Barnes to talk to her this morning!’
From Carole’s point of view, in that sentence the ‘we’ was the only word that was welcome. She had had her own plans as to how she was going to contact Persephone St Clair, and she didn’t like having them pre-empted. Still, she worked hard not to let her annoyance show, as Jude rushed back to Woodside Cottage to fetch a warm coat.
As Carole closed the front door of High Tor, Gulliver looked up wistfully from his station by the Aga. It was as if he could tell when his owner was busy on a case.
Having not had long to adjust to the idea of being a wife, Persephone St Clair seemed to have acclimatized very quickly to being a widow. There was a dramatic quality to the way she carried herself, as though preparing to deliver a great speech of bereavement.
She was very pretty in a slightly Kensington way. Round the thirty mark, so a good twenty years younger than Burton. Nor had he just gone for a younger model of Megan. While his first wife had been dark and petite, Persephone was blonde and willowy. She had the kind of upper-crust looks which, Carole recalled, used to feature on the inside pages of Country Life.
The interior of the house in Barnes might have come from the pages of a more contemporary lifestyle magazine. Money from the royalties and international sales of Stray Leaves in Autumn had been poured unstintingly into the pockets of interior architects and designers. There was no feeling of an individual stamp on anything. Al Sin
clair, Jude recalled, like many writers, had been almost completely unaware of his surroundings, so any personal touches must have come from his new wife. Looking around the house, Jude reckoned that Persephone, thrilled with the unlimited budget she’d been given, had just opted for the most expensive of everything.
This was reflected in the brand-new BMW sports model parked outside the house. His and Hers Beamers.
The kitchen was further evidence of conspicuous consumption. It was an archipelago of islands, of marble, granite, glass and brushed steel. Every appliance was state-of-the-art. Its antiseptic cleanliness made even the kitchen at High Tor look welcoming.
Having taken their coffee orders and set the state-of-the-art machine in motion, Persephone volunteered to Carole and Jude that she had worked in the publicity department of the firm which published Stray Leaves in Autumn. ‘Still working there. Well, haven’t been in there the last week, obviously. Work under my maiden name. Persephone Sackwright-Newbury.’ As this would suggest, her voice combined the tinkle of cut glass with the crackle of fifty-pound notes. ‘The idea was that I would continue working until …’ Her dark blue eyes glazed with tears.
They were meant to complete the unfinished sentence in their minds. Until she became pregnant, they both surmised. They were also meant to complete the implication, that it now would be Persephone’s tragedy never to carry Burton’s child. Jude, not a habitual cynic, suspected that, just as he had with Megan, the author would once again have put off permanently the creation of any rival to his pre-eminence in his own household.
Persephone did not seem to need any prompts to continue her heartbreaking narrative. ‘We got to know each other when I was looking after Burton on the publicity tour for the hardback of Stray Leaves. We just clicked.’
In some hotel in Manchester, Jude surmised. Or maybe Glasgow, or Leeds. Two people thrown together by work – a fifty-something author of waning charms and wandering hands, a beautiful younger woman impressed by his success and watching her twenties drift away. A few drinks at a talk and book signing, more drinks in the hotel bar, then the minibar in one or other of their rooms – it was not difficult to fill in the details of how the affair started. The only surprise, really, was that it had gone the distance into marriage.
