by Simon Brett
‘Presumably,’ said Carole, feeling it was about time they got down to the business of investigation, ‘the police have talked to you about your husband’s death?’
‘Oh yes,’ Persephone replied in tragic mode. ‘It was from them that I first heard about it. I hadn’t worried about Burton not coming back on Tuesday night. He’d left it open whether he’d come home or stay in a hotel.’ (Softening his new wife up for when he embarked on future infidelities, thought Jude cynically.) ‘But then on Wednesday morning … The knock on the door that you’ve heard so often on television dramas, but which you never thought would be for you. It was terrible.’
‘It must have been,’ Carole agreed briskly.
‘Just so appalling … the idea that Burton will never write another book like Stray Leaves.’
Jude could think of a lot of little old ladies in Fethering who would agree with that sentiment. She thought she herself would probably manage to survive the tragedy. But she felt one of them ought to show a little sympathy for the girl and, not expecting it to come from Carole, said, ‘It must be terrible for you, Persephone, to be widowed so early into your married life.’
‘It is,’ the girl acknowledged with a devout lowering of her head. ‘I will never get over it. I will never love again.’
Entirely appropriate sentiments for a woman not a week widowed, but somehow Jude suspected that Persephone was young enough to bounce back. She’d got the impression that one of the attractions of marriage had been the prospect of starting a family, and felt sure there were plenty of young men out there who’d be more than happy to have such a beautiful mother for their children. Jude also wondered whether Persephone’s parents might not be happier with a new son-in-law nearer their daughter’s age than their own. She did not think the girl’s future would be wholly grim.
Carole was still keen to get on with the business of detection. ‘Apart from the police’s notifying you of your husband’s death, they have presumably also interviewed you about how it happened?’
‘Oh yes. Of course, I was in a terrible state of shock, but I tried to answer their questions as well as I could.’
And you enjoyed every minute of it, thought Jude. She was slightly surprised that the girl brought out such deep cynicism in her. Maybe it reflected the ambivalence she’d always felt towards Burton himself. She had a feeling that, in his marriage to Persephone, shallow had called to shallow.
‘Presumably,’ Carole persisted, ‘you were told that your husband died from anaphylactic shock after ingesting something with walnut in it?’
‘They told me that, yes.’
‘And you were aware of his walnut allergy?’
‘Of course. It was heavily marked up on his notes. When we were touring the country promoting Stray Leaves, I had to check the menu for literary lunches, that kind of thing. And also ensure that he never went anywhere without his EpiPen.’
‘He did have it with him when he left here on Tuesday for Fethering?’
‘Oh, certainly.’
‘Where would he carry it?’ asked Jude. ‘In his jacket pocket?’
‘Most of the time. If he was driving, he’d put it in the glove compartment of the car.’
‘So it’s possible that’s where he put it on Tuesday?’
‘Yes. He definitely did. The police told me so. That’s where they found it. Though why he couldn’t get to it in time when he felt the anaphylactic shock coming on, I’ll never know …’ Once again, she dissolved into self-regarding tears.
‘Where did Burton usually carry his car keys?’ asked Carole suddenly. ‘In his trouser pocket?’
‘No. He always said he didn’t like to spoil the line of his trousers by having more than a handkerchief in the pockets.’ Persephone let out a tragic little chuckle. ‘I’m afraid even someone like Burton did have his little vanities.’ They were the main component of his personality, thought Jude, as the widow went on, ‘He always put his car keys in his jacket pocket. And his wallet. And his small change, come to that.’
Carole and Jude exchanged looks. They were both thinking the same thing: that the author’s leather jacket had been left in the Fethering Library staff room, from where his car keys could have been extracted by anyone who wanted to get into his ‘Beamer’.
The mention of the car’s glove compartment started a new thought in Jude’s mind. ‘Back when I spent time with Al … Burton,’ she began tentatively, ‘he used to drink quite a lot.’
Persephone chuckled. ‘Occupational hazard for writers. For publishers too, come to that. Friend of mine once described publishing as “an industry floated on a sea of alcohol”. Certainly, Burton and I always used to bond over a bottle of wine … or two.’ The recollection brought a catch to her throat. With an effort, she continued, ‘Anyway, Burton concentrated so ferociously when he was writing, that when he stopped he always needed what he called “a couple of stiff ones”, to bring him back into the real world.’
‘Would you have said he had a drink problem?’ asked Carole, who didn’t know where Jude’s enquiry was leading.
‘Oh, good heavens, no, Burton could hold his drink. He never appeared drunk. I’ve never seen him drunk. He’s always – that is, he always was – very articulate when he’s – when he was – drinking. Had the odd hangover, of course, went with the territory, but that never stopped him from being behind his keyboard, writing, at nine o’clock in the morning. He was like Hemingway, in that respect.’
And saw himself as like Hemingway in many other respects. Not just the great drinker, but the great adventurer, the great womanizer, the great innovating writer. None of which he was, thought Jude uncharitably. Though that was not what she said. ‘Back when I saw a lot of Burton …’ she began.
‘Back when he was with his first wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘That bitch Megan.’
‘She was a friend of mine,’ said Jude, scrupulously fair in such matters. ‘She was never a bitch to me, not back then, anyway. But I’m sure you’ve heard a different version of her from Burton. Ex-partners are not always each other’s best character witnesses.’
‘Huh. Well, from everything I’ve heard, Burton was well out of that marriage.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Megan totally ignored him. All she thought about was her career.’ Jude did not make any further comment. ‘And she didn’t like sex, that’s for sure. Burton had to beg and plead to get even a kiss from her. From everything he said about her, it was pretty clear that she was frigid.’
Still, Jude bit her tongue, as she listened to the litany of complaint that so many men over the ages have levelled at their former partners. But she wasn’t prepared for what Persephone said next.
‘It was Megan’s frigidity that drove Burton into your arms, Jude.’
Oh God, that was completely typical. Burton had taken over Megan’s lie about their affair and made it his own. Perhaps, with the passage of the years, he had convinced himself of its truth just as much as his ex-wife had. Or, more likely, he had used the story to provide some kind of justification for the break-up of his first marriage. Either way, he had convinced Persephone that the relationship had happened.
Jude looked across at Carole and saw from the beadiness in her eye that she’d get no support from that quarter. Carole’s wild fantasies about her neighbour’s sex life had just received further confirmation.
The record would have to be set straight at some point, but right now Jude had more important priorities. ‘Back when I saw a lot of Burton,’ she repeated, ‘it wasn’t just the wine that he drank. He also got through a great deal of whisky. In fact, he always used to carry around a hipflask full of the stuff.’
‘Oh, yes, he still did that,’ said Persephone St Clair. ‘He had this horrible old pewter thing. I bought him a new silver one as a wedding present. But whenever Burton went off to a speaking gig, he always had the hipflask in the glove compartment of his car.’
In the immaculate Renault on the way
back to Fethering, Jude didn’t say how exultant she felt, but Carole could sense the euphoria bubbling up from the passenger seat. It was only now the threat had been lifted, that Jude realized just how much stress the suspicions of the last week had put on her. As soon as the car stopped outside Woodside Cottage, she rushed inside to make an essential phone call.
Detective Inspector Rollins answered at the first ring.
‘It’s Jude.’
‘Ah, yes. I was expecting you to call. I hope you had a pleasant visit to Persephone St Clair.’
A few hours earlier those words would have been deeply unsettling, but now nothing could cast Jude down. ‘I did, thank you very much,’ she replied. ‘And I suggest you can probably lift the surveillance on me now.’
A harsh laugh echoed down the line. ‘If you think we can afford police resources to keep someone like you under surveillance, then you flatter yourself.’
‘Then how did you know?’
‘Mrs St Clair rang to tell us you were going.’
‘Oh. And did she also tell you about the hipflask of whisky that her husband habitually carried with him?’
‘She did, but we’d already known about that for a long time. As have you.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Megan Sinclair said you spoke to her about the hipflask when you met last week.’
‘Well, she reminded me about it.’
‘She said you brought the subject up.’
‘That’s just not true!’
The Inspector’s silence made Jude realize just how guilty her protestations made her sound. She took a deep breath to regain control and said, ‘Presumably you haven’t found the hipflask?’
‘No.’
‘Well, if no trace of walnut was found on the pieces of the broken wine bottle …’ Jude was encouraged that the Inspector did not even question that assertion, ‘… then presumably you might be thinking that the substance might have been put into the hipflask instead?’
‘Of course we have considered that possibility, Jude,’ Rollins said testily.
‘Anyway, whichever way you look at the situation, it means I’m no longer on your list of suspects, doesn’t it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for heaven’s sake!’ Jude contained her anger, and went on calmly, ‘Whereas I might, by some stretch of the imagination, have had the opportunity to infiltrate walnut oil into the open bottle of wine in the library staff room, how am I supposed to have got it into a hipflask in the glove compartment of Burton St Clair’s car? Surely it’s more likely that the hipflask was sabotaged at an earlier time, possibly even before he arrived in Fethering?’
‘Jude, you are the only person known to have got into Burton St Clair’s car that evening.’
‘Yes, but I got into it when he was already in there! Are you suggesting that I sat in the passenger seat, with Burton watching, calmly removed his hipflask from the glove compartment, decanted some huile de noix and made him drink it, while all the time he was trying to grope me?’
‘I am not suggesting that, no.’
‘Thank God for small mercies.’
‘On the other hand, I am saying that Burton St Clair’s leather jacket, in which he carried his car keys, was left unattended in the library staff room. So it would in theory have been possible for someone—’
‘Why not say me?’
‘I said “someone”, Jude … in the confusion of the evening, to have entered his car and poisoned the hipflask.’
‘It sounds pretty unlikely.’
‘In our enquiries the “unlikely” is something we can never rule out.’
‘Huh.’
‘So, if “someone” had done that, and the same “someone” had gone into his car later and encouraged him to take a swig from the hipflask, then—’
‘Look, can you cut the “someone”? Why not name me? You’ve already said I’m the only person who got into his car that evening.’
‘I said you were the only person known to have got into his car that evening.’
‘So, say I did it, where’s your evidence? Where’s the hipflask, come to that? If Detective Sergeant Knight would like to conduct another search of Woodside Cottage, he’s welcome to do it any time he likes. Send him round now, if you like!’
‘That won’t be necessary at this stage, thank you, Jude. Besides, I very much doubt that we would find anything.’
‘Oh?’
‘I don’t need to tell you that Fethering is by the seaside. I would have thought anyone walking from the library along the front to the centre of the village with an incriminating hipflask in their pocket would have taken advantage of the facilities provided.’
‘Chucked it in the sea, you mean?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. We’d be very unlikely to find it there.’
‘So, what you are saying basically, Detective Inspector Rollins, is that I am still on your list of suspects?’
‘Yes, and I’m afraid you will remain there until we find some actual proof of your innocence.’
‘I see,’ said Jude.
But her mood was no longer feeble and paranoid. Now she was just furiously angry.
TWENTY-ONE
‘I feel better,’ said Jude, ‘now I’m sharing what I know about the case with you.’
Carole tried not to show how much these words meant to her as she mumbled some platitude about two heads being better than one. They were in front of the open fire in the sitting room of Woodside Cottage. It was early for Jude to have opened a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, but Carole had only raised a token objection.
‘Anyway, the important thing,’ she went on, ‘is where we take our investigation on from here.’
‘Since, according to Rollins, I had the opportunity to filch Burton’s car keys from his leather jacket and put walnut oil into his hipflask, maybe we should be asking ourselves who else had that opportunity.’
‘You know the list of suspects better than I do. Who’ve we got?’
‘OK. The two members of the library staff, Di Thompson and Vix Winter. Then there’s your friend Nessa Perks.’
Carole wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d hardly call her my friend.’
‘You know who I mean, anyway. Then there’s Oliver Parsons …’
‘Your friend.’
‘Maybe,’ Jude quickly dismissed the thought. ‘And there’s shelf-stacker and science-fiction writer manqué, Steve Chasen.’
‘He’s the one who verbally attacked Burton St Clair?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is suspicious behaviour by any standards.’
‘Mm. I was just thinking – there’s a connection between Oliver and Steve that might be worth following up.’
‘Oh?’
‘They were both members of a Writers’ Group that used to run at Fethering Library.’
‘Ah well, there’s another connection there.’
‘Oh?’
‘The woman you describe as my friend. Nessa Perks. She was involved in a few sessions with that set-up.’ In response to Jude’s look of puzzlement, Carole explained, ‘I heard that from Di Thompson when I talked to her on Saturday.’
‘That’s interesting. Might be worth talking further to her, find out a bit more about the group.’
‘Well, you could—’
Carole was interrupted by the phone ringing.
Jude answered it. ‘Ah, Karla, thanks for getting back to me.’
She knew Carole was disappointed not to be included in the visit, but it wouldn’t have been right for her to come. Though it didn’t actually involve any of Jude’s clients, she felt any dealings she had with Karla had to be confidential.
She had not been surprised when told to bring a bottle of vodka. Though Karla’s long-term aim was to cure people, she knew that on occasions their addictions had to be fed. And that was certainly the case when information was required. There was a going rate for everything.
The rendezvous was between two beach hu
ts on the seashore at Littlehampton. In daylight – and certainly in the summer tourist season – a drunkard would have been moved on from there, but on a dark late Monday afternoon in January, nobody was around to care.
Jude had got a cab and met Karla on the promenade that ran along the landward side of the rows of beach huts. She looked huge and more shapeless than ever, shrouded in a tent-like anorak with a fur-trimmed hood. ‘His name’s Lennie,’ she said. ‘He knows Pawel.’
Jude was aware of the smell before she saw the man. Urine, sweat and something else more noxious than either. Maybe the beach huts provided a degree of protection from the bitter wind that scoured the shingle, but it was still a miserable place to be. She didn’t like to think where Lennie might be spending the night.
He was only an outline in the fading light, a dark coat tied round with a belt from a lighter garment. A woollen hat was pulled down over greasy hair. His glazed eyes were unfocused. His whole body trembled.
‘Lennie,’ said Karla, ‘this is Jude, the woman I told you about.’
‘And did she bring what you promised?’ he asked.
His voice was a shock to Jude. Through the slurring and the hiss of missing teeth, it was educated, even public school educated.
‘Yes,’ said Karla.
‘Hello, Lennie,’ said Jude, and she handed across the vodka bottle.
He unscrewed it with a practised flick, and swigged down perhaps a quarter of the contents.
The effect was instantaneous. The trembling of his body ceased, and when he looked at her he seemed to take in her presence. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘There was something you wanted to ask me about, I believe.’
‘A Polish man called Pawel?’
‘Ah, yes, of course.’
‘You do know him?’
‘Yes. We have drunk together.’ He made it sound as if they had shared the occasional vintage bottle in a London gentleman’s club.
‘And talked together?’
‘A little. He does not have much English.’
‘When did you last see him?’
