by Simon Brett
‘Yes, Evvie, but last time you did it, you may remember there were a lot of books returned to the wrong sections.’
‘Not many,’ said the old lady defiantly. Then, after a silence, ‘Are you telling me I should go home then?’
Remembering what she’d thought when she’d first met Eveline Ollerenshaw the week before, Jude realized that this was a big moment for Di Thompson. The librarian had been trying, tactfully, to ease out her well-meaning but inefficient volunteer. She had suggested, and thought they’d agreed, to reduce her number of days, but Evvie was now trying it on, testing the strength of her boss’s resolution.
Di Thompson failed the test. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I could use some help this morning. Just this morning, though.’
‘All right. I’ll just go and put my coat away.’ And Eveline Ollerenshaw, fully aware of her triumph, scuttled away to the staff room.
Jude grinned ruefully, but made no comment. ‘I’d better be on my way. But thanks so much for all your help, Di.’
‘No problem.’ Then, as Jude moved away, the librarian said, ‘Oh, thinking about the Wordway Trust, there’s another approach you could try.’
‘Mm?’
‘One of our regulars in the library, woman named Nemone Coote – quite a successful poet, I gather … Well, a published poet, which I think does mean successful these days. I know she’s always coming in when she has a new collection out to check we’ve got it in stock. Might be worth getting in touch with her.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, she used to be in charge of one of the venues where the Wordway Trust courses were run.’
TWENTY-THREE
Before meeting Nemone Coote, Jude had done her homework by reading the Wordway Trust flyer from the library. When contacted by telephone, the woman had been only too ready to talk. Like Nessa Perks, she seemed disappointed that the police had not yet been in touch with her. She too thought they were neglecting the presence of an expert in their midst. Jude wondered whether the two women might know each other.
Nemone lived in a small village near Clincham, but was very happy to drive to meet up. ‘Those of us who work from home will do anything to get out of the house, you know – particularly on those days when the ideas aren’t flowing.’ They agreed on the Crown & Anchor – yes, she knew the pub – at five o’clock for ‘a glass and a chat.’ Jude felt a momentary pang for not including her neighbour in the encounter, but after the sniffy way Carole had behaved that morning …
Nemone Coote was a bulky woman with short-cropped white hair. Despite the weather, she wore pink Croc clogs, shin-length jeans and a sleeveless, almost Hawaiian shirt over her flat chest. Had Central Casting been looking for someone to play a butch lesbian, she would have walked it. Ordering a pint of Guinness did nothing to dispel the image.
As she ordered the drinks from Ted Crisp at the bar, Jude thought of Zosia. She hadn’t had the opportunity to tell the girl about her encounter with Lennie the night before. ‘Zosia not around?’
‘Doesn’t work this shift,’ said the landlord.
Of course. Zosia had said her day off was Tuesday. It was the previous one when she’d cooked kopytka for her Uncle Pawel. And that was the last time she’d seen him. So, if Zosia provided an alibi for him that evening, how had the hipflask come into his hands? A question Jude would have to follow up. But not at that moment. Nemone Coote was her first priority.
‘I was a Centre Director at Blester Combe for nearly five years,’ the poet announced.
‘Blester Combe is the Wordway Trust place in Wiltshire?’
‘That’s right. They have three centres round the country. Big “houses in the country”, rather than “country houses” – that would give very much the wrong impression. Nothing posh about them: old farmhouses, that kind of place, which have been converted by Wordway. Accommodating up to twenty – you know, the centre staff, the tutors and the participants. The number of them on each course is capped at sixteen.’
‘And courses run right through the year?’
‘Pretty much. It was a job that suited me, you know, at that stage of my career. I’d just had my first collection published. Divergent Parallels – don’t know if you’ve read it?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Published by Blue Gudgeon. Got very warm reviews. I was described as “a voice that rejects the old tropes of traditional poetry and brings in new tropes”.’
‘Oh. Well. Congratulations.’
‘But obviously, I couldn’t make a living from the poetry at that stage, so the Blester Combe job just suited me. Offered the chance of mixing with other writers, you know, the tutors, so perhaps learning more about my craft. And when I took it on, I thought it would give me time to get on with my own writing. That, sadly, proved not to be the case. Hardly wrote a word for five years. Pretty full-on job, being Centre Director.’
‘What does it involve?’
‘What doesn’t it involve? Organizing the cleaning and bed-making on the changeover days, welcoming the new participants – in some cases, fetching them from the station. Supervising the cooking – they cook the evening meals themselves, you know. Then seeing the tutors are happy. Sorting out problems, which can range from facilitating wheelchair access to extricating the participants from each other’s beds.’ She chuckled heartily. ‘And fielding endless complaints about everything from virtually everyone. Let me tell you, it’s no picnic being a Wordway Trust Centre Director.’
‘Ah.’
‘In fact, I wrote about the experience – subtly disguised, of course, to avoid libel risks – in my second collection, It’s No Picnic. Published by Intravenous Press. I don’t suppose you …’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘No.’ Nemone Coote sadly shook her head, inured over many years to the blindness of a world which had yet to recognize her genius.
‘I actually wanted to talk about Burton St Clair.’
‘Ah, yes.’ This sparked new enthusiasm in the woman. If her own poetry was not going to bring her centre stage, having information about a murder could be her next best claim to fame.
‘It’s a long shot I know, Nemone, but Burton St Clair – calling himself Al Sinclair back then – did once attend a Wordway crime fiction course at Blester Combe. You weren’t by any chance there as Centre Director when he …?’
Nemone Coote’s beaming smile told Jude the answer before she needed to complete her question. ‘Yes, I was. And I must say it’s always very encouraging when Blester Combe participants go on to success in the publishing world. You know, I feel that I have in some way contributed to what’s happened to them.’
‘Of course,’ said Jude, uncertain what the nature of Nemone’s contribution might have been.
‘It’s a sort of vicarious nurturing, you know. Like being a parent at one remove, an emotional situation that I embrace in my poem, Parent at One Remove. From the collection, And a Partridge in a Parent, published by the Black Willy imprint. I don’t know if you …’ Jude shook her head. ‘No. Anyway, I recognized the talent in Al Sinclair – it just seemed to be bursting out of him. So much talent, so much energy … Irrepressible he was. I think that’s why he came on to all of the women on the course – just pure animal energy.’
‘Ah.’
‘He came on to me too, you know.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes. End of a long evening, we were stacking the dishwasher, and he put his hand on my breast. I had to tell him it wasn’t appropriate.’
‘Right.’
‘You know, with my position of being Centre Director.’
‘Of course.’
‘Goodness, if I’d succumbed to all of the people who came on to me while I was at Blester Combe – particularly the tutors … well … But I had my professional situation to think of.’
‘Of course you did. Incidentally, did you notice if Al Sinclair drank a lot when he was at Blester Combe?’
Nemone smiled coyly. ‘I’m afraid Wordway courses and dr
inking tend rather to go together. Participants used to estimate at the beginning of the week how much they reckon they’re likely to drink. We’d order that in, but almost always had to re-order by the time we got to the Thursday.’
‘So Al didn’t drink noticeably more than the others?’
The solid shoulders shrugged. ‘As I say, they all did.’
‘But did you ever see him using a hipflask?’
A beam spread across the poet’s face. ‘Yes, now you mention it, I do. There was an incident when he started swigging from it in one of the group workshop sessions. Some of the other participants complained.’
‘So all of them would have seen his hipflask?’
‘Oh yes, he was always flashing it around. Horrible battered old pewter thing.’
Jude registered the importance of that information, but didn’t have time right then to process it. She changed direction. ‘On the course that Burton – Al Sinclair – attended, I’ve heard that there was apparently a crew there making a film of the week?’
‘Yes.’ Nemone Coote’s face clouded. ‘I remember them.’
‘Did they make themselves difficult?’
‘Not exactly. But they showed very little interest in how a place like Blester Combe is run, you know, the logistical challenges of keeping the show on the road. They concentrated completely on the course, the tutors and the participants. Which must’ve made for a very unbalanced documentary about the work of the Wordway Trust. I didn’t watch it when it went out. I knew there’d be nothing there that I didn’t know.
‘The two who made the film were very arrogant, in the way only television people can be. I’d actually gone to the effort of writing a haiku about the running of Blester Combe, but they showed no interest in recording it. Huh, very short-sighted. It’s actually in my collection, On Yer Haiku, published by Pagan Libation Press.’ This time she didn’t even bother to ask whether Jude had read it.
‘But nothing is wasted. I transmuted the unpleasant experience of meeting those television people into one of my most trenchant poems – Square Brains for Square Eyes, which I published under my own imprint, Bald As A Coote Press. That’s one of the great benefits of being an artist, you know: the way you can channel your own traumas into your work. There’s a poem I wrote on that very subject, which is in A Tock For Every Tick, another Bald As A Coote publication – I find self-publishing works best for me these days; it gives the poet so much more freedom to—’
Jude really felt she had to cut to the chase now. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Nemone, but I wanted to ask if you remembered another participant on the same course as Al Sinclair – someone called Steve Chasen?’
The poet shook her head. ‘Name doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘Keen to write science fiction? Also very keen on a drink or two?’
‘Jude darling … That could describe almost all the participants who come on Wordway Trust courses. I remember the odd one with a spark of brilliance – like Burton St Clair – but the rest of them, I’m afraid, melt into an indistinguishable mass.’
‘Steve Chasen might have been antagonistic towards Burton?’
Another shake of the head. ‘We’re talking quite a few years ago.’
‘Of course.’
Nemone downed the remains of her Guinness.
‘Can I get you another one?’
She looked at her watch. ‘No, thank you, Jude. My lift’ll be here in a minute.’
‘Ah. Well, there is just one other thing I need to ask …’
‘Yes?’
‘On that course, did Burton St Clair ever mention that he was allergic to walnuts?’
‘Oh, my God! Did he ever mention anything else? He mentioned it in his application form for the course, he mentioned it again in our first evening Meet-and-Greet session. He mentioned it before every meal, checking that there wasn’t a trace of walnut in anything that was about to pass his lips. And he prided himself on the fact that his was an allergy to walnuts, not a peanut allergy like so many common people suffered from. I tell you, no one who spent that week at Blester Combe went away not knowing about Burton St Clair’s walnut allergy.’
‘Ah. Thank you. Who were the tutors that week, Nemone? Do you remember?’
‘Well, I do, actually, because one of them was rather sweet on me. Nothing happened, of course, because of my professional position, but … well. The tutors were …’ She mentioned two crime writers whose names meant nothing to Jude. But then very few crime writers’ names would have meant anything to her.
‘And they would have heard about the walnut allergy too?’
‘Oh, certainly. Tutors always eat with the participants. There would have been no escaping it.’
‘So it’s just the two tutors? Nobody else comes in during the week?’
‘They have a guest speaker on the Thursday evening.’
‘Oh?’
‘Might be another writer. Sometimes they book a publisher or an agent.’
‘And that week?’
Nemone Coote looked up towards someone who had just arrived. Jude turned to see an inoffensive-looking man, swaddled in a tweed coat and fur hat with ear-flaps.
‘Nearly done, darling,’ said the poet. ‘My husband Keith. This is Jude.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said in a voice as inoffensive as his appearance.
Nemone Coote gathered up her considerable bulk as she rose from her seat. ‘Well, pleased to meet you, Jude. Thanks for the drink.’ Keith Coote looked at his watch. ‘Yes, darling, we’re on our way.’
Jude rose to block their exit. ‘Sorry, just one thing – who was the Thursday guest speaker on that course?’
‘Oh, they went for an academic that time. A specialist on old-fashioned crime fiction. I’ve seen her since then actually, when I was doing some work at the University of Clincham. Her name was Professor Nessa Perks.’
To digest the implications of this news, Jude went to the bar and ordered another Sauvignon Blanc from Ted. ‘Carole not with you today?’
‘No.’
‘Up in Fulham with the grandchildren?’
‘No, she’s … er … I’m sure she’ll be in soon.’
Another pang of guilt accompanied Jude back to her seat. Perhaps she should call Carole on the mobile, invite her along to share her recent discoveries? But Jude wanted to think for a while on her own before she did that.
As she sipped her Sauvignon Blanc, she realized that what she’d learned from Nemone Coote must bring Nessa Perks into any list of potential suspects. Here was a woman who spent her life teaching about the connections between the fictional crime on which she was an expert and the real-life crime which the police had to deal with every day. Was it possible that her obsession had led to her trying an experiment? To see if she could get away with committing a real crime based on some Golden Age template? It was at many levels a daft idea, but still intriguing.
Jude was aware of someone coming across to collect Nemone’s empty Guinness glass from the table. She looked up to see it was Zosia.
Jude’s surprise was as nothing compared to the bar manager’s. The girl blushed to the roots of her blonde pigtails. ‘I am sorry. I did not expect to see you here.’
‘No, Zosia. It’s not a usual time for me.’ Looking closely, Jude realized how haggard the girl was. No amount of make-up could mask the dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes. The older woman reached out an arm. ‘Come and sit down, Zosia.’
Wordlessly, the girl did as she was told. An instinctive arm went round her shoulders. ‘What is it? Still Uncle Pawel?’
‘Yes. And also, what you think of me, Jude.’
‘What I think of you?’
‘Now you know I am a liar.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I tell you I do not work on Tuesday. That is true, but only partly true. Tuesday I am not here during the day. The evening I work.’
‘I see.’ The girl looked away as Jude joined the logic together. ‘Which means that a week ag
o you were here. You weren’t cooking kopytka for Uncle Pawel in your flat?’
‘No.’
‘Which means he has no alibi for that evening?’
‘No.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Lunchtime last Tuesday. I cooked for him then.’
‘Kopytka?’ Zosia nodded. ‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
She shook her head. ‘But I was hoping, Jude, perhaps you get a clue to where he is. Perhaps you hear something from your friend …?’
Jude was sorry to see the light of hope die in the girl’s eyes as she told her the results of Karla’s researches.
‘So, this Lennie has no idea where Uncle Pawel is?’
‘No. Just that he is in possession of an expensive silver hipflask. A hipflask in which, as it happens, the police are likely to be very interested.’
‘Why are the police involved?’
‘I’m sorry, Zosia, to have to tell you this …’ And Jude quickly outlined how Uncle Pawel’s possession of the hipflask could tie him to the scene of Burton St Clair’s murder.
‘But he would not kill someone he did not know. He would not kill anyone! My uncle may sometimes drink too much, but he is not a murderer!’
‘I’m sure he isn’t. He might, however, have information that could be very relevant to the police’s enquiries. Incidentally, Zosia …’
‘Yes?’ The girl was now very near to tears.
‘If your Uncle Pawel did want to sell something of value, where would he be likely to turn?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Lennie said he’d mentioned the name of someone Polish.’
‘Oh?’
‘I don’t think he could get the name right, but he thought it sounded like “Milo”.’
All of the colour left the girl’s face. ‘It wasn’t “Milosz”, was it?’
‘Could have been. “Milo” was as near as Lennie got. Why, what’s the matter? If it was “Milosz” …?’
‘Milosz Gadzinski is a major crook, operating along the South Coast. He is the kind of man who gives the Polish a bad name. He makes most of his money by exploiting people of his own nationality, particularly those who have just arrived in this country. Drugs, housing scams, people-trafficking. If Uncle Pawel has got involved with Milosz Gadzinski, it is very bad news for him.’
