The Poisoning in the Pub

by Simon Brett

  She and Jude sat on green metal chairs at a green metal table with a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay in a cooler between them. A statutory enquiry was made about the day in Brighton, to which Jude, knowing the level of Carole’s interest in alternative therapies, replied with commendable brevity.

  Social niceties observed, Carole was quickly into an account of her lunchtime visit to the Crown and Anchor. In particular, she wanted to know whether Jude knew any more than she did about Ted Crisp’s ex-wife.

  “I don’t think I do really. He’s made enough jokes about her over the years, but most of them sounded as if they were just out of his old stand-up routine. But you’ve heard those as much as I have. He tells them all the time in the Crown and Anchor for the benefit of anyone who happens to be listening.”

  “I thought you might have heard more about Sylvia when Ted poured his heart out to you on Monday evening.”

  “All he said was that his ‘ex-wife had come back into his life’ – or to be more accurate, that his ‘bloody ex-wife had come back into his life’. Which I told you.”

  “Yes, you did. Nothing more, though?”

  Jude shook her head. “But Ted didn’t say anything to you, did he…?” For a rare moment she almost felt the approach of coyness as she asked, “I mean, when you and he…when you were together?”

  “What do you mean?” Carole reddened, thrown by the question. “Why should he have done?”

  “Well, it’s just…men and women, in an intimate situation…” Jude, tired of her own pussy-footing. “In bed. People often talk about their former lovers when they’re in bed with someone new.”

  Carole Seddon looked deeply shocked. “Ted and I didn’t talk about anything like that,” she said primly.

  “Right. Just a thought.”

  Deliberately changing the tack of the conversation, Carole said firmly, “I wish I could remember what he actually had said about Sylvia in the pub. There might have been some truth hidden away in all the jokes.”

  “Well, I remember one that he told. He said that, fairly soon into their marriage – only three months or so – his wife had run off with a double-glazing salesman.”

  “Had she really?”

  “That I don’t know. It could just have been a setup for his next line.”

  “Which was?”

  “As I recall: “I can’t see what she sees in him. He’s so transparent.””

  Carole winced. “Oh dear.”

  “But it might have been true. Who knows?”

  “Hmm. Jude, has led ever said to you that he’s actually divorced?”

  “I can’t remember. I’m pretty sure he has. I mean, I’ve always assumed he was. Why?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking that a divorced ex-spouse can cause problems…” Carole coloured again “…as I know with David, but those problems are nothing to those that can be caused by someone to whom you’re still married.”

  Jude nodded. “You’re right. And led does seem to be overreacting to Sylvia’s reappearance. Yes, be worth finding out whether their separation ever was legalized.”

  “But how do we do that?” asked Carole.

  “Next time we’re in the Crown and Anchor,” said Jude with a grin, “we ask him.”

  “Oh.” Carole’s expression showed that she regarded this as far too frontal an approach. Once again she was glad to move the conversation along. Particularly glad to be moving it on to the one important gobbet of news she had been hoarding till it would have its fullest dramatic impact. “I did actually find out something else at the pub at lunchtime…”

  “Oh?”

  And Carole told Jude about Ray having been unmonitored in the kitchen while led, Ed and Zosia had shifted the beer barrels in the Crown and Anchor’s cellar.

  “You say Ted didn’t mention that to the Health and Safety people?”

  “No. He suddenly got all protective about Ray. Almost crusading about how society treats people like that. I must say, it was a side of Ted I had never seen before.”

  “Not even when you and he – ?”

  “Never,” said Carole, firmly stopping that train of thought in its tracks.

  “Well, it sounds like we ought to speak to this Ray.”

  “If we can find him. Ted wouldn’t give me his address.”

  “No, but we know he lives in a flat in a block for other people with special needs. And there can’t be many of those in Fethering.”

  “So you think you could track him down, Jude?”

  “I’m sure I could. Fortunately I have very good contacts in the local social services. If I could just use your phone, I’ll try – ”

  But that line of enquiry was at least temporarily postponed by the sound of High Tor’s front doorbell.

  ♦

  Both women recognized the man whom Carole ushered through into the back garden, though neither of them had ever met him socially. It was impossible to live in Fethering for any length of time without knowing who he was. He was present at every public event, and more weeks than not there was a photograph of him in the Fethering Observer. The place was not big enough to have a mayor, but it did have a village committee, and the chair of that was Greville Tilbrook.

  Like Carole Seddon, he was a retired civil servant, though she knew from contacts within the organization that he’d never reached even as high up the system as she had. But he was one of those men whose entire life seemed to have been waiting for the blossoming that would attend retirement. For some years while still employed he had been a Methodist lay preacher, but when he gave up the day job he was soon climbing other local hierarchies. He was a leading light of the Conservative Association, on the committees of Fethering Yacht Club, the Fethering Historical Society and the local Probus Club (for retired professional and business people).

  He was a living warning, an embodiment of the truth that a colleague had told Carole before she moved permanently to Fethering: “If you live in the country, never volunteer for anything, or you’ll end up doing everything.” It was advice she had stuck by, and it had served her well.

  But of course Greville Tilbrook’s personality was very different from hers. He positively loved civic responsibility. In retirement he was having the time of his life.

  He was dressed that evening in his uniform of pale-grey…well, they could only really be called ‘slacks’…and soft brown loafers. As a gesture to informality and the July weather, he had removed his blue-striped seersucker jacket and swung it roguishly over his shoulder in distant recollection of some photograph he’d seen of Frank Sinatra. This revealed a short-sleeved pale-blue shirt, round whose neck was a neatly knotted tie bearing the insignia of one of the many organizations he belonged to. Under his jacket-carrying arm he nursed a leather document case.

  Though coming from very different backgrounds and values, Carole and Jude had both, before meeting Greville Tilbrook, thought he would turn out to be a right pain. And so it proved.

  In all his various committees, Greville Tilbrook dealt with a lot of mature women, whom he treated with a gallantry that bordered on the flirtatious. Though there was a Mrs Tilbrook somewhere locked away in a secure marriage and pension, her husband did see himself as a bit of a non-practising ladies’ man. And he set out to exercise his self-defined fatal charm on the two women in the garden of High Tor. (The two women in question, it should be mentioned, found themselves strangely impervious to that charm.)

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you ladies,” he said after he had been introduced to Jude and refused the offer of a glass of wine, “on an evening of such exceptional beauty – not to mention two ladies of such exceptional beauty – but I’m sure you, like me, as residents of this delightful village of Fethering are as committed as I am – well, possibly less committed than I myself am, due to the nature of the official positions which, for my sins, I represent within this community – but still committed to the maintenance of the loveliness of the region – to call it ‘God’s own acre’ might be by some thought to b
e excessively poetic, and yet why not be poetic when one has the good fortune to live within the environs of such a delightful area…”

  God, both women thought as he droned on, does he actually know how to finish a sentence?

  And then suddenly they were both aware of silence. Greville Tilbrook was looking at them quizzically. He must finally have got to the end of his sentence and asked a question.

  “I’m sorry? What did you say?” asked Carole and Jude together.

  “I said: “Is that what you want to happen to Fethering?””

  After a unison “Umm…” Carole had the presence of mind to ask, “But do you think it’s likely to?”

  “I think it could be the beginning of the, as it were, thin end of a very slippery slope, and I feel it’s my civic responsibility, with my Fethering-Village-Committee hat on, to alert my fellow residents to this menace.”

  Short of admitting they hadn’t been listening, neither woman could think of an appropriate supplementary question, but fortunately Greville Tilbrook was not the kind of man who needed prompting to continue his monologue. “And I’m not speaking now with my Methodist-lay-preacher hat on – though I could be – but I’m sure there are some residents of this delightful village who would have objections on religious grounds, because the Sabbath, even in these benighted times, is, I am glad to say, still respected by some as a special day – and do we really want that special day to be tarnished by blasphemy and filthy language?”

  Carole and Jude, still clueless as to what he was talking about, agreed that they didn’t want the Sabbath tarnished by blasphemy and filthy language. But Greville Tilbrook’s next words did make the purpose of his visit absolutely clear. “It’s not the first time that there has been cause to complain about goings on at the Crown and Anchor, because although I am in no way a killjoy – I enjoy the benefits of fellowship just as much as a pub-goer does, though my personal preference is to conduct such conversations over a cup of tea or coffee rather than anything stronger, the fact remains that the unbridled consumption of alcohol can lead to a certain amount of rowdiness – I’m sure you’ve read in the papers about the modern curse of ‘binge-drinking’, particularly amongst the young, and that kind of thing can easily spread in the, as it were, environs of a public house…and there have been complaints from residents about the noise at closing time, drunken shouting, the slamming of car doors and so on…”

  He was incautious enough at that point to take a breath, which gave Jude the opportunity to object, “But the Crown and Anchor isn’t near to any houses.”

  “Maybe not,” said Greville Tilbrook smugly, “but that is just a measure of how loud the departing customers must be in their cups…and anyway if it were just the drinking that’s a problem with the Crown and Anchor, perhaps that might be regretted but tolerated. However, there are other complaints against the place, of which the most recent is of course the attack of food poisoning caused by the appalling standards of hygiene obtaining in the kitchen of the Crown and Anchor and – ”

  Jude wasn’t going to stand for that. “Ted Crisp has very high standards. He had the Health and Safety people in there yesterday, they checked everything and couldn’t find a single breach of hygiene regulations.”

  “Ted Crisp, eh?” Greville Tilbrook repeated the name sourly. “I didn’t realize that he was a friend of yours, because, to be quite honest and not to beat about the bush, I hadn’t put you two ladies down as ‘pub people’.”

  It cost Carole a lot not to break in there and assure him that she had never been a ‘pub person’, but she managed to curb her tongue.

  “Well, even if you are friends of Mr Crisp, you must – ”

  “Have you ever met him, Mr Tilbrook?” asked Jude.

  “No, I have not had that pleasure, but I know him by reputation…and not everything I’ve heard of that reputation is entirely, as it were, favourable.” He was now getting quite aerated, spluttering in his condemnation. “While not going quite as far as some residents who feel that Fethering should not have a pub at all, I do think it’s regrettable that the one we do have should be run by a foul-mouthed, scruffy individual who – ”

  This finally was too much for Carole. “Mr Tilbrook, I’m sorry, but you’re talking about someone who is a friend of ours. And I think you should form your own estimation of people by meeting them rather than listening to scurrilous gossip.”

  Greville Tilbrook was about to repeat her last two words, but he only got as far as ‘scurrilous’ before Carole said, “And I think, if you have no other purpose in being here than to slander our friends, Imust ask you to leave.”

  “But I do have another purpose,” he spluttered.

  “Oh?”

  He withdrew some stapled A4 sheets from his leather document case. “I came here to ask you whether you would add your, as it were, signatures, to this petition.”

  “And what’s the petition for?” asked Carole implacably.

  “It is to stop the appearance of the vulgar and blasphemous comedian Dan Poke in the Crown and Anchor public house this coming Lord’s Day.”

  “Right,” said Carole. “Glad we’ve finally got to the point. Well, no, thank you, Mr Tilbrook. I have no wish to add my ‘as it were, signature’ to your petition.”

  “Nor do I,” said Jude. “We strongly support Ted Crisp’s initiative to use the Crown and Anchor for such purposes, and in fact we have both bought tickets to see Dan Poke’s appearance on Sunday.”

  A discomfited Greville Tilbrook realized he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this particular visit and beat a wordy retreat. When Carole came back from seeing him out of the front door, she asked Jude, “Have you really booked tickets for the show?”

  “No. But I think we should.”

  Carole recharged their wine glasses and the two women looked at each other. “You can see why Ted’s paranoid, though,” Jude observed. “He seems to be being attacked on all sides, doesn’t he?”

  Seven

  On the Friday morning Jude rang one of her friends in the social services, a woman called Sally Monks, who owed her a favour. Jude had once used her healing skills to help out a couple of Sally’s more difficult teenage clients, and so the social worker was more than happy to return the favour. She readily supplied an address for the Ray who sometimes worked at the Crown and Anchor. “But I happen to know that he’s not there today,” said Sally.

  “Oh?”

  “He tends to go back to his mother’s from time to time. She’s quite old and infirm, so she can’t look after him full-time, but she can manage for a few days.”

  “You don’t know where she lives, do you?”

  “Yes. Worthing. Do you want me to give you her address? I will if it’s something really important, but Ray’s mother’s an old lady and…”

  Sally Monks sounded reluctant, and Jude was forced to ask herself how important her quest actually was. Yes, she wanted to help Ted Crisp, but not to presume too far on the social worker’s goodwill.

  Anyway, Ted himself had tried to cover up Ray’s involvement in what had happened in the Crown and Anchor. He might not welcome her investigating.

  As it happened, what Sally Monks said next simplified things. “If you really do want to contact Ray, I know he’ll be at the flat tomorrow.”

  “Oh?”

  “Saturday. Football. He loves his football. His mother doesn’t have Sky, but they have it in the communal sitting room at the flats.”

  “Oh, thank you for telling me. Maybe I’ll try and contact him tomorrow.”

  “That’d be better.” The social worker sounded relieved. “I don’t want to put any more pressure on his mother.”

  “More pressure? What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s just that Ray only goes to see her when he’s upset. She has quite a problem calming him down sometimes.”

  “You’ve no idea why he might be upset at the moment, do you?” asked Jude, keen to advance her investigation.

  “Jude,” sai
d Sally patiently, “I haven’t seen Ray for months. I’ve no idea what’s upset him this time. It’s could be anything. He gets hurt very easily, always worries that people are against him. He’s one of those people who seems to have been born with too few layers of skin.”

  As she thanked Sally and rang off, Jude realized that any approach she made to Ray would require all of her considerable tact and gentleness.

  ♦

  Because it was so hot that Friday, Carole delayed taking Gulliver for his afternoon walk until the evening. She felt sorry for him. A Labrador’s coat wasn’t designed for this kind of weather. He was still full of enthusiasm to tackle the invisible monsters of the beach, but he tired quickly and his long tongue lolled from panting mouth.

  He looked so hot and pitiful in the fading light that she thought she would find him a drink before they got back to High Tor. There was always a dog bowl of water outside the Crown and Anchor, so she walked back from the beach that way. The route would also give her a chance to see whether Ted’s trade had picked up at all since his enforced closure.

  The noise as she approached the pub answered her question. A lot of customers – and not just the smokers – were drinking outside, and all the windows and doors were open. The crowd seemed much bigger than it would have been for an ordinary Friday night; the atmosphere was positively rowdy. Her destination, the dogs’ water bowl, was just outside the main doors, but the density of the crowd deterred her. Also the nature of the crowd. Despite the evening heat, there were a lot of black leather jackets with gratuitous chains attached. Carole decided Gulliver could wait for his drink till they got back to High Tor.

  As she walked through the car park back to the High Street, she noticed a surprising number of motorbikes. She also saw someone who looked vaguely familiar leaving the pub and approaching a sleek pale blue metallic BMW.

  He was a tall man, probably in his early forties. The immaculate cut of his suit could not completely hide the fact that he was spreading to fat. Though his face was chubby, its features were small, thin lips, slightly beaky nose. He wore glasses with thick black rims. His hair, longish and swept back, was too black to be natural.