by Simon Brett
‘I wasn’t expecting to find you there either.’
‘Can I ask why you went there, Piers?’
‘You don’t have to ask. You heard what I told the old fart. That the police wanted to talk to him. For reasons of his own, he wasn’t keen on the idea of that, so he decided he’d make himself scarce.’
‘But why did you take it upon yourself to tell him? Do you know him well?’
‘I’d met him once before. On the beach with Ricky.’
‘And it was your idea to go and warn Old Garge about the police coming?’
Piers looked uncomfortable. ‘No. Ricky wanted me to.’
‘Wasn’t Ricky in London on Tuesday?’
‘Yes, but Lola had apparently rung him to tell him about the police being keen on interviewing Old Garge, and she said Ricky wanted me to go and warn him.’
Carole mentally squirrelled away that information. Her suspicious mind registered that Lola could have made up the instruction from her husband. It could have been her own initiative to send Piers down to the hut on Fethering Beach.
‘So do you know where Old Garge is now?’ Carole asked directly.
The young man’s glazed eyes narrowed and he looked rather sly as he replied, ‘Oh, he’s quite safe for the time being. Out of the way in a nice little flat. It’ll take the police a while to find him there.’ He smiled complacently as he downed the remains of his wine. ‘Ex-wives have their uses.’
‘What do you mean? Whose ex-wife are you—?’
But she’d lost him. Muttering that he needed to get more wine, Piers Duncton brushed past her and was quickly absorbed by the throng inside.
Carole stayed on the terrace for a moment, piecing together the information she had just received. And the more she thought about it, the more excited she became. Her suspicion had been proved right. Old Garge – back in his Rupert Sonning days – must have been married to Flora Le Bonnier. He was Ricky’s father. And he was now safely ensconced in his ex-wife’s flat up in St John’s Wood.
Which was maybe why Flora was so keen to get back to London.
Carole looked for the old actress as she went back through the house, but there was no sign of her. She asked Lola, who happened to be passing and was told that Flora had gone up to bed. She was too tired to stay up and see the New Year in.
Carole checked her watch. Only eleven-twenty. The thought of staying in Fedingham Court House till midnight, and then enduring the excesses of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and everyone hugging and kissing each other and . . . She wouldn’t mind slipping away before all that happened. Was there a chance that Jude would be equally keen to leave?
She found her neighbour still in the room with the music. Still dancing with the same tall man, though dancing rather closer now. As Jude caught her eye, Carole mouthed, ‘Think I might be off. Do you want to come?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure . . .’
‘Is this your lift?’ asked the man, looking at Carole as though she were an unlicensed minicab driver. He winked at her. ‘Don’t worry, love. I’ll see Jude gets back home safely.’
Carole looked around for her host and hostess, but didn’t try that hard. Better just to slip away and then thank them in a day or two. Not on the phone. She was sure they wouldn’t even recognize her name if she rang to thank them. No, she’d post a well-chosen card saying something like: ‘it was such a wonderfully lively party that I simply couldn’t find you to say thank you at the end, but I did want to say how much . . .’ She’d done it many times before.
She also wondered for a moment whether Anna had fulfilled her intention of attending. There hadn’t been any sign of her, but in a crush like that it would have been easy to miss someone. On reflection, though, Carole thought that actually facing the prospect of seeing Ricky and Lola together in their home, Anna would have chickened out.
On the gravel outside the house a minivan was decanting a small band of men with kilts and bagpipes. Carole felt even more relieved that she was escaping the midnight rituals.
As celebratory fireworks from Fedingham Court House garden illuminated the West Sussex sky, it was a very stony-faced Carole Seddon who drove back to Fethering and High Tor.
Chapter Thirty
Waking up to a new year did not improve Carole’s mood. When she passed Woodside Cottage on her way to Fethering Beach for Gulliver’s early morning walk, there was no sign of life. Nor was there when she came back.
She felt terrible. And what made everything more terrible was the ancient familiarity of the feeling. She remembered the sheer awfulness of school dances, where you’d gone with a friend and then, when a half-decent-looking boy had come on the scene, the friend’s loyalty had immediately gone straight out of the window. And though the two of you had agreed to travel back together, somehow you ended up going home on your own.
She couldn’t settle to anything that morning and took her bad temper out on the house, cleaning High Tor to within an inch of its life.
After considerable indecision, at eleven o’clock she rang Jude’s home number. There was no reply. She didn’t even contemplate ringing her mobile.
It was not until a quarter to one in the afternoon that a rather smart BMW sports car drew up outside Woodside Cottage. Jude bounced out with a cheery wave to her escort. What compounded the awfulness of the situation was that Carole hadn’t moved back from the bedroom window quickly enough, and she, too, received the blessing of a wave from her neighbour.
Moments later, the phone rang. She knew it would be Jude. And it was – a bouncy, bubbly Jude, full of good wishes for the new year, with no hint of apology in her voice. She seemed completely unaware of the purgatory she had inflicted on her friend.
‘I just wondered, Carole . . . I know it’s late, and you’ve probably had lunch . . .’
‘No, I haven’t, actually. I didn’t feel like anything.’
‘Well, I’m starving and I feel like a huge big, self-indulgent fry-up. Do you fancy joining me?’
Carole was faced with a moral dilemma. Declining the offer might be a way of expressing her disapproval, but accepting was the only way she was going to find out how her neighbour had spent the previous night. Obviously, accepting won.
There was a tantalizing smell of bacon when she arrived in the sitting room of Woodside Cottage. Jude had changed out of her party attire and wore a long Arran cardigan draped over a long denim skirt. She supplied a Chilean Chardonnay for Carole, but poured a glass of Argentinian Cabernet Sauvignon for herself. ‘I always find red works better as a “hair of the dog” than white. Now, you just sit down, and I’ll bring the food through in a minute.’
Carole did as she was told, and listened to Jude bustling about cheerfully in the kitchen. Something had certainly put a smile on her face. Carole was damned if she was going to ask what.
The fry-up was particularly delicious. Jude’s approach to cooking was eclectic, depending on her mood. She was just as likely to offer guests dishes with brown rice and bean sprouts as she was steak frites. But the Full English she delivered that afternoon was perfect for a bleak English New Year’s Day.
Both women were very hungry (though Carole didn’t like to speculate what had given Jude her appetite). They were silent as they wolfed down their food and only when they’d reached the stage of mopping up the remaining bits of egg and fat with crusts of fried bread did Jude speak. ‘Interesting, last night, wasn’t it?’
It may have been interesting for you, Carole was tempted to say, but she curbed the instinct. If Jude wished to volunteer details of how she’d spent the night, then fine. If not . . . well, Carole was not going to demean herself by asking (though she was afire with curiosity). ‘In what way?’ she asked uncontroversially.
‘Seeing Ricky Le Bonnier in his pomp. That was one hell of a glitzy party.’
‘Yes, and hardly appropriate in the circumstances.’
‘What do you mean?
‘Well, Jude, I’m not in favour of people going into deep mourning or anythin
g like that, but it is less than a fortnight since his stepdaughter died. You’d have thought he’d have made some concession to her memory.’
‘Don’t you think, though, that Ricky’s the kind of man who’s always going to be presenting an upbeat image of himself? I wouldn’t imagine many people get through to what he’s really thinking.’
‘Probably not much,’ said Carole waspishly. ‘He’s one of the shallowest people I’ve ever met.’
‘And yet Lola clearly sees something in him.’
Carole sniffed. ‘Without denigrating our gender, I’m afraid it’s true that few of us have ever shown much taste when it comes to men.’
Jude giggled. Annoyingly, in her neighbour’s view. ‘Well, Carole, at least we have made some advance in our investigation. We do now know that Lola’s lied to protect Ricky. She gave him an alibi for all of the night of the fire, and what you heard from Anna has broken that.’
‘To be fair, Anna left him in the shop at . . . what . . . half-past eight? He may have gone straight back home after that.’
‘But Lola said he didn’t leave the house again after he’d come back from taking Polly to Fedborough Station.’
‘Though I got a different story from Saira Sherjan.’
A new idea struck Jude and her brown eyes sparkled as she said, ‘Suppose Lola actually knows about Ricky’s affair with Anna, and she gave him the alibi because she didn’t want anyone else to find out?’
‘The way she was cuddling up to him last night didn’t look like the behaviour of a woman who knows her husband’s having an affair.’
‘Don’t you believe it, Carole. Remember how many people were there at that party. Public displays of affection are no guide to the real state of a marriage. And don’t forget that Lola used to be quite a good actress.’
‘Hm . . .’ Carole took a sip of Chardonnay. ‘Do you think we’re ever going to get more out of Flora Le Bonnier?’
Jude grimaced. ‘I think we’ve had our ration of information there. One thing’s for sure, she’s never going to reveal the identity of Ricky’s father. As she said – rather gleefully, I thought – that secret will go to the grave with her.’
‘Do you think Ricky himself knows?’
‘I wonder. Flora’s will is so strong she’s quite capable of having kept it a secret from him too.’
‘But what Piers said to me virtually proved that Ricky’s father was Rupert Sonning.’
‘What?’ demanded a thunderstruck Jude. ‘Could you run that past me again?’
‘Oh, of course, I haven’t told you, have I?’ And Carole gave a quick résumé of her conversation on the terrace with the drunken writer, concluding, ‘So what else do you think he meant?’
Jude nodded thoughtfully. ‘You could be right.’
‘Of course I’m right!’ Carole snapped. ‘I wonder if we could get another chance to talk to Flora?’
‘Doubt it. I think she’s already suspicious of us. And, anyway, she’s probably going back up to London this afternoon, so we’d have to find some reason to beard her in her den in St John’s Wood. She’d be – Oh, damn!’ said Jude suddenly and shot out into the hall, calling back as she went, ‘Lola asked me about babysitting, didn’t she? Said she’d call me in the morning. And I’ve had my mobile switched off since last night.’
Iron strength of will was required to stop Carole from asking, ‘Why?’ Jude reappeared, holding the mobile and tapping through the buttons to check for messages. ‘Oh, no! She does want me to. Sorry, Carole, I must ring her back.’
From the Woodside Cottage end of the conversation it was clear that Flora was insisting on being taken back to St John’s Wood, and that she required both her son and daughter-in-law to escort her there. Varya had not returned from her vodka-steeped night in Southampton, and if Jude could possibly . . . ?
‘I’ll get a cab. Be with you in as long as it takes.’
When the call had ended, Carole said, ‘Don’t bother about a cab. I’ll take you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Carole, adding frostily, ‘I’m not in the habit of making offers I don’t intend to carry through.’
‘No, well, thank you. I would very much appreciate it.’ Jude hesitated. ‘Though it just might be a bit awkward if you wanted to join me for the babysitting.’
Carole looked frostier than ever. ‘I have no desire to join you for the babysitting.’
They were in the Renault on the way to Fedingham Court House. Jude had been silently musing away to herself for a while when suddenly she said, ‘Piers could have meant something else.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When he talked about “ex-wives” and “a flat”, you assumed he meant Flora.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘But suppose he wasn’t talking about her . . . ?’
‘How many ex-wives is Rupert Sonning supposed to have?’
‘Not Rupert Sonning. Ricky.’
‘Ricky’s ex-wife? Are you talking about Kath?’
‘That’s exactly who I’m talking about, Carole.’
As Jude smiled across at her friend, a huge yawn took over her face. Which Carole found very annoying.
Chapter Thirty-One
The handover to Jude in the hall of Fedingham Court House was quickly achieved. Mabel made no fuss; she was delighted to see one of her approved babysitters. Ricky was out the front, settling his mother into the Mercedes 4x4, as a harassed-looking Lola gave instructions.
‘Henry’s asleep. The baby monitor’s switched through to the playroom and the sitting room, so you’ll hear him when he wakes up. If you take Mabel up with you, he’ll be quite happy about you taking him out of the cot. And he’ll want some milk when he wakes up, his bottle’s in the kitchen. Mabel knows where it is. He may need a nappy changing, but it shouldn’t be dirty this time of day. Mabel’ll show you where everything is.’
Lola looked at her watch. It was just after half past two. ‘I don’t know what the traffic’ll be like, but with a following wind, Ricky and I should be back by seven, which is their bathtime. That is assuming Flora lets us just deliver her and turn straight round.’
‘Is she likely to?’
‘I don’t know, Jude. She’s in one of her particularly imperious moods today. Insisting that I travel up in the car with her and Ricky. “I just don’t feel I’ve had a proper talk to you, Lola, while I’ve been down here. What with everything that’s been going on, we haven’t had a proper talk.”’Once again her impression of her mother-in-law was spot-on. ‘It’s totally unnecessary, but Ricky always gives in to her whims. Anyway, hopefully we’ll be able to turn straight round. If we’re not back by seven—’
‘I’ll show Jude where everything is,’ said Mabel, solemnly responsible.
Lola grinned. ‘She will. She’s much more organized than I am. I sometimes think I’m the one who needs a babysitter. And I’ve put their supper out on top of the fridge. Henry’s a bit picky at the moment. If he doesn’t like the pasta, try him with a slice of apple or some raisins. Don’t worry if he doesn’t eat much. He evens up over the day.’
Ricky Le Bonnier came bustling in through the front door. ‘Better be off, love. The old girl’s champing at the bit.’ Lola went off to grab her coat as her husband scooped Mabel up into his arms. ‘You’ll be a good girl for Jude, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Daddy. Mummy says she needs a babysitter, not me.’
‘And your Mummy is dead right, as ever.’ He put the girl down and planted a kiss on top of her white-blonde curls. ‘Look after Henry, won’t you, and we’ll see you at bathtime.’
‘If you’re back in time.’
‘Yes, Mabel, if we’re back in time. Which we will try to be.’
‘But that’ll depend on Grandma. Mummy says she’s in one of her imp . . .’ Mabel struggled with the word – ‘impish moods.’
‘Something like that.’ Ricky ruffled her hair, as if he didn’t want to leave her, then looked up
to see Lola approaching, grabbed her arm and set off for the car. ‘Bless you for looking after them, Jude.’
‘No problem.’
‘’Bye.’ And the large front door closed.
First Mabel insisted on showing Jude all her dolls and cuddly toys in the playroom. They were arrayed in a long line on the windowsill. ‘They’re here so that Henry can’t reach them when he crawls. He can’t crawl yet, but when he can crawl he won’t be able to reach my dolls and cuddlies.’
Mabel introduced each of her collection by name. Then she announced that they must play a game.
‘What game do you want to play?’
‘I want to play Grandmother’s Footsteps.’
‘But can you play that with just two?’
‘Oh yes,’ Mabel assured her.
So they played. One of them – ‘Grandmother’ – faced the wall while the other crept across the room towards her. If, when ‘Grandmother’ whirled round, she caught a glimpse of movement, then the other had to go back to the beginning and start again. Mabel had clearly played the game many times and had become expert at taking tiny steps and then freezing.
They played for so long that Jude was beginning to feel a little weary (and not only from her late night), but fortunately, just when her acolyte thought she could take no more, the Mistress of the Revels decided it was time for a different game. ‘This is not a real game, not like Grandmother’s Footsteps. This is a game my Daddy made up,’ she said proudly.
‘What’s it called?’
‘It’s called Hiding Things.’
‘Oh yes, I heard you and your Daddy talking about it another time I was here.’
Mabel nodded. ‘That was when you came to make Grandma’s back better.’
‘You’re absolutely right.’ The little girl had an excellent memory.
‘How you play Hiding Things,’ she went on, ‘is one person hides things and the other person has to find them.’
‘That sounds good. What things do you hide?’
‘Well, Daddy says there’s a game where people hide slippers, but his game is better than that. We hide Woolly Monkey.’ And from her array of dolls she took down a toy whose name described him perfectly. He was about six inches high and knitted from dark and light brown wools. Attached to one hand was a knitted banana. ‘This is Woolly Monkey,’ said Mabel unnecessarily.
