Pointon, the newcomer to the village whom Carole had seen in the Hare and Hounds the previous Friday. Before they sat down, she had been introduced to him and his large, loud wife, Pam, whose dress vied with Jenny Grant’s for the Christmas tree decoration stakes. The wine, Carole noticed, seemed to have made Pam Pointon even louder. Their conversation about Brian Helling had been a definite moment between Graham and Irene Forbes, though no outsider could judge its resonance within their marriage. After his wife had looked away, Graham slumped back and slightly petulantly continued his demolition of Weldisham’s so-called ‘local writer’.
“Brian Helling’s all mannerisms and no substance. Always makes me think of that Chesterton line: “The artistic temperament is a disease that afflicts amateurs.” Brian’s that worst of combinations – a layabout and a poseur.”
“But what’s he actually written?” asked Carole.
“Oh, plenty. And he still goes on writing it. He once asked me to read a
“Horrible in what way? The writing?”
“No. The writing was functional, if not much more. But the subject matter…ugh. It all seemed to involve tying women up, imprisoning them and using them just as bodies on which to practise any number of disgusting tortures. Mutilations, amputations, eviscerations…It was all quite, quite ghastly…”
“There’s apparently quite a market for that kind of horror stuff.”
“I can’t imagine what Brian Helling had written having any market outside the inmates of Broadmoor. Anyway, in answer to your enquiry, that’s the kind of stuff he’s actually written. But the more pertinent question is: What’s he actually had published? And the answer to that one is, I’m pretty sure, nothing.”
“So he just lives on the proceeds of his mother’s pools win, does he?”
“Something like that,” said Graham Forbes and, almost abruptly, turned to talk to Jenny Grant, who’d become isolated by Irene’s conversation with Freddie Pointon, and looked more forlorn than ever.
Carole concentrated on her food. It was really excellent – roast pheasant with game chips and all the right trimmings. All the right wines too. The meal had been served by the woman dressed as a waitress, but Graham Forbes had made sure they all knew that Irene had done the cooking. A very English style of menu to be cooked by someone who looks like that, thought Carole, and once again kicked herself for the habit of stereotyping.
Her eye was caught by a pair of photographs on the dresser the other side of the table. Both were in beautiful frames of Indian silver and both were of weddings. One had clearly been taken in a hot climate and showed Graham, absurdly handsome in a linen suit, looming protectively over Irene. She wore a simple white dress and held a small posy of flowers.
But the second photograph was the more intriguing. A traditional English wedding with the full panoply of morning dress and bridesmaids is difficult to date precisely, but the quality of the print made this one a lot older than the other. The sharp-featured face of the bride felt distantly familiar to Carole, not familiar as a person she’d actually met might be, but familiar in the way of someone once glimpsed in a television documentary.
The remarkable fact was that the tall young groom was undoubtedly Graham Forbes.
At the moment Carole recognized this, it coinciden-tally became a matter of general discussion. Pam Pointon, her minimal inhibitions eroded by wine, called across the table, “So, Graham, I gather you two are in the same boat as we are.”
He looked up, offended to have had his conversation with Jenny Grant interrupted in this way, but far too well brought up to take issue. “I’m sorry?”
“I gather from Irene that you’re like Freddie and me.” He looked bewildered. “Second-time-arounders.”
“Well – ”
“Freddie and I have both been married before, haven’t we, darling?”
“Yes,” her husband agreed, though at that moment he looked doubtful about the wisdom of his second venture into matrimony. He tried to signal minimal shut-up messages to his wife.
But Pam either didn’t see them or was too far gone to care. “My first husband was a complete bastard, Freddie’s first wife was a complete cow. What was your first-time-arounder like, Graham?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Carole cringed. She felt sure her host was about to say his first wife had died of a lingering illness in tragic circumstances.
But no. “My first wife,” said Graham Forbes, with considerable dignity, “left me for another man.”
The silence that followed that was more uncomfortable still. Even Pam Pointon looked momentarily abashed. But another slurp of wine restored her confidence and volubility. “See?” she said. “So yours fits into the ‘complete cow’ category, just like Freddie’s.”
Graham Forbes fixed her with expressionless brown eyes. “You know nothing about my first wife, so I’d be grateful if you stopped talking about her.”
There was no ambiguity about this rebuff, and an even longer silence was only prevented by Freddie coming in with an attempt to save some Pointon dignity. He had the look of a man who was by now certain he should have stuck with his first-time-arounder.
“I must say, Pam and I are really getting to feel like we’ve lived in Weldisham for ever. It just feels so right. You know, when I got off that train from London this evening and felt the country air filling my lungs, I thought to myself, “Freddie, old man, you’ve arrived. This is where you were meant to be.””
Not an inspired piece of fence-mending, but it served its purpose. Individual conversations restarted. Graham Forbes continued the uphill task of finding a subject of mutual interest with Jenny Grant. Carole couldn’t stop herself from turning to Harry and asking quietly, “Did you know the first Mrs Forbes?”
“Oh yes. In fact, she was some relation of my wife’s. Aunt, second cousin or something. Jenny comes from one of those local families who’re all related to everyone else. Mind you, I never knew Sheila that well. Moved in different circles from us lot – particularly after she married Graham.”
“But you saw a lot of her round the village?”
“Not that much. They were abroad most of the time.”
“Of course. With Graham’s British Council work.”
“Right. So they’d just be here for holidays and things. They let the house some of the time. He’d bought it quite early in his career, I think, to have a base in this country. Had private money. Or at least he did then. I don’t think that he’s got much of it left.”
“And did you know the man who Sheila Forbes ran off with?”
“No. He was – ”
But further revelations about their host’s private life were prevented by the man himself clapping his hands. “Now, as Barry and the Grants will know, Irene and I have a little custom at our Friday night dinners…”
Oh God, Carole groaned. Please don’t say it’s going to be party games.
The threat was quickly removed. “After the main course we do a little revision of the seating plan, so that you all get a chance to speak to everyone.” That old thing, thought Carole, bet they used to do it at all their British Council dinners. “Now, with only eight of us, it does mean a few husbands and wives will end up sitting together, but I’m sure you can cope with that.”
“Ladies, you’ll be glad to hear you don’t have to move at all. But, gentlemen, I would ask you to pick up your glasses and take the seat four to your right. So, effectively, Harry and Freddie change places, and I change places with…”
Oh no. I get Barry, thought Carole.
She did. He sat ingratiatingly beside her, his mouth once again curled into a smile, and set about the serious business of making conversation.
“So…what are your leisure pursuits, Carole?”
“Oh, not a lot. Reading, crosswords, taking my dog for walks.”
“That’s interesting,” said Barry Stillwell.
? Death on the Downs ?
Nineteen
“But I don’t like him,” Carole objected.
“You don’t know him. You might find he has likeable qualities when you know him better.”
