Twenty-Five
“You know Debbie. Do you think it’s in her nature to send anonymous letters?”
“I don’t know her that well, Jude. And, anyway, divorce tends to change people’s natures,” said Carole with feeling. “When a relationship comes to an end, perfectly rational adults start behaving like playground bullies. I’m always amazed at the levels of petty vindictiveness that divorce can bring on.”
Jude nodded. She had witnessed the same. May even have witnessed the same in her own life, Carole thought suddenly. Again, she felt frustrated by how little she knew of her friend’s past. Now the subject had come up, maybe it would be a good moment to fill in some of the gaps.
But, as ever, the opportunity passed, as Jude said, “And, from what you say Debbie and Francis respectively got out of the settlement, I’d imagine she was pretty bitter.”
“She tried to sound grown-up and philosophical, but clearly she was very hurt. Her with her little flat in Fedborough, and him with his rich wife and two homes. And that was before she found out about the baby.”
“Yes.”
“That really hit her hard. I told you.”
“Mm…”
The pensive silence that ensued offered another opportunity to elicit a bit of information. Carole snatched it. “Do you regret not having children, Jude?”
Her friend looked up, smiling mischievously. “Who says I haven’t had any?” And, once again, before the supplementary question could be put, Jude had moved on. “I can see the satisfaction in it, from Debbie’s point of view. She hasn’t got much she can do in the way of revenge. Dragging Francis all the way back from Florida, putting him through a few nasty grillings with the police…not bad, is it?”
“I suppose not,” said Carole grumpily, still resentful of the way Jude had evaded the personal question. Unambiguously that time, as well; Jude had definitely been playing with her curiosity.
“Mind you,” her neighbour went on quickly, “if Debbie was responsible for the anonymous letter, then that probably rules out Francis Carlton as a suspect.”
“It was only her desire for revenge that made him look like a suspect in the first place?”
“Exactly. So that might rule him out, in spite of the fact that we now know that he had an affair with the dead woman.”
“Strange, isn’t it,” said Carole, “that, whenever murder’s discussed, anyone who’s had an affair with the victim becomes an immediate suspect…”
“Why’s that strange? Seems pretty logical to me.”
“I suppose I meant strange in the way it comments on human relationships. If you love someone, that means you want to kill them.”
“‘Yet each man kills the thing he loves…’”
Carole hadn’t expected Jude to quote Oscar Wilde. She kept encountering inconsistent details in her friend’s character. Carole Seddon liked to categorize people; then she knew what she was up against. But Jude made that process very difficult.
“Anyway,” Jude went on, “Francis Carlton wasn’t the only one to have had an affair with the lovely Virginia Hargreaves.”
“Alan Burnethorpe too.”
“Yes. The saintly image she projected seems in retrospect a little tarnished. How did she get away with it, in a wasp’s nest of gossip like Fedborough? Do you really think they were all seduced by the glamour of her title?”
“Yes,” Carole replied firmly. Then, in response to Jude’s sceptical look, she went on, “You haven’t lived down here as long as I have. There’s a level of snobbery associated with the aristocracy you just wouldn’t believe. Everyone wants to invite them to everything, and they’re given a much freer rein than ordinary people. There’d have to be a really monumental scandal for people in a place like Fedborough to start thinking badly of someone with a title.”
“I thought that kind of nonsense had gone out in these so-called egalitarian times.”
“Don’t you believe it.”
“Hm. Right.” Jude rubbed her hands together in a business-like manner. “So…where do we go next? Presumably Francis Carlton is back in the States. Be good to talk to Debbie again – and I’d like to meet her this time. Have you run out of credibility on interior design consultations?”
“I think I have a bit. Unless I actually say I’m going to go ahead with the job.” Her face clouded at the recollection this brought to her – of the euphoria prompted by her relationship with Ted Crisp, which had made her full of plans for brightening up her life. “And I’m certainly not going to do that,” she concluded tartly.
“Ooh, but just a minute, though…” A new thought came to Carole. “If we wait till Friday, we’ve got the perfect opportunity to go and see Debbie.”
“What?”
“The Art Crawl we heard so much about from Terry Harper.”
“Right. Debbie Carlton’s exhibiting. Yes, I remember him saying that.”
“So we can wander at will through a selection of the private homes of Fedborough…on the pretext that we’re art-lovers. Debbie described the Fedborough Festival Art Crawl as a Snoopers’ Charter.”
“Good. Any other houses we ought to investigate?”
“Wouldn’t mind having a look in Terry Harper’s. I don’t know whether he’s actually part of the Crawl, but there’s nothing to stop anyone from walking into an antique shop.”
“I get you. You’re thinking that used to be the grocer’s?”
Carole nodded. “The last place, from the information we have, where Virginia Hargreaves was seen alive. On February the twentieth, three years ago.”
“Yes.” Jude ruefully jutted out a lower lip. “Though it has to be said that the information we have is verging on the sketchy. We really need to find out more detail about Virginia Hargreaves’s last weekend.”
“Which brings us back to James Lister.”
“Right. How’re we going to justify getting in touch with him again? The Listers’ house isn’t part of the Art Crawl, is it?”
“No.”
“Actually, I can’t see the lovely Fiona being that interested in art…though I suppose she might have her husband’s balls mounted and framed.”
Carole blushed instinctively. Lines like that always made her blush…though she couldn’t help finding the image rather funny.
She made no comment on it, however. “Not a problem. We have the perfect excuse to get back in touch with the Listers.”
“What?”
“Have you called them to say thank you for the delightful evening on Friday?”
“No, I haven’t yet.”
“Nor have I.” Carole reached for the phone.
Fortunately, James Lister answered. His wife was off poisoning the atmosphere somewhere else. He was fruitily grateful for her fulsome thanks. “It was my pleasure. Can’t have enough pretty women around me, you know. Though don’t let the wife hear me say that.” He chuckled rather feebly. Even when she wasn’t there, Fiona still cast a shadow of anxiety over his life.
“Well, it was a great pleasure, James. So kind of you to invite us.”
“We enjoyed seeing you.”
“And do thank Fiona for the magnificent dinner, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And I hope we’ll see you again soon, James.”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “When you say ‘we’, you mean you and your friend Jude?”
“That’s right.” Carole winked at Jude across her sitting room. “Have you heard from her since Friday?”
“No, but don’t worry. I’ll pass on the thanks from both of you to Fiona – ”
“That seems rather – ”
“Did you hear, incidentally,” James Lister went on, “the reason why poor old Roddy Hargreaves wasn’t with
