The Fethering Mysteries 03; The Torso in the Town

“No, no. Coming to blows was very much not Virginia Hargreaves’s style.” Debbie smiled mischievously. “I did hear a rumour from Mum about something that’d happened, though, but I’m not sure if it’s true.” She read the avid anticipation in the two women’s faces and went on, “Still, one of those things that should be true, even if it isn’t. Apparently, according to Mum, Virginia and Roddy were once invited to one of La Lister’s soirees. And Virginia sent a note back, saying that it was an extraordinarily kind thought, but she was afraid they wouldn’t be able to attend, because it wasn’t really their kind of thing.”

Carole winced. “The Snub Direct.”

“Exactly. And entirely unanswerable, from Fiona’s point of view. Virginia had very firmly put her in her place. People of Virginia’s background didn’t mix with butcher’s wives, and that was all there was to it.”

“Sounds like something out of Jane Austen,” said Jude.

“Believe me, it could easily have happened here in Fedborough. And, what’s more, it still could today.”

Carole nodded. She had lived long enough in Fathering to find the anecdote utterly believable. “Interesting that last Friday Fiona Lister was almost fulsome in her appreciation of Lady Virginia.”

“Easy to do that now she’s not around,” said Debbie. “Easy – and rather useful – for Fiona to imply, without fear of contradiction, that they were part of the same social circle.”

“Did your husband know Virginia Hargreaves…?” asked Jude casually.

Debbie shrugged. “I’m sure he’d met her. He was friends with Alan Burnethorpe who married Virginia’s housekeeper, so they probably knew each other.”

Jude and Carole exchanged a covert look. Debbie Carlton’s innocence sounded genuine. She appearedcompletely unaware of her ex-husband’s closeness to Virginia Hargreaves. Or of Alan Burnethorpe’s, come to that.

“Has Francis gone back to the States?” asked Carole, also affecting ignorance.

“Yes. Back to his born-again marriage and prospective family.” She could not keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“Hrn. In retrospect…” Carole mused, “it seems strange that the police dragged him all the way over here to talk to them.”

“Why?”

“Well, given the fact that the murder victim – or perhaps we should just say the body – turned out to be Virginia Hargreaves, who lived in Pelling House long before you took possession of the place, why on earth would the police have any suspicions of Francis?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“I heard a rumour round Fedborough…” Carole kept her voice deliberately light. “…that they’d had a tip- off.”

“The police? A tip-off about Francis?” She seemed suddenly to remember. “The anonymous letter?”

“Yes. The anonymous letter which pointed the finger of suspicion firmly at him. You do know about that?”

“Francis mentioned an anonymous letter, but I thought he was just being paranoid. But if there really was one…Bloody hell!” Debbie said, on a sudden spurt of anger. “I’d like to get my hands on whoever sent it.”

“Why? Because you’re sorry about the emotional trauma caused to Francis?”

“No. Because I’m sorry about the emotional trauma caused to me by having the selfish bastard staying here!”

Carole and Jude exchanged another momentary look. Either Debbie Carlton was a much better actress than either of them had ever considered likely, or she had had nothing to do with the anonymous letter that fingered her ex-husband.

“Well, we’re on the case,” said Jude, in a parody of a cop show. “Leave it with me. I’ll find out who sent that anonymous letter and, when I do, you will be the first to know.”

“Thanks,” Debbie grinned.

“Meanwhile,” said Carole, “if you could ask around in Fedborough…? You’re much more likely to find out something than we are.”

“I’ll put my mum on to it. If there are any secrets to be found out in this town, she’ll root them out. I will unleash the not-inconsiderable power of Billie Franks.”

“Right,” said Jude. She turned ruefully towards Carole. “Oh well. I suppose we’d better move on…assimilate a bit more culture. Though I must say, Debbie, I’m absolutely delighted with my purchase.”

“I’m glad you like it. If you don’t mind, I want to keep the exhibition intact until the end of the Festival…so if you could pick up the painting then…?”

“Suits me fine.”

“Let me just take your address.” She wrote it down at Jude’s dictation. Then, proudly, Debbie Carlton detached a red circular sticker from a sheet and placed it on the frame of Jude’s painting. “Looks good. The more of these, the merrier. Maybe it’ll convince people they’re missing something by not buying my paintings.”

“Yes…” said Carole awkwardly. “I, er…I think they’re lovely. I’m sure I’ll…er, in a few…Do you mind if I take one of these catalogues?” She was blushing at her clumsiness, but totally incapable of overcoming the habits of a lifetime to make an on-the-spot purchase.

“No, of course. And do take your Art Crawl maps.”

“Oh yes.” Carole picked up two of the folded bright blue sheets. “Thank you. So I’ll hope to be back…you know, to have another look…when I’ve made up my mind about the, er…”

They were interrupted by the arrival, unannounced as ever, of Billie Franks. She recognized Carole and was introduced to Jude. After the briefest of conversations, the two women left, Jude calling out to Debbie as they went, “Let me know if you find out anything about that anonymous letter.”

On the street outside, Carole still felt gauche and stupid. So much of her life seemed to have been wasted in introverted anger at her own gracelessness.

As a result, she was surprised to hear Jude murmur, “Well done.”

“Why? What’ve I done?”

“Very clever.”

“What?”

“Pretending you hadn’t decided which painting you wanted.”

“Oh?”

“Leaving the door open to go back and conduct further investigation. Nice thinking.”

Carole Seddon smiled, as if to say, Yes, it had been quite a clever idea, really.

? The Torso in the Town ?

Twenty-Seven

The Smokehouse Studio, as Andrew Wragg had left them in no doubt the previous Friday, was on the Art Crawl map, but Yesteryear Antiques, formerly Stanley and Billie Franks’s grocery store, wasn’t. Not that that stopped Carole and Jude from going inside.

The shop appeared to be unoccupied, so they had an opportunity to browse through the goods on offer. The word ‘Yesteryear’ should have been a clue that Terry Harper specialized in domestic antiques. There was a lot of Victorian kitchen furniture and equipment, instruments like patent apple corers, knife sharpeners and marmalade cutters. One table was devoted to old butcher’s tools, another to a rich variety of tea-caddies. There were besoms, washboards and mangles. Bottles of dark blue and pale green glass stood in ordered rows. On the walls, between multi-drawered apothecary’s chests and elaborate hatstands, hung old metal advertising signs, puffing the custards, beef extracts and health drinks of an earlier age.

Another side of the main room concentrated on relics of the outdoor life. Deckchairs with fading stripes stood alongside white-painted cast-iron tables and chairs. Fine salt-glazed chimney-pots held sprays of garden tools and farming implements, hoes, rakes, billhooks and fruit-pickers. There were elegantly shaped watering cans, wooden trugs and manual hedge-clippers.

Despite the profusion of objects, the impression was not of disarray. A designer’s eye had put everything in