The Fethering Mysteries 03; The Torso in the Town

the supporting beams buffed down till the fine light grain showed through. On one side of the roof the slates had been retained, on the other, the spaces between the bare rafters had been glassed in. These windows could be opened by a ratchet mechanism, so that a healthy breeze diluted the warmth of the July sun.

At the back of the large room, a wall had been built to slice off some of the space. Two doors in this presumably led to a bathroom and utility area. But the most striking feature of the studio was the old smoking kiln, a brick cylinder which tapered upwards like an inverted funnel till the chimney found its way out through the roof.

The large doorway in this structure had been bricked into a recess, which contained the matt-black pillar of a Scandinavian wood burning stove. The studio that Terry Harper had had built for his partner reflected the strength and the insecurity of his love. Andrew Wragg could haveno complaints about the working space that had been provided for him.

Everything was meticulously tidy. The untouched canvas on an easel in the centre of the room contrived to look neat, even the array of brushes and acrylic paints were somehow regimented.

Only the paintings themselves showed wildness and indiscipline. Terry Harper had described the work as ‘challenging’; the word Carole would have chosen was ‘dreadful’ – in both senses. There was a fury in the screaming splashes of colour across Andrew Wragg’s canvases. None of the shapes that struggled and strangled each other in the compositions was representational, and yet they were very evocative. They spoke of deep anger, and even deeper pain.

The artist himself also looked angered and pained. When Carole and Jude entered, he was sitting in a throne-like wooden chair, flicking restlessly through a design magazine. His eyes rose from the page to greet them.

“Thank God,” he drawled. “I was beginning to think the world had ended out there and nobody had told me.”

“I’m Carole and this is Jude, my…er…” Terry Harper’s recent misunderstanding about their relationship was still unsettling her. “…my neighbour,” she concluded firmly. “You remember, we met at…”

“At the infinitely dreary James and Fiona’s. Yes, I remember.”

Andrew Wragg seemed out of sorts, tired and listless. When they were on their own, it seemed, the partners reversed roles. Terry was the extravagant queen, Andrew the restrained introvert.

“Do I gather from what you said,” asked Jude, “that we’re your first visitors?”

“Yes. The avid art-lovers of Fedborough are somehow managing to curb their wild enthusiasm for my work.” He hadn’t risen when they’d entered, and now he slumped further into his chair. “God, it’s a dreary place. You two are not from here, are you?”

Carole shook her head.

“No, I remember it came up in conversation on Friday. Buggered if I can remember where you did come from, though.”

“Fethering.”

Andrew Wragg groaned. “That’s just as bad. Costa Geriatrica. The entire south coast is God’s waiting room, a repository for washed-up widows and washed-out maiden aunts. Why do you live down here?”

“It’s…convenient,” was the only answer Carole could come up with.

“Convenient for what?”

“Well…shops…the sea…the Downs. Anything you might need.”

“Assuming you don’t need intellectual or creative stimulus.” He turned his gaze on Jude. “And why do you live down here?”

She shrugged easily. “Everyone’s got to live somewhere.”

“Do you think you’ll stay here for the rest of your life?”

“I very much doubt it.”

Carole was amazed how much the words hurt her. She had come to rely on Jude too much. She was stupid. She shouldn’t have let her guard down. Life worked better for Carole Seddon when it was strictly circumscribed and self-contained.

“Where would you move to then, away from this rural mausoleum?” asked Andrew Wragg.

“Quite fancy Ireland,” Jude replied lightly. “Where would you go to?”

“London. If I stayed in this country. Otherwise, I don’t know. South America perhaps. Somewhere that’s got a bit of life. Somewhere where you don’t have to explain what an artist is.”

“You’re not seriously thinking of moving, are you?” asked Carole.

“If I could, I’d be off tomorrow.”

“Why can’t you?” asked Jude.

“Well, I…” He sighed and ran a hand through his short black hair. “There’s Terry and…That’s not going to last for ever, but…” He sprang suddenly from his chair. “God, I hate this place!”

Carole was beginning to understand the reasons for Terry Harper’s anxiety. It wasn’t just paranoia. His lover’s recurrent threats of leaving were real enough. The older man was living on borrowed time in the relationship.

“Did you know Fedborough before you moved into this place?” asked Jude.

Andrew shook his head. “No. Terry and I met in London. He kept saying he wanted to move back down here, but I didn’t think he really meant it.” Another gloomy shake of his head. “Now I know he did.”

Carole picked up on a detail. “You said ‘move back down here’. Terry had lived here before, had he?”

“Oh yes. Fedborough born and bred. Terry is a…what? ‘Pilchard’ is it they say locally?”

“Chub.”

“Right. A Chub.” He handled the word as though it were unwholesome. “So Terry thinks this is seventh heaven. He’s back where he grew up, sniggering gleefully at all the local gossip and intrigues. He loves it.”

“Whereas you,” Jude murmured, “from what you’ve been saying, don’t.”

“That is a very accurate assessment of the situation. Terry’s got it so wrong. He thinks everyone round here is tolerant of the fact that we’re gay. It’s rubbish. They’re all sniggering behind their hands at us. Harpies like Fiona Lister like to show how broad-minded they are by inviting us round, but she’s absolutely riddled with prejudice. She only wants us there as performing animals.”

“A role which, it must be said, you lived up to fully last Friday.”

“Oh, sure. They wanted a screaming queen, I gave them a screaming queen. Besides, I was very pissed. Only way I can get through an evening like that.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “Fedborough is about as tolerant of anyone different as a fundamentalist town in the Deep South of America.” He smiled crookedly at the two women. “Still, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”

Carole’s eyes blazed. She was about to put him right on his misconception, but Jude mimed an infinitesimal shake of the head. Not the moment to rock the boat. They were still pursuing an investigation; mistaken assumptions about their sexuality could be corrected at another time.

“If he was living in London before you moved down here,” said Jude slowly, “then presumably Terry never met Virginia Hargreaves?”

“Oh God, yes. He knew everyone in Fedborough.”

“Did he get on with her?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he had a lot to do with her. But she was part of his precious Fedborough. You see, even when he was supposed to be living in London, he came down here every weekend. His mother was stillliving up near the Castle. That’s one of the reasons why he said we had to move down here, so that he could be nearer to her. Then, when she popped her clogs, my understanding was that we’d hightail it straight back to London.”

He looked at them grimly. “Terry’s mother died six months after we moved and look…” He gestured round the studio, whose earlier charm had been diminished by his obvious discontent. “Here I still am.”

“So what do you think will get you out of Fedborough?” asked Jude gently.

“My talent,” he replied. “I’m bloody good. Nobody else is doing stuff like this. I don’t want you to think I’m included in the Art Crawl simply because I sleep with the guy who’s organizing it.”

“We never thought that,” said Carole. Mind you, now he’d planted the idea in her mind, it began to take root there.