The Fethering Mysteries 03; The Torso in the Town

“No, my stuffs truly original. That’s why the bloody arts establishment has been so slow to recognize me for what I am. But it’ll happen, I never doubt that. And when my talent as a painter’s properly recognized, then I’ll be able to afford to go wherever in the world I want.”

Before they left, Carole and Jude took a detailed look at the work on show. Though they didn’t put the thought into words, both of them reckoned it would be a long time before Andrew Wragg was likely to get out of Fedborough.

? The Torso in the Town ?

Twenty-Nine

“I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, come on!”

What they were discussing was a Cream Tea. Cream Teas belong by rights to the West Country, where there is a tradition of meals featuring the local clotted variety. But the tourist industry has never been too picky about geographical exactitude, so all of Fedborough’s teashops offered the speciality, and the Olde Cottage, in which they sat, was no exception. When Jude made the suggestion, Carole had objected that she’d had a perfectly good lunch and tea wasn’t a meal she normally ate. Jude instantly overruled her and gave the order to the eleven-year-old waitress in black dress and frilly pinny.

Carole looked round the teashop with some embarrassment, fearing to see anyone she might recognize. Though certain that she wasn’t lesbian, she worried how deep the misinformation might now be engrained in the communal consciousness of Fedborough.

Jude grinned. She knew exactly what was going through Carole’s mind, but made no comment. Instead, she asked, “So where are we?”

“Well, we’ve ruled out the possibility that Roddy Hargreaves did it, haven’t we?”

“Yes, because that makes for such a boring solution.”

Carole deemed this answer to lack sufficient gravitas. “We have a better reason than that. A witness, the Rev Trigwell, who saw Roddy on to the ferry on the Friday, the twentieth of February, and who later saw Virginia alive in the Franks’s grocery. And another witness, James Lister; who picked Roddy up from Newhaven on the Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of February. Which, assuming our suspect wasn’t bouncing back and forth across the Channel like a yo-yo, would seem to provide him with an alibi for the time of his wife’s death.”

“Yes.” Jude beamed to greet the arrival of the underage waitress with their cholesterol-fest. Tea-pouring and the smearing of scones with cream and jam followed. Once they were settled into their food, Jude went on, “We may have got Roddy’s movements sorted, but we still need more information about what Virginia got up to that weekend. Who actually was the last person to see her…and indeed what was wrong with her? Remember, she was too ill to make her assignation with Alan Burnethorpe.”

“Yes. I must say,” Carole observed, “that the charms of Virginia Hargreaves – or Lady Virginia or whatever she was – seem to diminish with every new detail we find out about her.”

Jude nodded. “Sounds like Roddy got as rough a deal in the marriage stakes as poor old Jimmy Lister. Maybe that’s why they enjoyed drinking together so much, to commiserate about their mutual misfortune. You know, Fedborough’s track record on marriage doesn’t seem very good, does it? We haven’t met any happy couples here, have we?”

“Your friends the Roxbys seem OK.”

“Yes, so long as Kim agrees exactly with everything Grant says, they’re fine. Mind you, they’re new to the place. The creeping Fedborough infection hasn’t got to them yet.”

Carole wiped a crumb of scone from the corner of her mouth. “The one married person I’ve met here who seems absolutely devoted is Billie Franks…Which is rather sad, really…given that her husband doesn’t even know who she is.”

Suddenly Jude tapped her Art Crawl map on the table. “I’ve had a thought!”

“What?”

“We haven’t exhausted the Snoopers’ Charter yet.” She looked at the large face of the watch attached by a ribbon to her wrist. “Can you cope with a bit more art?”

“In the hope that it isn’t like Andrew Wragg’s, yes.”

“At the Listers’ last week Terry said that Alan Burnethorpe would be showing his drawings during the Festival, didn’t he?”

“Yes’ Carole nodded with satisfaction as she got the drift. And Joke Burnethorpe used to be Virginia Hargreaves’s housekeeper.”

“So she might well know about her employer’s movements on the weekend she disappeared.”

And,” said Carole triumphantly, “Fiona Lister also said last week that the Durringtons’ house was part of the Art Crawl. If Virginia Hargreaves had been ill, the local doctor might have known something about it. Whether he’d tell us, of course, is another matter. Hippocratic oath and all that!

“From what I’ve seen of Donald Durrington, medical confidentiality doesn’t seem to be at the top of his priorities. And his wife might be prepared to be indiscreet, anyway. They appear to be another mutually loathing Fedborough couple.”

Carole looked down at her map. “Trouble is, this only lists the artists who’re exhibiting. Doesn’t say who owns the houses.”

“We can nip back into Yesteryear Antiques. Terry’ll know.”

“Yes. Good.” Carole looked at her watch. “Art Crawl finishes at six, doesn’t it?”

“Hm. We’d better split up to save time. I’ll do the Burnethorpes, because I did meet them at Grant and Kim’s, so I’d have some justification for starting a conversation. You do the Durringtons.”

“OK.”

“Besides, better if we’re not seen together too much, eh?” Jude winked and giggled.

Carole didn’t giggle. She still wasn’t finding Fedborough’s error very amusing.

The stuffier, more traditional architects of Fedborough lived up in Dauncey Street. The more Bohemian feel of Pelling Street was entirely appropriate to the image Alan Burnethorpe tried to project, that of the imaginative mould-breaker, the architect as artist. And his home, Number 47, was an excellent testament to his skills.

As with the smokehouse, he had captured the historical essence of the building and enhanced it with the ultra-modern. But the effect was totally different. Andrew Wragg’s studio had started life as a simple shed structure and it was to that bareness of brick and rafters Alan Burnethorpe had returned. 47 Felling Street, on the other hand, had been built as a tribute to the success of an early nineteenth-century merchant, and that was the style which its restoration endorsed.

The long through-sitting-room which had been requisitioned as a gallery for the duration of the Fedborough Festival, was decorated in dark wood colours and purple, contriving to present overtones of a heavily upholstered Victorian parlour. But at the same time there was a sense of space, accentuated now all of the furniture had been removed to make room for art-lovers.

The two chairs and table which did remain were strikingly modern, minimalist confections of exposed wood and leather. But their colours toned with the others in the room, soothing away any danger of strident anachronism. In the same way, the brass light fittings on the walls, starkly contemporary in design, diffused a light that was golden, mellow and contemplative. Alan Burnethorpe certainly knew his job.

When Jude entered, clutching her Art Crawl map, Joke Burnethorpe was sitting on one of the minimalist chairs, dealing with a couple who had just made a purchase. On the table in front of her was a pile of catalogues. Unlike the photocopied sheets in Debbie Carlton’s flat, these were glossily produced, with the logo of Alan’s architectural practice on the front.

Joke was dressed in a v-necked white T-shirt, black jeans and clumpy black slip-on shoes. Such artless simplicity, Jude recognized, didn’t come cheap. A woman more interested in fashion than she was would have wanted to know the identity of the labels.

There was no question, though, that with her square-cut blonde hair and exquisitely judged make-up, Joke Burnethorpe looked stunning. She really did have a fabulous figure.

Joke was the kind of woman, Jude knew, whom all men would undress with their eyes. How generous,