either.”
It was the Saturday morning. Her sitting room was as cluttered as ever, the original outlines of all the furniture obscured by throws, rugs and cushions. The windows were open and sunlight twinkled on the disarray of ornaments and artefacts that crowded on to every surface. From somewhere, wooden wind chimes made gentle percussion. To Carole’s considerable amazement, she found the sound rather soothing.
Though it wasn’t yet twelve, Jude had insisted on opening a bottle of white wine. “Help the thought processes.” Carole wasn’t sure about that. Her inbred puritan instinct told her that alcohol could only befuddle the thought processes. But it was undeniably pleasant, and there was an edge of decadence to sitting drinking wine on a Saturday morning.
“All right,” she said, “taking as our starting point the fact that Roddy Hargreaves didn’t kill his wife, let’s concentrate on those motives. Who had something against Virginia Hargreaves?”
“An increasing number of people, it seems. The more we find out about her, the less flattering the picture becomes.”
Carole started itemizing on her fingers. “Alan Burnethorpe had had an affair with her…”
“As had Francis Carlton. So, following the well-known principle that anyone who’s had an affair immediately wants to murder the other person involved, both men are very firmly in the frame.”
“And Debbie Carlton isn’t out of it. She was quite convincing in her doubts about the anonymous letter, but if she’d found out about Francis and Virginia…”
“Following the second well-known principle that any woman who’s discovered her husband’s having an affair immediately murders the other woman…” Jude found herself at the receiving end of an old-fashioned look. “Sorry. Sorry. I am taking this seriously – honestly.”
“So…Debbie’s mother’s also a potential suspect, I suppose…for…for reasons going back into Fedborough’s past,” Carole concluded lamely.
“So’s her father. Stanley. Remember, the last sighting we’ve got of Virginia Hargreaves was by the Rev Trigwell in their grocery shop.”
“That’s true.”
“And Jimmy Lister also went in and saw her that same afternoon.”
“Does that make him a suspect?”
“Could do. Remember, Virginia Hargreaves snubbed the dreaded Fiona.”
Carole snorted. “I can’t really see her in a Lady Macbeth role.”
“Urging her husband to murder? Don’t rule it out. Also, don’t let’s forget…” As she spoke, the image of the dismembered corpse in Pelling House cellar came to her mind. “Jimmy Lister was a butcher.”
“Yes,” said Carole thoughtfully. “You said the torso looked as if it had been neatly dismembered, didn’t you?”
Jude nodded, still subdued by the picture she had conjured up.
“You know,” said Carole, “I think we should talk further to James about that.”
“Mm.”
“He’s one of the few leads we have.”
“Yes.” Jude tapped the arm of her chair in frustration. “There is another lead we haven’t followed up, and I can’t for the life of me remember what it is. There’s something, someone’s been mentioned who might be relevant.”
“I don’t think there is,” said Carole. “I’m sure I’d have remembered.”
Once the words were out, she realized they sounded a bit smug, but Jude seemed unworried. “Then perhaps you weren’t there when the person was mentioned.” The frustrated tapping was now on her chin. “So maybe it was something someone said at the Roxbys’ dinner party or…” The brown eyes glowed and she snapped her fingers. “Bob Bracken!”
“Oh yes, I remember Roddy Hargreaves mentioning that name in the Coach and Horses. He’d owned the boatyards before Roddy, hadn’t he? But we can’t call him a lead. We don’t know if he’s still living round Fedborough – or even if he’s still alive. And we haven’t got any means of contacting him.”
“But we do. We know someone who knows him.”
“Who?”
“That’s why you don’t know the contact. You weren’t there. I had lunch in the Crown and Anchor and Ted Crisp told me he knew Bob Bracken.”
“Oh.” Instant permafrost settled over Carole.
“He’ll be worth following up,” said Jude, apparently unaware of the cold blast emanating from her neighbour. “Bob Bracken must know a lot of background stuff about – ”
The telephone interrupted her. Jude picked up the receiver. “Hello? What? There is someone here, actually, but…All right, I’ll take it upstairs.”
As she put the phone down, she raised her eyes to heaven. “Harry Roxby. Playing Cold War espionage games.”
Carole sat peacefully sipping her wine, lulled by the arrhythmic clinking of the wind chimes. The front doorbell rang.
“Could you get that?” Jude’s voice called from above.
It was the postman. There was a large Jiffy bag he couldn’t get through the letter-box. He grinned at Carole as he handed it across with three other letters. The package was heavy, felt like books. “Thought for a moment there I was getting my round wrong. Expect to find you next door.”
“Oh well, as you see, I was just…”
“Don’t apologize. Wonderful thing, friendship. Wish there was more of it around. Cheerio then. Isn’t anything for you today, Mrs Seddon, as it happens.”
As the postman walked cheerily away, Carole had a moment of doubt. Surely the rumour going round Fedborough hadn’t had time to reach Fethering? Surely the postman didn’t think that she and Jude…?
Briskly she pulled herself back from the brink of speculation. She was just being paranoid.
A new thought came to her. She was holding letters addressed to Jude. There was no way they would just say ‘Jude’ on them. There had to be a surname. She held inher hands the means of solving one of her neighbour’s enduring mysteries.
She hesitated, but only for a moment, and then she looked down. Ironically, the top letter
She shuffled the letters. On the second was printed ‘Mrs J. Metarius’.
What a peculiar name. Typical of Jude, that a revelation about her life did not resolve anything, only gave rise to more questions.
The main ones being: Who was Mr Metarius? What nationality was he, with a name like that? And where was he now?
Carole moved the top two and looked at the third letter, only to find a new obfuscation. This one was handwritten and addressed to ‘Jude Nichol’. The same name was on the Jiffy bag.
So she had two names. Was the ‘Nichol’ her maiden name? Or was it another married name? How many times had Jude been married? How many more names were going to turn up?
Alternatively, perhaps she only had one surname. Nichol. The letter addressed to ‘Mrs J. Metarius’ might have been misdirected.
Carole heard footsteps from upstairs, and guiltily shoved her neighbour’s post down on to the hall table. She felt soiled, as if she had done something cheap. Looking up at Jude coming down the stairs, she said awkwardly, “Just the post.”
“Thought it would be. He’s getting later and later on a Saturday.” Jude, totally unfazed by Carole’s discomfiture, swept past into the sitting room. “Don’t fancy another trip into Fedborough, do you?” she called over her shoulder as she shut the windows.
“Wouldn’t mind.”
“Harry’s being extremely cloak-and-daggerish, but he says he’s got some important information to give me about Roddy Hargreaves’s death.”
“What?”
