much as the next person.
She and Carole had made flexible arrangements for meeting up again. The most likely event was that they’d bump into each other in the town, but if that didn’t happen, they’d agreed to home in on Carole’s Renault, parked up near the Castle, at three o’clock, four o’clock or five o’clock.
Jude had missed the three o’clock potential rendezvous, and was contemplating being there for four, when she remembered she had another assignation at that time. So sure was she that it belonged to another of Harry Roxby’s little games that she had almost forgotten about the anonymous letter.
Still, might as well turn up. There might be someone there. She might get some useful information.
Walking down the High Street, weaving her way through performance artists, Jude got out the letter once again. As she reread it, she became aware of a strangeness in the phrasing. The writer wasn’t actually promising anything. “
Jude crossed Fedborough Bridge, and walked along the dead-end of towpath. Exactly opposite Bracken’s Boatyard, another thought struck her. She’d heard the name of Bob Bracken, the previous owner who’d sold the premises to Roddy Hargreaves, but would Harry Roxby know the name? Didn’t the use of the words ‘Bracken’s Boatyard’ suggest that the writer was someone who’d been a resident of Fedborough for quite a while?
She swept back the curtain of grass from Harry’s hideaway, but there was no one there. She stared across at the boatsheds. Deserted. Though the bustle of the town in Festival time lay only across Fedborough Bridge, Jude felt very alone.
She looked along the towpath towards the bridge, now intrigued. Maybe the anonymous letter had nothing to do with Harry…Who else would she see walking along from the bridge towards her?
She suddenly remembered something she had overheard that lunchtime in the Crown and Anchor. Francis Carlton had been talking about why he’d come back from Florida to talk to the police. And Alan Burnethorpe had been very quick to suggest they might have been tipped off. Maybe the anonymous letter had…
There was a sound from behind her.
“Good afternoon, Jude. So you made it,” said a voice she recognized.
? The Torso in the Town ?
Thirty-Five
Lunch with James Lister had gone on rather longer than Carole would have wished. Towards the end, his arch flirtatiousness had given way to maudlin self-pity. Though Carole recognized this was an entirely understandable emotion from anyone married to Fiona Lister, she found it hard to be sympathetic. And she wanted to move on, find Jude and discuss her findings.
But James Lister’s long-winded leave-taking of Jean-Pierre, followed by his reluctant farewell to her – including an unnecessarily slobbery kiss on the stairwell of the restaurant – meant that Carole didn’t arrive back at the Renault till after four.
There was no sign of Jude. Frustrating; Carole might only just have missed her. Never mind, an hour more of the Art Crawl wouldn’t come amiss.
Carole didn’t see much she liked, very little that she’d give house-room to. She contemplated having another look at Debbie Carlton’s work. She’d really liked those watercolours, and had almost completed the mental processes involved in reaching a decision to buy one. But perhaps going that afternoon would be too precipitate. The Art Crawl had another whole week to run, after all, Carole reassured herself with some relief.
When she got back to the Renault just before five, there was still no Jude. Carole waited, then walked up to the small green outside the entrance to the Castle ruins, thinking her friend might be sitting there. But no sign.
She let a full half-hour elapse before giving up and driving back to Fethering. Couldn’t hang about any longer. Gulliver would want feeding and walking, apart from anything else.
As she drove down towards the coast, Carole wondered whether she should invest in a mobile phone. Jude had one, and for moments such as this they must be very useful. It’d be very easy to sort out misunderstood arrangements or to explain delays if one had instant telephonic contact.
She was a little surprised at herself, contemplating two luxury purchases so close together. A watercolour by Debbie Carlton and a mobile phone. That wasn’t appropriate for the Carole Seddon Carole Seddon knew and tried to love. Still, no need to rush into either extravagance, she told herself. Think about whether she really did need them.
When she had got back to High Tor and garaged the Renault, she fully expected to find a message on the answering machine to explain Jude’s absence. But there wasn’t one. She went next door to Woodside Cottage, thinking for some reason her neighbour might have got a cab back early from Fedborough.
There was nobody in.
? The Torso in the Town ?
Thirty-Six
“Your note,” said Jude. “Your anonymous letter to me, perhaps I should say…asked if I thought I knew how Virginia Hargreaves died.”
“And do you?”
“I’m pretty sure she didn’t die a natural death.” There was a silence. “Almost equally sure she was murdered.”
“And who do you think killed her?”
“I don’t think it was Roddy. In fact I know it wasn’t.”
“Why?”
“He had a pretty solid alibi for the weekend she disappeared. He was in France.”
“Anyone can say they’re in France.”
“But he was seen on to the ferry at Newhaven by the Rev Trigwell, and met off another ferry four days later by James Lister.”
“Ah. Of course, someone plotting to murder his wife could deliberately set up such an alibi and then catch another ferry back to England…”
“I agree they could, but from what you knew of Roddy Hargreaves – and the state he was in at the time – could you see him being that organized?”
“Perhaps not.”
Another silence fell between them. Not an uncomfortable one. The houseboat swayed gently as the tide of the Fether tugged at its hull. July sunlight spilled through the windows and reflected off the highly polished surfaces of the old dark wood and the brass fittings.
“So, Jude…if Roddy wasn’t the murderer…who was?”
“I haven’t worked it out yet. There are quite a few options.”
“That’s nice to know. Says a lot for the people of Fed-borough, doesn’t it?” A chuckle. “Incidentally, I was talking to Debbie…”
“Hm?”
“She said you’d been enquiring about an anonymous letter sent to the police.”
“Oh yes. Sent by someone determined to push the burden of suspicion on to Francis.”
“Have you got any closer to finding out who sent that letter?”
Jude shook her head. “Well, this morning I thought logic dictated that the person who sent the anonymous letter to me must, by definition, be the one who contacted the police. But now I see it was you who wrote to me…” She chuckled. “It seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” There was an answering chuckle. But it didn’t sound very amused. “I’ve got a document that I think might interest you, Jude.”
“Oh?”
