Was she being hypersensitive to detect a lack of enthusiasm in Gaby’s tone? Was she regarded as a ‘difficult’ mother-in-law? In private, did Stephen and his wife giggle about her? Did Gaby groan every time he said that they really ought to see his mother?
“That’d be great,” the girl went on, still with not quite enough enthusiasm for her mother-in-law’s taste. “I’ll check with Steve. His diary’s always so much busier than mine. And then we’ll get back to you and sort out a date.”
“That sounds fine.”
After the phone call had finished, Carole felt restless. Though she had always loved Stephen, she still felt guilt for not being as maternal as she should have been. And now there was the challenge of forming a relationship with the next generation. She didn’t feel she’d been a great success with her own child. Would it be different if the baby was a girl? (Though Stephen and Gaby had had the opportunity at various scans to know the gender, they’d chosen not to.) For the millionth time in her life, Carole Seddon wished she could have a personality transplant.
¦
Wally Grenston’s old face creased into a grin as he handed Jude the coffee. It was in a bone china cup with a delicate design of shrimp-pink and gold. On the saucer lay a small silver spoon whose thin handle ended in a wooden bead like a coffee bean. The sugar bowl and tongs were similarly decorated.
The grin stayed as he sat back in his chair. “Let me enjoy this moment.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mim – that’s my wife…”
“I saw her at the hairdresser’s.”
“Yes. Well, she’s gone through her life imagining that, the minute her back’s turned, I am immediately entertaining some attractive woman…”
“Ah.”
“…and let me tell you, this is the first time it’s happened.”
“Right.”
He leaned forward a little. “Could you tell me something, Jude? Are you wearing lipstick?”
“No. I very rarely wear any make-up.”
“Oh, dash it,” he said, with mild regret.
“What’s the problem?”
“Just, if Mim came back, and she found a second coffee cup here,
“Do you want to upset her?”
He was affronted by the suggestion. “Of course not. I adore the old bat. But it doesn’t do her any harm to be kept on her toes.”
This seemed to him disproportionately amusing and, while he chuckled, Jude took in the room around her. The most striking thing was the number of awards it contained. In purpose-built chestnut-framed display cases stood cups, figurines, engraved glassware, abstract sculptures and calligraphed citations, all naming ‘Walter Grenston’ as their winner. Jude didn’t recognize any of the awards, but all their artwork seemed to imply success in the field of music, and this impression was confirmed by the white grand piano at the back of the room. The rest of the decor was busy and fussy; lots of little objects – photographs in elaborate silver frames, statuettes, vases and animals made of swirling coloured glass – were everywhere. Though her own sitting room at Woodside Cottage was equally cluttered, the impression could not have been more different. Every object in the Grenstons’ house looked as though it was dusted and had its alignment checked every hour on the hour.
They lived in Shorelands, a large estate on the west side of Fethering, whose denizens had to comply with a daunting number of local regulations, policed by a committee of residents. People had to be extremely rich to live there, so clearly during his musical career Wally Grenston had collected money as well as awards. The house was on one of the Shorelands Estate’s prime sites, and its picture windows showed a perfectly maintained garden leading down to the sea. In fact, the openness of the English Channel seemed at odds with the claustrophobia of the overcrowded room, which might have been more suitably set in the depths of a middle-European forest.
Having indulged his laughter to the full, Wally moved on to business. “So you wanted to know about Joe Bartos?”
“Yes.”
“And just to confirm again…you have no professional axe to grind here? This is out of pure curiosity?”
“Murder makes everyone curious, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe.” The idea brought a new seriousness to his manner. “Though for many, murder has been a signal to stop curiosity. Don’t ask any questions. Play safe. Do not put your head above the parapet.”
“Are you talking about during the war?”
“A lot of things that were true during the war are still true now. People do not change…enough…sadly.”
“You weren’t born in this country, were you?”
He shook his head, unoffended by the question. As ever, Jude’s directness worked its magic.
“No, I came here early in 1939, just before it all happened, but when it was already pretty clear what was going to happen. I was nineteen…one of the ones who got away.”
“One of the lucky ones?”
He smiled sadly. “I didn’t say that, did I? But, as things turned out, lucky, yes. I would rather have gone back to the world in which I grew up, but that world very soon ceased to exist, so there was nowhere to go back to.”
“Are you talking about Germany?”
“It was true of Germany as well, but that was not my country. My country – though some would say that a Jew does not really have his own country – is Czechoslovakia. Have you been there?”
Jude nodded. “A couple of times. Before the…what did they call it?…‘Velvet Revolution’?”
“They always have a new name for changes in my country. And they always have new changes. Once somebody renamed my country ‘The Protectorate of Bohemia ? Moravia’. I tell you, Czechoslovakia has had more invasions and occupations than you have had hot dinners.” He chuckled, trying to shift himself out of an encroaching gloom. “You wanted to know about Joe Bartos…So, if you see yourself as an amateur sleuth…”
“I didn’t say that I did.”
“Then why else are you so interested in this murder?”
“Well…”
“Anyway, if you
Jude shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m clearly not a very good amateur sleuth.”
“No, you are not. Do you not know where the name ‘Bartos’ comes from?”
“Spain, maybe…or…?”
Wally Grenston shook his head and clicked his teeth in exasperation. “No, no. You think that because everyone here pronounces the name wrong. With an ‘s’ sound at the end. No, it’s pronounced ‘Bartosh’. The name is Czech.”
“Ah. So you knew Kyra’s father back in Czechoslovakia?”
“No, I met him in England. And not that long ago. In Brighton there is a club for people who originated in my country. I have met Jiri there once or twice.”
“Jiri?”
“His real name. When he comes to England, no one can pronounce it or spell it, so he settles for ‘Joe’. Makes life easier.”
“Ah. And did you meet Kyra at the club too?”
He shook his head. “Not at the club. I’ve met her in Connie’s salon, and then once or twice when I went to her father’s house. But I did not go there very often. Mim did not like me going to Jiri’s house.”
Jude’s quizzical eyebrow was greeted by a huge laugh. “Mim does not like me going anywhere without her, remember? Does not like me out of her sight. She is afraid that, if she is not watching me, I am off serenading beautiful women.” With surprising ease for someone his age, he levered himself out of the armchair and crossed to the piano stool. His fingers instantly found the keys and started to play a wistful ballad. In a voice that was not
