The Fethering Mysteries 10; The Poisoning in the Pub

programmes. Television celebrities are all over the newspapers.”

“Yes, even The Times,” said Carole with an aggrieved sniff, “quite often has colour photographs of showbiz nonentities on the front page. It’s sometimes terrifying how downmarket that paper’s gone, you know.”

Jude wasn’t really listening; she was following a train of thought of her own. “No, I don’t think I have seen much about Dan Poke recently…”

“So in what way is that relevant?”

“Just thinking. I mean, OK, he’s been on telly, so he’s still a big name in a little place like Fethering, but I think it’s a while since he was really in the big time…”

“I repeat my question: in what way is that relevant?”

“I don’t know. He just seems to indulge in all the behaviour of a big star, when probably he isn’t that big a star.”

“Isn’t that how show business works?” asked Carole acidly.

“Yes, maybe…” Jude’s eyes strayed back to the book’s copyright page. “Huh, and he didn’t even write it himself, anyway.”

“What?”

Jude pointed out to her friend the words: ‘Copyright © 2001 Richard Farrelly’.

“So? Lots of show-business autobiographies have ghost writers.”

“Not so often for comedians. Particularly the stand-ups. They pride themselves on producing their own material.”

Carole couldn’t see that that was particularly relevant either, and their conversation moved on to other topics. But later, when Ted Crisp himself delivered their salads, Jude asked him, “Who’s Richard Farrelly?”

His face was still set in an expression which said he wasn’t going to engage in conversation with them, but he couldn’t see the harm in responding to that.

“Why do you ask?”

Jude indicated A Poke in the Eye on the table.

“Because Dan Poke got him to ghost his autobiography.”

Something that was almost a grin appeared through the thatch of Ited Crisp’s beard. “Richard Farrelly didn’t ghost it.”

“What?”

“Richard Farrelly is Dan Poke. Oh, come on, what are the chances of a comedian’s parents christening him with a gift of a name like ‘Dan Poke’?”

“You mean ‘Dan Poke’ is a pseudonym? Dan Poke is really Richard Farrelly?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Oh, Ited, while you’re here, could we just have a word about – ?”

But Carole was cut short. “Sorry, a lot to get on with.” And the landlord vanished back into the kitchen.

Jude sighed and looked across at her friend with sympathy. She’d detected that Carole was taking Ted’s brusqueness more personally than she was. But then Carole Seddon took everything personally. “Don’t worry. We’ll soon all be friends again.”

“I’m not worried,” Carole lied. “If he wants to play games, well, it doesn’t bother me. What I’m much more concerned about is where we go next in our investigation, having drawn a blank at the Cat and Fiddle.”

“Yes.” Jude took a mouthful of her excellent salmon salad and looked thoughtful. Then she said, “I wonder if we have drawn a complete blank at the Cat and Fiddle…”

“Hm?”

“OK, the pub appears to be under new ownership, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that the old owner’s vanished off the face of the earth.”

“Shona Nuttall,” said Carole.

“Exactly. I mean, she may have sold up the pub and taken off to spend the proceeds in well-heeled retirement in Tenerife or somewhere.” The recollection of the woman with her deep perma-tan encouraged this image. “On the other hand, she might still be living locally.”

“Who’d know that? Ted?”

“Possibly. Though in his current mood he wouldn’t tell us.” The skin around Jude’s brown eyes crinkled as she tried to nail down an elusive memory. Suddenly it came to her. “Zosia might have a contact number for Shona Nuttall. They certainly met when she was trying to find out what had happened to her brother.”

Given the slackness of custom in the Crown and Anchor, it wasn’t difficult to attract the bar manager’s attention. And yes, she did still have a home number for Shona Nuttall stored in her mobile. Though whether the ex-landlady was still living there, Zosia couldn’t say.

Jude rang the number straight away. It was answered by Shona Nuttall. When told that her caller wanted to know the circumstances of her selling the Cat and Fiddle, she said yes, she was more than happy for them to come and talk to her about it.

? The Poisoning in the Pub ?

Thirty-Two

“What’s your recollection of Shona Nuttall?” asked Jude, as the Renault purred sedately towards Southwick.

“Pushy. Full of herself.”

“You didn’t take to her?”

“Certainly not. She’s far from being my kind of person.”

Jude smiled inwardly. What Carole was saying was that she didn’t normally mix with pub landladies. And this from a woman who’d had a brief affair with a pub landlord. But Jude knew better than to make any comment on the anomaly.

“Anyway, you didn’t take to her either, Jude.”

“No, I agree.”

“Well, since we both feel the same on the subject, why did you raise it?” asked Carole, almost petulantly. The effects of the lunchtime Chardonnay had dissipated. Their lack of sleep the night before was catching up with both of them.

“It was just, talking to her on the phone…”

“Yes?”

“…she sounded different.”

The address Jude had been given was probably not far from the sea, but you wouldn’t have known it. Southwick was another of the interlocking sprawl of villages which make the area between Brighton and Worthing a virtually continuous suburb. And the house which Shona Nuttall owned was, like so many in that part of the world, a bungalow. Its dimensions were adequate for one person, but not lavish.

Carole and Jude were both shocked by the appearance of the woman who opened the door to them. She was undoubtedly Shona Nuttall, but totally transformed from the Shona Nuttall they had met not so long ago as the queen of the Cat and Fiddle. She was still of ample proportions, but whereas her body had previously been restricted by corsetry, everything had now been allowed to hang loose, and gravity had exacted its revenge.

Her large cleavage was still on display, but, without the engineering which had formerly thrust it upwards, had the texture of muslin and slumped like an old ridge tent. Her style of dress had changed too. Carole and Jude remembered her in a spangly top and tight trousers. Now she shuffled around in a sweatshirt and jogging bottoms. And she was wearing none of her bulky gold jewellery.

But it was in her face and hair that the change was greatest. Without any make-up, the skin was sallow and sagging. The flash of a gold tooth in her unlipsticked mouth looked somehow grotesque. And, unmonitored by regular visits to the salon, the colouring had grown out of her hair. Some had been carelessly swept back into a scrunchie, the rest hung, lank and grey, around her face.

When Carole and Jude introduced themselves, Shona Nuttall claimed to remember their previous encounter, but seemed to have little detailed recollection of the occasion. Still, that was perhaps to be expected, given the