The Fethering Mysteries 11; The Shooting in the Shop

you, that may change.”

“What do you mean?”

Polly opened her hands in a gesture of self-deprecation. “Just that I’m having a go at writing something.”

“A comedy script?”

“No, no, it’s more…” She seemed embarrassed to be talking about her writing. “It’s a book, I suppose. Well, it is a book, yes.”

“Have you finished it?”

“A couple of times.” Carole looked at her curiously, so the girl explained, “I mean I’ve got to the end a couple of times. I’ve finished two drafts.”

“Have you shown it to anyone?”

“To Piers. He says he thinks it’s terrific. But then he would say that, wouldn’t he? Mind you, unwilling as ever to give me unqualified praise, he says he doesn’t think it’d have much chance of getting published. But I’ve also shown the manuscript to a friend who works in a literary agency. She was quite flattering about it, though I’m not sure…Oh, I’ll finish another draft – which I nearly have done – then see what happens. And in the meantime keep looking for acting work.”

“Well, I wish you a lot of luck with the book.”

“Thank you.”

“Is it fact or fiction?”

Polly responded with a wry smile. “Bit of each, perhaps.”

“Ah. Contemporary setting?”

“No, I suppose I’d have to say it’s historical. About the past, anyway, and about how people reinvent their pasts. Most of us do that to some extent.”

“Do we?” Carole thought about whether she’d ever done it, and decided that yes, she had. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I don’t have to look far for people who’ve reinvented their past,” said Polly.

“Are you talking about your father?”

“Him, and others.” She gave a sardonic grin. “Anyway, I’m getting quite intrigued by history, you know. Digging back into the mix of truth and fantasy, finding out where things went wrong.”

“Went wrong for you, do you mean?”

“Good heavens no.” The girl laughed at the idea, then wryness returned to her voice as she went on, “I know where things went wrong for me.”

She didn’t let the thought linger or leave time for a supplementary question. “So maybe the book will make my fortune, change my life around. Huh, I should be so lucky. Anyway, for the time being, Piers is the only writer in our household. He’s starting to do quite well,” the girl said wistfully. “He’s had a few credits on television sketch shows. You may have seen the name Piers Duncton scrolling down at the end. And now a television sitcom of his looks like it might get commissioned. You know, he’s got very good contacts. He was in the Footlights at Cambridge, and that kind of network counts for a lot in show business.”

Carole made a possible connection. “So when he was at Cambridge, did he know Lola?”

Polly nodded. “Yes, they were in revues and things together. Did the Edinburgh Fringe, all that stuff.”

“Did you meet Piers through her?”

The girl shook her head. “Other way round. I’d met Piers before he went to Cambridge. In the National Youth Theatre. And somehow our relationship survived the three years he was up there.” She made it sound as if the process hadn’t all been plain sailing. “So I met all his Footlights mates, including Lola.”

“And was it through you that your father – or, rather, your stepfather – met Lola? You introduced them?”

Polly twisted her lips into an expression of mock ruefulness as she echoed her father’s words of a few moments before. “Guilty as charged.”

? The Shooting in the Shop ?

Eight

Carole was surprised how long she stayed at Jude’s open house. She was so busy nibbling Zosia’s exquisite nibbles, drinking more white wine and, to her amazement, chatting away easily to people (some of whom she even hadn’t met before), that she didn’t notice the passage of time. Only at the end of a long conversation with a retired geophysicist about the semantic history of the word ‘serendipity’ did she finally take a look at her watch. She was astonished to see that it was nearly five o’clock. The booze showed no signs of running out, and the crowd of guests hadn’t dwindled by much, but Carole thought it was probably time she left.

Her circuit of goodbyes took a gratifyingly long time and it was nearly six by the time she was sitting by the Aga in the High Tor kitchen. Gulliver looked up at her pathetically, hoping for an after-dark walk, but Carole was feeling selfish. She’d do the Sunday Times crossword first, and then take him out just on the rough ground behind the house to do his business. The dog couldn’t really complain; he’d had an hour’s thorough workout that morning on Fethering Beach.

Though The Times crossword was an essential part of Carole Seddon’s daily routine, she very rarely did the Sunday Times version, and its quirks were unfamiliar to her. She found her mind kept sliding away from the clues and her vision kept wandering abstractedly into the middle distance. It took quite a while for her to conclude that she was a little drunk.

But this realization did not generate the guilt which would usually accompany it. Instead, Carole felt rather mellow. In spite of her misgivings, she had really enjoyed the open house. She hadn’t had to explain herself, she hadn’t had to apologize, she had just chatted away to people. Not like Carole Seddon at all. Just like a normal person, in fact.

The mellow feeling stayed with her for the rest of the evening. She took Gulliver out for his necessary visit, and ignored the reproachful plea in his dark Labrador eyes for a longer walk. She had eaten so many nibbles that she only required a single slice of cheese on toast for supper. Then she watched some mindless medical drama on television (not feeling her customary guilt for watching something mindless) and caught up with the news headlines. She was in bed by half past ten.

Waking at about three with a raging thirst, Carole Seddon felt rather less mellow and started worrying again about Stephen and his family’s forthcoming Christmas visit. She was awake for over an hour.

As she lay there, willing sleep to return, she became aware of a light visible through her curtains. A strange, almost pinkish glow. Carole wondered if it presaged snow, and went back to sleep, dreaming of a White Christmas.

But the strange glow she had seen had another cause. The next morning Carole Seddon heard that there had been a fire on Fethering High Street Parade. Gallimaufry had burnt down.

? The Shooting in the Shop ?

Nine

Jude had heard the news in a phone call from one of her clients, and straight away rushed round to High Tor. Carole was miffed at not having been first with the information. Her head still a little fuzzy from the day before, she had taken Gulliver out for his walk before seven that Monday morning, and it was only by bad luck that she had chosen the route to the beach down by the Fethering Yacht Club and the Fether estuary. Nine times out of ten her walk would have taken her past the shops on the High Street, so she would have been able to see the destruction for herself. And also to spread the news.

As they sat down to coffee at the High Tor kitchen table, it turned out that Jude had little detail, except for the fact that the fire had taken place. “There’ll probably be something on the local news at lunchtime,” she concluded.

“I could check the BBC Southern Counties website,” said Carole, and scurried off to do so. Jude was amused