The Fethering Mysteries 11; The Shooting in the Shop

mitigation.

“When you talk of having ‘fights’,” asked Carole sternly, “do you mean actual physical violence?”

“God, no,” Piers protested. “I’d never hit anyone – and certainly not a woman.”

“Did Polly know about your new girlfriend, the one from the sitcom?”

“No, I’m sure she didn’t.”

“She wasn’t even suspicious that you had someone else?”

“I don’t think so.” But he didn’t sound very sure about it.

Jude picked up the interrogation, moving off on a sudden tangent. “Presumably Ricky and Lola know more about the progress of the police enquiry than you or I do?”

“Probably, yes. They certainly seem to have spent a lot of time talking to various detectives.”

“But have they passed any details on to you?”

He shrugged. “Bits and pieces. Lola usually tells me most things.”

As soon as he’d said the words, he wished he hadn’t, but Jude didn’t pick him up on them. “Has she said whether the police have found the gun which killed Polly yet?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t recall her mentioning it. Why would that be important?”

For someone with a Cambridge education, Piers Duncton could sometimes be surprisingly dense. Or so wrapped up in his own concerns that he couldn’t see the bigger picture. “Because,” Jude explained patiently, “if they did find a weapon, then the death could be either suicide or murder. If they didn’t, suicide becomes much less likely. It’s quite tricky to dispose of a gun after you’ve shot yourself.”

Piers acknowledged the truth of this, then said, “Oh yes, I think Lola did mention something about the police having found a gun in the ruins of the shop.”

Jude found this sudden access of memory somewhat suspicious and her scepticism didn’t decrease as Piers went on, “Actually, the more I think about it, the more I think Polly may have taken her own life. There were signs in the last few months, signs I can only recognize in retrospect. God, if only I’d picked up on them and got help for her, Polly might still be alive today!”

His outburst of emotion also seemed suspect to Jude. “So why do you think she killed herself?”

He shrugged hopelessly. “Depression. It’s a very cruel illness. Insidious. And Polly had suffered from it all her life.”

He now seemed to be echoing exactly what Ricky Le Bonnier had said about his daughter’s death. “Just a minute,” Jude remonstrated. “Only a few days ago, you sat here in this very room telling me Polly was always talking about how happy her childhood had been.”

“I know,” said Piers. “But when I said that I was thinking she had died in an accident, and I didn’t think I needed to tell comparative strangers about her history of depression. Now, though, now that we know she committed suicide, we don’t have to maintain the pretence anymore.”

We don’t know she committed suicide, thought Jude, but no amount of further argument would shift Piers Duncton from his stated belief that his girlfriend had killed herself. Jude felt certain he was behaving like that because he suspected murder and was trying to protect the person who he thought might have done it.

She also was beginning to think that Ricky had supported the suicide theory for exactly the same reasons.

And that the person they both wanted to protect was Lola.

? The Shooting in the Shop ?

Nineteen

Now knowing that Piers Duncton shared everything with his ex-lover, Jude was unsurprised the next morning, the Monday, to have a call from Lola Le Bonnier. But the reason for her making contact had nothing to do with Polly’s death. She wanted Jude’s help in her professional capacity.

“It’s Flora,” said Lola. “You know she’s been in a terrible state since…since what happened.”

“Yes. Has she taken a turn for the worse?”

“I don’t really know. But she’s now manifesting physical symptoms, which she wasn’t before. Basically, her back’s packed in and she doesn’t seem able to get out of bed.”

“Have you called the doctor?”

“That was my first thought, but Flora won’t hear of it. She doesn’t trust ‘those damned money-grabbing quacks’.” Lola’s impersonation of her mother-in-law was uncannily accurate. “She’s always relied on what are now called ‘alternative therapies’ – long before they were fashionable. In London, she’s got a network of acupuncturists and reiki healers, but down here…”

“I’m the nearest thing to an alternative therapist?”

“Exactly.” There was a slight giggle in Lola’s voice. Again Jude felt strong empathy with the girl, an attitude that clashed uncomfortably with the suspicions she’d been harbouring overnight. “I know it’s supposed to be holiday time, but would you mind coming to have a look at Flora?”

“Of course. I’ll be with you in as long as it takes.”

“I may have to go out, and I know Ricky has a lunch somewhere, and I’m not sure where Piers is, but Varya will be here. She’s the au pair.”

Jude knew that Carole would happily give her a lift in her immaculate Renault to the Le Bonniers’, but she didn’t ask the favour. She never liked to impose on her neighbour’s generosity when it was for work.

¦

Fedingham Court House had Elizabethan origins, still evident in the redbrick frontage and high chimneys of the main part of the house. But generations of owners had renovated and improved (according to their lights) the structure, so that the house had become a compendium of three centuries’ architectural styles. Jude’s taxi deposited her in front of elaborate, high wrought-iron gates which opened automatically after she had announced herself into the entryphone.

Though Fedingham Court House was impressive in size, there was nothing daunting about it. At the back of the grounds was farmland, which melted upwards into the soft hazy grey undulations of the South Downs. The gravel circle in front, on which stood the Mercedes 4?4 and a brand-new Mini, was a little untidy. The garden too was welcomingly unkempt, and a child’s swing hanging from a tree emphasized the homely impression. For the kind of person who could afford it – which presumably Ricky Le Bonnier could – it was the perfect family house.

The front door was opened before Jude reached it by a young dark-haired woman she didn’t recognize but assumed correctly must be Varya. The au pair held a sleeping Henry in her arms and round one side of her legs peered the mischievous face of Mabel, excited to see one of the few people to whom she vouchsafed the great honour of her friendship. Round the other side of the au pair peered an equally curious Dalmatian.

“Hello, Mabel,” said Jude. “And what’s the dog called?”

“Spot the Dog.” The girl spoke with the seriousness of a child who’d spent more time with adults than with her own generation. Not hooded and scarfed as she had been at the swings by Fethering Beach, she was revealed to have wispy hair so blond as to be almost white, a striking contrast to her bright brown eyes.

“And is Spot the Dog the one who’s just had puppies?”

“No, he’s a boy dog. Boy dogs can’t have babies. Nor can boy men.”

“Ah, thank you for telling me that. So what’s the name of the lady dog?”

“You don’t say ‘lady dog’. You say ‘bitch’.”

Jude stood corrected and exchanged a grin with the au pair. “So what is the name of the bitch who’s had the puppies, Mabel?”

“She’s called Spotted Dick.”

“But isn’t Dick a boy’s name?”

“Yes, it is. So she shouldn’t be called Spotted Dick. Daddy chose the name. Daddy’s sometimes very silly.” But it was clear from her tone that Mabel approved of her father’s silliness. “Would you like to see Spotted Dick’s puppies?”

“Yes, please.”

Jude was led from the hall, which was heavily garlanded with decorations and featured a ceiling-high