The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut

card and a newsletter. “Ah, now I am a fully fledged member of the Smalting Beach Hut Association. And aren’t I lucky? I’ve got my very own copy of The Hut Parade.”

She held up for Jude’s inspection the two rather smudgily printed sheets stapled together. It came as no surprise that the newsletter demonstrated the fatal giveaway of the amateur in artwork: a tendency to use too many fonts and colours in any document. She now felt pretty certain that Reginald Flowers did his own editing – and probably wrote the bulk of the newsletter’s content too.

Carole looked across to The Bridge to see if he was there to be thanked, but of course that block of huts was still shut off by police scene-of-crime tape.

There was something else in the brown envelope. She shook it out. Of course – her promised complimentary tide table for new members.

Once they’d opened up Fowey, Jude took the bright sunlight as an invitation to strip off again. The bikini was vibrant yellow this time, and once again she had run off across the sand to the sea. Carole took Gulliver – on his lead of course – for a walk along the shoreline.

When she drew level with the tented Quiet Harbour she looked surreptitiously towards it, checking for police activity. There didn’t seem to be anyone on the site, though a couple of patrol cars were still parked up on the promenade, their occupants presumably keeping the crime scene under surveillance.

It was just after twelve when Carole and Gulliver got back to Fowey. They found Jude dried off and once again dressed in what looked like a white Victorian nightdress, set off by a pink chiffon scarf. “I was thinking we might as well go to The Crab Inn straight away.”

“Isn’t it a bit early?”

“You were worried about it being too full. Sooner we’re in there, the better the chance we have of getting a table for lunch.”

“But what about Gulliver?”

“I’m sure The Crab Inn will have somewhere you can tie him up in front of a nice big water bowl.”

And so it proved. Gulliver was so busy lapping up water, he was hardly aware of his mistress going into the pub.

? Bones Under The Beach Hut ?

Twelve

The Crab Inn was so up itself it almost came out through the top. It was a pub only in name; the interior seemed to breathe the words ‘expensive restaurant’. Though there was a bar, it was not large, and the idea of someone coming in just to down a few pints seemed incongruous. The walls were painted in subtle shades of cream. The pictures hung on them mostly looked like – though probably weren’t – original nineteenth- century maritime scenes. There were also some very chocolate-boxy watercolours of local views – the gentle undulations of the South Downs, Cissbury Ring, a distant prospect of Chichester Cathedral, Smalting Beach at low tide. In the bottom corners of the frames of these were cards with prices and a contact number. Clearly the work of a local artist.

The Crab Inn staff, male and female, were dressed in black trousers and black shirts with nothing so vulgar as a logo on them. A man in black behind the bar looked up at Carole and Jude’s entrance. “Good afternoon. May I help you?” His accent was French and he spoke with that kind of obsequiousness that borders on disapproval.

“Good afternoon. Do you have a table for two for lunch?” asked Jude. It wasn’t how Carole would have phrased the question. She tried to avoid saying things that could be slapped down with a firm ‘No’. She would have favoured some circumlocution beginning, “I wondered if by any chance it was possible that you might…?”

“I’ll check the book,” replied the young man, with a scepticism that suggested they’d be lucky to find a vacant lunch table for two in this millennium. He looked almost disappointed as he was forced to admit that there was a table free. Nor was the table he pointed out to them tucked away in some unfavoured corner next to the door to the kitchen. It was actually set in one of the bay windows at the front, commanding a splendid sea view.

“If you’d like to order drinks, I will have them taken over to your table.”

“No, thank you,” said Jude to Carole’s considerable surprise. “We’ll have our drinks at the bar and then go over to the table.”

“Very good, Madame.” The young man looked slightly put out as he asked what they would like to drink. Checking The Crab Inn’s extensive wine menu, Carole and Jude were pleased to see that they had the same Chilean Chardonnay that Ted Crisp served in the Crown and Anchor, though The Crab charged nearly 50 per cent more for it.

While their drinks were being poured, Carole raised an interrogative eyebrow. Jude understood that an explanation was required for her insisting they should have their drinks at the bar, and nodded her head towards one of the other tables. There, sitting with a (no doubt overpriced) pint of bitter in front of him, sat Reginald Flowers.

He had yet to see them and both women were struck by the expression of desolation on his face. He looked terribly lonely. Maybe everything he cared about was in The Bridge and the police cordon that prevented him from getting there was the cause of his misery.

When they’d got their drinks and agreed with the young man in black to put them on a tab, Carole moved purposefully towards Reginald Flowers. After all, they’d come to The Crab Inn in the hope of gaining local information, and there in front of them sat the person who probably knew more about the hutters on Smalting Beach than anyone else. What’s more, his having left the envelope for her at Fowey provided the perfect conversational opening.

She thanked him profusely. “So splendid to have my first copy of The Hut Parade – not to mention my complimentary tide table.”

“Glad to welcome you to membership of the SBHA.”

“Honoured to be a member.”

“Did Dora hand over the envelope to you personally?”

“Well, no. I found it tucked into the bar of my beach hut.”

“Oh dear. Black mark, Dora.” Reginald Flowers took a small police notebook out of his blazer pocket and wrote something in it with a fountain pen. “I’ve told her before she should always hand such documents over personally. If she leaves them on the beach huts, they could be taken by anyone – stolen by people who aren’t even members of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.”

Carole’s instinct was to ask what ordinary member of the public might possibly be interested in the newsletter of the SBHA, but she restrained herself. There was something vulnerable about Reginald Flowers at that moment, and she didn’t want to dent his fragile self-importance. Instead she said, “Now I don’t think you’ve met my friend Jude…”

“I’ve seen you on the beach.”

“Probably with rather fewer clothes on.” Jude grinned at him and he grinned back. Carole was once again struck by the instinct her neighbour had for putting people at their ease.

He rose and stretched out a hand. “My name’s Reginald Flowers. I’m President of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.”

“Oh yes, Carole’s mentioned you. Are you a regular here at The Crab Inn?”

“Not really. Normally I take a packed lunch down to The Br – my beach hut – but, er, given the current circumstances…”

“Yes, it must be wretched for you not being able to get into your place,” said Carole. “Have the police given any indication of how long it’ll be before they grant you access again?”

“No, they haven’t.” And from Reginald Flowers’s tone of voice this was clearly a bone of some contention.

“Mind you, I’ve left them in no doubt that I should be the first to be informed when they do vouchsafe us any news. I am, after all, President of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.”

“Yes.”

“And, all right, I understand that when there’s been a crime committed, the police have a job to do.”