The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut

looked like a Victorian conservatory. Though used by the pub’s ordinary customers – particularly on a fine June day when all the doors and windows were open – it could be shut off from the main bar area. This was now the ‘Function Room’, available for wedding receptions and other private parties. There was no way round the fact: the Crown and Anchor was doing really good business.

Though deprived of his traditional excuse for grumpiness, Ted Crisp was not about to change his habitual mien. From behind the bar he looked up gloomily at Carole and Jude’s entrance. “Two large Chilean Chardonnays, I assume,” he pronounced, in the manner of a newsreader reporting a tsunami.

“Cheer up, Ted, it might never happen,” said Jude.

“How d’you know it hasn’t already?” he demanded, as he handed the glasses across.

“Getting a lot of bookings for the Function Room?”

“Mustn’t grumble.”

“But you still will, won’t you, Ted?” That was rewarded by a grunt.

“What’s good for lunch?” asked Carole.

“Ed says the Dover sole’s to die for.”

“Ooh, that sounds nice.”

“Shall I take your order?” Ted reached for a pad of paper.

“Not quite yet. We’ve got a friend joining us,” Jude explained.

“Please yourself,” said Ted, in a manner that people who didn’t know him so well would have regarded as rude, and he turned to serve another customer.

In spite of the sunny weather Carole and Jude decided they’d sit inside. The alcove tables in the bar were less full than those in the sun and, although their conversation with Philly Rose was not exactly confidential, a degree of privacy would be welcome.

They had hardly sat down before she arrived, looking around the bar and waving when she saw Jude. Philly Rose was small, thin as a whippet, with almost ash-blond hair and surprisingly dark brown eyes. She wore a sleeveless eau de Nil top over white jeans and red Converse trainers.

Once they’d been introduced, Carole went to get the woman a drink, just a mineral water with ice and lemon. And they thought they might as well order food at the same time so all three opted for the recommended Dover sole.

As she returned from the bar, Carole saw that Philly and Jude were deep in conversation. She felt a familiar pang that was almost too resigned to be jealousy, just a wish that she had her neighbour’s ability to put people at their ease. For Carole dialogue rarely flowed, it was something that had to be carefully constructed and worked at.

But whatever intimacies the two women may have been sharing up until that point, Jude immediately moved on to the subject of Quiet Harbour. Carole began by saying how grateful she was for the opportunity to use the beach hut.

“No problem,” said Philly wryly. “I’m afraid I’m not going to need it now. And I need the money.” So she wasn’t attempting to hide her financial problems.

“But Carole did find something odd in the beach hut when she got there,” prompted Jude, and Carole repeated exactly what she had seen in the place.

“A fire?” asked Philly in puzzlement.

“Yes. A fire which had been lit underneath the floor. And which could have caused a lot of damage if someone hadn’t put it out. You didn’t notice that when you were last there, did you, Philly?”

“No, certainly not. Mind you, it is a month or so since I was at Quiet Harbour. We only went a few times after our rental had been confirmed. We went to kit it out with everything, but then…I mean, I’ve walked past it often enough since then with the dogs, but I haven’t gone inside. Not since…” Her silence was eloquent of the pain she still felt about her boyfriend’s departure.

Jude broke in gently, asking, “Have you heard much talk in Smalting about vandalism to the beach huts?”

Philly shook her head. “Nothing specific I can think of. I mean, there are always plenty of old farts sounding off in The Crab Inn about the disgraceful, loutish behaviour of the young, but it all seems to be pretty generalized, you know, how the country’s gone to pot since the war and how they should bring back national service. Anyway, that lot of old fogies would regard dropping a lolly stick on the prom as vandalism.”

“How many keys are there to Quiet Harbour?” asked Carole suddenly.

“We were given two when we signed for it. I presume the Council keep duplicates in case they need access.”

“Jude only passed one on to me.”

“Yes, well…” The blush on the girl’s cheeks stood out against the whiteness of her hair. “I had one and, er, Mark had the other.”

“So you reckon he went off with his when he left?”

“I don’t know. I expect he did.”

“Haven’t you looked through his things?”

“He didn’t leave that much and…” Emotion threatened. “No, I haven’t looked through his things.”

“So he probably still has got his key?”

Jude, whose brown eyes had been flashing messages to Carole to soften up her interrogation, interceded. “I don’t see that who had keys matters much, because the fire was clearly started from outside the hut.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was just asking for information.” Carole had got the bit between her teeth and was not about to back off from what she was beginning to think of as her investigation. “So, if you haven’t been in Quiet Harbour recently, Philly, presumably it wasn’t you who put down the carpet.”

“Carpet?” the young woman repeated wretchedly.

“Yes, the green carpet that was laid over the floorboards.”

“Oh, that carpet,” said Philly, although Carole felt sure she was hearing of it for the first time. “Yes, we had it ready to put down there.”

“But you didn’t put it down?”

“What do you mean?”

“It had been put down after the fire, because the carpet was unmarked. So, if you haven’t been to the beach hut since the fire, it means you can’t have put it down.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you had me confused,” said Philly, apparently relieved that she now understood the line of questioning. “Yes, I did put the carpet down. I’d forgotten. I just dropped in one morning last week when I was walking the dogs, and the carpet was rolled up in there, so I unrolled it and laid it down.”

“And you didn’t notice that the floorboards had been burnt through?”

“No, I didn’t,” replied Philly, having regained her self-possession.

Carole opened her mouth for another question, but caught the deterrent look in Jude’s eye and restrained herself. At that moment the direction of the conversation was diverted by the arrival of their Dover soles, served by a grinning and pigtailed Zosia who greeted Carole and Jude warmly.

When talk resumed, it was about the differences between Smalting and Fethering, a subject on which Philly Rose had some amusing insights. Though even humour could not disguise her underlying melancholy. She was in a state of shock, nearly two months on and still unable to come to terms with no longer having Mark in her life.

“Sometimes,” she admitted, “I do find the gentility of Smalting almost suffocating. It’s like being permanently at a posh dinner party. I’m constantly afraid of saying the wrong thing. And as a result there’s a strong temptation to say or do something totally outrageous.”

“Fethering can be a bit like that too,” said Jude.

“Can it?” asked Carole, genuinely surprised.

“Oh, come on, some of the types round the Yacht Club are pretty stuffy, not to mention all the old biddies who play bridge every afternoon.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Anyway, Carole and I aren’t like that,” said Jude with a grin. “We are representatives of the Bohemian sector of Fethering.”

Her neighbour didn’t think that was probably true, not of herself anyway. It was certainly the first time in her life that anyone had ever described Carole Seddon as ‘Bohemian’ and though she suspected that Jude was teasing,