by Simon Brett
Again, this sally of Rotarian wit fell on deaf ears.
‘What did you do?’ The question was asked in good English, with only slight Scandinavian singsong intonation.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What did you do for your working life here in Fedborough?’
‘Oh.’ James Lister seemed a little thrown by the question. ‘I was the local butcher.’
They walked up to the Castle ruins, and James Lister gave them a potted history of the siege of Fedborough during the Civil War. ‘I like to see myself as a Cavalier rather than a Roundhead – though, if you got my wife on to the subject, she’d say I was more of a bonehead!’
The Japanese couple, who didn’t have much English, had by now caught on to the idea that their guide was telling jokes, and greeted each sally with disproportionate hilarity. The rest of the group, who understood exactly what he was saying, was silent. The couple with the toddler had melted away in the Castle grounds and weren’t seen again.
From the Castle, James Lister led his party along Dauncey Street, at right angles to the High Street. ‘This road, being at the top of the town with views down to the sea at Fethering, has always been one of the most exclusive residential areas of Fedborough. It was here, as you can see from all these fine façades, that the successful merchant traders of the early nineteenth century chose to build their mansions. And Dauncey Street is still a magnet for property buyers, commanding some of the highest prices in the area. Many of the leading lights of the town live here. And,’ he concluded coyly, ‘guess where I live?’
A Scandinavian voice, apparently not understanding the principle of the rhetorical question, asked, ‘Where?’
‘I actually live here. In fact, we are standing right outside my house.’ He put his arm round Jude’s ample waist and drew her face to his. Then, with elaborately manufactured anxiety, he sprang apart from her. ‘Oops, better be careful! The wife might see!’
The Japanese couple laughed immoderately. The rest of the group shuffled their feet. Jude felt residual distaste from his beer-breath and the scratch of his white moustache.
‘This is Pelling Street, which also, as you see, contains some fine examples of Georgian and Victorian architecture. Pelling Street has always had an inferior status to Dauncey Street . . . though some of the residents don’t see it that way. They’ve even been heard to express the view that Pelling Street is better than Dauncey Street.’ He chuckled conspiratorially, and added in an exaggerated whisper, ‘They are of course wrong.
‘Pelling Street has always had a slightly Bohemian reputation. The respectable people of Fedborough live in Dauncey Street. Down here you get more painters, photographers and people like that. At least two of the houses in Pelling Street were reported to be brothels during the early nineteenth century.’ The way he juxtaposed the two ideas left no doubt about James Lister’s views on artists.
‘Some of you, of course, may have heard of Pelling Street recently on the television or radio, because of the macabre discovery that was made here a few days back. The house in question is Pelling House just along there on the left, with the big white pillars. I would ask you, as we go past, not to snoop too obviously. There is a family in residence at the moment, and of course we wish to preserve their privacy.’
Again the stage whisper was brought into play. ‘On the other hand, I would point out that at the front of the house there are ventilation grilles from the cellar, so if you lean down and cop a look through there, you’ll be able to see the actual place where the Fedborough torso was found.’
James Lister smacked his lips with relish. The Japanese couple nearly wet themselves.
‘Down the bottom of the High Street here we have some fine old shops, of which this, in my view, is the finest. Had you been here five years ago – even three years ago, the sign outside would not have been advertising an estate agents. It would have said “John Lister & Sons, Purveyors of Fine Meat Since 1927”. The John Lister in question was the father of yours truly, and very fine meat it was too . . . before any of this BSE nonsense put people off a nice bit of beef on the bone.
‘Next door here, what is now rather quaintly called “Yesteryear Antiques” used to be the local grocer’s. And behind the shop, if you look up the alley there, what has now been converted into a bijou artist’s studio used to be the smokehouse for our shop, where we cured our own bacon and fish and all kinds of other produce.
‘Right here we have what used to be the local bakery. Everything was home-made and fresh-baked every day. But now do I need tell you what we have there instead?’
‘No,’ replied the Scandinavian who didn’t understand rhetorical questions.
‘We have,’ James Lister continued, ignoring him, ‘another antique shop! “Bygones and Bric-à-Brac”. Which is all very nice for the tourists, I dare say, but isn’t so great for the people who live here. Because now, instead of walking down the road to get our meat and eggs and cheese and bread, we have to get into our cars and drive all the way to some out-of-town Sainsbury’s or Tesco’s and load up with exactly the same stuff as you could buy in any other supermarket in the country.
‘Shopping’s no longer a personal experience. You used to have businesses that passed from father to son, everyone in the family involved, real skills being developed actually on the job, without any of these meaningless college qualifications and . . .’
Realizing that he was well astride his hobby-horse, James Lister reined himself in, breathing heavily.
‘Anyway, on we go. Down towards Fedborough Bridge. The river – which is called the Fether – is still tidal for another four or five miles upstream. It reaches the sea at Fethering, and twice a day the tides wash up and down, so there’s considerable variations in the water level. Which is why, as you see, the houseboats along there are moored with rings around those tall poles, so that they can ride up and down with the tide.
‘Now, although some of the houseboats look as if they’re about to sink into the river for ever, they are in fact all still inhabited by various Fedborough characters. The one nearest to us is, as you can see, the posh one. It’s a very fine modernization of a purpose-built Edwardian houseboat – kind of place where King Edward VII himself might have sneaked off for a dirty weekend with Lillie Langtry. It’s now the offices of a local architect. He’s another Chub, like me, actually . . . though I don’t know whether or not he uses his houseboat for dirty weekends.’
More merriment from the Japanese. And from the literal-minded Scandinavian, ‘Is it because there is so much mud on the riverbank that you call the weekend dirty . . . ?’
The Pelling Arms had two bars, the back one refined and elegant for hotel residents and the front one, the Coachman’s Bar, more functional for the townsfolk. Since people had drunk there since the eighteenth century, it might have been expected that as many old features as possible would have been preserved, but that wasn’t the way the hotel’s latest designers had seen things. They had panelled over the old brick walls and wooden beams, and superimposed on to this a structure of false beams. From a hatstand by the log-effect gas fire hung a highwayman’s caped cloak and a few tricorn hats. On shelves were piled pieces of strapped leather luggage, dating from at least a hundred years later than the garments. Framed on the walls were ancient bills of fare and price lists for drinks, as well as prints of hunting scenes or of rubicund Dickensian coachmen cheerily flicking whips over their enthusiastic horses.
To Carole and Jude it all seemed a bit perverse, making so much effort to dress up a genuine eighteenth-century bar as a contemporary designer’s idea of what an eighteenth-century bar should look like.
James Lister had insisted they have a drink with him. He’d said the same to all of the group, but did little to disguise the fact that Carole and Jude were the ones he wanted to stay. Just Jude really, was Carole’s instinctive thought.
The offer of a drink had followed a little ritual, which again felt like a regular part of James Lister’s Town Walk
routine. He’d made the ending of the tour very precise, leading them all back into the Pelling Arms courtyard, and announcing, ‘Well, that’s it. As you’ve probably gathered, I’m extremely proud of this town, and I hope I’ve given you some interesting insights into its history. Do come and see us again – we’re friendly folk in Fedborough – enjoy the rest of your day and remember: be good, and if you can’t be good, be careful.’
The roar of uncomprehending laughter from the Japanese couple was followed by an awkward moment of silence. Then one of the Scandinavians reached into his pocket, prompting a bit of wallet-fumbling from the others. James Lister let the man come all the way up to him, proffering a fiver, before he said, ‘No, thank you. I do these Town Walks for the pleasure, not the money. I won’t accept your thanks in folding form, but if you were to suggest thanking me in liquid form, well, that’s another matter altogether.’
His syntax, however, was too confusing for the Scandinavians. Not understanding that he was asking them to buy him a drink, they backed off in some confusion. Within seconds, the rest of the group seemed also to have vanished.
‘Oh,’ said James Lister, somewhat put down. ‘Have to buy myself a drink then. Will you young ladies . . . ?’
‘I’ll get them,’ said Jude, leading the way into the Coachman’s Bar. ‘What would you like, James?’
‘Just say it’s a pint of Jimmy’s usual.’
Jude relayed the message. Unfortunately, there was a new barman on duty and James had to spell out that his usual was ‘a pint of Fedborough, in a jug’. Without consulting Carole, Jude also ordered two large whites.
James Lister took a long swallow from his pint, then did an elaborate lip-licking and moustache-wiping routine, before saying, ‘Ah, that hits the spot.’ It was not spontaneous; it was learned behaviour. Both women felt pretty sure that, as a boy, James had watched his father John Lister go through exactly the same ritual.
He looked mischievously from side to side. ‘Well, aren’t I the lucky one – a thorn between two roses, eh? The old animal magnetism doesn’t seem to have let me down, does it?’
The Japanese couple were no longer there to laugh at this sally, so he cleared his throat and went on, ‘No, very nice to see you attractive young ladies.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Carole frostily. ‘We’re not young, James.’
‘Jimmy, please. But let me tell you, when you get to my age, every woman looks young. And attractive. Except the wife, of course,’ he concluded with a predictable guffaw.
Jude cut through the flannel. ‘Have you seen Roddy Hargreaves recently?’
‘He was in the Coach and Horses lunchtime Friday. Didn’t see him in the evening, because I was on duty. The wife was giving one of her Friday dinner parties. You haven’t met Fiona, have you?’ They shook their heads. ‘A treat in store, I assure you. But Roddy, Roddy, let me think . . . Oh, yesterday I was off doing a Rotary fundraiser, so I didn’t see the old devil then either.’
‘But he’s quite likely to be in the Coach and Horses now, is he?’
‘Imagine so. Virtually has his camp bed and sleeping bag behind the counter in there.’ A chuckle. ‘I might go along and join him for a pint later.’ He consulted his watch and changed his mind. ‘Or maybe not. Fiona does the full works for lunch on Sunday. More than my life’s worth to be late for that, eh?’ He followed this with another meaningless chuckle.
Jude drained her glass. ‘Well, thank you so much, James, for—’
‘Erm . . .’ He seemed to want to detain them.
‘Sorry?’
‘I mentioned my wife gave a dinner party on Friday . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s something she does every Friday, you know.’
‘Oh?’
‘Roddy’s coming to the next one. It’s his birthday, so I actually persuaded Fiona to let me invite him.’ The implication was that James Lister’s wife didn’t share his enthusiasm for Roddy Hargreaves. ‘And the thing is . . .’ He seemed to be having difficulty getting the words out. ‘Fiona’s always very interested in new people . . . I wondered whether you two would care to join us next Friday as well . . . ?’
Carole flushed. ‘Oh, I don’t think I could possibly—’
‘Yes,’ said Jude. ‘We’d like that very much.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘Odd, isn’t it,’ she said, as they walked from the Pelling Arms along Pelling Street, ‘how helpful everyone in this town is. For our investigation.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Carole. ‘Are you worried about a conspiracy of helpfulness?’
‘Well, think about it. We no sooner get a possible contact who may know something relevant about the mysterious torso than we get a chance to talk to them. You ring Debbie Carlton, she asks you round. We’re told Roddy Hargreaves frequents the Coach and Horses; first time we go in there, we meet him.’
‘You meet him.’
‘All right. Doesn’t change my point, though. Then for no apparent reason, James Lister, whom again we’ve hardly met, invites both of us round to dinner when we’ll get another chance to see Roddy Hargreaves. To top it all, we’re now going – by invitation – to Pelling House, the scene of the crime . . . or at least the scene of the body’s discovery.’
‘Yes, when you spell it all out, it does sound a bit coincidental, I agree. So is this a conspiracy theory you’re putting forward?’
‘I don’t know. Fedborough’s a small town. Everyone seems to know each other’s business. Maybe they’re all just curious. Maybe they think we have some information about the case they don’t.’
‘Mm.’
‘Or maybe they’re just trying to find out exactly how much we do know about the case.’
‘That would imply they’ve got something to hide.’
Jude’s lips pursed into a wry grin. ‘Somebody’s definitely got something to hide. Even if we’re not talking about murder, the law still takes a pretty dim view of postmortem mutilation of corpses.’
‘So what do you think we should do about it?’
‘Ooh, nothing. When you’ve got a favourable wind, you don’t sail in the opposite direction.’
But inside the Coach and Horses, they found their favourable wind had dropped. Roddy Hargreaves wasn’t there.
They walked further along Pelling Street to Pelling House. Jude stepped up the stone steps between the white pillars and raised the large brass doorknocker.
Grant and Kim Roxby didn’t agree about Harry. That was clear as soon as Carole and Jude arrived. They were ushered into the room where the dinner party had taken place. The remains of a large Sunday lunch were on the table. There was no sign of any children.
‘Jude you remember . . . ?’ said Kim.
‘Of course.’
‘And this is her friend Carole.’
Grant reached across to shake her hand. He was polite, but there was a tension between husband and wife, as if they had been interrupted in the middle of a row.
Grant had just opened a second bottle of red wine. He waved it as an offering to his guests. They both refused. He topped up his glass, and sat back in his fine old carving chair. He had the look of a man who intended to drink through the afternoon. His face looked tired, and the dyed chestnut hair accentuated its paleness.
‘I know why you’ve come, Jude,’ he said, ‘and I can’t pretend that I’m very much in favour of the idea. If Harry does need help, counselling, whatever – and I’m not sure that he does – I think it should come, with no disrespect to you, from a professional.’
‘I’m just going to talk to him, Grant. It can’t do any harm. And if it doesn’t do him any good, then you still have the option of consulting a professional.’
He didn’t look convinced. ‘Oh, come on,’ said his wife. ‘Remember those group sessions Jude conducted out in Spain. You found those really helpful.’
‘Yes, perhaps, at the time.’ The way he spoke made it clear that, even though his wife was still intrigued by the
idea. New Age consciousness-raising was another enthusiasm Grant Roxby had put behind him. ‘But we are dealing with one of our children here. We want the best for him.’
‘Are you suggesting Jude wouldn’t provide the best?’ Carole was no more an advocate of alternative therapies than Grant was, but she objected to what she felt was a slight to her friend.
Daunted by the sternness in her pale blue eyes, he backtracked. ‘I’m sorry. Do what you think’s right, Kim,’ he said with a resigned shrug and a long swallow from his wine glass.
His wife took Jude off to find the troubled teenager. Grant still looked rather petulant, a spoilt child whose request had been refused, but he had sufficient manners to gesture Carole to a dining-room chair and wave the wine bottle again. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure, thank you. I’ll be driving later.’
‘Oh, right.’
There was a silence between them. Grant Roxby was having difficulty hiding displeasure at this interruption to his Sunday afternoon. But he managed to dredge up a bit more conversation. ‘Are you a therapist like Jude then, Carole?’
‘Good heavens, no.’
The vehemence with which she spoke gave him hope. Perhaps she was on his side after all. ‘When I was growing up,’ he said, ‘the first port of call wasn’t a therapist or a counsellor or a psychologist. If you’d got a problem, you sorted it out for yourself.’
‘That’s how I was brought up too,’ Carole agreed.
‘Built up self-reliance, that approach.’ He gestured round the splendour of Pelling House. ‘I wouldn’t have all this if I’d gone running for help every time I hit a problem in my professional life – or in my private life, come to that. God helps those who help themselves.’