by Simon Brett
“But how did you discover that Robert knew about it?”
“Marie told me. I rang her that night after the engagement party.”
“You did? Where did you ring her from? Were you in Essex?”
“No. I was planning to go up the following morning. I was down here.”
Carole’s eyes sparkled in the gloom. “Mick, do you realize what that means?”
“What?”
“It means you’ve got an alibi for the time of Howard’s murder. Your call to Marie in Harlow. The police can trace where the mobile was being used from. If you were down here talking on the phone, there’s no way you could have been in Epping Forest, strangling Howard Martin.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said softly.
“And if Marie had told the police about your call, then that would have removed the suspicion from you straightaway. Why didn’t she?”
“I think she wanted to protect me. She thought that if the police knew I’d been in touch with her, it would make it easier for them to track me down.”
Carole wondered if that was the real reason. She reckoned that Marie Martin’s secretive nature, encouraged by her control-freak of a brother, had stopped her from saying a lot of important things over the years. Some of which would definitely have prevented murders.
Neither of them slept much that night. The weather was so mild that they didn’t feel the need to go back down to the cellar. They talked intermittently, half-dozing through long silences. And, as the June dawn rose over the Downs, Carole Seddon realized that she had spent the night talking to the father of her prospective daughter-in-law.
And they hadn’t discussed wedding plans at all.
Michael Brewer made them some breakfast, and Robert ate a little too. Then, at nine o’clock, the time when Jerome Clancy always arrived at his office, Carole rang through to him. Like so many from her Home Office days, his number was etched into the address book of her brain.
Jerome Clancy remembered her well, and was very interested in the story she had to tell about the miscarriage of justice against Michael Brewer. More than interested, excited. He asked how soon they could get up to his office in High Holborn.
They went all the way up to London in Robert’s Peugeot, Carole driving. On public transport there was still a risk of Michael Brewer being recognized.
Jerome Clancy was delighted to see them. They talked for two hours, and he took copious notes. As the conversation developed, he grew increasingly gleeful. This was exactly the sort of case he relished.
That afternoon, acting on information received, the police arrived at Leper’s Copse, and arrested Robert Coleman.
∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧
Forty-One
On that August evening outside the Crown and Anchor, Fethering felt more like the South of France than the South Coast of England. Global warming, the locals tutted, but they couldn’t help loving the warm weather.
Gita Millington had come down to stay at Woodside Cottage for the weekend, and had insisted on treating Carole and Jude to dinner at the pub as a thank-you.
“What for?” Jude had asked.
“I’ll tell you when you’re there.”
So after they’d loaded up with drinks, heard Ted Crisp’s latest joke about the difference between a fishmonger and a footballer, all ordered his recommendation of Fethering Crispy Fish Pie, and found a table outside, Jude said, “All right, Gita. Enough of this mystery. What are you thanking us for?”
“I’m thanking you for putting me on to the Michael Brewer story.”
“Well, thank you for all the research you did,” said Carole. “It really helped. And now, thank God, Michael Brewer has a chance of living the remainder of his life in peace.”
“In peace, and in some luxury, I would imagine.”
“What do you mean, Gita?”
“Compensation. I know no amount of money can actually make up for thirty years in prison, but he will be getting a pretty substantial sum.”
“Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Come on,” Jude urged. “Why are you thanking us for getting you to do our research for us?”
“I’m thanking you, because, the more I got into the story, the better I realized it was. So I put together a proposal for it and – ”
“What, a proposal for a magazine feature?”
“Better than that. A proposal for a book. A true crime book, following the whole story through from 1973 right up to the present day. And the great news is – I’ve got a publisher.”
“It’s been commissioned.”
“With, I may say, a very substantial advance.”
Jude leant across to hug her friend. “That’s absolutely brilliant!”
“I know, it’s great. Because, not only is it terrific to have got the commission, it’s also a new direction for my career. For a long time I’ve been wanting to get away from the grind of journalism – I told you – to write something that lasts more than the shelf-life of a magazine. And the book will achieve that. I’m going to write most of it in the next six months,” Gita bubbled on with excitement. “Then I’ll sit in all the way through Robert Coleman’s trial, add the finishing touches and the publishers will have it in the bookshops within a week of the verdict!”
Jude grinned at Carole, who knew she was being judged. Did she still resent Gita having been included in their investigation? She didn’t. Such worries seemed to belong to a very distant time. She smiled graciously back at Jude.
“And the good thing is,” Gita continued, “that Jerome Clancy’s also going to help me on the book. Obviously there are things he can’t talk about for professional reasons, but he’ll give me any assistance he can.”
“Which might mean,” Jude suggested slyly, “that you’ll have to have quite a few meetings with him.”
“I suppose I might.”
“Or has that process of consultation already started?”
Gita Millington looked coy. “Well, we have had the odd dinner…”
They caught each other’s eye and burst out laughing. And as she looked at her friend, beautifully dressed, beautifully made-up, glowing with professional and emotional confidence, Jude felt that the rehabilitation of Gita Millington was well under way.
Embarrassed now, the journalist wanted to move the conversation on. “But tell me, Carole, how are preparations going for the wedding of the century?”
“Absolutely brilliant.”
“And how’s the blushing bride?”
“Wonderful.”
“Except, of course,” said Jude with a little smile, “that she’s been coming to see me for a few sessions. She’s got trouble with her back again.”
The wedding was one of the most splendid that Fedborough Church had ever witnessed. The fourteenth of September proved to be a glorious late-summer day, contributing to the general feeling that nothing would be allowed to spoil the happy couple’s good fortune.
The bride looked gorgeous, in a Victorian-style cream dress. Though her bridesmaids were two beautiful and well-known actresses (and, incidentally, clients of her agency), there was no doubt who was the star of the show.
The bride’s mother and the groom’s mother were both transformed from their usual conventional (Carole wouldn’t have like the word ‘dowdy’) style of dress. Both had been taken shopping individually by the bride, who had pushed them to much greater daring than they would have demonstrated on their own. Marie Martin was in a simple suit of Burgundy silk, and Carole Seddon in a light wool dress and jacket in purple (a colour she would never have expected to see herself in this side of the grave). But, then again, she would never have expected to have had such girlish fun as she had had touring the boutiques with Gaby as her guide. Both mothers looked stunning and glowed with pride.
Jude also looked magnificent, a galleon of full-length yellow cotton in full sail. The straw based hat she wore could have provided perching space for a whole aviary of birds.
But a
n older generation was represented too. Phil Martin had volunteered to drive down to Villeneuve-sur-Lot and collect Grand’mère for the wedding. She was very frail and in a wheelchair, but looked splendid in a suit of pearl-grey silk. Though honour bound to keep saying how much better the service would have been in a Catholic church, and though continually correcting everyone who didn’t call Gaby Pascale, she could not hide the fact that she was enjoying every minute of the day.
Phil had another duty too. He had tidied up his act, had his hair cut and looked very handsome in his morning dress. Part of his transformation was due to a new girlfriend, who was present, resplendent in pale green linen. She was a strong-willed nurse, who was generally agreed to be ‘a good thing for Phil’. Jokes at the reception about her and Phil being ‘the next ones up the aisle’ were not denied with quite the vehemence that they once would have been.
Phil’s other duty was to give his sister away. There had been much discussion about this. After Howard’s death, it had been assumed that the bride’s uncle, Robert, would take on the task. But that was no longer possible – and indeed Uncle Robert’s name was not mentioned once during the wedding day. His trial had not yet taken place, but Jerome Clancy was confident the case against him was so strong that he would spend the rest of his life experiencing the fate to which he had condemned his former friend.
Marie had suggested to Michael Brewer that the job of giving Gaby away was rightly his, but he had demurred. Still shy about social occasions, he did not wish to draw attention to himself. Though hisrelationships with both Marie and Gaby were developing wonderfully, he was as yet unwilling to make them public. Nor did he want Howard Martin’s memory to be sullied; the old man deserved respect and gratitude for the way that he had brought up the girl he believed to be his daughter. So Michael Brewer was happy that Phil should give his sister away. For himself, all Gaby’s father wanted to do was to be one of the signatories of the register, to be a witness at the wedding.
He stood proudly in the church, clean-shaven and immaculate in morning dress.
Everyone said the service was wonderful. The hymns had been carefully selected, and the solos were sung by more of Gaby’s clients (and friends), whose understudies had taken over their matinees in West End musicals. The only slight criticism was that the Vicar of Fedborough, the Rev. Philip Trigwell, had gone on a bit. It was fine that he thought the institution of marriage was a good thing, but had he needed to point out that it didn’t necessarily suit everyone? And while endorsing the Anglican faith, had it been necessary for him to list all the other faiths which were equally viable alternatives?
But such cavils were quickly forgotten in the excitement of the photographs and the magnificent tithe barn reception. The meal was brilliant and the speeches excellent. The chief partner of Gaby’s agency spoke with wit and deep affection, but Stephen was not upstaged. Knowing the limitations of his oratorical talent, he had really worked on his lines, and the sincerity of his adoration for Gaby had the audience eating out of his hand. The best man, one of his work colleagues, was another professional whose anticipated string of jokes brought the house down.
Then there was dancing. Gaby and Stephen led off, as was very right and proper, but then almost everyone joined in. Carole was surprised to find herself whisked away by Michael Brewer, and Phil Martin even took Grand’mère for a spin in her wheelchair. David, who was rather drunk, danced extravagantly with his daughter-in-law. To Carole’s surprise, everyone seemed to find this endearingly amusing rather than embarrassing.
She and her ex-husband did, it must be said, behave impeccably. No one, who did not already know of the divorce, would have guessed there had been any rift between them.
But Carole could not pretend that she found it easy. And as she looked around the tithe barn, witnessing the unqualified love between Stephen and Gaby, the burgeoning rapprochement between Marie Martin and Michael Brewer, the fresh glow of happiness between Phil and his nurse, she felt a little wistful in the knowledge that nothing of that sort lay ahead for herself and David.
Still, three out of four happy endings wasn’t bad.
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Document authors :
Simon Brett
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