by Simon Brett
‘That would suit me. The Crown & Anchor?’
‘Ooh, I think not. Anything that happens in the Crown & Anchor is shared within seconds by le tout Fethering. I would advocate somewhere a little further off the radar.’
‘Fine. You tell me where.’
‘I could give you a lift there … since you don’t have a car.’
‘How do you know I don’t have a car?’
‘If you had a car, why would you be accepting Burton St Clair’s offer to drive you home on Tuesday?’
‘Fair enough. When do you want to meet?’
‘When you like, Jude. The end at which I am is permanently loose these days.’
‘I could do this evening.’
‘How serendipitous. So could I. Tell me when and I’ll be outside Woodside Cottage at the appointed hour.’
‘Six?’
‘Perfect.’
Jude had an hour to bathe and change clothes. Megan and Morden needed cleansing from her body. And the bones within that body needed the chill of Southern Rail thawed out of them.
She didn’t dress with any particular thoughtfulness for her meeting with Oliver Parsons. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.
Somehow, within the hour she’d had before he was scheduled to arrive, she didn’t find time to get back to Detective Inspector Rollins.
Oliver Parsons appeared at the appointed hour in a black Range Rover which looked huge in the street outside Woodside Cottage. He escorted Jude rather gallantly from her front door to the passenger side. Not wishing to repeat her sartorial insouciance of the Tuesday, she wore a thick woollen coat. And she needed it. In her brief journey to the car the air stung her cheeks. Inside, of course, all was toasty warmth.
‘Am I allowed to know where we’re going?’ she asked once they were under way.
‘The Hare & Hounds at Weldisham. Do you know it?’
‘Oh yes.’ The pub had featured prominently in one of Carole and Jude’s earlier investigations, which had been started by the discovery of some human bones in a barn near the village.
But when she and Oliver entered the Hare & Hounds that cold January evening, Jude saw that it had had yet another makeover. When she first saw it, the place had been all old tennis rackets, 1930s novel and pike in glass cases, in the style of a country house weekend party. On a more recent visit she had found the interior and the staff liveried in pale grey. Now everything was consciously mismatched: tables in a variety of sizes whose scrubbed surfaces were a colour chart of different wood tones, and a gallimaufry of different wooden chairs.
But with each incarnation of the Hare & Hounds, one trend was constant. The bar got smaller and the restaurant got bigger. Less and less were country pubs venues where the locals might slip in for a pint. Managements knew that their profit lay in the food.
Oliver Parsons, who was clearly used to squiring women around, found them seats at a table near the open fire. Jude, grateful for its heat and still remembering Southern Rail, kept her coat on while he went to get their drinks. He returned with a large New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and a pint of Sussex Gold.
Toasts completed, he said, ‘On the phone I mentioned rumours of a strong police presence in Fethering. Have you seen any sign of them?’
‘Oh yes. They’ve been in touch with me.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘Last person to be seen with the deceased. Come on, Oliver, surely your reading of Golden Age crime fiction has taught you that someone in that position is bound to be the police’s first suspect … at least until eliminated from their enquiries.’
‘And have you been “eliminated from their enquiries”?’
Jude wished she could have given a more positive reply than ‘I have to hope so.’
‘Hm. So what were the circumstances of you being the last person to see him alive?’
‘Well, you heard him offering me a lift home?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t hear whether or not I accepted the lift?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, I knew it was out of his way, so I walked home.’ While the facts were accurate, Jude knew that she was lying by omission.
‘So how come you were the last person to see him alive?’
‘As soon as they’d locked up, the two librarians went off in Di’s car. I was still there, saying goodbye to Burton. Then I walked home.’
‘In the pouring rain?’
‘Yes.’
He seemed about to follow on from this, but fortunately he didn’t. Instead, he changed tack and asked, ‘Presumably, when the police spoke to you, they didn’t mention the word “murder”?’
‘Oh no, they’re far too canny for that. “Just making routine enquiries.”’ Again, she would have preferred to be more certain that they were just routine enquiries. ‘They haven’t talked to you yet, have they, Oliver?’
He looked a little shaken by the suggestion. ‘No, why should they?’
‘Well, presumably, if they do continue to believe that there’s foul play involved, they will be contacting everyone who was present at Burton’s final appearance in Fethering Library.’
‘Yes, I suppose they might.’ He sounded intrigued by the idea. Then, almost hopefully, he asked, ‘You say “if they continue to believe that there’s foul play involved”. That doesn’t mean …?’
‘No, sorry to disappoint you, Oliver, but they didn’t use the expression “foul play” any more than they used the word “murder”.’
‘Ah. I was afraid you’d say that.’
There was a companionable silence. Jude undid the buttons of her coat as the fire’s warmth spread through her body. She was enjoying the Sauvignon Blanc much more than she had enjoyed what little she’d got of the Shiraz at lunchtime. The company was more relaxed.
‘If this were a Golden Age murder mystery …’ Oliver began slowly, ‘and we were two amateur sleuths …’
‘Polymathic amateur sleuths?’
‘Let’s not go that far. Just amateur. Anyway, if we were, we would now be going through everything we’d seen happen last Tuesday night at Fethering Library and extracting clues. We would be comparing notes on everyone’s suspicious behaviour.’
‘Including our own?’
‘Let’s exclude ourselves for the moment, Jude.’
‘And then we can have a startling revelation in the penultimate chapter that one of us was actually the murderer?’
He chuckled. ‘Yes, all right, if you like. But who was behaving suspiciously on Tuesday?’
‘Well, assuming that Burton St Clair was murdered … and that is a very big assumption … But if he was, then the person who behaved most aggressively towards him, who actually threatened him, was your friend from the Writers’ Group.’
‘Hardly my friend. But you mean Steve Chasen?’
‘Yes. I’d forgotten his name. But the one whose genius as a writer of science fiction had yet to be recognized by an insensitive and misguided world.’
‘That’s Steve. He’s one of those people who from time to time has to be hospitalized, so that he can have more chips put on his shoulders.’
Jude chuckled. ‘Not a million miles from Al – Burton St Clair – in that respect. But do you know if there was any history between them?’
‘You mean: did Steve actually know Burton?’ Oliver shrugged. ‘If he did, he never mentioned the fact in my hearing.’
‘Then why would he be so aggressive towards him?’
‘You don’t know Steve. He’s aggressive towards everyone, but particularly people who are successful in the writing game. A conspiracy theorist, he regards every published author to be part of the conspiracy against him. They only had their books published in order to prevent him having his published.’
‘I see. So his ranting against Burton wasn’t anything personal?’
‘No, he’s got form. He’s barracked other visiting writers in Fethering Library. In fact, thinking about it, I’m surprised Di Thomps
on let him in on Tuesday.’
‘And the drinking?’
‘Oh, he’s got form there too. A bit of a sad case, really, but one of those sad cases who behaves so obnoxiously it’s hard to feel any sympathy for them. I dare say you’ve come across some of those in your work as a healer …?’
Jude nodded, but made no further comment. She was very strict about client confidentiality. ‘I was just thinking, Oliver, if we go along with the prevalent Fethering view that Burton St Clair was murdered …’
‘Yes?’
‘… have we any idea what killed him?’
‘No.’ His forehead wrinkled in frustration. ‘Police are very reluctant these days to share their information with amateur sleuths. Oh, if only we were back in the Golden Age – Lord Peter Wimsey is lacking a vital forensic detail and Inspector Parker, tugging his metaphorical forelock, immediately shares with him the findings of the police post-mortem. Don’t get that kind of co-operation now. Police no longer know their place. They are even …’ he chuckled as he framed the witticism ‘… getting ideas above their station.’
Jude winced. ‘Ooh, that’s dreadful.’
He didn’t argue. ‘So, my dear, not having any helpful police information to rely on, we must resort to conjecture. Was Burton St Clair perhaps shot, stabbed or strangled in his car?’
She shrugged. ‘All possible, I suppose. But, following our Golden Age theme, let’s concentrate on a “Murder in the Library”. And ask ourselves: was there any way whereby his life could have been cruelly curtailed before he left the premises?’
‘What, and then dragged out to his car? But you said you saw the library doors locked by Di Thompson.’
‘Yes, I was thinking of other methods, though. Poison?’
‘Ah.’ Oliver Parsons looked at her nearly empty glass. ‘Time for refills. What’s your poison?’
Jude winced at the pleasantry, before saying, ‘It’s my turn.’
‘Nonsense. This whole meeting was my idea, so it’s my treat.’
Jude didn’t buy the argument, but made no objection. She slipped her coat off her shoulders. For the first time since meeting Megan, she felt warm.
Oliver returned with the order as before. ‘Poison as a murder method …?’ he said, once they were settled with their drinks. ‘Very much in the Golden Age tradition, of course. How could Burton St Clair have been poisoned in the library?’
‘I didn’t see him eat anything, so it must have been in his drink.’
‘The conjectural poison must have been in his drink?’ Oliver was slightly sending her up with his scepticism.
‘Exactly. Which means it was either in the water he drank during his talk or the wine he drank after it.’
‘The wine came from bottles everyone else was having their glasses filled from. There hasn’t been news of a massive death toll of Fethering library-goers, has there?’
‘Not that I’ve heard of, no.’ Jude didn’t think it was the moment to mention Burton’s walnut allergy. She and Oliver Parsons were really just playing games. She didn’t want too much reality to intrude into their speculation.
Increasingly she was beginning to think that Oliver’s interest in Burton St Clair’s death was just an excuse to get to know her better. And, increasingly, the more time she spent with him, she found herself warming to the prospect.
‘So I think, Jude, we should probably concentrate on the water he drank during his talk. As I recall, it came from a half-litre plastic bottle. I didn’t notice the brand. Did you?’
‘No.’
‘But if there were poison put into that bottle, we have to ask ourselves who would have had the opportunity to put it there?’
‘I think there can only be two suspects. The two librarians. Di Thompson and Vix Winter.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, think about it. Presumably they were the only ones there when Burton arrived. They’d have set up the room, moved the chairs and so on. They would also have put up the screens from his publishers, and made everything else ready for his talk, setting up his table and chair … and his water bottle and glass.’
‘I suppose you’re right. So perhaps we should be investigating Di Thompson and Vix Winter.’
‘Perhaps we should.’ Though why? Jude wondered. She herself had a personal interest in the case; the attitude of the police made her want to remove her name firmly from their list of suspects. But why was Oliver Parsons so interested? She asked him.
‘Oh, my interest arises, like so many things in my life, from sheer idleness. Or do I mean boredom? As I said, for a while I got fascinated by reading about amateur sleuths. Now I’m fascinated, at least for the time being, by the idea of being one. It’s just a game, nothing more than that.’
‘You enjoy playing games?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Well then, let’s move to the next stage of the game …’
‘Very well.’
‘… and imagine what would happen if the poison was not in the water that Burton drank, but in the wine …?’
‘I’m happy to run with that.’
‘I was thinking back to last Tuesday, and when Burton actually got his glass of wine. There was some confusion, as I recall.’
‘That’s right.’ Oliver snapped his fingers unconsciously as he tried to visualize the scene. ‘They’d run out of red, and the junior went into the staff room to get another bottle. And I think Di went in too.’
‘She did. Yes, she seemed quite keen to get away from Burton, I remember.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘If past form’s anything to go by, Oliver, it would be because he’d just made a pass at her.’
‘Ah. Right.’
The scene was now coming back very vividly to Jude. ‘Then suddenly both librarians were bustling Steve Chasen out of the staff room. And you told him he’d had too much to drink and helped him on his way out of the main doors. And Vix said something about a wine bottle having been knocked over …’
‘And Di said Steve had been responsible …’
‘And Vix said she’d clear it up. So, if we are going down our poison in the wine scenario …’ Jude began to sum up, ‘Steve Chasen went into the staff room …’
‘Ostensibly to get himself a glass of wine, but in fact to put poison in the bottle from which Burton’s glass would be poured; and then, once it had been poured, he knocked over the bottle, to ensure that no one else got poisoned …’
‘And Vix Winter cleaned up the mess, which effectively removed any evidence of the crime that had been committed …’
Glowing with triumph, Jude’s eyes engaged with Oliver’s. His looked equally triumphant.
‘I think the next thing we have to do,’ he said, ‘is to talk to Steve Chasen.’
Jude didn’t object to his use of the word ‘we’. In fact, she rather liked it.
She had enjoyed her evening. It had been fun playing amateur sleuths with Oliver Parsons. And as he dropped her outside Woodside Cottage she looked up at High Tor with a slight feeling of guilt. After all, it was Carole with whom she usually played amateur sleuths.
TEN
Jude’s first client wasn’t booked till two p.m., so she didn’t hurry to get up in the morning. The world beneath her duvet was a comfortingly warm one. And her evening with Oliver Parsons had done much to restore the spirits brought down by her encounter with Megan Sinclair.
Though she had not realized until getting home, her mobile had stayed on her bedroom table while she was at the Hare & Hounds. There was another message on it from Detective Inspector Rollins. And one on the landline. Jude didn’t feel inclined to answer them in a hurry.
Around eight-thirty in the morning she went down to the kitchen for long enough to make herself a cup of coffee and then crawled back to bed with it. She didn’t read or put on the radio, she just enjoyed the snugness.
This feeling was increased when, on the dot of nine, she had a call from Oliver. He said how much he’d
enjoyed their evening. ‘And, what’s more, I have made a positive move following it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Left a message with Steve Chasen. Said I’d like to meet.’
‘Do you think he’ll get back to you?’
‘I’m certain he will. I said I had some other ideas of publishers to whom he could offer his science-fiction novel.’
‘You’re a crafty bastard.’
‘Thank you. I take that as the compliment I’m sure it was meant to be. I’ll let you know when I hear back from him. You must come along too when we meet up.’
‘And how will you explain my presence?’
‘I’ll say you’re a literary agent.’
She must have gone back to sleep again, because when she was wakened by the ringing of the doorbell, her watch told her it was nearly ten.
She tugged on a woollen dressing gown and went downstairs. When she opened the front door, she found herself confronted by Rollins and Knight.
‘Good morning, Mrs Nicholls,’ said the Detective Inspector.
‘I told you “Jude” was—’
‘I left a series of messages, to which you didn’t reply.’
I know. I—’
‘Didn’t it occur to you that not getting back to me might make it look as though you had something to hide?’
And didn’t it occur to you that I might have other demands on my time? Jude was shocked by how near she had been to saying the words out loud. The last thing she needed to do at that moment was to antagonize the police any more.
‘May we come in? We need to talk to you.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Jude moved back into the hall. ‘Do you mind if I just go up and put some clothes on?’
‘Very well,’ said Detective Inspector Rollins. ‘This may take some time.’
‘Do sit down. I’ll make you some tea or coffee when I’ve—’
‘We don’t need any, thank you,’ said Rollins.
‘No, we don’t,’ confirmed Knight, not willing to be left out.
It was not in Jude’s nature to feel guilty. In her personal and professional relationships, she was scrupulous about her honesty towards other people. And, unlike some people, she never felt the necessity to feel responsible for events over which she had no control.