‘And do I gather that you know Brenton Wilkinson?’
‘I do.’
‘I don’t suppose, Malk … it would be possible for …’
‘To introduce you to Brenton?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
The former journalist grinned. ‘I think that could be arranged.’
Jude didn’t have a problem with Pete being in the house, but there were one or two phone calls that discretion told her were better taken upstairs. His hearing details of her private life didn’t worry her too much, but she thought Pete himself might be embarrassed.
On the Wednesday morning, she was downstairs in her robe, chatting to the decorator, when the phone rang. Seeing on the screen who it was, she decided to take the phone up to her bedroom.
Ted Crisp. What was all this with Ted Crisp ringing her? He’d only ever rung her before in an emergency or to make the briefest of arrangements. And now suddenly he wants to share with her far more than she might have wished.
It was about Brandie again. Of course. The landlord had clearly got it bad.
‘I was wondering …’ Ted said tentatively – and tentative was far from his natural style. ‘I was wondering whether you could give me some advice …?’
‘Of course,’ said Jude, sitting on the bed and wrapping the double duvet around her shoulders. Though the central heating was on full blast, the house still felt cold. It was that marooned time in February when even the idea of summer was a cruel illusion.
‘Well,’ the landlord went on, still not finding progress easy, ‘you know, in the past, I may sometimes have sounded a bit … well, sceptical about some of your ideas, Jude …’
‘Ideas like healing and alternative therapies and what Carole would call “mumbo-jumbo” …?’ Jude offered helpfully.
‘That sort of thing, yes.’
‘Yes, I have noticed that, Ted.’
‘Ah.’
‘It was when you said things like “I had a pain in my foot, so I went to a heeler. He put new soles on too while he was at it.” Up to the usual standard of your jokes, but it made me think perhaps you didn’t take what I did seriously.’
‘I’m sorry, Jude. I apologize.’
‘Bit late for that.’
‘Oh,’ he wheedled, ‘you can’t judge a man by his jokes.’
‘Just as well in your case, Ted,’ said Jude with a grin in her voice. ‘What a mercy it was to the stand-up comedy circuit when you gave it up.’
‘I agree, I agree. There are lots of things I’ve done in the past that I regret bitterly.’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself.’
‘No, but, Jude, I realize I’ve spent all my life … “not giving space for my spiritual dimension”.’
That sounded very much like a quote. And Jude didn’t have any doubt about who he was quoting. ‘How is Brandie, by the way, Ted?’
‘Well, she’s … Well, she’s …’ But encapsulating his feelings in words was a feat beyond him. ‘I enjoy her company,’ he concluded formally.
‘Good.’
‘But I do feel … I don’t know … unworthy of her.’
‘“Unworthy”?’
‘Yes. Brandie’s so much younger than me … but so much wiser.’
‘“Wiser”?’ Jude realized this was a conversation in which her role was in danger of being reduced to that of an echo.
‘Yes,’ Ted Crisp confirmed. ‘Brandie has a wisdom that is as old as all of history.’
Jude thought the safest response to this was silence. Any other options would have involved giggling.
‘And I was wondering, Jude …’ Ted went on.
‘Yes?’
‘… whether you could help me find space for my spiritual dimension?’
Jude was dressed and getting Pete yet another cup of coffee (white with one sugar), when the knocker sounded. She opened the front door to reveal a woman whose expression was as wintry as the blast of cold air she brought in.
Jude had seen her before around Fethering but they’d never exchanged words. She thought she knew who the woman was, though, and this was confirmed by the announcement, ‘I’m Veronica Lasalle. I need to talk to you.’
Jude’s gesture of welcome was too late, Harry Lasalle’s widow was already in the house, closing the front door behind her. She was a short woman with harsh features, zipped into a hooded purple puffa jacket. The hair that was visible had once been reddish and had paled into a kind of sandy white. She moved as though her knees were giving her pain.
‘Good morning, Pete,’ she said.
The decorator’s reaction was unexpected. After an automatic ‘Good morning, Veronica’, he started to wrap his brushes in damp cloths, before saying he needed to get to the trade counter for some more paint. His aversion to being in the same space as Veronica Lasalle could not have been more clumsily disguised.
Bewildered by this uncharacteristic brusqueness, Jude offered her visitor tea or coffee.
‘No. I haven’t come to socialize. I’ve come to talk to you.’
‘Well, at least sit down.’ Jude gestured to sheet-shrouded sitting-room furniture. ‘There are chairs in the kitchen if you—’
‘I’ll stand. If I sit down for too long, my arthritis seizes up.’
‘Right.’ Jude didn’t feel she could sit down if her guest wasn’t doing so. She stood awkwardly facing the woman and said, ‘I was very sorry to hear the news about your husband’s death.’
‘Were you?’ The response was almost snapped. ‘Well, of course, that’s what everyone says in circumstances like this, don’t they?’
‘Perhaps, but I—’
‘Anyway, I haven’t come here for your sympathy. I’ve come to find out what rumours you have been spreading about Harry.’
‘I can assure you I haven’t been—’
‘You’re the one who found the handbag at Footscrow House, aren’t you?’
‘I was with Pete when he found it, yes.’
‘Yes, but you’re the one who’s been digging up the past, all those rumours about Harry and Anita Garner.’
‘I wouldn’t say I’ve been—’
‘You and that skinny neighbour of yours, Carole Seddon.’
‘We—’
‘Well, I hope you’re happy with what your meddling has achieved.’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Harry could have had a good few more years of happy life if you hadn’t stirred things up.’
Jude didn’t say anything. She knew she’d only be interrupted.
‘It was all untrue,’ Veronica went on, ‘what they said back then but, of course, mud sticks, doesn’t it? Especially in a little place like Fethering. Harry’s always been good to his workforce, whatever business he’s been in. And it was like that when we was running Footscrow House as a care home. Yes, he was friendly to Anita, but he was friendly to all the younger ones, tried to make them feel at home. He knew the job they was doing could be tough and he liked them to feel he was someone they could bring their troubles to – a shoulder to cry on, if you like. But that’s as far as it went – with Anita or any other of the girls, come to that. I was living in the building, helping him run the place. I’d have known if there was any hanky-panky going on. But once people like you start to gossip …’
‘You can’t blame me for any gossip round the time of Anita Garner’s disappearance. We’re talking thirty years ago.’
‘I didn’t say you. I said people like you. Harry never laid a finger on Anita and we’d just about got to the point where everyone in Fethering had forgotten the accusation had even been made. Until you and your nosy neighbour started digging it all up again!’
‘Just a minute, Veronica—’
‘“Mrs Lasalle” to you!’
‘Very well, Mrs Lasalle … are you sure that your husband committed suicide? Did he leave a note?’