‘Possibly, Carole. Though, if one were considering the immediate family, I wouldn’t look much further than Veronica.’
‘Oh?’
‘From all accounts, Harry led her a merry dance in their early years together. Constant infidelities. Jury’s still out on whether he actually had an affair with Anita Garner, but there were plenty of others there’s no doubt about. I think Veronica’s firmly in the frame. “Hell hath no fury …” and all that. What’s more, she’s definitely a member of the yacht club. Used to crew for her husband. And, of course, she provided his alibi for the time of Anita’s disappearance. Both of them in Harry’s Dream, sailing to France.’
‘But why, suddenly, should she turn on him? After, what, forty years of marriage? Possibly more. Why now?’
‘Perhaps,’ Malk Penberthy suggested, ‘the prospect of all the Anita Garner rumours being raked over again was more than she could face. Perhaps,’ he continued, entranced by the new thought, ‘she knew that her husband had killed Anita and she couldn’t face the prospect of the truth coming out …?’
‘I suppose it’s possible.’ But Carole didn’t sound convinced.
‘It’s more than possible,’ said a conspiratorial Malk Penberthy. ‘No question about it, for me the prime suspect is Veronica Lasalle.’
A new thought came to Carole Seddon. A rare beam expanded her thin lips.
‘Malk,’ she said, ‘would you allow me to buy you lunch at the Crown and Anchor?’
Sunday lunchtime was traditionally one of the pub’s busiest times, but that did not apply in a cold February. The villagers of Fethering were still in the post-Christmas social slump, when their own firesides and home-cooked meals held more appeal than going out.
Granted, it was only just after opening time when Carole and Malk arrived. The individual she was hoping to meet wasn’t yet there. In fact, the only person in the bar was Ted Crisp, lugubriously polishing glasses.
‘What can I get you to drink, Malk?’ Carole asked.
‘I apologize for letting down the image of the hard-drinking journalist for you, but I’ll just have a half of ginger beer shandy.’
‘Fine. Take a seat. I’ll get some menus.’
She crossed to the bar. Ted looked up from his polishing. She was shocked to observe that his hair and beard were neatly trimmed. Another manifestation of the Brandie Effect, she surmised. She gave Malk’s order.
‘And it’ll be a large New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc for you.’
‘Oh, I think just a small one.’
‘Large,’ said the landlord, proceeding to pour it.
She didn’t argue but asked for two menus.
Though unwilling to mention the name, she couldn’t help herself from asking, ‘And how’s your little friend?’
The look Ted flashed at her made her wish she hadn’t asked. He seemed to be raising the possibility that she might be jealous of Brandie. Carole and the landlord’s brief affair had been out of character for both of them and was almost never mentioned. Her question had clumsily resurrected it.
But Ted did not follow up on his look. He just answered evenly, ‘Brandie’s away for the weekend. In Wales, doing a course about Homeopathy.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Putting the menus under her arm, Carole picked up the drinks. ‘I’ll come back when we’ve decided what we’re going to eat.’
‘Fine.’
It was a new menu. Ed Pollack, the Crown and Anchor’s brilliant chef, changed it every couple of weeks, even during the winter off-season. Carole was unamused to see there was now a ‘Vegan Option’ of ‘Shepherdless Pie’. Brandie really had got her claws deep into Ted Crisp.
While they were deciding what to order, the pub door clattered open to admit Barney Poulton.
‘Hello, Barney,’ said Carole fulsomely.
He looked momentarily taken aback. She had never greeted him directly before and, from what he had observed of her, ‘fulsome’ was not her natural manner.
Quickly recovering, he returned her greeting. She made a fuss of introducing Malk Penberthy, still in fulsome mode. Then she astonished the new arrival even more by saying, ‘Won’t you join us? Can I get you a drink?’
The second question surprised him more than the first. During the winter, Barney Poulton generally had to buy his own drinks. In the summer months, day-trippers and tourists, fooled by his ‘local character’ pose, might offer him a pint in the hope of more authentic storytelling. But most Fethering villagers recognized him for the bore he was and curbed their generosity. Though he projected himself as not only ‘the eyes and ears of Fethering’, but also ‘the life and soul of the Crown and Anchor’, Barney Poulton in fact had few genuine friends in the village.
‘Well, thank you very much, Carole,’ he said. ‘Just ask Ted for “Barney’s usual”.’
The landlord had started pulling the predictable pint before she reached the bar. She gave the food order. Fish and chips for her, and for Malk just ‘Soup of the Day (Tomato and Coriander) with Crusty Bread’. ‘I don’t have a big appetite these days,’ he’d said, once again prompting the question about how old he actually was.
Carole was working on the assumption that once their food arrived, Barney Poulton would take up his usual post at the bar, so she wanted to plant ideas in his head as soon as possible.
It wasn’t difficult to get him on to the subject of Harry Lasalle’s death. Once they were there, she asked if he’d heard any new theories about what had caused it. As ever, he had a stock of dodgy insider knowledge to impart.
‘The Fethering consensus seems to be moving towards suicide, but of course the interesting question that raises is what caused him to take his own life. And the general view seems to be that he couldn’t face the shame of having his affair with Anita Garner exposed.’
‘Oh?’ asked Malk Penberthy. ‘I followed the case at the time. As Carole just said, I was a journalist on the Fethering Observer. I heard lots of rumours about Anita Garner and Harry Lasalle but could never get any of them substantiated. You have proof, do you, that they definitely did have an affair?’
‘Not proof as such,’ Barney replied evasively, ‘but I’m pretty sure it happened.’
Carole didn’t ask on what assumption this was based. He was moving very satisfactorily in the direction she wanted him to go and she had no wish to divert him.
‘So, Barney,’ she asked, ‘do you think it was just the revelation of the affair that Harry was worried about?’
‘No, obviously there was more to it than that.’
‘What more?’
Barney Poulton looked cautiously around the nearly empty pub before replying. And then it was in a whisper. ‘Obviously, the fact that he had done away with Anita Garner.’
‘Oh, you have proof he did that, do you?’ asked Malk.
‘Again, not actual proof, but I’ve no doubt that’s what happened.’
‘Right.’ The old journalist sounded less than convinced. He didn’t point out that, having spent a lot of professional time reporting on the disappearance when it happened, he might know more about the subject than someone who’d only lived in Fethering for the past four years.
‘Hm,’ said Carole. ‘You’re probably right, Barney.’ Something that she didn’t for a minute believe. ‘And that might tie in with another rumour I heard recently.’
‘Oh?’ He was all ears. ‘What was that?’
‘Well … if Harry Lasalle did murder Anita Garner …’
‘Which I’m damned sure he did. Her body’ll be out on the South Downs somewhere. In a shallow grave. If the police only took their job seriously, they’d realize …’
A look from Carole dried up his words, as she went on, ‘If he did, then he might not be the only one afraid of the truth getting out.’