But for the task they faced that Tuesday evening the internet was the perfect tool, so they adjourned next door, where Jude immediately led her neighbour upstairs to the nest of a bedroom which spread across the whole frontage of Woodside Cottage. Carole had rarely been in this inner sanctum, and she could not help thinking of the lovers who had shared that broad bed – Lawrence Hawker for certain, but also many others (most of whom, it has to be said, existed only in Carole’s fevered imagination).
“I don’t know what you think this is going to achieve,” she said stuffily. “It’s not as if we even have an address for this place the Lockes have in Cornwall.”
“We have a name, though. That’ll be enough.”
“How do you mean?”
“Ssh. Let Google work its magic.”
Carole watched in silence, as Jude summoned up a screen and typed into a dialogue box the single word ‘Treboddick’. Within seconds a list of references appeared.
“Well, that wasn’t so hard,” said Jude. “Got the right one first time.”
“Just like that?” Carole looked curiously at the screen.
“Yes, well, I don’t think ‘Treboddick’ is that common a word. Quite possibly the one in Cornwall is the only one there is.” She scanned down the listings. “Ah, here we are.”
Leaning over her friend’s shoulder, Carole read: “‘Treboddick Holiday Cottages – Perfect tranquillity in exquisitely renovated miners’ homes in one of the most beautiful seaside settings in the British Isles.”’ There was a colour photograph of a terrace of stone buildings capped with slate roofs. Nearby were picturesque ruins of chimneys and outhouses, presumably vestiges of the mine workings. The position certainly was stunningly beautiful. Beneath the illustration were contact numbers. “So what do we do – ring up the unfortunately named Mopsa and see if we can book in?”
“Let’s make email contact first. Don’t want to risk the phone being answered by Rowley Locke and him recognizing our voices.”
“But he’s not down in Cornwall, is he?”
“Who knows? He wasn’t at the house this afternoon when I went to see Bridget. I think it’ll be safer if we remain anonymous at first.”
“Well, you can’t remain anonymous on email, can you? Surely, if you want to get a reply, you’re going to have to give your name?”
“You’re going to have to give a name. I’ve got a ‘Jude’ account, but I’ve also got others in the name of ‘Nichol’ and ‘Metarius’.”
Carole was excited by the direction the conversation was taking. Since she’d moved into Woodside Cottage, Jude had always been vague about the precise details of her past, particularly of her marital history. Now Carole was being given the perfect opportunity to get a little concrete information on the subject. She had heard the names from Jude before, but never had their provenance denned. “Now one of those is your married name, isn’t it?” she asked.
“They’re both married names,” said Jude, muddying the waters even further.
“So you mean you have a third name too – the one you were born with?”
“That’s right.” But before any supplementary questions could be asked, Jude had, as ever, moved on. Scribbling down the Treboddick email address, she announced, “I think this is a job for Mrs Metarius.” As she made her way into the relevant account, she continued, “Just a general enquiry first. Came across your details on the net…hear that the cottages are in a lovely part of the country…wonder if you have any availability…”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. We could leave tomorrow, couldn’t we?”
“What?” This went against Carole’s every instinct. Granted, they were going in the cause of investigation, but a trip to Cornwall sounded very much like a holiday to her, and you couldn’t just shoot off on holiday without preparation. She remembered organizing family trips when Stephen was little. They had to be planned months and months ahead, with all the attention to detail of a major military offensive. First, dates had to be agreed with David, who always needed a lot of warning and thinking time before he got close to making a decision about anything. And then there had to be long discussions about the venue and the optimum form of transport to be used, and then…and then…You couldn’t just shoot off to Cornwall overnight.
“Do you have a problem with that? Have you got something booked?”
Trying not to sound pathetic, Carole was forced to admit that no, she didn’t have anything booked for the next day. Or for a good many days after that. But she kept that information to herself.
Jude was busy at the keyboard, typing in her enquiry. Signing off with ‘J. Metarius’, she sent the email off.
“How soon will you get a reply?”
“Depends how often Mopsa – or whoever happens to be there – checks her email. From the impression the Lockes have given of their financial situation, it should be quite often.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We go downstairs, Carole, and we have another glass of wine.”
Their other glass of wine led to further conversation about the case. Carole had missed the opportunity to get back on to Jude’s marriage – or marriages – but she did somewhat shamefacedly describe her encounter with Theo. (She couldn’t see any reason to abide by the confidentiality he had demanded.) When she heard what had happened, Jude was very good and just managed to stop herself from laughing. After the update, they went upstairs to find that there had already been a response from Treboddick Cottages. Mopsa was being appropriately vigilant.
Yes, there was current availability. Maybe J. Metarius would like to email back a more specific enquiry? Or telephone?
“Telephone,” said Jude firmly. “I’ll use the mobile. A Fethering dialling code might be a bit of a give-away.” She got through to the number on the screen. “Good evening. My name’s Metarius. I’ve just received your email.”
“Hello, so glad you’ve got in touch,” lisped the voice from the other end of the line. Had Jude met Dorcas, she would have recognized that Mopsa’s voice was identical.
“Can I ask who I’m speaking to?”
“Yes, of course. My name’s Mopsa Locke. I’m in charge of the lettings of Treboddick Cottages.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad I’ve got the right person. Now the fact is that a friend and I suddenly have some free time and we were wondering how soon we could book in to one of the cottages.”
“As soon as you like. They’re all empty.” Mopsa decided that this last comment made her business sound too needy, and went on, “That is to say, they’re all currently empty. You know, between bookings. But we could fit you and your friend in. When would you like to come?”
“Tomorrow would be ideal.”
“And how long would you be wanting to stay?”
“Well, till after the weekend at least.”
I can’t suddenly go off and leave Fethering for nearly a week, was Carole’s instinctive reaction. But when she thought about it, she realized that there was nothing at all to stop her. She couldn’t even pretend to be restricted by Gulliver. The dog could come with them. There’s nothing he’d like better. Gambolling on Cornish cliffs would be his idea of heaven. On the other hand, she wouldn’t tell Jude that yet. She’d keep the potential problem of Gulliver up her sleeve in case she needed a get-out.
“Normally our minimum booking is for a week,” said Mopsa.
“Well, that’s fine,” Jude responded airily. “We’ll book it for a week.”