‘We did meet. I came to Butterwyke House with my friend Jude last Saturday. You showed us round Walden.’
‘Oh yes, of course, I’m so sorry. I should have remembered.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Well, I’m glad you were sufficiently impressed by the site to be making further enquiries. Your email said you were thinking of the week after the Bank Holiday at the end of May . . .’
Chervil was all businesswoman, keen to make a booking. She wasn’t about to mention that there had been a death at Walden.
But Carole decided that she would. ‘Look, I heard about what happened to your sister. I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ The words were deliberately bleached of emotion. ‘Now at Walden we have yurts of various sizes. How many people are you looking to accommodate?’
‘It’s not for me, actually. It’s for my daughter-in-law and I’m really just checking prices.’
‘Well, at the end of May you should really be into our High Summer rates, but I’d be prepared to make a deal for you on . . .’
Chervil Whittaker went through a very detailed list of prices and terms of business and concluded by saying that she would also put the information in an email. ‘But I’d advise you to move quickly. That Bank Holiday week is already getting quite booked up.’
‘I’ll get back to my daughter-in-law this evening,’ Carole lied. The next day would be quite soon enough.
‘Anyway, I’ll give you my mobile number,’ said Chervil. ‘Quicker to get me direct than through the website.’
Carole made a note of the number before saying, ‘Presumably you had to delay Walden’s official opening.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I thought you were opening this weekend and obviously with what happened to your sister . . .’
‘This weekend was only going to be a dry run with some friends testing out the facilities,’ said Chervil Whittaker, in direct contravention to what she had told Carole and Jude when they visited Walden. ‘My plan was always to have the official launch next weekend.’ And she said it with such conviction that most people would have believed her.
‘Presumably the site will be fully accessible then . . .?’ asked Carole.
‘Of course it will be. I’m sorry, what do you mean?’
‘I was just meaning that by next weekend the police will presumably have finished their investigations at Walden.’
‘They’ve indicated that they will have done, yes. And, incidentally, for obvious reasons we’re trying to keep the news of my sister’s suicide out of the papers. So if the subject does come up, I’d be grateful if you could keep quiet about what you know.’
Good luck, thought Carole, if you think you can keep that sort of thing quiet in a place like Fethering. But then again the Whittakers weren’t very well known in the village. It was possible that very few local people did actually know what had happened. Whether the media blackout could be continued once the inquest had opened was another matter. But then again the inquest might not happen for a few months and memories could be very short.
‘My sister,’ Chervil Whittaker continued with some asperity, ‘may have done her best to upstage the opening of my project, but I can assure you I am not going to let her succeed. Walden will open next weekend and none of the visitors will ever know that a selfish suicide had taken place there.’
The girl’s words were unequivocal. She still saw Fennel’s death as another in a series of attention-seeking actions. And in her voice was a note of satisfaction from the knowledge that it would be the last one.
If, thought Carole, Fennel’s death had been murder, then the person with least motive for committing it would be her sister Chervil. Public knowledge of a crime at her precious Walden would be the last thing she wanted.
THIRTEEN
The call came through to Woodside Cottage on the dot of nine thirty on the Monday morning. Jude, who had been going through some yoga exercises, answered and found a very distraught-sounding Ned Whittaker at the end of the line.
Would it be all right if he came to see her? He wanted to talk about Fennel’s state of mind in the weeks running up to her death. He respected Jude’s strictures about client confidentiality, but surely the situation was different once the client in question was dead?
Jude had a couple of people booked in for healing sessions in the afternoon, but she told Ned she was free all morning and he was welcome to come to Woodside Cottage as soon as he liked. He must have left Butterwyke House almost immediately, because within twenty-five minutes there was a knock at her front door.
Ned Whittaker still looked boyish, but there was a greyness about his face which seemed to contradict that impression. Behind the rimless glasses his eyes were red and hollow. He didn’t look as if he’d had any sleep since the news of his daughter’s death.
There was a jumpiness about him too, he was more uneasy than ever. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Jude,’ he said, ‘but I feel I have to find out everything I can, try to make some sense of what’s happened.’
‘Yes, I fully understand. Would you like some coffee?’
‘Thank you. Black. I seem to have lived on black coffee for the last few days.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ As she settled him on one of the draped armchairs in her sitting room, Jude could not help being reminded that it was a week to the day since Fennel had been there. The recollection brought a pang of loss to her and a determination, like Ned’s, to find out the truth about what had happened to the girl.
When she placed his coffee on the table between them, Ned Whittaker tried to take a sip, but his hand was shaking so much that he put the mug back down. ‘Jude, I know Fennel was coming to see you . . .’
‘There was no secret about it.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. And it was depression she was seeing you about?’
‘Yes. Though the depression was just one manifestation of a great number of symptoms. When I treat a client, I treat the whole client.’
He nodded. ‘When we last met . . . well, that is to say not when we met at Butterwyke House after . . .’ He couldn’t shape the words. ‘When we met at the Private View, I told you that over the years we’d tried all kinds of treatments for Fennel. Most of them started promisingly, but then . . . If it was medication, she’d forget to take it – or perhaps deliberately not take it. What I’m saying is that we had tried everything.’
‘I’m sure you did all that anyone could have done. You shouldn’t be blaming yourself, Ned.’
He smiled grimly. ‘Easy enough to say, Jude, but when your oldest child, a girl you’ve adored for . . . when she . . . it’s inevitable that I blame myself. I keep trying to work out where I went wrong, what I did that precipitated . . . what happened.’
‘That’s a natural human reaction. But what you have to remind yourself, Ned, is that Fennel was suffering from a very serious illness – the fact that it was a mental illness doesn’t make it any less real than heart disease or cancer. As I say, you did everything any parent could have done – more than most would have done – to help her cope with that illness. But sadly all your efforts failed.’
Jude was not ready, at this stage, to express any doubts she harboured about the authenticity of Fennel’s suicide. Though the idea of murder might have energized Ned Whittaker, reduced his feeling of guilt, maybe even given him a quest to identify the perpetrator, it would have been irresponsible of Jude to set that particular hare running.
‘Where do you stand,’ he asked, ‘on the causes of depression? Do you think it’s kind of genetic?’
‘I think it can be. Some medical authorities divide depression into two categories: reactive and endogenous. Reactive depression is triggered by some life event; the break-up of a relationship, the death of a loved one. Endogenous depression doesn’t seem to have such a readily identifiable cause. The sufferer is just born with it.’