‘At times I’ve always wished that Fennel had been murdered.’
‘Oh?’ This was a new tack, which took Jude by surprise. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, then I would have someone to blame, wouldn’t I? The bastard who did it. And I could turn some of my hatred away from myself.’
‘Perhaps.’ Since he’d raised the subject, Jude went on, ‘You’ve no reason to believe Fennel was murdered, have you?’
‘No logical reason, no. Just, as I say, it might make me feel better about myself.’
‘Hm.’
‘Why, is there gossip about Fethering that she might have been murdered?’
‘No. Very few people in Fethering even know she’s dead yet. There’s been nothing in the press.’
‘And that’s the way it’s going to stay,’ said Ned Whittaker with considerable vehemence. ‘One thing I’ve learnt over the years is how to keep the press out of my life. I’ve got quite good at that, from harsh experience.’ After a silence, he continued in a softer tone, ‘Do you imagine, when people know about her death, that some people will think it was murder?’
Jude shrugged. ‘Being the kind of village it is, Fethering’s a hotbed of gossip and half-baked conspiracy theories. I’m sure someone who’s watched too many episodes of Midsomer Murders will already be putting the final touches to their crackpot solution.’
Ned Whittaker sighed. ‘And in the meantime, Fennel’s dead.’
He looked so abject that she couldn’t help saying, ‘I know this is hell for you, but it will get better.’
‘How?’ he asked in a dull voice. ‘She’s not going to come back to life, is she?’
‘No. If you’d like, I could give you a massage, relax you a bit.’
‘Thanks, Jude, but no. I don’t think anything’s ever going to relax me again.’
‘How’s Sheena? Presumably she’s taking this pretty badly too.’
He let out a bitter bark of laughter. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I can’t believe the way she’s reacting. You’re married to someone for nearly thirty years, you think you know them inside out, then something like this happens and you realize you don’t know them at all. Sheena’s main emotion at the moment seems to be relief. She says we’ve had the threat of Fennel doing something like this hanging over us for so long that now it’s finally happened, at last we can get on with our own lives.’
There was an infinity of pain in Ned Whittaker’s hollow eyes as he looked at Jude and said, ‘Sheena seems almost to be pleased that Fennel’s dead.’
FOURTEEN
That Monday morning, Carole Seddon’s Labrador, Gulliver, was in bad odour. Literally. As usual, he and his mistress had left High Tor at seven for their customary early morning walk, but as soon as they’d reached Fethering Beach the dog had found a particularly noxious pile of tar-covered seaweed in which he had immediately rolled. And the manner in which he rolled in it suggested that his actions were entirely deliberate, almost as if he were cocking a snook at his owner’s obsessive standards of hygiene. This was most unlike his usual equable demeanour, and earned him a severe reprimand.
Some dog-owners might have completed their walk before embarking on the decontamination process, but not Carole Seddon. A chastened Gulliver was immediately dragged back to High Tor where an elaborate cleansing routine began. Carole had a book which told her the methods for removing various clogging agents from dog’s coats: ice cubes for gum, a sewer’s seam ripper for burrs, soapy water for emulsion paint and, for oil-based paint and tar, vegetable oil.
Cowed by his mistress’s disapproval, Gulliver submitted without argument to his ritual humiliation. He was made to stand on a rubber sheet on the kitchen floor, as maize oil was rubbed into the tarry knots of his coat. The dissolving lumps of blackness were then wiped off with kitchen roll and smaller droplets combed out. Finally Gulliver was bathed from top to toe with his usual Groomers shampoo, meticulously dried, combed and brushed. The whole process took a surprisingly long time but at the end – thanks in part to the maize oil – his pale biscuit-coloured coat had an unrivalled glossy sheen.
But his docile endurance of these attentions did not seem to have improved the mood of Gulliver’s owner. Carole Seddon’s morning routine had been thrown out and she knew from experience that the day ahead might never recover from such disruption. The rubber sheet had not collected all of the dropped hairs and other mess, which necessitated a complete cleaning of the kitchen floor. Then Carole realized she was hungry and assembled a boiled egg and toast for her breakfast. This again annoyed her. She didn’t like having breakfast before her walk on Fethering Beach; she liked having it after.
The result of all this delay was that Carole Seddon and Gulliver didn’t make their second attempt at leaving High Tor until nearly half-past nine. To emphasize the fact that he still hadn’t been fully forgiven, she kept the dog on the lead for the outward part of the walk, but she relented and let him run free along the beach on the way back. Gulliver rewarded her by behaving immaculately. He seemed consciously to avoid the messiest piles of weed revealed by the low tide, and even to the rich gift of a large rotting fish he gave no more than a cursory sniff. He was working hard to curry the reinstated favour of his mistress.
And he did look so beautiful, with the May sunshine catching lights in his gleaming coat, that by the time they had reached the parade of shops that backed on to the beach, Gulliver had been completely forgiven.
As Carole stopped to reattach his lead, she noticed that there was a large removal van outside the Cornelian Gallery. Was it possible that Bonita Green was moving out? Fortunately the route back to High Tor went directly past the gallery, so Carole was able to observe without appearing to snoop.
As she got closer it was clear that what was being removed into the van was not Bonita Green’s goods and chattels, but Denzil Willoughby’s artworks. The invitations to the Private View had made it clear that the exhibition was scheduled to continue for the next four weeks. Clearly the change of plan which Bonita Green had announced at the Private View was being put into practice. She’d told her son she wanted Denzil Willoughby’s exhibits out on the Saturday and two days later she was getting her wish.
By serendipity, just as Carole and Gulliver were passing the gallery door, Bonita came out to supervise the loading of the final pieces. Now that they’d been properly introduced, she merited much more than a ‘Fethering nod’, and Carole was by her standards almost effusive as she greeted Bonita and thanked her for the Private View.
The gallery-owner harrumphed. ‘Not a huge success, so far as I was concerned.’ She gestured to the van. ‘As you see, there goes the last contact between Denzil Willoughby and the Cornelian Gallery.’
‘Mm, I suppose the scene there did rather put a damper on the evening . . . I mean, with all those accusations flying back and forth.’
‘What accusations?’ the gallery-owner asked sharply.
‘What Fennel Whittaker said.’
‘Oh, of course. Yes.’ The removals van started up and moved slowly on the road towards London. ‘Good riddance!’ said Bonita Green with some venom. Then a shrewd look came into her black-rimmed brown eyes. ‘I’m dying for a cup of coffee. You wouldn’t care to join me, would you, Carole?’
There were two places for coffee in Fethering – it was reckoned too small to have succumbed to the invasion of a Starbucks or a Costa – but Bonita did not lead the way toward the Seaview Café on the beach. Instead she moved instinctively towards Polly’s Cake Shop, only a few doors along from the Cornelian Gallery, and the manner of her greeting there left no doubt that she was an extremely regular customer.