Denzil Willoughby smiled, acknowledging her humour, but it was an uneasy smile. Both Carole and Jude sensed that he was at least as keen to find out things from them as they were from him. Or maybe he just wanted to find out how much they knew. Either way, from the point of view of their investigation his behaviour was very encouraging. It suggested that Denzil Willoughby had something to hide.
They were interrupted by the appearance of the girl with the tray of coffee. This too was produced with unexpected elegance, green, gold-rimmed bistro-style cups and saucers beside the cafetière. It was another detail at odds with the shabbiness of the adjacent workshop.
Denzil said no word of thanks to the girl, and she was silent too. He waited till she had gone before politely asking his guests how they would like their coffee and pouring it. Then he sat back and looked at the two women. ‘Giles heard from his mother that your particular style of nosiness takes the form of imagining murders and attempting to investigate them.’
Instinctively they both remained silent, waiting to see where his questioning would lead next. Appearing even more uncomfortable, Denzil took an iPhone out of the back pocket of his jeans and checked its display. Whatever he was expecting to see wasn’t there. For the rest of their conversation he continued fiddling with the phone.
‘According to Bonita – via Giles – there’s been talk in Fethering that Fennel’s death wasn’t the suicide that it appeared to be. That in fact it was murder.’
Still they let him squirm.
‘And apparently gossiping tongues have even suggested that because Fennel bawled me out at the Private View down there, my name’s in the frame as her murderer.’
‘Well, it’s a thought, isn’t it?’ said Jude with what her neighbour considered to be inappropriate levity.
‘It may be a thought, but it’s not true,’ protested Denzil Willoughby.
‘I’m sure it’s not,’ said Jude with a reassuring smile. ‘So maybe you could tell us why it’s not true?
‘For starters I don’t think Fennel was murdered. If you knew her history of depression, you’d—’
‘I do know her history of depression,’ Jude interposed. ‘I had been treating her for it.’
‘Oh? Are you a doctor?’
‘No, I’m a healer.’
The expression on Denzil Willoughby’s face suggested to Carole that, unlikely though it might seem, there could be at least one subject on which she and the artist might agree.
‘So,’ Denzil went on, ‘you’ll know that Fennel had made a previous suicide attempt. She was all messed up in her head. She talked a lot about topping herself. It was only a matter of time before it happened.’
‘And if it was suicide, would you feel any guilt?’ asked Carole, at her most magisterial.
‘Guilt? Why should I feel guilt?’ He genuinely did not seem to understand.
‘From all accounts, during your relationship you didn’t treat her that well.’
‘Look, hell, I can’t do anything about it if women fall in love with me,’ said Denzil Willoughby. ‘I try to reciprocate, but I admit it isn’t the highest priority in my life. I’m an artist.’
At that point both Carole and Jude would quite happily have knocked the young man’s block off, but they both realized it wasn’t the moment and restrained themselves.
‘At the Private View,’ said Carole beadily, ‘Fennel accused you of only being interested in her money.’
‘That wasn’t true.’
‘But you didn’t mind accepting money from her?’
‘Look, her parents are loaded. If she wanted to give some of it to me, surely that was her decision.’
‘So long as it was her decision,’ said Carole, still in inquisitorial mode. ‘So long as you didn’t pressure her.’
‘Look, I’m an artist,’ said Denzil Willoughby, again prompting block-knocking-off urges in both his listeners. ‘My art’s the most important thing in my life. That has to be funded; that’s the main priority. Where the money comes from to fund it isn’t important.’
‘Are you saying you’d do anything to get money?’ asked Carole.
‘Pretty much, yes.’
‘I thought your father was also loaded,’ said Jude, causing her friend to look at her in some surprise. The secrets of Jude’s healing sessions remained sacrosanct. Except for mentioning to Carole the rumour of Denzil Willoughby’s violence to women, she hadn’t reported any other details of her conversation with Sam Torino in the treatment yurt at Walden. ‘He’s a big shot in advertising, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’s loaded all right,’ Denzil admitted. ‘Just he doesn’t always feel like sharing his goodies with his son. He’s never forgiven me, you see, for becoming an artist. My Dad – the great Addison Willoughby – he did all his training at the Slade and everything, and then prostituted his talents for the rest of his life in an ad agency. How commercial can you get? He’s jealous as hell of what I’ve done, jealous of me not having made any compromises in my life, and that jealousy is quite frequently expressed in a tightening of the purse strings.’
Carole decided to set out on another tack. ‘Since you’ve cast us as the snoopers of Fethering, we’d be failing in our duty if we didn’t interrogate you about Fennel’s death.’
Denzil Willoughby shrugged. ‘You can interrogate away to your heart’s content. You’ll find I have nothing to tell you on the subject. I didn’t see Fennel after she stormed out of the Private View having given me that right royal bollocking.’
‘You didn’t see her again on the Friday night?’
‘Of course I bloody didn’t.’
‘So where were you? Did you stay in Bonita Green’s flat?’
‘No way. It’s tiny. Cramped enough with her and Giles there. Not that I wanted to stay there, anyway. Bonita’s not really my type of person.’
‘Oh?’
‘Another of those who’s frittered away her talents. She trained at the Slade, like my Dad, and like him, she never tried being a proper artist. Just set up that mimsy-pimsy gallery to sell Toulouse-Lautrec fridge magnets to people who wouldn’t recognize a work of art if it came up and bit them on the shin.’
‘She did have two small children to bring up on her own,’ Jude interceded on Bonita Green’s behalf.
‘So what? A true artist wouldn’t let considerations like that get in the way of their work.’
‘Right.’ Carole picked up her interrogation. ‘So where did you go after the Private View?’
‘Back to the hotel they’d booked me into. Place called the Dauncey. Fairly primitive, but probably as state of the art as hotels get in a backwater like Fethering.’ Carole curbed the instinct to defend her home village against the allegation. ‘I spent the whole night there.’
‘Do you have someone who can vouch for that?’ asked Carole.
He smiled at her infuriatingly. ‘My, oh my. You’ve completed the full Amateur Sleuths’ Correspondence Course and passed with distinction. Know all the questions about alibis, don’t you?’
‘I asked if anyone could vouch for the fact that you’d spent all of Friday night at the Dauncey Hotel,’ Carole continued implacably.
‘So you did. And the answer, I am glad to tell you, is yes.’
‘Was it someone you’d picked up at the Private View?’
He smiled lazily. ‘I’m glad my reputation as a babe magnet has spread as far as Fethering. But no, on this occasion I wasn’t working my magic for some fortunate and grateful woman. I was with someone of my own gender.’
‘Oh?’
The disapproval in Carole’s tone clearly communicated itself, because with another lazy smile, he said, ‘No, not that. I know you expect artists to be capable of any depravity, but to my chagrin I’ve never fancied boys. Sure I’m missing a lot, but there you go . . . No, I actually spent the night drinking with my old mucker Giles.’