She then gave Carole an edited version of her own investigative achievements over the last few days. She didn’t pass on Alice’s account of their wedding night, but did tell of Roddy’s disappearance and the telephone conversation she had had with his father.
‘Where do you think he’s gone?’ asked Carole.
‘No idea. But nothing’s really going to happen on the case until he’s found.’
‘He’s presumably the police’s Number One Suspect?’
‘He may be. They have kept their customary discreet silence on the matter. They’re certainly not about to share their thinking with us. But the coincidence of Heather’s death and Roddy’s disappearance does look at least suspicious.’
‘Yes. And do we have any other suspects?’
‘The usual Fethering line-up. Oh, and another one we can add to the list, as of this morning.’
‘Who’s that?’
And Jude told Carole what Jonny Virgo had said to her on the promenade only a few hours before.
‘Ruskin Dewitt? Really? Well, that is interesting. I did see him lose his temper quite dramatically at one of the Preservation of Fethering’s Seafront committee meetings.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘I’m aware that he didn’t recognize me last time we met, but, you know, I think I might have a word with Ruskin Dewitt.’
That was fine by Jude. She did not for a moment believe that the retired schoolteacher had anything to do with Heather Mallett’s death. But if Carole concentrated on him, it would at least prevent her from poking her nose into other, more sensitive areas of the investigation.
NINETEEN
Carole also tried the direct approach. She rang Ruskin Dewitt and said she wanted to talk to him about Heather Mallett’s death. He welcomed the idea enthusiastically. ‘I have felt rather out of the loop up here in Fedborough, and then I’ve been away,’ he said, ‘missing all the gossip which I am sure is swamping Fethering like a tsunami.’
Carole confirmed that the village had indeed been full of criminal conjecture.
His house was one of those neat little Victorian cottages by what used to be the Fedborough Wharf on the River Fether. They were still sometimes referred to as ‘workmen’s cottages’, which was rather ridiculous, given the amount of renovation they had undergone, and the prices they now commanded.
The interior was tiny. The book-lined study into which he ushered her had an attractive view, through small wood-framed panes, on to the river. Carole didn’t know whether Ruskin had ever been married, or was a widower, but she thought the place lacked a woman’s touch. She respected tidiness, but she didn’t feel even High Tor boasted this same level of military precision in the way the bookshelves were stacked and the furniture aligned. On one table, she noticed, was a regimented pile of guidebooks to the Holy Land.
She accepted his offer of coffee, and the efficiency with which he produced it also suggested someone who was used to fending for himself. While occupied in the adjacent tiny kitchen, he kept up a monologue, describing his life in Fedborough. She hadn’t asked for the information, but she got the impression that anyone who visited him would be subjected to the same litany.
‘I’m very involved locally,’ he said. ‘On the committee of the Fedborough Museum; was very instrumental in all of the fundraising when we moved it from the High Street premises to the riverside. And I’m getting increasingly busy doing stuff for the church. All Souls it is – not to be confused with All Saints in Fethering. As you know, I used to go there, but I find the Fedborough set-up more congenial. More High Church, apart from anything else, and I’ve always had a natural tendency in that direction. Even considered converting to Catholicism at one point, but decided against. Found transubstantiation a bit of a stumbling block. Anyway, I’m involved at All Souls as a sidesman – and in the choir, of course, and in the Friends of All Souls’ fundraising activities. Then, there’s the Local History Society …’
As he went on, Carole recognized, from her own experience, what Ruskin Dewitt’s secret was. He was lonely, desperately lonely. That was why he had so avidly to fill his time. He didn’t dare to be alone for a moment. That was, without doubt, why he had agreed so readily to see her. Any human contact was preferable to being on his own.
When they were settled with their coffees in a pair of chintz-covered campaign chairs either side of the window, Carole used the opportunity of Ruskin Dewitt taking a breath to interpolate, ‘As we discussed on the phone, Fethering is a hotbed of gossip about Heather Mallett’s death.’
‘I’m sure it is.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, give me all the dirt.’
‘I’m not sure there is much real dirt. Plenty of speculation, of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘But I was just wondering whether you had seen Heather Mallett, you know, since that last choir rehearsal you went to?’
‘Oh, I know when you mean. It was just round that time that I was deciding I really did prefer the All Souls style of worship to that of All Saints. So, it did turn out to be my last rehearsal in Fethering, as it happened. And, of course, resigning from the All Saints choir did cut down on the driving, particularly at night. I’m afraid the old eyesight isn’t so good after dark these days; the oncoming headlights are so bright. Do you find that?’
‘Not yet,’ said Carole with some asperity. She didn’t like being bracketed in the same age group as him. He had a good twenty years on her.
At the same time, she was mildly amused by the narrative that Ruskin Dewitt had created to explain his leaving the All Saints choir. Now it was being presented as a considered decision, nothing to do with his being banned from singing at Alice Mallett’s wedding. From the confident way he spoke of it, Carole felt sure he now regarded his version of events as the truth.
‘But had you seen Heather since that rehearsal?’ she asked.
‘No. No reason why I should. I didn’t know her outside the choir.’
‘Of course not.’ Carole trod delicately. ‘I wasn’t at that rehearsal …’
‘You wouldn’t have been.’
‘No, I regret that choirs are not for me. Tone deaf, I’m afraid.’ She could never resist saying that when the subject came up.
‘Your loss, Carole. I don’t know where I’d be without my choral singing. Been doing it all my adult life. I find singing with other people is a wonderful emotional release.’
Even if you’re always out of tune, thought Carole uncharitably. ‘And do you find you have a lot of emotion to release?’
‘What do you mean?’ His affronted response made her realize how clumsy her change of direction had been. Jude, she felt sure, would have done it better.
She tried to lighten the atmosphere by saying, ‘I just meant, we’re all up against the frustrations of daily life, aren’t we? The continual stresses of disturbing news bulletins, the general state of chaos that seems to be everywhere in today’s world. I’m sure we all need some means of, I don’t know … counteracting that stress. You’re lucky that choral singing does it for you.’
‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ he said, somewhat mollified. ‘And what is your means of release, Carole?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What do you do to stop yourself from being uptight all the time?’
She wondered, for a moment, if he was making a joke. She knew a lot of people in Fethering would be of the view that she was ‘uptight all the time’. But she countered the insinuation with an airy, ‘Oh, I find a walk with my dog on Fethering Beach usually sorts me out.’
The statement wasn’t true, but he didn’t seem interested enough to challenge it. Instead he said, ‘Talking of Fethering Beach … you haven’t heard any talk of reviving the Preservation of Fethering’s Seafront committee since Leonard Mallett died, have you?’