‘I’m sure you would. And what would you say are the usual motives for murder?’
Carole stayed silent. He might want to play games. She didn’t.
‘Sex, financial gain, fear of exposure. I reckon that covers most of them. You know, for a long time, until I decided to give it up, I sang with the church choir of All Saints Fethering.’
‘I know you did.’ She didn’t like being toyed with. She wanted just to walk out. But, on the other hand, if he did actually have a useful suggestion for where she should next direct her investigation …
‘So, I know the individuals involved pretty well. Given their age and character, I think we can forget the motivations of sex and financial gain. But fear of exposure …’
‘You mean, having a secret that you don’t want to have exposed …?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. So, which of the All Saints choir members do you think might have such a secret?’
‘I don’t know all of them.’
‘But, come on, Carole, you know who they are. You live in Fethering, for God’s sake. Everyone there knows who everyone else is.’ She didn’t argue. ‘Who’s concealing what then? Could it be that Shirley and Veronica Tattersall are incestuous lesbians …?’
‘If you’re just going to be stupid, I’ll—’
‘No, don’t go. I know you don’t want to … till you’ve heard my suspicions.’ Once again, he was right. ‘So, let’s ask ourselves, who might have a secret that Heather could have found out about, a secret so shaming that he or she would resort to murder to prevent it from being disclosed?’
‘Jonny Virgo?’
Ruskin Dewitt chuckled. ‘No. No, much as I would like to have my revenge on the little creep for fingering me, I’m afraid that just wouldn’t stack up. Jonny’s made a kind of fetish of keeping his nose clean. No dirt clings to Jonny. Come on, Carole, who else?’
‘As I said, I don’t know them very well.’
‘What’s that old saying …?’ He was clearly having fun teasing out his narrative. ‘“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch.” Now who would you say was the quietest member of that church choir?’
‘I don’t know … unless it’s that woman with dyed red hair.’
‘Ah,’ said Ruskin Dewitt, ‘now you’re talking. Yes, Elizabeth Browning.’
‘So, what was her secret?’ asked Carole. ‘The one Heather found out about?’
And he told her.
TWENTY
It was worth having a look, thought Carole, as she navigated the Renault, well within the speed limit, back to Fethering.
She put the car in the High Tor garage and walked down towards the Fethering Yacht Club. The weather had now turned almost summery. The Seaview Café, which opened out on to the beach, had, for the first time that year, put some tables and chairs outside.
And another denizen of Fethering had returned to summer habits. As Carole rounded the side of the Fethering Yacht Club, the sea wall which contained the ferocious flow of the River Fether was revealed. And, leaning against it, looking out to sea, was Elizabeth Browning.
In the sunlight, the colour of her long hair looked even less natural. And her French Lieutenant’s Woman pose looked even more affected.
Before going up to the woman, Carole paused for a moment. It struck her that she was quite possibly now at the scene of Heather Mallett’s murder. The body had certainly gone into the river, to return within only a few hours as a ‘Fethering Floater’. Was it not likely that the confrontation which ended with her strangling had taken place right here, conveniently close to the sea wall?
But she didn’t let this thought change her plans. In fact, it gave her an idea for an opening gambit. She walked towards Elizabeth Browning. (In normal Fethering resident mode, Carole would never have gone straight up to someone to whom she hadn’t been properly introduced. But Carole in investigative mode was a totally different creature. Her interest in murder had done a lot for her social skills, helping to overcome her natural shyness.)
‘Good morning, Elizabeth,’ she said.
The woman turned and squinted, trying to identify the outline against the bright sunshine.
‘Carole Seddon. We’ve met at the Crown & Anchor a few times.’ Well, once, anyway. And then we didn’t actually address a word to each other. But never mind, there are questions I want to ask you.
‘Oh yes. Good morning,’ said Elizabeth vaguely.
‘Looking at the river, it’s hard not to think about Heather Mallett, isn’t it?’ asked Carole.
But her opening gambit failed to produce any very significant reaction. ‘I suppose so, perhaps.’ Elizabeth Browning’s mind had clearly been on anything other than the murder victim.
‘Did you know her well?’ Carole pressed on.
The woman shrugged. Close to, Carole could see that her make-up was very skilfully and meticulously done. It took a good ten years off her real age. ‘Well, we sang in the church choir together for some years. But Heather was very buttoned-up and quiet. She wasn’t the kind of person you bonded with. Turned up for rehearsals and then left, no socializing. She did relax a bit after her husband died, but I still didn’t get close to her.’
‘Did you ever meet her husband?’ Carole was determined to investigate any links Elizabeth Browning might have to the Mallett family.
‘Not meet, really, no. I saw him sometimes. On a few occasions he’d pick Heather up after rehearsal, but he always stayed waiting in the car, didn’t come into the church. He and I never spoke to each other.’
‘Ah.’ Carole gestured towards a bench, commemorating some long-gone Fethering resident, who ‘enjoyed his afternoons here looking at the sea.’ ‘Would you like to sit?’
Elizabeth shrugged again. The movement suggested she’d rather stay by the sea wall, but wasn’t going to make a fuss about something so trivial. Perhaps she was curious as to why she had been accosted by someone she hardly knew. Or, according to Carole’s more sinister interpretation, perhaps she wanted to assess how much her interrogator knew.
But it was Elizabeth who began this latest round of questioning. ‘You’re not married, are you, Carole?’
‘Divorced,’ came the short reply. She didn’t really see that her marital status was anyone’s business but her own.
‘And you and Jude … you’re not an item, are you?’
‘Certainly not.’ In spite of the sunshine, the temperature suddenly dropped.
‘Sorry. But you know how rumours spread in a place like Fethering.’
‘I do indeed. But that is one that, I can tell you, should be permanently scotched. Isn’t it possible, in this day and age, for two women to be friends, without anything else being involved?’ Carole realized she was perhaps protesting too much.
Elizabeth Browning was unruffled. ‘Sure, I’m cool with that. Mind you, I’d be cool with the two of you being a couple. I think there’s far too much emphasis on gender identity these days. Let people do what they want to do.’
There was an almost hippyish laissez-faire tone in her voice. Carole, becoming intrigued by the woman’s personality, found herself asking, ‘What about you? Are you married?’
‘No. Never found a man I liked that much.’ Carole had expected the answer to be self-pitying, but Elizabeth seemed very much in control, relishing her single freedom. ‘And I’ve road-tested a few along the way,’ she added.
She looked directly at Carole for the first time. Her eyes were of a brown so dark as almost to be black, hinting perhaps at a heritage from the Mediterranean – or even further east. ‘Anyway, what’s this about?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Carole, we don’t really know each other. Yet you have deliberately sought me out and initiated a conversation with me. Why?’