‘Well—’
‘And immediately started talking about Heather Mallett’s death. So, what are you doing – working through the list of murder suspects?’ This was so uncomfortably close to the truth that, for a moment, Carole was silent. ‘What do you want to know? Where was I on the night of the seventeenth, the evening of the wedding?’
Aware that the initiative had been taken away from her, Carole changed the line of attack. ‘I’ve just come from talking to Ruskin Dewitt.’
‘Have you? On the premise that his public humiliation by Heather about singing at the wedding was sufficient motive for him to have strangled her?’
Carole, surprised by how forceful her adversary was, tried to regain ground. ‘Ruskin Dewitt couldn’t have had any involvement in the crime. He was in the Holy Land last weekend.’
‘Lucky Holy Land,’ said Elizabeth drily. ‘How much he must have added, by his mere presence, to their national well-being. But Russ, no doubt, had some dirt to spread about me, which is why I have the pleasure of your company this bright and sunny morning?’
‘He did mention one or two things.’
‘I’m sure he did. And he no doubt suggested that Heather had somehow found out what that dirt was, and confronted me with it. And that I had been so appalled by the thought of my secrets being spread to the world that I strangled her. Was that the way Russ’s thoughts – and yours – were inclining?’
‘Well …’ Again, so uncomfortably close to the truth that Carole was lost for words.
‘Right, so shall I guess what this famous “dirt” was. My terrible secret, whose exposure would shame me before the entire world? Was part of it the fact that, in spite of constantly going on about my career there, my only appearance at Glyndebourne was when some kids from local primary schools were drafted in to sing “The Children’s Chorus” in a production of Carmen. Is that part of what Russ told you?’
Carole was forced to admit that it was.
‘If that’s the case, then I’ve no doubt about the rest of his revelations. That I never worked professionally as a singer. That I never had a problem with nodules on my vocal chords, which cut short that promising career. That I was basically a fraud. Was that the … burden of his message?’
Again, there was no escaping a yes.
‘Good. I’m glad we’ve got that straight. Well, Carole, I’ve owned up to you readily enough, haven’t I?’
‘Yes. Yes, you have.’
‘So, do you really believe that keeping people from knowing about my small imposture is sufficient motive for me to kill someone?’
‘It does sound unlikely.’
‘It sounds more than unlikely. It sounds impossible. So, may I now perhaps be allowed to resume my morning routine of gazing wistfully out to sea?’
‘Yes. But can I just ask you one thing?’
‘What?’
‘Why do you do it?’
‘Gaze wistfully out to sea?’
‘Well, that too, but I really meant why do you build up this tissue of lies about yourself, all that Glyndebourne stuff, the nodules …?’
‘I do it, Carole, for the same reason you do it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘To retain my privacy as a human being. To resist the curiosity of others.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You haven’t been in the choir, so you wouldn’t know, but I can assure you that none of the other members have ever asked me any personal questions. I’ve overheard them saying, “Oh, don’t for heaven’s sake, don’t get Elizabeth going. Don’t ask her anything, or you’ll get the full routine about her having been a rising star at Glyndebourne, until nodules on her vocal chords cut her career tragically short.”’ The woman spread her hands wide with satisfaction. ‘And in that way, I retain my privacy.’
‘I see.’
‘Except, of course, I do apparently run the risk of people coming up to me out of the blue and accusing me of murder.’
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘Oh, no worries. That doesn’t offend me. Amuses me, if anything. Also, brings home to me how wrong people can be.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if you’re looking for rifts between Heather Mallett and other choir members, both in the church one and the pub one, by focusing your firepower on me, you are – if you will forgive the mixed metaphor – barking up a completely wrong tree.’
‘You mean there’s another tree I should be barking up?’ Elizabeth just smiled at her, infuriatingly. ‘Who? Who didn’t Heather get on with?’
‘Just a word to the wise … It’s often the case, in a set-up like a choir, that the people who ruffle most feathers are the newest arrivals.’
‘Newest arrivals? Are you talking about Jude?’
‘No, of course I’m not talking about Jude.’
‘Then who?’
‘Ask yourself …’ Elizabeth seemed to be having fun, playing with Carole now, ‘who is the most recent arrival in Fethering?’
‘Bet Harrison. Are you saying that Bet Harrison was at odds with Heather?’
‘Oh, well done. Eventually you got there.’ Elizabeth Browning made a skittish little clapping movement with her hands. ‘But you didn’t hear it from me.’ She looked out towards the English Channel. ‘Mm, I think I should be getting on with my busy task of looking out over the sea.’
‘Just a minute …’
‘What?’
Hesitantly, Carole asked, ‘When you talked about the elaborate way in which you protect your privacy, you said I do something similar – what on earth did you mean by that?’
Elizabeth Browning positively grinned. ‘Oh, come on, Carole. I’ve seen you around Fethering for years, always walking briskly, busy, busy, busy. Rushing from one thing you have to do to the next. Walking that dog of yours on the beach, always with a firm destination in mind, never daring to stop. I know enough about the symptoms to recognize loneliness when I see it, Carole.’
No words could provide a proper response to this devastatingly accurate analysis. But, as Elizabeth moved towards the sea wall, Carole managed to ask, ‘And that, the gazing out to sea, why do you do that? Are you mourning a lost love? Or is that just another act?’
‘It’s a kind of act, maybe,’ came the reply. ‘But also, I do love looking at the sea. It’s like looking at a fire, constantly changing, constantly making new patterns, constantly destroying them and reshaping the pieces. I like that. I find it very soothing.
‘Also,’ she added, ‘you’d be surprised. Out here by the sea wall is, actually, quite a good place to pick up men.’
And she moved back into her tragic French Lieutenant’s Woman pose, looking out over the unforgiving sea. Once again, thought Carole, remembering the words of Ruskin Dewitt, a reminder that it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.
It was later the same day that Jude answered the telephone in Woodside Cottage.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the familiar regimental voice. ‘This is Brian Skelton here. Roddy’s father.’
‘Oh, hello.’
‘Listen, I hope you don’t mind my asking you this – and please say no if it’s inconvenient …’
‘What is it?’
‘Roddy’s come back. I said I’d let you know if anything happened … and he’s come back.’
‘That’s really good news.’
‘Yes.’ Brian Skelton didn’t sound totally convinced.
‘Why, what’s happened? Have you told the police he’s back?’
‘Of course. They’ve been questioning him ever since I told them he was here. They’ve only just finished with him.’
‘And …?’ asked Jude. ‘They haven’t arrested him?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes.’ Again, without complete conviction.