For the time being, though, Jude knew she had to maintain her mask of insouciance. ‘So, give us the headlines, Ted,’ she said. ‘Don’t bother with the really wacky ones. Just tell us what Fethering’s current theories are about the death?’
‘Well, obviously, it’s a murder …’
‘Why “obviously”?’ asked Carole.
‘Because that’s the way the good citizens of Fethering think. Basically, they’ve watched too much television. They’ve already named the case “The Body in the Library”.’
‘Oh, bad luck,’ said Jude. ‘I think they’ll find that title’s been used.’
‘And, anyway,’ Carole picked up, ‘it’s inappropriate. The body was not found in the library. It was found outside the library.’
Seeing that Ted was about to ask how her neighbour knew that, Jude came quickly in with, ‘Doesn’t have the same ring, does it? “The Body Outside the Library”? Anyway, who does Fethering reckon committed this ghastly crime?’
‘Oh, they wheeled out the usual suspects. Russian intelligence agents, Romanian drug traffickers, Chinese triads from Brighton … And, of course, there were the regular moans about travellers and migrants – legal or illegal.’
Jude noticed a tiny reaction to Ted’s last words from Zosia, who was standing behind him. She hoped that didn’t indicate the bar manager had suffered any recent slights about her nationality. Though the nice middle-class people of Fethering liked to think of themselves as liberal and tolerant, the undercurrent of racial feeling in the village could all too easily come to the surface. Antisemitism sometimes reared its ugly head, and discussions of immigration could all too quickly lead to a kind of kneejerk xenophobia … though of course in Fethering all such thoughts were expressed in the best possible taste.
‘So,’ asked Carole, ‘no theories about the death that sounded vaguely plausible?’
‘Ah now, I didn’t say that. There were a couple of very interesting theories put forward, of course unimpeded by any knowledge of the facts …’
‘… as is customary in the speculations of Fethering …’
‘Exactly, Carole, yes. Well, a theory that was put forward quite convincingly by one of the lunchtime regulars – don’t think you know him, tends to spend his evenings in the Yacht Club. Anyway, he said that the victim, whoever he was, was a writer—’
‘That’s true.’
‘And he’d just had a big success with some book …’
‘Stray Leaves in Autumn.’
‘Title doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m not much of a reader. Anyway, this Hercule Poirot of the Yacht Club, he reckoned that the murder must’ve been done out of jealousy by a less successful author. He says that kind of thing’s always happening in literary circles.’
‘And he doesn’t base this on any inside knowledge?’ asked Carole.
‘No inside knowledge, no outside knowledge, no knowledge of any kind – like I said, as usual in Fethering.’
‘Yes.’
‘You mentioned “a couple of theories”,’ said Jude. ‘What was the other one?’
‘Right. This was some American woman sounding off.’
‘Did you know her, Ted?’
‘Never seen her before in my life. Anyway, she said that this kind of murder is almost always domestic, and it always starts with the husband having an affair. Then she said there are three possible scenarios that can happen, and she gave each of them, like titles. Now what was it …?’ His eyes beneath their shaggy brows screwed up with the effort of recollection. ‘Yes, “HKW” … “WKM” … Those were the first two.’
‘And what in heaven’s name do they mean?’ asked Carole.
‘“HKW” means “Husband Kills Wife”, and “WKM” means “Wife Kills Mistress”.’
‘Well, neither of those works in this case,’ she observed tartly, ‘because it’s the husband who got killed.’
‘Yes, I know that. Now, what were the other categories she had …?’
‘You seem to remember her words very clearly,’ said Jude, ‘if this was just a casual conversation.’
‘I do remember them well, because she talked like she was a teacher. Whole bar went quiet when she started, everyone was listening to her.’
‘Was she very tall?’ asked Jude. ‘And blonde?’
‘Yes, she was. Why, do you know her?’
‘No. It’s just there was someone at the library talk yesterday who fitted that description. She said she taught mystery fiction.’
‘Do people actually teach that?’ asked a bemused Ted.
‘You bet. Particularly in the States.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anyway,’ said Carole, wanting to move the conversation on, ‘what was this woman’s view of the current case?’
Again, the landlord screwed up his eyes. ‘Right, she said in this case we were up against either “WKH” or “MKL” …’
‘“Wife Kills Husband” or “Mistress Kills Lover”,’ Carole translated unnecessarily.
‘Yes. Or—’ Ted Crisp concluded with some triumph – ‘“WAMKH”.’
‘“Wife And Mistress Kill Husband”,’ said Jude drily.
‘You’re spot on! So, this American bossy-boots reckoned all you got to do is to … “churchy”? “Churchy” something …? She said it was French.’
‘Cherchez la femme?’ Carole suggested.
‘That’s it – right. She said all you got to do is find out who in Fethering this writer chap had ever had an affair with – and she’ll be your murderer!’
Jude didn’t like the look her neighbour was giving her. She knew, however much she insisted she was telling the truth, Carole would still believe that there had once been something between Jude and Burton.
And if Carole thought that, it would only be a matter of time before the rest of Fethering thought the same.
EIGHT
The wine and the company in the Crown & Anchor had cheered Jude up, but when she said goodnight to Carole at the gate of Woodside Cottage, she felt the darkness closing in again. The reality of Burton’s death and the unpleasant recollection of her police interview in the morning dominated her mind.
It wasn’t yet eight o’clock and she hadn’t had anything to eat since Carole’s cottage cheese salad, so she knew she ought to be assembling some kind of supper. But the urge wasn’t there. She didn’t feel hungry.
Jude opened the laptop to check her emails. There was one from Megan. It read simply: ‘Yes, we should be in touch.’ No ‘Love’. No ‘Good Wishes’. No home address. Just a mobile number.
Jude consulted the large-faced watch fixed to her wrist by a broad ribbon. It was a perfectly reasonable hour to ring someone. She dialled the number.
‘Hello?’ The voice was breathless and slightly actressy. But also guarded, cautious, as if expecting a call it didn’t want to take. Very familiar, though. Though they had been such close friends, Jude remembered the voice’s tautness, its owner’s inability ever quite to relax, her habit of watchfulness, always anticipating some kind of slight.
‘Megan, it’s Jude.’
‘Ah. I thought you’d probably be in touch quite soon.’ Megan made it sound as though Jude’s quick response was in some way shameful.
‘I just wanted to say I heard about Burton … Al.’
‘Well, of course you did. You were there when it happened.’
‘You know that because the police have talked to you?’
‘I was spending a long weekend with a friend in Scarborough.’ So Detective Sergeant Knight’s information had been correct. ‘There was no mobile signal at her place. I only found out they’d been trying to contact me when I got on the train. I rang them as soon as I could. They checked out my alibi with my friend. It was when I was talking to Detective Inspector Rollins that I found out about you being there.’