Oliver Parsons, who was clearly used to squiring women around, found them seats at a table near the open fire. Jude, grateful for its heat and still remembering Southern Rail, kept her coat on while he went to get their drinks. He returned with a large New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and a pint of Sussex Gold.
Toasts completed, he said, ‘On the phone I mentioned rumours of a strong police presence in Fethering. Have you seen any sign of them?’
‘Oh yes. They’ve been in touch with me.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘Last person to be seen with the deceased. Come on, Oliver, surely your reading of Golden Age crime fiction has taught you that someone in that position is bound to be the police’s first suspect … at least until eliminated from their enquiries.’
‘And have you been “eliminated from their enquiries”?’
Jude wished she could have given a more positive reply than ‘I have to hope so.’
‘Hm. So what were the circumstances of you being the last person to see him alive?’
‘Well, you heard him offering me a lift home?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t hear whether or not I accepted the lift?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, I knew it was out of his way, so I walked home.’ While the facts were accurate, Jude knew that she was lying by omission.
‘So how come you were the last person to see him alive?’
‘As soon as they’d locked up, the two librarians went off in Di’s car. I was still there, saying goodbye to Burton. Then I walked home.’
‘In the pouring rain?’
‘Yes.’
He seemed about to follow on from this, but fortunately he didn’t. Instead, he changed tack and asked, ‘Presumably, when the police spoke to you, they didn’t mention the word “murder”?’
‘Oh no, they’re far too canny for that. “Just making routine enquiries.”’ Again, she would have preferred to be more certain that they were just routine enquiries. ‘They haven’t talked to you yet, have they, Oliver?’
He looked a little shaken by the suggestion. ‘No, why should they?’
‘Well, presumably, if they do continue to believe that there’s foul play involved, they will be contacting everyone who was present at Burton’s final appearance in Fethering Library.’
‘Yes, I suppose they might.’ He sounded intrigued by the idea. Then, almost hopefully, he asked, ‘You say “if they continue to believe that there’s foul play involved”. That doesn’t mean …?’
‘No, sorry to disappoint you, Oliver, but they didn’t use the expression “foul play” any more than they used the word “murder”.’
‘Ah. I was afraid you’d say that.’
There was a companionable silence. Jude undid the buttons of her coat as the fire’s warmth spread through her body. She was enjoying the Sauvignon Blanc much more than she had enjoyed what little she’d got of the Shiraz at lunchtime. The company was more relaxed.
‘If this were a Golden Age murder mystery …’ Oliver began slowly, ‘and we were two amateur sleuths …’
‘Polymathic amateur sleuths?’
‘Let’s not go that far. Just amateur. Anyway, if we were, we would now be going through everything we’d seen happen last Tuesday night at Fethering Library and extracting clues. We would be comparing notes on everyone’s suspicious behaviour.’
‘Including our own?’
‘Let’s exclude ourselves for the moment, Jude.’
‘And then we can have a startling revelation in the penultimate chapter that one of us was actually the murderer?’
He chuckled. ‘Yes, all right, if you like. But who was behaving suspiciously on Tuesday?’
‘Well, assuming that Burton St Clair was murdered … and that is a very big assumption … But if he was, then the person who behaved most aggressively towards him, who actually threatened him, was your friend from the Writers’ Group.’
‘Hardly my friend. But you mean Steve Chasen?’
‘Yes. I’d forgotten his name. But the one whose genius as a writer of science fiction had yet to be recognized by an insensitive and misguided world.’
‘That’s Steve. He’s one of those people who from time to time has to be hospitalized, so that he can have more chips put on his shoulders.’
Jude chuckled. ‘Not a million miles from Al – Burton St Clair – in that respect. But do you know if there was any history between them?’
‘You mean: did Steve actually know Burton?’ Oliver shrugged. ‘If he did, he never mentioned the fact in my hearing.’
‘Then why would he be so aggressive towards him?’
‘You don’t know Steve. He’s aggressive towards everyone, but particularly people who are successful in the writing game. A conspiracy theorist, he regards every published author to be part of the conspiracy against him. They only had their books published in order to prevent him having his published.’
‘I see. So his ranting against Burton wasn’t anything personal?’
‘No, he’s got form. He’s barracked other visiting writers in Fethering Library. In fact, thinking about it, I’m surprised Di Thompson let him in on Tuesday.’
‘And the drinking?’
‘Oh, he’s got form there too. A bit of a sad case, really, but one of those sad cases who behaves so obnoxiously it’s hard to feel any sympathy for them. I dare say you’ve come across some of those in your work as a healer …?’
Jude nodded, but made no further comment. She was very strict about client confidentiality. ‘I was just thinking, Oliver, if we go along with the prevalent Fethering view that Burton St Clair was murdered …’
‘Yes?’
‘… have we any idea what killed him?’
‘No.’ His forehead wrinkled in frustration. ‘Police are very reluctant these days to share their information with amateur sleuths. Oh, if only we were back in the Golden Age – Lord Peter Wimsey is lacking a vital forensic detail and Inspector Parker, tugging his metaphorical forelock, immediately shares with him the findings of the police post-mortem. Don’t get that kind of co-operation now. Police no longer know their place. They are even …’ he chuckled as he framed the witticism ‘… getting ideas above their station.’
Jude winced. ‘Ooh, that’s dreadful.’
He didn’t argue. ‘So, my dear, not having any helpful police information to rely on, we must resort to conjecture. Was Burton St Clair perhaps shot, stabbed or strangled in his car?’
She shrugged. ‘All possible, I suppose. But, following our Golden Age theme, let’s concentrate on a “Murder in the Library”. And ask ourselves: was there any way whereby his life could have been cruelly curtailed before he left the premises?’
‘What, and then dragged out to his car? But you said you saw the library doors locked by Di Thompson.’
‘Yes, I was thinking of other methods, though. Poison?’
‘Ah.’ Oliver Parsons looked at her nearly empty glass. ‘Time for refills. What’s your poison?’
Jude winced at the pleasantry, before saying, ‘It’s my turn.’
‘Nonsense. This whole meeting was my idea, so it’s my treat.’
Jude didn’t buy the argument, but made no objection. She slipped her coat off her shoulders. For the first time since meeting Megan, she felt warm.
Oliver returned with the order as before. ‘Poison as a murder method …?’ he said, once they were settled with their drinks. ‘Very much in the Golden Age tradition, of course. How could Burton St Clair have been poisoned in the library?’
‘I didn’t see him eat anything, so it must have been in his drink.’