‘Completely.’
‘So, after the demonstration, everyone went off to the Cricketers pub opposite St Mary’s Hall …?’
‘Yes, I’m honestly not certain whether everyone went, but most people certainly.’
‘And within half an hour you went back to the hall and found Mr Good dead, hanging from the gallows with the real noose round his neck …?’
‘As I said in my statement, yes.’
‘Yes. So within that half-hour – or however long it was exactly – someone substituted the real noose for the fake one …?’
‘They must have done.’
‘Mm.’ The Inspector was silent for a moment. ‘When you went to the Cricketers pub that evening, did you notice any members of the group missing? Or did you see anyone leaving the pub to go back to the hall?’
‘I wasn’t aware of anyone missing or anyone leaving, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. You know, I was just having a drink with a bunch of people. I wasn’t expecting ever to be cross-examined on the precise events of the evening.’
‘No, of course you weren’t.’ Another silence. ‘Well, Jude, you’ll be pleased to know that your account tallies more or less exactly with what all the other witnesses have said.’
‘Good.’
‘Did you know Mr Good well?’
‘No, I’d only met him since I became involved in the production.’ No need to muddy the waters by mentioning drinks à deux in the Crown and Anchor.
‘So you probably didn’t know him well enough to have a view on whether or not he might have suicidal tendencies?’
‘No. But from what I had seen of him, I would have thought it very unlikely.’
‘A lot of suicides are very unlikely.’
Jude agreed. She’d seen plenty of evidence of that in her work as a healer. ‘I know. It’s often impossible to know what’s going on inside another person’s mind.’
‘Hm.’
‘Does that mean, Inspector, that you are thinking Ritchie changed the nooses round himself?’
‘It’s something we’re considering … along with a lot of other possibilities.’ She might have known she would just get the standard evasive answer to a question like that. ‘One of the people in your group seemed to think it was the most likely explanation.’
‘Oh, who was that?’
‘Come on, Jude. You know I won’t tell you that.’
‘Was it Hester Winstone?’
‘Or that.’
‘And I suppose you won’t tell me if you’re about to make an arrest either?’
‘How very perceptive of you. Anyway, an arrest implies that a crime has been committed. There seems to be a consensus among the people in your group that Mr Good’s death was just an unfortunate accident.’
‘Really? No one’s mentioned the word “murder”?’
‘You’re the first.’ Once again there was a note of humour in his voice.
‘I’m amazed. I would have thought that self-dramatizing lot would have all—’
‘You’re the first.’
‘Well …’ She was flabbergasted.
‘Anyway, Jude, thank you very much for your time. I think it very unlikely that we will have to trouble you again.’
‘Does that mean you’ve closed the investigation?’
‘It means I think it’s very unlikely that we will have to trouble you again.’
That was it. Inspector Tull’s call did not serve to make Jude feel any more settled. She still felt convinced that Ritchie Good had been murdered, and it was frustrating to have just been talking to someone who undoubtedly knew a great deal about the case. Who had, quite properly, resisted sharing any of that knowledge. Her own investigation seemed to have hit a brick wall.
And she did wish she could contact Hester Winstone. She’d love to know what the former prompter had said when she was questioned by the police.
Jude had another unexpected call that Monday. It was round five o’clock and she was just tidying up after a healing session with a woman suffering from sciatica. Her efforts had proved efficacious and she felt the usual mix of satisfaction and sheer exhaustion.
‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Is that Jude?’ A woman’s voice, cultured, precise.
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Gwenda Good. I’m the widow of Ritchie Good.’
‘Oh.’ Jude hastened to come out with appropriate expressions of regret and condolence, but the woman cut through them.
‘I believe you were the first person to find my late husband’s body.’
‘One of the first, certainly.’ Jude didn’t want Hester Winstone’s name to come into their conversation unless Gwenda Good introduced it.
‘I would very much like to talk to you about what happened to Ritchie.’
‘I’d be happy to talk about it. Do you think there was something suspicious about his death?’
‘I don’t like the word “suspicious”. I would prefer to say “unexplained”.’
‘Very well.’
Jude felt a spark of excitement. She was a great believer in synchronicity. Earlier that day, after her phone call from Inspector Tull, her investigation seemed to have hit a brick wall. Now, out of the blue, she was being offered the chance to speak to the dead man’s widow.
‘I’m afraid I don’t go out much,’ said Gwenda Good. ‘I wonder if it would be possible for you to visit me at my home?’
‘Certainly … that is, assuming you don’t live in the Outer Hebrides.’
If the woman at the other end of the line was amused by this suggestion, she didn’t show it. ‘I live in Fedborough,’ she said.
‘Oh, that’s fine. I’m only down in Fethering.’
‘I knew you couldn’t be too far away. We have the same dialling code.’
‘Yes. Well, when would be convenient for me to come and see you?’
‘Would Wednesday morning be possible? Eleven o’clock.’
So that was agreed. When she put the phone down, Jude was struck by how businesslike and unemotional Gwenda Good had been. She didn’t sound like a woman who had just lost a much-loved husband.
EIGHTEEN
Because the character of Mrs Dudgeon only appeared in Act One of The Devil’s Disciple, Jude was not required for all the play’s rehearsals. But Carole, now indispensable as prompter, had to be there every time. And the following day, the Tuesday, was one of those for which her neighbour wasn’t called, so Carole drove to Smalting on her own.
Jude had told her about the phone calls from Inspector Tull and Gwenda Good. Though not much information had come out of the first one, Carole was intrigued by what Jude might find out when she visited Ritchie Good’s widow. She was also, not to put too fine a point on it, rather jealous. Now she was embedded in the Devil’s Disciple company as prompter, she wanted to be fully part of any investigating they managed to achieve there.
So she was determined to use her evening at St Mary’s Hall without Jude to good effect. To Davina’s annoyance, there was a poor turnout that evening, because of a gastric flu bug which was working its way through the Devil’s Disciple company. Still, Carole found the evening rather enjoyable. She managed to rap most of the surviving cast over the knuckles for paraphrasing George Bernard Shaw’s text, and when the cry of ‘Anyone for the Cricketers?’ went up, Carole conceded that she would join the throng.
She got a strange satisfaction from making that breakthrough on an evening when Jude wasn’t there. Next time they were both present, Carole could go to the pub after rehearsal as if she’d been doing it all her life.
Because of the driving, she had been intending to drink something soft. But when Davina Vere Smith said, ‘Let me buy you a drink. No prompter should have to work as hard as you had to this evening’, her resolve melted away. She asked for a small Chilean Chardonnay, and Davina bought her a large one.