And, what’s more, they didn’t seem to be getting any very useful information about the case. The torso had been mentioned, yes, but only surrounded by unsupported rumour.
Even as Carole had this thought, though, Joan Durrington, who had not spoken before, filled the silence with an announcement. “Did you hear that the police have identified who the torso was?”
Twenty
Her husband’s voice rumbled disapproval. “I think I was told that in confidence, Joan.”
“Well, you told me.”
“Yes, but a doctor’s wife…there are certain kinds of accepted obligations that go with the job.”
The way the couple looked at each other suggested that they were digging over an old argument. But the defiance in Joan Durrington’s eyes also suggested to Carole that the doctor’s wife was less mousy and anonymous than her manner might suggest.
“You can’t leave it there, Joan,” said Terry Harper.
“No, you can’t!” Andrew Wragg squealed in agreement. “Come on, give us the name! We want to know which of the fine upstanding pillars of Fedborough society cut his mistress down to size in such an imaginative way.”
This sally didn’t go down well with the assembled company. Carole reckoned the offence was caused, not by the tastelessness of the image, but by the implication that respectable men in Fedborough might have mistresses.
Joan Durrington’s moment of self-assertion had passed. “You’d better ask Donald. He was the one the police talked to.”
Fiona Lister turned her beady eye on the doctor. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense.”
He immediately became formal and professional. “The police consulted me about some medical records…”
“Whose?” demanded Andrew Wragg. “Come on, give us the dirt!”
“Obviously I can’t tell you that.” It was the answer Andrew had been expecting; indeed, to get that answer had been the only reason he’d asked the question. Terry Harper’s eyes rolled heavenwards in fond despair at the incorrigible nature of his partner.
“And in the course of conversation they told me there would soon be a press conference when the identity of the deceased would be announced.”
“Has the press conference happened yet?” asked Carole.
“I don’t think so. The implication was that it’ll be tomorrow.”
“Hm…” James Lister stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “I wonder if that’s why Roddy isn’t here tonight…?”
“What do you mean by that?” his wife snapped. “I was just thinking, if the body does turn out to be Virginia…”
Fiona was not persuaded by this idea. “Nonsense, that has nothing to do with it. The reason Roddy isn’t here is the usual one. He’s drunk. It’s his birthday, for heaven’s sake, probably been celebrating all day. He’s lost the few manners he ever had.” Carole thought that was unfair. Roddy Hargreaves was certainly a drunkard, but he had seemed to her almost excessively courteous.
Fiona was returning to a theme she’d started on earlier in the evening, when it became clear that Roddy wasn’t going to turn up. He was very inconsiderate, and had ruined her seating plan. Everything had been arranged for ten people; nine was a much less convenientnumber. She’d been persuaded – against her better judgment – to invite Roddy because it was his birthday and – as ever – he’d disgraced himself. There was no doubt where the fault lay: where it always lay in their marriage. James shouldn’t have issued the invitation.
Joan Durrington’s wavering assertiveness returned. “Roddy was certainly in a very bad state round the time Virginia disappeared.”
“What do you mean by ‘a bad state’?” asked Carole. But the direct question frightened the doctor’s wife. “Oh, I don’t know…just…well…”
Fiona Lister saw an opportunity to go back on to the attack. “Roddy was falling apart. He’d got all these marina plans that Alan Burnethorpe had done for him, and he’d started work on them, but he was running out of money fast.”
“Didn’t his wife have any money to bail him out?” asked Jude.
“I’m sure she did,” Fiona replied. “She came from an aristocratic background, after all. But she must’ve realized that giving money to Roddy would be tantamount to pouring it down a drain. He just didn’t face up to things at all. I’m sure he could have got his affairs back in order, but he hid away from reality…in a whisky bottle, or in the Coach and Horses.” The look she darted at her husband showed that not only did she dislike her husband’s friend, she also disapproved of their meeting place.
James tried to salvage some justification for Roddy’s behaviour. “Oh, he didn’t just drink round that time. He was trying to sort himself out. He talked to you about it, didn’t he, Philip?”
The Rev Trigwell looked embarrassed, which wasn’t difficult, since he always looked embarrassed. “Well, there were one or two conversations that…”
“What did he talk about?” asked Carole, once again favouring the direct approach.
The vicar reacted as if a godparent had asked him to drown the baby in the font. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly, I mean, there are things I’m not allowed to – ”
“Professional confidentiality,” Donald Durrington offered supportively.
“Exactly, yes.”
“Why, did Roddy talk to you in the confessional?”
“No, no, it was just a friendly conversation.”
“He is Catholic, after all, though, isn’t he?” Carole had decided that she didn’t like any of the people sitting round the dinner table – except for Jude, of course – and she didn’t really care whether or not she was being rude to them. “You’re not a Catholic priest, are you?”
“Good heavens, no.” Thinking his response might have been too vehement, the Rev Trigwell’s face grew blotchier as he immediately started fence-mending. “That is to say, I’ve nothing against the Catholic Church. They do some wonderful work, and in these days of increased ecumenicalism our communities are getting closer all the time. Though obviously my own training and conviction persuades me more towards the Church of England, I still don’t think one should dismiss too easily the – ”
Carole cut through all this. “So you can’t tell me what Roddy Hargreaves talked about to you. Fine.” She turned to her hostess. “You were saying he was in a bad way, and there were problems with his marriage – is that right?”
“All I was saying was that with a man in the state Roddy was in…” Fiona replied darkly, “anything could have happened.”
Once again Carole asked for clarification.
“I’m just saying he might have got into an argument with Virginia…”
“And ended up killing her and dismembering the body?” suggested Jude with characteristic frankness.
Fiona Lister coloured. “No, I didn’t say that. I was just suggesting that…Roddy and Virginia weren’t getting on very well round that time.”
Carole shuddered inwardly at the power of these insinuations. In spite of her denial, Fiona Lister had been virtually implying that Roddy Hargreaves had murdered his wife. His paranoia in the Coach and Horses about the gossips of Fedborough seemed to have been justified. Carole needed to know more. “What was Virginia Hargreaves like?”
This was clearly a subject that their hostess felt much happier with. “Oh, an extremely nice person. Her father was actually titled, you know. Virginia mixed a lot in aristocratic circles as a child, knew the Royals very well. She could have used her own title, if she’d chosen to. But she didn’t…much…very nice and unassuming in that way, Lady Virginia was. Charming. And lovely to look at. Early forties, I suppose when she left Fedborough. Lovely blonde hair…well, blonded probably…and of course beautifully spoken. It’s such a pleasure to hear good vowels, isn’t it?” Fiona Lister somehow contrived to make this another criticism of her husband. “Just so sad that a person of Lady Virginia’s breeding should end up with someone like Roddy.”