“I’ve no idea.”
“I heard a rumour round Fedborough…” Carole kept her voice deliberately light. “…that they’d had a tip-off.”
“The police? A tip-off about Francis?” She seemed suddenly to remember. “The anonymous letter?”
“Yes. The anonymous letter which pointed the finger of suspicion firmly at him. You do know about that?”
“Francis mentioned an anonymous letter, but I thought he was just being paranoid. But if there really was one…Bloody hell!” Debbie said, on a sudden spurt of anger. “I’d like to get my hands on whoever sent it.”
“Why? Because you’re sorry about the emotional trauma caused to Francis?”
“No. Because I’m sorry about the emotional trauma caused to me by having the selfish bastard staying here!”
Carole and Jude exchanged another momentary look. Either Debbie Carlton was a much better actress than either of them had ever considered likely, or she had had nothing to do with the anonymous letter that fingered her ex-husband.
“Well, we’re on the case,” said Jude, in a parody of a cop show. “Leave it with me. I’ll find out who sent that anonymous letter and, when I do, you will be the first to know.”
“Thanks,” Debbie grinned.
“Meanwhile,” said Carole, “if you could ask around in Fedborough…? You’re much more likely to find out something than we are.”
“I’ll put my mum on to it. If there are any secrets to be found out in this town, she’ll root them out. I will unleash the not-inconsiderable power of Billie Franks.”
“Right,” said Jude. She turned ruefully towards Carole. “Oh well. I suppose we’d better move on…assimilate a bit more culture. Though I must say, Debbie, I’m absolutely delighted with my purchase.”
“I’m glad you like it. If you don’t mind, I want to keep the exhibition intact until the end of the Festival…so if you could pick up the painting then…?”
“Suits me fine.”
“Let me just take your address.” She wrote it down at Jude’s dictation. Then, proudly, Debbie Carlton detached a red circular sticker from a sheet and placed it on the frame of Jude’s painting. “Looks good. The more of these, the merrier. Maybe it’ll convince people they’re missing something by not buying my paintings.”
“Yes…” said Carole awkwardly. “I, er…I think they’re lovely. I’m sure I’ll…er, in a few…Do you mind if I take one of these catalogues?” She was blushing at her clumsiness, but totally incapable of overcoming the habits of a lifetime to make an on-the-spot purchase.
“No, of course. And do take your Art Crawl maps.”
“Oh yes.” Carole picked up two of the folded bright blue sheets. “Thank you. So I’ll hope to be back…you know, to have another look…when I’ve made up my mind about the, er…”
They were interrupted by the arrival, unannounced as ever, of Billie Franks. She recognized Carole and was introduced to Jude. After the briefest of conversations, the two women left, Jude calling out to Debbie as they went, “Let me know if you find out anything about that anonymous letter.”
On the street outside, Carole still felt gauche and stupid. So much of her life seemed to have been wasted in introverted anger at her own gracelessness.
As a result, she was surprised to hear Jude murmur, “Well done.”
“Why? What’ve I done?”
“Very clever.”
“What?”
“Pretending you hadn’t decided which painting you wanted.”
“Oh?”
“Leaving the door open to go back and conduct further investigation. Nice thinking.”
Carole Seddon smiled, as if to say, Yes, it had been quite a clever idea, really.
Twenty-Seven
The Smokehouse Studio, as Andrew Wragg had left them in no doubt the previous Friday, was on the Art Crawl map, but Yesteryear Antiques, formerly Stanley and Billie Franks’s grocery store, wasn’t. Not that that stopped Carole and Jude from going inside.
The shop appeared to be unoccupied, so they had an opportunity to browse through the goods on offer. The word ‘Yesteryear’ should have been a clue that Terry Harper specialized in domestic antiques. There was a lot of Victorian kitchen furniture and equipment, instruments like patent apple corers, knife sharpeners and marmalade cutters. One table was devoted to old butcher’s tools, another to a rich variety of tea-caddies. There were besoms, washboards and mangles. Bottles of dark blue and pale green glass stood in ordered rows. On the walls, between multi-drawered apothecary’s chests and elaborate hatstands, hung old metal advertising signs, puffing the custards, beef extracts and health drinks of an earlier age.
Another side of the main room concentrated on relics of the outdoor life. Deckchairs with fading stripes stood alongside white-painted cast-iron tables and chairs. Fine salt-glazed chimney-pots held sprays of garden tools and farming implements, hoes, rakes, billhooks and fruit-pickers. There were elegantly shaped watering cans, wooden trugs and manual hedge-clippers.
Despite the profusion of objects, the impression was not of disarray. A designer’s eye had put everything in its place and, though in another setting the goods might have looked like junk, everything in Yesteryear Antiques had been punctiliously restored and polished. The quality standards maintained by Terry Harper in his choice of stock were extremely high. So, Carole and Jude observed when they looked at the tags, were his prices.
At the back stood a tall dresser with many drawers and shelves, which must have been retained from the shop’s former life as the local grocer’s. Some of the tools, utensils and containers on sale probably replicated ones that had once been part of the shop’s equipment in those days. There was a kind of irony in that. Carole wondered whether Billie Franks got a sense of déjà vu if she ever went into Yesteryear Antiques.
Brass rings clattered on a brass rail as a velvet curtain was swept aside, and Terry Harper appeared from the back of the shop. “Sorry, just on the phone. I…” Then he saw who his visitors were. “Well, good afternoon. How lovely to see the pair of you.”
“We were just passing,” said Jude. “Doing the Art Crawl and – ”
“Don’t talk to me about the Art Crawl!” On his own Terry Harper seemed more camp than he had at the Listers’ dinner party. The round tortoiseshell glasses looked impossibly affected. Maybe it was only by comparison with Andrew Wragg’s flamboyance that he’d seemed restrained; or maybe when his partner was present he deliberately cultivated the image of straight man in the double act.
“Honestly, it’s the artists who’re supposed to suffer from artistic temperament, not the people who’re just allowing their houses to be used. You wouldn’t believe the fuss I’ve had from the good burghers of Fedborough about security details and insurance. I tell you, this is the last time I work with amateurs! If I ever do anything else like this – which I must say, given my current aggravations, is extremely unlikely – then it’ll be with professional galleries. Members of the public are such a nightmare!”
“We’ve just made a start on the Crawl,” said Jude chattily. “Seen Debbie Carlton’s stuff – lovely. I bought one of hers.”
“Ooh, hooray, an actual purchaser! Someone who’s more interested in the art than in what books people have got on their shelves. You must go and see Andrew’s work – particularly if you’re quick on the draw with a chequebook.”
“I only buy stuff I really fall for.”
“Hm. Not sure whether the wunderkinds work is something one would actually fall for. But it is very good. Very challenging. He’s building up quite a reputation,” Terry concluded proudly.