A cynical “Huh. Tell me about it, Mrs Seddon.”
Carole realized, with some dismay, that Debbie thought she was referring to her financial circumstances.
Normally, she would have hastened to correct this embarrassing misunderstanding, but on this occasion, having a rather different agenda, she let it go.
“Anyway, I do hope you’ll understand.”
“Of course. And maybe, if things pick up for you, you’ll get back to me.”
It hurt to have the misunderstanding compounded, but Carole still didn’t make any correction. “Yes, yes, that’ll be fine.” She paused for a moment. Unless she changed its direction quickly, the conversation was about to come to a natural end. “I bet you’re glad to be out of Pelling House,” she said abruptly.
“What? No, as it happens, I still miss the place dreadfully. Feel a great pang every time I walk past.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant you must be glad to be out of it…given what was found in the cellar there…”
“I’m sorry? I’ve been away for a few days. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The body. The torso. Didn’t you hear about it on the local news? On the national news, come to that.”
“What? Well, I…Was that in Felling House?” The voice was quiet with shock.
“Yes. I’m surprised the police haven’t been in touch with you yet.”
“As I say, I’ve been away. Literally just walked in when you rang. Haven’t even checked the answering machine yet.”
“Perhaps it’s as well I warned you, then. Because I’m sure the police will be in touch.”
“Yes, I’m sure they will.” There was a shudder in her voice as Debbie Carlton went on, “So that…what they found in the cellar…may have actually been there while Francis and I were living in the house?”
“I’ve no idea, but a friend of mine was having dinner with the new owners when the body…torso…was found. She said it looked as if it had been dead a long while.”
“Oh. Well, thank you for warning me, Mrs Seddon. I’ll…Look, if you…if you hear any more details from your friend…I’d be most grateful if you could let me know. Or, if you happen to be in Fedborough at some point, give me a call and come round for a coffee.”
“I’d like that very much.” Carole hesitated, then decided to be bold. “In fact, have to bring my dog in to the vet’s tomorrow. Round ten-thirty. I don’t suppose you’d be in…elevenish…?”
“Couldn’t be better. You have my address on the card I left with you. I’ll look forward to seeing you at eleven tomorrow, Mrs Seddon.”
Goodness, thought Carole, with a little spark of excitement as she put the phone down, that was easier than I expected.
Five
She knew Fedborough well enough to find one of the few free parking spaces. Because of the constant invasion of tourists, the town boasted many double yellow lines and, since residents made it a point of honour not to succumb to the ‘Pay and Display’ car parks, the unrestricted roadsides were quickly filled. Still, ten-fifteen was too early for the daily summer influx of bewildered pensioners and spotty French students, so Carole managed to squeeze the Renault into a narrow space outside one of the many antique shops at the top of the town.
Gulliver was disappointed. He had got into the car with high expectations of being taken for a walk, possibly up on the Downs near Weldisham, but getting out in the middle of a town dashed those hopes. Also Fedborough had connotations for him of the vet’s, and distant unhappy memories of being unnecessarily pricked and probed. His woebegone head drooped and his bandaged tail hung between his legs as Carole attached the lead.
She knew he didn’t like what was about to happen, but she had little sympathy. He had brought it on himself. Gulliver had taken the decision to chase that Yorkshire terrier on Fethering Beach, although he knew Yorkshire terriers are notorious for misinterpreting the playful advances of larger dogs. So he’d really asked for the biteon his tail. And the fact that the wound had become infected was ultimately his fault too. So Carole ignored the pitiful whining as she dragged Gulliver down Fedborough High Street towards the veterinary surgery.
In the early June sunlight the town was looking its best. Set where the undulations of the South Downs met the flatness that led to the sea, Fedborough had once been a notable port. Ocean-going vessels had plied up the River Fether from Fethering to deposit their goods from far away – wines from France, coals from Newcastle – and this trade had been the foundation of the town’s prosperity. Now the only vestiges of seafaring were a few privately owned launches, moored with great care to accommodate the considerable tidal rise and fall of the Fether, and a string of some half-dozen houseboats to the north of Fedborough Bridge. The nearest of these had been punctiliously refurbished to its former Edwardian splendour, but the old hulks beyond appeared to be sinking into the river in progressive stages of decrepitude. Few of them looked as if they could still be inhabited.
On the opposite side from the houseboats, a small quay had been dredged out of the riverbank. This was surrounded by a collection of wooden huts, on which faded notices advertised ice creams and pleasure-boat trips on the Fether. But there was an air of dilapidation and business failure about the silted-up inlet, no sign of any ice creams or pleasure boats.
The bridge was at the bottom of the High Street, down whose steep incline Carole pulled the reluctant Gulliver. At the top of what was uncontroversially called Castle Hill, stood the remains of Fedborough Castle. On the site of an old fort, from which Saxons had resisted Vikings marauding up the Fether, a nobleman, rewarded by William the Conqueror with the lands around the town, had built a massive keep to dominate the river valley. Over the following centuries the fabric had been strengthened and the ground plan extended, until Fedborough Castle could withstand the worst that mediaeval armaments could hurl against its walls.
But it could not withstand the cannons of Cromwell’s New Model Army during the Civil War. At the end of a short but brutal siege, the people of Fedborough paid the price of their loyalty to King Charles. Their town was sacked and most of their precious castle reduced to rubble. The ruin was left as a warning to future aspiring rebels.
With the restoration of the monarchy, its symbolism changed but there seemed no purpose in rebuilding the structure. Gradually, surreptitiously, over the years the loose stones were appropriated by local builders and incorporated into the fabric of the growing town.
And the familiar silhouette of the remains, like the irregular teeth of an old man, continued to dominate Fedborough from Castle Hill. With the advent of the Romantic Movement, when ruins suddenly took on fashionably Gothic qualities, the outline became the subject of many paintings, etchings and prints. Then, through the twentieth century, as the heritage industry developed, the Castle ruins were translated into a symbol of West Sussex, a logo for the town of Fedborough, and an essential part of any tourist itinerary.
The major expansion of the town had occurred during the late Georgian and Victorian periods. Fedborough’s market attracted produce from the riches of surrounding agricultural estates, while improvements in communications by road, rail and water made the town a centre fortrade. With only a few flint-faced cottages surviving from earlier times, newly enriched entrepreneurs built substantial brick houses to demonstrate their unassailable social position. Large, elegant shops were erected to supply their growing consumerism, and Fedborough found itself in the genteel stranglehold of the middle classes – from which it has never escaped.
Though a certain amount of building occurred during the twentieth century, most of the construction work was new houses being put up on the sites of old ones. There was also a lot of conversion work, as buildings changed usage. Former shops, warehouses, workshops and even chapels were transformed into tasteful flats and houses for the newly wealthy or the wealthy retired. Fedborough’s geographical position gave little opportunity for the outward sprawl which has affected so many towns. Trapped in a triangle, bounded on one side by the Downs, on another by the River Fether, and on the third by Sussex’s main east-west arterial road, the A27, there was no direction in which Fedborough could expand further.