grinned. Carole had failed dismally to eradicate the scepticism from her tone. ‘Work? What does work mean? A complex illness like that, you’re not going to get an instant result after one session. Healers aren’t miracle workers.’
‘That’s the image of them that’s projected in the press.’
‘The image projected in the press of civil servants is that they’re all boring and unimaginative . . .’ It was rare for Jude to make such a pointed remark, and the fact that she did so showed that Carole had strayed into an area of strong belief. Jude eased the situation by smiling. ‘But I’m sure that’s just another mistaken popular stereotype.’ Carole opened her mouth to say something, but Jude went on, ‘So . . . my attempts to heal Tamsin didn’t have time to have much effect. Whether they would have done, given that time, I don’t know. But I do know they did no more harm to her than the various treatments traditional doctors had prescribed. As I said, we’re dealing with a very complex illness. The mind and the body are deeply interinvolved in what happens to sufferers like poor Tamsin. Anything that might help is worth trying.’
Jude looked up suddenly, and Carole was surprised to see tears glinting in her friend’s eyes. ‘Poor Tamsin . . . What basis did this man you heard have for saying the bones belonged to her?’
‘Very little, I imagine. Except that the girl was known to be missing from Weldisham. Simply putting two and two together, I suppose.’
‘I must ring Gillie!’ Jude reached into a pocket for her mobile phone. ‘She’ll be desperate.’
‘Use my phone.’
But Jude had already got through. The tension she heard in Gillie Lutteridge’s voice communicated itself as she made arrangements to go up to Weldisham the following morning.
After she switched off the mobile, Jude was still clearly upset, more upset in fact than Carole had ever seen her. The atmosphere of the evening was broken. Jude accepted Carole’s offer of a lift up to the Lutteridges’ the following morning, but seemed distracted. She finished her glass of wine and said, ‘Better get back and sort out my unpacking.’
After Jude had gone, Carole realized with annoyance that she had no idea where the luggage that required unpacking had travelled from. She hadn’t found out anything about where her friend had been for the past two weeks.
And by the next morning the moment for such questions seemed to have passed. Jude lived in the present and the future, always much more concerned with what she was about to do than with what she had done. Carole could only piece together her friend’s history from the occasional irritatingly incomplete allusion.
The weather wasn’t quite as perfect as it had been on the Saturday, but Weldisham was still doing a pretty good impression of an archetypal English village. The houses, mostly built before such concepts as planning existed, clustered round the spire of the church, as if theirs was the only configuration possible. Weldisham was meant to look as it did. There was no alternative. That air of permanence was comforting, reassuring, but to Carole in some strange way threatening.
She dropped Jude outside the Lutteridges’ house. It was called Conyers, and Carole noticed that the name of the house next door was Warren Lodge. That must be where the Forbeses lived. The Lutteridges’ was one of the village’s middle-sized houses, late nineteenth or early twentieth century. Four bedrooms perhaps. Not grand, but still requiring a pretty high income in a property hot-spot like Weldisham. The privet hedge either side of the farm-style front gate was neatly squared off, the gravel inside raked and unmarked by leaves. On the drive sat a large BMW with the latest registration letter. The space either side of the house gave the impression of a large garden behind, dipping down over the curves of the Downs. Through the gap could be seen the top of an old barn’s collapsing roof, a discordant note of untidiness that couldn’t be part of the Lutteridges’ property. Everything about their house breathed well-ordered middle-class affluence.
‘OK,’ said Jude. ‘I’ll be about an hour, then join you up at the Hare and Hounds. You be all right?’
‘Of course. I’ll have a walk. I’ve got the Times crossword, if all else fails.’
Carole took the Renault the hundred yards up to the pub and, just out of interest, drew it to a halt outside Heron Cottage in exactly the place where she had parked it on the Friday. And she sat there. Occasionally she glanced at the downstairs window. Through the leaded windows she could see a plaster shepherdess figurine on the sill and a faded silk pin-cushion in the form of a fat Chinaman.
Carole didn’t have to wait long. Within two minutes, a face had appeared behind the shepherdess. The long sharp nose left Carole in no doubt that the author of the aggrieved note on her windscreen had been the old woman she’d seen walking the black and white spaniel.
Carole restarted the engine of the Renault and drove it round behind the pub to the Hare and Hounds car park. She tucked her folded Times inside her padded green Marks & Spencer anorak. (She still didn’t feel right without her Burberry – she must remember to pick it up from the dry-cleaner’s when she got back to Fethering.) Then she set off for a walk through the village.
The circuit didn’t take long. Weldisham was really just one street, along which were placed all its houses, except for the peripheral farms with their clusters of outbuildings. The village seemed to be exclusively residential. One house with a disproportionately large bay window must once have been the village shop, but that had long since had the life choked out of it by the building of local superstores. Though no doubt they had complained bitterly about the erosion of country lifestyle when it closed, the well-heeled of Weldisham were soon happy to fill up their four-wheel-drive pantechnicons from the sumptuous choice available in the local Sainsbury’s or Tesco’s (mostly Sainsbury’s, actually – in spite of its remarketing makeovers, Tesco’s still carried a resonance of being ‘common’).
And that was it. Houses, the village green, the pub, the church. St Michael and All Angels. Carole decided she’d have a look inside.
She walked under the lych-gate, rustic but of recent construction. It was topped by a pointed lid of new thatch, still too light in colour, looking like a particularly indigestible wholefood breakfast bar. With a frisson, Carole remembered the derivation of the word ‘lych-gate’. From ‘lich’, meaning a body. A place where the pall-bearers could rest the bier on the way to a funeral.
She wondered whether the bones she had found at South Welling Barn had received the benefit of any kind of religious committal. Somehow she doubted it.
The graveyard was full of green-stained stones, uneven like an old man’s teeth. For one or two more recent arrivals the marble still gleamed, and fresh flowers – expensive in February – paid homage in glass vases. The grass between the graves was meticulously short.
In a corner of the portico of St Michael and All Angels, Carole noted with surprise there was a discreet CCTV camera. Security, presumably. A deterrent to the vandals for whom the holiness of the church had no meaning. The old wooden church door had a modern keyplate on it. Carole would have put money on the fact that it was locked at night.
She pushed the door and moved into the interior, which smelt of damp fabric. The air inside the church felt colder than outside. It took Carole’s eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. No lights were on and the February sun was too feeble to spread much through the stained-glass windows.
St Michael and All Angels was pretty and neat, well looked after. The wooden pews glowed from regular polishing. The brasswork of the hanging chandeliers had also
