female error of having a template for what a man should be and trying to fit one into it.’
‘Ah.’ Jude shook her head sagely. ‘We’ve all been guilty of that.’ Then, with a toss of the blonde bird’s nest on top of her head, she moved the conversation on. ‘I didn’t just come here, however, to commiserate with you about the end of your affair . . .’
Even in her current mood, Carole couldn’t suppress a little glow from Jude’s use of the word. Although it had ended in disaster, the fact that she was a woman who had had an ‘affair’ seemed to her slightly daring, even rather grown-up. Which, she knew, was a ridiculous thought to be entertained by a woman in her fifties.
‘I came because last night I saw a dead body.’
Jude didn’t get the reaction she’d been hoping for. On two previous occasions she and Carole had got caught up in solving murders and their enthusiasm for the challenge had been mutually infectious. This time all she got was a glassy stare from the pale eyes.
‘What, was this a road accident or something?’
‘No, Carole. The dead body had been hidden in the cellar of a friend’s house. It must have been a murder.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Carole, doggedly contrary. ‘Could have been an accident.’
‘I think it’s quite difficult to have an accident in the course of which both your arms and legs get cut off.’
Carole was silent, unequipped with a riposte to this argument. Then she said lightly, as if nothing in the world could have mattered less to her, ‘Well, I’m sure the police will sort it out.’
‘I’m sure they will, but you can’t deny it’s intriguing, can you?’
Carole shrugged, and reached down to ruffle Gulliver’s ears. Her body language was trying to say, Yes, I can see it might be mildly intriguing to some people – not to me, though. But Jude was heartened to see a new alertness in her neighbour’s eyes.
This was confirmed when, for the first time that morning, Carole – albeit grudgingly – asked for further information. ‘Where did you see this body then?’
‘In a house in Fedborough.’
‘Oh.’ There was a wealth of nuance in the monosyllable. At one level it said, Oh yes, well, that’s what you’d expect from people in Fedborough. At another level it said, If the body’s in Fedborough, then that’s none of our business. And, encapsulated in ‘Oh’ too, was the conviction that, though only eight miles up the River Fether from Fethering, Fedborough was another – and undoubtedly alien – country.
‘I didn’t know you knew any people in Fedborough.’ There was almost a hint of affront in Carole’s voice. She was constantly reminded how little she really knew about Jude’s life and background. But the longer their friendship continued, the more difficult became asking the basic questions that should have been settled on first introduction.
‘Not many. These are some not-very-close acquaintances who’ve just moved down from London.’ This reply seemed subtly to reassure Carole, so Jude, still working to thaw the frostiness, went on with humility, ‘You know a lot of people up there, though, don’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t say a lot. And none of them are that close.’
‘No, but you said you’ve often been to see shows and concerts in the Fedborough Festival.’
‘I may have done in the past.’ The implication was that Carole never intended to have any kind of social life, ever again. Then she softened. ‘But yes, I do know some people up there. Very full of themselves, the residents of Fedborough, I must say. Just because they live in a town that’s very beautiful and has a certain amount of history attached to it, they seem to imagine that makes them superior to everyone else.’
‘Lots of people think like that about where they live. Good thing too, saves a great deal of disappointment and envy.’ Jude giggled. ‘Mind you, I can’t imagine many people feel that way about Fethering.’
This had been a foolish thing to say, and nearly undid all the morning’s good work. The frost glazed over again. Carole herself may have said many harsh things about Fethering, but the village she had made her home was like a child. A parent could criticize it, but woe betide any outsider who did so. And in many ways, Jude still was an outsider. Though she’d lived more than a year in Woodside Cottage, she’d made very little attempt to take on the values of Fethering or to fit into Fethering society. In the stratified middle-class world of the village, Jude remained a potential loose cannon.
She moved on quickly to cover her lapse. ‘Anyway, the police interviewed me last night. Because I was one of the first people to see the body . . .’
Carole tried hard, but couldn’t stop herself from asking, ‘Did they mention the word “murder”.’
‘Not as such. But you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that a limbless body has had, at the very least . . . some outside interference.’
‘No . . .’ Once again reticence lost the battle with curiosity. ‘Had the mur—’ Carole corrected herself. ‘Had the killing taken place recently?’
‘No, the body was dried up, almost like a mummy.’
‘So if your friends have only just moved, it can’t have anything to do with them . . .’
‘Wouldn’t have thought so, no . . .’
In spite of herself, Carole found her mind making connections. ‘Though suspicion would inevitably turn to the previous owners . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t know who they were? Your friends didn’t mention the name?’
‘No. All I know is that the house belonged to a couple who were splitting up, which made the customary agony of British house-purchase even more prolonged.’
‘Hm . . . If I knew their name, I might recognize it, or know someone I could ask about the former owners . . .’
Jude shrugged apology.
‘What’s the address? Fedborough’s not that big. I might know it.’
‘Pelling House.’
A huge beam broke out like sunshine, finally thawing Carole Seddon’s face. ‘Ah. Now I do know who used to live there.’
Chapter Four
Fortunately, Carole did have a reason to get in touch with Debbie Carlton. During the brief glow of confidence she had felt while things were working out between her and Ted Crisp, she had decided to do something to her house. Just as her wardrobe had blossomed with new colours to edge out her customary pale greens, greys and beiges, so she started to think of changing the safe magnolia walls and white gloss which characterized – or perhaps bleached character from – her home. She even – momentarily – contemplated changing its name from High Tor. Such a move would have been unthinkable for her in any other mood. Names of houses – even names as inappropriate as ‘High Tor’ in the totally flat coastal plain
