without having a drink, either coffee or champagne. After making her astonishing statement, the bereaved – and very drunk – stepdaughter had moved away, with her fiancé fussing at her side, trying to get her to behave more appropriately. Carole had another quick look around to see if there was anyone she wanted to talk to, and finding with no great surprise that there wasn’t, slipped unobtrusively out of the hall and returned to High Tor.
As she entered the kitchen, her Labrador Gulliver looked up from his station in front of the Aga. His expression was, as ever, hopeful, though he knew he had already had his morning outing on Fethering Beach, and no other walks would be on offer until early evening.
Carole was in a dilemma. She desperately wanted to share what Alice Mallett had said with her neighbour, Jude, but she never went the easy way around any social interaction. Had she lived in the North of England – or indeed had she been a less uptight Southerner – she would have gone straight next door to Woodside Cottage to see if her friend was in. But Carole, being Carole, phoned instead.
Jude was in. ‘How did the funeral go?’ she asked.
‘Very interesting.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’d love to talk to you about it.’
‘Talk away. I am in listening mode.’
‘Well, I wondered if we could meet …?’
Jude couldn’t entirely keep a giggle out of her voice as she said, ‘Given our proximity, I’d say that was quite possible.’
‘Yes. Well … you wouldn’t fancy joining me for lunch at the Crown & Anchor, would you?’ This was unusual. It was rare for Carole to suggest a pub visit in the middle of the day.
Jude’s response was unusual too. She said, ‘No.’
‘Oh?’
‘Sorry, I’ve got a client booked in at two.’
‘Ah.’ The monosyllable managed to convey all of Carole’s reservations about her neighbour’s work as a healer.
‘Trouble is, it seems a bit pointless going to the pub and not having a drink, but I do need my concentration to be …’
‘Of course. Well, how about you coming round here? I could assemble a salad …’
‘Hmm,’ said Jude, when Carole had finished her report on the wake. She pushed aside her empty plate and shook her bird’s nest of blonde hair. ‘Emotions tend to run high at that kind of occasion.’
‘Of course.’
‘And if, as you say, there was already a legacy of bad blood between stepdaughter and stepmother …’
‘So Fethering gossip has it.’
‘Never underestimate Fethering gossip, Carole. It’s almost always hopelessly wrong on detail, but it often gets the main outlines right.’
‘Yes.’
‘The daughter … Alice did you say?’
‘Mm.’
‘She doesn’t live down here?’
‘No. London, I think.’
‘I’ve never met her. Nor the mother … Heather … I don’t think I’d even recognize her.’
‘She’s very rarely seen around the village.’
‘Oh?’
‘Just church on Sundays and church choir rehearsals on Fridays.’
‘Ah. Where do they – well, where does she – live?’
‘Shorelands Estate.’
‘Say no more. That lot are always a bit up themselves, aren’t they?’
It was true. Shorelands was one of those private estates, not quite gated, but with controlled access. The houses were overlarge, trumpeting their owners’ wealth, and each one built in a different architectural style. The Shorelands Estate was the kind of place where there were regulations about which days you could put your washing out. And where you could walk your dogs. And when you could mow your lawns.
‘Of course, “killing” …’ Carole began.
‘Hm?’
‘Well, I was just going to say … “killing” could mean a lot of things.’
‘As in Heather Mallett’s having “killed” her husband?’
‘Exactly. From an aggrieved – and bereaved – stepdaughter … it could be kind of metaphorical.’
‘“You killed my father by making his life a misery” … that kind of thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘“You killed my father by feeding him lots of fatty food” … or by “stopping him from going to the doctor when he felt ill” …?’
‘Mm.’
‘Infinite possibilities.’
‘It could also, of course mean …’ began Carole cautiously, ‘that Alice was actually accusing Heather of murdering her stepfather …?’
Jude grinned wryly. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to get there.’
‘Well, it’s possible.’
‘Undoubtedly. Unlikely, but possible. And do we know how Leonard Mallett was supposed to have died?’
‘No.’
‘Because information about that might help us to establish the viability of the murder hypothesis.’
‘Yes.’ Carole looked at her neighbour suspiciously. Lacking a robust sense of humour, she was never quite sure when she was being sent up.
‘Well, Carole,’ said Jude with a grin, ‘if you hear any more about the murder of Leonard Mallett, you will keep me up to speed about it, won’t you?’
‘Of course. And you’ll do the same?’
‘I will share every last piece of incriminating evidence with you,’ promised Jude. She looked at her watch. It had a large round face and was tied to her wrist with a kind of ribbon. This idiosyncrasy always irked Carole. She thought watches ought to be discreetly small, with proper straps. ‘Better be going,’ said Jude. ‘As I said, client coming at two.’
‘Oh yes. Of course,’ said Carole, her scepticism once again evident about the whole business of healing.
It was not the first time Jude had treated Jonny Virgo. She hadn’t mentioned the name of her two o’clock booking to her neighbour. She had strict rules about client confidentiality.
She
