Fethering 08 (2007) - Death under the Dryer (22 page)

“Well, I thought it was all nonsense. Honestly, the way those two girls went on, all about Gadrath Pezzekan and Biddet Rock and the Vales of Aspinglad…just a load of meaningless words.”

“Like today’s
Times
crossword.”

“Sorry?”

“I’ve got almost nowhere with it. Couldn’t even do the anagrams, and I can normally spot those a mile off. Today the clues were like a jumble of nonsense words.”

“Well, maybe the answers are too, Carole. Try putting in some of that stuff from the Wheel Quest: “Ordeal of Furminal’…”Prince Fimbador’ or—”

“Fimbador?”

“Yes, that was the name of one of the characters. The hero, so far as I could gather. Why?” Jude looked curiously at her friend’s puzzled face.

“It’s just something…Prince Fimbador…Fimbador…There’s something at the back of my mind that…” She suddenly clapped her hands together. “Fimby! The family nickname for Nathan is Fimby!”

“And you think that’s short for Fimbador?”

“Yes.”

Jude was less than convinced. “Well, it could be I suppose, but—”

“Come on, come on. Was there anything else the girls said that could have applied to Nathan?”

“Well, only…Let me think…Oh, they did say—that is, Chloe, in the character of Prince Fimbador, said: ‘I defy you and your false accusations!’”

“Did she?” Carole’s pale eyes were sparkling with excitement. “And just a minute—what did you say the name of the castle was? The castle where Prince Fimbador was going to escape by the Wheel Path?”

“Biddet Rock.”

“How many Ds? Quick, write it down, write it down!”

Jude found a pen and scribbled the letters down in a space next to the crossword. (It was a measure of her neighbour’s excitement that she made no comment—normally she hated anyone touching her copy of
The Times
.) Carole narrowed her eyes and focused on the letters of Biddet Rock.

“Treboddick!” she shouted. “Treboddick! ‘Biddet Rock’ is an anagram of ‘Treboddick’.”

“You know,” said Jude, “I’ve a feeling we could be on our way to Cornwall.”

§

Jude had inherited a laptop from a former lover, Lawrence Hawker, who had died of cancer a few years back at Woodside Cottage. It was connected to the internet, though she had never mentioned this fact to Carole. Partly this was because the subject had not come up in conversation and also her neighbour was of the view that, having managed this far through her life without the new technology, there was no need to embrace it in her fifties. Another reason for Jude’s reticence was the fact that she used email a lot to keep in touch with a wide variety of friends and lovers from her varied past. Knowing Carole’s exclusive and jealous nature, Jude did not want to complicate matters by bringing to her friend’s attention the life she had outside Fethering.

But for the task they faced that Tuesday evening the internet was the perfect tool, so they adjourned next door, where Jude immediately led her neighbour upstairs to the nest of a bedroom which spread across the whole frontage of Woodside Cottage. Carole had rarely been in this inner sanctum, and she could not help thinking of the lovers who had shared that broad bed—Lawrence Hawker for certain, but also many others (most of whom, it has to be said, existed only in Carole’s fevered imagination).

“I don’t know what you think this is going to achieve,” she said stuffily. “It’s not as if we even have an address for this place the Lockes have in Cornwall.”

“We have a name, though. That’ll be enough.”

“How do you mean?”

“Ssh. Let Google work its magic.”

Carole watched in silence, as Jude summoned up a screen and typed into a dialogue box the single word ‘Treboddick’. Within seconds a list of references appeared.

“Well, that wasn’t so hard,” said Jude. “Got the right one first time.”

“Just like that?” Carole looked curiously at the screen.

“Yes, well, I don’t think ‘Treboddick’ is that common a word. Quite possibly the one in Cornwall is the only one there is.” She scanned down the listings. “Ah, here we are.”

Leaning over her friend’s shoulder, Carole read: “‘Treboddick Holiday Cottages—Perfect tranquillity in exquisitely renovated miners’ homes in one of the most beautiful seaside settings in the British Isles.”’ There was a colour photograph of a terrace of stone buildings capped with slate roofs. Nearby were picturesque ruins of chimneys and outhouses, presumably vestiges of the mine workings. The position certainly was stunningly beautiful. Beneath the illustration were contact numbers. “So what do we do—ring up the unfortunately named Mopsa and see if we can book in?”

“Let’s make email contact first. Don’t want to risk the phone being answered by Rowley Locke and him recognizing our voices.”

“But he’s not down in Cornwall, is he?”

“Who knows? He wasn’t at the house this afternoon when I went to see Bridget. I think it’ll be safer if we remain anonymous at first.”

“Well, you can’t remain anonymous on email, can you? Surely, if you want to get a reply, you’re going to have to give your name?”

“You’re going to have to give a name. I’ve got a ‘Jude’ account, but I’ve also got others in the name of ‘Nichol’ and ‘Metarius’.”

Carole was excited by the direction the conversation was taking. Since she’d moved into Woodside Cottage, Jude had always been vague about the precise details of her past, particularly of her marital history. Now Carole was being given the perfect opportunity to get a little concrete information on the subject. She had heard the names from Jude before, but never had their provenance denned. “Now one of those is your married name, isn’t it?” she asked.

“They’re both married names,” said Jude, muddying the waters even further.

“So you mean you have a third name too—the one you were born with?”

“That’s right.” But before any supplementary questions could be asked, Jude had, as ever, moved on. Scribbling down the Treboddick email address, she announced, “I think this is a job for Mrs Metarius.” As she made her way into the relevant account, she continued, “Just a general enquiry first. Came across your details on the net…hear that the cottages are in a lovely part of the country…wonder if you have any availability…”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. We could leave tomorrow, couldn’t we?”

“What?” This went against Carole’s every instinct. Granted, they were going in the cause of investigation, but a trip to Cornwall sounded very much like a holiday to her, and you couldn’t just shoot off on holiday without preparation. She remembered organizing family trips when Stephen was little. They had to be planned months and months ahead, with all the attention to detail of a major military offensive. First, dates had to be agreed with David, who always needed a lot of warning and thinking time before he got close to making a decision about anything. And then there had to be long discussions about the venue and the optimum form of transport to be used, and then…and then…You couldn’t just shoot off to Cornwall overnight.

“Do you have a problem with that? Have you got something booked?”

Trying not to sound pathetic, Carole was forced to admit that no, she didn’t have anything booked for the next day. Or for a good many days after that. But she kept that information to herself.

Jude was busy at the keyboard, typing in her enquiry. Signing off with ‘J. Metarius’, she sent the email off.

“How soon will you get a reply?”

“Depends how often Mopsa—or whoever happens to be there—checks her email. From the impression the Lockes have given of their financial situation, it should be quite often.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We go downstairs, Carole, and we have another glass of wine.”

Their other glass of wine led to further conversation about the case. Carole had missed the opportunity to get back on to Jude’s marriage—or marriages—but she did somewhat shamefacedly describe her encounter with Theo. (She couldn’t see any reason to abide by the confidentiality he had demanded.) When she heard what had happened, Jude was very good and just managed to stop herself from laughing. After the update, they went upstairs to find that there had already been a response from Treboddick Cottages. Mopsa was being appropriately vigilant.

Yes, there was current availability. Maybe J. Metarius would like to email back a more specific enquiry? Or telephone?

“Telephone,” said Jude firmly. “I’ll use the mobile. A Fethering dialling code might be a bit of a give-away.” She got through to the number on the screen. “Good evening. My name’s Metarius. I’ve just received your email.”

“Hello, so glad you’ve got in touch,” lisped the voice from the other end of the line. Had Jude met Dorcas, she would have recognized that Mopsa’s voice was identical.

“Can I ask who I’m speaking to?”

“Yes, of course. My name’s Mopsa Locke. I’m in charge of the lettings of Treboddick Cottages.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad I’ve got the right person. Now the fact is that a friend and I suddenly have some free time and we were wondering how soon we could book in to one of the cottages.”

“As soon as you like. They’re all empty.” Mopsa decided that this last comment made her business sound too needy, and went on, “That is to say, they’re all
currently
empty. You know, between bookings. But we could fit you and your friend in. When would you like to come?”

“Tomorrow would be ideal.”

“And how long would you be wanting to stay?”

“Well, till after the weekend at least.”

I can’t suddenly go off and leave Fethering for nearly a week, was Carole’s instinctive reaction. But when she thought about it, she realized that there was nothing at all to stop her. She couldn’t even pretend to be restricted by Gulliver. The dog could come with them. There’s nothing he’d like better. Gambolling on Cornish cliffs would be his idea of heaven. On the other hand, she wouldn’t tell Jude that yet. She’d keep the potential problem of Gulliver up her sleeve in case she needed a get-out.

“Normally our minimum booking is for a week,” said Mopsa.

“Well, that’s fine,” Jude responded airily. “We’ll book it for a week.”

What, thought Carole, and where’s the money coming from? Although her Home Office pension and prudent savings habits meant she could easily have booked a round-the-world cruise at that very moment, a week in a cottage in Cornwall still sounded like an unwarranted extravagance.

“I’m not sure,” Jude went on, “exactly what time we’ll arrive tomorrow evening. Is there some arrangement we should make about picking up the key…?”

“It’s fine. I’m here all the time. I’ll be able to let you in.”

“Good.”

“And there will be a Welcome Pack of basics in the fridge when you arrive. You know, bread, milk, butter.”

“That sounds fine. Oh, one thing…Is it all right if we have a dog with us?” The question showed that Jude was ahead of Carole. Gulliver wasn’t going to be allowed as an excuse to get out of the trip.

“Yes, that’s fine. Lots of our guests bring dogs. There are some lovely walks along the cliffs.”

“Great. Now which of the cottages is free, Mopsa? Which one would you recommend?”

“As I say, they’re all free…just briefly. I live in Number One. Two and Four are really one big double room and one small single. Since there are two of you, Three would be best. That’s got two large single bedrooms.” There was a slight hesitation at the other end. “That is, if you don’t want the double…?”

Well, these days you had to ask. Jude suppressed a giggle and decided she wouldn’t pass on that part of the conversation to Carole. Her neighbour was clearly already having difficulty accommodating the idea of the two of them swanning off to Cornwall for a week. The suggestion that they might be mistaken for a lesbian couple was probably more than she could cope with.

“No. Number Three sounds the right one for us. Now are you going to need my address?”

“If you can just give me a credit card number, that’ll be fine. You can fill in the forms when you arrive. We take a non-refundable hundred pound deposit, and that’ll come straight off your card. I’m sorry, but we have had unfortunate experiences in the past.”

“I’m sure you have. Can’t trust anyone these days, can you? Just a sec. I’ll get the card.” Jude reached into a capacious handbag and took out a battered wallet, from which she extracted one from a choice of credit cards.

Carole saw the name: “J. Metarius.”

“Do you have another in the name of ‘Nichol’?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“And in your birth name?”

“Yes.” But Jude wasn’t about to elaborate. “Hello, Mopsa. It’s a MasterCard, and I’ll give you the number…”

When the call finished, Carole was about to go into a long diatribe about how rash and extravagant they were being, but she was prevented by Jude immediately keying in another number.

“Who?”

“The Lockes. In Chichester. Ssh.”

Carole watched in frustrated silence while her friend spoke. “Hello, who is that? Mr Locke, my name’s Jude. Yes, I came to see Bridget this afternoon about her back…That’s right. Just ringing…a sort of after-service call, to see if she’s still feeling better. Oh, good, that’s excellent news. No, don’t bother her. If it’s still fine, I don’t need to talk to her. And if she gets any more trouble…well, she’s got my number. Thank you so much. Goodbye.” She switched off the phone.

“Do you give ‘after-service’ calls to all your patients?” asked Carole sourly.

Jude didn’t bother to argue with the choice of word. Her neighbour knew she preferred to call them ‘clients’ and was only being annoying. “Not all of them, no.”

“Then what was the purpose of that?”

“The purpose of that was to find out from Bridget whether her husband was around. But he saved me the trouble by actually answering the phone himself.”

“Ah.” Carole understood. “Because if Rowley is currently in Chichester…then we know he’s not at Treboddick.”

“Exactly,” said Jude. “Now, one more glass of wine, and then I guess we should do some packing.”

T
here was one call Carole had to make when she got back to High Tor. Her affront about the idea of suddenly swanning off to Cornwall (as she still thought of it) had now been replaced by a sensation that came quite close to excitement. Since the break-up of her marriage, she hadn’t really done holidays. Partly this was due to the instinctive frugality of her nature, but she also had to admit to herself that she didn’t like the idea of setting off somewhere to have a good time on her own. The prospect of booking into a cruise ship and being thrown in with all kinds of people she had never seen before was her worst nightmare. And there were no friends with whom she felt relaxed enough to risk exposing her personality to them over a sustained period. Jude was probably the person to whom she was closest, but the parameters of their relationship would not, to Carole’s mind at least, encompass the suggestion of their holidaying together. So the forthcoming trip to the West Country, although in the cause of their murder investigation, had suddenly become rather an attractive proposition. As soon as she heard they wouldn’t be sharing a room, Carole had become quite keen on the idea.