The Killer in the Choir. Simon Brett

not an unlikely age for him to have had a fall.’

      ‘No, certainly not. I do worry about something like that happening to me. It’s an issue of balance, I think my internal gyroscope is not working quite as it should. I do sometimes feel very unsteady when I’ve been sitting somewhere for a long time, you know, at the piano or—’

      Jude cut through the hypochondria. ‘Do you know if the fall killed him, or if he died in hospital?’

      ‘Oh, the fall did it. Apparently, Heather came back to the house, from wherever she’d been – shopping, I think – and found his body at the foot of the stairs.’

      Jude didn’t think it was the moment to comment that in most crime novels – and many real-life crime scenarios – the person who discovers the body is always the first suspect. Instead, she asked, ‘What did Alice say this afternoon, about the actual death?’

      ‘She said it wasn’t an accident.’

      ‘That he was pushed?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘The oldest question in crime – and in crime fiction, too: “Did he fall or was he pushed?”’

      ‘That’s the one.’

      ‘And the pusher was presumably said to be Heather?’

      ‘Oh yes. Alice said there was no doubt about it. Heather killed her husband for his money. It was definitely murder.’

      THREE

      After Jonny had left, it was characteristic of Jude that she went straight round to High Tor to propose that, having turned down her neighbour’s suggestion of going to the Crown & Anchor at lunchtime, they should go early evening instead. And it was characteristic of Carole that she hummed and hawed a great deal, as if evaluating other pressing demands on her time, before she agreed to go. And when Jude proposed they go at five, Carole felt a disapproving flutter at the thought of having a drink before the end of the working day (though it was some time since she last had a conventional working day, since she had retired from the Home Office).

      At five, they walked together past the parade of shops to Fethering’s only pub.

      Ted Crisp, the landlord, was still dressed in his winter uniform of faded sweatshirt and grubby jeans, rather than his summer ensemble of faded T-shirt and grubby jeans. He greeted them with his customary gruffness. ‘So, would I be jumping the gun to pour out two large New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs?’

      ‘No,’ Jude replied. ‘You would be doing absolutely the right thing, and making us feel like regulars. Which is exactly what we like to think we are.’

      ‘Good.’ He looked at Carole. ‘You know, I dreamt about you last night.’

      ‘Did you?’

      ‘No, you wouldn’t let me.’

      Jude giggled. Ted could never quite get away from his past as a stand-up comedian, though the quality of his jokes, as in this case, demonstrated why he never made a go of it.

      Carole’s reaction was more complex than her neighbour’s. Though she understood the joke – which was not always the case with her and jokes – the innuendo couldn’t fail to remind her of the unlikely truth that she and the landlord had once had a brief affair. She coloured and looked away.

      Serendipitously, further conversation was interrupted by a burst of riotous laughter from the back of the pub near the French windows which, in the summer, were opened out on to the beach. Jude looked at her big round watch. ‘A bit early for that kind of raucousness, isn’t it?’

      Ted tutted and raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘That lot’ve been here all afternoon …’

      ‘Then I think we’ll sit up this end,’ said Carole, whose entire life had been devoted to the avoidance of ‘scenes’.

      ‘They came on here from some post-funeral drinks do in the church hall,’ he went on.

      ‘Oh, I think we’ll sit down there,’ said Jude.

      In the residual afternoon sunlight, Carole recognized all of the group sitting at a wooden table in the alcove as members of the church choir. The bearded Ruskin Dewitt and the thin-faced woman were there, along with a couple of ladies (definitely, in Fethering, ‘ladies’ rather than ‘women’) in their sixties. These Carole knew to be sisters, called Shirley and Veronica Tattersall, who lived together in a flat near the Fethering Yacht Club. She also knew the name of a tall, thin woman with unlikely long red hair. Elizabeth Browning, who only lacked the ‘Barrett’ to make herself the full Romantic Heroine. She was often to be seen, gliding soulfully along the streets of Fethering, like a lady from Chekhov who’d lost her lapdog. In fine weather during the summer, she frequently leaned against the stone wall which guarded the mouth of the River Fether, gazing soulfully out to sea, and generally doing an impression of the French Lieutenant’s Woman.

      Given that he’d shown no sign of recognizing her earlier in the day, Carole thought it unlikely that Ruskin Dewitt would suddenly remember who she was. She’d got the impression, from meeting him on the Preservation of Fethering’s Seafront committee, that he lived in a bubble of his own pomposity and didn’t notice other people much. Since she had never been introduced to the choir members whose names she did know, and since she didn’t know the names of the others, she started towards a table as far away from them as possible.

      But she hadn’t reckoned with Jude’s greater openness and conviviality. Inevitably, there was someone there who her neighbour knew.

      It turned out to be Ruskin Dewitt. Of course. Men, Carole had convinced herself, were always suckers for Jude’s rather obvious charms. He had risen immediately he saw her, disengaging himself clumsily from the fixed bench in the alcove. With a flamboyant gesture, he reached for her hand and planted a tickly kiss on to it. Not for the first time, Carole reflected on her low visibility when compared to that of her neighbour.

      ‘Jude! My dear! What more could an old man ask than to have his afternoon animated by such a vision of pulchritude?’

      ‘Nice to see you, Russ.’ Whatever destination she’d had in mind, Carole was hauled back towards the group. ‘Russ, I don’t think you know my neighbour, Carole.’

      ‘I don’t believe I do. Though I have to say, young lady, that you do look familiar.’

      Carole winced, as she always did at compliments.

      ‘She was at the funeral,’ said the sharp-faced woman. ‘And briefly in the church hall afterwards.’

      ‘Oh, that’s where I recognize you from, of course. Carole, was it?’

      ‘That’s right.’ The words contained the frostiness with which she greeted all new acquaintances.

      ‘My name is Ruskin Dewitt,’ he said. (She was right. He’d completely forgotten that the two of them had ever sat on a committee together.) ‘Citizen not of this parish, but of Fedborough, a little further up the River Fether. Formerly a purveyor of education in English Literature to young persons who were unaware of the privilege they were receiving by being taught by me. But, Carole, you will join us?’

      ‘Erm … Well …’

      ‘Of course we will,’ said Jude. She looked at the table. There were some glasses with dregs of wine in them, and a bottle of white so deep into an ice bucket that it was impossible to see whether it was full or empty. ‘Are you all right for drinks?’

      ‘I think we’re fine, Jude my angel,’ said Ruskin Dewitt, unsteadily reinserting himself into his seat. ‘We were actually talking about leaving.’

      ‘We’ve been talking about leaving all afternoon,’ said the thin-faced woman. She looked at her watch. ‘I should be getting back for Rory.’

      But none of them made any move. Further introductions were made.