‘No. When Jude and I were last in here, you talked about some American woman pontificating in here with some theories about different kinds of murders.’
‘Yes, I remember her. At the time, I thought what she was saying was a load of cobblers, and I haven’t changed my mind on that.’
‘You don’t know if her name was Nessa Perks, do you?’
Ted shook his head. ‘No idea what she was called.’
‘And you don’t know if she had any connection with the University of Clincham, do you?’
His eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes, I do remember one of the kids she was with mentioning the place.’
‘Thank you.’ At least Carole now knew who was the next person she should try to contact.
As, feeling rather mellow, Carole walked back from the pub to High Tor, for the first time she wondered whether Jude might actually have had something to do with Burton St Clair’s death. The thought was quickly suppressed, but she knew it was one which, once planted, would continue to linger just below the level of her consciousness.
SIXTEEN
Jude couldn’t get away from the feeling that she was under house arrest. Detective Inspector Rollins had only warned her off continuing her private investigation, but it was as if a hold had been put on all other areas of her life. Going shopping, going out for a walk: nothing felt right.
She even postponed a couple of healing sessions she had booked over the weekend. This was unusual. The needs of her clients always took priority over her own concerns. But she knew that, in her current emotional state, she would not have the focus required to channel her healing powers.
Nor did her vast repertoire of therapeutic resources help. Though she knew a multitude of ways to bring peace to the troubled souls of others, nothing seemed to mitigate her own uneasiness. The biblical proverb, ‘Physician, heal thyself’, was a difficult instruction to follow. Physicians have never been particularly good at applying their expertise to themselves.
It was very out of character for Jude to be in such a twitchy state. But, as the sequence of coincidences – culminating in the discovery of the huile de noix bottle – continued, she felt herself getting deeper and deeper into some Kafkaesque nightmare which could only end in her arrest.
Of course, the one link in Rollins’s chain of condemnation which Jude knew to be untrue was her supposed affair with Burton St Clair. It didn’t really matter whether Megan had affirmed its existence from sheer vindictiveness, or because a jealous suspicion in her paranoid mind had over the years hardened into fact. The accusation had been made, and the Detective Inspector believed it.
For a moment Jude contemplated ringing Megan, trying to reason with her, persuading her to rescind the statement she had given to the police. But she quickly rejected the idea. For a start, Megan was probably convinced that the lie she had told was the truth. And, looking at the situation from the police perspective, if Jude were guilty of the murder, then it would be entirely logical for her to put pressure on their star witness to change her story. Doing that wouldn’t help her cause one iota. No, every avenue Jude considered following appeared to be blocked.
And she couldn’t really blame the police for the direction in which their suspicions were moving. There was a logic there. Was it possible that she was the victim of some elaborate plan to frame her? Why? And who would do such a thing? It wasn’t an idea to make her tangled thoughts any clearer.
For the first time, she wondered whether she ought to contact a solicitor. At one level, it was insane she was even contemplating such a step. On the other hand though, even if Rollins hadn’t actually voiced the threat, she would clearly love to see Jude in court. If professional help was going to be required, perhaps she should start doing something about it?
The telephone rang. Hearing Oliver Parsons’ voice at the other end of the line did nothing to diminish Jude’s confusion.
‘Just wondering how your interview with the police went yesterday?’
God, was it only yesterday? Jude had been through so much emotional turmoil since Oliver had dropped her home it seemed like an age ago.
‘I’m afraid I can’t really talk about it.’
‘Oh? That doesn’t sound like you, Jude.’
‘No, it isn’t like me. The fact is, Oliver, the police have told me that I mustn’t investigate any further.’
‘Have they? Worried that the amateur sleuth might solve the murder before they do?’
‘You’ve been reading too many of your Golden Age crime novels. No, they have just told me to back off.’
‘They reckon you’re interfering with their enquiries?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Does this mean they’re near to a solution of the crime? Do they have a prime suspect?’
‘They have. And I’m afraid it’s me.’
‘What?’ He sounded genuinely gobsmacked. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m afraid I am.’
‘My God. And are they still thinking that Burton St Clair was killed by some walnut extract in the wine bottle?’
‘Yes. Well, I haven’t heard to the contrary.’
‘I was going to suggest meeting up for a … I don’t know … a drink or a—’
‘No. Sorry, Oliver. But until I get the police off my back, I don’t feel like socializing.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s fine. I’ll give you a call in a few days.’
She wondered whether he would. Had she choked him off too prematurely? She felt a little wistful. There had definitely been a spark between them; something might have developed.
But the potential end of an embryonic relationship was the least of Jude’s worries.
Any normal neighbour – obviously in the more relaxed North of England, but even in the frostily genteel South – would have knocked on the door of Woodside Cottage when walking past. But not Carole Seddon. Even after so many years of friendship, from the Crown & Anchor she went back to High Tor, then rang Jude from there and asked if she could call round.
Her neighbour was still jumpy. Jude’s paranoia was not decreasing. She was worried that her phone was tapped and that she was permanently under surveillance. Maybe Detective Inspector Rollins and her team were also now checking Carole’s movements and would extend to her the ban on investigating Burton St Clair’s death.
Jude expressed this anxiety, but her neighbour just said briskly, ‘If that is the case, then I should bring you up to date with what I’ve found out as quickly as possible.’ And she delivered a characteristically efficient report on her interviews with the two librarians and Ted Crisp.
The detail that Jude clung on to was that the remains of the wine bottle had been taken off for forensic analysis. ‘If they don’t find any evidence of walnut contamination – or if they find it didn’t come from huile de noix – then that’ll finally prove I couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder.’
Carole did not look convinced. ‘You’re still apparently the last person to have seen Burton St Clair alive. I’m not sure that the police will drop you off their list of suspects straight away.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jude ironically.
‘Anyway,’ Carole continued, determined as ever, ‘until I actually am warned off by the police, I intend to go on with this investigation.’
‘So, what will be your next step?’
‘I’ll try to make contact with this Nessa Perks woman. I’m not sure whether she’ll have anything useful to contribute, but at least she’s another witness to the events of Tuesday night.’
‘Do you have a number for her?’