‘Yes, Evvie, but last time you did it, you may remember there were a lot of books returned to the wrong sections.’
‘Not many,’ said the old lady defiantly. Then, after a silence, ‘Are you telling me I should go home then?’
Remembering what she’d thought when she’d first met Eveline Ollerenshaw the week before, Jude realized that this was a big moment for Di Thompson. The librarian had been trying, tactfully, to ease out her well-meaning but inefficient volunteer. She had suggested, and thought they’d agreed, to reduce her number of days, but Evvie was now trying it on, testing the strength of her boss’s resolution.
Di Thompson failed the test. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I could use some help this morning. Just this morning, though.’
‘All right. I’ll just go and put my coat away.’ And Eveline Ollerenshaw, fully aware of her triumph, scuttled away to the staff room.
Jude grinned ruefully, but made no comment. ‘I’d better be on my way. But thanks so much for all your help, Di.’
‘No problem.’ Then, as Jude moved away, the librarian said, ‘Oh, thinking about the Wordway Trust, there’s another approach you could try.’
‘Mm?’
‘One of our regulars in the library, woman named Nemone Coote – quite a successful poet, I gather … Well, a published poet, which I think does mean successful these days. I know she’s always coming in when she has a new collection out to check we’ve got it in stock. Might be worth getting in touch with her.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, she used to be in charge of one of the venues where the Wordway Trust courses were run.’
TWENTY-THREE
Before meeting Nemone Coote, Jude had done her homework by reading the Wordway Trust flyer from the library. When contacted by telephone, the woman had been only too ready to talk. Like Nessa Perks, she seemed disappointed that the police had not yet been in touch with her. She too thought they were neglecting the presence of an expert in their midst. Jude wondered whether the two women might know each other.
Nemone lived in a small village near Clincham, but was very happy to drive to meet up. ‘Those of us who work from home will do anything to get out of the house, you know – particularly on those days when the ideas aren’t flowing.’ They agreed on the Crown & Anchor – yes, she knew the pub – at five o’clock for ‘a glass and a chat.’ Jude felt a momentary pang for not including her neighbour in the encounter, but after the sniffy way Carole had behaved that morning …
Nemone Coote was a bulky woman with short-cropped white hair. Despite the weather, she wore pink Croc clogs, shin-length jeans and a sleeveless, almost Hawaiian shirt over her flat chest. Had Central Casting been looking for someone to play a butch lesbian, she would have walked it. Ordering a pint of Guinness did nothing to dispel the image.
As she ordered the drinks from Ted Crisp at the bar, Jude thought of Zosia. She hadn’t had the opportunity to tell the girl about her encounter with Lennie the night before. ‘Zosia not around?’
‘Doesn’t work this shift,’ said the landlord.
Of course. Zosia had said her day off was Tuesday. It was the previous one when she’d cooked kopytka for her Uncle Pawel. And that was the last time she’d seen him. So, if Zosia provided an alibi for him that evening, how had the hipflask come into his hands? A question Jude would have to follow up. But not at that moment. Nemone Coote was her first priority.
‘I was a Centre Director at Blester Combe for nearly five years,’ the poet announced.
‘Blester Combe is the Wordway Trust place in Wiltshire?’
‘That’s right. They have three centres round the country. Big “houses in the country”, rather than “country houses” – that would give very much the wrong impression. Nothing posh about them: old farmhouses, that kind of place, which have been converted by Wordway. Accommodating up to twenty – you know, the centre staff, the tutors and the participants. The number of them on each course is capped at sixteen.’
‘And courses run right through the year?’
‘Pretty much. It was a job that suited me, you know, at that stage of my career. I’d just had my first collection published. Divergent Parallels – don’t know if you’ve read it?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Published by Blue Gudgeon. Got very warm reviews. I was described as “a voice that rejects the old tropes of traditional poetry and brings in new tropes”.’
‘Oh. Well. Congratulations.’
‘But obviously, I couldn’t make a living from the poetry at that stage, so the Blester Combe job just suited me. Offered the chance of mixing with other writers, you know, the tutors, so perhaps learning more about my craft. And when I took it on, I thought it would give me time to get on with my own writing. That, sadly, proved not to be the case. Hardly wrote a word for five years. Pretty full-on job, being Centre Director.’
‘What does it involve?’
‘What doesn’t it involve? Organizing the cleaning and bed-making on the changeover days, welcoming the new participants – in some cases, fetching them from the station. Supervising the cooking – they cook the evening meals themselves, you know. Then seeing the tutors are happy. Sorting out problems, which can range from facilitating wheelchair access to extricating the participants from each other’s beds.’ She chuckled heartily. ‘And fielding endless complaints about everything from virtually everyone. Let me tell you, it’s no picnic being a Wordway Trust Centre Director.’
‘Ah.’
‘In fact, I wrote about the experience – subtly disguised, of course, to avoid libel risks – in my second collection, It’s No Picnic. Published by Intravenous Press. I don’t suppose you …’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘No.’ Nemone Coote sadly shook her head, inured over many years to the blindness of a world which had yet to recognize her genius.
‘I actually wanted to talk about Burton St Clair.’
‘Ah, yes.’ This sparked new enthusiasm in the woman. If her own poetry was not going to bring her centre stage, having information about a murder could be her next best claim to fame.
‘It’s a long shot I know, Nemone, but Burton St Clair – calling himself Al Sinclair back then – did once attend a Wordway crime fiction course at Blester Combe. You weren’t by any chance there as Centre Director when he …?’
Nemone Coote’s beaming smile told Jude the answer before she needed to complete her question. ‘Yes, I was. And I must say it’s always very encouraging when Blester Combe participants go on to success in the publishing world. You know, I feel that I have in some way contributed to what’s happened to them.’
‘Of course,’ said Jude, uncertain what the nature of Nemone’s contribution might have been.
‘It’s a sort of vicarious nurturing, you know. Like being a parent at one remove, an emotional situation that I embrace in my poem, Parent at One Remove. From the collection, And a Partridge in a Parent, published by the Black Willy imprint. I don’t know if you …’ Jude shook her head. ‘No. Anyway, I recognized the talent in Al Sinclair – it just seemed to be bursting out of him. So much talent, so much energy … Irrepressible he was. I think that’s why he came on to all of the women on the course – just pure animal energy.’
‘Ah.’
‘He came on to me too, you know.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes. End of a long evening, we were stacking the dishwasher, and he put his hand on my breast. I had to tell him it wasn’t appropriate.’
‘Right.’
‘You know, with my position of being Centre Director.’