‘Of course.’
‘Goodness, if I’d succumbed to all of the people who came on to me while I was at Blester Combe – particularly the tutors … well … But I had my professional situation to think of.’
‘Of course you did. Incidentally, did you notice if Al Sinclair drank a lot when he was at Blester Combe?’
Nemone smiled coyly. ‘I’m afraid Wordway courses and drinking tend rather to go together. Participants used to estimate at the beginning of the week how much they reckon they’re likely to drink. We’d order that in, but almost always had to re-order by the time we got to the Thursday.’
‘So Al didn’t drink noticeably more than the others?’
The solid shoulders shrugged. ‘As I say, they all did.’
‘But did you ever see him using a hipflask?’
A beam spread across the poet’s face. ‘Yes, now you mention it, I do. There was an incident when he started swigging from it in one of the group workshop sessions. Some of the other participants complained.’
‘So all of them would have seen his hipflask?’
‘Oh yes, he was always flashing it around. Horrible battered old pewter thing.’
Jude registered the importance of that information, but didn’t have time right then to process it. She changed direction. ‘On the course that Burton – Al Sinclair – attended, I’ve heard that there was apparently a crew there making a film of the week?’
‘Yes.’ Nemone Coote’s face clouded. ‘I remember them.’
‘Did they make themselves difficult?’
‘Not exactly. But they showed very little interest in how a place like Blester Combe is run, you know, the logistical challenges of keeping the show on the road. They concentrated completely on the course, the tutors and the participants. Which must’ve made for a very unbalanced documentary about the work of the Wordway Trust. I didn’t watch it when it went out. I knew there’d be nothing there that I didn’t know.
‘The two who made the film were very arrogant, in the way only television people can be. I’d actually gone to the effort of writing a haiku about the running of Blester Combe, but they showed no interest in recording it. Huh, very short-sighted. It’s actually in my collection, On Yer Haiku, published by Pagan Libation Press.’ This time she didn’t even bother to ask whether Jude had read it.
‘But nothing is wasted. I transmuted the unpleasant experience of meeting those television people into one of my most trenchant poems – Square Brains for Square Eyes, which I published under my own imprint, Bald As A Coote Press. That’s one of the great benefits of being an artist, you know: the way you can channel your own traumas into your work. There’s a poem I wrote on that very subject, which is in A Tock For Every Tick, another Bald As A Coote publication – I find self-publishing works best for me these days; it gives the poet so much more freedom to—’
Jude really felt she had to cut to the chase now. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Nemone, but I wanted to ask if you remembered another participant on the same course as Al Sinclair – someone called Steve Chasen?’
The poet shook her head. ‘Name doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘Keen to write science fiction? Also very keen on a drink or two?’
‘Jude darling … That could describe almost all the participants who come on Wordway Trust courses. I remember the odd one with a spark of brilliance – like Burton St Clair – but the rest of them, I’m afraid, melt into an indistinguishable mass.’
‘Steve Chasen might have been antagonistic towards Burton?’
Another shake of the head. ‘We’re talking quite a few years ago.’
‘Of course.’
Nemone downed the remains of her Guinness.
‘Can I get you another one?’
She looked at her watch. ‘No, thank you, Jude. My lift’ll be here in a minute.’
‘Ah. Well, there is just one other thing I need to ask …’
‘Yes?’
‘On that course, did Burton St Clair ever mention that he was allergic to walnuts?’
‘Oh, my God! Did he ever mention anything else? He mentioned it in his application form for the course, he mentioned it again in our first evening Meet-and-Greet session. He mentioned it before every meal, checking that there wasn’t a trace of walnut in anything that was about to pass his lips. And he prided himself on the fact that his was an allergy to walnuts, not a peanut allergy like so many common people suffered from. I tell you, no one who spent that week at Blester Combe went away not knowing about Burton St Clair’s walnut allergy.’
‘Ah. Thank you. Who were the tutors that week, Nemone? Do you remember?’
‘Well, I do, actually, because one of them was rather sweet on me. Nothing happened, of course, because of my professional position, but … well. The tutors were …’ She mentioned two crime writers whose names meant nothing to Jude. But then very few crime writers’ names would have meant anything to her.
‘And they would have heard about the walnut allergy too?’
‘Oh, certainly. Tutors always eat with the participants. There would have been no escaping it.’
‘So it’s just the two tutors? Nobody else comes in during the week?’
‘They have a guest speaker on the Thursday evening.’
‘Oh?’
‘Might be another writer. Sometimes they book a publisher or an agent.’
‘And that week?’
Nemone Coote looked up towards someone who had just arrived. Jude turned to see an inoffensive-looking man, swaddled in a tweed coat and fur hat with ear-flaps.
‘Nearly done, darling,’ said the poet. ‘My husband Keith. This is Jude.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said in a voice as inoffensive as his appearance.
Nemone Coote gathered up her considerable bulk as she rose from her seat. ‘Well, pleased to meet you, Jude. Thanks for the drink.’ Keith Coote looked at his watch. ‘Yes, darling, we’re on our way.’
Jude rose to block their exit. ‘Sorry, just one thing – who was the Thursday guest speaker on that course?’
‘Oh, they went for an academic that time. A specialist on old-fashioned crime fiction. I’ve seen her since then actually, when I was doing some work at the University of Clincham. Her name was Professor Nessa Perks.’
To digest the implications of this news, Jude went to the bar and ordered another Sauvignon Blanc from Ted. ‘Carole not with you today?’
‘No.’
‘Up in Fulham with the grandchildren?’
‘No, she’s … er … I’m sure she’ll be in soon.’
Another pang of guilt accompanied Jude back to her seat. Perhaps she should call Carole on the mobile, invite her along to share her recent discoveries? But Jude wanted to think for a while on her own before she did that.
As she sipped her Sauvignon Blanc, she realized that what she’d learned from Nemone Coote must bring Nessa Perks into any list of potential suspects. Here was a woman who spent her life teaching about the connections between the fictional crime on which she was an expert and the real-life crime which the police had to deal with every day. Was it possible that her obsession had led to her trying an experiment? To see if she could get away with committing a real crime based on some Golden Age template? It was at many levels a daft idea, but still intriguing.
Jude was aware of someone coming across to collect Nemone’s empty Guinness glass from the table. She looked up to see it was Zosia.
Jude’s surprise was as nothing compared to the bar manager’s. The girl blushed to the roots of her blonde pigtails. ‘I am sorry. I did not expect to see you here.’
‘No, Zosia. It’s not a usual time for me.’ Looking closely, Jude realized how haggard the girl was. No amount of make-up could mask the dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes. The older woman reached out an arm. ‘Come and sit down, Zosia.’