The Liar in the Library. Simon Brett
‘No. It’s just there was someone at the library talk yesterday who fitted that description. She said she taught mystery fiction.’
‘Do people actually teach that?’ asked a bemused Ted.
‘You bet. Particularly in the States.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anyway,’ said Carole, wanting to move the conversation on, ‘what was this woman’s view of the current case?’
Again, the landlord screwed up his eyes. ‘Right, she said in this case we were up against either “WKH” or “MKL” …’
‘“Wife Kills Husband” or “Mistress Kills Lover”,’ Carole translated unnecessarily.
‘Yes. Or—’ Ted Crisp concluded with some triumph – ‘“WAMKH”.’
‘“Wife And Mistress Kill Husband”,’ said Jude drily.
‘You’re spot on! So, this American bossy-boots reckoned all you got to do is to … “churchy”? “Churchy” something …? She said it was French.’
‘Cherchez la femme?’ Carole suggested.
‘That’s it – right. She said all you got to do is find out who in Fethering this writer chap had ever had an affair with – and she’ll be your murderer!’
Jude didn’t like the look her neighbour was giving her. She knew, however much she insisted she was telling the truth, Carole would still believe that there had once been something between Jude and Burton.
And if Carole thought that, it would only be a matter of time before the rest of Fethering thought the same.
EIGHT
The wine and the company in the Crown & Anchor had cheered Jude up, but when she said goodnight to Carole at the gate of Woodside Cottage, she felt the darkness closing in again. The reality of Burton’s death and the unpleasant recollection of her police interview in the morning dominated her mind.
It wasn’t yet eight o’clock and she hadn’t had anything to eat since Carole’s cottage cheese salad, so she knew she ought to be assembling some kind of supper. But the urge wasn’t there. She didn’t feel hungry.
Jude opened the laptop to check her emails. There was one from Megan. It read simply: ‘Yes, we should be in touch.’ No ‘Love’. No ‘Good Wishes’. No home address. Just a mobile number.
Jude consulted the large-faced watch fixed to her wrist by a broad ribbon. It was a perfectly reasonable hour to ring someone. She dialled the number.
‘Hello?’ The voice was breathless and slightly actressy. But also guarded, cautious, as if expecting a call it didn’t want to take. Very familiar, though. Though they had been such close friends, Jude remembered the voice’s tautness, its owner’s inability ever quite to relax, her habit of watchfulness, always anticipating some kind of slight.
‘Megan, it’s Jude.’
‘Ah. I thought you’d probably be in touch quite soon.’ Megan made it sound as though Jude’s quick response was in some way shameful.
‘I just wanted to say I heard about Burton … Al.’
‘Well, of course you did. You were there when it happened.’
‘You know that because the police have talked to you?’
‘I was spending a long weekend with a friend in Scarborough.’ So Detective Sergeant Knight’s information had been correct. ‘There was no mobile signal at her place. I only found out they’d been trying to contact me when I got on the train. I rang them as soon as I could. They checked out my alibi with my friend. It was when I was talking to Detective Inspector Rollins that I found out about you being there.’
‘Let’s be clear, Megan, I was at Fethering Library for his talk in the evening. I wasn’t actually there when he died.’
‘No, of course not.’
Again, there was an edge of scepticism in the voice. Jude was the last person in the world to get paranoid, but events of the last twenty-four hours had unsettled her deeply.
‘I think we ought to meet, Megan.’
‘As I said in my email, yes, I think we should.’
‘Where do you live now?’
‘Still in Morden.’
‘Oh.’
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