Death on the Downs

Five

“Not my idea of a pub, that Hare and Hounds,” Ted Crisp grouched.

His presence seemed to fill the car. He’d arrived in the pub, looking as ever, hair and beard both in need of trimming, paunch in need of slimming. The usual grubby jeans, trainers and sweatshirt, with a zip-up hooded sweater over the top in deference to the February weather.

He’d nodded to Will Maples, but refused Carole’s offer of a drink. “No. Got to pace myself. Be drinking later at the Crown. Friday nights get frenetic. All the old farts and their doxies in, the air heavy with the scent of Germolene.”

At seven the Hare and Hounds had suddenly become busy. The ‘Reserved’ tables in the bar were quickly filled with people who were going to eat bar snacks, and diners started going through to the restaurant. Will Maples and his newly arrived staff had not a moment to turn round. But, Carole observed, it was an efficient operation. Will was a good manager.

He was too busy for her to catch his eye when she left. Never mind. It was Lennie Baylis she had to thank for the drinks, after all. With unexpected chivalry, Ted Crisp had picked up her Burberry. “What you been doing?” he asked as he felt its sodden fabric. “Auditions for Singing in the Rain?”

Carole had never been in his car before, but it was in character. An old Nissan Bluebird estate, its back seat and luggage space piled up with boxes. There was a stale whiff of beer and smoke. In fact, Carole realized as she got in, the car smelled exactly like the Crown and Anchor. So did Ted. He was a non-smoker, but he always smelled of cigarette smoke. An occupational hazard. His customers’ smoke clung to his clothes, to his hair and to his beard.

“No, not my idea of a pub,” he repeated. “Everything too neat, too calculated. No real character.”

This chimed in exactly with what Carole had thought. “But you know Will, do you? I saw you nod at him.”

“In this job, you know most of the opposition, to talk to anyway. He used to manage clubs in Brighton, only recently moved into the pub trade. He’s a bright boy, though. He’ll go far.”

“How long has he been landlord there?”

“He’s not the landlord, Carole. Just the manager. Works for the chain. Home Hostelries, they’re called.”

“But they’re just a small chain, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but owned by one of the big breweries. Like everything else these days. I don’t like places like that. A pub should have its own identity, not be part of a bloody olde English drinkers’ theme park.”

“And what do you reckon gives a pub its identity?”

Ted Crisp chuckled wryly. “Got to be your landlord, hasn’t it? Reason, I’m afraid, why the Crown and Anchor is like it is. A reflection of me – a bloody-minded, cussed ex-stand-up comic. And people who don’t like that can bloody well lump it.” He sighed. “Trouble is, I don’t know how much longer the independent landlord can keep going. What did I read in the paper the other day? Six village pubs closing every week. It’s like the supermarkets killing off the village shops a few years back, isn’t it? Only the big boys can afford the investment to keep a pub going.”

“Have you had approaches from some of the chains?”

“Oh yes, plenty.”

“From Home Hostelries?”

“Not yet. The Crown and Anchor’s not quaint enough for them. They prefer something a bit older, more rustic. But other groups have been sniffing around. Not a great building architecturally, but the Crown’s got a good position in Fethering. Someone with half a million could turn it into something extremely bijou.” He shuddered at the thought and was silent. Then he asked, “What’s the matter, Carole?”

“Matter? What do you mean?”

“You’re upset. Something’s upset you.”

Not for the first time, she was surprised at his perception. Ted Crisp’s aggressive manner masked an unexpected sensitivity to the people around him.

Carole’s instinctive reaction would normally have been to deny there was anything wrong, but the brandy had lowered her guard. Besides, she did want to talk about what she’d seen. Ideally, she wanted to talk about it to Jude, but Ted’s large bulk felt reassuringly trustworthy.

“I found some human bones in a barn,” she said. The rest of her narrative didn’t take long. There wasn’t really much to say. Indeed, the smallness of the initial incident seemed disproportionate to the shock she was feeling. She included what she had heard from Graham Forbes in the pub and his potential identification of the victim. “Do you know anyone in Weldisham, Ted?”

He shook his head. “Hardly ever go up there. I think Jude’s got some friends in the village, though…”

“Has she? Did she mention any names?”

Another shake of the head. “When is it she’s back?”

“Early next week? I’m not sure.” Suddenly Carole couldn’t wait to see Jude. There was so much she needed to discuss. “Did she tell you where she was going, Ted?”

She’d felt a sudden pang of jealousy at the thought Ted might have received confidences denied to her. But it was quickly dissipated by his reply. “No. Never gives away much about what she’s up to, does she?”

“Do you think that’s deliberate?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think Jude deliberately withholds information? That she’s secretive?”

In the oncoming headlights Carole could see his face screw up as he tried to get the right words for his answer. “No, it’s not deliberate. It’s not devious, certainly. I’m sure if you asked a direct question, she’d give you a direct answer. I think it’s more that Jude has a lot of different parts of her life and she doesn’t really see the necessity for them to overlap.”

Ted’s answer had the effect of making Carole feel even more jealous. Not jealous of him, just jealous of the rare serenity that surrounded Jude. They’d been next-door neighbours for nearly four months. Carole felt cautiously that she could describe Jude as a friend; and she was confident Jude would have no hesitation in describing Carole as her friend. But she still knew distressingly little about the’ new arrival in Fethering. She didn’t even know whether Jude had ever been married, for God’s sake. Was she divorced? Did she have a permanent boyfriend? Somehow the cues for such basic questions never seemed to arise. Jude wasn’t evasive, she was very honest; but an air of mystery still clung around her. Mystery and serenity.

Carole would have given a fortune to know the source of Jude’s inner peace.

They’d arrived outside Carole’s house, High lor, in Fethering High Street. “I’d invite you in for a drink or…”

“No. No. Got to get back to the Crown. Before the brawls break out. Doesn’t take much to get the old geezers hitting out with their crutches, strangling each other with the cords of their hearing aids…”

Carole chuckled. “Can’t thank you enough for picking me up.”

“No problem. You going to be all right to get up there for your car in the morning?”

She was tempted to see if he’d actually offer to take her. But no, she’d already presumed too much on his goodwill. “Yes, I’ve got that sorted, thank you,” she lied. Organize a cab in the morning.

He was silent. “And you’re sure you’re all right?”

“Absolutely fine, thanks. Hot bath, early night, be as good as new.”

“Great.” Another silence. “Well, it’s been very good to see you again, Carole.”

Surely she was wrong to detect a reluctance in Ted to let her go. No, that’d be ridiculous. She reached for the door handle. “Good to see you too. And I can’t thank you enough.”

“Keep me up to date,” he called out, as she stepped into the cold February night. “When you find out who owns dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…”

“Course I will,” said Carole.

She waved as his car drew away. Gulliver, alerted by the click of the garden gate, set up a reproachful barking from the hall. He only did that for her. She never knew how he recognized her step. He never barked for anyone else. Burglars could come and go into High Tor unser-enaded.

But as Carole walked up the path to her front door, she felt strangely elated.