The Death on the Downs. Simon Brett

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СКАЧАТЬ there was someone kneeling in a pew near the front. Carole could see the outline of a fur hat on a head bent in prayer. And she could hear the sound of sobbing.

      Her arrival had disturbed the supplicant. The sobbing instantly stopped. The figure, now recognizable as a woman, rose to her feet, brushed a hand across her face, gave a quick nod of respect to the altar and came up the aisle towards Carole.

      As the woman passed, she flashed a quick shy smile at the intruder and left the church.

      Carole had a fleeting impression of a tear glinting on a face of extraordinary beauty.

      But, perhaps remarkably in Weldisham, the face was Chinese.

      Carole had a desultory look around the church and paid a dutiful fifty pence into the honesty box for A Brief History of St Michael and All Angels. Then she set off for the Hare and Hounds to address the Times crossword.

Chapter Eight

      It was only just after twelve, but already there were people having lunch in the Hare and Hounds. Their average age was probably round seventy, but they looked well groomed in their leisurewear and prosperous, enjoying their well-endowed pension plans.

      For a moment Carole luxuriated in the boldness of walking into a pub on her own. She wasn’t by nature a ‘pub person’ and a year ago she wouldn’t have done it. The new boldness was a symptom of the changes that had come over her. Until she met Jude, Carole had expected – indeed courted – a predictability in her life in Fethering. Jude had shown her that change was possible, and even desirable.

      Carole ordered a Coca-Cola. She was sure she’d have a glass of wine when Jude arrived, but she needed to pace herself. Mustn’t forget she was driving. She was served by a girl she hadn’t seen before. There was no sign of Will Maples.

      All the seats in the Snug were taken, so she found a table for two by a front window that looked out at Heron Cottage. But after a brief glance across the road, she turned her attention to the crossword. Usually easy on Mondays. She had a suspicion the compilers did that deliberately, to make their addicts feel intellectually on top of things, put them in a good mood at the beginning of the week.

      But, to her annoyance, that day’s clues read like a foreign language. Carole’s approach to the crossword was very linear. She always started with the first Across clue; if she couldn’t get that, she moved to the second Across clue. Only when she’d got one correct solution did she investigate the possibilities opened up by its letters. And if she got stuck again, she’d move on to the next Across clue.

      That Monday, the clues seemed particularly intransigent. She knew it was her attitude that was wrong. Solving crosswords required a kind of mental relaxation, a willingness to think laterally, to let ideas flow. But Carole’s mind wasn’t feeling relaxed. It floated over the words of the clues, not concentrating, not breaking them down into components to tease out their solutions.

      She knew that her mind was really with Jude and what was happening in the Lutteridges’ house. To her annoyance, she found herself at the end of all the Across clues without having got a single answer. She couldn’t remember that ever happening before. With a ferocious effort of concentration, she focused on 1 Down.

      ‘Tricky today, isn’t it?’

      She looked up to see the tall figure of Graham Forbes stooping over her. He was wearing the same three-piece tweed suit and holding a whisky glass. His unlit pipe was clenched in his teeth. He must have just arrived. He certainly hadn’t been in the pub when she came in.

      ‘Yes. Yes, it is,’ she agreed.

      ‘And one always thinks Mondays’ are going to be easy.’

      He so exactly reflected her own views that she grinned.

      ‘Took me ages to get started today,’ said Graham Forbes. ‘Had to stay at the breakfast table much longer than I’d intended. Then I got a couple and it all fell into place.’

      ‘Well, please don’t tell me any of the answers.’

      He raised a hand histrionically, appalled by her suggestion. ‘My dear lady, what do you take me for? There is honour among crossword solvers, you know.’

      ‘I do know. And I apologize humbly for my careless imputation.’

      He chuckled. ‘Didn’t I see you in here on Friday?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Have you just moved to Weldisham?’

      ‘No, I live in Fethering, actually.’

      ‘Ah. Different country.’ He chuckled and indicated the chair opposite her. ‘Mind if I join you?’

      ‘I’ve got a friend coming . . .’

      ‘Oh, well, I’ll . . .’ He made to move away.

      ‘No, please.’ Carole glanced at her watch. ‘She won’t be here for another twenty minutes.’

      ‘I’ll be gone by then.’ He sat down and raised his whisky glass. ‘Just always come in for my pre-lunch tincture, you know. Are you an every day Times crossword person?’

      ‘Oh yes, part of my ritual.’

      ‘Me too. Get in a very bad mood when I can’t finish it. Wife knows to keep out of the way on those days.’ Another chuckle.

      Carole couldn’t help being charmed by this man with his old-fashioned urbane courtesy. He seemed entirely different from the pontificator she’d heard talking on the Friday. Maybe she had misjudged his character. What had sounded right-wing might just have been nostalgia for a simpler time.

      ‘Don’t like a lot of things about The Times these days,’ he went on, confirming her conjecture. ‘Going very tabloid, all those colour photographs and what have you. Any excuse to get a pretty girl on the front page. And the Diary is an absolute disgrace. I’m afraid I’m of a generation that looks back fondly to the days when The Times didn’t have any news on the front page.’

      ‘I can remember that too.’

      ‘Well, all I can say is you must’ve been very young at the time.’

      Graham Forbes’s gallantry was of another time, but it was comforting. Carole regretted that political correctness had rendered modern men wary of making that kind of remark.

      ‘Tell you the favourite Times crossword clue I can remember . . . It was a Down clue, and it was just two words. “Bats do.” Five letters.’

      He looked interrogatively at Carole. ‘ “Bats do” . . .’ she repeated slowly, trying to take the words apart.

      ‘Not fair to throw it at you like that. You have to see it written to make sense of it. I’ll tell you, because I don’t want to prolong the agony. PEELS.’

      ‘Right.’ Carole nodded her appreciation. ‘SLEEP upside-down. Bats sleep upside-down.’

      ‘Exactly. Damned clever, I thought.’

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