The Killer in the Choir. Simon Brett

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СКАЧАТЬ On the authority of Fethering gossip, Jonny Virgo had relatively recently retired as Head of Music at some local school, where he had, as throughout his own education and subsequent career, suffered many jokes at the expense of his surname. He lived with his mother, now well into her nineties, in one of the old fishermen’s cottages down near Fethering Yacht Club. Whenever this fact was mentioned by Fethering gossips, it was done with a raised eyebrow, an implicit comment on his likely sexuality. But Jonny Virgo was believed never to have had a partner, of any gender. Nor had any scandal ever attached to his name.

      Carole noticed that he stood rather awkwardly, as though he were in pain, on the fringe of Heather Mallett’s entourage. He wore a dull brown suit, and at the neck of his white shirt a cravat of a maroon paisley design, a slightly dated gesture to leisurewear. But the choirmaster seemed very much part of the communal jollity. Carole felt the instinctive recoil she did from any kind of hearty group dynamic. She never felt relaxed in the company of more than one person – and very rarely even then.

      There hadn’t been anyone with filled glasses on trays to greet the guests arriving from the church, and Carole didn’t yet want to join the throng at the drinks table over by the serving hatch to the kitchen. She really felt like a glass of wine, but knew she’d probably end up with a cup of coffee. It wasn’t even twelve o’clock yet. She didn’t want to get a reputation. And reputations were easily acquired in Fethering.

      Carole checked out the crowd for other familiar faces. It was a local routine that she knew well. All that was needed at an occasion like this was one person with whom you had previously exchanged dialogue. Although everyone in the village knew to the last detail exactly who everyone else in the village was, to introduce yourself directly was not considered good form. The correct procedure was to start talking to someone you’d talked to before, in the hope that they would then introduce you to people you hadn’t talked to before. And then, at the next awkward village event, you would have a wider acquaintance with whom you could initiate conversation. And so, in theory, your social circle expanded.

      Carole looked round desperately for any fellow members of the Preservation of Fethering’s Seafront committee, apart from Ruskin Dewitt, who had looked straight through her, as if they’d never met before. She couldn’t see any others. Maybe they all felt that they’d done their bit by turning up at the church, and that attending the wake too was beyond the call of duty.

      Rather than standing there, exposed as someone who didn’t know anybody, Carole was about to slip away back to High Tor when she was greeted by a bonhomous cry of, ‘Hello. Bloody good service, wasn’t it?’

      The voice came from the tall young man, dressed in a pin-striped suit and wearing an appropriate black tie, who had accompanied Alice Mallett in the church. He had the red face of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, and the figure of a fit young man who was just starting to go to fat.

      Carole was faced by another social dilemma. She was sure she knew who the speaker was, but she hadn’t been properly introduced and only had Fethering gossip as her guide. ‘Yes, very good service,’ she said clumsily. ‘I’m sorry? Do we know each other?’

      ‘No, but since I know hardly anyone here, I thought I should jolly well take the initiative.’

      ‘Very good idea.’ There was a silence. ‘I’m sorry. I still don’t know who you are.’

      ‘Ah. Right. Roddy Skelton.’

      ‘Oh.’ But still Fethering etiquette did not allow her to say, ‘You’re Alice Mallett’s fiancé.’

      Fortunately, he supplied the deficiency by saying, ‘I’m Alice Mallett’s fiancé. Had her old man waited a bit longer before he kicked the bucket, I’d be able to say I was his son-in-law.’

      ‘Ah yes. Well, nice to meet you. I’m Carole Seddon.’

      ‘Old friend of the family?’

      ‘Hardly. That is to say, I met your father-in – your prospective father-in-law – through a committee he set up.’

      ‘Ah.’ After the initial burst, the conversation seemed to have become becalmed.

      ‘About the Preservation of Fethering’s Seafront,’ Carole volunteered.

      ‘Oh yes, good stuff. All have a responsibility for the countryside, don’t we?’

      ‘Certainly.’

      ‘Mustn’t forget it.’ Then he said randomly, as people always did in this kind of conversation, ‘Global warming, eh?’

      ‘So …’ Carole picked up after a long pause, ‘when are you and Alice actually getting married?’

      ‘Seventeenth of May.’

      ‘Ah. Here?’

      ‘Yes. Traditional stuff. We’re both locals, well, we were. Alice, of course, hoped her old man would be able to walk her up the aisle, but … well, there you go …’

      ‘Mm.’

      The next silence that threatened was interrupted by the approach of Roddy’s fiancée. Alice Mallett was holding a flute into which she was pouring from a bottle of champagne. ‘Hello,’ she said in a voice that suggested she’d downed an unfeasible number of drinks since the wake started or, more likely, had got some in before the ceremony.

      ‘Steady on, old thing,’ said Roddy, indicating the glass. ‘You’re meant to be one of the hostesses here, you know. Pouring drinks and things.’

      ‘I am pouring drinks.’

      ‘Yes, but you’re meant to be pouring drinks for other people, not just yourself.’ He guffawed, somewhat unnaturally, trying to sound as if he was making a joke. But the look he gave his fiancée suggested genuine concern.

      Alice Mallett stared at their empty hands. ‘You haven’t got glasses. I can’t pour for you if you haven’t got glasses.’

      ‘But maybe you could—’

      ‘Shut up, Roddy! I’m being more of a bloody hostess than she is.’ She jutted a contemptuous shoulder towards her stepmother.

      ‘Now come on, sweetie,’ said Roddy in a conciliatory tone which Carole felt might get used a lot in the course of his upcoming marriage, ‘today’s about your old man, not about Heather.’

      ‘Is it?’ demanded his fiancée combatively. She turned suddenly to Carole. ‘Do you like her?’

      ‘Sorry? Who?’ She knew the answer, was merely playing for time.

      ‘Her. Heather. My stepmother.’

      ‘I’ve never really met her properly.’

      ‘Very sensible. Keep it that way, if you’ve got any sense.’

      ‘Oh?’ Carole was bemused by this sudden aggression.

      ‘Well, I’ve met her properly,’ Alice continued. ‘I’ve spent much longer with her than I would ever wish to have done. And I don’t like her.’

      ‘No, I rather got that impression,’ said Carole.

      ‘As a general rule,’ СКАЧАТЬ