Poisoning in the Pub, The. Simon Brett

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      Jude now knew exactly who he was. Zosia, who didn’t even possess a television because she had no time between her studies and work at the Crown and Anchor, gave a polite grin that implied she did too.

      ‘So, Ted, how’s tricks – which is the one thing you mustn’t say at a convention of conjurors!’ The lip-curled smile reappeared as he enveloped the landlord in a bear hug which somehow didn’t seem as spontaneous as it was meant to look.

      Ted appeared ill at ease; his participation in the display of bonhomie was forced. But he grinned stiffly as he replied, ‘Dan, I’m as fit as a flea … on a dog that’s just been covered with flea powder.’

      The fact that Ted had gone so instantly into a comedy routine reminded Jude of his background as a stand-up comedian. And seeing Dan Poke in the flesh gave her a context in which to place him. One of the first surge of Thatcher-bashing stand-up comedians, he had been on television quite a bit in the 1990s, doing his ‘right-on’ act, guesting on chat shows, then hosting panel games. Jude couldn’t recall having seen much of Dan Poke in recent years, but, then again, he didn’t appear on the kind of programmes she watched. For all she knew, his career might still be thriving.

      ‘Blimey, Ted, this place is a silent as an audience during one of your gigs.’

      ‘Ha, bloody ha. Look, sorry, Dan mate, I completely forgot we’d got a date for today.’

      ‘Forgot?’ Dan Poke’s face took on an expression of outraged femininity. ‘After everything we once meant to each other?’

      ‘I been a bit preoccupied the last twenty-four hours.’

      ‘Huh. And I wonder what you’ve been preoccupied with?’ The comedian’s camp routine continued. ‘You haven’t got another feller, have you – you Jezebel? I bet you have. You men are all the same.’

      But Ted Crisp had had enough of the comedy routine for the time being. He looked embarrassed and said, ‘Come on, let’s go out, Dan. Get a drink and a bite to eat, eh?’

      ‘I thought you’d invited me to have a drink and a bite to eat here.’

      ‘Yeah, maybe, but we’re not open today.’

      ‘Oh?’ asked Dan Poke, suddenly alert.

      The landlord’s eyes beamed instructions to the two women not to contradict him as he said, ‘Maintenance problems.’

      ‘I see.’ The comedian spoke as if it was a subject he might return to later. ‘But I thought we were going to look at the set-up here for Sunday’s gig.’

      ‘Yes, sure. After we’ve had something to eat. Just got to get my wallet.’ Ted hurried out of the door behind the bar.

      Dan Poke eyed up the two women. ‘Well, how very nice,’ he observed. ‘Two very attractive ladies. As I say, I’m Dan Poke. Poke by name, and Poke by …’ He chuckled salaciously and produced two cards from his pocket. ‘Should either of you ladies wish to take our acquaintance further, you have only to call this number …’

      His manner was ironical, as though what he was saying could be taken as an expression of postmodernist sexism, a witty commentary on the whole notion of sexism. If that’s what he was trying to do, it didn’t wash with Jude. So far as she was concerned his behaviour was plain old-fashioned sexism. But both she and Zosia took the cards.

      Ted was back now with his wallet. ‘Come on.’ He hustled his friend to the door, as if he wanted him off the premises as quickly as possible. Just before they went out, he turned to Zosia. ‘You be here for a bit, you know, in case the phone goes?’

      The girl understood him immediately. ‘Yes, I have to work through the bar orders for next week.’

      ‘Great. See you.’ And the two men were out of the door.

      Jude watched as Zosia tore up the card she had been given and dropped the pieces into a waste bin. Catching her eye, the bar manager explained, ‘Happens a lot in my line of work. Men thrust their phone numbers at you. Particularly later on in the evening. You know, it’s good for a girl’s self-esteem working behind a bar.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘The later the evening gets, the more pretty you become.’

      Jude grinned, but she tucked her card into a pocket. ‘Did you know him?’ she asked.

      The Polish girl shrugged. ‘Never seen him before. I didn’t understand what he was saying about television.’

      ‘He’s a comedian.’

      ‘Ah.’ Zosia seemed grateful to have an explanation for the man’s presence. ‘That explains it. Ted had said he was meeting someone about the possibility of starting a comedy club in the pub.’

      ‘Well, it’s Dan who’s doing this gig on Sunday …’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘… but I didn’t know Ted was thinking of setting up a permanent comedy club.’

      ‘He’s talked about it.’

      ‘Really?’

      Something in Jude’s intonation made Zosia ask, ‘Why? Wouldn’t you like the idea of a comedy club?’

      ‘I’d like the idea quite a lot. But I’m not sure that Fethering would.’

      When she returned to Woodside Cottage, Jude rang through to next door with some trepidation, remembering how ghastly her friend had been feeling earlier in the day. But, to her surprise, Carole sounded completely recovered. And characteristically, now she was better, she didn’t want to admit even that her illness had existed. Fulsomely overassertive in her recovered health, she announced that she was really hungry. ‘Could quite fancy a pub lunch.’

      ‘Well, you’re out of luck. The Crown and Anchor’s closed till further notice.’

      ‘I wasn’t thinking of the Crown and Anchor – not after what happened on Monday. Let’s go somewhere up on the Downs. Might be more breeze up there than there is down here. And Gulliver could do with a walk.’

      Carole, in efficient no-of-course-I-haven’t-been-ill mode, said the ideal pub to go to would be the Hare and Hounds at Weldisham, and Jude, amused by the sudden change in her friend, did not argue with the proposal.

      Gulliver was stowed on the back seat of the Renault and the two neighbours drove up into the Downs.

      Though they hadn’t been there since their involvement in an investigation in the village, both had a very clear recollection of the Hare and Hounds in Weldisham. They remembered the decor, themed round some designer’s idea of a comfortable country house. Old tennis rackets in wooden presses, croquet mallets pinned to the walls, faded nineteen-thirties novels on shelves too high for them ever to be reached, gratuitous farm implements and saddlery hung from the beams.

      But as soon as the Renault was parked opposite the main entrance, they could see that things had changed. No longer was the pub sign an eighteenth-century hunting scene. It was now a mulberry-coloured board with ‘Hare and Hounds’ written in grey calligraphy.

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