Guns in the Gallery

He paused, as if deliberating whether to tell her or not. Then he said, ‘I drove her back to Butterwyke from the Pimlico flat . . . you know. Well, perhaps you don’t know . . . when—’

‘I did know about her previous suicide attempt, yes.’

‘We were all very shocked by that. Ned in particular. He was in a terrible state. I mean, up until then we knew Fennel had problems, but we’d never have guessed they were that serious . . . you know, that she’d go as far as to . . .’

‘You say you drove her back to Butterwyke House. Was she not hospitalized after the attempt?’

‘No. Chervil found her in the flat and managed to wake her up. Got her to sick up most of the pills, bandaged the cuts and filled her full of black coffee. Then she called Ned. I drove him up to London. God, the red lights we shot through that day, I was lucky not to be booked twenty times. And when we got to the flat, Ned checked Fennel out and reckoned she’d be OK to be taken back to Butterwyke and treated there. He didn’t want the publicity, both from Fennel’s point of view and his own. And he knew if the press got a sniff of what’d happened, it’d be over the front pages like a rash. Besides, down here he’s got a doctor who he knows is very discreet.’

‘Did Chervil drive back with you that day?’

‘No, just Ned and Fennel. He was cradling her in the back of the car, like she was a baby, and he was crying all the way there.’

‘Any idea where Chervil went?’

‘I think she sorted out someone to clean up the flat.’

‘Again someone discreet?’

‘You betcha. Ned and Sheena have got quite good at preserving their privacy over the years. They’ve needed to. You know how obsessed the papers are with people who’ve got money. Anyway, Ned and Sheena know the right people to pay to ensure that they are left alone.’

‘And tell me, Kier, did you actually see Fennel’s . . . you know, where she made the attempt?’

‘I saw the bathroom. There was blood all over the place. But Chervil had tied torn-up towels round her sister’s arms and got her lying down on the bed by the time Ned and I got there.’

‘And you didn’t see a suicide note?’

‘No. Chervil said there wasn’t one.’

‘Right.’ Jude suppressed a yawn. The session with Sam Torino had really taken it out of her. ‘So . . . back to the Who Done It question . . .’

‘Well, it seems hard to imagine that anyone . . . certainly nobody in the family.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Look, you’ve seen the state Ned’s in. Nobody would bring that on himself.’

‘No, probably not. What about Sheena?’ Again Jude worried whether she was pushing too hard. ‘She doesn’t seem to be making any secret of the fact that she’s relieved by her daughter’s death.’

‘Yes, she’s a strange one, Sheena. I shouldn’t say this, but I think she did rather resent Fennel’s hold over Ned. Still, harbouring those kind of feelings . . . well, it’s a long way away from murdering someone.’

‘Yes. But it’s interesting to weigh up the possibilities.’

‘I suppose so. Gives something to focus the mind on. But just a minute, if there was any thought of murder, surely the police would have been on to it?’

Jude was forced to admit that, so far as she could tell, the police had taken the suicide at face value. As it got further away in her recollection, the encounter she had had with Detective Inspector Hodgkinson seemed to have become more and more patronizing.

‘Well, the police know what they’re doing,’ said Kier, perfectly reasonably. ‘And they’ve released Fennel’s body, so they must have finished any forensic examination they might be doing. The funeral’s going to be on Wednesday week.’ This was new information to Jude. ‘Just family and very close friends.’

‘Where?’

‘There’s a chapel in the grounds of Butterwyke. It’s being held there.’

Typical, thought Jude. Whoever had built the house back in the eighteenth century must have had the same desire for privacy as the Whittakers. Everything sewn up and sanitized within the boundaries of the estate.

‘Kier, indulge me for a minute. Just imagine that Fennel’s death wasn’t suicide . . .’

‘That she was murdered?’

‘Yes. If that were the case, would you have anyone in the frame as a suspect?’

‘There’s an obvious one.’ The driver answered that question readily enough. ‘I heard their conversations in the back of this car when I was driving them about. He treated her like shit.’ The resentment was back in his voice.

‘Sorry? Who are we talking about?’

‘That sleazebag Denzil Willoughby.’

‘I suppose we could try and get a contact for him through Bonita Green,’ said Jude somewhat lethargically. She still felt drained by her healing session with Sam Torino. ‘Though I don’t know whether the number of her flat is in the book. The Cornelian Gallery will be, but it’ll be closed now, and actually, I seem to recall she doesn’t open on Sundays, so we won’t be able to get her tomorrow either.’

‘Oh, really,’ said Carole, uncharacteristically perky. ‘Come into the twenty-first century, Jude. There’s no problem these days with finding a contact for anyone.’