Guns in the Gallery

It was typical of Carole Seddon that she hadn’t waited in the Crown and Anchor for her neighbour to return from the assignation in the car park. Wearily, Jude reminded herself that anyone who wanted to be friends with the owner of High Tor had to reconcile themselves to a regular amount of bridge-building and fence-mending. There were no two ways about it – Carole Seddon was touchy. She had felt slighted by her friend going off without telling her, and she wanted that slight to be registered, so she’d gone home alone . . . no doubt leaving two untouched glasses of wine in the Crown and Anchor function room. It was just to be hoped that somebody had drunk them, rather than wasting good Chilean Chardonnay.

As a result of this, before she went to bed in Woodside Cottage, Jude found herself going next door on a ruffled-feather-smoothing mission. It was characteristic of Carole that, once they were sitting either side of her kitchen table with glasses of wine, she didn’t mention the instance which had caused her touchiness, but listened with interest as her neighbour relayed the conversation she’d had in Ned Whittaker’s Prius.

‘But, Jude, how does he know we’ve been discussing the possibility of Fennel’s death being murder?’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to work out. As I say, he could have got it from Sam Torino, but then again, if he actually set up Sam Torino to question me, he must have had his suspicions before that.’

‘And you think he’s protecting someone?’

‘I can’t find any other explanation for his behaviour. And I’ve been thinking since I left him that the only two people Ned might really have an interest in protecting are Sheena or Chervil.’

‘You mean he thinks one of them killed Fennel?’

‘Well, was implicated in her death in some way, yes.’

There was a beady look in Carole Seddon’s eyes as she reflected her friend’s thoughts. ‘Sheena’s the one who intrigues me,’ she said.

As it turned out, they didn’t have to go looking for Sheena Whittaker. Jude had a call from her the following morning, the Thursday. The social unease the woman manifested on public occasions was nowhere evident in her manner. Just talking on the phone she sounded in control. And she was very direct.

‘Ned told me about the conversation you had last night.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘I want to talk to you about it.’

‘Fine. Talk away.’

‘I’d rather do it face to face.’

It was arranged that Sheena Whittaker would come straight round to Woodside Cottage.

Sheena was wearing a pink top and jeans, both of which had too much glitter on them. She looked what she was, a chubby East London hairdresser who had got lucky. But though she spent much of her life being paraded as her husband’s accessory, there was no doubt that she had a strong will of her own.

‘Ned’s very upset,’ was the first thing she said, after refusing offers of tea or coffee.

‘I know. He made clear to me how much Fennel meant to him.’

‘Yes. There was something between them that I . . . well, sometimes I have to confess it made me feel rather uncomfortable.’

‘Oh?’

‘I don’t mean any of that child abuse nonsense they keep doing television programmes about. I just mean they had this kind of . . . I don’t know what you’d call it . . . a kind of psychic connection.’

‘Telepathy?’

‘Yes, maybe that’s the word. Anyway, I know you probably think that my reaction to Fennel’s death has been rather heartless . . .’

‘I’ve never said—’

‘But you’ve thought it. The fact is, I’ve spent many years dealing with my daughter’s depression . . . her fragility, her breakdowns. We’ve tried every kind of medication, every kind of treatment – including what you were doing for her – and none of it worked. I’ve felt for a long time that whatever we did, it was just delaying the evil hour, that one day she would . . . do what she did.’

Sheena Whittaker’s voice caught on the last few words, the first indication that her narrative was taking any emotional toll on her. She drew the back of her hand firmly across her nose before continuing, ‘So I have spent a long time preparing for this moment.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ said Jude. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking you something . . .’

‘What?’

‘When Ned came to see me the Monday after . . . you know . . .’ Somehow to say the words would have felt like an intrusion on Sheena’s emotions. ‘We talked about Fennel’s depression and discussed whether it might be hereditary. And Ned said he’d never actually been depressed, but—’

‘He didn’t say that I was a depressive, did he?’

‘No, but—’

‘Thank goodness for that. Because I never have been.’

‘You haven’t ever—?’

‘No!’ The expression ‘protesting too much’ came instinctively into Jude’s mind, as Sheena Whittaker went on, ‘I am extremely lucky. I have a great lifestyle. I’d be mad to be depressed.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Depression is a form of madness, so if you say you’d be “mad to be depressed”, what you mean is—’

‘That’s not what I’m talking about.’

‘After what happened with Fennel, it’d be no surprise if you—’