On the Tuesday morning, Jude had a phone call from Chervil Whittaker. No mention was made of Fennel’s death. ‘I just wondered if you’d thought any more about my idea?’
‘Which idea?’
‘Of you doing some healing sessions at Walden?’
‘Well, I still don’t want a permanent commitment of the kind you were talking about . . . you know, with a financial retainer.’
‘No, OK, that’s cool. But I’d just like to list you as an available service . . . you know, for the right people and obviously according to your availability.’
‘Well . . .’
‘I mean, at Walden we’re now offering acupuncture, reiki and hot stone massage.’
‘You’ve found people to do those?’
‘Yes, been doing a bit of local research. And I’d love to add your “Total Healing” service to the list.’
‘I wouldn’t really want it to be called that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Somehow “Total Healing” sounds too all-embracing. If I read that in a brochure, it’d set alarm bells ringing for me.’
‘What kind of alarm bells?’
‘I’d suspect charlatanism.’
‘Ah. If I just called it “Healing” . . .?’
Jude was torn. She didn’t like the idea of her services being offered as an optional extra for holidaymakers with more money than sense. On the other hand she did want to find out the truth about Fennel Whittaker’s death and having an ongoing link with Butterwyke House might prove very useful to the cause of her investigation . . .
‘I’d be happier with that,’ she said.
‘Great.’ Chervil took the words as full assent to her proposition. ‘I wonder . . . would you be free this Saturday?’
‘Possibly. What for?’
‘We’re having the official launch of Walden.’
‘The one postponed from last weekend?’
But the girl wasn’t going to go down that route. She seemed to be deliberately avoiding any mention of her sister’s death. ‘It’s really only in the last couple of days that I’ve decided to make the launch more public. I’m inviting the local papers along, and some of the trade press. You know, holiday magazines, catering journals, that kind of thing.’
‘Isn’t it going to be rather short notice for them to come this Saturday?’
There was a confident canniness in Chervil Whittaker’s voice as she said, ‘It might be for some events, but I happen to know that the press have been desperate to get into Butterwyke House for some time.’
Of course. Though Ned and Sheena Whittaker were familiar figures on the charity entertainment circuit of West Sussex, they were notoriously jealous of their privacy when it came to their home. Their daughter knew the publicity value of what she’d be offering the local press.
‘Also, I think I might be able to organize a few celebrities at the launch.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. So would you be able to make it to Walden this Saturday?’
‘I’m sure I could.’
‘I wonder . . . You live in Fethering, don’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Look, I’m coming over there shortly with my boyfriend.’
‘Giles.’
‘Oh yes, of course, you’ve met him. I forgot. Anyway, he’s got to pick up some stuff from his mother’s flat.’
‘I heard he was moving out of there.’
‘Mm. Anyway, we’ll be over in, I suppose, about half an hour. Wondered if we could just meet for a chat about your involvement in the Walden project?’
‘Fine,’ said Jude instantly. She wasn’t going to turn down an investigative gift like that.
‘What, shall we come to your place?’
‘Why don’t we meet for a drink in the Crown and Anchor?’
Jude got to the pub before her visitors and was served by the landlord himself. And, as was so often the case, Ted Crisp had a joke for her. ‘How do you recognize a dyslexic Yorkshireman?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied dutifully. ‘How do you recognize a dyslexic Yorkshireman?’
‘He’s the one wearing a cat flap!’
Jude quite liked the joke, but didn’t laugh at it as loudly as Ted himself did. ‘Again, how much the stand-up circuit must miss you,’ she said.
‘Ooh, incidentally, you must come to this. Week tomorrow.’ He shoved a printed flyer across the bar to her. The space was dominated by an image of Elvis Presley in his sequinned romper-suit phase. The text read: ‘FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY – ELVIS COMES TO THE CROWN AND ANCHOR! RECAPTURE YOUR YOUTH, THRILL TO THE HITS! LET ELVIS LOVE YOU TENDER. 8.00 p.m. TICKETS: £5.’
‘What on earth’s this?’ asked Jude.
‘Like it says – Elvis.’
‘The real one?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh yes? And he’ll be arriving with Lord Lucan, both of them riding on Shergar?’
‘Uncanny, Jude. How did you know that?’
‘Instinct. Unless, of course, you prefer to give me the real explanation . . .?’
‘That bloke Spider.’
‘The one who does the framing at the Cornelian Gallery?’
‘The very same. I got talking to him at that Private View. Turns out he does the full Elvis impersonation schtick.’
‘That would at least explain his haircut.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, I said I’d give him a night in the function room. See what he’s like. You’ll come?’
‘Sure.’
‘And bring Carole.’
Jude looked dubious. ‘I’m not sure that Elvis would be exactly Carole’s sort of thing.’
‘Bring Carole,’ Ted Crisp repeated forcibly.
‘OK,’ said Jude with a grin, and took her large Chilean Chardonnay across to one of the alcove tables.
