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Very full of themselves, the residents of Fedborough, I must say. Just because they live in a town that’s very beautiful and has a certain amount of history attached to it, they seem to imagine that makes them superior to everyone else.’

      ‘Lots of people think like that about where they live. Good thing too, saves a great deal of disappointment and envy.’ Jude giggled. ‘Mind you, I can’t imagine many people feel that way about Fethering.’

      This had been a foolish thing to say, and nearly undid all the morning’s good work. The frost glazed over again. Carole herself may have said many harsh things about Fethering, but the village she had made her home was like a child. A parent could criticize it, but woe betide any outsider who did so. And in many ways, Jude still was an outsider. Though she’d lived more than a year in Woodside Cottage, she’d made very little attempt to take on the values of Fethering or to fit into Fethering society. In the stratified middle-class world of the village, Jude remained a potential loose cannon.

      She moved on quickly to cover her lapse. ‘Anyway, the police interviewed me last night. Because I was one of the first people to see the body . . .’

      Carole tried hard, but couldn’t stop herself from asking, ‘Did they mention the word “murder”.’

      ‘Not as such. But you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that a limbless body has had, at the very least . . . some outside interference.’

      ‘No . . .’ Once again reticence lost the battle with curiosity. ‘Had the mur—’ Carole corrected herself. ‘Had the killing taken place recently?’

      ‘No, the body was dried up, almost like a mummy.’

      ‘So if your friends have only just moved, it can’t have anything to do with them . . .’

      ‘Wouldn’t have thought so, no . . .’

      In spite of herself, Carole found her mind making connections. ‘Though suspicion would inevitably turn to the previous owners . . .’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You don’t know who they were? Your friends didn’t mention the name?’

      ‘No. All I know is that the house belonged to a couple who were splitting up, which made the customary agony of British house-purchase even more prolonged.’

      ‘Hm . . . If I knew their name, I might recognize it, or know someone I could ask about the former owners . . .’

      Jude shrugged apology.

      ‘What’s the address? Fedborough’s not that big. I might know it.’

      ‘Pelling House.’

      A huge beam broke out like sunshine, finally thawing Carole Seddon’s face. ‘Ah. Now I do know who used to live there.’

Chapter Four

      Fortunately, Carole did have a reason to get in touch with Debbie Carlton. During the brief glow of confidence she had felt while things were working out between her and Ted Crisp, she had decided to do something to her house. Just as her wardrobe had blossomed with new colours to edge out her customary pale greens, greys and beiges, so she started to think of changing the safe magnolia walls and white gloss which characterized – or perhaps bleached character from – her home. She even – momentarily – contemplated changing its name from High Tor. Such a move would have been unthinkable for her in any other mood. Names of houses – even names as inappropriate as ‘High Tor’ in the totally flat coastal plain of West Sussex – were among the many things that were never changed in Fethering.

      But in that mood of heady insouciance, Carole Seddon reckoned she could change anything she wanted to. Even her customary financial caution started to dissolve. She was, after all, very comfortable on her Civil Service pension. The mortgage on High Tor was paid off; if she wanted to spend money on the house, there was nothing to stop her.

      Having consulted the local directory for interior designers, Carole had selected Debbie Carlton because of her local telephone number and on the – frequently fallacious – assumption that someone operating on their own might be cheaper than a large company. Debbie had paid one visit to High Tor to assess what was needed, and breathed all kinds of fresh ideas into the functionality of the house. Despite finding some of the suggestions a bit extreme, Carole had still felt sufficiently daring to say she would mull over what Debbie had said and get back to her.

      Though the interior designer had not imposed any of her personal history on her client, Carole had still pieced together that Debbie Carlton had recently moved from the splendour of Pelling House to a small flat in Fedborough. The reason had been a common one – divorce. The subject once broached, Debbie had been very upfront about the details. ‘Francis fell in love with someone else, and that was it, really. She’s very wealthy and they divide their time between London and Florida. Just one of those things that didn’t work out. Thank goodness we hadn’t got any children, and it happened while I was still young enough to pick up the threads of my career.’

      The matter-of-fact stoicism had not disguised the hurt, at least from Carole, who knew how much she had suffered when her husband David had left her. The common experience, she felt, forged an unspoken bond between them, and she was determined that, if she did go ahead with the transformation of High Tor, Debbie Carlton would get the job.

      But just around that time things had started to get sticky with Ted and, preoccupied with the collapse of their relationship – or non-relationship, as with increasing hindsight she thought of it – she had never made the follow-up call.

      So common courtesy – not to mention an interest in the torso found in the basement of Pelling House – dictated that she should phone Debbie Carlton.

      ‘It’s Carole Seddon.’

      ‘Oh, hello.’

      There was no resentment or recrimination in the greeting, but Carole still felt obliged to say, ‘You’ve been on my conscience. I promised I’d call you back . . . what, three months ago . . . and I’m sorry, I never did.’

      ‘Don’t worry. Happens a lot in my sort of business. People watch some television programme, suddenly get caught up in the idea that they’re going to “make over” their house, then lose interest, or decide they’re going to buy a new car instead. It’s not a big deal.’

      ‘No, but I still feel I should have got back to you, so . . . I apologize.’

      ‘Well, thank you. You’re in the minority who would think that was necessary.’

      There was a silence, and Carole realized that Debbie was waiting for a decision. Interior design was, after all, the woman’s business. She would assume that this was a call to say whether Carole wanted to proceed with the job.

      ‘Um . . . I was actually ringing to say that . . . though I was terrifically impressed by the ideas that you put forward . . .’

      ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine,’ said Debbie Carlton, too quickly. There was a slight disappointment in her voice. To have got the job at High Tor would have meant a lot to her.

      ‘The thing is, you see, my circumstances have changed somewhat . . .’

      A cynical ‘Huh. Tell me about it, Mrs Seddon.’

      Carole realized, with some dismay, that Debbie thought she was referring to her financial circumstances. Normally, she would have hastened to correct this embarrassing misunderstanding, but on this occasion, having a rather different agenda, she let it go.

      ‘Anyway, I do hope you’ll understand.’

      ‘Of course. And maybe, if things pick up for you, you’ll get back to me.’

      It hurt to have the misunderstanding compounded, but Carole still didn’t make any correction. ‘Yes, yes, that’ll be fine.’ She paused for a moment. Unless she changed its direction quickly, the

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