Simon Brett - The Stabbing in the Stables

“Oh?” For the first time, a bit of wind was taken from Hilary Potton’s furious sails. “But you have no idea what that information was.”

“Absolutely none. I’d be very interested to know, but I don’t.”

“And you think I’m about to tell you?”

“No. I would say, from your tone of voice and general manner, that’s extremely unlikely.”

“Well, you might be wrong there, Jude.” The loathing in the name had now been reduced to contempt.

“Oh?”

“And you’re sure you didn’t encourage Imogen to do what she’s done?”

“Mrs. Potton, I promise you I have no idea what she’s done. And so far as I know, I’ve never encouraged your daughter to do anything. We’ve only met a couple of times. I hardly know her.”

“Well,” said a disgruntled Hilary Potton, “if you didn’t put her up to it, I’m sure someone else did.”

“Can you please tell me what it is that she’s done?”

“Hm…” The woman seemed to assess this request before answering. “You know that my husband-my former husband-is being questioned by the police?”

“Yes, I do know that.”

“Of course you do. Everyone in bloody Fethering knows that! And whatever happens, I know I’ll never hear the end of it. Anyway, what you don’t probably know-if your acquaintance with my daughter is as minimal as you say it is”-but the suspicion was still there in her words-“that, in spite of the kind of man he is, Imogen is totally devoted to her father. Besotted. In her eyes he can do no wrong at all. So she just cannot cope with the idea that he might have committed murder.”

“It’s a hard thing to think of anyone. I mean, don’t you have difficulty in believing it?”

“I know Alec rather well.” Hilary Potton’s words came out in a long hard line. “And I keep finding out about more dreadful things he’s done. I wouldn’t be that surprised if murder turned out to be one of them.”

“Very well,” said Jude, making her response sound less shocked than she might have done. “So, because Imogen’s so devoted to her father, she’s rung the police and given them some information that she hopes will get him off the hook?”

“Fortunately, I have managed to stop her from contacting the police. No thanks to you,” she added savagely.

“But that was what Imogen intended to do-tell the police something that would exonerate her father?”

“Worse than that,” Hilary Potton almost shrieked. “She was intending to give the police a confession. She was going to tell them that she stabbed Walter Fleet!”

The barrage that came from the other end of the line when Jude asked whether there could be any truth in Imogen’s assertion made Hilary Potton’s previous fury seems as mild as a summer breeze. For a start, it was logistically impossible that her daughter could have committed the crime, since she was with her mother at the relevant time. And the idea that anyone should think Imogen capable of such an appalling atrocity was…It took some time for Jude to get herself off the phone.

She rarely phoned Carole. Normally she just went round to High Tor and banged on the door. But it was late, so she rang the number.

Carole sounded slightly disappointed when she heard who it was. Jude sensed her neighbour had been hoping for some contact from Stephen. But Carole livened up when she heard about the latest development in the case.

“Imogen’s devoted to her father, isn’t she? And she’s at the age for dramatic gestures. Taking his guilt on herself-it’s like something out of A Tale of Two Cities.”

“Yes, Carole, but there’s still something odd about the whole business. I mean, Hilary was in such a state of fury. You don’t know her that well, but have you ever heard her like that?”

“Not the way you describe it, no. She’s certainly sounded off whenever she got onto the subject of Alec, but that was more vicious contempt than fury.”

“The kind of thing you hear from every divorcee about her ex.”

“Not every one,” said Carole frostily, making Jude feel guilty for her carelessness.

“No, of course not. It’s odd, isn’t it? Everyone else involved in this case seems to be keeping secrets, holding their cards very close to their chests, except for Hilary Potton, and she seems prepared to sound off to anyone about anything.”

“Not to anyone,” said Carole, offended. She was proud of the way she had nurtured her source of information, and didn’t want to have her achievements belittled.

“No, sorry. You know what I meant.”

“Yes, I do,” said Carole, unmollified. “Anyway, talking of sources of information…”

“Mm?”

“Don’t forget you’ve got one of our most promising ones coming to see you tomorrow morning.”

“I hadn’t forgotten.”

“And don’t forget either that ethics is a comparative study. There are times when one ethical consideration-say the need to find out the truth-has to overrule another.”

“Like, say, the confidentiality between therapist and client?”

“Exactly, Jude.”

Anyone who had seen Sonia Dalrymple getting out of her Range Rover outside Woodside Cottage the next morning would have laughed at the idea that she had a care in the world. She looked supermodel stunning in sleek black trousers, black silk top and perfectly cut black leather jacket. And if there still was any bruising around her eyes, it had been magicked away by expert makeup.

But as soon as Jude got her facedown on the treatment bed and touched her back, the tensions within were immediately apparent. Jude parted the curtain of blond hair to feel the knots of muscle where the neck met the skull, and ran her fingers down the taut length of Sonia’s spine.

“You’re holding a lot in, aren’t you?”

The client grunted agreement.

“You always hold a lot in, but this is exceptional.”

“I know. If you can just get rid of the tension. It’s really hurting. I can’t get comfortable in bed, so I’m not sleeping.”

“I’m not surprised. You must be very careful, otherwise you’ll do yourself permanent damage. Your balance is all over the place.”

Jude lit some candles, opened her pots of oil and started a smooth gentle massage of Sonia Dalrymple’s beautiful back. She didn’t work into the flesh and joints like a physiotherapist; she hardly touched, just let the warmth-both real and spiritual-irradiate the woman’s body. After about ten minutes she moved her hands away.

“Is that better?”

“Mm.” Sonia’s voice was deep, throaty and grateful.

“You know there’s a limited amount I can do, don’t you? Whatever it is that’s troubling you-effectively poisoning you-you have to get rid of it yourself.”

“You mean by telling someone?”

“If it’s something that can be told.”

“That’s the whole point, Jude; it isn’t. I can’t tell anyone, which is why the pressure just builds and builds.”

“Are you sure there’s no one you can talk to? I’m not offering myself as a listener.” Jude hastened to assure her.

“No, there isn’t. I’ve got a wide range of acquaintances, Jude, but very few actual friends. And if had any, I couldn’t tell them anyway, because they know my domestic set-up and…” She trailed away.

“Listen, Sonia, I don’t want to be nosey. It’s not my place, that’s not what I’m here for, but if there is anything you feel you can unload onto me…well, I’m not part of your family, you don’t see me that often…It’s up to you.”

“I’d like to talk about it, Jude, but it’s so complicated. Everything’s interlinked. Telling about one thing is automatically going to lead on to the next thing and…”