The Poisoning in the Pub (4 page)

Ted appeared ill at ease; his participation in the display of bonhomie was forced. But he grinned stiffly as he replied, ‘Dan, I’m as fit as a flea . . . on a dog that’s just
been covered with flea powder.’

The fact that Ted had gone so instantly into a comedy routine reminded Jude of his background as a stand-up comedian. And seeing Dan Poke in the flesh gave her a context in which to place him.
One of the first surge of Thatcher-bashing stand-up comedians, he had been on television quite a bit in the 1990s, doing his ‘right-on’ act, guesting on chat shows, then hosting panel
games. Jude couldn’t recall having seen much of Dan Poke in recent years, but, then again, he didn’t appear on the kind of programmes she watched. For all she knew, his career might
still be thriving.

‘Blimey, Ted, this place is a silent as an audience during one of your gigs.’

‘Ha, bloody ha. Look, sorry, Dan mate, I completely forgot we’d got a date for today.’

‘Forgot?’ Dan Poke’s face took on an expression of outraged femininity. ‘After everything we once meant to each other?’

‘I been a bit preoccupied the last twenty-four hours.’

‘Huh. And I wonder what you’ve been preoccupied with?’ The comedian’s camp routine continued. ‘You haven’t got another feller, have you – you Jezebel? I
bet you have. You men are all the same.’

But Ted Crisp had had enough of the comedy routine for the time being. He looked embarrassed and said, ‘Come on, let’s go out, Dan. Get a drink and a bite to eat, eh?’

‘I thought you’d invited me to have a drink and a bite to eat here.’

‘Yeah, maybe, but we’re not open today.’

‘Oh?’ asked Dan Poke, suddenly alert.

The landlord’s eyes beamed instructions to the two women not to contradict him as he said, ‘Maintenance problems.’

‘I see.’ The comedian spoke as if it was a subject he might return to later. ‘But I thought we were going to look at the set-up here for Sunday’s gig.’

‘Yes, sure. After we’ve had something to eat. Just got to get my wallet.’ Ted hurried out of the door behind the bar.

Dan Poke eyed up the two women. ‘Well, how very nice,’ he observed. ‘Two very attractive ladies. As I say, I’m Dan Poke. Poke by name, and Poke by . . .’ He
chuckled salaciously and produced two cards from his pocket. ‘Should either of you ladies wish to take our acquaintance further, you have only to call this number . . .’

His manner was ironical, as though what he was saying could be taken as an expression of postmodernist sexism, a witty commentary on the whole notion of sexism. If that’s what he was
trying to do, it didn’t wash with Jude. So far as she was concerned his behaviour was plain old-fashioned sexism. But both she and Zosia took the cards.

Ted was back now with his wallet. ‘Come on.’ He hustled his friend to the door, as if he wanted him off the premises as quickly as possible. Just before they went out, he turned to
Zosia. ‘You be here for a bit, you know, in case the phone goes?’

The girl understood him immediately. ‘Yes, I have to work through the bar orders for next week.’

‘Great. See you.’ And the two men were out of the door.

Jude watched as Zosia tore up the card she had been given and dropped the pieces into a waste bin. Catching her eye, the bar manager explained, ‘Happens a lot in my line of work. Men
thrust their phone numbers at you. Particularly later on in the evening. You know, it’s good for a girl’s self-esteem working behind a bar.’

‘Oh?’

‘The later the evening gets, the more pretty you become.’

Jude grinned, but she tucked her card into a pocket. ‘Did you know him?’ she asked.

The Polish girl shrugged. ‘Never seen him before. I didn’t understand what he was saying about television.’

‘He’s a comedian.’

‘Ah.’ Zosia seemed grateful to have an explanation for the man’s presence. ‘That explains it. Ted had said he was meeting someone about the possibility of starting a
comedy club in the pub.’

‘Well, it’s Dan who’s doing this gig on Sunday . . .’

‘Ah.’

‘. . . but I didn’t know Ted was thinking of setting up a permanent comedy club.’

‘He’s talked about it.’

‘Really?’

Something in Jude’s intonation made Zosia ask, ‘Why? Wouldn’t you like the idea of a comedy club?’

‘
I’d
like the idea quite a lot. But I’m not sure that Fethering would.’

When she returned to Woodside Cottage, Jude rang through to next door with some trepidation, remembering how ghastly her friend had been feeling earlier in the day. But, to her
surprise, Carole sounded completely recovered. And characteristically, now she was better, she didn’t want to admit even that her illness had existed. Fulsomely overassertive in her recovered
health, she announced that she was really hungry. ‘Could quite fancy a pub lunch.’

‘Well, you’re out of luck. The Crown and Anchor’s closed till further notice.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of the Crown and Anchor – not after what happened on Monday. Let’s go somewhere up on the Downs. Might be more breeze up there than there is down here.
And Gulliver could do with a walk.’

Carole, in efficient no-of-course-I-haven’t-been-ill mode, said the ideal pub to go to would be the Hare and Hounds at Weldisham, and Jude, amused by the sudden change in her friend, did
not argue with the proposal.

Gulliver was stowed on the back seat of the Renault and the two neighbours drove up into the Downs.

Though they hadn’t been there since their involvement in an investigation in the village, both had a very clear recollection of the Hare and Hounds in Weldisham. They remembered the decor,
themed round some designer’s idea of a comfortable country house. Old tennis rackets in wooden presses, croquet mallets pinned to the walls, faded nineteen-thirties novels on shelves too high
for them ever to be reached, gratuitous farm implements and saddlery hung from the beams.

But as soon as the Renault was parked opposite the main entrance, they could see that things had changed. No longer was the pub sign an eighteenth-century hunting scene. It was now a
mulberry-coloured board with ‘Hare and Hounds’ written in grey calligraphy.

Inside again mulberry and grey dominated the decor. The bar, tables and chairs were again chunky pine. Carole and Jude remembered an interior of small rooms and snugs, but all the partitions had
been removed, and the bar was just one large unbroken space.

‘New owners, do you reckon?’ asked Jude.

‘Or maybe rebranding by the old owners. I seem to remember that this place was owned by a chain.’

‘Which chain?’

‘Look, I don’t have instant recall of everything,’ said Carole, rather pettishly.

At the bar they bought two glasses of Maipo Valley Chardonnay from a girl dressed in mulberry and grey livery, and ordered salads. (It was noticeable that neither went for the seafood option.)
Fortunately they managed to get a table outside the pub, sheltered from the sun by a big umbrella. As Carole had hoped, here some way above sea level, they could feel the gentlest of breezes.
Gulliver, after a big slurp from the dogs’ water bowl by the front door of the pub, settled down comfortably to lie in the shade of their table.

The setting was stunning. Weldisham nestled into a fold of the Downs, an archetype of the kind of serenity which was expected from an English country village. Of course, as Carole and Jude had
cause to know, the image of serenity could be deceptive. Seething passions lurked beneath that harmless exterior.

The thought prompted Jude to say, ‘Difficult to be here without remembering the murder we solved, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. What was the name of that slimy specimen who managed the pub then?’

‘Will something, wasn’t it?’

‘Will Maples,’ Carole pronounced with satisfaction at having remembered. ‘Thin, shifty character, wasn’t he? I wonder where he went.’

‘As far away from here as he could get. When his bosses found he’d been peddling drugs at the Hare and Hounds they can’t have been best pleased. And what was the name of that
girl with M.E. whose parents lived up here?’

‘Can’t remember. Anyway, never mind that.’ Carole was much more interested in the current investigation than in nostalgia for an old case. ‘Tell me what happened this
morning at the Crown and Anchor.’

Jude gave a quick summary, and got the sniffy response that if Ted Crisp had been poisoning the people of Fethering then his pub deserved to be closed down.

‘But it’s not his fault. He and I are both convinced he’s been the victim of sabotage.’

‘Oh really, Jude. I think you’re being a little melodramatic. Ted has broken the law and he must face the consequences. It must have been a foul-up in his kitchen. Some
past-their-sell-by scallops must’ve been served up by mistake.’

‘That seems very unlikely. He’s used the same supplier for years – their stuff’s always been perfect. And his staff are very reliable.’

This was treated to a sceptical – ‘Huh. So the place gets inspected tomorrow?’

‘Yes. Unless the Health and Safety people delay it yet again.’

‘And if something is found to be wrong, what kind of penalties might he be liable for?’

‘I don’t know in detail, but Ted talked about a hefty fine. In the worst-case scenario he could be closed down for good.’

‘And what would make it a worst-case scenario?’

‘I’m not sure. If somebody died from the food poisoning, perhaps?’

‘But nobody has, have they?’

‘Well, we know you and I haven’t, but the old lady who was carted off to hospital . . . I’ve no idea what’s happened to her.’

‘Bettina Smiley,’ said Carole.

Jude looked curiously at her neighbour. ‘You speak as if you know her.’

‘I do. Well, know her in the sense that I know who she is. The way one does know people in Fethering. You nod politely if you see them, but you don’t actually socialize.’

‘But I didn’t see you nod politely when you saw her in the Crown and Anchor yesterday.’

‘Oh, I did. You didn’t notice because you were up at the bar getting drinks. Yes, I’ve spent quite a few bring-and-buy coffee mornings with Bettina and Alec Smiley . . . even
one in their house.’ In response to her friend’s interrogative expression, Carole went on, ‘For the Canine Trust. You know I’m a member of that.’ She looked down at
Gulliver snuffling contentedly under the table. ‘We dog-owners all know each other. We’re a kind of local Mafia.’

‘Oh.’ Then Jude said, ‘But you didn’t say anything when Bettina collapsed.’

Carole’s pale cheeks reddened. ‘At that moment I was in no condition to say anything.’

‘No. Well, do you reckon you know Eric Smiley well enough to ring up and ask how his wife is?’

‘Certainly. And since I was there when it happened, it would only be polite for me to make such an enquiry.’

‘Do you want to use my mobile?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Carole primly. ‘I have my own.’ And she took out the fairly recent acquisition.

But the call had to be deferred. There was no signal up in Weldisham. So they settled down to enjoy the beautiful setting and their salads. Afterwards they strolled over the Downs, which for
Gulliver was a nirvana of unfamiliar and intriguing smells.

When they returned to High Tor, Carole called the Smileys’ number from her landline. (She never used her mobile at home – the monthly bills were already expensive enough.) Jude
pieced together most of what was said from the half of the conversation she could hear, but at the end Carole confirmed it. Bettina Smiley had been kept in hospital the previous night for
observation, but she was now safely back at home in Fethering, a bit frail, but seeming to have suffered no lasting damage.

So the poisoning in the pub had not caused any deaths. Yet.

The Health and Safety inspection did happen on the Wednesday, and it brought good news for Ted Crisp. Nothing was found wrong with the standards of food hygiene in the kitchen
of the Crown and Anchor. The remains of some of the Monday’s pan-fried scallops with spinach and oriental noodles, which had been punctiliously preserved according to instructions, were taken
away for laboratory analysis (which might take some weeks). But the Health and Safety officials could find no reason why the Crown and Anchor should not reopen for business on the Thursday.

This good news, however, was counterbalanced the following day, when the
Fethering Observer
was published. The main headline read: CROWN AND ANCHOR SHUT DOWN IN POISONED SCALLOPS SCARE.
The ensuing article contained all the righteous indignation of a local cub reporter with delusions of being a crusading journalist. It concluded: ‘Following complaints from customers, the
Crown and Anchor will be closed until further notice.’

Carole had picked up a
Fethering Observer
from the local newsagent on her way back from Gulliver’s morning walk on the beach. (She did not believe in the indulgence of having papers
delivered.) The headline couldn’t be missed; a paraphrase of it also appeared on the felt-tipped display boards for the
Fethering Observer
all around the town.

After she had towelled off Gulliver’s sandy paws and made herself a cup of coffee, she sat down at the kitchen table and read the whole item. It was another scorching day. The door to the
garden was open, but the air didn’t seem to move at all.

Once she’d finished reading Carole phoned next door, but there was no reply from Woodside Cottage. Then she remembered that Jude had said something about going off to ‘a day’s
conference on alternative therapies in Brighton on Thursday’. Probably the reason why Carole had forgotten that was the instinct her brain had to switch off whenever she heard the words
‘alternative therapy’.

She was surprised at how much the
Fethering Observer
report had upset her. In spite of the ‘serve him right’ attitude she had expressed earlier in the week, she felt terribly
sorry for Ted Crisp. Though their brief affair had ended long before, she didn’t like to think of him suffering. So she rang through to the Crown and Anchor to commiserate.

The landlord was in a predictable state of fury. ‘I get the all-clear from Health and Safety yesterday. They say I can open up today, and then what bloody happens? The
Fethering
Observer
only tells everyone from here to Fedborough that the Crown and Anchor’s “closed until further notice”! I think I can be excused for feeling paranoid. It’s not
my imagination. Everybody bloody
is
picking on me!’