The Shooting in the Shop (17 page)

‘But what kind of—?’

‘Sorry, Jude, must be off. Just don’t take any
notice of anything Mother may say about Polly’s death.’

Even on her bed of pain Flora Le Bonnier did look
rather magnificent. Though the white hair was
ruffled from her attempts to get into a comfortable
position amidst the piled-up pillows, nothing could
spoil the fine bone structure of her face. There
remained a theatrical grandeur about her.

Jude had been fully prepared for the old woman’s
attitude to be imperious, but in fact it came closer to
humility. ‘It’s so good of you to come and interrupt
what is, I’m sure, a well-deserved break for you.’

‘It’s absolutely fine, don’t worry about it.’ Jude’s
voice had taken on a soothing tone, already part of the
healing process. ‘Now, let’s just find where the source
of the pain is.’

In spite of Flora’s assertion ‘I can tell you that –
it’s in the small of my back’, Jude ran her hands over
the woman’s whole body. She didn’t touch, didn’t
even remove the duvet, just let her fingers flow up
and down an inch or two above the bedclothes. When
she stopped, she said, ‘Yes, I can understand where
you’re feeling the pain, but, in fact, the tension that’s
causing it is in your shoulders. Our bodies have an
amazing ability to refer pain, just as our minds can refer anxiety.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Flora, intrigued.

‘Often when we’re worried about something, we
refer that worry to something else.’ Jude had done
enough acting in her life to risk a professional
parallel. ‘Like when you’re going on stage. What
you’re afraid of is exposing your skills in front of a
large audience, but that’s very rarely what you worry
about in the moments before curtain up. Instead,
you worry about throwing up, having an attack of
diarrhoea, bringing the most primitive kind of shame
on yourself. You worry about the possible symptom,
rather than the real cause.’

Flora Le Bonnier was silent for a moment while
she assessed this claim. Then she said, ‘You’re right.
And in the same way, when you’re really, genuinely
ill and you have to give a performance, suddenly you
stop feeling pain for the duration of the show, and it
all comes crashing in again the moment the curtain’s
down.’

‘“Doctor Theatre”,’ Jude agreed, knowing that her
use of the actor’s phrase would increase the bond
between them. ‘So, right now your body is reacting
to the tension in your shoulders by giving you a pain
in the small of your back.’

Flora seemed to accept the logic of that. She
shifted in the bed and winced. ‘More importantly,
though, can you do something to relieve that pain?’

‘Yes, I think I can. If you get into the least uncomfortable position you can find and just slip your
nightie down off your shoulders . . .’

Having been used to the constant attention of
dressers in theatres and on film sets all over the world,
the old woman showed no coyness about revealing
her bony body with its skin the texture of muslin.
Jude anointed the shoulders with the smallest
amount of oil, and let her fingers flicker gently
against the flesh. There was no physical strength
required for what she was doing, just immense
mental energy and concentration. Jude could sense
the heat emanating from the woman’s body and
focused her mind on melting away the tight knot of
pain that was causing it.

After about twenty minutes both women felt the
same flood of relaxation as the pain ebbed away. Flora
sank back on to the pillows and Jude, totally drained,
as ever, by the effort of healing, subsided into a bedside
chair. A long, relieved silence stretched between them.

Then Jude said, very gently, ‘And of course our
bodies and our minds go on playing tricks on us all
the time, don’t they? Something that’s troubling the
mind expresses itself in a bodily ailment.’

‘Yes. Something which doctors – in the days when
I still foolishly wasted my money consulting doctors –
never seemed to understand. They seemed to regard
the body and the mind as totally separate.’

‘I think they’ve got a bit better about that kind of
thing over recent years.’

‘Huh. Well, I’ve yet to meet the traditional doctor
who could do what you’ve just done for me.’

‘Luck, I think. It seemed to work this morning.’

‘Are you suggesting that your healing doesn’t always work?’

‘I certainly am. Sometimes the magic’s just not
there. I rarely know the reason . . . some fault in
my concentration, scepticism from the patient . . . ?
I’ll never fully understand it. Still, so long as it
works sometimes . . .’ There was another silence, then
Jude continued, ‘Well, then, Flora, what was it in
your mind that was so dreadful it could completely immobilize your body?’

‘Obviously it’s related to Polly’s death.’ Flora
seemed to feel some relief from making that statement.
Jude didn’t prompt her, she let the old woman
take her own time. ‘I think for me what happened was
the culmination of many years of anxiety.’ Another
silence, while she gathered more of her thoughts.
‘What I’m going to say now may sound rather fanciful,
but it is true. As you may know, the Le Bonnier
family has a long history in this country dating back
to the Norman Conquest.’

‘I had heard that, yes.’

‘And amongst the inheritances of that long history
are certain advantages, of looks, of intelligence, of
resilience, of bravery even. But there are also less
welcome family characteristics which have been
passed on. It may sound melodramatic, but in this
context I cannot avoid the expression “Bad Blood”.
Bad luck, anyway.’

Jude maintained the silence until Flora Le Bonnier
felt able to continue. ‘I refer to what in earlier
days might have gone under the blanket description
of “madness”. In these supposedly more enlightened
days we speak of “manic depression” or what’s that
new phrase they’ve come up with? “Bipolar Disorder”?
Whatever you call it, I’m referring to a
tendency, all too common amongst creative people,
towards violent fits of self-loathing, a self-loathing
which in its most extreme manifestations can lead to self-destruction.

‘There has been a suicidal streak, a flaw, whatever
you want to call it, in the Le Bonnier family. Some
people have even been melodramatic enough to refer
to it as “the Le Bonnier Curse” . . . anyway, it’s been
mentioned for as far back as their history is recorded.
And the fact that those family records are incomplete
is due to that very flaw. In the early nineteenth
century a certain Giles Le Bonnier not only killed
himself but also destroyed the ancestral family home
in Yorkshire when he burnt the place to the ground.
Invaluable family records were also lost in the
inferno. Because of that tragedy a contemporary
historian would have trouble piecing together the
distant history of the Le Bonnier family.’

Remembering what Carole had discovered
through Wikipedia, Jude rather daringly said, ‘It has
been suggested that the more recent history of the
family is also hard to piece together.’

‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘I gather that some newspapers have actually
questioned whether you have any connection with the Le Bonnier family.’

It was a bold thing to say, and the icy hauteur with
which Flora greeted it would have convinced most
people of her aristocratic credentials. ‘I don’t read
newspapers,’ she announced imperiously. ‘I never
have. Journalists have no interest in the truth; they
look only for character assassination and sensation.’

‘But don’t you even read reviews of your performances?’

‘No, I never have. What possible benefit can one
gain from reading them? A good notice makes you
question yourself to such an extent about what it was
you did that was worthy of praise that you become
self-conscious; while a bad notice depresses you so
much that you never want to work again.’

‘Ah, right,’ said Jude, deciding not to pursue that
particular line of enquiry further. ‘You were talking
about the “Le Bonnier Curse” . . .’

‘Yes. The suicidal streak, I am glad to say, does
not manifest itself in every bearer of the Le Bonnier
name. I myself, though occasionally prone to black
moods of despair, have generally managed to keep
the demon at bay by concentrating on my professional
work. Though I have always worried
inordinately about being a transmitter of the family
curse, my son Ricky, mercifully, seems untouched
by it. I sometimes wonder whether he has ever had a
negative thought in his entire life and, of course, his
robust self-confidence has enabled him to make the
enormous success of that life that he has.

‘But his daughter Polly, I fear, was not so fortunate.
As a small child, she was adorable, a blithe little
lass without a care in the world. But as she got older,
the shadows of her inheritance began to close in on
her. The depression started to take over her life.’

‘Just a minute,’ Jude objected. ‘You talk about “the
shadows of her inheritance”, but Polly has absolutely
no connection to the Le Bonnier family. She was
Ricky’s
step
daughter, not his genetic daughter.’

‘I know that,’ Flora replied patiently. ‘But I’m talking
about “the Curse of the Le Bonniers”. It doesn’t
just affect people who carry the “Bad Blood” of the
Le Bonniers in their veins. It affects everyone who
becomes involved in the family.’

Jude’s credulity was being rather stretched by all
this. Though Flora Le Bonnier’s narrative carried
undoubted dramatic conviction, its contact with logic seemed very tenuous.

‘So Polly’, the old actress went on, ‘became
infected with bad luck as soon as she became part of
the Le Bonnier clan. The Curse took its toll on her
mother, too. It killed her.’

‘Polly’s mother died of a drug overdose.’

‘That was the means by which she died. What
killed her was “the Curse of the Le Bonniers”. And
then it reached out its tentacles to Polly, crushing
her with depression, driving her into madness, and
forcing her to follow the awful precedent of Giles Le Bonnier.’

After assimilating this, Jude said quietly, ‘So you
think Polly started the fire at Gallimaufry?’

‘What else is there to think?’

There was obviously quite a lot else to think, but
Jude wondered whether there was any point in
troubling Flora Le Bonnier with any of it. The old
actress had made her mind up about her granddaughter’s
death and, though the initial shock of
her conclusions had hit her hard, she now was on
the road to recovery. Until a definitive explanation of
what had happened to Polly emerged, was there any
necessity to mention the anomaly of the girl’s having
been shot before the fire at Gallimaufry had been
started? Jude decided that, on balance, there wasn’t.
For the time being, she would allow Flora Le Bonnier
to go along with her son’s suicide explanation of his
stepdaughter’s death.

But as to the business about ‘the Le Bonnier
Curse’, Jude didn’t believe a word of it. And, in spite
of the compelling way Flora had spoken on the subject,
Jude wondered whether the old actress really
believed a word of it either.

She looked at the large watch strapped to her wrist
by a wide ribbon. It was nearly one o’clock. As ever,
when she was performing her healing routines, she
had lost sense of time. ‘I must be off,’ she said, rising
and looking down at the old woman, whose body lay
relaxed on the bed and whose eyelids were drooping.
‘I think you’ll sleep now. And I think when you wake
up, you will feel hungry. Have something to eat then.
You need to keep your strength up.’

‘I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.’

‘No problem. Pleased to help.’

Flora Le Bonnier raised herself on her pillows and
reached across to the bedside table. ‘Ricky’ll sort out
what we owe you. But, please, take this.’

She picked up a copy of her autobiography,
One
Classy Lady
, in two arthritic hands, using them as
a seal might use its flippers. ‘Sadly, I am unable to
inscribe this for you. My hands can’t grip a pen these
days, which is a source of enormous frustration to
me. But if I could write in the book, I would put:
“To Jude, an infinitely welcome saviour in time of
need, with love, Flora Le Bonnier.”’

Jude thanked her and left the room, knowing that
by the time she reached the foot of the stairs, the old
lady would be asleep.

As ever, when dealing with actors, Jude was aware
of the potential for duplicity, and yet by the time she
left Fedingham Court House she had become more
convinced by Flora’s performance. Talk of ‘the Le
Bonnier Curse’ was – to any outside scrutiny – complete
nonsense, but the old actress had expressed
what she believed to be the truth. In the taxi back to
Fethering, however, Jude remembered Ricky warning
her against believing Flora’s opinions about Polly’s
death. What had he been afraid his mother would
say? Something that might betray him?

Because, in spite of their mutual alibi about tending
the wakeful Mabel with her ear infection, Ricky
Le Bonnier headed Jude’s current list of suspects.
And, regrettably, Lola was not far behind him.

Normally Carole discouraged Gulliver from bringing
anything back from Fethering Beach, fearing the
introduction of unwanted ‘mess’ into the sacred
precincts of High Tor. But the stick he had found that
morning, and to which he shown such obvious attachment,
seemed a harmless enough trophy. Scoured
pale and smooth by long immersion in the sea and
about a foot in length, it could have been purpose-built
for ‘fetching’ games. Having scrutinized its every
surface for the smallest fleck of tar, Carole allowed
him to walk proudly home with the stick held in
his jaws, and even to lie down and chew it in his
favourite spot beside the Aga. Meanwhile, she busied
herself around the house removing any motes of dust
that might have dared to settle during the previous twenty-four hours.