The Herring in the Library (17 page)

Thomas extracted his foot from the icy puddle into which he had plunged it. Below the grey ice, the water was yellow. Unless there was a good fire at the Customs Office (which was unlikely)
that foot would be wet all day. Still, at least the other one was more or less dry. It was, as Master Thomas always liked to point out, important to look on the bright side.

And, to be entirely fair, the sun had just broken through
both the cloud and the smoke to reveal an improbably blue sky, visible in thin strips above the narrow lanes of old London. He
was fortunate to live in this great city, so large and populous that it could be smelt two miles away, and bound by walls so strong that only treachery (usually available at a price) could cause
the city to fall to any of its many enemies. Londoners were proud people, suspicious of foreigners, of the nobility, of the King and, with good reason, of each other. They were proud of their
stinking city on its stinking river, proud of its growing wealth. Thomas’s job, in the Customs Office for the Port of London, was to grab as much of that wealth for the King as he reasonably
could. In return for which, the King looked after his servants as well as might be expected.

‘There is,’ said Geoffrey Chaucer, Thomas’s superior and as close to the King as Thomas usually got, ‘no earthly need for a fire in your room. The
snow is almost melting and the fire in my own room will in any case send forth some warmth into yours. I shall have more sea coals placed on my fire.’

‘Thank you,’ said Thomas. ‘You are very kind.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Chaucer. ‘In any case, you will not be in the office long today.’

‘Indeed, indeed,’ said Thomas, rubbing his hands together – a nervous habit he had developed, but a useful one in an office with only indirect access to heating.

‘Do you know Sussex?’ asked Chaucer.

‘Sussex? Sussex?’ said Thomas. He had also developed a habit of repeating his words in a jocular tone, a mannerism that was beginning to irritate even himself. He rattled off
his
minimal knowledge of the southern counties. ‘Sussex. The seat of the Lord Bishop of Chichester. The site of some noble castles – Arundel, Lewes and so on. And some notable
ports – Winchelsea, Rye, Shoreham – none of which are the responsibility of this office. Good sheep country, as I have heard. Fine sheep country. Quite exceptional—’

Chaucer held up his hand. ‘Excellent, Master Thomas. You are the very man for the job, then.’

‘Am I? Am I?’ He was going to need to watch this repetition thing. ‘What job would that be then?’

‘To take an important message on behalf of the King to Sir Edmund de Muntham.’

‘Who is where . . .?’

‘Findon.’

‘And that is near . . .?’

‘Nowhere, really. But it is in Sussex and since you know Sussex so well, you are clearly the right person to entrust with such an important mission.’

‘I understand. I un . . . So, when the snow clears, and the weather is a little less harsh and the roads a little more passable, you wish me to go to Sussex?’

‘No. As I said, you will not be long in the office
today
.’

‘You want me to go today?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the snow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Along dangerous and largely impassable roads?’

‘Yes.’

‘On which I might die of cold or be bludgeoned to death by robbers?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose I couldn’t wait until the young sun has run half his course into the Ram?’ said Thomas.

‘What?’ said Chaucer.

‘It’s a poetic way of denoting April,’ said Thomas.

‘Is it?’ said Chaucer, scribbling something quickly onto a sheet of parchment and then folding it over. ‘Well, the answer’s “no” anyway. I need you to go
immediately. Go home and pack and I’ll have the letter waiting for you when you return. Then piss off to Sussex. Oh, and copy out this poem first – I want you to give it to Lady
Catherine de Muntham when you see her.’

‘Gone to his dinner,’ said Master Richard, Thomas’s fellow clerk, when he eventually returned, a small leather satchel over his shoulder and both feet now
soaking. ‘The Comptroller left this for you, though – letter for some geezer in Sussex.’

Thomas took the single sheet of folded parchment secured with its wax seal and weighed it in his hand.

‘At first sight, a pretty insubstantial thing to justify a man catching his death of cold on the road, isn’t it?’ said Master Thomas.

‘What business has the Port of London with Sussex anyway?’ asked Richard. ‘Sounds like a job for one of the Clerks of the Signet. I’d tell that fat windbag you
won’t go. Not your responsibility, Master Thomas. I’d tell him: “Stuff your letter where the friars go when they die.”’

‘You mean up the Devil’s arse?’

‘Precisely.’

‘No. He’d only use the metaphor in one of his poems.’ Thomas looked again at the slim missive in his hand.

‘Tell him you’re sick,’ suggested Richard.

‘But I’m not. The King is sending some customs-related message to Sir Edmund de Muntham. I suppose it must be important.’

‘Sir Edmund de Muntham?’ asked Richard.

‘That’s right.’

‘The same Sir Edmund de Muntham who narrowly avoided losing his head for treason?’

‘There’s probably only one of them.’

‘The same Sir Edmund de Muntham who had to run off to his estates in Sussex to avoid a good kicking from the Duke of Gloucester’s supporters?’

‘That’s right.’

‘The same Sir Edmund de Muntham who has fallen foul of every faction at court?’

‘As I say—’

‘The same Sir Edmund de Muntham that it would be very risky going anywhere near, unless you wanted a good kicking too?’

‘The King’s messenger enjoys a certain degree of protection

‘Only if you can point out that’s who you are before you lose consciousness. You wouldn’t be the first King’s messenger to be beaten to death – though with luck
you might be the last.’

‘That would be lucky?’

‘For the rest of us, yes.’

‘But why should anyone know I am carrying a letter for Sir Edmund?’

‘Thomas, this is the King’s court that we’re talking about here.
Everyone
will know you are carrying a letter for Sir Edmund.’

‘Good point,’ said Thomas, rubbing his hands together. ‘Good poi . . . I’d better get started then.’

Fifteen

Elsie had, for reasons she chose not to explain, gone out for a walk in the rain. I was sitting in front of my computer, nominally writing a novel but in practice mainly
watching the rain run down the window.

I had written the first chapter of the Master Thomas novel and the plot was becoming a little clearer in my head – though it might require some redrafting of Thomas’s arrest. Sir
Edmund had made enemies, one of whom had followed him to Sussex and killed him – at least, that seemed likely. I needed to research this a bit more and work out which faction he might have
belonged to, but there were plenty to choose from. The Merciless Parliament of 1388 would convict almost the entire court of treason, including (interestingly) a colleague of Chaucer’s and
Master Thomas’s named Nicholas Brembre. Of obscure origins and staggeringly rich, Brembre was eventually hanged. He would be a good historical character to introduce. The fact that he was a
financier would make his grisly end quite popular. But Brembre was a loyal supporter of the King. Did that mean that both the King and the Duke of Gloucester wanted Sir Edmund dead? And to which
faction, if any, did the Sheriff owe his loyalty?

I was so taken up with this problem that it took me a moment to realize that the noise in the background was the phone ringing. I answered it.

‘It’s Jane,’ said the caller.

‘Yes . . .’ I said.

‘Gerald is in the swimming pool, but he could be back any moment.’

It seemed odd that Gerald should be swimming in the rain, though it can be raining hard in Findon but sunny in Horsham. Then I remembered that they had been about to go off on a short holiday
somewhere.

‘You’re phoning from the hotel?’ I asked.

‘Yes, from our room.’

‘Right.’

‘Look – there’s something you need to know. It’s about Clive Brent. It was Robert’s fault that he was fired.’

‘I think Gerald told me that,’ I said.

‘Yes, but you don’t know the whole story. Nobody really does except Gerald – and Clive up to a point. And Gerald would have given you the official version. This derivatives
thing that almost brought the bank down was Robert’s idea. Clive was just on the fringes of it all. When the balloon went up, Robert told Clive he’d be fine. But then . . .’

‘But then?’

‘Robert dumped him right in it to save his own skin. Made out that it was Clive acting on his own. He said he would do the decent thing and resign, because he should have watched Clive
more closely. Going like that took the pressure off the other directors. That’s why Robert got a reasonable settlement from the bank when he left and Clive got nothing.’

‘Does Clive know all this?’ I asked.

‘I guess he must have worked it out.’

I tried to remember what Clive had told me himself.

‘And you’re saying if he had worked it out . . .’ I said.

‘It would be a good motive for murder, wouldn’t it? If the police should be investigating anyone, it’s him.’

‘You could tell the police,’ I said.

‘No, I can’t – and I don’t want Gerald to know that I’ve told you.’

‘Well . . .’ I started to say, but the line went dead. Bad reception in Antibes or the arrival of a damp husband. It was not clear which.

I returned to the matter in hand. I was just wondering whether to make Alexander Neville (archbishop and traitor, 1340-92) the villain of the piece when the phone went again. Gerald Smith had
clearly gone straight off to have a shower, giving Jane a second shot at implicating Clive Brent. But that was not who it was.

‘Clive Brent here,’ said the caller.

‘Good to hear from you,’ I said.

‘Is it? Look, there’s something you need to know about John O’Brian.’

‘Fire away.’

‘You know he’s been having an affair with Annabelle?’

‘Just a rumour. I don’t believe it.’

‘No, it’s absolutely true, I assure you. And I think he’s been blackmailing her.’

‘Surely not?’

‘Take a look at their bank account. He must be the best-paid gardener in Sussex. If the police should be investigating anyone it’s him.’

‘But if he was blackmailing the Munthams, why should he want to kill Robert?’

‘Look, Ethelred, there was something very funny going on there.’

‘I’ll check it out,’ I said.

‘Don’t tell Annabelle I said any of this.’

‘No, of course not.’

The phone rang again almost as soon as I had put it down.

‘Jane’s gone for a walk,’ said the caller. ‘I haven’t got long though.’

‘Hi, Gerald,’ I said.

‘Look, there’s something you need to know about Felicity Hooper.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘You know she had a fling with Robert at Oxford?’

‘Yes, she told me.’

‘Did she say anything about an abortion?’

‘No.’

‘Robert phoned me about a year or so ago. He mentioned in passing that he’d met Hooper again, then right out of the blue he asks what his position would be if somebody that he had
known years before tried to sue him for distress caused by an abortion she had had to have. I asked him to be more specific, but he said he was just curious to know in theory what might
happen.’

‘And?’

‘I said if it was a long time ago, then the courts would probably rule it out for that reason alone, but it was a bit outside my area of expertise; I offered to get a colleague to advise
him. He said thanks and he’d get back to me if he needed further advice.’

‘And?’

‘That’s it really. It sounds as if he got Hooper pregnant and she had an abortion. Years later she contacted him again and made some sort of threat.’

‘Or maybe it really was a theoretical question?’

A snort of derision came down the line. ‘Robert only asked my legal opinion if he really needed it. He was in trouble. I’m sure of it.’

‘So, your answer reassured him?’

‘Must have done – he never mentioned it again.’

‘Strange – when you said so little, I mean.’

‘That’s true. He seemed very tense at the beginning of the conversation, but quite chatty when we had finished.’

‘And that was the whole conversation?’

‘Well, it was a year or more ago, but, yes, that was pretty much all of it – other than the chatty bit at the very end.’

‘But do you think it has any bearing on the murder?’

‘Absolutely. Hooper has a clear motive. If the police should be investigating anyone it’s her.’

‘But it was a very long time ago – why should she want to kill Robert now?’

‘Look, Ethelred, there was something very funny going on there.’

‘I’ll check it out,’ I said.

‘Don’t tell Jane I said any of this.’

I was becoming confused about what I could tell to whom, but I just said: ‘No, of course not. I hope you enjoyed your swim.’

‘Yes, it was great,’ he said.

It was only as I put the phone down that I remembered that it was Jane who had told me about the swimming pool. Gerald was going to find that last remark of mine very odd if he gave it any
thought.

I needed a break to clear my head, but I was not about to get one. Elsie strode into the room, dripping wet, clutching an equally wet black beanie. She held it out triumphantly.

‘How dry is that now?’ she demanded.

So, there it was. My agent had finally flipped. It had to happen sooner or later.

Sixteen

I really object to the way it rains in the country.

London rain comes more or less straight down, observing the laws of gravity. It’s wet, but it’s well-behaved. Country rain comes at you from all angles.