The Herring in the Library (18 page)

It hadn’t even been raining that much when I went out – just enough to prove my point. There was something I needed to check out. It involved creeping up a gravel drive,
but I figured nobody was going to be out in the garden when it was pissing down. So even when the rain got heavier, I counted it as a blessing of sorts.

It was on the journey back that I realized that I should have got Ethelred to drive me, but then it wouldn’t have been my discovery. Even now, he didn’t quite seem
to get the point, any more than he had in the garden the day before.

‘No,’ I said in reply to his question. ‘I don’t want a quiet lie-down and I don’t want a cup of strong sweet tea. Look at this beanie. Is it a) dry
or b) really wet?’

‘It’s obviously wet,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have to take it out in the rain to show me what a wet beanie looks like. You could have run it under a
tap. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to lie down?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And when we found it in the garden was it a) wet or b) dry?’

‘Dry I think that was option b).’

‘So there you are,’ I said.

‘Where am I?’ he asked.

‘Yesterday,’ I said, ‘we found a bone-dry beanie. I wanted to check whether that was at all likely. So I went back to Muntham Court in the rain and placed the
beanie on the same spot. It was soaked through in minutes. And what had the weather been like between the murder and our finding the beanie?’

‘Mixed. It rained overnight and then—’

‘
It rained overnight.
So what should the beanie have been: a) wet or b) very wet?’

‘OK – I think I understand without your doing the a) or b) thing. Maybe you just put it back in the wrong spot.’

‘Ethelred, think. You knelt down on the ground by it, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And were your knees a)—’

‘OK, they were very wet,’ he conceded, cleverly anticipating both options. Sometimes he’s quite on the ball for a third-rate crime writer.

‘This beanie did not fall from the head of an intruder in a blue suit. Somebody planted it in that spot – probably no more than a few minutes before we found it.’

‘But it was just you and me and Annabelle and Dave Peart,’ said Ethelred.

‘As far as we know,’ I said. ‘I suppose there could have been anyone concealed in the bushes. Still, the four of us, with the silicon-enhanced tart as the prime
suspect, is still OK by me.’

‘But why? Clive and John O’Brian both saw the intruder. Why plant a hat when you’ve got two reliable witnesses?’

‘Why indeed? You have to admit it’s interesting.’

Ethelred was thoughtful for a moment and then said: ‘Actually, I had one or two pieces of information myself this afternoon. Jane Smith phoned to say that the murderer was
Clive Brent, Clive Brent phoned to say it was John O’Brian and Gerald Smith phoned to say it was Felicity Hooper.’

The last of these interested me. I said so.

‘Gerald said that Robert had phoned him,’ Ethelred continued, ‘and asked, in effect, if Felicity had any legal redress for a pregnancy and abortion some years
ago. Gerald advised him that it was unlikely and he seemed much relieved. I’m not sure I believe it myself, though. Felicity said they had had a fling and that Robert had dumped her –
but there was no suggestion of any fallout of that sort.’

‘Or then again, maybe it did happen,’ I said.

‘But we’ve got no evidence.’

‘That’s all you know. One of the problems that you writers have is that you can’t keep your personal lives out of your books. No imagination, that’s your
trouble.’

‘Maybe,’ said Ethelred guardedly.

‘You remember I told you that Felicity Hooper sent me her first novel?’

‘And?’

‘It was about a rather naive girl training in physiotherapy at Oxford. She falls for some rugby-playing yob, who gets her pregnant and dumps her. So she goes off to London
and gets an abortion. But it all goes a bit wrong and she finds she can’t have any more children.’

‘And then?’

‘I wrote Hooper a note saying that I loved the book but unfortunately I wasn’t taking on any new clients at present and so on and so on.’

‘No, I mean what happens in the book? Does she go back to Oxford and murder the rugby player?’

‘How should I know? I don’t read to the end of every manuscript I’m sent and I certainly didn’t read to the end of that one. It was drivel.’

‘But,’ said Ethelred, ‘we know that Robert did read the book and arranged to meet Felicity soon after. Then, at about the same time, he contacted his lawyer
with a strange query.’

‘So,’ I summarized, ‘he knew and was afraid she could sue him or something. Whereas maybe what she had in mind was murder.’

‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘What was the case against Clive Brent?’ I asked.

‘Robert double-crossed him – left him to carry the can for the bank’s losses.’

‘And John O’Brian?’

‘Clive Brent reckoned he had some sort of hold over the family – at least, he was being paid rather more than a gardener might expect to be paid.’

‘He was being paid by Annabelle for a few night shifts,’ I said. ‘Of course, that might mean that he and Annabelle did want Robert out of the way.’

‘Annabelle was—’

‘—devoted to Robert. Yes, you’ve said that once or twice already. It’s such a shame that repeating things doesn’t make them true. But if it was
Annabelle who planted the beanie, then she’s doing some covering up for somebody. I can’t help feeling that the whole picture is there, but we just can’t see it. You know those
drawings that look like a candle if you look at them one way and a pair of faces if you look at them the other way? At the moment we’re seeing the candle. But if we just look at it the other
way, we’ll see a face.’

‘Two faces,’ said Ethelred, who was a bit of a stickler for accuracy. ‘One candle or two faces. At least we can rule the McIntoshes out of the
picture.’

Then I remembered a piece of paper that I had found in the study and that must still be in my bag. I knew exactly where I had put it so it took me only ten minutes to locate
amongst the sweet wrappers and empty lipsticks.

‘There!’ I said.

‘It’s some pages you’ve torn out of somebody’s diary,’ he said.

‘Shagger’s diary for last year. Hidden wisely but not too well in his desk drawer. And observe closely – what do you see?’

Ethelred ran his finger down the first sheet of paper.

‘Dental check-up, car MOT, FM UCLH, dinner Ivy, boiler service, FM UCLH again . . .’ Ethelred turned and looked at me.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘FM UCLH. UCLH is where Fiona McIntosh works. It’s Robert’s diary for last year. He was running up to town to see Fiona McIntosh
on a regular basis.’

‘Not running up to town,’ he said. ‘He hadn’t bought Muntham Court then. He would have just been meeting up with her. He was, after all, an old friend.
Chelsea’s not that far from Euston Road.’

I raised an eyebrow but Ethelred patently failed to see things as clearly as I did.

‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘And what did Gillian Maggs say when you spoke to her?’

‘She didn’t phone,’ said Ethelred.

‘Then phone her,’ I said.

‘Annabelle said—’

‘Annabelle said . . .’ I repeated.

‘As I have observed before, Annabelle doesn’t speak in a silly whiny schoolgirl voice.’

‘That was you I was impersonating, not Annabelle.’

‘Even so, I don’t have her number.’

‘Do you have the Worthing telephone directory?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I suspect, Ethelred, that you have her number. Look, why don’t you go and make me a hot sweet drink and I’ll phone and see when it would be convenient
for us to drop round for a chat.’

‘For
me
to drop round for a chat.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said with all the girlish innocence I could muster.

As I expected, the number was there in the book and I dialled it.

‘Hello,’ said a woman at the other end of the line.

‘Is that Gillian Maggs?’

‘Do you want to speak to Mum?’

‘If your mother is Gillian Maggs, yes. I’ll hold.’

‘You’ll need to hold for a while then.’ There was a note of condescending insolence in her voice that told me I was talking to a teenager.

‘How long?’ I asked, waiting for the punchline.

A month or so. She’s gone to Barbados.’

Not a bad punchline, all things considered.

‘When?’ I asked.

‘This morning.’

‘Isn’t that rather sudden?’

‘I think she had some sort of special deal.’

And she’s staying there for a month?’

‘Maybe longer.’

‘On her own?’

‘No, Dad went too.’

‘Do your parents often take holidays of indefinite length in the West Indies?’

‘It’s usually an off-season week in Benidorm. Maybe they fancied a change.’

‘Did somebody give them the money to go? . . . Hello, are you still there?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘I just wondered.’

‘Look, I’ve told you all I know. Ring back next month.’

‘Or did somebody threaten them?’

‘Who
are
you? Are you the police?’

‘No.’

‘Why are you asking all this stuff?’

‘I need to get hold of her urgently’ I said. ‘I’m a friend.’ I don’t know why, but that last bit came out rather more creepily than I had
planned.

‘I’m putting the phone down now,’ she said, a bit like somebody in a call centre when you’ve just told them what you really think of their service.

‘If they were in danger, maybe you are too . . .’ I said.

But the line had gone dead. I tried phoning back but just got the engaged tone.

Ethelred returned, holding two steaming mugs of something.

‘Annabelle’s cleaner’s gone to the West Indies,’ I said.

‘Jamaica?’

‘No, but I’m wondering if somebody else did.’

Seventeen

‘Are you sure you’re right?’ I asked as I put the two cups of coffee down on the table.

‘She’s gone, and not on holiday, if you want my opinion,’ said Elsie. ‘The daughter sounded frightened – well, worried, let’s say. Anyway, Annabelle said
nothing about her being away this week, let alone going off to Barbados for an indefinite stay. Gillian Maggs has done a runner.’

‘So somebody has threatened her? But who?’

‘The murderer,’ said Elsie. ‘Gillian Maggs obviously knows too much about something. The problem is that she is the only person there that day who we haven’t spoken to.
With hindsight you should have obviously spoken to her first.’

‘Possibly,’ I said.

‘So, if it was the murderer who threatened her, who is the murderer? We know that Felicity Hooper has a long-standing grudge. She was out of sight of everyone else for long
enough.’

‘Everyone was out of sight for long enough,’ I said. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘True. And John O’Brian and Clive Brent were both having an affair with Annabelle.’

‘I think that’s just Dave’s vivid imagination,’ I said.

‘Look, Ethelred, I grant you your imaginary world is a much nicer and cleaner place than Dave Peart’s but, back here in real life, Annabelle was running at least three men at the
time of Shagger’s death. One of the two who wasn’t her husband might have decided things would be better with Sir Robert Muntham out of the way – and of the likely suspects, Clive
had the added incentive that Shagger had cost him his career. John was allegedly being paid more than he should have been, which is odd but it sounds less like a motive for murder.’

I shook my head.

‘Shake your head all you like,’ said Elsie, ‘but it won’t change the facts. Anyway, there are others who could have done it. Gerald Smith, for example.’

‘Based on what?’ I asked.

‘Well, Shagger had been sleeping with his wife.’

‘But a long time ago,’ I pointed out.

‘True enough. Shagger’s affair with Jane Smith was over long before Gerald met her. It’s not much of a motive, unless there was more to it than we know. Still, the Smiths would
have had an opportunity like the others. Maybe it was Jane Smith who harboured the grudge?’

‘Or maybe it wasn’t one of the guests at all. What about Mrs Michie?’

‘She and Dave Peart confirm they were together in the kitchen when Shagger popped his clogs. Mrs Michie would cover for Dave up to a point, but I don’t think her loyalty would extend
to covering up a murder. I’m not sure Dave Peart would cover up for anyone, unless they were paying him double time plus expenses.’

‘I think we can rule out the MacIntoshes,’ I said.

‘Colin McIntosh was one of the few people who knew Shagger was dying. It would hardly have been worth the risk of killing him, even if he wanted to. The same applies to Fiona, I guess,
whatever Robert’s reasons for meeting up with her. Which leaves Annabelle – and don’t say she couldn’t have – wives do kill husbands sometimes. She too had her chance.
And then there is the business of the secret passage. She knew it was there but, when Robert was killed, she didn’t suggest we should try to get into the room that way.’

‘You can’t get in that way,’ I reminded her. ‘The mechanism is broken. You can use the passage only to get out.’

‘Good point. Even so, Annabelle didn’t mention the passage to the police,’ said Elsie, ‘even though the main argument for suicide was that there was no way out of the
room. The following day, though, she was quite happy for you to “discover” it. That doesn’t make sense.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t. So, it confirms that she didn’t know the passage was there.’

‘Or,’ said Elsie, ‘it confirms that there was a good reason why she didn’t want anyone snooping around the passage straight away. So what, or who, was in the passage that
evening?’

‘But we were all there outside the library. By the time the police arrived, none of us could have been in the passage.’

‘True.’

‘The man in the blue suit?’ I ventured, though I didn’t quite believe it.

‘No,’ said Elsie, with a sigh. ‘He doesn’t exist. Clive and John were both lying. John wouldn’t have let some random stranger wander round the garden. Clive added
in that detail of the beanie, then planted that black hat, probably bought for the purpose, shortly before we found it.’