The Herring in the Library (27 page)

‘Friend of yours, was he?’ asked Elsie.

For a moment I said nothing. Though in some ways I felt deeply insulted, I could at least feel rich and insulted, which was better than usual. I took the letter from Elsie and read it again.

‘So, that was the plan,’ I said. ‘There was something in Robert’s speech that always struck me as a bit odd – do you remember what he said about going off into the
next room? It’s from a poem,
“Death is Nothing at All”
by Henry Scott-Holland, but the actual words are “I have only slipped away into the next room” –
that’s why I didn’t recognize it at the time. Robert never was much good at quotations, and if you change a word or two of a poem . . . Anyway, I think that, from what Colin McIntosh
said, Robert didn’t make a definite decision to go ahead with his plan until that evening, after Colin confirmed there really was no hope for him. The letter had already been sent to me. The
clues had been planted. So, he slipped away and his game could begin. He was giving us all clues from the very beginning – even if some were a bit garbled.’

‘But the game went a bit wrong,’ said Elsie.

‘Yes, Annabelle got to the body first. I knew there was something missing when I looked round the library – it was the suicide note. The pen was there on the desk but no sign of
whatever he’d been writing. Annabelle must have realized the moment she saw the body that she was about to lose the insurance money. So she pocketed the key piece of evidence while I was
unbolting the door.’

‘But,’ said Elsie, ‘in that case, why not tell the police about the secret passage straight away? That way murder would not have been ruled out.’

‘I think her mind just wasn’t working that fast. Or maybe she reasoned that only she, Mrs Maggs and John O’Brian knew about the passage. It would not have looked good for John
O’Brian under the circumstances.’

‘Or had she arranged to meet John O’Brian there that evening? Did she think he was actually waiting in the passage?’ Elsie asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. Yesterday I would have said such a thing was too far-fetched. But yesterday was yesterday and today was today. ‘The point is that, at the time,
she was reluctant to draw people’s attention to it. It was later that she came up with the idea of a mysterious stranger, who would have clumsily left multiple clues. But it was too late then
to suddenly tell the police that she had remembered the passage existed. So she got me to “discover” the passage. She also got John O’Brian and Clive Brent to say that they had
seen the stranger – but I’ve told you about that. Gillian Maggs might have given the game away, so she and her husband were offered an all-expenses-paid trip to Barbados until the
investigations had finished. When it became clear their daughter was already revealing too much information to casual callers, she was offered the same deal, provided she left there and
then.’

‘So, we’ve basically been following a trail of red herrings, from the library to the billiard room via the secret passage, and on out into the garden. Just like
Cluedo.
Except, of course, that you have to play
Cluedo
strictly by the rules. There’s nothing more tedious than finding somebody you ought to be able to trust has been cheating all
along.’

‘Yes,’ I said, slowly. ‘Though I’m still not sure the secret passage on the
Cluedo
board goes—’

‘It could be worse, though,’ said Elsie, folding the letter away. ‘You can sell Muntham Court and buy yourself a nice flat in North London, where I can keep an eye on you . . .
the painted tart will be thrown on the street . . . she’ll probably have to go and live on a proper estate with graffiti and lifts that only work every other Tuesday . . . or she might become a
bag-lady and get spat on by total strangers . . . she’ll have to sit in shop doorways drinking the sort of sweet sherry she served to her guests for so many years . . . yes, it could be so
much worse.’

‘That’s not what Robert wanted me to do, though,’ I said, thoughtfully. ‘Reading between the lines he’s really asking me to take care of Annabelle . . .’

‘Reading between
which
lines? The lines on your arse? He would scarcely have gone through this whole business so that Annabelle would end up with the house and the insurance money
and you.’

‘He says he thinks I’ll end up marrying her.’

‘If you aren’t careful, yes, you could.’

‘But I do think he wants me to keep the house.’

‘You mean you’ll hang onto a ruinously large house, that even a rich banker couldn’t afford to maintain, so that Annabelle isn’t made destitute?’

‘You could look at it as a sort of trust,’ I said. ‘The house passes to me so that I can help somebody else. And it need not be ruinous. I’d have the house, unencumbered
as the lawyers say, I can sell this flat and Annabelle would have some money from the insurance so long as—’

‘You’re not planning to lie to the police?’

‘I wouldn’t need to lie exactly – we would just tell them what we found.’

‘And the man in a blue suit?’

‘He’s probably not essential. I suppose you wouldn’t like to say you saw him?’

‘Spot on. I wouldn’t. You can get into big trouble once you start saying things like that.’

She said it with feeling and I wondered if she had been reading the (now abandoned) Master Thomas story. It was perfectly possible. My computer had no password protection. ‘I’m sure
Annabelle and I can manage anyway,’ I said.

‘Manage in what sense? Ethelred – I am not letting you throw yourself away on that bitch . . .’

‘I didn’t necessarily say I’d do it,’ I said.

‘So, what did you say?’ asked Elsie.

For a long time I stared at the empty jar that had once held decaffeinated coffee.

‘I just said: “Perhaps” . . .’ I said.

Thirty-one

‘What do you mean, “Perhaps”?’ I asked.

‘Only kidding,’ said Ethelred. ‘I’m not such a total tosser that I’d marry some painted tart like that. I learned my lesson with Geraldine. You were right all along
– what a bitch she was.’

‘So, you’ve finally come to your senses after all these years?’

‘Absolutely Let’s go and celebrate at the Village House. They’ve invented an amazing new pudding. It tastes in every way like chocolate but it contains no calories at all, not
that you need worry about calories with a figure like yours. You don’t know how jealous Annabelle is.’

‘Is that true?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Ethelred. ‘All of this is true. Let’s go eat chocolate.’

Thirty-one

‘What do you mean, “perhaps”?’ asked Elsie.

‘Just that I haven’t quite made up my mind,’ I said.

‘Well, make it up quickly then. Annabelle’s just like Geraldine,’ said Elsie. ‘I mean, in a
good
way. She’s beautiful, kind, considerate. She was devoted to
Robert – as indeed Geraldine was to you, with one trivial exception. I think you should marry Annabelle – if she’ll have you, which I’m sure she will. Frankly, you’re
a bit of a babe-magnet.’

‘Annabelle implied that all crime writers were irresistibly attractive,’ I said.

‘I think,’ said Elsie, ‘that she just meant first-rate crime writers, like you.’

‘So, I should hang on in Findon,’ I said. ‘Not sell up and move to London?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Elsie. ‘Stay here. It’s the perfect place to write a great literary novel.’

‘Do you mean all that?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ said Elsie. ‘I’ve given up being cruel and sarcastic at your expense. And I’d be honoured to be a bridesmaid at your wedding. Do you think I should
wear acid lemon or puce?’

‘Why don’t we let Annabelle decide?’ I asked.

‘What an excellent idea,’ said Elsie. ‘She has such perfect taste.’

‘How true that is,’ I said, ‘how very true.’

‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’

Author’s Note

The site of Muntham Court is now occupied by Worthing Crematorium, developers having formed a view of it that was closer to Elsie’s than to Ethelred’s. The Muntham
Court I describe in this book is not, however, very different from the one that existed until the middle part of the last century. If it still stood, it would probably be owned by somebody much
like Sir Robert Muntham. All characters in this book are, however, completely fictional. I now accept, on Elsie’s assurance, that Miss Scarlett was in no way to blame for the murder of Dr
Black and unreservedly apologize for, and completely withdraw, any remarks that I may have made to the contrary.

Acknowledgements

I needed to consult various sources for the historical sections of this book. They included
Richard II
by Nigel Saul,
England in the Late Middle Ages
by A R
Myers,
London the Biography
by Peter Ackroyd,
Chaucer’s Language
by Sim Horobin,
The Age of Chaucer
by Valerie Allen,
The Oxford Book of Mediaeval Verse
(ed. Celia
and Kenneth Sisam) and Neville Coghill’s translation of the
Canterbury Tales.
And, of course, that essential standby for twenty-first-century writers –
Wikipedia.

The descriptions of Muntham Court were inspired by the excellent articles by Valerie Martin on the Findon Village website, and on additional material on the house and family that lived in it
from Norman Allcorn. I am very grateful to both. Neither is to blame for any unintended inaccuracies on my part or (more to the point) for any deliberate changes that I made to the geography of the
original when creating my fictional Muntham Court.

As ever I am grateful for the help I received from my publisher, Pan Macmillan, and in particular from my editor, Will Atkins, copy editor Mary Chamberlain and publicists Sophie Portas and
Philippa McEwan. A writer could not reasonably ask for a better team.

Finally I must thank my family for their continuing indulgence that I spend so much time on something as unprofitable as writing books.

Herring on the Nile

A story of murder, espionage and fish out of water

Available now

Copyright © L. C. Tyler, 2011

One

Q: What’s the worst possible way to begin a detective novel?

A: Tedious scene-setting stuff. Explaining basic things for people who haven’t read the earlier books in the series.

Q: You write under several names, don’t you?

A: Yes, I write crime as Peter Fielding and J. R. Elliot. I also write romantic fiction as Amanda Collins. None of those is my real name.

Q: What would you see as the main influences on your writing style?

A: I’ve always admired the crime writers of the Golden Age – Christie and Sayers in particular. For some reason I never have got to grips with
dear old Margery Allingham. She’s useful if you want to know how the English upper class in the 1950s thought the English working classes spoke – I mean, cawdblimeah, guv! – and
she does quite a nice line in endearing cockneys, but I couldn’t recommend her otherwise.

Q: Our readers are always interested in how writers work. Describe the room you are writing in now.

A: I’m at work on the dining table of my flat. The table bears the remains of this morning’s breakfast. From where I’m sitting, I can
just see out through the bow window and down to the village square below. The winter’s first flakes of snow have started to settle; but, here inside, my ancient radiator is pumping out heat.
The room is not large, but it’s enough for me and for my books, which are pretty much everywhere. Occasionally books get mixed up with slices of toast, but that’s fine.

Q: What do you like most about Sunderland?

A: I’m sure it’s a very fine city, but I’ve never visited it.

Q: What is your favourite restaurant in Sunderland?

A: Sadly, I’ve never had the pleasure of dining in Sunderland.

Q: Where would you go for a great day out in Sunderland?

A:

‘The Elsie Thirkettle Literary Agency. How can I help you?’

‘Elsie,’ I said, clutching the phone in one hand and scrolling down the screen with the other. ‘Those interview questions you emailed me. Why are they asking me about
Sunderland?’

‘Which interview is that, Ethelred?’

‘The
Sunderland Herald,
strangely. They seem to think I’m some sort of expert on eating out on Wearside. They want to know my favourite restaurant.’

‘Could be a trick question. Hold on while I Google it . . . no, there really are restaurants in Sunderland.’

‘Yes. What I meant was: Why are they asking
me
?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Elsie, who only lied properly to people she respected. ‘I thought they’d be more likely to run the interview if I told them you were a local lad.
It’s only bending the truth a tiny bit, Ethelred. You
are
a local lad, just not local to Sunderland. What have you said so far?’

I read out my answers while Elsie made the disapproving noises that she has spent much of her life perfecting.

‘You can’t say that about Margery Allingham,’ said Elsie. ‘Unlike you, she has a lot of admirers out there. Your professed contempt for Allingham implies that anyone who
enjoys her books won’t enjoy yours. So that’s a few thousand sales you’ve just thrown away quite unnecessarily. It’s much better, Ethelred, if people get to decide they
don’t like you
after
they’ve paid for the book. Conversely, when you think about it, each writer you mention favourably is money in the bank. You can’t claim too many
influences – drop in all the names you can. And don’t forget to plug the other writers at this agency and mention their books, because one day—’