Cat Among the Herrings (10 page)

‘So,’ said Elsie. ‘You are investigating the murder, after all.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t intended the discussion to go that way at all.’

‘Not even a bit?’

‘No, not even a bit.’

‘Still,’ said Elsie, ‘that means Sophie was around on the day Robin died and she was there for the inquest and for the funeral. Coincidence? I think not.’

We were back at my house comparing notes. One of us had eaten a packet of chocolate biscuits as an aid to thought. Fortunately I had another hidden at the back of the cupboard, where Elsie would never find them unaided.

‘She’s a former fiancée,’ I pointed out.

‘So she’d definitely want to be there the day he died, then. What ex wouldn’t?’

‘That would take a bit of planning, I grant you. But, as it happened, she wasn’t around that day – not here in the
village. The Weald and Downland Museum’s at Singleton. That’s just on the other side of Chichester.’

‘All very innocent. Except she and Tom had split up sometime before Robin’s death. At the inquest, after the event, they seem to have ignored each other completely. What the hell are they doing, on the day he vanished, suddenly going off to a museum together?’

‘Because it’s interesting. It’s a big open-air museum. There aren’t many like it. They’ve reconstructed lots of old buildings there from all over southern England.’

‘Interesting for
you
, perhaps. But a whole day …’

‘I’ve spent a whole day there.’

‘Yes, as I said, interesting for
you
, perhaps. But what would Sophie be doing coming down midweek to meet an ex-boyfriend for a date at a museum? In my day a date meant getting plastered and throwing up in the gutter together. At the very least. I’ve had some weird boyfriends, but none of them have ever phoned me after many months of silence and suggested we go to a museum. And why have neither of them mentioned it until now?’

‘Neither of them has mentioned it at all. It was Tom’s father. Other than that, the museum trip is their own little secret, you might say.’

‘So, how do we find out why they went off together like that?’

‘I’ll ask Sophie,’ I said.

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that. I’ll call round and just ask her.’

‘And what excuse will you use for calling?’

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘The
Dr Atkins Diet Book
?’

‘Yes, Elsie thought she might have left it behind after she had called on you.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘I’m sure I would have noticed straight away.’ She glanced quickly round the room as if in evidence of her observational powers.

‘She’ll be really disappointed,’ I said. ‘She loves that book. Of course, hiding the chocolate biscuits may work equally well. Anyway, I told her I’d try here on my way back from seeing Derek Gittings.’

‘You’ve been to see Tom’s father?’ asked Sophie.

‘Yes. I’m doing this research on a murder that took place back in the 1840s. One of Tom’s ancestors.’

‘I know about the Herring Field murder. I’ve spent a lot of time down here, after all. Look, do you want a coffee? I’m just making some. Sorry about the mess in here by the way – I’m packing to go back to London. I need to be gone in half an hour or they might make me pay for another day.’

Sophie went off to the kitchen. I heard the usual noises of kettles being filled and jars being unscrewed. At first I couldn’t identify the additional sound – a faint buzzing at my elbow. Then I noticed Sophie’s phone, presumably switched to ‘vibrate’, on the table by my chair. I instinctively glanced over. Mobile phones, like babies, demand attention at all times. They hate being ignored. The name of the caller had flashed up on the screen: ‘Martina Blanch’. Then the buzz stopped as the phone switched to answer.

Sophie came back with two mugs of coffee.

‘You missed a call,’ I said.

‘You didn’t happen to spot who it was, I suppose?’

There seemed little point in lying and saying that I hadn’t snooped. ‘Martina Blanch?’ I said.

‘Oh right,’ said Sophie, putting my mug down and taking up her handset. ‘She can wait.’

The name had meant nothing to me, and yet I had a vague idea that I’d heard it before somewhere – I just couldn’t think where. If it was a friend of Sophie’s, Tom would have been the only person who could have mentioned it to me.

‘So, how was the colonel?’ asked Sophie, changing the subject.

‘Grumpy,’ I said. ‘He’s one of those people who makes me feel I’m still a naughty six-year-old.’

‘He’s like that to everyone.’

‘Army training?’

‘Most soldiers I know are very affable. But he outranks most of my university friends who went into the forces. Even the most pushy one has only just been promoted to major. Once they’re all full colonels, maybe they’ll be the same as Tom’s dad.’

‘He was in Northern Ireland.’

‘I know. There was something a bit odd about his military career – I’m not sure what he did in Ireland, but it wasn’t standard soldiering. Some sort of counter-intelligence, I think. Same with Iraq. I think he must have done a lot of things he can’t talk about, even now.’

‘Probably,’ I said. I took a sip of coffee. I’d forgotten to say no milk. I’d drink it anyway. If she had to be gone in half an hour – twenty-five minutes now – she didn’t have time to make another one. I was surprised she’d offered coffee at all. Maybe she needed to know something.

‘Did he say anything about me?’ she asked.

‘The colonel? Not much,’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just … when I was going out with Tom, I got the impression he was really keen on the idea of our being together. Then later … well, quite the reverse. I think he got Tom to dump me. And I’ve never understood why. Somebody must have said something to him about me.’

‘Robin, you mean?’

‘Well, you couldn’t blame him. Stirring things a bit, I mean. But he can’t have told the colonel anything he didn’t already know. It can’t possibly matter now, of course, but I’ve always wanted to find out. Tom is certainly never going to tell me. He worships his dad. The last thing he’d do is to betray his father’s confidence to a mere girlfriend.’

‘The only time he mentioned you,’ I said, ‘was when he told me you and Tom went to the Weald and Downland Museum. The day Robin died.’

I put my mug down and looked at her but she was staring out of the window.

‘Yes,’ said Sophie eventually. ‘That’s right.’

‘So you
are
still friends with Tom?’

Sophie turned quickly to face me. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘At least, I don’t think so. Look, the whole museum thing was rather weird. Tom and I split up. You know that. Months later, out of the blue, I get a message from Tom to meet him at the museum tomorrow at ten o’clock. So I think – he’s had a change of heart. He’s realised that I am, after all, The One. He’s going to explain everything in a romantic and mysterious way. Then I thought – no, that’s crap. Tom doesn’t do that sort of thing. Still, on balance I was intrigued enough to drop work on an important presentation and come straight down here.’

‘And …?’

‘And nothing. Nada. Zilch. Lovely day out in spite of the appalling weather – you’d have thought Tom would have checked the forecast. We ran from building to building sheltering under his umbrella – quite promisingly squashed together, my cheek against his muscular arm. If it had been a rom com, we’d have ended up kissing under the dripping eaves of a Kentish mediaeval hall house, circa 1300. As it was, Tom bought me a nice lunch at a pub nearby and apologised non-stop for the weather. We sat on opposite sides of the table and chatted. We shook hands. I drove back to London. Never heard another word. Later, when somebody told me about Robin’s death, I worked out that it must have been the same day. So, I was a bit curious to find out what had happened. I mean, it was a weird coincidence piled on top of a bizarre event.’

‘You thought you’d been used in some way?’

‘It crossed my mind. When Robin was setting off in his boat, Tom and I were at the pub. Perfect alibi for somebody who’d had a bit of a row with the deceased.’

‘Perfect alibi for both of you, then.’

‘Why the shit should I need an alibi?’

‘Ex-girlfriend.’

‘Hang on there … an ex-girlfriend with no grudge of any sort. You reckon I’m some kind of suspect? You are joking, I hope?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’m joking.’

‘OK – just you sounded a bit serious. You have to admit it’s strange, though. Tom invites me over that day of all days. Then nothing ever since. Not even a hello at the funeral. I mean, what’s that all about, Ethelred?’

Sophie’s phone rang again, some popular jingle I didn’t recognise – it was clearly no longer on silent. She glanced at the screen and grimaced.

‘I ought to call her back,’ she said apologetically. ‘Then I must go. Fifteen minutes before the owners arrive to do an inspection and start to get the place ready for the next occupant. I have to get the bags into the boot by then. Good talking to you, Ethelred. See you next time I’m down, maybe.’

‘Yes, see you then,’ I said.

But as I walked away I was still trying to remember where I’d heard the name Martina Blanch before. Like a tune that buzzes around in your head that you can’t quite place, the question kept coming back to me, but I had no answer.

The next phone to ring was my own as I walked back to my car.

‘You’re out of biscuits,’ said Elsie.

‘There are some chocolate ones hidden at the back of the cupboard,’ I said.

‘There used to be,’ she said. ‘If you’re close to the shop you might pick up another packet or two. Bourbons would be good.’

‘Sophie’s off back to London today,’ I said to Josie as I paid for two packs of plain shortbread. I thought they might last a little longer than anything with chocolate in it.

‘Second home for her,’ said Josie. ‘She might as well buy a flat down here.’

Josie is well informed about most events in the village. I
decided to drop something carefully into the conversation.

‘Apparently she was down the day Robin Pagham died. She went off to Singleton with Tom.’

I waited to see if she would throw any light on this invitation. It was unlikely she would have heard, but she might have heard some gossip.

‘Yes, I know,’ she said.

‘Tom mentioned it?’

‘No, I saw her.’

‘What, in the village? So that would have been … a bit before ten?’

I wondered if Sophie had in fact come into West Wittering and picked Tom up, though it was odd that having to give him a lift did not feature in her account – and from what she said, she and Tom had gone their own ways afterwards, implying two cars. Coming from London, West Wittering wasn’t on the way to Singleton. Far from it.

Josie frowned. ‘No, I remember. It was much earlier. I know because I was walking the dog down by Snow Hill. About eight – maybe eight-thirty?’

‘At Snow Hill? You’re sure?’

‘Yes, I recognised her car, parked by the sailing club. She was sitting in it with somebody else, just staring ahead. I don’t think she saw me, and I needed to get back to the shop, so I didn’t stop. She went to Singleton later, did she? Nice museum but a rotten day for it. Rotten day all round, really.’

‘These aren’t Bourbons,’ said Elsie darkly.

‘Then stop eating them,’ I said.

‘I can’t stop eating these until you get some Bourbons,’ said Elsie. It is not only Colonel Gittings who speaks
to me as if I were a six-year-old. ‘I ask you to do
one
thing …’

‘I’ll get some tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I stop by the Village Stores most days.’

‘Josie is a mine of information,’ said Elsie. ‘Maybe we should just ask her who killed Robin.’

‘I think you’re right that somebody did,’ I said. ‘I mean that it wasn’t an accident.’

‘Of course I’m right,’ said Elsie. ‘I think that Tom Gittings is behaving very oddly. We should pull him in for questioning.’

‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Reality check. We are not conducting a police investigation. This isn’t a police station. No power on earth could make Tom Gittings show up here so that you can interrogate him.’

The bell rang. I went to the door.

‘Hi,’ said Tom. ‘I was just passing. Do you mind if I come in?’

So, the three of us were seated in front of my fire, three mugs of coffee had been made and the last packet of shortbread opened. I had introduced Tom to Elsie and they had chatted briefly about his book, which I was sure Elsie had not yet started to read. From the praise she lavished on his narrative style and characterisation, I could tell that she basically fancied him. That and the way she gave little girlish giggles from time to time. For the record, she has never praised my narrative style in any way. She had promised to get back to him shortly.

‘Dad asked me to drop this round,’ said Tom, once Elsie had finished with him.

I looked at the bundle Tom had unwrapped. There were several newspaper cuttings covering the trial and the execution. I was pretty sure I had seen them all in the library, but I thanked him nevertheless. There was also an old map, showing the Herring Field. I got the impression
that the exact line of the coast might have changed a little in the intervening century and a half, but not much. The piece of thick card wrapped in tissue was more interesting. It proved to be a photograph of a young man with bushy whiskers, dressed in a coat with a velvet collar, tight sleeves and two rows of what seemed to be large brass buttons down the front. A broad black tie or cravat was wrapped round his neck, leaving only a little white shirt showing below and a small, stiff triangle of collar above. He looked out at me somewhat suspiciously, as if he was unsure how good an idea this newfangled photography business was.

‘That’s John Gittings – the murdered man,’ said Tom. ‘It may be one of the earliest photographs taken in Sussex.’

I agreed it was a useful thing to have – it might even form the cover illustration if the book ever got that far. But John Gittings was revealing nothing about his killer – unless he suspected the photographer, which seemed likely from his expression.

‘I think I may have tried your father’s patience a little,’ I said. ‘We sort of got off track …’

‘That’s not difficult,’ said Tom cheerfully. ‘He apologised, in fact, for being a bit abrupt. You caught him at a bad time, he said. He’ll try to dig out some more stuff. There’s apparently a trunk in the attic that hasn’t been opened for about fifty years – that’s how it is when you live in the same place for generations.’

‘I suppose you don’t have any records of land sales?’ I asked. ‘It’s clear that over the years the Paghams somehow got their hands on quite a lot of Gittings’ land.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to look. Probably with Dad or the solicitors in Chichester.’

‘And why was your father thinking of selling the Herring Field to Robin for a wind farm – another bit of your land about to change hands?’

Tom shrugged apologetically. ‘Dad wasn’t keen that you included any of that stuff. It doesn’t reflect very well on us. I get the impression he’ll cooperate as long as you stick to the Herring Field Murder. If you try to trash the family’s reputation, he’ll call in the lawyers.’

‘I’m not sure he can sue me for saying that a piece of land was sold in 1882, or whenever,’ I said.

‘Well, as a friend, could I ask you not to?’ said Tom. ‘The way the last two or three generations have mismanaged things is a bit of an embarrassment to him. When he came out of the army and took over from Grandad, he hoped he could sort it all out, but the size of the problem overwhelmed even him. When my mother was alive, he would often mutter about having to sell the house one day – that there’d be nothing to pass to me – not that I wanted anything passed to me. To be perfectly honest, I think Dad’s found what he inherited more of a burden than anything. I’m not surprised he wanted to dispose of the Herring Field if it was worth anything.’

I nodded and thought of the piles of paper in his study. Colonel Gittings didn’t look like a man who was entirely on top of things. I wondered why he didn’t just hand it all over to Tom. Perhaps there was too little left for it to be worthwhile. The Herring Field and the house and a couple of adjoining paddocks might be all that was left of what had been the largest estate in the area.

‘And Dad didn’t like you asking him where he was
the day Robin died,’ said Tom. ‘He thought it was a bit insensitive. Robin was good friend. He’s still pretty cut up about it all.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Fair enough.’

‘Well, Tom, you were well out of it, anyway,’ Elsie interjected. She had been concentrating for a while on her biscuit intake but the plate was now empty. ‘Nowhere near the sailing club. Because, on the day Robin died, you invited Sophie over to Singleton.’

Tom turned to her. ‘Sort of,’ he said.

‘Sort of, in what way?’ she said.

‘Well, we did go to the museum, but it was Sophie who phoned me and left a message suggesting we met there … It was great seeing her again, but I never did work out what it was all about. Later she was at the inquest and pretty much ignored me. When I saw her at the funeral I waited for her to come over and explain but she didn’t. She didn’t bother to come back to the house afterwards, so I didn’t see her there, either.’

I thought he sounded genuinely hurt, which didn’t quite fit in with Sophie’s account.

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘By the way – do you know a Morgan Blanch?’

He frowned. ‘You mean
Martina
Blanch?’

‘Yes, sorry – Martina – that’s it. Her name sort of came up in conversation.’

Tom laughed grimly. ‘One of Robin’s exes. Notable mainly for the fact that he broke her nose.’

‘Of course, Martina,’ said Elsie. ‘She was the one he assaulted.’

‘She was the one who complained to the police. When I
asked him about it he said: “Well, I slapped her around a bit, the way you do.”’

‘So he slapped most of his girlfriends around? The way you do?’ Elsie raised an eyebrow. ‘Nice friends you’ve got.’

Tom sighed. ‘As I’ve said, he was Dad’s friend more than he was mine. And most of the time he was the perfect gent. But point taken. I wouldn’t have wanted him going out with my sister. Martina wasn’t the only one he hit.’

‘Sophie?’ I asked.

‘That’s partly why she left him,’ said Tom. ‘That and the drugs.’

‘I thought he’d given them up,’ I said pointedly. ‘Or that’s what you led me and the good people of Sussex to believe.’

‘Oh hell, he tried to give it up,’ said Tom. ‘We all wanted to believe he had …’

‘But he hadn’t?’

‘No.’

‘And you left it out of your report on the inquest?’

‘It was cut by the editor. Just a question of fitting the piece in. There was other more important stuff that week.’

‘Really?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Tom.

‘Did you know Robin used Rohypnol?’ I said.

Tom’s face turned a little paler. The question clearly troubled him. ‘Why do you ask? He didn’t drug women and rape them, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Well, not to your knowledge,’ Elsie said.

‘He wouldn’t do it,’ said Tom sharply. ‘He sometimes took Rohypnol himself. After cocaine. It’s not unusual.’

‘You didn’t take any of that stuff yourself?’ I asked.

‘Shit, no. Dad wouldn’t have liked that at all,’ said Tom. He seemed relieved to be answering a straightforward question.

‘But Robin, to your knowledge, kept Rohypnol around the house?’

Tom laughed. ‘It was part of an arsenal of drugs that featured in the military operation that was the life of Robin Pagham,’ he said.