Cat Among the Herrings (12 page)

It was in the bar of the Old House at Home that the next piece of information emerged. Later I realised how crucial it was, but at the time it scarcely appeared to be evidence at all.

‘Mind if I join you?’

A large shadow had been cast in front of me. I looked up at Barry Whitelace. ‘Not at all,’ I said, ‘but I’m just planning to finish this half then I’m heading home. I still have a house guest to look after.’

‘I won’t offer to buy you another, then,’ he said, sitting down. I doubt that he was planning to do anyway.

‘It’s getting a bit warmer,’ I ventured.

He looked at me vaguely. Something other than the weather was on his mind. ‘Have you seen Catarina lately?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said.

‘It’s just that I’m still not sure now what she’s planning to
do about this wind farm business. The first time I spoke to her I got the impression she wasn’t following up on it. But I’m worried that my earlier discussion with her has simply alerted her to a business opportunity that she’s missed.’

That sounded like Catarina.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ he continued, ‘when I walked past the Herring Field today, what do you think I saw?’

‘No idea,’ I said.

‘Notices pinned up about planning permission for exploratory drilling on the site.’

‘Do you need to drill before you put up a wind farm?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe they’re testing to see what sort of foundations they would need in that marsh? I’m going to phone the council anyway. I’ve said nothing to Jean, of course. No point in upsetting her. But I wondered if you’d heard anything.’

‘Catarina’s said nothing to me about reviving the plans,’ I said. ‘But it’s Gittings’ land, as I told you.’

‘Maybe she’s done a deal with him? Bought the land from him? Derek wouldn’t start drilling there.’

‘Sorry, I don’t know Catarina’s plans for anything. I don’t even know if she intends to stay in the village. The house is a bit big for her on her own.’

‘Haunted too,’ said Whitelace with a smile.

‘Is it? I hadn’t heard that.’

‘Well, of course it isn’t – not unless you believe in ghosts, which I certainly do not. But that’s the rumour.’

‘Whose ghost?’

‘Lancelot Pagham.’

‘Who says?’

‘Catarina. She told me.’

‘She’s actually seen it?’

‘Yes, walking in the garden, clear as day.’

‘She’d recognise Lancelot Pagham, then?’ I asked.

‘Apparently. She’s seen a picture of him.’

‘I didn’t know there was one.’

‘I agree – it’s a bit odd – maybe there’s a drawing in one of the local papers – the trial or something.’

‘I haven’t seen it.’

‘Nor have I,’ Whitelace conceded reluctantly. ‘Of course, she can’t have seen anything so it can’t have looked like anything. Rum business, though.’

We both sat and thought about this. Then Whitelace said: ‘There’s a queer story associated with the Gittings’ house too.’

‘Ghost?’ I asked.

‘No, supernatural abduction.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s in an old book I found. They don’t name it, but it’s pretty obvious which house it is.’

‘I’d like to read that.’

‘I’ll drop it round. Sure you won’t have another?’

Whitelace suddenly looked anxious, fearing that his rash offer might cost him half of bitter.

‘No,’ I said. ‘But I look forward to reading the story.’

I hadn’t expected Whitelace would remember to let me see the book. Perhaps the strangest thing of all the strange things was that it actually dropped through my letter box later that evening. The book was called
Curious Tales of Old Sussex
. It had been published in Chichester in the early
1900s and most of the stories, of witches and elves and pixies, stretched the reader’s credulity a little more than a modern audience would have tolerated. Some seemed to have been lifted, with a few names changed, from similar volumes on Devon or Essex. There was a slip of paper marking the place of the story that I was to read. It was entitled
The Murderer and the Devil
.

It is said that, long ago in the small fishing village of West Wittering, on the far side of the county and almost in Hampshire, two brothers paid court to the same beautiful maiden. The elder brother was a farmer named John and the other, named George, worked for him on the farm, receiving in return just his bed and his food and a little pocket money to buy ale or a fancy waistcoat at the fair. John was open-handed and well-beloved. George was sly and furtive and the damsel, who had considered carefully the suit of both brothers, quickly made her preference known for the handsome farmer. George saw that, while his brother lived, he would remain poor and would live off crumbs from his table. Worse still, he would need to watch helplessly when his brother brought home the bride he so much desired for himself. Day by day his jealousy grew, but at first he could conceive no manner in which his brother might be safely put out of the way. Then, one day, he was
walking in a field owned by a certain fisherman. The field was dank and choked with weeds of all sorts. Nobody came there, and the long grass and sedge were allowed to grow until they were waist-high. By and by George formed a plan: he would lure his brother to this desolate place and stab him; but he had no knife of his own and durst not steal one from the farm in case its loss was noticed. Then one fine morning he discovered a fisherman’s blade on the village green. He decided this would be a fine weapon for the deed he had in mind and he could moreover leave it with the body so that perchance another might be blamed. So, slyly, he picked it up and hid it inside his coat and went on his way. The very next day he sent a note to John, as if from a stranger, requesting that he meet him at this remote field at such and such a time for a reason that he would reveal when he saw him.

On the morning prescribed, George said that he had business in Chichester and would be gone all day, but, having set off along the highway, he sneaked back in secret by the coastal path to the mournful field I have spoken of. When John at last arrived, George was hiding behind a large willow tree. He sprang out and, before the amazed brother could say a word, he plunged the keen knife deep into John’s heart. George concealed the body as best he could and was about to set off for Chichester when he heard a cough behind him. He turned to see a well-dressed gentleman in a black silk coat and a black silk top hat, but how he had got there and why there was no mud on his boots troubled George a great deal.

‘That is a fine morning’s work for you,’ said the gentleman. ‘I congratulate you, my good sir.’

George held the bloody knife before him. ‘You will tell nobody what you saw,’ he threatened. ‘Or I shall serve you as I have served him.’

‘Why should I do that,’ said the gentleman, ‘seeing that we shall be such good friends, you and I?’

‘Good friends? Do I know you, then?’ asked George.

‘We have never met, but you will have heard your parents speak of me often and the parson speak of me every Sunday. And many a carter with his wheels mired in the mud on the Cakeham Road invokes my name as he flogs his weary horses on.’

‘So, you will not inform the magistrate?’ said George suspiciously.

‘The magistrate, too, is a very good friend of mine,’ said the gentleman, ‘but I shall not trouble him with this trifle. It can remain our secret for as long as you wish. My lips are sealed until the
day you die.’

‘What do you want from me, then?’ asked George.

‘Nothing at present,’ said the gentleman. ‘Indeed, it is you who want something from me, for you have some way to go this morning. I shall ensure that you get safely away from here and that another bears the blame for this. Leave that bloody knife here in the grass. When it is found, the fisherman who owns it, and who also by chance owns this field, will be accused and will hang for it. And I shall make sure that the young lady that you wish to marry will be yours. You will become rich and respected by all and live to a great age.’

‘You must want something in exchange?’ asked George.

‘Just this. One day I shall return to this village. When I do, you will come away with me and live with me in my
own house, which is not far from here, and you will keep me company.’

George did not know what to make of that, but he dared not refuse, for the gentleman could change his mind and turn him over to the Constable in a moment. So George agreed to do what the gentleman said and threw the knife down in the grass, where it remained
.

The gentleman smiled and turned and walked away very slowly. As he went, George saw that there was a vent in the back of his trousers and a long tail poked out of it. And wherever the gentleman trod, he left behind the scorched print of a cloven hoof
.

Now, George did not doubt for a moment that he had been conversing with the Devil but he thought to himself: the Devil keeps his promises, so they say, and he has promised me fair. I shall live to a great age. I shall perhaps live a good life and, if I do well by my fellow men, then the Good Lord will surely not allow me to be taken to Hell, because he forgives those who repent. Thus I may take what the Devil has offered but have no fear of him. So he set off for Chichester in fine spirits and was there in a very short time indeed because (as he later thought) it was as if his feet had wings. So, he did whatever business he had to do there and later came home again
.

And it came to pass that the poor fisherman was indeed accused of the murder and taken to the gaol in Chichester to stand trial. George thought if he could make amends and save the fisherman’s life, then perhaps the contract with the Devil would be broken almost at once, so he tried to give evidence to the court that he had seen the fisherman far from the spot on the day of the murder. But the Devil
made the fisherman proud and speak so insolently to the judge that the judge condemned him to hang the very next day. And so the fisherman died bravely, praying sincerely for those who had wrongly convicted him
.

In this wise George gained his brother’s inheritance and married the girl, and together they grew prosperous. He could do nothing that did not turn out well. He and his family had all the vittles they wanted to eat and as many fine clothes as they could wear. George’s wife had pearls fetched from the South Seas for her neck and diamonds from Africa for her ears and a great blue sapphire brooch from Ceylon. They had many children and grandchildren. But there was no joy in George’s heart because he knew that any day the gentleman might return and beckon him away to Hell. So George set about living a good life, as he saw it. He asked the parson many times what he needed to do to be saved, and the parson, who knew nothing of the pact with the Devil, advised him (as he did all parishioners) to believe and trust in the Lord Jesus Christ and to do good works and give to the poor. And the wretched George did all of these things, but he still grew more and more fearful that he had not done enough. He gave money too, it is said, to the brother of the fisherman who had been hanged, so much indeed that George’s family looked at how few coins were left in the strongbox and wondered why there was so little profit in their farm. And still George grew more and more afraid.

Then, when George was very old indeed, the day finally came. There was a knock on the door. When George opened it, the gentleman was standing there, looking as young as when George had last seen him, fifty years before.

‘So you came,’ said George.

‘I always keep my promises,’ said the gentleman, ‘and I have come to take you away to live with me.’

‘But,’ said George, ‘I have lived a good life. I have given money to the poor and to the fisherman’s family.’

‘So you have,’ said the Devil, ‘but that was simply to save yourself. You only had to repent sincerely – to go to the parson and tell him what you had done and that you were sorry for it. I could not have taken you then – no, not whatever you had promised me. Even if you repented in your heart as I walked up the path, I could not have taken you. Angels would have snatched you away from me. But it is too late now, for you are already dead and you are mine.’

‘Can I say farewell to my family?’ George asked.

‘You may,’ said the Devil, ‘then we shall go to my house and you will live with me and do my bidding in all things.’

And so, by and by, they set off down the path towards the highway. They walked slowly, with George casting many a longing glance behind him, but the Devil didn’t mind that, because he knew he had George for all eternity. George was never seen again in West Wittering or East Wittering or Itchenor or Birdham or any village in that part of the world.

Now, folk in the village thought it strange that George had gone and nobody could tell them where. They asked if he was dead and the family were ashamed to say that Grandfather had gone away hand in hand with the Devil so they said he was poorly and must stay in his bed. The parson called, for he was conscientious in visiting the sick, but they told him that the fever was catching and that it would be best if he came again later. And the parson came
again later and indeed returned many times, but on each occasion it was the same. He was told George had cholera or typhus or some other thing that the parson might think too dangerous to go near. After a whole year had passed, the parson called once more and said that this time he really must see his parishioner, whatever the risk to his own health, because, trusting in God, he himself did not fear death and would do his duty and no man would stop him.

The family led him to the parlour and showed him George’s empty chair. Take me then to his bedroom, he instructed. So they led him upstairs and showed the parson the empty bed, which perplexed the good man greatly. Then is he already dead and have you placed his body in the cellar, where it is cooler? asked the parson. So they took the parson to the cellar and George’s body was not there. Then is he recovered and out riding his mare? asked the parson. So they took him to the stables where George’s fat mare was guzzling hay.

We do not know what story the family eventually told him, but the parson was seen walking back to his house in great puzzlement and with a terrible frown. A few days later a coffin left George’s house, carried in a hearse, drawn by six black horses with great black plumes. And the coffin was buried in the churchyard, with much praying for George’s soul. But they say the coffin was empty.

And they say too that George’s family never prospered after that, but the family of the fisherman who was hanged grew rich and became great landowners themselves. But the field in which the murder took place and which the fisherman had owned, they gave to George’s family, as a reminder of the terrible deed. And they gave it in such a
way that the murderer’s family were never allowed to part with it or to be free of the stain. And they still live in Sussex and still bear their cross to this very day.

Barry Whitelace answered the phone almost straight away.

‘Many thanks for sending me that story,’ I said. ‘Very interesting.’

‘And at least partly true. The names of the two brothers. The Herring Field, though it doesn’t name it.’

‘And the Herring Field did change hands at some point – I’m sure it’s the same place as in the story. It’s the other bits that are really interesting. I think the tale must be based on some distant folk memory of the real murder.’

‘Not that distant,’ said Whitelace. ‘The murder would have taken place about fifty years before the stories were collected. There would have been people alive who knew the various parties and could have heard the story pretty much first hand. The editor of the book was a local clergyman – Sabine Barclay-Wood. I say editor – he probably made up as much as he collected – and that probably accounts for the rather pious tone of a lot of the stories. He tried to give them a sort of rustic artlessness, but the Oxford education keeps showing through. The theology is usually very sound, and when it’s not you can tell he’s mocking it. He was vicar of a church in Selsey, so not so far from here, so he could have ridden over to the Witterings and talked to some of the older farmhands. Maybe even to the Paghams or the Gittings.’

‘He describes West Wittering as if it were miles away – the other side of the county, he says.’

‘I suspect Brighton was the fashionable bit of Sussex, where he would have preferred to live,’ said Whitelace. ‘He probably felt a bit cut off in Selsey. The Witterings really were the back of beyond.’

‘I can’t help wondering if the part about George being observed was true,’ I said. ‘Maybe somebody did see him and blackmailed him all his life. Maybe the charitable donations mentioned in the tale were hush money.’

‘And the devil taking him away?’

‘What if he finally had to flee his blackmailers?’ I suggested. ‘It fits with the family in the story covering up the disappearance and the parson’s consternation when he hears the full account.’

‘He’d have been pretty old to do a runner.’

‘I suppose so. Maybe they hid him somewhere and made up a story he had gone? Maybe they even made up a tale that he was dead – hence the empty coffin and the sham funeral. The other thing that’s odd,’ I continued, ‘is this business of the Herring Field being some sort of albatross around the Gittings’ necks. One they could never shake off. How could that work?’

‘Maybe that’s symbolic rather than real,’ said Whitelace. ‘That bit of land would have been a constant reminder. And who would have bought it, anyway? It’s of no value and it would have appeared cursed. You’ve heard the latest about it, I assume?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘You remember I said they wanted to drill there?’ Whitelace sounded very pleased with himself.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Did you phone the council?’

‘I did better than that. I went down there with a friend.
We were going to put up a big sign – “no drilling here”. Took a couple of spades. Dug holes for the posts.’