Cat Among the Herrings (17 page)

‘Where was he on the day Robin died?’ I asked. I’d never really followed up the idea that he might have been the
coffee drinker who had given Robin a lift. It had seemed improbable at the time, but maybe not now.

‘At home looking after Jean, I imagine. He couldn’t travel very far by that stage. Not that Jean would have known whether he was there or not towards the end – I mean, if you’re suggesting he needed an alibi.’

‘No, I’m not suggesting anything,’ I said. ‘I went to see your solicitor yesterday, by the way, to ask about the Herring Field.’

‘Did you? I suppose I should have thought to suggest that. Did you see Hepplewhite? He’s the partner we normally deal with.’

‘No, I spoke to somebody called Morton.’

‘Ah,’ said Tom, with a smile. ‘Sean Morton’s fairly new – a refugee from a firm in London, I think. Could he tell you anything useful?’

‘He was quite chatty. Had time to delve back into the records for me.’

‘I don’t think they work them as hard in Chichester as they do in big City firms.’

‘One thing he said that you may be able to confirm – the Herring Field is owned freehold?’

‘Yes, of course. For what it’s worth.’

‘But the rest of your land is leasehold?’

Tom looked at me, puzzled. ‘No, that’s wrong – that’s freehold too.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Of course. We’ve had it for years and years.’ Tom shook his head. ‘I mean, Dad’s never mentioned having to pay ground rent or anything. He’d have said something at some stage.’

‘He’s said nothing at all?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing about the terms of the lease being unfair?’

‘No. Why do you think there’s a lease?’

‘Some time ago, your solicitors advised your family not to appeal to a Lands Tribunal over the terms of a lease in case they lost the whole thing. Morton thought that was bad advice – maybe deliberately bad advice.’

Tom shook his head. ‘I think Morton’s just got it wrong. That firm has advised my family and Robin’s for generations. The Paghams might have been more important clients, but we would have been older ones. They’d have advised us to the best of their ability.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said, not wishing to press the point. It was difficult to see how Morton could have been mistaken. ‘The other thing is this: after Robin’s death, Martina Blanch started asking questions about the estate. She thought that there might have been some hanky-panky with drawing up the will that left everything to Catarina.’

‘There’s no question of the will having been tampered with after Robin’s death. Robin actually told Dad that he was leaving everything to her,’ said Tom. ‘And he was quite sober when he said it. It was one of many things that have annoyed Dad over the past year or so – Catarina getting the whole thing. He was furious for days.’

‘So, who should he have left it to? Martina?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve honestly no idea.’

Later, looking back, I realised that, that morning, I had finally been given all of the information that I needed to
tell me who had murdered Robin Pagham. But I still hadn’t put all of the pieces of information together and I left the churchyard feeling that I was no further forward than I had been a week before.

But I was wrong.

It was the following morning that the first phone call came.

‘Dad’s furious,’ said Tom.

‘Again? What about this time?’

‘Your visit to Chettle and Smallwood. Morton shouldn’t have told you what he did.’

Morton had certainly been indiscreet. With regard to Catarina, I didn’t entirely blame his brief outburst. My experience, too, was that she was impatient with any advice that didn’t fit her existing prejudices. But I couldn’t see why Colonel Gittings would have strong feelings about that. Nor did what Morton had said about Martina touch him in any way. That Chettle and Smallwood had misadvised his grandfather might have been of interest to him, but should hardly have called down his ire on me personally.

‘Which bit of what he told me?’ I asked.

‘The lease.’

‘But he couldn’t tell me about the lease. He didn’t have
it. I rather thought that the lease was pure invention – a ploy to cover up Perceval’s blackmailing of George. You mean it really exists?’

‘Apparently.’

‘And the advice about the Lands Tribunal?’

‘When I told him about Morton’s opinion, Dad just looked blank and then said: “bloody hell”.’

‘So the missing lease – or maybe some other lease entirely – was unfair in some way. But your family was badly advised not to try to get the terms changed. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to have done wrong.’

‘I don’t understand it entirely myself. But Morton shouldn’t have told you any of that. It apparently relates in some way to Dad’s offer to sell Robin the Herring Field. If it got out then, according to Dad, it could ruin us. But it wasn’t clear which bit. Dad wasn’t as coherent as I would have liked.’

‘But that deal’s off. How could it still matter – whatever the lease says?’

‘Have you told anyone else about this?’

‘Not really.’

‘OK. Maybe it’s not so bad, then. I’ll try to reassure Dad that whatever the secret is, it’s safe. I’ll also see if I can get to the bottom of what this is all about.’

‘Let me know if you do,’ I said.

Tom gave an ironic laugh.

The second call was from Barry Whitelace.

‘Ethelred? I’ve tried your number a couple of times but it was engaged.’

‘I’ve been talking to Tom,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Fair enough. Look, I need to say something to you. About Robin Pagham.’

‘Go ahead,’ I said.

‘I must admit, I haven’t slept all night thinking about it.’

‘Because …?’

‘Sorry – I’m not telling this story well, am I? I saw Catarina yesterday. She says you’re investigating Robin’s murder?’

‘Not exactly …’

‘I didn’t know anyone thought it was a murder.’

‘Catarina mentioned it at the funeral service.’

‘Really?’

‘The whole village has been talking about it ever since.’

‘I’m sorry – I was looking after Jean – I sort of missed a lot of the things that were going on in the village. They didn’t seem important.’

‘They weren’t. You missed nothing except a lot of speculation. And I’m not investigating anything for Catarina. I’m just looking at the Herring Field murder back in 1848.’

‘That’s a relief. You see, after I spoke to Catarina, I remembered all of the things I’d said to you about Robin – I mean, I called him a bastard. I told you I’d threatened to kill him.’

‘No you didn’t. You never said you’d threatened to kill him.’

‘Didn’t I? I thought I had. You see, when I first heard about the wind farm idea, I was told that Robin was talking of going ahead but had no authority to do it. I think they meant that he didn’t actually own the land – well, I know that now. But at the time I thought it was because he was
pushing it through without proper consultation. I called him a few things, I can tell you.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard.’

‘So, he threatened to sue me. So I told him I’d kill him if he put a single windmill in place.’

‘When did you do that?’

‘During the meeting with his solicitor.’

‘A little rash if you wanted to do it undetected.’

‘Well, exactly.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t mean it.’

‘Oh no, I meant it. But one of the paralegals managed to disarm me before I could stab him.’

‘You actually took a knife to the meeting?’

‘Of course not. There was a paperknife on the table. So, I thought, why not? Never get a better chance. Go for it.’

‘Well, I doubt you’d have killed him with that.’

‘On the contrary. It was really sharp. One of the earlier Chettles had brought it back from Peking after the looting of the Summer Palace. As I said afterwards, they should keep dangerous things like that locked away. Or return them to China. They had to accept some of the blame, I told them.’

‘But nobody pressed charges against you?’

‘I signed a paper saying that I revoked my slanders about Robin, admitted they were false, malicious, utterly without foundation and I would not repeat them. Also that I would not set foot on his land or go within a hundred yards of his house. Or within a hundred yards of Chettle and Smallwood’s office. Well, I had to sign. I still felt he was in the wrong over planning permission, but I’d rather lost the moral high ground.’

‘I can see that,’ I said.

‘Of course, when I heard that people thought that Robin might have been murdered – well, I immediately thought of what I had said. Didn’t sleep a wink, as I say.’

‘It’s perfectly possible his death was an accident,’ I said.

‘Really? I was rather hoping somebody killed him,’ said Whitelace. ‘I’m just letting you know it wasn’t me.’

The third call was from an irate lady.

‘Is that Ethelred Tressider?’

‘Yes. And you are … ?’

‘Martina Blanch. You have an agent called Elsie Thirkettle, who sometimes claims to be a lawyer?’

‘She is no longer my agent. I’m quite willing to believe she claimed to be a lawyer. In what way can I help you?’

‘Don’t send her to hassle me again.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘I’ve spoken to Sophie. Though I wasn’t aware of it when I was interrogated by Elsie, I now know you’re investigating Robin’s death.’

‘Also untrue. I’m researching another murder entirely …’

‘Which doesn’t interest me in any way. Mr Tressider, I am a busy woman. I am currently up to my eyeballs in a management buy-out. I do not have time to talk to the police. I do not have the time to talk to literary agents who imagine they are doing the police’s job. I certainly do not want the publicity that might result from becoming involved in a murder investigation. If the press got wind of it, it would be all over the financial pages. Tell this Elsie woman to back off. Or my lawyers will be writing to both of you.’

‘I wish I had the sort of influence you imagine I possess—’ I began.

But the phone had gone dead.

The final call was from Elsie.

‘Have you signed the contract yet?’

‘What contract?’

‘The one I emailed you this morning.’

‘I haven’t had a chance to check my emails. Why would you send me a contract?’

‘I told you, I’m signing you up again. You need to sign a new contract with revised terms.’

‘Better terms?’

‘For one of us, yes.’

‘But I never said I’d sign.’

‘Well, clearly you have to sign. Otherwise I can’t take you back. On revised terms. Do try to keep up, Ethelred.’

‘I’ve been busy,’ I said.

‘Tell me about it,’ she said.

‘Do you mean you are also busy or do you actually want to hear? Are you eating a biscuit?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I thought Tuesday had you on a diet?’

‘She’s busy with other things. I’ve promoted her.’

‘In order that you don’t have to eat apples?’

‘There are worse reasons.’

‘The diet wasn’t such a bad idea.’

‘Look, Ethelred, let’s do a deal. You tell me about your day. I’ll eat biscuits so that I don’t have to interrupt you – OK?’

So, I told her about my day.

When I finished, she said: ‘What you need to do is to gather all of the suspects together in one place.’

‘Gathering all of the suspects together in the drawing room doesn’t work in real life,’ I said.

‘Yes, I know that
now
,’ she said. ‘But it won’t be like last time.’

‘In what way?’

‘This time we’ll gather everyone together at your place.’

‘It still won’t work. Or are you planning to drag them round the house as if it were a giant Cluedo board, until you get to the room in which the murder took place? Then, under the rules of the game, they have to confess?’

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ said Elsie. ‘Not bad at all.’

‘I wasn’t serious,’ I said.

‘Of course not. I just mean, you’ve given me a great idea. Get some food in. You’re going to give a dinner party.’

‘For how many guests?’

‘Are you trying to be ironic?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well don’t. About eight guests plus the two of us. Chips and chocolate.’

‘What would you like with the chips?’

‘Nothing too green.’

‘I wasn’t seriously suggesting—’ I said.

But she too had rung off.

It was three days after that that Elsie’s Mini arrived unannounced in my drive.

‘I hope you have the menu sorted,’ she said as she pushed past me and into my hall.

‘You
were
serious about the dinner,’ I said.

‘Of course. I sent you an email.’

‘Did you?’

‘No, maybe not. I meant to. I’ve been very busy, Ethelred. Contracts. Deals. Lunches. Everyone is coming, by the way.’

‘Who is “everyone”?’

She counted them off on her short, fat fingers. ‘Tom. Sophie. Catarina. Martina. Barry Whitelace. I haven’t heard from Colonel Gittings yet, but he’s invited.’

‘So that’s the complete list of suspects?’

‘Plus Mr Morton from the solicitors. I asked for a couple of representative drug smugglers but the police wouldn’t
release them. Even though I said you would guarantee their conduct. We can manage without. Maybe you could play a drug smuggler? No, maybe not. We’ll have to imagine them.’

‘So, you are going to accuse them all, one by one, over dinner?’

‘You have invited them,’ said Elsie patiently, ‘to a murder mystery dinner. They are expecting an evening of fun and games. And that is what you will give them. During the course of the evening, one of them will crack and admit to the murder of Robin Pagham.’

‘How?’

‘That’s down to you. You’re the writer.’

‘If I were preparing something like this – just a normal evening with no real murders involved – I’d spend a week coming up with a scenario. I can’t be expected to produce something in …’ I checked my watch, ‘… five and a half hours.’

‘Call that five. They’re invited for quarter to seven and you’ll need to change into a dinner jacket.’

‘It can’t be done, Elsie.’

‘OK, I was going to give you the easy bit, but we’ll do it as you prefer. I’ll write. You cook. And I’ll need chips. Lots of them.’

Tom arrived first, slightly before the appointed hour, in a dinner jacket and a red bow tie. ‘Dad couldn’t make it,’ he said. ‘Well, to be honest, I was surprised he even considered it.’

‘But he did consider it?’ I asked. ‘I suppose that’s a compliment of sorts, in view of all that’s happened.’

‘He seemed to think that there was more to the invitation than met the eye. Is there?’

‘I wish I knew,’ I said. ‘Elsie is organising the entertainment. Expect the unexpected.’

‘I hope I’m properly dressed, anyway,’ said Tom. ‘The invitation said black tie – but I rather like this red one. It depends who I’m playing, I suppose. Are you allocated a role too?’

‘Mrs White, the cook,’ I said. ‘Pour yourself a drink. You know where to find the beer. I need to check on the onion soup.’

I’d adjusted the heat under the pan when the second guest arrived. Barry Whitelace thrust a bottle at me.

‘I’m not sure of the form at these things, so I bought a bottle of wine, just in case. I got it at the Co-op. It was surprisingly cheap. Sorry I’m not in a dinner jacket, by the way. When I dug it out it was covered in mildew. I don’t get to wear it a lot these days – last time must have been about five years ago, before I retired. I knew this suit was all right, though – I wore it for Jean’s funeral. Is everyone else here?’

I left Whitelace talking to Tom while I fetched him a dry sherry. I returned to find them discussing the Reverend Sabine Barclay-Wood.

Whitelace turned to me. ‘Did you ever read his
Happy Recollections of a Sussex Clergyman
?’

‘Yes. It was in the library.’

‘Did you read the postscript?’

‘I’m not sure I got that far.’

‘Perfect example of how to throw away a winning position. For years Barclay-Wood had wanted promotion to a position at the cathedral but had never got it. Then,
in the late thirties he decided to publish his memoires. Nothing wrong with that, but at the last minute he added a postscript in the form of a fairy tale about a church mouse that, purely in passing, accused the Bishop and Dean of Chichester of malice, corruption, embezzlement and neglect of their duties. The irony was that the new bishop had, unknown to the vicar, finally managed to get him nominated to just the post he’d always coveted. Then the book came out and they cancelled the whole thing. The libel case was still working its way through the courts in 1945 when Barclay-Wood died.’

I nodded. This was exactly the sort of anecdote that I could use in some future book, but I could smell burning from the kitchen and had no time to take notes.

Elsie emerged, just as I was rescuing the main course, having showered and changed.

‘How is the mystery evening coming on?’ I asked, stirring frantically. ‘Everything planned?’

‘Planned? Sorry – I went back to my room and fell asleep. But I’ve got a pretty good idea what to do.’

‘So you’ve held one of these events before?’

‘No.’

‘But you’ve been to one organised by somebody else?’

‘No.’

‘So, your plan is …?’

‘To wing it. I’ve done that before, plenty of times.’

‘Would you like to serve drinks while I finish cooking, then? I’m finding it a bit tricky doing both, especially when you have to listen to Barry Whitelace’s anecdotes.’

‘What have you got? Drinks, I mean.’

‘Sherry. G and T. White wine. Whisky. Beer. Orange juice. I think just offer those to keep it simple.’

‘Nibbles?’

‘There may be crisps in that cupboard over there.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I’ve only had a few hours’ notice.’

‘Planning, Ethelred. That’s the secret,’ said Elsie.

She took a bag of crisps from the cupboard, ate a couple of handfuls and tipped the last few sad fragments into a bowl.

‘You really needed more of these,’ she said.

When I next checked the guests, Sophie and Martina had arrived, as had Mr Morton and his wife. ‘I’d assumed you meant both of us,’ he said. I nodded. I reckoned I had enough food if Derek Gittings wasn’t coming.

Catarina arrived half an hour late, heavily made up and in a tight dress of red satin. She surveyed the room and demanded vodka. I remembered I had a bottle in the fridge. Elsie took it and served her a vodka that would have made the Guinness Book of Records. The other guests were already on their second or third drinks by this stage, and Elsie had been generous with the measures there too. Most people had been allocated one crisp to soak up the alcohol. It would be a lively evening. It was with some trepidation that I finally sat everyone down at the table and served the soup.

The murder mystery evening had begun.

‘So,’ said Tom, as I was clearing the last of the soup bowls away, ‘when does the murder bit begin? Or has it already? Are there clues we should have spotted?’

‘That’s right,’ said Elsie, taking out a sheet of paper and glancing at it quickly. ‘There are clues we should all have spotted. But did we? That’s what we need to find out.’

‘So, who has been murdered?’ asked Tom. ‘Or is that yet to happen?’

‘Let’s call the murder victim Robin Pagham,’ said  Elsie.

‘That’s rather in poor taste,’ said Martina. ‘Most of us here knew Robin – in fact, now I think about it, we all knew Robin …’

‘I didn’t know him well,’ said Morton.

‘Nor me,’ said Mrs Morton.

‘Does that make it in good taste?’ asked Martina.

‘Fine,’ said Elsie, reluctantly crossing something out on her sheet of paper. ‘We’ll call him Rob Black.’

‘Rob Black?’ asked Catarina, waving her vodka glass. ‘Who is this person?’

‘A former actor and sailor,’ said Elsie. ‘And we’ll say he drowned. Because one of you killed him.’

The room had gone completely silent. Then Catarina said: ‘Is true. First they kill Robin, now they kill Rob Black. They are bad people.’

‘All right,’ said Tom brightly. ‘So who are we all supposed to be?’

‘You,’ said Elsie, glancing at her paper, ‘are Tom … er … Green.’

‘And me?’ asked Martina.

‘You are Martina Peacock.’

‘Am I anyone?’ asked Whitelace.

‘You are Professor Barry Plum.’

‘Professor of what?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Professor of Local History,’ said Elsie.

Whitelace nodded.

‘Can I be Miss Scarlet?’ asked Sophie.

Elsie paused. I knew this was a role she coveted for herself, but she nodded.

‘And us?’ asked Morton.

‘Mr and Mrs White.’

‘Don’t I get to be a separate character?’ asked Mrs Morton.

‘You are in it together,’ said Elsie.

‘I suppose my father is Colonel Mustard,’ said Tom. ‘Which is odd, if I’m Tom Green.’

‘Not as odd as some of the things we will reveal tonight.’

‘What about Ethelred?’ asked Sophie. ‘Isn’t he anything?’

‘Not much,’ said Elsie. ‘Anyway, he’s busy.’

It took me a few minutes to get the fish and chips out of the oven and the vegetables drained and into a bowl. By the time I had returned, everyone was trying to remember who they were – from a games point of view, I mean. But there were four empty wine bottles on the table. Since Elsie and Sophie weren’t drinking wine, the rest were getting through it fast. I fetched another couple of bottles and hoped it would last. Elsie immediately topped everyone up. I was beginning to see what her plan was. I just wasn’t convinced it would work.

‘So,’ said Elsie. ‘Rob Black is in need of money. He refers to a mysterious “old man”, who will provide him with some cash when he dies. Then he sails off one day and never comes back. Just beforehand, however, somebody visits him. They drink a cup of coffee together. Rob’s car has broken down, so the visitor gives him a lift to the sailing club. Not many people are around that morning. Rob likes sailing in difficult conditions but perhaps today he doesn’t
want anyone to see him leave. Because we know he’s gone to meet some smugglers …’

‘Smugglers? How exciting! But why aren’t they here?’ asked Mrs Morton. ‘They must be suspects.’

‘Ethelred can be the smugglers,’ said Sophie. ‘Blackkerchief Dick and Dirty Harry.’

Catarina shook her head. ‘Vladislav and Bogdan,’ she said. ‘I know them. Are not good men. But I think not kill Robin.’

‘OK,’ said Elsie to me. ‘You get to play after all. You are now Vladislav.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘He did not do it,’ said Catarina. ‘Not Vladislav. Is guilty of much – torture, extortion, genocide – but did not kill Robin.’

‘Genocide?’ I said. ‘I did that?’

‘Just a little. Not too much.’

‘So, let’s look at the motives of those who might want him dead,’ Elsie continued. ‘Martina Peacock, for example. She is distantly related to him and stands to inherit everything if he dies soon – but not if he marries.’

‘Who says Martina Peacock is related to him?’ demanded Martina.

‘Tom Green,’ said Elsie.

‘What! Tom! How could you?’

‘I didn’t mention it to Elsie at all,’ said Tom.

‘No,’ said Elsie. ‘Tom Green told one of the smugglers …’

‘Which one?’ I asked.

‘Bogdan,’ said Elsie.

‘Thanks a bunch, Bogdan,’ said Martina, looking in my direction.

‘I’m Vladislav,’ I said. ‘I just do a bit of genocide. Don’t blame me.’

‘As it happens, Martina Peacock is in the area on the day that Robin Black dies. In fact, she is seen in West Wittering. Her visit is on the unlikely pretext that she is accompanying Sophie Scarlet who is going on a date with Tom Green. Sophie thinks Tom Green is a bit of a prick and that he may stand her up.’

‘Really?’ said Tom, looking at Sophie. ‘You thought that? And you brought Martina along on the date just in case? Bloody hell. Well, at least I know what you think of me.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Tom. One moment we’re going out – the next I’m dumped without any explanation at all. What do you expect? As for backup plans, if I hadn’t shown up you’d have gone running home to daddy.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’ demanded Tom.

‘Anyway,’ said Elsie, smiling benignly at the scene before her. ‘Martina checks that all is well with Sophie – Sophie sends her a text saying she was having a great time, smiley face, XXX …’

‘Martina! You told Elsie about texts I sent you?’ demanded Sophie.

‘Oh, chill out, Little Miss Scarlet,’ said Martina, reaching for the Pinot Grigio. ‘At least I didn’t claim that you’ve got a motive for killing Robin.’

‘But Martina
has
got a motive,’ said Elsie. ‘The inheritance …’

‘Let’s be clear about one thing,’ said Martina. ‘I have no motive at all.’

‘Money,’ said Elsie. ‘I’d call that an excellent motive.’

‘I didn’t need his money,’ said Martina with contempt. ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’

‘Mrs Peacock?’ volunteered Whitelace. ‘This wine’s much nicer than the bottle I brought, by the way. Mine was probably better value, though. Two for seven pounds. I left the other one at home.’

‘I am the chief executive and majority shareholder of Blanch Capital,’ said Martina. ‘I could have bought Robin out a hundred times over. He needed me for my money – not the other way round. I had no reason at all to risk killing somebody and losing the firm that I’ve spent my life building up.’

‘That’s right,’ said Sophie. ‘Though her father spent a bit of time building it up too before he handed it over.’

‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘That’s right.’

‘Well, you’d know all about inheriting stuff from your father, Tom,’ said Martina. ‘At least I make my own decisions now.’

‘So why is it called Blanch Capital if she’s Mrs Peacock?’ asked Whitelace.

‘That’s a very good point,’ said Mrs Morton. ‘Maybe it’s a red herring.’

‘Moving on,’ said Elsie, ‘we now come to Professor Plum.’

Whitelace looked round. ‘Who’s that?’

‘You,’ said Mrs Morton.

‘Professor Plum was an environmental campaigner,’ said Elsie.

‘Excellent,’ said Whitelace, looking very pleased.

‘He’d had a run in or two with Rob Black about a wind farm,’ Elsie continued. ‘He’d threatened to kill him.’

‘That’s a coincidence,’ said Whitelace. Then he stopped abruptly. ‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘you’re not saying that I really …’

‘
Did
he really?’ asked Mrs Morton. ‘I mean, did he try to kill somebody in real life?’