Cat Among the Herrings (19 page)

‘And you split Robin and Sophie up?’

‘Best thing from every point of view.’

‘But it didn’t work out between Tom and Sophie?’

‘Once she’d left Robin, it was job done. I didn’t discourage Tom, of course …’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘Well, maybe a bit. It didn’t seem quite right in some ways …’

‘While they stayed together it reminded you of what you had done?’

‘Of what I’d
had
to do,’ he said.

‘Then Catarina arrived on the scene?’

‘It wasn’t just that. I knew the wording of the lease back to front. What worried me increasingly was the definition of “heirs male”. I wasn’t sure that a court wouldn’t rule
now that illegitimate children could inherit as well – indeed, if somebody had tested it back in the nineteenth century the courts might even have taken the same view. The lease didn’t, after all, actually specify
legitimate
children. Just the eldest male child. That made a successor far more likely – a real and present danger, in fact.’

‘So, Robin had to die before he had any children at all.’

‘Yes. He had to die. He was a good friend, of course. But he had to die. I did try to reason with him – put forward the Herring Field scheme again. But he was having none of it. So, my thoughts turned to more direct routes. The whole bloody business started with a murder. It could end with a murder too – only this time I’d make sure that there would be no witnesses. At first, I wondered about a drug overdose – easy enough to arrange and not likely to create much of a surprise. I actually got Robin to supply me with some cocaine and other things, ostensibly for my own use, so that I could administer them to him at a later date. But there was always a chance that some meddling person would find him in a coma and get him to hospital in time. And anyway, as I say, he was a friend. I didn’t want him to die quite so sordidly. I reckoned, however, that I could rig up a sailing accident that would be much better from every point of view. I waited for a day when the weather conditions were right and when I knew Robin would be going out – when you can sail from Snow Hill depends a lot on the tides – I could predict his sailing times. I watched the tide tables and the weather forecasts – it didn’t take too long. A day or so before, I went down to the sailing club and made a few alterations to his rudder. It would get him out of the creek, but as soon as it was under any pressure
the whole thing would sheer off, leaving him helpless.’

‘Wouldn’t that have been obvious when the boat was found?’

‘Trust me – I know about sailing and I know about making deaths look like accidents. On the day, I’d invited myself over to talk to him about the Herring Field again – there might be money to be made from fracking – though I knew he really had no interest in doing a deal. I’d asked him to make sure we were alone and could talk properly without being overheard – sensitive stuff – big profits to be made. His natural greed and curiosity made him send Catarina off to Chichester for the day. Of course, when I explained it all, he saw that the revised scheme was just the old scheme with a few bells and whistles. He got the field and planning permission. Nothing more. So it was nothing doing. Strange to think that if he’d just said “yes”, or even prevaricated a bit, he’d still be alive today. As it was, I just had time to slip the Rohypnol into his coffee when he was out of the room. I wasn’t sure how well he’d drive after that, so I’d already disabled his car by disconnecting the battery. When it failed to start, I kindly offered him a lift. I’d already delayed him more than enough, so he quickly accepted. I actually helped him get the boat ready. We were the only ones down there. Nobody else fancied going out on a winter’s afternoon with a stiff breeze blowing.’

‘What if somebody had seen you?’

‘I’d have had a bit of explaining to do, but Robin would have been dead for all that. However bad the outcome for me, I’d have been able to hand over to Tom what remained of the estate, unencumbered by the terms of the lease. That was the main thing.’

‘Unless Tom was implicated too.’

‘I did everything I could to avoid that. Tom knew nothing of the lease. And I arranged for him to be out of the way that day. I phoned Sophie and told her that Tom would like to meet up with her again but was too embarrassed to ask. She knew Tom well enough to know that was possible. I said he’d suggested the museum – that was the sort of place that Tom would suggest, bless him. Then all I had to do was to tell Tom that Sophie had called
him
and left a message. He got back to her and confirmed it all. They must have both found it a bit odd, but the result was right. They went off to Singleton together. He had a witness.’

‘That explains the confusion between Tom’s account and Sophie’s – both thought the other had made the first move and that they had some specific motive for doing so.’

‘I also told Tom to make sure he kept the receipts, just in case he decided to write an article on the museum for the
Observer
. He could reclaim them as expenses. Of course, more to the point, they would also prove where he was – and where Sophie was – if things had gone wrong. I wasn’t having either of them caught up in it all.’

‘I used the same idea in a book of mine,’ I said.

‘Did it work for the murderer there?’

‘For a while. Then somebody spotted a discrepancy. Murderers usually get caught in fiction. They’d get nobbled on page two if it wasn’t for the red herrings. There were a few red herrings in this case too. For a while I suspected Barry Whitelace. I actually think he would have killed to prevent the wind farm. He tried to kill Robin himself, but was less determined than you. I also suspected Sophie –
perhaps in collaboration with Tom. And finally there was Martina Blanch.’

‘Martina?’ asked Colonel Gittings.

‘Yes. Did you know that she was descended from Perceval’s sister, Morgan Blanch – Morgan after Morgan le Fay, I assume, and Blanch after whoever she married. She was well aware that she stood to inherit the estate if Robin died childless and without making a will.’

‘Yes, she’d have got most of it, but not being a descendant of Perceval himself, she couldn’t have collected on the lease. That would still have been at an end. I think she’d have still married Robin, oddly enough. Women think they can tame a man like that. She’d have found out that she couldn’t, though Catarina might have done it.’

‘I also thought that Robin might have been killed by drug smugglers. He was heavily involved in smuggling it would seem.’

‘I know. Robin had quite a loose tongue. He told you all sorts of things when he was drunk. He was stupid to get involved with people like that – they could have bumped him off without a qualm of any sort. But in the end the killer was me and me alone.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘And what proof do you intend to present to the police? I assume you have something?’

‘No, not a lot. I sort of lied about that – a bit like Perceval Pagham, perhaps. And I haven’t recorded this conversation on my mobile phone. I’m not sure I know how to. But I can tell them about the lease, which I imagine you or your lawyer will be obliged to disclose. You’ve admitted you keep one copy. My guess is there is at least one more,
locked away in a safe, guarded by Robin’s lawyers at Chettle and Smallwood. From what you said, the police will find traces of drugs around this house, even if you’ve disposed of the bulk of them. And you won’t be able to account for your whereabouts at the critical times because you were exactly where I shall claim you were. Since this is a village, I suspect that more people will have noticed you going about your business than you might imagine. Martina and Sophie were certainly spotted at the sailing club that morning. Somebody will have seen you, whatever you believe. It’s just that the police haven’t yet asked the right people the right questions.’

‘If the police show up, I’ve no intention of denying anything. Robin beat up his girlfriends and, whatever Tom may have told you, used Rohypnol on women whenever he felt it might be to his advantage. He was also charming, generous and great company, but that’s beside the point. I’ve killed plenty of men over a long career – they were necessary, unavoidable deaths. This is merely my first in a civilian capacity. It’s strange to discover now that, if Morton is right, there was always another way out of the lease. But for all that, I don’t regret killing Robin. He knew how much the terms of the lease hurt me. He called himself a friend and could have saved me and my family all that pain at a stroke. He could have accepted my offer of the Herring Field. He could just have torn up the lease if he wished. But he couldn’t be bothered. On that last morning he literally laughed in my face. It was with great pleasure that I watched him sail away. Anyway, whatever happens to me, Tom inherits the house and the rest of it. And he’ll have an eight-hundred-year lease that is perfectly marketable if
he wishes to sell, as he may. He’ll be the first owner of this house for a hundred and fifty years who could actually dispose of it on the open market. Of course, I’d still rather save him the embarrassment of a trial for murder and having to give evidence. All I’d ask is a few hours’ notice if you’re going to have me arrested. I’ve still got to finish clearing my desk and putting things in some sort of order. I’ve made a start. This wasn’t entirely unexpected.’

‘Tom put me onto it,’ I said. ‘He suggested I researched the Herring Field murder.’

‘Don’t blame him in any way,’ said Derek Gittings. ‘When he came back from the funeral and told me that Catarina had asked you to investigate Robin’s death, I told him I thought that was a bad idea. There was plenty in Robin’s past that, as a friend, I didn’t care to see dug up. Better let sleeping dogs lie. I asked him to divert you in some way. In one sense his choice was inspired – offer you a real-life mystery set in the village in which he lived. What he had no idea of was that it was connected to Robin’s death. And the more I pushed you back to the 1840s, the more you seemed to want to find the links through to the present day.’

‘I need to think about what I’m going to do,’ I said. ‘I’ll phone you when I’ve decided.’

‘Thank you, Ethelred. That’s kind of you. I’ll await your call with interest.’

Colonel Gittings looked at me. There was no fear in those eyes. There was not even much curiosity. He seemed to have made up his mind what he would do, regardless of my own decision.

I went for a walk to clear my mind. What was right? Derek Gittings was a murderer. But Robin had, frankly, had it coming to him – a blackmailer, a minor drug dealer, a rapist, a man who thought that it was OK to slap women around a bit and break a nose or two. The police weren’t looking for anyone. Nobody else was going to get arrested by mistake. And yet, it wasn’t my decision. I ought to hand him over and let the DPP decide what to charge him with.

A couple of minutes’ brisk walking brought me to Snow Hill. On the green, the ragged winter grass was waterlogged and deserted. Over by the sailing club a small depression was becoming a pond, on which the water rippled. I looked over towards the dunes of East Head, where I had planned to go, and wondered if I was wise to venture that far. A stiff breeze was now blowing. The grey surface of the creek, normally placid, was being whipped into angry little waves that crashed against the shingle, making it sing. The South Downs, crystal clear on a fine day, were no more than a watercolour smudge on the horizon. The storm that I had felt approaching earlier was almost upon me. But I needed to keep walking. The first drops of icy rain hit my face, but I plodded on, my jacket darkening with the moisture and my trousers dampening and clinging to my legs.

By the time I reached the beginning of the dunes at East Head, with its great arc of dog-walkers’ sand, grey waves were thudding against the sea wall. A solitary gull rose above me, struggled for a moment in the gale and then, accepting the inevitable, allowed itself to be carried sideways, in one great swoop towards the sodden fields.

On an impulse, I turned left, away from the dunes,
following the beach eastwards, along the line of bleak, padlocked beach huts. The wind threw a spray of sand in my face, leaving me blinking and wiping my eyes. I sheltered for a moment in the porch of one of the huts.

Taking out your phone once you are stationary is now almost a reflex action. The first thing that I noticed was that I had missed a call – Tom Gittings. He’d obviously heard I’d been to see his father. I’d call him as soon as I got back home and out of this storm. I took the shortest route back, via the ruler-straight estate road and past the church. I was still no clearer what I ought to do, but I had no immediate plans to contact the police. I supposed I ought to let Derek Gittings know that, at least.

In a carefully nuanced assessment of urgency, I had hung up my wet coat but was still in my soaking corduroy trousers when I got out my phone to return Tom’s call. Just as I did so, however, it rang again.

‘Where are you, Ethelred?’ Tom demanded.

‘Back home. I’ve been for a walk. Sorry I didn’t reply to your first call. Is it urgent?’

‘Dad phoned me. He’s told me everything. Your visit – the lease – Robin’s death. Did you pass Snow Hill on your walk?’

‘Yes. On my way out. I came back the other way.’

‘Did you see Dad there? Or did you see his car parked by the sailing club?’

‘I was there maybe forty-five minutes ago. I didn’t see anyone around. The weather was foul, even then. He’d hardly be going sailing today.’

‘When I got home a few minutes ago I found a note
saying he was planning to take the boat out. He’s not answering his mobile.’

‘But it would be suicidal,’ I said. ‘Even if he was planning to take the boat out, he’ll have changed his mind when he sees the conditions. I can’t see how he’d even get it launched. It’ll only take me a couple of minutes to get to Snow Hill and check. I’ll ring you back but I’m sure it will be absolutely fine. He won’t do anything silly.’

I didn’t stop, not even to lock the front door. I ran down the road towards Snow Hill, my freezing fingers fumbling with the buttons on my coat as best I could, the rain dripping down my face.