Cat Among the Herrings (2 page)

‘Very attractive grounds,’ I said. ‘I’ve always liked azaleas.’

She looked around as though she had not previously noticed. ‘Good soil. Good for sugar beet,’ she said, knowledgably. ‘Good for red cabbage too. I think so.’

‘Robin owned a lot of the land round here.’

‘He did not farm it.’

‘He rented it out,’ I said. ‘I don’t know who to.’

‘To the peasants.’ She spat these last words over the euonymus in a way that should have made its roots wither.

I wondered again which country she came from. It must have had a communist government within her lifetime. If so, she seemed to be largely untouched by the usual prejudices of Marxism–Leninism.

‘Are you saying that it was one of these people – his tenants – who killed him?’

She shook her head. ‘I do not know who – only that he was murdered.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Two things.’ She held up a forefinger and thumb. ‘First, the coffee cups. And second the old man.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ I said.

‘But soon you will find. On day Robin was killed, I go into Chichester. I have not planned to go, but Robin said he is sailing and I should go shopping. He give me money and say, go buy things.’

‘He was always very generous.’

‘No. He was not. He was mean bastard. He does not like to spend money. But that morning he give me. So, why give me? Why say go? Why not be mean bastard?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But you went?’

‘Yes, I go. I buy some few small things. I have lunch. I come back. Robin has gone sail. But there are two cups on the table in the sitting room.’ She looked at me significantly.

‘You mean somebody visited him while you were out?’ I tentatively suggested.

Catarina regarded me in much the same way that she had when I suggested that the whole village might have killed Robin.

‘Of course. What else? One man may drink much coffee but he needs only one cup. This is true everywhere, I think.’

‘And he didn’t say he was expecting somebody?’

‘No. But I think he knows this somebody person is coming. That is why he give me money to go to Chichester. That is why he is not mean bastard. He wants me gone. Even if costs money.’

‘Maybe he made a note somewhere of who he was expecting. Did he have a diary?’

‘On his phone. He had it in boat. Is gone.’

‘So, on the morning he died, somebody visited him here? Somebody he didn’t want you to see?’

‘Yes.’

I considered this carefully in the light of what I knew of Robin. ‘Any lipstick on the cup?’

‘None,’ said Catarina.

‘You checked?’

‘Of course. Any woman would check.’

‘Maybe he might have wiped it off?’

‘You can always tell.’

‘So a man … or a woman without make-up, of course.’

‘What woman does not wear make-up?’

‘Some don’t.’

Catarina shook her head. Such a woman was no threat to anyone. ‘A man, I think.’

‘Is this the old man you referred to?’

Catarina shook her head again. ‘No, that is I think another somebody. What does it mean in your language: “the old man”?’

‘In what sense?’

‘Robin – like I say, he is always mean with money. He is man in Christmas story who meets ghost, but Robin not believe in ghosts. One day we argue about it. He say, don’t
worry. When Old Man dies we will have plenty. And he smile. Like this.’

The smile was crooked and faintly lecherous. I had no doubt it was an accurate portrayal of Robin’s expression, but it still gave few clues as to whom the ‘old man’ might be.

‘His father?’ I suggested. ‘I mean, colloquially “the old man” might mean “my father” or equally “my husband” – you know, “my old man said follow the van”.’

Catarina looked at me suspiciously. ‘You have husband?’

‘Sorry – forget the husband bit. In Robin’s case, and indeed in mine, only the former of those would apply. So maybe he meant when his father died he would inherit …’

‘Father already dead then. Cannot be him.’

‘Yes, of course. An uncle, then? A godfather?’

She shook her head impatiently. ‘No uncles. No godfather I think.’

‘But Robin was waiting for somebody to die, who would leave him some money?’

‘Yes. That is what I say. You not listen so good?’

‘My hearing is fine, actually. And I do see what you mean. But what I don’t understand is this: wasn’t Robin actually pretty well off? I mean, we all assumed he had plenty of cash – the land, this house. He was one of the richest men in the village – for all I know, one of the richest in the county.’

‘He need to pay tax when his father died. I ask: why not bribe officials? Is easy. Is cheaper. Always. Only idiot pays tax. But he says his lawyers say he must pay. They have already informed government how much money his father had. Fools! That they should tell them such things! I
say, maybe lawyers lie to government? But Robin say these lawyers do not know how to lie. Can you believe that? Did they learn nothing at law school? So Robin has much land but no money.’

‘What about the rent he was getting?’

‘He owes it all to the government because of idiot lawyers.’

‘He could have sold some land to pay the inheritance tax.’

‘You never sell land,’ said Catarina. It seemed the one point that she and Robin had been agreed on. ‘Land is for always.’

‘Somebody who was about to leave him money would hardly kill him,’ I said.

‘So, who is the person? I ask Robin’s friends, but they do not know. What do you think, Ethelred – why does Robin believe he will get money when Old Man dies?’

‘Maybe not a legacy, then,’ I said. ‘Maybe something else …’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps his lawyer could tell you? I agree that it’s odd Robin died just before this legacy or whatever it was arrived, but it doesn’t mean the two things are connected. It’s odd he died, full stop. He was an experienced sailor.’

‘Yes, much too odd. That is why you must investigate.’

‘I’m a crime writer, not a detective.’

‘But somebody tell me you have investigated crime before?’

‘In real life? Once or twice. I’m not good at it. Tell the police about your suspicions – they’re much better at real-life
crime than I am – much better all round.’

‘I have told them. Police ask for the cups. I say, in dishwasher. Do they think I leave dirty cups around house? Police say who is Old Man? I tell police, is their job to find out. Police say, they don’t take orders from me. Police say they don’t take orders from me even if I bribe. They say coroner says accident. Police say, is good enough for them and don’t try to bribe coroner or big trouble.’

‘They’re probably right,’ I said.

Catarina’s shrug left it unclear exactly how much she had offered the coroners. ‘So, you won’t help?’ she demanded.

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

The sky had darkened considerably while we had been talking. The clouds menaced above us. Before, they had been brilliantly grey and had shimmered in the late afternoon light. Now they were dull and threatening. A sudden gust of wind animated the bushes and sent an empty plastic watering can skittering across the lawn, where it came to rest against the sundial.

‘We’d better get inside,’ I said.

‘Yes, you go,’ she said. ‘It is too hot for you.’

‘Cold,’ I said, thinking to correct her English, but she just looked at me.

I felt it was unchivalrous to leave her standing in the middle of the lawn, but it was, after all, her lawn and her choice. The first drops of rain had started to fall by the time I regained the house. The party was, I noticed, already over. Only a few stragglers remained. Most were clearly about to leave but one was peering out into the damp garden as if searching for something. He was a large man – not fat or muscular, but simply large. He moved slightly awkwardly,
as if sixty-odd years of being that size still took him by surprise, but that he might get the hang of it eventually. I knew him slightly. He fell into that annoying category of people whom I’ve met too often to be able to ask their name but not often enough to actually remember it.

As I entered, he sort of shuffled round to face me. ‘Is Catarina out there?’ he asked.

‘She was a moment ago,’ I said.

‘Is it raining?’

We both looked out of the window, making any reply redundant.

‘A bit,’ I said, as we watched the cold drizzle splash against the grimy glass.

He nodded. ‘I might go and find her – just to thank her. For the sherry, you know …’

‘Of course,’ I said.

As I watched him step ponderously and cautiously through the long grass in the fast-fading light, I finally remembered – he was called Barry something or other. Barry
Whitelace
, that was it. Like me he was a new-ish arrival. And his wife’s name was Jean – I remembered that because on most of the occasions we’d met he’d apologised that Jean wasn’t with him. And others in the village had mentioned him to me, because he had the reputation for being a bit of a busybody. He had taken up cudgels on behalf of his new village at every possible opportunity, whether the village had wanted his help or not. He’d been at the anti-fracking demonstrations earlier in the year. The threat had been to a field on the other side of the county, but that was, as he’d once said to me, still too close. I’m not sure what constituted far enough away – Kent possibly,
or Lithuania. He’d also spoken out against the wind farm proposal that I’d seen the rector talking about. Whitelace felt strongly about all sorts of things. I didn’t know what Jean thought about anything. She clearly didn’t get out much.

Through the window I could still just see Whitelace making his way across the garden in search of his hostess. It occurred to me that I hadn’t thanked her myself, but the rain was becoming heavier and I didn’t fancy getting wet all over again. Even more to the point, I didn’t want to resume our discussion of my skills as a detective. In the absence of anyone else to say my farewells to, I nodded in a friendly way to one of the waiters, who looked up briefly from his phone and then returned to texting. I found my way to the front door without further assistance.

My first thought was to get into my car and drive back to the village. Then I noticed a sailing boat on a trailer, parked by the side of the house. I had been told that the boat had been recovered but I had not heard where it was. Somebody had delivered it back home, where it now looked somewhat forlorn. I pulled up the collar of my Barbour and walked over to it.

An inch or so of greenish rainwater in the hull suggested that it had been there a few days. It had clearly washed up on the beach bows first – the front end bore numerous gouges and scratches. The sails had gone – perhaps they had been removed before it had been transported back to the house. The mast, to my eye, looked a little bent. The centreboard was damaged and the rudder was wholly missing. Still, mast apart, it looked repairable, if anyone had wanted to repair it. But in all likelihood it had undertaken its final
voyage. So who had called for coffee on the day it set sail for the last time? And what was the money that Robin had stood to inherit?

I glanced around to see if there was any sign of Tom. He might just know who this ‘old man’ was. Not that it was any concern of mine, of course. None at all. But he had gone. I could catch him tomorrow. I had an excuse for dropping by.

‘I checked the website,’ I said. ‘It’s all electronic submissions now, apparently. Still three chapters and a synopsis, though. I’ll email her and ask her to look out for your submission.’

‘She probably gets a lot of them,’ said Tom.

‘About two hundred a week, so she claims.’

‘How many does she take in a typical week?’

‘None at all,’ I said. ‘Maybe half a dozen a year.’

‘That’s encouraging.’

‘Sorry. I hate to disillusion you so early on, but it really is as bad as that. Welcome to the world of publishing.’

‘No, I meant it. It’s encouraging. I can be one of those half-dozen.’

I looked at him. Once, I thought, I had been like that. Now, if I’d been told that Elsie accepted ninety-eight per cent of submissions, I would have just assumed I’d be one of the two per cent rejected. I’d probably be right, too.
Elsie had not forgiven me for deserting her and signing up with one of her rivals.

‘I had an interesting talk with Catarina,’ I said. ‘She wanted me to investigate Robin’s murder.’

‘Do you do that sort of thing?’

‘No, I don’t do that sort of thing. Well, hardly ever. And definitely not this time.’

‘Quite right. If there was anything suspicious the police would have picked it up. It would have been mentioned at the inquest.’

‘Absolutely. One thing she said was odd, though – Catarina thought Robin was about to inherit some money – “when the old man dies”, he had apparently said. You’ve no idea who that could be?’

‘None at all. I said that Robin had no close family.’

‘It didn’t need to be close family. They just had to be … well … old, I suppose. A friend perhaps?’

‘Robin had plenty of friends. The crowd he hung around with in London – I doubt many of them had money or that they would have left it to him if they had. As for Sussex … one or two members of the sailing club are fairly rich, by most people’s standards, but they have families to leave their cash to. They might include a favourite charity or two in their wills, or their old college, but they’d hardly hand it over to Robin to fritter away.’

‘So nobody who would willingly leave him a life-changing sum of money?’

‘Not willingly.’

We were both silent for a moment.

‘Unwillingly?’ I asked.

‘Blackmail, you mean?’

‘It would be a motive for murder.’

Tom shook his head. ‘Not Robin. He wasn’t the sort to stoop to that. At least, I don’t think so. He’d have probably tried almost anything short of blackmail to raise funds, of course. He’d talked to Dad about creating a wind farm just outside the village. That didn’t make him popular round here.’

‘The wind farm? The one Barry Whitelace was objecting to? How did your father fit into that?’

‘I think Dad was going to sell him the land. Robin was going to build the windmills and run it. But it won’t happen now.’

‘That could be what Barry Whitelace wanted to talk to Catarina about,’ I said. ‘He’d have wanted to know if there’s any chance she would still go ahead with it.’

‘It’s definitely off,’ said Tom.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. Even before he died Robin had gone cold on the idea. You think the village might have clubbed together and bumped him off to prevent a wind farm? That’s perfectly possible, of course. If you decide to take this on, you’ll need to question everyone.’

‘The whole village? I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Catarina’s already ruled that theory out, at least. Of course, I don’t think Robin was murdered at all.’

‘Nor do I. But if he had been, then I wouldn’t necessarily ignore the whole-village scenario. Feelings are still running very high indeed.’

‘So I gather. Anyway, I’m not investigating anything. Catarina mentioned one other thing, though …’

‘About the case you’re not investigating?’

‘I can still be curious about it, can’t I? She said that Robin had persuaded her to go into Chichester that day. While she was out, he’d had a visitor – just before he set out in the boat.’

‘That wasn’t mentioned at the inquest, either,’ Tom said.

‘I think the police didn’t follow it up.’

‘Why?’

‘I doubt they would have thought it relevant to a sailing accident some hours later. I also don’t think they were impressed by Catarina’s attempt to bribe them.’

‘Probably right about its relevance. I mean, Robin was alone in the boat, as far as we know.’

‘Any idea who the visitor was, though?’

‘Why should I know that?’

‘You covered the inquest. You heard all of the evidence. You probably know the village as well as anybody. You know who Robin’s friends were. You are probably better qualified than anyone to make a guess.’

‘Like I say, it didn’t come up at the inquest at all – not in any form. As for the rest, Dad knew Robin much better than I did.’

‘So I should ask your father?’

‘You could. He’s getting a bit deaf these days, so you’d have to be patient. And he forgets more than he remembers. But I’m sure he’d try. And you mustn’t be put off if he gets irritable – he’s like that a lot.’

It was not very encouraging. Anyway, I already knew Colonel Gittings a bit – we’d met at the monthly film club a couple of times, and once at a village fete. He hadn’t been very friendly on those occasions – a fact I’d put down to
my being a new arrival, though he may have disliked me for all sorts of reasons. I’m not sure he rated writers very highly. On each of those occasions, we’d exchanged only half a dozen words. Later, when we’d passed each other in the street, he had shown no sign of recognising me and my half-hearted greeting had gone unacknowledged. I wasn’t that keen on trying to renew the acquaintance. And I wasn’t sure what good it would do me to know, anyway. I wasn’t getting involved. I’d made that clear to Catarina.

‘But your father was a close friend?’ I asked.

‘Yes – very much so – they saw each other quite often at the sailing club.’

‘But …’ I tried to remember what Tom had said before. ‘You mentioned something about the families not always seeing eye to eye?’

Tom looked at me blankly.

‘When we were at Greylands,’ I said.

‘Oh, that …’ said Tom. ‘But you must know the story – it’s in at least one of the local history books. I was forgetting you’re a newcomer.’

‘I’m rarely allowed to forget it,’ I said.

‘The Gittingses have owned land in the parish since the seventeenth century at least,’ said Tom. ‘But we’re recent arrivals compared with the Paghams. It’s recorded that Sir Walter de Pagham held three fiefs by knight’s service in Pagham, Earnley and West Wittering during the reign of King John.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll have to stick around a bit longer before I qualify as a local. So what was the cause of friction between you? Punch up over a leylandii hedge? Or was it the sheep stealing you mentioned?’

‘No, nothing that serious. Just murder.’

‘Murder? What, one of your ancestors killed one of his?’

‘The other way round, according to the judge. One of his killed one of mine. Actually it was a great-great-great-great-uncle in my case. It’s quite a well-known story in the village, because it occasioned the last public hanging in these parts. I could tell you all about it if you’re interested. There’s a possible miscarriage of justice angle to it. It might make a good plot for your next book – that could be more profitable than acting as Catarina’s gumshoe.’

‘Yes, in the sense that Catarina’s offering me no fee of any sort. You don’t want the story for a book of your own?’

‘I don’t write crime novels. Anyway, delving in family history like that for fun and profit seems a bit in bad taste. And of course, you may decide there’s not much to it. Lancelot Pagham’s motives were never revealed. If he really was guilty, then it was just a bit of senseless Victorian violence.’

‘Most real crime is,’ I said. ‘Senseless violence, I mean. It’s only in books that there is a decently convoluted motive, disputed wills, missing relatives and proper red herrings.’

‘You find that a convoluted plot and lots of red herrings are a winning formula?’

‘Not so far,’ I said. ‘But I’ll keep trying. I’ll also email Elsie and let her know your manuscript is on its way. She may not represent me any more, but at least she’ll recognise the name.’