Cat Among the Herrings (20 page)

The storm lasted three days. The coastguards called off their search the following evening. The boat was washed up a couple of weeks later, somewhere in Hampshire.

It was not the worst of memorial services.

It was one of those Aprils when winter suddenly passes into summer without missing a beat. A week before, patches of dirty, pockmarked snow had still streaked the churchyard. Now the sun shone down on glistening clumps of daffodils and primroses. The trees were that delicate, pastel shade of green that marks new growth and new hope.

At Tom’s request, nobody wore black. When he moved towards the lectern, some of us wondered if he really had the strength to get through the ordeal but, apart from an overlong hesitation before he began speaking, he was completely composed. He spoke movingly of his father – a man who had contributed much to the community, a man who had demonstrated his bravery in Northern Ireland and Iraq, a man who never ducked a challenge of any sort, a man who would do anything for his family. Anything at all.
There were those who said that he had never truly recovered from the death of his great friend, Robin Pagham, who as everyone knew, had also died in a sailing accident only weeks before. Some had even gone so far as to claim that his father had been overcome with remorse for not being able to prevent Robin going out in his boat on that fateful day. Tom did not think, however, that had anything to do with the second tragedy. His father had always relished sailing in difficult conditions. He had simply miscalculated either the weather or his ability to deal with a rough sea and high winds. But he had … Tom paused for a moment … died doing what he enjoyed most. He had achieved all he had wished to do. We should all be happy for a life well lived. Tom’s only regret was that his father had not lived to hear that he and Sophie were now engaged. That would have pleased him.

The rector also said a few words and we sang a hymn or two – I don’t remember which. And that was that. There was no body to bury, no grave to stand over. As we emerged again into the sunshine, I and many others felt a weight lift from our shoulders. I was aware of the warmth and the birdsong and the very distant hum of traffic on the road to Chichester. We all chatted in a pleasant way about this and that. Nobody seemed to have anything more important to do.

‘That was a good speech,’ I said to Tom, when I managed to catch him alone. ‘Nicely judged. And you were right that he would do anything for the family.’

‘Even murder?’

‘That’s the interesting thing about murder,’ I said. ‘You
don’t have to be dishonest. You don’t have to be malicious. You don’t even need to be particularly violent. You just have to be backed into a corner and think there’s no other way out. It could happen to anyone. That’s why it’s murder we write about rather than fraud or theft.’

We were standing beside one of the older graves – George Gittings 1830–1875 and his loving wife, Jane 1831–1900. Except, according to the tale, only Jane was actually buried there.

‘The one thing I still don’t understand about all this, though,’ I continued, ‘was that the DNA test showed that you were not related to the body from the Herring Field, but your father insisted it was George.’

‘I think I’ve worked that out,’ said Tom. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t too. Think back. Half the village seems to have been courting Jane in 1848. John and George were not her only admirers. Don’t you remember her rather defensive evidence at the trial about talking to Lancelot Pagham?’

‘You mean George’s elder son was in fact Lancelot’s?’

‘It could be. But there’s a more interesting possibility. Perceval Pagham stood godfather to John Gittings II. I think there’s every chance that the father was actually Perceval. It may not have been only the Gittings brothers who fell out over Jane – which may in turn explain why Perceval wasn’t keen to save Lancelot. In short, it’s quite possible I’m not really a Gittings at all – I and my father and my grandfather and my great-grandfather and my great-great-grandfather were all Paghams, if we had but known it. So, it’s not surprising that the DNA test showed no relationship between me and George Gittings. It’s not the Paghams who have died out – it’s the Gittingses who
died out when Albert, George’s other son, was buried in the 1930s. And there’s a further point that you will not have missed. If the last few generations of Gittingses are descended from Perceval …’

‘John Gittings II was actually Perceval’s
eldest
son.’

‘Precisely. He was arguably the heir male of Perceval’s body to whom, under the lease, the payments were due thereafter. Forget any appeal to a Lands Tribunal – we never needed to pay a penny to anyone except ourselves. Of course, if we wanted to reclaim our money, we’d need both to prove beyond reasonable doubt who was the father and to establish that illegitimate children were always eligible to inherit. I suspect that even Jane Gittings wasn’t sure who the father was, or she might have told George there and then. That would have stopped everything in its tracks. She didn’t have the DNA evidence that I have, of course.’

‘If you’d included all that in your funeral address, you’d have got the congregation to sit up,’ I said. ‘You’d have beaten by a head Catarina’s intervention at Robin’s funeral.’

‘You think so?’ said Tom. ‘Shame I didn’t say it, then.’

‘I think what you said was absolutely right,’ I said. ‘And ending with news of the engagement was nice.’

Tom pulled a wad of paper out of his pocket, as if to double-check he really had made no reference to murder, then smiled sheepishly at what he had actually produced for my inspection.

‘I think that’s a contract,’ I said with a laugh.

‘Yes, the speech must be in the other pocket.’

‘So, you’ve signed with Elsie?’

We both looked across the churchyard. Elsie had taken the instruction not to dress in black to the letter. She wore
a pale-pink dress and short white cardigan that nowhere near met in the middle. Large, very dark sunglasses with thick red frames were perched on her head. She was in an animated conversation with Catarina. I heard her exclaim, ‘that’s crap, that is’ – and then the conversation proceeded in a friendly manner as before.

‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘I signed the contracts yesterday. I need to give this one to Elsie. That completes the legal formalities.’

‘You won’t regret it,’ I said. ‘Or only occasionally.’

‘And you?’ asked Tom.

I felt the bulge of paper in my inside pocket pressing against my chest. My pen, I knew, was in the other pocket. Elsie was right in front of me.

‘I haven’t decided,’ I said.

‘When will you decide?’

‘In the next few minutes.’

‘So, you’re going back to her?’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

For the moment I was content. The story had in a sense ended well. But, as the good vicar of Selsey had discovered, you could still ruin everything with an ill-considered postscript.

I looked up at the cloudless blue sky and allowed the stripling sun to warm my face for just a moment or two longer.

Once there was a clergyman who lived in the remotest depths of the county of Sussex. He was poor and obliged to live on a miserly stipend that would have shamed the least of his parishioners to own it. He was a learned man, however, who had studied the folklore of the good people of that part of the country and had written a book and several hymns, and he thought that perhaps his talents might be the better recognised if he moved to the great city of Ch------r and became a canon of the famous cathedral there. Many a time and oft he wrote to the Dean and to the Bishop begging to be considered for the next position amongst the residentiary canons that fell vacant there. But they turned him away with soft words, assuring him that he was always in their minds but that such-and-such a post had already been reserved for another cleric and that his turn would doubtless come. But it did not come and the good clergyman grew old but no richer than he was before.

Now it came to pass that, one day, he had prepared for himself a fine supper – a crust of dry bread on a wooden trencher and a little milk in a cracked glass. But before he set to, he prayed most earnestly to God, thanking him for his goodness and mercy. Thus he sat, with his eyes closed, for many minutes. When he opened them, however, all that he could see on the trencher was a little brown mouse and a few crumbs. And the glass was empty.

‘Bless you, little mouse,’ said the clergyman sadly, ‘for your need was greater than mine and all I could offer you was stale bread that the baker had given me out of pity. You do not know right from wrong and had no idea you were depriving me of my only meal today.’

The brown mouse looked at him with his big black eyes. ‘Actually we do know right from wrong,’ he said. ‘It was just that, tonight, you prayed for a minute less than last night, so you caught me in the act. Another thirty seconds and I’d have been back in my hole in yonder wainscot and you’d have been none the wiser.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said the clergyman, ‘I forgive you, little mouse. Tomorrow, if I have any bread at all, I shall set aside half for you and we shall dine together.’

‘Actually,’ said the mouse, ‘I can eat better elsewhere, but since you have been so kind to me, which humans rarely are, I will attempt to grant you one wish.’

‘You have magical powers?’ asked the clergyman.

‘No,’ said the mouse, ‘because I am quite clearly only a mouse. I’m actually shocked that, as a clergyman, you even thought that possible. However, sometimes mice can achieve things that human beings cannot. If I could grant you any wish, and I’m not saying I can, what would it be?’

‘Well,’ said the clergyman, ‘I should like to be a residentiary canon of Ch------r Cathedral. But due to the malice and duplicity of the Bishop and Dean each of my applications has failed.’

‘Let me see what I can do,’ said the mouse. ‘I rarely go to Ch-------r these days, but I have cousins who live much closer. I shall send them and they shall spy on the Bishop and Dean and report back to you on what they say. Nobody notices us mice but we have very sensitive ears. Perhaps you will learn something of value and perhaps not. We shall see.’

‘Thank you. And in return I shall buy the very best cake from the baker and leave it out for you and your cousins.’

‘That will not be necessary, but thank you, nevertheless,’ said the mouse.

So, the clergyman used his meagre savings and started to leave out plates of cake every night, and every morning the plate was empty, except for a few crumbs. After a week or two the mouse appeared again.

‘You are right,’ he said. ‘My cousins report that the Bishop speaks very slightingly of you. He and the Dean mock your learning. They plan to give the next post, promised faithfully to you, to the Dean’s wife’s sister’s cook’s nephew. In a day or two you will receive a letter saying that the position was unfortunately awarded to another candidate with a greater claim to it.’

And so it happened. The letter’s honeyed words did not deceive the good clergyman, but he bided his time, waiting for the mouse’s next report. It was not long coming.

‘My cousins tell me that the Dean and Bishop neglect their flock shamefully. They think of nothing but eating
and drinking and strutting around in fine vestments with borders of gold lace. They are proud and cruel.’

‘And am I to suffer this without being able to do anything?’ asked the clergyman.

‘No,’ said the mouse. ‘My cousins say that they will soon have information for you that will give you power over the Bishop and over the Dean of Ch-------r. Be patient! Soon all will be revealed.’

‘Thank you,’ said the clergyman. ‘And is your cousin happy with the cake I provide?’

‘Reasonably,’ said the mouse. ‘But perhaps you might provide some with butter icing next time?’

So the clergyman sold some of his precious books and purchased cake with butter icing for the mice and left it out. And every day it vanished, except for a few crumbs. By and by the mouse returned.

‘My cousins say that their dossier on the Bishop is almost complete. He draws a large salary but does nothing for it. The Dean is even worse, as you would expect, for he is much cleverer than the Bishop. Every day parcels arrive from Rome, containing perfumes that the Bishop and Dean burn in secret. One parcel contained a hat with many strange tassels, the purpose of which my cousins could not guess.’

‘It is worse than I ever suspected,’ said the clergyman. ‘I have dreamt of such things and awoken crying out …’

‘We know,’ said the mouse. ‘We know and understand. Your very worst fears of the Bishop are true. But if the Archbishop were to be informed, then he would be removed at once. My cousins are now investigating the Archdeacon, who may harbour Arminian doctrines. Have courage, my
good sir! Soon your dearest wish will be granted!’

‘And the cake is satisfactory?’ asked the clergyman.

‘It is quite nice,’ said the mouse, ‘but Black Forest gateau would be even nicer.’

So, the clergyman sold his remaining books and bought Black Forest gateau and left it out for the mice. After a few weeks he found a note written in very small writing.

‘Thank you for the cake, which we have enjoyed. While we lived in a country parish, we were honest mice, for honesty was all we saw and knew about. Having lived in a cathedral, however, we now know that what we should do is to receive the largest reward we can and then do nothing for it. I am sure that you have it in your heart to forgive us, and that is why you will never be suitable for any post at the great cathedral at Ch-------r. Yours sincerely, the Mice.’