Cat Among the Herrings (4 page)

‘Am I interrupting you?’ asked Tuesday.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s pause and look at the evidence. There is my laptop on the desk and here’s me not using it. There’s a half finished sentence, sadly sitting there on the screen. I was not holding out any hopes that it would be completed by the Rejection Letter Bunny. So, two guesses as to whether you were interrupting.’

‘I mean do you
mind
if I interrupt you?’

‘What do
you
think?’ I said.

‘Shall I come back later?’

‘I’ve no idea. You would know your intentions better than I do. If you mean do I want you to come back later … will you be bringing me some fatuous query from a writer that would have been easily dealt with had he or she just looked for a nanosecond at my website?’

‘No.’

‘Will you be bringing some fatuous query from a writer that would have been easily dealt with had he or she just looked for a nanosecond at their contract?’

‘No.’

‘Does it concern anyone currently under contract to us in any way?’

‘No.’

‘OK. Then you may try me with your question now, since you have already interrupted me and there’s not much point in your going out and coming in again.’

‘I’ve had an email from Ethelred. He says that he passed on your instructions to his friend, who is called Tom Gittings, and the manuscript will be with you shortly.’

‘And he actually thinks I want to know that?’

‘I assume so. He sent an email.’

‘Time must weigh heavy on his hands down there in Sussex.’

‘No, he seems to be very busy. He says that he is researching a miscarriage of justice that happened close to where he lives. Somebody murdered back in the 1840s. He thinks it might make a good book.’

‘True crime?’

‘I’m not sure. Do you want me to check exactly what he said?’

‘Nope. Life is much too short. Let’s just assume it’s more fictional time-slip rubbish. Somebody investigating a contemporary murder who makes important discoveries using parallels with a murder long past. Honestly, it’s the lowest form of mystery writing. Absolute crap. No publisher would be remotely interested.’

‘Contemporary murder? No, he says that he’s definitely having nothing to do with Catarina’s case. She’s asked him again but he’s refused.’

‘Catarina’s case? What is that?’

‘I was telling you about it the other day.’

‘No, you weren’t.’

‘You were rummaging around in your chocolate
drawer,’ said Tuesday primly. ‘I didn’t think you were paying attention.’

‘I
was
paying attention,’ I said. ‘But I was paying attention to
chocolate
. What is Catarina’s case, when it’s at home?’

‘As I told you before,’ she said in the same prim tones, ‘somebody called Robin died recently in a sailing accident. His fiancée, Catarina, thinks it was murder. She wants Ethelred to investigate it.’

‘She’s asked him to do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he’s said no?’

‘Yes.’

‘Twice?’

‘Yes. That’s why I said he’d refused again.’

‘Tell her to get breast implants and have another go at persuading him.’

‘Isn’t that just a little cynical?’

‘Yes, sorry. You’re right. It’s only a little cynical. Tell her to get breast implants
and
dye her hair blonde, then have another go.’

‘I can’t tell her. I don’t have her email. Just Ethelred’s. Unless that was irony, of course.’

‘What do
you
think?’

‘Was that irony too?’

‘No, that was sarcasm. So, why does she think it was murder?’

‘There’s a lot of money involved. The whole village hates her for a number of reasons – it doesn’t sound as if she needs breast implants, by the way. Some mysterious stranger visited Robin before he died. And there’s a nagging
doubt that Ethelred has and can’t quite put his finger on.’

‘Can’t he? No change there then.’

‘The coroner says it was an accident.’

‘Coroners? What do they know about murder, eh? So, does Ethelred say that he needs my help with the impending investigation?’

‘No.’

‘No in what sense?’

‘No in the sense that he doesn’t refer to needing help from anyone at all.’

‘But he’d like it anyway, deep down? He just can’t quite bring himself to ask, poor lamb?’

‘I don’t think so. He says he’s not going to investigate it.’

‘Well, how could he, without my help?’

I opened my emergency chocolate drawer. It was empty. I looked accusingly at Tuesday.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought that I refilled it last night.’

‘The chocolate drawer has to be checked twice a day,’ I said. ‘It’s in your contract of employment.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Shall I nip out …?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You most certainly shall nip out. But first, check on hotels in West Wittering. I think I’d like a little break by the sea.’

‘Won’t it be cold at this time of year?’

‘If winter comes, can spring be far behind?’

‘The BBC was forecasting snow,’ said Tuesday.

‘Fair enough. Shelley always was a crap weather forecaster. I mean, if winter comes it obviously isn’t spring
yet
– it’s still winter. The fact that it’s sunny tomorrow doesn’t stop it being brass monkeys today. And what sort of weather forecaster has the middle name Bysshe?
Presumably the hotels in West Wittering have heating of some sort.’

‘So, I’ll check hotels, then go out and buy chocolate?’

I hesitated only for a fraction of a second. ‘Chocolate first,’ I said. ‘Then let me know all about the hotels.’

Solving murders is of course important, but they will, in my experience, often wait half an hour or so.

I rubbed my eyes. Viewing page after page of early Victorian newspaper print on screen is tiring. At least digitisation allows for easy searching. The relevant articles hadn’t taken long to track down, even if I had to squint at the screen. The trial had been well reported.

One Jane Taylor had given evidence first. She had, she said, been betrothed to the murdered man. They were due to be married later that year. Early on the day in question, she had met John Gittings in the churchyard and they had had some small disagreement. (She had burst into tears at this point and the judge had courteously given her some minutes to collect herself.) John had left her in order to return to the farm, which he had recently inherited from his father. Sometime later she had briefly seen John’s brother, George Gittings. George had gone on some errand to Chichester, where he had spent the rest of the day. She was expecting to see John later, for he often visited her at
her parents’ house in the evening, and they would go on walks together when the weather was fine. When he did not arrive, she put it down to their earlier argument. She did not start to worry until George arrived, asking after his brother, who had not returned to the farmhouse. She knew of no quarrel between Lancelot Pagham and John Gittings. It was true that Lancelot Pagham had spoken to her a few times in the village, but there was no harm in what he had said to her – none at all, whatever people might think. She was a respectable woman. And it was well known that she was betrothed and would shortly be married. John Gittings had no enemies in the village that she knew of. He was popular with his workers, unlike his late father.

Perceval Pagham, Lancelot’s brother, had next taken the stand. He had worked for the murdered John Gittings. He knew both parties well, and did not know of any reason why Lancelot and John should fight. He thought that the knife found by the body could be anyone’s – it was just a fisherman’s knife – but Lancelot had certainly possessed one much like it. It was always kept well sharpened. It was a good blade. He said that Lancelot did own the Herring Field though it was of little use to anyone – it flooded in the winter and nothing would grow there. It was the last remnant of the Paghams’ ancient estate and Lancelot would not sell it, though John Gittings had asked him for it, since it connected two parcels of land owned by the Gittingses. But there was no dispute over the field as such. Lancelot had objected to the Gittings’ cattle being driven across it, but no damage had been done because no damage could be done to such a useless patch of reeds and thistles, flooded half the year. He too was asked if John Gittings had had
any enemies and replied in the negative. He had been a good man and a good master. So was his brother George, now he had in his turn inherited the farm – a very good man. He was honoured to serve him.

Oliver Cate, another fisherman, gave his evidence. He knew, he said, of no falling-out between Lancelot and John Gittings. He thought Lancelot was a proud fellow with a name that was above his station in life. He did not know if Lancelot’s ancestors had previously been rich, but Lancelot often told him that they had. Somebody had once pointed out a tomb in the church as being one of Lancelot’s ancestors; but, since he couldn’t read, he couldn’t say for sure that it was so. It was a fine tomb, though, with a knight in armour, lacking only part of his sword and his nose. The knife was certainly Lancelot’s. He’d seen him use it. There was a notch on the handle that he recognised. On the day of the murder, he’d seen Lancelot Pagham on the green in the morning, but not later. He hadn’t seen John Gittings at all. The following day, when the search for John Gittings had commenced, he had been the one to find his body in the Herring Field. It had been dragged into a reed bed. John Gittings had been stabbed several times, once through the heart. The knife had been abandoned close by, as if thrown there in guilty haste. The reeds and thistles close by had been trampled down, pointing to a mortal struggle on that spot. He had reported the discovery to George Gittings and then to the constable.

George Gittings then took the stand. The judge had to ask him to repeat the oath, because he had been unable to hear him the first time. Perhaps the proceedings had become a little raucous by that stage. Lancelot Pagham had called
out to him from the dock: ‘Look at me, George Gittings!’ The judge had called for order. Gittings then proceeded to give his evidence. He was unaware of any animosity between his brother and the accused. He confirmed that ‘harsh words had been spoken’ about the Herring Field. But rumours of anything more than that were completely untrue, however many people may have said it. The accused was known as a haughty man but he meant no harm by it. This too must have provoked a reaction because the judge said that he would clear the court if there were further disturbances. In any case, George had added, in the phrase that would haunt him ever after, when he had last seen Lancelot Pagham he was heading
away
from the Herring Field and towards the church. Some other man must have killed his brother. Later, George said, he had gone into Chichester to purchase a plough, which had been delivered some days afterwards. When he returned home he had found the house in a state of some agitation because John had not come back. He had ridden a tired horse to Jane Taylor’s cottage but all she had been able to tell him was that they had quarrelled bitterly that morning and she had not seen him since. The family had waited up all night. In the morning, search parties had been sent out. When the body had been found, he went to the Herring Field and helped bring it home. He hoped he would be excused further questioning, because he was still unwell.

A doctor gave evidence that he had examined the body and that the cause of death was a stab wound to the heart. There were other more superficial wounds to the chest and arms. The victim’s knuckles were bruised and his hands
cut, as if he had resisted for a while before the fatal blow was struck.

Finally, Lancelot Pagham was questioned. It was true, he said, that his family had once been more important than it was now – there were in fact two tombs of his ancestors in the local church. Unlike Mr Cate, he could read both English and Latin, and so was in no doubt. But he set no great store by any of that. The Herring Field was his, and he had as much right to it as anyone else did to their land. The Queen herself would have to ask permission to drive her cattle across it. On the day John Gittings was killed he had gone to Itchenor on business. He had heard that a boat was for sale cheap, but when he got there nobody knew anything about it and he had returned home. Plenty of folk would have seen him in Itchenor, as they would know if the authorities had bothered to enquire properly. He knew that the constable had visited Itchenor, but suspected that he had spent all his time there in the alehouse. (‘That’s a lie!’ from the constable.) He had not been to the Herring Field for some days. He had lost his knife the day before – he thought on the green, where he had been mending nets. It was a good knife and he had been sorry for it. Nor had he been near the church that day, even if George Gittings claimed to have seen him there. He had certainly been there the previous day. He had laid flowers on the grave of his sister, Morgan Blanch, recently deceased in childbirth. But he had not been there since.

The judge asked who had told him that a boat was for sale. Pagham replied that somebody had left a note at his cottage. The sea was too rough for fishing that day, so he had walked over to Itchenor. Along the coast? asked the
judge. No, by the Chichester Road, he replied. He had been nowhere near the field. Where had he learnt Latin? asked the judge. Pagham said he had taught himself. He didn’t claim to know a lot. The judge commented that it must be very useful to him in the classification of the fish that he caught (laughter). Pagham asked the judge if he knew the Latin name for mackerel. The judge said that he did not and he very much doubted the accused did either. ‘
Scomber scombrus
,’ said Lancelot Pagham. No reply from the judge is recorded.

The judge, having been put firmly in his place by the defendant, proceeded to instruct the jury. They were, the judge said, to bring a guilty verdict only if they were certain of their facts. There was some dispute as to whether Lancelot Pagham had been seen at the church that day – they had to decide whether to believe the testimony of the wretched man accused of murder or that of a prominent local landowner, whose respectability had been vouched for in court and who had no possible reason to lie. Had the accused walked by the church (perhaps inspecting Latin inscriptions on the way) and not directly to Itchenor as he claimed, then he would have had every opportunity to go via the bleak field that had been the scene of the murder. But it was the jury’s decision. He, the judge, would not try to influence them in any way.

At this point George Gittings seems to have made some protest because he was told to be seated. Order restored, the judge continued. The existence of a continuing dispute over whether Mr Gittings’ cattle could be driven across Mr Pagham’s field seemed to be admitted. The jury might, if they chose, find that as a fact. The accused had, as they
knew, said that he would not let the Queen herself drive cattle over his land. That seemed improbable (much laughter) but they might conclude from it that he was a proud and overbearing man, quick to take offence, and with too high an estimation of his own worth. That alone did not mean he was a murderer, of course. Nor did the fact that his parents had named him after a knight of the Round Table have any bearing on the matter. (Laughter.) Nevertheless, there was no doubt that his knife was the murder weapon. It had been identified by the notch on the handle. It had been thrown down in haste. It was for them to decide whether Pagham himself had used it or whether he had, as he claimed, rather conveniently lost it the day before. Was it likely that a fisherman would lose a valuable possession of that sort and not look for it high and low? A fisherman’s knife was, they might think, like a knight’s sword, a trusted companion. But Pagham had merely noticed its loss and taken no further action. Moreover, the jury should ask themselves who had benefitted from the murder –
cui bono?
– a phrase that Mr Pagham could doubtless translate for them. Mr Gittings was well loved within the village. They had ample evidence that he had no enemies. But they might think that his death relieved the accused man of a troublesome neighbour. No evidence had been given on whether the accused resented the wealth of the Gittings family and whether he might have a hatred of John Gittings for that reason. It was probable that that was the case, but no evidence had been produced so that should not influence them in any way.

The judge paused and surveyed the jury. It was a grave duty that they had, he continued, but murder was a grave
matter. Throughout Europe, as the jury knew, the lower orders were in rebellion against their betters. The King of France had been driven from his throne. Chartists had threatened to create anarchy in London. Young women in America had started wearing trousers. It was important that the murder of a prominent landowner was dealt with firmly to show that such things would not be tolerated here by the good and sensible folk of Sussex.

It was probably the threat of women wearing trousers that tipped the balance. It took the jury less than half an hour to return a guilty verdict. Lancelot Pagham was hanged before the end of the month.

I had arranged to meet Tom for lunch. He was reporting on assorted cases of shoplifting and small-scale drug-dealing and the court was not far from the library. As I was walking past the cathedral I was slightly surprised to hear my name called out. I turned. A woman in her twenties casually dressed in jeans and a warm sweater, was waving at me.

‘I thought it was you. I’m Sophie Tate. We met at the funeral.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said. To be specific we had met just before. She had asked me if she had come to the right place for Robin Pagham’s funeral. I had told her she had. We’d agreed that the clouds looked ominous and rightly predicted that it might rain later. I must have told her my name then, because (as I now recalled) somebody else had stopped to chat and Sophie had disappeared into the church. Afterwards none of us had hung around in the churchyard. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Do you work in Chichester?’

‘No, I’m on holiday – staying in West Wittering. I came into town to do some shopping and gawp at the cathedral. I used to go out with Robin, in case you are wondering. A bit of a coincidence my being back down here on the day of the funeral, but there you are. I always used to come here before I met him – I couldn’t see any reason why I should have to stop just because we’d split up. Quite a shock to hear that Robin had died, though. I’d known him a long time. I had to be there to see him off.’

‘I didn’t see you at Greylands afterwards,’ I said.

‘No, I didn’t fancy it – not with Catarina, or whatever she’s called, playing the lady of the manor. I wouldn’t have seen her as Robin’s type, but there you are. So, I went back to the place I’m renting, had a hot shower and changed into dry clothes.’

‘Did you and Robin go out for long?’

‘About nine months – better than par for the course. Engaged to be married for the last two.’

‘Oh, so Catarina …’

‘Wasn’t the first to receive a proposal? Far from it, I’d say. Might not have been the last, either. Robin could change his mind pretty quickly. Still, she was the one who was able to grab the seat when the music stopped. I’m told the entire Pagham estate is hers for keeps.’

‘I’d wondered about that,’ I said.

She shrugged. ‘Well, that’s how things go. You win some, you lose some. And at least he didn’t break my nose.’

‘You heard about that?’

‘I think you’ll find it’s common knowledge in West Sussex. Is it true that Catarina has asked you to investigate Robin’s death?’

‘That’s common knowledge in West Sussex too?’

‘It must be, mustn’t it?’

‘Well, this time West Sussex is wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m not investigating anything.’