Cat Among the Herrings (5 page)

‘Did Catarina say why she thought it was murder?’

I wondered how much to tell her. The rumour mill in the village had clearly already been working overtime. ‘Nothing much,’ I said. ‘She just thought it inexplicable that he would have drowned like that.’

‘Even if he was high at the time?’

‘He’d stopped taking drugs,’ I said.

‘Not when I knew him.’

‘It would have shown up in the coroner’s report.’

‘How do you know it didn’t?’

‘Tom Gittings covered the hearing for the
Observer
.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Fair enough. If that’s what Tom Gittings of the
Chichester Observer
says. Or what he doesn’t say.’

There was a touch of contempt in this last statement.

‘You know Tom?’

‘A bit. He’s never mentioned me, then?’

I wondered if I could rescue Tom from this omission.

‘Actually, thinking about it, maybe he did mention you once or twice …’

‘Nice try, Ethelred. But he clearly hasn’t breathed a word. Another case of what Tom hasn’t said. Still, I am happy to reveal I know Tom, even if he is remaining silent on the matter.’

I looked at my watch. I was already late for lunch.

‘Here’s my address in West Witt,’ she said, scribbling something on the back of a business card. ‘Drop by if
you do decide to investigate on Catarina’s behalf. I might actually be able to help.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. I gave her one of my own cards in return. It wasn’t entirely a waste. She might just look at my website and maybe buy a book. But that was the most I expected to come from the conversation.

Obviously I was wrong. I mean, I’d hardly be telling you now about a chance meeting with somebody who proved to have nothing at all to do with Robin’s disappearance, would I?

‘How was your morning?’ I asked.

‘Dull,’ said Tom. ‘I have detailed notes on a series of shopliftings and car thefts that I have to turn into news. The problem is making one shoplifting sound superficially different from another, or any of the shoplifters better than a two-dimensional caricature. I take your point that most real life crime is tedious in the extreme. To the extent crime fiction is based on reality, I don’t quite understand its popularity.’

‘It’s all a question of how you tell them,’ I said. ‘I’ve done a short story on a shoplifter that worked quite well – at least, I thought it did. The motive, at least, was amusing: to return something shoplifted from another store the previous day.’

‘Why?’

‘He feels sorry for the shopkeeper he stole from the first time round. He no longer has the thing he stole, so he steals another one from elsewhere.’

‘And he gets caught the second time?’

‘No, he gets caught as he smuggles it into the first shop to place it back on the shelves. The shopkeeper recognises him. Crime writers like irony and injustice. Most crime writing isn’t about crime, of course. It’s about detection. It’s a type of puzzle that just happens to be about murder. What makes murder a convenient vehicle is that one of the two people who know for certain what has happened is dead and the other isn’t letting on – indeed the other is usually lying through their teeth.’

Tom nodded, as if storing that information away on one of the remoter shelves in his memory. Then I added: ‘I ran into an old friend of yours outside the cathedral. Sophie Tate? She said she used to go out with Robin? She was engaged to him?’

The expected smile of recognition did not come. ‘What else did she tell you?’ he asked.

‘Not a lot. But you
do
know her?’

Tom looked over towards the bar, then paused for a long time before saying: ‘Yes, of course. Sophie Tate. I noticed she was at the funeral.’

‘And she was engaged to Robin before he met Catarina?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Not officially?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘She also said she thought Robin was still using drugs.’

‘He told me he’d given them up,’ said Tom. ‘Why would he say that if he hadn’t? Is she around long?’

‘She said she was on holiday.’

‘Not just here for the funeral, then?’

‘Complete coincidence apparently.’

‘I doubt it.’

There was a hint of contempt in that last remark that was reminiscent of Sophie’s observations on Tom. And I remarked that he had merely noticed her at the funeral – not actually spoken to her, which was odd if he did know her and hadn’t seen her for a while. I waited to see if he would expand on his last comment but that seemed to be all he had to say on the matter. On reflection, it didn’t seem worth telling him which of the cottages in the village Sophie was staying at – not if he couldn’t be bothered to cross the churchyard and say hello. Perhaps they had had some past disagreement. Or perhaps it was simply that she and Tom had known each other less well than Sophie had implied. I studied the menu for a while. The sausage and mash with onion gravy looked good.

‘So, how are your investigations into true crime coming on?’ asked Tom, putting his own menu down.

That, rather than a discussion of the nature of crime fiction or Robin’s exes, was the reason for our meeting. Tom had promised to fill in, as far as he could, any gaps in what the papers had reported back in 1848.

‘I have a vague sense of unease about the whole thing,’ I said. ‘There was no firm evidence at all – just that George Gittings said he saw Lancelot Pagham by the church – and that the knife was Lancelot’s. The argument over driving cattle across the field doesn’t sound enough to occasion a murder. And where was George Gittings? Jane Taylor says quite explicitly that he was in Chichester all day. But his own testimony is that he stayed in West Wittering long enough to see Lancelot Pagham heading for the church. One of them is lying.’

‘Or the reporter got it wrong,’ said Tom. ‘You can’t assume everything was really said the way it was reported. It would have been a long day in court. You don’t always catch everything – especially when you’re struggling to get it all down in your notebook.’

‘That’s true. The judge had to warn everyone several times about the noise they were making, which can’t have helped. I’m not sure what to make of the rather odd remark about Jane having talked to Lancelot Pagham. It was a small village. Everyone would have talked to everyone, surely? Was something slightly more than talking implied? Jane seems just a bit too keen to stress that she was a respectable woman about to be married to a leading landowner. The judge didn’t follow it up, anyway, so I suppose we’ll never know what she meant by it.’

‘Not precisely,’ said Tom.

‘The judge seems to have taken against Lancelot Pagham quite early on. Fishermen weren’t supposed to be called Lancelot or to know Latin.’

‘I think Lancelot’s parents were painfully aware of how much they’d come down in the world. Giving their children fancy names may have compensated a little, though I don’t envy either of the brothers at school. Look at the tombstones of that period and everyone’s called William or John or George, with maybe the odd Isaac or Jacob. Lancelot seems to have taught himself Latin. It was said he knew Greek as well. He’d have probably been a university professor if he’d been alive today. But the life chances for fishermen weren’t that good back then, whatever they’d been baptised.’

‘But it’s George’s behaviour that I really don’t
understand,’ I said. ‘I think he lied about having seen Lancelot at the church. He goes out of his way in his evidence to stress that rumours about Lancelot were untrue. He tries to intervene when it seems that his evidence is being misinterpreted. And yet everything he does and says seems to land Lancelot more deeply in trouble.’

‘Indeed. So it does. And, as you say, where was George all day?’

‘In Chichester, if Jane Taylor is to be believed.’

‘But is she to be believed?’ Tom opened his bag and took out an envelope from which he extracted a photograph. He passed it to me. Judging by the voluminous sleeves, the tight waist and the elaborately feathered hat, the picture dated from the last decade of the nineteenth century. The woman was, I judged, in her sixties. She was smartly dressed – clearly somebody who both cared for her appearance and had the money to buy the latest fashions. The clothes were dark – perhaps black – it was difficult to say. The sepia tones also did not reveal if her hair was blonde or grey, but not a strand was out of place. Her head was tilted slightly to one side. There was nothing in her face that constituted a smile, but her expression left you in no doubt that she was pleased with herself. Her gaze challenged the camera to do its worst.

‘Jane Taylor,’ said Tom. ‘There’s a note on the back saying that the picture was taken in 1895. She would have been sixty-four then. Her husband had died twenty years before.’

‘She looks quite … spirited.’

‘We’d probably say “feisty” these days. It’s a shame we
don’t have one of her in 1848. I bet she turned men’s heads then.’

‘How did you get the picture?’

‘From the family album. She’s my great-great-great-great-grandmother. She married George Gittings about four months after his brother’s death. George was by that time a prosperous farmer himself, having inherited everything from his murdered brother.’

‘Married within four months? Quick work for those days,’ I said.

‘Quick work by any standards.’

‘So, let’s get this right: after John’s death, George gets the girl, the money and the farm?’

‘Exactly.
Cui bono?
as the judge so rightly asked.’

Lancelot Pagham’s hanging was a disappointment to everyone. It lacked the drama of the trial and gave me no further insight into the murder, even if it did strengthen my respect for the purported murderer.

Large crowds had gathered outside Horsham gaol the night before and, by the time designated for the execution, the crush in the street threatened to occasion more deaths than Pagham’s alone. Enterprising citizens had rented out seats in any rooms they had overlooking the scaffold. There had been much singing and jollity up to the moment that Pagham had appeared. Sellers of cakes and ale had done a good trade. Then, according to reports, a ghastly hush had descended on the assembled multitude. Men and women gazed at the condemned man in awe. Pagham, conversely, had surveyed the crowd with something resembling contempt. He had been offered the chance to speak some last words, but declined with a shake of his head. The only
thing that he was heard to say was an instruction to the executioner to get on with his task. A person in the crowd called out: ‘He is innocent!’ At that point Pagham turned and for a moment his eyes searched for somebody; then he went to his death ‘as bravely as any man could’. The crowd dispersed apparently with grave frowns. Whether those who had paid ‘upwards of five Guineas’ for their seats felt they had had value for money is unclear. It had all been mercifully quick. It was devoid of any confession or of a last protestation of innocence.

Was it George Gittings who had cried out at the last moment? There was no way that I or anyone else would ever know.

It took a moment for me to realise that the noise I could hear was my phone ringing. I hurried towards the exit, muttering apologies to everyone that I passed, struggling to extract the handset from my jacket pocket as I did so.

‘Hello?’ I said, as soon as I was in the corridor.

‘Why you not return my call, Ethelred?’

‘I sent a text,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing I can do, Catarina.’

‘A text?’

I wondered if, in whichever part of eastern Europe she came from, a text was some deadly form of insult, akin to refusing to eat the eyeballs of a goat that has just been slaughtered in your honour. That seemed likely.

‘I tried to phone,’ I lied. ‘I thought a text would be faster.’

‘Faster than what?’

‘I’m sorry … perhaps I should have come over to you …’

‘Yes. You should come here. That is what a man would do. You are afraid of me?’

‘No,’ I said. But that too was a lie.

‘You come tonight. I shall be waiting. I have found things that will blow your head.’

‘But …’ I said.

It’s difficult speaking to somebody who has hung up. It was always one of Elsie’s tricks, in the days when Elsie’s tricks had anything to do with me. Of course I would go. Surely I was not afraid of visiting her? Or was it that I was more afraid of not visiting her? My phone rang again.

‘What are you playing at, Ethelred? I’ve been trying to get through to you for ages.’

‘Elsie?’ I said.

‘What is your phone telling you?’ she asked.

‘Yes, sorry,’ I said. ‘I can see it’s your number. And your picture, because you showed me how to put that on the phone but not how to take it off. Sorry – it’s just a while since we spoke. How are you?’

‘Busy. Very, very busy. Busy, busy, busy. Doing deals on behalf of those fortunate enough to be represented by me. Answering fatuous queries from former clients about mates who want to write books. But I thought I might take a short break somewhere on the south coast. I was trying to decide where. What would you suggest?’

‘Brighton is lively. Lots to do there. The Pavilion. The pier. Restaurants. Antique shops.’

‘Too noisy. I need somewhere quieter.’

‘Eastbourne?’

‘I’m saving it for my old age.’

‘Bognor?’

‘Too pebbly.’

‘Pebbly? Is it?’

‘Yes. Pebbles everywhere you look. I need sand dunes. Lots of them.’

‘Littlehampton is—’

‘No it isn’t. Littlehampton isn’t anything at all. Let me think, let me think … That place you live in – what’s it called?’

‘West Wittering. You know that. You’ve been here before. And you still send me royalty statements, so you have the address.’

‘So I do. Though not statements for your latest books, obviously, because you found another agent for those. Until she dumped you. Do you have any sand dunes in West Wittering by any chance?’

‘Yes. Lots of them. For example there’s—’

‘Excellent. Well, if you recommend it so strongly, I’ll give it a go.’

‘Dorset’s also very nice. For beaches.’

‘Dorset? Not edgy enough. Too many yokels in smocks. Too many mayors selling their wives to passing sailors. Too many women standing on the breakwater and staring out to sea, waiting for the return of the man who cruelly betrayed them. It’s a county ruined by literature. Are there any big luxury hotels in West Wittering these days?’

‘No. None at all. The Beach House does B and B and has a good restaurant.’

‘Is it close to the beach?’

‘It’s in the village centre. It’s not as close to the beach as I am.’

‘That’s kind of you but I couldn’t put you to that much trouble.’

‘Sorry? What trouble?’

‘“What trouble?” he says. That’s so sweet. OK, if you insist.’

‘Insist what?’

‘If you insist it’s no trouble, I’ll stay with you, closer to the beach.’

‘Did I say that?’

‘More or less. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, then. I’ll have one of the bedrooms overlooking the garden.’

‘What time are you arriving? I was planning to be in Chichester …’

But, as I’ve possibly observed before, it’s tricky speaking to somebody who has hung up.

I took a deep breath and dialled. Tom answered straight away.

‘Tom, I’m going to see Catarina tonight.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘No, but she won’t stop phoning me until I do.’

‘I’d be careful.’

‘That thought had occurred to me too. Just one question, though – something that I’ve been wondering about. Do you by any chance know for certain who inherited Robin’s estate? Sophie thought it was Catarina. Can that be right?’

‘Yes. That’s right.’

‘All of it?’

‘Robin changed his will shortly before he died. She got the lot.
Cui bono
, eh?’