Cat Among the Herrings (7 page)

‘And after that they got richer?’

‘Not immediately. The Paghams gained nothing directly or indirectly from the murder. It was later they built up their fortunes by hard work and diligence and so on – though if Robin had lived I can see that he might have blown it all
again on drugs and booze, given time. Strangely, I think Catarina might have saved him from that. For all her claims to having links with the Mafia, she seems remarkably down to earth. She might just have turned things around.’

‘Does she really have links with the Mafia?’ I asked.

‘I’ve noticed a lot of people are quite wary of her …’ Ethelred began. Then he shook his head. ‘But it’s not very likely, is it?’

‘If she really had links with the Mafia, she’d hardly be asking
you
to investigate, would she?’

‘People apparently trust me,’ said Ethelred. ‘Well, more than they trust the Mafia.’

‘People dump on you,’ I said. ‘Women especially.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Ethelred. ‘The rain’s stopped. Do you fancy a walk?’

‘Why not?’ I said.

Well, as I’d said to Tuesday, if you don’t have a dog with you …

Some smells have colours. The odour of the marsh, carried in on a brisk breeze, was dark green – salty and pungent. At low tide only a narrow winding stream crossed the sleek mudflats. The sea had retreated to a point where it was no more than a grey streak on the horizon. Green posts marked the navigable channel, the first two quite clear, the others vanishing into the misty distance. Wading birds, dotting the shingle, were the sole living things in view.

‘There aren’t many boats,’ said Elsie, viewing the few that were still moored by Snow Hill, some floating in the deeper water of the channel but most resting, high and dry, at precarious angles on the mud.

‘In the summer there are sailing boats chained up all along the sea wall,’ I said. ‘You could hardly get a cigarette paper between them. In the winter they are all hauled up the slipway and parked at the sailing club over there or in their owners’ front gardens. Some people like Robin sail all
year round. They usually wheel the boats down on trolleys and push them out into the creek over there.’

‘Nobody’s out today,’ said Elsie, pulling her coat round her.

‘It was only Robin, the day he died,’ I said. ‘It was cold and the sea was fairly rough. But if you like sailing …’

‘So, nobody saw him set sail? Nobody saw what condition he was in?’

‘He wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you mean,’ I said. ‘That at least was clear from the inquest.’

‘What about the houses over there?’ Elsie pointed to the residences overlooking the creek.

‘Mainly weekenders,’ I said. ‘That pink one and that one just there are owned by local residents. They would have been around that day – I mean around in the village. But nobody has said they actually saw him bring the boat down and launch it. The trailer was left by the sea wall just there.’ I pointed to a spot at the bottom of the slipway, where the sleek, oozy, brown mud met hard, ridged concrete.

‘Where is the boat now?’

‘Tom Gittings’ father took it back to Robin’s house – he towed it on its trailer.’

‘How far?’

‘A couple of miles. But on the day in question the boat would have been stored over there in that parking area owned by the sailing club. The bushes round it give the boats a bit of protection, I suppose, that they wouldn’t get if they were left on the shore where we are now. And there’s a lock on the gate.’

Elsie surveyed the shoreline. ‘Do you get the feeling that there’s something obvious we’re missing?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s just what I feel. Not that I’m investigating anything. It just bugs me that I can’t see it.’

‘Maybe if we take a walk along the sea wall,’ said Elsie. ‘Where does it go?’

‘To the dunes,’ I said.

‘Lots of rabbits?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You’ll like that,’ said Elsie, inexplicably. ‘Come on, boy. Next time I’ll try to remember to bring a ball.’

I might have queried what we were to do with the ball, but Elsie was already striding off, as well as somebody of her modest height and generous waistline can ever stride, towards the rolling dunes of East Head.

The following day, I made my excuses to Elsie and left her reading by the fire. I needed to finish my researches into Lancelot Pagham’s conviction.

This time I was checking marriage records. Could Jane really have married George so soon after John’s death, as Tom claimed? Today I was trawling through microfilm, but it did not take long. It was faster even than Tom had implied. Two months, to the day, after the execution there was the parish register entry for the marriage. George Gittings, bachelor married to Jane Taylor, spinster. George’s father was recorded as being a farmer, Jane’s as a coastguard. So, the match was probably something of a move up for Jane. Then I looked at the names of the witnesses who had signed the register that day. One of them was Perceval Pagham – brother of the murderer, who gave evidence at the trial. Perceval would of course have been working for George by then. It was not so odd that he would attend the wedding –
perhaps the whole village did. But why was he selected out to be one of the witnesses?

Then another thought occurred to me. I ordered up the microfilm of the parish records of births. Five months after the marriage a birth was recorded. A son, John. Father George Gittings, Farmer. Mother Jane Gittings née Taylor. Godfather – Perceval Pagham.

So Jane was about two months pregnant when John Gittings was murdered. At that stage Jane would have been fairly certain she was with child, though it might not have been obvious to others. On the morning of John’s death they had met and quarrelled. Had she told him what she knew? But they were already engaged. A pregnancy might be awkward but it was no disaster. Unless John knew the baby could not be his. I thought back to Jane Taylor’s evidence. Was the baby Lancelot’s? Or more likely George’s? That would explain why he was so ready to marry her. I sat tapping the desk with my finger until a glance from a neighbouring reader suggested I was tapping harder and louder than I thought. I smiled a quick apology and stared again at the screen. George had married Jane as swiftly as was decent to avoid any scandal. He would scarcely have done that if he suspected that the baby was not his or John’s. And it was very understandable if he had known for certain the baby was his.

So, what if … my neighbour coughed pointedly – I had started tapping my finger again … what if
that
was what the argument between Jane and John had been about? What if Jane had seen George, as she said she had, and told him to clear off to Chichester or somewhere for the day, until John calmed down? Of course, it was unlikely that
he would have calmed down much over the course of the day. Did the brothers arrange to meet at the Herring Field to discuss matters out of the way of the rest of the village?

‘Excuse me,’ said my neighbour. ‘Would you mind not doing that?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But I have to go now, anyway.’

Once outside I phoned Tom.

‘I’d like to check out the Herring Field,’ I said. ‘Could you tell me how I get there?’

‘I can show you myself next weekend. Give you a tour of it, in fact.’

‘That’s kind, but I’m sure I’ll find it. I’d like to take a stroll down there this afternoon if I can.’

Tom gave me directions.

‘I suppose I ought to get Catarina’s permission to go on it,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘It’s her land now. It would be part of the Pagham estate. It was the one piece of land they kept all the way through.’

‘No, it’s ours,’ said Tom. ‘We bought it … oh, I don’t know … in 1848 or 1849 – shortly after the murder, anyway. It’s been ours for ages.’

‘Perceval sold the bit of land that his brother had been desperate to hold on to?’

‘Why not? After his brother’s hanging, you could see that it would have had unfortunate memories for Perceval Pagham. And we wanted it to connect two parcels of land we owned. And Perceval worked for George by that stage – he’d have wanted to keep in with him. It would have been difficult for him to say “no”. John wouldn’t sell but there’s
nothing anywhere to say that Perceval wanted to keep the land. All in all it’s not surprising that the field was sold.’

‘No, I suppose not, if the price was right. Did George pay much for it?’

‘No idea, I’m afraid. That sort of detail would be lost in the mists of time. The land was as near worthless as you could get. A few pounds, or even a few shillings? Agricultural labourers didn’t earn much then. Even five shillings might have been more useful to him than a weed-choked field. My father might have records. I can ask him if you really want to know.’

‘Did you know that Jane was two or three months pregnant when she married George? I’ve looked up the birth records.’

‘No, I didn’t. That sort of thing was probably more common in remote country districts than we think. People would have noticed but I doubt it caused much of a scandal. But she was engaged to John then …’

‘Exactly. So, was the child George’s or John’s? The baptismal records say George, of course …’

‘Well, that is an interesting question. If it was John, then it was my however-many-greats grandfather who was murdered – not an uncle. If it was George’s, then my however-many-greats grandmother was a bit of a goer. Well, well. That side of it certainly wouldn’t have gone without notice at the time. I wonder what the consensus was in the Dog and Duck? Parish registers would be so much more interesting if they had also recorded the local gossip.’

On my way home, I turned off the main road and followed a straight and narrow lane that led, first over tarmac then
over dirt, to the estuary. The track ended close to three low cottages, huddled together, overlooking the mudflats. They were all weekend homes, shut up for the winter. I parked and pushed open a new-looking wooden gate that took me onto the coastal footpath. A few hundred yards later, out of the sight of these or any other homes, I caught sight of the Herring Field, as Tom had described it for me. I realised I had passed it many times before on my way to Itchenor – an hour and a half of brisk walking, ending at a pleasant waterside pub and with the option of a bus home, at least on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. But I had never chosen to pause here, not knowing what the field was. It was just a poorly drained piece of coastal land. In the last hundred years it had been enclosed with a sea wall on one side but it was still mainly thistles and reeds that grew there. I stood on the wall, looking down at the lank vegetation and the untidy hedges that bounded it on the landward side. Had somebody really been killed in an argument over this? Or had this been where two brothers met to fight over the already pregnant girl one of them would later marry?

I noticed that I was not alone. A solitary walker was heading in my direction. He was in late middle age and dressed consciously for a country walk – a heavy tweed jacket, of the sort sold at county shows, heavy corduroy trousers, solid, shiny leather boots. He ambled along, limping very slightly, his bulk seeming to occupy the whole width of the path. As he drew closer, I realised that it was Barry Whitelace. At the same moment, he finally noticed me and blinked uncertainly as if he too had problems in remembering names and mine was troubling him. Then he smiled smugly.

‘Admiring the site of the wind farm, Ethelred?’ he asked.

‘Here?’ I replied.

‘Right here.’

‘Is there enough wind? Wouldn’t further round the coast be better?’

‘Offshore would be best of all, but that doesn’t seem to have been the plan. Here would be dreadful. It wouldn’t have been a good idea at all. But Catarina says she has no plans to go ahead with it in any way shape or form.’

He leant on his stick and took in the view. He seemed pleased and I was sorry to have to disillusion him.

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t belong to Catarina,’ I said. ‘It’s owned by Derek Gittings. It would be his decision.’

Whitelace’s face dropped. ‘I thought it was Robin’s project.’

‘He and Robin apparently had some sort of plan for a joint venture. But the good news is that Tom says it’s all off now, anyway. If you really wanted to make sure, though, you’d need to check with Colonel Gittings, not Catarina.’

Whitelace frowned. ‘I might do that. Catarina just said that Robin had been thinking of putting some windmills in here but had decided not to. She never mentioned that he didn’t own the land himself. But now he’s dead of course …’

It was like a stone being dropped into a deep, still pool. Robin was dead, and the ripples of that fact continued to spread outwards.

‘It’s a pleasant spot,’ I ventured.

‘So it is,’ he replied. ‘One of our favourites – Jean and me.’

‘I’m sure Robin wouldn’t have gone ahead with it,’ I said. ‘Or Colonel Gittings. Both families have lived here
for centuries. They wouldn’t have wanted to spoil a place like this.’

‘That’s right,’ said Whitelace. ‘I wonder why their plan fell through, though? Robin did need the money. I’m sure he was the driving force behind it. Maybe it’s as well things worked out as they did.’ The fact that I had been at Robin’s funeral did not seem to have suggested to him that I might have been a friend of Robin’s and might not think it was all for the best.

I stayed for another few minutes after Whitelace had gone on his way and watched the grass waving gently in the breeze. Perhaps the landscape remembers things long after we have forgotten them. Perhaps the imprint of lost deeds lies dormant in the soil for generations, to rise from time to time as what we choose to call ghosts. Today the sun shone and the trees made a gentle swishing sound. Whatever the land knew, it was not prepared to share.

I turned round and walked slowly to where the car was parked.

When I got back to the house Elsie was waiting for me. The fire had been allowed to go out. She had had other concerns.

‘I’ve been to see Catarina,’ she said. ‘Nice pad she’s got. I rather think we’ve made some progress, you and I.’