Read Herring on the Nile Online
Authors: L. C. Tyler
‘So, you’re back in your old flat?’ asked Elsie, pleased, it would seem, by all aspects of my answer. ‘On your own? No unnatural blondes?’
‘Wasn’t that clear from my interview answers?’
‘I thought that was just building up a background, creating a nice picture for the sort of readers you have – lonely, bored, a bit insecure, semi-literate.’
‘No, Elsie, it was the truth. I never really moved out of the old flat. Technically, the house has been mine only since probate was granted. Annabelle had every right to remain there in
the meantime.’
I was doing it again. I had to stop sounding defensive all the time.
‘And now?’ asked Elsie.
‘We’ll have to work something out,’ I said, summarizing in six words a discussion with Annabelle that had occupied most of the previous evening plus a short and abruptly
terminated phone call this morning. ‘But, to answer your question, yes, the house is as good as sold and money isn’t so much of an issue now.’
‘Even so, I wouldn’t want you to lose your deposit on the trip.’
‘That’s kind of you, but it’s not your problem.’
‘Ethelred – my authors’ problems are my problems, you know that. Do I get a really enormous cabin? On the top deck?’
‘The boat was pretty empty. I’m sure that could have been arranged – but you don’t want to go.’
There was a crunching noise in Hampstead as somebody ate another restorative chocolate digestive. In the background I thought I heard an empty packet hit the wastepaper bin.
‘You deserve a holiday, Ethelred. I should hate to see you cancel just because I wasn’t there for you. I like to support my authors every way possible. Are we flying first
class?’
‘The quickest way of getting there is a charter flight straight to Luxor from Gatwick. And it’s research, not a holiday.’
This time, I noticed, she didn’t say ‘yeah, right’. Elsie did not take unnecessary risks.
‘I’ll put up with a charter flight if I have to,’ she said. I couldn’t see her at the other end of the phone line, of course; but I knew that, just as soon as she had
finished her biscuit, her expression would be one of noble self-sacrifice, probably modelled on the statue of Nurse Edith Cavell outside the National Portrait Gallery.
Five minutes later I was ringing the travel agent to say that I would now be accompanied by Ms Elsie Thirkettle rather than by Lady (Annabelle) Muntham, and that a cabin on the top deck would
most certainly be required. As I paid the additional charges I felt a momentary pang of guilt that I was, in a sense, spending Annabelle’s money.
But it had – I reminded myself – been Annabelle’s decision not to come. Even she, surely, would have conceded that much? And, had I been able to see into the future as I read
out the three numbers printed on the back of my card, I might have felt that she had made a very wise decision indeed. But of course, you never do see into the future. If I’d noticed any
references in the tour brochure to a dead body floating in the Nile or to the cold barrel of a gun pointing at a spot precisely midway between my eyes, I might have decided South Wales in a
blizzard was in fact much the better option. But perhaps they’d hidden that sort of stuff in the small print, along with the fuel surcharges. They often do, I find.
Two
Q: Our readers are always interested in how authors work. Describe the room you are writing in now.
A: Actually I am on a plane. It’s quite crowded, and I think only one toilet is still working. Otherwise it’s fine. My computer is balanced on top of an unopened meal that I
didn’t ask for. It has ‘CHK’ written on the lid. It’s chicken I think.
Q: Which crime writers do you most admire?
A: I’ve always admired the crime writers of the Golden Age – Christie and Sayers, of course, but especially the inimitable Margery Allingham, whose work I first read by the light of
a torch under the bedclothes at my boarding school in Sunderland. She had an ear for the speech of the ordinary working man. Ofthe present-day writers, I enjoy Colin Dexter, Ian Rankin, Val
McDermid, Donald Westlake, Martin Edwards, Sue Grafton, Simon Brett, M. C. Beaton, C. J. Sansom, Chris Ewan, Henning Mankell, Håkan Nesser, P. D. James, Kate Atkinson, Brian McGilloway, Colin
Bateman, Peter James, James McCreet, Colin Cotterill, N. J. Cooper, Louise Penny, Mike Ripley, Laura Wilson, R. J. Ellory and Malcolm Pryce. My work is strongly influenced by all of them in approximately equal
measure.
Q: What is your writing schedule like?
A: I tend to be very organized. I like to write at least a thousand words a day – including when I am travelling. I always take my laptop with me, even on holiday (though
this trip is research, obviously).
Q: Where would you go to boogie in Dunstable?
A:
‘Elsie,’ I said. ‘Though I fear I may already know the answer to this question, why do they think I know anything about partying in Dunstable?’
The plump, slumbering figure in the seat beside mine stirred and opened one eye.
‘Are we there yet?’ It is a common misconception amongst those who doze off in a public place that nobody else has noticed. Elsie was now trying unsuccessfully to sell me the idea
that she had been alert since take-off and, for all I knew, that it was normal tosnore when wide awake. She was also, when she noticed it, going to have big problems explaining the dribble.
‘We’re somewhere over Italy, I think. I’m working on the next interview. A paper in Dunstable this time. I don’t know what you told them, but I can’t have grown up
there and in Sunderland.’
‘I may have said that you had an elderly aunt living there or something.’
‘Who boogies on a regular basis?’
Elsie’s expression quickly squashed any idea I might have had that I was qualified to mock other people’s boogying. ‘Maybe the aunt was in Salford,’ she said
dismissively. She leaned back and closed her eyes again. ‘Just say something vague about the exciting buzz there is in Dunstable these days.’
‘Nobody’s going to believe that.’
‘They will in Dunstable. They don’t get out much.’
‘Maybe I’ll just skip that question,’ I said.
Elsie yawned and stretched. The lack of legroom on the charter flight was not a problem for anyone her size. My own joints, conversely, were beginning to ache from being forced into unnatural
positions. I checked my watch again.
‘Remind me – why exactly did Annabelle decide not to come?’ asked Elsie, suddenly opening her eyes.
‘She just changed her mind,’ I said. I thought we’d dealt with that question already and my answer was true – well, after a fashion. And, if I had missed one or two small
details, why should I be completely candid with Elsie, who regarded honesty much as she would an expensive pair of shoes: something to be cherished, admired even, but to be used only occasionally
and not without some discomfort.
‘Isn’t she going to get jealous if you go off with some other woman?’
‘But I’m going with
you
,’ I said, laughing. ‘Yes, fair enough, you
are
a woman, but Annabelle’s hardly going to get jealous . . . I obviously
don’t mean that you are unattractive in any way, only that you and I . . . Of course, I wouldn’t wish to imply that . . .’
‘Shall I stop you there?’ asked Elsie. ‘Or do you think you can dig yourself in any deeper?’
‘You’re my agent,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s a purely professional relationship.’
‘With a one-month notice period.’
‘Your joining me in Egypt does not affect my relationship with Annabelle in any way at all.’
‘You are choosing your words very carefully, Ethelred. What does affect your relationship with Annabelle? The sale of Muntham Court? You can tell me. If she’s given you the push
because you’ve sold the ancestral home that she was hoping to live in for the rest of her days, then I may be forced to order champagne at your expense, but there is no other downside that I
can see to your admitting you’ve been dumped.’
‘She just didn’t want to come to Egypt,’ I said. ‘And it’s not an ancestral home – hers or mine.’ Was that another point I’d made to Annabelle? It
sounded familiar.
‘Fine – just so long as she doesn’t book herself a cabin at the last minute and join us on the
Khedive
,’ said Elsie.
‘That’s very unlikely, though there are plenty of spare cabins apparently. It’s a quiet time of year.’
‘Suits me if it is a bit quiet. I too have work to be getting on with once we are back in touch with the world.’
Elsie produced a flashy mobile phone and would, no doubt, have explained in some detail how it worked, had I not produced the identical model from my jacket.
‘Snap,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the same one.’
She took my phone dubiously, and then held hers and mine side by side, trying to identify any minute differences in functionality that would make hers cooler. There were clearly fewer than she
had hoped.
‘I bet I’ve got more apps,’ she concluded lamely.
‘We’re just passing over Naples,’ I said, unscrewing the top of the small bottle of wine that had accompanied the unre-quested CHK.
‘Don’t change the subject,’ said Elsie. ‘My phone is cool. Your phone sucks.’
She took a paperback out of the seat pocket in front of her – Agatha Christie’s
Death on the Nile
.
‘I didn’t know you were a Christie fan,’ I said.
‘It’s rubbish basically,’ said Elsie, though this was her default position on any work of literature that was not actually under contract to her.
‘It’s generally reckoned to be one of her best,’ I said.
‘So, how likely is it that you’ll get a bunch of murderers, spies, writers and other disreputable people on board one small boat? And, if you did, why would you choose to shoot
somebody in a place you couldn’t make a decent getaway from? The problem with a small boat is that almost every move you make is observed by somebody else.’
‘But the killer’s movements
are
observed – that’s why they have to kill again.’
‘Precisely – it’s a crap way to carry out a murder. The whole plot is too complicated. You shouldn’t mix detectives and spies – they’re different genres. And
the incident with the boulder seems a complete red herring, which is just brushed away at the end.’
‘Well, that’s what you get in detective stories. Lots of red herrings – even on the Nile.’ I smiled to show that I knew that herrings are limited to the temperate waters
of the North Atlantic and North Pacific.
‘You get crocodiles in the Nile,’ said Elsie.
‘Not below the Aswan Dam,’ I said. ‘Not any more.’
‘Just get on with the interview questions, Tressider. You’re starting to get pedantic and irritating. And lay off the duty-free wine – it just makes you maudlin and
pessimistic, which is even worse.’
‘No, it doesn’t. And I’m not pedantic.’
‘Yes, it does. And being pedantic is like snoring – the person who is doing it can’t tell. Right now I need you upbeat and positive for those interviews. Screw that top back
on. You can wake me when we’re in Luxor, so I can look at the nice crocodiles. And not a moment before.’
Elsie’s snores recommenced, proving at least one of her points was true. As a preliminary to disproving her other points, I poured my wine and watched it splash, warm and red, into the
cheap plastic cup. I took a sip or two and reflected on Life. It seemed OK. Not fantastic, but as good as it was ever likely to get. I took another few sips, then swallowed the rest of the wine in
a single gulp. I reached decisively for my computer and began to type again.
Three
Q: Many of the readers of our magazine are budding authors. There are so many genres to explore. What started you writing crime novels?
A: I wish I could remember. There must have been a point at which I thought it would be fun.
Q: You write under several names. Why is this?
A: See above. Like so many things, it just seemed a good idea at the time. As Peter Fielding I write the Sergeant Fairfax books. I also write historical crime as J. R. Elliot
and romantic fiction under yet another name. Occasionally people confuse me with Paul Fielder – the former secret service man who writes thrillers – but he’s obviously a lot
better known than I am.
Q: What books are currently on your bedside table?
A: It’s funny you should ask that. I did take a glance at my bedside table before I left home. There’s quite a stack of them. Some are books that I feel I ought to
read because everyone else is reading them, though deep down I despise both the books and the people who read them. There are also the books I’ve started reading but never got round to
finish-ing –
À l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs
to name just one, though technically it is currently under rather than on the bedside table. And there are a number of
copies of
History Today
in which I have vainly sought inspiration. My bedside table is, when you think about it, an allegory of blighted hope. Sometimes I simply want to weep.
Q: Great! Have you started writing another book? Is it a sequel to the one you are publishing now?
A: I’m doing research for a new historical series – set in Egypt. Crime writers have to produce series. There’s no escape. Do you know – all I wanted was
to write one great work of literary fiction. Just one. Was that really too much to ask?
Q: Which contemporary writer do you think people will still be reading in a hundred years’ time?
A: Dan Brown. I bought
The Da Vinci Code
last year and I’m still only on page 7.
Q: And finally, what advice would you have for anyone wanting to write fiction themselves?
A: Write it by all means, but do not expect it will make you rich or especially happy – and above all, do not expect that it will make you more attractive to the opposite
sex or you will be very disappointed indeed. On the plus side, you don’t need to buy many ties.