Anything For a Quiet Life
Anything for a Quiet Life
First published in 1990
© Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1990-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| | EAN | | ISBN | | Edition | |
| | 0755105362 | | 9780755105366 | | Print | |
| | 0755131754 | | 9780755131754 | | Kindle | |
| | 0755132122 | | 9780755132126 | | Epub | |
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel
‘Death in Captivity’
in 1952.
After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.
HRF Keating stated that
‘Smallbone Deceased’
was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published.
"The plot,"
wrote Keating, "
is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings."
It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.
Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London:
"I always take a latish train to work," he explained in 1980, "and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.".
After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for
‘The Daily Telegraph’
, as well as editing
‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’
.
Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.
Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.
Anything for a Quiet Life
The four-door family saloon slowed as it reached the crest of the downs. Jonas Pickett pulled it into a lay-by and got out. Claire climbed out too, and they stood for a moment looking down at the township of Shackleton-on-Sea.
“You can see all the town from here,” said Jonas. “The new housing estate, and what they call the industrial zone – though there doesn’t seem to be a lot of industry in it yet – they’re both a bit farther back. We’ll see them when we get round the next corner.”
“It’s rather snug,” said Claire. “Squeezed in between those two arms of the cliff. Like a cuckoo in a nest that’s too small for it. It looks as though a really fierce storm would bring the sea rolling in and wash it all away.”
“About six hundred years ago it did just that. The old town’s under the sea. They’ll tell you they sometimes hear the church bell ringing down under the waves. It’s a sign that something terrible’s going to happen.”
“It’s a lovely little town,” said Claire. “I don’t believe that anything terrible ever happens in it.”
“I hope not,” said Jonas. “I’ve come here for peace and quiet, not excitement.”
“In that case,” said Claire, evidently not for the first time, “I can’t see why you didn’t simply retire here. What was the point of opening an office?”
Jonas said, “Sam would never have forgiven me if I’d retired.”
“Sabrina wouldn’t have been happy about it either,” agreed Claire.
They got back into the car and drove on down the twisting road, between hedges of dusty thorn and elderberry. A final turn took them out, past the church, through a maze of tiny streets, and on to the Esplanade, where the sea sparkled in the June sunlight.
Shackleton was not a fashionable resort, like its neighbours Brighton and Hove, but it was clearly quite a prosperous place. A marketing centre, Jonas guessed, for the agricultural hinterland. A lot of small hotels and decent-looking boarding houses. A bit of light industry in the background. There would be two different populations: the visitors who crowded the beaches and the pier in the summer months; and the local residents who lived on the money they brought, and resented the noise they made.
At the far end of the Esplanade, where the Shackle stream runs out to sea, Jonas turned back again into the town. The High Street was full of cars and shoppers and dogs, and he saw that stalls were already being set up in the central square for the next day’s market. A turn to the left took them into a quieter street, parallel with the High Street. It was a mixture of shops and houses. One house, rather bigger than the others, was set back behind a small paved courtyard, with an alley running down beside it. It was a Georgian building with bow windows, three white steps up to the front door and a dolphin bell pull.
“Don’t tell me,” said Claire. “I guess it was the old doctor’s house. It’s got that unmistakable look.”
“You’re quite right,” said Jonas, “and now it’s the new lawyer’s house. Sam has got the plate up already, I see.”
It was a brass plate, worn with much polishing.
Jonas Pickett, Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths
“Are you going to live here?”
“I’ve got the top two floors. Sam’s got the basement. The office is the bit in between.”
“A bachelor establishment,” said Claire thoughtfully. “What about Sabrina and me?”
“She’s got rooms for both of you with the vicar.”
“That sounds all right. All we need now is a few clients.”
During the first month there were no clients but a lot of callers. Men who came to put the finishing touches to Jonas’s flat and men with filing cabinets and desks to complete the fitting out of the office. One whole morning was occupied with the installation of an impressive safe. Travellers called hoping to sell them office accessories. They were mostly sent away empty-handed by Sam Conybeare. They did not stop to argue. Sam was a mountain of a man who had once performed remarkable feats of strength and daring in a circus. Jonas had rescued him from his wife, who was nagging him to death, and he had devoted himself to Jonas’s welfare ever since.
People dropped in to pass the time of day. Thirty years of legal practice in the south of England had given Jonas a wide circle of acquaintances. Among the first to arrive was Major Appleby, the headmaster of St Oswald’s, one of the three preparatory schools in the neighbourhood. He told Jonas, “There used to be eight when I started up here after the war. Times are getting harder every day. If I have to shut up shop you shall handle the sale.” Jonas thanked him and said he hoped it wouldn’t happen.
Their first professional visitor was not a client. He arrived on a Friday morning in the middle of July. He introduced himself to Claire, who examined his card which identified him as Christopher Clover, of Smardon and Clover, solicitors, whilst he examined Claire with approval. She was worth looking at.
She said, “Shall I tell Mr Pickett what it is you want to see him about?”
“Just a friendly visit. One professional man to another. If he’s busy I could come back.”
“I’ll find out,” said Claire, in the cool voice which matched her appearance.
Jonas said, “Of course. Show him in. Ask him if he’d like a cup of coffee.”
Mr Clover said he would just love a cup of coffee, and what a lovely old house it was, wasn’t it?
Jonas had brought down some of the furniture from his office in London. There were chairs upholstered in red leather. There was a huge roll-top desk occupying the space in front of the bow window. On the walls there were portraits, in oil, of severe-looking legal gentlemen. The general effect was undeniably impressive. It certainly impressed young Mr Clover.
He looked at the pile of dockets and papers on the desk and said, “Well, you seem to be busy. Perhaps I oughtn’t to be interrupting you.”
“Don’t be misled,” said Jonas. “These are hangovers from my previous practice up in London. The young gentlemen I bequeathed it to find there are some matters that they still need help with. I see from your card you’re in practice here yourself. That’s good. You can give me your professional view of Shackleton.”
“Well,” said Mr Clover, “it’s a nice place. Splendid climate, and friendly people. But legally, I should say it’s pretty tightly tied up.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jonas. “I didn’t come here to work myself to death.”
Mr Clover looked at him doubtfully. He said, “Well, we’ve been here for two years, and I don’t mind telling you it was hard grafting at first.”
