The Herring in the Library (25 page)

I was more confident of the ending. Once the party was safely back in London it would be revealed that the prisoner was, after all, the murderer (on the instructions of the Duke of Gloucester).
Thomas and the Prioress had been thoroughly duped. The prisoner, for whom incidentally I still had no name, would admit as much and then depart rapidly and with only the briefest and most insincere
speech of thanks. The Prioress would immediately remind Thomas that the whole escape business had been
his
plan all along, and that hanging, drawing and (possibly) quartering would now be his fate when it was discovered that he had aided and abetted a felony. To
the extent that she herself might have been considered a minor accessory, she would fortunately be tried in a church court and sentenced to no more than a dozen or so Hail Marys – say two
dozen absolute max. At this point, however, Chaucer would intervene and save Thomas, to avoid indictment himself for his own role in the affair. Thomas would be spared hanging, and the Prioress
spared excessive prayer, but at the dreadful cost of Thomas’s eternal indebtedness to Chaucer. Master Thomas would finally be allowed to return home, only to discover that he had forgotten
the stories he had made up for his children en route for Sussex. He would therefore be forced to make up a new story for them, which he begins with the words:
‘There was ’tis told a
Nun, a Prioress, That of her smiling was full simple and coy, Her greatest oath was but by Saint Loy . .
.’

But would I ever complete the story? And should I? How many years did I have left to write the masterpiece for which I would always be remembered? Of course, I still had only the vaguest idea
what my great literary novel would look like. And if I stopped writing crime novels, what precisely would I live on during the two or three years that I felt it would take me to produce it? I
needed money. I needed a large and unexpected windfall.

I realized with a start that it was two o’clock in the morning and that I had to be in Crawley and thinking clearly in eight hours’ time. I saved what I had just written and headed
off to sleep – this time in my own bed.

Twenty-six

I awoke the following morning with a headache that Elsie might have put down to excessive whiskey, but that I knew was simply the result of working late and spending too much
time staring at a computer screen. As the milk splashed deafeningly onto my cornflakes, I reviewed what had happened the previous day.

My drinking buddy, Clive Brent, had refused to elaborate on his claim that I was the main beneficiary of Robert’s death. He seemed suddenly to decide he had said too much. Whatever I said
after that, he blocked by saying I must speak to Gerald Smith.

Perhaps, if I had not had one or two whiskeys with John O’Brian and three or four beers with Clive Brent, I might have pressed harder for an explanation. As it was, I had been sent out
into the autumn evening, to sober up by easy stages on my walk home – and to resolve to phone Smith in the morning.

As it happened, when I got home there had been four messages from Smith asking me to call him urgently, the last giving a mobile number. He too had been enigmatic when I finally tracked him
down.

‘Had you read the document you kindly forwarded to me, you wouldn’t need to ask. I guess it’s good news, but I need to talk you through it properly. Ten o’clock tomorrow
suit you?’

So, 09.59 precisely saw me stepping through the entrance of a glass-and-concrete building in Crawley and being directed to the first floor.

‘Did you know what you had passed on to me from Robert?’ asked Gerald Smith, ushering me into a leather chair in front of his desk.

‘No, I just posted it as requested.’

‘It was a new will,’ he said. ‘Robert has left everything to you, pretty well. He’s obviously had to make some provision for Annabelle, and his debts are fairly
impressive. There are some very small bequests to obscure and possibly fictitious charities – we’re checking which ones are jokes on Robert’s part. The National Society for the
Prevention of Children thankfully proved to be fictitious; it seems likely the Lupin Pooter Foundation for Distressed Stockbrokers is equally imaginary. Anyway, what’s left at the end of it
is basically Muntham Court. It’s yours, free of death duties, encumbrances and so on and so forth.’

‘And you say Annabelle . . .’

‘. . . would like to kill you,’ said Gerald. ‘She is convinced that you have somehow persuaded Robert to do this.’

‘It would explain the message she left with Elsie,’ I said. And Robert didn’t discuss this with you?’

‘He must have got some solicitor in Worthing to draw it up for him. No law against that, of course. I have already phoned the firm to check that there’s no chance this is a forgery.
They confirm he came in and got them to draw up precisely this document. Clive Brent, Colin McIntosh and I are still the executors – I’ve already explained to them what has
happened.’

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Do you think Annabelle had any idea that Robert was about to change the will?’

‘Because that would give her a motive for wanting him dead before he could change it? No, I don’t think she did know. It seemed to come as a complete shock when I phoned her
yesterday. Are you worried she might have been the one who strangled Robert?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s the one person I’ve never suspected.’

‘Meaning you might have suspected me?’ he asked. ‘Let me tell you frankly that the fact that he was a former boyfriend of Jane’s did rankle sometimes. Not often but
sometimes. He knew Jane had told me and enjoyed reminding me. Then there was that time he phoned me about the girl he got pregnant.’

‘Yes, you said.’

‘It didn’t make sense then, and it still doesn’t.’

‘But it has no bearing on Robert’s death.’

‘I keep wondering who this girl was. You don’t think it could have been Jane?’

‘Does that really worry you?’ I asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said.

‘Even if it’s all in the distant past?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you want to know, even if knowing is of no possible use to you and could make you very unhappy?’

‘Why not?’

‘One of the things about being an author,’ I said, ‘is that people expect you to know something about the human condition and Life with a capital L. You don’t, of course,
but every now and then you are typing away and you suddenly get some strange insight.’

‘And?’

‘You are a very fortunate man, Gerald. You are successful in what you do – at least in as far as I can judge – and you have a wonderful wife and a son who, from the accounts I
have heard, is very nearly perfect.’

‘That’s it? The great insight?’

‘No, the great insight is this. You can be as fortunate and successful as you wish, but it’s of no value to you at all if you lack the ability to enjoy your fortune and success. Like
one of those Danish stoves that can heat the room with a few small smouldering logs, you can make do with very little if you know how to do it. Or you can have heaps of good dry logs and let the
heat go straight up the chimney. On second thoughts, maybe that’s not as great an insight as I thought, but it’s still true.
Carpe diem
as they say. Seize the day, because
it’s the only day you’ve got, and tomorrow will deal you the same shitty hand whether you enjoy today or not.’

‘Is that what
carpe diem
means?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what it means. Don’t believe anyone who tells you different. It’s not about hope, just about damage limitation.’

‘That’s what you think, having just inherited a small stately home? You’re a very fortunate man yourself.’

‘I’ve never had the ability to enjoy the moment,’ I said, ‘with the possible exception of a few weeks last year – and then I had somebody watching me pretty
carefully and checking that I did it. Go home. Love your wife. Love your son. It’s something I doubt I’ll ever have the chance of doing now – my own wife and son, I mean, not
yours. Study me carefully, then go away and be something else entirely.’

After I left Gerald Smith’s office, with a copy of the will in my pocket, I sat for a moment in reception and dialled Colin McIntosh’s number.

‘I suppose,’ said Colin McIntosh, ‘I should congratulate you on your good fortune. That’s several million pounds’ worth of property you’ve inherited.
I’ll make sure my fellow executors get a move on.’

‘And Annabelle?’ I asked.

‘Legally, Robert couldn’t avoid making provision for her, and so he has. The house was in his name alone, but she may contest that. Still, our job as far as I can see is to deal with
the will we have. If she wants to fight it, then it may get a bit expensive for all concerned.’

‘Did Robert tell you why he was leaving the house to me?’

‘Not a word. Annabelle may know of course and, if she’s speaking to you, she may possibly tell you.’

‘She’s not.’

‘Ah well – small mercies and all that. Any more sighting of the mysterious stranger in a blue suit?’

‘No. I don’t think we’ll see any more of him.’

‘It
was
suicide, you know, Ethelred.’

‘Fiona told me the same thing. But why?’

‘He was ill.’

‘That doesn’t explain it.’

‘Without a suicide note, it’s as close as we’ll get.’

‘There is a note somewhere to me from Robert, but he hid it too well. I can’t find it.’

‘Why did he hide it?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Robert’s usually were. Well, I hope you find this note, whatever it is. I’m going to have to go now – I’ve got a surgery full of patients who want me to write them
a sick note. One or two may actually be sick. Good luck with the hunt for the missing note.
Carpe diem,
eh?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said.
‘Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero
.’

I shut my phone and put it in my pocket, then, with a nod to the receptionist, I pushed open the glass door and stepped out into the street. For a moment the strong sunlight made me blink. I
needed to sit down and talk to somebody properly about all this and sort out my thoughts. Then, inexplicably a familiar face hove into view.

‘Elsie! For God’s sake, what are you doing here? Still, you won’t believe what I’ve just found out. I still don’t quite believe it myself.’

Twenty-seven

‘So,’ I said, summarizing the main part of Ethelred’s announcements. ‘You will be part of the
Sunday Times
Rich List, even if you will never be
part of the Best Seller List.’

‘Rich List? Not by a long way,’ said Ethelred, stirring the remains of the skinny wet mochaccino that he had for some reason chosen to order. ‘I wouldn’t
even be a footnote on the Rich List. Still, it’s probably enough to allow me to stop writing historical detective stories for a bit and concentrate on what I really want to do.’

‘And what about Master Thomas?’

‘I’m going to leave him to his moral dilemma.’

‘So we’ll never know who killed Sir Edmund?’

‘It was the suspicious stranger. The solution is the obvious one that everyone will have rejected because it was the obvious one. But more to the point, we’re no
closer to knowing who killed Robert. Nobody quite has a motive. Clive Brent was ruined by Robert but claims to have had his revenge already. John O’Brian had the best opportunity and knew the
passage existed, but has no trace of a motive. Gerald Smith might have had a motive if he had known the whole story of Jane’s abortion, but I’m now certain he doesn’t, even if he
suspected something. Jane Smith does know the whole story, but I believe her when she says it wouldn’t have been remotely worth the risk. The same with Felicity-it was all too long ago and
not worth it. And why would Annabelle kill Robert when she would have known he was dying anyway? Gillian Maggs knew about the secret passage, and her disappearance is odd to say the least, but what
possible motive could she have? Colin and Fiona McIntosh both have their money on suicide – but I don’t understand
why
.’

‘Possibly to save Annabelle pain,’ I said.

Ethelred nodded thoughtfully.

‘On the other hand,’ I continued, returning to reality, ‘let’s factor in that Annabelle has lied and lied and lied, and see what that does to the general
picture. She led us up the garden path, in the most literal meaning of that term, over this man in a blue suit. We know that she was well aware of the secret passage when she first spoke to the
police, but said nothing. We know that she tried to get both Clive Brent and John O’Brian to lie too. She has probably also murdered Gill Maggs and her husband and daughter – I
can’t see why anyone except Annabelle would want them out of the way. So that’s the case for her being guilty. You may argue for her innocence but I fear your case rests mainly on short
skirts and fake tits. It won’t convince a jury, unless it consists entirely of middle-aged males.’

‘Her skirts aren’t that short,’ said Ethelred.

‘For her age they are.’

‘She’s not that old.’

Time to change the subject. ‘It all comes back to why she was happy for the passage to be a secret at first, and then desperate for people to know about it later
on,’ I said.

‘Maybe, like Master Thomas, I should just let this drop. I have a horrible feeling that, when I get to the solution, I may not like it that much anyway. I’m a
writer, not a detective.’

‘On the other hand, we’re pretty close and Annabelle probably does know the ending to this story.’

‘You’re right. I’ll go and see her and sort this out.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I offered.

‘No, I can do this on my own.’

‘Ethelred, you will not be safe on your own. You’ve no idea what havoc a woman like that can wreak on a poor innocent lamb like you.’

‘I’m not that innocent.’

‘All the sex scenes in your books, such as they are, end “dot, dot, dot”.’

‘I don’t do sex scenes.’

‘You are not going to Muntham Court unchaperoned.’

‘Yes, I am.’

For a moment it looked as though we might have a shoot-out in a cafe in Crawley. Then I figured, how much harm can she do in one brief meeting? She had been pretty pissed off.
She might not even agree to see him.