The Herring in the Library (26 page)

‘OK, drive me back to Findon,’ I said. ‘I’ll wait for you back at the flat. I guess you’re old enough to look after yourself

Even as I said it, however, I knew Ethelred would never be quite that old.

Twenty-eight

It was with no little trepidation that I approached Muntham Court and rang the bell. The door opened quickly and Annabelle was standing there, dressed modestly but elegantly in
a straight black skirt and crisp white blouse. A single strand of pearls adorned her neck.

‘I’d like to come in and explain,’ I said.

‘Perhaps you’d better,’ she said rather severely.

She led me, in silence, to a small sitting room that I hadn’t seen before. The thought crossed my mind briefly that this, along with all of the other rooms, passages, rose beds and tool
sheds, was now mine. At her invitation, I sat on a comfortable damask sofa. Annabelle sank down beside me, her knee almost touching mine.

‘Go on, then,’ she said, smoothing her skirt with her hand. ‘Make it good.’

‘I didn’t ask Robert to leave the house to me,’ I said.

‘I know,’ she said suddenly. I looked at her. There was both sadness and understanding in her eyes. ‘To be perfectly honest, Ethelred, it will be a relief not to have to worry
about this huge place any more. It’s just that . . .’ She turned away briefly, struggling to get the words out. ‘I feel so alone, Ethelred. So very alone.’

‘I’m sorry . . .’ I said.

She turned back to me and placed her fingers gently on my arm. ‘Ethelred, I can count on you . . . as a friend . . . can’t I? I wouldn’t want this house or anything like that to
come between us. You’ve always been very special.’

‘Always?’ I said.

‘Since I met you, obviously,’ she said, withdrawing her hand. She looked at me as though I was an imbecile – something I’ve grown used to over the years in my dealings
with women. ‘You know what I mean, for God’s sake.’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘And you will help me to sort out this mess?’ Again, a hand on my arm, this time more firmly.

‘I thought I was off the case?’

‘I need you, Ethelred,’ she said. ‘I’ve been so stupid. So very stupid.’

‘You’ve lied to me,’ I said, finally getting round to what I’d intended to be the important part of the conversation.

‘Oh, I know. I know. Can you bear to forgive me? Dear Ethelred, can you?’

‘Annabelle,’ I said. ‘Just tell me what happened. This time, just the truth. No evasions. No red herrings.’

She leaned forward. Her knee accidentally brushed against mine for an instant. I felt the warmth and the roughness of the nylon against my trouser leg.

‘You are aware that Robert was very ill,’ she began.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘He knew that I would be distraught when he . . . passed away . . . but in his very caring way he had insured his life some time before, so that I would not be left completely destitute as
well as . . . distraught. And so on. Then, as you know, he committed suicide. I couldn’t understand it, but I think he wanted to save me the pain of the last days of his illness –
watching him slowly decline and slip away. I’m sure that was it.’

‘So, it
was
suicide.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘But . . .’

‘. . . why did I tell the police it couldn’t be?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ethelred, dear sweet Ethelred, Robert, in his great kindness, had not thought things through. The insurance policy paid out if he died of
an illness
. . . or passed away in some
terrible accident . . . but not if he committed suicide.’

‘And you checked the policy . . .’

‘. . . constantly. I was going to be left penniless, Ethelred. It was so wrong of me – I see that now. I told the police that it
couldn’t
be suicide. I had to. Then when
they didn’t believe me . . .’

‘You got me to discover the passage, so I would tell them there was a way out of the locked room.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you invented this man in a blue suit. You invented a murderer.’

‘I didn’t want to get one of Robert’s chums arrested. So I had to invent somebody who didn’t resemble any of them. I thought that bit was quite clever.’

‘A hiker in a blue suit?’

‘I never claimed he was a hiker. Anyway, if I’d said that this person was in an anorak and jeans, just think of all the people that the police might have arrested.’

‘Then you got John O’Brian and Clive Brent to lie, telling each that the other had definitely seen this person.’

‘They were so keen to help me, Ethelred. They were really sweet. And when I thought about it, it was so much more convincing having two people see the killer.’

‘Then you planted that material on the rose bushes.’

‘A bit of one of Robert’s old suits. I destroyed the suit itself so it wouldn’t be traceable.’

‘And the cigarette butts.’

‘From that gardening boy we employ, whatever he’s called. He leaves them all over the place.’

‘He’s called Dave Peart.’

‘Is he? Yes, of course. So he is.’

‘You said he didn’t smoke.’

‘A slip of the tongue.’

‘Didn’t it worry you that DNA testing might incriminate him? It would have been easy for the police to identify who had smoked them.’

‘Might it? You know so much about these things. I certainly had not planned for him to come to any more harm than was absolutely necessary.’

‘And you planted the black beanie.’

‘It was a pound at a shop in Worthing.’

‘The price is immaterial,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Clive or John, I can’t remember which, came up with the bit about the beanie. I thought it was jolly good so I went straight into Worthing .
. . but I really am sorry, Ethelred. I realize now that was wrong too. I should have taken you into my confidence so much earlier. Dear Ethelred, I do so need your help.’

I realized that her hand had been on my knee for some time, but couldn’t remember her placing it there.

‘What did you do with Gillian Maggs?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. Well, not much. She was the one who told me about the secret passage. She’d worked for the last people who lived here. After they both died and the family put it on the
market, she was possibly the only person alive who knew about the passage. She told me, of course. I’ve always got on well with Gilly. Anyway, I realized that it might be awkward for her if
she had to talk to the police . . . I didn’t want her to feel embarrassed in any way . . . and Robert and I have a little place in Barbados. So I sent her there for a short holiday. Or possibly a
long one, depending on when this silly business is all cleared up.’

‘And the daughter?’

‘She phoned me to say that she was worried by the questions you and Elise had been asking.’

‘And?’

‘I told her to stay put until the courier arrived with a first-class ticket to Barbados.’

‘Annabelle, I’m sorry to ask you this, but were you . . . in a relationship . . . with John O’Brian or Clive Brent?’

‘Ethelred, I swear on Robert’s life – or my mother’s life if you prefer. No. Absolutely not. They are both dear boys and I think that they may have both been just a
teensy bit in love with me – but I adored my husband. Ethelred, you couldn’t imagine, even for a moment . . .’

‘Why did you sack John O’Brian?’

‘Didn’t he explain? I just couldn’t afford him any more. I couldn’t keep him on and not pay him. Perhaps I explained myself badly – I was cross about the will and
with you and perhaps with men generally. I may have been a little abrupt with him.’

‘It wasn’t that you had just ended an affair with him . . .’

‘Oh, Ethelred. An affair? You are too cruel, too . . . I couldn’t bear it if you thought that badly of me.’

Suddenly she flung herself at me and started weeping uncontrollably. I felt her hot tears run down my own cheek.

‘I don’t think badly of you, Annabelle,’ I said, though her hair was all over my face, making clear speech tricky, and she was holding onto me quite tightly. Her cheek rubbed
damply against mine. Somehow our mouths touched. I tasted the salt of her tears and inhaled her perfume. Again the image of a Venus flytrap unaccountably crossed my mind.

‘Ethelred,’ she breathed into my ear, as though something had just occurred to her.
‘You
can help me. You know that, don’t you?’

‘How?’ I asked.

‘We’ve still gathered lots of good evidence, haven’t we? All you need to do is to take it to the police. Tell them where we found it. And about the secret passage that you so
cleverly found. And then perhaps say that
you
saw a stranger in the garden – that you had thought nothing of it at the time, but now you remembered.’

‘But it wouldn’t be true,’ I said, briefly disengaging myself.

‘Some of it would be.’

‘It’s called perverting the course of justice. At the very least it’s wasting police time.’

‘Wasting their time? Not if it helps them get back my insurance money for me. If I’d had a cheap ring stolen, the police would spend time looking for it, wouldn’t they? Well,
I’ve lost my insurance money, and that’s a jolly sight more important. What do I pay my council tax for?’

‘It doesn’t work like that,’ I said.

‘Please?’ she said. She kissed my cheek. ‘Please?’

‘Annabelle, I’m not sure we should be doing this . . . or that . . . and certainly not that . . . though obviously I’m very flattered that you should . . .’

‘I’ve always been so fond of you, Ethelred. Ever since we met. I’ve always found crime writers irresistibly attractive. Most women do.’

How could I doubt her sincerity? I looked at her. She looked at me.

Then, very slowly, she started to unbutton her blouse . . .

Twenty-nine

‘You took your time,’ I said, as Ethelred came through the door, looking a little bedraggled. His shirt was buttoned up all wrong (which strangely I had not
noticed that morning) and his hair was a complete mess, even for him. He slumped down beside me on the sofa.

‘Sorry,’ he said. He looked tired, poor lamb.

‘What’s that aftershave you’re wearing?’ I demanded. ‘It smells a bit girly.’

‘I’m not wearing aftershave,’ he said.

‘I can smell something on you,’ I said.

‘Maybe just the soap I used at Annabelle’s.’

‘Expensive soap then – smells just like Chanel,’ I said. ‘Did you get a good look round the place?’

‘Just a sitting room and a bedroom,’ he said.

‘So, what did she say?’

‘She admitted to faking the evidence. She wants me to lie to the police so that she can get the insurance money. The insurance people won’t pay up if it’s
suicide.’

‘So, that’s what it was all about.’

‘From beginning to end.’

‘Excellent, let’s get on the phone to the cops now and grass her up.’

‘Would you like some coffee?’ asked Ethelred, ignoring my suggestion.

‘No, I’ll have some chocolate,’ I said.

‘Sorry – I forgot to get any. There’s just regular coffee and decaf

‘Decaf then.’

‘I’ve got plenty of that. Haven’t touched it since Robert last came round.’

‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Where does coffee come from?’

‘Tesco,’ said Ethelred.

‘I mean which countries?’

‘I don’t know – it probably says on the jar. Kenya? Brazil?’

‘Ethelred – think back. Shagger’s poem – “
What you must seek is not so very far, From Andes hills or Afric slopes, a jar
” – that has to be
it. How did it end?’

‘Something, something, something
“crave” – “You shall receive where formerly you gave”.’

‘And where did you give Shagger coffee?’

‘I’ll look in the kitchen,’ said Ethelred.

‘I’ll do it,’ I said. Ethelred could faff around for ever. I took the jar of decaf from the cupboard, removed the top and upended it over the work surface.
Nestling snugly amongst the rich brown grains was a tightly folded sheet of paper.

‘Robert must have hidden it there when he was last at the flat,’ said Ethelred.

‘OK,’ I said, carefully unfolding what proved to be an A5 sheet, closely written on both sides. ‘This is the piece of evidence that you’ve had all along,
and that would have saved us three days of arsing around, had you found it straight away. Which you didn’t.’

And, with no little curiosity, we proceeded to read Shagger’s Last Note.

Thirty