The Herring Seller's Apprentice (18 page)

I think that I was attracted to the period above all, however, by the character of Richard II, who also made several appearances in my books. Richard was a man born out of his time. He would have made an excellent Tudor. He would have passed unnoticed in a whole crowd of Stuarts. But he simply could not hack it as a Plantagenet. A later age would have understood why he wished to appoint ministers who were loyal to him personally rather than merely loyal to their class. A later age would have agreed that it was not an important role of a king, still less an essential one, to lead troops into battle. A later age would have understood a king’s wish to be a man of learning and a patron of the arts rather than a soldier. A later age might even have understood his ideas on the nature of kingship. The fourteenth century just looked at him as if he had farted and offered the throne to Henry IV, a man who knew how to wield a sword and who said ‘lavatory’ rather than ‘toilet’. Richard II had all the right ideas at the wrong time. Did he interest me in spite of his evident failure or because of it? Again, I would not care to say. The investigation of his lonely death (from starvation in all likelihood) was to be the next of the Master Thomas stories. Of course, I knew that I would never write it now. Just as I would never write another Fairfax novel, however hard I might try.

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‘I had no choice,’ I said to the blank screen. ‘I couldn’t have done anything else. And I was in
France,
dammit.’

Still, it would not be long now. There was that consolation. It would not be long now.

They buried her in December. For a long time they would not release the body, but then, just before Christmas, we were finally allowed to lay Geraldine to rest.

I had assumed that she would be buried in the churchyard at Feldingham, possibly alongside my old buddy and college friend, Pamela Hamilton-Boswell. Ethelred announced however that Geraldine had always expressed a firm desire to be cremated. This surprised me in that A) Geraldine never planned anything that far ahead and B) even if she had, she was not one to contemplate her own death for long enough to express any wishes at all. Still, Ethelred had undeniably been married to her and it was not impossible that they had amused themselves on rainy afternoons by discussing each other’s funerals. And who was I anyway to express an opinion as to whether the Bitch should burn or rot? Both were fine with me.

So, on one of the rare bright sunny days that winter I found myself driving rapidly (I was late, naturally) back into the wilds of the Essex marshlands. My new black skirt was slightly too tight for effective gear changes, but the roads were empty and wound undemandingly through the flat countryside and towards the sea. The midday sun remained obstinately low in the sky and cast long shadows over the ploughed fields. But it was a cheerful scene, with light strangely reminiscent of a summer morning.

The crematorium was in one of those pretty but over-formal parks that fool nobody into thinking they are anything other than what they are. The big chimney belching black smoke is always a dead giveaway, in my opinion. The good old funeral conveyor belt was operating nicely, with one jolly little party emerging from the back door as ours was entering at the front. I parked my VW next to a large new BMW with immaculate black paintwork and tan hide seats (Dennis had made it to his former business partner’s send-off, clearly) and set off at a brisk but ladylike pace so that I’d make it before the coffin did.

My father was the youngest of a large family, so I’ve been to the funerals of assorted relatives over the years and am used to the routine. A bloke with his collar on back to front goes, ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,’ and a few old dears snivel. You kneel down, stand up, sing, wonder whether you remembered to lock the car, sit down, pick your nose, think, ‘It’s a sodding crematorium – nobody’s going to nick a car from
here,’
stand up, sing again, and that’s about it, really. Piece of piss. Unless you’re the corpse.

Since I was at the back of the chapel I could amuse myself by counting the mourners (twenty-two actually) and trying to identify their backs. The camel overcoat (a bit too pale, a bit too flash for a funeral) was Dennis. The shabby black duffel coat was Rupert. Ethelred was in the front pew with Charlotte, both in newish black suits. The two old biddies in Gawd-help-me hats next to them would be aunts or something. I couldn’t place the worried-looking slap-head just in front of me, except that his pinstripes marked him out as being not from these parts. Darren Oxtoby was over to the right and I managed to catch his eye and give him a smile and a nod. Oh yes – didn’t I say? – he was one of my authors by that time. Of course, he sent in the complete manuscript rather than the first chapters and summary that I had so clearly requested. (Writers? Can’t fart without an agent to remind them where their arses are.) But hey! – the manuscript was good. No, really, really good. From the very first page, I knew that I could sell it. It was a Gothic fantasy, but told with such humour and such a lightness of touch that it was like nothing I had read before.

After the service was over we all trooped out of the side door so that the next lot could come in the front (‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,’stand up, sit down, etc.). We all shuffled past the vicar and muttered, ‘Lovely service, Vicar, deeply moving.’ We gave our condolences to Ethelred and Charlotte, on the grounds that there was nobody else to give them to and we didn’t want to take them home with us.Then we were out in the fresh air and the bright sunshine. Nothing like a funeral for making you feel really alive.We all milled around for a bit, admired flowers and told each other that it was brass monkeys right enough.

One of the main problems with a cremation is that there is no grave to dance on afterwards. Still, I had a spring in my step as I headed back to the car park. We’d cremated her. It would be interesting to see how the Bitch wriggled out of that one.

Everyone was invited back to Feldingham – a good fifteen-minute drive along narrow roads. As we passed the little parish church, the perversity of travelling miles to an anonymous crematorium struck me again. Somewhere in that decision there was a clue to how Ethelred felt about Geraldine, but whether it was a final act of love or a final act of revenge beat me.

Not, as I may have observed before, that I know a great deal about love. My old man once said to me, thus combining sex education and his philosophy of life into one short lecture, ‘Elsie, just you remember this. Love is sad; sex is funny. If you find you’re crying, then either you’ve just caughtyour finger in the mangle or you’re in love. If you find you’re laughing, then check your knickers out, because you could be having sex.’ He was as pissed as a newt when he said it, but it stuck in my mind.

I suppose that that’s one thing Ethelred and I have in common – fathers who were total prats. It’s a bond of sorts. It’s one of the reasons why I like him. He’s OK – I mean OK for an author, obviously. There’s also something about the way he stands there all hunched up like a droopy penguin. Well, they’re an endangered species or something, aren’t they? You can’t help feeling a bit protective.

Most of those who attended the funeral showed up at Charlotte’s for salmon-and-cucumber sandwiches and mince pies (it being almost Christmas). The slaphead took the first opportunity to go off with Ethelred for a private chat. He returned looking grey and corpse-like himself.

‘Well, thanks for
trying,’
I heard him say, and recognized the flat, tired voice as that belonging to Smith-the-Bank. He looked in my direction. Of course he had no idea who I was or that he’d ever spoken to me. I smiled at him, thinking how, with that oily skin and those thick, blubbery lips, he was even more unattractive in the flesh than he had been on the phone. I got no response to my smile, however. His face was blank and if it conveyed anything it conveyed utter despair. Had I been a painter it might have appealed to me as an allegory of greed and lust getting its just deserts, but I’m not a painter, so it didn’t appeal at all.

I caught Ethelred’s eye and he winked back at me, then went off to talk to Charlotte. Suddenly I felt snubbed – almost jealous, though there was clearly no reason to be anything of the sort. If Ethelred and Charlotte wanted to do the host and hostess bit, like an old married couple, it was no skin off my nose. One of Ethelred’s problems is the way he just lets women push him about. I wouldn’t stand for it if I was him. I really wouldn’t.

I grabbed Darren by the arm and took him out into the garden for a largely unnecessary chat about royalties. I came back to find Ethelred talking to the two aunts, which was all right if that was what he wanted to do.

‘Greetings, dear lady’ said a voice behind me.

‘Good to see you, Dennis.’

‘Not a bad joint for a modern box,’ he said, looking around, ‘but I prefer something a bit older and more upmarket.Take my place for example – Grade Two Star …’

‘I’ve seen it,’ I said.

‘You’ll know what I mean, then,’ he observed with a passing sneer at the light fittings.

‘Yes,’ I said.‘I do know what you mean. Can I ask you a question?’

‘Of course. Can’t guarantee I’ll answer it, though. Ha ha.’

‘How easy is it to get somebody bumped off?’

Dennis considered this without any sign of surprise. ‘May I ask who you are planning to have killed?’

‘I’m asking on behalf of a friend.’

‘Yes, people always do. Obviously it can be done if you have the contacts. How much do you want to pay?’

‘I like to get value for money. So does my friend. Who’s doing special offers on bumping off your nearest and dearest?’

‘You’re after the cheapest? The price of some junkie’s next fix, dear lady. But don’t expect that one to remain your little secret for very long. When you pay a real professional, what you’re buying is a discreet personal service with no comeback. And that’s not cheap.’