by L. C. Tyler
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, bu
t 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.
‘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 th
ink 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.’
