The Herring in the Library

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘Manage in what sense? Ethelred – I am not letting you throw yourself away on that bitch . . .’

  ‘I didn’t necessarily say I’d do it,’ I said.

  ‘So, what did you say?’ asked Elsie.

  For a long time I stared at the empty jar that had once held decaffeinated coffee.

  ‘I just said: “Perhaps” . . .’ I said.

  Thirty-one

  ‘What do you mean, “Perhaps”?’ I asked.

  ‘Only kidding,’ said Ethelred. ‘I’m not such a total tosser that I’d marry some painted tart like that. I learned my lesson with Geraldine. You were right all along – what a bitch she was.’

  ‘So, you’ve finally come to your senses after all these years?’

  ‘Absolutely Let’s go and celebrate at the Village House. They’ve invented an amazing new pudding. It tastes in every way like chocolate but it contains no calories at all, not that you need worry about calories with a figure like yours. You don’t know how jealous Annabelle is.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Ethelred. ‘All of this is true. Let’s go eat chocolate.’

  Thirty-one

  ‘What do you mean, “perhaps”?’ asked Elsie.

  ‘Just that I haven’t quite made up my mind,’ I said.

  ‘Well, make it up quickly then. Annabelle’s just like Geraldine,’ said Elsie. ‘I mean, in a good way. She’s beautiful, kind, considerate. She was devoted to Robert – as indeed Geraldine was to you, with one trivial exception. I think you should marry Annabelle – if she’ll have you, which I’m sure she will. Frankly, you’re a bit of a babe-magnet.’

  ‘Annabelle implied that all crime writers were irresistibly attractive,’ I said.

  ‘I think,’ said Elsie, ‘that she just meant first-rate crime writers, like you.’

  ‘So, I should hang on in Findon,’ I said. ‘Not sell up and move to London?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Elsie. ‘Stay here. It’s the perfect place to write a great literary novel.’

  ‘Do you mean all that?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said Elsie. ‘I’ve given up being cruel and sarcastic at your expense. And I’d be honoured to be a bridesmaid at your wedding. Do you think I should wear acid lemon or puce?’

  ‘Why don’t we let Annabelle decide?’ I asked.

  ‘What an excellent idea,’ said Elsie. ‘She has such perfect taste.’

  ‘How true that is,’ I said, ‘how very true.’

  And this is why I sojourn here

  Alone and palely loitering,

  Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,

  And no birds sing.

  John Keats,

  ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’

  Author’s Note

  The site of Muntham Court is now occupied by Worthing Crematorium, developers having formed a view of it that was closer to Elsie’s than to Ethelred’s. The Muntham Court I describe in this book is not, however, very different from the one that existed until the middle part of the last century. If it still stood, it would probably be owned by somebody much like Sir Robert Muntham. All characters in this book are, however, completely fictional. I now accept, on Elsie’s assurance, that Miss Scarlett was in no way to blame for the murder of Dr Black and unreservedly apologize for, and completely withdraw, any remarks that I may have made to the contrary.

  Acknowledgements

  I needed to consult various sources for the historical sections of this book. They included Richard II by Nigel Saul, England in the Late Middle Ages by A R Myers, London the Biography by Peter Ackroyd, Chaucer’s Language by Sim Horobin, The Age of Chaucer by Valerie Allen, The Oxford Book of Mediaeval Verse (ed. Celia and Kenneth Sisam) and Neville Coghill’s translation of the Canterbury Tales. And, of course, that essential standby for twenty-first-century writers – Wikipedia.

  The descriptions of Muntham Court were inspired by the excellent articles by Valerie Martin on the Findon Village website, and on additional material on the house and family that lived in it from Norman Allcorn. I am very grateful to both. Neither is to blame for any unintended inaccuracies on my part or (more to the point) for any deliberate changes that I made to the geography of the original when creating my fictional Muntham Court.

  As ever I am grateful for the help I received from my publisher, Pan Macmillan, and in particular from my editor, Will Atkins, copy editor Mary Chamberlain and publicists Sophie Portas and Philippa McEwan. A writer could not reasonably ask for a better team.

  Finally I must thank my family for their continuing indulgence that I spend so much time on something as unprofitable as writing books.

  Herring on the Nile

  A story of murder, espionage and fish out of water

  The first chapter of the ingenious sequel to

  The Herring in the Library follows.

  Available now

  Copyright © L. C. Tyler, 2011

  One

  Q: What’s the worst possible way to begin a detective novel?

  A: Tedious scene-setting stuff. Explaining basic things for people who haven’t read the earlier books in the series.

  Q: You write under several names, don’t you?

  A: Yes, I write crime as Peter Fielding and J. R. Elliot. I also write romantic fiction as Amanda Collins. None of those is my real name.

  Q: What would you see as the main influences on your writing style?

  A: I’ve always admired the crime writers of the Golden Age – Christie and Sayers in particular. For some reason I never have got to grips with dear old Margery Allingham. She’s useful if you want to know how the English upper class in the 1950s thought the English working classes spoke – I mean, cawdblimeah, guv! – and she does quite a nice line in endearing cockneys, but I couldn’t recommend her otherwise.

  Q: Our readers are always interested in how writers work. Describe the room you are writing in now.

  A: I’m at work on the dining table of my flat. The table bears the remains of this morning’s breakfast. From where I’m sitting, I can just see out through the bow window and down to the village square below. The winter’s first flakes of snow have started to settle; but, here inside, my ancient radiator is pumping out heat. The room is not large, but it’s enough for me and for my books, which are pretty much everywhere. Occasionally books get mixed up with slices of toast, but that’s fine.

  Q: What do you like most about Sunderland?

  A: I’m sure it’s a very fine city, but I’ve never visited it.

  Q: What is your favourite restaurant in Sunderland?

  A: Sadly, I’ve never had the pleasure of dining in Sunderland.

  Q: Where would you go for a great day out in Sunderland?

  A:

  ‘The Elsie Thirkettle Literary Agency. How can I help you?’

  ‘Elsie,’ I said, clutching the phone in one hand and scrolling down the screen with the other. ‘Those interview questions you emailed me. Why are they asking me about Sunderland?’

  ‘Which interview is that, Ethelred?’

  ‘The Sunderland Herald, strangely. They seem to think I’m some sort of expert on eating out on Wearside. They want to know my favourite restaurant.’

  ‘Could be a trick question. Hold on while I Google it . . . no, there really are restaurants in Sunderland.’

  ‘Yes. What I meant was: Why are they asking me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Elsie, who only lied properly to people she respected. ‘I thought they’d be more likely to run the interview if I told them you were a local lad. It’s only bending the truth a tiny bit, Ethelred. You are a local lad, just not local to Sunderland. What have you said so far?’

  I read out my answers while Elsie made the disapproving noises that she has spent much of her life perfecting.

  ‘You can’t say that about Margery Allingham,’ said Elsie. ‘Unlike you, she has a lot of admirers out there. Your prof
essed contempt for Allingham implies that anyone who enjoys her books won’t enjoy yours. So that’s a few thousand sales you’ve just thrown away quite unnecessarily. It’s much better, Ethelred, if people get to decide they don’t like you after they’ve paid for the book. Conversely, when you think about it, each writer you mention favourably is money in the bank. You can’t claim too many influences – drop in all the names you can. And don’t forget to plug the other writers at this agency and mention their books, because one day—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do get the picture,’ I sighed. ‘So I like Margery Allingham, do I?’

  ‘You’ve adored Margery Allingham ever since you read The Tiger in the Smoke with a torch, under the bedclothes in the dorm.’

  ‘In which part of your imagination did I go to a boarding school? Was it in Sunderland, by the way?’

  Elsie’s appreciation of irony is strictly limited to her own. ‘As a writer of crime fiction,’ she said, enunciating her words with more than usual care, ‘you should be able to manage the odd fib or two if it will boost sales. Saying-the-thing-that-is-not is your job. I’m only a literary agent. Do you hear me complaining about having to lie? I described you as a “much-respected author” the other day. I may have even called you a “best-selling author”. There are whole weeks, Ethelred, when I scarcely get to tell the truth from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Don’t try to get clever with me, Ethelred.’

  ‘And the question about which football team I support?’ I asked, looking further down the list.

  ‘Wait, I’ll Google that one for you too.’ There was a pause and the sound of a biscuit being munched in far-away Hampstead. ‘OK . . . it looks as though Sunderland is up near Newcastle, so I’d tell them you support Newcastle United if I were you. That should go down well. How are the other interviews that I emailed to you? I promised we’d turn them round in a few days.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I’ll try to finish them all in Egypt and email the answers back to you.’

  ‘Egypt? Who said you had permission to go to Egypt?’

  ‘I’m doing some research. I did tell you.’

  ‘Did you? Well, if you really must put pleasure before duty, at least take your laptop along to the pyramids.’

  ‘I shall most certainly have my computer with me. I said, it’s research; it’s not a holiday. I shall be working hard the whole time.’

  ‘I see – “research” is it?’ said Elsie.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s research. But without the inverted commas you just put it into.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘And not the pyramids either, as it happens. I’m going on a cruise down the Nile – or possibly up the Nile. I wasn’t paying much attention when I booked it. It’s the boat that is the great attraction.’

  ‘You’re travelling alone, I hope?’

  ‘I’m going with Annabelle.’

  I was treated to another outward and audible sign of Elsie’s disapproval.

  ‘She’s keeping a close eye on you, now you’re engaged.’

  ‘We’re not engaged,’ I said.

  The resulting snort of derision was intended to convey a number of things to me:

  1. I was, though perhaps not formally engaged, nevertheless subject in all respects to Annabelle’s whims.

  2. Whether Annabelle and I became engaged would be a decision made solely by Annabelle, who would inform me when she considered the time was right.

  3. I, uniquely amongst the male population of West Sussex, was incautious enough to have allowed such a situation to develop.

  4. Annabelle was, contrary to anything I might have been told, not a natural blonde.

  ‘I wish you would try to like Annabelle,’ I said.

  ‘I like her as much as I need to.’

  ‘She says she likes you.’

  ‘She’ll be able to coach you in telling fibs then.’

  ‘I really wish—’

  ‘My boredom threshold is pretty low this morning, Ethelred. I’m putting the phone down before you mention that woman again. Have a nice day, now.’

  ‘—you’d try to get on with Annabelle.’

  ‘Piss off, Ethelred. It’s almost lunch-time and, if I’m going to sell your Latvian rights to Nordik, I’ll need to take this afternoon’s mendacity to previously unexplored levels.’

  ‘The Elsie Thirkettle Literary Agency. Kā es varu jums palīdzēt?’

  ‘It’s me, Elsie, not Nordik.’

  ‘Ethelred, I’ve been practising that for the past half-hour. You’ve just made me waste my best attempt to ask a Latvian if I can help them. You are a total plonker. Go away.’

  ‘Sorry. Elsie, just a thought. You don’t fancy coming to Egypt, do you?’

  ‘No, Ethelred. My first rule in life is not to share a rusty old boat with gold-diggers sporting fake tits. I’ve stuck to it since I was a girl and it’s made me what I am today. You’d do well to try it yourself sometime. In the meantime, you and Annabelle have fun.’

  ‘Annabelle may not be coming.’

  ‘May not, in what sense?’

  ‘Isn’t.’

  ‘So – let’s pause for a moment and get this absolutely right – Annabelle isn’t coming and therefore, as poor second choice, you’re now inviting me at a week’s notice? Thanks a bunch.’

  ‘Eight days’ notice.’

  ‘Eight days? Why didn’t you say so? That really does make all the difference.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘That was irony, Ethelred. Look it up in Fowler’s Modern English Usage. Now, as I may have observed before: Piss off.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying “sorry”.’

  ‘Sor— I was offering to pay for the whole trip, of course . . .’

  ‘I’m busy,’ said Elsie. ‘I can scarcely drop the entire work of an important literary agency, like this one for example, and clear off up the Nile on some three-legged paddle steamer you’ve booked yourself on. You’ll have picked the oldest, slowest and most uncomfortable boat in Egypt as a matter of principle. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘The Khedive is actually quite well appointed,’ I said, ‘though it is a paddle steamer, of course.’

  There was a pause in the conversation during which a literary agent in Hampstead wrestled with a minor problem that had nothing to do with her.

  ‘Why exactly has Annabelle dropped out?’ Elsie asked, shelving for one moment the work of an important literary agency.

  ‘She changed her mind.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She just did. Maybe she’d just had enough of my company for a while,’ I added, jokingly.

  ‘Fair enough. I can see that,’ said Elsie. ‘Even so, I don’t change my mind. And I never play second fiddle to women who don’t realize they are too old to wear short skirts. Check your contract – it’s in para 23.2.’

  ‘Sor—’ I said again.

  ‘Nothing would induce me to go on that boat, whatever it’s called.’

  ‘The Khedive,’ I sighed. ‘It’s called the Khedive.’

  ‘Ethelred Tressider speaking.’

  ‘Elsie here. I’ve just Googled this brilliant boat we’re going on. Have I explained Google, by the way? Somebody like you might think of it as this magic librarian that can tell you—’

  ‘Elsie, I use Google all the time. As far as Egypt is concerned, don’t worry. I’m not going now. I’m about to phone up and cancel the trip. I’ll set the next book in Pembrokeshire or somewhere instead. Pembrokeshire is quite interesting in late November.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Ethelred. Sadly, there’s no market for books about Pembrokeshire these days. More to the point, you didn’t tell me that the word “luxury” featured twenty-seven times in the description of the Khedive. There seem to be staff whose sole duty is to top up the ice in your drink. The general picture I’m getting here is the Ritz with a pad
dle attached to the back. This trip must cost a fortune.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘You haven’t checked the cost down to the last penny? Does that mean you’ve finally sold the Big House?’

  ‘I’ve found a buyer for it and I think we’re about to exchange contracts. It has all happened a bit suddenly, but I really have to take any serious offer that comes along. Houses that size don’t sell easily at the moment and the running costs are hideous. The gardens alone require somebody full-time.’

  I paused, aware that a simple ‘yes’ would have been a better answer if I wanted the whole thing to sound routine and uncontroversial. Mentioning the gardens was almost certainly a step too far. But I was perfectly entitled to sell the house if I chose, whatever Annabelle had said.

  ‘So, you’re back in your old flat?’ asked Elsie, pleased, it would seem, by all aspects of my answer. ‘On your own? No unnatural blondes?’

  ‘Wasn’t that clear from my interview answers?’

  ‘I thought that was just building up a background, creating a nice picture for the sort of readers you have – lonely, bored, a bit insecure, semi-literate.’

  ‘No, Elsie, it was the truth. I never really moved out of the old flat. Technically, the house has been mine only since probate was granted. Annabelle had every right to remain there in the meantime.’

  I was doing it again. I had to stop sounding defensive all the time.

  ‘And now?’ asked Elsie.

  ‘We’ll have to work something out,’ I said, summarizing in six words a discussion with Annabelle that had occupied most of the previous evening plus a short and abruptly terminated phone call this morning. ‘But, to answer your question, yes, the house is as good as sold and money isn’t so much of an issue now.’

  ‘Even so, I wouldn’t want you to lose your deposit on the trip.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but it’s not your problem.’

  ‘Ethelred – my authors’ problems are my problems, you know that. Do I get a really enormous cabin? On the top deck?’