Crooked Herring

by L. C. Tyler

  Fine, if that was what he wanted. ‘OK, then – you’ve been drunk on half of the occasions I’ve met you. Is that better?’

  Henry nodded as if that fitted in with the most recent research, though it clearly still irked him that I didn’t have him down as an out-and-out lush. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘But think, Ethelred: however much I put away the previous evening, have I ever told you that I had no recollection of what I had done?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ve never told me that.’

  This time, at least, I’d got the right answer at the first attempt. ‘Absolutely,’ said Henry. ‘And that’s why I need your help, Ethelred.’

  I sighed. ‘Run it all past me again,’ I said. ‘Leave out no detail, however trivial. Then I’ll give Crispin another call so that he can tell us if he’s alive or not.’

  Henry scowled at me, but I was not to be browbeaten into condemning him as a murderer. He’d need to make the story pretty good.

  And this was the complete story as he told it. He and Crispin Vynall had gone out for a drink on New Year’s Eve. They had started at my own local pub – no great coincidence since Henry, as I have said, lived close by, while Crispin lived somewhere over by Brighton. They had decided that the village of West Wittering was a little too quiet and, at Crispin’s suggestion, had headed into the great metropolis of Chichester, about fifteen minutes’ drive away at legal speeds – ten at the sort of speed Henry would have driven in his vintage Jaguar. They had followed some back roads on the outskirts of town. Henry said he didn’t know precisely where they had ended up but, listening to him, I had a fairly good idea about which place they had visited.

  I remembered seeing the New Year School Disco advertised in the local papers for some weeks beforehand. There aren’t in fact that many nightclubs in Chichester. Pubs, yes. Tea rooms, certainly. Garden centres with cafes selling lemon drizzle cake, no problem. Cavernous spaces throbbing with a pulsating beat – not so much. The establishment in question was, as Henry had implied, a club frequented mainly by students and young professionals intent on having a good time. I wasn’t a regular there myself, you might say – I usually preferred Russell’s Garden Centre – but I was pretty sure I knew where they’d been.

  Henry continued that he had found it hot and the music deafening. He had suggested leaving, but Crispin had said he liked the company of young people, by which he seemed to mean young female people. So, Henry had sat a great deal of the time in a corner drinking beer, while Crispin cruised the dance floor, occasionally draping himself around a girl thirty years his junior with an ease that Henry had envied. I nodded sympathetically.

  It all fitted in with my recollection of Crispin in the bars of conference hotels. Nobody could deny that he knew how to have a good time if his wife wasn’t watching him too closely. There was agreement, at least amongst crime writers, that Crispin resembled an aging rock star, though there was a lack of consensus over which one. One of the Rolling Stones perhaps, or Rod Stewart, or maybe even Howard Marks, if you wanted to widen the circle to friendly, retired drug dealers. He undoubtedly had the sagging face, the leather jacket, the long, unnaturally black hair and a lopsided grin that hung halfway between easy amiability and unabashed lechery. There was no questioning that he would have been more at home at the club than Henry or I.

  Sometime after eleven, Henry continued, Crispin had proposed going on by taxi to another place he knew, where the girls were possibly younger still and the music louder. Henry had politely declined and watched Crispin leave on his own. Then there was a complete blank except for two things. First he remembered the chimes of Big Ben sounding and he had noticed he was in a crowded, low-ceilinged room with copious beams and much brass on the walls. He took this to be a country pub and something more to his liking. Later – or perhaps a little before – he was outdoors, apparently in a wood. It was raining gently and water was dripping from the branches above his head. He could see the spire of the church and, dark against the clouds, its weathervane representing a ship in full sail. He had felt tired. He felt in need of a very strong drink, suggesting perhaps that the pub bit came later rather than earlier. Then he was in his own bed. It was still dark, his bedside clock read 03.54 and a nameless dread was creeping over him. He went back to sleep until mid-morning, when he woke again, got up and made some coffee. Then he phoned Crispin Vynall. There was no reply.

  ‘The church,’ I said. ‘The first time round, you didn’t mention the church.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘Maybe your memory of the evening is returning?’ I suggested. ‘Is there any more that you can recall?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. But this time he didn’t reprimand me for repeating my question.

  ‘How did you get to the church?’

  ‘I must have driven, don’t you think? Hence the mud on the car.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have been driving in that state.’

  ‘Ethelred, I’m saying that I may have murdered somebody. The drink-drive charges are relatively insignificant.’

  ‘But what if what you half-recall is running somebody over?’

  ‘There was no damage to the car – just mud.’

  ‘Very well. You drove back safely in your muddy car. I’m surprised the police didn’t stop you, but you would have been just one of many drunks on the road that night. They can’t stop everyone. It’s an interesting story. I don’t see how I can help you, though. I’d love to, but I can’t.’

  We both knew there was at least one lie in that last sentence.

  ‘I want you to find out what happened,’ said Henry. ‘To investigate. I need to know where I went and I need to know that Crispin is all right.’

  ‘And there is some good reason why it should be me rather than you who goes poking around West Sussex in the middle of winter?’

  ‘I could do it but … and I admit this … I’m frightened about what I may discover. Let me be entirely frank and say I’m not sure I have the guts to go through with it. And you are a better writer than I am – or at least your skills are more appropriate. I write thrillers. If we were both chained in a cellar with the water rising rapidly and rats crawling over our hair, then I’d know what our options were. But you, as you say, write dull and painstakingly accurate police procedurals. You know about gathering evidence and making logical deductions.’

  ‘Most of the things that the police have access to – CCTV footage, fingerprinting, trained pathologists and DNA evidence to name but four – are completely unavailable to me. Nor can I walk into whichever pub you were in, flash a warrant card and demand that people answer my questions.’

  ‘I explained why I can’t go to the police,’ he said patiently. ‘Even if I planned to turn myself in, I’d at least like to know first who I murdered and why. Maybe you will draw a complete blank, in which case I’ll have to accept your hypothesis that it was all some sort of dream. But I’d still like you to try.’

  Philip Marlowe would have narrowed his eyes and growled: ‘OK, but it’s going to cost you plenty. I hope you’ve got a rich uncle.’ I just said the first two of those words. And the emphasis was on ‘but’. My objections were:

  1) I wasn’t a real detective, just a crime writer who wrote about detectives. Even that wasn’t terribly profitable.

  2) To the extent that I had tried my hand at being a real detective, it had usually resulted in terror, discomfort and real humiliation. For me. Not for the criminal.

  3) My investigations had led to my being arrested three times and released three times. There was a sense in which I could still quit while I was ahead.

  4) If Henry had killed Crispin Vynall I was beginning to realise that I honestly didn’t care that much. Of course, I cared in a theoretical way, but that underlined word ‘predictable’ still grated, even now.

  I obviously hadn’t explained it quite that well to Henry, however, because he was looking at me as though we’d just become blood brothers.

  ‘So, you’ll do it?�
� he asked.

  ‘It would be pointless,’ I said. ‘I’m not a detective and I have a deadline looming.’

  ‘I thought so,’ he said smugly.

  ‘Thought what?’

  ‘You’ve never really done any research into how crimes are solved, other than read Agatha Christie and Colin Dexter. You lack even the most superficial knowledge of police work. It’s exactly what your Amazon reviews say, by the way.’

  Fans of Christie and Dexter might have raised their eyebrows at this. Elsie, as my agent, would have simply nodded and said that was the problem she has always had with my work. But I wasn’t in the mood for constructive feedback.

  ‘I’ve already explained—’

  ‘I don’t want a DNA analysis or a report on maggots found at the scene of the crime – just that you ask a few questions and find out what happened on New Year’s Eve. How difficult can that be?’

  ‘Not difficult at all. You could do it yourself. In any case, with the greatest of respect, we’ve hardly seen each other for months then you suddenly turn up and expect me to drop everything and be a detective.’

  ‘I actually phoned you on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘You sent me a text saying you were out having a good time. I sent you one in return saying I was watching television on my own.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. I did. I wasn’t looking for an invitation to join you, but at the same time I certainly didn’t get one. It’s a bit late to invite me to join the party now. I am politely declining your offer. You do it.’

  ‘Apart from all of the reasons I’ve already given, Ethelred, I simply don’t have the time. The Telegraph and the Sunday Times have both asked me to write a monthly round-up of crime fiction for them. It will be a lot of work but it will give me the chance to support mid-list authors who deserve to be known better. Authors who don’t normally get reviewed in the national press. Authors who are unfairly rubbished on Amazon. Authors whose sales deserve the real boost that a glowing review from a well-respected crime writer can offer.’

  He looked at me significantly.

  ‘What did you mean about being rubbished on Amazon?’ I asked. ‘Are you saying I’ve had some bad reviews there?’

  ‘Don’t you check them?’

  ‘Not often.’

  ‘Maybe you should. Of course, the only important reviews are still the ones you get in the press. The quality press. The sort of papers I write for. When is your next book out, by the way?’

  I paused. He might be bluffing, but could I risk it?

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said, ‘but I’ll just try to establish where you and Crispin were on New Year’s Eve – after that you’re on your own.’

  ‘That’s very good of you.’

  ‘If you remember anything else let me know,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said meekly.

  ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. In the meantime, don’t worry about it too much. I can’t imagine you’ve done anything untoward – let alone committed murder. I’m sure it will all be fine.’

  I was aware I sounded a little bit like the presenter of Crimewatch, who (for the record) never reassured me in the slightest that serious crime was a rare occurrence. Henry, on the other hand, seemed satisfied.

  ‘Thanks, Ethelred,’ he said, and he shook my hand.

  ‘Just out of interest,’ I said, ‘what are my options if I’m chained up in a cellar with the water rising rapidly?’

  ‘Don’t worry. The girl you met in chapter three should have worked out where you are and is already on her way with chain cutters,’ said Henry.

  ‘And if she hasn’t?’

  ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ said Henry.

  Later I briefly contemplated phoning Elsie to ask her advice. Had I done so, things might have been very different. On the other hand, judging by Elsie’s subsequent conduct, things might equally have been exactly the same. Or worse. We’ll never know really. Not now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Amazon.co.uk

  Death in the Cathedral Close

  (A Buckfordshire mystery) [paperback]

  Peter Fielding (author)

  Customer reviews

  ***** A great traditional mystery 21 April 2009

  By Bookworm

  I hadn’t come across this writer before, but I loved the book. If you like a straightforward story with no unpleasant surprises and good grammatical prose, then this one is certainly for you. An excellent book to take to bed and lull yourself gently to sleep. No hesitation in awarding Mr Fielding five stars. Bravo!

  **** Very Good Value 3 September 2009

  By M Smith REAL NAME

  I found this in an Oxfam shop and bought it for 30p. I’ve taken the price into account in marking it four stars. At full price maybe only three.

  ***** A Fine Police Procedural 12 December 2009

  By ‘Churchman’

  Peter Fielding’s latest book is well up to the standard of the previous ones. Sgt Fairfax is baffled by the discovery of a body outside the cathedral on Christmas Eve. Is it a tramp who has died of cold or is it ritual murder? Fielding allows the plot to unfold in his usual leisurely manner, with many interesting diversions into church architecture and history. Can’t recommend it strongly enough.

  * Total Rubbish 15 December 2012

  By Thrillseeker

  Anyone able to stay awake as far as page 7 will have guessed the denouement of this slim volume by Ethelred Tressider, writing here as Peter Fielding. Tressider has been penning the Buckfordshire series for some years now and must have exhausted almost every location in the fictional city of Buckford for the discovery of murder victims. This one turns up by the cathedral door, though nobody comments on the similarity with the discovery in an earlier book of a body in a pew in the same building. In Buckfordshire, it would seem, cathedrals are the normal place to recycle dead bodies. You can only conclude that Tressider finds his plots as unmemorable as the rest of us do, which is saying a great deal. I do so wish I could give the book no stars, but one is the minimum allowable. One star it is then.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Old House at Home is no more than a ten-minute walk from where I now live. It is a large but rather cosy pub situated in the middle of the village, just where the main road from Chichester turns abruptly to the left and, rejecting as impractical the idea of fetching up against the dunes of East Head, elects to wander off toward Bracklesham. It is functional rather than picturesque, a Victorian building modernised so often that it has the air of having been constructed at no particular time and to no particular plan. But it has a bright and well-cared for appearance. It is the sort of place you’d readily stop if you wanted to break your journey for a meal, or that you’d call in on with the family on the way back from the beach. It also seemed like as good a place as any to start asking questions.

  I know the barman well enough to call him Denzil and he knows me well enough to blink a couple of times, frown and call me Mr Treasurer or, on one occasion, Mr Treacle. It’s a tricky name.

  ‘Thanks, Denzil,’ I said as he pushed a half of bitter across the bar. Then I added casually: ‘I suppose you don’t remember who was in on New Year’s Eve?’

  ‘Now you’re asking,’ he said, with total accuracy but little elucidation. ‘Pretty much everybody was in, as you will have noticed yourself.’

  ‘I wasn’t here,’ I said.

  ‘Weren’t you? I could have sworn I served you.’

  ‘The night before, maybe,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’

  If I had been hoping for total recall, this wasn’t it.

  ‘Do you remember seeing Henry Holiday? He’s a writer, like me.’

  ‘You a writer, then?’ he asked brightly.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I’ve told you that. Maybe you’ve seen my books in the shops? I write mainly as Peter Fielding, but also as J. R. Elliott.’

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But I only look in the crime section.
What sort of thing do you write?’

  ‘Crime,’ I said.

  ‘Just crime?’

  ‘Well, some romantic fiction under another name.’

  ‘That would explain it, then,’ he said. ‘I don’t read romantic fiction.’ He was about to turn and go and check on a food order, when I added: ‘So, did you see Henry then? He was in with yet another crime writer: Crispin Vynall.’

  ‘Henry … Henry … Let me think … I’m not sure, but I certainly did see Crispin Vynall. I’ve read some of his books. They’re brilliant – there’s one where some kidnappers take this little kid and then video him being made to drink bleach so that the parents will—’

  ‘Sorry, Denzil, could I just stop you there and get you to tell me about Henry?’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  I did my best to describe him. Denzil nodded encouragingly.

  ‘I sort of remember him,’ he said, probably meaning he had no recollection at all. ‘Weren’t you with them, though? I can almost picture the three of you over there by the fire, chatting away – the two of them getting on like nobody’s business and you slightly out of it, sipping a half of bitter.’

  I put my half of bitter onto the counter. ‘No, I was at home,’ I said.

  ‘Shame. On your own on New Year’s Eve. And your friends a few yards away in the pub. You’d have thought they’d have sent you a text or something asking you to join them. You ought to get out more.’

  ‘It didn’t bother me. There was a really good programme on meerkats or something. I had all the excitement I needed. You don’t remember anything else about Crispin Vynall? What he was talking about, for example?’

  ‘I wouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations. As a barman you don’t. What’s said at the Old House at Home stays at the Old House at Home. But it was definitely Crispin Vynall. I’m pretty sure you came over to the bar and introduced him to me.’

  ‘That must have been Henry. I wasn’t here.’

  ‘You sure?’