Crooked Herring

by L. C. Tyler

  At the bottom of the heap are all books featuring amateur detectives and quilt-makers. Sadly this book fails to live up to even the last of these. The police in Buckfordshire clearly follow procedures known only to them and Lord Peter Whimsy.

  So, two very distinctive misspellings made their appearance both in Crispin’s Amazon reviews and the death threat. It was almost like a fingerprint.

  But I knew I’d seen the ‘nolonger’ mistake somewhere else. Where was that? I was throwing the biscuit wrapper in the bin when I finally remembered – it had been in the text message from Crispin to Ethelred. That pretty much sealed it.

  Of course, I realised that it might not stand up in court, but it was clear enough to me. Crispin had, for reasons best known to himself, set up multiple sockpuppet accounts to praise some authors (such as himself and Henry Holiday) and rubbish others (such as Ethelred). Then he had vanished, having sent a death threat letter to Ethelred that implied that he had been murdered. And leaving Henry under the impression that he had killed Crispin. It was, in its own crooked way, ingenious. But why on earth would he want to do it?

  Anyway, why would Crispin big up Henry on Amazon? Even to the extent, if I remembered correctly, of admitting Henry was the better writer. How was that a necessary part of anything? It was true that Henry was a blatant imitator of Crispin’s style. But even if Crispin had loved Henry’s books to bits, there would surely be better ways of doing it than anonymous reviews on Amazon.

  And why then send a text to Ethelred, in effect blowing his cover? Could somebody else have sent the text? The text was, when you thought about it, outright proof that Crispin was alive.

  I reread Sussexreader’s reviews, looking for the smallest detail that might prove useful. Then I noticed the big detail. The most recent was dated 7 January. So, there was further evidence that Crispin had not died on New Year’s Eve. Dead men do not review on Amazon.

  I decided to phone Ethelred in the morning. There were unanswered questions, but I was as sure as I could be that Crispin was alive. I’d also cracked the riddle of who sent the death threat. And if Crispin had indeed now fled the country, Ethelred could be sure that he wouldn’t be getting any more of them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The envelope was lying on the doormat. It was six-fifteen in the morning. I stood for a moment, clutching the cup of coffee I had just made. Then I picked it up and opened it.

  WELL, ETHELRED, YOU DIDN’T HEED MY WARNING AND NOW YOU ARE IN IT UP TO YOUR NECK, AREN’T YOU? I KNOW WHERE YOU’VE BEEN. I NO YOU TOOK HENRY HOLIDAY TO DIDLING GREEN AND I NO YOU DROVE TO BRIGHTON TO VISIT EMMA. BUT SHE’S NOT EXACTLY BIN HONEST WITH YOU, HAS SHE? YOU NEED TO TALK TO HER AGAIN AND GET HER TO TELL YOU THE TROOF THIS TIME. YOU’RE GOING TO DIE ETHELRED, BUT I’M AT LEAST GOING TO GIVE YOU THE CHANCE TO FIND OUT FIRST. SO, WHY DON’T YOU RING EMMA AGAIN. HERE’S HER NUMBER, JUST IN CASE YOU FORGOT IT. GOOD LUCK, MORON.

  The number that followed was indeed Crispin’s home number.

  Again, I was left with the feeling that the various errors in the letter were deliberate. How else could I explain the correct spelling of ‘been’ on one line, apparently forgotten completely only a few lines later. Or the inexplicable double misspelling of ‘know’. And yet there was not an apostrophe or comma out of place.

  I knew I had not been followed to Didling Green. Or to Brighton. The question was whether anyone had needed to. If they already knew Henry had been to Didling Green on New Year’s Eve, how far would they have to follow us to guess that was our destination? If they knew I had phoned Emma, it would not take much ingenuity to guess I might have followed it up with a visit? And yet, there was a certainty in the note that contradicted the idea that this was mere guesswork.

  I called Elsie.

  ‘I’ve had a death threat.’

  ‘Yes, Ethelred, I know. I saw it. Actually I’ve got it in my handbag.’

  ‘I’m talking about a second one. It’s just like the first one – I mean it’s all in capitals and misspelt. It says I’m going to die.’

  ‘You can’t have a second one. I was about to phone you. I’d just worked the whole thing out and a second death threat is impossible. Crispin wrote the first one. And he’s now out of the country. Does it have a Swedish stamp or anything?’

  ‘No, it was delivered by hand, like the last one.’

  ‘Then Crispin’s lying about having left the country,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Anyway, why should he be in Sweden?’

  Elsie then explained, with due reference to her unrivalled cleverness, how she had established that the death-threater, Thrillseeker and Sussexreader were all Crispin. I expressed admiration, though perhaps less than she felt was her due.

  ‘So what does the letter say this time?’ she asked.

  ‘It says somebody knows exactly where I’ve been. And I’m going to die.’

  ‘Well, unless you had imagined you were immortal, that won’t have come as a shock. The days of our years are three score and ten.’

  ‘I don’t think the writer is making either a philosophical or a theological point. He implies he can speed things along.’

  ‘And he’s encouraging you to talk to Emma again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t get it. Why does Crispin want you to talk to Emma? Unless he’s making the point that the whole thing is revenge for your nocturnal activities at Harrogate.’

  ‘There were no nocturnal activities at Harrogate.’

  ‘I bet there were. You just didn’t get your share of them. I’m sure Crispin had plenty.’

  ‘That could be. There and in other places.’

  ‘Does the name Elisabeth Söderling mean anything to you?’ Elsie asked.

  ‘A reasonably successful writer of gloom-laden Nordic crime.’

  ‘She was with Crispin at Bristol, apparently.’

  ‘Possibly. Is that why you think Crispin’s in Stockholm?’

  ‘That was my theory. The latest letter rather puts a hole in it, though.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s worth my going out to Sweden just in case,’ I said. ‘But I do think it’s worth phoning Emma to see what it is she hasn’t told me.’

  ‘But that’s what Crispin wants you to do.’

  ‘I can’t see there’s any problem in my talking to Emma again,’ I said.

  ‘I have a better idea for tracking Crispin down.’

  ‘Really? What?’

  ‘Never you mind. Just be impressed when I let you know where he is. And in the meantime, ignore that letter completely.’

  ‘And not phone Emma?’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Elsie. ‘It’s what he wants you to do.’

  She was right, of course. It was indeed what he wanted me to do. But in the end I didn’t need to phone. Emma phoned me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘What are you playing at, Ethelred?’

  I was used to Elsie beginning conversations with me like this, but not usually other people.

  ‘Sorry, Emma, I’m not sure what you mean,’ I said.

  For a moment the phone seemed to have gone dead. Then she spoke again. ‘Are you saying it wasn’t you?’

  ‘Wasn’t me what?’

  ‘Wasn’t you who reported Crispin missing?’

  ‘Somebody has reported Crispin missing?’ I said.

  ‘The police came round this morning. They said he had been reported as a missing person. I felt a bit stupid having to say I had no idea where he was. I mean, if anyone was going to report him, it was really down to me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Anyone can report a missing person.’

  ‘Yes, but if the missing person is married you’d expect his wife to notice first. Somebody else reporting it suggests a negligent approach on my part.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know any more about it all than you do. Somebody else has clearly noticed he’s gone.’

  ‘Clearly. Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.
Emma, perhaps I should have told you all this sooner, but there’s something very odd going on. I’ve had a strange letter …’

  ‘Strange in what way?’

  ‘A death threat,’ I said.

  ‘A death threat? Saying what?’

  ‘Saying I’d be next.’

  ‘Next? Next after whom?’

  ‘They may have implied Crispin …’

  ‘You mean you’re saying Crispin’s dead?’

  ‘No, the letter said that. I’m as sure as I can be that Crispin is alive. I had that text. But I think it’s possible that Crispin actually sent me the letters himself.’

  ‘Crispin sent you a letter saying he was dead and that he was going to murder you?’

  ‘Put like that it doesn’t sound too probable, I admit.’

  ‘And why would he do that?’

  ‘Perhaps because he thought something had happened between us at Harrogate?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Ethelred. Anyway, you’re saying you were told in a letter that Crispin was dead, but didn’t think it was worth passing on that information to me? You came over here twice, but that bit skipped your memory?’

  I realised that, if Crispin was indeed dead, I had not broken the news of his death terribly well. Of course, he wasn’t dead, but from Emma’s point of view, I was now somebody who insisted on personal visits when out-of-date textbooks were the issue, but who was quite happy to mention, over the phone and purely in passing, that her husband might possibly have been murdered. I could see why she might find this odd.

  ‘I don’t think that anything like that has happened,’ I said very quickly. ‘I think he has simply gone off somewhere. Perhaps he wants us to think he is dead …’

  ‘But he sent you a text message.’

  ‘In confidence. I wasn’t to tell anyone.’

  ‘But why should he want the rest of us to think he was dead?’

  ‘I don’t know. You mentioned the Christie thing.’

  ‘You mentioned the Christie thing. I just said that he had vanished before. Anyway, Agatha Christie didn’t send death threats to all and sundry.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And I said: when he vanished before he was just away for a few days. No fuss. No amateur dramatics. Just a four-day-long sulk. Crispin wouldn’t have sent you death threats. Have you told the police?’

  ‘Not as yet,’ I said.

  ‘Why, Ethelred? In the name of God, why? You come round here and ask me all sorts of questions. You seem desperately interested to know where Crispin is. But, having been told in writing that Crispin may be dead, you decide to keep it to yourself?’

  ‘Yes’ was the simple answer to this question. I took it up one notch from there.

  ‘Sort of,’ I said.

  ‘When did you get this note?’

  ‘The first one? About a week ago.’

  ‘You’ve had more than one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Both implying that Crispin has been killed?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘And you’ve reported neither?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  Would telling her that Henry had more or less confessed to murdering Crispin make my actions more or less plausible? I could see that it might not stand to my credit in Emma’s eyes.

  ‘I can’t explain,’ I said. ‘There are things I can’t tell you at the moment. But I think you do know where Crispin is.’

  ‘Ethelred, you are now really trying my patience. I do not know where he is. I’ve told you that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What do you think? If you ask me any more stupid questions, I’m hanging up.’

  ‘OK. But do you know anything about a writer called Elisabeth Söderling?’

  The phone went dead. I decided not to call her back.

  I could only hope Elsie had had more success. I tried phoning her and got a recorded message, inviting me to speak after the tone. But I felt I needed to gather my thoughts. I needed to phrase things in a way that didn’t make me appear a complete idiot. A text might be better. I sat down and started to compose one that would do this news justice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  From the journal of Elsie Thirkettle

  The one person who ought to know exactly where a writer is at any time of the night or day is his agent. Writers are more like dogs than cats, really. You can let a cat out and trust it to come home at dinner time, whereas dogs end up stuck down rabbit holes or helplessly drifting downstream, heading for the weir but still holding firmly in their teeth the valuable stick they plunged into the river to retrieve. There are good arguments for microchipping writers if vets could be persuaded to do it at a reasonable price.

  Anyway, it struck me that if anyone knew Crispin’s current whereabouts it would be his agent. The only problem was that Janet Francis is a stuck-up cow who, for some reason, thinks I run a tinpot agency on the outer fringes of the literary world where the sun rises only briefly even in midsummer. Just because I answer my own phone, whereas you have to talk to about twenty of her minions just to get to say hello to her, doesn’t mean her agency is more important than mine. So, I waited patiently as her receptionist put me through to her secretary and then her secretary, after a ten-minute grilling on my intentions, put me through to her. Finally Janet Francis spoke to me. The temperature in the room dropped about four degrees as she did so.

  ‘Elsie! How delightful to hear from you. We don’t seem to move in quite the same circles these days.’

  ‘I don’t move in circles at all,’ I said. ‘I prefer straight lines.’

  ‘Do you? Well, as my secretary will have told you, I’m just dashing out. One of my Swedish writers is over and I have to be at Foyles for a signing. You know what it’s like. Or maybe not. Could I call you back later?’

  ‘I’m trying to track down Crispin Vynall,’ I said.

  ‘Would you like one of my people to pass him a message?’

  ‘How many people do you have?’

  ‘Enough to take messages. Now, shall I get one of them to do that?’

  ‘No, I want to talk to Crispin myself. Do you have contact details for him?’

  ‘Obviously we do. I’m his agent.’

  ‘I mean recent details. He’s not answering his mobile and I can’t get him on his Brighton number. You know he’s left his wife?’

  There was a short silence. She clearly didn’t know. One small point to the agent without a PA, then.

  ‘No, he can be difficult to get on his mobile sometimes. He switches it off when he doesn’t want to be disturbed. The landline is usually better. I think he did give us a new contact number – another landline.’ There was another pause, then she said: ‘Yes, it’s here on the card. He gave it to us just after Christmas.’

  ‘So, what is the number?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, can I?’

  ‘You can if you want to.’

  ‘Hmmm, yes, but I don’t want to. If you have a query, you could email it to my assistant, Tuesday.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long.’

  ‘No, my new assistant is called Tuesday. You can email her today.’

  ‘I need to speak to Crispin myself, not leave a message.’

  ‘Well, good luck with finding his number then. Sorry, Elsie, I really have to go.’

  Somewhere in Soho a well-manicured talon rested briefly on top of a gleaming handset. Then, no doubt gathering her handbag and Filofax together, she flew from the room.

  Filofax? Yes, I do mean that. Janet’s great days had been in the eighties and nineties. That was when she had discovered Crispin and a couple of other best-selling authors. The twenty-first century had proved a bit of a disappointment for her. Deep down I think she still yearned for shoulder pads, eyeliner and frosted lipgloss. I had no doubt that her card index was immaculate, but it would be a card index all the same – not a computer system or an entry in her iPhone’s contact list. I counted slowly to 100 then phone
d her office again.

  ‘Sorry, she’s just gone out,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘Could you put me through to her new assistant – Tuesday, I think she’s called?’

  ‘That’s right. Putting you through now.’

  ‘Hi, Tuesday. Elsie Thirkettle here. I was talking to Janet a moment ago and she said she’d let me have Crispin Vynall’s new number. But she’s apparently gone out. You couldn’t look it up for me on the card index in her room, could you?’

  One good thing about New People is that they are touchingly eager to please. Give them a month or two and they’ll know all too well why you shouldn’t divulge random facts about your authors to complete strangers on the phone. But catch them in those delightful first few weeks and they’ll give you anything they can lay their little hands on. Bless.

  ‘Yes, of course. Hold on a moment.’

  Either she was very close to Janet’s office or (more likely) she ran there and back. She was panting slightly as she read from the card.

  ‘There’s a home number, which is Brighton …’

  ‘It would be a recent entry,’ I said. Then I had a moment of inspiration. Thinking of a remark of Ethelred’s that Crispin might have been staying quite close to West Wittering, I added: ‘I think it begins 01243.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, brightly. If she had had any worries at all that the Data Protection Act applied to her, I had allayed them. She proceeded to read out a number.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ I said.

  ‘My pleasure,’ she said. And she actually meant it.

  She was no longer panting, so she was probably quite fit. Fit, bright-eyed and alert. I briefly imaged her jumping around the office, when not otherwise engaged, like a small hind.

  I wondered whether to add that Tuesday should tell Janet how pleased I’d been with her. But then I decided that would be too cruel. Let her skip around in her sunny glade for a little longer before the harsh realities of employment at a literary agency finally struck home.