The Herring Seller's Apprentice

by L. C. Tyler

  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.’

  Even at the time, I suspected that Dennis was bullshitting and knew no more about it than I did, but it sounded convincing.The fact that he was a shady geezer in a flash overcoat gave him a certain amount of credibility in this respect.

  ‘Tens of thousands of pounds?’

  ‘Ten thousand, say. But he didn’t do it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What you really want to know is: Did Ethelred hire a contract killer? Right?’

  So, actually, Dennis wasn’t so stupid, really.

  ‘And?’ I said.

  ‘Most contract killers would use a gun. Some might use a knife. I’ve never heard of one strangling somebody with their bare hands. Why bother? Too slow. Too crude. Too uncertain. To strangle somebody like that would just show a lack of planning. It wasn’t a contract killing.’

  ‘Well done, Dennis. That’s a weight off my mind, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘Unless they wanted to make it look like a serial killing, of course.’

  ‘Oh, right.So, I’m back to square one.Thanks a bunch, Den.’

  ‘Ethelred’s not a killer – either in person or by proxy. I know that and you know it too. Anyway, what’s it to you?’

  ‘I don’t like losing one of my authors. I’d rather they stayed out of jail.’

  ‘That’s all there is to it?’

  ‘Yes, Dennis.That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘If you say so. He’s a good man.’

  ‘I know. He always said that he never knew what Geraldine saw in him, but I do. He is a good man. He’s dependable and kind and trustworthy. Of course that sort of thing can get right up your nose. Dependability is something that you only appreciate as you grow older. So I can see why Geraldine might have wanted a break from it but I can equally see why after a few years of Rupert,she might have wanted him back. He’d have gone back to her too, the silly bugger. Geraldine’s death was one of the best breaks Ethelred had.’

  ‘Just another of your authors then?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Thank you for the advice, Dennis
,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t mention it, dear lady’

  I went in search of more tea. As I passed the two aunts, I heard one say to the other, ‘But murdered, my dear. Surely nobody else in the family has been murdered?’

  ‘Ivy’said the other.

  ‘Oh, but that was by her husband – quite a different matter.’

  ‘I suppose so,’said the second aunt.‘I didn’t see him atthe crematorium, did you?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t get about much now, poor man.’

  I passed on, still tea-less.

  Rupert was talking to the vicar. He is the sort of person who knows how to talk to vicars. It’s a gift;either you have it or you don’t. He saw me, disengaged himself from the clergy (an even greater gift in my view) and came across the room.

  ‘Hello, Elsie.’

  ‘Hello, Rupert. How are things?’

  ‘Well, frankly, not too good. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of work around for fund-raising consultants at the moment. Geraldine clearing off with the cash has really finished me off. The landlord’s not too happy at not having his rent paid on the nail. I asked Ethelred if it wasn’t time to go to the police – they might just be able to trace whoever withdrew the money from the bank in Switzerland. He reckons that the other creditors will just swipe it if we do – you know, the banks and people. He says it’s better to track down the cash ourselves. But what if he can’t? I mean … I might have to get a real job.’ He laughed, which under the circumstances could not have been an easy thing to do.‘Ethelred will get the money, though, won’t he?’

  Well, I’d seen desperate people before, but nobody so desperate as to pin their last hopes on Ethelred Tressider.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said, sounding more like the kind, reassuring Ethelred Tressider every minute. ‘Of course he will.’

  I finally caught up with Ethelred as most of the other guests were leaving.

  ‘Nice skirt,’ he said.‘New?’

  ‘A bit tight,’I said, giving it a tug.‘They tried to sell me a size sixteen, but I wasn’t having any of that.’

  He nodded sympathetically, but what would he know about how we women are made to suffer?

  ‘How are things?’ I enquired, the way you do.

  ‘Geraldine’s estate is almost wrapped up,’ he said. ‘I’ve sold the flat. Completion’s not until the New Year, but everything’s sorted out. Nothing left for me to do – the lawyers will sort out the last bit.’

  This struck me as odd, in the sense that up until then he’d insisted on handling everything himself. But if he wanted to take a break and let some solicitor do it, fair enough.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said.

  There was one of those pregnant pauses, then he suddenly blurted out, ‘Elsie, can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said – though obviously I was going to do it, whatever it was.

  ‘I’ve got some stuff I want you to look after. It’s in the car.’

  The ‘stuff’ proved to be two large boxes.

  ‘What’s in them?’

  He pulled one open. It was full of manuscripts, packed tightly in two piles. On top were the typescript of All on a Summer’s Day and a few pages of messy, childish handwriting.

  ‘All the early ones are there on paper,’ he said. ‘The later ones are on disk.’

  I reached into the box and took out the slim handwritten effort.

  ‘“The Penkwen and the Hedhog?”’ I said.

  ‘That’s “The Penguin and the Hedgehog”,’ he said, hunching his shoulders and shuffling his flippers a bit.‘It was my first novel. I was six when I wrote it.’

  ‘I should hope so. Penkwen? I have to point out that there is usually no W in “Once upon a time” either. Who was your editor in those days? OK, I’ll take care of the manuscripts.What’s in the other box?’

  ‘This and that. I’m trusting you not to peek. I can tell you, however, that at the very top is a letter to be opened in the event of my disappearing and not coming back.’

  I felt a cold shiver.What the hell was he on about?

  ‘Where are you planning to disappear to?’ I demanded.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘So why might you not come back?’

  ‘I don’t know that either.’

  ‘Ethelred, is somebody threatening you? Is somebody blackmailing you? Look, if they are, Dennis may know what to do. I’ll speak to him if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no danger at all,’ he said. ‘Not for me, anyway.’

  He smiled confidently, the way he had in the car on the way back down to Sussexjust before the police arrested him.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Whatever you say. And in the meantime,you want me to look after this stuff?’

  ‘Yes. Until I am able to send you other instructions. Keep it safe and don’t even open the second box unless you need to. Can I trust you?’

  ‘Ethelred, I don’t understand this and I don’t like it.’

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Thanks,you’re a star, Elsie.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  At the first layby outside Feldingham I stopped and opened the second box. Well, come on, what would you have done? It contained mainly photograph albums with, tucked away down one side, some pieces of jewellery. I flicked through a couple of the albums.There were old pictures of Ethelred, pictures of Geraldine, one or two of a much younger Rupert and lots of a whole load of people I didn’t know from shit. One album was devoted just to Ethelred and Geraldine’s wedding. I was in one or two myself. Jesus, what did I look like in that lemon frock with half of Kew Gardens attached to my shoulder? (You might not think it now, but I used to have this really crap taste in clothes.) And there was Ethelred, grey morning suit, top hat and a bitch on his left arm, smiling sweetly. Round her neck was a gold chain that was, incidentally, one of the pieces of jewellery tucked away in the box.

  On top of all of this was a sealed letter. I looked at it and ran my finger along the top. It would be the work of a moment to tear it open. But then I thought, No, he trusts me not to. How can I yield to temptation within minutes of leaving him? I’ll wait until tomorrow for the letter.

  So what was I to make of it all? The pieces of jewellery might technically form part of the estate, but he had probably bought them for her and, in his shoes, I would have tried to claw back some of the cash that she’d walked off with. But the photo albums? Of course, I could understand why he might have seen them as something that was irreplaceable and why he might have wanted them, along with the manuscripts, to be in safekeeping. But why shouldn’t I see them? They were only photos, after all. Or was it a double bluff? He obviously knew that I would open the box and wanted me to see the albums. I couldn’t help feeling that I was being presented with clue after clue, but was failing to fit them together. In Rubik’s cube terms, I was back to six sides all looking like rainbows.

  I shut the boxes and drove west, back to civilization. The knowledge that the letter lay, still unopened, in the second box gave me a feeling of virtue all the way home.

  Twenty-five

  The public soon lost whatever interest it had had in the murder of Geraldine Tressider. The killing of a little Nigerian boy in south London hit the headlines soon after and stayed there most of that winter. Mary Jones, the sad management consultant, had her brief moment of fame when the police announced that, in the absence of any sighting since her disappearance,they were now treating the case as a murder inquiry. But in view of the absence of a body or anything else, her case too faded from sight as a wet November turned into a wet December and our minds turned to serious problems, like how to keep the diet going over Christmas. I never did find out whether Wayne, Ada or Paula were heard from again. Not everyone who goes missing wants to be found. Geraldine, of course, had not wanted to be found either – only the silly cow overdid it as usual.

  For a week or two after the funeral, I saw little of Ethelred.
He was busy with various things and I suddenly had my hands full with an auction for Darren’s novel, which resulted in an advance large enough to make the inside pages of the major dailies.Then Ethelred vanished to spend Christmas with some distant relative in Dorset.

  It was funny the way that I missed him now when he wasn’t around, but I reckoned I’d see plenty of him in the New Year.

  As for me, I spent the festive season alone in Hampstead – not as bad as you might think in that nobody gets drunk and storms out of the house, and you get to watch whatever rubbish on TV takes your fancy. Well, I’d opened my present to myself (chocolate), one from Ethelred (chocolate, bless him) and one from Darren (chocolate), eaten Christmas lunch (microwaved turkey, chocolate, plus half a grapefruit to show the diet I hadn’t forgotten it) and settled back for a mindless six hours of prole-feed on the box, when it occurred to me that there was one little treat that I’d been saving up, to wit, Ethelred’s farewell letter. It was the work of a moment to retrieve it from the box and there it was in my hands, quite unaccountably open.

  Dear Elsie [it read], I assume that you will read this in the first layby you reach on the way home. [That’s all you know, I thought.] Well, that’s fine by me. I can’t yet tell you where I am going, because I don’t know and so you’re none the wiser. What I do know is that, one way or another, I will be off on a long trip sometime next year – call it research for my next book if you wish. Before I get down to detail, I want to thank you for all the help you have given to me over the years and for the help that I know you are going to give me.

  Oh right. I am, am I?

  There then followed detailed instructions for the payment of royalties into his bank account, a list of standing orders that had been set up, what to tell the neighbours, what to do with his car and so on.Three pages in all, and each as dull as the one before it. He’d thought it through like the tax inspector he still was, at heart. Bless. But no instruction to go to the police and tell them the Mob was after him. No instruction even to go to the police and tell them that Geraldine had been ripping off all and sundry. No confession of anything at all.