The Maltese Herring

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘Who does Elsie consider is in your league?’

  ‘She’d probably rule out anyone who still had all their own teeth,’ I said. ‘Otherwise the field’s pretty much open.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I never wanted the Madonna and, when I had the Madonna, I never knew I had her, so not having her now is more than OK. Sammartini and his friend may not be major league, but they’re good enough to frighten me.’

  ‘Well, they don’t frighten me,’ she said. She stood up. She didn’t bother to ask if I was a man or a mouse. People rarely ask mice searching questions.

  ‘Take the road back to Chichester,’ I said, ‘then turn right onto the A27.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s the best way to Brighton,’ I said. ‘That’s where you were heading.’

  ‘Yes, Brighton,’ she said slowly.

  ‘I’d get going,’ I said. ‘It can be busy this time of year. Especially the Arundel bypass.’

  She bit her lip. A very small tear was forming in her eye – perhaps one of regret, though more likely one of extreme disappointment. She’d hoped to be leaving with four million pounds worth of Madonna tucked under her arm.

  ‘Ethelred, I meant it,’ she said. ‘You. Me. The West Indies. Wads of cash in our pockets and a lifetime in which to spend it. That is what I want. That is what you could have. If you wanted it too. As much as I do.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  I watched her turn and then go back into the house, her skirt swishing, her heels clicking on my floor, her perfume still hanging enticingly in the air. I didn’t follow her. After a while I heard the car engine start up. The estate was treated to the sound of a Mercedes being driven as fast as the speed bumps would allow, then there was silence.

  Of course, Elsie was right. Way out of my league. Still a week or two in St Lucia would have been nice. It wasn’t as if I had any other plans.

  ‘You can’t hide in London for ever,’ said Elsie.

  ‘I’m not hiding,’ I said. ‘I just needed to do some research at the British Library.’

  ‘Right,’ said Elsie. ‘Except it’s six o’clock and I want to lock up the office and go home. When are you going back to Sussex?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I thought maybe I could stay with you.’

  ‘Are you frightened of Sammartini or Fay Tomlinson?’

  ‘Neither. But I’m not going to sit there in West Wittering waiting for somebody else to turn up and ask me where the Madonna is.’

  ‘And where is it?’

  ‘It used to be under a rose bush. Then somebody took it. Ask them.’

  ‘But Fay said it must be somebody who knows your garden well. They didn’t dig up all the roses, did they? Just that one. They didn’t dig up the Miscanthus. They didn’t dig up the peony, though God knows they should have done. It’s too big for that bed.’

  ‘True,’ I said. ‘It would have been much better if he’d hidden it under the peony.’

  ‘So, who’d even been in your garden since Joyner was there?’

  I thought about it. ‘Apart from you?’ I said. ‘Iris. Polgreen. He was there when I first noticed that one of the roses was dying. I’ve already thought of him. But he simply wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Ethelred, if Barclay-Wood was right, the Madonna has corrupted everyone who has come into contact with it. Why not Polgreen as well?’

  ‘The Madonna is just an inanimate object. It has no mystical powers.’

  ‘How much is it worth?’

  ‘I don’t know. Millions, apparently.’

  ‘And that won’t corrupt anyone?’

  ‘No more than any other valuable object.’

  For a while neither of us said anything.

  ‘You like Henry Polgreen, don’t you?’ said Elsie.

  ‘He seems essentially decent,’ I said.

  ‘And “essentially decent” is basically your highest form of praise?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with being decent.’

  ‘But you don’t much like Sly?’

  ‘He never grew out of being the school sneak. Actually, he’s probably eased nicely into the role over the years. He’s good. He’s taken sneakery to new levels.’

  ‘So, if anyone killed Joyner, you’d like it to be Sly?’

  ‘If anyone would hit somebody on the back of the head with a brick and push them down a well, it would be Sly.’

  ‘And yet, Sly had no possible motive for killing the one person who was on his side. He had nothing at all to gain by it. Polgreen, on the other hand, might have genuinely had something to fear from Joyner. For whatever reason, Polgreen did not want the excavations to recommence. Sly said he could be ruined if they did. Joyner was keen to dig everywhere, and quite possibly had something on Iris that would have got her to vote with Sly and agree to new excavations. And you’ve just said that Polgreen was one of the few people who knew where the Madonna might have been buried?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you saw somebody in a white jacket close to the well. A white jacket not unlike Polgreen’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’d still like the killer to be Sly anyway?’

  ‘You don’t have to labour the point. I do understand.’

  ‘Are you sure? I could run through it all again.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘So, you need to go back to West Wittering and talk to your friend Polgreen. Polgreen the prime suspect.’

  ‘If there’s been a murder, then it’s the police who need to talk to Henry Polgreen.’

  ‘But they won’t. They think it was an accident. They’re not interviewing anyone. Anyway, they’re not going to recover the statue of the Virgin and hand it over to you.’

  ‘I don’t want it, it’s not mine.’

  ‘I’ll have it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to corrupt you.’

  ‘I’m a literary agent. We can handle stuff like that. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t going to happen, anyway,’ I said. ‘Unless Henry Polgreen decides to hand it over. And I’ve no idea why he’d do that.’

  ‘Just remind him of the curse,’ said Elsie. ‘Anyone who goes near it dies horribly. He’ll die horribly too, unless he gives it back to somebody who won’t be corrupted by it.’

  ‘He doesn’t need reminding. He’s the world expert on it. That’s the best reason of all why he wouldn’t touch it.’

  ‘Everyone in the story knew there were consequences if they stole the statue. They still did it.’

  I sighed. ‘I used to think that my life was an Agatha Christie novel,’ I said. ‘A little convoluted, but essentially well-ordered and civilised. I’m beginning to think it may be more Raymond Chandler.’

  ‘How many scheming dames with mouths like a scarlet gash have tried to seduce you for their own crooked purposes?’

  ‘Just the one,’ I said. ‘I turned her down.’

  ‘How many times have you been beaten up by a corrupt cop in a grimy alleyway?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Just scammed by academics.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like Chandler,’ said Elsie. ‘Maybe Edmund Crispin on a quiet day.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘Just don’t end up in a James M. Cain novel. Nobody gets out of one of those alive.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ I said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ethelred

  I should have followed my instincts and begged Elsie to let me stay in London for a while. It would have been a small reciprocation of her frequent visits to Sussex. But I reluctantly took the train back to Chichester and, having missed the last bus, paid twenty pounds for a taxi to take me from Chichester Station into West Wittering.

  Sure enough, the following morning I had a visitor.

  ‘You’ll forgive the intrusion,’ said Sly with unjustified confidence.

  But
it was not as if there were any other options on offer. He’d already intruded. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Sly?’ I asked.

  ‘Tertius, please,’ he said, though it was clear that he felt his membership of his parish council entitled him to be addressed more formally if he so chose. ‘As to what you can do for me … I understand you wish to join the Abbey preservation committee?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said cautiously. I had no wish to be churlish.

  ‘Well, I’d be happy to support your application,’ said Sly, with what he clearly imagined was great generosity. ‘We need men of your calibre, Ethelred, to carry forward our important work. I’m assuming, of course, that we are of much the same mind?’

  ‘I’m sure we must be on some things,’ I said.

  Sly looked dubious. He had not expected qualification of any sort. ‘If I’m to give you my support, Ethelred – my full and unreserved support – I’d need to be certain that our views were wholly aligned. I realise that Henry Polgreen is a friend of yours, but you have already conceded that his activities are illegal. We now need to work together to have him unseated. Once I am chairman, I would be happy to relinquish the secretaryship to you, Ethelred. You could act as my deputy, working to support me as best you could. Of course, at your age, you couldn’t expect to succeed me as chairman, but I can assure you that secretary of the Abbey preservation committee is a position of considerable power and influence and not just in West Wittering. As you are aware, it gives me a certain kudos throughout the entire Manhood Peninsula: East Wittering, Bracklesham, Sidlesham – even Selsey. It would do the same for you. You would gain respect that you couldn’t possibly have under normal circumstances. For somebody like you, it is an amazing opportunity. So, Ethelred, do we have an understanding?’

  I sighed. Perhaps churlishness was the better option after all.

  ‘I haven’t yet decided what to do,’ I said, ‘but thank you for your offer of support, should I choose to join.’

  Sly looked disappointed in me. ‘You need to make up your mind,’ he said. ‘You’ll never get anywhere in life if you dither like this. Look at me. When there was a vacancy on our parish council, I threw my hat straight into the ring. Carpe diem, as the Bard so rightly said. Carpe diem, Ethelred.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said, as I so often said to Elsie, and with equal conviction.

  He sat back in his seat. As with most of my visitors, it was taking him some time to come to the point. The real point.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ I asked.

  ‘Well – I’m just curious – have you had any further discussions with your policeman friend?’

  ‘Joe? No, not lately.’

  ‘You don’t have the low-down on what they are thinking? About Dr Joyner?’

  ‘Only that it was an accident. I told you that.’

  ‘You did, Ethelred, you did. I thought our discussion was very interesting, and I hope you found my advice helpful. But they’ve had no second thoughts?’

  ‘None that they have told me about.’

  ‘You didn’t put your idea to them that it might have been Henry Polgreen who killed him, with Iris Munnings’ help?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I decided not to.’

  ‘But you must agree that was what happened? Dr Joyner’s book, when he’d finished it, would have exposed Polgreen for what he is. A man of Joyner’s integrity would not have been bribable. Polgreen had to stop him any way he could. So, he had to kill him.’

  ‘I think that’s very unlikely,’ I said. I had no intention this time of making myself unclear in any way.

  Sly frowned. ‘But consider, Ethelred. Surely what happened was this? The rest of us were touring the garden. Dr Joyner had remained by the well. Polgreen returned, crept up behind him and smashed a brick into the back of his skull as he knelt there. He gave Dr Joyner a gentle push and then watched as his body tipped forwards and plummeted helplessly to the bottom of the shaft. There was a muffled splash. Polgreen gave a guilty start and looked behind him, but nobody had seen or heard a thing. So, he breathed a sigh of relief. He crept away, shaking, and rejoined the group as if nothing had happened. Doesn’t that fit the facts as we know them?’

  ‘If the police say anything at all along those lines, I’ll certainly let you know,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, Ethelred,’ he said. ‘That’s kind of you. Any little snippet that you hear – even if you do not entirely understand its significance yourself. Just tell me, all right? Well, I’d best be on my way. Lots to do when you’re on two committees, and secretary to one of them, as you will discover yourself, if you play your cards right.’

  ‘Of course, Councillor Sly,’ I said.

  ‘Tertius,’ he said. ‘There’s no need for formality between us. Do you know, Ethelred, I think we’re going to be great friends.’

  I decided that it was my turn to drink coffee and lie about my intentions. Accordingly, I took a stroll to the edge of the village and walked up the front path of a small, modern bungalow, built of anonymous beige brick, with a nice display of roses in the garden. I didn’t need to ring the bell. Polgreen suddenly emerged from behind a large buddleia, glasses balanced on the end of his nose, a pair of secateurs in his hand.

  ‘Ethelred!’ he said. ‘This is a pleasant surprise!’

  ‘I was just passing,’ I said.

  ‘Really? On your way to where?’

  ‘Brighton,’ I said.

  He looked at me oddly. ‘That will take a day or two on foot.’

  ‘Unless I’m stretching the truth slightly, Henry. As you seem to be.’

  He quickly glanced round. ‘Let’s go to my study,’ he said. ‘We can talk privately there. My wife’s pruning the wisteria over the back. A technically more difficult task, so she tells me. She’ll only want to make you coffee if she knows you’re here.’

  He led me along his hallway and into what had probably been intended as a nominal third bedroom. Inside the cramped space was a desk, some bookshelves stuffed with local history books and several heaps of lever arch files on the floor. He peered out of the small window, then closed the blinds as a precautionary measure. He sat down in the typist’s chair in front of the desk and motioned me towards the only other seat in the room – a vinyl kitchen chair that had already acquired a few dents before The Beatles released their first EP.

  ‘So, why do you think I’ve been lying to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Everyone else has,’ I said. ‘But more to the point, much though I dislike Tertius Sly, there is usually some small grain of truth in what he says. He’s convinced that you are conducting illicit excavations. If I’m to join your committee, I’d like to know the truth. Tertius, as I must apparently now call him, will support my application only if he and I are of one mind. In that singular mind that we must now share, you’re guilty as charged.’

  Polgreen looked at me for a long time. I wondered if he was going to speak at all. Then he said, ‘Yes, he’s right. For what it’s worth, I’ve done a bit of digging on my own account. But he’s wrong that that’s the reason why I don’t want further excavations carried out.’

  ‘So what exactly have you done, Henry?’

  Polgreen got up and went to his bookcase. He extracted a battered copy of Happy Recollections of a Sussex Clergyman.

  ‘You’ve read this strange little volume, I take it?’ he said.

  ‘As with Curious Tales of Old Sussex, I’ve dipped into it,’ I said. ‘I can’t claim to have read it all, or even most of it. I suspect, with both books, that Barclay-Wood made a great deal of it up.’

  ‘But you know that it is put together in the form of a diary, each entry dated?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘And you know that, during some of the period covered, Barclay-Wood was busy excavating the Abbey site?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, a lot of the references to the Abbey might not have meant much to you, if you read those sections, but they did to me. I could follow
his fieldwork almost yard by yard. And, to the trained archaeologist, it made little sense. Recent digs have been to establish where the monks’ dormitory was, where the kitchen was, what the monks ate, how the Abbey expanded over the years, and so on.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

  ‘Barclay-Wood’s excavations on the other hand showed a complete lack of curiosity for facts such as these. The earliest – this would be the early 1890s – was right in the middle of what he would have already known was the monks’ herb garden.’

  ‘Not a lot to find there, I would imagine.’

  ‘That took three summers of painstaking labour. He then switched his attentions to the cloisters – not the buildings around the quadrangle, but the centre, where we believe there was a rose garden. Do you see any pattern emerging?’

  ‘So, it was the vegetable garden next?’

  ‘I’m not sure there was one within the Abbey – though there would have been fields beyond it, of course, for that sort of thing. No, he started to dig right in the middle of the Abbey church, where we know some of the Abbots were buried. That took several years, and did result in the discovery of bones, a couple of rings and a crozier. Then in 1902 he suddenly stopped. For the next forty years there was no excavation of the site at all. What does that suggest to you?’

  ‘He’d found whatever it was he was after,’ I said.

  ‘Precisely. So, let’s consider where he’d looked: herb garden, rose garden, tombs.’

  ‘Places where the Madonna might have been buried to hide it from the King’s commissioners,’ I said. ‘And in 1902, he found it.’

  ‘That’s what I think too.’

  ‘What does Tertius Sly think?’

  ‘I haven’t discussed it with him. Not worth the risk. Think about it, Ethelred. Archaeology has advanced enormously since I studied history. Ground-penetrating radar. Shallow geophysics. X-ray fluorescence spectroscopy measurers. Light detection and ranging technology. Google Earth. You can do so much these days without even lifting a trowel. Quite a bit without even leaving your own study. You don’t need to destroy the soil in order to find out what’s underneath the surface. Best we leave things, as much as we can, for future generations with even better techniques. The last thing I wanted was for Sly to decide that, where one valuable object was found, there must be a lot of other loot to dig up.’