Ten Little Herrings

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ethelred.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Proctor.

  ‘That’s what we thought too,’ said the Danish girl.

  ‘That still doesn’t make her a real detective,’ said the Danish boy.

  The mother smiled proudly. ‘They both worked it out a long time ago,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it was always the most likely scenario,’ said the inspector, ‘though we of course needed to question everyone to rule out other possibilities. Davidov killed Gold. Then several hours later Gold killed Davidov. It really was very obvious. Unless, of course, you were perversely looking for complications that were not there. We recovered the kitchen knife, by the way – it was in the river, not thrown out with the rubbish. Since, Mademoiselle Thirkettle, you removed two pieces of valuable evidence, we were unaware of the receipt and the coins, but the pattern of blood splashes on Gold’s dressing gown was completely wrong for the murder victim. There was no hole in it corresponding to the slash in the pyjama jacket and to the wound. It had clearly been thrown randomly over the body after the stabbing. We were aware of the accusations that Monsieur Davidov was harbouring the diamonds. To be ignorant of it would mean that you had not read a newspaper for months – or only Hello! magazine and the Bookseller. The connection was clear. Had Davidov lived he would not have stood a chance of getting away with it. It was a very amateur affair and the act of a desperate man. The poisoning was more – how would you say? – clever. The shop sells lots of truffles and strangely they did not remember Jonathan Gold. Many visitors buy their chocolates to take home. It would have been difficult to prove at what point the chocolates had been poisoned or by whom.’

  ‘I remembered him though,’ said Taylor. ‘I saw him in the shop, as I told the police, though I didn’t realize the significance of it until I spoke to Elsie.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said the inspector. ‘That was most helpful of you, Monsieur Taylor. We were, of course, aware the cyanide was in a peach truffle because we had examined the contents of Grigory Davidov’s stomach. We did not know that it was the only peach truffle, Mademoiselle Thirkettle, since you ate the other chocolates before we could check – so you too have been helpful in filling in one small detail.’

  ‘So, all ten of the guests still at the hotel are innocent?’ I said.

  The inspector looked up from the magazine he had started to read. ‘Just so; they are all – how do you say? – little herrings.’

  ‘Red herrings,’ I said.

  ‘But small ones,’ he said. ‘Very small ones. Ten little red herrings. Fortunately, they did not detain us long. However, I am sorry – you were going to explain, Mademoiselle Thirkettle, what happened to the diamonds? I am very curious to learn about this.’

  ‘If they were ever here,’ said Proctor brazenly. ‘Which I somehow doubt.’

  ‘And you, Monsieur Tressider, do you doubt there was anything in the envelope?’ asked the inspector.

  Ethelred made a sort of choking noise which turned into a ‘Yes’.

  ‘And you, Mademoiselle Thirkettle?’

  ‘I certainly don’t know where the diamonds are now,’ I said truthfully.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Herbie.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Ethelred. I nodded at him. I always admire good grammar under pressure.

  ‘Then how unobservant you all must be,’ said the inspector. ‘Did none of you look in the little blue bag with the nice eagle – not even once? We obviously searched the railway station yesterday and found both the bag and the necklace. What we were not sure of, since Mademoiselle Thirkettle’s story and Monsieur Proctor’s did not quite match, was which of you had originally stolen the diamonds from the safe. You were all behaving very oddly. So we left the diamonds where they were. We deliberately let you discover that we were relaxing security and we waited to see who would leave the hotel and return to claim them. Did you notice the new CCTV camera?’

  ‘No,’ said Ethelred.

  ‘Good – that was what we had intended. Anyway, first, two of you came along and switched the locker that they were in. Then Monsieur Proctor came along and was most upset to find his locker empty. Then Monsieur Tressider pretended to switch the diamonds to yet another locker, but put them in his pocket. I hope you enjoyed your chocolates, by the way, Mademoiselle Thirkettle.’

  ‘You were watching us after we left the station?’ I asked.

  ‘Every step of the way,’ said the inspector. ‘We would not, obviously, have wished any harm to come to you.’

  ‘And do you know where the diamonds are now?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘So where are the diamonds now?’ asked Proctor glumly.

  The inspector turned to Ethelred. ‘Monsieur Tressider? Perhaps you would like to clear up this final point for us? Then we can all go home.’

  Ethelred made a sort of gulping noise and his hand went instinctively to his pocket.

  ‘Would you like to hand them over now, or would you prefer me to search you?’ said the inspector.

  Ethelred reached inside his jacket pocket and removed a faded blue velvet bag.

  As I said, nothing could go wrong with my plan unless Ethelred was planning to behave like a moron. I watched my diamonds change hands for the last time. I felt their pain.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Hold on. Those are my diamonds,’ said Proctor.

  ‘We think not . . . unless you would like to explain?’

  Herbie Proctor sighed a very long sigh and began: ‘Taylor’s account of events was reasonably accurate – bearing in mind he knows sod all about anything – but there was one major omission. As he said, the necklace was in the possession of the Goldsteins in the 1930s, but they were scarcely the legal owners. The Czar omitted to pay for the jewels. They remained the property of the jeweller who made the necklace – Vladimir Borodin. Elsie asked perceptively why the Golds didn’t just go to court and argue their case. The answer is that the jewels were never rightfully theirs. They belong to the Borodin family – my clients.’

  ‘Your clients?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘I’m a private detective, employed by the family to recover the gems. We knew, of course, that Jonathan Gold was negotiating something quietly with Davidov and so I followed him to this hotel. We weren’t sure whether his plans hadn’t changed. We thought all along that he might be more interested in exacting some sort of revenge for Yacoubabad than in recovering stolen property, which would not have been good news for us. We wanted the diamonds in London. My brief was to find out whether the necklace had changed hands, so that the Borodins could start legal action the moment the diamonds were back in the country. Alternatively – and particularly if Jonathan Gold started to do anything stupid – I was under instruction to recover the goods by direct action. If anyone was careless enough to leave them lying around.’

  ‘They were locked in the safe,’ I pointed out. ‘That’s hardly lying around.’

  ‘An old hotel safe? Took me thirty seconds to discover the combination, fifteen to take out the envelope, empty it and seal it up again. Another fifteen to shut the safe door and lock it. The diamonds would have been miles away by the time Davidov discovered the loss, if it hadn’t been for Jonathan Gold interfering and getting himself killed. Had I been sure he was planning to poison Davidov, I would have chanced my luck earlier. I could obviously have done without interfering busybodies like Elsie. Still, it wasn’t too difficult to throw her off the scent from time to time.’

  ‘What if Davidov had come after you?’ I asked, ignoring the various insults.

  Proctor nodded. ‘You have indeed hit upon my biggest problem. Jonathan Gold recognized me. We were both after the same thing – and our paths had crossed before, let’s say. It had always seemed likely that he or Davidov or both would put two and two together and try to have me stopped by Customs and searched – or beaten up by a couple of Davidov’s goons and searched. I can’t say I was keen on either option. But th
ey wouldn’t have found the diamonds on me,’ he said. Herbie gave a nasty little chuckle. ‘I had an infallible plan, Elsie. I was to pass the diamonds to an accomplice, who had no previous connection with any of it, who would have no knowledge of what he was smuggling into the UK, and who would ask no questions, but simply deliver the goods to me in London. Entirely free of charge.’

  ‘What a plonker,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Proctor. ‘A couple of days before I came here I met up with an old friend of mine. She’d just got back from India, where she’d dumped some poor guy. When I described what I needed, she said she’d help me for . . . for a small cut of the profits. She’d phone this sap up and ask him to do her one small favour. She reckoned he was still so besotted with her that he’d come running with his tail wagging, however bizarre the request might be. So she instructed him to fly over and pitch up at this hotel, where somebody would contact him and give him something. He was then to deliver the goods to her at an address in London.’ He turned to Ethelred and grinned.

  I too turned to Ethelred. ‘You silly, pointless, brain-dead tart,’ I said.

  The brain-dead tart said nothing, but swallowed hard.

  ‘If he’d just stuck to his original instructions we’d have been fine,’ Proctor continued. ‘But Ethelred decided he’d take care of the diamonds himself – or somebody gave him fresh instructions. I always reckoned the bitch would try to cut me out if she could and that seems to be what happened – isn’t it, Ethelred? He thought she’d be so grateful. Of course, once the diamonds had been handed over, that was the last he would have seen of her or the money. Bearing in mind he knew her pretty well, I can’t think why he trusted her more than he trusted me. She was just using you, Ethelred. But mugs like you never learn, do they?’

  ‘If it is any consolation, Monsieur Proctor, we would have recovered the diamonds whatever the two of you had done,’ said the inspector.

  Proctor said nothing but scowled at the inspector, then at Ethelred and finally at me.

  ‘Well,’ said the inspector, ‘that was most interesting. I have, of course, read in detective stories of gathering the suspects together in the dining room to tell them who the murderer was, but I have never seen it done in real life. That was most informative, in the sense that it filled in one or two very minor and unimportant details that we were a bit unsure of. I do not think, however, that we shall make it a standard part of our procedures in future. It was also helpful in that I effectively have confessions from three of you that you have been involved in some way in the theft of several million euros in diamonds from this hotel. It should considerably speed your convictions. I am most grateful.’

  ‘What!’ said Herbie Proctor. For once I can say that he spoke for all of us.

  The inspector smiled. ‘Just a little joke,’ he said. ‘You see, we policemen do have a sense of humour, no? I am sure, in spite of any indication that you may have given to the contrary, that it was always the intention of all three of you to retrieve the diamonds and return them safely to us. If that was not your intention, then you are collectively the worst diamond thieves I have ever encountered.’

  Now I knew who Ethelred had been dealing with, I realized that my own plan (accidentally giving away the location of the diamonds) had been the best one after all. There was no way I was letting that floozy make a fool of my Ethelred. Much better the police had the loot than she did.

  ‘Quite right,’ I said. ‘That was the intention all along. I am delighted that you now have the diamonds. Even the runt of the litter.’

  ‘But,’ said Herbie Proctor, ‘they are legally the property of my clients.’

  ‘And they will have the chance of arguing that in a French court. For the moment, however,’ said the inspector, ‘they are the property of the French Government, as, by the way, are the two pound coins that Mademoiselle Thirkettle found in the dressing gown pocket – you may keep the restaurant receipt, however, as a souvenir of your visit. It is of no possible value as evidence.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ I asked.

  Ethelred was still staring into space. A small tear was running down his cheek. He did nothing to wipe it away.

  ‘The man’s crying,’ said the Danish girl.

  ‘He’s sad about the Indian lady,’ said his mother.

  I walked across the room to Ethelred and gave him a big, big hug. Well, little boys get into scrapes, but you can’t stay angry with them for long, can you?

  ‘Thank you for your patience. You are all free to go,’ said the inspector, with a nod to the guests. ‘La commedia è finita.’

  Postscript

  We had travelled back through misty December countryside. The fields on either side of the railway track faded away towards indistinct, spiky pollards. The land seemed irrevocably drenched, with grey sheets of water chequering the brown earth. The villages had closed in on themselves. The roads were slick and dull.

  We said very little to each other between Tours and Paris; and, later, the rattle of the Métro made proper conversation impossible as we crossed the city. I was in any case worried that Elsie had left only half an hour for us to get from the Gare Saint-Lazare to the Gare du Nord. I spent much of the journey looking at the map, counting stations, multiplying minutes. In the end, we arrived in plenty of time – a fact that, for some unknown reason, amused Elsie greatly – and had settled into our seats well before the London train departed.

  We travelled on in silence through the bleak Paris suburbs, with the rain still falling miserably. As we crossed the dreary, flat lands of the Pas-de-Calais, hail rattled against the windows. It was only when we were through the tunnel and travelling across Kent that the sun broke through the clouds. And it was at that point that I again raised the question that had been on my mind since the phone call.

  ‘What did you mean about my being dead?’ I demanded.

  Elsie looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Did I say that? Surely not?’

  ‘You said it more than once. What did you do: have me declared legally dead?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘Not that exactly.’

  ‘What, exactly?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘You remember that you left a manuscript for me to get published?’

  ‘I left a manuscript. I told you that I was rather relieved you hadn’t read it. A lot of it was very personal. It wasn’t intended for publication or anything. Not even you would have gone ahead and—’

  ‘The launch party is tonight at Goldsboro Books.’

  ‘But . . .’ I said.

  I tried to remember what was in the final draft. It concerned a previous investigation that I had conducted with Elsie and I had admitted to doing a number of things that were less than one hundred per cent legal. And as far as my relations with women were concerned . . .

  ‘I’m going to look a total prat,’ I said. ‘And I’ll probably get arrested. Did you publish it exactly as I wrote it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I added a few bits of my own.’

  ‘And what did you say?’ My heart would have sunk, but it was already as low as it could get.

  ‘I changed the ending a bit.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘You die in a plane crash on your way to join your floozy. There’s a bomb on your plane. I am stricken with grief, but only for a very short time.’

  ‘But I didn’t die in a plane crash.’

  ‘You deserved to,’ she said, as if it were all my fault.

  I thought about this. She was right. I deserved to. But I hadn’t.

  ‘So at the book launch tonight,’ I said, ‘I shall get arrested for wasting police time, for—’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Elsie confidently.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I turned it into fiction,’ she said. ‘I even changed your name – and a few other facts.’

  ‘What did you call me?’ I asked.

  ‘Ethelred Tressider,’ she said.

  ‘Well, that’s marginally better than m
y real name,’ I said. ‘What did you call yourself?’

  ‘Elsie Thirkettle,’ said ‘Elsie Thirkettle’.

  ‘That’s marginally better than your real name,’ I said.

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘Even so . . .’ I said.

  ‘We could use the names again for a sequel,’ she said.

  ‘There will be no sequel. I’m not doing sequels.’

  ‘Oh come on, “Ethelred”,’ said ‘Elsie’. ‘I really got into this joint authorship business. We could write about a double murder in a place I’ll call “Chaubord”. I’ll do the first chapter.’

  ‘Absolutely no way,’ I said. ‘Also, stop doing that thing with your fingers.’

  ‘Please. We’ll change some facts in that one too – you’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please, please, please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll tell the police what really happened,’ said Elsie.

  I realized then that your heart can always sink just that little bit more.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘but I’m not trusting you to write the final chapter. Not after last time. I’m not getting killed again.’

  She gave this a bit of thought. ‘OK – you write the last chapter. I take it I can trust you not to try to get some sort of childish revenge?’

  Sadly, before I could reply, the automatic doors hissed open and a weaselly individual marched into the carriage, clutching a Walther P99 semi-automatic.

  ‘You’ve had this coming to you,’ snarled Herbie Proctor.

  Two shots rang out, and Elsie slumped back, limp and lifeless, into her seat.

  Well, that would teach her to mess with metafiction.

  Outside, the English countryside slipped effortlessly by in the bright winter sunshine. Long shadows snaked across the rich, oily furrows. From the chimney of a distant thatched cottage, a thin, pearl-grey thread of woodsmoke rose into the blue sky. Everything was tranquil and calm.