Herring on the Nile

by L. C. Tyler

  L. C. TYLER

  Herring on the Nile

  MACMILLAN

  To Will and to the MNWers, past, present and future

  The Truth is rarely pure and never simple.

  Oscar Wilde

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  The End

  Postscript

  One

  Q: What’s the worst possible way to begin a detective novel?

  A: Tedious scene-setting stuff. Explaining basic things for people who haven’t read the earlier books in the series.

  Q: You write under several names, don’t you?

  A: Yes, I write crime as Peter Fielding and J. R. Elliot. I also write romantic fiction as Amanda Collins. None of those is my real name.

  Q: What would you see as the main influences on your writing style?

  A: I’ve always admired the crime writers of the Golden Age – Christie and Sayers in particular. For some reason I never have got to grips with dear old Margery Allingham. She’s useful if you want to know how the English upper class in the 1950s thought the English working classes spoke – I mean, cawdblimeah, guv! – and she does quite a nice line in endearing cockneys, but I couldn’t recommend her otherwise.

  Q: Our readers are always interested in how writers work. Describe the room you are writing in now.

  A: I’m at work on the dining table of my flat. The table bears the remains of this morning’s breakfast. From where I’m sitting, I can just see out through the bow window and down to the village square below. The winter’s first flakes of snow have started to settle; but, here inside, my ancient radiator is pumping out heat. The room is not large, but it’s enough for me and for my books, which are pretty much everywhere. Occasionally books get mixed up with slices of toast, but that’s fine.

  Q: What do you like most about Sunderland?

  A: I’m sure it’s a very fine city, but I’ve never visited it.

  Q: What is your favourite restaurant in Sunderland?

  A: Sadly, I’ve never had the pleasure of dining in Sunderland.

  Q: Where would you go for a great day out in Sunderland?

  A:

  ‘The Elsie Thirkettle Literary Agency. How can I help you?’

  ‘Elsie,’ I said, clutching the phone in one hand and scrolling down the screen with the other. ‘Those interview questions you emailed me. Why are they asking me about Sunderland?’

  ‘Which interview is that, Ethelred?’

  ‘The Sunderland Herald, strangely. They seem to think I’m some sort of expert on eating out on Wearside. They want to know my favourite restaurant.’

  ‘Could be a trick question. Hold on while I Google it . . . no, there really are restaurants in Sunderland.’

  ‘Yes. What I meant was: Why are they asking me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Elsie, who only lied properly to people she respected. ‘I thought they’d be more likely to run the interview if I told them you were a local lad. It’s only bending the truth a tiny bit, Ethelred. You are a local lad, just not local to Sunderland. What have you said so far?’

  I read out my answers while Elsie made the disapproving noises that she has spent much of her life perfecting.

  ‘You can’t say that about Margery Allingham,’ said Elsie. ‘Unlike you, she has a lot of admirers out there. Your professed contempt for Allingham implies that anyone who enjoys her books won’t enjoy yours. So that’s a few thousand sales you’ve just thrown away quite unnecessarily. It’s much better, Ethelred, if people get to decide they don’t like you after they’ve paid for the book. Conversely, when you think about it, each writer you mention favourably is money in the bank. You can’t claim too many influences – drop in all the names you can. And don’t forget to plug the other writers at this agency and mention their books, because one day—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do get the picture,’ I sighed. ‘So I like Margery Allingham, do I?’

  ‘You’ve adored Margery Allingham ever since you read The Tiger in the Smoke with a torch, under the bedclothes in the dorm.’

  ‘In which part of your imagination did I go to a boarding school? Was it in Sunderland, by the way?’

  Elsie’s appreciation of irony is strictly limited to her own. ‘As a writer of crime fiction,’ she said, enunciating her words with more than usual care, ‘you should be able to manage the odd fib or two if it will boost sales. Saying-the-thing-that-is-not is your job. I’m only a literary agent. Do you hear me complaining about having to lie? I described you as a “much-respected author” the other day. I may have even called you a “best-selling author”. There are whole weeks, Ethelred, when I scarcely get to tell the truth from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Don’t try to get clever with me, Ethelred.’

  ‘And the question about which football team I support?’ I asked, looking further down the list.

  ‘Wait, I’ll Google that one for you too.’ There was a pause and the sound of a biscuit being munched in far-away Hampstead. ‘OK . . . it looks as though Sunderland is up near Newcastle, so I’d tell them you support Newcastle United if I were you. That should go down well. How are the other interviews that I emailed to you? I promised we’d turn them round in a few days.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I’ll try to finish them all in Egypt and email the answers back to you.’

  ‘Egypt? Who said you had permission to go to Egypt?’

  ‘I’m doing some research. I did tell you.’

  ‘Did you? Well, if you really must put pleasure before duty, at least take your laptop along to the pyramids.’

  ‘I shall most certainly have my computer with me. I said, it’s research; it’s not a holiday. I shall be working hard the whole time.’

  ‘I see – “research” is it?’ said Elsie.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s research. But without the inverted commas you just put it into.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘And not the pyramids either, as it happens. I’m going on a cruise down the Nile – or possibly up the Nile. I wasn’t paying much attention when I booked it. It’s the boat that is the great attraction.’

  ‘You’re travelling alone, I hope?’

  ‘I’m going with Annabelle.’

  I was treated to another outward and audible sign of Elsie’s disapproval.

  ‘She’s keeping a close eye on you, now you’re engaged.’

  ‘We’re not engaged,’ I said.

  The resulting snort of derision was intended to convey a number of things to me:

  1.

  I was, though perhaps not formally engaged, nevertheless subject in all respects to Annabelle’s whims.

  2.

  Whether Annabelle and I became engaged would be a decision made solely by Annabelle, who would inform me when she considered the time was right.

  3.

  I, uni
quely amongst the male population of West Sussex, was incautious enough to have allowed such a situation to develop.

  4.

  Annabelle was, contrary to anything I might have been told, not a natural blonde.

  ‘I wish you would try to like Annabelle,’ I said.

  ‘I like her as much as I need to.’

  ‘She says she likes you.’

  ‘She’ll be able to coach you in telling fibs then.’

  ‘I really wish—’

  ‘My boredom threshold is pretty low this morning, Ethelred. I’m putting the phone down before you mention that woman again. Have a nice day, now.’

  ‘—you’d try to get on with Annabelle.’

  ‘Piss off, Ethelred. It’s almost lunch-time and, if I’m going to sell your Latvian rights to Nordik, I’ll need to take this afternoon’s mendacity to previously unexplored levels.’

  ‘The Elsie Thirkettle Literary Agency. Kā es varu jums palīdzēt?’

  ‘It’s me, Elsie, not Nordik.’

  ‘Ethelred, I’ve been practising that for the past half-hour. You’ve just made me waste my best attempt to ask a Latvian if I can help them. You are a total plonker. Go away.’

  ‘Sorry. Elsie, just a thought. You don’t fancy coming to Egypt, do you?’

  ‘No, Ethelred. My first rule in life is not to share a rusty old boat with gold-diggers sporting fake tits. I’ve stuck to it since I was a girl and it’s made me what I am today. You’d do well to try it yourself sometime. In the meantime, you and Annabelle have fun.’

  ‘Annabelle may not be coming.’

  ‘May not, in what sense?’

  ‘Isn’t.’

  ‘So – let’s pause for a moment and get this absolutely right – Annabelle isn’t coming and therefore, as poor second choice, you’re now inviting me at a week’s notice? Thanks a bunch.’

  ‘Eight days’ notice.’

  ‘Eight days? Why didn’t you say so? That really does make all the difference.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘That was irony, Ethelred. Look it up in Fowler’s Modern English Usage. Now, as I may have observed before: Piss off.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying “sorry”.’

  ‘Sor— I was offering to pay for the whole trip, of course . . .’

  ‘I’m busy,’ said Elsie. ‘I can scarcely drop the entire work of an important literary agency, like this one for example, and clear off up the Nile on some three-legged paddle steamer you’ve booked yourself on. You’ll have picked the oldest, slowest and most uncomfortable boat in Egypt as a matter of principle. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘The Khedive is actually quite well appointed,’ I said, ‘though it is a paddle steamer, of course.’

  There was a pause in the conversation during which a literary agent in Hampstead wrestled with a minor problem that had nothing to do with her.

  ‘Why exactly has Annabelle dropped out?’ Elsie asked, shelving for one moment the work of an important literary agency.

  ‘She changed her mind.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She just did. Maybe she’d just had enough of my company for a while,’ I added, jokingly.

  ‘Fair enough. I can see that,’ said Elsie. ‘Even so, I don’t change my mind. And I never play second fiddle to women who don’t realize they are too old to wear short skirts. Check your contract – it’s in para 23.2.’

  ‘Sor—’ I said again.

  ‘Nothing would induce me to go on that boat, whatever it’s called.’

  ‘The Khedive,’ I sighed. ‘It’s called the Khedive.’

  ‘Ethelred Tressider speaking.’

  ‘Elsie here. I’ve just Googled this brilliant boat we’re going on. Have I explained Google, by the way? Somebody like you might think of it as this magic librarian that can tell you—’

  ‘Elsie, I use Google all the time. As far as Egypt is concerned, don’t worry. I’m not going now. I’m about to phone up and cancel the trip. I’ll set the next book in Pembrokeshire or somewhere instead. Pembrokeshire is quite interesting in late November.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Ethelred. Sadly, there’s no market for books about Pembrokeshire these days. More to the point, you didn’t tell me that the word “luxury” featured twenty-seven times in the description of the Khedive. There seem to be staff whose sole duty is to top up the ice in your drink. The general picture I’m getting here is the Ritz with a paddle attached to the back. This trip must cost a fortune.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘You haven’t checked the cost down to the last penny? Does that mean you’ve finally sold the Big House?’

  ‘I’ve found a buyer for it and I think we’re about to exchange contracts. It has all happened a bit suddenly, but I really have to take any serious offer that comes along. Houses that size don’t sell easily at the moment and the running costs are hideous. The gardens alone require somebody full-time.’

  I paused, aware that a simple ‘yes’ would have been a better answer if I wanted the whole thing to sound routine and uncontroversial. Mentioning the gardens was almost certainly a step too far. But I was perfectly entitled to sell the house if I chose, whatever Annabelle had said.

  ‘So, you’re back in your old flat?’ asked Elsie, pleased, it would seem, by all aspects of my answer. ‘On your own? No unnatural blondes?’

  ‘Wasn’t that clear from my interview answers?’

  ‘I thought that was just building up a background, creating a nice picture for the sort of readers you have – lonely, bored, a bit insecure, semi-literate.’

  ‘No, Elsie, it was the truth. I never really moved out of the old flat. Technically, the house has been mine only since probate was granted. Annabelle had every right to remain there in the meantime.’

  I was doing it again. I had to stop sounding defensive all the time.

  ‘And now?’ asked Elsie.

  ‘We’ll have to work something out,’ I said, summarizing in six words a discussion with Annabelle that had occupied most of the previous evening plus a short and abruptly terminated phone call this morning. ‘But, to answer your question, yes, the house is as good as sold and money isn’t so much of an issue now.’

  ‘Even so, I wouldn’t want you to lose your deposit on the trip.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but it’s not your problem.’

  ‘Ethelred – my authors’ problems are my problems, you know that. Do I get a really enormous cabin? On the top deck?’

  ‘The boat was pretty empty. I’m sure that could have been arranged – but you don’t want to go.’

  There was a crunching noise in Hampstead as somebody ate another restorative chocolate digestive. In the background I thought I heard an empty packet hit the wastepaper bin.

  ‘You deserve a holiday, Ethelred. I should hate to see you cancel just because I wasn’t there for you. I like to support my authors every way possible. Are we flying first class?’

  ‘The quickest way of getting there is a charter flight straight to Luxor from Gatwick. And it’s research, not a holiday.’

  This time, I noticed, she didn’t say ‘yeah, right’. Elsie did not take unnecessary risks.

  ‘I’ll put up with a charter flight if I have to,’ she said. I couldn’t see her at the other end of the phone line, of course; but I knew that, just as soon as she had finished her biscuit, her expression would be one of noble self-sacrifice, probably modelled on the statue of Nurse Edith Cavell outside the National Portrait Gallery.

  Five minutes later I was ringing the travel agent to say that I would now be accompanied by Ms Elsie Thirkettle rather than by Lady (Annabelle) Muntham, and that a cabin on the top deck would most certainly be required. As I paid the additional charges I felt a momentary pang of guilt that I was, in a sense, spending Annabelle’s money.

  But it had – I reminded myself – been Annabelle’s decision not to come. Even she, surely, would have conceded that much? And, had I
been able to see into the future as I read out the three numbers printed on the back of my card, I might have felt that she had made a very wise decision indeed. But of course, you never do see into the future. If I’d noticed any references in the tour brochure to a dead body floating in the Nile or to the cold barrel of a gun pointing at a spot precisely midway between my eyes, I might have decided South Wales in a blizzard was in fact much the better option. But perhaps they’d hidden that sort of stuff in the small print, along with the fuel surcharges. They often do, I find.

  Two

  Q: Our readers are always interested in how authors work. Describe the room you are writing in now.

  A: Actually I am on a plane. It’s quite crowded, and I think only one toilet is still working. Otherwise it’s fine. My computer is balanced on top of an unopened meal that I didn’t ask for. It has ‘CHK’ written on the lid. It’s chicken I think.

  Q: Which crime writers do you most admire?

  A: I’ve always admired the crime writers of the Golden Age – Christie and Sayers, of course, but especially the inimitable Margery Allingham, whose work I first read by the light of a torch under the bedclothes at my boarding school in Sunderland. She had an ear for the speech of the ordinary working man. Ofthe present-day writers, I enjoy Colin Dexter, Ian Rankin, Val McDermid, Donald Westlake, Martin Edwards, Sue Grafton, Simon Brett, M. C. Beaton, C. J. Sansom, Chris Ewan, Henning Mankell, Håkan Nesser, P. D. James, Kate Atkinson, Brian McGilloway, Colin Bateman, Peter James, James McCreet, Colin Cotterill, N. J. Cooper, Louise Penny, Mike Ripley, Laura Wilson, R. J. Ellory and Malcolm Pryce. My work is strongly influenced by all of them in approximately equal measure.

  Q: What is your writing schedule like?

  A: I tend to be very organized. I like to write at least a thousand words a day – including when I am travelling. I always take my laptop with me, even on holiday (though this trip is research, obviously).