Publish and Be Murdered

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

‘Because he wasn’t very nice,’ said Papworth simply. ‘He was selfish and he didn’t think about other people unless it suited him. For instance, I think he did damn-all to find and encourage talent. Dwight Winterton fell into his lap. He didn’t treat his staff very well either. He was a shit, really, was Willie.

  ‘I’m sorry if I sound callous, Chief Superintendent. And what I’ll say in public is different. But I see no point in being less than frank with you.’

  ‘What was your relationship like?’

  ‘Perfectly civil. But then I had no stomach for a fight. I resented him for exploiting me and I’d have fired him if I could, but he had two out of the three trustees in his pocket so that was that: Willie expended most of his energy in guarding his own back. But I’ve put up with the situation and jogged along and it’s been more bearable recently since I’ve put into the journal a clever young man who has saved me a lot of money.’

  ‘But I gather there was a recent sharp difference of opinion between you and Mr Lambie Crump.’

  ‘Ah yes. You’re speaking of the Papworth wars, I suppose.’

  ‘Can you tell me about them, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Certainly. Do you know about the role of the trustees?’

  ‘In general terms, yes. I know how they protect the editor.’

  ‘Right. Now in a nutshell, I have a difference of opinion with my heir Piers about our duties towards The Wrangler. I regard it as a duty to keep it going with its integrity intact. He thinks it to be an anachronistic burden that we should get rid of to the highest bidder. And under the present terms of the trust, no one would give tuppence for it unless they were looking for ways to lose money.

  ‘So Piers is trying to get the trustees effectively to put themselves out of business, so the journal can be sold unencumbered when I’m dead and he gets his hands on it. He seems to have found a prospective buyer who is prepared to give him a good price. So, having tried and failed to find a compromise, we’re having a legal tussle.’

  He cackled. ‘It’s quite funny, really. I love my son but I take duty seriously, so I’m spending money he would otherwise inherit to try to stop him parting with something I don’t really want, which he certainly doesn’t want and which would make him financially secure instead of debt-ridden. A sense of duty is an expensive commodity, I can tell you.’

  ‘Do I gather Mr Papworth does not have such a sense, sir?’

  ‘Oh, he does, Chief Superintendent. It’s just that his doesn’t extend to the journal, only to Papworth Castle, which he loves even more than I do. He will explain it to you himself better than I can, I think. Although he won’t be able to do that in person until he gets back from Australia in a few weeks.’

  ‘And Mr Lambie Crump’s position on all this was…?’

  ‘Selfish and venal, of course. He was throwing all his weight behind Piers for reasons I don’t know. But what I do know is that his motives will not have been honourable. I suppose Piers promised him something or Miss Sharon McGregor, the potential buyer, promised him something. There will certainly have been a practical reason that benefited Willie. There always was.

  ‘I have to admit that whatever reward he had been offered, he deserved. He was certainly Piers’s most powerful ally. He’d managed to get those two old blockheads—Adderly and Hogwood—to take Piers’s side, and nothing I’ve said to them could move them, even though they were flying in the face of all their job was supposed to be.’

  ‘And the third trustee?’

  ‘Henry Potbury stood up to all the blandishments and by doing so was certainly slowing things up. We hoped that the delay would put Miss McGregor off. She did not seem a patient woman. And then he died, but fortunately the appointment of his successor was in my gift and I appointed somebody even tougher than him.

  ‘I’m still hoping Lady Troutbeck may be able to win over her new colleagues. She’s a persuasive woman.’

  ‘When did you last speak to Mr Lambie Crump?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Maybe a week or ten days before his death.’

  ‘Even on the telephone?’

  ‘Even on the telephone.’

  ‘Yet his telephone records, Lord Papworth, say that he phoned you the evening before he died.’

  ‘Really? How extraordinary. When?’

  ‘At ten-fifteen.’ Papworth wrinkled up his face in perplexity. ‘My goodness, you surprise me, though if you say so I suppose it must be so. Perhaps I am a more forgetful old man than I thought.’ He brooded. ‘Could it perhaps have been late on in the evening after I had dined well? Could it be that Alzheimer’s compounded by alcohol might be at the root of this mystery? Would the operator know if it was a long call?’

  ‘It was short.’

  ‘Then I expect it was something routine. I do apologize, Superintendent. I would not wish to mislead you, but at present such a call is ringing no bell in my addled old mind.’

  Milton got up to go. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d think about it some more, Lord Papworth. Otherwise, thank you very much. I’ll be in touch.’

  As they got into the car, he said, ‘Tewkesbury, I want you tomorrow extremely tactfully to have a word with the two old boys Papworth had dinner with that night and find out if he had much to drink. Their names were given in his statement.’

  ***

  Papworth was on the phone an hour later. ‘The mystery is resolved, Chief Superintendent. Lambie Crump did indeed ring here the night before he died, but I had gone to bed and my wife took the call.’

  ‘And didn’t tell you?’

  ‘She said he said not to bother, it was nothing urgent and he’d catch me on another occasion. So she didn’t. I must say this comes as a relief to me. I really was beginning to fear that I was going gaga.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Milton rather dispiritedly. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll send my sergeant round just to take a formal statement from your wife for the records.’

  ‘Of course, my dear chap.’ Milton heard him call: ‘Imogen, Imogen, my dear. Can you come to the phone?’

  A moment later a crisp voice said: ‘Good morning. Will two-thirty this afternoon suit you?’

  ‘Thank you, Lady Papworth. That’ll be fine.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Goodbye.’

  ***

  Amiss was reading at his deak when the phone rang.

  ‘I’ve had a postcard from Mary Lou and Ellis.’

  ‘Good morning, Jack. Saying what?’

  ‘“Scenery magnificent: have spent most of our time studying architectural and archaeological artifacts with the rest of our time devoted to improving books. Love Ellis.” Mary Lou’s PS reads, “Got him dancing in the market square last night with a clutch of dusky beauties. I’m proud to say he’s degenerating by the hour.”’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Amiss. ‘She seems to be doing her stuff. Do you think he’ll come back changed?’

  ‘As you well know, people don’t change much, just adjust a bit. When he’s finished his hol and his hair’s fully let down, he’ll wash it, set it and pin it up again primly ready for his first day back at work. All one can hope is that Mary Lou frequently gets the opportunity to pull it down again. Anyway, that’s not what I’m ringing about. Where have you got to on the Plutarch front?’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Rachel not thrilled?’

  ‘Rachel not thrilled.’

  ‘College council not thrilled either. Had to nip a rebellion in the bud by saying the matter was being addressed with urgency. That was enough to win her a stay of execution, but only a short stay. If she’s found in the library with a dagger in her back I won’t be in the least surprised.’

  ‘I’m investigating long-term fostering. But my guess is that the kind of people that like cats don’t like Plutarch.’

  ‘Perhaps you need t
o market her as something else.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A werewolf.’

  ‘Not many people like werewolves.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You’re unusual.’

  ‘If you say so. I always think I’m Baroness Ordinary myself, but I admit not everyone agrees. But keep at it. I can’t guarantee her safety for more than another couple of weeks, so stop wanking. Get fucking.’

  The phone went dead. Amiss groaned and went back to reading Dwight Winterton’s assault on what he termed New Labour’s deracination of Britain. It was harsh, cruel in parts and was bound to bring the Number 10 press secretary down upon Amiss in a rage. Amiss thought he agreed with only a quarter of it, but he passed it to the printers unchanged. He was less kind to a lead review of Wilfred Parry’s, out of which he took every pretentious or obfuscatory word.

  ***

  When the participants in the Monday morning meeting had all arrived, Amiss addressed them. ‘The police will be turning up again today to interview some of us.’

  ‘What? Again?’ said Phoebe Somerfield.

  ‘You have a better class of cop this time. Detective Chief Superintendent Milton is intelligent and civilized.’

  Parry looked down his nose. ‘I doubt if that is possible. Anyway, surely there’s nothing left for us to say to these people. We don’t want plods hanging round The Wrangler.’

  ‘Like it or not, Wilfred, we have to cooperate on a murder investigation. Mr Milton needs our help in finding possible motives for Willie’s murder. And then, of course, there’s the matter of Henry’s death, and whether it is possible that he also was killed.’

  ‘What fun,’ said Winterton. ‘I can’t wait. Are we all suspects?’

  ‘Have to be, Dwight. They’ve found nothing promising in Willie’s private life, I gather. So obviously they have to focus on us for a while. They’re only…’

  ‘…doing their job,’ chimed in Winterton.

  ‘Exactly. And the easier we make it for them the sooner they’ll be out of here.’

  ***

  ‘Well, that’s blown that,’ reported Milton to Amiss. ‘Tewkesbury said she was compos mentis and very clear about the conversation, which seems to have consisted of no more than two or three minutes of pleasantries.’ He sighed. ‘Of course, they might be lying. But why should he simply not have admitted to the call in the first instance? It wouldn’t have implicated him.’

  ‘Are there any leads at all, Jim?’

  ‘Just forlorn ones. Like will some cab driver respond to the appeal to anyone who picked up or deposited anyone at the end of that alleyway the evening or night before Crump died? All I can do is press on with interviews and hope for the best.’

  ‘I’ll take you to your quarters. Jason’ll have taken your sergeant there already.’

  Amiss led Milton to his old office—now equipped with an extra Sheraton side table for Sergeant Tewkesbury.

  ‘Jason will keep an eye on you, provide you with coffee and anything else you want, and search for people you can’t raise on the telephone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve an appointment.’ Remembering the different workplaces and the different jobs in which he had seen Amiss over the previous few years, Milton grinned at his new suavity. Even Tewkesbury seemed impressed. ‘He’s young and quite bright,’ he said grudgingly when Amiss had left to have his argument with Parry about reviewers. ‘Even looks normal. I can’t imagine why someone like that is prepared to work somewhere like this.’

  ‘The world is full of such mysteries, Tewkesbury. Now, pass me the list and I’ll decide in which order to summon our interviewees.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  If Miss Mercatroid was to be believed, Lambie Crump had been murdered as a result of some kind of anti-Islamic conspiracy similar to that which she was convinced had caused the deaths of Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed.

  ‘I’m not with you, Miss Mercatroid.’

  ‘Fatima.’

  ‘Fatima. Why should anybody murder Mr Lambie Crump because you’re a Muslim?’

  ‘It isn’t just that,’ she said darkly. ‘A couple of weeks ago an Islamic scholar had a letter in The Wrangler saying that Islam would triumph in Britain because Christians lacked conviction. This could be the backlash. Why, they may be trying to exterminate everyone on this paper.’

  ‘Who is they? The Archbishop of Canterbury?’

  ‘Not necessarily. But he might be part of it.’

  ***

  ‘She continued in this vein for the best part of an hour,’ reported Milton wearily to Amiss later on. ‘It was almost—but not quite—worth it to have Tewkesbury forced to take notes throughout.’

  ‘And who does she think are the actual perpetrators?’

  ‘She talks darkly of security services serving the evil designs of the royal family and the British government. I think Freemasons were mentioned, and, of course, an international Jewish conspiracy featured somewhere.’

  ‘Do you mean she’s fingering Dwight?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I don’t even know if she knows he’s Jewish. She certainly never mentioned him. Anyway, I don’t propose to waste any more time on her. She’s bonkers. The Muslims have my sympathy.’

  ***

  ‘Now don’t worry, Mr Ricketts. Don’t worry. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  Ricketts’s squeaks diminished somewhat in volume and intensity.

  ‘I hear, Mr Ricketts, that you are the longest-serving member of The Wrangler’s staff, so you’ll have known Mr Lambie Crump for many years. Can you tell us what you thought of him?’

  The squeaking started again, accompanied this time by the wringing of hands. Milton waited patiently.

  ‘Sir, he was the editor. And there is no greater honour than to be editor of this great journal. And, like the other three editors whom I had the privilege and honour to work for, he was a great gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I quite understand, Mr Ricketts. But perhaps you might be able to tell me how he got on with the rest of the staff? Would you say that the atmosphere was harmonious and friendly, between, for instance, Mr Lambie Crump and Mr Winterton?’

  Ricketts looked shocked. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m only the clerk. I wouldn’t presume to know how editorial does its job. I count my pencils and I write in my ledgers, and all I know is that all the ladies and gentlemen are very nice to me. Very affable. Sometimes they even have a joke with me. Why, poor Mr Potbury used to say to me, “Mr Ricketts, Mr Ricketts, I suppose you’ve come to confiscate my extra pencil.”’

  Milton looked at him dully. ‘So you’ve no ideas or information about the circumstances of Mr Lambie Crump’s death? You didn’t see anything, or hear anything, that might be relevant.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. Nothing.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Milton flatly. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Ricketts. That’s all for now.’

  Tewkesbury looked after the departing little figure with scorn. ‘Really, sir,’ he said when the door had closed, ‘it seems to me absolutely extraordinary that anywhere could tolerate a person like that these days. He’s not just anachronistic, he’s a throwback to the Victorian period and utterly valueless.’

  ‘I can see Ricketts’s deficiencies as well as you can, Tewkesbury. But you should not overlook his virtues too. Honesty, loyalty, industry and—dare I say it—humility, have their place. Now I’m going to call Miss Somerfield.’

  ***

  ‘Can you give me one sensible reason why I might have wanted to kill Lambie Crump?’ asked Phoebe Somerfield impatiently.

  ‘No. But it would be helpful if you’d answer my questions anyway, Miss Somerfield. That’s why I’m here and I’ve got to start somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ She began ticking off her fingers. ‘Sex, greed, ambition, revenge: t
hey’re the usual motives, aren’t they? Well, neither Willie nor I ever had the faintest interest in each other in any area at all—let alone sex. Greed’s out as well. I don’t make any money as a result of Willie’s death; indeed it’s worth mentioning that he recently gave me a massive pay increase. Ambition is a non-starter. I can’t see anything changing under a new editor. Revenge? For what? Now, does that satisfy you? I’m busy.’

  Milton leaned forward. ‘Miss Somerfield, this is a murder enquiry. Murder enquiries inevitably are inconvenient for those involved. I must ask you, please, to take my questions with a good grace. In turn, I promise you that I will try not to waste your time.’

  She put her head on one side and stared at him appraisingly. ‘OK. That seems fair enough.’

  ‘Can you tell me, please, about your relationship with Mr Lambie Crump, when you came to know him and how you got on together?’

  ‘I came to work here thirty years ago straight from university. Willie arrived a decade later from a newspaper where I gather he hadn’t done particularly well and spent the next five years scheming to get the editor’s job.’

  ‘How did he scheme?’

  ‘Snuggling up to the trustees mostly: consulting them, taking them to dinner and discovering and pandering to their prejudices in what he said and wrote.’

  ‘You have three trustees?’

  ‘Yes, but it was the two GGs he was smarming up to.’

  ‘GGs?’

  ‘Great-and-Goods. We have one staff trustee and two well-known outsiders who are essentially self-perpetuating because they choose their successors, who seem inevitably to be from the most spineless representatives of the British Establishment: vain and wimpish old men who are suckers for types like Willie Lambie Crump.’

  ‘Are those two still alive?’

  ‘No, though looking at their heirs you’d hardly be able to tell the difference. M’Lord Hogwood and Sir Augustus Adderly haven’t any backbone or judgement either.’

  ‘Who was then the other trustee?’

  ‘The literary editor, who lived, breathed and wrote in a waft of Victorian letters. I can only suppose he was made a trustee because he was not a blind bit of use.’