by L. C. Tyler
Joyner muttered something under his breath that I didn’t quite catch.
Cox winked at me and moved on. He did not trouble my deaf neighbour, though she looked hopefully in his direction, but he stopped again beside a rather pretty girl in a red silk dress; she was, somebody had said, a junior research fellow, newly appointed. They seemed to know each other well. Cox’s head was very close to hers. I heard her laugh. She glanced in my direction, smiled, and turned away again.
Joyner’s eyes had followed Cox down the table, like a battle-scarred tomcat watching a passing terrier. He, too, now turned back to me.
‘I’d be grateful if you told him nothing, Ethelred,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. He is not well disposed towards the project.’
‘I got that impression,’ I said.
‘He thinks I stole his idea.’
‘And did you?’
‘I’d have had every right. He’s merely dabbled in the topic, as he does. I was the one who first took it seriously. I was the one who, long ago, discovered certain papers that he has most certainly never read – and never will, if I can help it. Now, a little too late, he’s realised that he doesn’t know as much as he thought he did. Well, let him continue to dabble, if he wishes. It won’t hurt me. I’m a good ten or eleven months ahead of him.’
‘I didn’t think it was his period,’ I said. ‘The sixteenth century. Didn’t he write the book on …’
‘… Peel. Yes, everyone’s read that. It was on the Sunday Times bestseller lists for months. No bestseller can be accounted a serious scholarly work. As I say, he dabbles. Can’t stick to anything. A paper on the Corn Laws here, another on the destruction of mediaeval church silver there. The man is a total—’
But at that the Principal announced that coffee and port were available in the Senior Common Room for those who did not wish to repair immediately to the bar. We rose, individually or in small groups, and, at a leisurely pace, proceeded to one destination or the other.
Joyner must have been detained, because it was Professor Cox who approached me as I took a glass of port from the tray.
‘You’ve had a tedious evening,’ he said, ‘with Hilary on one side of you and dear Mrs Fosdike on the other – neither, in their respective ways, able to listen to anything you might have to say. There are none so deaf as those who can’t stop talking, eh? Did you like the pictures of Mrs Fosdike’s grandchildren?’
‘She didn’t get round to showing them to me, though she may have been considering it.’
‘Ah – that is a success of a sort. I must ensure that, when you next dine here, you are better seated. Really, I owe you that much.’
I was unaware he owed me anything. Or not yet, anyway.
‘I was flattered to be on High Table at all,’ I said cautiously.
‘A writer of your distinction?’ His eyes opened wide with nicely judged incredulity. ‘Where else would we put you, Ethelred? You are far too modest.’
‘You’ve read some of my books?’ I asked, in the way that I so often do before being cruelly disappointed.
‘I saw a very good review of your Master Thomas series recently,’ he said silkily. ‘The one in the Sunday Times. And I liked the piece you did for the College magazine last term. Most amusing.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. I noticed he had still not said that he’d actually read the books. On the other hand, he had quite possibly taken the trouble to google me on his iPhone as he progressed the short distance across the quadrangle, on a warm summer’s evening, from the hall to the Senior Common Room. That was more than I might have reasonably expected.
‘Do you think this project of Hilary’s is going anywhere?’ he asked, lowering his voice. ‘I mean, the topic seems to have been thoroughly raked over already – a bit like the grounds of the Abbey, wouldn’t you agree?’
I nodded. From what I knew of it there had been a great deal of speculation and little hard evidence. ‘The Abbey treasure? It’s just one of those gothic folk tales, really.’
‘Not the dissolution of the monasteries in microcosm, as Hilary would like us to believe?’
‘Well, we have the rivalry between the houses, the King’s intervention, the monastery needlessly hastening its own end …’
‘Therein lies my objection,’ he said. He smiled, inviting my agreement.
‘You mean it adds nothing to what we know about the period?’ I said.
Cox gave me a smug grin, and I immediately felt I had been disloyal to Hilary Joyner, though, God knows, I owed him no loyalty of any sort whatsoever.
‘That’s Hilary for you,’ Cox said. ‘He’s never pursued a conventional academic path. He went from being a red to being … what you see today, almost overnight. All the more credit to him, I say. Follow your love of history without any regard to fame … or money … or your career … or the respect of your colleagues.’
He shrugged, as if to say that the definitive list of Dr Joyner’s sacrifices for his love of history was somewhat longer even than that. But we both knew, and he knew I knew, that obscurity had never been Hilary Joyner’s game plan. Cox possessed the very things that Joyner had always coveted, and that possession was made the sweeter by the knowledge that Joyner would have murdered to gain just a small part of what Cox had now.
‘Of course, he may have found something new,’ I said.
Cox permitted himself a dry, academic chuckle.
‘That’s very charitable of you, Ethelred, but I don’t think either of us really believes that, do we? I am aware, of course, that he has documents that he is withholding from me in a most unprofessional manner. That is a pity, because I in my turn have solid evidence that he would find interesting. Indeed, I have something in my room that would show him he was very, very wrong in one of his suppositions.’ Cox, aware that he might have said more than he should, looked over his shoulder. Joyner was a little way off, but possibly not entirely out of hearing range. Cox studied him for a moment, but nothing in Joyner’s expression suggested that he had just gained some unexpected scholarly advantage. Cox turned back to me, relieved. ‘But you’ve done some research on this yourself, Ethelred? You seem very knowledgeable.’
Again, there was a conspiratorial smile of encouragement that I did not trust at all.
‘Not especially,’ I said. ‘I just live there and have found one or two references to it in books on the area.’
‘You apparently know Iris Munnings. You might have discussed it with her?’ He raised an eyebrow.
If he’d heard of Iris Munnings for the first time tonight, then he had a very good memory for names.
‘I don’t know her well,’ I said.
‘I see,’ he replied. ‘Then you will lack the very necessary influence with our friend Iris that Hilary was hoping for. It would make so much difference to his chances of publication if he could unearth some treasure. Something glittery and newsworthy that would persuade his publisher that he had finally hit upon a bestselling subject. But you should not feel too badly about it, Ethelred. It will be one of the smaller disappointments in Hilary’s life.’
I nodded. Again, there had been more than a suggestion that Iris’s name was already known to Professor Cox and that he perhaps knew her much better than I did – that he could have effected the much-desired introduction for Dr Joyner, had he chosen to do so. It seemed likely that Cox was, in fact, some way ahead of Joyner. It just wasn’t clear why he was interested at all.
‘But the Reformation … I thought your interests were nineteenth century?’
‘I’ve written one or two well-received books on Peel and Melbourne,’ he said with carefully honed modesty. ‘But the true historian limits himself to no period. His delight and happiness is the past in its entirety.’
‘Including 1536 to 1541?’
‘Precisely. When Henry VIII was appropriating the wealth of the church for the greater good of the kingdom. When the national character was taking shape around a dislike of foreigners and a desire to grab any free stuff that
was going. Who could not be interested in those years?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘You think perhaps I should just leave it to Hilary? He would certainly have the leisure to do it justice in a way that I do not. My publisher is anxious I turn my attention to Gladstone. I’m not sure the world is ready for another study of the Grand Old Man, but I’m embarrassed to admit that the advance I have been offered is very tempting. Advances are ridiculously large these days, don’t you find?’
I didn’t find anything of the sort but, before I could think of a face-saving reply, Professor Cox simply smiled and moved on, a fact that became more understandable when I noticed that Dr Joyner was marching over to join us.
‘What was Cox saying?’ he demanded, much as Macbeth might have asked Macduff if he’d caught exactly what the third witch had just prophesied.
‘We were talking about the Sidlesham Abbey treasure,’ I said.
‘So, is he going off the idea of meddling in matters that don’t concern him?’
‘He thinks he may continue with it. But I’m not sure why.’
‘I am,’ he said. ‘Malice, spite and envy. But he’s not going to get to this one first. He may have stolen my professorship, he may have appropriated my rooms in College, but he’s not stealing my research. Or anything else. I’m coming straight down to Sussex, just as soon as you can arrange for me to see Iris Munnings.’
I still couldn’t decide whether Cox knew Iris Munnings, but I tended to agree with his assessment of my chances of success. There was no reason why she should do anything just because I said so. As I’ve said, she looked down on most people in the village and I had every reason to believe that she looked down on me too.
‘I’m not sure that will be possible …’ I said.
‘I may as well stay with you,’ Joyner said, ignoring any reservations I might have. ‘It will save time if I’m there in West Wittering.’
This proposal raised the stakes somewhat. I could see that it might save him time, but that didn’t mean it would be at all convenient for me to have a guest over the weekend. I’d already fended off one prospective visitor. I proposed to be equally firm with this one.
‘I’m very busy at the moment,’ I said. ‘Very busy indeed.’
‘As a crime writer? Really?’
‘I have a book to finish. I’ve had to tell my agent that she can’t come down and stay next weekend. I’ve just sent her an email saying that a visit is out of the question. It’s not you personally, Dr Joyner. I’d love to have you visit. Nothing could please me more. It’s just that having even one person staying with me will prevent my doing any writing at all. And I cannot afford that. Not with my current deadline. I’m really so very sorry …’
He looked at me as if trying to decide whether what I said was in any way possible.
Then a beep announced a text. I took the phone out of my pocket. The message was from my agent.
SORRY. DIDN’T GET YOUR LATEST EMAIL SO I AM COMING AS PLANNED FRIDAY. PICK ME UP AT THE STATION AT 8.30. WITH LUCK I MAY BE ABLE TO STAY UNTIL TUESDAY. GOOD, EH? ELSIE XXX
Dr Joyner, looking over my shoulder, nodded. ‘It appears that your weekend is ruined anyway, then,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to get any work done. So, fortunately for us both, my coming down won’t make any difference. Since you’d love to have me staying with you, I wouldn’t think of going anywhere else. I doubt there’s anywhere much to stay in West Wittering anyway.’
‘Yes, there is,’ I said.
‘But I’d hate to disappoint you,’ he said. ‘And they’ll probably be booked up at this time of year.’
‘I could phone and check,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t put you to so much trouble,’ he said generously. ‘I’ll try to arrive on the same train as your agent, to save you having to go to the station twice. It looks as if she’s planning to be on the one that arrives at eight-thirty – but, just to be sure, email me and I’ll make absolutely certain I’m on board the right one. I’d be most grateful if you could confirm the arrangements promptly.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you. Very thoughtful indeed.’
In all honesty, his strange death, a few days later, came as no surprise to me at all.
CHAPTER TWO
Elsie
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that an author in possession of a bestseller must be in want of a literary agent.
Though, obviously, a crap author selling four or five thousand books a year is in even greater need of somebody to keep their career afloat. In Ethelred’s case, preventing his writing from going down with all hands had been a constant challenge ever since I signed him up many years ago, when I was a younger and more trusting agent. It had been, if you are still enjoying the nautical analogy, like steering a badly constructed ship with no lifeboats through a sea full of literary icebergs. Honestly, if I’d been captain of the Titanic, I’d have got that boat safely into New York and sold the Latvian audiobook rights before we’d even docked.
It is completely untrue that the opportunity for free weekends by the sea had played any part at all in my decision to retain Ethelred at the agency, when I’d quietly dropped several better selling authors who lived in Clapham or Pinner. I’d have probably kept him on if he’d merely had a cottage in the Lake District or (better still) a small but well-appointed chateau in the Dordogne, close to a Michelin-starred restaurant and a mainline railway station. But, until I found an author with exactly that, West Wittering would have to do. A hard-working agent deserves to get away from London from time to time and go somewhere where nobody mentions the word ‘diet’.
Thus, I found myself at Victoria Station, one sunny evening in July, on the seven o’clock train to Chichester. I knew that it was likely to be crowded so I’d made sure I was on board at the first opportunity in order to secure sufficient room to allow me to work on the journey. I had accordingly taken four vacant seats, with my handbag on the space beside me, my suitcase opposite me, my coat draped firmly over the remaining seat, and my laptop, doughnut, coffee, emergency reserve doughnut and notebook spread over most of the table. Several commuters looked towards the area I was occupying as they passed through the carriage, but I smiled apologetically, as if my three large and possibly psychopathic companions were about to return at any moment, and the weary travellers and their briefcases thankfully all passed on, moving ever southwards.
I had just started on my emails when a middle-aged man with ginger hair, a white-ish linen jacket and grubby tie entered the carriage and started walking down the aisle, looking for any seat that had not yet been taken. He had foolishly boarded the train late and had nobody to blame but himself. Eventually he stopped opposite me and said something. I smiled. He said something else. I took the earphones out of my ears and said: ‘Good evening. Can I be of assistance to you in any way, shape or form?’
‘Could you just move one of your bags, madam?’ he said. ‘I’d very much like to sit down. You’re not the only person on this train who would like a seat. Not by a long way.’
I sighed. Other people can be so difficult.
‘Look,’ I said, indicating the rest of the carriage. There were still half a dozen spaces free, some not next to babies or old people with poor bladder control. ‘See all of the lovely seats that nobody is yet occupying. Why don’t you sit in one of those?’
‘Because you can’t possibly be occupying all four seats here.’
I checked. He was wrong. I was.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You are clearly making the mistake that so many people have made in the past – that is to say that you think I give a shit one way or the other. I am very comfortable here. You could soon be equally comfortable yourself. Why don’t you go to that table over there, or that table there, or that table …’
‘Because there are three seats here that are not actually occupied,’ he said. ‘It’s bad enough you’ve got sugar all over the table …’
I licked a
finger and dealt with the sugar-on-the-table problem. Hopefully spit on my table wouldn’t offend him quite as much.
‘You do not need a seat for your suitcase,’ he said. ‘It can go up on the rack.’
‘Mr Suitcase,’ I said very seriously, ‘doesn’t like it on the rack. It makes him feel ill. So I’ve given him his own seat. As you can see, he’s cheered up a lot, haven’t you, Mr Suitcase? Yes, he says, I have.’
Normally I find that, once I’ve made Mr Suitcase’s preferences known, people edge away down the aisle, watching me very carefully. They’re happy to let me have as many seats as I can use.
‘If you don’t move your bags, I shall call the guard,’ he said.
I thought about this. There are, I reflected, times when you have to graciously accept defeat. To admit that you were wrong. To laugh off life’s little difficulties. To move on. But he unfortunately showed no sign of doing any of these things.
‘All right,’ I said.
‘You’ll move your bags?’
‘With the greatest pleasure.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
I picked up Mrs Handbag and put her on the table next to Professor Doughnut, then shuffled my bottom sideways, about two feet, most of the way onto the next seat. I invitingly patted the one I had almost vacated. It was nice and warm for him.
‘Come and join me,’ I said, with an excruciating wink.
He did not immediately sit down.
‘Don’t be shy,’ I said. ‘I’m sure we’re going to be very good friends. You know, like in the romantic novels where the hero and heroine get off to a bad start – Pride and Prejudice, say, if you’ve ever read that one – but later they get on like nobody’s business. Who knows what might happen in between here and Chichester? Are you married, by the way? I’m not. You’d be surprised to learn that I don’t even have a boyfriend at the moment.’
‘I’m going to report you to the guard,’ he said. ‘Unless you move your bags … not stupidly like that, but actually, properly move them …’