by L. C. Tyler
A face had looked cautiously round the door. It was strangely familiar.
‘Yes?’ I enquired.
‘I’m Aaron – your intern?’ he said.
‘Is it that you aren’t sure whether you are my intern?’ I asked. ‘Or are you speaking Millennial?’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I’m just speaking like I usually do?’
‘So you are. Shouldn’t you be at Colindale, sifting through newspapers? That is a question.’
‘I’ve been there for two days. I hoped I could come back now. I’d like to learn about publishing?’
‘No shit?’
‘Yes. Really.’
Excellent. I could still impose on him then.
‘First tell me what you’ve discovered so far about Walter Sly’s death,’ I said. ‘Then I might let you have full and unrestricted access to the fabled slush pile.’
He opened the notebook that he had been clutching.
‘I tried to go back to the very beginning,’ he said. ‘I’ve constructed a timeline.’
‘Am I paying you to construct timelines?’ I asked.
‘You’re not paying me at all.’
‘You’re an intern,’ I said.
‘My father said to point out to you that you were exploiting me,’ he said.
‘And so you have,’ I said kindly. ‘I’m sure he would be proud of you. At least be grateful you’re not a writer. You will earn proper money one day.’
‘Sometimes I think I’d like to be a writer.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Don’t they enjoy writing?’
‘Writers enjoy starting and finishing books. In between there is nothing but doubt, self-loathing and coffee. Their moments of happiness are brief and illusionary. So, just tell me what you’ve found out.’
‘OK. As you know, work started on the Priory garden in the spring of 1959. Then in early May the workforce was dismissed and Mr Munnings and the gardener continued on their own.’
‘Yes, I do know. Look, you may have another eighty years to live, but I don’t. Can we fast-forward a bit? Like when you’re streaming a video.’
‘Do you know how to stream a video?’
‘Yes.’
‘A lot of older people don’t.’
We stared at each other across a generational divide. ‘I can do long division,’ I said. ‘And I’ve never paid more than two pounds fifty for a cappuccino.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘So, in late May, the gardener vanished and was found in the well after three days. The trial took place in August. The verdict was not guilty. Then, in early September, Mr Munnings died suddenly of a heart attack.’
I nodded. ‘So, when did his wife die? During the trial?’
‘Some time after that.’
‘How much after?’
‘Nobody knows. Mr Munnings’ son and daughter-in-law discovered his body, when he didn’t answer the phone. They lived close by. They also discovered his wife was missing. At first the police thought she might have killed her husband and fled. There was a search for her – they checked whether she might have gone to her family or London or even left the country. But then the coroner reported that it was a heart attack that killed Munnings and the police decided that, since she had dementia, Mrs Munnings had just wandered off, once there was nobody watching her.’
‘Dementia? That was what was wrong with her?’
‘Yes. I didn’t research dementia because I thought you’d already know more about it than I did. Older people often look that sort of thing up, just in case.’
‘I’m younger than a lot of my writers.’
‘You mean the dead ones? The ones whose estates you represent?’
‘They’re a lot less trouble than the living ones. What happened next, Aaron?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘they continued looking for the grandmother, but this time in the fields and woods round West Wittering.’
‘And that’s where they found her?’
‘No. It wasn’t until January 1960 that her body was found – up on the Downs, in a small area of woodland, just north of Chichester. It seems she had just wandered off on her own and that was as far as she could get. She’d died of exposure or hunger or something. By that stage it was difficult to tell. She must have just tramped across the fields, maybe for days. It’s a bit sad, really. She stopped just short of a lane where somebody might have found her while she was still alive, but it took ages to locate her body. It was in the middle of a wood, under some bracken she’d managed to cover herself with. They identified the body mainly by her clothes and shoes, which matched what she had been wearing, and by the contents of her handbag.’
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Not leprosy then, in either case.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Just thinking out loud. It’s what old people do.’
‘Cool. Can I do some publishing work now?’ he asked.
I looked at him. Could he be turned into an agent one day? Who could say? In the meantime, he was far better off being exploited by me than being released back into the community to write a novel. I was being cruel to be kind, though thinking about it, I was also being cruel to be cruel. That’s how you get when your dementia stops you streaming videos.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll forward you a couple of manuscripts from the slush pile. Don’t worry – it’s all electronic. I don’t accept paper submissions any more. Even at my age.’
His face brightened up. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘My pleasure,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it now.’
I selected a couple at random from a folder marked ‘The Usual Old Crap’ and pinged them across. By tomorrow he’d be begging to go back to the archives in Colindale.
I picked up my phone and texted Ethelred with what seemed to me to be the one useful fact that we had uncovered.
RE OLD MAN MUNNINGS, I wrote. HE DIED SUDDENLY OF A HEART ATTACK.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ethelred
My landline rarely rings these days, other than for the usual quota of scam calls. When I answered it, I was ready to listen to an invitation to sue somebody for my recent accident or an explanation of how I could erase viruses from my computer by connecting to a website and allowing it to make unspecified but wholly trustworthy changes to my hard drive. For a moment I didn’t recognise the voice at the other end of the line. Then I said, ‘So how did you get this number? I hardly ever use it now.’
‘Ah,’ said Professor Cox. He laughed nervously. ‘I’m afraid I got it from the development office. I said I needed to contact you urgently and that you would have no objection. They said it was the only number they had for you.’
‘I probably gave it to them when I moved here,’ I said. ‘I didn’t use my mobile so much then.’
There was quite a long pause, then he went on, ‘Very unfortunate business – Hilary’s accident. He will be much missed by us all. We must do something to commemorate his valuable contribution to the life and work of the College. He was Tutor for Admissions for a while – a very important post. And briefly deputy Principal, or at least acting deputy Principal, some years ago.’
I waited for a short but scathing critique of Joyner’s abilities in one or other of these roles, but none came. Death pays all debts.
‘I didn’t know that,’ I said. ‘So, will there be a memorial service in the chapel? I’d like to come if there is.’
‘A memorial service? I imagine there may be, in due course. I believe the home bursar is trying to establish the wishes of his family.’
‘Well, let me know when you have a date,’ I said, wondering if that was the sole purpose of the call.
There was another pause. ‘I suppose that Hilary didn’t leave a bag with you?’ Cox added.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve already told the College that.’
‘Of course. So you did. Excellent. Have you opened it by any chance?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve had no reason to do so. It’s
none of my business.’
‘Really? Quite right. Very proper of you. But … well, you see, he had some papers of mine, which I’d like to get back as soon as possible. They don’t seem to be in his rooms – his new rooms – so I wondered if he’d taken them with him to Sussex. I could come over and pick the bag up. It would save your sending it on.’
‘It’s a long way for you to come.’
‘I do need the papers urgently. They are critical to my research. I have a book to finish, and you know what editors are like, Ethelred. Deadlines, eh?’ He gave a little chuckle, one writer to another.
‘I thought you were just starting a new book – Gladstone?’
‘It’s another book entirely. One I’m currently finishing.’
I waited to see if he’d tell me what it was about. He didn’t.
‘I can certainly see if they’re there,’ I said. ‘What do they look like?’
‘Ah, well there’s the problem,’ said Cox. ‘I can’t easily describe the papers, but I’d know them when I saw them, of course. I was planning to be down your way, so it would be no bother to collect the bag from you. Without your having to open it at all. I think your discretion in that respect does you great credit and I wouldn’t want to make you do something that you thought was improper. My position is, of course, slightly different. I’d be acting on behalf of the College, in a way. It’s the least I can do … for Hilary. To tidy up Hilary’s affairs. Out of the great respect and affection we all had for him. Without troubling you or putting you to any unnecessary expense. After all you did for him, I owe you that much.’
Sometimes during a scam call there’s a point where you know, if you didn’t before, that all is not well. I’d just never received a scam call from a professor of modern history.
‘Are the papers loose or bound, Professor Cox?’ I asked.
‘Both,’ said Cox. ‘I think. I lent him various things over the past few months and I’m not sure which he would have taken with him. That’s why it’s better I check them in person.’
‘And what are they about?’ I said. ‘Or don’t you recall that either?’
‘Really, I don’t think you need to take that tone with me,’ said Cox.
‘Professor Cox,’ I said. ‘I have undertaken to return the bag to Dr Joyner’s family as it is. The College knows that. If it contains papers of yours, then I’m sure they will cooperate in returning them to you. I claim no credit for not examining the bag until now. It is light and, I felt, unlikely to contain anything of general interest. But I could check now and reassure you that the papers are safe. You just have to say what they are.’
‘That seems a little inflexible, if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘That’s how I am,’ I said. ‘I’m probably a bit old to change now.’
‘Then I’m very sorry to have troubled you,’ he said.
‘No trouble,’ I said. ‘Happy to be of service. Have a nice day.’
After the call, I went up into the attic and retrieved the bag. It was a compact case on wheels – neat but solid. The contents were as unexceptional as I had assumed they would be. It contained Joyner’s pyjamas, his toothbrush and a copy of Sabine Barclay-Wood’s published memoirs, Happy Recollections of a Sussex Clergyman. There was also a large, but very empty, padded jiffy bag. There was no sign of any papers as such, bound or otherwise. I checked the side pockets, in case I had missed something, but Dr Joyner had travelled light. Not even, I was only slightly surprised to see, a spare pair of socks. It was a small piece of luggage by most standards, but a very large one for what it contained. Perhaps he had brought something in the envelope? Or perhaps he had hoped to take something back to Oxford with him? Still, there was nothing in the bag that was worth reporting back to Cox.
Feeling slightly guilty for having given way to curiosity, I returned the suitcase to the attic, descended the metal stairs, locked them back in place and closed the trapdoor. Then I dialled Elsie’s number.
‘It’s strange how history has repeated itself,’ I said. ‘I mean two deaths in the well sixty years apart, both largely unexplained.’
‘But the police think it’s an accident,’ said Elsie. ‘Only Sly seems to be suggesting it’s not.’
‘He believes his grandfather was murdered in the same well,’ I said. ‘That must affect how you see things.’
‘It’s interesting the way Old Man Munnings died of a heart attack,’ said Elsie. ‘Just after Walter Sly’s wife went to see him.’
‘I’m sure that Walter Sly’s death and the trial put a lot of strain on him,’ I said. ‘Even though he was found not guilty. Whatever Mrs Sly said to him, he might have had the heart attack anyway. Don’t think I’m agreeing with Sly in any way, but it’s Joyner’s death that is starting to look a bit odd. I had Cox on the phone to me yesterday. Joyner had something that he needs badly, and he thought he might have brought it to West Wittering with him. Papers, he claimed.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said I hadn’t looked in the bag.’
‘And he actually believed that?’
‘I really hadn’t.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Elsie.
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘I did look, after his call, because it was all so odd. But there’s nothing in the case, except a book, his pyjamas and toothbrush. Oh, and an empty envelope that he planned to use to take something back or had used to bring something down.’
‘But not papers?’
‘If the envelope did once contain papers, there’s no sign of them now.’
‘Anthony Cox was mistaken, then,’ said Elsie.
‘So it would seem,’ I said.
Then, remarkably, history did repeat itself. This time as farce, just like Marx said it does.
There was a ring on my doorbell and Iris Munnings stood there.
‘I was just passing,’ she said, ‘so I thought it would be so nice to drop in and see you.’
It seemed impolite to point out that she had never done so before and, with one recent exception, I had never dropped in on her without having to buy a ticket in aid of the lifeboats.
‘I was just making some coffee,’ I lied politely.
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we have it in the garden? I’ve always wanted to see your garden.’
I wondered how many untruths had been told since she rang my bell. I made that at least four between us.
I seated her on the patio and went and made real coffee. Fortunately, Elsie had not visited recently, so I still had biscuits. I carried them out, only to find that Iris was examining my flower beds. Compared with her own, mine would not have been of much interest.
‘Your roses are doing well,’ she said. ‘Except that one, which looks almost dead.’
I looked where she had been pointing. One was certainly ailing. I’d noticed it when Polgreen was here, but it was showing no improvement. It was odd because it had had as much mulching and water as the others.
‘I planted them this spring,’ I said. ‘The dry weather lately hasn’t helped them much. That one was fine until recently. The soil around it looks a bit disturbed, now you point it out. Foxes, probably. They dig everywhere. But occasionally it just happens that one doesn’t thrive, for no apparent reason. Maybe I should take it up, fork the ground over again and plant something else there.’
‘Yes, probably,’ she said, returning to her seat. ‘They’re cheap enough to replace.’ She took a sip of coffee and made no further comment on any aspect of the garden. This would have surprised me only if I’d believed she genuinely had any interest in it. She put the cup down again. ‘Ethelred, perhaps I should tell you the real reason for my coming here. Could I persuade you to join the Abbey preservation committee?’
‘Yes, Henry has already mentioned it to me,’ I said, sitting down beside her. I pressed the plunger down on the cafetière and poured the coffee. ‘But wouldn’t I need to be elected by the AGM or something?’ I added.
‘No, if there are vacanci
es, the committee can fill them pending the next AGM. Additionally, the chairman can personally co-opt up to three members with specialist skills.’
‘I’m not sure I have any.’
‘But you have an extensive knowledge of history. You write about it.’
‘My historical novels are set between 1377 and 1399,’ I said. ‘Like most writers of historical fiction, I know just enough about a very brief period of time.’
‘You are too modest,’ she said.
‘I’ve just joined the Crime Writers’ Association committee,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure that I could manage to fit in another one.’
‘There are only two or three meetings a year.’
‘I thought Tertius Sly had increased them?’
‘Well, we’re decreasing them again. That man Sly needs putting firmly in his place. We just need one or two sensible people on the committee to try to reduce all of this unnecessary bickering. Sensible people from – how is one allowed to say it these days? – the right background. Please say you’ll do it, Ethelred?’
‘Two or three meetings?’ I said.
‘Think about it,’ she said. ‘That’s all I’m asking. But I must go and powder my nose. I think I saw a cloakroom as I entered?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘By the front door.’
‘I can find it,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Don’t get up. I remember exactly where you mean. I’ll just be a moment.’
Iris vanished into the house. So, was the committee, rather than my garden, the real reason for her visit? If so, I wasn’t sure why she hadn’t got Henry Polgreen to just follow up his earlier suggestion – which, oddly, he’d never done. Anyway, I imagined that Iris’s definition of ‘the right background’ was slightly more exacting than I could manage. She’d spot me pretty quickly for a mere crime writer. She’d already got me down as an incompetent grower of roses, which was bad enough.
I finished my coffee and was about to top up my cup and Iris’s, when I noticed hers was still almost full. She had been away quite a long time. The lock on the cloakroom can be tricky and, fearing that she might be trapped inside, I went in search of her. But she was not there. The door was ajar and the room empty. I proceeded down the corridor past my study and the larger guest bedroom. Just before I reached the smaller one, I heard a noise of something being opened. I entered the room that Joyner had occupied, only to see Iris hurriedly shutting a drawer.