by L. C. Tyler
Then there was a strange beep.
‘It’s a text,’ he said. ‘I think it may be from Fay.’
He said it softly. And it was almost like praying.
‘What is she graciously commanding you to do?’ I asked respectfully.
‘I’m not sure. I can probably check my texts without cutting you off on the—’
The call terminated abruptly. I waited. I wrote a few emails. I waited. I ate a Twix. Somewhere out there life went on, saplings grew into giant trees, mighty empires rose and fell. Then my phone rang.
‘Sorry, I think I cut you off,’ said Ethelred.
‘Not a problem at all if it was a genuine text from Fay,’ I said. ‘I completely understand. You are so wise to check the moment Fay wants you to. It’s what she’d want, so it must be right. No need to worry about me, your agent, sitting here, waiting patiently for you to call back.’
‘Good …’ he said, then he realised that I might not actually mean any of that. ‘It’s quite serious,’ he added.
‘Tell me what she said. I’ll tell you exactly how much of a shit to give.’
‘OK,’ he said very cautiously. ‘The text said to come to Oxford at once. She couldn’t risk explaining herself, but she was in danger.’
‘Couldn’t risk explaining in what sense? Who does she think is likely to be arsed to read your texts?’
‘I suppose she may not have thought that through.’
‘No shit? And so you said you’d drop everything for her?’
‘No. I tried phoning but just got a recorded message. It said Fay couldn’t come to the phone right now but—’
‘Yes, Ethelred,’ I said. ‘I have heard a recorded message before, though I’m sure Fay’s is the very best of its kind. You must play it to me sometime.’
There was a pause. He knew, deep down, I probably didn’t mean that either.
‘I’m going to drive to Oxford now,’ he said with a sudden determination.
‘You don’t know where she lives.’
‘She gave me the address in her text. Banbury Road.’
‘Then forward the text to Anthony Cox, who is a hundred miles or so closer to her than you are, and tell him to go round in his nice white Mercedes.’
‘What if she’s in danger from him? From what she told me, I’m not sure they’re still on the same side.’
‘In that case Chief Inspector Morse will already be examining the body, and you’ll only need one ticket to St Lucia. Or you could take me. I’ve got a bikini.’
Ethelred, for some reason, ignored my offer. ‘She was OK a minute or two ago,’ he said, ‘when she sent the text. Now she’s not replying.’
‘Women!’ I said. ‘They just can’t make up their tiny little minds, can they?’
There was another long silence as Ethelred tried to work out whether it was better to agree with me or not.
‘I’m going,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided.’
‘You’re not.’
‘I am.’
‘You’re not.’
‘You can’t delay me indefinitely by repeating the same words over and over again. I’m going.’
‘You’re not.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Then I’m coming with you. You protect her from Sammartini, or whoever it is. I’ll protect you from her. And don’t think you’ve got the short straw.’
‘I’m going straight there. I’ll text her to let her know. There’s no time for you to travel down to Sussex.’
‘I’m going straight there too. There’s a thing called a train. You can pick me up at Oxford railway station in … hold on …’ I checked the timetable. ‘One hour and forty minutes.’
‘I’m not sure I can drive there that fast.’
‘Then I’ll wait for you,’ I said. ‘And don’t you dare go to her house without me. Whatever you think she may be prepared to offer by way of sexual or other favours, I can totally screw it up for you.’
‘I know,’ he said meekly. ‘I know.’
I’d been waiting for twenty minutes when Ethelred’s Volvo finally pulled into the station forecourt and came hesitantly to a standstill on a double yellow line. I strolled over to meet him.
‘Get in quickly,’ he said. ‘I’m not supposed to stop here.’
‘For a person who writes about murder, you are very worried about parking infringements,’ I said. ‘Anyway, there are no traffic wardens around. I think you may have just committed the perfect crime.’
‘And do your seat belt up,’ he said.
‘For a person who writes about murder …’ I said.
‘This is real life,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we need to get to Banbury Road. Fast.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Even if Fay has been tied up and gagged – which I am led to believe is standard procedure in these cases – the villains always like two or three chapters to taunt her in a cruel and merciless manner. She’ll probably only be at the stage of weeping pitifully and wondering why you have abandoned her. And you can slow down, Ethelred. The penalties for exceeding the speed limit are considerably higher than those for parking on a double yellow line. I’ve seen your latest royalty statements and you can’t afford the fine, unless I can sell some more foreign rights.’
But I shouldn’t have mentioned the probability of Fay being mercilessly taunted. Our tyres screeched alarmingly as Ethelred put his foot down and the Ashmolean Museum flashed past the passenger window in a blur of Cotswold stone. The option of crashing straight into Balliol College, currently forty yards or so ahead of us on the far side of the traffic lights, was briefly considered and rejected. We hung a left into the broad, open and relatively safe spaces of St Giles, its colleges and pubs prudently set well back on either side. ‘Any other advice?’ he asked.
‘Are we talking Raymond Chandler or Agatha Christie?’
‘Either.’
‘If this is Raymond Chandler, then as you enter the house, you’ll be slugged from behind by your policeman friend, Joe, who is actually working for Sammartini. You’ll wake up, drugged, in a private sanatorium in Headington, from which you’ll escape by climbing out of the window. You’ll go back to your office and drink whisky out of a dirty glass. Your faithful secretary will put a sticking plaster on your cuts. You’ll be fine. If it’s Agatha Christie, Fay will have vanished, leaving behind a cryptic note that makes sense only when you view it upside down in a mirror towards the end of the book.’
Ethelred nodded and swung the car suddenly across the road, taking the right-hand fork. A number of cars hooted us but, surprisingly, nobody died.
‘Banbury Road!’ I said. ‘Can we stop so I can take a selfie outside Colin Dexter’s house?’
‘No,’ said Ethelred.
We slowed suddenly so that he could check the numbers on the houses, then we accelerated again. Somebody we had failed to kill back at St Giles overtook us doing sixty miles an hour. They knew that, if they stayed anywhere near Ethelred, they would become just another road deaths statistic.
We hadn’t even got close to Colin Dexter’s place when Ethelred swerved neatly across the bus lane and into a driveway. There was a brief crunch of gravel and we were stationary. I gave thanks to God for watching over me in my hour of peril and looked up at the tall red-brick mansion, a merciful hair’s breadth beyond the car’s bonnet.
‘Flat C,’ Ethelred said, jumping out of the car.
‘Don’t smash the front door open,’ I advised. ‘That Victorian woodwork is stronger than it looks. At least try ringing the bell first.’
He looked at me and nodded thoughtfully. Four strides took him up the steps. He pressed the button for flat C very firmly indeed.
Fay’s voice answered at once, crackly music to Ethelred’s ears: ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Ethelred,’ said Ethelred.
‘And me,’ I said.
‘I’ll let you both in,’ she said.
Well, that was a bit of an anticlimax. Not a Chandler or Chri
stie plot, then. Who was good at anticlimax?
‘L. C. Tyler,’ I said to Ethelred, with a sudden flash of insight.
‘Who?’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, he’s not that well known. Let’s just go up and see Fay.’
We heard the intercom buzz and the front door latch click open. Ethelred pushed the door very gently and we walked in. Nobody at all hit Ethelred over the head with anything. Nobody pushed past us, heavily disguised in a false beard, sunglasses and thick winter overcoat.
We started up the stairs, towards flat C.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Elsie
‘I don’t understand,’ said Ethelred, his default position with any attractive woman who wanted to use him for her own evil purposes.
‘I didn’t send you any texts,’ said Fay. ‘It’s not even my number.’ She took out her iPhone and showed him, allowing her body to get as close to his as was permissible in the presence of his literary agent. ‘See?’ she breathed huskily.
‘The text was signed by you,’ he said. ‘The answerphone message said it was you.’
He had, poor lamb, been so looking forward to rescuing Fay, possibly partially clothed, from the menaces of a band of vicious but easily overcome crooks. We could have almost been in Sydney Horler territory there. The tea and Battenberg cake, before us on the table, was only partial compensation from his point of view. He took a manly bite out of his cake and chewed.
‘Somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble to get you to Oxford,’ said Fay.
He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘Not that much trouble,’ I said. ‘They’ve bought a cheap pay-as-you-go phone, sent a text signed “Fay” and then quickly arranged for the answerphone message to claim you can’t take the call, which was perfectly true. Compared with getting Ethelred a decent advance, that’s a walk in the park, that is.’
‘You haven’t got me a decent advance,’ he said.
‘There you are, then,’ I said.
‘Well, at least you’re in no danger,’ said Ethelred to Fay.
Fay reached across the table and touched his arm with the tips of her fingers. ‘It was brave of you to come,’ she said, with what one person in the room at least recognised as sick-making hypocrisy. ‘And you, too, of course, Elsie. Very brave of both of you.’
‘It was our pleasure, Fay,’ I said. ‘Though a phone call from Ethelred to your friend, Anthony Cox, might have saved a couple of hours of my very valuable time.’
‘Yes …’ said Fay. ‘Maybe it’s as well you don’t say more to him than necessary – about anything.’
‘Not say more than necessary? Why is that?’ asked Ethelred, entering devotedly into his new role of Fay’s straight man.
‘I have a confession to make,’ she said. I wondered whether to point out that fluttering her eyelashes like that was causing a nasty draught, but I let her continue. ‘You see, I didn’t tell the police the whole truth …’
‘Really, Fay?’ I said, beating Ethelred to it by a microsecond. He looked hurt. He’d wanted to say that.
She nodded and continued, ‘I said that Anthony and I were together the whole time in the garden. In fact, we weren’t. We had a slight disagreement on something. I stayed where I was, on a bench on the far side of the woods, quite calmly and unconcerned. He stomped off towards the house – and towards the well, of course, because, as I later realised, they were both in that direction. I waited for ten minutes or so, then went to find him. He was on his way back to me. He looked … agitated. That puzzled me.’
Ethelred nodded sympathetically. Things often puzzled him too.
‘Then, after poor Dr Joyner’s body was found, Anthony said to me, “It would be best to say we were together the whole time. That way neither of us will get accused of bumping the old fool off, much though he deserved it.” Stupidly, I agreed to go along with his plan. Later I saw how terribly wrong I had been, but it was too late … too late …’
She blinked back the tears with her false lashes, and I again felt a chill wind – west, veering north-west, 5 to 7, occasionally 4 later. She was good. They could have named a cyclone after her. Or anything that was twisty and wrecked everything in its path.
‘You shouldn’t blame yourself,’ said Ethelred. ‘Loyalty is important.’
Well, as Fay’s new personal lapdog, he would have known.
‘Dr Joyner had worked out that Anthony was negotiating with Sammartini,’ she said. ‘I came into the Senior Common Room one morning, and they were in the middle of a very heated discussion. They stopped as soon as they saw me, but I’m sure that’s what I overheard. If Dr Joyner had chosen to report Anthony to the police, Anthony’s career would have been finished – no book deal, no TV deal, no College Fellowship, no chair of modern history. He knew he had little choice. Dr Joyner was not a large man. Anthony would have been able to overcome him quite easily and … and …’
Ethelred put his arm round Fay’s shoulder. ‘It was very brave of you to tell us of your suspicions,’ he said. ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘Except,’ I said, ‘there’s no evidence that Anthony Cox did any of that. Ethelred says that Sly has already accused Henry Polgreen, having had a revelation similar to your own, except for one minor detail. If you want to accuse Professor Cox, however, then please do go and join the grasses’ queue at Chichester Police Station.’
‘Fay has a point, though,’ said Ethelred. ‘Anthony Cox had the best motive of anyone. There was a strong mutual dislike and Joyner could have ruined him. That’s now clear. And whereas, before, we thought he had no opportunity, now we know he did: he had time to creep up behind Joyner, in the gloom, and hit him with a brick.’
‘Exactly,’ said Fay. ‘Except you put it so much better than I could.’ She gave his hand a squeeze and then completely forgot to release it. Of course, most people’s memories deteriorate as they get older.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I think we’ve done all this stuff as thoroughly as we need to. The fun is over. If you don’t mind letting go of him, Ethelred needs to drive me back to the station. I’m delighted you are still in one piece, Fay, rather than in any other number of pieces. But we wouldn’t wish to take up any more of your afternoon … would we, Ethelred?’
He looked at me as if he’d temporarily forgotten I was there.
‘I guess not,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’m sure Fay has important work to do. Though I could stay here tonight if she felt at all threatened.’
‘I—’ said Fay.
‘She doesn’t,’ I said. ‘And it’s not her safety that I’m worried about.’
‘I’ll run you to the station,’ he said to me.
I watched them exchange a chaste, hesitant kiss on each cheek and Ethelred head off downstairs. As I left, I whispered in Fay’s little ear, ‘Don’t think I’m not on to your game, Dr Tomlinson. I shall be watching your every move from now on.’
‘Do,’ she said. ‘You might learn something.’
‘You’ve already admitted you and Cox weren’t together the whole time. That puts you in the frame every bit as much as the professor. I think you’ve just blown your own alibi, Fay.’
If she said anything in reply, she was too slow for it to catch me as I descended the stairs. I closed the front door and joined Ethelred in his Volvo. He reversed carefully onto Banbury Road, narrowly missing only one bus, and we were soon travelling south again.
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ he said, as he crunched the gears.
‘Just thinking back over this afternoon,’ I said.
He looked at me suspiciously. ‘You sometimes have a very selective memory,’ he said.
‘In what way?’
‘I wouldn’t want you recounting the story the way you sometimes do – I mean, making it sound as if I was infatuated with Fay Tomlinson. Or making Fay appear scheming and manipulative. Or making yourself sound as if you were the only one with any common sense. That’s not how it was this afternoon.’
‘I’d
never do that,’ I said. ‘I’d tell the plain, unvarnished truth. You can trust me one hundred per cent.’
‘Really?’
‘Cross my heart.’
Again, he looked at me suspiciously. I wondered whether, when telling the story, I should finish it by having Fay hissing and turning into a long green snake? It was pretty much what had happened, after all. Then a text arrived on his phone. I grabbed the phone before he could, knowing that there were two lanes on each side of the road and we could end up in any of them once he started to try to access a message.
‘It’s from Pippa,’ I said.
‘One of my neighbours,’ he said.
‘The one with the garden that’s much better than yours?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘And who is also—’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘OK. Just wanted to clear that up. She’s asking if your cleaning firm was any good. She wondered whether to recommend them to a friend who needs a cleaner.’
‘Which cleaning firm?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll check.’
I sent a reply and waited for a moment.
‘She says the one that was at your house all afternoon – F. T. Cleaners and Gardeners. Hang on … there’s another text from her. Yes, she went round to see you and their van was there. She rang the bell but nobody came, though she was sure somebody was inside. She tried again ten minutes later but the van had gone. There was no phone number on the side of the van, which she thought was odd, and wondered if you had it.’
So, a fake text sends Ethelred to Oxford, while a dodgy van, with inadequate advertising for the company that purportedly owns it, turns up in his driveway in West Wittering and somebody somehow gains admittance to the house. When the doorbell rings, they make themselves scarce. Hmm.
‘Change of plan,’ I said. ‘Don’t drop me at the station. I think you’re going to need me back in Sussex. Head for the M40 and, once you get there, don’t worry about speeding fines. That isn’t your biggest problem any more. In the meantime, I’m going to text Pippa and say I wouldn’t get those cleaners in, not if I were her friend.’