It was not the liveliest of wakes.
The rector had announced that we were all invited to refreshments at Greylands House after the funeral. There was some uncertainty in our minds as to who would host the event, Robin, as I have said, having no immediate family. We drove along the rutted lane to the Paghams’ residence, a mile or two outside the village, with a mild curiosity to see who would take charge in the absence of any living Pagham. We had speculated that it might be the Paghams’ solicitor as executor, or perhaps some distant relative. In the event, Catarina took pride of place, though she condescended rather than hosted. She stood by the door as we trooped in and she shook hands with each of us. There was a surprising firmness to her grip that was completely at variance with the fragile, black lace gloves.
‘Thank you much for coming,’ she said to me. Or perhaps she said it to somebody else entirely. It was undoubtedly my hand that she pressed, but she was looking beyond me, over my shoulder. It was rather as if I had been hoping to meet the president and had found myself shaking hands with one of his bodyguards. Polite, professional but honestly not too interested in me as a person.
‘I didn’t know Robin well,’ I said. ‘I moved into the village only a couple of years ago – hardly any time in a place like this. But I’d met him a few times at the sailing club. He was a very warm-hearted and generous man. We’ll miss him.’
Though she had not let go of my hand the whole time, only now did she turn her head and look at me properly.
‘You are the writer?’ she asked.
‘I suppose so. I write crime novels,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘That is right. Crime. I have heard of you.’
‘You’ve read my books?’
‘No. I think not many of your books in the shops. Not any more. But are still some old reviews on Internet. I have read reviews – they are very amusing. I laugh. But maybe not so funny for you.’
I said, I hope convincingly, that you got used to bad reviews.
She shrugged. ‘You will miss Robin?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Robin was what you might have described as a character. He was pretty wild when he was younger, by all accounts, but he had mellowed.’
‘Robin was not old man,’ she said.
‘Not young, of course …’
‘Not old to die,’ she said. ‘Not old not to know how sail boat. Not old not to make much love. Two, three times every night. How about you?’
‘I’m not much of a sailor,’ I said.
She looked me up and down. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not so much, I think.’
I left her to interrogate the rector, who had just arrived with his wife. I overheard him answering: ‘about five times a week, except at Christmas’. But I think that referred to the services he took in the village.
A number of the local youths had been employed as waiters. Since most of us sipped our sherry slowly, and since none of them had any experience in this field, they frequently lapsed into chatting to each other in the kitchen or texting, having little else to do.
Once or twice Catarina, noticing that she was paying them for doing nothing, snapped an order at the staff and they quickly circled the room again with trays of sweet and dry sherry. Like the rector, they were not quite sure what to make of Catarina and were taking no unnecessary risks.
Drinks were served in whatever glasses they had been able to locate. Measures were variable, arbitrary and sometimes surprisingly generous. One of the children had been able to negotiate for herself a tumblerful of sweet sherry and now sat on the floor, slightly befuddled but not yet actually vomiting. Catarina nodded approvingly in her direction. ‘Cute,’ she said. ‘When Robin and I had our children …’
In the long pause that followed I said: ‘The rector was right: Robin would have made a fine father.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Catarina. ‘He would have beaten the children, of course. But perhaps he would be too drunk for other things that a father must do. He must teach hunt. Robin would not have been safe teach hunt. Small child with loaded gun and drunken father – not good I think. But I would have been a fine mother. You see these titties? I will have strong, healthy babies. What you say?’
I examined Catarina’s cleavage for as long as politeness demanded. ‘Ah … yes,’ I said. ‘They would have been very healthy.’
‘You are like me,’ she said. I must have looked puzzled because she added: ‘You not live here long.’
‘About two years,’ I said.
‘But these people – they all live here for ever.’ She waved her hand at her guests. ‘Look at them. They are proud that their parents and their grandparents never leave this place. Like peasants in my country. You know what they think of me?’
I had a pretty good idea, but I shook my head.
‘They think I am common woman with short skirts and big titties. They think I not love Robin. They think I want his money, not his dick.’
Well, that seemed a fairly accurate summary of what the village thought.
‘I’m not sure that’s entirely true,’ I said, nevertheless.
‘Which bit not true?’
‘I don’t think any of it is true, really. I’m sure you did want his … I mean that you wanted him for himself. Not his money. The rector said that Robin had finally found true love.’
‘Huh!’ she replied. ‘He does not mean it. As you say in your country … it grinds my goat to hear it. But I am not deceived. Robin’s family is oldest in the village. He is rich. I am not worthy of him. So they kill him.’
‘They killed him to stop him marrying you?’
Catarina looked into the distance as if seeing something that I could not. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘You mean the whole village?’
‘Of course not. You really think a whole village plots to kill somebody? Is that what is in your crime books?’
Actually I had used that plot, sort of, but it didn’t seem terribly relevant now. I couldn’t see why anyone would actually want to prevent the marriage – let alone kill Robin to do so. Who could possibly gain by it?
‘Sorry – it makes no sense,’ I said. ‘How does killing him help anyone?’
‘Honour,’ she said obscurely. ‘In my country they kill for honour. Even the priests.’
I followed her gaze to where the rector, clutching half a pint of dry sherry, was in conversation with one of the local councillors. The councillor made a whirling motion with his hands and then placed them over both ears. They were probably discussing the proposed wind farm, then. Even so, neither looked likely to commit murder.
‘Not here,’ I said. ‘Not in Sussex.’
‘Everywhere,’ she said. ‘The church protects them. But perhaps here they would not make the priest an archbishop afterwards. That was bad. To make him a bishop, yes, of course. But an archbishop …’
Perhaps she had been reading too much Dan Brown. That seemed likely. Nobody was quite sure which country Catarina came from. Most countries in Eastern Europe had been canvassed since the village became aware of her, but one of the former Soviet republics seemed likely.
‘The coroner said it was an accident,’ I said. ‘What makes you think it wasn’t?’
‘I say too much in the church?’
‘Gosh, no. Well, maybe a bit. It’s just that it isn’t normal in England …’
Catarina looked round the room as if suddenly worried that, by speaking to me in a loud voice about somebody present – possibly about everybody present – having murdered her fiancé, she might have attracted undue attention. ‘Meet me in garden in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘I will explain you. I go. You follow. Not good we are seen going into bushes together. Not at funeral.’
Then she was gone. I stood for a moment, wondering which of the little groups of sherry drinkers to join for the required period of time. Before I could decide between the rector’s wind farm discussion and some people I knew from the film club, Tom Gittings wandered up, clutching an orange juice.
‘That was a very earnest conversation you were having with Catarina.’
‘She thinks Robin was murdered,’ I said.
‘Yes, she mentioned it in passing during the funeral service. Did she say much more than that to you?’
‘Are you asking me in your capacity as a journalist or as a friend?’
‘Strictly as a friend. I’ve done all the reporting I’m planning to do on Robin’s death. I can’t say I enjoyed having to cover the inquest for the Observer.’
I nodded sympathetically. Tom had known Robin well. Too well to be comfortable producing dispassionate copy for the local paper. ‘She’s going to explain it to me in the garden,’ I said. ‘But she thinks the family wanted him dead rather than married to her.’
‘What family? Robin was the last of the line.’
‘No great uncles? No third cousins?’
‘Nobody that I know of. Robin was the only child. His father was the only survivor of a number of children – he had brothers but they were killed in the last war. Same with the previous generation – you can check out the village war memorial for the exact names. There was also a daughter – can’t remember what she was called – died in the influenza epidemic of 1919. The succession of Paghams has been hanging by a thread for some years. Maybe if you did some genealogical research back into the nineteenth century you’d come up with something, but the chances of their even knowing about the engagement would be slim. I doubt they’d have any legal claim to the estate. Not good enough for it to be worth committing murder on the off chance a court would find in their favour.’
‘I knew you were a friend of Robin’s,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you were so well up on his family history.’
‘Difficult not to be. We’re both local. His family and mine have lived side by side for hundreds of years, ploughing furrows on adjacent strips of land, mending hedges, stealing each other’s cattle.’
‘Actually stealing cattle?’
‘Well, sheep at least.’
‘All very neighbourly.’
‘Yes, most of the time,’ said Tom. ‘Dad and Robin certainly got on well. They both sailed. They shared a love of the sea … and other things. But our two families haven’t always seen eye to eye, as you probably know – and I doubt if we know all the Pagham family secrets. Still, I can assure you absolutely that there are no known relatives. And that the coroner said it was accidental death.’
‘There were rumours that he had been drinking,’ I said.
Tom shook his head. ‘I was there for the whole inquest. Nothing said about alcohol.’
‘I read your report,’ I said. ‘But editors cut things.’
‘It’s one of the hazards of the trade,’ said Tom. ‘And you’re right, of course. What I wrote was much longer and the editor cut it to a couple of paragraphs. But he cut nothing of any real interest. Anyway, even without an autopsy report, I knew Robin. So did my father. Dad would have told me if Robin had ever set sail under the influence. According to the coroner, he’d eaten a good meal and drank some coffee. No booze at all. His death is odd because nobody knew the coast round here like he did. But there’s no reason to believe it wasn’t an accident. It must have been a freak wave or something – overturned the boat.’
‘He would have had a life jacket on?’
‘Yes, of course. He was still wearing it when his body was washed up two days later.’
I paused and wondered what the body would have looked like. Perhaps it was as well that Tom had been restricted to a couple of paragraphs, leaving out much of the detail he’d had to sit through. Not that he wouldn’t have made it interesting. He was, in fact, a talented writer with ambitions that went beyond his current rather junior role in Chichester.
‘How’s the book coming on?’ I asked.
‘Almost finished. I suppose you couldn’t put in a good word for me with your agent?’
‘I don’t have an agent,’ I said.
‘I thought you dedicated one of your books to your wonderful agent, Elsie Thirkettle?’
‘I switched to somebody else. But it didn’t work out – the new agent, I mean. I always felt I was a bit too much under Elsie’s thumb but the new one was … even more difficult. It’s a long story.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. So, no agent at the moment. Could you go back to Thirkettle?’
‘I doubt it, but I don’t need an agent. I’ll let you have Elsie’s contact details, if you like. I can’t pretend I have any influence with her these days – if I ever did have any. She’ll probably just say, send in a covering letter, three chapters and a synopsis.’
‘Is that standard practice?’
‘It used to be. I’m out of touch. It’s a while since I had to do that sort of thing. You have to remember you are at the beginning of a glorious career in literature. I’m at the end of one and it wasn’t especially glorious.’
‘But you’re still writing books?’
‘Yes, you never stop writing books.’
‘Catarina’s out in the garden,’ said Tom. ‘She seems to be waving at you.’
‘It’s time to go and meet her inconspicuously,’ I said.
‘Good luck with that,’ said Tom.
The garden was more than a little overgrown. Robin had discontinued the services of his father’s gardener as soon as he decently could. The grass must have been cut by somebody sometime in the autumn, but wet bushes overhung the lawns and weeds snaked thick stems across the unswept gravel. In the distance, beyond the perimeter hedge, I thought I could make out the dark water of Chichester Harbour and, far beyond that, the misty line of the Downs. Once, with its winding paths, its summer house and its hedged seating areas, it must have been a place where two elegantly dressed people could have an assignation under the stars. Not so now. Fortunately the light was good enough to avoid the obvious snares and only one of us was elegantly dressed. I was still in a damp Barbour, but Catarina’s black dress was uncreased and spotless. I wondered if she had had a second one to change into on her return to the house. I was sure that she had worn no coat for the interment. Though she had sheltered under a large black umbrella, the rain at the church had been almost horizontal at times. She must have been as wet as the rest of us.
Here in the garden a low sun had broken through and for a few moments we had that heady spectacle of dazzling light on dark-grey clouds.
‘Very attractive grounds,’ I said. ‘I’ve always liked azaleas.’
She looked around as though she had not previously noticed. ‘Good soil. Good for sugar beet,’ she said, knowledgably. ‘Good for red cabbage too. I think so.’
‘Robin owned a lot of the land round here.’
‘He did not farm it.’
‘He rented it out,’ I said. ‘I don’t know who to.’
‘To the peasants.’ She spat these last words over the euonymus in a way that should have made its roots wither.
I wondered again which country she came from. It must have had a communist government within her lifetime. If so, she seemed to be largely untouched by the usual prejudices of Marxism–Leninism.
‘Are you saying that it was one of these people – his tenants – who killed him?’
She shook her head. ‘I do not know who – only that he was murdered.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Two things.’ She held up a forefinger and thumb. ‘First, the coffee cups. And second the old man.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ I said.
‘But soon you will find. On day Robin was killed, I go into Chichester. I have not planned to go, but Robin said he is sailing and I should go shopping. He give me money and say, go buy things.’
‘He was always very generous.’
‘No. He was not. He was mean bastard. He does not like to spend money. But that morning he give me. So, why give me? Why say go? Why not be mean bastard?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But you went?’
‘Yes, I go. I buy some few small things. I have lunch. I come back. Robin has gone sail. But there are two cups on the table in the sitting room.’ She looked at me significantly.
‘You mean somebody visited him while you were out?’ I tentatively suggested.
Catarina regarded me in much the same way that she had when I suggested that the whole village might have killed Robin.
‘Of course. What else? One man may drink much coffee but he needs only one cup. This is true everywhere, I think.’
‘And he didn’t say he was expecting somebody?’
‘No. But I think he knows this somebody person is coming. That is why he give me money to go to Chichester. That is why he is not mean bastard. He wants me gone. Even if costs money.’
‘Maybe he made a note somewhere of who he was expecting. Did he have a diary?’
‘On his phone. He had it in boat. Is gone.’
‘So, on the morning he died, somebody visited him here? Somebody he didn’t want you to see?’
‘Yes.’
I considered this carefully in the light of what I knew of Robin. ‘Any lipstick on the cup?’
‘None,’ said Catarina.
‘You checked?’
‘Of course. Any woman would check.’
‘Maybe he might have wiped it off?’
‘You can always tell.’
‘So a man … or a woman without make-up, of course.’
‘What woman does not wear make-up?’
‘Some don’t.’
Catarina shook her head. Such a woman was no threat to anyone. ‘A man, I think.’
‘Is this the old man you referred to?’
Catarina shook her head again. ‘No, that is I think another somebody. What does it mean in your language: “the old man”?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Robin – like I say, he is always mean with money. He is man in Christmas story who meets ghost, but Robin not believe in ghosts. One day we argue about it. He say, don’t worry. When Old Man dies we will have plenty. And he smile. Like this.’
The smile was crooked and faintly lecherous. I had no doubt it was an accurate portrayal of Robin’s expression, but it still gave few clues as to whom the ‘old man’ might be.
‘His father?’ I suggested. ‘I mean, colloquially “the old man” might mean “my father” or equally “my husband” – you know, “my old man said follow the van”.’
Catarina looked at me suspiciously. ‘You have husband?’
‘Sorry – forget the husband bit. In Robin’s case, and indeed in mine, only the former of those would apply. So maybe he meant when his father died he would inherit …’
‘Father already dead then. Cannot be him.’
‘Yes, of course. An uncle, then? A godfather?’
She shook her head impatiently. ‘No uncles. No godfather I think.’
‘But Robin was waiting for somebody to die, who would leave him some money?’
‘Yes. That is what I say. You not listen so good?’
‘My hearing is fine, actually. And I do see what you mean. But what I don’t understand is this: wasn’t Robin actually pretty well off? I mean, we all assumed he had plenty of cash – the land, this house. He was one of the richest men in the village – for all I know, one of the richest in the county.’
‘He need to pay tax when his father died. I ask: why not bribe officials? Is easy. Is cheaper. Always. Only idiot pays tax. But he says his lawyers say he must pay. They have already informed government how much money his father had. Fools! That they should tell them such things! I say, maybe lawyers lie to government? But Robin say these lawyers do not know how to lie. Can you believe that? Did they learn nothing at law school? So Robin has much land but no money.’
‘What about the rent he was getting?’
‘He owes it all to the government because of idiot lawyers.’
‘He could have sold some land to pay the inheritance tax.’
‘You never sell land,’ said Catarina. It seemed the one point that she and Robin had been agreed on. ‘Land is for always.’
‘Somebody who was about to leave him money would hardly kill him,’ I said.
‘So, who is the person? I ask Robin’s friends, but they do not know. What do you think, Ethelred – why does Robin believe he will get money when Old Man dies?’
‘Maybe not a legacy, then,’ I said. ‘Maybe something else …’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps his lawyer could tell you? I agree that it’s odd Robin died just before this legacy or whatever it was arrived, but it doesn’t mean the two things are connected. It’s odd he died, full stop. He was an experienced sailor.’
‘Yes, much too odd. That is why you must investigate.’
‘I’m a crime writer, not a detective.’
‘But somebody tell me you have investigated crime before?’
‘In real life? Once or twice. I’m not good at it. Tell the police about your suspicions – they’re much better at real-life crime than I am – much better all round.’
‘I have told them. Police ask for the cups. I say, in dishwasher. Do they think I leave dirty cups around house? Police say who is Old Man? I tell police, is their job to find out. Police say, they don’t take orders from me. Police say they don’t take orders from me even if I bribe. They say coroner says accident. Police say, is good enough for them and don’t try to bribe coroner or big trouble.’
‘They’re probably right,’ I said.
Catarina’s shrug left it unclear exactly how much she had offered the coroners. ‘So, you won’t help?’ she demanded.
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
The sky had darkened considerably while we had been talking. The clouds menaced above us. Before, they had been brilliantly grey and had shimmered in the late afternoon light. Now they were dull and threatening. A sudden gust of wind animated the bushes and sent an empty plastic watering can skittering across the lawn, where it came to rest against the sundial.
‘We’d better get inside,’ I said.
‘Yes, you go,’ she said. ‘It is too hot for you.’
‘Cold,’ I said, thinking to correct her English, but she just looked at me.
I felt it was unchivalrous to leave her standing in the middle of the lawn, but it was, after all, her lawn and her choice. The first drops of rain had started to fall by the time I regained the house. The party was, I noticed, already over. Only a few stragglers remained. Most were clearly about to leave but one was peering out into the damp garden as if searching for something. He was a large man – not fat or muscular, but simply large. He moved slightly awkwardly, as if sixty-odd years of being that size still took him by surprise, but that he might get the hang of it eventually. I knew him slightly. He fell into that annoying category of people whom I’ve met too often to be able to ask their name but not often enough to actually remember it.
As I entered, he sort of shuffled round to face me. ‘Is Catarina out there?’ he asked.
‘She was a moment ago,’ I said.
‘Is it raining?’
We both looked out of the window, making any reply redundant.
‘A bit,’ I said, as we watched the cold drizzle splash against the grimy glass.
He nodded. ‘I might go and find her – just to thank her. For the sherry, you know …’
‘Of course,’ I said.
As I watched him step ponderously and cautiously through the long grass in the fast-fading light, I finally remembered – he was called Barry something or other. Barry Whitelace, that was it. Like me he was a new-ish arrival. And his wife’s name was Jean – I remembered that because on most of the occasions we’d met he’d apologised that Jean wasn’t with him. And others in the village had mentioned him to me, because he had the reputation for being a bit of a busybody. He had taken up cudgels on behalf of his new village at every possible opportunity, whether the village had wanted his help or not. He’d been at the anti-fracking demonstrations earlier in the year. The threat had been to a field on the other side of the county, but that was, as he’d once said to me, still too close. I’m not sure what constituted far enough away – Kent possibly, or Lithuania. He’d also spoken out against the wind farm proposal that I’d seen the rector talking about. Whitelace felt strongly about all sorts of things. I didn’t know what Jean thought about anything. She clearly didn’t get out much.
Through the window I could still just see Whitelace making his way across the garden in search of his hostess. It occurred to me that I hadn’t thanked her myself, but the rain was becoming heavier and I didn’t fancy getting wet all over again. Even more to the point, I didn’t want to resume our discussion of my skills as a detective. In the absence of anyone else to say my farewells to, I nodded in a friendly way to one of the waiters, who looked up briefly from his phone and then returned to texting. I found my way to the front door without further assistance.
My first thought was to get into my car and drive back to the village. Then I noticed a sailing boat on a trailer, parked by the side of the house. I had been told that the boat had been recovered but I had not heard where it was. Somebody had delivered it back home, where it now looked somewhat forlorn. I pulled up the collar of my Barbour and walked over to it.
An inch or so of greenish rainwater in the hull suggested that it had been there a few days. It had clearly washed up on the beach bows first – the front end bore numerous gouges and scratches. The sails had gone – perhaps they had been removed before it had been transported back to the house. The mast, to my eye, looked a little bent. The centreboard was damaged and the rudder was wholly missing. Still, mast apart, it looked repairable, if anyone had wanted to repair it. But in all likelihood it had undertaken its final voyage. So who had called for coffee on the day it set sail for the last time? And what was the money that Robin had stood to inherit?
I glanced around to see if there was any sign of Tom. He might just know who this ‘old man’ was. Not that it was any concern of mine, of course. None at all. But he had gone. I could catch him tomorrow. I had an excuse for dropping by.