I googled Sabine Barclay-Wood.

  Barclay-Wood (or Barclay Wood) the Reverend Sabine (1854–1945) – English clergyman and hymn-writer. Son of James Wood, brewer of Wandsworth and his wife, Joanna Barclay. Educated Charterhouse School and Keble College Oxford. Vicar of St Augustine’s, Selsey, West Sussex for over fifty years. He actively sought, but failed to obtain, various posts at Chichester Cathedral, from which he later claimed he had been excluded by ‘black malice and blacker jealousy’. Possibly best known for his hymn ‘God of Sunshine, God of Love’, formerly included in many school hymnbooks but now (like his other work) almost entirely forgotten. Also wrote Curious Tales of Old Sussex (1904), a strange anthology of folk stories, purportedly collected in the county but many of which seem to have been lifted verbatim and without acknowledgement from other anthologies, and Happy Recollections of a Sussex Clergyman (1939), which was the subject of a libel action on the part of the then Bishop and Dean of Chichester.

  There was a copy of Happy Recollections of a Sussex Clergyman in the library, though it took some time to locate it. It had been privately printed and was in the form of a diary, which Barclay-Wood must have maintained over a number of years (or invented – I was beginning to doubt him as a reliable source). It was chatty and anecdotal. He sounded like the sort of person who, once they had buttonholed you, would be difficult to shake off. I finally found what I was looking for in an entry nominally attributed to 3 February 1902.

  Dined with the Rector at West Wittering – a tedious journey along almost impassable roads but in the knowledge that I would drink good port and hear a good story or two after our meal. In fact I was rewarded with a tale that the present incumbent’s predecessor had told him, years ago, about a parishioner who vanished without trace. My colleague would tell me only that the man’s name was George and that he had been a very respectable party, a parish councillor and a churchwarden of long-standing. Then one day he had ceased to attend church entirely and failed to appear at council meetings. In a small village all sorts of rumours spread, including that witchcraft or worse was involved. By and by, the worthy rector had called at his house to enquire whether George was sick but was given many plausible stories by the family to put him off. It took a year for him to discover the truth, which so shocked him greatly. It seems that George had committed some crime many years before and blamed it on a poor fisherman who hanged for it (a story that it must be possible to verify elsewhere). At this point the tale became a little confused, my colleague having opened a third bottle of port – but he said that George died and, though the clergyman had doubts about doing so, he was given a Christian burial in the churchyard. The ending of it all was this, however: some years later the grave was reopened so that George’s wife could be laid to rest. George’s coffin could be made out – rotten and broken though it now was – but there was no sign of George – no shroud, no bones, not a tooth had survived. The gravediggers said that he must have been taken by the Devil. My colleague suggested that it was most likely that George was never in the coffin that they buried, but why that should be and where George went, was something he could never say. Drove back in the rain – one oil lamp gave out just after Birdham because, like the Foolish Virgin, I had neglected to have it refilled – but I got home safely, thanks be to God.

  Then a little further on, I found this:

  Out of curiosity I have examined some old newspapers in Chichester library. It would seem that in 1848 one John Gittings was murdered and a fisherman named Lancelot Pagham was hanged for it. John Gittings had a brother named George, who was present at the trial, and who may be the George referred to in the tale of The Murderer and the Devil (as I intend to call it). George Gittings attempted to give evidence for the fisherman, but Pagham’s impertinence towards the court seems to have swayed the judge against him. ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing, drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring’. verb. sap.

  Finally I came across this:

  At a bookshop in Chichester I found an ancient volume entitled Queer Stories of Old Cornwall. The bookseller assured me that it was rare and the stories largely unknown – he had never seen the book before in all his days. I bought it as a curiosity, thinking to compare my own Sussex stories with the Cornish ones. While I was paying, an old farmer came into the shop. On hearing him addressed as Mr Pagham, I enquired if he was from the family of that name who lived in West Wittering. He said he was and, after some discussion, admitted freely that it was his brother who had been hanged, most unjustly as he insisted. I asked him about George Gittings. He said that he would not hear a word against him – that he had been very kind to the family and given them money. Then he told me something very odd indeed about the Herring Field where the murder had taken place – how it had passed to the Gittings family as a permanent reminder. By this time my purchase had been wrapped, and I went on my way. I have to say that the gifts to the family are a nice touch that I shall add to the story, illustrative of contrition. Of course, if there was no true Repentance in his heart then his Good Works would have been to no avail. And the Devil would have been perfectly at liberty to take him. I shall most certainly point out that very valuable moral.

  So there was the reference to the Herring Field again as a burden to the family that owned it. I flicked through the volume to the end, but I could find no more on the murder, other than a brief note for June 1904 that his book of Sussex Tales had been published and that he hoped it would be well reviewed and that sales would be brisk. He never mentioned it again.

  It had been a long day, but I felt I had to phone Barry Whitelace to let him know that the body, whoever it was and however it got there, was not Bronze Age. He seemed a little distracted.

  ‘Thanks, Ethelred,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you’d like to know,’ I added. ‘I suppose it’s stopped the investigations for the wind farm for a bit.’

  ‘It wasn’t for a wind farm,’ he said. ‘It was for fracking. Test drill hole.’

  ‘Derek Gittings was contemplating fracking?’

  ‘Apparently. Or some company was willing to pay him to be allowed to test there.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. Then I asked: ‘How’s Jean?’

  ‘She died yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘No reason why you should. Life goes on.’

  ‘It somehow puts the rest into perspective, though,’ I said. ‘I mean, the whole question of what happens to the Herring Field must seem wholly unimportant now.’

  ‘Quite the reverse,’ he said. ‘I’ll continue to do just whatever I have to do – whatever that proves to be – to preserve it for her. From my point of view, it’s holy ground.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Elsie

  Dear Mr Black,

  Thank you for submitting your manuscript to the Elsie Thirkettle Agency for our consideration. We read it with great interest, but I’m sorry to have to tell you that it wasn’t quite right for us. Different agents will have different views, of course, and it would be worth sending it elsewhere for another opinion if you wish. Most authors have to try a number of agencies before they are accepted.

  Thank you again for thinking of us. We wish you every success in your writing career.

  Yours sincerely

  Elsie Thirkettle

  PS Well done! This was possibly the biggest load of bollocks I have ever read – and I’ve been obliged to read a great deal.

  ‘How are you getting on with the new standard letter?’ asked Tuesday, placing on my desk a china plate on which rested a neatly sliced pear and a folded paper napkin.

  ‘You were quite right,’ I said, eying the fruit suspiciously. ‘It saves an enormous amount of time. I’m trying to personalise them a bit, though, with a helpful comment or two at the end.’

  ‘Ooooh, how sweet!’ said Tuesday. ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Too late,’ I said. ‘I’ve sealed it up.’

  She looked at me archly. ‘You are saying nice things, I hope?’

  ‘You know me,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  For a moment or two she tried to outstare me, but she was never going to succeed. She was a mere amateur up against a seasoned pro.

  ‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘I spoke to Catarina last night. Ethelred’s making no progress with that investigation at all. He’s come up with a second body, but he’s found it a hundred and forty years too late.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Actually, thinking about it, that’s quite fast for Ethelred. I mean, since he has established permanent residence in the nineteen fifties, it’s only seventy years ago for him. It reminded me, though. There was a lead I have to follow up in the Robin Pagham case. Cancel my meetings for this afternoon. I’ve just arranged to go and see somebody called Martina Blanch. I have to get her to admit, over a cappuccino and pastries, that she’s a murderess.’

  ‘You’re not going to record your conversation with her in an underhand manner?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, that conversation of ours that I recorded is old history. Anyway, you worked for another agency then – I was entitled to use an underhand manner. And I’ve destroyed, or more likely lost, the tape. Do I have to go on apologising about it for ever?’

  ‘You’ve never apologised about it.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How odd. I’m sure I meant to. I’ll see you later, then. And don’t try to open that letter I sealed. I just told him “well done”. OK?’

  But I bet she did. People can be so devious.

  ‘You said you wanted to talk to me about Robin Pagham?’ asked Martina.

  I placed my spoon carefully in the saucer, like narrators do in books when they want to illustrate that somebody is thinking carefully and in total control of the situation. I looked at Martina through narrowed eyes.

  ‘A plain yes or no will do,’ said Martina. ‘I haven’t got all bloody day.’

  ‘I bet I’ve got less time than you have,’ I said.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ I said.

  There was a sort of pause during which Martina pondered how much she could be arsed to play this game.

  ‘As you wish,’ she said. ‘Just tell me what it is you want to talk about – and stop playing with that spoon, it’s irritating.’

  ‘Fair enough. No spoon, then. So, Martina Blanch, you were in West Wittering on the day Robin died?’

  ‘Is that a question?’

  ‘It’s a statement with a slightly rising intonation at the end.’

  ‘Which is a question.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  ‘OK, just so that we can get away from this cafe before it closes, I agree a sentence with a rising tone at the end may or may not be a question, and I additionally confirm I was in West Wittering the day Robin died.’

  ‘You went there with Sophie?’

  ‘I drove down to Sussex with Sophie. I don’t quite see where this is going. You phone me out of the blue and say you need to talk about Robin. I cancel a meeting because you say it’s urgent. Since you’re a lawyer, I’d assumed it must be something to do with the assault charges or the will …’

  ‘Did I say I was a lawyer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry – I meant literary agent. Slip of the tongue.’

  ‘So you lied to get me here?’

  ‘Yes. I thought I’d covered that already. So, Martina Blanch, why did you kill Robin Pagham? Was it in revenge for his attack on you? Or did you want to prevent it happening to other girls?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him at all.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘A bit of a coincidence, then, your being in West Wittering that day, eh Martina?’

  ‘I suppose so. But I wasn’t there to see Robin.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’ve got plenty of time, Martina.’

  ‘I thought you said you’d got less time than I had?’

  Martina looked at me as if she had scored some sort of point, the way that Tuesday looks at me when I concede that apples aren’t that bad.

  ‘Just get on with the story,’ I said.

  ‘The day before,’ Martina began, ‘Sophie phoned me to say that Tom had contacted her and asked her to come down to Sussex. She wanted to know what to do.’

  ‘She was normally indecisive?’

  ‘Quite the reverse. But Tom had been acting weirdly. I mean, they’d been going out together, then suddenly he’d dumped her. A few months on, he phones up out of the blue, almost as if nothing had happened, and asks her out. So she suggested I should come along with her.’

  ‘Three of you on a hot date? Is that how it’s done in Sussex?’

  ‘Of course not. I would travel down to Chichester with her and she’d drop me off there and head off to Singleton to meet Tom. If all went well, I’d spend the day shopping and having lunch and then I’d return to London with her in the evening. But if Tom failed to show up or something, then we’d both shop or we’d drive out to a pub by the sea or whatever and we’d forget Tom Gittings ever existed.’

  That seemed fair enough. A date with an emergency exit. I could have done with a few of those in my time.

  ‘But you also went to West Wittering? Not just to Chichester?’

  ‘Yes, it’s always the way. You allow plenty of time so that you won’t be late, there’s no traffic on the roads and you arrive about an hour and a half too early. We drove down to West Wittering for a quick look at the place, just for old times’ sake, then back to Chichester in time for the shops to open.’

  ‘So, what time were you there?’

  ‘West Wittering? I don’t know – eight-thirty maybe? Nine? I didn’t keep notes. I do remember we hit the rush hour traffic going into Chichester, which actually made Sophie a bit late in the end. And most of the shops were open by the time I got there, but not all of them. So, let’s say around nine-thirty? Does that help?’

  ‘And you have proof you were in Chichester all day?’

  ‘I doubt it. Not all day. I suppose my credit card statement would show I’d paid for lunch and I did buy a necklace at Sahara. But, and this is a far more telling point, I had no reason to kill Robin.’

  ‘He broke your nose.’

  ‘Take a look at my nose – does it look broken?’

  ‘No, it’s very nice.’

  ‘Precisely. He hit me on the nose, but no permanent damage. I was pretty pissed off at the time, but the caution he got was adequate retribution. I actually said in my statement that I bore him no ill will, or something of the sort. I would have preferred to leave it at that. In my position I honestly didn’t want the publicity. It was the police who were keen to press charges rather than me. Quite right, I suppose – you can’t let people get away with that sort of thing. But it’s all water under the bridge. Why on earth would I want to kill him and take the risk of going to gaol, simply in order to get my own back for something like that?’

  ‘Fair enough. Sorry to suggest there was an ongoing nose problem, by the way. It looks fine.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. And everything went well with Sophie’s date?’

  ‘Sort of. I got a text halfway through the morning saying she was having a great time, smiley face, XXX – you know the sort of thing. That seemed conclusive. I went and had lunch. It was only later, in the car going home, that Sophie said it had all been a bit of a damp squib. She had no idea why he’d invited her.’

  ‘How odd.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Tom’s completely under his father’s thumb. I’d always suspected that Colonel Gittings disapproved of Sophie for some reason that I could never fathom, and that he got Tom to drop her. Seeing her again was some small act of rebellion on Tom’s part, but he didn’t have the guts to see it through. Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would”, like the poor cat i’ th’ adage.’

  I nodded. ‘Do you think they really said i’ during the sixteenth century? I mean, it’s easier just to say in. What was that all about?’

  ‘I don’t think Shakespeare was much good at accents.’

  ‘Don’t get me started on writers,’ I said. ‘I could go on all day.’

  ‘So, in fact you do have quite a lot of time to spare?’

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘did Tom spend the whole date talking about his father?’

  ‘Strangely, the answer to that question is that he did talk about his father. I know because Sophie mentioned it in the car going back to London. Robin and Colonel Gittings seem to have had quite a bust-up about some field that the colonel owned.’

  ‘The Herring Field?’

  ‘That’s the one. How clever of you to know that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. Robin had agreed to buy it or something, then he changed his mind. I think the Gittingses would have made quite a lot of money. The field was pretty valueless, but Robin was going to have a wind farm built on it. Then he decided not to. Tom’s father was furious apparently.’

  A thought occurred to me. ‘Angry enough to kill him?’

  ‘He has got a bit of a temper. I wouldn’t have wanted him as a father-in-law myself. But, he’d hardly do that, would he?’

  ‘But he was in West Wittering. He could have been the person who called on Robin and gave him a lift to the sailing club. And he was in the army – I mean, he’d have known how to kill somebody. They actually teach you how to do it.’

 

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