The Herring Seller’s Apprentice by L.C. Tyler

Author:L.C. Tyler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 2007-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Muttering, “They’ll never miss one,” Elsie took a rose from a large bunch on a nearby grave and propped it against Pamela Hamilton-Boswell’s gravestone. “Poor little sod,” she added. “Where’s the divine purpose in that, eh?”

As we walked back she rubbed her eyes a couple of times and sniffed.

“Must be getting a cold,” she said quickly, before I could enquire further.

♦

We drove home slowly in a mist that had crept in silently and insidiously from the sea, enveloping the dark fields and trees and throwing back the beam from my headlights.

“Well, I think we can rule her out,” Elsie conceded.

“I’m glad you admit that it was all a waste of time,” I said.

“Oh, not a waste of time,” she said. “Far from it. We know who Pamela Hamilton-Boswell is now, and we can be absolutely certain that it was Geraldine who came up with the name for the account. It confirms that Geraldine’s disappearance was long planned: she’d set up a bank account in a false name to transfer funds into. And, since Geraldine could not have withdrawn the money herself, we know that somebody else was sufficiently aware of her plans to withdraw the cash after she died. An accomplice had always seemed likely, but I had assumed that it must be a man. I think we are looking for a woman, who knew Geraldine well and who possibly lives in Essex.” She paused for a moment, then: “That’s it!” she said. “Stop the car!”

“Stop? Here?” There was no sign, on the narrow lane along which we were driving, of any safe stopping place, above all in this mist. I slowed down, my eyes searching right and left for any piece of verge wide enough to take a medium-sized saloon car.

“Ethelred, you silly tart. What are you doing? You’ll kill us stopping here. Clearly when I say stop the car, I am speaking figuratively. What I mean is…” Elsie consulted my map, “…turn left in about two and a half miles.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Elizabeth.”

“But surely not – ”

“We must leave no stone unturned.”

I put my foot on the accelerator too late. In my rear-view mirror I saw headlights approach with horrible rapidity and swerve to the right. A large dark object passed us at speed, sounding its horn in annoyance. I allowed the car to slowly build up speed as we set off again along the lane, watching carefully for a left turning.

♦

Elizabeth’s house was in complete contrast to Charlotte’s modern, safe, oddly suburban home. A short stretch of gravel drive led us to the front of one of the large half-timbered farmhouses in which that part of Essex abounds. Once the homes of yeoman farmers, they are now usually the country residences of prosperous scrap dealers or upmarket pornographers. I could not remember which, if either, of these professions Elizabeth’s second husband, Dennis, followed – though whatever it was made him a great deal of money, as Elizabeth often reminded me. I had met him once or twice because Elizabeth, in the wake of Rupert’s desertion, had seen me as some sort of ally.

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