The Maltese Herring Read online

  ‘Don’t be so silly,’ she interrupted. ‘It’s not important. Not important at all. You must all come in and …’ She paused, hearing footsteps behind her.

  ‘Hello, Ethelred,’ said Professor Cox, emerging from the sitting room and into the hall. He stood there as if he rather than Iris owned it. ‘Good to see you. Hello, Hilary. And this is …’

  ‘You can call me “Hello Elsie”,’ said Elsie. ‘You must be Hello Professor Cox. Nice motor. Must have cost a bit.’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ said Cox, not taking his eyes off Joyner.

  ‘I bet you got here from Sidlesham in no time at all,’ said Elsie. ‘Speeding along the narrow lanes, in a way that Ethelred doesn’t, or possibly can’t.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, still without looking at her. He was enjoying watching Joyner far too much for that. It seemed to be one of his hobbies.

  Iris looked from one to the other, then swallowed again. ‘Maybe you’d all like to come through into the garden. Dr Tomlinson, Professor Cox’s … er … colleague, is also here. We were having coffee. I’ll get Pia to make some more.’

  Elsie noted the ‘er’ and raised her eyebrows at me. I shrugged. Whatever the reservation was, we would soon see whether we shared it or not.

  Coffee was duly served by Pia, Iris’s new Filipina housekeeper. We drank it on a terrace, overlooking the main lawn, in sunshine that would have been far too hot had it not been for the gentle breeze off the sea. Croquet hoops adorned the short grass. The mallets and balls were piled up close by, but nobody appeared anxious to play. Cox leant back in his chair and, for the most part, silently contemplated the view. Joyner scowled at him and said even less. Dr Tomlinson proved to be Fay Tomlinson, the junior research fellow whom I had seen at the College dinner, then looking rather elegant in her scarlet silk dress. This afternoon, she wore a simple pale-blue linen blouse and a dark-blue cotton skirt. Both she and Iris were better attired for practical tasks than Elsie was in her bouncing retro petticoats and improbable white lace gloves. Fay checked emails constantly on her phone, her long legs stretched out in front of her. She was in her late twenties, blonde and with redder lipstick than most historians I had met. Her sunglasses, like Elsie’s, were perched on her head. She wore a gold bracelet and a necklace of a simple but probably very expensive design. Beauty is perhaps a subjective thing, but whenever Cox turned in her direction, he undoubtedly appreciated what he saw. This perhaps accounted for Iris’s ‘er’. But, other than the occasional shrug or single-word response, Dr Tomlinson chose largely to ignore Cox. It was reasonably clear to us all why Cox might have chosen to bring her in the white convertible, less clear why she had elected to come. Once or twice I noticed she tried to catch Hilary Joyner’s eye, but he declined to talk to this ally of his most bitter rival. If her role was to bring about any sort of rapprochement between the two warring camps, then she had failed miserably. But I wasn’t sure, to be honest, why most of us needed to be there.

  Indeed, on reflection, we were not the jolliest of parties. Elsie alone made lively, one-sided small talk with Iris, who still seemed unusually ill at ease for somebody who was often grudgingly accorded, within the village, the status of Lady of the Manor. Everyone was aware that an almighty row was brewing and only Elsie was genuinely looking forward to it.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to see us, Iris,’ I said to her for the fourth or fifth time.

  ‘As I’ve told you, Ethelred, it’s always a pleasure to share the house and garden with others. You might say it is a duty. In some ways, I’ve been very fortunate in my life. I have to remind myself of that. Very lucky. In some ways, at least.’

  Her hand stretched out for the coffee pot, then she recalled that she had only just offered us more coffee and she sat back again with an involuntary sigh.

  ‘Do you know West Wittering at all, Dr Joyner?’ she asked.

  Joyner blinked twice and turned to her.

  ‘I had an aunt who lived round here,’ he said. ‘Dead now. I used to visit.’

  ‘Really? What was her name?’

  ‘Harriet Joyner. She lived in Bracklesham.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Iris. ‘It’s a while since I had any reason to go to Bracklesham. The beach is so much nicer here. What did you and your aunt find to do there?’

  ‘Trips to boot fairs, mainly. That was what she liked doing in her old age. She collected novelty teapots. You’d be amazed how many different ones there are out there. Cottages. Castles. Houses. Lighthouses. Postboxes. Phone boxes. Big Ben. Buckingham Palace. Cats. Dogs. Frogs. Mickey Mouse. Donald Duck. And she seemed determined to have them all. I took the whole lot to the tip the day after she died. Threw the black plastic sacks into the skip and listened to the sound of breaking china. They had to be destroyed. I didn’t want other lives blighted the way hers was.’

  Joyner looked round the group, as if wondering if he had revealed something – some small weakness – that Cox might, in due course, be able to exploit. But Cox appeared not to have heard him. Joyner relapsed into an uneasy silence. Perhaps, after all, he regretted the Mickey Mouse one.

  ‘Has your family owned the house here for long?’ I asked Iris.

  ‘The Priory? My grandfather bought it. He was a banker in London. He wanted to move his family closer to the sea. His wife, my grandmother, was suffering from … well, she was ill. He thought it might benefit her.’

  ‘Did it help?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think it can have done. She died shortly after they arrived. That would have been in 1959 or ’60 – ’59, probably. Nobody’s really sure exactly. My grandfather passed away himself at about the same time.’ She sighed again and fiddled with her pearl necklace, as if it were a neat and expensive rosary.

  The sun continued to shine down on us. Perhaps Iris felt it was a gloomy conversation to be having on a bright, cloudless afternoon, the hottest of the year so far. I was curious to know more, if she’d tell us, but felt that it was indelicate to enquire. Fortunately, Elsie did not feel in any way constrained.

  ‘Your grandfather never got the chance to search for the famous buried treasure, then?’ she said.

  Iris looked at Elsie vaguely as if only half taking in what she’d said. ‘I was still quite young when he died. It’s not necessarily the sort of conversation you have with a child.’

  ‘And your parents?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really. They never mentioned it. I didn’t get much chance to discuss it with them either, of course. Under the circumstances.’

  ‘Perhaps they didn’t believe in it all?’ Elsie persisted. ‘The treasure. The curse.’

  ‘Oh no. They believed in it all right. They’d seen it in action.’

  ‘You mean you know that the Madonna is probably here somewhere?’ she enquired.

  Iris, who had had a distant look in her eyes for a while, suddenly focused on Elsie with the intensity I remembered from her admonitions to dog walkers who failed to carry enough poop bags with them on the beach.

  ‘I’ve no idea what could be buried here, Elsie. But there’s no way I’m having this garden dug up. My grandfather created it for my grandmother, you see. I wouldn’t have it destroyed just to find some mediaeval trinkets that are likely to be of no possible value to me.’

  ‘Metal detectors,’ said Joyner, every bit as impervious to questions of delicacy as Elsie was. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Metal detectors. And spades. Five or six of us could do it in a couple of days. There’d be no need to dig up more than was absolutely necessary. Just a flower bed or two. Then we could let things rest.’

  ‘Well …’ said Iris, as if suddenly uncertain of herself. She half turned to Cox.

  ‘There’s no hard evidence that anything of any value was ever buried here,’ said Cox quickly. ‘None at all. We know that one of the statues – the Virgin – was in Malta in the 1520s. And then it disappeared. But there’s nothing to connect that with the so-called Maltese Madonna that appeared here shortly after. There are no pictures of the statue
. There aren’t any good descriptions in contemporary accounts. Even the name can’t be traced back further than the early twentieth century. A book on Sussex by some obscure clergyman just says that was what people called it in the olden days.’

  ‘Sabine Barclay-Wood,’ I said. ‘It’s difficult to discuss the Madonna without his name cropping up. In a sense he created the whole mythology around it. I have a copy of the book in question, but I’ve done no more than glance at that particular story, to be fair. I find his style of writing somewhat mannered at the best – rather irritating at the worst. But he would have known about it, if anyone did. He was the one who set up the trust to preserve what remained of the Abbey. He was chairman of the committee for about forty years.’

  Cox nodded. ‘All of that may be true, but I can assure you he offers no proof for any part of the narrative. Most of the book, as you know, is just a jumble of folk tales and gossip, and the tale of the Sidlesham or so-called Maltese Madonna is very much of the same type – picturesque, unsubstantiated twaddle. The stories of treasure possibly being buried here are, at best, merely apocryphal.’

  ‘Which is, of course, what I meant to say myself,’ said Iris to nobody in particular.

  She again picked up the coffee pot and scanned the state of our cups, and then put it back down.

  ‘You’re the treasurer of the Abbey preservation committee?’ I asked Iris.

  ‘Yes. That doesn’t make me an expert on the Abbey, of course. Still less on things like the inventory. I just about know how to do spreadsheets – that’s all that’s required. The Abbey did possess a lot of documents at one stage, but they were all lost about sixty or seventy years ago.’

  ‘Henry Polgreen says they were taken to Selsey,’ I said.

  ‘Well, he’d know. The Abbey is pretty much his life. I’m unsure what he’d do without it.’

  Then I, and the others, heard raised voices from inside the house – one high-pitched and querulous, one annoyed but resigned. It was part of a heated argument that had clearly begun some time before and looked set to continue for a while yet. Then Sly strode through the French doors into the garden, followed by Polgreen and a slightly agitated Pia.

  ‘Miss Munnings, these two gentlemen—’ she began.

  ‘We need to talk, Iris,’ Sly announced. ‘There have been irregularities in the management of the site. Rule forty-seven states quite clearly …’ Then, for the first time, he became aware of the rest of us sitting round the terrace, gazing at him in his charity-shop T-shirt and shorts, and he paused thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m very sorry that we’ve interrupted you, Iris,’ said Polgreen. ‘I told Tertius that this was not appropriate. I see it’s also very badly timed. We’ll go away, and I’ll phone you and make a proper appointment, unless I can persuade him that we can deal with the matter at the next committee meeting. God knows, we have enough of them and very little to do there.’

  Iris looked round the group. Her afternoon had been ruined long ago but her duties as hostess were clear and overriding.

  ‘Well, you’re here now,’ she said to Polgreen. ‘Why don’t you both stay for coffee?’

  Sly was unfolding a small typed and stapled booklet, rather grubby along its edges and possibly the rule book that he had referred to. He had not quite given up hope that Iris’s frosty tone really concealed a genuine affection for him and a deep and lasting respect for the constitution of the committee. He turned uncertainly to see what Henry Polgreen would say.

  Polgreen, in fact, hesitated for a moment then said, ‘That’s very kind of you, Iris, under the circumstances.’

  Sly’s mind was now also made up. He certainly wasn’t leaving them alone together. ‘Thank you, Iris,’ he said. ‘A spot of coffee, you say? I don’t mind if I do. Very, very kind of you.’

  And so they entered fully into the spirit of our little party.

  For a while Sly scowled silently at Polgreen, Joyner scowled at Cox and continued to ignore Fay Tomlinson, who tapped her foot impatiently. Joyner said very little to Iris. No doubt he’d hoped to talk to her alone and found this motley gathering inconvenient. Iris poured the fresh coffee that Pia had brought to the table in the hope that somebody would drink it. Eventually she sighed for about the tenth time that afternoon and said, ‘Why don’t I show you all round the garden. I think that’s what some of you at least have come for?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I said, getting quickly to my feet.

  ‘A tour of the garden would be very pleasant, Iris,’ said Elsie.

  ‘Lead on,’ said Joyner with some enthusiasm.

  ‘Just the ticket,’ said Sly. ‘Just the ticket, eh?’

  Pia appeared, almost magically, with Iris’s sunhat, white, broad-brimmed and not unlike Elsie’s. Joyner clapped his own panama on his head. I regretted that I had left my old folding hat in the car. The heat was becoming oppressive.

  We set off in a gaggle, more or less following Iris’s white jacket. Joyner had produced a slightly yellowed map from his pocket, which he had unfolded and now glanced at surreptitiously whenever he thought Iris was not looking.

  ‘There’s a well somewhere in the garden?’ he asked, as we paused to admire some azaleas.

  Iris froze for a moment, then turned and gave Joyner a very stiff smile.

  ‘Yes, just over there,’ she said. ‘Under the trees.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Joyner slowly. ‘Yes, of course. Under the trees. I didn’t see it for a moment.’

  We all squinted into the shadows. We’d have to take her word for it. It was very dark in there. Layer upon layer of leafy branches filtered the sunlight, leaving a twilight world of ferns and damp brick.

  ‘Everything has grown so much since the well was last used for drinking water,’ said Iris. ‘It was originally in an open space. You wouldn’t want too many leaves dropping into it, I imagine. But since the well has been abandoned for all practical purposes, the trees and shrubs have been left to grow round it – especially in the last fifty years. But the old well looks rather romantic in its shady little grove.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I take a closer look?’ asked Joyner.

  ‘A look? I suppose not. Be careful, though! The well has an iron grill over it, but I’m always afraid somebody could still fall in – especially with it being so gloomy. Originally there would have been some sort of wooden cover but, after they stopped using the well, that was just left to rot, I’m afraid. So, my grandfather had the present grill made in its place. To ensure there wasn’t another—that is to say, to prevent an accident.’

  ‘Can you remove the grill?’ asked Joyner.

  Iris looked doubtful. ‘I have the key on my key ring, as it happens, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. The wall round it is a bit crumbly now. You can see reasonably well through the grill.’

  ‘Have you looked recently, then?’

  ‘I’ve felt no need to do so. But I’d much rather the grill stayed in place.’

  ‘I want to get a proper look down there with my torch,’ said Joyner.

  ‘One of the previous owners apparently searched the well,’ said Iris. ‘Some years ago. A small boy, carrying a lantern, was lowered on a rope, one summer when the water level was very low. I can promise you there’s nothing down there. No treasure, Dr Joyner.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I don’t know. A long time ago. Certainly before the last war. Maybe before the one before that. I’m not sure you’re allowed to do that to small boys these days. But, whenever it was, the point is that if the Prior had concealed anything there, it would have been found.’

  Joyner smiled. He seemed relieved at some part of this answer.

  Fay Tomlinson, who had said almost nothing all afternoon, finally spoke up. ‘I really don’t see the point, Hilary,’ she said. ‘What exactly do you think you’re after?’

  ‘I am merely curious to examine it,’ Joyner said to her. ‘It would have been the original source of water for the Priory.’

  ‘Water’s w
ater,’ said Fay. ‘You can see that anywhere. I think we are just wasting time.’

  ‘You must let me decide what’s worth investigating,’ he said.

  ‘Even so …’ said Iris. ‘It’s not really safe.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Fay. ‘Let’s all move on, shall we? I thought that was the plan? That we all see the garden?’

  ‘Oh, let Hilary fall down the shaft if he wants to,’ said Cox. ‘What harm can it possibly do, if the well’s no longer in use? Iris has the key.’

  Iris looked at Cox, then knelt down carefully and unlocked the grill. Working like a practised team, she and Cox lifted it off. The old ironwork clattered ominously onto the surrounding stone path. Iris instinctively stepped back from the deep shaft with evident distaste. She brushed the pale dust from the knees of her black jeans and examined a white sleeve for possible rust marks. Perhaps neither the jacket nor the trousers had been such a good idea after all.

  ‘We’d better stay while you do it, Dr Joyner,’ she said. ‘I really don’t like the thought of your leaning over that well alone. It must be fifty- or sixty-feet deep. It makes me quite ill just thinking about that drop.’

  ‘You go on. I’ll be fine,’ said Joyner. ‘I may be a while, though not as long as Anthony would like me to be.’

  ‘Very well, Dr Joyner,’ she said. ‘I’ll lock it again later, when you’ve finished. Just please don’t fall in.’

  ‘I’ll stay with you,’ said Fay Tomlinson, somewhat unexpectedly.

  ‘No, I’ll stay with Hilary,’ said Cox. ‘I’d hate it if we lost him, so soon before his retirement. Everyone’s been looking forward to the party for longer than I can remember.’

  ‘I’m sure they have,’ said Joyner. ‘But I’m also sure you’d like to see the garden, Anthony, having somehow gained admission to the place. And you, Fay. Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Really?’ said Fay.

  ‘Yes, really,’ said Joyner.

  Professor Cox hesitated, clearly unsure whether a tour of the garden or Joyner falling to his death would be more diverting on a hot summer afternoon. ‘Come on, Fay,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave Hilary to it, shall we?’