The Herring in the Library by L. C. Tyler Page A

bore so few grudges against Robert.’
    ‘And the terms on which Robert left would have been enough to maintain this place?’ I asked.
    ‘I’m good,’ smirked Gerald, ‘but I’m not that good. No, I guess Robert had invested better on his own behalf than he did for the bank. I hope so, for
Annabelle’s sake.’
    Then I remembered something.
    ‘Robert gave me a letter to pass on to you,’ I said. ‘If I’d realized you would still be here, I might have brought it with me. But I’ve posted it, unopened, as
Robert requested. I don’t know what it is, but apparently it’s not urgent.’
    ‘How very mysterious. Still, if it’s not urgent . . .’
    ‘It should be with you on Monday.’
    ‘We’re going away for a couple of days anyway. I’ll look at it when I return to the office.’
    Then another thought occurred to me.
    ‘By the way,’ I said. ‘Who was the guy fired with Robert? The one who bore surprisingly few grudges under the circumstances?’
    ‘I thought everyone knew that,’ said Gerald. ‘It was in the papers. He was quite famous for a few days. It was Clive Brent.’
    I had arranged to meet up with Annabelle and Elsie in the library. Elsie appeared, hot and distinctly put out after fruitlessly traipsing round the remoter parts of the garden
for clues. She seemed to feel she had been sent on a wild goose chase and that she deserved better after her blue serge discovery.
    Annabelle asked me what I had found out and I told her briefly that neither the McIntoshes nor Gerald Smith had had much information of note. I did say that the McIntoshes, in their medical
capacity, had not ruled out suicide and that I’d been told Clive had left the bank at the same time as Robert.
    ‘Could Clive have harboured any sort of grudge?’ I asked.
    ‘Of course not,’ said Annabelle. ‘Robert saw Clive as being one of his closest chums. Robert was trying to find Clive a job, for goodness’ sake. Why would Clive want to
kill him now?’
    ‘I just thought I would ask,’ I said. ‘Maybe, Annabelle, the police are right. After all, how could anyone have got out of this room after killing Robert?’
    ‘You discovered nothing earlier?’
    ‘Not a thing,’ I said.
    She sighed – but really, I had done all I could.
    ‘Let’s try to reconstruct the scene,’ said Annabelle, as though we were having difficulty learning something quite simple. ‘Elise – you sit at the desk.’
    ‘Can’t I be the murderer?’ asked Elsie.
    ‘No, dear, you’re going to be murdered,’ said Annabelle. And very soon. Now, Ethelred – you stand over there to the left of the fireplace – by that panelling. A
little bit further back – yes, just there.’
    ‘I’m not sure . . .’ I said. Whichever way a killer might have entered, it would not have been from the fireplace.
    She looked critically from me to Elsie and back again. I couldn’t see this was getting us anywhere. Then I must have leaned on something because Annabelle suddenly said: ‘Wait a
moment! The panelling – it moved.’
    I looked. There was a series of oak Tudor roses carved the length of the room. The one closest to me looked a little more worn than the rest – sort of smoothed. Otherwise it was just a
regular bit of carving.
    ‘What did I touch? This?’ I still wasn’t sure I had made contact with anything. I could have done no more than brush against it.
    ‘Press it again,’ said Annabelle. ‘Press it again – harder this time.’
    I pressed harder. Then suddenly part of the panelling gaped. Annabelle was by my side in a moment, sliding the whole panel back to reveal an opening, slightly smaller than a standard door, but
allowing access to anyone willing to stoop a little and step into the darkness.
    ‘It’s a secret passage!’ she said.
    ‘So it is,’ I said. I looked through the opening into the gloom. ‘I wonder where it goes?’
    Annabelle produced a torch from the desk drawer and shone it experimentally into the