“That’s ridiculous.” Tess tried to laugh but couldn’t quite manage it. Her throat was starting to tighten.
“More than half of you is fish,” the dog repeated. “Fish is in you, fish is most of you. If you were a private company about to float on the stock market, the overwhelming majority of shares in you would beowned by fish.” The Welshie saw that Tess was looking confused, so he reverted to his most effective line: “More than half of you is fish.” He said it over and over again, aiming to create a hypnotic effect, and soon Tess couldn’t breathe at all.
The funny thing was, the numbers were nonsense and I knew it. It was selfishnessthat was Tess’s entire character, not selfish, which is an adjective, not a noun. Strictly speaking, then, she was only 36.364 percent fish. (If she’d known that, she would still have died of the same allergic reaction. It might have taken a little longer, that’s all.)
That’s what caused Tess’s death, anyway. Not the fire.
And now let me tell you what followed her death. There was much rejoicing in Level 2, and I was asked if I wanted to move up. I said no, because I’m happy where I am and can’t imagine being happier. In Level 1 there is pure bliss and eternal life, but there are no names, no personalities, no individuation. There’s no opposite of bliss, either—and how can that not mean that bliss starts to feel a bit humdrum and ordinary? Most importantly of all, there areno families in Level 1. There isn’t even the concept of family there, which wouldn’t work for me at all. I want to remain a Lambert for as long as there are Lamberts in Swaffham Tilney or anywhere.
Luckily, sticking at Level 2 is allowed, and I’m not the only one to have chosen it. You might remember Stilton, the pet dog of Auntie Vicky’s ex-boyfriend, Liam? He’s a Level 2 stalwart like me. And actually, the online controversy of Champ versus the Gaveys ended up bringing his dad and Auntie Vicky back together—and that was just one of what can only be described as a cascade of happy endings.
Henry Christensen agreed to sell Shukes back to Mum and Dad, and we Lamberts moved back into our true forever home. I found an extra orange Chuckit! ball behind one of the sofas once Mr. Christensen had moved out, so I now have two: one for inside and one for outside. The other day I allowed Mum to notice that the balls frequently move around, even though no Level 3 Lamberts are moving them. When she spotted this and understood what it meant, she burst into tears, got down on her knees, and hugged my crate for a long time. “Furby,” she whispered. “My darling Furbs. Iknewyou were still with us.” Now I open and close the door of my crate myself to show Mum when I’m in it and when I’m not. She’s waiting for the right time to tell Dad, Ree, and Tobes.
So, yes, good old Mr. Henry Christensen! Guess where he moved to? The Hayloft! We swapped houses, and we all prefer where we are now to where we were before. And when the Stables was repaired after the fire, Henry’s son and his family bought it so that they could be close to him. Champ was invited to visit as a matter of urgency to perform what we all knew was a sort ofexorcism, though we didn’t call it that; officially it was referred to as “afternoon tea,” and it was a very jolly occasion indeed, enjoyed by Lamberts, Christensens, and Sullivans alike. One thorough romp through all the rooms by Champ and the house was free of noxious Gavey vibes forever.
Back at Shukes, Champ was able to spend as much time as he wanted in our lovely front garden, even when Mum and Dad weren’t able to be outside too, keeping an eye on him. Mum knew I would be there to supervise at all times. “Champ’ll be fine,” she said confidently. “Trust me. He’s a Swaffham Tilney hero. Now the danger’s passed, everyone in the village will look out for him and keep him safe. He’s got so many guardian angels now. Not just me. Not just us.”
Champleby Fine soon became his main nickname—Champleby for short. And he really was treated as a hero in our village. The Farmer suggested a party to celebrate his victory and offered the use of one of the disused barns in his field. Everyone came to Champ’s party, apart from Avril Mattingley and Michelle Hyde, whom Mum certainly didn’t miss. It was enough for her to know that both women couldn’t have avoided hearing the booming choruses of “Land of Cute and Furry” that filled the air, with everyone singing at the top of their lungs. (The Farmer even did a solo chorus at the end, to round it off. “He got all the words right—every last one,” Mum whispered to Ree tearfully afterward. “He sangmy original version.”)
Despite the best efforts of Champ himself and Peter the estate agent to eat everything in sight, there were dozens of cupcakes left over (made by the Quy Mill Hotel’s catering team), all withChamp’s face on them. Deryn Dickinson offered to take them round to Michelle’s and Avril’s houses once the party was finished. Corinne frowned. “Cupcakes for bitches? Say what?”
“We should let them know there’s a way back into our good graces,” Deryn told her. “I don’t believe they really think Sally murdered anyone. They’re just too proud to admit it.”
“And you think a cupcake will change that?” Corinne wasn’t convinced, but she agreed.
Wait, what? She agreed with Deryn Dickinson?
That’s right: The long Agatha Christie–related froideur had finally ended. It would be too simplistic to say that Swaffham Tilney had become the Land of Cute and Furry thanks to Champ’s victory, though that was how it felt. For those readers who prefer a more practical explanation: Deryn had confided to Niall Sullivan, Corinne’s son, that she was none other than “ChampLambertFan” on Facebook, Instagram, and Threads—a trio of accounts that had tirelessly provided examples of Tess Gavey’s awfulness and dishonesty (“Take it from one of her very near neighbors”) during the campaign to save Champ: Tess had stolen a block of fudge from the Cupwardly Mobile van’s fudge tray; she regularly smoked cannabis out of her window; she had gotten drunk on her own one night and graffitied the word “Jittleyang” across Maureen Gledhill’s wooden gates.
Corinne had been as impressed by Deryn’s efforts as Deryn was by Corinne’s rescuing of the Lamberts when they’d most needed help. It wasn’t too long before Deryn was admitting to having secretly read Mary Westmacott’s (Agatha Christie’s?)The Rose and the Yew Tree.“I agree with you,” she told Corinne. “Itisa murderstory, but almost no one will spot it, which makes it so much more sinister and dark. No punishment for the murderer, either—not even a firm acknowledgment from the book that that personisdefinitely a killer. And you have to read until the very last lines to catch a glimpse of the truth. Anyone who ducks out early deprives themselves not only of that final bit of the story but of theentirestory, really.”
“Yes,” Corinne agreed happily. “Exactly. Maybe Agatha wanted to punish anyone who wasn’t discerning enough to read right to the end.”
“Would any writer do that, though?” asked Deryn. It was a question neither woman attempted to answer, because it was followed immediately by what felt to both like a more pressing one: Should the Agatha Christie Book Club be restarted, and shouldThe Rose and the Yew Treebe the very first novel they read and discuss?
Which brings me to the last, but by no means least, of the happy endings: The Agatha Christie Book Club relaunched itself, bigger and better than before, and declared all Mary Westmacott novels and their fans welcome. And though many members subsequently reported that they’d been gripped byThe Rose and the Yew Tree, no one else spotted the hidden murder plot. Corinne and Deryn decided not to draw it to the group’s attention, though they did share the secret with Mum, who immediately offered a theory of her own.
“If Agatha Christie did do what you’re saying, if she planted this…hidden strand or whatever, it won’t have been as a punishment for anyone. She’ll have thought of it as the opposite: a treat!”
Spot on, Mum, I thought. (I’m Level 2, remember? Where doyou think Agatha Christie hangs out these days? Precisely.) It ought to have been obvious anyway, even in Level 3: Of course a writer who loves her readers would want to give them a treat and not a punishment at the end of her book. If you ask me, a novel should operate a bit like an Advent calendar: You save the best and most tempting goodies until the very end, the last page—the last paragraph, if you can possibly manage it.
That’s what I thought, though I didn’t say it out loud.
Wednesday 25 September 2024
Large
Bill “Large” Wendt watched his wife, Lissa, as she read. She was coming to the end. The pile on the coffee table was growing, and only a few sheets were left in her hands. She’d been at it all day.
Was she reading those final few pages more slowly? Had he? He didn’t think so—but he’d read the last chapter more than once. It was hard not to go back, when you reached the end and realized that the writer had neglected to give you the much-needed instructions on what to make of it all. There was a strong temptation to think that if you looked again with a different mental attitude, all would be clear. Had Connor Chantree felt the same?
Or had Chantree written the document himself?
The previous week Bill and Lissa had watched a new Netflix movie about a missing child whose parents had trudged through dark woods night after night for weeks, calling his name, long after the official search teams had accepted there was no trace of him to be found there. Bill felt a bit like those parents now—out searchingin a forest for the solution to an impossible puzzle—though to an observer he would have looked like a middle-aged man in blue pajamas and a purple paisley dressing gown (from Liberty in London—a thirtieth-wedding-anniversary present from Lissa) having a much quieter evening than usual in his own lounge, watching, from his favorite battered leather chair, his reading wife instead of the television.
What would Lissa make of the manuscript? Had she decided yet? Bill hoped so—she was much better at deciding than he was—and he was ready to agree with her conclusion, whatever it turned out to be.Hurry up, Liss.
Bill disapproved of the old adage about a watched pot never boiling. Of course it would, assuming it wasn’t prematurely removed from the heat source. No other equally well known proverb was quite so untrue.The early bird catches the worm: an undeniable fact; if you turn up first, you’re more likely to get the goodies. Every year Bill tried to get to the best ripe blackberries growing by the riverbank before the birds or other local pickers did. First-mover advantage was a real thing, whereas the act of watching a pot did absolutely nothing to cool either fire or water, so—
