Death in the Opening Chapter (10 page)

Battenburg and the deceased cleric had enjoyed a spectacular argument just two evenings before the crucial death. It had taken place at Gunther's restaurant when the vicar had come calling. The entire community, apart from the squire and his lady – the Bognors' host and hostess – seemed to know exactly what had happened, sentence by sentence, and, it seemed (though Battenburg denied fisticuffs), blow by blow. Sir Branwell, incidentally, resembled one of those old-fashioned pedagogues who claimed to know everything, while actually knowing nothing at all. The squire claimed to be omniscient and to have his finger on the pulse of the village. The reality was that the only person on whose person the squire's finger actually lay – and lightly at that – was his wife. And the same went for her. Maximum claim of intelligence, minimum basis in fact: the bane of bad security services everywhere.

The Reverend Sebastian Fludd had had a good idea. ‘Good ideas' were frequently fatal in Bognor's view. They invariably seemed wonderful at the point of genesis, which was often the bath, but they almost always seemed less so at the point of delivery. It was also a mistake to start a conversation, particularly when one was the supplicant, with the words ‘I have an idea'. It seemed to be acknowledged that this was how the vicar opened. It was not good. The equivalent of a feeble loosener or underarm lob. It cried out to be hit over a distant boundary or smashed for an immediate winner.

Battenburg, aka Micklewhite, duly obliged.

‘I deal in food, not ideas,' he said. ‘Recipes, maybe. Ideas are for boffins and buffoons.'

‘My big idea is to have a foodless Christmas dinner, with all profits going to the starving millions around the world.'

‘Bugger the starving millions,' said the chef pithily.

‘I beg your pardon,' said the reverend.

‘Granted,' said Gunther. ‘My punters are paying a lot of money for their Christmas gourmet break. They expect some bang for their buck. Edible bang; drinkable bang; bang they can stuff in their gobs.'

From there on, the conversation had deteriorated, though whether or not words gave way to something more physical was a moot point.

At some point, apparently, Battenburg had threatened the vicar with death, though this was in dispute and vehemently denied by Battenburg, though affirmed by Dorcas Fludd who, needless to say, had evidence only at second-hand.

‘I see,' said Bognor, finishing Contractor's report and staring into space. As usual, when he uttered these words, he saw nothing and, even if he did, he saw it through a glass, darkly.

There had obviously been a clash and it was inevitable. Battenburg relied on conspicuous consumption for his living; the reverend owed what little living he enjoyed to sackcloth and ashes. Battenburg owed his ease to rich people eating and drinking more than they should, without regard to any of the consequences. Fludd was the opposite. He would have been happier in a world without wealth, a world in which everyone starved, a world in which not only was Jack as good as his master, but all Jacks were sprats.

Bognor sighed. He could see the point of view of Mammon, aka Gluttony, and he could see the point of view of the ascetic who wanted everyone else to be in a state of similar self-denial. Fence-sitting was a hazard as far as he was concerned. This didn't mean that he was slow to apportion real blame and to find people guilty. Nor did it involve a suspension of prejudice. He was always on the side of indulgence and against abstinence. That didn't, however, make him unprofessional.

So, did he believe that the chef murdered the vicar? On balance, no. Chef Battenburg, in the heat of the moment, with a knife. Well, yes. Plausible. This, however, was a cold-blooded, premeditated crime and Battenberg did not seem that sort of person. Crime
de passion
in the heat of the kitchen, but not a murder in the still watches, in the presence of God. That was Bognor's feeling and, on the whole, his feelings served him well. They were not, however, infallible and while he was always careful to take them into account, he never allowed them to overrule ratiocination. So Battenburg could have done it. Of course he could. And he had a thoroughly plausible motive. Instinct said no, and the heart was often as reliable as the head.

Sir Branwell and Lady Fludd had only eaten at the Two by Two once since Battenburg took the place over and changed its name, but Sir Branwell pronounced it poncey and Camilla did not disagree. Not that the Fludds were unadventurous. They went abroad and ate well; the food at Sir Branwell's club was quietly ambitious and Sir Branwell quite enjoyed it. They particularly enjoyed Wilton's in Jermyn Street whenever a rich friend or relation took them there, but that didn't alter the fact that he found Gunther's food ‘poncey'. It was a bit like changing one's kit at the Hogarth Roundabout. There was some stuff that one simply didn't eat on home turf, and Battenburg's came into that category. Likewise, the decor; though the cellar, despite new world additions, remained passable.

The chef was preparing snail porridge, the idea for which had been cribbed from his friend Heston Blumenthal, when the Bognors came calling.

Snail porridge was an unusual starter for the literary festival's inaugural supper, but it made a change from prawn cocktail, and it was, for many of the guests, acceptable and surprising.

Supper came after evensong and Sebastian's sermon. Snail porridge followed his grace. This year, His Grace, the Rt Rev. Ebenezer, would fill the gap, but meanwhile Bognor had some questions to ask the chef.

TEN

‘
T
ell me, chef,' began Bognor, enjoying the cliché and wondering why Gunther was wearing a toque and check trousers, ‘where were you yesterday, between the hours of five and seven?'

Gunther took off his toque, rubbed his eyes, and beamed at Lady Bognor.

‘Would you care for a cup of something? Camomile tea? Herbal infusions? Or something a little stronger? A glass of prosecco, perhaps? I have a particularly fine one from a small estate in a village a few miles outside Verona. I have been buying from Guiseppe for several years.'

Monica said she'd like a glass of prosecco. She had learned recently that it was a sparkling wine in its own right, and not simply a cheaper Italian substitute for champagne. This was true, generally. Other people's sparkling whites were not just imitations of the French elixir, but wines with their own character. This was a lesson for life. People were not just inferior imitations of other people, but individuals in their own image. Same with chefs; same with Gunther. He wasn't just the next Heston Blumenthal – or a poor man's version of Heston – he was Gunther Battenburg. Or maybe not. But whoever he was, he existed in his own skin and he was his own man. There was no one quite like him.

Same with the Bognors. They were
sui generis
.

This was probably just as well, and it did not always seem thus to others. To Bognor, however, an element of nonconformity raised his best game.

‘I always associate Battenberg with cake,' said Monica, puckering over her fizz. ‘From a small town in Germany. Marzipan. Brightly coloured squares. Mildly embarrassing name for our own dear House of Windsor.'

‘The cake is spelt with an “e” not a “u”,' said Gunther. ‘My name has little or nothing to do with the cake.
Hoffentlich
. I do not like cake in general, and I abhor this one in particular.'

‘Like Vyvyans with a “y” in Cornwall, as opposed to an “i”,' said Monica, ignoring her husband's fond but forbidding stare. He was warning her off, an admonition which the chef noticed and evidently respected.

‘Prosit,' he said, raising his glass. ‘I was here yesterday between the hours of five and seven, in answer to your question, Maestro. I was supervising prep for dinner. It is my custom.'

‘We only have your word for that,' said Bognor beadily. Such scepticism was a stock-in-trade. He liked being thought of as a Maestro, though. He must use it in future. The flattery softened his response.

‘I had my
batterie
here. You can ask them. They will vouch for my presence.'

‘OK,' said Bognor, ‘I have to ask questions such as this. Form's sake, you understand. Nothing sinister about them. They have to be asked, that's all. Busy night?'

Gunther looked thoughtful. ‘
Comme ci, comme ça
,' he said eventually. ‘The first guests for the festival have arrived already. Brigadier Blenkinsop and his wife. Mademoiselle Book, the singer, and her friend. Maestro Allgood, the writer. They were all here.'

Bognor disliked Martin Allgood being referred to as ‘maestro'. He had always thought of little Martin as a bit of a pipsqueak, and much disliked what little he had read of his. It didn't help that Monica seemed to a bit of a fan.

‘All here already, so soon?'

Gunther nodded. There didn't seem to be anything to add, so a silence hung in the air, until it was broken by Bognor asking, ‘The dead man. Did you know him?'

‘The vicar? Of course. In a small community such as ours the vicar is a known person. Just like the squire, the person who runs the pub. And so on. There are not, I am told, as many vicars as once upon a time, and the Reverend Sebastian had other congregations and churches. He was busy. In former times, the vicar would perhaps not have been quite so busy but, alas, times have changed and the vicar today is a busy person.'

‘You, however, are not a member of the Church of England?'

The chef seemed to think about this, but finally shook his head a little sadly.

‘I was brought up as a Lutheran,' he said, ‘but I am, as you say, “lapsed”.' He laughed, as if pleased at having mastered such a difficult and essentially English concept. ‘Lapsed,' he repeated. ‘It is like your tea. It is weak, with much water.'

‘Lapsang souchong,' said Monica, not helpfully.

The chef looked blank.

‘So you knew the reverend as a pillar of the Establishment, rather than as a man of God?'

Gunther looked blanker yet. Maybe, thought Bognor, he really was foreign, and not a cookery school graduate from the East End of London.

‘How well did you know the Reverend Sebastian?'

This time Gunther understood the question perfectly.

‘He always said the grace at my festival dinner. Always the same words. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.” Quite dull. Always the same. Sir Branwell said that at school they had a joke toast which said “For baked beans and buttered toast, thank Father, Son and Holy Ghost”, but I am not understanding the joke. Nor the reverend. He was very conservative. He liked to be thought, as you would say, “progressive”, but he did not enjoy change. He enjoyed the same always: food, hymns, words, grace, women.'

‘Women,' said Bognor, latching on to the oddity with speed. ‘What makes you say women?'

Gunther Battenburg went pink.

‘It is, as you say, a figure of speech.'

‘But you thought the vicar was conservative when it came to sex?'

‘Perhaps, but also, perhaps not.'

The chef was discomfited and Bognor pressed home his advantage.

‘Sex,' he said. ‘Would you describe yourself as conservative when it came to sex?'

Part of the fun of being a special investigator, even if only from the Board of Trade, was that it gave one a licence to ask questions from which one would normally have flinched. Thus sex.

‘I'm sorry,' said Gunther, ‘I am not understanding.'

Bognor was not sure where this was heading, but he asked the question that had been at the back of his mind long before he had actually met the chef.

‘Gay are we, Gunther?'

Monica was obviously outraged at such an irrelevant intrusion.

‘I hardly think . . .' she began, but her husband shushed her.

‘Her Majesty's government doesn't pay for thought,' he said, ‘especially from spouses. I just want to know whether Gunther here is homosexual.'

Gunther was no longer looking particularly pink.

‘I don't understand what my sexual inclinations have to do with the death of the Reverend Sebastian,' he said, giving the impression of understanding perfectly. ‘But, given a chance, I'll fuck anything that moves. Sex seldom comes into it.'

It wasn't clear whether the Bognors found the admission, or the use of the Anglo-Saxon word, the more upsetting. They belonged to a generation and a class which tended to believe that homosexuality was an unpleasant disease best not mentioned, and in which only out-and-out bounders, such as Peregrine Worsthorne, used four-letter words in public. Nevertheless, Bognor had asked the question. He should have been expecting an answer he didn't like and to hear words he only used, if at all, in private.

‘You asked,' said the chef, after a longish pause. ‘But I don't see how it is going to help poor Sebastian or nail his killer.'

‘So you don't think it was suicide?'

‘I didn't say that, but, on balance, I think it's unlikely. Sebastian was almost certainly gay, but I'd guess his sexuality was probably repressed.'

‘What makes you say that?'

‘I recognize the signs. Above all, only a certain sort of man would marry a woman like Dorcas, just as only a woman such as Dorcas would marry a gay cleric.'

‘Meaning?'

‘That Dorcas is a typical dyke. Repressed, non-practising, but still a dyke.'

Another silence.

‘You feel it in your gut?'

‘I feel it in my gut. More prosecco?'

The Bognors accepted and drank. In the old days, they would just have drunk with no questions asked. Nowadays, they had a problem. In today's world, everyone preferred it if one didn't drink alcohol at all. In any event, one was not allowed very much. The Bognors, however, belonged to a world and a generation which enjoyed a drink and did not regard this as a problem. Change of life. Bit like gaiety. What had once been a guilty secret was now an open affirmation.