Death in the Opening Chapter (15 page)

‘How about you?' he asked, managing to appear raffish. ‘Were you at Oxford too?'

On receiving the answer ‘No, actually', Brigadier Blenkinsop seemed to relax, and concentrated on his neighbour and her cleavage, which was more obvious than Monica's, even if its owner had not been to Oxford.

Monica's right-hand neighbour was Martin Allgood.

‘I enjoyed
Rubbish
,' she told him, naming one of his best-known books. It had been shortlisted for the Booker.

‘I hated it,' said Allgood, shovelling snail porridge into himself as if it were all that stood between himself and starvation. ‘Pig to write. Cost me a relationship. Reputation has dogged me ever since. Still, I'm glad you enjoyed it.'

He smiled wolfishly, displaying two rows of all-too-perfect teeth.

‘And are you enjoying Mallborne?'

‘Beats work,' he said.

She winced. It was obviously going to be one of those evenings. All this and three-star Michelin food as well. She sighed.

Her husband, meanwhile, was seated between the brigadier's wife, Esther, and Vicenza Book. The brigadier's wife, mouth like a prune, sensible hair, sensible dress, sensible shoes, which he could not see but sensed nonetheless, oozed sense and sensibility, and looked like hard work. He decided to go for Vicenza Book who had a décolletage that made Allgood's girlfriend look scrawny, and a mouth and come-hither eyes that suggested more barmaid than world-class soprano. Though, reasoned Bognor, there was no reason not to be both.

‘I gather you're singing tomorrow in the big tent?'

‘Yup,' said Miss Book, her mouth full of emu and apricot. ‘And you're the police. I don't like police.'

‘In a manner of speaking,' he agreed. ‘I'm investigating the death. But I'm doing it instead of the police. I don't like them either.'

‘Good to hear it,' she said, swallowing hard. ‘If that's an emu, my father's the pope. Just chicken tarted up, if you ask me. I sing as Vicenza Book, but my friends call me Dolly. Pleased to meet you, Si.'

And she stuck out a hand which Bognor shook with enthusiasm. He decided he liked Ms Book, aka Dolly.

‘Hi, Dolly,' he said. ‘I hope you don't mind?'

‘Cool,' she said, which could have meant anything, but which Bognor took to mean assent.

‘What exactly are you singing?' he asked politely, though he sensed that Dolly didn't do politeness.

‘Usual load of crap,' she said. ‘Plus a bit of Faure's requiem and what they're describing as a “medley” by Flanagan Fludd. That really is crap. Old man Fludd makes Andrew Lloyd Webber look original. Everything's like, you know, pastiche Gilbert and Sullivan. They say Queen Victoria liked to hum along to Fludd. Typical effing royalty. Ever done a Royal Variety Performance?'

Bognor said he hadn't had the pleasure.

‘Then don't,' said Ms Book. ‘Absolute crap. None of them are interested. Couldn't sing a note. Only one who could was that Princess Margaret. Liked a smoke and a drink. Dead, but she could tinkle the ivories. Or so they say. Mind you, she liked tinkling more than just ivories.' And she let out a mirthless cackle which would sound witchlike when she had grown into it. Bognor reckoned she had been at the booze, but could not think how as it was flowing like treacle. She either had a very low tolerance for alcohol or carried her own flask.

‘Been here long?' he asked, eye on a possible alibi.

‘Came down yesterday afternoon to have a look at the old place. Me Mum used to work here. Right here, when it was the Fludd Arms. Proper little knocking shop by all accounts. All sorts of people used to come down from London for dirty weekends. You'd never guess who. Royalty and all.'

‘Probably better at that sort of thing than the other kind of Royal Variety.'

She laughed again. Immoderately. One or two people turned to look. The brigadier was one. He was obviously not enjoying himself and was half-inclined to share in the joke, except that he obviously suspected – correctly – that there was no real joke involved.

‘Anyway,' she said, pulling herself together rapidly and giving him a queer look. ‘I was here when the poor old beggar snuffed it. I didn't know him. I can't really account for my movements. And I didn't do it. Next question.'

Bognor couldn't think of one.

Instead, he bit into the white stuff on his side plate and said, ‘Is this bread?'

She bit into hers, made a face and said, ‘Toilet paper more like.'

For the rest of the meal, Bognor swapped inane pleasantries with the soprano, managing to virtually ignore Esther Blenkinsop who suffered in silence, picked at her food, and was just as ignored by Martin Allgood on her other side. She didn't enjoy the meal any more than her husband, but she made less effort to conceal the fact.

Ms Book on the other hand consumed her fudge fondue with gusto, though she left her whitebait foam, which she referred to as ‘fish froth', a description which Bognor preferred. In deference to his companion, he too left his whitebait, while doing his best with the fudge, which he thought as disgusting as most of the rest of the meal.

The only proper speech was a welcome from a tiny Scottish person called William Glasgow, who rose from a long way below the salt and who plainly did all the work. He held the title of ‘Festival Convenor'.

‘To all those who do not actually live here but are here as guests of the Fludd Festival, I say welcome,' he said. ‘Welcome to Mallborne.'

The Fludds scowled. As far as they were concerned, they were the only people entitled to issue a welcome, or otherwise. Mr Glasgow was an impostor. And a paid pipsqueak to boot.

Glasgow's was a poor speech, but a welcome respite nonetheless. He got tied in knots over the late priest, got the punchline at the wrong end of a story involving Scotsmen, Irishmen, Welshmen and Englishmen, and neglected to mention the brigadier who appeared unfazed, but whose wife seemed furious. Nevertheless, it made a change, and the Bognors enjoyed it for its amateurishness. There was too much polish around, too much style getting in the way of substance. Bit like life, actually.

When Mr Glasgow had finished, Bognor leant across to the brigadier and said, ‘I wonder if I might have a word afterwards? In confidence. In private.'

‘Of course,' said Brigadier Blenkinsop. ‘Not a problem. Delighted.'

His wife, Esther, who heard the invitation and its acceptance, and was obviously not included in either, pursed her lips even more than before, and was clearly even less happy than hitherto.

And it wasn't just the food or the company.

SIXTEEN

T
he brigadier's was a Highland Park, which he said he hadn't tasted since he was on manoeuvres in the Orkneys some twenty years ago. He remembered the battalion attending matins in St Magnus' Cathedral in Kirkwall. Very red. Rather gaunt. Mind you, he liked his churches austere. Like religion. No time for smells, bells and poncing about. Bognor's was a calvados. He paid. He usually did. In more ways than one.

‘So what can I do for you?' The brigadier didn't beat about the bush. Brigadiers didn't. That was part of what being a brigadier was all about. Like short sentences. Staccato. Very.

‘Cheers,' said the brigadier planting his bottom (ample) in an armchair (capacious, chintzy, leftover from the last regime) by the fire (roaring). ‘I'm afraid I didn't know the reverend gentleman. But fire away. Ball's in your court. Cheers.' And he raided his glass and leant back in anticipation.

The first question was the usual one about where exactly the brigadier had been the previous day between five and seven. The answer was disarming and impossible. He had been in his room at the hotel doing
The Times
crossword with Esther. This was a habitual occupation and Bognor had no doubt that Mrs Blenkinsop would corroborate her husband. What's more, the two of them would certainly be able to provide a convincing account of the clues. The brigadier said they had completed the puzzle in an hour and ten minutes, which was about usual. They almost always completed it, and they usually took between an hour and an hour and twenty minutes. He was probably telling the truth, thought Bognor, but the alibi wouldn't hold water in a court of law. Few alibis did. Not many people knew what they were doing from one moment to the next, even when they were doing it. If you saw what he meant.

‘You know, that's not really a cast-iron alibi?' he asked.

The brigadier shifted his bottom and shrugged.

‘Best I can do,' he said. ‘Reception will confirm that they didn't have a key. They saw both of us go upstairs, didn't see either of us leave.'

‘It's better than nothing,' said Bognor. ‘You could have shinned down the drainpipe, done the business and shinned back up.'

‘Yes,' he agreed. ‘I didn't, but I could have. I don't think alibi's going to get you very far. I'd move on to motive if I were you.'

‘All right,' said Bognor. ‘Motive.'

‘None,' said the brigadier, smiling. ‘Absolutely bugger all.'

‘Had you ever met him?'

‘Absolutely not,' said the brigadier. ‘
Pas du tout
. Never clapped eyes on him. Not too keen on sky pilots, if you catch my drift.'

Bognor found himself thinking that the brigadier was too like a brigadier to actually be one. He was reminded of a Simon Raven short story about his caddish anti-hero Fingle impersonating his brigadier during some night exercise. Confronted with the real brigadier, Fingle says that the man must be an impostor because ‘his' brigadier wouldn't behave in such a ludicrous self-parodying manner. Faced with Brigadier Blenkinsop, Bognor felt a bit like Fingle. He had known a number of brigadiers in what passed for real life, and most of them had been decent and civilized – unlike this one. Besides, Bognor had always had rather a soft spot for ‘sky pilots', coming as he did from a family full of them.

‘Known a lot of sky pilots?' he asked.

‘Army was full of them,' said the brigadier. ‘First-class fighting men, some of them. Absolute shysters, the rest. Come across some in civilian life too. Same problems. One or two absolutely excellent chaps, but the majority complete four-letter men. Don't get me wrong. Religion's all very well in its place, but it doesn't do to let it get in the way of what really matters. The best padres, in my experience, were the ones that put the men first, deferred to people in authority, and kept religion for Sunday morning service. And the occasional funeral. Wedding too, I suppose.'

‘So you didn't know Sebastian?'

‘Can't say I had the pleasure,' said the brigadier. ‘Nothing against the fellow. Doesn't do to speak ill of the dead, either. But I can't help, much as I'd like to. So, if you'll excuse me, I'd better toddle off to keep the little woman company.'

Bognor visualized the prune-like countenance of Esther Blenkinsop, and made a poor fist of suppressing a shudder. Say what you like about Monica, and people did, prunes didn't come into it. He thanked his lucky stars he wasn't married to Mrs Blenkinsop and, come to that, that he wasn't the brigadier, either.

Back at the manor, he found Lady Bognor enjoying just the one or two with their host and hostess.

‘How was the Brig?' asked Sir Branwell. ‘Lot of hot air, if you ask me. Personally speaking myself, I wouldn't have given him the time of day, but the organizer seems to have the hots for him. Keeps going on about his latest book.'

‘What
is
his latest book?' asked Bognor, genuinely not knowing.

The Fludds looked blank. Sir Branwell was colonel-in-chief of the local Yeomanry, some sort of territorial outfit, though he had never seen a shot fired in anger and had missed national service by a year or so. Bognor himself was in much the same boat.

‘Heroics,' said Monica, who had actually read it. ‘A study in gallantry through the ages, with particular relevance to the Victoria Cross.'

‘Ah,' said Sir Branwell. ‘One of my ancestors had a VC. Boer War. Killed him. Awarded posthumously to his widow. Dashed stupid. Keep your head down and don't volunteer. That's my advice. Tallisker?'

Bognor didn't mind if he did.

‘He's talking about it tomorrow morning,' said Monica brightly.

‘His latest book?' said Camilla, beadily.

‘Well,' said Monica, ‘heroics, heroism, heroes. All that.'

‘Same thing,' said Sir Branwell. ‘They all do it. Don't blame them in a way, even if they ought to be at home writing, not out on the stage spouting at a whole lot of elderly spinsters who would be better off at home reading. That's the trouble with these literary festivals. They're a substitute for the real thing. Writer chappies not writing, and readers not reading. Won't stop them all gabbing on about it later, though. Certain sort of pseudo-intellectual, particularly. They won't actually read the books, but that won't stop them banging on about them as if they had actually studied every word. If I had my way I'd ban them.'

‘That's a bit harsh, Brannie,' said Bognor. ‘They give a lot of people harmless pleasure, and they bring in punters and income.'

‘That's what everyone thinks,' he said morosely. ‘It's not like that at all.'

‘How so?' In vino veritas, he thought, realizing that the Scotch on top of the calva was making him decidedly squiffy, and wondering how much his host had had to drink.

‘People like little Glasgow call the shots,' said Branwell. ‘We're just Aunt Sallies for everyone to take pot shots. Get all the blame, none of the credit, and reap no rewards. Everyone knows Flanagan Fludd was a complete charlatan. No talent, whatever.'