Death in the Opening Chapter (7 page)

‘Unless they had an appointment. Sebastian might have arranged a meeting with his killer.'

‘That sounds unduly defeatist,' complained Monica. ‘We're not talking euthanasia here. I don't see any evidence for the reverend wanting himself dead.'

‘I don't mean that he knew the killer was his killer,' said Bognor, not adding the word ‘stupid', though his tone implied it. ‘But if he was murdered by someone he thought he could trust, someone he believed was a friend, then there's no reason why he shouldn't have made an appointment with him.'

‘Or her.' His wife was a stickler for feminine equality, even when it was a question of murder suspects. He admired her for it.

‘You think it might have been a woman?'

She thought for a moment, as if the idea had only just occurred to her.

‘I don't see why not,' she said. ‘The only possible reason for supposing it was a man that did it is if it's a question of brute strength. I'm prepared to concede that the average man is stronger than the average woman. But we aren't talking brute strength here.'

‘Big of you.' His wife's feminism was a matter of edgy humour between them. Deep down, Bognor reckoned he was more of a feminist than she was; Monica, on the other hand, tended to the Marilyn French view that all men were rapists no matter what. Unsurprisingly, they both took considerable exception to such opposing views in the battle of the sexes, so that they went unexpressed, even though they were at the root of all arguments on matters of gender. Part of the problem was that husband and wife both regarded themselves as liberal and progressive on matters of sex, whereas in fact they were as susceptible to ingrained prejudice as the next man or woman. In professional matters this signified little, but they suffered from the popular belief that they were both in their quite different ways superior to the normal conventions that applied to the essential differences between men and women. In fact, they suffered from the usual old-fashioned failings that had afflicted men and women for ever. Bognor, for example, did not really see the point in soap and water; Monica, however, could not have too much of either. There were other differences involving everything from map reading, through punctuality, to shopping for shoes. Both would hotly deny that they ever succumbed to sexual stereotyping. Neither, however, would be entirely correct.

Privately, Bognor thought women made rotten detectives and, if forced to admit it, he would have included his wife in that generalization. Monica, more or less, up to a point, thought precisely the opposite.

But neither of them would ever admit it.

‘I feel like a dry sherry,' he said, looking, like all Englishman, at his watch whenever the question of alcoholic drink was mentioned.

‘G and T for me,' she said, ‘and an olive from Fortnums. One thing I'll say for your old friend, he does Bombay Sapphire and a mean olive.'

And they turned for the ha-ha and home, with nothing resolved and the mysterious death of the vicar still hovering uneasily on what was otherwise a perfect country Sunday. They both enjoyed habit, particularly when it blurred into tradition. There was something comforting about the sort of library drinks, decent but unfussy meat and two veg with a claret to match and a couple of Labradors under the table. It may not have made Britain Great but it certainly made England English.

Even a murdered vicar had an agreeably timeless feel to it. One felt the English had been murdering vicars and drinking warm sherry since time immemorial. Rooks cawed as they negotiated the cattle grid on to the gravel and lawn, which led up to an Englishman's cockeyed version of what Palladio had built for the nobility of the Veneto. It was like so many things English – a friendly, agreeable, slightly tumbledown misunderstanding of the real thing. England was meant to be frayed at the edges, well worn and a not quite perfect fit.

Even sudden death had an old banger, rust-bucket feel to it. That was the British way of murder that was.

SEVEN

O
ne of the forensic pleasures of weekends chez Fludd was working out the antecedents of the principle component of the main course at Sunday lunch. Sometimes, it was so difficult to be sure, that there was argument about whether this was fish, fowl or something furry. In fairness to the kitchen, it had to be admitted that it was usually possible to eliminate chicken and fish which seldom featured on Sundays anyway. (There had been a memorable occasion when they had been completely foxed by some pheasant masquerading as something completely different.)

The Bognors couldn't agree on whether the blame was Mrs Brandon's or Lady Fludd's. The problem lay in the habit of roasting the meat the night before serving, carving it into servable slices, and then dousing it in gravy and reheating in time for Sunday lunch. It was invariably double-over-cooked and grey in colour, blotting paper in taste. This was a well-established custom in a certain sort of traditional country house. It had everything to do with convenience and nothing whatever to do with gastronomy.

From a Julia Child, Elizabeth David, or celebrity chef point of view, Sunday lunch at the Fludds had nothing to recommend it, but for a semi-professional nostalgic, such as Sir Simon, it had a lot going for it. This was how life used to be when he was growing up. It didn't taste of much but it was the same for everyone; equality of nothing very much. It was a bit like the former East Germany, for which he had a sneaking regard. Nobody had anything much better than a lawnmower masquerading as a motor car; you all lived off a hundred and one ways with wurst and dumplings; but on the other hand everyone had beer and jobs. Also, in a curious way, each other. The older and grander Bognor became, the more he believed in society, in pulling together and being kind to one's neighbours. Consumerism, conspicuous consumption and celebrity seemed to involve competition of a sort he could not relish. He liked the quiet contemplative life and did not much care for kicking sand in the face of the people who lived next door.

Thus Sunday lunch with the Fludds. It was an oddly relaxing meal, familiar, unflashy and sound in an old-fashioned way that had gone out of favour, along with tweed, leather and shaving brushes made from badger bristle. There were more efficient, and indeed more enjoyable, ways of eating but he took pleasure in Sunday lunch at the Fludds not because of the food and drink, but despite them.

‘Tiresome,' said Sir Branwell, carving something which had probably once been a bird. There was evidence of wings. ‘If one is going to be murdered there is a time and place. Immediately before the festival is not one of them. And who in his right mind would want to kill the Reverend Sebastian? Sebby would never hurt a fly.'

‘Who said anything about their right mind?' enquired Lady Bognor, watching the dissection with apprehension.

‘The point I am making is that Sebby's death is “tiresome”. I simply don't believe any other word will do.'

The point Sir Branwell was actually making was that any event which interfered with the world as he knew it was inappropriate. Although he would deny that he had actually created that world, it was the one which he had inherited and with which he felt comfortable. He was not the fourteenth baronet for nothing, but even if he was he enjoyed the tidy, predictable society in which he found himself, and did not like it being compromised by murder or even accidental death. Life for Sir Branwell and his ilk was convenient or it was nothing. Murder was inconvenient.

This was the whole point of sudden death. For a certain sort of Englishman, it lacked drama and excitement, and definitely such emotions as grief or upset of an essentially trivial nature. Grief, unless one's dogs or horses were involved, was alien to Sir Branwell and men like him, of whom there were a surprisingly large number. Maybe that was why the majority of British crime fiction was so anodyne and bloodless. Perhaps it was the fault of all those middle-class Dames – from Agatha Christie to Phyllis James. Not that Bognor had anything but admiration for these formidable ladies, but he wasn't altogether sure that they had done a lot for murder most foul. In their hands, it wasn't as foul as it was in real life.

Except that for Sir Branwell, it wasn't.

‘Inconvenient, very,' he said. ‘If he wanted to top himself, he could surely have waited until after the festival, not to mention his sermon.'

‘If he did kill himself – which seems improbable – then the balance of his mind would have been disturbed, which in turn would have meant that he didn't give a flying whatsit for the festival or his sermon. Hard to believe but true nonetheless.' This from Lady Bognor. As always, he thought to himself, the still shrill voice of reason, and yet reason and common sense were strangely inapplicable at times like this. This was what was so often wrong with the English murder. It had become a middle-class affair: sanitized; rendered prim. Even the traditional English funeral – of the sort the Reverend Sebastian would soon enjoy – took place with a closed wooden box. There was no public burning of the body, no eating by vultures, no sense of the catastrophe of death. It was all neat, tidy, orderly, and part of the warp and weft Agatha Christie and the other women had a lot to answer for.

‘What Monica means is that it's all a bit of a shambles,' he found himself saying. ‘Of course it's inconvenient. Dashed inconvenient, you could say, but murder's like that. Messy.'

Monica gave him one of her looks, in which affection and exasperation were mixed in equal measure, but she said nothing.

‘All I can say,' said Sir Branwell, handing round plates of charred bird, ‘is that mess is for other people. I don't do mess. As you should well know, Simon.'

This was perfectly true. Even at Apocrypha, Fludd had been remarkable for his fastidiousness. In an untidy world, he was almost impossibly neat. Even when vomiting after drink, he always managed to make an excuse and find the loo, causing as little trouble as possible. He was like that. ‘
Noblesse
,' he said, rather too often, ‘
oblige
.'

‘We'll try to reduce the mess,' said Bognor, sounding pompous, aware of the fact, but unable to see a way of seeming otherwise, ‘that's our job. Or part of it. Lucky that we were here. On the other hand, a very important part of my job is to see that justice is done. And seen to be done.'

The pomposity was on overload. He knew this but could think of no way of diminishing it.

‘Bugger justice!' said his host, doing it for him.

The roast bird was barely edible and defied identification. Down under it would probably have been roadkill, but in England it was more likely to be Fluddkill, brought down by the squire's ancient Purdey twelve-bore. The pudding was equally themeless, though it was steamed and came with custard. You didn't dine at Casa Fludd on account of what the baronet insisted on calling ‘scoff', although he kept a decent cellar and served perfectly acceptable claret to accompany the execrable food.

Conversation continued to focus on the death of the Reverend Sebastian, but was procedural rather than forensic. The wives did not have particularly strong opinions for once and were, on the whole, content to take their husbands' side. This was unusual, as was the men's diametrically opposed opinion. They usually agreed, if only to differ, but, faced with the death of the vicar, they took up very decided positions on either side of the fence.

Sir Branwell was all for tidiness, Bognor for solving the puzzle. Time was when Simon might have agreed with the need for order, but age had not wearied him, nor the years condemned. Instead, he had become zealous in the pursuit of truth. Sir Branwell, on the other hand, was all for truth, provided it didn't get in the way.

Their disagreement was profound but polite. They had been friends for ever and differences of opinion could not change that. Neither of them wished it. When the apology of a pudding had been cleared away, coffee – weak and tepid – appeared in a pot, along with minute cups, and a carafe of acceptable port began to circulate steadily among the four of them.

It was ever thus.

‘No question of cancelling the festival?' asked Bognor.

‘Good grief, no,' said his host, slurping port like the late Keith Floyd, whom in some respects he resembled.

‘Sebastian wouldn't have wished it,' said his hostess with enviable certainty. ‘He would have wanted the show to go on.'

‘Then why kill himself?' asked Lady Bognor, going to the heart of the matter with predictable shrewdness.

‘That's why I think someone else did him in,' said Bognor. ‘The late Reverend was not a boat-rocker. He wouldn't have thrown the entire event into jeopardy, even if he were depressed.'

‘I don't want bloody journalists sniffing around,' said Sir Branwell. He pronounced the offending word ‘jawnalists', as in ‘jaw-jaw, not war-war'. He didn't like the press, referring with contempt to ‘that little creep Evans' and ‘that foreign republican Murdoch'. The Bognors agreed in the particular, but not the general. They were for a free press, which, in general terms, they felt the British no longer had. Discuss.

‘You and I are always going to see things differently. If someone killed the reverend, then that's wrong, and they should be made to pay for it.'

‘Won't bring him back though,' said Fludd, not unreasonably, ‘and trying to find the murderer is going to break a whole nest of eggs without, as it were, making an edible omelette.'

‘Brannie's right,' said Lady Fludd. ‘A whole lot of journalists crawling all over the place, smuggling themselves into the house in laundry baskets, lives exposed to ridicule or worse, coals raked over, and to no avail whatever. Absolutely no avail whatever.'

‘Quite,' said her husband.