Death in the Opening Chapter (25 page)

‘You mean Lloyd Grossman,' said Monica, not from her tone of voice, agreeing with a word he said. ‘He left ages ago.
Masterchef
is presented by an Australian and a London greengrocer. Grossman does mass-produced sauce.'

‘Just another cook as far as I'm concerned,' said Fludd. ‘Like I said, I've nothing whatever against cooks, and nothing whatever against food. I just think they should know their place. And if the vicar agreed with me, then that's one thing on which we saw eye to eye.'

‘Eye for a tooth,' said Bognor, facetiously and regretted it.

‘As in nature red . . .' said his host, thinking himself pretty clever.

‘Anyway the cook didn't do it,' said Bognor. ‘Flawless alibi and not his style, anyway. I don't see him killing anything, even if it was edible. So you can rule him out.'

‘Mind you, I would put the bit of high-class cannibalism past him. Sort of thing you'd expect from Essex man.'

Bognor judged it best to change the subject.

‘Vicenza Book,' he said. ‘What about the sultry soprano?'

‘The town bicycle,' said the squire. ‘Slept with practically every red-blooded single male in town, and more besides, if you'll pardon my French, ladies. Vicar wasn't entirely sensible when it came to her and her mum, and I dare say she harboured a grudge, but she's never looked back since leaving us. She has as good an alibi as anyone else, and I'd say no. Why? I mean, I know why, but . . .'

Bognor wondered whether Sir Branwell had bedded either mother or daughter. Probably on the family billiard table. He wouldn't put it past him. And yet.

If Vicenza Book had not existed, then Laurie Lee would have invented her. She was a hoyden with décolletage and a heart of gold, though, despite the large and much exposed mammaries, she had vital organs of ice or steel, depending on one's point of view. What you saw, was most definitely not what you got, though she had always sung like the proverbial angel. Even in the bath.

Her real name was Marigold Bean, though she hated the name Marigold and called herself Mary in her early teens. She took the name Vicenza Book as soon as she turned professional. She chose Vicenza because she wanted something Italian, and dabbed with a pair of compasses. She selected Book because she wouldn't be seen dead with one; had never even attempted to read one. Bognor reflected that everyone, these days, abandoned their given names and opted for a new one. He personally never cared for Bognor, with which he had been born, nor for Simon, which he had been given because his mother liked the noise it made. As for his second name, Montmorency, the less said the better. But he never considered changing any of them. Chaps didn't.

The Reverend Sebastian hated the Beans. Of course he did. He was an ascetic authentic man of the cloth, and he therefore hated strong drink, joking, jesting and excessive behaviour. He forgave, naturally, because that was what our Lord ordered, but he didn't like it. He was a natural do nothing, a creature of minimalism. He was thin, pale and not very interesting. Enjoyment did not come naturally. In fact, it didn't come at all.

The reverse was true of Marigold or Mary Bean. She lived for enjoyment and without it she was nothing. She liked to shout, she liked to swear, and she enjoyed sex.

When the vicar came calling and her mother was out, something was bound to happen. And if it didn't happen, it was alleged to have done so. It was, on the other hand, unprovable and grey. In such circumstances, it always was. There were no witnesses and two sexes. The eternal nightmare.

It was one reason for his abiding unease over crimes of rape. This had led to sometimes enraged and abusive arguments with Monica, not because he was a male chauvinist pig or believed that women made false sexual accusations. Actually, he rather prided himself on his credentials as a new man, and thought of himself as a bit of a women's libber. He just had a tendency for thinking things grey, for seeing all sides of every question and, above all, having what he believed was a nice regard for the fair play principle. Monica, on the other hand, was much more black and white, and only believed in fair play when it suited her. That, though, he conceded, typically, was only his point of view. Monica thought otherwise.

Anyway, the point was that something had obviously happened. Mary Bean, nubile, flirty and unashamedly female, was alone in the house when the Reverend Sebastian came calling. He was etiolated, puritan, off-white, but in his own, possibly frustrated way, as male as she was, more obviously, female. Had he made a pass? Had she baited him? Was it a real misunderstanding or a product of wishful thinking?

Bognor shrugged. It didn't much matter and one would never know the exact truth, anyway. Contractor didn't know, either. It obviously did not interfere with Sebastian's assessment of la Whatsit's musical ability. He had evidently been very supportive of Vicenza's visit to the festival and as convinced of her musical ability as everyone else. Vicenza's voice was unquestionably brilliant. She occasionally did the Katherine Jenkins-Hayley Westenrath thing and stooped to singing the Italian national anthem before rugby matches, though it had to be admitted that the Italian national anthem was worth singing, even if the team wasn't worth supporting. Vicenza seemed to have a soft spot for rugby players, though it had to be conceded that her spot was soft for most males, and she would probably have bedded even Berlusconi, particularly if the money had been right. She would probably have demanded a portfolio, but the prime minister clearly gave them out to his girlfriends like so much confetti.

Sebastian had a fine collection of old 78s and enjoyed Mahler. He was something of an all-round opera buff. Something, ill-defined, told Bognor that the reverend also fancied Vicenza carnally. He couldn't say what this was, and there was nothing in Contractor's report to suggest such an aberration. Perhaps it was just a hunch. His hunches tended to play well, though he was the first to concede that they were, in the end, only hunches. The Reverend Sebastian may have seemed anaemic, but there had been more flesh and blood to him than anyone else cared to admit. And Vicenza Book was
all
flesh and blood. If she had done national service, she would have been described as ‘oversexed' and given bromide in her tea.

The phone trilled and Lady Fludd answered. Bognor realized, as she told the caller that he was at her elbow, that he had, as usual, switched off his mobile. It was bound to be Contractor, and he was bound to berate the boss for rendering himself inaccessible, or at least overheard.

‘Bognor,' said Bognor into the phone, which was black and traditional, and very much to his taste.

It was indeed Contractor.

‘I thought you'd like to know, boss,' he said, ‘that the Brandon was a promoted sergeant major and had a son who went into service. Also, and I think this could be important, there was a famous debagging. Our friend, the deceased, left soon afterwards, but it left a nasty smell. Hushed up, of course. Still known in Mobile circles as the Blenkinsop black balls-up. Our friend has never talked about it outside the mess since it happened, but, if you ask me, he seemed rather pleased with the memory. Not altogether unhappy to have been rumbled. But that doesn't make him a murderer.'

‘No,' said Bognor, ‘I'm afraid not.'

TWENTY-SIX

T
he demolition of Brigadier and Mrs Blenkinsop was over in short order. The motive was new; the alibi always on the flimsy side; but the intrinsic probability limited. This was, admittedly, down to intuition and would not hold water in court. Over the years, however, it had stood Bognor in good stead. He simply did not see the Blenkinsops as a ruthless killing machine. It also seemed significant that there was no sign of opposition. Whether or not the vicar had departed entirely of his own volition was still a matter of conjecture. There was no sign of a fight. And, in Bognor's opinion at least, the vicar would have fought the brigadier and his wife.

‘I absolutely agree,' said Camilla, ‘that you have produced a number of people who disliked vicars in general and this one in particular. But most of them live outside the town. I think you'll find the average Mallburnian remarkably tolerant. The philosophy here has always been “live and let live”. Even if the locals shared the average metropolitan dislike of poor little Sebastian, I don't think they wished him any particular harm. Only seriously zealous and peculiar people listen to sermons, or pay any attention to what the padre says. Anglicanism is a minority business. You'll find much more passion in Southall or Bradford. Muslims and Sikhs take religion pretty seriously. You could say that even Jews and Catholics are the same. The C of E has always been a great deal more restrained. And nowhere more so, dare I say it, than in Mallborne.'

‘And she speaks as an outsider herself.'

This, in a manner of speaking, was true. Camilla's father had been an academic at the University of Edinburgh. She came, if she came from anywhere, from the Kingdom of Fife. She was not a Mallburnian; not even English.

‘And Allgood certainly isn't from these parts,' said Bognor, moving on to the next most serious suspect.

‘Probably from the same part of Essex as the cook,' said Fludd.

‘What have you got against Essex?' asked Monica. ‘Parts of it are perfectly nice, and some quite acceptable people come from there: Constable, Paul Jennings, Ruth Rendell. Some people would even include Randolph Churchill. Not me, I agree, but some would. I'd be surprised if you'd even been there.'

‘Went for cricket once,' said Fludd, sharpish. ‘Chelmsford. Rain. Only a couple of overs. No runs. Bailey batting.'

This was almost, but not quite, a non-sequitur.

‘Whatever, Allgood seems to have made everything up.' This was Bognor, claiming inside knowledge. After all, he had the advantage of a post-performance personal talk.

‘Hmmm,' said Branwell. ‘Plagiarism is a dodgy area.'

‘Who said anything about plagiarism?' asked Bognor. ‘My feeling about Allgood is that he's perfectly original. A plagiarist is someone who borrows from someone else.'

‘Steals,' said Monica. ‘A plagiarist is one who steals.'

‘Novelists are always being advised to write about what they know. That means real life. And that means that writers of fiction steal their material from what actually happens. Which is why so many novels are a pale imitation of life itself. Allgood's included.'

‘But you've never read an Allgood,' said Monica. ‘So how could you possibly know?'

‘I've read the reviews,' said Branwell, ‘and I've heard him talk. That's good enough for me.'

‘You surely don't believe what you read in the papers?' asked Monica, full of assumed incredulity. ‘Any more than what you hear at literary festivals. It may not be plagiarized but it's certainly not the truth.'

‘Whatever that is,' said her husband. He spoke morosely.

‘Oh, come on, Simon,' said Sir Branwell, ‘You've done a terrific job of going through the motions. You've interviewed all sorts of people with tremendous tact and circumspection, and we haven't had a jawnalist within sniffing distance. We're incredibly grateful. A real busman's holiday for you. I'm truly grateful. We all are. We can bury poor little Sebastian, let him rest in peace, draw a line in the sand and move on. Thanks, largely, to you.'

And, so, thought Bognor, that was it. He felt used, soiled, unconvinced. This was not a new feeling. Far from it. That was partly why he felt so distressed. Not for the first time, he had failed to prove what he believed. Worse than that, he had become a sort of establishment fall-guy, giving a spurious respectability to a cover-up. Perhaps he was mistaken; maybe the vicar had killed himself in this melodramatic fashion, at this inconvenient time. In any event, Bognor had been there to pour oil, to give everything an orderly respectability. In doing so, he had connived in a deception and done what authority wished.

‘I always said,' said Sir Branwell, rubbing it in, ‘that it was suicide. I have to say that it's gratifying to be proved right by an expert.'

‘Nothing like consistency,' commented Sir Simon.

To which Sir Branwell, completely unfazed, said that he had always been taught that inconsistency was the better part of politeness, just as discretion was the better part of valour. Or words to that effect.

Bognor also winced at the use of the word ‘expert'. It was not used ironically but that was its effect on him. All his life he had striven for what was right, whereas the world and his wife wanted only what was expedient. There were occasions on which Bognor felt as if he were in a macabre spaghetti western, holed up in some impregnable eyrie with only a few bullets left for his carbine and a cyanide bullet to kill himself rather than surrender. In the plain below, the enemy was the world itself – an unlikely fusion of the US Cavalry and the Apache; of Burt Lancaster, Henry Fonda and sundry bit-part actors in feathers and make-up; an impossible coalition of good and bad, in which only he was more than window dressing. His was the voice in the wilderness. Everyone else but him was out of step. He would sell his life as dearly as possible, but in the end he would bite the lethal capsule and die an unlamented and unnoticed death.

In real life, he had taken a knighthood and become head of department. He would retire gracelessly and frequent the London Library and his gentleman's club, where he would bore away at the centre table – a figure to be avoided, pitied and ridiculed. His would be a life of convention. What had once promised so much, had turned to ashes. Worse still, he was a living excuse for evil. The world was a worse place for his existence, but he gave it respectability, for he was a safe pair of hands, a man of integrity, an Apocrypha graduate.