Red Herrings (7 page)

‘Blackmail?' asked Bognor, dropping his voice in sympathy with the man in the confessional.

Sir Nimrod nodded.

‘I'm sorry to be brutal,' said Bognor. ‘But I want to be absolutely sure I've got this right. You're telling me that Naomi is the illegitimate daughter of you and Edith Macpherson; that your butler, Wilmslow, discovered this and blackmailed you over it.'

‘Yes,' said Sir Nimrod miserably.

‘And then what?'

‘He bled us white, and when there was nothing more to take he took off. To Spain. He sent a card at Christmas.'

‘And did the blackmail continue?'

‘Off and on. He wasn't stupid. He could see I was cleaned out. I sent him one or two … Tokens really. I think he only asked so that I wouldn't forget he had a hold over me. He was that sort of person. Utter shit.'

‘Had you heard from him recently?'

‘Christmas cards stopped about ten years ago. I assumed he'd dropped dead or found fatter fish to fry. And then the son turned up.'

‘Just like that?'

‘What do you mean, “just like that”?' Sir Nimrod looked suspicious.

‘No warnings. No letters. No telephone calls.'

‘Just came into the shop three days ago, said he was Mr Wilmslow from Customs and Excise and he wanted to inspect the books.'

‘And did he?'

The village postmaster looked sheepish. ‘The books … well, the books weren't altogether in order. I told him so and he said he'd call back after the weekend.'

‘He didn't try to blackmail you?' asked Monica.

‘He's not stupid. No point in trying to bleed a corpse.'

‘Did he say anything about his father? About old times?' Bognor scratched his scalp. What the old man said was true enough. He was virtually destitute. There was scarcely any visible means of support, let alone any sign of a blackmailable fortune.

‘Not a word.'

‘And you didn't say anything? You didn't ask him if his father was still alive?'

Sir Nimrod shook his head. ‘I wouldn't give him the satisfaction,' he said grimly.

‘You are sure it was him?' asked Monica. ‘It must have been a long time since you last saw him?'

‘Over twenty years, but it was him all right. There's a Wilmslow look you can't mistake. Spitting image of his father, he was. A nasty chip off an extremely unpleasant block.' Sir Nimrod drained his glass. ‘I couldn't have the other half?' he enquired plaintively. ‘No fun baring the soul like this.'

‘I can see that,' said Bognor, while his wife replenished the glass, ‘which makes me ask why you're doing it?'

‘Thought it best if you heard it from me,' said the old man. He rubbed at his ginger whiskers. ‘It wouldn't have looked too good coming from someone else.'

‘You're right,' said Bognor. ‘On the face of it you had an extremely plausible motive for wishing Mr Wilmslow dead.'

‘No bones about it, old boy.' The squire was either very relieved at having got the confession off his chest or the whisky was relaxing him. ‘I'm glad he's gone and, given the chance, I'd have done him in myself.'

‘But with respect,' said Monica, ‘he seems to have behaved just as any ordinary VAT inspector would have done. Do you think he remembered who you were? I mean how old was he when he left the village?'

‘Late teens,' said Sir Nimrod. ‘He was a teddy boy. Drainpipe trousers and winklepickers. Ludicrous figure. He remembered all right. You could see it in his eyes.'

‘So,' persisted Monica, ‘if he didn't come here to blackmail you, then what did he come here for?'

Sir Nimrod shook his head. ‘Can't imagine. To gloat perhaps. And the little sewer obviously
was
a VAT inspector, too.'

‘Well you're quite right in one respect,' said Bognor. ‘If someone else had told me this then I'm afraid I'd have marked you down as a suspect straight away. No mistaking the fact it's one of the strongest motives a chap could have.'

‘That's what I felt.' He seemed almost jaunty compared to his earlier despair.

‘Well thank you for coming.' Bognor smiled gratefully at the scruffy figure with his stained Eton tie and creased tweed jacket, leather-patched at the elbows. Life had dealt harshly with this last of the Herrings. ‘Just for form's sake,' he added pleasantly, ‘we might as well establish your alibi. It's by no means certain that foul play was involved; but if there was foul play it seems likely to have taken place between about nine-thirty at night and breakfast next day. Where were you then?'

Sir Nimrod pursed his lips. ‘There was a Clout committee meeting at the Macphersons,' he said. ‘That was over by about half past eight. I walked back, had supper and then stayed up with Naomi till two a.m. wrestling with the wretched accounts.'

‘And up pretty early in the morning to get ready for the Clout.'

‘Always up at five-thirty,' he said, smiling wistfully. ‘Always used to have an early reveille for milking. Incurable habit I'm afraid. I'd break it if I could.'

He drained the remains of his second drink.

‘Glad I've got that off my chest,' he said. ‘Can't tell you how much it's been bothering me. You promise it won't go any further? It would break my heart if Naomi were to find out.'

‘Naomi doesn't know?'

‘Good grief, no.' He stood up and slapped invisible crumbs from the knees of his sadly decayed corduroy trousers. ‘Perish the thought.'

The Bognors also stood.

‘It was good of you to come,' said Bognor. ‘I'm most grateful.'

‘It's a weight off my mind I don't mind telling you.'

‘You haven't discussed it with the Macphersons?' Monica smiled sweetly but for a moment Sir Nimrod seemed to hesitate almost as if, for the first time, there had been a deviation from the script. ‘We don't talk about it,' he said. ‘Water under the bridge if you know what I mean. Water under the bridge.'

‘So the Macphersons never knew that Wilmslow was blackmailing you?' If Sir Nimrod Herring had known Monica Bognor a little better he would have been very wary of that smile which was not very enthusiastically reflected in her deep brown, restlessly perceptive eyes.

‘Absolutely not!' he said. ‘My own secret. A cross I suffered in silence. I make no excuses. My behaviour was unforgivable even allowing for there being a war on. But it's been a hard row to hoe. A very hard row indeed.'

He made for the door. ‘Naomi's stewing rabbit,' he said, ‘rabbit with forcemeat balls. She's a stickler for punctuality, so I'd better totter back p.d.q. Awfully good of you to listen so patiently. You know where to find me if you need me.' He paused with his hand on the door and looked Bognor up and down appraisingly, ‘You quite sure you're no relation of old Theo Bognor? You've got the same nose, there's no question about it. That's a Bognor nose all right.'

‘It's possible,' said Bognor. ‘It's not a very usual name. But not as far as I know.'

‘Ah well!' He turned the handle, ‘Must rush. Toodle pip!'

The dining room of the Pickled Herring was as determinedly serious as Popinjay's bar was not. It was so plainly discreet that you screamed for some sign of excess – gilt, for instance, on chandeliers, or one of those colossal Franglais menus with fulsome descriptions of every dish's provenance. Instead it was all sensible modern chairs, school of Conran; spotlights shining on to pine and plain white napery and plain, heavy glasses. There were four starters, three main courses, four desserts and a small number of dishes of the day recited by Felix. Felix was so unobtrusively, beautifully dressed that you scarcely realised he was there: very very light grey flannels, an American-style blazer, a creamy silk shirt and a very very pale plain beige tie with matching pocket handkerchief. Smoking was not allowed and you felt that it would be grossest sacrilege to ask for a salt cellar or any spirits other than (perhaps) a very rare single malt whisky to drink after the frangipani sorbet with kiwi fruit.

‘I don't like the look of this much,' said Bognor. ‘I'm famished.'

‘It'll do us both good,' said his wife without conviction.

‘I do not wish to be done good,' said Bognor, ‘I do not want
magret de canard
with ginger and raspberry vinegar nor ceviche of swordfish marinated in dill nor calves' liver in a sauce of elderflower wine and wild Wiltshire truffles.'

‘No,' said Monica. ‘Do you think we should slip out and find a fish and chippy or a take out tandoori?'

‘Too late,' said Bognor, ‘Felix is coming to take our order.'

Felix recommended the dishes of the day in a tastefully discreet whisper and they both, reluctantly, ordered breast of guinea fowl in a choux pastry. Bognor chose a decent claret from the gratifyingly decent wine list. Only when this had been accomplished did he finally say, ‘Well what did you think of Sir Nimrod's confession?'

Monica nibbled a minute
bouchée
of Boursin-flavoured brioche.

‘It's a jolly odd story,' she said eventually.

‘He's quite an odd cove.'

‘That's incontestable,' she agreed.

‘Not to say barmy.'

‘That wouldn't be pushing it too far.'

‘I don't see Naomi as a child of passion.' Bognor took the last of the cheesy appetisers which melted away in his mouth as tantalisingly as candyfloss.

‘Well be reasonable, darling, she is forty, if she's a day. I mean frankly you don't look as if you were conceived in an act of fine careless rapture yourself.'

‘I say,' Bognor was put out, ‘steady on.'

‘I'm not being personal. No one does, much, once they've passed the six-month mark. I agree it's difficult to imagine Sir Nimrod having a bit of a fling, but we're talking about forty odd years ago when he was younger than us.'

‘Cave,'
said Bognor, ‘Felix is coming back. With bad news by the look of it. He's wringing his hands like a frustrated washerwoman.'

It was rather bad news. If it had been a different sort of place and Felix a different sort of person he would have said simply, ‘Guinea fowl's off.' Instead of this he said, ‘I am most terribly sorry, sir, madam, but there appears to have been the teensiest bit of a crossed wire in the commissariat and it seems that we're down to our very last guinea fowl.' He fixed Bognor with a fraudulently obsequious smile in the style of Uriah Heep and said, ‘We do have some very good fillet steak which Norman could flash under the grill for you.'

If there was one thing Bognor was exceptionally partial to it was fillet steak, just the well done side of
sanglant.
‘Well,' he said, ‘in the circumstances I'm prepared to be a bit of a martyr. Madam will take the last guinea fowl and I'll make do with the boring old steak. Never mind. Can't be helped.'

As Felix went on his way Monica skewered her spouse with a wounding glance that would have deeply unsettled someone less used to them than Bognor of the Board of Trade. If looks could kill Monica Bognor's would have been the facial equivalent of the black mamba or that peculiarly lethal spider which lives in Australia. Over the years however Simon had developed an impressive immunity. Nevertheless the hostility of this one was so marked that even he flinched.

‘Qu'est ce que c'est?'
he enquired dutifully. ‘You look as if you've swallowed a prune lightly sautéed in raspberry vinegar and garnished with kiwi fruit.'

‘Pig!' said Monica. ‘Selfish pig!'

‘What do you mean, “pig”?' Bognor was affronted and genuinely surprised.

‘Don't you “what do you mean, pig” me, Simon Bognor,' said Monica her voice rising ominously. ‘First of all you force me to stay down here in this hell hole and then you have the effrontery to order steak when I'm stuck with a mingy bit of raw pigeon in a poncy piece of puff pastry.'

‘But you ordered pigeon. And it wasn't pigeon it was guinea fowl.'

‘I don't care, I don't want it. And you know perfectly well I don't want it. I want to go home. No one ever offered me steak. It's the most disgusting form of sex discrimination. Typical. Men get steaks while women have to make do with itty bitty little bits of bird wrapped up in fussy flakes.'

Bognor decided that a tactical withdrawal was in order.

‘O.K.,' he said, ‘have the steak.'

‘No, no,' Monica was getting worryingly near the edge. ‘You have the steak. I'll make do with the guinea fowl. You're a man. You need the steak. Why don't you have it raw with a handful of red chillis and a flagon of foaming ale?'

‘This is silly,' said Bognor. ‘If you want the steak have the bloody steak. If you don't want it then have the guinea fowl. I really don't mind. I just want you to be happy.'

Monica glowered.

‘All right,' she said, eventually, ‘I will.'

‘Good.' Bognor smiled. ‘And I'll have the guinea fowl.'

‘Yes,' said Monica.

Bognor knew from years of experience that the correct procedure now was to leave bad alone. If you pursued the matter Monica would flare up, remaining in full volcanic eruption for quite astonishingly long periods. If ignored, however, she subsided, quite fast. She was inclined to smoulder for a while but provided one said as little as possible there were no more explosions.

After what seemed like a very long time Monica said: ‘I suppose it could have been a sort of double bluff.'

For a moment he thought she was still talking about the steak. Just in time he realised she was talking about Sir Nimrod Herring and checked what might have proved an incendiary response.

‘Go on,' he said cautiously.

‘Well,' she said, ‘if Wilmslow was trying to blackmail him again and if he did murder him then coming to you in a burst of honesty would be likely to throw you off the scent. As it has.'