Кирил Бонфильоли - The Great Mortdecai Moustache Mystery

A lesser man would have lost control over the slab of game pie I was easing onto my plate. Jock would have said ‘Yer what ?’ I only said, cooler than many a cucumber I could name, ‘Which Duke?’

‘Why, the Chief Constable of course.’

‘Oh good; for an awful moment I thought you meant Marlborough. But I thought all Chief Constables were professional policemen nowadays?’

‘They are, except ours I believe, and he’s being phased out, so to say, as soon as anyone plucks up the courage to tell him. It’s he that thought up and is funding these Police Studentships I mentioned earlier: we’re making him an honorary Fellow and arranging a D. Litt. or something of that sort for him. As a matter of fact,’ he went on sternly as he noticed my scornful eyebrow, ‘he is not as ridiculously unworthy of such an honour as most of the analphabets we’re obliged to give honorary degrees to; he’s something of a scholar in his own right and extremely brainy. I suppose that’s why they kicked him out of Trinity half a century ago.’

A bell buzzed on a desk. He spoke into one of those boxes you speak into. ‘Thank you,’ was what he said; then, to me, ‘the car’s here. Oh, and here’s a letter from me asking all and sundry to be so good as to assist you in any way. Might prove useful. If any of the dons show coyness in answering your questions, just refer them to me. Goodnight and, ah, good hunting.’

The limousine was only, I suppose, the Duke’s second-best Rolls, quite a year old, probably the one his wife went to the supermarket in. As soon as the ashtrays were full, he’d give it to his head keeper or a bishop or someone. Nevertheless, the radiator bore the ducal standard – furled, of course – and the doors were emblazoned with strawberry-leafed coronets. (Barons only have balls, did you know that? On their coronets.)

Wafted to The Great House as silently as the spicèd breezes blowing through a well-kempt moustache, I was admitted by a footman who smelled of beer , fielded by a butler who smelled of aftershave lotion and ushered into ’Is Grace’s study, which smelled of the sort of cigar which Dukes alone can aspire to. A quite preternaturally long Duke unfolded himself from his armchair like a carpenter’s rule; length after length clicked to the vertical until his gibbous forehead was swathed in the blue smoke which hung thickly at cornice-level.

He took one and a half paces towards me – call it nine feet and a bit – and repeated the name vouchsafed by his butler.

‘Mortdecai,’ he enunciated carefully, interestedly. ‘Mortdecai. Mortdecai. How uncommonly kind of you to call, Mr Mortdecai. Yes, kind. Uncommonly. Are my people seeing to your horses?’

‘As a matter of fact, sir, you sent your own, ah, carriage for me.’

‘Did I really? How uncommonly … that’s to say, yes. Yes.’

Our chat languished a bit. He bent and peered at me dispassionately, as one peers at a peach which may or may not be quite ready for picking. I did not shuffle my feet – I peered back unabashed, for I have been peered at by Crowned Heads.

Suddenly he said: ‘You’ll forgive me for just a second, I’m sure?’

I inclined the head forgivingly. He strode to one of those boxes you speak into which have a sort of cowling around them, designed to let you speak unheard. The muffling never works.

‘Secretary,’ he said. There was a pause. His head appeared above the cowling, did a spot more peering, then ducked in again.

‘Well, wake him up, wake him up.’

Another manifestation of the head; the sad, incurious eyes.

‘Ah Johnson, there you are. Who is this feller Mortdecai? What does he want? Really. Indeed. Why wasn’t I told? D’you think I should give him a drink? Seems a very odd sort of cove, just stands there, hasn’t said a word all evening. Oh no, look here, you’re not to sulk, you know how it upsets me. Good.’ He strode back with a heron-like gait and loomed over me like a gantry.

‘Water-bailiff,’ he said.

‘Not really, sir; more Mortdecai, to tell the truth.’

‘No no no; it was the water-bailiff I had to speak to, about my water, don’t you see. Fishing tomorrow. Hate it, if you want to know. Drink?’ He shepherded me to a side-table and poured me a bumper of single-malt whisky with his own hands – I almost wished my mother alive again, she would have been so proud. (My papa was but a baron with balls on his bauble, she felt it keenly. The disgrace , you understand.)

‘I say, do have a chair,’ he said, looking wildly about him as though fearful that he had been burgled of all such furnishings. ‘Now. This tiresome business at Scone. Had your Warden to tea this afternoon; jolly little chap. Ate nine cucumber sandwiches. Small ones, but still, very creditable, wouldn’t you say? Like to see these young chaps tucking in, don’t you? Well, now.’ There was another pause. The desk-box buzzed. ‘What? No, of course I’m not cross with you, Johnson. Now just you get your beauty sleep, you know how I hate it when you’ve circles under your eyes. Goodnight. No, I can’t; I’ve got the water-bailiff with me. Goodnight.’

‘Sorry, Mortdecai, damned water-bailiff pestering me again. Now; tiresome business at Scone, yes. Your Warden, you know, the cucumber sandwich feller, he’s convinced that this awful woman-don of yours was done to death with malice aforethought and things. Can’t have that. I’m Chief Constable here, did you know? Of course you did, of course. Forget my own name next; that damned water-bailiff. Upsets me terribly. Fuss fuss fuss. Moreover, the DCI in the city tells me that some nasty little Whitehall lackeys, “abominations of Moab” my DCI calls them, quite right, quite right, have had the damnable cheek to tell my men, not a damned word to me, mind you, that they’re to lay off the case or they’ll be bunged into the Tower. Shan’t have it. Damnable little jackanapes.’

Exhausted with emotion, he lowered himself, yardstick by yardstick, into a massy chair with a strawberry-leafed coronet carved and gilded on the back. He had to sit askew to avoid the thing, squinted sideways at it as though he suspected leaf-curl. A door in the panelling behind him opened silently and the tear-streaked face of a beautiful youth appeared momentarily, then vanished. The Duke heard the latch click; he peered at me warily.

‘Who was that, eh? Who was it, I say?’

‘I fancy it was the water-bailiff, Duke,’ I said.

‘Damned fool,’ he said obscurely. ‘Now; as I said, I shan’t have this impudent meddling from a lot of blue-arsed baboons in Whitehall, shan’t have it. Do I make myself clear? Shall pitch in a really stiff Note to the Palace tomorrow; Elizabeth Battenberg doesn’t like blue-arsed baboons any more than I do. Secondly, look on my desk if you’d be so kind.’ I fetched an envelope made of the thickest, stiffest paper I’ve ever seen. ‘That’s letter,’ he explained. ‘Tells people that you are carrying out some highly confidential enquiries for me. Says categorically that you’re answerable only to me. D’you see? Good. Thirdly, you’ll be so good as to call on the DCI at the Police Station in Oxford tomorrow; he’ll give you a Special Constabulary warrant-card, you’re to be a Special Detective Inspector with Detached Duties and you can draw firearms if you care to. Fourthly, that wasn’t the water-bailiff just now, it was that soppy little rotter Johnson. Suppose I’ll have to go up and say goodnight to him.’

He ushered me out carefully as though fearing that I might stumble.

To the footman (for the butler had dematerialised) he said, ‘What’s that on your breath, you rascal, what is it?’

‘Beer, your Grace,’ said the footman.

‘Where’d you get it, I say where, eh?’