Tim Heald - Death in the opening chapter

‘Talking of Hymns Ancient and Modern,’ said Bognor, addressing his wife, ‘did you get anywhere with the hymn board.’

‘’Fraid not,’ said Monica shaking her head. ‘There’s something there, all right, but I haven’t worked out what it is. Not yet, anyway. But I will. Promise.’

She would too. If Monica promised something, she would deliver. That’s what promises were about. As far as she was concerned. She was that old-fashioned figure – a woman of her word.

‘Anyhow,’ said Bognor, helping himself, unasked, to another biscuit. I’m afraid I seem to have uncovered something of a can of worms in this little paradise. Everyone loathed the vicar.’

This was not an absolute truth, more of a conversational ploy. In a community such as Mallborne, most people were indifferent to the vicar. He was a fact of life, much like the squire or the doctor. Most people didn’t loathe the vicar, because they couldn’t be bothered. Bognor, living in London, didn’t even know who his vicar was. Had he done so, he felt he should loathe him, but he was a kind-hearted person and also disinclined to do the right thing. This meant that he tended to rather like priests. On the other hand, he took little satisfaction in this. In fact, he regarded it as a lapse.

‘Not us,’ protested Camilla. ‘We thought he was a perfectly nice little man. And his wife. Charming.’

‘If you like that sort of thing,’ said Sir Branwell. He spoke stiffly, as one who patently did not like that sort of thing, but considered himself (wrongly) too well-bred to show it.

‘You have a perfectly acceptable alibi, and I don’t for a second believe you killed him. However, that’s not the same as saying you liked him. Or the Reverend Mrs. You tolerated them. They kept the vicarage warm; they ran the church and everything that went with it. But that’s not the same as liking them.’

‘Vicars are trade,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘Simple as that. They are. They exist. They help keep things in their place. But their place is, well, put it this way, Sebastian and Dorcas were not one of us.’

‘Well,’ said Camilla, ‘they used the front door.’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said her husband, ‘but they weren’t the sort of people you’d have to dinner. Not for pleasure. Duty, perhaps. But that’s something else altogether.’

Sir Branwell was not Lord Lieutenant for nothing. He knew the Queen and she had been to stay. Actually, he thought the Windsors and especially Prince Philip were foreign upstarts, but this was an opinion he did not often voice out loud. Nor did he know any of the royal family at all well. In fact, they wouldn’t know him from the proverbial bar of soap if they met outside the county. Within it, however, he was Her Majesty’s Lord Lieutenant and, in a very real sense, monarch of all that he surveyed.

‘Men of God,’ he said, ‘are a necessity. However, the necessity is painful. And that includes the bishop.’

‘I think Ebenezer is rather a good egg,’ protested Bognor. ‘He’s by way of being a bit of a friend.’

‘You have to have bishops and vicars, but I take a Cromwellian view of such people. If you catch my drift.’

The Bognors caught it but were not altogether impressed. They knew that Branwell was a cheerful agnostic, who took a pragmatic view of clerics and the church. Broadly speaking, he liked the noise, but expected ‘his’ chaps to toe the line, not step over it, or rock the boat. They were part of a team dedicated to decency, common sense and, above all, the preservation of the status quo. The last thing he wanted creeping into their behaviour, was any sort of damned religious nonsense. As far as he was concerned, the true Christ was a dangerous lefty and would have been run out of town, double quick. Probably wore sandals and read the Guardian. On the other hand, Branwell was not stupid, nor ill-educated. When he spoke of Cromwell, he might just as well have been talking of Thomas as Oliver. He had read Hilary Mantel, but did not believe hers was a historically accurate account of a flawed life.

Sir Branwell was right wing but that did not make him a patsy.

‘Point taken,’ said Bognor. ‘You regarded the Fludds as socially inferior and professionally suspect, but you were in charge and you tolerated them. Above all, you didn’t kill him. End of story. Correct?’

‘In a nutshell,’ agreed Branwell. ‘Next?’

‘Gunther,’ said Bognor. ‘He and the Reverend Sebastian had a falling out over the harvest dinner. Gunther suspects that Sebastian conducted a vendetta against him on one or more Internet sites like TripAdvisor. But Gunther has a reasonable alibi and, for the record, I don’t think he killed the vicar either.’

‘He’s an emet,’ said Camilla. ‘He comes from Essex or somewhere.’

‘Germany even.’ Sir Branwell laughed. ‘Whatever else he is, Gunther’s certainly no Kraut. With respect. So, Germany’s a joke. Besides, Germany doesn’t do haute cuisine.’

‘Don’t you like Gunther, either?’

‘Oh,’ said, Branwell, ‘he’s all right, if you like that sort of thing. He paid perfectly decent money for the Arms, and he can’t help being the sort of bloke who helps out at tea parties. Not that I have anything against shirt-lifters. Or ersatz Krauts, come to that. On the other hand, there’s a time and a place for everything, and I just don’t happen to think we’re ready for young Battenburg yet. Maybe in a generation or two, but right now, I’d say we were into heterosexual Brits who produce decent pub grub. I’ll bet you anything you like that young Gunter will be gone in a year or two. Like I said, I’ve absolutely nothing against the chap, but at the end of the day he’s only the cook. I mean, I’m perfectly fond of Mrs Brandon, but that doesn’t mean to say that I think she’s anything other than a perfectly nice artisan. She does exactly what she’s paid to do, no more, no less. Doesn’t give herself airs and graces. Doesn’t pretend to be anything more than she is. Salt of the earth.’

It was on the tip of his tongue for Bognor to observe that the salt of the earth was Mrs Brandon’s glass ceiling, but he thought better of it. Better leave any fancy wordplay to his host.

‘Do you think the Reverend Sebastian was writing hostile web reports in an effort to get rid of Battenburg?’

‘If he was, he wasn’t the only one,’ said Branwell. ‘Lots of the town were at it. Quite a creative enterprise. I like snails and I like porridge, but, as far as I’m concerned, never the twain shall meet. The one thing we don’t want is a whole posse of foreign foodies mincing down to Mallborne, and hanging out at the pub taking pictures of each other and various kinds of foam with their Instamatics. That’s all very well for that American with the funny voice.’

‘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.’