Tim Heald - Death in the opening chapter

‘Not to mention the sex.’

‘Much exaggerated, I’m told,’ he said. ‘Besides, I have a feeling Monica might have views on the matter, and if it came to a head-to-head between the Lord God Almighty and my wife, I know who I’m backing.’

‘So,’ said Sir Branwell, returning to his subject in a single leap, ‘when it comes to opportunity, the world is your oyster. When we’re dealing with motive, the oyster becomes shut like a trap. There aren’t any. Traps, that is. Nor much in the way of motive. As for opportunities…’ He seemed suddenly thoughtful.

‘Well,’ said Bognor, being constructive, ‘ cherchez la femme. In the absence of any other suspects that’s where one is always taught to start. La femme. Crime passionelle.’

‘I hardly think…’ began Sir Branwell. ‘But then… well… poor sausage.’ He recalled the messenger who had, as it were, brought the bad news from Ghent. ‘You mean Dorcas. Cherchez Dorcas. It doesn’t sound convincing. I’m not convinced. I doubt you’ll convince a jury. Or a judge. Not by starting with Dorcas.’

‘We have to begin with someone,’ said Bognor. ‘And if Dorcas is the only candidate, then we have to begin with Dorcas. Is there… was there anyone else?’

‘Of course not.’ Sir Branwell seemed incensed. ‘Sebastian was the most chaste man I ever knew. I assume he and Dorcas must once have enjoyed some sort of carnal relations. Otherwise they wouldn’t have had the two children. But if virgin birth was a human possibility, you’d have to put up Sebastian and Dorcas as prime candidates for virgin parenthood. Whatever else it may have been, you can’t imagine sex with those two being anything other than a sacred duty. A bit of a chore. Certainly not fun.’

He paused, possibly imagining sex in the other Fludd household, and briefly shuddered. He was basically rather keen on sex; the Sebastian-Fludds weren’t. End of story. The Sebastian-Fludds weren’t built for it either. Different chapter, same book. Shame that droit de seigneur had gone out with the ark. He was rather in favour, but there were certain things best left unsaid.

‘So, the Reverend Sebastian wasn’t the victim of a crime passionelle? At least not in a conventional sense.’ Bognor seemed thoughtful. He had seen enough of life, and more particularly of death, to rule out crimes of passion even in unlikely candidates. Perhaps, most of all, in unlikely candidates. Still waters could run exceedingly deep. Springs sprung in unexpected places. He was disinclined to rule out something to do with sex where the vicar was concerned.

‘How many festival performers were in town already?’ he asked, changing tack unexpectedly, though sex and the festival performer could not be ruled out at this stage either.

Sir Branwell thought.

‘Not many, as far as I know,’ he said. ‘The Brigadier and Mrs Brigadier. Vicenza Book.’

‘Not the Vicenza Book?’

‘Why? Do you know her?’

‘She’s famous,’ said Bognor, irritably. ‘Even I have heard of Vicenza Book. She’s probably the most famous soprano in world opera.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Sir Branwell, who didn’t.

‘Monica will be incredibly overexcited,’ said Bognor. ‘ The Nightingale of Padella in Brodo. Italy’s Stoke on Trent. We heard her do an obscure Handel with the ENO.’

‘Yes. Well,’ said Branwell, ‘her father used to work behind the bar in the pub when it was still a recognizable pub. Her mother’s Italian. Hence Padella in whatsit. She was, as it were, passing. She and Bert didn’t last long and she took the girl back to Italy. Bert died. Drank himself to death. Sad story. Vicenza wrote out of the blue saying she’d like to come and sing at the festival, had such happy memories of Mallborne, blah, blah. Sebastian was all for it. All for her. So we signed her up. She should be here. She’s taken a house with her camp followers.’

‘And she’s already in town?’

‘Stretch limo sighted shortly before lunch yesterday. Not many of those in Mallborne. Tinted glass. White. Personalized number plate.’

‘Sounds authentic,’ Bognor conceded.

‘Anyone else?’

‘Martin Allgood.’

‘The novelist?’ Bognor had read an Allgood once and didn’t like it.

‘He’s this year’s writer-in-residence. Here for the duration. Does lots of readings, interviews, judging of things. We put him in Thatch Cottage on the estate and call it the Writer’s House for the week. Rather a good publicity stunt. Always attracts masses of publicity, and Allgood can be relied on to say something suitably foul and controversial. We had him once before, about ten years ago. Seemed surprisingly nice actually. Pretty girlfriend but I think she’s done a bunk. I read an interview with him a year or so ago which seemed to suggest he batted and bowled. AC/DC.’

‘Probably another publicity stunt.’ Bognor had a low opinion of Allgood based mainly on the one reading of the single book – something to do with expectations. Not great in Allgood’s case. He knew this to be unfair, but was convinced that the author was an untalented showman. He had a beard and was very short. Bognor had an aversion to small, hairy writers, which was based entirely on prejudice but was more or less unshakeable, probably for that very reason.

‘Was Sebastian the vicar during Allgood’s previous residency?’ asked Bognor, quick as the proverbial flash. He liked not to be seen missing tricks, especially when so clumsily flaunted.

‘As a matter of fact, Sebastian was newly arrived. They didn’t get on. Allgood criticized Sebby’s sermon, which was ill-advised. He was sensitive about his sermons, Sebastian.’

‘Don’t blame him,’ said Bognor. ‘What was the point of Allgood’s criticism?’

‘Oh, Allgood was going through a Dawkins’ atheist phase as usual and Sebastian was sympathetic to the creationist johnnies. Not hook-line-and-sinkered, but sympathetic. Sebastian had a fatal tendency to see all sides to an argument; Allgood only ever saw one.’

‘Seldom the same,’ smiled Bognor.

‘No one ever accused Martin of consistency,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘Not even Martin, and a lot of the time he is his own worst enemy. As he freely admits.’

‘Did he dislike the vicar enough to kill him?’

The squire thought for a moment. ‘At the time, maybe. But Allgood never harboured anything for very long. Least of all grudges. And these days he’s something of a creationist himself. If you believe what you read in the papers.’

‘No.’ Bognor grinned. ‘I don’t.’

He didn’t either.

Bognor reflected that he had included his old friends in Contractor’s brief. The office genius had duly obliged. But.

Neither Branwell nor Camilla had escaped Contractor’s forensic attentions. They couldn’t. What’s more, they would both have been mortified if they had been left out. There was nothing in the reports of his two old friends that caused Bognor to so much as raise an eyebrow. Nevertheless, he felt as if he we were reading an obituary by a professional who hadn’t known the deceased, or a eulogy by a friend of a friend at one of those impersonal memorial services. Too often, the preacher hadn’t known the centrally departed any more than the obituarist. It was just so with Harvey Contractor. The reports had professional finesse but lacked true knowledge. Bognor knew both rather better than the back of his hand. Which was why he eliminated them from his enquiries.

Sir Simon and Lady Bognor went for a walk later that morning, before the sherry which always preceded Sunday lunch.

The two had walked together since before they were married and it had become a ritual, even though their walking had an imbalance which handicapped the process from the very beginning. This lay in the fact that Monica had two speeds and her husband only one. Never the twain did meet. Monica moved fast or slow. The former was designed for getting from A to B with maximum expedition and was used in airports, railway stations and other places of no passing interest, where the arriving was all that mattered and the travelling merely a tiresome necessity. The other, slower, speed was for window shopping. Bognor referred to it as dawdling.