Death in the opening chapter

SIXTEEN

The brigadier’s was a Highland Park, which he said he hadn’t tasted since he was on manoeuvres in the Orkneys some twenty years ago. He remembered the battalion attending matins in St Magnus’ Cathedral in Kirkwall. Very red. Rather gaunt. Mind you, he liked his churches austere. Like religion. No time for smells, bells and poncing about. Bognor’s was a calvados. He paid. He usually did. In more ways than one.

‘So what can I do for you?’ The brigadier didn’t beat about the bush. Brigadiers didn’t. That was part of what being a brigadier was all about. Like short sentences. Staccato. Very.

‘Cheers,’ said the brigadier planting his bottom (ample) in an armchair (capacious, chintzy, leftover from the last regime) by the fire (roaring). ‘I’m afraid I didn’t know the reverend gentleman. But fire away. Ball’s in your court. Cheers.’ And he raided his glass and leant back in anticipation.

The first question was the usual one about where exactly the brigadier had been the previous day between five and seven. The answer was disarming and impossible. He had been in his room at the hotel doing The Times crossword with Esther. This was a habitual occupation and Bognor had no doubt that Mrs Blenkinsop would corroborate her husband. What’s more, the two of them would certainly be able to provide a convincing account of the clues. The brigadier said they had completed the puzzle in an hour and ten minutes, which was about usual. They almost always completed it, and they usually took between an hour and an hour and twenty minutes. He was probably telling the truth, thought Bognor, but the alibi wouldn’t hold water in a court of law. Few alibis did. Not many people knew what they were doing from one moment to the next, even when they were doing it. If you saw what he meant.

‘You know, that’s not really a cast-iron alibi?’ he asked.

The brigadier shifted his bottom and shrugged.

‘Best I can do,’ he said. ‘Reception will confirm that they didn’t have a key. They saw both of us go upstairs, didn’t see either of us leave.’

‘It’s better than nothing,’ said Bognor. ‘You could have shinned down the drainpipe, done the business and shinned back up.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I didn’t, but I could have. I don’t think alibi’s going to get you very far. I’d move on to motive if I were you.’

‘All right,’ said Bognor. ‘Motive.’

‘None,’ said the brigadier, smiling. ‘Absolutely bugger all.’

‘Had you ever met him?’

‘Absolutely not,’ said the brigadier. ‘ Pas du tout. Never clapped eyes on him. Not too keen on sky pilots, if you catch my drift.’

Bognor found himself thinking that the brigadier was too like a brigadier to actually be one. He was reminded of a Simon Raven short story about his caddish anti-hero Fingle impersonating his brigadier during some night exercise. Confronted with the real brigadier, Fingle says that the man must be an impostor because ‘his’ brigadier wouldn’t behave in such a ludicrous self-parodying manner. Faced with Brigadier Blenkinsop, Bognor felt a bit like Fingle. He had known a number of brigadiers in what passed for real life, and most of them had been decent and civilized – unlike this one. Besides, Bognor had always had rather a soft spot for ‘sky pilots’, coming as he did from a family full of them.

‘Known a lot of sky pilots?’ he asked.

‘Army was full of them,’ said the brigadier. ‘First-class fighting men, some of them. Absolute shysters, the rest. Come across some in civilian life too. Same problems. One or two absolutely excellent chaps, but the majority complete four-letter men. Don’t get me wrong. Religion’s all very well in its place, but it doesn’t do to let it get in the way of what really matters. The best padres, in my experience, were the ones that put the men first, deferred to people in authority, and kept religion for Sunday morning service. And the occasional funeral. Wedding too, I suppose.’

‘So you didn’t know Sebastian?’

‘Can’t say I had the pleasure,’ said the brigadier. ‘Nothing against the fellow. Doesn’t do to speak ill of the dead, either. But I can’t help, much as I’d like to. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better toddle off to keep the little woman company.’

Bognor visualized the prune-like countenance of Esther Blenkinsop, and made a poor fist of suppressing a shudder. Say what you like about Monica, and people did, prunes didn’t come into it. He thanked his lucky stars he wasn’t married to Mrs Blenkinsop and, come to that, that he wasn’t the brigadier, either.

Back at the manor, he found Lady Bognor enjoying just the one or two with their host and hostess.

‘How was the Brig?’ asked Sir Branwell. ‘Lot of hot air, if you ask me. Personally speaking myself, I wouldn’t have given him the time of day, but the organizer seems to have the hots for him. Keeps going on about his latest book.’

‘What is his latest book?’ asked Bognor, genuinely not knowing.

The Fludds looked blank. Sir Branwell was colonel-in-chief of the local Yeomanry, some sort of territorial outfit, though he had never seen a shot fired in anger and had missed national service by a year or so. Bognor himself was in much the same boat.

‘Heroics,’ said Monica, who had actually read it. ‘A study in gallantry through the ages, with particular relevance to the Victoria Cross.’

‘Ah,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘One of my ancestors had a VC. Boer War. Killed him. Awarded posthumously to his widow. Dashed stupid. Keep your head down and don’t volunteer. That’s my advice. Tallisker?’

Bognor didn’t mind if he did.

‘He’s talking about it tomorrow morning,’ said Monica brightly.

‘His latest book?’ said Camilla, beadily.

‘Well,’ said Monica, ‘heroics, heroism, heroes. All that.’

‘Same thing,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘They all do it. Don’t blame them in a way, even if they ought to be at home writing, not out on the stage spouting at a whole lot of elderly spinsters who would be better off at home reading. That’s the trouble with these literary festivals. They’re a substitute for the real thing. Writer chappies not writing, and readers not reading. Won’t stop them all gabbing on about it later, though. Certain sort of pseudo-intellectual, particularly. They won’t actually read the books, but that won’t stop them banging on about them as if they had actually studied every word. If I had my way I’d ban them.’

‘That’s a bit harsh, Brannie,’ said Bognor. ‘They give a lot of people harmless pleasure, and they bring in punters and income.’

‘That’s what everyone thinks,’ he said morosely. ‘It’s not like that at all.’

‘How so?’ In vino veritas, he thought, realizing that the Scotch on top of the calva was making him decidedly squiffy, and wondering how much his host had had to drink.

‘People like little Glasgow call the shots,’ said Branwell. ‘We’re just Aunt Sallies for everyone to take pot shots. Get all the blame, none of the credit, and reap no rewards. Everyone knows Flanagan Fludd was a complete charlatan. No talent, whatever.’

‘Vicenza Book said he cribbed off Gilbert and Sullivan.’

‘Fat lot she knows about,’ he said. ‘Nothing but a jumped-up barmaid’s daughter. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a barmaid’s daughter. Someone has to be, I suppose, but just don’t go jumping about pretending to be something else.’

‘Would she have known Sebastian?’

‘Dunno. Probably not. Mother must have done, though. Sebby preached about her. Main reason she left. You could say. Sex and alcohol. She was for sin and Sebastian was against it. They were on opposite sides of the moral divide. The vicar won. People like him always do. It’s a matter of morality, which means a question of hypocrisy. That means that in private they approve of people like Vicenza Book’s mother; Dolly’s ma. In public, though, they side with the vicar. The devil has all the best tunes, but people don’t like to be seen dancing to them.’

He poured himself another Scotch, ignored the others, and earned a sharp and censorious glance from his wife.

‘Much better now that the Kraut chef’s in charge,’ he said. ‘Bloody awful scoff, but neat and gets a good press.’

‘Swiss,’ said Camilla. ‘Gunther is Swiss.’

‘Swiss, piss,’ said Sir Branwell laughing. ‘Typical Swiss. Neat, tidy and ultimately unimaginative. All cuckoo clocks and yodelling.’

‘That’s the Austrians,’ said Bognor. ‘They invented the cuckoo clock and taught the world to yodel.’

‘Swiss,’ said Sir Branwell very seriously. ‘Camilla’s quite right. Gunther Battenburg is Swiss. Nothing to do with cake or the royal family. But say what you like about the Swiss, they’re very neat and tidy. Their trains run on time and I don’t believe the Austrians had anything to do with cuckoo clocks or yodelling. That was the Swiss. Orson Welles said so. And he was spouting the words of Graham Greene. He should know.’

Bognor frowned. He was not following his host’s train of thought.

‘I may not enjoy his grub,’ said Sir Branwell, ‘but I applaud his neatness. Everything’s always very tidy. No cause for complaint.’

‘I didn’t think a lot of the dinner was terribly good,’ said Bognor. ‘Though, I quite liked the emu. Vicenza Book thought it was chicken.’

‘She would,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘Part of the problem with that trollop,’ he continued, ‘is that she’s a mess. No concept of straight lines, order, cleanliness, places and people being in the right place at the right time. Say what you like about the services, they always have a timetable, and everyone adheres to it. Too much civilian life is chaotic.’

Bognor, who enjoyed chaos, which was usually more apparent than real, did not demur, even though he knew that his old friend’s knowledge of military life was perfunctory and almost entirely vicarious. On the other hand, the affairs of the Lord Lieutenancy were regulated with a precision which owed much to the armed forces, if not to the Swiss.

‘So, I do most profoundly hope,’ said Sir Branwell, ‘that you can bring something Swiss to the current investigations. If you see what I mean. And by Swiss, I don’t mean cheese with holes in it, but clocks, clockwork, tickety-boo.’ And he tapped his nose.

‘The brigadier doesn’t have a satisfactory alibi,’ said Bognor, ‘but then hardly anybody does. It’s going to introduce a bit of a mess into the proceedings, like it or not. On the other hand, he doesn’t have a discernible motive, so I’m inclined to rule him out.’

‘Talked to the pathologist?’ The squire was full of surprises. Bognor suspected he didn’t know what a pathologist was, except for what he had gleaned from TV. This meant a sexy girl in a white coat with a scalpel. His own experience with pathologists was not similar. In his experience, they were slightly desiccated males who felt they knew best. On the whole, they tended to tell you what you knew already, but attached much importance to their findings and believed they solved everything. This was not a view Bognor shared.

‘The pathologist will tell me that death was by hanging; that the rope and the stool came from the vestry; and that the removal of the stool precipitated death. The pathologist’s report will not, however, tell me who tied the knot nor who kicked the stool.’

‘Fingerprints?’ enquired Sir Branwell. ‘DNA?’

‘Possible,’ said Bognor. ‘But even if so, they won’t stand up in court. The probability is that Sebastian knew where the rope and the stool were, that he tied the requisite knots and kicked the stool from under him, himself. But there is always the possibility that another party was involved. Or parties. The two questions that need answering are: “Who tied the knot?” and “Who kicked the stool?”’

‘Quite,’ echoed Sir Branwell.

‘I think,’ said Monica, ‘it’s time we all went to bed.’

In situations such as this, Lady Bognor was not to be gainsayed.

‘I quite agree,’ said Lady Fludd. ‘It’s quite late; we’ve all had more than enough to drink and we have a heavy day tomorrow.’

The two men exchanged rheumy glances, but said nothing, simply drained their glasses, and stood unsteadily.

They both knew far better than to argue.