Death in the opening chapter

TWENTY-FOUR

There was a convention involving butlers, but Bognor was damned if he could remember what it was. This may have had something to do with the diminishing number of butlers, who were a dying breed, even if one included the ersatz butlers employed by a certain sort of celebrity hotel in such places as Dubai. Or it may have had to do with Bognor’s natural forgetfulness, or his belief that neither conventions nor butlers mattered much. Either the butler dunnit or he hadn’t. He was either the most suspicious character or the least. Whatever, he had to be interviewed, together with his wife, who in this case, did.

These were their alibis for the time of death: Brandon was buttling and his wife doing. Sir Branwell, Lady Fludd and the Bognors themselves were there to corroborate. They may not have actually been present, but they were at the end of a bell-pull. To have nipped off to church and done the necessary would have involved a completely unacceptable risk. And the Brandons, as was the way Bognor suspected with butlers and doers, were not among the nation’s risk-takers.

It was sometimes assumed that people such as the Brandons no longer existed.

Not true.

Within living memory, well almost within living memory, the Fludds of Mallborne would have employed large numbers of servants, of whom Mr and Mrs Brandon would have been the most important. Before the two socially levelling world wars, the manor would have boasted squads of lower orders, living as a sort of alternative household behind the green baize doors, much in the manner of the household made famous by the TV programme Upstairs, Downstairs in the 1970s. Even quite modest middle-class households would have had a couple of servants who cooked, served, drove and generally performed menial tasks for those upstairs.

People like them were the staples of golden age crime fiction, together with simpering clerics, blustering squires, long-winded lawyers, doctors who did regular ‘rounds’ (sometimes even on horseback) and all the other denizens of a society who knew their place and conformed to type. This world was often thought to have vanished, but it still clung on in places such as Mallborne. It was much diminished, unfashionable, unknown even to the journalists and others who sought to present a picture of contemporary life. But its fall from grace did not mean that this world had vanished. It still clung on.

Perhaps it was a vanishing age, but it was not yet gone, and the Bognors were privy to it. Or, at least, to a part of it. They knew they were lucky and that their friends, Sir Branwell and Camilla, were immensely privileged. It was incorrect, wrong, feudal, but if you were on the right side, definite fun.

The Brandons were on the wrong side of it – below the salt and on the distaff side of the green baize. This too was deceptive, for there was a real sense in which the Brandons ran the show. He was the regimental sergeant major while Sir Branwell was the ensign or second lieutenant. The baronet had breeding but was wet behind the ears; he carried a sword while RSM Brandon had only a pacing stick, silver-headed; the little officer dined in a smart mess; the sergeant-major presided over a rougher, less gilded institution. Yet, without the Brandons of this world, the army would cease to be. If Sir Branwell were abolished, no one would notice.

There was a paradox here, and its dying did not make it any less of a paradox. In a classless society, where Jack was as good as his master, there were few nuances and complexities. The old society was unfair, sometimes criminally so, but it was satisfyingly full of contradictions. One, possibly the most obvious, was that those who seemed to be in charge, were actually little more than figureheads. Jack was better than his master, but the charade was the reverse. The truth was that the true bosses were those who seemed to be bossed, but the truth was not to be acknowledged. The Sir Branwells of this world were perceived to be the monarchs of all they surveyed, and yet the reality was that those such as Brandon and his wife, who bowed and curtsied, tugged at their forelocks and were kept ruthlessly in place, were actually the masters now, and always had been.

‘You can drop the “sir”, Brandon,’ said Bognor, who, by dint of his education, his association with Sir Branwell and, above all, his ‘K’, was ‘officer class’. He smiled, patronizingly. ‘There are no witnesses. And I don’t hold with that sort of thing. So just relax. Call me Simon.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Brandon. Then aware of Bognor’s incredulous reaction, he stammered something more egalitarian, along the lines of ‘Simon… er… Mr Bognor… er… Sir Simon.’

Bognor, not particularly a stickler for modes of address and correct procedure, was embarrassed, and for almost the first time, thought that perhaps his new knighthood had merit if only when it came to ease of address. At least one knew where one was He had never had a problem with the head cheese at Apocrypha being constantly addressed as ‘master’. There was even, he supposed, something to be said for ‘sir’, if only on the grounds that it disguised ‘amnesia’. He had known people who called everyone ‘Sonny’ or ‘Darling’, or even ‘Fred’, when they were unable to remember someone’s real name. In that sense, maybe ‘sir’ was no worse. It carried unfortunate undertones of obsequiousness and deference, but it had its all-purpose uses.

‘Sorry,’ said Brandon, opting out of the problem altogether – as most people, in Bognor’s anecdotal observation, usually did. ‘It’s ingrained, I’m afraid. Also, I have to say that I have a better relationship with the boss than any number of the young, who wouldn’t dream of calling anyone by anything other than their Christian name.’

‘Unless it were “mate”!’ said Mrs Brandon-who-did, and who must have been born with a forename, but seemed to have acquired a status without one, just as governesses and housekeepers were accorded the mythical status of ‘Mrs’, whether married or not.

Bognor was afraid he was becoming sidetracked and bogged down in stuff which had nothing to do with murder. Well, maybe it did. Lese padre. Maybe parishioners had become overfamiliar, or, on the other hand, not familiar enough. And before he could help himself, he found himself asking, ‘Did you call the Reverend Sebastian, “sir”?’

This was obviously not a question either of the servants had been asked before, and it seemed to take them by surprise.

‘The thing about vicars,’ said Brandon eventually, and obviously speaking for both of them, ‘is that he has a title and one therefore usually called him “vicar”. If not, then I suppose, yes, we addressed him as “sir”, but remember he was a Fludd and that made a difference.’

Bognor had forgotten that the reverend was not just a man of God, but also a Fludd, which in the local order of preference counted for rather more. He was reminded of the Cabots and their ilk in Boston, and could perfectly well understand that in the context of Mallborne and its environs, it was better to be a Fludd than a god. Presumably, a butler who worked for the senior living Fludd was superior to a mere vicar who worked for God. But he was not going down that peculiarly English path.

‘Would you say you knew the vicar well?’ he asked, and was rewarded once again by the appearance of original thought. This was gratifying, almost as if he had asked an original question.

‘Difficult to say, sir,’ answered Brandon after a silence. ‘You see he was our vicar.’

‘Quite,’ said Bognor. ‘I mean, absolutely.’

There was a pause. Awkward.

Bognor broke it.

‘Would you say you and Mrs Brandon were churchgoers? C of E? Know what I mean?’

‘The missus and I are Methodists,’ said Brandon, ‘born and bred. But, of course, there’s no Methodist Church in Mallborne, and once we entered service with Sir Branwell’s father, God bless the colonel, we sort of became C of E like everyone else.’

‘I quite understand,’ said Bognor. He did too. The Church of England was that sort of religion. A matter of social convenience, as much as a true church with one foundation. If it had a foundation, it had more to do with what sort of newspaper one read, how one voted, and whether one dressed up to attend, than with true religion. True religion in the C of E was in short supply, and many who adhered to it, believed it was better that way.

‘So, basically, you saw the Reverend Sebastian once a week in church?’

‘And when he and Mrs Fludd came for sherry.’

This was Mrs Brandon. She had spoken. Bognor had the definite impression that while her husband did most of the talking, it was she who did most of the thinking.

‘Did they often come for sherry?’

‘Usually after matins. Mainly on high days and holy days.’ This was Brandon, back in his accustomed speaking role.

‘So, you really only saw the vicar in his official capacity?’

‘I suppose so. You could say that the sherry was semi-official. But it was duty sherry. Not a lot of fun.’

The Brandons managed a wintry smile.

‘And Mrs Fludd? The rector’s wife.’

‘She sang in the choir,’ said Brandon. ‘Soprano. Not very good. We called her the red-faced warbler. Not as good as she thought she was. She thought she was quite special. Led to even more friction with the barmaid’s daughter. She’s here this year, calling herself Vicenza Book. Not what we called her when she lived here. But she can sing, I’ll give her that. Mrs Brandon and I know a bit about singing. Got all the Tenors on DVD, and Bryn Terfel. She was good. Mrs Fludd wasn’t. Not her fault.’

He stopped suddenly. He had obviously said too much. Or thought he had.

‘So your relations with the deceased and his wife were formal, correct, but slightly distant.’

The Brandons thought for a moment.

‘Yes,’ agreed Brandon, speaking as usual, for both. ‘You could say that. Nothing against the gentleman. Nor Mrs Fludd. But we weren’t what you’d call, intimate.’

‘I see,’ said Bognor, thinking that people like the Brandons were the wise monkeys of the situation. They saw loads; heard a great deal; talked among themselves. But they were not part of the action. Dispassionate observers. Well, uninvolved observers. Worth plugging into, but not themselves, of the party, and therefore above – or below – suspicion.

‘Any theories?’ he asked, with assumed casualness.

Brandon seemed startled, as if he had been asked something improper, as indeed he had.

‘Certainly not,’ he said, seeming affronted and managing to convey the idea that it was a question that should never have been asked, much less answered.

Bognor felt quelled.

‘I just wondered,’ he said, blustering, ‘if you had any theories about how the vicar met his end. I understand that you two know an awful lot about what goes on in Mallborne and I just wondered whether-’

The butler cut in.

‘Will that be all, sir?’ he asked, just as generation upon generation of his ancestors must have asked people such as himself. It was not a question at all, being more of a rebuke. It was a reminder, above all, that while things might appear to change, they didn’t, in reality, change nearly as much as some people would have you believe. A certain sort of person knew as much, or more, as anyone; a certain sort of person knew his place, but his apparent place belied reality; a certain sort of person was in charge. Such a person now stood before him, and behind him stood the inevitable wife who, as always, in, what Bognor was increasingly inclined to accept was the battle of the sexes, wore the trousers.

He felt suitably small and much reduced; but he knew his place. The Brandons knew theirs too, and, in this instance, they were, like it or not, above the fray. And they were keeping their counsel, no matter who asked them to say what they knew.

It was ever thus.

Difficult, unfashionable, but true.

He had a call from Harvey Contractor in indecently quick time. Harvey was always in indecently quick time. He was also precise and accurate, and did as he was asked, plus some. Bognor was lucky to have him. The Board of Trade, even more so.

He was laughing when he came on line.

‘I’m calling from Kew,’ he said. ‘On a bench by the lake. Cold but bright, and I’ve found what you wanted.’

‘Which was?’

Bognor had not forgotten, but he wanted Contractor to repeat the info. Kept him on his toes, though this was seldom necessary. Others might rock back on their heels, but not Harvey Contractor.

‘I checked out the army list, and particularly had a look at the 13th Mobile in the 1950s,’ said Contractor. ‘Our friend the brigadier was there all right. And, as I suspected, but you didn’t quite spell out, there was a padre doing his national service at the same time by the name of Sebastian Fludd. Also a chap who sounds like a promoted sergeant major by the name of Brandon. Isn’t the Fludds’ butler called Brandon?’

‘Yes,’ said Bognor.

This he had not been expecting.

‘Not right for him,’ he said, ‘but an odd coincidence. Quite a usual name but not that usual. Not our man though.’

‘Could be his dad,’ said Contractor. ‘Was Brandon an army brat?’

‘Could well have been.’ His boss was thinking on his feet. This was tiresome but sometimes needs must. This was one of those occasions. The trick was not to let anyone else know.

‘I’ve already spoken to the brigadier but I didn’t know about the national service padre. Would you mind having a word? In person. He’s London based.’

‘Already have,’ said Contractor. ‘Cup of tea at his home. Knightsbridge or thereabouts.’

This was maddening but typical. One of many reasons why they enjoyed a love-hate relationship. It was horribly predictable of Contractor to be ahead of the game and to have anticipated his boss’s desire. What’s more, Contractor would wheedle stuff out of the brigadier that would have eluded Bognor. Contractor had a habit of going for the jugular in the nicest possible way. That was progress. Contractor was not as nice as he looked; Bognor nicer.

‘Ah,’ said Bognor.

‘Did I do right, boss?’ he asked.

‘Of course you did right,’ said Bognor snappily. ‘You always do. It would just be nice if, for once, you waited to be asked.’

‘Sorry, boss.’

‘Don’t pretend.’ Bognor was reminded of the time that Leslie Compton, a footballing hero from Arsenal days had disregarded his captain’s command, had scored a famous winning goal, and had apologized to the skipper for disobeying orders. He hadn’t meant it any more than Contractor.

‘You OK?’ Contractor wanted to know. Bognor was touched, although he recognized that the concern was at least partly selfish. Bognor’s absence left his minion dangerously exposed to marauding mandarins from elsewhere in Whitehall. Bognor, by dint of years, if nothing else, had clout. Other men and women were frightened of him. He never thought it would happen, and put it down partly to age, and partly to a certain recklessness which came with longevity. On his way up the ladder, he cared about life and about the impression he was making on others. Now that he had gone as high as he was going, he no longer gave a stuff. He simply couldn’t care less. Other people knew this. And were afraid.

‘I’m fine. You?’

‘We miss you,’ said Contractor, and part of him may even have meant it. He had grown quite fond of the old thing. Self-interest was there too. Bognor was a grouchy old guard dog, but once he was out on his rounds, the rest of the world came sniffing around, pulling rank and peeing on the shoots of independence and unorthodoxy. Contractor was keen on both, and clever enough, particularly when protected by Bognor, to get away with it. Without the protective bark of Bognor, however, he was vulnerable.

‘Don’t let the buggers get you down,’ said Bognor, only too aware of the crippling orthodoxy of the men who ran other departments. He knew that they would be trying to pull rank in his absence; attempting to get Contractor to toe the line behind which they liked to hunker down.

Smooth, suave and second-rate. Cowards certainly, but bullies too. At least, when they could get away with it. In the nicest possible way. It was what foreigners so disliked about a certain sort of old-fashioned Brit. You couldn’t trust them, but they were such gents. Dressed properly, as well.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I can look after myself. Be nice to have you back though.’

Bognor frowned. He was supposed to be on holiday. He doubted whether Contractor really could look after himself. It would be good to be back. He snapped shut the mobile.

In for a penny, he thought, and punched in another number.

‘Pathology,’ said a voice, and he asked for the man to whom he had been so rude.

‘Sorry if I seemed… er… well… sorry,’ he said.

The voice at the other end sounded conciliatory and used to apologies such as this.

‘It’s all right,’ said the voice. It obviously wasn’t but Bognor let it pass.

‘I just wonder,’ said Bognor, ‘in the case of the late Vicar of St Teath’s, Mallborne, whether it would have been possible for the deceased to tie a rope round a rafter, put it round his neck, step on to a stool and then kick it from beneath him. If it were suicide, then that’s what he would have had to do. Does your examination provide hard and fast answers?’

All this prolonged and original thought was good for Bognor’s ego, and he could hear the forensic scientist cudgelling his grey matter at the other end of the line for several gratifying seconds. Eventually, the pathologist spoke.

‘It’s a grey area,’ he said. ‘Routine DNA testing showed evidence of the widow’s presence. There were a number of other traces. Churches are busy places, after all. The rope had been handled by several different people. So, it’s perfectly possible that one or more other people were involved. Technically speaking, it would have been possible for the deceased to have carried out the entire operation single-handed, but my own guess is that it would have been unlikely, given that he was not a naturally strong or athletic person.’

‘No,’ said Bognor, ‘I agree. And while DNA testing makes it possible to say who had been in the church and who had touched the rope, would it also be possible to eliminate other people who hadn’t either been in the building, or handled, what for want of a better word, one has to think of as the murder weapon?’

There was another gratifying, cogitating silence.

‘Difficult to say,’ said the expert. ‘It’s a grey area.’

‘Quite.’

He wanted to say that forensics was too often a grey area; that post-mortem examinations only told you what you already knew; and that detection was best left to detectives. The ambiguity of the autopsy to alliterate. However, he thought better of all this and merely, meekly, thanked the pathologist for his time and trouble, closed the nasty little machine, consulted his watch and realized that he had missed lunch. Even so, he needed to discuss progress with Monica. Monica was the only person, apart from the absent Contractor, on whom he could really rely.

He met her in the drive up to the manor. She was looking smug and humming. Always a bad sign. Especially when, as now, she was humming Mozart.

‘I skived off,’ she said. ‘Made my excuses and left. I’ve just been having an absolutely delicious beef sandwich at the Two by Two. Underdone beef, brown bread, fresh butter, home-made English mustard. And a glass of jolly-nice Rioja, made in an obscure village by an old man called Pablo.’

‘As one is,’ said Bognor, unamused. His tummy rumbled.

‘Not a trace of snail; not a hint of porridge,’ said his wife, not noticing. ‘Perfection. Just what the doctor ordered. Pub food as she was intended. The best of British. And Gunther came by for a chat and let me into a juicy little secret.’

There was a bench nearby, dedicated to Mavis, with dates. They sat on it. The sun shone, lemony, thin and antiseptic, bright enough but conveying no warmth.

‘Secret?’ said Bognor, envying the sandwich and the glass of wine but not saying so. He thought of the Rubaiyat and fancied himself briefly as Omar Khayaam, curbing this flight of fancy, as speedily as it had arisen.

‘He didn’t like the vicar. Hated him, in fact. I think it was mutual. The Reverend Sebastian didn’t like poofters.’

‘Plenty of gay people around. Even in Mallborne. That’s no excuse for a serious feud.’

‘They fell out over food. Gunther being gay didn’t make things easier.’

‘Everyone in Mallborne fell out over food with Gunther. He’d be all very well in Bray. Or even Padstow. But Mallborne is another matter. They don’t go for his sort of scoff. It’s classic meat and two veg country.’

‘I know, I know.’ Monica knew. ‘The point is that it could be a motive. Gunther thinks so anyway. There was a grudge which persisted; business was unfinished. Worst of all there was a campaign on some allegedly impartial website. Lots of anonymous people claimed to have eaten at the Two by Two and hated it. Some even alleged food poisoning. Gunther thinks the vicar was behind it. He’s afraid it could be a strong enough motive to excite suspicion.’

Once again, Bognor exercised his scepticism. ‘He would say that. Might even think it. But at the end of the day, it’s like I say – we’ve only got his word for it.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘he’s a worried man.’

‘Which,’ said her husband, ‘may explain the uncharacteristically orthodox beef sandwich. He saw you coming.’

His tummy rumbled agreement, but once more Monica affected not to notice.