Masterstroke (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  Masterstroke

  A Simon Bognor Mystery

  Tim Heald

  For Tristram

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  Epilogue

  Preview: Red Herrings

  Prologue

  IT WAS FIRST LIGHT in the garden quad of Apocrypha. Because this was an English summer no rosy fingers gave earnest of the dawn, which arrived instead grey and misty, creeping up on night like a mugger after an old lady’s handbag. Water dripped from the mulberries and splashed plangently from a broken drainpipe over the west door of Hawksmoor’s incomparable college chapel. At the foot of the steps leading up to Great Hall a puddle had formed. Through it walked the Master. He was oblivious to the wet for he was drunk, so drunk that he scarcely noticed the dampness which seeped through the splits in his patent leather shoes and ran in tiny rivulets down his neck and under the stiff white collar of his boiled white shirt.

  He staggered slightly as he walked across his quad: Lord Beckenham of Penge, master of all he surveyed, a self-made man made good. He had come a long way from the council estate in Skelmersdale. If, at seventy-one, that mane of white hair, so envied by his older colleagues, was finally thinning, and if those once so regular teeth were now a little chipped and yellow, he could still claim them as his own. Own teeth, own hair, own everything. He was his own man. Always had been.

  Thus he reflected as he slowly crossed the quad, and so immersed was he in these thoughts (and so fuddled with claret and liqueurs) that he did not notice another figure, similarly clad, similarly uncertain in its gait, emerge from the shadows at the bottom of staircase twelve. Halfway across the quad the two almost collided.

  ‘Ah, Aveline,’ exclaimed Lord Beckenham, recovering first and recognizing the gaunt features of the Regius Professor of Sociology, ‘agreeable gaudy.’

  ‘Very,’ said Aveline. ‘I’ve been up drinking with Badman and Scrimgeour-Harris.’

  ‘And I with Mitten’s men,’ said the Master. ‘Edgware, Vole, Rook, Crutwell and Bognor.’

  ‘Ah … Bognor,’ murmured Aveline, dreamily. ‘But otherwise a good year.’

  ‘A very good year,’ agreed Lord Beckenham, then paused. ‘Can I offer you a nightcap?’

  ‘That’s very kind, but no. I’ve a bicycle to catch.’ The professor laughed harshly, like a corncrake, the noise echoing over the grass. He moved on. ‘Cheerio, then,’ he called, unexpectedly.

  The Master continued on his way, though without enthusiasm. The lodgings had been gloomy since Mabel’s death three years ago, and despite the hour he was not particularly keen to get to bed. There were three flights of stairs to negotiate, too, and they were steep. Recently he had found that they left him distressed and breathless and he was obliged to pause from time to time to gather strength. Time was when he would have taken them three at a time. More than fifty years ago he had come to Apocrypha as a soft-faced freshman on an open scholarship, the first boy from his school ever to win a place at Oxford. The three photographs were still on the wall of the drawing-room. In the last of them he sat in the middle of the team, holding the ball, hair parted in the middle, slicked down like Hitler’s. He had scored the winning goal the last time Apocrypha won cuppers. He unlocked the front door at the third attempt and began to climb. One more gaudy to go, he thought to himself … a farewell gaudy with his own contemporaries, those few who survived … he fumbled with his tie … it was too tight … it was empty vanity to persist with the old collar he had worn so long … far too tight … he stopped to rest and swayed slightly, then clung to the rail for support. …

  The scout found him when he came with morning tea. He was, of course, extremely dead.

  1

  BOGNOR WAS AWOKEN BY bells. He had forgotten what a bell-ridden city Oxford was. He had similar trouble with Venice. ‘Bloody bells,’ he muttered and, raising his head slightly, he removed the pillow and buried his head underneath it. The bells were now muffled but they were still disturbing. Bognor cursed them again and put out an arm, seeking the consolation of his wife Monica. She was not there. He sighed, sat up, letting the pillow fall to the floor, and, very tentatively, opened an eye, shutting it again immediately. He was not ready to have light thrown upon his situation which was, he was beginning to realize, hung-over in the extreme. The furry sensation in his mouth and throat told him that he had been over-indulging in drink and tobacco. This was confirmed by the ache behind the eyes. He scratched his scalp and attempted to coax the memory into some form of action. It stalled a couple of times but at the third try he was able to recall a little of the night before. Of course. The gaudy. He had adjourned with his old colleagues from Mitten’s tutorial group. The port had run out. They had gone to Mitten’s rooms in the Pantry Quad. The Master had been there too. And that extraordinarily attractive new English don. Hermione something. Clacton? Southend? Margate? No, none of that was right, but it was a place somewhere down there. Frinton, that was it. He remembered Mitten introducing them. ‘Bognor and Frinton,’ he had said in that affected aristocratic drawl of his. ‘Well, you two ought to have lots in common, eh? Ha! Ha!’ He was the only person Bognor had ever met who, when intending to convey the idea of laughter, actually said, ‘Ha! Ha!’ – two separate words, clearly articulated, rather as if he had been taught to laugh by some do-it-yourself manual for foreign students.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!’ With a supreme effort Bognor forced both eyes open and let them slowly traverse the room. It was a newish bed-sitter, on the site of what had once been a damp, draughty, Victorian tower full of Bognor’s memories. There was the obligatory poster of Che in his beret and of Monroe with fluorescent lips and, he was depressed to see, even of ‘girl in tennis dress scratching bottom’. An Apocrypha undergraduate ought to be able to manage a little more originality than that. It was a bit like having flying ducks or that green woman painted by the Russian whose name he could never remember. The one you saw in Woolies. He looked at his watch: nine-fifteen. Better put in an appearance at breakfast. That insufferable Crutwell would have been out for his ghastly jog by now. Edgware too, in all probability. They’d both be looking pink and scrubbed and young for their age and generally disgusting. The trouble with this reunion was that it was making him feel a failure. He was a failure – he knew that – but this reminded him of the fact all too forcibly. Not only was he a failure, he looked like one alongside all these budding success stories.

  He swung his legs out, touched the floor with his toes and tried standing. Not a good idea. He sat down again and passed a palm over his jowls. All his problems stemmed from university. It was that absurd interview with the Appointments Board which had got him into the Board of Trade in the first place, since when he had been stuck. Codes, ciphers, red tape and occasional excursions into what was euphemistically described as ‘the field’.

  He had had his moments, he supposed. Parkinson had even mentioned the possibility of an MBE recently, though he had resisted all Bognor’s requests for a transfer to some other branch of Whitehall. Monica was urging him with increasing fervour to ‘get out while there’s still time’, but nothing happened. He made a few half-hearted inquiries and even went to one (very depressing) job interview at some multi-national. It came, of course, to nothing. Secretly Bognor knew that he had left it too late and that he was doomed to the Board of Trade for life. He could eventually take early retirement and live on his index-linked pension. A depressing future stretched ahead, a depressing past lay behind, and a depressing present enveloped him. It was all made
much worse by the Apocrypha gaudy and renewed acquaintance with his contemporaries.

  Outside, the bells ceased. He stood again and staggered over to the washbasin where he recoiled sharply from the reflection which leered back at him from the mirror. Thank the Lord it wasn’t a full-length one. He scratched his stomach and realized that it was sagging flabbily over the cord of his pyjamas. They were the same pyjamas he had had when he was at Oxford twenty years ago. They didn’t make them like that any more – stout, striped flannel pyjamas designed to last a lifetime. The manufacturers had not, however, bargained on Bognor’s increasing girth. It was rather sad to find oneself growing out of one’s pyjamas. He frowned into the mirror and told himself brusquely not to be so wet. Life was just beginning. Couple of aspirin, a shave and a brisk clean of the teeth and he’d be a new man. He remembered Crutwell and Edgware and their fitness mania. For a second he even contemplated the idea of a press-up, but the thought passed quickly. Too late to start that sort of thing now.

  When he reached Hall he found that, as he had feared, his friends were already heavily involved with a hearty breakfast. Even Sebastian Vole, Associate Professor of Modern History at Prendergast in Vermont, was chomping cornflakes and he was reputed to come alive only at noon. There was a chorus of ‘Morning’, ‘Hello, Simon’ and ‘Sleep well, old boy?’ Bognor replied with an all-embracing grin and poured himself a cup of coffee. A scout offered him cereal and he declined.

  ‘Bacon and egg, sir?’

  Bognor suppressed a keen desire to retch. ‘Thanks, no,’ he said. ‘I’m not really much of a one for breakfast.’

  ‘You never showed up for your run,’ called Ian Edgware. ‘It was fabulous out on Port Meadow. All river mist and lemon-coloured sun.’ Edgware had always had a penchant for second-rate imagery. Bognor recalled his excruciating verses in some long-defunct literary magazine of their generation.

  ‘Run?’ he asked. ‘What run?’

  ‘You said you were coming for a run, you lazy sod,’ said Peter Crutwell through a mouthful of toast and marmalade. ‘Quite definite about it, you were. Said you never missed your morning mile.’

  ‘I never.’ Bognor flushed.

  ‘You did, you know,’ insisted Crutwell. He was a schoolmaster these days. Highly successful. A ‘housebeak’, as he insisted on calling himself, at Ampleside but not expected to stay much longer. He had been short-listed for the headmastership of Sherborne and Cranlingham and was said to be a virtual certainty for Fraffleigh. Five years there and he would walk into the top job at Eton, Harrow or Winchester and from there to an Oxbridge mastership, director-generalship of the IBA or some other glamorous, high-profile public office. Bognor could see it all.

  ‘I’m afraid you did, actually,’ agreed Vole, glancing up from his cornflakes. ‘Port talking, but you did say you’d go running with them.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bognor frowned. He had not the slightest recollection of saying any such thing. He turned to Humphrey Rook for confirmation. Humphrey was at least losing his hair, which was some consolation. What remained was black and greasy and brushed straight back off the forehead. He also had a bit of a paunch, though his expensive banker’s suiting made a passable fist of disguising it.

  ‘My recollection,’ said Rook, ‘is that you were in two minds about whether to go running with Ian and Peter or come to Holy Communion with me. You were certainly going to do one or the other, conceivably both, but in the event it seems you did neither. You had a lie-in instead.’ Rook, who had been a student Trot before such things became fashionable, was now a born-again C of E communicant and a Conservative parliamentary candidate.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said Vole, finishing off his bacon. ‘I had a bit of a lie-in myself.’

  ‘Only a bit of one,’ said Edgware. ‘Besides, I hear you were up till five, playing poker with Badman and Scrimgeour-Harris.’

  ‘Five-fifteen, actually,’ said Vole, smiling smugly.

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ said Edgware with an air of triumph.

  ‘Where?’ asked Crutwell.

  Bognor poured himself another cup of coffee and wished to God they would all shut up. He had forgotten the incessant chatter which went with Oxford. Yak yak yak. How they adored the sound of their own voices. How he hated it. How his head hurt. How sick he felt. How much worse the coffee was making him. He wished Monica had packed Alka-Seltzer as well as aspirin.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  It was the Frinton woman. Bognor was in no condition to leap to his feet. Besides which, leaping to one’s feet while sitting at an Apocrypha bench with your legs under an Apocrypha table is never easy. Instead, like his friends, he made a half-hearted gesture, a sort of half knees-bend, which Miss Frinton (Ms Frinton? wondered Bognor, Mrs Frinton?) waved away with genial contempt.

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ she said, sliding her legs across the bench and under the table. They were very long and slim, encased in tight, tailored jeans and thigh-length boots.

  ‘Bad news?’ asked Vole, blearily. ‘Bad? Very bad? Or catastrophic?’

  ‘It’s the Master,’ said Miss Frinton, who was actually entitled to be called Dr Frinton but countenanced no such thing from anyone except her bank manager and the occasional Leavisite. ‘He’s dead.’

  There was a dramatic silence. For a second no one even swallowed.

  ‘Did you say dead?’ asked Bognor, at the end of this eloquently unspoken tribute to the late Lord Beckenham.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘dead.’ She poured herself coffee. ‘Scout found him when he went in with his morning tea. Sounds like heart. He’d had trouble with his ticker.’

  ‘Had he … I mean when exactly …?’ This from Crutwell.

  ‘Never even got to bed,’ said Hermione breezily. She had a strong-boned, equine quality which suggested she was not easily fazed, even by death. ‘Struggled up the stairs, four sheets to the wind, and keeled over on the landing.’

  ‘Not a bad way to go,’ said Rook, smiling weakly. ‘Funny, though, I thought he was on pretty good form last night.’

  ‘What happens when a Master dies in office?’ asked Edgware.

  ‘What do you mean – happens?’ Hermione Frinton put her head back slightly in order, so it seemed, to squint down her exaggeratedly long, though elegant, nose with an expression of some contempt.

  Edgware shrugged. ‘I mean, who takes over?’

  ‘There’ll be some sort of caretaker,’ said Vole, who had gone rather white, ‘until there’s an election. It happened at Prendergast.’

  ‘That’s hardly a reliable precedent,’ said Rook.

  ‘Presumably the senior fellow caretakes,’ said Bognor, ‘or takes care.’

  ‘No,’ said Hermione Frinton. ‘Not since they started the Vice-Master scheme. Nowadays he automatically takes over in a situation like this.’

  ‘So who’s Vice-Master?’ Edgware seemed undiplomatically irritated.

  ‘Waldegrave,’ said Hermione. ‘The job rotates. He’s been Vice-Master for a week.’

  ‘The Hon. Waldegrave Mitten, Master of Apocrypha,’ said Rook. ‘He’ll like that.’

  ‘Poor old Beckenham,’ murmured Bognor, but no one paid any attention. …

  Bognor disliked Mondays as much as the next man, and after a weekend out of town they always came as a more than usually bloody surprise. He had driven back to London after breakfast, arriving just before noon at the flat, where he found Monica in bed with the Sunday papers. He was at first displeased by this but after a brief and, he felt, necessary show of pique he threw aside the Sunday papers and took their place. An hour or so later the newspapers were retrieved and, what with one thing and another, they never did get properly dressed, only leaving bed for long enough to cook and eat a couple of steaks and drink a bottle of Banda Azul. They then retreated to the bedroom with two glasses, a bottle of Rémy Martin and the television, for which Monica had recently bought a remote control device. In the end it was as pleasant a day as Bognor could remember.
It quite restored his faith in life, which had waned considerably at the Apocrypha gaudy, and even his quite genuine affection, indeed, on occasion, lust and, yes, love for his accommodating spouse, which had been temporarily eclipsed by Dr Frinton, the new English don. He had become aware of her doctorate when passing the bottom of her staircase and seeing her name writ large in white paint on black. Dr Frinton did have everlasting legs and also a certain supercilious hauteur which, frankly, he fancied. He enjoyed dominating females, but now that he was home again he had to confess that he was pleased to be back in the bosom of his wife where he belonged. She was a thoroughly good sort, Monica. Not just a pretty face. Not even a pretty face come to that, though perhaps that was being unduly ungallant. She had her failings, God knew, but they had been together so long now that these were almost attractive.

  Monday morning therefore came as a more than usually unpleasant douche. It began before breakfast with a telephone call.

  ‘Only one man in the world makes a telephone ring like that.’ Bognor winced. ‘Can you answer it, darling?’

  Monica entered the bedroom, brushing her teeth.

  ‘Why should I?’ she protested, foaming at the mouth. ‘I don’t want to talk to Parkinson and he doesn’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘Please.’ Bognor pressed fingers to his temple. The Rioja and the Rémy, to say nothing of his wife, had been wonderful at the time but it meant a hangover two days running.

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re in conference,’ she hissed.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll know I’m here and refusing to talk to him.’

  Monica spat into her toothmug. ‘All right. I’ll tell him you’re here and you refuse to talk to him.’

  ‘Right,’ Bognor said viciously. ‘You say just that. I’m fed up with him pestering me at all hours of the day and night.’ He turned over and pulled the blankets over his head. Then, as Monica picked up the receiver and the ringing ceased, he hurriedly emerged again and grabbed the telephone from her before she could utter.