Unbecoming Habits (The Simon Bognor Mysteries Book 1) Page 10

  He dialled a Whitehall number and asked for Parkinson, who seemed unduly abrupt. Eventually he agreed that the eight o’clock from Woodstock to Paddington was to be met and a passenger (he gave a brief description of Brother Bede, emphasising the distinctive brown rucksack with C.N.D. badge which Barnabas had mentioned) to be followed. No move would be made unless the man tried to leave the country. Finally Parkinson said tersely: ‘You’re on your own, Bognor. Don’t bother me again, just liaise with Erris Beg.’ Bognor put the phone down with a heartfelt grimace and a deep sense of wrong.

  Meanwhile, back at the Friary, Inspector Pinney was pursuing his inquiries.

  ‘Did the deceased at any time give evidence of a melancholic disposition?’ he asked Anselm. ‘Were you at any time aware of any circumstances of a suspicious nature?’ he asked Father John. Unhappily the Inspector’s heart was not in it. He failed to see what all the fuss was about. Some nutter had done in a friar and then chucked himself down a well. At least that was the half-baked theory of the other nutter from London.

  The routine of the Friary was in full swing and its essential homeliness increased the Inspector’s feeling of being superfluous. Blokes cleaning out drains. Old bloke with a mask on looking at bees. Blokes making soup and washing up after breakfast. Blokes cataloguing library books, feeding hens, chopping down trees, shifting manure. Inspector Pinney would rather have been in Bicester on the drug rings investigation or working at the horse doping up at Chipping Norton. This was like putting in time on a garden fête.

  He was sitting on a wall having a cup of tea with the solicitous Brother Barnabas, wondering what possible further routine enquiry he could carry out and also what was holding up the absurd Londoner, when there was a fruity hoot from the lane outside, followed by a rasping gear change and an elderly and very upright maroon Rolls-Royce turned into the courtyard.

  ‘Lord Camberley,’ said Brother Barnabas in explanation, and got to his feet.

  Inspector Pinney watched with something that was almost interest as the car crunched to a halt. The chauffeur, who wore a stiff cap and leather gloves, dismounted and opened the rear door. There was a moment of delay as a travelling rug was thrust aside and then a tall spare figure in striped trousers and black tail-coat emerged and blinked into the morning sun. He held a black top-hat in his left hand and a silver-topped cane in his right. Inspector Pinney judged him to be in his early seventies. After a moment’s blinking and minor adjustments to his dress Lord Camberley turned languidly to Brother Barnabas, who genuflected. Lord Camberley smiled, Brother Barnabas smiled and the two of them went off to the farmhouse.

  Inspector Pinney lit a cigarette and walked over to the chauffeur, who had taken his cap off and was standing with one foot on the running board, looking lost.

  ‘Cigarette?’ asked Pinney.

  ‘Thanks.’ The chauffeur accepted and inhaled deeply. ‘It’s a long drive from London,’ he volunteered. ‘Specially this time of the morning. And with his Lordship in this kind of mood.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, you can’t expect him to be exactly happy.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Anyway, who are you? You don’t look much like one of yer actual brothers.’

  ‘Pinney. C.I.D.’

  The chauffeur’s eyes narrowed and he inhaled again very deeply.

  ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought Master Tom killed himself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Just a few routine enquiries.’

  The chauffeur looked at him sharply. ‘Pull the other one,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ asked Pinney.

  ‘Because if you’re just here for routine enquiries, why did his Lordship go mad last night after he had a telephone call, and why did I have to take him to some office in Whitehall before seven o’clock this morning? I’m not stupid.’

  It was Pinney’s turn to be puzzled. He threw away his cigarette and made a long job of grinding it into the ground with his heel.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said eventually. ‘Nobody ever tells me anything round here.’

  The Inspector was saved further embarrassment by the return of Simon Bognor. The reason for his delay was that after making his phone call he had gone to the post office to look up the exact whereabouts and telephone number of the Old Manor at Melbury. He had also taken some more aspirin and was feeling rather faint.

  The chauffeur got back into the Rolls, tilted his cap over his forehead and prepared for a rest.

  ‘Camberley, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’ The Inspector was very obviously pleased with himself and Bognor had no alternative but to humour him.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid Lord Camberley’s on to something or other. I understand he had an interview in Whitehall early this morning. Seems he’s most unhappy, sir.’ The Inspector was enjoying himself. ‘Went quite mad, his chauffeur said.’

  Bognor feigned indifference, since he could think of nothing more constructive to do.

  ‘That’s very natural, don’t you think? After all, his son is just dead.’ Inwardly he was perplexed by Sir Erris. It surely hadn’t been necessary for him to tip off Camberley and that was obviously what he’d done. On the other hand, Sir Erris wasn’t that much of a fool. Perhaps it would be better for Camberley to be aware of the situation now; better, at least, than for him to harbour doubts and ask difficult questions. The damage was done now. He wondered who he had seen that morning. Not the Minister anyway. The Minister wouldn’t have dragged himself out of bed at that hour of the morning. Not even for Camberley. More likely to have been Parkinson. Parkinson wouldn’t have let him down, surely.

  To Inspector Pinney he said, ‘I’m afraid I had rather a bad night. If you’ll forgive me I’m going to get an hour’s sleep before the funeral. I’ll see you then.’ He was still feeling terrible, but it was more and more important to stay alert. He would have to ask Camberley to give him time, but it wasn’t just Camberley’s interference that worried him. Anselm’s sacking of Brother Bede was almost certain to get to the press. Anselm had probably issued a statement already, and if he hadn’t the frightful Bishop would have. That would mean journalists nosing around. Worse still, it was the end of the week. That would mean journalists from Sunday papers. Red-nosed men in hats. That was all he needed.

  Inspector Pinney watched him walk rather unsteadily towards the Nissen hut.

  ‘Ungrateful ponce,’ he said.

  The cortège formed in the courtyard. It was true that a combination of bleach, carbolic and honest industry had removed the unpleasant stain from the well side, but the proximity of the death place, and the corpse securely nailed into its freshly smoothed oak, was macabre. Bognor, who was among the last to arrive was just in time to see the coffin borne from the chapel by eight of the younger stronger friars. It was a sturdy sensible coffin, a source of some pride to its maker, Brother Eric, a joiner by trade, who had stayed up all night planing and polishing and screwing. If it was not quite grand enough for the elder son of an earl it was entirely proper for the funeral of a friars’ friend.

  The whole Community was there, together with the guests in their Sunday best and Lord Camberley, Inspector Pinney, and Bognor himself. Bognor had no black tie but wore his dark blue sweater under the shepherd’s plaid. He felt rather shamed in the presence of the immaculately clad father, but it was the nearest he could get to a mark of respect.

  A gentle eddy of wind flicked teasingly at the skirts of the habits, as the coffin and its bearers stood facing south while the procession formed. Father Anselm in silk vestments took up a position immediately in front of the coffin, Lord Camberley immediately behind. He looked bleakly incongruous, a gaunt Victorian figure, made even more imposing by the shining black top-hat, worn absolutely straight. Bognor and Pinney took up a station at the very rear, behind the friars and their guests who arranged themselves in a
procession, two by two behind the mourning earl. The sun was now high in the sky, which was cloudless, and the bearers in their prickly, heavy habits dripped sweat.

  It was half a mile to the Community’s burial ground and they would be exhausted by the time they arrived. Bognor noticed that the Rolls-Royce had disappeared and wondered if the chauffeur was propping up the bar of the Boot. He felt he should have shown a little more respect and wondered if it worried Lord Camberley.

  Up at the front Anselm was peering about like a pernickety sergeant-major making sure that the dressing was right and there was no talking in the ranks. After a minute or two he was apparently satisfied, because he turned and moved off, singing as he did the first verse of the Benedicite: ‘O All ye Works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord: praise him and magnify him for ever.’ The friars behind him took up the chant and followed, walking slowly out of the yard and out on to the path past the Nissen hut. Canticle followed canticle and psalm followed psalm as they made their way past the hut and out into the open fields beyond. It was a bizarre but moving scene. Earthy brown habits, the striking black contrast of the Earl of Camberley, lush green all around them, and the neat deep rhythms of King James’s Bible floating into the soft Oxfordshire air.

  ‘O all ye Green Things upon the Earth, bless ye the Lord: praise him and magnify him for ever.’ Cows in the neighbouring field looked up and gazed at them for a moment before lowering their heads and returning to chew. Bognor dropped back a few yards to get a better view of the procession. He wished he had a camera.

  It was a full twenty minutes before they reached the graveyard: a small triangular field with a horse chestnut in the middle and a handful of headstones clustered beneath.

  Just to the east of them, at the point where the shade of the tree gave way to the pure sunlight, was the fresh raw trench which was to receive Batty Thomas. Bognor always disliked the sight of new graves. They made him think of worms and decay.

  ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth,’ sang the friars as they neared the graveside, ‘and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.’ Then they broke ranks and formed a half-circle in the shade. Bognor and Pinney stood a little apart, partly because they felt outside this experience and, in Bognor’s case at least, partly because he felt a little ashamed.

  And so they buried him. The old phrases struck Bognor as forcibly as always. He had been to too many colleagues’ funerals for a man who was only on the verge of middle age, and he had still not got used to them. Rather the reverse.

  ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live,’ intoned Father Anselm ‘…he cometh up and is cut down like a flower.’ The coffin was obscured from Bognor by the wall of brown habits which grouped round it, but he saw that it was being lowered into the grave, and watched each man fling a handful of earth… ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life’.

  It was all over, as usual, almost too quickly. Brother Eric’s handiwork was under ground. Two men had stayed behind to finish the job and the rest of them returned in silence to resume their interrupted routine. Except that for Bognor there was no routine. Every hour brought new trials. His next task was a confrontation with Lord Camberley and an apology to Father Anselm. He didn’t relish either.

  Neither death nor dismissal could alter the strict calendar of offices and the instant the friars returned they went straight to the chapel for Sext. Bognor allowed Inspector Pinney to go to the Boot for an early lunch and looked round for Camberley. He found him peering gloomily down the well shaft.

  Bognor introduced himself, and Camberley surveyed him searchingly. He was an old man, but there was no lack of intelligence in the grey eyes, nor of compassion.

  ‘Erris says you’re all right,’ he said at length, ‘though from the way you’ve handled this I’m inclined to doubt it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ began Bognor.

  ‘Bit late for that.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I was going to say. I was going to say that I was sorry Sir Erris had told you anything. I’m afraid it does represent a breach of security.’

  Lord Camberley looked at him with contempt and said nothing. Bognor tried again. ‘I have to conduct this investigation my way, sir. Really.’ He shuffled his feet and stared at them.

  Lord Camberley was very obviously unimpressed. Eventually he said, ‘I know probably as much as you do about all this. I found out this morning. I don’t propose to interfere more than necessary. However, I am going to give you some help. If, of course, you’ll accept help.’ The last remark was infinitely patronising.

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Bognor at that moment would have accepted help from anyone.

  ‘Very well, then. For a start you must appreciate that there is absolutely no question, no question whatever, of my son having killed himself or anybody else. None, at all. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘I agree with you, sir.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  Lord Camberley had difficulty with the next bit. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘that my son was, to put it kindly, eccentric, but that didn’t prevent him from having some remarkable insights, and from being perfectly normal a great deal of the time. You had a conversation with him the morning of the day he died. What did he say to you?’

  ‘That he had seen Brother Luke’s murderer.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Something about his not having been supposed to have been there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The murderer, I suppose. It wasn’t easy to understand what he was getting at.’

  ‘I should try to think about that if I were you.’ Lord Camberley was crisp. The remark had been unfortunate. ‘May I see the supposed confession?’

  Bognor withdrew the note from his wallet and Camberley read it quickly and without expression, then returned it.

  ‘Crude,’ he said. ‘Not totally unlike Tom’s writing. But not very good.’ He tapped his cane against his shoes. ‘There’s one other important thing,’ he went on. ‘You’ve been grossly unfair to Anselm.’

  ‘About dismissing Bede? I can’t agree, I’m afraid.’

  Lord Camberley looked puzzled, then dismissed the remark.

  ‘I have told him everything,’ he said.

  ‘You what, sir?’ Bognor was flabbergasted.

  ‘I told him who you were. I told him that Luke was one of your agents. I told him that Tom was killed by someone in the Friary. I told him that important secrets were being smuggled out with the honey every year.’

  ‘Good heavens.’ Bognor was dumbfounded.

  Camberley looked at him with scorn. ‘I can’t conceive why you didn’t tell him yourself. This elaborate charade of yours has confused everyone. It’s pointless and childish.’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Bognor was quite angry, ‘I didn’t tell him because he is an obvious suspect. He could easily have killed Luke. He had permanent access to the honey.’

  ‘Father Anselm is an honest man. He is not a spy and he is certainly not a murderer.’ Camberley was adamant.

  ‘Are you certain?’ he asked.

  His head throbbed.

  ‘I have known Anselm practically all his life. I trust him totally. He is almost wholly good. Why else do you think I sent my poor son down here to live?’

  Bognor tried to sound reasonable. ‘People said that sort of thing about Burgess and Maclean and Philby, sir.’

  Camberley sighed. ‘You young men,’ he said. ‘At all events, it’s done. Anselm, thank God, knows your job and your suspicions. From now on you will just have to be frank with him. Then perhaps we’ll get somewhere.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Maybe I have been a little over-suspicious. At any rate, as you say, I have no choice now.’ He made a silent vow to tell Anselm nothing that he didn’t have to.

  Luckily the Brothers emerged from Sext before this fragile truce could be
broken. Anselm came over to them and smiled ingratiatingly. Bognor started to apologise, but the Abbot stopped him.

  ‘Simon, Simon,’ he said taking him by the elbow. ‘We can all make mistakes. I’m distressed, of course, but what is done is done. As I said to you all this morning these things are sent to try us. We must look rather to the future.’

  Lord Camberley was to return to London immediately after lunch and he made it quite plain that he was going to watch Bognor brief Anselm. Any backsliding on that score was going to be brutally and forcefully stopped. The three men therefore took lunch in Anselm’s study. It was a painful affair, and not redeemed by the food. Lord Camberley claimed travel sickness and made do with an apple and a couple of glasses of Anselm’s sherry, but Bognor had no such excuse.

  He repeated, at length and in more detail, what he had already discussed with Sir Erris. Which, of course, was what Sir Erris had told Lord Camberley and what Lord Camberley had passed on to Anselm. It was no news to any of them, therefore, but the detailed recitation was accepted by all three as a necessary promise of good faith. He was careful to make no mention of Brother Aldhelm’s walk, the honey cupboard or even the delay over the labels. He did, however, point a finger in the vague direction of Brother Bede.

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Anselm when he did. ‘That seems all too likely. If only I had known then what I know now I should never have dismissed him. As it is, alas, our bird has flown. Regretfully I really cannot accept much blame.’