Business Unusual (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 11

  ‘What if someone’s there?’

  ‘We’ll say my husband left something behind and I’ve come to pick it up.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘A handkerchief, perhaps. Or something more intimate. Or you can tell the truth. Explain that you’re involved in a Board of Trade investigation of the Artisans and you’re leaving no stone unturned. Perfectly true.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Bognor was not too sure. Nevertheless, having come this far it would seem cowardly to turn back.

  They scrunched up the gravel of the drive which was, indeed, ‘short and ostentatious’. It had an ‘in’ and an ‘out’ and was obviously stately home derivative, a very very junior version of the great avenues of elms that led from the lodge to the front door of even undistinguished historic houses like the Countess of Scarpington’s own.

  Alongside the front door there was a brass plaque saying ‘Scarpington Artisans’ Lodge Clubhouse’.

  ‘I see,’ said Bognor. ‘Not just bridge. All-purpose. Do you imagine they do lunches?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said the Countess. ‘It looks as if they should. Piggy’s never talked about it, but then he’s not as committed to the Artisans as he might be. On account of Puce.’

  There was a doorbell, marked, presumably for those of limited intelligence, with the word ‘bell’. Bognor hoped Diana Scarpington would press it, but she held back. Not wishing to seem less than adventurous, he pushed.

  ‘It doesn’t look as if there’s anyone about,’ he said, nervously. ‘You’d think they’d have some sort of permanent staff, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Not necessarily. If our suspicions are right, they’d hardly want staff cluttering the place up. Staff would sneak. Or try a little blackmail.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Bognor. ‘That’s what poor little Reg Brackett was attempting when he called on your husband. Incidentally, I can’t call him Piggy and I feel I know him too well to call him the Earl. What’s his real name?’

  ‘Lionel,’ she said. ‘But he doesn’t like it. Everyone calls him Piggy.’

  ‘Well, I can’t,’ said Bognor. ‘I bet you that’s it. Reg Brackett was trying on a bit of blackmail to bail out the laundry and save it from the predatory advances of Mr Clean and Bleach’n’Starch.’

  ‘Pretty silly of him. Piggy hasn’t got any money.’

  ‘Reg Brackett wasn’t to know that. He knows Lionel married money. He doesn’t know you have separate bank accounts and won’t give him any of it.’

  ‘I do give him some money,’ she objected. ‘Ring the bell again. They can’t have heard.’

  Bognor did as he was told. Force of habit. Even before Monica he had always done what women told him. Mind you, it was his experience that most men did. He was unusual in not pretending otherwise.

  ‘But you’d think twice about giving Lionel hush-money.’

  ‘I most certainly would, but I do wish you’d stop calling him Lionel. His name’s Piggy.’

  ‘There’s obviously no one in.’ Bognor was not going to get embroiled in an argument about the Earl’s name. He had observed that he was a porcine figure, overweight with small, bad-tempered eyes, but that was no reason to be gratuitously offensive, even behind his back. Especially behind his back, dammit. Besides, there would be an element of pot calling kettle black if Bognor did call him that. His own eyes were normal size and remarkably good humoured. But he was becoming dangerously close to fat.

  ‘Here’s the key,’ said Lady Scarpington.

  ‘Are you sure this is wise?’ asked Bognor, hesitating.

  ‘Not at all. But I’m determined to see what it is they’ve been up to.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Bognor took the key but held it at arm’s length as if it might explode on him at any moment. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to ask someone like Sir Seymour if I could have a look round the Clubhouse? After all, they’ve got their brass plaque up. They’re not trying to conceal anything. It’s all above board. Must be. We’re obviously barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Oh balls, Bognor,’ she said, irritably. ‘Are you a man or a mouse?’

  ‘Well, since you ask,’ he replied, ‘there are occasions on which …’

  ‘Oh, give it to me,’ she said, reaching out a hand.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, humiliated, and inserted the key and turned. Bognor had not expected it to be so easy. He had imagined a burglar alarm, or a butler lurking behind a grandfather clock with a blunt instrument. But no. One turn of the key, one gentle push and they were in.

  ‘Shurely shome mishtake!’ said Bognor.

  ‘Au-contraire,’ said the Countess.

  ‘I thought we were looking for a cross between the RAC and a brothel.’

  ‘We are,’ she said. ‘And I think we’ve found it. This is just front of house.’

  Bognor had once, many years ago, played squash with Nigel Dempster at the Royal Automobile Club and although he had never been in a brothel he had a fairly clear idea of what they looked like (a 1950s Indian restaurant facelifted by Barbara Cartland). The Laurels looked like neither. Institutional, mildly antiseptic, tasteful, impersonal, it reeked of bank managers and bank managers’ aunts. In the hall there was a waxed chest of drawers, a grandfather clock, a large arrangement of dried flowers and a portrait of one of Piggy’s ancestors by a local disciple of Sir Joshua Reynolds. It was not a good portrait but appropriate.

  ‘Ghastly good taste,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Mmmm,’ she agreed.

  There was a notice board, green felt with a lattice-work of retaining wires for messages and announcements. There was one which said, ‘The Funeral service of Reginald Brackett, President, will take place in Saint Cecilia’s Cathedral on Friday 20th November. 11.30. Cremation private. Wake, to which all are welcome, at the Goat and Parsnip Brewery, courtesy of Augustus Moulton, Artisan.’ Another was a printed card which announced that Mrs Lettice Mildmay, Animal Portraitist, was available for commission. A third said that the Artisans had negotiated a reciprocal arrangement with Der Klub of Frankfurt. Bognor bet that it was the work of Sir Seymour Puce and that he had, once again, got the wrong Frankfurt.

  ‘Dining-room,’ hissed Diana Scarpington, who had tiptoed off. ‘Do come and look. It’s so common!’

  It seemed perfectly all right to Bognor. A long room with portraits of past presidents round the walls, plus a sort of honours board listing them all. A ‘hostess’ hot trolley for keeping meals warm sat in one corner. A central table sitting about a dozen was laid as if for dinner and three or four satellites likewise. These were laid for couples and quartets. A serving hatch led through into a kitchen, unmodernised, with a venerable gas-fired range, original sink, a quantity of frayed, soiled dishcloth and a sad smell of fried egg and lard. On the windowsill, one of the oldest packets of Vim that Bognor had ever seen.

  On the other side of the entrance hall, a drawing-room or lounge. Comfy chintz chairs, comfy brown carpet, comfy view to monkey puzzle and Wedgwood Benn Gardens beyond, comfy occasional tables, comfy bound copies of Country Life and The Field.

  ‘Terribly comfy Humphrey,’ said Bognor.

  The Countess gave him a sharp look. ‘What an extraordinarily silly remark,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re hopeless. Does your equine wife see the slightest point in you?’

  ‘Don’t be so ratty,’ he said. ‘It is comfortable.’

  ‘Those watercolours are quite foul,’ said Diana in reply, ‘I’ll bet they’re by …’ She strained to read the signature. ‘Knew it,’ she said. ‘Nigel Festing’s grandmother, Nigella.’

  ‘Who she?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘Sometime girlfriend of Gwen John and Violet Trefusis and Vita Sackville-West and anyone else that way inclined,’ she said. ‘Poet, feminist, occasional lesbian, sort of suffragette, total bore, and, as you can see, perfectly ghastly painter in the tradition of the Edwardian Lady. Yuk. Let’s look upstairs.’

  There was a loo on the first floor, and a bathroom which raised their hopes. Also a library full of G. A. Henty and Somerville and Ross
and R. S. Suttees and other jaunty, nostalgic boys’ books. It smelt of cigar. Next door there was a writing room with a view out of the back of the house across suburban garden to the Coke Works and the Victorian grimness of Sinclair’s invalid carriage manufactory. And next door to that a bar. Straightforward, masculine, fox-hunting prints and imitation Spy cartoons plus a half-size billiard table and a darts board. Even Bognor had to concede that the darts board was a bit of a lapse.

  ‘It may not be our cup of tea,’ he said, ‘but you have to admit that there is absolutely nothing here to suggest what we in the trade call “impropriety”. Which is to say, “hanky-panky”.’

  ‘There’s still the attic,’ she said. ‘Hot air rises; cream comes to the surface; and it’s the same with sex.’

  ‘What about your dungeon?’

  The question was perfectly fair and she giggled in acknowledgement.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘That’s the exception that proves the rule. I’ll bet you anything you like the Artisans have sex in the attic.’

  There was another flight of stairs, narrower, meaner, servants — in the old days — for the use of. At the top a door. And on the door, stencilled: ‘Bridge Club’.

  ‘Believe that and you’ll believe anything,’ she said.

  ‘Cynic.’ Bognor didn’t know what to believe. ‘Bet it’s locked.’

  She turned the handle and pushed. The door opened.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘If they had anything to hide they’d lock it up.’

  ‘Over-confidence,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet you.’

  ‘You’ve just got a dirty mind. It’s perfectly respectable, honourable, historic, nay … oh.’

  They had opened the door of the ‘Bridge Club’; they had stepped inside; and they now found themselves in what appeared to be some sort of ante-room. There was a corner cupboard, open and full of drink; a sofa and two chairs; a wardrobe. All quite ordinary. The principal decor was not ordinary. It was a mural which covered all the walls and the ceiling. Bognor had only once seen anything remotely like it, and that was in Viscount Weymouth’s apartments at Longleat House. The Viscount, a man of parts, had painted what Bognor recalled as a sort of Bayeux Tapestry devoted to copulation. He had never been to India, but he was given to understand that there were temples where something similar went on, where the sex act was depicted in a number of different variations and with no discernible inhibition.

  Thus the vestibule of the Bridge Club.

  The Countess clapped her hands. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘How wonderful. It’s a Nigella Festing.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Bognor.

  ‘I’m not, I’m not,’ she said. ‘Oh, do look, the faces are real people. That must be d’eath-Stranglefield. Look at the nose. And surely that is Violet Trefusis — there, dressed as a nun. Well, undressed as a nun if you insist. Oh, what fun. It is, it is. Look — here’s the signature.’

  And sure enough, there, near the floor in a far corner, was the prim italic autograph she had pointed to in the prim pictures down below. ‘Nigella Festing.’ And alongside a quotation from Emily Dickinson: ‘take all away from me, but leave me Ecstasy.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said the Countess of Scarpington. ‘Randy old bat!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. And she died during the war, so this whole charade must have been going on for ages. What a lark! Jolly inventive, too. Look at these two. I don’t actually think that’s physically possible. You’d need to be at least triple jointed and as for that one over there, that is not only impossible but downright degrading.’

  ‘Is it supposed to be the Garden of Eden?’ asked Bognor. ‘This looks like a serpent.’

  ‘Translated to Scarpington. Look, that’s the Castle and there’s the King’s School and Sludgelode Fen and the Brewery. It’s wonderful.’

  ‘And proof positive of something rotten in the state of Scarpington.’

  ‘Well, it is rather.’ She giggled. ‘We’ve still got some exploring to do.’

  There were three doors off the room of the Nigella Festing murals. Bognor opened the first.

  ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘Not much doubt now.’

  It was a simple room. That is to say, it was plainly furnished with none of the frills and ruches and tucks and other flummery that Bognor vaguely associated with this sort of riggish bawdry. But there was no disguising its essential purpose. All four walls and the ceiling were covered in reflecting glass. The carpet was black and so was the bed which was made with black sheets and black pillow cases. The bed, a king-size, was the only item of furniture.

  Diana Scarpington sat down on it and the whole thing wobbled like blancmange or a volatile Connemara peat bog Bognor had once encountered.

  ‘Waterbed,’ she said. ‘Oh, very sixties. Very Carnaby Street.’

  Bognor led the way out of this room and through one of the other two doors. This room was identical except that the colour was gold — carpet, bed, sheets and pillow cases, all gold. This bed was also king-size and water-filled.

  ‘So what are the secrets of the third room?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ asked the Countess. ‘I’m damned sure I can.’

  They entered. It was a much smaller room with two functional chairs behind two functional tables, on one of which there was a TV set plus video with a large number of cassettes. Each table had an angle-poise lamp. The walls of this room were also covered in a glassy substance but it did not reflect. Far from it. These walls were transparent.

  ‘Hang on.’ The Countess tripped out and switched on lights in the gold and black bedrooms, then came back to the small room with the video and switched off the overhead light and turned on the two angle-poises.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Bognor. And did, too. Both bedrooms were now clearly visible.

  ‘Neat, eh?’ she said. ‘Custom built for the voyeur.’ There were two pads of familiar lined paper on the table-tops.

  ‘Not just for voyeurs,’ said Bognor. ‘There is a serious kink in all this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Bognor told her about the ‘bridge’ score card that Wartnaby had conjured from Freddie’s flat. He did not say where or how he had been shown it, only that he had seen a score card for an alleged Division B of the Artisans’ Bridge League with a two for Gus Moulton, a three for Dorothy Brown, a seven for Angela Festing and a nine for Harold Fothergill.

  ‘Oh ho!’ said Diana Scarpington, eyes revolving with genuine surprise for once. ‘League sex. What a brill idea! You could patent that and make a fortune.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Bognor. ‘Not in the Age of Aids.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘They’re obviously very fussy about who joins in.’

  ‘And you’d no idea?’ he asked.

  ‘None. I suppose Piggy thought I wouldn’t approve. Or maybe he didn’t like the idea of sharing me around. Can’t say I’d fancy some of the members. Ugh!’

  ‘He probably thought you were a bit out of their class. You’d be too good for them. Like asking Scarpington Thursday to play Liverpool.’

  ‘Careful,’ she said, and then, ‘Shhh. There’s someone coming.’

  She had heard a creak on the stair. No question. It was a definite footstep. And another. And another. Purposeful, self-assured. An Artisan, thought Bognor, coming for a rubber of bridge. And then the sound of a second pair of feet. The first male; the second female. And voices. Conversation.

  ‘Oh, hello, Edna, long time no see. We’re in “gold” this evening aren’t we?’

  ‘So I believe. I’m a bit out of practice, I’m afraid, Nigel. Relegated from League B. And, of course, you’ve just come up from D. Mind you, I’m not too sure about some of the marking recently. I only got a three for my match with Stan and I thought I was worth at least a five. He thought so too. I always felt there was something not quite right about the way Grimaldi scored.’

  ‘Poor Grimaldi.’

  ‘Yes. Not that I ever l
iked him. He set fire to himself, didn’t he?’

  ‘Something like that. Drunk, I suppose. Who’s scoring tonight?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Nigel. ‘We’re early. Talking of drink, do you fancy one? Get you in the mood.’

  ‘We’re not really supposed to until the scorer gets here. Or scorers.’

  Nigel gave a short, sharp laugh. ‘They don’t seem too worried about that these days. Provided we don’t take anything off. One or two of the scorers seem to set an increasing amount of store by the strip. I personally think it should be discounted altogether. Call me old-fashioned if you will, but that’s my view. And I do think they should seriously consider introducing a handicap system. Some of the younger members are operating under a distinct advantage which has nothing to do with skill.’

  Even the Countess of Scarpington was beginning to show signs of embarrassment at overhearing this exchange. Bognor was scarlet.

  ‘I think we should confront them,’ he said. ‘We’re going to be discovered soon enough anyway.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ she whispered back. ‘Nigel Festing is such a little wimp. And Edna Fothergill. Edna Fothergill … the very thought of the two of them together on a gilt waterbed. And being assessed. I can’t bear it. It’s too too much.’ It would be overstating it to say that she was torn between tears and laughter, but she was having trouble in deciding whether it was all too too terribly sad or too too terribly funny. On balance, as usual with her, comedy prevailed over tragedy. In any case, when she said something was sad she used the word in a disdainful, pejorative sense. As far as Diana Scarpington was concerned, to say that something was ‘sad’ meant that it was lacking in style or chic. It was an essential strength and weakness in her character that she was scarcely capable of appreciating the word in its true sense. She was one of life’s true flippants.

  ‘There’s no alternative,’ he said. ‘We have to reveal ourselves.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Lead on.’

  And for once he did.

  ‘Mrs Fothergill,’ he said, advancing into the room of Nigella Festing’s naughty murals, ‘Simon Bognor. We spoke after the dinner the other night. Your husband (Oh God, he had not meant to put such a heavy emphasis on the word “husband”) was kind enough to buy me a pint of Parsnip in the St Moritz.’