Blue Blood Will Out (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 11

  He collected the decanter, poured three more measures and this time left the decanter on his desk.

  ‘That’s extremely interesting, sir, but in view…’ Mr. Cumberledge waved Smith down with an admonitory hand. ‘I need hardly say, that the interested parties have already been apprised of the contents of Sir Canning’s will. There are also, of course, the usual small bequests to personal friends and members of the staff, but these need not concern us at the moment. However,’ he said the word with renewed emphasis, ‘however, that is not all. As I have already intimated, Sir Canning seemed to me to be in a state of no little agitation, if not distress. I naturally attribute this in part to his discovery of Lady Abney’s er, indiscretion, but I also formed the opinion that this was not in itself anything very new, and that he had simply had confirmation of something that he had suspected for no little time. I understand also that the matter of leaving the estate to Mr. Grithbrice arose in part from some business discussions the two men had already had, and that this could have been more important than any feeling of antipathy towards Lady Abney, which in any case he did not entirely feel. As I mentioned earlier Sir Canning made a number of confessions of a really highly embarrassing nature.’ He sipped at his sherry, and took a cigarette from the silver box in front of him, offering one as an afterthought to his guests who both declined.

  ‘To continue,’ he said, ‘it seems that Sir Canning had been threatened by a person named Green, to whom he owed money.’

  ‘But,’ interjected Bognor, ‘there wasn’t much involved, surely.’

  Mr. Cumberledge pushed his glasses to the end of his nose and looked at Bognor as if he was an impertinent and ill-informed schoolboy.

  ‘It really depends, Mr. Bognor, what you mean by the idea of “not very much”. The sum involved may not seem very much to people like yourself or Mr. Green, but to people like the late Sir Canning and myself it seemed a very great deal indeed.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Just one moment,’ while once more Cumberledge fiddled with his papers. Bognor, who had decided the whole act was a charade, was irritated again.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Mr. Cumberledge, studying it carefully. ‘It seems a very great deal of money to me, Mr. Bognor, but perhaps the pay in Whitehall is rather higher than I had imagined, eh?’ He chuckled humourlessly. ‘The sum which Mr. Green was claiming from Sir Canning was two hundred and seventeen thousand, three hundred and forty pounds, twenty-five and a half pence.’

  There was a silence, during which the carriage clock, with much winding and whirring, struck the half-hour. Then Bognor said, ‘I’m sorry. I knew that Sir Canning owed money to Mr. Green but I’d no idea it was so much. But what do you mean that he was threatened by Green?’

  ‘I’m not absolutely certain what form the threats took, but I understand it was connected in some way with Pring’s.’

  ‘His club?’

  ‘That is correct, yes.’

  ‘What exactly was the connection?’ asked Smith.

  Cumberledge looked knowing. ‘Sir Canning was, as I say, more than a little distressed and there were other more important matters to resolve than the question of Mr. Green and Pring’s. However, although I am not a trained detective,’ here he allowed himself a little smirk, ‘I deduced that Mr. Green was prepared to reduce his claim in return for election to Pring’s. Sir Canning was, as you are no doubt, aware, on the committee of the club just as his father had been.’

  ‘And Sir Canning refused?’

  ‘So I would presume.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Mr. Green, I understand, had become most threatening.’

  ‘Do you understand that he had threatened violence?’ Smith looked amazed by the whole idea.

  ‘Not exactly, no. I understood that it would have been in the form, possibly, of some form of legal action—or, more insidiously, I think you will agree, some form of whispering campaign to the effect that Sir Canning’s financial situation was not quite what it might appear to casual scrutiny.’

  ‘Nasty,’ said Bognor.

  ‘If true,’ said Smith.

  ‘I assure you, Mr. Smith,’ said Mr. Cumberledge, his thin mouth freezing in disapproval, ‘that I have no reason to lie to you.’

  Smith was embarrassed. ‘That’s not what I meant. I only meant that Sir Canning might have been confused about Mr. Green’s exact intentions.’

  ‘Ah. That I allow is conceivable, although in my many years of dealing with Sir Canning’s affairs I had always found him to be a man of the utmost precision.’

  ‘Was there,’ asked Bognor, ‘any suggestion that Green was one of those with whom Lady Abney,’ he found himself slipping uneasily into the legal vernacular, ‘had formed a, how shall we put it, liaison?’

  ‘I think not,’ said Mr. Cumberledge, his smile showing real malice for once. ‘I understood that Mr. Green’s sexual proclivities lay in quite other directions. Indeed, Sir Canning taxed him with it.’

  ‘Oh,’ Bognor thought for a moment, ‘what exactly were the nature of the sexual revelations which Sir Canning afforded you?’

  ‘Gentlemen, I really am most sorry but that is something I feel it would be utterly improper for me to divulge.’

  ‘It could be most relevant, couldn’t it, Mr. Smith?’ Bognor turned to his colleague for support.

  ‘Indeed it could,’ agreed Smith. ‘Most definitely.’

  ‘Was Sir Canning saying that he was homosexual himself?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘That, sir, is the most disgraceful allegation. I must ask you to withdraw.’ Mr. Cumberledge seemed genuinely scandalized.

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry,’ said Bognor at once. ‘It wasn’t intended as an allegation, but naturally I withdraw immediately.’

  ‘Look, Mr. Cumberledge,’ said Smith, ‘you’ve been extremely helpful. More than helpful I should say, and if I might say so, I don’t think you should trouble your conscience about having come to us—even if other members of your profession might have behaved differently.’ He paused significantly. ‘But you really must allow us to judge what may help us apprehend the guilty party. You simply cannot tell us that Sir Canning imparted evidence to you, evidence which may very well be material to the case in hand, and then withhold that evidence on grounds of taste or morality or whatever.’

  Mr. Cumberledge pushed back his chair and placed the fingertips of his hands together, contemplating them in apparent cogitation. Then he said, ‘Very well, gentlemen. Sir Canning intimated to me that he had, how shall I put it, lost interest. Those indeed were his very words, “lost interest”.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Smith, ‘I may be being extremely stupid, but lost interest in Lady Abney or what?’

  ‘Surely you are not suggesting that, as they say nowadays, you were born yesterday, Mr. Smith. What I am trying to tell you is that Sir Canning had lost all interest in the sexual act, and had been unable to conjure up any particular enthusiasm for it for some time previously. I hope that satisfies you. I can not conceive of any way in which that could be of the slightest relevance to the matter in hand.’

  ‘I would dispute that, Mr. Cumberledge, I really would,’ said Smith, ‘I’m sorry to say that in this case the sexual appetites of the principal protagonists may have a great deal to do with the final solution.’

  ‘And if it’s any consolation,’ said Bognor, ‘your late client is the only figure in the business who doesn’t seem to be or to have been chronically oversexed.’ He wished he hadn’t said it the minute he uttered the words.

  ‘Did Mr. Grithbrice know that Sir Canning had changed his will in his favour?’ asked Smith, attempting to change the subject.

  Mr. Cumberledge glared at Bognor. ‘I’m bound to say, sir, that I find your approach to this matter frivolous to a degree.’ He turned to Smith. ‘I understood that Sir Canning intended to tell Mr. Grithbrice what was in his mind. I even understood that there was to be some sort of reciprocal arrangement.’ He pulled a gold hunter from his wa
istcoat pocket, and consulted it with a frown. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. I have another appointment for which I am already overdue. I have told you all I know and I trust that it will assist you in seeing that justice is done—though I have my misgivings in certain respects. So, gentlemen, if you will forgive me, I must bid you good-day.’

  ‘Sanctimonious old bastard,’ said Smith out in the street. ‘He couldn’t wait to tell us about Abney’s sex life. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.’

  They walked back to the pub in silence.

  ‘It does begin to look like Grithbrice or Green,’ said Bognor, when they had settled into a corner seat away from the bar.

  ‘All right, tell me why.’ Smith said it in a patronizing way, though Bognor had to concede that he was a deal less patronizing than Parkinson.

  ‘Grithbrice might kill Maidenhead for his, and his girl friend’s, political reasons, and the fact that he wouldn’t join in the new business could push him into it. Once he was dead the estate would have to pay death duties and would be less effective as a rival anyway. And he would kill Abney because he was going to succeed to the whole shooting match.’

  ‘To coin a phrase,’ said Smith, inevitably.

  ‘And Green would kill Abney because he owed him a lot of money and because he wouldn’t get him into Pring’s.’

  ‘Two hundred thousand is nothing to a man like Green.’

  ‘Maybe, but getting into Pring’s is. There isn’t even a Rothschild in Pring’s. He’d be the first of his kind. It would be a sensation.’

  ‘All right, why kill Maidenhead?’

  ‘He owed him money too.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. Anyway he could afford to let it stand.’

  ‘Probably trying to force him into some deal too. I don’t know. Still, you must admit, those two look the most likely.’

  Smith looked arch. ‘When you’ve been in this business as long as I have,’ he said, ‘you get very unhappy when too much suspicion builds up against too few people. It means things are being overlooked.’ He ordered another round of beer and shook his head over it. ‘All this gas. They don’t brew beer like they used to. I suppose some people would have brought Grithbrice in by now; but he’s a smart fellow. We have enough motives but we don’t have any facts whatever. None whatever.’

  ‘Won’t the wreck show anything?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘Apart from a few bits off the hull they haven’t found anything more than about an inch long. Our forensic people don’t think there’s an earthly. They’re so desperate they’ve even called in a professor from the Science Museum and I’ve never known them do anything like that before.’

  ‘And the bodies?’

  ‘No bodies worth talking about. We’ve had some things put in boxes but apart from a signet ring and some cufflinks and a cravat pin there’s nothing to tell which belongs to who. Oh and that hat. No, it won’t do.’

  They continued to discuss the ramifications of the murder until shortly before closing time. Even by then they had got no further, indeed after another beer they had turned to probing each other. Bognor had merely confirmed what he had assumed, that Smith was a career policeman with a wife and two sons, both doing well, who lived in a comfortable four-bedroomed house on a new estate three miles from Bourne End and didn’t expect to be promoted further if only because he did his present trouble-shooting job rather too well. If the local force had anything which didn’t run in the predetermined grooves they got Smith out of bed. Smith grew vegetables and had a way with rhubarb, liked a flutter on the horses and looked forward to retirement in the country. Bognor rather liked him, and he seemed to have more respect for Bognor’s university background than the appalling Parkinson.

  It was well after three before he got back to the office. On the way he bought a later edition of the Standard and found to his relief that the ‘Mangolan claim’ story had been pushed off the front page by the presidential crisis in the United States. He turned inside and sighed. There at the top of the page was a photograph of Sir Archibald McCrum. Above it the story was headlined, ‘Mangolan death claim row grows’.

  ‘Now, why on earth has he got in on the act?’ murmured Bognor, and began to read. ‘Speculation over the murder of the Earl of Maidenhead last week has grown more confused following a remarkable statement by the Scottish landowner and showman, Sir Archibald McCrum. The fifty-five-year-old former Guards Colonel said from his home, McCrum Castle, Inverness, “I have just heard that Mangolan nationalists claim responsibility for the foul murder of the Earl of Maidenhead last Friday. I myself have suspected as much ever since the Earl’s tragic death, and I believe that our own police and intelligence forces have known too. I am deeply concerned that there has been an attempt to hush the matter up for some dubious political reason, and I intend to leave no stone unturned in my efforts to see that the guilty person or persons are brought to justice.”

  ‘Colonel McCrum was referring to earlier reports from Algiers that an organization calling itself the Mangolan nationalist organization had claimed to have been behind last week’s shooting, when Lord Maidenhead died at the home of Sir Canning Abney, who was himself killed in a boating accident the following day. Colonel McCrum, who was a guest at Abney House at the time of the incident, refused to say any more, but he added that he intended to take the matter up with “the relevant authorities”.

  ‘The Foreign Office said in a statement, “We have no knowledge of any organization calling itself the Mangolan nationalist organization”.’ Bognor skimmed the rest. It was a fairly comprehensive job. They mentioned that the Umdaka was making a visit to Britain in ten days’ time. They hinted that the Mangolans had suggested that Maidenhead might have been involved in high-level, low-profile negotiations with “a white African regime”. And they even, greatly daring, mentioned, at the very end of the piece, that among other guests at Abney House had been the Hon. Anstruther Grithbrice, playboy, stately-home impresario, photographer and ‘self-confessed Marxist’ (not something of which Bognor was aware, though in his time Grithbrice had confessed to any number of unlikely political beliefs) and his current girl friend, the beautiful, Mangolan born Miss Honeysuckle Johnson.

  Bognor wondered if they would be sued for libel, but it was probably safe. It was the same technique that the press had used during the build-up to the Profumo scandal and the Lambton affair.

  Not for the first time he approached the office in a mood of apprehension. He waved to the commissionaire in the front hall, turned left down the door marked ‘Fire Escape’, and went down into the subterranean wastes of the department, with its low headroom, its bilious shade of green and its pervasive armoury of central heating pipes. When he reached his desk he found two pieces of paper. One, timed at twelve-thirty, said, ‘See me instantly. P.’ and the other said, ‘Sir Archibald McCrum has telephoned several times and says could you call him on Invercrum One, Extension Six.’ Bognor sighed very deeply indeed and wished that he’d worn one of his old something ties. They gave him extra confidence in facing an angry boss.

  ‘And what exactly do you propose doing about the Monarch of the Glen?’ asked Parkinson frigidly. ‘It would help if you could start by taking a normal lunch hour. This isn’t the Treasury you know.’

  ‘I was with Sir Canning Abney’s solicitor.’

  ‘I don’t very much care if you were with the Queen Mother. I have had communications from your friend the McCrum of that ilk,’ he looked at his pad, ‘four times. I have had the Permanent Under Secretary. I have had the Minister of State’s Private Secretary. I have had the Minister of State. I have had the Secretary of State’s Private Secretaries—both. One after the other. And finally I have had the Secretary of State himself. He was not amused. And for your private information I am not amused either, so what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What would you like me to do?’

  ‘I would like you to get this kilted bugger off all our backs as quickly as possible and let us all get on with the job that our grac
ious Majesty is paying us to do. That is what I would like.’

  ‘I think he’s irrelevant.’

  ‘Listen. Anyone who can make the sort of noise he’s making is not irrelevant. He appears to have been at school or in the Guards or on the board with every senior official in the civil service and diplomatic corps. Not to mention the managing directors of every national newspaper and the greater part of the 1922 Committee. I thought you said he was a backwoodsman.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Then how, in God’s name, is he able to make such a bloody nuisance of himself?’

  ‘You said it yourself. He was at Eton. He was in the Guards. He has a title.’

  ‘This isn’t 1850.’

  ‘That’s your story.’ Bognor regretted his belligerence. It was the beer talking. Parkinson glowered at him.

  ‘What exactly does he want?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘He wants an immediate arrest of Grithbrice and the Johnson girl.’

  ‘But we have no proof. And I’m not certain anyway. It could even have been McCrum himself come to that.’

  Parkinson showed a flicker of interest. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well,’ said Bognor, taking a deep breath. ‘You accept an equality of opportunity?’