Death in the Opening Chapter Page 12

  ‘You know, that’s not really a cast-iron alibi?’ he asked.

  The brigadier shifted his bottom and shrugged.

  ‘Best I can do,’ he said. ‘Reception will confirm that they didn’t have a key. They saw both of us go upstairs, didn’t see either of us leave.’

  ‘It’s better than nothing,’ said Bognor. ‘You could have shinned down the drainpipe, done the business and shinned back up.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I didn’t, but I could have. I don’t think alibi’s going to get you very far. I’d move on to motive if I were you.’

  ‘All right,’ said Bognor. ‘Motive.’

  ‘None,’ said the brigadier, smiling. ‘Absolutely bugger all.’

  ‘Had you ever met him?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said the brigadier. ‘Pas du tout. Never clapped eyes on him. Not too keen on sky pilots, if you catch my drift.’

  Bognor found himself thinking that the brigadier was too like a brigadier to actually be one. He was reminded of a Simon Raven short story about his caddish anti-hero Fingle impersonating his brigadier during some night exercise. Confronted with the real brigadier, Fingle says that the man must be an impostor because ‘his’ brigadier wouldn’t behave in such a ludicrous self-parodying manner. Faced with Brigadier Blenkinsop, Bognor felt a bit like Fingle. He had known a number of brigadiers in what passed for real life, and most of them had been decent and civilized – unlike this one. Besides, Bognor had always had rather a soft spot for ‘sky pilots’, coming as he did from a family full of them.

  ‘Known a lot of sky pilots?’ he asked.

  ‘Army was full of them,’ said the brigadier. ‘First-class fighting men, some of them. Absolute shysters, the rest. Come across some in civilian life too. Same problems. One or two absolutely excellent chaps, but the majority complete four-letter men. Don’t get me wrong. Religion’s all very well in its place, but it doesn’t do to let it get in the way of what really matters. The best padres, in my experience, were the ones that put the men first, deferred to people in authority, and kept religion for Sunday morning service. And the occasional funeral. Wedding too, I suppose.’

  ‘So you didn’t know Sebastian?’

  ‘Can’t say I had the pleasure,’ said the brigadier. ‘Nothing against the fellow. Doesn’t do to speak ill of the dead, either. But I can’t help, much as I’d like to. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better toddle off to keep the little woman company.’

  Bognor visualized the prune-like countenance of Esther Blenkinsop, and made a poor fist of suppressing a shudder. Say what you like about Monica, and people did, prunes didn’t come into it. He thanked his lucky stars he wasn’t married to Mrs Blenkinsop and, come to that, that he wasn’t the brigadier, either.

  Back at the manor, he found Lady Bognor enjoying just the one or two with their host and hostess.

  ‘How was the Brig?’ asked Sir Branwell. ‘Lot of hot air, if you ask me. Personally speaking myself, I wouldn’t have given him the time of day, but the organizer seems to have the hots for him. Keeps going on about his latest book.’

  ‘What is his latest book?’ asked Bognor, genuinely not knowing.

  The Fludds looked blank. Sir Branwell was colonel-in-chief of the local Yeomanry, some sort of territorial outfit, though he had never seen a shot fired in anger and had missed national service by a year or so. Bognor himself was in much the same boat.

  ‘Heroics,’ said Monica, who had actually read it. ‘A study in gallantry through the ages, with particular relevance to the Victoria Cross.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘One of my ancestors had a VC. Boer War. Killed him. Awarded posthumously to his widow. Dashed stupid. Keep your head down and don’t volunteer. That’s my advice. Tallisker?’

  Bognor didn’t mind if he did.

  ‘He’s talking about it tomorrow morning,’ said Monica brightly.

  ‘His latest book?’ said Camilla, beadily.

  ‘Well,’ said Monica, ‘heroics, heroism, heroes. All that.’

  ‘Same thing,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘They all do it. Don’t blame them in a way, even if they ought to be at home writing, not out on the stage spouting at a whole lot of elderly spinsters who would be better off at home reading. That’s the trouble with these literary festivals. They’re a substitute for the real thing. Writer chappies not writing, and readers not reading. Won’t stop them all gabbing on about it later, though. Certain sort of pseudo-intellectual, particularly. They won’t actually read the books, but that won’t stop them banging on about them as if they had actually studied every word. If I had my way I’d ban them.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh, Brannie,’ said Bognor. ‘They give a lot of people harmless pleasure, and they bring in punters and income.’

  ‘That’s what everyone thinks,’ he said morosely. ‘It’s not like that at all.’

  ‘How so?’ In vino veritas, he thought, realizing that the Scotch on top of the calva was making him decidedly squiffy, and wondering how much his host had had to drink.

  ‘People like little Glasgow call the shots,’ said Branwell. ‘We’re just Aunt Sallies for everyone to take pot shots. Get all the blame, none of the credit, and reap no rewards. Everyone knows Flanagan Fludd was a complete charlatan. No talent, whatever.’

  ‘Vicenza Book said he cribbed off Gilbert and Sullivan.’

  ‘Fat lot she knows about,’ he said. ‘Nothing but a jumped-up barmaid’s daughter. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a barmaid’s daughter. Someone has to be, I suppose, but just don’t go jumping about pretending to be something else.’

  ‘Would she have known Sebastian?’

  ‘Dunno. Probably not. Mother must have done, though. Sebby preached about her. Main reason she left. You could say. Sex and alcohol. She was for sin and Sebastian was against it. They were on opposite sides of the moral divide. The vicar won. People like him always do. It’s a matter of morality, which means a question of hypocrisy. That means that in private they approve of people like Vicenza Book’s mother; Dolly’s ma. In public, though, they side with the vicar. The devil has all the best tunes, but people don’t like to be seen dancing to them.’

  He poured himself another Scotch, ignored the others, and earned a sharp and censorious glance from his wife.

  ‘Much better now that the Kraut chef’s in charge,’ he said. ‘Bloody awful scoff, but neat and gets a good press.’

  ‘Swiss,’ said Camilla. ‘Gunther is Swiss.’

  ‘Swiss, piss,’ said Sir Branwell laughing. ‘Typical Swiss. Neat, tidy and ultimately unimaginative. All cuckoo clocks and yodelling.’

  ‘That’s the Austrians,’ said Bognor. ‘They invented the cuckoo clock and taught the world to yodel.’

  ‘Swiss,’ said Sir Branwell very seriously. ‘Camilla’s quite right. Gunther Battenburg is Swiss. Nothing to do with cake or the royal family. But say what you like about the Swiss, they’re very neat and tidy. Their trains run on time and I don’t believe the Austrians had anything to do with cuckoo clocks or yodelling. That was the Swiss. Orson Welles said so. And he was spouting the words of Graham Greene. He should know.’

  Bognor frowned. He was not following his host’s train of thought.

  ‘I may not enjoy his grub,’ said Sir Branwell, ‘but I applaud his neatness. Everything’s always very tidy. No cause for complaint.’

  ‘I didn’t think a lot of the dinner was terribly good,’ said Bognor. ‘Though, I quite liked the emu. Vicenza Book thought it was chicken.’

  ‘She would,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘Part of the problem with that trollop,’ he continued, ‘is that she’s a mess. No concept of straight lines, order, cleanliness, places and people being in the right place at the right time. Say what you like about the services, they always have a timetable, and everyone adheres to it. Too much civilian life is chaotic.’

  Bognor, who enjoyed chaos, which was usually more apparent than real, did not demur, even though he knew that his old friend’s knowledge of milita
ry life was perfunctory and almost entirely vicarious. On the other hand, the affairs of the Lord Lieutenancy were regulated with a precision which owed much to the armed forces, if not to the Swiss.

  ‘So, I do most profoundly hope,’ said Sir Branwell, ‘that you can bring something Swiss to the current investigations. If you see what I mean. And by Swiss, I don’t mean cheese with holes in it, but clocks, clockwork, tickety-boo.’ And he tapped his nose.

  ‘The brigadier doesn’t have a satisfactory alibi,’ said Bognor, ‘but then hardly anybody does. It’s going to introduce a bit of a mess into the proceedings, like it or not. On the other hand, he doesn’t have a discernible motive, so I’m inclined to rule him out.’

  ‘Talked to the pathologist?’ The squire was full of surprises. Bognor suspected he didn’t know what a pathologist was, except for what he had gleaned from TV. This meant a sexy girl in a white coat with a scalpel. His own experience with pathologists was not similar. In his experience, they were slightly desiccated males who felt they knew best. On the whole, they tended to tell you what you knew already, but attached much importance to their findings and believed they solved everything. This was not a view Bognor shared.

  ‘The pathologist will tell me that death was by hanging; that the rope and the stool came from the vestry; and that the removal of the stool precipitated death. The pathologist’s report will not, however, tell me who tied the knot nor who kicked the stool.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’ enquired Sir Branwell. ‘DNA?’

  ‘Possible,’ said Bognor. ‘But even if so, they won’t stand up in court. The probability is that Sebastian knew where the rope and the stool were, that he tied the requisite knots and kicked the stool from under him, himself. But there is always the possibility that another party was involved. Or parties. The two questions that need answering are: “Who tied the knot?” and “Who kicked the stool?”’

  ‘Quite,’ echoed Sir Branwell.

  ‘I think,’ said Monica, ‘it’s time we all went to bed.’

  In situations such as this, Lady Bognor was not to be gainsayed.

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Lady Fludd. ‘It’s quite late; we’ve all had more than enough to drink and we have a heavy day tomorrow.’

  The two men exchanged rheumy glances, but said nothing, simply drained their glasses, and stood unsteadily.

  They both knew far better than to argue.

  SEVENTEEN

  The pathologist was male, of a certain age, sexless and self-important. All this accorded with Bognor’s expectations. The pathologist was, naturally, convinced that his report would provide all the answers anyone could possibly want. That, too, was in line with what Bognor expected. Nothing untoward, nothing helpful. Boxes were ticked, protocol followed, and if there had to be a post-mortem examination of a post-mortem examination, so to speak, then everyone would be satisfied that this section of the book had been followed to the letter.

  ‘The time of death was some time between five and seven,’ said the pathologist.

  Bognor nodded but said nothing. He knew that already but he wasn’t saying anything. It made sense for the pathologist to feel that he was providing special information, to which he alone was privy, and could not be discovered by any other means. ‘The cause of death was strangulation. This was achieved by hanging by the neck, and the weapon was a spare rope for one of the bells. It almost certainly came from the vestry, as did the stool, which was removed, leaving the dead man dangling from the rafter around which the rope was fixed by means of a bowline knot. The knot around the neck was a common or garden reef.’

  ‘And was the stool removed by the deceased or a third party.’

  ‘Impossible to say.’ The pathologist still appeared self-satisfied and portentous, as if this failure to identify the person who had removed the stool was itself something which could only be ascertained by some arcane process, to which he alone was privy.

  ‘And how would you say the stool was toppled. It was on its side was it not?’

  ‘Correct,’ said the pathologist. ‘I would judge that the stool was kicked over either by the deceased, using his own feet, or by a third party. We could find no trace of fingerprints or of anything that would show up in DNA testing. My guess is that the stool was knocked over by a shoe or a boot. It’s impossible to say, and shoes and boots leave no trace.’

  ‘Guess?’ said Bognor. ‘No trace? That doesn’t sound the sort of scientific evidence that will stand up in a court of law.’

  The pathologist shifted from one foot to another. A certain sort of novelist would have said this was a symptom of unease, but the pathologist still seemed very pleased with himself and his evidence, though Bognor could not see why. He seldom could.

  ‘No,’ said the pathologist, ‘we can only go so far.’

  ‘I thought pathology was an exact science,’ said Bognor mischievously.

  ‘Only as far as it’s allowed to be scientific. The moment we enter the realm of speculation, we’re as tentative and unrigorous as everyone else.’

  ‘My view,’ said Bognor evenly, ‘is that pathology is always as tentative and unrigorous as everyone else. However, because it is possible to dress up your proceedings in formulaic scientific language, it is possible for you to fool people. You don’t, however, fool me. I also think that there is a natural ghoulishness in a lot of laymen, which is obsessed with knives and body parts, dissection and what passes for forensics. I believe much of what you do to be so much fashionable mumbo-jumbo, but I am not usually allowed to say so.’

  ‘I was warned you were old-fashioned,’ said the pathologist, taking umbrage. ‘I hadn’t realized you were prehistoric.’

  Bognor shrugged. He was past caring.

  ‘Listen sunshine,’ he said, wishing he were with his wife and the Fludds listening to the brigadier bark on equally ludicrously about a subject on which he was no expert either, but making it sound, by dint of slides, statistics and sundry other devices, as if he knew what he was talking about, ‘you do your job and I’ll do mine.’ On reflection, the brigadier and the pathologist had a great deal in common, pretending to a level of expertise which was essentially bogus, but relying on it, and sundry more or less false qualifications, to claim a level of competence which excluded the common man. This included people such as Bognor. Bognor, however, had the advantage of an Apocrypha education, an enquiring mind and the ability to cut through the sort of crap offered up by the pathologist and the brigadier. Give him a good generalist, any time. Which was not to say that he didn’t acknowledge the place of the genuine authority, but they were few and far between, and life was dogged by the half-baked, semi-qualified – such as the brigadier and the pathologist – masquerading as experts, when in fact they knew a great deal less than men of the world, such as Simon.

  All this flashed through his mind, as he poured professional scorn on the pathologist, while heeding warnings about doing things according to the book of rules, not antagonizing people such as pathologists without good reason and much else besides. There was a lot going on beneath those beetling brows and that affable mildly bovine exterior. Still waters run deep, and his waters were stiller and ran deeper than anyone, except possibly his wife, quite realized.

  ‘I shall report you,’ said the pathologist. ‘I’m not used to being spoken to like this.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said Bognor before he could help himself. A still small voice, probably Monica’s, was telling him that they were all in this together and it wouldn’t do to make enemies of one’s own team. The voice was running deep.

  ‘Look,’ Bognor was being placatory. He even thought of putting a hand on the pathologist’s shoulder, but decided against it. The gesture could have been misinterpreted, but was almost bound to seem inflammatory. ‘You and I are never going to agree. I have your report, for which many thanks. Now, I shall go off and carry on with my job. You’ve done yours and I’m properly grateful.’

  ‘You’ll ignore what I said,’ complained the path
ologist, obviously far from mollified. ‘People like you are all the same. You should have gone out with the Ark.’

  ‘We did,’ said Bognor, ‘in a manner of speaking. There are very few people like me left. You and your kind are the masters now.’

  ‘Not before time.’ The pathologist spoke with feeling. ‘Our job is to present cold scientific facts about which there can be no argument. We don’t allow ourselves the luxury of arty-farty feelings and speculation, much less intuition, as you seem to call it. People like you fly by the seat of your pants, which is an apt simile if you ask me. Seat of your pants is exactly what you’re all about.’

  ‘It’s a metaphor not a simile,’ said Bognor, ‘though I wouldn’t expect you to know the difference. Nor care, even if you knew.’ This was a proverbial red rag to the equally proverbial bull, and he knew it. But he couldn’t care less.

  ‘So, who do you think did it?’ asked the pathologist.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bognor, truthfully.

  The pathologist looked at him sceptically.

  ‘But you think you know,’ he said, eventually. It was said accusingly.

  ‘No,’ said Bognor, ‘at the moment I simply don’t have the foggiest. But, unlike some people, I have an open mind. And I value that. And I shall endeavour to hang on to it.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that I don’t.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But you implied it,’ said Bognor. ‘So who’s being unscientific now?’

  They glowered at each other. They were involved in some sort of stand-off, and Bognor wondered idly, as was his wont, whether or not it was Mexican. If so, then part of the definition was that neither party could win, and the inevitable result was some kind of mutually assured destruction. There was nothing particularly Mexican about a situation such as this. Indeed, a dictionary from another place suggested that the term was invented by Australians who, in this instance, at least, knew absolutely nothing about which they were allegedly talking. His own understanding was that a number of terms had the word Mexican inserted by Americans from north of the border, and that this was nothing more than an expression of racial contempt of the kind habitually used by the English about everyone else. It was merely an expression of superiority. In this instance, it suggested that there was no way out of the situation. There was nothing more Mexican about it than, for instance, a Mexican spit roast, which was a very rude expression, given a racial significance by the fact that the men concerned habitually sported sombreros, which were a form of Mexican national headgear, as distinctive and unusual as the Zapata moustache or tequila.