Unbecoming Habits (The Simon Bognor Mysteries Book 1) Page 12

  Watching him from a sun trap on the other side of the Cherwell was the woman Bognor assumed to be the wife of Basil Strudwick. She was a swimming bath’s length away but he could still see that, despite being very slightly hidden by some giant buttercups, she was very lovely, extremely brown and quite naked. He watched for a moment longer as the man reached the shore, clambered out, stood up, shook himself like a dog, then turned for a second to look back at the water. Bognor had no doubt about the handsome face and the glistening black hair swept back from its widow’s peak. Pulling himself together with a sudden sense of shame, he scrambled backwards until he was out of range, then rose and walked back to the Land Rover. Questions would have to be put to Brother Aldhelm and his mistress, but it would be hardly proper to do so at a time like this. It would have been possible for him to have stripped off, swum across, and caught them in flagrante. Possible but hardly delicate. The role of people investigator was not one which greatly appealed to him, and if Brother Aldhelm wished to spend his afternoon making love to married ladies he supposed that that was his affair. If the married lady was feeding him secret information that was different. He wondered if it were possible.

  It was tempting to threaten Aldhelm with giving the story to Anselm. He smiled at the thought of Anselm’s reaction, arrived back at the Land Rover and sat down to await the return of the loving couple.

  He had forgotten his head in the vicarious excitement of the afternoon’s experience, and also the tablets he had taken to stop the pain. So once more he had dozed off without meaning to. He woke to the sound of laughter.

  Jerking alert he hit his hand on the metal of the door. It hurt. The sun had made it hot. Brother Aldhelm and Mrs. Strudwick had emerged from the rhododendrons and were playing some esoteric lovers’ game. From this distance it looked like leapfrog. Bognor had a distinct feeling of recent familiarity and remembered the cabbage whites frolicking on the hill above the Friary. Mrs. Strudwick was wearing the lilac trousers, Brother Aldhelm his cotton trousers. Mrs. Strudwick leapt over Brother Aldhelm and somersaulted. Brother Aldhelm collapsed in a heap. Mrs. Strudwick pulled him up and the two kissed passionately. Bognor wondered when they would notice the Land Rover, and also if it would be before Mrs. Strudwick had retrieved her blouse. He had no wish to embarrass anyone. Not unduly.

  The two continued their playful progress, apparently totally oblivious to anything beyond their relationship. Mrs. Strudwick put on her blouse and Bognor watched half regretfully as she did. She had an astonishingly good figure. They kissed yet again. Bognor was feeling progressively more embarrassed. Their relationship appeared to be totally carnal and if they were actually passing on secrets they did not appear, on the face of it, to have a great deal to do with agricultural plant. They were so close to him now that it was ridiculous. He noticed Aldhelm’s crucifix swinging as they played a quick round of tag and decided that it was time this merriment came to an end. After all, he was investigating a couple of peculiarly brutal murders, and his personal embarrassment mustn’t interfere with that.

  He jumped down, landing with a crackling thud on the gravel and slamming the door behind him at the same time. It worked. His twin suspects were about to embark on some gay skipping cavort when they heard the sudden sound. They stopped immediately, almost in mid-flight, and looked briefly like a modern realist sculpture.

  Mrs. Strudwick was the first to recover. She came striding across the grass wearing an outraged expression. Bognor noticed with guilty pleasure that it really made little difference whether she wore the blouse or not. It was totally transparent. The anger, assumed or otherwise, suited her. She was strikingly, if conventionally, attractive, with very long natural blonde hair and a few freckles across the bridge of her nose, and she moved well.

  ‘This is private property,’ she said. There was a hint of foreign accent there, though it was somehow contrived. A bit like an English waitress in a French restaurant. Bognor was excited by angry ladies. She had not put her sandals on in her excitement and she didn’t realise until halfway across the gravel. She yelped and started to hobble. It ruined the effect. Brother Aldhelm, who, despite his anxiety, had had the intelligence to put on his own sandals and pick up hers, came running after her. She leant on his back as he helped her on with them.

  ‘Leave this to me, Lena,’ he said, and addressed himself to Bognor.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ he shouted.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bognor, ‘but I’m here for a very serious reason.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me.’ He was half an inch taller than Bognor, a year or two younger and in much better condition.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it; anyway I wasn’t.’

  ‘Then what are you doing?’

  ‘Making some enquiries.’

  ‘You must be bloody joking.’

  Lena Strudwick was looking with perplexity from one to the other.

  ‘Would someone please tell me what the hell’s going on?’ she asked. The trace of foreign accent was less noticeable, and superseded by something less glamorous. Bognor placed it tentatively as Battersea or Clapham. ‘Do you two know each other?’

  ‘We have met,’ said Bognor.

  ‘No,’ said Aldhelm.

  ‘Look, mister.’ She walked across to Bognor and came to a halt about a foot short of him. ‘If you’re trying anything, if you’re trying to fix something with my husband, then you’d better forget it. ’Cos he’s not going to believe a bloody word you tell him, and if you so much as try anything like that, then I tell you, mate, it’s curtains.’ She emphasised the last remark by moving her right hand swiftly across her throat, as if to cut it.

  ‘Honestly,’ said Bognor, ‘I have absolutely no intention of embarrassing either you or Mr. Strudwick. Not unless it turns out to be necessary.’

  ‘And what exactly is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Darling. Please leave it to me.’ Aldhelm seemed to have taken on a new lease of feebleness. He was plaintive.

  ‘Don’t you “darling” me,’ she said with feeling. ‘You got me into this bloody mess and I’m not trusting you to get me out of it. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a policeman. From London. I wish you’d listen.’

  The information silenced her, if only momentarily.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ she asked a moment later. ‘Have you got any identification? No, skip it.’ She looked at Bognor as if she hadn’t noticed him before. ‘Yes. So you are. I should have recognised you. Well, what do you want? There’s no law against it, you know.’

  ‘I know that.’ Bognor was flattered at being taken for a policeman.

  ‘Well, what do you want then?’

  He suddenly felt agonisingly tired. His last doze had been hours ago, immediately after lunch. He blinked heavily.

  ‘A drink, if it’s at all possible.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A drink.’

  ‘You have the bloody nerve to come barging in here, poking your bloody nose in where you don’t belong and then you have the fucking cheek to turn round and ask for a drink.’ She stopped and examined him even more closely. Then her mood changed. She smiled, showing a couple of dimples and fine, even teeth. ‘You look knackered,’ she said. ‘All right, let’s all have a drink.’ She turned to Brother Aldhelm, who was looking progressively less happy. ‘Come on, sexy!’ she said. ‘Plenty of time before prayers, and your friend here will drive you back.’

  There were no servants, since for obvious reasons they tended to be given the afternoon off. However, within moments Mrs. Strudwick came into the drawing room with three silver goblets and a bottle of vintage Bollinger.

  ‘One of the great joys of being stinking rich,’ she said in mock simpering aristocratic tones, ‘is that there is always, but always, champagne in the fridge.’

  Bognor explained slowly, leaving practically everything out. All he revealed was that he was not convinced of Batty Thomas’s suicide and that he therefore had to follow up
anything which seemed remotely suspicious. He said nothing about secrets.

  ‘You creep,’ said Mrs. Strudwick, when he retailed their meeting after Thomas’s death. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Aldhelm said nothing.

  ‘So,’ said Bognor when he had finished, ‘I for my part undertake not to say anything about this either to Mr. Strudwick or to Father Anselm. Not unless or until I charge one or other of you with murder… in return for which I’d be grateful if you’d answer a few questions.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Mrs. Strudwick, who seemed infinitely more relaxed, almost indeed to be enjoying herself. She lay back on the sofa and watched globules of icy moisture beginning to trickle down the side of her goblet. ‘Only I don’t see what makes you suspect either of us.’

  ‘Simply,’ said Bognor, ‘that within minutes of our second death I come across your… er Brother Aldhelm, our friend here, in a state of considerable excitement. On the point of making a secret rendezvous. You have to admit that’s suspicious.’

  ‘He’s always excited after lunch,’ said Mrs. Strudwick, looking at Brother Aldhelm, sceptically. ‘You might not think it to look at him, but he’s not a bad performer.’ Brother Aldhelm stared angrily into his Bollinger.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’ asked Bognor, primly.

  Mrs. Strudwick thought. ‘We met at the church fête,’ she said. ‘They had a stall, and I rather fancied him. I’ve always wanted a priest and I’ve never had the chance before. So I asked him out to tea. That would be about three months ago.’

  ‘And you meet every afternoon?’

  ‘More or less. Unless Basil’s here.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You don’t.’ Mrs. Strudwick stretched out a leg and wiggled her toes, which were painted. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I’ve never had a policeman either. Still, I’m not sure I really fancy the idea. As for murder, well, Aldo here’s not exactly a model brother of St. Francis but I don’t think he’d kill anyone. Would you, Aldo?’

  Brother Aldhelm looked up petulantly. ‘I wish you’d stop treating me as if I were your pet dog,’ he said.

  ‘You said it, dear,’ she said. ‘You said it.’

  Brother Aldhelm shrugged. ‘I don’t see why you can’t accept that Thomas killed Brother Luke and committed suicide,’ he said.

  ‘Reasons,’ said Bognor, with an air of importance.

  ‘In any case,’ added Aldhelm, ‘you know I couldn’t have killed Thomas if it was done during lunch. I was sitting next to you all through.’

  ‘You were in an awful hurry to get away afterwards.’

  ‘I should have thought the reason for that was fairly obvious.’

  Bognor gave Mrs. Strudwick a stare. ‘Yes,’ he said. She raised her eyebrows and inclined her head.

  ‘You’re too kind,’ she said.

  They finished the champagne in silence, then Mrs. Strudwick said she had to change, and observed frostily that they were going to be late for Evensong if they didn’t hurry.

  ‘You can find your own way out,’ she said. ‘Same time Monday, Aldo?’ He looked at her reproachfully and nodded.

  ‘Same time.’ She turned to Bognor and held out a band.

  ‘I enjoyed meeting you, Inspector,’ she smiled. ‘Any time you happen to be passing, do drop in. Only try to give us a little warning next time.’

  The drive home was not a success. Brother Aldhelm was most unhappy. His clandestine afternoon behaviour had been discovered and he was under suspicion of murder. It was a sharp double blow for a man who that morning had been a normal, unremarkable member of a respectable religious community.

  ‘You won’t tell Father Anselm?’ he said as they whined through Melbury.

  ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘I’d get the sack if he found out. Straight away. Like Bede.’

  ‘Quite right too.’

  It was a red herring. Bognor was almost sure of it. The woman, albeit stunningly sexy, was a standard case of bored nymphomania and the seduction of Brother Aldhelm was dreadfully crude but quite in character. Nothing in the behaviour of either of them suggested espionage.

  And yet…

  ‘You could have killed Luke,’ he said.

  ‘I was weeding,’ said Aldhelm.

  ‘Not much of an excuse. It wouldn’t have taken you ten seconds to whip across to the potato patch, pull the chain, and back to the dandelions and the daisies.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe he’d found out about your affair.’

  Brother Aldhelm gazed out of the window. At length he said: ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘You can hardly expect me to take your word for it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Bognor, feeling some sympathy for the man’s considerable unhappiness, ‘I don’t, on balance, think you did kill him. But if you have any idea of who might have done it would be a help if you let me know.’

  Aldhelm looked at him scornfully. ‘That’s a pretty old trick,’ he said. ‘It’s the sort of thing Luke used to try. He was a snooper, like you.’

  Bognor’s foot slipped and he accelerated into a corner and skidded, then looked across to see if the Friar was shaken. Not in the least. He remembered the maniacal driving of La Strudwick.

  ‘Have it your own way,’ he said. ‘Just remember that I know your secret. That’s all.’

  Neither man spoke again until after they had driven past the trysting staddlestone. Bognor was depressed by the further evidence of Collingdale’s carelessness, Aldhelm rapt in his self-pity. As he slowed the Land Rover almost to a standstill before negotiating the descent to the Friary, Bognor said suddenly, and for no particular reason, ‘What did you do before you came here?’

  Aldhelm’s reply was equally spontaneous. ‘Civil service,’ he said. ‘I was a clerk at the Admiralty.’ Bognor’s brows furrowed. That sounded suspicious.

  5

  THEY WERE ALMOST LATE for Evensong, but Bognor was in no mood for church. He left Aldhelm to wrestle with his conscience and instead walked down to the Boot, smiling to himself as he heard the increasingly familiar drone of plainsong drifting down the lane from the chapel. There was a hint of autumn chill in the air and more than a hint in the interior of the Boot. No doubt about it, Mr. Hey had got a problem with his damp course. He didn’t suppose that the pub ran to champagne of any sort, let alone Bollinger, so he ordered himself the conventional whisky and bought Mr. Hey a mild-and-bitter.

  ‘Been to see Mr. Strudwick, have you, then?’ Mr. Hey leered across the bar.

  Bognor was disconcerted. ‘Why? Should I have?’

  Mr. Hey looked knowing. ‘Surprising what you find out just sitting behind a bar and minding your own business,’ he said. ‘Now I don’t say I’ve had your professional training, but I’m not above putting two and two together.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Well, I mention it to Father Xavier, see, before lunch. And he tells me what I know already. That one of the brothers spends a lot of his time over at the Old Manor. And so between us we reckon you’ll be going over to have a look-see.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Reckon we were right.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you if you were.’ Yet again Bognor felt unnecessarily patronised.

  ‘That’s all right.’ Mr. Hey was unspeakably arch. ‘I tell you, though. Nothing new in that. Nor dangerous. That lot, like I was telling you the first night you came in. That lot up there they don’t know the meaning of words like poverty and chastity and obedience. I reckon I’m more chaste than most of them, the wife being what she is, if you’ll pardon the expression. Only I’ll say one thing, it’s not usually women they go for, and that’s a fact.’ Mr. Hey swilled mild-and-bitter round his mouth and continued. ‘Then I heard the news. They’ve sacked another for writing to the papers. We had a young lad in here today from one of the Sunday papers. Didn’t tell him nothing, though. Said Father Anselm sent him away with a f
lea in his ear.’

  The combination of champagne, whisky, aspirin not to mention the effects of his injuries themselves were making Bognor distinctly euphoric.

  ‘That will be a good story for the Sundays,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mr. Hey. ‘There’s a lot else going on. They’ve smashed a big drug ring down Bicester way. Then there’s an air crash near Manchester and this sodding Summit conference. Can’t see anyone bothering much about friars, even if they are like this lot here.’

  Mr. Hey, elated by his percipience, bought Bognor another Scotch. ‘Father Xavier, though,’ he said. ‘He may not be a very holy man, but he’s a real gentleman. My best customer.’

  ‘Is he the only one who comes in here?’

  ‘Well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it, sir?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I think,’ Mr. Hey was clearly not averse to telling if he felt like it, and he was enjoying the role of informer, ‘he’s the only one. Though of course, you can’t be sure. Sometimes he comes in with one of the younger fellows. Not often, though.’

  ‘Oh, which one?’

  ‘Don’t know his name, sir. Father Xavier always makes a joke of it when he does. Talks about “corrupting the innocents”.’

  Bognor had a dog-eared ham sandwich and ate it while Mr. Hey served the cowhands with pints and exchanged some esoteric information about silage. It sounded careless of Xavier to share his secret drinking with another member of the Community. He wondered who it was. Mr. Hey continued talking to the farmhands for a few minutes while Bognor considered the drink and the drugs and his curious body of evidence. In the course of his short stay he felt that he had learnt enough to get the Friary dissolved, but little that was of much use in solving his own problems. It was one thing to find that a supposedly austere and proper institution was in fact an establishment which exhibited a degeneracy of medieval proportions, though that was an exaggeration, quite another to pin a murder on one of its number. He was wondering whether another drink would make him fall over when Father Xavier came in. He had another drink.