Masterstroke (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 13

  ‘Maybe,’ said Bognor gloomily.

  She arched eyebrows and neck simultaneously. ‘Too far gone even for the hair of the dog?’

  ‘I’m not hung over. Someone hit me.’

  ‘I do know, as a matter of fact. Someone hit you, but you’re hung over too. Or deserve to be. You stank of alcohol, but …’ she raised a palm à la traffic policeman, ‘we are not going to start that all over again. You have suffered enough.’ She grinned. ‘Now I am going to change into something loose and easy and then you can tell me all about it. And while you’re doing that why don’t you do something dangerous with gin. There are some madly exotic things in the kitchen: Cointreau, grenadine, passion fruit, chinese gooseberries, even some packets of instant Singapore Sling if you’re feeling lazy.’ Saying which, she flounced off to what was presumably the bedroom.

  Bognor for his part meandered into the kitchen, which had all the hallmarks of good living but not particularly good cooking: microwave oven, potted things, expensively canned things, bottled things from Fortnum’s and Fauchon, a Magimix. The smoked salmon in the fridge came from Ecclefechan. Bognor guessed that Dr Frinton liked to eat out but prided herself on being able to rustle something up at a moment’s notice without leaving her guest(s) alone for more than thirty seconds at a time. Slightly lugubriously he studied the drinks and finally opted for the Singapore Sling mix. His own gin – with a splash of martini, to judge from a quick sniff – he left alone, and instead sloshed some fresh from the bottle into the blender, added almost a whole tray of ice, two sachets of crystals and some water, pressed the button and let it whoosh. It frothed into a pale pink, milk shake-like concoction which he guessed his hostess would have deftly decorated with slices of pineapple, sprigs of poinsettia and any other vegetation to hand. He, characteristically, poured it into two large tumblers, spilling a little which he mopped Up half-heartedly with a handkerchief, being unable to locate the kitchen towels. When he had done, he returned to the drawing-room (salon, he thought, was probably a more appropriate word), glass in each hand, to find Hermione putting the final adjustment to jangling drop ear-rings which looked suspiciously like diamonds. She was wearing an extremely low-cut white silk quasi-diaphanous garment with sequins or some such all over it. These were silver and sparkled. She smelt overpoweringly of scent, which Bognor sensed was amazingly expensive. Inwardly he sighed. He wished he felt more in the mood for her.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, eyeing the pink froth. ‘You cheated.’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ he admitted. ‘Not much of a bartender. Scotch and soda’s about my limit.’

  ‘Consumption rather than construction?’

  ‘You could put it like that.’

  She smiled and took one of the glasses. ‘Well, chin-chin,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor. ‘Chin-chin.’ He raised his glass and drank. It tasted very sweet and fruity. If he hadn’t known, he would have assumed it was free of alcohol.

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d never make it,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down and tell me all about it.’ She sank, in a seductively flowing movement, onto the sofa and patted the cushions in an invitation to Bognor to join her. He did, sitting primly and uncomfortably and well away from her. After contemplating him speculatively for a second she put her feet up so that they rested on his lap, then she lay back and said: ‘If you’re feeling particularly generous you may tickle my feet.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Oh, and could you be an angel and light me a cigarette? In the box there.’ She nodded towards a japanned papier mâché object which Bognor opened to find full of Black Russians. He lit one and passed it to her. Accepting it, she allowed her hand to linger on his, and when she smiled a husky thank you she looked him searchingly in the eyes, the sexual message unmistakable. Bognor looked away, and sat more stiffly than ever.

  ‘I just can’t think who can have done it,’ he said.

  ‘What, darling?’ She exhaled very slowly, forming her lips in a tiny perfect ‘o’.

  ‘Attacked me.’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Yes, that. “That”, as you put it, was exceedingly painful. I’ve had to have stitches.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three, actually.’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t call that very many.’

  ‘It’s quite enough,’ he said. ‘Why do you imagine it happened?’

  ‘What do you want to know, “Whodunnit?” or “Why they dunnit?” If we know the second, we know the first.’

  Bognor was beginning to be muddled.

  ‘First of all,’ she said, ‘someone broke into the Master’s lodgings to steal the confidential files. Particularly the ones for your year.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which they did.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, when you return to your hotel room, it’s being done over, except you’re too drunk to notice.’

  ‘I …’

  She silenced him with a tap of her heel to the groin. ‘I thought you were going to tickle my feet.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Don’t my feet turn you on? Some men think my feet are my sexiest feature.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not really into feet.’

  ‘Tell me what you are into, then.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and gave him a louchely come-hither smile.

  ‘Nothing much at the moment,’ conceded Bognor, ‘except for solving these bloody murders.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Could have been,’ said Bognor. ‘You had that hideous velocipede of yours. I was on foot.’

  ‘Velocette, darling. But why should I want to hit you on the head?’

  ‘I don’t know. You were being extremely disagreeable.’

  ‘You should see me when I try. When I’m really disagreeable I’m perfectly bloody.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  She sipped at her drink and looked at him over the rim of the glass. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘We’ll solve the murder and then relax. I can see you aren’t going to be the slightest use until you’ve found out who did it. For my first thesis I wish to propose that, despite any evidence to the contrary, the murder of Beckenham and the murder of Vole have nothing whatever to do with each other.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘No more ridiculous than what’s happened already. The Master revealed as a Soviet agent, found murdered. An Apocrypha alumnus shot dead by the Regius Professor of Sociology’s hit man. The Regius Professor turns out to be Philby with knobs on. Beats Dallas any day of the week.’

  ‘And there’s the small matter of the prospective Conservative candidate for Sheen Central cheating in his final exams.’

  ‘I don’t think we ought to get involved in all that again.’

  Bognor sighed. ‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘I take your point. At the moment the place is coming apart at the seams and anything’s possible. So let’s suppose you’re right and the two murders have nothing to do with each other. What then?’

  ‘Then we can eliminate Aveline and Vole as suspects for the Master’s murder.’

  ‘Aveline was never a suspect for the Master’s murder anyway.’

  ‘I suspected him.’ Hermione looked arch. She had finished her drink. ‘Shall we have another?’ she asked.

  Bognor said he wasn’t particularly thirsty. She told him not to be silly. Together they went to the kitchen.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked him.

  ‘I’m always hungry,’ said Bognor, which was more or less true, though it was barely an hour since his toast and tea.

  ‘I didn’t have lunch,’ said Hermione. ‘What would you say to scrambled eggs with smoked salmon?’

  ‘Yummy,’ said Bognor.

  ‘And I tell you what, there’s a bottle of Veuve Clicquot I keep in the fridge for emergencies such as this. While I’m scrambling, you open that. It should clear your head. And it’s better for you than gin sling.’

  Bognor d
id as he was told. He hadn’t the energy to do otherwise, though for once in his life he would just as soon have had cocoa. ‘Do you think it could have been Edgware or Crutwell?’ he asked, as he tried to ease the cork out without hurting anyone.

  ‘Why Edgware or Crutwell?’

  ‘I saw them in the High that afternoon when I was out walking with Vole. At least I think I did. They were in a bright red Range Rover. I waved at them. Funny thing was that they didn’t wave back. Didn’t even acknowledge me. What do you make of that?’

  Hermione whisked eggs and looked pensive. ‘You sure it was them?’

  ‘Course I’m sure.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Bognor managed to remove the cork with a gratifyingly discreet mini-burp and poured two glasses.

  Hermione took a sip and went on scrambling. ‘So,’ she said, ‘Crutwell and Edgware were in Oxford that afternoon not wanting to be noticed, and had the bad luck to run into you. But why on earth should they go to your room at the Randolph? And what were they looking for?’

  ‘Search me,’ he said.

  Hermione cut off a large slab of butter and dropped it in the saucepan, then began to chop smoked salmon. ‘Suppose,’ she said, ‘they think you’ve got something they want. Now what could that be?’

  ‘Nothing. They have everything. The world is at their feet. Life is their oyster, or words to that effect. I, I who have nothing. … No, out of the question.’

  ‘No, no. Try to be literal.’ She added the smoked salmon and stirred. ‘They must have thought you had something that they were desperately keen to get hold of. What more likely than the Master’s confidential files?’

  ‘Because they contain the secrets of their guilty past, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Why not?’ She snapped off the gas and spooned the eggs and fish onto two plates.

  ‘Eggs Rosebery,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Because of the racing colours?’

  ‘Something like that. But what. …’ Bognor took a plate and a glass and wandered back into the drawing-room. ‘I mean, those two couldn’t conceivably have guilty secrets. They were the great goody-goodies of the year. You could understand Rook or Vole or even me having something incriminating in our cupboards, but not Crutwell and Edgware.’

  ‘But if they had, they’d want the files. Both of them up for big jobs, remember. Both relying on the Master’s references. With the Master’s death the files go public. Even if he was going to be nice about them while he was alive, he couldn’t continue the cover-up once he was dead. Now just let’s assume that they tried to steal the files from the Master’s study but found someone had got there before them. Quite a chance they’d think that someone was you.’

  Bognor swallowed food. It was delicious. The Clicquot too. He unbent slightly. Hermione no longer had her feet on his lap but was herself sitting upright at the other end of the long sofa. She could, he thought appreciatively, certainly scramble eggs and she was jolly attractive. Nevertheless … He made himself think of Monica. Poor old Monica all on her own at home, opening a can of baked beans for her supper. Or maybe someone would ask her out. Anyway he was far too unwell for sexual dalliance, and besides there was work to be done. ‘That’s solved that, then.’ Bognor spoke almost flippantly. ‘Edgware and Crutwell were searching for the files in my room. Heard me coming, panicked, and hit me on the head. Bastards.’ Bognor said it with feeling. He still hurt like hell.

  They went on eating in silence.

  Then Bognor said, ‘But I can’t believe they killed the Master. Perhaps it was Vole.’

  ‘Or suicide.’ Hermione Frinton swallowed the last of her eggs and put her plate down on the low table.

  ‘Mighty funny way to commit suicide,’ said Bognor. He too put his plate down and leaned back, feeling more relaxed than he had for ages. He closed his eyes and sighed, then opened them in a panic to find that he was looking straight into Dr Frinton’s at a range of inches.

  Seconds later he was being kissed. At first he made absolutely no response, but as the kiss wore on he found that it was impossible not to be impressed and flattered by Dr Frinton’s ardour, enthusiasm and vigour. It seemed churlish for him not to kiss back. Also, after a while, his pride came into it. He was damned if he was going to be outkissed by a mere English tutor, even if she was a woman. The whole exercise was so exciting that after a while breathing became quite difficult and every time he attempted to break away for air Hermione clamped her mouth even more tightly over his. He was afraid she’d break a tooth. She was also beginning to do arousing things with the rest of her body. Bells started to ring. For a while Bognor assumed the bells were in his mind, but after a while they sounded so real that he wondered if they came from outside. Evidently he was not the only one to wonder about this, because her ardour slowly diminished until she stopped kissing altogether and withdrew. She still had him pinioned securely to the sofa, but she stopped moving and lay panting lightly and listening to the insistent rings of the doorbell.

  ‘Sugar!’ she said, and attacked him again as passionately as before. The bells continued, so that she withdrew again after only about thirty seconds.

  ‘Hadn’t you better answer it?’ asked Bognor, wondering if she had drawn blood. His lips felt as if they had been attacked by a ferret.

  ‘They may go away,’ she said.

  For a few seconds they went on listening. Again and again the bell rang. It became obvious that the caller was not going to leave. There was a pause, then muffled shouting.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Hermione. She got up and went to the intercom switch which she flicked on.

  Instantly the sound of an angry chief-inspector chappie filled the room. ‘I know you’re there. Open up. No use taking the phone off the hook. It’s important! Come on! Be your age.’

  Hermione turned the machine off and gazed at Bognor, anguished.

  Bognor gazed back. ‘He’s not going to go away,’ said Bognor. ‘In fact I’d say he was going to break the door down in a minute.’

  ‘Sod!’ she said, brushing hair out of her eyes. ‘What a sense of timing!’

  ‘Business before pleasure.’ Bognor smiled. He felt like Sir George White at the relief of Ladysmith. He smiled back at Hermione as she stood looking down at him, a passionate study in frustration.

  Eventually she went back to the machine, switched it on and called down to Smith. ‘Come on up,’ she said shortly. ‘Door’s open.’

  Bognor dabbed at his lips and straightened his tie.

  Hermione shrugged. ‘Can’t win ’em all,’ she said. ‘I just hope there’s a next time.’

  Bognor was not sure what he thought about this, though he feared he might well succumb to temptation, enjoy himself hugely and then suffer fearful self-recrimination.

  Such reflections were interrupted by the irruption from the nether regions of the house of the inspector himself, quivering with fury and self-importance. He took in the dishevelled appearance of his two colleagues, plus the bottle of champagne and the empty plates, grinned sourly and said he was sorry to disturb them after hours, but one or two things had come up which he wanted discussed. He had tried phoning but the phone appeared to be off the hook.

  ‘Correct,’ confirmed Hermione. ‘I always take the phone off when I’m meditating. I must have forgotten to replace it. Simon came in mid-think.’

  Smith said nothing but managed, with the tiniest flick of an eyebrow, to convey that gross impropriety had taken place.

  ‘Drink?’ asked Hermione, with the poise of the natural hostess. She gestured towards the half-empty bottle of Clicquot.

  ‘Got anything a bit less arty-tarty?’

  ‘Scotch?’

  ‘Scotch would be perfect.’

  Hermione went to fetch some.

  Smith turned to Bognor. ‘You seem to have made a speedy recovery,’ he said sardonically. ‘Wouldn’t have thought of you as being a particularly fast worker. Congratulations.’

  ‘As a matter of fact …’ Bognor began, but wa
s silenced by his hostess’s return.

  Smith accepted his drink, which looked stiff, took a sip and said, ‘Right, then. Some new facts have come to light. First off, one of my men found a briefcase at the Old Bakehouse, initials “SV” for Sebastian Vole, sundry papers of no interest or importance, but an empty folder clearly indicating that it once contained the missing file from the Master’s study.’

  ‘Gosh!’ said Bognor. ‘So it was Vole who nicked them.’

  ‘Vole nicked ’em and Aveline now has ’em.’ The inspector licked his lips. ‘A nice little bonus for the Ivans as the Cold War enters its next round.’

  ‘Except that if Beckenham was one of theirs,’ said Hermione, ‘they’d know already.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be sure of that,’ said the inspector. ‘Can’t say I begin to understand where the loyalties of that sort of person lie, but I’m inclined to think that there are people who put College before God, Queen or Country.’

  ‘Very perceptive,’ said Bognor. ‘You mean Beckenham would have betrayed anything to the Russians except the good name of the college?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ said Smith. He looked at Bognor quizzically. ‘You extracting the Michael?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Bognor. ‘I think there’s much truth in what you say. But if Vole stole the files, where does that get us?’

  ‘Can’t say for sure,’ said the inspector. ‘That’s one of the things I want to discuss. Now, another thing is your Humphrey Rook’s got alibis all over the auction. Seems to have spent all relevant periods closeted with impeccable witnesses in the City of London. That doesn’t mean he’s innocent of the Master’s murder, but it does mean he didn’t break into the Randolph and clobber you.’

  ‘I see.’ Bognor poured more Clicquot for himself and Hermione.

  ‘However.’ The inspector stabbed the air with a stubby forefinger, indicating that a significant revelation was about to ensue. ‘Two of our candidates are missing.’

  ‘Missing?’ said Hermione. ‘This business of people missing isn’t good enough. Who now, apart from Aveline?’