Yet Another Death in Venice (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 14

  “One of the aspects of British life that I most value is the sausage,” said Contractor. Like Father Carlo, he came from somewhere else, but he was a fanatical Anglophile and he correctly prided himself on his command of colloquial English. “Or banger. I have never understood why ‘banger.’ My sausages seldom bang. Indeed, you could say with conviction that they never bang.”

  “Like the crossbow,” said Bognor. “No bang. No telltale puff of smoke. No whiff of cordite. Our chaps showed foreigners what was what with their long bows at the Battle of Agincourt. But they were specialist archers. A man with a crossbow does not require special skills. Anyone can handle a crossbow, and it leaves no trace. Lethal and all things to all men.”

  “I agree,” said Contractor, munching, “and I could perfectly well have killed Silverburger if I were in Venice the day he was shot. And if I may say so, the disguise is perfect. The weapon is silent, its carriage would have excited no comment, its use and accuracy would have been no hurdle for an enthusiastic amateur. Well, even for an apathetic amateur, since you ask. So yes, I had the methodology. Unfortunately, I was at work in London. Motive, however, is another matter even for the padre. Why would he have wished him dead?” He went on munching but looked thoughtful.

  “There is a widespread feeling that Silverburger was not terribly nice.”

  “Carlo thought he was perfectly nice. But then he would. They have a maxim in the Church about not speaking ill of the dead. But he was a friend. Any friend is, in my opinion, nice. That is what friendship is about. It’s about thinking people nice even if the world thinks otherwise.”

  Bognor nodded. He was unable to speak, partly because his mouth was full of sausage and partly because he was overwhelmed by Contractor’s effrontery and suaveness. He was asking him to believe that the Roman Catholics had some sort of monopoly on the dead and also, by implication, that he knew more about friendship than he, Bognor. Bognor was rather strong on such notions as loyalty, friendship, and the fickleness of fashion. He stuck to his friends no matter what. Actually, a bit of no matter what, worked wonders. Bognor was never so fiercely loyal as when the world turned sour.

  “Quite,” he said when he had swallowed the morsel of sausage and composed himself. Contractor was dreadfully plausible, even if one would not want, in Field Marshal Montgomery’s well-observed maxim, to go into the jungle with him.

  “So the motive is difficult.”

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Contractor, though Bognor wasn’t aware of any particularly felicitous phraseology. “Many, many people had the opportunity, but motive is something else. You would know this more than I, myself. But I am acquainted with motive. Most men of God are in that difficult position, especially in the Catholic Church. It is the product of the confessional.”

  Bognor supposed that your average RC chap heard more individual sin in that curious box than the average C of E minister, let alone any other denominations. He simply didn’t know about Muslims and others. Did Muslims confess? And if so, to whom? Discuss.

  “In my experience, knowing someone at all well is the beginnings of motive. Or to put it another way, it is not usual for complete strangers to kill one another.”

  Contractor seemed surprised. “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,” he said. “They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but I am not certain that this is what is meant. No knowledge at all does seem to rule out murder. Thank heaven, you are able to narrow the field. Without that, you would have suspicions of everyone who attended Carnival that day. Whereas …”

  “Whereas?” repeated Bognor.

  “On the other hand, knowledge is not enough in itself. One must have a reason, mustn’t one? Unless this was a random killing. I have heard of random killings, but I have never encountered one. If this was a random killing, you have a different problem, and there is also an increased chance that the murderer might kill a second time. Would you not agree? If the killing was motivated by a reason that had nothing to do with the identity of the one killed, then there is an increased likelihood that he may, as they say, strike again.”

  “He or she,” he said.

  It was his subordinate’s turn to say “quite.” He did so.

  “It is a widely held belief that priests who have no carnal relations are hermaphrodites. Even if this were the case, he would be able to handle a crossbow. This was one of the essential differences between the English and the European weapon. The English archer was a specialist; the European could have been anyone because the crossbow was a lowest common denominator. Anyone could handle it. It took a strong man with finely honed arms. Muscles were indispensable. Technique likewise.”

  Bognor could not fail to be impressed. The present pope had closed down a Cistercian community after the monks had been found operating lap dancers, a twenty-four hour service, and embezzling funds. They were probably involved in arranging the venues for the World Cup Soccer Finals. Rotten old pope. What a killjoy!

  “To be a servant of the Lord does not mean one is immune from the devil’s temptations,” said Contractor, spearing a recalcitrant kidney.

  “Quite,” agreed Bognor. “However, being a servant of the Lord does mean that one doesn’t succumb. Being a servant of the Lord confers no immunity, but it does confer obligations.” Bognor was rather pleased with this especially when Con-tractor regarded him with what seemed awfully like respect. This could have had something to do with the fact that Bognor was picking up the tab. He topped up both coffees.

  “As a general rule,” said Bognor, “Roman Catholic priests are regarded as more worldly. Despite the fact that they are technically celibate.”

  “Technically.”

  “So you don’t believe priests are always celibate?”

  “I was merely echoing what you said. You could put it down to politeness.”

  “I won’t, though,” said Bognor. “Even priests are only polite when it suits them.”

  “This is very intriguing but not the point,” said his guest, “which is that Father Carlo had ample opportunity but no discernible motive.”

  “The confessional conceals much,” said Bognor. “Even motive. And the secrecy that attaches to it is often inimical to the truth. I’m afraid we don’t deal with the spiritual. Nor in that sense does the Church of England. In our church, everything is open and above board. We have no secrets from one another. We are on the same side. The Roman church is different. At times, one could say that it plays on the opposing team.”

  “We, too, believe in justice. However, ours is a more eternal notion; here is gone tomorrow, now is illusory. The Lord’s right and the Lord’s wrong are forever. Above all, it isn’t usurped by mere mortals. God’s law is superior to man’s. Even your church believes that.”

  “Our church may preach that, but in practice it is what we describe as law abiding. For Anglicans, the law is the law and right is right.”

  “There is a danger of your people equating right with might,” said the younger man. “We, on the other hand, are meek and powerless. The pope has no battalions. God’s army carries no weapons.”

  “I won’t beat about the bush,” said Bognor. “I believe that he could have had a motive. On the other hand, your church won’t allow you to incriminate yourself if, in doing so, you break the vow of the confessional.”

  “Oh, come, come.” Contractor spread butter and marmalade on his toast. A lot of it. More than was good for him. More than God would like.

  “If he had a motive,” said Bognor, “he would not tell me. The same as doctors. They have a let-out. Faith is stronger than patriotism.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “We don’t agree; we don’t believe but there is nothing we can do about it.”

  “We believe in justice in a temporal as well as an eternal sense. This is important. The church is not obstructive. It is a force for good.” He bit into the toast.

  “Ever since they were in the seminary as boys, they must have been friends
… like brothers …”

  At this, for the first time, Bognor crunched into an approximation of alertness.

  “Seminary?” he said. “Silverburger?”

  “You knew.” Contractor seemed genuinely shocked. “In Missouri. Isolated community outside Saint Louis. Poor Irving lost his vocation, though I’m not sure he was ever properly chosen. It was force of circumstance. Irving was more of an orphan than an acolyte, if you follow me. He was always a little wayward. Lapsed. Very.”

  So Silverburger was lapsed, a Catholic who had lost his calling and a lifelong friend of Father Carlo since they were students in the same seminary way back. Bognor remembered saying that total strangers rarely killed each other and never with a crossbow during a Venetian Carnival. Father Carlo might have shriven the deceased, given him a few Ave Marias to recite, or whatever confessors did. He would have remained, probably, a relative stranger and bound by the oaths of the confessional. However, he was a friend and not only a friend but one of long standing. And friends, even old ones, were bound by nothing at all. What’s more, friendship may not have made Father Carlo a killer, but it increased his rating as a suspect. Interesting. Very interesting. Bognor looked at the bill, frowned briefly, but considered it, on the whole, money well spent.

  14

  The priest was oleaginous, but that did not make him a murderer. He had known Irving Silverburger when they were both seminarians. Silverburger had lost his vocation even if he had not previously found it. Father Carlo … Father Carlo’s vocation was doubtful, even if professed and turned to advantage. That did not mean that he had shot his old friend with a crossbow. The facts were beginning to stack up, though they only fed Bognor’s prejudices.

  Thus he mused on a crowded London pavement that morning after breakfast. He had paid; therefore he walked. Contractor had other fish. Bognor was not a great believer in exercise and, on the whole, subscribed to the school of thought that had a large drink and a good lie-in whenever the notion of beneficial physical exertion was suggested. That way, the urge would soon pass. It had to be said though that it was an urge Bognor seldom experienced. And for a man of his age, he was in pretty good shape. He had a certain shortness of breath when running—as good a reason as any for avoiding exercise of all kinds. There was a certain tendency to portliness and a slight heightening of a naturally pink tendency. Bognor put all this down to a natural concomitant of advancing years and liked to think that it enhanced the possibility of respect. This seemed to him in short supply, but he was man enough to put a lack of deference down to reasons other than age and lack of fitness.

  Mrs. Thatcher had uttered some spurious adage about public transport and lack of success but, quite apart from the fact that he had an illogical aversion to everything about Mrs. Thatcher, he didn’t think she had said anything about walking. In fact, Bognor took public transport whenever possible on the grounds that he liked to feel close to his fellow human beings, besides which he enjoyed cocking a snook at Thatcherite thought, even if Thatcherite thinkers persisted in not noticing. Besides, he liked ambling along crowded London pavements.

  Odd how prejudiced one could be. Forensically, he knew that Father Carlo was no more or less likely to have killed his old friend and yet, because he disliked him, he suspected that he was a murderer. Rationally, Bognor knew that this was wrong and that his suspicions were entirely visceral. And yet, they persisted. He disliked mumbo jumbo, he hated hypocrisy, and he felt Father Carlo embodied both. He was, however, sufficiently professional to recognize prejudice for what it was. On the other hand, he had a lot of respect for gut feeling, and he believed that it was something to do with this that raised common or garden detectives to greatness. Actually, this was an across-the-board sort of belief. He had a lot of faith in the common man, but what made the common man uncommon was a factor that was inimical to analysis and had a lot to do with character and gut or possibly what the writer Joseph Conrad had described as “Ability in the abstract.” He would like to see that debated. Years ago, he probably would have seen it debated. His belief was that methodology and hard work counted for a great deal in this life but was beta stuff unless touched by genius. Or something.

  Thus he mused as he slouched along toward his Bethlehem of an office. The crowds were thick and alien. London, since he had first lived there, had become infinitely more cosmopolitan, and although he felt far from the British National Party, duskier and more alien. There was more than a hint of yashmaks in the air, men with whiskers smoked hookahs at outside cafés, and people spoke no known language. Bognor felt ill at ease. He was so very English. Everyone else was so very not.

  The part prejudice played in detection was remarkable. He knew that the book was good and that rules were inevitable, but the really good cop knew when to throw away the book and to abandon the rules. He thought of himself as a really good cop and despite believing in rules and books, he felt he knew when to abide by them and when to trust his waters, his instinct, call it what you will. Right now, however, he was unsure. He knew he disliked the priest and he also disliked the shifting sands on which he stood. He was, however, man enough to concede that this was prejudice. Sometimes he trusted this; at other times not. Right now, however, he simply did not know and uncertainty was no sort of forensic passport. The great detective was always incisive. He did not dither.

  Bognor sidestepped a twin baby carriage pushed by a girl in a yashmak who looked at him balefully with kohl-rimmed eyes while her two children chattered to each other amiably in a language with which he was unfamiliar. London had become exotic. Men like Silverburger and Father Carlo felt more at home there than Bognor. Even the shop signs were often in characters he did not understand. His city had been hijacked. He did not like it.

  The fact remained that the death of Irving G. Silverburger was not at the top of anyone’s agenda. It was probably not at the top of Bognor’s own agenda nor even that of Michael Dibdini. The film mogul’s death could safely be shunted away, stuffed under the carpet of life, and left there. Nobody cared for him in life, and nobody cared for him in death. Sometimes, Bognor felt it was his role to stand up for the boy who would otherwise be consigned to the corner of the classroom and left there while his colleagues went out to play. Benito, the gondolier, he thought to himself. Why not a gondolier? Men such as Bognor believed that men such as Benito, the gondolier, were clichés in Venice. They thought that gondoliers were inevitably working class, though this probably did not matter as much as their foreignness, their lack of Englishness. Bognor was not class conscious, but he was inclined to xenophobia. Benito was common in much the same way as your average taxi driver, but Bognor had nothing against the old-fashioned driver of a black cab who had done that curious exam known as “the knowledge” and which seemed to involve scootering around a deserted city on a Sunday with a clipboard attached to the handlebars. Salt of the earth, that sort of taxi driver. Knew his way around London, knew what was what, knew his place in society. Not like the spivs who drove minicabs, unregistered, subject to no exams or regulations of any kind. They did not know their way around London and often spoke little or no English. They were foreign.

  He, however … No, he must not do that. He had to blend and not be noticed. It was bad form in any number of ways to stand out in a crowd and also distinctly unprofessional. One of the more important characteristics of detective work was the ability to enter any world and not to attract attention or elicit gossip. Anonymity was all.

  So he ambled back to his desk where he summoned Contractor who yearned to be his master’s everything but was at least his legs. He did most of the running around. Bognor was increasingly sedentary. Contractor must have taken the bus. Thatcher would not have approved.

  “You called, Boss,” said Contractor, smiling sycophantically. Bognor liked to think that he remained the essential brains in this operation and that made him indispensable. Yet he was also sufficiently self-aware to realize that he was approaching his sell-by date even if he was not actually qui
te there yet. The place of the elder statesman in any society was always more appreciated by the old and, arguably, wise. But it was more and more at risk. Progressives put this down to a general belt-tightening, but Bognor and his generation were not so sure. The presence of the old and bold lent texture and gravitas to any organization. Even if it was not particularly desirable that important decisions should be left to the weary and indecisive, there was a limit to the efficacy of the young and thrusting. Youth was all very well in its way, but it had a certain headless quality. Contractor was excellent at energy but less so at wisdom. Short on deference as well, but that was something else.

  “What do you know about gondoliers?” asked Bognor. “Always been very suspicious,” said Contractor. “They strike me as being parasites preying on the body of La Serenissima. They feed a demand, but it isn’t a healthy demand and nor are they. That’s my view anyway. I am sure there are some perfectly nice gondoliers, but I just don’t know any. But then, I don’t know any nice taxi drivers. Or bankers.”

  “Are you equating gondoliers with bankers and taxi drivers?” Contractor thought about this, or gave every indication of doing so. Eventually, he said, “In the sense that they’re spivs and that they exploit honest hardworking citizens, I suppose I am. So, yes. I’m sure there are exceptions, but they only go to prove the rule. I daresay there is such a thing as an acceptable gondolier, but most gondoliers are not. They are part of the unacceptable face of tourism. Part of the unacceptable face of Venice.”

  SIDBOT did not like priests or gondoliers. They stood for something in society—these two people—for they were visible and in their own showy way, they mattered. In Bognor’s overall scheme of things, they could not have mattered less; nor in Harvey Contractor’s, which was part of the reason for Bognor liking the younger man and for feeling that when he was gone, the outfit was in safe hands. They both disliked the ostentatious; in their very different ways, the priest and the gondolier were more about show than substance. They pretended to be the servant of everyman while, not so secretly, believing themselves to be superior. The one doffed and tugged, bowed and scraped, and rowed rich tourists about his city; the other heard man’s misdeeds on behalf of his employer in the ancient anonymity of his wooden box, set the newly shriven a Hail Mary or two in the name of the Lord and smirked to heaven. Both appeared to be menials but actually believed themselves to be superior beings.