Unbecoming Habits (The Simon Bognor Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  ‘And another for you,’ he said to Mr. Hey, who allowed himself a smile. ‘Is that the regular drinking companion?’ he asked.

  Mr. Hey resumed his normal morose appearance, but then looked with gratitude at his pint. ‘Wouldn’t call him regular, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘nor exactly drinking. But he’s the only other one that comes in here with Father Xavier.’ Bognor thanked him.

  That afternoon, after a more than usually spare lunch, the Community went for a walk. During retreats hot food was at a premium and the meal consisted of corned beef and a salad, the principal component of which was beetroot. The walk, a regular Sunday afternoon custom, was designed to exercise away the lassitude induced by a more conventional Sunday lunch and, more important, to remind oneself of the essential Brotherhood love of nature. It was led in athletic fashion by Father Anselm, while others more infirm or more dissipated were allowed to dawdle along well behind. But even for the genuinely incapacitated like Father John the walk was mandatory. After three-quarters of an hour the friars and their guests were scattered about the Oxfordshire hills in an untidy straggle. From where Anselm and Bognor and a handful of the fittest stood, not very far from Aldhelm’s staddlestone, they looked like grazing Hereford cattle.

  They had been silent until then and Bognor had supposed it was part of the ritual: a mute appreciation of all things bright and beautiful. Apparently, however, it was simply because the exertion made speech difficult, for as they rested, panting slightly and gazing down the gorse-spotted incline and across the valley, Father Anselm moved across and put a hand gently on Bognor’s elbow.

  ‘Well, my son,’ he said, ‘and have you been able to elaborate on your distasteful theories?’

  Bognor disliked being pawed around by other men and he disliked being called ‘My son’. He stared at the Abbot with unconcealed suspicion, absorbed the tough but feminine face with its prim lines round the mouth and its watery blue eyes and wondered if he was a saint or a Communist agent.

  ‘Up to a point,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ said Anselm, ‘I read Evelyn Waugh too. You promised Lord Camberley that you would tell me what was in your mind and what you’d discovered. If you have found something out you must say.’

  Bognor considered. If Anselm were guilty he would know precisely who Jones was and he would probably realise that Bognor knew. If he were innocent it didn’t matter unless he went shooting his mouth off all round the place. On the other hand, if he was guilty and he thought that Bognor was ignorant about Jones… He remembered Camberley and decided to take the risk. Much as he distrusted Anselm he was increasingly inclined to believe him innocent.

  ‘Yes,’ he said finally, ‘I have found something. It’s your friend Mr. Jones.’

  ‘Dear Edward,’ said Anselm, almost rapturously. ‘So very intelligent. If only he were a little more serious he would be genuinely wise. I often feel he missed his vocation by becoming a schoolmaster; but there it is.’

  ‘He’s not a schoolmaster,’ said Bognor. ‘And his name isn’t Jones. He’s a senior civil servant who would quite definitely have access to any secret you cared to mention, and his name is Gaymer Burton.’ He said this with an air of triumphal self-importance, and stood back to see what effect the revelation would have.

  Father Anselm stared out across the valley and his thin fingers played nervously with the white cord at his waist. His eyes seemed mistier than before.

  ‘I’ve often wondered about Edward,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe you, though.’

  Bognor looked down the slope to where a spritely grey-haired figure in shirt-sleeves and sponge-bag trousers was climbing jerkily towards them.

  ‘Here he comes,’ he said with a sang-froid he scarcely felt. ‘Why not ask him?’ They waited nervously for the little man to catch up. The second he did, Father Anselm confronted him.

  ‘Edward dear,’ he said, ‘Mr. Bognor here tells me that you are not what you seem, that you are someone called Burton, a civil servant. Tell me it’s not true.’

  The little man was puffed. He looked hostile, but he was too out of breath and too taken aback to say anything for a minute or two. When he did it was to Bognor.

  ‘I’ve heard quite a bit about you over the last couple of days,’ he said waspishly, ‘and as far as I can make out you’re an ill wind. You obviously haven’t solved whatever you came here to solve and you’ve simply succeeded in causing unhappiness by busying yourself with domestic trivia. I shall make sure you’re reported to the relevant authority.’

  Bognor sucked his teeth and hoped he was right.

  Burton turned to Anselm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I wouldn’t have had you find this out for the world. And certainly not like this. It’s true, of course. I often think you must realise, but you’ve never said anything.’

  Anselm was looking back at him, hope fighting with his fear of betrayal. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  Burton sighed. ‘Because… Oh, because I think I needed to retreat in so many different ways. “My soul’s calm retreat which none disturb.” That’s Henry Vaughan, isn’t it? So true. I need a real escape from myself, and every year I’ve found it here. But I want no reminders at all. That’s why. There’s no deceit. Or if there is it’s purely self-deceit. No deceit from you, old friend.’

  Bognor found this speech sentimental and unconvincing, but the formula was immaculately calculated. Either that or Anselm was as good an actor as Burton.

  ‘I understand,’ he said, placing the inevitable hand on his shoulder. ‘There’s no need to explain. No harm is done. Your secret is safe with me.’

  Bognor turned away and walked down the hill. All that he’d achieved was to warn Burton that he was under suspicion and to alienate Anselm still further. It was all Camberley’s fault or maybe Beg’s. Which reminded him. He had better phone the old boy to arrange the return of his Land Rover tomorrow morning. He stomped down the hill in high dudgeon, passing every one of the friars on their way up and not acknowledging any of their greetings. By the time he got to the phone box his anger had scarcely evaporated. It was Lady Beg who answered. He left a message for Sir Erris to meet him at opening time in the Owl at Woodstock.

  There was nothing further he wanted to do at the Friary. He had decided that the answer must lie miles away with Brother Bede. If it didn’t he might just have to concede failure and go back to codes. He would make a recommendation for an exhaustive check on Gaymer Burton and suggest that he was prematurely retired. But he only had a year or two to go, anyway, and there wasn’t enough evidence for a charge. In all honesty he didn’t have enough evidence for anything or anybody. Unless it were the Bishop of Woodstock. A few words in that prelate’s ear and there would be some changes at Beaubridge.

  However, that was not his brief. He would make his farewells. Listen to Xavier’s sermon. An idea occurred to him. Perhaps the old thing would include some cryptic clue. He wouldn’t put it past him. Otherwise there was nothing except to attempt to speak to Anselm and get him to take his warnings seriously. That, he conceded, would be nearly impossible.

  Xavier’s sermon came first. It was good. Exceedingly good. The theme was loyalty to first principles, resistance to change for the sake of change. It was a mellifluous condemnation of the cheap and tatty, the artificial and the newfangled. It was unashamedly conservative, tailor-made for the Bishop, and left the entire Community, which was not renowned for any adherence to progressive principles, glowing with self-righteousness. Bognor followed it carefully and found no clues of any sort.

  He accosted Xavier after he had finished receiving the congratulations of the visitor.

  ‘What a triumph!’ he said as the Bishop rolled unsteadily towards Anselm’s study in search of some early evening sherry. ‘Can I get you a drink? I won’t have another chance, I’m off in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you no,’ said Xavier. ‘It’s left me a bit drained. I’m going to stay at home this evening. The liver’s not what it was. But thank you
for the thought.’

  ‘Of course, you don’t believe a word of what you said.’ Bognor was fishing vaguely.

  ‘I regard hypocrisy as my greatest personal attribute,’ said Xavier. ‘It’s the thing I do best of all. Though for once, or rather as usual, you’re quite wrong. I believe almost every word I said. Did you find the clue?’

  ‘No.’

  Xavier laughed. ‘I thought you might not. Never mind, you will one day. We’ll see you again before long. Take care.’ They shook hands.

  His other farewells were more perfunctory. Some he said that night and others he left till morning. Barnabas was, as usual, overcome with confusion, shuffling and curtseying and changing colour as he had on the first occasion they’d met. Both Simon and Aldhelm thanked him profusely and genuinely for not having betrayed them to Father Anselm. Brother Vivian was silent as ever. Father John with an evil smile offered to lend him The ABC and XYZ of Bee Culture. With each good-bye he found himself wondering if there would be another meeting under different conditions. Try as he would he still found it hard to believe that one of them had murdered Collingdale.

  His corporate farewell he said at Compline. It remained the one feature of the Friary he found wholly rewarding, because the poetry of movement and of words glossed over the manifold shortcomings of the individual. It was Father John’s turn to read, and his thin rasping voice gave an extra dimension of menace to the words: ‘Brethren, be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about seeking whom he may devour.’ For sheer drama the final raising of the cowls and the procession into the night remained the high-spot. He wished as he watched that that could be the final farewell. It was how he would like to remember them.

  The ultimate reality, of course, was Father Anselm. He came out to say good-bye by the Land Rover. He looked pained and penitent.

  ‘I do so greatly regret the circumstances of our meeting,’ he said. ‘I do trust you will revisit us in happier times.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Bognor. ‘But look… Before I go will you promise me one thing?’

  The Friar nodded. ‘But certainly.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Bognor said, ‘that you fully appreciate how serious this affair is. You must believe me it is deadly serious and the people who are involved in it are ruthless. I know how difficult it must be for you to appreciate that this sort of crime can flourish in surroundings like these, but it can and it has.

  ‘Now that you see what we suspect you too must be vigilant. I can’t impress that on you too carefully. If you see or hear anything which alarms you, ring Sir Erris Beg at once. I’m seeing that Inspector Pinney drops by from time to time to keep an eye on things. Tell him if anything strikes you as strange.

  ‘Whatever you do don’t try to confront anyone yourself. They may be old friends of yours, but they’ve killed twice already and I’m afraid they won’t hesitate to kill again. Do I make myself clear?’

  Bognor was quite impressed with his own seriousness. Father Anselm was wearing his most martyred expression. ‘I do, my son. God be with you.’ He shook hands.

  Bognor leapt into the Land Rover and revved loudly before letting the clutch out. He had engaged the wrong gear and it stalled. As he turned to wave after a more successful second attempt, his profound sense of irritation was increased still more by the sight of Father Anselm with his eyes closed making the sign of the cross. He wrestled the heavy vehicle round the corner, frowning furiously. If it was Father Anselm he had a colossal nerve.

  When he turned the vehicle out of the wood above Woodstock, the town was hidden still in a morning mist which floated up from the sewage farm, on the river and obscured everything but a few of the taller school buildings. Although it was almost half past ten, the sun was making scant impression on this unhealthy cloud. It was rather like descending from the rarefied sunny atmosphere of the higher Alps to the greyness of the plain. Sir Erris was already in situ with a pink gin, and Bognor, still greatly piqued by his behaviour, made him buy another for himself.

  ‘Well, you dropped me in it,’ said Bognor.

  Sir Erris looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d forestall any trouble from Bert Camberley by ringing him to say everything was under control.’

  ‘And?’

  Sir Erris winced nervously at the memory. ‘He said that as far as he could see it wasn’t in the least under control and that he didn’t believe for an instant that his son bumped himself off.’

  ‘So you then told him everything you knew.’

  ‘Not just like that. But I had to tell him something. He got it out of me in the end. He’s very persistent and he was very upset and I didn’t seem able…’ Sir Erris coughed into his gin and drank it. ‘Why? Did it matter much? I’m sure you’ve solved it by now.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Bognor. ‘I wish you hadn’t told him. He told Anselm and then Anselm more or less told Gaymer Burton.’

  ‘Gaymer Burton? He was at school with my brother. Arrogant little shit. What happened to him?’

  Bognor bought a couple more gins and told him. He also told him about Brother Aldhelm and about the poker school. Sir Erris enjoyed it all. When he’d finished he said, ‘Bloody funny. But you’re no nearer a solution.’

  Bognor demurred. ‘I’ve got some clues,’ he said, ‘and some hunches. But from now on in I’m disposed to wait. If there’s a secret going out with the honey this year our man must make a move soon. And if we don’t discover anything in the next couple of weeks we’ll pick up Anselm and Simon at Heathrow and do them over along with the honey.’

  ‘You really think they’ll smuggle something out after all this brouhaha?’

  ‘I really think so.’

  ‘And you’re prepared to wait and see?’

  ‘Don’t have much alternative. Pinney had got some odd details about people’s backgrounds and their real names. I shall do some research on that. I’ve alerted Anselm. He’ll be in touch with you or Pinney if anything happens: I want Pinney to drop in every so often to check the place out. And I for my part will ruminate.’ He suddenly remembered that Sir Erris was keeping an eye on him. ‘Do you think that’s right?’ he asked.

  ‘Hope so.’ They finished their drinks and walked to the station. Bognor bought a set of morning papers, gave Sir Erris his home phone number in case of emergencies and watched him wheeze away. The train was running late since, as always, they were working on the line and were also in the throes of some incomprehensible industrial dispute. The journey back to Paddington took an hour longer than usual. Although he normally disliked train journeys, finding them tedious and uncomfortable, he experienced a growing sense of liberation. It had not been an enjoyable few days. He remembered the iron bed and the dingy little room and shuddered. He thought of studying the files, but decided against it. There were another two weeks for that.

  6

  HE TOOK A TAXI from Paddington to his flat, which, thanks to a moderate legacy from an aunt rather than any generosity from the civil service, was a comfortable bachelor residence overlooking Regent’s Park. The bookshelves bulged with reference books, notably numerous bright yellow Wisdens, and there were some quite nice water-colours on the walls, left him by the same aunt. The place was a great deal tidier than when he’d left and the char had made the bed.

  He knew that he ought to telephone Brother Bede immediately, but for once indolence got the better of enthusiasm and he had a bath. Afterwards, instead of ringing Bede, he rang Monica. He was fond of Monica. She had been his regular girl-friend now for more years than he cared to remember and, as both of them were emotionally lazy but sexually quite keen, the arrangement worked rather well. For some reason she had never moved in, but they both assumed that eventually they would get married, though the subject was never mentioned.

  Monica said she’d be round soon and asked if he’d managed to lose any weight, to which he made no reply.

  He expunged the memory of Beaubridge in some style.
They had a lot to drink and then they went to Lacy’s in Whitfield Street with Americans and fabulously expensive marble tiles on the floor. There they had a lot more to drink. They ate a succulent fish pâté made of salmon and turbot and spinach in squares like an edible chess-board and then they had a delicately flavoured sesame chicken which they were too tipsy to appreciate and then they had rich chocolate cake with cream, followed by brandies and a cigar for him, at which she was allowed a couple of puffs. Then they got a taxi back to Bognor’s flat where they went straight to bed and made love seriously and conventionally till the early hours of the morning.

  At seven-thirty he woke with a head which hurt more than on the morning after Brother Vivian had hit it.

  She was standing over him fully dressed with a glass of Alka Seltzer in one hand and a postcard in the other. ‘Got to rush,’ she said, handing them both to him. ‘Super evening. Really super. I’ll ring later.’ She gave him a gentle kiss and let herself out.

  He drank the Alka Seltzer and smiled after her. It was good to have earned a headache. Then he remembered the postcard. It was postmarked Oxford and marked ‘personal’ in the top left corner. He studied it for a moment, trying to think who he still knew in Oxford. His tutors were all dead and most of those contemporaries who had entered academia were in Wales, Scotland or West Africa. He gave up speculating and turned it over. The address was All Souls College, Oxford, and it said simply: ‘I wonder if you would care to dine with me here on the 17th (the Eve of Expo-Brit). Black tie.’ It was signed ‘Robert Camberley’.

  Bognor shivered. Why on earth should Camberley want him to dine at All Souls the night before the departure of the Expo-Brit expedition? It could hardly be his idea of a joke. Perhaps he simply wanted to interfere, to be in at the kill.

  Bognor got up, had a bath and boiled himself an egg. Over breakfast he read The Times headlines and then put pen to postcard.