Masterstroke (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 16

  Ampleside was not a major public school and yet to call it a minor public school was less than fair. It hovered in a sort of no man’s land between the excellent and the mediocre, never quite sure whether it was on the verge of promotion from the second division or relegation from the first. If you accepted Evelyn Waugh’s grades (‘leading school, first-rate school, good school and school’), then Ampleside was either among the last of the leading or the first of the first-rate. But Waugh’s caveat about these definitions should be remembered (‘Frankly,’ said Mr Levy, ‘“school” is pretty bad’). Ample-side was not bad, not bad at all, but it seldom attained excellence or even aspired to it. It was worthy, it was hardworking, it was hearty and it was dull.

  Reaching Ampleside Station shortly after six, Bognor, who had never previously visited the place, learned that the school and its constituent houses were on the outskirts of town, some fifteen minutes’ walk away. It was a fine evening and, despite the continuing fragility of his condition, Bognor had no objection to hoofing it. The exercise might clear the brain. In any case walking was the next best thing to jogging; if he walked often and fast enough he might one day build up to a gentle jog. It was unlikely but possible.

  The town was quiet, pleasant without being picturesque, and just too small to be disfigured by an excrescence of large chain stores and supermarkets. In the wide main street, with a number of battered half-timbered houses, Bognor noticed a couple of almost serious bookshops and one or two pubs which looked like serious drinking places. He was tempted to drop in for a pint but thought better of it. Time for that on his return, always provided he was successful.

  The school itself was less attractive than the town, being a Victorian foundation with twentieth-century additions. This meant an imposing bogus baronial front with a high tower over a gateway which was a weak parody of Apocrypha Great Gate. Also glass and concrete science blocks. It had space, however, much of it green and well mown, and peopled in places with boys in white playing out the last overs of the afternoon’s cricket. Under the arch was a porter’s lodge, and here Bognor stopped to inquire the whereabouts of Mr Crutwell.

  ‘Who?’ asked the school custos, a scarlet-faced pensioner of vaguely military mien.

  ‘Crutwell,’ said Bognor. ‘Mr Crutwell. He’s a housemaster.’

  The custos shook his head in evident perplexity. ‘Who do you say?’ he asked again.

  Bognor felt the panic rising like sap. It was Ampleside that Crutwell taught at, surely? Or had he misheard or misunderstood? Could it have been Ardingly or Alleyns or Allhallows or Abingdon or Aldenham or even Ampleforth?

  ‘Crutwell,’ he said again. ‘Mr Crutwell. C-R-U-T-W-E-L-L. Crutwell.’

  The custos stared as blankly as before, and then suddenly his face became suffused with understanding. ‘You mean Mr Crutwell,’ he said, smiling broadly at Bognor as if he was the fool.

  Bognor was on the point of expostulating, but realized it would only complicate matters. ‘Crutwell,’ he said, smiling. ‘That’s the chap.’

  ‘He’s housemaster of Bassingthwaite,’ said the custos.

  ‘Is he? And where’s that?’

  The porter grumbled to his feet, holding his back like a rheumatic in a Will Hay comedy, and staggered out into the evening’s shadows. Much pointing, gesticulating and unintelligible direction-finding ensued.

  ‘Fine,’ said Bognor. ‘Thanks very much. I’m sure I’ll find it quite all right.’ He set off into the sunset, blinking slightly and resolved to ask the first sane boy he saw where Bassingthwaite really was. From behind came a shout. It was the custos. Swearing silently, Bognor retraced his steps.

  ‘You looking for Mr Crutwell?’

  ‘That was the general sort of idea, yes.’

  ‘You won’t find him at Bassingthwaite.’

  ‘Oh. Just as well you caught me. I might have had a wasted journey. Where will he be?’

  ‘At Big Field watching Potters.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bognor. ‘Silly of me. I should have known. Big Field, watching Potters. Right, then. I suppose that’s Big Field over there?’ He pointed towards the grandest of the cricket pitches, the only one with spectators.

  The custos nodded.

  ‘Well, thank you so much. I’m much indebted to you.’ And once more Bognor strode off past the ivy-covered red brick, through the lengthening shadows, across a gravelled quadrangle, through a post-war cloister complete with war memorial to Ampleside’s glorious dead, and out on to Big Field. Most of the onlookers were on the far side of the ground, boys standing or sprawling on the grass, masters and their wives in canvas deckchairs. Near to him, however, a small, spotty boy was leaning against a wall, hands in pockets. At Bognor’s approach he took his hands out of his pockets and stood to attention. Then, seeing that Bognor was not a member of staff, he put his hands back in his pockets and slumped against the wall.

  ‘Is this Big Field?’ asked Bognor, feeling fatuous.

  The small boy gave him a look of withering contempt. Bognor withered and tried again: ‘What’s the score?’

  ‘Bassingthwaite need another ten.’

  Bognor looked at the scoreboard and saw that Bassingthwaite were a hundred and sixty-two for the loss of nine wickets.

  ‘And the last pair in?’

  ‘But one of them’s Hodgkiss Major,’ said the boy.

  ‘Good is he, Hodgkiss?’

  ‘Made a hundred against Fraffleigh,’ said the boy.

  Even as they spoke one of the batsmen leaned into his stroke and played what the professional commentators always call a ‘cultured’ cover drive for four. Amid the ripple of clapping that greeted this shot Bognor heard a familiar voice call out, ‘Oh, well played, Hodgkiss!’

  Following the direction of the shout, Bognor saw Peter Crutwell. Bassingthwaite’s housebeak was sprawled in a deckchair whose stripes were no more alarmingly vivid than those of the blazer that covered his upper half. On his head he wore a creamy panama hat with, though Bognor found this surprising since the society’s sporting affiliations and interests were non-existent, an Arkwright and Blennerhasset ribbon tied round it. Beside him, also in white flannels but hatless and with a more subdued blazer, was Ian Edgware. Both men had pipes clutched in their fists. They looked indeed as if they might have been advertising pipe tobacco, so resolutely masculine, conservative, traditional and British did they appear. Bognor remembered Rook’s remarks about ‘Bertie Wooftahs’ and found them hard to credit now that he was on Big Field watching Potters. Murder, homosexuality, Russian agents and all the unsavoury shenanigans of the last few days seemed to belong to another, bloodier, world. Yet, if Rook was to be believed, these were the very men who had turned the Apocrypha choir school into a prostitution racket.

  ‘Oh well,’ sighed Bognor, ‘only one way to find out.’ And he began to walk slowly round the boundary rope in the direction of the spectators. As he walked, play, of course, progressed. The Bassingthwaite boys were moving as circumspectly as Bognor himself. Occasionally Bognor stopped to watch as the runs accumulated in a trickle, each one greeted with handclaps and a shout from Crutwell. Bognor hoped his interest in Hodgkiss Major did not go beyond the bounds of cricket.

  Bognor and Bassingthwaite kept in remarkably good step, so that just as he arrived within a few yards of Crutwell’s deckchair, Hodgkiss Major’s bat described a slicing arc and the ball came off it square, in the rough direction of gully. It was not quite what he had intended, but it would do. Immediately Crutwell was on his feet, his pipe stuffed in his blazer pocket and his hands beating each other in heavy, rhythmical strokes as he led a very English housemaster’s chorus. ‘Well played, you two. Jolly well played. Good show, Hodgkiss. You too, Lorimer. Well played, all of you. Jolly well done, Bassingthwaite. Thoroughly good team effort. Jolly fine all-round show.’ All this interspersed with the rhythmic clap of the hands, a sort of marking time. Edgware, standing at his friend’s shoulder, was rather more subdued. He merely clapped, pipe rammed between his
teeth and smoking slightly. He had an expression of quiet approval on his manly features. Bognor, so caught up in the occasion that he found himself clapping too, walked slowly up to them and insinuated himself in the middle.

  ‘Good show,’ said Bognor. ‘Smashing finish.’

  ‘Jolly good show,’ echoed Edgware, somehow getting the words coherently through clenched lips and round his pipe.

  ‘Bloody fine show,’ said Crutwell. ‘First time Bassingthwaite’s won Potters since Fothergill’s time.’

  And then, still clapping, Crutwell and Edgware turned to look at the man in the middle, this third spectator who had just joined them. Bognor grinned at them both in turn, pleased at their sudden discomfiture.

  ‘I really enjoyed that,’ said Bognor, still clapping. ‘Unexpected bonus. Who’d have thought I’d have caught the dying moment of Potters on my first-ever visit to Ampleside?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Crutwell. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Edgware, removing the pipe from his teeth and smiling nervously. ‘What brings you to Ampleside?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Bognor. ‘Well, that’s a long and complicated story. I’m going to have to tell it, though. Do you have a moment?’

  ‘Well,’ Crutwell frowned. ‘The chaps are going off for high tea now, and then there’s prep. I suppose I can give you until prayers.’

  ‘Which are when?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘That should be fine,’ said Bognor, thinking that he could in that case take in a swift pint at one of the attractive Ampleside pubs before getting a late train home. It seemed an age since he had seen Monica, he reflected. In fact it would be distinctly agreeable to be able to put his feet up and enjoy a few hours of undisturbed peace and quiet.

  ‘You’re free, Ian?’ Crutwell asked Edgware, and Edgware nodded. ‘If you’ll excuse me a sec while I have a quick word with my chaps, I’ll be with you in half a mo,’ he continued, and walked off jauntily to give his victorious team a fatherly, personal, man-to-man shake of the hand, pat on the back, and general all-round housemaster’s approbation.

  ‘Funny seeing Peter in his natural habitat,’ said Edgware quietly. ‘He lives for his boys.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Bognor, watching this latter-day Mr Chips doing his stuff. ‘He’s obviously very good at it.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Edgware. ‘He’ll go right to the top. The very top. Barring accidents.’

  ‘Barring accidents,’ repeated Bognor.

  ‘I do hope,’ said Edgware, fixing Bognor with an unblinking and most meaningful stare, ‘that there aren’t going to be any accidents.’

  ‘I hope not, too,’ said Bognor.

  ‘I always think Apocrypha is a wonderful sort of freemasonry. Wherever you go, wherever you are, there’s always an Apocrypha man to help you out.’

  ‘Not in the Board of Trade, I’m afraid,’ said Bognor. ‘I’m the only Apocrypha man there. Certainly the only one in Special Operations.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Edgware smiled weakly.

  ‘But I do see,’ countered Bognor, ‘that in a place like the Foreign Office the Apocrypha Mafia may count for rather more.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a Mafia,’ said Edgware.

  ‘Oh,’ said Bognor, coldly, ‘wouldn’t you?’

  Before this exchange could become any more frigid they were rejoined by Peter Crutwell, who was rubbing his hands together and oozing euphoria from every pore.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we take a shufti across Sneath’s Meadow and see if there’s a crowd at the Duck and Drake? I think this calls for a pint of shandy.’

  Bognor was not going to drink shandy, but provided he could have bitter he was perfectly happy to fall in with this. A crowd, on the other hand, could be embarrassing. This was not the sort of conversation which anyone would want overheard.

  ‘Well,’ said Crutwell as they began to pace slowly towards the pub, ‘what exactly does bring you here? I can’t believe it’s simply the magic appeal of Potters.’

  ‘No,’ said Bognor. ‘I’ve come about the murder.’

  ‘I see.’ Crutwell put on a solemn, almost melancholy, face which Bognor guessed he used for lecturing boys prior to beating them. If beating boys was allowed still.

  ‘What about the murder, exactly?’

  ‘You must realize that everyone who was drinking with the Master that night is a suspect?’

  ‘Including you?’

  ‘Including me.’

  They were approaching a river lined with willows, recently pollarded. Cows grazed on the further bank. A wooden footbridge spanned the stream which flowed fast enough to create little swirling patterns on the surface, eddies among the reeds. A couple, entwined, were strolling towards them. It was very quiet, very pastoral, very English.

  ‘You sure he was murdered?’ asked Edgware. ‘Seems awfully melodramatic.’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Bognor. ‘As for melodrama – yes, I’m afraid things have been rather melodramatic lately. Sebastian Vole’s been killed and Max Aveline almost certainly did it. He’s fled to Russia. He’s a sort of supercharged Philby, it seems. But you’ll read all about that in tomorrow’s papers. Even I was attacked.’

  ‘I thought you looked a bit seedy,’ said Edgware sympathetically. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone ambushed me at the Randolph.’

  ‘Ah!’

  They crossed the bridge. No one spoke. Bognor noticed a pair of ducks diving for food, bottoms waggling absurdly in the air every time they submerged themselves. Crutwell turned left, hands deep in pockets, head slumped forward, evidently deep in thought.

  ‘Where’ve you been, by the way?’ asked Bognor. ‘I could have sworn I saw you in the High the other day. Either of you have a scarlet Range Rover?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Crutwell. ‘I take it on digs. Actually it nominally belongs to the school archaeological society, but it’s licensed in my name.’

  ‘Was it you?’

  ‘No,’ said Crutwell.

  ‘Yes,’ said Edgware.

  Another, longer, silence ensued, more pregnant this time. Ahead of them Bognor could see a thatched, whitewashed building with an inn sign outside as well as a scattering of picnic tables, all but one unoccupied.

  Crutwell relit his pipe, an elaborate process which had the intended effect of making speech impossible. He obviously did not know what to say next, and lighting his pipe was an attempt to disguise the fact. It fooled no one, not even him. Bognor, on the other hand, had no intention of making life easier for either of them by asking a direct question. Not yet.

  ‘Quite empty,’ said Edgware, indicating the pub.

  They continued in silence.

  Eventually, on reaching the garden, Bognor asked the others what they were drinking. Crutwell stayed with his shandy. Edgware, on the other hand, asked if Bognor would mind awfully if he were to have a gin and tonic. It was, he supposed, silly of him to give them the chance to get their act together while he fetched the drinks, but he had a hunch which told him that despite some evidence to the contrary it would be Edgware who would prevail. Edgware wanted to tell the truth, Crutwell to conceal it. Bognor felt confident that by the time he settled himself down in the garden the others would have decided that small lies would lead to greater ones and ultimately disaster. Crutwell, used to getting away with deceptions in a world in which his word was accepted without question, was less of a realist than Edgware, whose life was founded largely on determining the extent of deception permissible in oneself and the degree of deception being attempted by others.

  Returning to their table with the drinks balanced on a battered old tin tray, Bognor found that, as he had expected, an earnest confabulation had taken the place of the earlier silences, though quiet descended again at his approach.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, sitting down. The pub was a free house and sold draught Young’s, his favourite beer. Life was looking up.

  ‘Cheers.’ The two other Apocrypha men were not
going to forgo social niceties at a time like this.

  ‘Look,’ said Edgware, carefully removing the slice of lemon from his glass and depositing it on the tray, ‘I’m afraid there are one or two things we have to tell you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor. He smiled, and wiped froth from his upper lip.

  ‘The fact is,’ said Edgware, ‘that it was us you saw in the High that afternoon.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor again, still smiling.

  ‘We had rather hoped,’ went on Edgware, ‘that we wouldn’t bump into anyone we knew.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bognor.

  ‘The reason being,’ said Crutwell, ‘that we were contemplating something which wouldn’t have looked very good had we been found out.’

  ‘Theft,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Well,’ Crutwell was looking very much as if he would have preferred something stronger than shandy, ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

  ‘How would you put it, then?’

  ‘Simon’s quite right,’ said Edgware. ‘No point in pretending otherwise. We’d come up to Oxford to steal something.’

  ‘Files from the Master’s office.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But when you got there,’ said Bognor helpfully, ‘you found that someone had been there before you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you mind,’ asked Bognor, gently, for vestiges of affection and respect for his college, its good name, its former members and general esprit de corps still remained in him, ‘telling me why you were so keen to get those files that you were actually prepared to nick them?’

  ‘I imagine you know that by now,’ said Crutwell, aggressively.

  ‘I want you to tell me,’ said Bognor.