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

  Which left three. Bede remained in Carshalton reading Tribune and the Red Mole and applying to Lampeter and Cuddesdon. It took him time to get over the shock and he was irritated too that his brother had beaten off the press with such effect. He had hoped that he might emulate those who sold their memoirs for vast fortunes, but the scandal had been shortlived and his notoriety had not survived the week-end. Relations between himself and his brother were strained, but he had nowhere else to go and his leaving present of five pounds from Father Anselm had been spent already. He went to some demonstrations and meetings, and was followed everywhere by men from the Board of Trade.

  Bognor regarded him as an important candidate. Under close questioning from Inspector Pinney, Brother Bede’s alibi had not stood up well. Paul, of course, denied being late, and the other two friars claimed that Bede had been on his own at times.

  That at least was what Bognor understood. Inspector Pinney’s report had been made in longhand and it was verbose. Also inconclusive. It would certainly not have been easy to establish anything in a court of law from the reported statements of the other brothers. They had been too busy running backwards and forwards with bowls of soup, clearing up empties and helping to serve, to notice or remember anything significant.

  Xavier seemed to be suffering from anticlimax like the majority of his colleagues. His routine was unchanged. He still made regular excursions to the Boot and he still smoked too many Perfectos Finos. His wit was as acid as ever, but he seemed depressed. A great deal of his time was spent in the library cataloguing. That was the excuse, though there was an unpleasant altercation when Father Anselm came in one morning to read The Times and found that Xavier had scribbled all over the section of the sports page devoted to horse-racing. After Anselm had delivered himself of a high-flown monologue on the evils of defacing communal property and of taking an interest in the horses, Xavier simply said, ‘I know two things about the horse; and one of them is rather coarse.’

  His fortunes in Bognor’s notebook had fluctuated constantly. At times Bognor decided that he was too outrageous altogether; then he remembered Guy Burgess and thought again. It was a constant battle between his affections for the man and his emerging professional self.

  The same battle was fought over Anselm, only the roles of emotion and reason were reversed. Anselm had seemed greatly relieved after Bognor’s departure and for a couple of days had been positively genial.

  He played squash with his old friend the headmaster; sanctioned the reading of P. G. Wodehouse at silent lunches; and threw himself into the preparations for Expo-Brit along with Father Simon. But after the initial relief he began to look harrowed once more. In the opinion of his brothers, who gossiped constantly about his moods and preoccupations, it was the reappearance of the stolid Inspector Pinney which did it. Anselm had genuinely convinced himself that the whole nightmare had vanished, that there had never been such people as Luke and Bede and Batty Thomas and Bognor; and then in the middle of the morning cocoa break on Wednesday, just as he had been gazing round the yard and thinking how peaceful and contented his children were, he caught sight of Inspector Pinney. The Inspector had said that he had just happened to be passing by and there were one or two loose ends which needed tidying and did he mind if he asked one or two simple questions. It seemed quite innocuous, but it reminded him of the chain of disasters which had disturbed their quiet routine and it made him nervous once more.

  Bognor would like to have nailed Anselm as the guilty one; and as he sat cudgelling his mind in the early evening over a brandy at the flat or daydreaming in a steamy bath, the one man he wanted to convict was always Father Anselm. Unfortunately it wasn’t going to work like this and such intuition as he possessed told him so.

  There was, of course, more to the Community than the eight suspects (it had been eight, but Bognor was now forced to add the name of Brother Paul as a ninth half-suspect), and the deaths had impinged less on the lives of other friars.

  Luke had scarcely been known to most people and he was not greatly liked; Batty Thomas had been liked well enough but he was no one’s bosom companion; Bede had been resented by many and thought to be off his head by most. So the events had not left any huge gaps, and the great majority of the brethren, while conceding that their peaceful lives had received an upsetting jolt, settled back amiably into the old routines.

  If anyone had suggested that the soul had gone out of the Community some might have agreed, but the majority would not have noticed.

  As Expo-Brit grew closer the air of expectancy grew greater. For a handful of friars at Beaubridge, Oxfordshire, for Bognor in Whitehall, for Sir Erris in his rural Oxfordshire retreat, for Lord Camberley commuting between directorships and stately homes and All Souls—September 18 had a special significance. By then the waiting would be over.

  7

  THE WAITING BEGAN TO stop, unknown to some, on the day before. It was immediately after Terce on Bishop Lambert’s day. Bishop Lambert was not a saint of any great stature but he was always dutifully commemorated by the Community. He came from Maastricht and lived in the seventh century, and beyond that no one at Beaubridge knew anything, except that the lesson for the day came from Daniel and was that curious business of the writing on the wall which culminates in the death of Belshazzar and the succession of Darius.

  Immediately after Terce on Bishop Lambert’s day the sun was still trying to break through a light watery mist and there was a mild confusion in the courtyard as the friars began to set about their morning’s labours. Father Anselm stood just outside the farmhouse door clasping his big black bible to his chest and wondering how the Friary would manage in the absence of himself and Father Simon. He was on the point of turning indoors to deal with the morning post when he observed Father Xavier moving across the yard in his direction. He was holding a buff envelope.

  Father Anselm had no wish to involve himself with his bête noire at that hour of the morning and he turned hastily to avoid him. Father Xavier, however, was not to be fobbed off so easily. He called after Anselm, quite politely, and Anselm, surprised at the placatory tone of his voice, stopped and turned back.

  ‘Father Anselm,’ said Xavier. He looked very tired and his manner was uncharacteristically conciliatory. Father Anselm decided to meet friendliness with friendliness. He smiled.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I just wanted to say,’ said Xavier, ‘that I’m afraid I’ve been a bit difficult and obstructive recently. It’s my liver, I think, not that that’s any excuse. And I just wanted to say I’m awfully sorry about my general manner, and particularly about that episode in the library the other day. I’m afraid I was unforgivably rude.’

  Father Anselm was taken aback. ‘That’s all right, my son,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s just as much my fault. I’m afraid I can appear rather intransigent at times. Don’t let it concern you. As I remind myself frequently, we must look to the future. Far better plan future happiness than dwell on past sorrows. Or, to borrow from the vernacular, there is no point in crying over spilt milk.’

  ‘No.’ Father Xavier stopped and looked at the ground. It occurred to Anselm that he was not finding this easy. Humility was not his forte.

  ‘Was there something else?’ he asked, meaning it kindly but making it sound patronising.

  ‘There was actually.’ Anselm thought Xavier seemed more ill-at-ease than even his apology would explain. ‘It is tomorrow that you and Father Simon are off on the Expo-Brit?’

  ‘Yes.

  ‘And you are going to Rumania?’

  ‘Yes. You know we are.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I wonder if I could ask the most enormous favour?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, you know how difficult it is for our brothers in Eastern Europe?’

  ‘Yes.’ Father Xavier was making extraordinarily heavy weather of this.

  ‘Well, I have a young friend in Bucharest, a Carmelite. I haven’t seen him for ages. I daren’t write to him normally.
You know what these Communist regimes are like. They open everything and they persecute people with Western contacts.’

  ‘So you’d like me to deliver the letter personally?’

  ‘Well, not personally,’ said Xavier, quickly. ‘It’s only foreign mail from countries like this that they suspect. No, if you just post it when you get to Bucharest, that would be fine.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, that’s simple, then. Of course. A mission of Christian love and charity. It will help to lighten the burden of participating in such a materialist excursion as an export drive.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Father Xavier gave him the letter. ‘You won’t forget?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘And one thing.’ Father Xavier paused. ‘You know what these people are like. Their spies are everywhere. I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell too many people you were acting as a courier.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Thank you, then.’ They parted, Father Xavier to the library and Father Anselm to his study. Before he started to examine his post Father read the address on the envelope idly. ‘Brother Aloysius,’ it said, ‘117 Bde. Georgiu-Dej, Bucharest.’ It was really rather touching. Perhaps he had misread Father Xavier. He offered up a little prayer for forgiveness, and put the letter in the top of a basket marked ‘Pending’.

  He thought no more about it for a couple of hours while he answered some letters, made a couple of phone calls and drafted a sheet of instructions for Father John, who, contrary to some advice, was to be left in charge while he and Simon were away. At about 10.30 Father Simon came in, a worried fraught expression on his face.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, twitching, ‘that that frightful man Rosenbaum has changed our hotel yet again?’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Anselm. ‘It’s not that important, just a little frustrating. Providing we have somewhere to sleep I don’t see that it’s that important.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Simon, with feeling, ‘I think I may be getting anti-Semitic.’ He came round the desk and looked over Anselm’s shoulder. ‘Have you reminded John to say the stations of the cross on Friday?’ he asked, looking at the neatly written catalogue. His eye strayed across to the pending tray and took in the envelope addressed to Brother Aloysius. The address had been typed. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Who’s that from?’

  ‘Xavier,’ said Anselm absently.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Simon. ‘He has a lot of friends in these places. I’m surprised he never asks to go on a trip.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ said Father Anselm, who was trying to compile some detailed directions about the oil-fired central heating. The tanker was coming next week and he was sure John would be unable to cope. ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I was only saying that Xavier had a lot of friends in these places. I seem to remember him giving me a letter to a Benedictine in Warsaw four years ago.’

  ‘Yes. Very interesting. Is there anything else? This is complicated.’

  Father Simon pursed his lips. ‘No, nothing else. It’s just odd that he never seems to talk about them.’ He went out, slamming the door behind him.

  It wasn’t until Father Anselm had finished drafting his letter to Father John that he assimilated Father Simon’s remarks. He thought about it vaguely as he wandered out for the cocoa break, and wondered if he had seriously undervalued Xavier. It was an unanticipated side of the man’s character. He continued in this cheerful vein until he was halfway towards the trestle with its chipped urn when he looked up to see the intrusive Inspector Pinney. He suddenly went very cold.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ said the Inspector as Father Anselm stopped and put a hand to his head. For an instant he thought the man was going to faint.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Perfectly. What can I do for you?’ Anselm’s voice was tense.

  ‘Nothing in particular, sir. I just happened to be passing by. Thought I’d drop in and see everything was O.K. You’re off to foreign parts tomorrow, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Father Anselm seemed to have recovered. He offered the inspector a mug of the weak cocoa and chattered to him inconsequentially and plausibly about various everyday matters. The Inspector left after a quarter of an hour. It had been peculiar, that moment, he thought to himself. Not like Father Anselm. He was usually so well in control of everything. Probably just got last-minute nerves about going off to Rumania. He wondered if he should mention it to Sir Erris.

  Father Anselm finished his cocoa and went back to his office, where he sat down heavily and picked up Father Xavier’s letter. He sat looking at it vacantly for a good twenty minutes.

  Normally he would not have been in the least worried by it. He would have dismissed Father Simon’s querulous innuendoes without stopping to consider them, but the sudden reminder of that dreadful week of death and scandal had made him unnaturally suspicious. He turned the letter over. There was nothing on the back. There was, he told himself, nothing remotely peculiar about it. He was just being melodramatic.

  At the same time it was difficult to over-dramatise when you’d had two people murdered under your very nose. He tried to remember what Mr. Bognor had said to him, ‘Ring Sir Erris Beg in emergencies’, but was this an emergency? Hardly. One of his senior brothers had written a letter to an old friend in Bucharest and asked him to post it. Now where was the emergency in that? He was being ridiculous. In any case, what was he supposed to do? He could hardly go round opening people’s private correspondence, particularly when it had been given to him in trust. He returned the letter to the pending basket and went on a tour of inspection.

  It was sunny now and although it was a crisp pale autumn sunshine it buoyed him up. He put the business of the letter out of his mind and walked up the lane a little way to see how the tree-felling was getting on. The smell of fresh sawdust and sap pleased him still more and he returned ten minutes before Sext in a state bordering on contentment. He was cogitating quietly in his study, preparing himself for the Office, when the phone rang. It was Sir Erris Beg.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. Father Anselm meditated briefly on the evils of alcohol. Sir Erris’s voice sounded blurred, and yet it was only ten past twelve.

  ‘Perfectly, thank you, Sir Erris. Father Simon and I leave at first light in the morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sir Erris sounded disappointed. He put the phone down. Father Anselm noticed Xavier’s letter and felt disturbed again. Suddenly he remembered the policeman’s threat. He had said that if the case of the vanishing secrets were not solved, then Simon and he would be apprehended at the airport and searched. That was too absurd. But if they were searched then Father Xavier’s letter would be found. Perhaps he should warn Xavier, but no. That was equally ridiculous. He would simply refuse to show the letter to the authorities, to Bognor or anyone else. It was a free country and the letter was private. He left to celebrate Sext.

  Afterwards at lunch he sat next to Father Simon. Halfway through, between the fish pie and the prunes, Father Simon whispered to him: ‘I happened to mention that letter to Father Olaf. He said that Xavier gave him one last year when he went to Sofia.’

  Anselm looked back at him disapprovingly. ‘You shouldn’t gossip,’ he said. ‘It’s bad for morale and it’s wrong.’

  ‘Sorry I’m sure,’ said Father Simon. But it worried Anselm. He left half his prunes. Suppose, after all, that the police were right? Suppose that there were a spy in their midst? That dear Edward Jones had brought down some secrets that week-end and given them to Xavier and Xavier had given them to him to post in Bucharest? That would be dreadful. If so, then surely he would have a duty to open the letter? But that would be equally bad. He sighed. He wished life were less complicated.

  It so upset him that he stumbled twice in reading the psalm at None. That was very unlike him and it did not pass unnoticed. Immediately after the service two sentences were exchanged between Father Xavier and Brother Paul, which though apparently
innocuous, would have greatly interested Simon Bognor, even if he would not quite have grasped its significance.

  ‘I’m not happy about Anselm,’ said Xavier, pulling hard on his cigarette. ‘Something’s upsetting him.’

  ‘Relax, Father,’ replied the younger man. ‘It’s probably just the prunes.’

  Bognor, of course, did not overhear the remark and was indeed unaware of what was happening at the Friary. He too was on edge. He had succumbed to temptation and telephoned Sir Erris, but Sir Erris had been able to tell him nothing. He had busied himself with arranging the apprehension of the two friars at London Airport next day, but it was routine work and presented no challenge and was no sort of diversion. That evening he was dining at All Souls and that worried him too. There had to be some ulterior motive for that and if there was going to be some dramatic revelation then it was being left a little late in the day. He lunched in the canteen and wondered whether to drive to Oxford or take the train.

  Father Anselm couldn’t concentrate that afternoon either. His mind kept wandering. He tried to do a little packing, but nothing seemed to fit into his suitcase properly and he abandoned it till later. He attempted to explain the central heating to Father John, but Father John was being more than usually obtuse, so he just left the paper with him. At half past three he went to the chapel and prayed for guidance, but even then the words failed him. He attempted to formulate a prayer about the invasion of privacy and the opening of mails, but each time it sounded more absurd. He gave up and recited the Lord’s Prayer several times.

  Afterwards he took a brief walk up the hillside. He remembered the confrontation with Gaymer Burton. What if he had been wrong? If only there was someone other than God to whom he could turn for advice.

  Bognor had suggested that he ought to ring Sir Erris Beg, but he would certainly not do that. The involvement of outsiders, and particularly the police, had brought him and the Community nothing but trouble. He would deal with this situation on his own. As far as he was concerned it was a purely internal affair. He watched as a rabbit stood up and peered about it, nose a-twitch, then saw him and ran off down its hole. Perhaps the best thing would be to summon Xavier and ask him to show him the contents of the letter himself. No. That would imply lack of trust and it would be wrong of him to display that.