Unbecoming Habits (The Simon Bognor Mysteries Book 1) Page 2

  They had reached the hill above Great Ogridge now, Brother Paul asked who the victim had been, and Bognor turned in his seat before answering, wondering if the reply would have any effect.

  ‘Brother Luke?’ There seemed to be relief but no real recognition. ‘He was new, wasn’t he? I’m afraid he’d only just arrived when I went away. It was my mother, you know. She died. Cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right. It wasn’t exactly a surprise.’

  Sir Erris grated the gears through the village with its low picture-postcard cottages and its towering church, then plunged recklessly across the main road and up the hill the other side. He was no longer singing and he stared out though the windscreen with all the inherited malevolence of generations of warriors. At the top, on the plateau before the descent to the Friary, he pulled over on to the verge.

  ‘There,’ he said, gesticulating to the north. ‘Scene of the crime.’

  Bognor looked down into the valley, assimilated the gorse and the haze and the sheep and inhaled the warmth of the English countryside, its silence and its somnolence. It seemed a million miles from urban violence and the impersonal butchery of international espionage—mellow and mild and unchanged, surely for centuries. And yet down in that Arcadian setting someone had throttled Collingdale with a crucifix.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Bognor, scratching his right ear. ‘I suppose we’d better go and have a look.’

  2

  FATHER ANSELM WAS WAITING. He had seen the Land Rover approaching and had anticipated the arrival of the policeman from London. As the vehicle stopped sharply, scattering chickens and dust, Brother Paul jumped surprisingly nimbly from the back, shouted a quick thank you and was gone. Bognor was unable to follow because Sir Erris and Father Anselm were already shaking hands.

  ‘I am sorry that we should meet again under such unhappy circumstances,’ the Friar was saying. ‘I hope Lady Beg didn’t find the fête too much of a strain.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We made over £200 this year and although I would like to attribute it to the intervention of the Almighty I’m afraid it’s largely Father Godfrey’s doing. It pays to have a bank manager among us.’

  All this was said with extreme rapidity, and there was hardly a pause as he turned towards Bognor and inclined his head. ‘And this,’ he said, ‘must be the gentleman from Scotland Yard. Good afternoon, Inspector, and welcome to Beaubridge. I’m only sorry that your first visit should be in a professional capacity.’

  ‘Not Scotland Yard actually,’ said Bognor, and then saw Sir Erris nodding at him ferociously. ‘I intend,’ he continued, rallying, ‘to treat my visit as a retreat. The real work will be done by my colleagues from Woodstock. I shall spend a great deal of my time in contemplation.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Friar. ‘That would be agreeable, but you’re being unduly modest. One of our concessions to progress and materialism is, I am afraid, a television set. It’s largely because of that, that we understand the significance of Scotland Yard. However, I am being flippant. You will want to unpack. Brother Barnabas here,’ he indicated a short round man with extremely thick spectacles, who had been shifting from one foot to another in an orgy of embarrassment, ‘is our guestmaster. He’ll look after you.’ Brother Barnabas smiled broadly and executed a manœuvre which seemed very like a curtsey. ‘Perhaps you’ll join Sir Erris and myself for tea when you’re ready,’ said Father Anselm. ‘Anyone will show you the way.’

  The two men turned away, leaving Bognor with his guestmaster. ‘Got much luggage, then?’ he inquired in a thick North Country accent.

  ‘Just the one case, thanks.’ He took the battered brown leather case from the back of the Land Rover and followed Brother Barnabas.

  ‘We’ve had to give you Room Thirteen,’ he said leading the way out of the courtyard and towards a long low post-war building which looked like a sophisticated Nissen hut. ‘Brother Luke’s old room.’ He turned and smiled as broadly as before. ‘Hope you’re not superstitious.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bognor. ‘Not at all.’ A crazily paved path ran down the length of the building to the main door at the far end. Thriving Virginia creeper gave the whole an artificial softness, concealing the cheap red brick which contrasted unfavourably with the older Ham stone which had been used in the original buildings. Inside the narrow door an equally narrow and unlit corridor ran down the centre of the house. Doors led off to left and right at frequent intervals—it was a bit like the tourist class on a cut price (very cut price) cruise liner. The odd numbers were on the left and Bognor’s new home was therefore the seventh door.

  ‘You should be comfortable here,’ said Brother Barnabas, demonstrating the springs of the iron bedstead with the palm of one hand. ‘Bathroom’s the third door on the right.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bognor. ‘How do I find Father Anselm’s study?’

  ‘It’s in the Old House. Off the courtyard. I should ask there.’

  Brother Barnabas seemed to be hovering and Bognor wondered if he was waiting for a tip. ‘If you want any help,’ he said looking at the linoed floor, ‘I mean anything about poor Brother Luke… well you’ve only to ask. It’s been a blow, you see, and no mistake.’

  ‘You’re very kind. I’ll remember.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t mean to seem impertinent. It’s my manner. And that’s what the good Lord gave me. Thank you.’

  Bognor thanked him again and then, left on his own, stood for a moment contemplating the room. Poor Collingdale. There were two frames hanging on the walls. One was Holman Hunt’s Light of the World in dingy sepia—the other was a text: ‘Verily, verily I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth by itself alone; but if it die it bringeth forth much fruit. He that loveth his life loseth it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal. If any man serve Me follow Me; and where I am, there shall also My servant be. If any man serve Me, him will My father honour.’ ‘He that loveth his life loseth it,’ he repeated out loud. Poor Collingdale.

  There was a single overhead light with a dirty cream shade trimmed in maroon, a small light brown chest of drawers, a wardrobe of similar design and the functional iron bed, out of Hospital by Public School dormitory. No carpet or rug. The walls were painted a light green and the curtains were unlined in a faded but once-garish orange print.

  He unlocked the case and unpacked. Pyjamas under the pillow, shirts, socks, underpants, handkerchiefs in the chest.

  Shaving things, soap, towel, he put on top of the chest of drawers and then hung corduroy trousers and thick blue pullover on a wire coat hanger. After some thought, Wisden and the current Punch went on the chest along with his file. That was it. He had come for no longer than a week, and he’d soon sort this out. He was confident that the explanation would prove quite simple and straightforward. He wished he wasn’t so nervous.

  The window looked out towards the old buildings and the hills beyond. At least he had a view.

  But he must get on. His first encounter with the Abbot was about to take place. It would no doubt be extremely decorous, punctuated with donnish pleasantries and sips of Lapsang Souchong, or maybe Earl Grey. On reflection it would be Earl Grey. He had already formed an impression, based largely on his prejudices, of Father Anselm. Even if he hadn’t killed Collingdale he must be involved. He wondered if the heads of religious communities shouldered blame and responsibility in quite the same way as editors and battalion commanders. If so then Father Anselm was for the chop. You couldn’t have your friars going round doing each other in, any more than an editor could go on allowing expensive libels to be perpetrated by his reporters. The idea of Father Anselm getting the chop from the bishop rather thrilled Bognor, and he left his little room in a state of contained optimism.

  Conversation between Father Anselm and Sir Erris had clearly been flagging. Sir Erris didn’t like China tea any more than weak liquor, and he despised people who didn’t ‘get out and do something w
ith their lives’. Added to which there was the over-riding disadvantage that Sir Erris’ Christianity, though real enough, was primitive. He regarded incense, for instance, as effeminate and silly.

  Father Anselm, for his part, thought Sir Erris a cloddish yokel. He also, evidently, felt that his current misfortune placed him at a disadvantage. He had always previously been able to assume a moral superiority over the Chief Constable. This time the situation was reversed. So conversation was limp.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Bognor!’ exclaimed Father Anselm, jumping to his feet. ‘Or may I call you Simon.’

  Bognor was slightly non-plussed by this. Basically it seemed wrong for a suspect to call him by his Christian name, but he smiled weakly and agreed. ‘We have a Father Simon in the Community already I’m afraid, so there may be a little confusion,’ said Anselm. ‘Never mind. It’ll be purely transitory. Tea? Sugar? Milk or lemon? It is Earl Grey I’m afraid. One of my vices.’

  They sat and drank tea and discussed monasticism, the essential differences between the Benedictine and Franciscan rule and the power of private prayer.

  ‘I know you will want to study the way we work,’ said Father Anselm. ‘Who knows what hidden mysteries you may uncover by a simple study of the written words?’ He pressed some volumes on Bognor. ‘I think those should tell you much of what you need to know,’ he said. After some minutes of rather one-sided talk Bognor asked his first overtly professional question: ‘How well did you know Brother Luke?’

  ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to keep your promise,’ said Father Anselm, smiling patronisingly.

  ‘I only meant that you wouldn’t actually see me with a shorthand notebook cautioning people in all directions,’ said Bognor, ‘but I have to admit that I do have some professional curiosities. I am afraid there will have to be times when I allow them to get the better of me.’

  ‘I didn’t intend criticism—simply a mild and no doubt misplaced amusement. I’m sorry.’ Father Anselm’s apology made the initially rather feeble remark seem much worse. It probably had been intended as a joke but Father Anselm’s humour was largely academic. He was intelligent enough to recognise what was funny without actually finding it funny himself. ‘Brother Luke… No. He was quite new here. He wrote to me from his home and said that he had been prematurely retired from the Colonial Office—Tanganyika I believe—and he believed that he had a vocation.

  ‘He gave the name of two referees. A don at Cambridge’ (he mentioned the name of a prominent ministry contact) ‘and his previous superior in the Colonial Office.’

  ‘And you accepted him on the strength of that?’

  ‘It’s not quite so easy. The references were acceptable and we invited him for the week-end so that we could get to know one another. That was about eight weeks ago.’

  Bognor finished his cup of tea and accepted a second. There had been nothing in the man’s manner to suggest that he suspected Luke’s alternative identity. His edginess was entirely plausible. It was natural to accept the cover story. It was a perfectly good one, adequately authenticated.

  ‘The week-end was presumably a success?’

  ‘He seemed to me and those of my colleagues who discussed it with him, to have a very genuine sense of vocation. He evidently believed that he could be useful here. We agreed that he should join us as a novice.’

  ‘Which he did about five weeks later?’

  ‘There are always loose ends to be tied up, Mr. Bognor… Simon… even when the new brother is the loneliest of men, the most independent of characters, there are still leave-takings. Mundane matters have to be attended to. Bank managers to be interviewed, subscriptions to be cancelled. Above all a period of quiet contemplation is not undesirable before finally taking such an important step.’

  Bognor frowned. Collingdale had had a reputation as a womaniser and a rake. His five weeks would undoubtedly have been extremely dissipated. The more he thought about it, the more tasteless Collingdale’s mission became.

  ‘And he seemed to be settling in all right?’

  ‘I think so. He was a little erratic in his personal habits. Often a little late for offices. But he was, I believe, a genuinely good and thoughtful man. I believe he could, in time, have become a very useful member of our family here.’ He paused, as if as an afterthought, and said, ‘He was strangely interested in the bees.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. I recall him saying on one occasion that his father had kept them. Father John was taking him in hand over bees. Perhaps you should talk to him.’

  ‘Thank you, yes. You’ve no theories yourself then? No ideas about motive, for instance?’ asked Bognor, making a mental note to investigate the bees as soon as possible.

  ‘Alas, no. I am confident—with respect to your skills—that our prayers will provide us with an answer.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Bognor drained his cup. ‘Thank you for your help, I look forward to having another talk before long. Sir Erris, could I have a word with you?’ The two men said goodbye and went out into the courtyard. The sun was getting low over the hills. From the village they could hear a farmer chivvying his cows towards milking.

  ‘Do you think it’s time I met your policemen?’ asked Bognor nervously.

  ‘If you like,’ said Sir Erris. ‘But if you’ll accept my advice you’ll take it slowly. Try to be patient.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bognor, ‘I’ll see.’

  They found the men of the local constabulary pacing round the potato patch. Two constables were treading out distances under the supervision of Sergeant Chamberlain while Inspector Pinney contemplated the rich earth with his hands in his pockets. He took them out on recognising Sir Erris. Introductions once more.

  ‘Have you got anywhere?’ asked Bognor, trying to look impressed.

  ‘Done what you asked for,’ said the Inspector. ‘More than that… no, can’t say I have. Buggered if I know who did it. Or why. The reports are in the car.’

  ‘Could we go and have a look?’

  ‘Right.’

  He told the others to go on with their apparently meaningless manœuvres and led the way back to the courtyard.

  The papers were locked in the glove compartment of the Jaguar.

  ‘Best we could do in the time we’ve had,’ said Pinney, half apologetic, half truculent. He didn’t care for Londoners poaching on his territory, but he had a proper awareness of the structure of authority.

  There was only one item Bognor really wanted. He turned over the first two pages and found it.

  ‘The following members of the Society,’ it said, in flowing and immaculate copperplate, ‘have been in continuous residence at Beaubridge Friary for the past eleven years:

  ‘Father Anselm

  Father Xavier

  Father John

  Father Simon

  Brother Aldhelm

  Brother Vivian

  Brother Barnabas

  Brother Bede.

  ‘Certain inmates of the home attached to the Friary have been in continuous residence for a similar period. These are not enumerated as we are given to understand that this information is not relevant to the case.’

  Eight suspects. Eight suspects, that is, if the murder was part of the espionage business. And if it wasn’t, then it would surely have to be the work of a maniac. And if it was the work of a maniac then information about the inmates of the home might indeed be relevant to the case.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, debating the extent of the confidence into which he was about to take the Inspector and opting for caution. ‘I have a feeling,’ he continued, ‘that it will turn out to be one of these. Not, of course, that we can dismiss all the others. Do you have any hunches about any of them?’

  ‘Not really, sir. Can’t say I care for Father Anselm. Otherwise… well they’re a rum lot, but I don’t know I’d think any of them were murderers.’

  ‘Do any of them have anything to do with the honey?’

  Inspector Pinney looked at him as if he embodied all the
vices he had ever associated with urban people, Londoners in particular.

  ‘Father John looks after the bees,’ he said. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Could be.’

  They went back up to the potato patch, neither man talking, and found the others still pacing about and frowning. The patch was behind a wall and therefore invisible from the main part of the Friary. Not a bad spot for a murder, particularly at that time of the morning when everyone was busy. ‘Whoever it was,’ said Pinney, ‘came at him from behind and just pulled very hard. He never had a chance.’

  ‘Which direction was he facing?’

  ‘South.’

  ‘So whoever did it just came round the north end of the wall, took him by surprise, killed him, and went back to whatever it was he was doing before?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘And even if the murderer had been spotted it would have been from quite a distance and as he would almost certainly have been wearing a habit he would have looked just like anybody else.’

  ‘Wouldn’t necessarily have been wearing a habit. Not in the middle of the morning.’

  ‘No.’

  Sir Erris joined them and said he would be getting back. Bognor had his number, if there was anything he could do… Yes. Bognor wanted mobility, could a car be arranged? No problem, he could borrow the Land Rover. Pinney would give him a lift home.

  It was beginning to get dark and the four policemen agreed to go too.

  Bognor watched them drive away—his last links with the outside world—and walked slowly back to his room. It seemed even drabber and more depressing than at first. With a sigh he flopped down on the bed and turned to the literature Father Anselm had provided. There were three volumes: a heavy book called Benedictine Monachism by the late Dom Cuthbert Butler, Abbot of Downside, and two pamphlets—The Eyes of the Church or what is the Good of Contemplative Communities? and a slim brown one which was The Manual of the Order of the Society of the Sacred Brotherhood.