Let Sleeping Dogs Die (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  She pulled a face. ‘Things like this mostly. Organizing jollies for the trade.’

  ‘How long have you been with them?’

  ‘Too long really. Five years.’

  ‘Oh,’ Bognor smiled politely. ‘And before that?’

  ‘I worked in a restaurant. At the Dour Dragoon actually.’

  ‘Oh.’ He felt nonplussed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ It obviously wasn’t all right, he thought. The girl must be suffering. On the other hand her suffering was far from obvious. Indeed she seemed remarkably cheerful in the circumstances despite her abrupt dismissal of Blight-Purley’s earlier question.

  ‘Did you know him well?’ he asked, chancing his arm.

  She looked hard at him, then smiled. ‘Let’s just say that if I did know him well the last person on earth I’d tell would be a gossipy old lecher like Erskine Blight-Purley.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ The bus had turned through a pair of heavy wrought-iron gates and was climbing a steep gravel drive. On either side were rows of gnarled knee-high plants trained to wire trellising.

  ‘Vines?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Amanda Bullingdon, shading her eyes with a well manicured hand. ‘I didn’t know they were producing their own. It’s become a bit of a trend recently.’

  ‘Appellation Sussex Contrôlée,’ he said.

  ‘That sort of thing.’

  The bus rumbled over a cattle grid and came to a halt. The house was substantial, heavy, Victorian, its air of red-brick barracks softened with ivy and wistaria and complicated by some recent appendages in plate glass and reinforced concrete. ‘Welcome to Château Petheram,’ said Pendennis as they disgorged on to the gravel. ‘Actually,’ he confided to Bognor, giving him an unnecessary helping hand down from the vehicle, ‘it’s really called “The New House, Petheram”, but I rather like the sound of Château Petheram.’

  When they were all out Pendennis led the way into a high-ceilinged hall and straight down a winding stone stairway to the cellar where the serious business of the day was to take place. It had, indeed, a serious look to it. A series of trestle tables had been set up along the centre of the room and covered with plain white cloth and row upon row of bottles. Spaced around on the flagged floor were small tubs full of sawdust. Bognor knew enough about wine to realize that they were for spitting into.

  ‘Now,’ said Pendennis, clapping his hands for attention. ‘Once more, old hands will recognize the formula, but for the benefit of our newcomers, we always make this a blind tasting. No labels on any bottles, as you can see. Just numbers. Everyone has a card and a pencil, so make your notes as you go round, and then we’ll tell you what you’ve been drinking after lunch. Don’t worry though, we won’t embarrass anyone by asking them to read out their guesses—it’s purely for amusement, though naturally we’re interested in your comments. So. Off we go!’

  Bognor had gone very white at the announcement of the blind tasting. Party games were a particular phobia of his, and he had absolutely no confidence in his ability to make intelligent remarks about the wines, let alone identify them. He sincerely hoped Pendennis would keep his word about embarrassment.

  ‘You any good at this sort of thing?’ It was Lady Aubergine. He had quite forgotten her, though she was not, he conceded, an obviously forgettable person. As last night, she was threatening to spill out of her outfit which today was white—an expensive brushed denim trouser suit with a dangerously low neckline.

  ‘Not much,’ he said.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ she said, flashing long, horsy teeth. ‘And with a hangover like mine I haven’t an earthly of identifying a thing. Why don’t we go round the course together? Blind leading the blind.’

  ‘Why not?’ The others had already fallen on the drink as if it was a Saharan oasis. ‘That is if there’s any left.’

  ‘I’ve never known Pendennis to run out of hooch,’ said her ladyship putting her hand to her head. ‘You haven’t got any Alka-Seltzer have you?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got an ache like a monkey’s whatsit.’

  ‘Oh,’ Bognor picked up the last two cards and pencils, ‘no, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Pity,’ she said, ‘hair of the dog it will have to be. I had a Fernet Branca at home but it doesn’t seem to have done the trick. Never mind.’

  The first wine had, he thought, a slightly fruity flavour. He sucked his pencil and wondered whether ‘Slightly fruity’ was an adequate comment.

  ‘Not spitting?’ asked Lady Aubergine, who had been going through an impressive ritual of gargling and hawking into the sawdust.

  ‘I’m not very good at it I’m afraid,’ said Bognor. ‘I’m always petrified in case I miss.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I think I’ll join you.’ She poured another generous slug of the first wine and swallowed in one go, a performance which made her eyes water. ‘Slightly fruity, I should say,’ she said, beaming.

  ‘Rather what I thought,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Moselle?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose …’

  Lady Aubergine scribbled. Bognor, not afraid to cheat, looked over her shoulder. ‘Slightly fruity,’ she wrote. ‘Moselle?’

  He sucked on his pencil again and after some hesitation wrote. ‘Definitely fruityish flavour. Arguably Moselle.’

  They went on to the second group of bottles.

  ‘Tell me,’ demanded Bognor as he watched Lady Aubergine gargle. Her eyes squinted at the glass, her nostrils dilated and her throat twitched. The noise suggested drains—or more precisely bath water being forced fast through a well rifled plug-hole. ‘Tell me,’ said Bognor again, as she swallowed, ‘what exactly is your connection with food and drink?’

  She seemed to consider for a moment. ‘I like them,’ she said, finally. ‘But I don’t have any commercial connection. I’m what you might call a gastronomic groupie.’ She brayed lightly. ‘I can’t afford to work for a living on account of what’s called a private income. What do you think of this?’ she asked, indicating the second wine.

  ‘Too sweet for me.’

  ‘It’s meant to be sweet. That’s a Château de Fargues, or I’m a virgin.’ The words were Blight-Purley’s. ‘Sixty-seven I should say or …’ he held the glass to his nose and moved his nostrils in a suggestive manner which reminded Bognor of a belly dancer he had once seen in Beirut, ‘or possibly, just possibly, a sixty-six.’

  ‘It couldn’t be Yquem?’ enquired Lady Aubergine. She was nibbling a water biscuit, thoughtfully provided by their hosts as a palate cleanser.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘Much as they love us I don’t see Pendennis doling out Château d’Yquem for a blind tasting. Even their generosity has its limits. That’s a de Fargues. Not cheap either.’

  They moved on down the table tasting as they went. Before long Bognor had become quite confused. The wine was wine all right but beyond that he was unable to decide. How fruity was fruity? How dry dry? No sooner had he noted ‘Very dry indeed’ of a wine which took the skin off his palate than he found another with even greater acidity. It was the same with the sweet ones. Just as he discovered a liquid as sugary as honey, it would be capped with one as cloying as treacle. Too late he realized he should have started with a points system or a sweet-meter.

  ‘I should just drink the stuff,’ said Lady Aubergine observing his difficulty with amusement. ‘After a couple of glasses it all tastes exactly the same. If I were blindfolded I couldn’t tell the difference between hock and claret.’

  At the end of the trestles the white stopped and red began. Ahead of them the procession showed signs of inebriation. There was less spitting and more imbibing. Voices, which had never been subdued, were becoming raised, even raucous. One or two had returned to the whites ‘just to make absolutely sure of that really rather remarkable bouquet’.

  ‘I think I may be drunk again,’ said Lady Aubergine. She was looking pinkish. ‘How funny running into you at that ghastly dump last night. Did you
know Aubrey well at Oxford?’

  ‘Not very. He was one of those people everyone knew by sight and reputation. I don’t think he really knew me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He seemed awfully pleased to see you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course, he hasn’t really been happy since he came down, so he’s always pleased to meet some old mucker to remind him of his mis-spent youth.’

  Bognor felt suitably put down.

  ‘Try some of this.’ She poured him a glass of purplish red and misjudged it so that it overflowed on to Bognor’s grey worsted. ‘Oops,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Bognor. ‘It’s very old.’ It was, in fact, just back from the cleaners.

  ‘Did you say you knew poor old Scoff? I don’t remember.’

  ‘It’s a bit like Aubrey. I went to his restaurant and he’d come round and ask if everything was all right and we’d chat for about fifteen seconds. But I wouldn’t say I knew him. Did you?’

  ‘You could say so,’ she said. ‘I told you I was a gastronomic groupie, and you must know Scoff’s reputation.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Oh, come on. Anything in skirts. And anything under about forty and twelve stone in trousers. Though they say he’d lost his touch recently—occupational hazard—what the lower orders rather crudely refer to as “brewer’s wilt”. Not that I speak from personal experience you understand. My relationship with le grand chef was fleeting and many years ago. We thought of each other as collector’s items. He liked to notch up titles and I’m rather penchant for the better sort of restaurateurs and hoteliers—not, to be absolutely honest, that they’re much good at it. Wine scribes are definitely better. Ugh!’ She wrinkled her nose at her glass of number twenty-three. ‘Don’t touch that. It’s disgusting. Bolivian. Or Czech. Or, I know, bad Californian. That’s it. Beverley Hills Burgundy.’ She went over to the nearest tub and poured it away, making no effort to conceal the operation.

  ‘Did Scoff have much success with titled ladies?’

  ‘He scored once or twice but most of us seem to prefer pop stars or genuine artisans—plumbers or gardeners—that sort of person.’ She lowered her voice and mentioned a duchess, a marchioness, a brace of baronesses and half a dozen sprigs of the nobility like herself—women whose names were properly prefixed with ‘Hon’ or ‘Lady’. ‘Mind you,’ she continued, ‘most of them were just curious, and I’m more or less certain some of them slept with him for his recipes. The only ones who lasted more than a few nights were people like Gabrielle or poor little Miss Bullingdon.’

  ‘I see.’ He chewed thoughtfully on a biscuit and inadvertently poured a glass of number twenty-three. It was every bit as disgusting as Lady Aubergine had suggested. ‘But he’d lost his touch recently?’

  ‘So they say.’ She saw him grimace at the number twenty-three, removed his glass deftly and poured it into the sawdust.

  ‘Try some of the twenty-seven. Aubrey will have written “nectar” on his card. I think it’s a burgundy. By the way, what exactly are you doing about le monde gastronomique for your people?’

  ‘Um,’ said Bognor, ‘well, more or less what I was trying to explain last night.’

  Lady Aubergine, despite the drink, managed to look distinctly ho-hummish. Nevertheless she said, ‘Aubrey will be very helpful in showing you round, but he doesn’t know everyone and there are a number of pitfalls he’s simply not aware of. If there’s anything I can do … or, put it another way, I’ll give you a hand.’

  Further conspiracy was prevented by Pendennis banging a bottle on the table for silence. It was time for lunch.

  No very serious attempt had been made to seat members of the opposite sex next to each other. This seemed sensible since there were not enough women to go round and several of the men would not have been interested even if there had. Moreover, none of the men would have been interested, surely, in the sagging, red-veined lady from Wines and Winebibbers who sat, barely sensible, between Petrov and a dapper hotelier from the Cotswolds.

  Bognor, between Ebertson and Amanda Bullingdon, studied the menu. Wine was listed on the left, food on the right. The first entry on the left was Bitschwiller N V.

  ‘Bitschwiller?’ said Bognor to Ebertson. ‘I thought something was said about Krug?’

  ‘We get Krug for tea,’ said Ebertson. ‘A charming Petheram perversion of your English ritual.’

  ‘Krug and crumpets?’ said Bognor, feeling witty with wine.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And the Bitschwiller?’

  ‘Compliments of the widow herself. Another Petheram tradition.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bognor was again nonplussed. ‘How so?’

  ‘Pendennises are the people who really put Bitschwiller on the map. La Veuve was a friend of old man Pendennis way back before the war.’

  ‘La Veuve Bitschwiller?’

  ‘The old bitch herself.’ Ebertson grinned. ‘She’s extraordinary, a real relic. You should try to meet her, you’d enjoy it.’

  He leant across the table towards Erskine Blight-Purley who was absent-mindedly baring his teeth in the general direction of Amanda Bullingdon. ‘Is it true that Gabrielle is going to take Scoff’s place in Acapulco?’

  ‘I hadn’t heard,’ said Blight-Purley, not removing his gaze.

  ‘Like hell,’ said Ebertson sotto voce. He returned to Bognor. ‘That old buzzard hears everything. Doesn’t miss a trick.’

  ‘What’s happening in Acapulco?’

  ‘The Feast of the Five Continents. You know, you must have read about it. Real top-end-of-the-market stuff. Sort of twenty-course dinner cooked by the top chefs from every country on earth which has any pretensions to a cuisine more sophisticated than mealies and beans. Even, I might say, my own beloved United States whose contribution to the culinary arts, you have to admit, is dubious.’

  ‘Clam chowder’s nice,’ said Bognor politely.

  Ebertson leant back so that a waiter in sommelier’s kit could pour him a glass of Bitschwiller. Bognor watched the pale golden liquid froth to the top of the glass and then subside gently. He leant back to allow the sommelier to do the same for him. He was fond of champagne and in his present state, which was one of mild befuddlement rather than real intoxication, he felt euphoric.

  ‘Ever had hominy grits?’ asked Ebertson.

  ‘Never had hominy grits.’

  ‘I don’t advise it, but if you want to experience all that’s worst in American cooking, try hominy grits.’

  ‘What do they taste of?’

  ‘They don’t. That’s the whole point of them. Bland is the name of the game. The argument is that you eliminate anything which might give offence. That way everybody likes it. What actually happens is that it’s so outrageously bland that nobody dislikes it. That’s not the same thing at all. Matter of fact, it’s not a bad way to make people end up hating you.’

  ‘Some people would argue that that’s a criticism of the American character as much as American cooking.’

  ‘They’d be entitled to. Hey, this looks good.’ He bent low over the steaming terrine newly arrived on his plate and inhaled. ‘Mmmm,’ he said.

  Bognor picked up the gherkin from the side of his helping and bit through it. ‘Who’s organizing this jamboree?’ he asked.

  ‘Guide Bitschwiller, the Mexicans, Association Hôtels de luxe du Monde, the Pasta Producers Federation … the usual gang. Rothschilds will be involved somewhere along the line.’

  ‘Are Guide Bitschwiller and Maison Bitschwiller one and the …?’

  ‘Oh sure. You ought to swing an invite. I’m sure they’d be glad to have a guest from the British Board of Trade.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I’m working on it, but I’m not certain I can see any way to justify it. I can just about maintain that haute cuisine comes within my brief in cultural affairs here in England, but I’m not sure I can persuade Washington that my parish extends very far outsi
de the UK. Western Europe, maybe, but I have an idea they’ll baulk at Mexico. Still, we’ll see.’

  They ate their terrine in appreciative silence. When they had finished Bognor said, ‘And the buzz is that Gabrielle is going to be allowed to stand in for Scoff?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can she cook?’

  ‘Well enough. Scoff was down for the chocolate omelette. You’ve had their chocolate omelette?’ He leant back again as the sommelier poured a ’71 Alsatian Riesling.

  ‘Yes. Fantastic’

  ‘Agreed, but it’s the conception and the ingredients that are inspired. Putting them together isn’t that difficult. I’ve done it at home myself, and the result’s a passable imitation of a Scoff special.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Tell me,’ they were drinking a clear soup now, redolent of goose and cabbage, ‘were most of you friends of Scoff? I mean most of the people here.’

  Ebertson made a slurping noise as he funnelled soup off the spoon and looked round. ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘We most of us seem to have known Scoff all right. Petrov, yes. Aubrey certainly. Erskine …’

  ‘What’s that?’ Blight-Purley had appeared rapt in soupy concentration, yet the mention of his name occasioned an immediate response.

  ‘Scoff,’ said Ebertson. ‘Our friend from the Board of Trade wanted to know if we knew him, whether we were friends of his.’

  Blight-Purley produced an oddly metallic grunt. ‘Almost everyone who ever met him thought they were a friend Scoff’s,’ he said, ‘but I always used to wonder if he regarded himself as anyone’s friend.’

  It was one of those remarks which unfortunately came in a universal conversational gap. It was heard by everyone at the table save the roseate lady from Wine and Winebibbers who saved the day by suddenly staggering to her feet, napkin held to her mouth. She lurched towards the door evidently on the point of being dramatically, spectacularly unwell. Pendennis managed to combine extreme solicitude and intense disapproval in his expression as he hurried her out.

  ‘La Veuve Bitschwiller strikes again,’ muttered Ebertson.