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

  ‘More likely the twenty-three,’ said Bognor.

  Ebertson looked at him appreciatively. ‘You didn’t like it either?’ he said.

  ‘No. Aubergine Bristol and I agreed it must have been Californian.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m a great admirer of Aubergine Bristol’s gastronomic savoire faire, but on this occasion I’m inclined to agree.’

  Pendennis returned, mopping his brow with a red and white spotted kerchief. ‘Oh dear,’ he said sitting down heavily, ‘it happens every year. I really shall have to think about inviting her next time. On the other hand it wouldn’t be the same without her premature departure. But enough, let us return to our moutons.’

  The suggestion was more than usually apposite since they were now being issued with large helpings of saddle of mutton, accompanied by Clos Vougeot. Conversation settled down to things gastronomical. Bognor alternated politely and enjoyably between Ebertson and Amanda Bullingdon, savouring his food and drink in the intervals between sentences and pausing occasionally to reflect that there must be worse ways of making a living than from some professional association with eating and drinking. It was all too easy to forget that he was only being spared the execrable civil service canteen lunch because he was attempting to establish the cause of Scoff Smith’s death. Somehow, through the confusion which always occurred at the beginning of his investigations (and which sometimes continued until their conclusion), he was beginning to think that his objective was more than usually complicated. It was not so much the cause of death which had to be established as the cause of the cause. Suicide by gas poisoning was the certain coroner’s verdict. What he had to find out, he feared, was not whether it really was suicide, but why the man should have killed himself at all. Was it an entirely natural reaction to some sad spontaneous depression or was the depression deliberately induced? Bognor wondered.

  They had just finished a peculiarly high Munster cheese and were sipping at their Framboise when Freddie Pendennis once again stood and called for order. There were a number of toasts to propose, he said, the first of which, sadly, was the memory of their friend and mentor, Escoffier Savarin Smith. He had, he continued, nothing to add to what had already been said in The Times and elsewhere but he would like simply to propose that we all stand and drink to the memory of Scoff and to express a hope that he was even now in the kitchen of the gods preparing food which could scarcely be more heavenly than that which he had produced for us on earth. This flowery tribute concluded, the company shuffled to its collective feet and drank Framboise with the muffled muttering which is characteristic of English middle-class toast drinking. This done, Pendennis asked his guests to remain standing for the two traditional toasts. First of all he asked everyone to drink to la Veuve Bitschwiller. Once more, glasses were raised and there was a chorus of mumbled salutation. ‘La Veuve … la Veuve.’ And finally, ‘The Queen,’ he said, slowly and reverently but, it seemed to Bognor, with markedly less reverence than he had reserved for la Veuve Bitschwiller. For a third time glasses were raised and the words reverberated around the table. Blight-Purley, Bognor noticed, was the only one to add the traditional subordinate sentence: ‘God bless her.’

  Framboise was replenished. An assortment of strangely shaped bottles materialized. So did cigars: five-inch Havana Petit Coronas from Upmann. Heavy blue smoke began to clog the atmosphere. Bognor felt his own sense of well-being on the verge of turning to biliousness. Through the rising fog he saw that Blight-Purley was attempting to attract his attention. He was saying something about lunch.

  ‘Very much,’ said Bognor, assuming he was passing judgement on the meal just eaten.

  ‘One o’clock then,’ he said, his voice suddenly audible as surrounding sound subsided. It was an invitation, Bognor realized; nothing to do with food already consumed but a portent of food to come. He was stretching a veiny hand across the table and Bognor accepted the contents. ‘My card,’ said Blight-Purley, ‘in case you can’t make it. The club at twelve-thirty.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bognor as conversation once again became impeded by that of others. ‘What club?’

  ‘The Mess,’ he said, ‘Thursday.’ Bognor had a distinct impression of a yellow gleam in the rheumy eyes. There was indeed a universal yellow about the man—a jaundiced sallowness which stemmed from debauchery of a sort Bognor found oddly sinister. Why did he want to have lunch? It would hardly be for the pleasure of his company. From what he had seen of him so far Bognor was uncomfortably sure that Blight-Purley smelt a rat.

  ‘Did you guess any of the wines do you think?’ asked Amanda Bullingdon.

  ‘Not really,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t try terribly hard after the first few.’

  She smiled. ‘The secret is simply to keep quiet. Freddie’s very kind. He enjoys catching out the know-alls but he’s perfectly happy to leave the novices alone.’

  ‘In that case I shall keep absolutely silent.’

  ‘I should,’ she said. ‘Most people in this business talk far too much.’

  Bognor made a mental note of the fact, though it was an impression he had already gained for himself.

  A few seconds later the discussion of the wines began. It was informal and relaxed but deceptively so. Pendennis obviously enjoyed the role of genial question-master but behind the bland façade he was clearly getting a lot of fun from the barely veiled hostility of the more prominent oenophiles among his guests. Most of the company were as taciturn as Bognor, but a small group seemed concerned to maintain their reputation. Aubrey Pring, naturally, had to be seen to be knowledgeable. So in a less bumptious way did Blight-Purley, whose sardonic, throw-away style of delivery did little to hide the seriousness with which he was taking it. Both Petrov and Ebertson competed, with frequent unconvincing disclaimers about their amateur status. A young bespectacled Master of Wine from one of the great London auction houses appeared more knowledgeable than any of them, answering questions in the clipped, flat tones that Bognor associated with lesser accountants and solicitors’ clerks. Aubergine Bristol eschewed silence, which did not come easily to her, but was shrewd enough to keep her comments to opinions rather than facts. These, happily, were entirely favourable until Pendennis arrived at the dread number twenty-three.

  ‘Twenty-three,’ he exclaimed. ‘The joker in the pack. I don’t somehow think you’re going to get this one.’ He beamed around the table.

  ‘I don’t think any of us would want to get it,’ said Lady Aubergine loudly. ‘Absolute stinko stuff, Freddie. Even Mr Bognor couldn’t drink his, could you?’ She glared down the table seeking Bognor’s support. He could cheerfully have drowned her in number twenty-three. Everyone was looking at him. Pendennis did not look un-angry.

  ‘I … er … well,’ Bognor felt purple, ‘that is …’

  ‘Simon guessed Californian Cabernet, but he’s probably too modest to admit it. I guess he’s probably right, though I rather think it could be a Zinfandel. With respect, Freddie, I felt it lacked a little of the rotundity of a good Cabernet, but give it three or four years and I dare say …’

  Pendennis seemed mollified by this. The crisis was past. Bognor mopped his forehead and half-turned to grin gratitude at his neighbour, Ebertson.

  ‘I like the idea of Zinfandel,’ said Pendennis, ‘but it’s not a grape you’ll find outside the United States, I think, Anthony, and this isn’t an American wine. Mr Bognor’s right about the Cabernet though.’ Bognor blushed again. He certainly couldn’t tell Cabernet from Pinot Noir. He wished, for the first time that day, that he was in the canteen.

  ‘So it’s a European wine?’ This was Aubrey.

  ‘Yes, European.’

  ‘But not French.’

  ‘No, Erskine, you’re absolutely right. It’s not French.’

  ‘Is it Saperavi?’ asked Petrov. ‘I thought it had something of the flavour of Georgia. Like blood.’ He laughed.

  ‘There speaks a loyal Muscovite,’ said Ebertson. ‘That wine’s too thin-blooded for Georgian.
Georgian’s thick as treacle. My guess is it’s from Switzerland.’

  ‘Warmer,’ said Pendennis, ‘or rather, not. It’s a cold climate wine but not Swiss.’

  There was a general scratching of heads. ‘German,’ volunteered the Master of Wine without enthusiasm.

  ‘No.’ Pendennis beamed round. ‘Fourteen fifty-three might give a clue to any historians among us.’

  ‘We lost Bordeaux,’ said Aubrey Pring quickly, ‘but I hardly think …’

  ‘And,’ continued Pendennis, ‘had we then possessed an imaginative minister for trade and industry what would his proper, flexible response have been? Self-sufficiency would have cut our import bills—just as desirable then as now, I’m sure.’

  ‘You’re surely not suggesting that this is a product of our own inclement shores,’ said Blight-Purley, eyes screwed small in disbelief.

  ‘Frosts are slain and flowers begotten,

  And in green underwood and cover

  Blossom by blossom the spring begins.’

  ‘I hardly think that’s what Swinburne had in mind,’ said Pring, much miffed. ‘Are you seriously asking us to believe, Freddie, that number twenty-three is an English wine?’

  ‘Indeed I am.’

  ‘But no one’s producing red in England,’ said Pring. ‘It’s a non-starter. White, yes I know, but an English red is out of the question and for good reason. I know all the English wine producers, and not one of them is even contemplating a red.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t know your English wine producers as well as you think,’ said Pendennis with a suggestion of truculence. ‘Or rather, perhaps they’re better at keeping secrets than you realize. Anyway, I think it’s time to put you out of your misery. Number twenty-three is the first of the Château Petheram. I agree it will improve in bottle, but we were impatient to give it an airing.’

  There was a silence which Bognor mentally recorded as ‘stunned’. Then to his surprise he found himself standing and saying, ‘In the circumstances, ladies and gentlemen, I think a further toast is in order. I give you Château Petheram!’ They drank to Château Petheram, looking suitably shamefaced about it.

  Then Pendennis continued: ‘We’ve already tried it out on la Veuve and her son, Philippe, and I believe you will be impressed by her response.’ Theatrically he drew a piece of paper from his pocket, put on a pair of half-moon spectacles and read: ‘“My dear Freddie, Philippe and I are agreed that your first English red is a remarkable achievement. In the circumstances we would count it a privilege if you would attend the dinner in Acapulco and bring with you a case or two of Ch. Petheram”.’ He put the letter away slowly. ‘So you see my friends, la Veuve displays rather more faith than you have done. Let’s hope she’s right.’

  There was a chorus of ‘hear, hears’ and conversation became general once more. It was clear that those who were out of Pendennis’ earshot were all saying the same, summed up by Anthony Ebertson, who remarked to Bognor, ‘Something “fishy”, as you British would say, about this. That rotgut stuff is piss awful and everyone knows it. You can keep it in bottle till the Second Coming, and it’ll still be piss awful. What in hell are they playing at?’

  ‘They’re probably acting on the assumption that a certain sort of wine snob will buy anything,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Touché, Mr Bognor, but I still don’t see why. There must be easier ways of making money.’

  Bognor shrugged. It was all very mysterious. On the other hand it increasingly seemed that a trip to Acapulco was in order. He wondered what Parkinson would say to that.

  They broke up soon after to wander around the estate. Bognor spent the next hour or so staring blankly at vines and presses and barrels while the others asked respectful and knowledgeable questions. Afterwards they adjourned for the much-vaunted Krug before departing for the five-thirty from Petheram to London, Charing Cross. At the station there was a final exchanging of cards and promises. In Bognor’s case the only firm commitment was his Thursday lunch with Blight-Purley. Otherwise it had merely been initiation. He had made some useful contacts, penetrated the Scoff circle, and enjoyed an excellent meal. He had found no solutions but, on the other hand, there were now some new and interesting questions to be asked.

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