Death in the Opening Chapter Page 3

  So it was with the brigadier. Throughout his life, he seemed, uncannily, always to be in the right place at the right time. When dead men’s shoes needed to be filled, the brigadier was always close by, available to step into them at a moment’s notice. When a desk needed to be driven or an opinion expressed, Horace was available, amenable, willing and able. By his expert reading of the game of life, he had always been able to keep at least a pace or two ahead of his often more talented rivals, without exposing himself to needless risk, hazard or what they might have described as effort of any kind. His was a triumph of cunning over exertion, of wise inertia as compared with the charge of the light brigade. His was a staff officer’s life, the epitome of one who had spent his time in the cushioned security of HQ company. And it was he who was to be the keynote speaker at this year’s festival, and getting him was considered rather a coup.

  Horace and his wife, Esther, had spent the previous night at what had, for many years, been called the Fludd Arms, but had recently been rechristened the Two by Two, after it had been sold off by Sir Branwell to a young man from the East End of London, who had reinvented himself as Gunther Battenburg and turned the ancient hostelry into a gastropub, to the consternation of the local community and to the interested attention of inspectors from the Michelin Guide and others. It had also begun to attract a significant and, to Sir Branwell and Lady Fludd, unwelcome sort of visitor. They took photographs of each other during meal times and came for the slug muesli, the squirrel pavlova and the oeufs ananas. They had more money than sense, lived off bonuses and were, in a word, trendy. Sir Branwell regarded them much as he did seagulls and would have treated them similarly, given half a chance. He longed to have them up before him when he, or Camilla, were sitting on the bench, but so far neither he nor his wife had had the pleasure.

  If the Reverend Sebastian had indeed been done in by an alien hand, then Brigadier Horace, the brigadier’s wife, Esther, and Gunther Battenburg would have to join the long list of suspects. Battenburg was gay and had no known partner. That is to say, he had formed no regular attachment and was for the purposes of the impending enquiry, single. This ‘long list’, including most residents of Mallborne, would, presumably, be narrowed down before too long, rather in the manner of literary prizes such as the Booker, the Costa and, indeed, the newly inaugurated Flanagan Fludd for the best novel with a beginning, a middle and an end. Of this, Sir Branwell had high hopes. He very much hoped that this unfortunate incident would not cause them to be dashed, or even put on ice for the time being.

  ‘Poor timing,’ said Sir Branwell, later in the library. ‘But then timing was never one of Sebastian’s things. Not that Sebastian did “things” when you come to think about it. “Things” weren’t Sebastian’s kind of thing, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bognor, who understood perfectly. He was sometimes accused of not understanding even quite obvious matters. In fact, he understood more than others suspected and quite often more than was good for him. ‘Not a popular man, Sebastian.’

  ‘No,’ Sir Branwell said, ‘not unduly.’

  ‘So, no real friends but no real enemies either?’

  ‘You could say that.’ His host frowned.

  ‘Have you noticed,’ said Bognor, ‘that popularity nowadays breeds popularity? It’s the reverse of what I think we were taught at Apocrypha.’

  ‘That the eclectic and unusual was preferable to received wisdom.’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Bognor. ‘Nowadays we are all more or less victims of herd instinct. If everybody likes something it is automatically good. A best-seller is better than something only a minority admires. Majority taste is good taste.’

  ‘That’s new?’

  ‘I think so, yes. In the old days someone like the Reverend Sebastian would have been accepted in a way that he wasn’t nowadays.’

  ‘Because he was odd?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Bognor, ‘maybe not.’ He was thinking. It made him frown. ‘It’s to do with dumbing down. We distrust anything that’s out of the ordinary. We live in the age of the common man. If the common man thinks something’s good, then it is by definition good. If not, it’s unpopular. Ergo bad.’

  ‘Elitist?’ asked Sir Branwell who recognized the argument and sympathized with it.

  ‘Could be,’ said Bognor, ‘but not necessarily so. Manchester United are popular and excellent. Accrington Stanley less so. That doesn’t make Accrington Stanley bad.’

  ‘But they are bad. Man U would have them for breakfast any day of the week.’

  They were getting into irrelevant waters, the land of the red herring. Bognor tried bringing them back to something approaching Earth.

  ‘Are we saying that the vicar was murdered because he was no good? A sort of ecclesiastical equivalent of a team that lurches between the lower divisions of the football league and something sponsored by a cement company.’

  ‘No,’ said Bognor, thoughtfully. ‘The Reverend Sebastian sounds like a man with few friends, but, by the same token, he probably had few enemies. He was too Laodicean to aspire to either. Difficult to be enthusiastic about someone lukewarm.’

  ‘I wouldn’t describe Sebastian as “lukewarm”,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘Useless, yes; lukewarm, no. He had some strong opinions. Women priests, Muslim fundamentalists. Strong, very.’

  ‘Pro or anti?’

  ‘Pro. Sebastian was teetering on the brink of being radical. Never over the edge, being one of life’s teeterers. He was always on, or near a brink, but never quite over.’

  Bognor smiled. ‘You didn’t like him.’

  His old chum smiled back. ‘I don’t think liking really came into it. That was the point about Sebby. You didn’t like him or dislike him. He just was, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘High church?’

  ‘High on the whole,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘Keen on smells and bells. Latin. But a soft spot for that American-Kiwi monk, Merton, which puts him on the left, I would think. Difficult to pigeonhole Sebastian, which was one of his few attractive features. You never knew what he was going to think about anything. Come to think of it, I don’t suppose he had much of a clue himself.’

  ‘Bit of a ditherer as well as a teeterer,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Uncertainty was his middle name,’ said the squire. ‘Except when he was certain of something. That’s one thing you can say for him. Well, could say for him, when he was, well, you know, alive. He was assailed by doubt. I rather approve of doubt.’

  ‘Up to a point,’ said Bognor, repeating an Apocrypha adage. They both recognized it and grinned.

  ‘So, in an age of certainty he was a prey to doubt,’ said Bognor, ‘and in an age when popularity was a mark of merit, he was prepared to be unpopular. Sounds rather a good thing.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘That’s far too positive. He was never that black and white.’

  ‘No,’ said Bognor. He could see that the vicar had been a tiresome priest, if seldom turbulent. Turbulence was obviously not in his nature, which was a pity as far as Sir Simon was concerned, as he had a definite weak spot for turbulence of almost every description. Perhaps the vicar had, as it were, kicked his own bucket; taken his own life; died by his own. Yet suicide, despite a popular view that it constituted cowardice – not a view to which Bognor ever ascribed – required a certainty, not to mention a moral courage, which was not part of the former padre’s make-up. Bognor was not at all sure what had happened in the night, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t suicide. Something had clearly gone bump but the drama had been inflicted by an outside agency. Of that he was already certain. He felt it in his water, which was, on the whole, and on the evidence of past history, as good an indicator as any.

  He said so out loud, seeking confirmation, and was glad to receive it.

  ‘I don’t think he killed himself,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t sound in character.’

  Sir Branwell shook his head sadly. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said.
‘For all kinds of reason. Nevertheless, I find it hard to believe that anyone would have done such a thing on purpose. It seems to me much more like a hideous mistake.’ Sir Branwell was a cock-up man rather than a conspiracy theorist. He held to the belief that when ‘Crusoe’, the great Somerset fast bowler and scribe killed himself, he overdosed by mistake. Chaps made mistakes. Name of the game. Fact of life. Could be awkward, but most real awkwardness was the product of confusion and inertia, not malice aforethought.

  ‘Hideous mistake, eh?’

  Bognor laughed mirthlessly, having been taught, like his host, that clichés were full of dangerous assumptions and prejudices.

  ‘For once,’ he said, ‘the mistake really would have been hideous. Not often you can say that, eh?’

  FOUR

  The chief constable was, as usual, brisk and efficient.

  Actually this was not true. The chief constable was the reason the boys were in the library, and it was into the library that the chief constable was ushered by Brandon the butler. Brandon did for the Fludds upstairs, while Mrs Brandon toiled away below stairs, behind the baize and below the salt. She was the invisible half, while her husband was all mouth and striped trouser. He buttled; she cooked; he was the outward sign that all was well; she the inner strength that ensured it really, almost, was. Time was when the manor would have supported a staff of several, if not of thousands. Now it was just the two of them: Harry and Peggoty.

  ‘Black, two sugars,’ said the chief constable. He shot with Sir Branwell; his wife played bridge with Sir Branwell’s wife. They were both ‘county’.

  The chief constable, whose name was Jones, came from elsewhere but was ‘county’ by rank and assimilation. He was also living proof of the fact that in modern Britain, still, there were two sides to almost every question: the visible and the invisible. With the post-Murdoch decline in the concept of the Fourth Estate and of the press as a tribune of the people, the invisible side of British life had become more significant and the visible more perfunctory. Nevertheless, the distinction was maintained. There was a way in which things were seen to be done and there was a way in which things were actually done. This distinction was further complicated by the twin and, on the whole, contrary distinctions between ‘conspiracy’ and ‘cock-up’.

  It was widely believed that these two theories stood for an ‘either or’; that you either had a conspiracy or you had a cock-up, and that this explained everything. However, Bognor’s life experience, contrary to that of Sir Branwell and others, suggested that the two ideas were not alternatives and that the British had an unusual, possibly unique, propensity for combining the two. This meant that life was either a conspiratorial cock-up or a cocked-up conspiracy – probably both. The British had an almost unerring gift for getting things hopelessly wrong. They also possessed an apparently limitless capacity for gossip and plotting, as in Gunpowder and Popish. The Gunpowder Plot was a brilliant example of a conspiratorial cock-up and a cocked-up conspiracy. As far as Bognor was concerned, Guy, or Guido Fawkes, was the ultimate Englishman. He wondered if he was an ancestor of Sebastian, the writer, but it was an idle and irrelevant wonder and not one worth worrying about. The Fawkes of gunpowder, treason and plot – the man for whom one still paid a penny before setting fire to him every November 5th – may not have been the greatest Englishman ever, but he was the most English.

  Chief Constable Jones had arrived to explain the invisible solution to the questions posed by the death of the Reverend Sebastian Fludd. It was obviously suicide. He had assigned one of his most trusted lieutenants, a detective chief inspector, no less, to the case and this man was adept at going through the necessary motions with absolute conviction. He would examine the scene of crime and the body – or rather he would cause minions to do so, for even in make-believe DCIs did not get their hands dirty – and then he would report. He would issue dozens of reports, all beautifully typed. This would be done by other minions, for chief constables did not type. In this case, typing was a skill that the chief constable had not seen fit to acquire. He was a good shot though; a skill that he had acquired relatively late in life, through the offices of his ambitious wife who recognized that shooting was still, in the county, a skill essential for social advancement.

  Sir Branwell had shot since he was so high. Bognor did not shoot, never having seen the point. He ate birds mowed down by others but deplored their turning it into sport. His disapproval was, however, mild and did not extend to the table.

  Chief Constable Jones said the suicide was sad, that the balance of the poor man’s mind had obviously been disturbed, but that he would have wished life, and more particularly, the festival, to go on as near to normal as was decently possible. The chief constable had not yet won his knighthood. Bognor had, risibly, acquired his; Sir Branwell’s came as his natural inheritance.

  ‘I’m not at all sure he did kill himself,’ said Sir Simon.

  ‘Sir Simon thinks it was murder,’ said Sir Branwell. He laid emphasis on the word ‘sir’ and noticed that the chief constable noticed. This pleased him.

  Mr Jones shrugged a man-of-the-world shrug and smiled what was meant to be a man-of-the-world smile but came out as more of a pained rictus.

  ‘Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t,’ he said, ‘but it will be much more convenient all round if it’s suicide. And seen to be so. I’m sure that can be arranged. The local press is very good. Editor has a decent handicap. We play eighteen holes every Thursday at Royal Mallborne. Suicide’s the ticket. Much the best for everyone.’

  ‘Not for the widow,’ said Bognor. ‘If it’s suicide, the insurance company won’t pay up.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the chief constable, ‘God will provide.’

  ‘Doubt it,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘His people are strapped for cash right now. The diocese made some ill-advised investments in Iceland. Besides, the Lord thy God is inclined to be a bit tight where lucre is concerned. His son came down to tell us it was filthy and diminished one’s chances of making it upstairs. Eyes of needles, camels, haystacks and all that.’ He paused, proud of his Biblical knowledge. Bognor was impressed; the policeman less so.

  ‘My professional opinion is that it was suicide,’ said the man Jones.

  Neither Sir Branwell nor Bognor gave a fig for his professional opinion.

  ‘Sir Simon’s professional opinion is that it could perfectly well have been murder.’

  The chief constable was on the brink of saying that he didn’t give much of a fig for Bognor’s professional opinion but evidently thought better of it, and before he made a fool of himself simply repeated two words.

  ‘Professional opinion?’ he said, inviting explanation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sir Branwell, not sorry at all, ‘I should have said that Sir Simon runs SIDBOT – The Special Investigations Department of the Board of Trade. There’s very little in the field of crime that he hasn’t solved in his day. The murder of Champion Whately Wonderful, Britain’s Prize Poodle; skulduggery in one of our best known monastic communities; Fleet Street; the Stately Home Industry; Canada; publishing; even the sudden and unexpected death of the Master of our own dear college. You name it and Sir Simon has been there. And he always gets his man.’

  ‘Well,’ Bognor had the decency to look mildly, if not wholly, embarrassed, pinkening a shade and shuffling his feet in a less than convincing suggestion that his host had been over-egging the pudding, ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

  Chief Constable Jones was visibly shaken. He had taken Bognor for one of life’s failures, like so many of Sir Branwell’s friends. He seemed so understated, so frayed at the edges, so positively unremarkable. In the normal course of events the chief constable would probably not have noticed him. In this the chief constable would have been wrong as usual, but his would have been a common enough reaction. Bognor was not instantly noticeable and this was part of the reason for his success. He grew on one like ivy on a wall or moss on an unturned stone. Men like Jones often failed
to notice and when they finally did, it was too late.

  ‘You don’t think it was suicide, Sir Simon.’ The chief constable was careful to remember the knighthood, to which he and, more keenly Mrs Jones, aspired.

  ‘Neither of us are attracted to the idea,’ said Bognor. ‘It seems too obvious. And not in character. Or not, at least, from what I know of the man. There was no note.’

  ‘No note.’

  ‘No note.’

  Silence enwrapped them.

  ‘In my experience of suicide, which I may say is considerable, there is usually a note,’ said Jones. ‘Just because a note has not yet been found does not necessarily mean that there is no note. Or indeed notes. Sometimes the deceased sends several.’

  ‘The Reverend Sebastian was not,’ said the patron of his living, ‘a man of many words. Except when he took to the pulpit.’

  ‘Shy or just . . . er, laconic . . . ?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘Economic with words,’ said his namesake. ‘Believed that actions spoke louder. Tended to leave matters unminced except at matins.’