Masterstroke (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  ‘Well!’ said Bognor. ‘I’ve heard some preposterous things, but I do think employing the first woman fellow of Apocrypha as a talent scout for Intelligence just about takes the biscuit.’

  ‘Your male chauvinism, if that’s what it is, does you no credit,’ said Parkinson. ‘Frinton has done some superlative work in the field, quite apart from anything else. Her Hong Kong missions, especially, are classics of their kind.’

  But before Parkinson could expand on this extravagant claim the two dons were ushered in. Mitten was in an ageing tweed suit, brown and well-cut, with a canary-yellow pullover underneath and a woollen tie knotted loosely at the neck. Very much the outfit of a storybook Oxford don of the 1930s – the J. B. Priestley look refined. Hermione Frinton was still in boots, above which she wore a long black skirt, a red waistcoat, a herringbone tweed jacket and an enormously long silk scarf in the style of Isadora Duncan. Also a beret, very rakishly angled. She was smoking a Black Russian cigarette from a holder. She should have looked ridiculous; instead she made Bognor, who like Parkinson was wearing regulation Board of Trade grey worsted, shiny at the elbows and bagged at the knees, feel drab. Even Parkinson seemed impressed. His eyes glazed momentarily and he came out from behind his desk to make a big show of moving chairs around and ordering coffee.

  Eventually they were all sitting as comfortably as the civil service furniture allowed, and Parkinson began by expressing his condolences. This did not take long and he moved briskly to business.

  ‘I take it the police have been informed?’

  Mitten replied. ‘Oh, yes indeed. We’ve played strictly according to the rules,’ he said. ‘Straight bat to everything. Chief-inspector chappie was round at bulls noon. Normally we don’t let the police in college at all, but in the circumstances it seemed only proper.’

  ‘You were quite right, Professor,’ said Parkinson, causing Mitten a moment’s fleeting embarrassment. ‘And chief-inspector chappie is there right now, I take it?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Mitten looked slightly more embarrassed this time, and Bognor caught Hermione Frinton’s eye. She undoubtedly winked at him. ‘Figure of speech,’ continued Mitten. ‘I forget his name. Hermione?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue, darling. Couldn’t have been Cuff, could it?’

  ‘The name is hardly material,’ said Parkinson snappishly, then tried to redeem himself by flashing an ingratiating smile at Hermione. She did not smile back but flicked ash ostentatiously on to the carpet. A muscle in Parkinson’s temple gave a scarcely perceptible twitch.

  ‘Now as I understand it, this would be a perfectly conventional police investigation but for one or two unusual factors.’ Parkinson assumed his most magisterial professional tone. ‘The most significant of these is, of course, the identity of the deceased. This is bound to make the murder something of a cause célèbre. Then there is the matter of his position as Master and the circumstances surrounding the murder. Obviously you don’t wish the good name of the college to be compromised in any way.’

  ‘There’s been an Apocrypha College in Oxford for almost four hundred and fifty years,’ said Mitten, ‘and this is our first murder.’

  ‘Quite.’ Parkinson pursed his lips. ‘Now from what you told me on the telephone, Lord Beckenham died as the result of some foreign substance of an appropriately deadly nature being administered to him. Do we know what that was?’

  ‘Faversham, our Pathology Fellow, did tell me,’ said Mitten, ‘but I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind.’

  ‘Arsenic?’ suggested Hermione. ‘Strychnine? Paraquat?’

  ‘No,’ said Mitten peevishly, ‘nothing like that. I do hope you’re going to take this seriously, Dr Frinton.’

  Hermione looked up at the ceiling and then made a play of removing the remains of her cigarette from its holder and stubbing it out on the heel of her boot.

  ‘I don’t think the name of the poison is of any more importance at this stage than the name of the chief-inspector,’ said Parkinson, attempting to be placatory. ‘But as I understand it, there is a strong suggestion that the dose may have been given while Lord Beckenham was drinking in your room. And among those present were you, yourself, Professor Mitten, Dr Frinton here, and you, Bognor.’

  ‘Yes,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Which at this stage of the game,’ announced Parkinson, ‘makes all of you, in circumstantial terms, prime suspects.’

  There was a chorus – muted, but unmistakably one of dissent.

  ‘At all events,’ Parkinson went on, ‘your presence on the last occasion the Master was seen alive is certainly enough to fuel speculation. If the Master was killed at your party, Professor, it’s likely that those present are in for a sticky time.’

  ‘He wasn’t killed at my party, Mr Parkinson.’

  The atmosphere had suddenly grown unpleasant. Silence ensued.

  ‘Aren’t we rather jumping the gun?’ asked Bognor, eventually. He smiled round at the three lugubrious faces. ‘Waldegrave hasn’t explained why he’s here at all. I mean I can see that it’s a bit of an embarrassment all round, but despite Lord Beckenham’s fleeting association with the Board of Trade in the dim and distant past, it’s scarcely our pigeon. As you said, it’s a straightforward matter for the CID at Oxford.’

  ‘I don’t think,’ said Mitten, ‘that it’s going to be in the least straightforward. There was very little straightforward about the Master while he was alive, and I see no reason to think that there will be anything straightforward about him now that he’s dead. And you ought to know, in any case, that there is nothing whatever that is likely to prove straightforward about a murder investigation in Apocrypha.’

  Parkinson sighed. ‘The point is,’ he said heavily, ‘that you at Apocrypha,’ and here he nodded at Mitten, ‘are anxious to solve this matter with the minimum fuss, annoyance, publicity, inconvenience, call it what you will. …’

  Mitten nodded.

  ‘And to make this possible, notice I say possible,’ and here he glared meaningfully at Bognor, ‘to make this possible you have negotiated an understanding with the local constabulary under the terms of which the investigation can be kept, at least partly, how shall I put it – in the family? To wit, you have proposed that since there are two professionals involved already, their involvement should be put on to a basis which has proper authority.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Bognor, very slowly, ‘that you have persuaded the Oxford police to work with myself and Hermione … Dr Frinton?’

  ‘Spot on,’ said Mitten eagerly.

  ‘Oh.’ Bognor oozed unhappiness, not to say disbelief.

  ‘As far as Dr Frinton is concerned,’ said Parkinson, ‘I can only say that it’s a most sagacious decision – and I daresay that unravelling the intricacies of Chinese secret societies will prove markedly similar to doing the same thing in the Senior Common Room.’

  ‘Ha! Ha!’ interjected Mitten, causing Parkinson to blink, but scarcely to pause.

  ‘As for yourself, Bognor, I can only say that I share your incredulity. But far be it from me to stand in the way of town and gown. All I ask is that this time you somehow contrive to organize things in an orderly, methodical and unobtrusive manner which, for once, reflects no discredit on this department.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Bognor.

  2

  ‘IT REALLY IS RATHER bloody.’ Bognor thrust a piece of roll into the garlic butter left behind by his dozen escargots and watched it soak in like bath water entering a loofah.

  His wife pushed a sliver of gherkin to the side of her plate. ‘In what way bloody?’

  ‘The presumption.’ He put the bread in his mouth. ‘Strange men from Teddington sitting at my desk without so much as a by-your-leave. One’s old tutor clicking his fingers and making you come running, just as if he was ordering up your weekly essay. Do this. Do that. I’m too old to be treated like an errant infant.’

  ‘One’s never too old for that.’ Monica drank a little Gewürztraminer. This was a farewell dinne
r since he was leaving for Oxford first thing next morning.

  ‘Do they really think it was one of you?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think they seriously imagine it was me. Not seriously.’ Bognor dipped bread again and pulled a face. ‘Not that that will stop boring Parkinson making an unending heavy joke out of it. And I don’t think anyone seriously suspects Hermione Frinton. Mitten, well probably not, though from what Parkinson let drop I sense that he thinks Mitten coveted the mastership and knocked the old man off in order to get it.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But who am I to cast doubt on a pet theory belonging to Parkinson? You know Mitten.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Monica. ‘Don’t like him much, either.’

  ‘No, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.’

  ‘Granted.’ She leaned back in her chair to allow the waiter to remove her plate. ‘But supposing he really did want to be Master of Apocrypha, this was his best chance.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If there was an ordinary election – which there was going to be in about a year’s time, he wouldn’t have an earthly.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘But if he was suddenly thrown into the mastership by a piece of luck like this, he would have a few months to show how well he could do the job and he could go into an election as a strong internal candidate. And as acting Master he’d have a lot of say in how the election was organized.’

  ‘It’s conceivable.’

  The waiter returned, bearing the rack of lamb they were to share. The wine waiter followed with a bottle of Hermitage. There was a natural break in conversation.

  ‘Not a strong enough motive,’ said Bognor. ‘Mitten wants all sorts of things out of life, but the mastership isn’t one of them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Monica smiled at him. ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Monica brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes. ‘You heard. Did you do it?’ Then she giggled. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said. ‘I know you didn’t do it, but Chief-Inspector Chappie doesn’t know.’

  ‘Smith,’ said Bognor, irritably. ‘His name’s Smith. How’s your lamb?’

  ‘Fine. All right then, Smith. He may decide you did it. You obviously had an opportunity, what about motive?’

  Bognor reluctantly decided to enter into the spirit of the game. After all, she was his wife. He was fond of her, and he would not be seeing her until the weekend.

  ‘No motive that I can think of. I liked the old boy.’

  ‘Not good enough. You can kill the thing you love, you know that.’

  ‘I didn’t love him. Just liked him. Quite.’

  ‘That’s better.’ She lowered her eyelids and then looked up at him from under the lashes, mischievously. An old trick, but Bognor still enjoyed the mannerism. ‘I can think of a motive.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He wiped his mouth with a napkin and drank. ‘I think this is a silly game.’

  ‘It’s not a game, darling. It’s real. The old man is dead. And even though it may seem preposterous, you could be considered a suspect. Especially by some resentful flatfoot from the Oxford police. Remember how they dislike the university. One of them tried to rape me that night when I was climbing out of your room.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish,’ he exclaimed. ‘He was just helping you down, and you lost your grip.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it. He pestered me for weeks after that.’

  ‘You led him on. I bet you did.’

  ‘Shut up and listen, Simon Bognor!’ She wagged her fork at him. ‘Now. Why was this man Lingard in your office this morning?’

  ‘Don’t remind me of him.’ Bognor had not thought of the interloper since dinner began. The mention of his name induced definite palpitations. ‘Oily little creep. He was up just after me. Trinity man. Typical. Stowe and Trinity. He reeked of after-shave.’

  ‘He was there because you’ve applied for a transfer, Simon. And your applications are to the Treasury, the Foreign Office and the Home Office.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They all involve promotion.’

  ‘Arguably.’

  ‘And they’re politically sensitive. Or likely to be.’

  ‘I doubt. Anyway, the Board of Trade is politically sensitive.’

  ‘Well,’ she paused to chew, ‘my point is that before anything like that came through there would be a whole cat’s cradle of red tape and paperwork. References taken up, opinions sought. Meetings, soundings, interviews.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bognor picked up a bone in his fingers and gnawed at it speculatively. ‘I’m absolutely adrift. No idea what on earth you’re on about.’

  ‘My point is that the one place they’re bound to go back to, to discover any character flaws, political defects and general bad-lottery is Apocrypha. The Jesuits are always supposed to have said that if they had a child until the age of seven or whatever, then they had its soul, but that’s manifestly not so. It’s what happens at university that matters. That’s when Burgess became Burgess, Maclean, Maclean and Blunt, Blunt.’

  ‘That was Cambridge. And before my time.’

  ‘You’re being deliberately silly. You know how slowly the civil service moves. I’m quite certain the first thing that they’d do before moving you to the FO or the Treasury would be to get on to Beckenham and ask him to turn up your file.’

  ‘They’d ask Parkinson for his file first.’

  ‘Possibly. But your university file would be a jolly close second.’

  ‘So you think I killed Lord Beckenham to stop him telling the Treasury snoopers about the time I was sick on staircase nine or planted daffodils in Trinity Junior Common Room?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Simon,’ she said. ‘I’m being quite serious.’

  ‘Quite serious,’ he mimicked her. ‘I know you are, darling, and I see what you’re getting at.’

  She set her knife and fork neatly together and wiped her mouth fastidiously. ‘You do and you don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m really only using you as an illustration. What I’m saying is that if an old Apocrypha man was in for a job, then the people who are considering him for it would be idiotic if they didn’t run a rule over Apocrypha. And my hunch is that if there was any dirt available the Master would be most likely to have it. So it is at least conceivable that one of your whizzy contemporaries wanted to shut him up before he could spill the beans about the skeletons in his cupboard.’

  ‘You mix your metaphors wonderfully,’ he teased, ‘but I do see your point. And I take it too. Jolly shrewd.’ He put out his hand and patted hers affectionately as it lay on the table between them.

  ‘Don’t be so patronizing,’ she protested. ‘What was he drinking?’

  ‘Same as he always drank. That hideous raspberry liqueur he always took after dinner.’

  ‘Framboise?’

  ‘No – worse than that. Don’t know what it was called or where it came from. Polish, I think. Very strong. People he knew used to keep a bottle in their rooms specially, in case he just blew in unannounced. Never known him to drink anything else.’

  ‘So whoever did it need only have doctored the bottle and not the glass.’

  ‘I suppose. That should be perfectly easy to prove. And now can we talk about something else? I’m finding this distinctly morbid. How was your lamb?’

  He returned to Oxford by train since Monica insisted she needed the car. She was helping Fiona out at the art gallery. At least Bognor thought that was what she was doing. Or maybe she was helping Camilla out in her boutique in Camden Passage. Or was she typing and answering the phone for Richard because Vivien was off sick? Or for Vivien because Richard was off sick? He did wish, now that they were married, that she would complete the act of settling down and find herself a permanent job. He simply couldn’t keep up with her peripatetic, universal jill-of-all-tra
des acts. No – it was none of these things, he realized guiltily; she was helping Myrtle provide a buffet for a hundred and twenty Darby and Joans because she, Myrtle, had rashly agreed to bail out Caroline who had got lumbered with organizing some ‘do’ for her pet charity. How much less complicated and wearing it was to be a mere special investigator with the Board of Trade. Even if it did mean that he had to go by train because Monica needed the car. He didn’t like the car anyway, which was a new Mini Metro, purchased in an access of patriotic enthusiasm to postpone the inevitable collapse of the British motor industry. What was the country coming to, he wondered morosely, as he bought a Times and a Telegraph at the Paddington Station bookstall. Even the distinguished old masters of Oxford colleges were not allowed to fade away in peace, but were foully done to death by over-ambitious Trinity men from Teddington only concerned with their own careers. Made you despair.

  ‘Penny for them?’ said a slightly husky voice, trained on his left ear and coming from alarmingly close range. He gave a start, glanced guiltily up and found himself confronted by the disconcertingly flared nostrils of Dr Hermione Frinton.

  ‘Quelle coincidence,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to frighten you. As a matter of fact that was the third question I’ve addressed to you. You all right?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ he replied, stuffily. ‘Just thinking, that’s all.’

  ‘Very preoccupying, thought,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t put you down as one of the great thinkers, somehow.’

  ‘And what had you put me down as, exactly?’

  ‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it?’ She laughed throatily, causing Bognor an uneasy tremor of incipient desire. She was no longer in yesterday’s skirt, but instead had reverted to the tight trousers which did the maximum possible for her elongated legs. She also, in a phrase he associated with his old friend Sir Erris Beg, was a ‘fine mover’. Bognor sensed trouble ahead. He adored his wife, but he was uneasily mindful of the fact that a prime reason for their marriage was that he found the idea of being unfaithful to a wife somehow more acceptable than being unfaithful to a mistress or ‘live-in girlfriend’ (as the displeasing contemporary argot preferred). Not that he had ever been unfaithful, though there had been some near misses.