Masterstroke (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  They were walking towards the platform. He offered to carry her bag, which was an expensive light tan leather creation with gold initials and a number of tags among which he noticed those of the Eastern and Oriental in Penang, the Hong Kong Mandarin and Las Brisas in Acapulco.

  ‘I hardly imagine you were delivering a paper on Beowulf in Acapulco,’ he tried, banteringly, he thought, and not altogether unwittily.

  ‘Hmmm.’ She smiled down at him, as if to say ‘Funny little man.’ Bognor shrank but persevered.

  ‘Nor Penang.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Though in point of fact the British Council did arrange for me to give a talk on Shakespearean metaphor.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. I gave them “Maugham to Burgess and Theroux: Anglo-Saxon Attitudes to the Peninsula: Studies in Literary Imperialism”. Maugham’s a speciality of mine. Would you believe I read them The Hairless Mexican in Acapulco, standing naked on the seashore?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said again, giving him another of her patronizing looks. ‘Are we going first?’ she asked as they passed along the platform.

  ‘Parkinson doesn’t like it,’ said Bognor. ‘He’s on a permanent economy drive.’

  ‘He looks as if he’s its original victim,’ she said. ‘Breakfast, then?’

  ‘I’ve had breakfast.’

  ‘Have another. Nothing succeeds like excess, you must know that.’

  ‘I’ll have a coffee.’

  ‘You do just that.’

  The dining-car was virtually empty, British Rail meals being beyond the means of most of those who travelled the Oxford line, and they easily found a table for two.

  ‘Well,’ she purred, when they had settled themselves and the train began to ease out of the station, ‘isn’t this fun?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve wanted to meet you for ages. I’ve been a great fan, ever since that business at Beaubridge Friary. I read the files. Very imaginative.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It never occurred to me that one day we’d actually be working together.’

  ‘No.’ Bognor was feeling rather nonplussed.

  ‘Ciggy?’ She waved a pack of Black Russian at him.

  He declined. He would have liked to ask if she was really a tutor in English as well as being in the employ of the Intelligence Services, but judged this to be unwise. Instead he said, ‘Which college were you at as an undergraduate?’

  ‘LMH,’ she said. Clearly she read his thoughts, for she went on: ‘I’m quite genuine. The teeniest little bit after your time, but I did get one of the best firsts of my year, not to mention a quarter blue for basketball. It is said that I slept my way through the whole of All Souls.’ She exhaled smoke and said, in the manner of Lady Bracknell, ‘But that is a lie.’

  She was having the continental breakfast. Her orange juice arrived, as did Bognor’s coffee, at least two-thirds of which was still in the cup. He poured his saucer off, clumsily, as they rattled over some bumpy points just outside Ealing Broadway.

  ‘What’s this chap Smith like?’ he asked.

  For a moment she looked blank, then she grinned. ‘You mean our inspector chappie.’ She sipped her orange juice and laughed. ‘Fearful halitosis and that fatal combination of egg and chip.’

  ‘Egg and chip?’

  ‘Outsize ego, chip on shoulder. They seldom go together but when they do it’s cop-out time. However, he will have to do as he is told. He has rather delicious ears. Distinctly edible except that it would be impossible to get within range on account of the breath.’ She gazed at him in an appraising manner. ‘Your ears could hardly be said to be your best point but you have the sweetest nose. I do hope we’re going to be friends.’

  This is ridiculous, thought Bognor. What on earth does she think she is playing at? Out loud he said, ‘So do I!’ And then, quietly, in his most serious voice, ‘How long have you been … er … one of ours?’

  ‘Since I came down. Lord Beckenham recruited me personally.’

  Bognor choked on his coffee. ‘Who recruited you personally?’

  She fluttered her eyelashes. They had to be false. They reminded him of caterpillars. ‘Becky. Your old Master. He was one of ours, too. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  She eyed him suspiciously. ‘No,’ she said, at last, ‘I do believe you didn’t. I’m his replacement, in a manner of speaking. That’s part of the point.’

  ‘I see.’ He dabbed at the coffee on the table top, not daring to look up. Eventually he said, ‘In what sense was he “one of ours”?’

  ‘Oh, not much more than the university rep really. He co-ordinated intelligence on people like the exchange students and the Rhodes Scholars, supervised selection, helped with the files on subversives. Routine stuff. No field work, needless to say. He wasn’t what you’d call a real pro like you or me. Last of the old school in a way.’

  ‘How many people knew?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Parkinson, for instance?’

  ‘Probably not.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid that with the spectacular exception of your own irruptions into the world of espionage, intrigue, chicanery and international whatsit, the Board of Trade hardly features in the divine order of things. Not even Special Operations Division. It’s desperately run of the mill, other rank stuff.’

  ‘Someone once said “all cloak and no dagger”,’ said Bognor, wondering half-heartedly if it had been himself but not wishing, in present company, to take credit for the aphorism. Just in case.

  ‘Quite.’ She leaned forward in a confidential manner, and Bognor was disturbingly aware of breasts, concealed though they were under an exotic poncho-style garment probably of foreign extraction. Also of her scent which was expensive and, in a way he was unable to identify, suggestive, even rude.

  ‘Chief-inspector chappie doesn’t know,’ she stage-whispered, ‘nor Waldegrave. Nor should they. Also, I’m determined that the post-mortem results should be hushed up for as long as possible.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky,’ he said. Bognor had a low opinion of pathologists, coroners and policemen. Hushing things up was not, in his experience, their style at all.

  The train had hurried through Slough and was approaching Maidenhead. Frinton was eating toast, heavily buttered and marmaladen. It was clear she did not have to worry about her figure. Before long they would reach Reading and turn north along the Thames valley, one of Bognor’s favourite railway journeys.

  ‘We must still try,’ she said. A ticket collector hove in sight and demanded tickets. Hermione frowned heavily at Bognor to indicate that even ticket collectors have ears, and said very loudly, ‘Super day!’

  ‘Super,’ he agreed.

  When the official had passed along and a similar charade had been enacted for the benefit of the attendant with the coffee pot, Bognor, catching his colleague’s theatricality, whispered hoarsely: ‘Do you have any theories?’

  Before answering she stood up, on the pretext of adjusting her clothing, and peered about her. There was no one at the table alongside them on the other side of the aisle. Behind Bognor a bald clergyman with a hearing aid and his frumpish wife were reading newspapers. Behind Hermione there was a scattering of businessmen, mainly English with American and Japanese companions, some of whom could have been tourists.

  ‘Not here,’ she announced firmly and with finality. ‘We’d better talk properly at my place. Where are you staying?’

  Bognor was at a loss to understand why she had been so indiscreet about the dead Master and was now being so tight-lipped about her theories. He guessed she had none and was going to spend the rest of the journey making some up. If you were to ask him he would have said she was a fraud – an alluring fraud. Positive Mata Hari in fact. But a fraud.

  ‘The Randolph.’ He liked the Randolph. It had been tarted up since his undergraduate days but at least it had survived, unlike the Mitre which had been turned i
nto a steak house.

  ‘Silly billy, you could have stayed chez moi.’

  ‘People would have talked. My wife most of all.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were married.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She looked into his eyes until he dropped his gaze. Then she chuckled.

  ‘My place is in Walton Street, just round the corner from the Randolph. We’ll make it campaign HQ. Now tell me about your wife. Is she madly in love with you?’

  They did not talk about the murder again on the train, nor did they discuss Monica. Bognor never discussed Monica with anybody but Monica. He was old-fashioned enough to find it indelicate. For almost half an hour they talked about landscapes in literature. This seemed a safe subject and one on which there was a measure of mutual agreement. At Oxford Station Bognor carried Hermione’s bag through the murky tunnel which ran under the railway line. Then they shared a taxi since it was much too far to walk. Bognor dropped her off at her flat in Walton Street.

  ‘Ta ta, then,’ she said, stretching those legs. ‘Shan’t kiss you goodbye in case people talk. See you in half an hour.’

  Bognor mumbled something incomprehensible and wondered what was happening to him. He felt that he was being swept along by a force that belonged to nature rather than any human agency, and as he collected his key in the foyer of the Randolph, much smarter now, but still with that familiar atmosphere of converted aeroplane hangar, he felt glum. He was glummer still to find a message from chief-inspector chappie. ‘Must stop calling him that,’ he said out loud to himself as he skimmed through the note, scrawled in semi-literate pencil.

  Smith had been to the hotel half an hour earlier and was calling again in about twenty minutes. Bognor sighed. He had been anticipating his business meeting with Hermione with an odd and guilty mixture of despair and eagerness. She had given him her number for emergencies like this. He rang to tell her the bad news.

  ‘Best get it over with,’ she said. ‘Then potter round here and I’ll have a large G and T waiting to take away the taste.’

  ‘Anything you’d advise me to say?’

  ‘As little as possible, darling. See you soon. Have fun.’

  He sank onto the forbidding-looking single bed. He hoped he was going to be able to stand the pace. Still, having her flat as a refuge was a blessing. He could never understand why enormous reception rooms in hotels so often denoted tiny bedrooms and vice versa. You couldn’t swing a mouse in this glorified cupboard, let alone a cat. He would have to get something bigger for the weekend when Monica came. There wasn’t even a view – just some roof and guttering. Some of the rooms must have views across to the Ashmolean, which was a view worth having. This emphatically wasn’t. The phone rang. Oh well, he thought, better get it over with. He counted three, then picked it up and said in his briskest, most official, most efficient manner, ‘Bognor, Board of Trade.’

  ‘Oh Simon, thank heaven I’ve found you. I’ve got to talk to you.’

  ‘Who is this?’ It hardly sounded like an Oxford policeman. Far too familiar, and also far too grand and well-educated. A gown rather than a town voice.

  ‘Oh, sorry. It’s Sebastian Vole here, Simon. I hope you don’t mind my ringing you at your hotel. Waldy Mitten told me I’d probably get you at the Randolph. Hope you haven’t got one of the maids’ rooms up in the attic. Look, actually something pretty urgent’s cropped up and I wondered if we could have a spot of lunch. Waldy’s genned me up as a matter of fact. He thought it best, and in the circs I’m bound to say I’m glad he did.’

  Bognor swore under his breath. Another postponement of his business meeting with Hermione. And why had the preposterous Mitten unburdened himself to Vole? ‘You sound very agitated, Sebastian. Calm down and speak slowly. Whatever is it?’

  ‘I am very agitated actually,’ said Vole. ‘I hadn’t realized until this morning that the Master didn’t die of a stroke or a heart attack or indigestion or whatever. Someone else did it. And you’re investigating.’

  ‘Look, Sebastian.’ Bognor tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. ‘It is very distressing. I’m touched by your distress, which I share myself. Now do you simply wish to communicate this to me, or do you have something new to contribute?’ He sounded like Parkinson – a conscious parody.

  ‘Oh, it’s new all right,’ said Vole. ‘Dynamite. It’ll singe your eyebrows.’

  Bognor did not want his eyebrows singed, but he did not say so. ‘Very well,’ he said flatly. ‘Lunch, then. Where do you want to meet?’

  ‘Turf?’

  ‘Not exactly discreet.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Vole, ‘but we can meet there and move on. Maybe go for a walk.’

  ‘OK.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shall we say twelve-thirty?’

  ‘Twelve-thirty it is.’

  He hung up and immediately phoned Hermione Frinton again. She sounded gratifyingly disappointed.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Business before business. I’ll put your G and T on ice. Come and get it as soon as you’re free. And don’t believe too much of what Vole tells you. He’s inclined to exaggerate and my historian friends tell me his reputation is wildly inflated.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware he had a reputation,’ remarked Bognor.

  ‘That’s what I mean.’ She laughed. ‘See you soon.’

  Actually this exchange was unfair to Vole, and Bognor knew it. Soon after leaving Oxford he had produced a slim volume on Italian Fascism, entitled Mussolini: Mannerism Makyth Man, which was generally considered the cleverest book on its subject for years. It was, however, a young man’s book: flashy and as meretricious as its title suggested. The most venerated authority on the subject, old Cormorant of All Souls, had blown Vole out of the academic water over an entire Times Literary Supplement front page. As a result Vole had resolved to produce nothing else in a hurry, except for the occasional review and learned paper. For more than fifteen years he had been engaged on a magnum opus, the exact subject of which was known only to Vole, Mrs Vole and his loyal secretary-cum-researcher. Its publication was annually awaited, and had been for almost a decade. The saga had now gone on so long that it could truthfully be said that Vole’s very life, or at least his career, depended on it. Privately Bognor did not believe that Vole would have the guts to publish during his lifetime.

  He had just hung up his spare grey suit, even more shiny and bagged than the one he was wearing, when the phone shrilled again. This time it was Smith alias Chappie. He was downstairs. Bognor descended with a heavy heart to find a short, stout individual in a regulation CID fawn mackintosh and a pork pie hat which he had not removed.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said this person, taking Bognor’s right hand in both of his and squeezing uncomfortably hard. ‘Long time, no see. Don’t suppose you remember me?’

  Not for the first time in his life Bognor had an overwhelming desire to return home at once.

  ‘Must be twenty years ago if it’s a day,’ said the policeman, relinquishing Bognor’s hand and stepping back to appraise him. ‘You’ve changed. I’ll say that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bognor, ‘I don’t have any recollection.’

  ‘How about a coffee?’ inquired the inspector, not waiting for an answer but leading the way briskly towards the lounge. ‘I said to the missus when I heard, I said, “Well, that’s a turn-up for the book and no mistake. Course,” I said, “he won’t remember!”’

  ‘I give in,’ conceded Bognor, wearily subsiding into a chintz armchair. ‘Give me a clue.’

  ‘Give you a clue, eh?’ Smith scratched his chin and screwed up his eyes. After some cogitation he said, ‘About two o’clock in the morning, cold night, I was on duty, walking past the back gate of Apocrypha College, and what do I see emerging from a first-floor window but a pair of legs, female. Shapely, too, as far as one could judge from the lamplight.’

  ‘Ah.’ A Cheshire cat expression, fatuous, beatific but comprehending, illuminated Bognor’s face. ‘Are you telling me it was you
who …’

  ‘Assisted you and your lady friend out of a tight corner? Right in one.’

  ‘What an extraordinary coincidence!’ Bognor was almost cheered by it. He ordered their coffee with something approaching enthusiasm.

  ‘Small world, innit?’ The inspector pulled out a packet of filter tip cigarettes, offered one to Bognor, who declined, lit, and puffed. ‘Course I transferred a little while afterwards to CID. And here we are. Who’d have thought it? She was a bit of all right, your bird, if I remember correctly. On the big side. Well-built, if you follow.’

  ‘Funny,’ said Bognor. ‘I’d forgotten all about it. Or had, until my wife reminded me about it the other day.’

  ‘Wife? What? Same bird? Married her, did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, well. Good for you. Don’t mind admitting I wouldn’t have minded a spot of dalliance if it hadn’t been for … well, it’s a long time ago.’

  Bognor toyed with the idea of telling Smith that Monica had called him a rapist, but decided against it. She always exaggerated. Besides, one sneeze from her and this little man would have blown away. Out loud he said, ‘Clever of you to remember after all these years.’

  Smith glowed. ‘Like I say, she was a bit of all right, your er, missus, if you’ll pardon the expression. And I never forget a name. Monica Becket and Simon Bognor. That’s a name and a half, eh, Bognor? Never come across another. Twenty-three years on the force and never known another Bognor. Met a couple of Worthings and a Deal, and Viscount Weymouth of course, but never another Bognor. Odd, innit?’

  ‘And now you’ve got a Frinton to add to your list.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The inspector stubbed his cigarette out very deliberately. ‘Bit of all right, she is. Big girl like Mrs Bognor. But too much of an intellectual for my liking. Not altogether straight. Still, you can’t fault her legs.’