Unbecoming Habits (The Simon Bognor Mysteries Book 1) Page 4

  ‘Funny,’ said Xavier. ‘I could have sworn I heard something.’

  ‘Probably a cat,’ said Bognor.

  ‘More likely the whisky… anyway, can’t I tell you something useful? Like who’s sleeping with who.’

  For the first time Bognor was genuinely shocked. He must have shown it because Father Xavier laughed.

  ‘A prudish policeman. Dear oh dear. Well for a start there’s Brother Barnabas—you’ve met him, comes from Leeds and stammers, poor soul. He’s with Vivian, has been for about six months now. Before that I think it was Bede though I’m not too certain about that… ah…’ A thought suddenly appeared to strike him. ‘Perhaps that would be a motive. Maybe your Brother Luke was trying to cut in on that cosy relationship and someone didn’t like it.’

  ‘He wasn’t queer,’ said Bognor.

  ‘And he wasn’t one of yours either. I know. For a policeman you’re either very slow-witted, or very on edge, or extremely crafty.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll find me a great source of comfort in the hard days ahead.’

  Again he suddenly held up his hand and listened. This time there was no mistake about it. It wasn’t from outside, but from the corridor, and it sounded like a foot on a floorboard. The two men paused a moment and then both made for the door, but they had paused too long. By the time they were out in the corridor the outside door was slamming shut, and by the time they had got to the outside door the intruder was invisible in the darkness. They could hear running footsteps hurrying away, clipping a staccato pattern on paving stones. Then another door slammed and there was silence.

  ‘Someone from the farmhouse,’ said Xavier.

  ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘About half the community. It could have been almost anyone.’

  ‘Let’s have another talk tomorrow,’ said Bognor. He was tired and cross. He had an uneasy feeling that someone was trying to make him look silly, and it was beginning to get him down.

  He slept badly. The walls between rooms were wafer thin and he could hear his neighbour snoring with a deep monotony. At 5.15 Brother Barnabas woke him with a stuttered quasi-religious greeting. He turned over and tried to get more sleep. Breakfast was silent and he had to endure not only lumpy porridge but a biography of the prison reformer, Elizabeth Fry, read stumblingly by an elderly friar with a squint. His depression increased as the morning went on. His colleagues from the local police reappeared and together they ran through the list of suspects. It was, he said to himself, ridiculous. None of them had alibis which could be corroborated because each one had been working on his own. Anselm had been in his office going through accounts and bills, except for the brief excursion to the library. Xavier had been in the library. John with the bees, Simon working on Expo-Brit, Aldhelm weeding the herbaceous border outside the recreation room, Vivian tinkering with the van, Barnabas cleaning out the washbasins and baths, Bede in the library with Xavier for an hour, then cooking. Everyone had seen everyone else some of the time—and of course at the 11 a.m. cocoa break. Except that none of them seemed able to remember the cocoa break with any precision. Or indeed anything else much.

  The cocoa break was part of the community ritual. Bognor and Inspector Pinney helped themselves to mugs of watery chocolate from the chipped urn on the trestle table and looked round.

  Hardly anyone except for Anselm was wearing a habit. Paul was wearing the same outfit as the day before, hitchhiking. Barnabas was in baggy grey flannels with bicycle clips; Father John in khaki shorts and a faded blue Aertex shirt; Brother Giles, an ex-naval Petty Officer, demonstrated press-ups in the middle of the courtyard, to the considerable amusement of a small group of guests, friars and pigeons. Interspersed among the friars themselves were the various inmates of the home, usually, though not always, distinguishable on account of some physical or mental handicap. All this was described and interpreted for Bognor and inspector Pinney by Father Xavier, himself looking like a cross between a tea planter and a don, in faded white trousers, sandals and cream silk shirt.

  After he had pointed out everyone present, each man accorded a more or less rude epithet, he took Bognor by the elbow and led him away from the crowd towards the well which stood in one corner of the courtyard.

  ‘Funny thing happened this morning,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ Bognor was not in the mood for funny things.

  ‘Yes. Old Anselm came into the library about an hour ago. Very uptight. “Xavier, a word, if I may,” he says. He’s always at his most punctilious when he wants to say something unpleasant. Anyway he warned me off.’

  ‘Warned you off?’

  ‘He said that while we were to give the police every assistance it was no part of our duty to start playing at Peter Wimsey, and that we should on no account approach the police without first being approached, and that the situation was bad enough already without irresponsible brethren putting wrong ideas into policemen’s heads. And then he said he hoped he made himself clear.’

  ‘To which you replied?’

  ‘That I’d no idea what he was going on about but that I personally had a great deal more experience of the police than he had, and I would use my own judgement.’

  ‘You think it was him last night?’

  ‘It’s your job to do the thinking,’ Xavier smiled.

  ‘I’m just giving you the facts. I’ll be seeing you.’ He drained his cocoa and walked off briskly grinning broadly and bowing in the direction of Father Anselm who had been watching with unconcealed irritation.

  Bognor was wandering towards Inspector Pinney and wondering what new line of enquiry to pursue when there was a tug at his elbow. He turned and saw a man of about thirty in a plastic mac and a brimless panama hat; he recalled Xavier’s description. ‘Lord Camberley’s son and heir,’ he had said, ‘the rest of them call him Batty Tom. Nutty as a fruit cake. Or so they say. I’m rather fond of him actually, and I’m not so sure. Anyway I always call him Thomas, just in case.’ Bognor looked into the piercing pale blue eyes and wasn’t sure himself.

  ‘Do you know who lives at Balmoral?’ asked Thomas urgently. And before Bognor could answer him he embarked on a catalogue of royal names.

  ‘Not all the year round,’ said Bognor seriously. ‘Only on holidays.’

  Thomas looked at him with interest. ‘The capital of Mali,’ he said slowly, ‘is Bammaku.’

  He waited for the information to sink in and then went on, ‘You see. I’m not as stupid as I look. Not by a long chalk I’m not.’

  ‘No,’ said Bognor.

  The blue eyes glazed. ‘I can help you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’d like to know who did it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Strangled him.’ He drew his hand across his throat expressively. ‘Throttled him. Did him in. You’d like to know about that ’cos that’s what you’re here for. You’re here to find out who did the murder. See. I’m not stupid.’ He pulled clumsily at the sleeves of his mac, waiting for approbation.

  ‘No,’ said Bognor, ‘I can see that. But who do you think did it?’

  ‘I don’t think, I know. I know for certain. Just like I know the Queen lives in Buckingham Palace when she’s not in Balmoral. Did you know who the Emperor of Ethiopia was?’

  ‘Haile Selassie.’

  Lord Camberley’s son smiled. ‘That’s what you think,’ he said. ‘But I saw him the day of the murder. I said “Good morning” to him too. Never said anything to me though. Told him he wasn’t supposed to be there too.’ He smiled vacantly and the eyes went more empty than before. ‘Here comes Father Anselm. I’ll see you here after lunch. At one.’ He raised his voice, on what Bognor supposed must have been purpose. ‘Haile Selassie doesn’t just have lions. He has bulldogs too. Big fat bulldogs from Britain.’ He giggled and turning, smiled inanely at Father Anselm who was on the point of interrupting them.

  ‘Morning, Thomas,’ said Father Anselm with less than friendship. He was obviously in a foul t
emper. His mouth was tight and he seemed to be shaking. A thin line of cocoa stained his upper lip and he was not as impressive as earlier in chapel.

  ‘Good morning, Simon,’ he said as Batty Thomas made his way back across the yard.

  If it hadn’t been Anselm last night then he clearly knew all about the encounter.

  ‘Look,’ he said breathlessly, ‘I know you have a job to do, but so have I. Mine is preserving the good order of the Community and preventing any unnecessary things which interfere with its smooth running. It’s bad enough already, without a lot of cloak and dagger stuff. For instance I don’t like you talking to poor things like Thomas. He can’t help himself, and he doesn’t know what he’s saying. You’ll be bound to get false impressions from him. And…,’ he lowered his voice, though there was no one within yards. ‘There are other people who are less than reliable. I see, for instance, that you have made contact with Father Xavier.’

  He laughed a laugh that was intended to sound weary but was really just brittle. ‘I was afraid this might happen. He’s a wonderful man in many ways, a man of massive spiritual integrity, a fine preacher… many things like that. But he’s the last person to be talking to at a time like this. He’s an incurable romantic. Everything is adorned. Of course he wouldn’t actually lie but he can’t help exaggerating; and his war wounds have, I am afraid, left indelible scars. Sometimes he scarcely knows what he is saying.’

  ‘War wounds?’

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’ Father Anselm looked at him with surprise. ‘Oh dear, then I’m afraid that he’s been less than honest. I can hardly blame him. He finds it distressing and there are only a handful of us here who know anything about it. He was in a tank in the North Africa campaign. Not an unusual story in its way. There was a direct hit and he was the only man to survive. It affected him terribly. Amnesia, hallucinations, paranoia. He seems so dreadfully normal so much of the time, and yet there are times when…’ Father Anselm put his hand to his forehead. ‘It’s peculiarly unfortunate that you should have encountered him so early. I blame myself.’

  ‘He seemed all right to me,’ said Simon.

  This remark irritated Father Anselm still more, and he said something semi-coherent about policemen being trained to recognise that sort of thing. They were alone in the courtyard by now, and only the cawing of rooks and the sporadic whine of a circular saw up on the hill disturbed them.

  ‘It would be better,’ said Father, Anselm, ‘if your interviews were arranged through me in future.’

  Bognor demurred. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll co-operate as far as possible but I do have a job to do.’

  This seemed to alarm rather than irritate Anselm.

  ‘What do you propose doing next?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve got nothing much on before lunch,’ said Simon, who was pinning a lot of hope on his interview with Batty Tom. Any other progress was difficult. The alibis were all essentially similar and an overt admission that he was suspicious about the Expo-Brit scheme might ruin everything. At the moment the murderer couldn’t be sure that his motive was known. It had better stay that way for the moment. He remembered Sir Erris’s advice about not trying too hard.

  While he was thinking this he was being talked at. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘What?’

  ‘I said I’d like you to meet Father Simon. Thoroughly sound and helpful. I think he’d help you get things back in perspective after Xavier and poor Thomas.’

  Father Simon was in charge of the administration side of the honey export drive. A prime suspect. If Anselm was involved in the intrigue and the murder he was being exceedingly cavalier, or perhaps cunning. Bognor’s mind flickered between the two possibilities. ‘I’d be delighted to meet Father Simon,’ he said. ‘In what way is he so sound?’

  ‘He joined the Community the same year I did. I’ve known him for most of my adult life. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him. The concept of inner peace probably doesn’t mean much to you, but if you think it’s a cliché you’ll be reformed after meeting Simon.’

  ‘Good.’

  They walked into the main building and stopped outside a door in the same corridor as Father Anselm’s own office. Anselm knocked and entered in the same movement.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ said Father Simon in tones which betrayed little inner peace. ‘The labels have disappeared. I simply can’t find them anywhere. You haven’t taken them off, have you?’

  ‘Later, Simon, later. I’d like to introduce you to a namesake from London, Simon Bognor. I’m afraid he’s here about something rather more serious than labels.’

  Father Simon was having none of this. He was an extremely small man with a grey, office-bound face and rimless glasses, and he was agitated.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But the labels are important. They ought to be on by next week if we’re going to get everything packed in time. I’ve tried everything else. Have you no idea where they are?’

  Anselm was discomfited. ‘I’d really prefer not to discuss domestic trivia at a time like this,’ he was saying when Bognor waved him on, with well-assumed languor.

  ‘I’m not fussed,’ he said. ‘It’s obviously very important to Father Simon. My business can wait.’

  The little man smiled at him quickly and mechanically, and Anselm looked even more ill at ease. ‘It’s simple,’ he said. ‘As you yourself must have noticed, the quality of print on those labels was woefully inadequate. I’ve sent them back to the Press. They say they’ll have them re-done by the week-end. There’s no reason for all this distress.’

  Father Simon subsided. ‘Thank goodness for that,’ he said. ‘They get most upset if anything’s late, and our relationship with the Globe has always been so good. I’d hate to spoil it.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘I never noticed anything wrong with them,’ he said, slightly testily, his mouth pouting in an unaccustomed gesture of insubordination. ‘They looked all right to me.’

  ‘But not to me,’ said Anselm. ‘Neither of us is getting any younger, I’m afraid. But still, I want you to help Mr. Bognor with his questions. He’s been having a difficult time since he arrived.’

  It was useless. Admittedly he had a sort of half-cock alibi because he’d made some phone calls that morning. Five in all and not one of them lasted more than five minutes. Bognor told him patiently that that left about an hour and three-quarters unaccounted for, if they accepted that Luke had been killed between the time he was last seen setting off for the potato patch with a sack over his back (just after ten) and the beginning of Sext which was 12.15. Father Simon said he’d been to cocoa break and Bognor conceded another quarter of an hour. Father Simon said that he hadn’t noticed Luke at cocoa that morning and that fitted in with the pattern. Nobody could remember seeing him at cocoa that morning.

  Which might have meant that he was already dead by eleven; or simply that he didn’t feel like cocoa. Bognor shuddered at the recollection of his first cup and decided that Luke’s absence from cocoa was unlikely to be significant.

  ‘If time concerns you,’ said Anselm, ‘I think I should say that he had dug remarkably few potatoes when they found him.’

  ‘Maybe he was a slow digger,’ said Bognor, realising that it sounded facetious the minute he’d said it. The two friars looked at him with contempt. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s interesting but not conclusive. Luke could have died at any time between ten and twelve-fifteen and I have to tell you that no one has yet produced a water-tight alibi. It could have been anyone.’

  There was a silence after that. The heavy and functional alarm clock on Father Simon’s mantelpiece ticked noisily and he shuffled through some of the scattered heaps of paper on his desk.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ he asked eventually. He had, Bognor reflected, the same slight old-maidishness as his superior, Anselm.

  ‘It’s not really relevant, but very interesting all the same… and we’ve got half an hour before lunch… I wonder if y
ou’d tell me a bit about the honey and exporting it.’ Bognor hoped they wouldn’t notice the entirely professional nature of his interest in their honey.

  Father Simon was enthusiastic, Anselm less so, although he seemed relieved that the serious questioning was over and that a red herring could be indulged. Either innocent, decided Bognor, or he underestimates me.

  Father Simon’s was a virtuoso performance. Starting in a low key with the historical beginnings, the arrival of the first bees, he painted a dramatic picture of the honey’s growing reputation as a genuine gourmet’s delight.

  ‘What Frank Cooper became to marmalade, the Friars of Beaubridge became to honey,’ he said in one well-rehearsed phrase. From the acceptance of the Beaubridge honey on the breakfast tables of the nation’s connoisseurs he moved with enthusiasm to the day when the managing editor of the Globe had telephoned at Lord Wharfedale’s personal request. Lord Wharfedale, he had said, has long been an admirer and consumer of your excellent product. He believes that yours is a gift which should be shared with other nations. Other great British products, too, must be introduced to less fortunate countries but amongst those which Wharfedale Newspapers choose to sponsor yours will ever be foremost. By the first post next day they had received a letter asking them to take part in the Expo-Brit scheme. It was an opportunity quickly grasped, and not just for the sake of Beaubridge’s inestimable honey.

  It was at this point that Father Simon himself had begun to take an active part in the proceedings.

  ‘For some years,’ he said, ‘I had maintained an interest in the plight of our beleaguered church behind the iron curtain, the oppression amounting sometimes to torture, the persecutions and the trials. All this made bearable by the heroism of our brothers. I had been in correspondence—a secret correspondence you understand—with many of them and I had come to know them well.’ He lowered his voice for dramatic effect and continued: ‘The minute I heard of Lord Wharfedale’s idea I saw it as a golden opportunity. Under the guise of a somewhat materialist export scheme we could bring succour and encouragement to our Holy Mother the Church in countries where normally there was only a very little.’