Blue Blood Will Out (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 8

  ‘Well, well,’ said Bognor. ‘What do you make of that?’

  He and Monica watched as the young Anglo-Mangolan friends lolloped back to the house. As they neared it they were passed by Mercer on his way out. He held a tray in front of him and was advancing in the direction of the cedar.

  ‘Disingenuous,’ said Monica, sniffing. ‘She’s awful, but he’s quite sexy in an effete sort of way. Look, butler ahoy! I think he’s coming for us.’

  Mercer was indeed coming for them. On arrival he held out the tray, and said, without expression, ‘Telegram, sir, and Sir Canning’s compliments, and could you please take your seats by three-forty-five?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Bognor took the small yellow envelope. ‘Oh, Mercer, is Mr. Smith about today?’

  ‘Mr. Smith of the police, sir?’ Bognor wished he wouldn’t make the ‘sir’ sound so derogatory.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, sir. I should imagine that Mr. Smith takes the weekends off. Will that be all?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ After he’d gone, he said to Monica, ‘Do you think he has a motive? He’s terribly suspicious, and he doesn’t care for me.’

  Monica told him not to be sensitive. ‘What’s the telegram?’

  He read it out loud. ‘Understand Mangolan girl terrorist Abney guest. Take seriously. Report soonest. Parkinson.’ Bognor smiled. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘for almost the first time in my life I do believe that Parkinson is a step behind.’

  6

  OPENING A STEAM SECTION on a Saturday afternoon had been a calculated risk. Because it was a ticket-only affair it meant barring the general public on a day which would normally have been lucrative. Nevertheless Sir Canning’s public relations consultants, Intercommuniplan, had suggested that it was worth aiming for the Sunday papers and, with the retainer he paid them, Sir Canning could hardly afford to ignore their advice.

  Now, of course, the demise of Freddie Maidenhead had so whetted the appetite of the popular, and indeed the unpopular, press that there was no problem in attracting journalists. Unfortunately they were going to be more interested in the scene of the crime than any promotional activities. Already there had been inquiries of a sort which Sir Canning actually found irritating but which for reasons of tact he affected to find distressing. He batted them all back to Intercommuniplan who had eventually telephoned him to suggest that the only way to prevent further unpleasantness was to hold a press conference and, as Mr. Eric de Villiers of Intercommuniplan put it, ‘get the whole thing out of the way’. Accordingly a gathering of crime reporters was arranged to take place at two-thirty in the boardroom. On the advice of Mr. de Villiers a large quantity of beer and whisky was provided.

  Bognor who sat in at the back of the room found the appearance of the crime reporters as uncongenial as did Sir Canning. They were, for the most part, purple-faced individuals with baggy trousers, stained waistcoats and indifferent breath. Sir Canning, who was in shirtsleeves to indicate informality and industry, seemed almost effeminate by comparison.

  Mr. de Villiers, short, sleek and heavily scented, supervised the drinks and set the conference in motion. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, in sepulchral tones, ‘all of you are naturally aware of the sad reason for this meeting. Sir Canning, as you know, was a close personal friend of the late Earl, and he is very concerned that the very natural public interest in his death should be satisfied as soon as possible. Naturally there will be an inquest and therefore there are certain areas where obviously we shall all have to tread very carefully. However, Sir Canning and I thought it best to ask you here first before this afternoon’s festivities where of course this sort of discussion would be er… inappropriate.’ He smiled unctuously and sat down.

  Sir Canning was obviously going to be businesslike. ‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said. ‘I think it best if we move straight to questions.’

  There was an immediate babble of interrogation. Sir Canning looked desperately at Mr. de Villiers who, with some presence of mind, said quickly, ‘Gentleman at the back in the check overcoat.’

  The person so designated identified himself as the representative of one of the more lurid Sunday papers and said, ‘Who do you think did it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I really can’t comment.’

  ‘Off the record, then.’

  ‘Not even off the record.’

  Another journalist interrupted. A smoother, more plausible person.

  ‘Would you say there was much rivalry between the Earl and other stately-home owners?’

  ‘A little, yes.’

  Questions continued. Sir Canning said less and less more and more verbosely and the press became restive. After twenty minutes a silver-haired reporter with a gold watch chain asked: ‘May I put it to you, Sir Canning, that the only reason you asked us here is to avoid any difficulties and embarrassment later on this afternoon when you open your new museum?’

  Mr. de Villiers leapt to his feet. ‘I really think that at a time like this,’ he said, ‘that’s a most improper…’

  ‘I wasn’t asking you,’ said the man in the gold watch chain.

  Sir Canning smiled diffidently. ‘Naturally,’ he said, ‘we’re all very concerned to get this whole thing settled once and for all and out of the way. Equally, I really don’t think we want to have any gloomy nonsense at this afternoon’s party. I’m absolutely certain that that is what Freddie would have wanted. As he himself would have said, “the show must go on”. And now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me…’

  There was much muttering and discontent but the press finished their drinks and left. It had not, Bognor reflected, been altogether satisfactory.

  Notices had been placed in the press to warn the public that the house would be shut from two p.m. but even so the local police were busy turning visitors away at the gates. Inside, a small temporary grandstand had been erected on the river bank, at an angle which allowed the 250 guests to see both the harbour and the Thames itself. The guests were a mélange of nautical folk, round-the-world yachtsmen, admirals, newspaper proprietors, and politicians, laced with starlets, film actors and television personalities. Most of the male faces were recognizable and the majority of the female figures predictable. The invitation stipulated ‘Edwardian dress’ and a number of men had taken this to mean gaily striped blazers, flannels and boaters. Women—Monica included—seemed to have conducted a raid on Laura Ashley and were nearly all wearing long white lacy dresses, with flecks of red and purple on aprons and sashes and blouses. A few women—mainly the models and the starlets—wore as little as possible, usually in the form of very short shorts, with a sleeveless top, or tight trousers with bare midriff. Bognor had found an old pair of cricket trousers and a school blazer. He had also discovered his Upper Sixth boater at the back of a cupboard but he refused to wear it, on the perfectly accurate grounds that it made him look ridiculous.

  At three-forty-five the guests had stopping milling about the banks of the river and the harbour and were settling into their places. Despite the breeze, the sun shone warm. A Royal Marine band played selections from HMS Pinafore and The Pirates of Penzance, and a profusion of bunting fluttered gaily from every available post, pole and piece of rigging. The Abney house-guests had a privileged place near the centre of the middle row of the stand, from where they had an unimpeded view of the small floating platform, with microphones, alongside which the Lysander was moored, already getting up a head of steam.

  Bognor surveyed the scene with quiet satisfaction. The air of subdued carnival was agreeable, and he had quite forgotten the deceased Earl of Maidenhead and the impending Umdaka. So, it seemed, had everyone else. Reds and yellows and blues and greens and silvers and whites proliferated, but not an inch of mourning black could be seen except behind the red rope a few yards to the right of the stand, where the gentlemen of the press sat cordoned away from the rest of the world in black and dark grey suits which sagged at the elbows and knees.

  There were television cameras and still photographers; usherette
s in blue and gold cat-suits with satin sashes, and in the background a festive marquee for the champagne tea. Bognor consulted his glossy programme. It appeared that first of all there would be speeches from the platform, from Sir Canning, then from the captain of the Queen Ann, who had a reputation for plain and amusing speaking. (He was supposed to be a friend of Prince Philip.) Then the two men alone would embark on the Lysander, leaving the normal crew behind with the captain’s lady and Lady Abney. The steam pinnace would sail out of the little harbour, do a very quick turn down the Thames, while the captain and Sir Canning acknowledged the plaudits of the crowd and the band played Rule Britannia and other appropriate airs and while, most important of all, the cameras rolled, the photographers snapped and the gentlemen of the press dutifully scribbled away in their shorthand notebooks. The boat would then go about, re-enter the harbour and moor once again by the floating platform. At this point the exhibition would be technically declared open by the captain and guests would be free to follow the official party as they toured round gawping, on their way to the drink tent.

  Bognor glanced along the line of guests. The Abneys were still in the house, doubtless having a tot of grog with the guest of honour, and Peter Williams could be seen in the distance organizing away in blazer and white trousers which had razor-sharp creases. Otherwise everyone was present. Not one looked in the least bereaved or the least guilty. Bognor was inclined to think the whole thing was a bad dream.

  A few minutes before four there was a ripple of applause and the four principals came walking towards the gangplank which led to the floating platform. Lady Abney and the captain (whose name was McAvity) led, followed by Sir Canning and Mrs. McAvity. Isobel Abney looked striking in an unusual gold trouser suit, heavily flared and tied at the waist with an electric-blue silk sash. Captain McAvity wore what Bognor presumed was the dress uniform of a merchant navy captain. It looked like an old-fashioned station master’s, consisting simply of dark blue serge and an excessive splattering of scrambled egg. His wife was neat and just the safe side of dowdy in a navy blue suit and matching hat. Sir Canning himself would no doubt have brought a blush to the cheeks of his Victorian forbear.

  To Bognor his appearance, which had changed radically since the press conference, suggested a number of images, all wildly inappropriate. They were, roughly: Naples, co-respondents, ice-cream, and amateur theatrical productions of The Boy Friend. The outfit which prompted these thoughts consisted of brown and white spotted shoes, cream-coloured Oxford bags, yellow blazer with a blue stripe, the Abney arms (presumably) on his breast pocket, and a pale blue cravat secured with a pearl pin. The finishing touches were, arguably, the most bizarre. On his head he wore a dinky little yachting cap, of the pillbox sort favoured by Scandinavian students on graduation days; under his left arm he carried a brass telescope.

  ‘My God,’ said Bognor to Monica, ‘what does he look like?’

  ‘Failed gigolo in Italian operetta on a bad day at Glyndebourne,’ she said. ‘No, correction. Pinkerton in a school production of Madame Butterfly.’ Sir Canning’s appearance seemed to have much the same effect on the rest of the audience, but luckily the band’s spirited rendering of A Life on the Ocean Wave drowned the resulting titter although Bognor distinctly heard the McCrum mutter, ‘Fellow looks an out-and-out pouf,’ and thought he heard Mabel McCrum tell him not to be so ‘rude and vulgar’.

  With a final flourish the band stopped and Sir Canning took to the microphone. It was not an inspired speech. ‘Great privilege to have with us Captain McAvity… ran away to sea as a boy… sailed round Horn… immense changes in modern seafaring… highly skilled… greatly honoured to have him open exhibition of which very proud… fine complement to existing display… inevitable step forward… many years of devoted work by team of dedicated experts… pay tribute to tireless work and understanding of wife… of Peter Williams…’ Bognor’s attention wandered to the showpiece, moored alongside the speaker. It was a beautiful boat, though he was completely ignorant of such things. She was, he supposed, about forty feet long and very low in the water. The bows back to the long thin brass funnel, which rose absolutely vertically amidships, were decked in highly polished pale wood, but behind the funnel there was an open cockpit where two men could be seen crouched, presumably over the boiler. Behind the funnel there was a large wheel and a small dashboard of knobs and dials. From the stern a gold and blue triangular pennant fluttered. Unless people were to stand on the deck there was scarcely room for more than two people. He wondered what the Grand Duke Leopold had wanted it for. Showing off, probably, which was, after all, the same reason as Sir Canning’s. A polite round of applause woke him from his day-dreaming. The first speech was over and it was now Captain McAvity’s turn. Captain McAvity’s turn was a characteristically bluff and salty one, well honed by repetition at twenty-five guineas a time. He invariably salted it up a bit for businessmen’s luncheons and down a bit for ladies’ literary guilds, but he gauged this audience as ‘genteel and bisexual’ which meant that he cut out the one about the Englishman, the Scotsman, the Irishman and the Welsh-man in a Venezuelan brothel but left in the one about the Pope’s visit to Paris.

  ‘Three cardinal rules, stand up, speak up, shut up… great pleasure and privilege to be here… reminds me of occasion on which Pope visited Paris… he said… she said… so he said… so she said… Well I feel a bit like that… immense industry and vision of Sir Canning… made Britain famous for this sort of thing… as Nelson said to Lady Hamilton… whereupon she replied… absolutely certain of immense success… extraordinary omen when funny thing happened on my way here… she said to me… I said to her… so she said to me… May I say once more… very great privilege… my wife and I… heartfelt thanks and appreciation… warmest wishes for every deserved success.’

  Bognor who again drifted off after the opening sentences was sure he had heard it before but was prepared to admit that it was such a production-line effort that he could have heard it from someone else, although, equally, it was so boring that he might have forgotten it. Eventually the Captain sat down and Sir Canning returned to the microphone.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I hope you will bear with me just a little more. All I want to say is that Captain McAvity and I are now going to take a short… and I mean short… trip in this magnificent steam pinnace which you see in front of you and which was specially commissioned by the Grand Duke Leopold almost a hundred years ago. For the purposes of posterity and history we have decided not to officially open the exhibition with any cutting of red tape or smashing of bottles. Instead, as we return upstream we shall simply give one small blast on the Lysander’s whistle and at that moment the steam section of the Abney Small Ships Museum will be open. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you once again for coming today, I hope very much to see you in a few minutes’ time with a glass of champagne in the marquee.’

  The band now struck up with more Gilbert and Sullivan, and Captain McAvity and Sir Canning began to embark. The two looked hardly ready for any real voyage, no matter how short. Bognor was struck once again by the absurdity of Abney’s outfit and reflected that even the Captain looked unreal, like a Madame Tussaud’s sailor. He glanced across at the choppy water of the Thames and hoped they wouldn’t disgrace themselves by being riversick.

  ‘Hope they don’t capsize,’ giggled Monica. ‘It doesn’t look frightfully safe.’

  The professional experts, the two men who had earlier been huddled in the Lysander’s cockpit, were now giving Abney and McAvity some final instructions. From the bewildered demeanour of both of them it looked as if they were more first- than last-minute instructions. The senior of the two men was gesticulating, making pulling and pushing and winding movements and shaking his head vigorously. Sir Canning was nodding unimpressively, like a small boy taking delivery of his first paddle boat in the park. Eventually the embarkation was complete, the crew cast off, the band struck up with Rule Britannia and Sir Canning, standing precariously behi
nd the wheel, steered the boat out into the river with one hand, while waving with the other. Captain McAvity, standing beside him with nothing to do, looked distinctly uneasy.

  Despite the peculiar appearance of its two passengers the boat had class. Its sleek lines and shiny fittings demonstrated for everyone the good taste of the Grand Duke Leopold and the expertise of the vessel’s designer. Nevertheless, as they hit the Thames and turned left down river (Bognor had never had any truck with such terms as port and starboard), there was a nasty moment. The wind in midstream was stronger than in harbour and obviously stronger than Sir Canning had realized. He swung the Lysander too sharply and for a moment, as she lurched dangerously and several waves broke over her deck, it seemed that the worst might happen and she would indeed capsize. The issue hung in the balance for a second and then she righted herself and started to push down the Thames towards Cookham and out of sight, with clouds of smoke belching from the funnel.

  ‘She does look rather like a sea-going bonfire,’ said Monica.

  ‘Hardly sea-going,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Nice for picnics, though.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I’d rather have a punt.’ She touched his arm. ‘We ought to do that some time.’

  Similar conversation began all around as the band changed to Handel’s Water Music, performed in crisp military manner, doubtless reserving the rest of Rule Britannia for the Lysander’s return. Although the boat was out of sight of the VIP guests on the Buckinghamshire bank, quite a crowd of hoi polloi had built up on the towpath on the Berkshire side, which being owned by the National Trust was, of course, open to them. Some had obviously gone there by design to observe the festivities but others were simply afternoon picnickers and dog walkers. The progress of the boat could be followed from the grandstand by the loud and enthusiastic cheering of this multitude, the younger of whom ran along the towpath keeping alongside the boat. The gentlemen of the press, meanwhile, had broken out from behind their barricade. Some swarmed along the Abney bank snapping off film, while the older among them had already disappeared in the direction of the drink tent, and a very few intrepid ones had put to river in a small motor boat. Eventually the hubbub announced the impending return of the Lysander. A light pall of smoke lay in a swathe several hundred yards along the river, the band returned to Rule Britannia with great verve and at last the bows of the boat returned to view, making slow progress against wind and current.