Let Sleeping Dogs Die (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 8

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, what does it contain?’

  ‘Burnt newspaper, kindling wood and coal. All you have here, sonny Jim, is the embers of a household fire.’

  ‘That’s exceedingly interesting.’

  ‘I’m delighted you think so.’

  There was the abrupt click of a telephone receiver being replaced in anger and Bognor sucked his teeth. Another black mark. He would be bound to complain to Parkinson. At last, however, he had time to make one of his lists. He found a pencil in a drawer and began to write on a piece of lined foolscap.

  After a minute he had a depressingly long list of names: Ailsa Potts, the Duchess of Dorset, Coriander Cordingley, Cecil Handyside, Percy Pocklington, Edgar J. Eagerly. He paused to chew on the pencil end and then added Albert Ramble, rival of Mrs Potts. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that a man who was known to the world as Britain’s second-best breeder of poodles might nobble the prize product of Britain’s best breeder. Gardeners did it with vegetable marrows. It had been heard of with racehorses.

  He stared long and hard at the list. The trouble with it was that it involved so much speculation, so much assumption. With an imaginative use of both he could involve every person on his list and a few besides. If Cecil Handyside was arranging the transportation of the dogs, Percy Pocklington could be the bent judge who made sure that they got the first prize every time, the Duchess was the producer whose dog had been used, Edgar J. Eagerly purported to be the owner of the dog for the purposes of the show. Coriander Cordingley used her travel and contacts to provide an intelligence network—as did Pocklington and the others. Albert Ramble and Mrs Potts were breeders who had been approached. It was a perfectly plausible theory and he resolved to try it out on Monica that evening. He threw down the pencil with some satisfaction. It would help, he realized, if he knew a little more about the world of dogs. He stood up, stretched and went for a short walk.

  Fifteen minutes later he was back with the Dog Gazette. It was a thirty-two page volume printed on indifferent paper, and for the most part in exceptionally small type. He flipped idly through it. Advertisements for dog shows were followed by advertisements for dogs. He had no idea there were so many breeds. He noticed that there were five brindle Afghan bitches for sale and that a minor Alsatian champion was at stud (fee £20). Most of the advertisements were for puppies for sale, or dogs willing to have sex. The second bit, indeed, was a little like one of those underground sex magazines except that instead of ‘Virile company director seeks willing chick’ you had ‘The Chaldon Chows are now at stud for the winter. Champion Chaldon Chummy—fee 35 guineas—this dog consistently siring winning stock’. Cairns, chihuahuas, Finnish Spitzes, German short-haired pointers, Dobermanns, Groenendaels, Keeshonds, Lhasa Apsos, Norwegian buhunds, Schipperkes, Schnauzers and Shih-Tzus were all among those willing to have sexual intercourse for a fee. The money involved was not large. Bognor saw nothing more than fifty guineas. However, he supposed, if a dog was sufficiently famous he might demand more, and in any case one dog could presumably service several bitches in a day. At fifty guineas a go it surely shouldn’t be impossible to make several hundred pounds on a brief visit to America, and if you could increase the fee the profit would obviously rise.

  He turned on to ‘Breed News’ and stopped briefly at the ‘Poodles’ entry. ‘I was very sorry to hear,’ it began, in a typeface so tiny that even Bognor whose eyesight was formidable, had to screw his eyes up to read, ‘that Ailsa Potts had lost her dog, Champion Whately Wonderful. Ailsa and I have had our ups and downs over the years and have disagreed over everything it is possible to disagree about. No doubt she will persist with the seaweed theory and allow Dutch clipping until she retires. But perhaps I am a bit of a fuddy duddy on things like this. Anyway Whately Wonderful was a great dog in the making and a great loss to dogdom. Many of us believed that he was the finest dog ever to come from Ailsa’s kennels and I can say no higher than that. …’ The tribute continued on its meandering and fulsome way for a further three paragraphs until petering out over a name he recognized immediately: ‘Albert Ramble’. ‘Hmmm,’ he said to himself, and absentmindedly underlined the name on his list. He wondered. …

  That evening he showed the magazine to Monica, while he was recounting the adventures at Piddlehampton. He told his tale as flatly and unemotionally as possible, while omitting any mention of the bed he slept in.

  ‘So you staggered back to the hotel when you’d come round, did you?’

  Bognor flushed. ‘No, they drove me back and dumped me in my bed.’

  She looked up sharply. ‘My bed?’ she said. ‘Why did you say it like that? Why my bed? Why not just bed?’

  ‘Because it was my bed they put me in.’

  ‘Of course it was.’ She was looking at him with obvious suspicion. ‘No one suggested it wasn’t, until you.’

  ‘I didn’t … I only. Anyway, did you go out for that curry?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  He was irritated, as much with himself as with her. She went back to reading the magazine, sulking. He sat and stared. Then after a few minutes’ petulant silence she said, ‘Isn’t someone called Percy Pocklington on your list?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Chairman and General Secretary of the Dog-lovers’ League?’

  ‘Yes. At least he runs the League, I didn’t know he was quite so pompous about it.’

  ‘They have a show tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh. Where?’

  ‘Olympia. Listen. Sounds super. “Grand Dog-lovers’ League Championship Show. Many classes, both open and obedience. Special displays by the Merioneth formation sheepdog team and the Rentadog Stuntsters. Guest appearance of Raffles, the Excelsior Chewing Gum Dog. Best of Show to be judged by Percy Pocklington and televised at home and abroad. Presentations by Miss Northern Hemisphere”.’

  ‘I might go to that. What time is it?’

  ‘All day.’

  ‘I’ll turn up in the afternoon. Might learn something to my advantage. Certainly meet some of my protagonists for the first time. Would you care to come?’

  ‘Not much.’ She smiled, forgivingly, and Bognor wondered, with a twinge of jealousy, where she’d spent the night. ‘But I will. On one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That we can have lunch at the Coq Hardi.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  He couldn’t afford it, he knew that. Not after the fiver for Rose, for which Parkinson would never reimburse him, but it was worth it for harmony. Besides, he enjoyed a good lunch.

  5

  OLYMPIA WAS SEETHING WITH dogs and people. A programme which Bognor bought at the turnstile claimed 7000 dogs and he doubted whether they outnumbered the humans. He and Monica stood just inside the hall staring about them, unsure where to start. All round the perimeter of the building there were little stalls like fairground booths. Some sold dog shampoos and dog deodorants, dog soaps, dog scents and canine eau de cologne. Others offered dog whistles too high pitched for the human ear or little fur lined dog jackets, dog motoring goggles or even dog—or rather bitch—chastity belts. The variety of canine comestibles was equally remarkable. There were dog chocolates of every description, not to mention biscuits and meat, pies and pastries and every sort of health food nutrient for dogs from seaweed à la Potts to Doggy buckwheat bread, dried nasturtium leaves and spun protein tripe.

  ‘Let’s start with all this,’ said Monica, making straight for the ‘Dog Drug Store’. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, picking up a bottle which said ‘Dr Merlin’s heartburn pills—suitable for all breeds. Relieves indigestion swiftly. One pill for toys, three for large. Dose after meals’.

  Bognor was examining scent. ‘“A bas les chattes,”’ he read, ‘“an exotic odour particularly suitable for blonde or white coats. Cher, cher, chien—for the very special dog”.’

  Nearby the
re was a small electric toothbrush with a label attached which claimed ‘for the dog who has everything’. He winced. Slowly they wandered on, mesmerized by the anthropomorphic oddity of it all. Just beyond the MacDogs’ stall which sold coats in forty-six different tartans he saw a discreet card advertising ‘Coriander Cordingley’s canine cameos—capture your pet in oils or watercolours. Twenty guineas head and shoulders, thirty for the whole dog’. Behind the card and surrounded by portraits of Alsatians, Pekinese, poodles and a striking group of three bassets, sat Miss Cordingley herself. She was, appropriately, in a tweed suit, and had a silver brooch of a labrador’s head pinned to her lapel.

  ‘Simon,’ she said, smiling, ‘how very nice. What a surprise!’

  She had, he noticed, toned down the make-up but she still managed to look like a tart, albeit in a plain wrapper.

  ‘How nice to see you,’ he said, smiling back.

  ‘Are you going to introduce me to your … friend, darling?’ said Monica, frostily. Bognor did as he was told and the two women surveyed each other disapprovingly. He was sorry to see that Monica made her own dislike more obvious than Coriander.

  ‘We met at the Duchess of Dorset’s,’ said Coriander. ‘I’m afraid Simon wasn’t well. He had an anti-typhoid injection which rather interfered with his performance.’

  She managed to give the last phrase precisely the double meaning which Bognor wished to avoid.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I wasn’t really in full possession of all my faculties,’ he said, making it worse.

  Coriander laughed, huskily, and Monica said frostily, ‘I’m glad to say he seems to have recovered now, Miss Cordingley.’ Then added in a loud aside to Bognor, ‘Come along. I want to see some dogs.’

  When they had moved on, Bognor grinning a farewell to Coriander, Monica whispered to him noisily, ‘She’s a right bitch.’

  ‘Shhh,’ he said, crossly. ‘Anyway, in these surroundings I think that’s a compliment.’

  Just as he spoke a be-tweeded lady in brown brogues strode past. Pinned to her enormous bosom was a rosette with ‘Dog-lovers’ League. Best of Breed’ on it.

  ‘There you are,’ he said triumphantly, ‘see what I mean?’

  She didn’t smile. Instead she pushed through the crowd towards the middle of the hall where, to judge from the yapping and the occasional flashing of cameras, the dogs themselves were competing. He was just about to burst out of a particularly thick part of the scrummage, when he realized that he’d almost trampled on a very small and elderly lady, once more, like all the others of her sex, clad exclusively in tweeds.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he began, then saw who it was. ‘Why, your Grace, I’d no idea you’d be here, I thought you were in quarantine.’

  She seemed no less surprised to see him. And not pleased either.

  ‘Aha. Mr Worthing.’

  ‘Bognor.’

  Perhaps it had just been the elbow he’d pushed in her face, but she did seem remarkably antagonistic. Still, the last time she’d seen him he was in the process of stealing an orange box from one of her flowerbeds. Maybe she was entitled to be hostile.

  ‘We are not suffering from mumps,’ she continued, ‘the only people who are in quarantine are my dear Dandies.’

  ‘May I please introduce …’ said Bognor, casting around for Monica in the crowd, but not seeing her.

  ‘Apparently not, young man,’ said the Duchess, ‘some other time perhaps.’

  She bustled away, pushing through the crowds with an agility and determination which was surprising, considering her age and the fact that she only came up to most people’s waists.

  He found Monica among the Afghans. They were sitting or lying on narrow benches, owners’ names and addresses pinned next to them along with the rosettes of the more successful. At intervals along the benches sat little groups of owners, a motley collection whose only common denominator was a deplorable scruffiness which contrasted dramatically with the impeccable grooming of their pets. Monica looked sad.

  ‘It does seem a shame,’ she said, ‘such beautiful animals, like this. I feel like letting them all free.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t. Parkinson would have me fired for that.’

  She laughed. ‘Good job too,’ she said, ‘I’m even more tempted.’

  ‘I’ve just seen the Duchess of Dorset,’ he said. ‘She was in a mood. Called me Worthing again. She only does it to annoy. She knows perfectly well my name’s Bognor.’

  ‘She obviously can’t tell the difference. Can’t say I blame her. I thought she couldn’t go to dog shows. Surely she’s in quarantine?’

  ‘That’s what I said. I think the point is that she’s not in quarantine, only her bloody dogs. Still, I don’t know why she should bother to come if she’s not showing.’

  Monica frowned. ‘I wonder …’ she said. ‘You don’t suppose she is showing?’

  ‘She can’t. It’s against Ministry regulations. And the Kennel Club, come to that. It’s not possible.’

  ‘If she can break all the rules and show her animals in Colombia and the United States, surely she can do it here?’

  It was Bognor’s turn to frown. He said nothing but he felt the adrenalin begin to flow. They walked on a little way, through more benches containing Yorkshire terriers with their hair in curlers, and strange, almost fluorescent Weimaraners, described by the more adventurous breeders as ‘Grey Ghosts’. Eventually they emerged into a show ring where a scrupulously neat gentleman in pin stripe suit was standing with his chin in his hands, trying to look knowledgeable. Around him there paraded a dozen or so small mustard-coloured dogs more or less under the control of a dozen or so assorted ladies, and one young man wearing a cloth cap and a pinkly self-conscious expression.

  ‘My God,’ said Bognor, ‘Dandie Dinmonts.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Monica.

  ‘Positive,’ he said. ‘I’d recognize them anywhere. Look at those absurd top-knots on their heads and those bandy legs. Not to mention those beady little eyes and those vicious teeth.’ He thought ruefully of his ruined suedes. ‘You can tell from the way they walk that they’ve got weak bladders.’

  ‘Oh, Simon!’ Monica laughed, and he laughed with her.

  ‘Do look at the judge,’ he said, ‘he’s a hoot. He’s wearing spats.’

  It was true. He was wearing spats. Also an expression of truly ferocious determination. He was about fifty with a high complexion, crinkly black hair which looked too black to be true, and a monocle screwed firmly into his left eye. Rather short, he had a tendency towards chubbiness which would have made him look unbelievably pompous if it hadn’t been for the spiv-like moustache which gave him a hint of raffishness.

  ‘He’s terrific,’ agreed Monica, watching wide-eyed as the judge bent almost double, apparently trying to peer under the dogs’ bellies—a quite impossible feat without actually lying down. ‘Whoever can he be?’

  A woman in a plastic mac, who was standing immediately beside them, said ‘Shhh!’ aggressively. ‘It’s Pocklington,’ she whispered.

  Bognor leant towards her. ‘What? Percy Pocklington?’ he said conspiratorially.

  ‘Yes,’ said the woman, looking at him as if he was mad. ‘Where’ve you been? Haven’t you seen him on the tele? He does the Meatibix ads. You must have seen him.’

  ‘I’m sorry. No.’ Bognor felt inadequate.

  The woman grunted and turned back to the ring, leaving Bognor to unravel further mysteries for himself. Mr Pocklington was now examining three or four dogs in minute detail. He peeled back their gums to look at their teeth, he put his hands on a foreleg here, a muzzle there, ran a finger down the back of one animal’s neck and spent several seconds caressing another’s rump. It was most perplexing. Bognor’s attention drifted to the ringside where the spectators looked horribly knowledgeable. Most, he presumed, would be owners either of dogs in the ring, or of others less successful. On the far side he saw the Duchess of Dorset, hunched over her walking stick. She looked sm
aller than ever and was watching with an intensity which seemed greater even than Mr Pocklington’s.

  Monica tugged at his elbow. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on.’

  ‘I think it’s almost over. In a second he’ll declare a winner.’

  ‘Can’t think how,’ said Monica, ‘They all look the same to me.’

  ‘He’s an expert,’ said Bognor, who’d been boning up on the Dog Gazette. ‘He’ll decide on the merits of the coupling, the spring of the ribs, the shortness of the stifle and the soundness of the temperament.’

  ‘Oh really,’ she said. ‘How on earth can he decide about temperament just by looking down their throats for a few minutes? What a presumption. It’s like asking me to decide on his temperament by watching him judge.’

  ‘It depends on whether they give him a nip or a pee on his spats,’ said Bognor. ‘Anyway I’ve got a fair idea of his temperament just by watching him in the ring.’

  This flippant and ill-informed discussion had distracted their attention from the events of the ring which had quickly reached a crescendo. Glancing up to discover the cause of the confused noise which had disturbed them Bognor saw that five or six enormous women had surrounded Mr Pocklington and were subjecting him to violent abuse. It was difficult to discover the precise nature of their complaints but he distinctly heard the words, ‘cheat’, ‘impostor’ and ‘fix’.

  ‘What on earth’s happened?’ asked Bognor of the neighbouring expert in the plastic mac.

  ‘He’s given it to Millicent Trench’s Tiresome Terrapin, that’s what’s happened,’ she said, glaring at the confusion which showed signs of becoming violent. One stout lady was beginning to brandish a golfing umbrella.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Millicent Trench never won a Best of Breed in her life,’ said his informant disparagingly. ‘Runted little dogs hers are. No wind and dreadful temperaments, hardly worth bothering with.’

  ‘Then why’s she won today?’