Let Sleeping Dogs Die (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  ‘That’s what they want to know.’ She gestured to the lynch mob which had quietened somewhat with the arrival of two officials who were standing authoritatively at Mr Pocklington’s elbows. ‘Either Percy P’s made a bloomer or there’s something fishy about it. If you ask me, there’s something fishy. Why do you think Dora Dorset’s looking so pleased with herself?’ She pointed to the Duchess who still sat on a slatted wooden chair. There was no question about it. The Duchess was smirking.

  Bognor was perplexed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Why do you think?’

  Plastic mac arched her eyebrows. ‘I don’t think that dog’s Tiresome Terrapin any more than you’re Gregory Peck. If you ask me, that’s one of the Duchess’s.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  The woman shrugged, turned on her heel and pushed away through the crowd.

  ‘You stay there,’ said Bognor to Monica, ‘I’m going to have a word with her Grace.’

  He strode across the ring to the chair opposite and stood in front of the old woman. Suddenly he felt very angry.

  ‘Why so pleased, Duchess?’ he asked, conscious that he was being unnecessarily overbearing.

  ‘Oh, Mr Worthing,’ she simpered. ‘How agreeable and how very soon. You’re taking quite an interest in our little world of dogdom. Most flattering. I had sensed that in the matter of canine appreciation you were more than a little reticent, but I was evidently mistaken. How nice to be proved wrong.’

  ‘I don’t care about dogs, your Grace, but I do care about criminal practices, and I must ask what it is that gives you such pleasure.’

  ‘Nothing criminal in taking pleasure, surely,’ she said, her little eyes sparkling dangerously. She was tapping the floor with her stick and for an uneasy moment Bognor thought she was going to strike him across the shins just as she had belaboured her dogs when they’d been impertinent. ‘Though we do have laws of trespass in this country. It’s not so very long ago that people caught poaching were shot out of hand. Quite out of hand. But I digress.’

  ‘Indeed you do,’ said Bognor. ‘I asked why you were looking so pleased with yourself and you still haven’t answered me. I have heard allegations being made against you.’

  ‘Young man,’ said the Duchess, her voice shrilling. ‘You are becoming tiresome. Your presence irks me. Millicent Trench is an old and valued friend. Naturally I take pleasure in her success. Great pleasure. Enormous pleasure. Pride indeed. Perhaps you wouldn’t understand these things, Mr Bognor. I doubt whether pride and pleasure play much part in the deliberations of the Board of Trade. Eh?’ She had risen to her feet now and was bristling, whether from anger or excitement he couldn’t tell. He wondered if she would have a stroke.

  ‘Maybe not pride and pleasure,’ he said, ‘but I suffer from unshakable prejudice.’ He was rather pleased with that but the Duchess bristled all the more. She made a strange guttural noise to convey displeasure and pushed Bognor to one side with her stick. As she did, a languid, drawling voice sounded around his left ear hole.

  ‘Havin’ a spot of bother, your Grace?’ it said. Bognor froze, half expecting the karate chop with which he associated it. It was extremely like the voice of the man who had knocked him unconscious in the park at Piddlehampton Manor. He turned gingerly to confront the voice’s owner and found a thin sandy haired figure with a red and white handkerchief knotted nonchalantly at his neck. He exhaled a pungent smoke through his delicately flared nostrils, which Bognor immediately identified as Balkan Sobranie.

  ‘Don’t think we’ve bin introduced,’ he said, sounding just like a member of the BBC’s repertory company in an adaptation of Trollope. ‘Handyside. Cecil Handyside.’

  ‘Bognor,’ he replied. ‘Bognor of the Board of Trade.’

  ‘Charmed,’ said Mr Handyside, breathing out more smoke and examining an exquisitely manicured fingernail. He wore a canvas Norfolk jacket, tightly belted to show off his tiny waist, but Bognor noted with satisfaction that his hair was thinning badly. Also that he’d cut himself shaving that morning. Just above the lip; nasty little nick.

  ‘Do hope you’re not upsettin’ her Grace,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t do to go round upsettin’ people, ’specially not her Grace. The Duchess has had a lot to put up with recently. Her friends are beginning to be a little anxious on her behalf.’

  ‘That’s enough, Cecil,’ snapped the Duchess. ‘He’s perfectly harmless. Good day, Mr Worthing.’

  The two of them walked away, Mr Handyside lending the Duchess a supporting arm. Bognor smiled. He realized now that she called him Worthing to annoy but only remembered to do so when she was in control of herself. She reverted to ‘Bognor’ under stress.

  The crowd around Mr Pocklington had dispersed now, the last to leave being a thin, delicate woman who was weeping copiously. A burly man who looked like a bucolic farmer was assisting her from the ring. Mr Pocklington was left victorious, rubbing his monocle triumphantly with a spotless white handkerchief.

  Bognor accosted the weeping woman and her escort with suitable diffidence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘to trouble you at a time like this, but I wonder if I might have a word?’

  At first he thought they were going to brush past him, indeed the man did say, ‘Some other time, can’t you see she’s upset?’ but the woman interrupted him. ‘I’m perfectly all right, and if it’s the press I’m quite prepared to be quoted. Are you from Dog News or the Gazette?’

  ‘Neither. I’m from the Board of Trade.’

  ‘Oh.’ They both looked disbelieving.

  ‘Have you got time for a coffee?’ he asked, hopefully.

  Again they stared at him in disbelief. Then the man nodded. ‘Don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘By the way, my name’s Ramble, Albert Ramble. This is Mrs Protheroe.’

  Simon introduced himself, and asked if he could meet them five minutes later in the main refreshment room. He had to tell Monica what he was doing. She was still standing where he’d left her, by the side of the Dandie Dinmont ring which was now filling up with beagles—pretty dogs with ugly owners, he thought as he circumnavigated them.

  ‘That was fascinating,’ she said. ‘You seemed to be upsetting the Duchess more than somewhat. Who’s the pouf with the egg-timer figure?’

  ‘That’s Handyside, the one who knocked me out at the Duchess’s.’

  ‘Oh, Simon. Really.’ Monica grinned at him. ‘You can’t have blown very hard. He’s an utter weed.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ he said sententiously. ‘He’s got a very neat line in karate. Anyway, I can’t stop. I’m having a coffee with a couple of breeders. I think I may be on to something. I’ll see you back here in twenty minutes. Have a wander round and keep your eyes peeled.’

  ‘O.K.,’ she said. ‘Don’t be late this time and try to avoid having your coffee doped or your head smashed in by some crazed dog maniac.’

  He smiled and kissed her. ‘As if you’d care,’ he said.

  The cafeteria was scruffy and Bognor saw with a flicker of amusement that despite the theme of the day’s events it was still advertising ‘hot dogs’. The room was heavy with B.O. and cigarette smoke. After a moment’s peering round he spotted Albert Ramble and Mrs Protheroe in a far corner near a sign marked ‘Fire Exit’. He sat down between them and accepted the cup of tepid khaki liquid with an extravagant display of offering to pay, which Mr Ramble steadfastly refused. Bognor was impressed by the man. He had a strong, obstinate face with heavy bones and whiskers growing high on his cheeks. Bognor was always impressed with whiskers that high on a face, if only because he was physically incapable of growing them there himself. Mrs Protheroe was more nondescript but she was obviously almost hysterical with frustration.

  ‘That bloody little woman,’ she said as Bognor sat, ‘everyone thinks she’s so marvellous. Oh, Dora Dorset’s so good for her age. Manages all on her own. Hardly any help. So friendly. So helpful. So kind. Ugh. She makes me sick. It’s just because she’s a bloody Duchess that everyo
ne crawls about like that. She’s not even old. She’s not eighty yet, and that bloody stick’s pure affectation. She’ll be using an ear trumpet and a bath chair next. Bloody old woman.’

  ‘Calm down, Sylvia,’ said Mr Ramble, putting a hairy hand on her wrist. It was a very large hand. And very hairy. Bognor wondered how he’d get on with Cecil Handyside in a spot of unarmed combat.

  ‘Hang on, I’m going to get us all a drink,’ said Ramble. Before Bognor could remonstrate, he had shot off in the direction of the bar which was open and doing brisk business.

  ‘Could you explain?’ asked Bognor. ‘I’m new to all this, and I haven’t quite worked it out yet.’

  Mrs Protheroe laughed shortly. ‘I’ve been at it for seventeen years,’ she said, ‘and I haven’t worked it out either. So I don’t know what chance you’ve got.’

  She lit a cheap filter cigarette and stared glumly at her coffee. To Bognor she seemed different—less robust than her competitors, more vulnerable. Perhaps it was just the tears.

  ‘Can you start at the beginning?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘If you like,’ she said. There was a pause while she frowned, smoked a little and obviously collected her thoughts.

  ‘We always had Dandie Dinmonts when I was a child,’ she said. ‘My father had a farm in the Cheviots and they come from there. They’re really Cheviot terriers only they got called Dandie Dinmonts because of the farmer in Guy Mannering. He had one. I think it’s a silly affectation myself. I’d much rather they were called Cheviots, but there we are. That’s the official Kennel Club name and that’s all there is to it.’ She inhaled heavily again. ‘I had a special one of my own. He was called Mustard. My elder brothers had Pepper and Salt so, of course, I had to have Mustard. Silly really, but you know what people are like. Anyway, I’ve had Mustard ever since.’

  ‘How did you come to start breeding?’

  ‘My husband died about eighteen years ago, and I had enough money to scrape by on, and the house had a couple of acres. It seemed an obvious idea. I know the dogs quite well and it’s turned out quite successfully.’

  Albert Ramble reappeared with three brandies. They thanked him and Bognor slipped him a pound note which this time, he accepted with only enough protest to seem polite.

  ‘Very successfully, Sylvia.’ He turned to Bognor. ‘The point is, in our game, Mr Bognor, there are always the flashy breeders, the big name ones, the ones that win the big shows and sell animals to kings and queens and film stars and get invited to judge all over the world. All that sort of caper. And then there’s people like Sylvia and me. I breed poodles.’ Here Bognor nodded, in what he hoped looked like a display of wisdom and knowledge. ‘Now in all the years I’ve been breeding I’ve never had what you’d call an outstanding dog. But on the other hand I’ve never had a dud. All my dogs are sound. Now you take a woman like Ailsa Potts. She’s always producing prize dogs. But to my way of thinking a lot of her so-called prize dogs are weak in the leg, they’re pigeon-chested, their eyes give trouble and their temperament’s poor. That’s by the way. The dogs of hers you don’t hear about are a shocking lot. Something terrible. That’s what the poor public get fobbed off with. The ones that don’t work out. Inbred genetic freaks they are. It’s the same in other walks of life, I know. You get your flash harries and your honest johns. Sylvia and me, we’re both honest johns, except for one thing, and that is that this year we’ve both got better than usual animals. One that could really do something. Mine’s never going to be what Whately Wonderful would have turned out like, but it would have run it damned close—with an impartial judge. And Sylvia’s little bitch may not be what Piddlehampton Peter was, but there’s not that much to choose.’

  Bognor was beginning to get the picture.

  ‘What happened today then?’ he prompted.

  Mrs Protheroe resumed her story. ‘Albert’s quite right. It’s very unusual and if you are being unkind you could say it was something of a fluke but this year Merriweather Minnihaha is as good as anything except for Piddlehampton Peter. And as you saw it was beaten by something of Millicent Trench’s. Well, it’s absolutely absurd. Millicent actually ought to be banned. She’s slovenly, incompetent, ignorant. Well, not to put too fine a point on it, I think she’s slightly mental. I’m not saying anything against her. She’s just a bit cuckoo. And she could no more produce a dog like that one today than she could lay an Easter egg.’

  ‘So what dog was it?’ asked Bognor, knowing the answer already.

  ‘I’m almost positive,’ said Mrs Protheroe, ‘almost positive that that so-called Tiresome Terrapin was actually one of Dora Dorset’s Dandies. There’s a way they have of carrying themselves which is almost unmistakable. You wouldn’t notice and I doubt whether even Percy Pocklington could tell, but those of us who are in Dinmonts know almost by instinct. That’s why there was such a fuss.’

  ‘The others all agreed with you?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘But did it deserve to win?’

  Mrs Protheroe lit another cigarette and thought. At last she said, ‘It’s extremely difficult for me to be objective, you’ll understand that. And I’m not saying for a moment that it wasn’t a very nice dog, but I honestly don’t think it was as good as Minnihaha. Wouldn’t you agree, Albert?’

  Mr Ramble, who had been very quiet, nodded agreement. ‘No question in my mind,’ he said. ‘What’s more, I think Percy Pocklington realized it. You could tell from his expression.’

  ‘You’re suggesting he did it on purpose? That he’s corrupt, in fact?’

  There was a very long silence, then they both nodded.

  ‘Reluctantly,’ said Ramble, ‘yes. I’m afraid after a good many years of seeing Percy in action I’m compelled to say that, yes, I think he’s not quite straight. I don’t like saying it, but I’m afraid it’s true.’

  ‘It’s not the first time it’s happened.’

  ‘I’m choosing my words, Mr Bognor,’ said Ramble, ‘and I would say that if you entered a dog in any breed and you were up against one of Percy Pocklington’s friends, then no matter how good yours was you wouldn’t have much of a chance.’

  ‘And in this case the Duchess managed to get one of her own dogs entered under Millicent Trench’s colours, as it were. Is that possible? Technically I mean? There must be forms and things.’

  ‘It’s too simple,’ said Mrs Protheroe. ‘The Trench woman has a dog called Tiresome Terrapin. It has the same markings as a dog of Dora’s. For the day Dora’s dog becomes Tiresome Terrapin. If the Trench woman agrees, no one can prove anything. They may suspect, but they can’t prove.’

  ‘Not even an expert judge?’

  Mrs Protheroe shrugged. ‘I’m as expert as anyone when it comes to Dandie Dinmonts,’ she said. ‘I certainly know more about them than Percy Pocklington. But I still couldn’t prove in a court of law that Tiresome Terrapin wasn’t Millicent Trench’s. So much of what goes on in dogdom is based on trust.’

  Bognor nodded. ‘So what happens now?’

  Ramble grinned forlornly. ‘Pocklington says he’ll hold an enquiry. But since he’ll chair it himself and choose the members it doesn’t mean anything. It won’t last more than a couple of minutes. To be fair to him it wouldn’t make any difference if it were held before three appeal court judges. As we say, there’s no proof. “Only reasonable grounds for suspicion”, as they say, and plenty would say the grounds are unreasonable. But what’s the use of that? You’ll never find them guilty. Even if we appeal to the Kennel Club it’s still impossible to prove.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Bognor, ‘the grounds are reasonable enough and in my book I’ll accept a verdict of not proven.’ He got up to go.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘What do you know about Cecil Handyside?’

  Ramble and Mrs Protheroe looked at each other, raised their eyebrows and turned back to Bognor, both managing to convey by their expression that Mr Handyside was a very bad lot indeed.

  ‘You certa
inly seem to have discovered the seamier side of our little world,’ said Mrs Protheroe. ‘What exactly is it that you are investigating? We’ve been blathering on about our problems but we don’t know what yours are, do we?’

  ‘You’ve been a great help, both of you,’ said Bognor in his best Dixon of Dock Green style. ‘Let’s just say I’m investigating skulduggery. Dark deeds in doggy places. Killers in kennels. Things that go bump in the night. If you hear anything evil which could interest me, please ring me.’

  He gave them both a card and said goodbye. By the time he returned to the rendezvous, the beagles were dispersing and Monica had vanished. He frowned, then sat down on a slatted trestle chair to collect his thoughts and look at beagles. They had the softest, kindest faces, he thought, as he gazed in their direction. So unlike those terrifying terriers. It was strange to think of such gentle looking creatures being used for hunting. He was musing on this when he was aware for the second time that day of Balkan Sobranie and impossible aftershave. Something like Yves St Laurent for men, he supposed. He wrinkled his nose and looked up. It was, as he’d expected, Mr Handyside.

  ‘Thought I’d better seek you out,’ he said. ‘Just in case the Duchess’s good manners deceive you.’ He sat down on a chair next to Bognor and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Pretty beasts, aren’t they?’ he said, waving his cigarette in the direction of the beagles.

  ‘Just what I was thinking.’

  ‘Ever been out beagling, Mr Bognor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should, Mr Bognor. Wonderful exercise, and all the excitement of the chase.’

  Bognor examined the manicured hands from narrowed eyes, and wondered if they were appropriate weapons for karate or other forms of unarmed combat. They were pretty but scarcely formidable. Mr Handyside noticed.

  ‘The dogs become quite transformed, hunting,’ he said quietly. ‘One minute as docile as you please. Next, they catch a glimpse of that hare and they’re savage killers. They’ll tear it limb from limb. I find it fascinating. Nature red in tooth and claw—all that sort of carry on. They say the hare feels no pain, but I can’t believe that. What do you think, Mr Bognor?’