by Tim Heald
He drove through the village drinking in the peace of it all and followed the road for another half mile through woodland until, just round a sharp left-handed bend, he came to a lodge gate. The lodge itself, a stone single-storey building, was dilapidated and unlived in. The drive, which had once been gravel, was now a mess of pebbles and weeds, and singing gently from a peeling white post was a sign which said, ‘Piddlehampton Pedigree Dandie Dinmonts—Manor Kennels’. He turned the little car over the cattle grid and down the drive. Certainly the place had known better days. The park which now lay on either side of him should have been exquisite. The timber alone was a picture of elms and oaks, though two lay where they had fallen, uprooted in the middle of the grass which grew high and unkempt. The drive ran along the side of the hill before turning slowly to the right and dropping away towards the Manor. From the beginning of this bend Bognor caught his first glimpse of it. It was large, solid and stone and very English. Not a Duke’s house. The ancestral home of the Dorsets was, typically, in Norfolk, and this had always been their third or even fourth residence, suitable for cadet branches, younger sons or, as now, eccentric, widowed mothers.
As he drove on it became increasingly clear that the Dorsets had run low on funds. What had once been herbaceous borders were now a mess of weeds and plants gone badly to seed. The lawns were unmown and the house which from a distance had looked so dependable and sturdy was, on closer study, rackety and sad. The mullioned windows, the ugly gremlin gargoyles and the rusting, studded front door were all in need of repair. A line of washing fluttered on what might once, long ago, have been a croquet lawn, and outside the left corner of the house lay a rusting old Austin Seven with no wheels.
Bognor stopped the Mini immediately outside the door and pulled the chain which hung by it. He heard no bell but the instant he rang there was a noise of barking from within. The barking approached and the door was pulled back six inches. A small woman like a wren looked from behind it and said, ‘Not today, thank you.’
‘I’m not selling anything,’ said Bognor, who had met this response before. ‘All I want is to ask a few questions.’
‘Ah. Hang on a jiffy then.’ She shut the door, rattled with the lock and chain, then reopened it releasing a throng of small mustard-coloured dogs which leapt at Bognor’s knees.
‘Aaagh,’ he cried, retreating aghast. One of them grabbed his turn-up in its jaws and started to wrestle with it; another pee-ed on his shoe while the rest jumped and sniffed and jostled him.
‘Guy … Talisman … Waverley … Mannering. … Down, the lot of you!’ shrieked the diminutive Duchess, laying into her dogs with her walking stick. The dogs subsided and the noise dwindled until the entire pack was behind the Duchess’s floor-length hearthrug of a skirt and only a single snivel emerged from them. Bognor had never seen a Dandie Dinmont before and they unnerved him. They seemed to him to combine the appearance of a dachshund with that of a poodle and their behaviour reminded him of a hunt terrier that had once belonged to a school friend.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he said, still shocked, ‘I’m afraid I’m not terribly good at dogs.’
‘So I observe,’ said the Duchess drily. ‘The absolute A1 cardinal rule is not to let them see that you’re afraid of them. They’ve rumbled you already. Get down, Mannering.’ This last remark was directed at a venturesome Dinmont which had surreptitiously launched itself at Bognor’s knees from behind. ‘Anyway, come along in. No point standing there being eaten alive. I think there may be some gin.’
She ushered Bognor along a dark hallway, in which he was dimly aware of lugubrious country-house portraits by disciples of Lely and Reynolds, and through a door on the left.
‘Just a tick,’ she said, ‘I’ll see if we have alcohol.’
Mercifully she took her marauding pack of Dinmonts with her, leaving Bognor to examine his new surroundings. The room reeked of dog. Whereas the Kennel Club and Three Corners had been markedly dogless the Duchess of Dorset’s drawing room was a veritable kennel. Dog hairs lay thick on the carpet and chairs, baskets and dog blankets littered the floor, and bowls of water and bowls of biscuit were more frequent than occasional tables. Like Mrs Potts, the Duchess evidently didn’t notice the squalor of her immediate surroundings. Everything from the portraits—similar to those in the hall—to the curtains looked filthy. In a corner by the fireplace there was even an old orange box, with ‘Outspan Oranges—with care’ stencilled on it. Bognor scarcely noticed it on his first glance round the room. Then he did a sudden double take. Could it be? No, this was absurd. Why on earth should Fred, alias Whately Wonderful, be exhumed from his grave in Buckinghamshire and transported to the Duchess of Dorset’s drawing room? He stared blankly at the portrait above the mantelpiece, rapt in thought, before suddenly realizing that it was a picture of a dog. It was competently done, if a shade chocolate-boxy. Bognor immediately recognized the distinctive and alarming features of a Dandie Dinmont like the ones that had just assaulted him. He looked down at his shoe and feared that dog’s urine would stain. Not that the suedes were new but even so. … The expression on the dog’s face was one of perky charm. It looked unbearably cute and Bognor, who reckoned he’d got the Dinmont’s measure now, found it indescribably flattering. He was about to turn back to the mysterious orange box when he noticed the initials at the bottom of the portrait: ‘C.C.’ Of course. This was an example of Miss Cordingley’s art. It confirmed his impression of dishonesty.
He was about to return to the matter of the orange box when the Duchess came back with a bottle of Gordon’s gin. It was one of those very old bottles with a top with a hinge instead of the newer screw top. ‘Not many left now,’ she said, brandishing it. ‘Almost all the dear dead Duke left me. It killed him, of course, before he could finish it.’ She poured out two gins and tonic, handed him one and then stood looking at the picture with him.
‘It’s by Coriander Cordingley, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘It’s poor Piddlehampton Peter. She’s got him to a tee, don’t you think? Look at the eyes. You can almost feel the damp on his nose, poor old thing. She’s frightfully clever, Coriander. Do you know her?’
‘I’ve met her,’ said Bognor. It was on the tip of his tongue to say where he’d met her, but he thought better of it. ‘I wouldn’t say I really knew her.’
‘Not in the Biblical sense, eh?’ said the Duchess, kicking one of the dogs towards the sofa. ‘I’m most frightfully sorry but I don’t think I know your name.’
‘Oh,’ said Bognor. ‘No. I suppose not. How silly. Bognor. Simon Bognor.’
‘How nice,’ said the Duchess, shaking his hand energetically. ‘And I’m Dora Dorset. You don’t by any chance breed bassets, do you?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a Bognor near Bournemouth who breeds bassets. I’ve only seen photographs of him but you are rather alike. Beautiful dogs, too. No relation, I suppose?’
‘No.’
‘Oh well.’ The Duchess looked thoughtfully at her drink. ‘I think gin improves with age,’ she said. ‘Now come and sit down and tell me what I can do for you.’ She sat on the sofa and immediately vanished under a pile of dogs. When she’d removed most of them with another display of good-humoured shouting she patted an empty space on her left and motioned to Bognor to join her. He sat down reluctantly.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I work for a special department at the Board of Trade.’
‘How fearfully exciting,’ said the Duchess. ‘In all my years I don’t believe I have ever met an employee of the Board of Trade, least of all from one of their special departments. I’d no idea they had special departments. Do go on.’
Bognor coughed. ‘The fact is that I am investigating a matter which could well affect you. Do you know Mervyn Sparks?’
‘Horrid little man. Mean mouth and foxy eyes. He was down here the other day on some pretext or other snooping about. I hope he’s not a friend of yours.’
‘He wasn’t,’ said Bog
nor. ‘As a matter of fact, he’s dead.’
‘Is he really?’ The Duchess did not seem greatly interested. ‘Have you come all the way from London to tell me this? I wouldn’t have thought the little man was worth the trouble.’
‘I don’t think you quite understand, your Grace. The point is, he died of rabies.’
‘The silly fellow. I’ve no doubt he picked it up on one of those damn fool foreign trips of his. You’re asking for trouble going to places like that. I haven’t been abroad for fifteen years. It’s a very over-rated pastime. Do you travel much?’
‘Scarcely at all.’ Bognor’s forensic powers had been thrown into a state of more than usual disarray by the dogs. He was having trouble establishing whether the Duchess was as scatty as she seemed. ‘Your Piddlehampton Peter had to be put down because he had rabies, and …’
‘Ah, Mr Worthing …’ said the Duchess.
‘Bognor.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Bognor. Let’s not rush our fences. Suspected rabies. There has to be a post mortem. Then we shall know. I have my doubts.’
‘There is going to be a post mortem?’ His gaze strayed inevitably to the orange box, abandoned by the fireplace. The Duchess followed it.
‘Of course, Mr Bognor. The dog went quite mad and bit Louise. Naturally the authorities had to be informed. I fear they may have over-reacted, but we shall see.’
‘I don’t understand how your dog could have contracted rabies, your Grace, but before he died Mr Sparks told one of our people that he’d been down here and one of your dogs bit him.’
‘Did he indeed?’ The Duchess seemed for the first time to be disturbed. She took a deeper than usual draught of gin. ‘Perhaps. Yes. I do recall the incident. He tried to pick someone up. Ridiculous. The man has … had … no sense whatever. Lunacy to allow him out in a show ring. Naturally the dog bit him, but it was no more than a nip. A tiny bite. Hardly worth talking about.’
‘In this case,’ said Bognor, profoundly, ‘a nip is as good as a feast.’
She looked at him sharply. ‘What a very odd thing to say,’ she said. ‘Are you suggesting that Mr Sparks died because he was bitten by one of my dogs?’
‘Um.’ Bognor thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually, ‘I think I am.’
‘Oh.’ They sat in silence only punctuated by the playful snorts and whimpers of the dogs.
‘Is Miss Cordingley staying with you?’ he asked abruptly.
The Duchess seemed taken aback. ‘Coriander? Good heavens, no. She usually stays at the Dorset Arms in the village.’
‘Usually?’
‘It takes time to prepare a portrait,’ she said. ‘There have to be a great many sittings.’
‘Even for a dog?’
The Duchess, who had gone over to refill their glasses, drew herself up to her full height, which Bognor estimated at no more than five feet.
‘I am not referring to dogs, Mr Bognor,’ she said, grandly. ‘I am talking about myself.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Coriander is painting a portrait of me.’
‘I thought she only painted dogs.’
‘There is no need to be impertinent, young man.’
Bognor blushed. ‘I wasn’t. I mean I honestly didn’t …’
The Duchess returned to the sofa with their drinks.
Bognor continued: ‘Is she with you today?’ He could think of no other way of explaining the Outspan box.
The Duchess shook her head. ‘Not possible; I am expecting her, of course. We have a sitting arranged for tomorrow morning, and I expect her for dinner tonight.’ A thought appeared to come to her unexpectedly. ‘Perhaps you’d care to dine? Though I hardly think …’ She degenerated into a mutter but Bognor thought he heard her say something about there being no accounting for taste.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I have to get back to London.’
Even as he said it he realized that he couldn’t return to London without establishing the contents of the orange box. He hesitated.
‘It’s late to be driving all that way,’ said the Duchess. ‘I really think you’d do better to stay. The Dorset Arms are bound to have a room.’
‘Well, perhaps …’
The Duchess clapped her hands in an anachronistically girlish gesture.
‘That’s settled then. You’ll have to take pot luck, I’m afraid. I’m staffless now that even poor Louise has gone home to her mother, but I shall be able to rustle something up.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s late already. Shall we say half-past seven for eight? And there’s no need to dress. We’re very informal in the country.’
Bognor accepted as gracefully as he could manage. The dogs were still worrying him, but he realized that duty called; and at least he didn’t have to spend the night in this derelict old house. On the way out he noticed that the damp in the hall was so bad that it stood out in beads of moisture like condensation on a champagne bottle.
Buy Let Sleeping Dogs Die Now!
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1974 by Tim Heald
Cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-4804-6323-3
This 2013 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.mysteriouspress.com
www.openroadmedia.com
THE SIMON BOGNOR MYSTERIES
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia
scale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share