Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery
Page 3
‘Or Jonathan Swift or Tolkien or probably Jane Austen.’
‘Or Wodehouse. Didn’t you make that point?’
‘As forcefully as I could, but she had most of the others completely onside. Wysteria looked dubious for a moment, but…’
‘Who?’
‘Wysteria Wilcox. Come on, Jack. You’ve heard of her. Lady Wysteria Wilcox, author of those short, plaintive novels about angst-ridden, wounded lady toffs nurturing hopeless passions for unsuitable, uncaring brutes well below their station. And a poisonous bitch on the side.’
‘That doe-eyed cretin isn’t Lady Wysteria Wilcox. For one thing, her first name is Trixie. And for another, she’s Lady Wilcox, not Lady Wysteria, or even Lady Trixie, as she wasn’t an earl’s daughter. Just married one.’ As the rain became heavier, she increased the speed of the windscreen wipers but did not decrease that of the car.
‘I didn’t realise you were such a stickler for etiquette. You’ll be complaining any minute that you’ve wrongly been preceded into dinner by the second cousin of a marquess.’
‘I’m a stickler when it suits me. And it suits me when someone I despise as much as Trixie operates under false pretences. She was a contemporary of mine and she was bad then, but she’s got worse. How she got anyone to marry her—let alone an earl—beats me. She had all the sex appeal of a bag of golf clubs.’
‘Whatever her other deficiencies, you can’t blame the poor bloody woman for changing her name from Trixie. After all, you changed yours from Ida.’
‘I wouldn’t, if she hadn’t changed it to Wysteria.’
Amiss grimaced. ‘Fair enough. Still, for literary purposes I suppose it’s an improvement. Anyway, Trixie, a.k.a. Wysteria, a.k.a. Lady Wilcox, also backed Hermione, on the grounds that we must eschew populism in favour of the spirit. Or some such guff. Geraint Griffiths was so keen to narrow the field in the interests of his candidate that he’d have excluded George Eliot, and nearly all the others went along with it because of intellectual snobbery. When I objected, Hermione looked down her nose at me and said, “I am the chair and I have spoken.” There wasn’t any point in fighting a battle with only one ally, and that one petrified and inarticulate.’
The baroness had stopped listening, and to Amiss’ alarm, had turned round ninety degrees and was waving her left hand around impassionedly. ‘What is Macbeth but a murder story? Romeo and Juliet but a romance? A Midsummer Night’s Dream but a fantasy? What was the silly bitch on about?’
Rule Six: when her eyes are off the road and she’s looking at you, show no fear or she’ll dally to find out what’s wrong with you.
‘Couldn’t agree with you more, Jack.’ She turned her attention back to driving and Amiss breathed more freely. ‘Still, I don’t know why you’re surprised at all this. It’s snobbery, pure and simple. I’ve learned to my cost that the fashionable literati—at least the fashionable literati I’ve been exposed to—are like that. Can’t bear to say a good word for anything the plebs like, so they sneer at their authors. You should have heard the committee when Harry Potter was mentioned.’
‘I like Harry Potter.’
‘You would. I do. They didn’t. “Elitist”, “reactionary” and “derivative” were among the least offensive adjectives used. Oh, yes, and Hermione thought the whole Potter phenomenon vulgar.’
‘Getting murdered is pretty vulgar,’ said the baroness cheerfully. ‘Why was she murdered?’
‘If she was murdered.’
‘You’re like a bloody secret agent. Careless talk costs lives and all that sort of thing. If she was murdered, why was she murdered?’
‘Maybe because she was chairman of the Warburton. That’s what Georgie’s afraid of and why Knapper’s so delighted to have you signed up.’
Amiss’ phone rang. He looked at the screen. ‘Seven-fifteen a.m. and Geraint Griffiths is ringing again. He left four messages last night—the last one at one-thirty in the morning, after which he favoured me with no fewer than five e-mails.’
‘Who he?’
‘Geraint Griffiths. One of your committee.’
‘Sounds like a pushy Welsh git.’
‘Hard to quibble with that description, though I think his Welshness is a bit exaggerated. I believe he was known as “Gerry” until he began a career as a broadcaster and pundit and decided Geraint carried more weight.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Celtic codology.’
‘Geraint uses whatever weapons are available. Rather like you.’
‘Why’s he pursuing you?’
‘To enlist my aid in making him chairman.’
‘Why don’t you tell him to get lost?’
‘No point, Jack. With a bit of luck, your appointment will have been announced before I have to speak to him.’
The phone rang again. After scrutinising the number, Amiss answered it. ‘Morning, Georgie. Everything still OK?…Yes, I’m with her now. We’re on our way to Cambridge…Yes, of course I’m briefing her. Why do you think I’m not at home tucked up in bed?…OK, OK…That sounds fine. I’ll run it past her and call you back. Bye.’
‘Run what past me?’
‘He read me the press release he’s putting out as soon as you’ve given it the all-clear and the committee have been notified. He’s evading Geraint Griffiths until he’s got Den and Rosa onside, but it’s still too early to ring them.’
‘They’re not being asked their opinion, I hope?’
‘Certainly not. Knapper chose Hermione and now Knapper’s chosen you. The press release expresses the grief of the Warburton group and everyone involved with the prize at the loss of Hermione and welcomes to the chair the distinguished Mistress of St Martha’s. You are quoted as saying something along the lines of “The circumstances are tragic and we all mourn Hermione Babcock, but in the interests of literature I have agreed to step into the breach and I very much look forward to working with the distinguished committee.”’
‘Pack of lies and banalities, but noblesse oblige, I suppose.’
Amiss rang Prothero. ‘Jack’s happy with that press release…Oh, really?…No, I don’t know…Well, they’ll just have to look up cuttings. Or the Net. Or ask her when you talk to her…I do understand. But no one can blame you. Just keep saying it was Knapper…Yes, I’ll tell her…Don’t know. Maybe…Good luck.’
‘What was all that about?’
‘He couldn’t understand why you aren’t in Who’s Who.’
She snorted. ‘Used to be, but I’m not any more.’
‘Because?’
‘Because I don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry knowing things about me.’
‘You are, I think, Jack, the only secretive exhibitionist I know.’
‘It’s more fun just to show what you want to show, as any stripper will tell you. What else was he saying?’
‘He wants to talk to you this morning. And wants you to talk to Knapper as well. And, if possible, every member of the committee.’
‘I’ll talk to Georgie Poofdah. Knapper yes. Judges, certainly not. It would give them ideas above their station. Poofdah’s paid to keep them happy.’
‘Prothero, Jack. Please register that. Prothero, Prothero, Prothero.’
His phone rang again. He looked at the caller’s number, groaned and switched the call alert to vibrate. ‘Where were we?’
‘Talking about murder. What did she die of, anyway? Nothing painful, I hope. If I’m to be a target I’d like the murderer to be inclined towards well-placed bullets in the back of the head.’
‘Nastier than that, I’m afraid. According to what her husband told Knapper, the medics suspect poison. She was in good health and there’s no obvious natural explanation.’
‘Well this certainly livens things up—in a manner of speaking.’
‘You do realise this has to be kept quiet. It’s only speculation.’
‘Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Have you been on to our friends in the fuzz?’
‘Quite like old times.’
‘I can see you’re enjoying yourself. You haven’t shouted at anyone for miles.’
‘I like fun and this is sounding promising. Life’s been a bit tame recently. Haven’t had an adventure since we solved the Irish Question last year.’*
‘Unfortunately the Irish don’t seem to have noticed. They’re still asking the same question.’
‘There’s the Irish for you. Ungrateful to the last.’ The car turned sharply from a roundabout into a slip road. ‘Stop babbling for a couple of minutes or so. The rain’s eased off, so I’m going to do a bit of driving.’ He looked at the speedometer with his usual sinking feeling. As it shot up to eighty, she moved into the fast lane and put her foot fully down. ‘I’m in the mood to show my paces. Nothing to clear your head early in the morning like doing a ton down the motorway.’
Amiss sank into his seat in obedience to Rule Seven: when you’re really terrified, just close your eyes and feign sleep.
* The Anglo-Irish Murders
3
‘Wake up, wake up,’ she shouted a few minutes later. ‘Coffee and obits break. And don’t even think about eating. I’ve rung St Martha’s with instructions about breakfast.’ As she slammed the door, he scrambled out and followed her into the service station. ‘I’ll get the papers and a table, Jack. You get me a black filter coffee and do the complaining.’
He was already half-way through The Times’ account of Hermione’s glittering career when the baroness shoved a cup and saucer in front of him and sat down. Ignoring the expected grumbles, he passed her The Guardian to distract her and tried to sip the acrid liquid without making faces. Within a few minutes, she jumped up. ‘I can’t stand any more.’
‘Any more what?’
‘Any more of this muck or—what’s even more rebarbative—this assessment of Hermione Babcock, great-hearted European and scourge of little Englanders. If they’re to be believed, she was leading the Warburton towards a New Jerusalem in the teeth of the forces of reaction.’ She gathered up her belongings. ‘Forces of reaction, indeed. They ain’t seen nuttin’ yet.’
As they passed the cash desk, she hurled at the cashier the information that the coffee wasn’t fit for cattle.
‘The quality of the coffee’s got nothing to do with her,’ said Amiss wearily.
‘Rubbish. She works in the place, doesn’t she? She should take an interest in the sufferings of customers. You might as well say the food at St Martha’s has nothing to do with me.’
She paid no attention to Amiss’ feeble rebuttal. ‘Stop being boring. There was some good news: Babcock copped it when she was only half-way through her sensitive, ground-breaking new novel.’
‘What ground was she breaking this time?’ he asked, as they charged back to the car-park.
‘Christ knows. The crassness of consumerism came in to it somewhere, as did the neo-Gothic, Mother Courage, post-capitalist meta-narrative—whatever crap that is—White Goddesses, Hillary Clinton and the Ode to Joy. Top of the many things I’ll never forgive the bloody European movement for is its kidnapping of Beethoven’s Ninth: they should be playing Wellington’s Victory instead. Now get in. Get in.’
The next few minutes were enlivened by the baroness’ inability to find the way out, her insistence on driving contrary to the directional arrows and the altercation with the protesting driver who was going the right way. ‘That showed him,’ she remarked with satisfaction as they finally reached the motorway.
Amiss emerged from the newspaper in which he had prudently buried himself. ‘Do you want to hear some more about Hermione? There’s quite an entertaining piece in The Independent about how she and Flora Massingham, her sister, were at daggers drawn; it also implies she shagged half of literary London. Which, of course, we all knew anyway.’
‘How could anyone possibly have wanted to shag a scarecrow like Hermione? I wouldn’t have laid a finger on her even on a desert island.’ She paused for reflection. ‘Well, not unless we were stuck there for a long time. And she agreed to put a bag over her head.’ She accelerated. ‘Unlike her sister, whom I would dally with any day of the week. What time is it?’
‘Just after eight o’clock.’
‘When is Perkins announcing I’ve taken over?’
‘Prothero, Jack. Prothero. Prothero. Prothero. Don’t know yet. He’ll ring me when he’s done it.’
She smirked. ‘That should upset a lot of people. I’m warming to the whole idea. Where were we before you passed out? What am I supposed to know?’
‘That you’re supposed to read two hundred works of fiction by Tuesday.’
She emitted a cheerful bellow. ‘Nearly four days. In my spare time.’
‘A doddle for a woman of your gifts.’
‘Have you read them?’
‘More or less. The ones one could actually read, that is. A full complement should be on their way to St Martha’s by courier van as we speak.’
‘Am I inheriting the chairman’s set?’
‘No. Georgie had spares. It would have seemed rather brutal to have demanded Hermione’s when her body is hardly cold. Besides, if she really was murdered they’ll probably become part of the investigation since the word is she collapsed on top of them.’
She chortled. ‘What a photograph that would be. I could pose purposefully in front of her body, with my hand on the highest pile, promising that right will prevail. Come to think of it, if I’ve anything to do with it, the Right will prevail. Now, you know what I’ll need.’
‘Naturally. I’ll go through the books, eliminate most of those you’d hate and select those I think you might like because they’re throwbacks to half-a-century ago.’
‘A century ago would be better. If not a century-and-a-half ago.’
‘But you’ll have to read the ones that are seriously in contention as well. Then there’s the matter of the long-lists we’re supposed to provide by Tuesday—minimum of twenty; maximum of thirty, graded by preference. Then at the meeting next Thursday we’re supposed to agree a list of twenty-five. Later today I’ll give you a draft long-list for yourself, which will have some in common with mine, will reflect your prejudices…’
‘Tastes.’
‘Prejudices and tastes. And will also include the known favourites of your committee. As part of her insistence on making a meal of everything, Hermione insisted on regular weekly meetings where we discussed—or rather fought over—the books we most liked and hated. I’m all too well aware of what my colleagues value.’
The baroness yawned.
‘So you’ll know what to read.’
‘Skim.’
‘Skim.’
His phone vibrated. ‘Yes, Georgie…That’s good…Right…Well, I suppose it’s an accurate description…Really?…No, no, I won’t talk to him till you’ve reported back. Good luck.’
‘Was that Pickering?’
‘Prothero, Prothero, Prothero. So far he’s only managed to reach the women. He says Wysteria Wilcox squealed a bit and said, “Oh, but she’s dreadfully uncouth.”’
‘What does she mean?’ The baroness sounded indignant.
‘Rosa Karp was furious because you’re a misogynist…’
‘How did she work that out?’
‘No doubt she’ll let you know. But neither of them is fighting your appointment since they’re smarming up to Knapper…’
‘What for?’
‘God knows. He’s rich and everyone’s hoping he’ll scatter largesse towards their pet projects on the same scale as he’s done with the Warburton.’
‘So where does the Warburton fit into the prize world? Which I gather is big business these days.’
‘The world’s awash with literary prizes. Even just in the UK, there are prizes for every genre you can think of. Not just fiction and poetry and history and biography and politics
and, of course, crime and fantasy and science fiction and romance and all the other things Hermione despised, but cookery and gardening and medicine and probably pornography.’
‘There’s the Bad Sex Award. That’d be a lot more fun to judge than this one.’
‘I agree. The Bad Housekeeping Award would probably be more fun than this one. Don’t forget I’ve been suffering for months now.’
‘And there’s a “Lezzies only need apply,” isn’t there? Named after a piece of fruit?’
‘The Orange Prize for Fiction. Confined to women. Not to lesbians.’
‘Same thing.’
‘How can you say that, Jack? You’re the Mistress of a Women’s College. Not a Lesbians’ College.’
‘That’s different. Laid down by statute. Founder’s wishes. Which I’m trying to get round. If women don’t learn…’ She paused briefly to intimidate a Lamborghini out of her path.‘…If they don’t learn at university how to sort men out, how will they cope in the big bad world?’
‘Anyway, the Orange Prize isn’t for lesbians.’
‘You’re so pedantic. I’ll approve of a prize just for women when there’s a prize just for men. Or not, as the case may be.’
‘Then there’s the Booker, which the Warburton’s chasing after.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘The Warburton was there decades before. Set up in the will of some publisher of penny dreadfuls who wanted to encourage proper literature. It was drifting along with no one paying much attention to it when Knapper came on the scene and decided to compete with the Booker. The process was already in train, but he upped the prize money from twenty to a hundred K last year…’
‘What!’ The baroness stared at him. ‘A hundred K! Are you telling me that Hermione Babcock won a hundred thousand pounds last year for her grisly novel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus!’ She looked back at the road ahead.
‘But nonetheless, the Warburton got very little coverage since it’s taken years for the hacks to take the Booker and the Whitbread on board and two prizes are about as much as they can cope with. Anyway, increasing the loot to a quarter of a million and having controversial judges was supposed to make it hit the headlines this year.’