‘Hermione snuffing it will help. Do you think Knapper murdered her to put the Warburton on the map?’
‘I think you’re running ahead of yourself, Jack, but he was certainly guided by Hermione as to how to get judges that would attract public attention.’ The baroness began to flash her lights at the car ahead and Amiss incautiously looked at the speedometer. He closed his eyes firmly.
The conversation did not resume until the targeted car had made way. ‘Another notch on my belt. Now what do I need to know about Den Smith that I don’t know already?’
Amiss opened his eyes again, but kept them firmly on the sky. ‘What do you know?’
‘His outstanding characteristic is being an anti-American jerk who thinks all perpetrators are victims and victims are perpetrators—especially if the perpetrators are black, Irish, or, these days at least, Muslim. What’s his claim to be a judge, anyway? He’s just a dilettante.’
‘I wouldn’t want to feed your prejudices, Jack, but I think the truth is that only the right are perceived to be dilettantes. If you’re like Den and of the left you are seen to be creatively using all the various instruments at your disposal to express your righteous anger.’
‘Haven’t noticed him using any instrument except a bludgeon.’
‘Your own weapon of choice, I might point out. Anyway, I meant vehicles rather than instruments. As well as his magazine…’
‘Rage, isn’t it?’
‘You amaze me. What do you think of it?’
‘You don’t think I’d read it, do you? I’ve enough to annoy me without courting a stroke.’
‘Well, Rage has given him the lit. cred. and the contacts to get his one-act play performed, his novella published, occasional fulminations or even short verses into right-on newspapers and, of course, there’s that late-night arts programme where he’s often a visiting ranter.’
‘That’s where I had the fight with him last week. He was ranting about the Bush-Blair axis of evil. Gave paranoia a good name, as I pointed out.’
‘What were you doing on an arts programme? You despise nearly all contemporary art.’
‘I think the producer had a sense of humour. Anyway, I enjoyed myself, which is more than Den did, I think. Didn’t have time to get feedback as I had to rush off.’ She produced another vigorous yawn. ‘I’ve been spared most of his outpourings. All awful, no doubt?’
‘The play was hilarious. It was staged before a Hamlet I went to last year. All about how the Royal Family plotted to overthrow the New Labour government until they realised it was as fascist as they were—or something along those lines. There was a scene when Prince Charles arrived on stage in stormtrooper’s gear to find Blair practising the goose step that will stay with me for ever. There was no dialogue, the whole thing lasted only ten minutes and was ridiculed by anyone sensible but, of course, was lauded to the skies by Den’s literary mates, of whom, natch, Hermione was one.’
‘Old screw?’
‘Old screw from the mid-seventies, apparently, not long after his divorce from Deedee Drover.’
‘Of course. I’d forgotten about him being married to Deedee Drover. What was it they used to call her?’
‘Before my time.’
‘Sexpot. The something sexpot.’
‘Sultry sexpot?’
‘No, no. A place name.’
‘Solihull? Stevenage? Surbiton?’
‘No. She was a Yank.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Though not a Yankee. That was part of the trouble. I have it. Sex bomb, not sexpot. The Savannah sex bomb. All boobs and bottom. Opposite of Hermione when you come to think of it.’
‘Why did he marry her?’
‘Don’t be silly, Robert.’
‘I mean why did she marry him?’
‘It was a sort of Arthur Miller/Marilyn Monroe thing. She wanted to show there was more to her than people thought.’
‘And was there?’
‘Obviously not, or she wouldn’t have been dumb enough to marry Den Smith. Or Denzil Smith as he was in those days. And Denzil Drover-Smith as he quickly became.’
‘Why don’t I know about this? Isn’t it the stuff of literary gossip?’
‘Deedee died early and is as forgotten as her films and Den’s been angry for so long no one ever wonders how he got that way. Besides, I knew him better than some.’
‘You mean you knew him carnally?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘Stop being coy. I need to know.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘I want to know. It might get me through dull committee meetings.’
‘I don’t intend them to be dull. But, yes, we did have a short fling post-Deedee. Very short. Didn’t even last one night. Fellow’s a complete pillock.’
‘Tell me about the Deedee business.’
‘He was a young literary publisher whom she took to at a party. Handsome, I have to admit.’
‘Still is, I think, for those that like the craggy, cross type.’
‘Bit reminiscent of James Dean, but sadly didn’t have a timely car-crash.’
‘Mean and moody?’
‘But not magnificent. Petulant little tyke with no bottom.’ She paused. ‘Metaphorically, I mean. If I remember correctly, one couldn’t justifiably complain about his actual bottom.’
‘So Deedee fell for him.’
‘Whirlwind romance, with her flaunting him to show she’d got a brain while he flaunted her to prove he’d got a cock. Then off to Hollywood and big fancy wedding and romantic merging of names.’
‘What did Den do in Hollywood?’
‘Failed as a scriptwriter writing angsty stuff about Sunset Boulevard and was ditched by Deedee for a ski-instructor or some such ten years his junior.’
‘So he came back home?’
‘Not until after a noisy divorce. I can’t remember the details, but he seems to have wanted a settlement that would have kept him in the style he’d got used to and she was a traditional kind of gel who thought alimony was for wives. Anyway he came back flush but not as flush as he’d have liked, roaringly anti-American and raving a lot about women wanting to emasculate him. A cross between Osama Bin Laden and D.H. Lawrence.’
‘Why did he go to bed with you if he was worrying about being emasculated?’
She smirked. ‘A question I hope he’s been asking himself ever since. That night we had a rather spectacular falling-out over Vietnam which, of course, he was rabidly against.’
‘And which, no doubt, you were rabidly for.’
‘How did you guess?’
‘So you parted brass rags?’
‘Him. Not me. I wiped the floor with him in an argument and he couldn’t take it. One of those fragile bullies was young Denzil.’
‘But in retrospect wasn’t he right and you wrong?’
‘Robert, even if I’m wrong I’m wrong for the right reasons and even if Denzil’s right he’s right for the wrong reasons. Got that?’
‘Got it.’
‘Besides, the only thing wrong with the Vietnam war was that the Yanks didn’t know how to win it. And even so they saved Singapore and plenty of other places from going communist.’
‘Much though I’d love to argue with you about Vietnam, Jack, I think we’d better get back to the committee. We haven’t got very far.’
His phone vibrated. ‘Yes, Georgie…Well done…Really? How rude…And Geraint…I suppose that’s logical…Yes, I’ll be in touch as soon as we land, which should be soon.’
He grinned as he put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Congratulations, Jack. Geraint Griffiths put up only a brief fight and Den said you were a fascist ball-breaker but accepted that Knapper’s word was law.’
‘It’s rather touching that early memories are coming back,’ she responded cheerily. ‘I look forward to a proper renewal of our old acquaintanceship. Last week was too brief to count.’
The car turned into the driveway of St Ma
rtha’s. ‘It’s looking really good, Jack.’
‘Certainly it’s looking good. We collared another big bequest from an impressionable Indonesian a few months back and some of it’s been deflected towards a good landscape gardener. He isn’t Capability Brown, but he’s the best there is around. He’s done something inspired with the damp corners. Don’t fail to inspect the new fernery.’
Narrowly missing three young women with whom she exchanged cheery waves, the baroness turned sharply left, drove around to the back of the college and parked the car snugly between two trees.
‘Your private parking place, I presume?’
‘Certainly my private parking place. What’s the point of being Mistress if you don’t get a private parking place? Get out.’
‘Give me one minute, Jack,’ he asked as she locked the doors. ‘I must ring Geraint or he’ll think I’m avoiding him.’
‘You can ring him from my office.’
‘You inhibit me when I’m being hypocritical.’
‘Have it your own way. Breakfast’s due in my office in five minutes. Mary Lou’s joining us.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can get away.’ He squared his shoulders assertively and rang Griffiths.
4
A barrage of wolf-whistling greeted Amiss when twenty minutes later he opened the door to the baroness’ office. Mary Lou Denslow, Bursar of St Martha’s, left the table by the window and hurried over to him. ‘Every nice girl loves a sailor,’ observed a coarse voice as they embraced. Squinting into the sunlight, Amiss saw the source appeared to be Jack Troutbeck; further squinting ascertained that on her head was standing a grey parrot.
‘Meet Horace,’ said Mary Lou. ‘He’s Long Jack Troutbeck’s latest acquisition.’
‘Sit down and eat,’ said the baroness. ‘Introductions can wait.’ She marched over to a large cage near the window and unceremoniously dumped the parrot on top of it.
There was loud ringing as Mary Lou was solicitously placing a napkin on Amiss’ knee and the baroness was uncovering a chafing dish. ‘I rejected the idea of scrambled eggs,’ said the baroness over the shrill peals, ‘since they need to be eaten immediately and I’m a long way from the kitchen, so…’
‘Shouldn’t you be answering the phone?’
‘That’s no phone. That’s my parrot. I’ve diverted calls and cancelled meetings until we’ve decided on strategy. Switch your own phone off and eat.’
The ringing sound stopped abruptly. ‘Rubbish,’ squawked the parrot. ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do…rubbish.’
‘Than I have ever done,’ cried the baroness and Mary Lou in unison. ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.’
Horace ignored them and reverted to whistling, while Mary Lou poured coffee and Amiss helped himself to kedgeree. ‘Why a parrot?’ he enquired, when he had swallowed the first few forkfuls.
The baroness jabbed her finger at his plate. ‘What do you think of the kedgeree?’
‘Wonderful.’
‘You’re so uncritical. I’m not entirely happy. There’s something about the texture of the…’
‘Praise the haddock, Robert,’ intervened Mary Lou.
‘Praise the Lord,’ roared the parrot. ‘PC rubbish.’
‘Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,’ howled Mary Lou and the baroness. ‘Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.’
The parrot fell silent.
‘Excellent haddock, if I may say so,’ said Amiss.
The baroness frowned.
‘She’s put out,’ said Mary Lou. ‘Rang the kitchen to complain that the haddock wasn’t finnan and found out it was. As if they’d dare have any other kind. But she’s put out and discomfited. Can’t bear being wrong.’
‘My facts may sometimes be wrong,’ said the baroness stiffly, ‘but my opinions are always right.’
‘You talk a better class of garbage than anyone I’ve ever met, Jack,’ said Mary Lou fondly. The baroness grinned ecstatically.
‘Aaaa’m only a bird,’ contributed Horace. ‘Not bloody likely.’
‘Aaaa’m only a bird in a gilded cage,’ yelled the two women. ‘Aaaa’m only a bird in a gilded cage.’
Amiss sighed. ‘It’s one thing to try to talk over Horace’s musings, ladies, but I can’t help thinking that having to shout over your pedagogy will not help me in my increasingly vain attempt to give a coherent briefing on the Warburton.’
‘Sorry, Robert. It’s just that he’s prone to forget where he is half-way through or get muddled and we have to correct it immediately. Jack, I think you should put him to bed.’
The baroness pushed her plate away and got up. ‘Horrie, Horrie, it’s time for a nap,’ she crooned, picking up a stick and holding it out. The bird put its head on one side. ‘Bugger Bognor,’ he gabbled. ‘I never heard such rubbish. Aaaa’m only a bird. Stuff and nonsense. PC claptrap. Good Horrie.’
‘That’s right,’ said the baroness. ‘Good Horrie. Nice Horrie. Come here, Horrie.’ He hopped down, she stroked his head for a few seconds, thrust stick and parrot into the cage, waited until he was settled on his perch and then enveloped his home in a black velvet cloth. ‘He’s good at picking up things to say but rather slow about grasping the importance of shutting up on request,’ she explained. ‘Still, he’s young. He’ll learn. Now what did Griffiths say?’
‘Hold on a minute. Fill me in on Horace.’
‘Eat up, eat up. Treasure Island was on television a few months ago and I fancied myself with a parrot on my shoulder.’
‘As opposed to your head?’
‘He can do shoulder. It’s just he prefers head. We’re negotiating.’
Mary Lou poured Amiss some more coffee. ‘She ordered Horace from Harrods the morning after seeing the movie, impervious to my warning that a parrot is not just for life but for several generations.’
‘I’ve already dealt with that,’ said the baroness carelessly. ‘I’ve added a codicil to my will leaving him to the college as a sacred trust. If they don’t take him, they don’t get anything else.’
Amiss finally remembered the name he had been struggling to recall. ‘If Treasure Island was the inspiration, why isn’t he called Flint?’
‘Because I’m not a pirate with a peg leg, Robert. I name my own parrots. Horace does, however, occasionally give a nod to Robert Louis Stevenson by shouting “pieces of eight.”’
‘So why didn’t you tell me about him before now?’ asked Amiss, slightly offended.
‘Wanted to imprint myself on him first so he’d make a good impression.’
‘Did he arrive talking?’
‘“Who’s a pretty boy?” was about the extent of his vocabulary. But we’re working on it and he learns fast. Between what we teach him and what he picks up he’s doing well.’
‘Sometimes too darn well,’ said Mary Lou. ‘And a word of warning, Robert. Don’t get fresh with him. He bites everyone.’ She held out her left hand. ‘Look.’
Amiss grimaced. ‘Nasty.’
‘Doesn’t bite me,’ said the baroness, beaming.
‘Everyone except Jack. Parrots, it turns out, are monogamous, and Jack’s his mate.’
‘He’s mine rather than me being his,’ said the baroness. ‘Have to maintain a sense of hierarchy. When the chips are down, he’s only a parrot and I’m me.’
Amiss put his coffee cup down with a bang. ‘Was it Horace that you wanted Plutarch to meet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jack, are you out of your mind? She’d eat him.’
‘Rubbish. One nip from Horace and Plutarch would learn her lesson. It might make her treat other birds with a bit more respect as well. Anyway, it was just a whim of the moment. Now eat up, eat up and let’s get on with matters Warburtonian. What was Geraint Griffiths’ reaction to me?’
Amiss looked enquiringly at Mary Lou. ‘She’s given me the headlines and all the dramatis personae she could remember
,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll tell you if I’m lost.’
‘Geraint was fine—by his standards. He’s not stupid, so he must have known he wasn’t really a runner, but he was pressing his case as a bargaining counter to make sure neither Den nor Rosa had a chance. By the time I’d told him a few stories about Jack’s views on political correctness he began to think he’d suggested her himself. “The crucial point is that the forces of conservatism should be mustered in defence of the values of Western fuckin’ civilisation,” he told me. “Whatever they say about Jack Troutbeck, I know we can rely on her to defend the citadel against the fuckin’ barbarians.”’
‘Decent of him. He’d better be sure I don’t mistake him for one. Now where are we on the fuzz front? Any news of young Inspector Pooley?’
‘I haven’t heard anything since we spoke last night.’
‘Shall I?’ asked Mary Lou. She took a phone from her bag and pressed a couple of keys. ‘Ellis? Me, darling. I’m here with Jack and Robert and they’re thirsting for news about the late Lady Babcock. Right. Right. My, that’s interesting…Hold on.’ She turned to Amiss and the baroness. ‘They’re sure it’s poison and think it might have been ricin.’
‘Dear old Hermione,’ grunted the baroness. ‘Fashionable to the last. Nothing dated like arsenic. Ask him if he’s on the case yet.’
‘Jack wants to know if you’re on the case, Ellis…Brilliant…I will…Me too. Bye.’
She beamed. ‘He’s trying, and it’s possible. He’ll keep us posted. More coffee?’
Amiss held out his cup. ‘Yes, please. Now, Jack, it’s time we got a grip.’
‘That’s my line. You’ve signally failed to give me a coherent briefing.’
‘That’s completely your fault. We got distracted onto your reminiscences of you and Den in the sack.’
Mary Lou sat bolt upright. ‘You’re not serious. Not Jack and Den Smith. You couldn’t have, Jack. He’s awful. I know you’ve got about a lot, but I thought even you were fussier than that.’
‘Don’t be so intolerant. It was a long time ago, I was young, I succumbed only once and he came off worst.’
Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery Page 4