Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘Still, you did succumb.’

  Amiss grinned maliciously. ‘Don’t be unkind to her, Mary Lou. All the girls do at one time or another. Including, I understand, Hermione, Rosa and Wysteria Wilcox. It’ll be quite an old girls’ reunion.’

  ‘I know I’m a simple-minded American,’ said Mary Lou, suppressing a grin at the outraged expression on the baroness’ face, ‘but leaving sex out of it, would someone explain to me why anyone listens to that creature? On that programme he was on with Jack, he said America was the most evil empire in the history of the universe and all its citizens were legitimate targets for the oppressed. I know we’re a young and naïve country and we over-consume, but we’re kinda well-meaning and I can’t understand why anyone could hate us that much.’

  ‘Inverted snobbery,’ snorted the baroness. ‘You Yanks are rich and successful and fundamentally decent: of course they hate you. And you elected George Bush, who is not literary London’s American politician of choice, which means you deserve annihilation purely on aesthetic grounds.’

  ‘His stuff on America’s only part of it. From what I’ve heard he seems to hate England even more,’ said Mary Lou.

  ‘How often do I have to tell you that our so-called intellectuals are self-loathing, Mary Lou, and that the best way to their hearts is to knock everything British. Correction. English. You remember all that Bloomsbury wankery about betraying my country rather than my friend? This crowd of neo-Bloomsberries just take it further and see betraying their country and its allies as an end in itself. They wrap up their treachery in highbrow piffle and egalitarian rhetoric.’

  ‘Are they as bad as she says, Robert?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I’d label it “treachery”…’

  ‘What would you call it then?’ demanded the baroness.

  ‘Virtual treachery. In practice, I doubt if they’d actually sell the country out to al-Qaeda.’

  ‘Only because neo-Bloomsbury women don’t want to be stuffed into burkas,’ snarled the baroness. ‘They’d sell us out to Brussels soon enough.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that. I’ve been at a couple of dinners where Den raved away drunkenly over the petit fours about the awfulness of England, its blood-sucking monarchy, its corrupt and effete establishment, its ignorant plebs and its bloodstained history, and Hermione, Rosa and Wysteria and a couple of the others squealed about the only hope being to subsume ourselves in the European ideal.’

  The baroness snorted venomously. ‘Of course the likes of Hermione Babcock are never happier than when engaging in a spot of intellectual S & M with rough trade like Den. With the added frisson, no doubt, in the case of those three harridans, that Den would flail them for having titles and living high on the hog.’

  ‘I grasp it in theory,’ said Mary Lou. ‘I’m just always staggered in practice. I read an issue of Rage last week and it was unbelievable. Feeble poems and a couple of angry short stories along with some third-rate polemic about the evils of everything British from the Empire to Oxbridge elitism. Hermione Babcock had a piece explaining why she refused to call herself either English or British and demanding the government instruct everyone to call themselves European.’

  Amiss sighed. ‘Ladies, we need to get a move on. It’s after nine and I have to tell Jack what she needs to know about the other judges. Jack, will you please sit down, shut up and listen?’

  ‘If I must,’ she said, plonking herself down in her favourite armchair.

  ‘First, Professor Felix Ferriter. He’s a ghastly little literary critic.’

  ‘Bit of a tautology, that, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m a literary critic, Jack,’ said Mary Lou mildly.

  ‘Nonsense. You’re a person who appreciates and writes intelligently about literature. That’s different.’

  ‘He’s obsessed with Queer Studies, of which he is a visiting professor at Yale.’

  Amiss suddenly had the baroness’ full attention. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘I wish I were, but the truth is that Queer Studies is all the rage in fashionable Eng. Lit. circles.’ He raised his hand as she began to expostulate. ‘Not now, Jack. There isn’t time. Mary Lou will explain it to you later, no doubt. Just for now, take my word for it that Ferriter is a luminary in the world of Queer Studies and that this colours his attitude to the Warburton.’

  The baroness opened her mouth and then shut it again.

  ‘And he’s such a little shit that Georgie, who goes in for nicknames, calls him Ferriquat.’

  ‘After the weedkiller?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Who’s Georgie?’ asked Mary Lou.

  ‘Georgie Perkins,’ said the baroness.

  ‘Jack, for God’s sake, it’s Georgie Prothero, who, Mary Lou, looks after the Warburton. Jack, will you stop messing about. And at this rate we’ll be at this all day.’

  ‘Why not?’ said the baroness. ‘I’m enjoying myself.’

  ‘You haven’t got time to enjoy yourself. Might I remind you that today is Friday and your long-list is due in on Tuesday.’

  ‘And that you still have some duties as Mistress,’ added Mary Lou. ‘I can’t stand in for you on everything.’

  ‘Right,’ said Amiss sternly. ‘Now next there’s Rosa Karp, whom, I regret to say, Georgie Prothero, Prothero, Prothero refers to as Rosa Krap.’

  ‘Well, he’s got that right anyway,’ observed the baroness.

  ‘What do you know of Rosa?’

  ‘Patron saint of equality gibberish. Turns up all over the place mouthing platitudes about our failure sufficiently to love our gay, lesbian, disabled, ethnic fellow-persons. If she had her way all the able-bodied, white, male Anglo-Saxons would be run out of the country.’ She looked at him enquiringly. ‘Fair assessment?’

  ‘She’s good-looking and articulate,’ said Mary Lou. ‘I’ve seen her on television.’

  ‘That, my dear Mary Lou, is why she’s come so far despite having no discernible brain and understanding nothing about the human condition,’ said the baroness. ‘What’s the name of that idiotic book of hers, Robert?’

  ‘We Can Be Equal If We Try. That’s what got her the peerage and the Ministry for Equality.’

  ‘She didn’t last long in that job, as I remember,’ said Mary Lou. ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘She was put in charge of developing equality strategies for business, and according to Georgie Prothero, Prothero, Prothero, she developed elaborate strategies to deal with discrimination that didn’t just take in women, gays, lesbians, ethnic minorities, the young, the old and the disabled but also cross-dressing, sex changes and a whole host of other categories like…’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Like…’

  ‘Bad breath?’ offered the baroness helpfully.

  ‘Criminal convictions and I can’t remember what else. Anyway her idea was that every business, institution or organisation in the country would be required by law to draw up anti-discrimination plans with quotas agreed by an equality inspectorate, with heavy penalties for non-compliance. After the prime minister read her paper he chucked her out in the next re-shuffle and put equality in the hands of someone who wasn’t actually barking.’

  ‘What’s she like on the committee?’

  ‘Still a demented social engineer. Hermione outlawed books that she thought beneath her; Rosa wanted us to have what she calls “equality-proofing”.’

  ‘I.e.?’

  ‘She was insistent that we commit ourselves to a short-list that would be gender-balanced and ethnically diverse.’

  ‘Regardless of the quality of the books?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And, what was more, she wanted any offensive books ruled out of consideration.’

  ‘Offensive to whom?’

  ‘Offensive to her, in her capacity as watchdog.’

  The baroness looked dreamy. ‘Takes me back to when Mary Lou came here first.’

  ‘And I was an innocent ethnic paw
n in your epic struggle against the thought-police.’*

  ‘We won that one. We’ll win this one.’ There was a loud knocking. ‘Come in,’ roared the baroness, and the door opened to reveal the agitated college secretary. ‘What is it, Petunia?’

  ‘It’s no good, Mistress,’ said Miss Stamp, her little head quivering under her embroidered pink Alice band. ‘I can’t hold them off any longer. The phone’s been ringing constantly for the last hour and Mr Prothero, who seems awfully nice but ever so upset, says he’ll never speak to Mr Amiss again if he doesn’t ring him now and put you on. He says the press are behaving like ravening monsters and you must throw them a bone.’

  Amiss looked at the baroness.

  ‘Oh, all right. If I must, I must. Put him on and I’ll sort him out.’

  * Publish and Be Murdered

  5

  ‘What a fusspot! But I’ve set him straight, don’t you think?’

  The baroness handed Amiss’ phone back to him. He looked at her with grudging admiration. ‘You certainly know about chutzpah, Jack. Anyone would have thought you were completely on top of things.’

  ‘I am. Didn’t you dragoon me into this because you knew I would be?’

  ‘I forget that you can be tactful when you want to be. Your paean to the Warburton was as eloquent as it was insincere.’

  She gave a bark of laughter. ‘It was certainly as insincere as it was eloquent. Get me Knapper.’ She shoved over a piece of paper. ‘Or Knapperoonie, as your little chum quaintly calls him. Here’s the number of his direct line.’

  ‘Before you talk to him, you need to know about Dervla and Hugo.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case Knapper expects you to have heard of all the committee.’

  ‘I’m not sitting a bloody exam.’

  ‘All right, all right. But just in case, Dervla’s a singer-stroke-actress who’s our voice of yoof, and Hugo—or Sir Hugo, as he’s keen to be referred to—is a literary editor who’s red-hot on the European perspective.’

  ‘There’s no hope you’re making them up?’

  ’Fraid not.’

  She gestured impatiently. ‘Knapper!’ He shrugged and dialled.

  ‘Hello. Mr Knapper? Robert Amiss from the Knapper-Warburton committee…Yes indeed, it’s quite a shock…Yes, it’s really excellent, isn’t it? Georgie did brilliantly to find someone of the calibre of Lady Troutbeck at such short notice…Because of her devotion to scholarship, I should think…You’d better ask her yourself. She’s just here. I’ll pass you over. Goodbye.’ He pressed the mute button. ‘Wanted to know why you took it on and wonders if you’ll be frightened if it turns out Hermione was murdered. Remember he liked her.’ He pressed the button again and handed her the phone.

  ‘Jack Troutbeck here, Mr Knapper…Not at all…Yes, obviously a resourceful chap…No, no. Glad to help, though I’ll be expecting a substantial five-figure donation to St Martha’s…That’ll do. Now you realise that with this kind of time-scale I need a free hand?…Good…They’re too old to get fidgety about murder surely?…Oh, I don’t know. Young people are tougher than you’d think. I’ll steady her nerves if necessary…Yes, I find the trouble with murder is it gets the press all excited…Fine. Must fly. Goodbye.’

  ‘Satisfactory,’ she grunted, as she strode across the room, removed the black cover from the cage, released Horace and plonked him on her shoulder. ‘Who’s been a good Horrie then? Good Horrie. To be or not to be, that is the question.’

  ‘Prothero, Prothero, Prothero,’ contributed the parrot, in a passable imitation of an irritable Amiss.

  ‘He has a tendency to be undiscriminating,’ observed the baroness.

  ‘Like Rosa.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Nothing. How much will Knapper cough up?’

  ‘Thirty grand. That’ll help the wine cellar. I want to stock up on Eastern European wine as part of my sanctions against the frogs for their pusillanimity over Iraq.’ The phone on her desk rang. ‘Bring them here…Oh, all right, I’ll send Robert.’

  ‘The books have arrived. They’re in the hall and too heavy for Petunia. Fetch them.’

  Horace flew off her shoulder and parked himself on a high bookshelf. ‘Not bloody likely! Rubbish. I’m only a bird. Every nice…’

  ‘I’m only a bird in a gilded cage,’ bellowed the baroness. ‘I’m only a bird in a gilded cage.’

  Horace swooped onto her head.

  ‘Owwwwwwww!!!!!!! Be careful, for Christ’s sake, Horace. That hurt.’ Immovable and unperturbed, the parrot began an imitation of popping a champagne cork.

  Amiss surveyed the scene. ‘If you don’t mind, Jack, I’ll work in a corner of Mary Lou’s office. I’ve got calls to make, I have to think and I find you and Horace strangely distracting.’

  She looked surprised. ‘Really? I’d have thought you’d have got used to us by now. But as you wish. See you here for a pre-lunch snifter at twelve-thirty.’

  With total concentration, she applied herself to her in-tray.

  ***

  ‘So what’s the news?’ the baroness demanded, a few hours later.

  ‘Uniformly excellent,’ said Amiss, as he savoured his gin and tonic. ‘For a start, Horace is talking quietly, which is a nice change.’

  ‘He’s more subdued when he’s in his cage. Cramps his style a bit.’

  ‘Let’s leave it cramped for the moment, if you don’t mind. Now, on the books front, I’ve reduced the two hundred to fifty and the ten I’ve just given you will keep you going this afternoon. You’ll have your long-list before I leave this evening.’

  ‘Why are you leaving?’

  ‘Novel. Plutarch. Remember? And I’m meeting Ellis tonight. He’s been assigned to the case on the grounds that it would be helpful to have a copper who knows something about books, so we’re meeting for a late dinner to exchange notes.’

  ‘Most satisfactory. What else?’

  ‘Georgie reports that while rumours are circulating about Hermione’s death not being straightforward, the press haven’t yet been tipped the wink about murder, so we should have a brief respite.’

  ‘Haven’t the cops said anything?’

  ‘They’re waiting until the medics are ready to go public on the post-mortem, which will be tonight. Tomorrow should be lively.’

  ‘And the committee?’

  ‘They won’t know about Hermione until it’s official. Some of them have grumbled about you refusing to hold an emergency meeting.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them? I’ll never understand why people want pointless meetings. Do they seriously think I have time to leg it up to London in order to sit round a table bemoaning the loss of Hermione Babcock?’

  ‘I think they thought it important that you all get to know each other.’

  ‘I already know more about most of them than I could ever possibly want to,’ she said, shuddering slightly. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’

  ‘Most of them, on the other hand, are consumed with curiosity to know more about you.’

  ‘They’ve got nothing better to do, that’s the top and bottom of it.’

  ‘Georgie did, however, get it through to them that you needed time to read the books.’

  ‘Didn’t stop Griffiths and Rosa trying to get through to me. I presume Griffiths wanted to be sure I didn’t pass up his favourites and Rosa wanted to tell me what was beyond the pale.’

  ‘So you didn’t speak to them?’

  ‘Certainly not. I instructed Petunia to tell them to get lost.’

  ‘I’ve had Wysteria, Dervla, Felix and Hugo on the phone. I’d agreed to Georgie telling everyone you and I used to be colleagues on The Wrangler* on the grounds that it would become public anyway, so they wanted the low-down.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Wysteria’s apprehensive. Doesn’t seem to have happy memories of you.’

  ‘Afraid I’ll call her Trixie, probably. Which I will if
she’s stroppy. What did you tell her?’

  ‘That you’re a thorough professional.’

  ‘Meaningless drivel.’

  ‘Not to Wysteria, who seemed comforted.’

  ‘And the literary editor? What do you call him?’

  ‘Sir Hugo Hurlingham. You must have heard of him.’

  ‘Frightful old wanker, I seem to remember.’

  ‘Portentous is the word, I think. Well, he said in hushed tones that although this was not to go any further, he had heard on excellent authority something very disturbing about you.’

  ‘Oh, good. What?’

  ‘You are reputed to be a Eurosceptic.’

  ‘Rubbish, I’m a Europhobe. I thought everyone knew that.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, but old Hugo hasn’t quite placed you yet. Anyway, I reassured him that—whatever your views—you were an experienced university politician who would not let any prejudices you might have cloud your judgement.’

  ‘Sometimes I think you should have stayed in the civil service, Robert. You could have made Cabinet Secretary. And Dervla whatshername?’

  ‘Just Dervla. She doesn’t sport a surname. She’s just generally terrified, poor kid. She’s only on the committee because youth was thought to be a good idea, she’d made it as a singer, had joined a popular soap opera, and had told interviewers she loved reading. When she came on the committee she was full of confidence, not to speak of Irish bullshit, and she jabbered about the importance of wards.’

  ‘Wards? As in hospitals or dependants?’

  ‘Wards as in words. Wards, wards, wards. She loved wards, she told us. And indeed by the standards of the young, she really did. But she’s been patronised by Hermione and Hugo, sneered at by Wysteria, bullied by Geraint, lectured by Rosa, insulted by Den and confused by Felix and she’s intellectually very bedraggled and intimidated these days, afraid of everyone except me, and not knowing from day to day what she thinks of the books.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘That she wasn’t to tell anyone else but that you were really a pussycat.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to tell people that. It’s a secret. Besides, I’m only a pussycat when I want to be.’