Blue Blood Will Out (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  ‘These are Promnitz bison,’ said Lydeard. ‘Prince of Pless had a herd at his place in Silesia. Alexander II gave him the nucleus back in 1855. Bull and three cows. I have an idea they came from the Caucasus originally. Fellow called Leyland at Haggerston Castle used to breed them. Russians call them Z-U-B-R. No idea how you pronounce it.’

  By the time they arrived at the far end of the field about a mile away, Bognor was well versed in bison lore. ‘Right,’ said Lydeard, turning to face the fence. The bison were about a half mile away, grazing quietly. ‘Now, keep just behind me and whatever you do, don’t talk and move very gently. Any sudden movement and they’ll be off.’

  ‘O.K.,’ said Bognor. He still hadn’t worked out the plot, if plot there was. Together they climbed the fence and set off.

  As they neared the herd they slowed their pace until they were moving as if in grandmother’s footsteps: one swift pace and then a frozen moment to see if they’d been spotted, then another and another. Eventually they were within twenty yards and the bison continued to graze, chewing mournfully at the grass, their massive shaggy shoulders hunched over the meal. Bognor had no idea if they had been spotted but if they had the bison remained supremely uninterested. Now Lydeard motioned him to stop, and they stayed still looking across the herd to where Grithbrice and the Johnson girl were standing. As they watched, the two climbed the fence and started to advance on the twenty bison.

  The wind had gathered more strength by now and Bognor caught a strong whiff of bison dung as it gusted towards him. He wrinkled his nose and watched as the other two approached. They seemed quite sure of themselves. Grithbrice, a peacock figure in a light blue velvet suit, came in front holding the girl’s hand.

  ‘They’re going too fast,’ whispered Lydeard, ‘they’ll be spotted in a moment.’ Even as he said it, Bognor noticed the beast nearest Grithbrice raise its head and stiffen, and simultaneously Bognor realized the significance of the wind. If he could smell bison, then bison would be able to smell Grithbrice and Johnson. Sure enough, the rest of the herd had stopped eating and were raising their heads.

  ‘They can smell them,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Lydeard. ‘But they may have seen them. Grithbrice is too damned clumsy.’

  It was perfectly obvious to Bognor that the bison had got a scent. The herd was stirring now and one or two were beginning to paw at the ground and give out bovine grunts. It was equally clear that they hadn’t yet spotted the source of the smell. Bognor hadn’t realized before what small, piggy eyes bison had. For what seemed an age they looked round trying to locate Grithbrice and Johnson. Then suddenly, one vast bull saw them. Luckily the two figures were at least a hundred yards away and they had already spotted their danger. They started to run before the bison had decided to do the same. Bognor watched mesmerized as the herd turned and started to lumber off after them. As yet they were trundling at a mere walking pace, but once they had accelerated to a full stampede, they would be moving too fast for escape. The young lovers had almost half a mile to run before the safety of the stockade. Bognor had a mental picture of twenty bisonfuls of bone and muscle crunching into two human bodies.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he shouted. ‘Diversion, we must create a diversion.’

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ said Lydeard. ‘Run for it. It’s us or them. If they see us they’ll get us instead.’ Saying which he turned and ran past Bognor, who remained rooted to the spot. He watched as the herd started to move into a run. If he were to shout it would take the clumsy brutes several seconds to turn round, and even then they would be confused about whom to chase. At all events, there was no alternative. He looked behind him and saw that Lydeard was already well on his way to safety; looked back and saw that the bison were beginning to gain on their quarry; and shouted at the top of his voice.

  ‘Biffalo, buffalo, bison,’ he cried. ‘Come and get me. Come and get me.’ For a second he watched, saw the herd falter and started to run himself, after Basil Lydeard. After a few seconds he turned and saw that the bison had stopped and where in a state of confusion. He too stopped and shouted again.

  ‘Cissies,’ he called. ‘Call yourself biffalo, buffaloes. Couldn’t hurt a flea.’

  Then he began to run again, realizing as he did that his diversion had been successful. Behind him he heard an odd malevolent grunting and groaning and then a noise of hooves. He glanced back and saw that the herd had decided to chase him. He gulped. There was still a long way to go and he was grossly unfit.

  The next few seconds seemed to last for ever. He didn’t even take a momentary look over his shoulder, because the dull thud of the bison on the turf behind told him that he was losing ground. He had a stitch. He could hardly breathe. His vision was going. His blisters hurt. He felt sick. He could almost feel the hot breath of the herd on his back. Then with utter relief he saw through a mist of tears and sweat the high white fence advancing on him. With a final frantic effort he hurled himself at it and, in a reflex drawn from his public school past, executed a perfect gate vault and landed in a heap on the other side, breathless but safe. He lay there for a few moments and then felt someone tugging at his shoulders.

  ‘You fool,’ he heard someone say, ‘you bloody fool. You’ve bloody ruined it.’

  He shook his head and tried to focus. It was, he realized vaguely, Basil Lydeard. What had he been saying? ‘What?’ he said groggily.

  ‘I said are you all right? You could have been killed.’

  He blinked again and put his hand to his temple. ‘I think I’m O.K. How’s everyone else?’ He stood up and looked over the fence to where the bison had gone back to chewing quietly. They looked peaceful, harmless and stupid. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘I thought you said they were safe.’

  ‘They are safe unless you upset them. Grithbrice upset them by leaping around like a dervish. You upset them by shouting at them. No wonder they got excited.’

  ‘I thought Grithbrice was doing quite well. I got the impression they smelt him.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Bison have a notoriously weak sense of smell.’

  Bognor had got his breath back now and they started to walk round the fence towards the other two, who were walking towards them.

  ‘You never told us,’ said Bognor, ‘that you used to have traction engines.’

  Lydeard gave Bognor another old-fashioned look. ‘Traction engine. One. Long time ago. She was called “The Rose Revived”. Never did much with it. Why should I have told anyone about it? No one asked.’

  ‘The police asked you if you knew anything about steam engines.’

  ‘And I said “no”.’

  ‘Well, what about your traction engine?’

  ‘What about it? You drive a car. Doesn’t mean to say you know what makes it go.’

  This happened to be perfectly true and before Bognor could continue the argument the four all met up.

  ‘I think you saved our life,’ said Grithbrice, self-consciously.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Miss Johnson. ‘Thanks.’ She looked unhappily at the ground. ‘I guess maybe I owe you an apology.’

  For a moment Bognor felt quite lightheaded. He was about to say something appropriately modest but, before he could stiffen his lip, Basil Lydeard said: ‘Let’s not exaggerate. My fault entirely. I accept all blame. Silly of me to let amateurs near them. I suggest we drop the whole incident.’

  There was a pregnant moment when it seemed that all three were going to remonstrate but all, for their own reasons, swallowed hard and said nothing. Instead they went back to the house.

  Later, when they were changing for dinner, Bognor took the opportunity to drive down to the village. In the phone box outside the Lydeard Arms he put a call through to Monica.

  ‘Anyone dead yet?’ she asked as soon as she heard his voice.

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘So who not quite done it?’

  For a moment he too was flippant. ‘I’d say 2-1 Lydeard, 9-2 Grithbrice, 20-1
Green, and er… 200-1 the field.’ Then he was serious. ‘This is important,’ he said. ‘Find out for me if bison have a strong sense of smell.’

  She said nothing.

  Finally he said, ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes. What on earth happened? Are you serious?’

  ‘Never more. Ask London Zoo. I must go or they’ll miss me.’ He hung up.

  When he got back to his room he found Grithbrice standing, already changed, by the fourposter bed. He was holding a large whisky and water and had brought another with him for Bognor.

  ‘Been doing a spot of sleuthing, eh?’ he said. ‘As they say.’

  ‘Maybe. But what are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought it was time we had a private chat.’ Bognor started to undo his tie. ‘You’ll have to talk while I change,’ he said, ‘but you could be right.’

  ‘You think I killed them, don’t you?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Well I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Bognor. ‘That settles it. We can all stop and go home. If you say you’re innocent, then that’s fine, I’m sorry I ever suspected anything.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect me to say?’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘The onus is on you.’

  ‘All right.’ Bognor was bad at bow ties and he disliked anyone, even Monica, watching while he tied them. ‘First of all, Freddie Maidenhead,’ he said. ‘You and Canning Abney approach him about merging his business with yours. He refuses. Your girl friend is a prominent Mangolan rebel and Maidenhead is involved in secret African negotiations of a right-wing nature. You are a Mangolan sympathizer. After Maidenhead is shot dead you are unable to produce an alibi and two days later the parent organization of the Mangolan nationalists claims responsibility. There are people who believe that’s enough evidence to arrest you on.’

  ‘It’s purely circumstantial,’ said Grithbrice. ‘And as for the Algiers thing it’s an obvious frame. They knew Honeysuckle favours non-violence. They want her out of the way. She’s not like the Algiers lot who are all mad, bad and dangerous to know. Really.’

  ‘It may seem circumstantial to you,’ said Bognor, ‘but it sounds almost conclusive to me. Taken with the second death it looks even more so. You knew early in the week that Abney had altered his will leaving you the estate. By the end of the same week he’s dead. Funny coincidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s exactly what it is,’ he said. ‘A coincidence. Only not funny.’

  Bognor drank whisky and smiled. ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m not accusing you. It’s not my job, but you might as well realize that the police will be doing so before long.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Grithbrice, ‘you’re the ones who are going to have to do better. You have no proof, have you? No conclusive fingerprints on the .22 because we were all playing around with them the night before. No fingerprints on the wreck of the boat. No witnesses. Nothing.’

  Bognor stalled. ‘It’s quite likely the experts will come up with something on the Lysander,’ he said, ‘and naturally we know which particular rifle fired the shot which killed Maidenhead.’

  ‘Which is no use at all, because we’d all have handled it.’

  ‘I admit it’s not going to be easy. But, for instance, what are you doing here tonight? I think your presence is rather significant. Every time you turn up people start getting killed. I suggest that you are going to try to bully old Lydeard into merging or selling to you. He’ll refuse, and you’ll take the first opportunity to get him out of your way.’

  ‘You’re right that I’m here to talk about a merger, yes,’ said Grithbrice tetchily, ‘but there’s no earthly reason for my wanting him out of the way even if he does refuse. You don’t seem to understand that other people’s success is useful to me even if they’re not part of the same organization. It stimulates demand. If people enjoy Lydeard when they’re in Somerset, they’ll visit Abney in Buckinghamshire and Netherly in Staffordshire. That’s the name of the game.’

  ‘Huh.’ Bognor was not convinced. Also his collar was too tight and he had not made a good job of the tie. ‘O.K. then, who do you think did do it?’

  Grithbrice fingered his own tie, which was an immaculate butterfly in tobacco-brown watered silk. ‘Green is the crook among us,’ he said. ‘He has a motive but more important he has the character. But I confess this afternoon had me worried.’

  ‘The bison?’

  ‘Yes. We have animals at home and I know a bit about them and I was being reasonably careful. But on thinking about it, there was a wind blowing and he made us approach from leeward. If they have a strong sense of smell that would be fatal.’

  ‘Do they…’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Bognor drained the last of his whisky. ‘I would,’ he said, ‘advise you to be circumspect in your dealings with the Marquess. For two reasons. The first is that if you bully him over this sell-out to which he won’t agree, and if he is subsequently found dead, then the coincidence will stretch everyone’s credulity and you’ll be on a murder charge as soon as my friend Smith gets here. The second is that if you’re right about the bison you could be in danger. And if you upset him with your business talk your danger might be increased.’

  Grithbrice finished his own drink. ‘I can look after myself,’ he said.

  ‘But you are still going to try to talk Lydeard into selling up?’

  ‘Into merging at least. Yes.’

  Bognor smiled thoughtfully. ‘Someone told me a proverb the other day,’ he said. ‘“Truth is the safest lie”, it went.’

  ‘I know who told you that,’ said Grithbrice. ‘It’s Yiddish.’

  Dinner that evening was a surprisingly relaxed occasion, due largely to Dot Lydeard who, in the absence of Albert and Ethel, had dealt with the pigeons, transforming them into a casserole, and had also found time to make soup. She chattered so entertainingly about the curiosities of life in Somerset that the preoccupations of the others evaporated and tension disappeared. By the end of the meal the atmosphere was quite euphoric and they were prepared to laugh immoderately at how the vicar had upset Colonel Fawcett with his pacifist views, how Mrs. Furzeley was said to doctor her home-made rhubarb wine with Algerian riesling, and the importance that Captain Tillington attached to winning the sweet pea class at the Quantock and District horticultural show. Eventually Dot and Honeysuckle withdrew, leaving Lydeard, Grithbrice and Bognor with a decanter of port.

  ‘Hum,’ said Lydeard. ‘You two had your chat?’

  Bognor nodded and Grithbrice looked curious.

  ‘Had a call from Archie McCrum this morning,’ he continued, ‘blathering on about young people. Specially you two. Wanted you arrested for murder, Grithbrice, and as far as I could make out he wanted you, Bognor, run in for treason and gross indecency. Funny fellow, McCrum. Always been very excitable.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor, passing the port. ‘We had a disagreement.’

  ‘Everyone has disagreements with Archie. Have to forgive old fogies like us. We don’t always like what the younger generation get up to. Still I don’t believe in getting all steamed up about it. Trouble with Archie is he still thinks he’s a colonel in the Guards. I told him, I told him to hold his horses and see what came out in the wash.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bognor, tentatively. ‘A lot of my generation have great respect for older people.’ He rambled on for a few moments about wisdom and the war and experience and the impetuousness of youth.

  ‘Quite,’ said Grithbrice, ‘although do you know that Halifax tag about old men getting their own back “by making nicer observations upon them, by virtue of their experience”!’

  ‘I prefer La Rochefoucauld,’ said Lydeard unexpectedly. ‘Old men love to give advice to console themselves for not being able to set a bad example.’ They all laughed and the port circulated.

  ‘I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,’ said Grithbrice, ‘but that sp
eech of Captain McAvity’s had more old jokes in it than I’ve heard in years. And all told wrong too.’ He retold the one about the Pope and his visit to Paris.

  They all laughed and the port circulated.

  Lydeard told a story about a French tart who entertained a battalion of Scots guardsmen in the First World War. Bognor didn’t understand it, but they all laughed and the port circulated.

  ‘Well,’ said Lydeard, ‘this is quite like the old days. Now you two have had your little chat. What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Tony?’

  Bognor watched Grithbrice hesitate and decided that if they were going to discuss a merger of Lydeard with Abney-Arborfield he’d better go. He got up, unsteadily but Lydeard waved him back into his chair. ‘No reason for you to leave,’ he said. ‘Don’t suppose Grithbrice is going to make an immoral proposition.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ said Grithbrice. ‘I was thinking of something on those lines actually.’ They all laughed and the port circulated. Bognor who was now too tired and muzzy to care if anyone was murdered over the port settled down to watch the tone of the conversation change from this traditional frivolity to one of acrimony.

  ‘I’d like you to join me in a completely new approach to marketing our product,’ said Grithbrice leaning across the table and looking intense.

  Lydeard looked back with an expression of subdued horror. ‘Product?’ he said.

  ‘It’s the only way to think of it,’ said Grithbrice. ‘Whether we like it or not the two of us are in the business of selling ourselves and our houses to the public. We may do it in slightly different ways but we are both concerned to get as many tourists in and out as possible.’

  To Bognor’s surprise there was no eruption. Instead Lydeard poured the port and passed it on. ‘No point in pretending,’ he said. ‘Form of prostitution, but we’re all at it.’

  ‘Right,’ said Grithbrice. ‘Even HMQ lets people in to look at the pictures in Buck House.’