by Tim Heald
‘An old business adage,’ said Sir Seymour, ‘like the one about putting business before pleasure. Not that I agree with that. To me the two have always seemed entirely and desirably compatible. I’d go further. There can be no business without pleasure.’
‘But you can have pleasure without business.’
Sir Seymour smiled. ‘Maybe you can. For myself I have never discovered the secret.’
‘So the Bridge Club,’ said Bognor, ‘is part of the business life of the community.’
‘It beats golf,’ said Sir Seymour. ‘Now let’s stop beating about the bush. Nigel Festing told me about your breaking in here and your questions. One or two other Artisans have told me about what you’ve been asking. I have a strong suspicion that you’re exceeding your role.’
Bognor was not having this. ‘Board of Trade Investigators have almost totally unfettered powers,’ he said evenly.
‘Murder,’ said Puce, ‘is a police matter.’
‘Who said anything about murder?’
Despite what he felt was an exemplary exterior appearance of calm, Bognor was internally quite rattled.
‘I did,’ said Puce.
Oh God, thought Bognor. Bluntspeak. That terrible northern capacity for calling spades shovels. They called it speaking their mind but in Bognor’s experience it was largely an excuse for being rude and obnoxious. Like many of his ilk, Bognor believed that little white lies made the world go round.
Puce continued in like manner. ‘I believe you think that there was something sinister about poor Reg Brackett’s death. And about Freddie Grimaldi. It’s not altogether surprising, I admit, but the police have made enquiries and they are satisfied in both instances that there is no question of foul play. I have the Chief Constable’s word.’
Naturally, thought Bognor. He was beginning to feel out of his depth. He wished Wartnaby would show up. Then everything would be resolved and he could live happily ever after. At least, that was his theory.
‘I assure you,’ said Bognor, ‘that all I am concerned with is the compilation of my report on the workings of the Scarpington business community. I admit that two deaths immediately after my arrival were unexpected and suspicious. I also have to say that I have discovered a number of things about the business community here which are, well, let’s just say that I’ve been a bit surprised. And I would like to know more about how the Bridge Club works.’ He was dimly aware that he was sounding both pompous and lame. A not inconsiderable achievement. He was also having doubts about Puce. Corrupt, certainly, but was he criminal? And above all, was he a murderer? He seemed to be managing perfectly well without having to kill people.
Puce shrugged. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘since we’re here I’ll show you. It’s perfectly straightforward.’
He stood and led the way upstairs. Once inside the door of the Bridge Club there was a strong smell of perfume and the burning hay aroma that could have been an old herbal cigarette but was more likely to have been marijuana.
‘I know who that will have been,’ said Puce, waving his cigar. ‘I keep warning members about narcotics.’
He shoved open the door of the black bedroom. ‘It’s all quite straightforward,’ he said. ‘Each session is an hour long. Judges’ decision is final.’ He sat on the waterbed which wobbled like jelly. ‘Not sure about the waterbeds,’ he said, ‘but the committee were keen. I don’t personally think it’s done anything for the general level of play. It’s like cricketers always going on about whether or not to cover wickets or all that soccer nonsense about plastic turf. There’ll never be plastic at the Bog while I’m in charge. And personally I’d go back to traditional mattresses. But then as I’m a non-combatant my views shouldn’t in all honesty prevail.’
‘Non-combatant?’ Bognor had been wondering.
‘Let’s just say we all get our pleasures in … what the hell?’ Puce made to stand but sat back hard and rapidly. ‘Smith!’ he said. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’
It was — of course — Wartnaby. And he had a gun in his hand.
‘For God’s sake, Wartnaby, put that thing down!’ Bognor was seriously agitated.
‘Oh, shut up!’ said Wartnaby, ‘you absolute ass.’
‘I am not an absolute ass and I suggest you put that gun down at once before something silly happens which you’ll regret.’
Puce’s expression suggested that he at least agreed with Smith/Wartnaby’s verdict on Bognor’s asininity.
‘I told Mr Bognor my name was Osbert Wartnaby,’ said Smith. ‘Rather a good joke, I thought. In the circumstances.’ He glanced at Bognor without allowing the gun, pointed straight at Puce’s second shirt button, to wobble. ‘He was our housemaster. Took a great shine to Puce here, but rather less to me. A great beater of boys and a very nasty piece of work.’
‘So you’re not a policeman?’ Bognor had always been told that he should not be afraid to ask the obvious question.
‘Certainly not!’ He laughed. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Osbert Wartnaby. Not a bad joke, eh, Puce? Not a bad joke. A policeman is a burglar who has retired from practice. That’s Proust, Puce. Don’t suppose you ever read Proust even though you did go to university. Unlike some. Not that I was ever a burglar. Socially respectable crime has always been my forte — fraud, old lady’s legacies, credit card fiddles, even a little subtly contrived extortion. Do you know I successfully passed myself off as the British Ambassador in Manila once? Mind you, Imelda was immensely gullible!
‘Much of what I told you was the truth, Simon, sweetie. I’ve travelled the world on the strength of my minor public school education, and what an advantage it’s been. The word of a not-quite-English-gentleman is still considered his bond. Which, of course, accounts in part for Puce’s success. Find a half-decent barrow boy, put a plum in his mouth and a striped tie round his neck, and you’ve got a success on your hands. Forget meritocracy, that’s all my eye.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Bognor, feebly. ‘Why didn’t you stay abroad?’
Smith/Wartnaby switched the gun towards Bognor, then back to Puce. He looked seriously mad but in a controlled manner that boded no good at all.
‘Slights can fester, Simon. In fact the longer you harbour a grudge the worse it gets. That’s my experience. They say crime doesn’t pay but that’s not my experience. Not at all. I put away quite a nest-egg. Not in the Puce league, of course. But enough to live on in some comfort. So I thought to myself, “Smith, old son, why not go home to the land of your fathers, the scenes of your youth, return to your roots and enjoy a happy retirement in the town from which you came?”’
Puce shifted on the waterbed. It wobbled and he wobbled with it. ‘Sit still, Puce,’ said Smith, ‘or I’ll shoot you sooner rather than later.’
‘You don’t have the guts, you little drip,’ said Puce. ‘You always were a pathetic little man. Age hasn’t improved you. If you want to kill me, kill me. Go on. Shoot.’
‘That would be far too easy.’ Smith leered. ‘Undress.’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘You too, Bognor. This is going to look as unlike murder as poor little Reg Brackett and Freddie Grimaldi. You’re going to be found together naked on a waterbed in a nasty little sex parlour. And one of you will have this gun in his hand. One rubber of bridge which didn’t go quite as planned, eh, Puce?’
‘I still don’t understand.’ In part Bognor was playing for time; in part he was genuinely perplexed and really curious.
‘What don’t you understand?’ Smith seemed seriously concerned, anxious that all should be made utterly clear for Bognor’s benefit.
‘Why you came back. Why you killed Brackett and Grimaldi.’
‘Did I say that? How careless. Not that I quite killed Brackett. Just slipped a little atropine in his drink before dinner. Odourless and colourless, no taste. Marvellous stuff if the victim has a dodgy heart already, especially if he’s going through something as stressful as an after-dinner speech.’
‘But why?’
asked Bognor. ‘I don’t understand why.’
‘Let’s just say “revenge”, let’s just say “revenge”. Thus the sweet whirligig of time brings in his revenges. Remember doing Twelfth Night with Wartnaby, Puce? Knew it word for word, didn’t he? Didn’t he?’
Puce’s face was even more purple than usual. There was no question of fear draining the cherry red from his cheeks. Instead anger was making him incandescent.
‘He was always a little crawler,’ he said, addressing Bognor as if Smith was not in the room, ‘always sucking up and trying to ingratiate himself. Never worked, of course. He was one of nature’s also-rans. So he ran away from school and Scarpington and became a small-time crook as he’s told us. And eventually when he’d put together a few miserable bob, he came whimpering back and tried to worm his way into Scarpington society. Fat chance. But we fell over backwards to accommodate him. After all, he was an Old Scarpingtonian. He was entitled to wear the Old School Tie. We owed him something for that. So we gave him the chance. But he failed the initiation. Failed miserably. A second humiliation, you see. And he can’t forgive those of us who failed him.’
‘Shut up, Puce! Shut up and undress! You too, Bognor. This is your last warning. I’ll count to ten and if you haven’t started I’ll fire. I’m quite good with this little job. I’ve come a long way since the school corps. And I’ll start with the knees, Puce. Which will be painful. So if I were you I’d get ’em off. Shoes first. One … two …’
It was best to stall for time. Both victims knew it. There was a real madness in those unblinking eyes and a lifetime of resentment and pent-up hatred, of a truly baleful, demonic chip on the shoulder. After almost fifty-odd years of coming off a bad second best this was Smith’s one chance to get even.
Puce started to unlace a shoe. Bognor, still standing, pulled at his tie.
And then, from outside, came the sound of the relieving force. The siege of The Laurels was being lifted. Oddly, it sounded like a woman’s voice, though the loudspeaker which amplified it was so messy with the interfering whine and buzz of static that it was difficult to be sure. In any event, if it was a female voice it was deep, bossy and authoritative.
What it said was ‘Attention! Attention! This is the police. This is the police. The house is surrounded. We are armed. I repeat, there are armed police outside at both front and back entrances to The Laurels. You have five minutes in which to leave the house by the front door with your arms above your head. If you do not do so within five minutes we shall force an entry. I repeat, we are armed police. If resisted we shall shoot to kill. I repeat, we will shoot to kill.’
Normally Bognor would have been quite critical in his woolly liberal manner at the idea of armed police crawling around Wedgwood Benn Gardens for no good reason at all. He was very worried about the excesses of the modern constabulary and it was disturbing that the Fenlandshire force should be able to field some sort of commando-style SAS squad early on a weekday evening. And for no good reason. Dimly he thought he recognised the dread hand of Parkinson pulling rank and puppet strings from the basement offices of the Board of Trade in Whitehall. In which case he would have a stiff word when he got back. Why couldn’t he leave him to get on with the job? Interference like this always led to tears, though to be honest, it might get him out of a slight jam. Smith did seem surprisingly serious.
‘Now the other,’ he said to Puce, who had actually removed one shoe.
Bognor took off his jacket. Puce started to undo the other shoe-lace.
‘Get on with it,’ said Smith. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
‘You won’t get away with this,’ said Puce.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ Smith’s lip twitched. ‘I shall either effect an escape, or simply say that I heard shots and discovered your bodies.’
‘You’re mad,’ said Bognor.
‘I’ve sometimes wondered about that,’ he said, quite seriously. ‘I suppose it depends on one’s definitions. Samuel Beckett says we’re all born mad, only some remain so. I think he’s probably right.’
From outside there came another burst on the loudspeaker.
‘We shall issue only one more warning. I repeat, there will be only one further warning. After that armed police will enter the building. Anybody obstructing officers in the execution of their duties is liable to be shot on sight. I say again, we are armed police. If you do not come out with your hands above your heads we shall enter the building and, if necessary, shoot to kill.’
‘Get on with it,’ said Smith, hand beginning to waver slightly. Bognor and Puce looked at each other. The telepathy wasn’t there. They didn’t know how to overcome Smith without the very real danger that one of them might be shot.
‘This is cosy,’ said Smith. ‘Such a cosy way to die, don’t you think?’ He snickered. ‘Do you remember that time you beat me in the dorm, Puce? Beat me in the dorm with my trousers down so that I bled. I’ve been looking forward to this ever since.’
Puce began to unbutton his shirt. He was as out of condition as Bognor. Fat.
Then things began to happen very fast.
The last warning from the police came quicker than they had anticipated and was very terse and tense as if the constabulary’s nerve was beginning to crack. Only seconds later there was a smash of breaking glass and Bognor heard himself call out, ‘They’re coming in through the window.’ This seemed to panic Smith who glanced momentarily at the window of the black room, as if balaclava’d SAS men might be swinging in on ropes from the monkey puzzle. As he glanced, Sir Seymour bent down and in a movement which must have derived from the days when he fielded at cover in the King’s Scarpington First XI he picked up a shoe and threw it at Smith, catching him hard in the midriff. As this happened Smith must have pulled the trigger. There was a sharp crack, a rending sound and then a fierce jet of water shot up from the waterbed. Puce caught this thin pressurised fountain full in the face, but the distraction allowed Bognor to make a clumsy lunge at his would-be assassin. This was brave but dodgy for as he and Smith-Wartnaby collided, the gun went off a second time. Puce let out a strange, high-pitched shriek and sank beneath a tidal wave as the bed collapsed beneath him with a soggy rending noise. Water, water everywhere. Amazing how much of the stuff you needed to fill a bed. Although not in danger of drowning, the Member for Scarpington was soaked. Also wounded. Blood flowed from his wrist and four-letter words from his mouth. It was difficult to be sure whether pain or indignity was afflicting him most. He was obviously feeling hurt and silly. Bognor stared at him, not at all sure what to do, and in this moment of slack-jawed inertia the gunman, disarmed now, for the weapon had fallen to the floor, was off and away down the stairs. The two almost naked men stayed stunned like a couple of jellyfish stranded on the pebbles by the ebbing tide. Screams. Shouts. They both rushed out and down to the landing, Puce dripping blood from his hand. And on the landing, on a flowered Axminster, they found Smith lying flat out, staring up with extraordinary malevolence at a single assailant, one of whose knees rested threateningly on his jugular, another on his groin, while the hands pinioned Smith’s arms in some sort of rudimentary half-nelson.
It was Monica, Mrs Bognor. On her own.
‘Good grief,’ said Bognor. ‘Monica.’
‘Go and find something to tie him up with,’ she ordered. ‘And for God’s sake put some trousers on. You both look preposterous and frankly rather revolting.’
At least Sir Seymour had the grace to give them a late dinner at the Talbot that evening. His hand was heavily bandaged, though it was only a surface wound. They had Dom Perignon and a bucket of his personal Beluga from the cold store.
‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think the little wanker had it in him. The police surgeon didn’t seem to know anything about atropine.’ A bottle of this had been found in Smith’s flat at Sludgelode Mansions. He had nicked it from the pharmacy at Scarpington General simply by breezing in wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard. People tended to forget, thought Bo
gnor, that the basis of being a confidence trickster was not so much winning confidence as exhibiting it. Walk around as if you owned the place and most people would believe you did. ‘And the bruise on Grimaldi’s temple was perfectly consistent with his falling over and hitting his head on the grate. And the fire was started with a cigarette.’
‘Tell me,’ said Monica, ‘I mean, I don’t wish to seem crude but was he really too bad to pass your entry exam?’
‘Brackett and Grimaldi and I all marked him quite separately and put our score in sealed envelopes. When we opened them we had all given him nought out of ten. He didn’t like it when we told him. But we interviewed his partner or opponent, call her what you will. She’s a professional lady we use on these occasions and have for a good many years. She confirmed our view. Nought out of ten. No question.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Monica, helping herself to some more caviar.
‘It was awfully brave of you to come on your own,’ said Bognor, ‘and an inspired touch to hire that loud-hailer.’
Monica flashed him a glance which said, ‘Shut up you fat, dissolute ass.’
‘Police just laughed,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t get past the sergeant on the desk, and, as you know, the desk sergeant is a pretty low form of life. So I had to come on my own. It was perfectly obvious that you two wouldn’t be able to cope.’
Both men winced.
‘I don’t suppose,’ said Puce, ‘that you’d contemplate honorary membership of the Artisans Mrs Bognor? We’d waive the entry requirements, of course. I have a feeling you might fit in rather well. We’re always on the look-out for new blood.’
Mrs Bognor turned to the MP and looked down her nose as if from a very great height indeed. ‘Sir Seymour,’ she said, ‘when my husband has compiled his report on the business activities of this community, I shall recommend to Mr Parkinson that he be sent to investigate Britain’s Women’s Institutes with special reference to flower arrangement, origami and the place of the rock cake in our national cuisine. Alternatively Mr Parkinson may decide to send him somewhere a little safer and duller than Scarpington. Beirut, perhaps. I, for my part, have no wish ever to come to this perfectly bloody place, ever again. Even though this is very good caviar and very good champagne.’