Red Herrings

by Tim Heald

  ‘Oh, Mr Bognor,’ said Felix nastily. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bognor, ‘I was just looking for some ice.’

  ‘And instead you found Mademoiselle Fifi.’ Felix grinned. ‘I’d be obliged if you would put her nipple back where you found it.’

  Bognor did so, wondering as he did whether there was any way he could turn the naked lady sundae into an offensive weapon. He could not think of one.

  ‘It seems to us,’ said Felix, sniffing appreciatively at the bottle of vinegar, ‘that in your very particular way you are becoming as much of a menace as your late and unlamented colleague Brian Wilmslow. His problem was greed. Never satisfied, was he Norman?’

  ‘Never,’ said Norman, testing the meat cleaver. ‘We did consider cutting you in on the deal, Mr Bognor, but we decided against it. Not that you would have agreed, I suspect.’

  ‘We formed the impression,’ said Felix, ‘that you were a man of integrity and therefore not to be trusted. Were we right?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Bognor was playing for time. ‘It depends on the deal.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ Felix had a revoltingly obsequious smile, even more stomach-turning here than when deployed at the dining table. Bognor was beginning to realise that the ‘boys’ represented a tougher proposition than he had thought. ‘The point is,’ continued Felix, ‘that your attentions are unwelcome and must cease. Alas, the only way in which we can guarantee that they cease is by ensuring that you cease also. And, by venturing in here, you provide us with the perfect opportunity.’

  Bognor realised that his shivering was as much from cold as from fear.

  ‘This is rather a remarkable room,’ said Felix, smiling around it. ‘As you can see it is exceedingly efficacious for storing meat and dairy produce. You wouldn’t have found ice in here. There is a refrigerator next door for that. This place is just kept chill. However it does have the capacity to freeze. Freeze very hard. A few points on the dial and we can reduce the atmosphere in here to positively arctic conditions. A man would be unlikely to survive for more than a few minutes even in one of those new eiderdown overcoats. Wouldn’t you agree, Norman?’

  ‘No wind chill factor in here,’ said Norman. ‘And it would take a little while for the temperature to drop.’

  ‘We could always put on the fan,’ said Felix. ‘But I see no reason to accelerate the process. I think we should allow Mr Bognor some minutes for quiet contemplation. I would guess that if we allow a modest reduction in temperature we could give him up to an hour of consciousness. Death should, I imagine, follow fairly soon after consciousness is lost, but we can always check with Doc Macpherson about that. One of us can make the sad discovery around about six o’clock.

  ‘That’s murder,’ said Bognor.

  ‘But extremely difficult to prove,’ said Felix, ‘just as it’s extremely difficult to prove that Wilmslow was murdered. Or poor Sir Nimrod. Poor Sir Nimrod.’

  ‘Sir Nimrod was murdered?’ Still Bognor was playing for time, though he could see no way out of this predicament. Even with less than an hour to live, his professional curiosity did not desert him.

  Norman looked at Felix. Felix looked at Norman. They smiled with a wan mock compassion.

  ‘Poor Sir Nimrod,’ said Felix. ‘His nerve was failing. He had to go.’

  ‘Tell me one thing,’ said Bognor, mind desperately trying to find a way of stalling, ‘I mean, what exactly is Dull Boy Productions?’

  The ‘boys’ looked at each other and smiled again. Not very pleasingly.

  ‘In view of your imminent demise,’ said Felix, ‘we can perhaps tell you a little something though really we know remarkably little. We have been to one or two of their little soirees but … well let’s just say that they’re not entirely to our taste. We’re only humble caterers.’

  ‘Fiddling your VAT returns and constructing obscene confections for orgies.’

  ‘It’s all quite harmless,’ said Felix. ‘We do have a little stake in the company, but it’s very little. And it’s true the books wouldn’t stand up to a very detailed examination although Brian Wilmslow was ever so clever. Cooked them quite beautifully. We shall miss him.’

  ‘Erotic cuisine is a very considerable challenge,’ said Norman. ‘I spent days on Fifi. We’ve come a long way since it was just naked ladies leaping out of cakes. You’ve no idea of the sophistication. The things you can do with meringue!’

  ‘It all sounds perfectly revolting,’ said Bognor. ‘And I don’t understand why you bothered. You’ve got a perfectly decent business here.’

  ‘Brian Wilmslow was very persuasive,’ said Felix. ‘And there’s a lot of money in it. Also there’s ever such a nice sense of community involved. Almost everyone in the village is a Dull Boy or a Dull Girl one way and another. All except for that dreadful bogus swami and his harem. It’s a real co-operative.’

  ‘It can’t be a real co-operative,’ said Bognor. ‘There must be a Mr Big. Someone must run it. Peregrine Contractor I suppose.’

  ‘Now that would be telling,’ said Felix. He giggled softly. ‘Good night Mr Bognor. Nice knowing you. And don’t worry about the bill. We’ll make that our little gift of condolence for Mrs Bognor. A token of our respect.’

  And very suddenly they stepped outside. Bognor heard a key turn in the lock and footsteps walk away down the flagstones. Then it was silent, and already it was bitterly cold.

  Bognor started to jump up and down.

  Monica had second thoughts about her shower and her zizz as soon as she got upstairs to Myrtle. It was the thought of the bereaved and destitute Naomi Herring all alone among her gumboots and bacon which was preying on her conscience. It might be that the good samaritans of Herring St George would converge on the stores bearing tea and sympathy, but Monica had formed a low opinion of the good neighbourliness of this particular village. She suspected that there would be precious few shoulders for the squire’s daughter to cry on.

  She was almost right.

  On entering the stores she found that Miss Herring was almost alone but not quite. The professionals, in the person of God’s representative in Herring St George, had arrived. The Reverend Branwell Larch had come to dispense his own particular brand of extreme unction – and extremely unctuous it was.

  ‘“The Lord God giveth and the Lord God taketh away”,’ he was saying when Monica arrived, ‘“and in the midst of life we are in death. Just as in the midst of death we are in life.”’

  Monica felt like saying ‘Right on, Brother Larch’. But instead she said, ‘Good afternoon, Naomi. Good afternoon Mr Larch.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Bognor!’ said Mr Larch. ‘It is Mrs Bognor, isn’t it? This is a sad day, a sad day indeed. “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.”’

  Monica treated him to a shrivelling glare. ‘For the former things are passed away,’ she said, tartly.

  ‘“And he that sat upon the throne …”’ began the clergyman, whose breath smelt of double strength mints and alcohol of dubious origin. He did not continue the quotation because he was stopped in his tracks by the second barrel of Monica’s disdainful stare. Monica knew Revelation backwards.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said to Naomi, ‘he seemed such a nice man. I’m afraid my husband and I are partly to blame. I mean if we hadn’t started investigating Mr Wilmslow’s death then perhaps …’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Naomi. ‘It was all going wrong even before they killed that horrible man.’

  ‘What happened to Mr Wilmslow was an accident Naomi, my dear,’ said Larch, sharply. ‘An accident … just as your poor dear father’s death … well, by his own hand did he perish and by his own petard was he hoist.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ said Monica.

  The clergyman had a complexion green as the grey Limpopo. Greasy as the Limpopo too. It turned greyer and greasier yet and acquired an a
dditional livid pink, suggestive of tropical sunset. His lip quivered and a small, creamy bubble of spittle appeared at the left hand corner of his mouth. Not a pretty sight.

  ‘The Lord is not to be slighted thus,’ he said.

  Monica could look amazingly fierce. ‘“Beware of the scribes,”’ she said, ‘“which love to go in long clothing, and love salutations in the marketplaces, and the chief seats in the synagogues, and the uppermost rooms at feasts: Which devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make long prayers.’”

  Mr Larch gaped, jaw dangerously adrift.

  ‘Before long,’ said Monica, taking advantage of her advantage, ‘my husband and I and Chief Inspector the Earl of Rotherhithe will want to know why a man of the cloth is consorting with the likes of Lady Amanda Mandible. And talking in a very bad pastiche of the language of the Authorised Version. “The Lord is not to be slighted thus” indeed. Is that something you made up or is it the alternative form of community worship as practised by the Bishop of Durham? Better men than you have been unfrocked, Mr Larch.’

  This little tirade had very much the effect intended. Monica had correctly judged the reverend gentleman to be more mouse than man as well as very small fry in the Dull Boy conspiracy. If indeed he was involved in it at all. Or if, come to that, there was a Dull Boy conspiracy. The words ‘guilty not proven’ kept reverberating around her grey matter.

  ‘If you were a man, Mrs Bognor,’ said Mr Larch, ‘you’d be hearing from my solicitors.’ He contorted his features into the ingratiating clerical apology for a smile made popular by the Reverend Obadiah Slope and said to Naomi Herring, ‘If there is anything … anything at all … that I can do to help, then you have only to ask. I shall remember you in my prayers.’ Then he retrieved his theatrically brimmed black hat from beside the bacon on the counter, hitched up his cassock and scuttled away.

  ‘Not a very nice sort of person,’ said Monica.

  ‘I think he meant well,’ said Naomi. ‘It’s just his manner.’

  ‘His manner is very unfortunate,’ agreed Monica, ‘and he has the filthiest finger nails. I shouldn’t like taking communion from him.’

  ‘No.’ Naomi took a handkerchief from the folds of her smock and blew her nose very noisily. The handkerchief was very used and dirty and, Monica realised too late, her fingernails were also chipped and stained. ‘Thank you for coming, Mrs Bognor,’ she said, when she had finished her trumpeting. ‘It’s awfully thoughtful of you. I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet.’ She smiled tearfully. ‘I know he didn’t do it,’ she said. ‘I’m sure of it. No matter how bad things got there’s no way he would ever have killed himself. He wasn’t that sort of person. And also he left a message.’ She dabbed at her eyes with her dirty rag. ‘I didn’t tell you before because it … well because I didn’t know then even though I had a nasty feeling … you know how you always have feelings about people you’re very close to and it wasn’t until I knew for certain that he was dead that, oh dear …’ She started to snuffle again and was unable to talk for a few moments. Monica put an arm round her and made consoling noises.

  ‘The message,’ said Monica, when she judged the bereaved woman had had time to compose herself. ‘What exactly was the message?’

  ‘It was rather peculiar,’ said Naomi, ‘like a crossword clue. He was awfully good at the crossword. He said to tell your husband that if anything happened he must look for a bad penny ha’penny.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Monica was startled. ‘A bad penny maybe. Or a penny farthing. But a penny ha’penny I don’t understand. Why did he have to be so cryptic?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Naomi. ‘And the only answer that makes sense is that he didn’t want me to know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Naomi hesitated. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it may seem silly but he was always frightfully protective towards me. Only child and all that, I suppose.’ Her mouth started to wobble and her voice to quaver.

  ‘Yes,’ said Monica, encouragingly.

  Naomi made an effort to pull herself together. ‘So if there was someone who was, you know, bad, someone who was a threat, then he wouldn’t want me to know who it was.’

  Monica looked at her with new respect. It sounded like a reasonable piece of analysis. Sir Nimrod would not have liked his daughter to become embroiled in the Dull Boy Productions mess if he could possibly avoid it. And yet he had obviously been anticipating trouble. Trouble bad enough to leave messages about. Unfortunately although the clue was cryptic enough to elude Naomi (which was what he had presumably intended) it was also too cryptic for Monica. And if it was too cryptic for her it would assuredly be too cryptic for her beloved husband let alone for Guy with his meticulous, methodical, boring ratiocinatory approach.

  Out loud she said, ‘I wonder what it means. You’ve no ideas?’

  ‘None.’ Naomi started to snivel again.

  ‘He didn’t collect old coins for instance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well.’ Monica grimaced. ‘I shall pass it on to my husband and we’ll just have to hope that someone or other will be able to come up with an answer.’ She smiled at the forlorn Naomi Herring, miserably aware that she was no more help to her than the ghastly vicar. ‘If I were you I’d have a very stiff drink and a good cry. And if you want to come and cry on someone’s shoulder just nip over to the Pickled Herring and have a good cry on mine.’

  Naomi sniffed and smiled wanly and said she was very grateful and yes she might open the bottle of port Sir Nimrod had won in a raffle at Easter and she might just come over later for a bit of company. Monica felt that after all she might have been of a little solace.

  Bognor was not in their room when Monica returned. It was half an hour since he had set off on his snoop. This on its own might have been mildly worrying but what really threw her was that she had passed Felix Entwistle and hadn’t liked the way he smiled at her. She seldom liked the way men smiled at her but this particular smile had been qualitatively different. Greasier if possible than the Reverend Larch’s reptilian bared dentures. The smile of someone who knew something unpleasant which put him at an advantage and which he was not going to divulge until later. A smile which suggested, didn’t it, that something nasty had happened to her husband. ‘Oh, come on, Monica!’ she said to herself, out loud. ‘Don’t beat about the bush. Felix and/or Norman have done something horrid to Simon.’

  The question was what should she do about it.

  She could, she supposed, go on a snoop herself. But since Felix and Norman were evidently back home there was no way she could snoop undetected. She could confront them: ‘Oh, Norman, Oh, Felix. Have you seen my husband, he was having a bit of a snoop round your kitchen and office and he hasn’t come back?’ Another no-no. She could imagine the leering response.

  Reluctantly she realised that she needed assistance. Normally her support came from her husband. He, obviously, was unavailable, which meant, in present circumstances, that she should turn to Chief Inspector the Earl of Rotherhithe. She reached out for the phone, then remembered, just in time, that it was a dangerous instrument. She would have to walk over to the phone box on the green.

  She was halfway across the sward and closing in on the little red sentry box which was Herring St George’s main link with the outside world when she saw an emerald green Bugatti steaming down the hill escorted by saffron-clad outriders on Harley Davidson motorbikes. The little cavalcade zoned in on her and closed before she could reach the phone. The second the Bugatti stopped the driver pushed his World War Two flying goggles back on his forehead and beamed a toothy greeting.

  ‘Monica,’ he exclaimed. ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ she said. ‘Bhagwan Josht!’

  ‘Not any longer,’ laughed the swami. ‘I am by way of being a living god, as Simon will have told you. A fitting career for a Balliol man. But where is he? I feel he is in great danger.’

  ‘How do you know? Has your divinity given
you ESP?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. A combination of intuition and Citizens’ Band radio. The natives around here are not exactly friendly, Monica, and we therefore make it our practice to listen in to police messages on their wavelength. It is as well to be prepared for any unpleasantness.’

  ‘So what have you heard on the radio?’

  ‘That Sir Nimrod Herring has been murdered and that Simon is pursuing investigations in the village. I’m no policeman but it seems to me that whoever is running this Dull Boy Productions caper has started to panic. As I understand it your friend the chief inspector is detained at his office in Whelk which means that Simon is walking around unprotected and at the mercy of some homicidal maniac.’

  Monica gazed incredulously at the four young men in combat fatigues astride the silver Harley Davidsons. Then at the exquisite white robed oriental girl in the Bugatti passenger seat. ‘So you’re giving him a bodyguard?’ she said.

  The swami laughed. ‘I thought it best if you moved out of the pub and stayed up at my place until the murderer is apprehended. Which can’t be long if he goes on like this. I’ll wait while you pack.’

  ‘But Bhagwan,’ said Monica, ‘we can’t do that. I don’t even know where Simon is. He’s vanished.’

  ‘Vanished?!’ The swami’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Great Scot!’ he said. ‘Where did he vanish? And how?’

  ‘He went off on a snoop,’ said Monica.’ He thought the coast was clear and there was no one around so he decided to case the Pickled Herring. He’s very suspicious of Felix and Norman.’

  ‘He is entirely correct to be suspicious of Felix and Norman,’ said the swami. ‘They are absolutely not to be trusted. In my view they are two very dangerous men. Is Simon armed?’