by Tim Heald
The Midgelys looked at each other. They seemed embarrassed.
‘I don’t think it’s really relevant,’ said Wilfred.
Cynthia shook her head. ‘In a case like this everything’s relevant. Isn’t that so, Mr Bognor?’
‘You could say so,’ said Bognor. His mind was on other things.
‘We think Dr Belgrave has been behaving quite oddly.’
‘Oddly?’
‘Oddly. She’s been ever so snappish with us and with other people. And several of us heard her shouting at Vernon the day he was killed. And she got very angry with Romany Flange, too.’
Bognor nodded. ‘I understand she hasn’t been at all happy recently,’ he said. ‘I think I know some of the reasons.’
‘We,’ Wilfred sounded very conspiratorial indeed, ‘we’ve thought Dr Belgrave peculiar for quite some time now.’
‘You have?’ Bognor conceded that Dr Belgrave was not usual, but it sounded as if the Midgely team harboured a grudge.
‘She gave us a lot of trouble with Vernon,’ said Cynthia.
‘Trouble?’
‘She’s obsessed with sex,’ said Wilfred, with a prim twitch of the lip.
‘It makes her rich and famous,’ said Bognor, ‘so one can hardly blame her. If I were a rude person I could say you were obsessed with people who happen to be royal.’
‘That’s not at all the same thing, as you know perfectly well.’ Cynthia did not sound as put out as the words themselves implied. ‘And what Wilfred is trying to say is that Ann Belgrave was very peculiar about sex and royalty.’
‘How so?’
‘She was always trying to persuade Vernon and us to make our books more what she liked to call “sexually explicit”. She even wanted to combine with us to produce “Sex and the Royal Family” or some such filth by Ann Belgrave and Miranda Howard. In that order. The idea!’
Bognor assumed that the Miranda Howard attitude to sex and the Royal Family was like the pre-Swinging Sixties attitude to the Royals and practically everything, particularly smoking and drinking. Royal people didn’t smoke and drink in those days and couldn’t be photographed with a glass in their hand or a fag between their lips. In a Miranda Howard book royal babies arrived ‘By Appointment’, flown in by special storks from the Norland Nanny Agency. The worst thing a royal personage could do between the sheets in a Royal Family Bedside Book was to snore.
‘I suppose you take the Barbara Cartland line on sex.’ Bognor smiled to imply the condescension of one who is no stranger to steamy animal sexual acts though if the truth be told he was, if not virginal, at least orthodox to a degree that would have been, before AIDS, quite shaming.
‘Ba Cartland’, said Cynthia, ‘is so terribly, terribly right. The whole point about the Queen and her family is that they are all desperately romantic. They are all about love and nothing about sex. That is what Wilfred and I try to convey.’
‘Dr Belgrave wanted you to convey something quite different?’
‘Absolutely.’ Wilfred nodded. ‘So much so that we began to think she might be some sort of red. I mean it was almost as if she wanted to discredit the Royal Family. She kept going on about the Duke of Clarence being Jack the Ripper. Things like that. She had a whole lot of stories about Prince Philip and…well I won’t go into all that.’
‘She said we “avoided the real issues” when we talked about Kurt Hahn and Gordonstoun,’ said Cynthia. ‘She said short trousers and cold baths were sexual. She thought Freud would have had theories about them. To start with, Wilfred and I just treated it all as some sort of joke but recently it had gone beyond that. I expect you remember that outrageous book that came out last year – the one implying that Queen Victoria, well, that she and Albert had, well…you know what I mean. Well, as soon as that came out she wanted to do something similar about the Queen herself. I mean, good grief!’
Cynthia subsided.
‘It’s true,’ said Wilfred ‘She was making herself a perfect pest. And we weren’t the only ones who were having trouble. She’d been having a go at Danvers Warrington. She wanted him to put more sex into his stuff too. Aphrodisiac qualities of Bordeaux as measured against Burgundy. She saw sex in everything…She even produced what she said was Winston Churchill’s…well, a sort of cellar book. It was a record of everything he drank. She tried to get Warrington to produce an edited version. Warrington took expert advice and said it was a forgery. Jolly good forgery but a forgery all the same.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Bognor. Somewhere in the back of his skull a burglar alarm was beginning to sound. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s what Warrington told us,’ said Cynthia. ‘There’s no reason for him to make it up.’
‘Not that I can see,’ said Wilfred.
‘Nor me,’ agreed Bognor. ‘And you put all this in your letter?’
‘Yes.’ They spoke together, as Miranda Howard.
Odd couple, thought Bognor. ‘Well, thanks,’ he said.
They all stood, preparatory to going their separate ways.
‘To be perfectly frank,’ said Cynthia, ‘this has all been a terrible shock, but in a way it’s only the final straw.’
‘The final straw?’
Wilfred gave that prim twitch again. ‘You’re an educated sort of chap,’ he said, ‘so you’ll understand. For some time now Cynthia and I have been unhappy with what one can only describe as the vulgarity of what Vernon and indeed Romany were doing. Jacket designs; promotions; sales campaigns. Vulgar’s the only word.’
‘You weren’t thinking of moving to Andover Strobe?’ Bognor wondered if yet another motive was about to break out from the undergrowth.
‘Good gracious, no!’ Both halves of Miranda Howard looked thunderstruck. ‘We’re thinking seriously about going to somewhere that’s still a gentlemanly house where you can rely on their tact and discretion and a certain refinement,’ said Wilfred.
‘Don’t breathe a word to anyone,’ said Cynthia, who gave the impression of having removed a weight from her mind, ‘but we’re negotiating with some of the very few gentlemen left in British publishing. We think we’ll be making an announcement before very long.’
‘It’s Macmillan actually,’ said Wilfred, ‘but don’t tell anyone.’
Bognor nodded sagely and left deep in thought. He had decided that he was almost certainly going fishing.
SEVEN
BOGNOR FOUND THE GLOBE’S Literary Editor and her young fisherman sitting on a plank supported between two upturned lobster pots. They were within a loud hail of the Mermaid’s Tail and they were drinking coffee laced with rum. The fisherman had brought a thermos of hot Nescafe. Molly, with the typical resource of the seasoned newshound (newsbitch? mused Bognor) had procured a half bottle of Captain Morgan’s.
‘This is Trevor,’ said Molly.
‘Hello, Trevor,’ said Simon.
Trevor and Simon shook hands. Simon was depressingly aware of his limp and clammy shake compared with Trevor’s stiff dry one; also of his shifty, rheumy eyes, compared with Trevor’s clear, unwavering blue ones. He sensed Trevor’s tattoo rippling under his Arran sweater and comforted himself a little with the thought that he had an Oxford degree and an index-linked pension (provided that wasn’t blown on today’s little excursion).
‘I was telling Trev,’ said Molly, ‘that we want to stow away on this morning’s little joy-ride. He’s upped me to a hundred quid each. I think we can stick on that.’
‘If he’ll take a cheque.’ Bognor was not happy about this. He saw little chance of being able to charge it to expenses. The fare represented two gourmet dinners with his beloved. A stiff price to pay.
Trev nodded.
‘No funny stuff, mind,’ he said. ‘I don’t want no funny stuff. You just stay where I tell you and no funny stuff. I don’t want my passengers upset.’
‘I bet they’re not paying the same price as we are,’ said Bognor.
‘Maybe not,’ said Trev, ‘but that’s not the point.’
&nb
sp; ‘Oh,’ said Bognor. He glanced at Molly who nodded.
‘We’ll be good as lambkins,’ she said. ‘Nary a peep nor a cheep.’
‘Right then.’ Trev drained his rummy coffee and stood up, smacking the tops of his thigh-length waders. Molly looked at him with lust in her eyes. ‘We’d better stow you away before your friends turn up.’
And he led them along the stone quayside to a rusting iron ladder which descended vertically down the harbour wall. The three of them clambered down this without mishap, Bognor cursing inwardly and wishing he’d worn boots. At the bottom there were half a dozen boats moored alongside each other. All were grubby, rusty and stank of diesel and dead herring. Bognor retched. Perhaps Parkinson knew best after all. This was silly and not even in the line of duty. Rather, he reminded himself, the reverse.
‘Hammond Innes or Alistair Maclean territory,’ said Molly, nimbly negotiating some coils of rope on the deck of the first boat. ‘Odd that Hemlock had no Big Boat Books on his list. Sea stories can be ginormous.’
Bognor was too engrossed to respond. The decks were slippery with fishblood, engine oil, slops, drizzle and detritus. Their destination was obviously the furthest away of the boats and he was not as nifty on his pins as he’d been in the days when he had played inside right for the college’s second hockey eleven. It took all his concentration to stay upright.
‘So this is the Saucy Sue,’ exclaimed Molly, finally, allowing herself to be handed over the low guardrail of a grubby little tub which had once been painted dark blue but was now so mottled with rust and sea-gunge that it resembled tricolour batik. For a smoker and drinker of a certain age she seemed depressingly fit. Bognor was wheezing horribly, and regretting the whole enterprise.
‘You can go below,’ said Trevor. ‘I’ll tell Mr and Mrs Smith they can’t go down there. No problem.’
‘Will we be able to hear what they say?’ asked Bognor, looking out to sea and noticing the white horses with a degree of apprehension.
‘She’s full of holes,’ said Trevor. ‘No problem.’
Bognor did not feel optimistic either about the holes on board or about the cavalier way in which Trevor was given to saying ‘no problem’. No matter that he had high cheekbones, the athletic gait of one of nature’s matelots and more than a hint of steel beneath the boyish charm, his boat reminded Bognor of a neglected colander. And the skin stretched tight over those distinctive cheekbones had a suspiciously high colour which looked as if it owed as much to rum-laced coffee as it did to wind and weather. And even at the best of times Bognor was not one of the world’s great sailors.
They made another descent, this time through a hatchway. Bognor supposed it should be called a cabin though it was simply an ill-lit space. The smell was bad. It was damp. The water could be heard slapping the side.
‘I’ll be going ashore, then,’ Trevor called down at them, ‘to pick up the passengers. You’d best not smoke on account of the fumes. And remember, I don’t want no trouble.’
They listened to his stout sea boots clomping off across the decking towards the harbour wall.
‘Cod liver oil!’ said Molly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Bognor was regretting his cooked breakfast.
‘Reminds me of school and the sanatorium,’ said Molly; ‘that smell.’
Bognor closed his eyes.
‘Able Roger to Charlie Tango, Able Roger to Charlie Tango, I say again Able Roger to Charlie Tango.’
The sudden crackle of the police radio jerked Bumstead and Merlin Glatt out of their depressed and jaded somnolence. They were on the coast road about five miles north of Byfleet-next-the-Sea, not knowing what to do but neither man caring to admit it to the other.
The man in the front passenger seat acknowledged the call, telling Able Roger that Charlie Tango heard him loud and clear.
‘Message from a Mr Murray to Lord George Byron.’
‘Aha!’ breathed Glatt. His nostrils dilated slightly, his pulse quickened. ‘The foe!’ he exclaimed. ‘They come! They come!’
Bumstead gave him a ferociously old-fashioned look.
‘Message reads,’ said Able Roger, ‘Thracian trireme proceeding Byfleetwards. Corsair closing. Chariot of fire RV with Byron zero nine-thirty hours. Map reference…’
Glatt pinpointed the spot on the Ordnance Survey map on his lap.
‘Message for my Murray ex Byron,’ he said. ‘Gallant Company goes merrily.’
‘You what?’ said the front-seat sergeant.
Glatt repeated the message with frost in his voice, circled the map reference and passed it to the driver.
‘You’ll need to put your foot on it,’ he said. He turned to Bumstead. ‘If you don’t mind dropping me off, Charles, I’ll put you in the picture some time this afternoon when this little lot has been sorted out. I rather hope it will all be finished in time for me to do my bit at the Byfleet Literary Guild.’ He fingered the reassuring holster bulge under his armpit.
‘Right,’ said Bumstead, aware that any pretence of authority was long gone but determined to keep up a semblance of an appearance. ‘Carry on, driver.’
If, for the second time in twenty-four hours, she was the victim of a kidnap, Monica had to confess that it was being handled in an extremely civilised manner.
She, Strobe and Marlene Glopff sat in the library drinking Lapsang Souchong from Hemlocks’ prettiest porcelain. Hastings buttled somewhere off stage.
‘I’m terribly afraid’, said Strobe, ‘that the time will come when we’re going to have to use you as an insurance policy, a bargaining counter. As you will have realised after last night there is a distinct possibility of high velocity lead flying about. Too, too terribly tiresome. But with you at our side – or more probably at our front – I hope that sort of unpleasantness can be avoided.’ He sipped and smiled.
‘Wasn’t it rather rash? Coming here, I mean.’ She too sipped and smiled. If being cool was the name she would match them sip for sip and smile for smile.
‘The obvious is so often the least expected,’ said Strobe. ‘This is the last place that Bumstead and his men would even think of looking. I had my doubts about Mr Glatt but he’s not as clever as he thinks he is. At least not when it comes to this sort of thing. Isn’t that so, Marlene poppet?’
Marlene purred.
‘I’m most concerned at the moment,’ said Strobe, ‘about the Butskell-Godunov diaries. Indeed it seems that this has become a subject of almost universal concern. At least…’ he smiled at Monica as if to imply that she might have more privileged information, ‘that’s what my sources tell me.’
‘Do you fancy publishing them?’ asked Monica. ‘Or,’ and here she glanced at Marlene, ‘do you have a more political use for them?’
‘I’d prefer not to answer that,’ said Strobe. ‘In the unlikely event that you get out of this alive I would prefer not to have you repeating too many incriminating remarks in court.’
Monica shrugged. It hadn’t seriously occurred to her that she was going to come to an untimely end in this escapade. That was the sort of thing that happened in the Billion Lire Breakfast and the Million Dollar Martini. In real life – hers, anyway – death was by road accident, stroke, heart attack, cancer, old age. She supposed AIDS would have to be added to the list, though neither she nor her husband was bisexual or on hard drugs. Murder was a non-starter.
‘Your husband perplexes me, Mrs Bognor.’ Strobe did indeed look a touch mystified. ‘He seems only to be interested in the identity of whoever killed Mr and Mrs Hemlock.’
‘He had other interests,’ said Monica, piqued. ‘He was writing a Mauve Paper on publishing for the Government. Also a book about the Department he works for. But once the murders had been committed they became his main concern. Naturally.’
‘Not “naturally” at all.’ Strobe caressed the suede-lined arms of his chair. ‘The least important aspect of this entire affair is sudden death. To be concerned with the fate of Vernon and Audrey is pure sentiment.’ A ti
ny chink of genuine curiosity opened up in the milky eyes. ‘I suppose he’ll be concerned about your death, Mrs Bognor? If it happens.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘It happens to all of us sooner or later. Not something to make a fuss about.’
Monica was saved from having to respond by the sudden incursion of the butler carrying a Cellnet telephone. Had he still been in the service of the late Vernon Hemlock he would have brought it on a silver salver but now he came in without knocking, carrying the phone nonchalantly in one hand.
‘Boss, boss,’ he said, handing it to Marlene.
‘Hi, Hugh,’ said Marlene, chewing on some tofu chewing gum, a packet of which lay open on the Sheraton library steps, ‘what’s cooking?’
Evidently quite a lot was cooking. Marlene listened and chewed and grunted. Finally she said, ‘OK, Hugh, I read you. We’ll do what has to be done.’ Then she gave the phone back to Hastings, picked the gum from her mouth and threw it in the fire. ‘Shit!’ she said, pleasantly. ‘We have problems.’
Below deck on the Saucy Sue may not have been on a par with the Black Hole of Calcutta nor yet the hold of a slaver but it was a far cry from the saloon of Hemlock’s Lady Audrey or Strobe’s First Option, both moored permanently at Cannes. Bognor’s knees had begun to play up in middle-age and after the first five minutes both of them started to ache. A little later the ache became punctuated with staccato stabs. He tried groaning but Molly told him to shut up and be a man. The smell was ghastly. Molly still had the half bottle of rum but after one swig Bognor decided that alcohol would only make matters worse. Molly’s breath – alcohol, cheroot, coffee and lack of sleep – was a serious offence in the already fetid atmosphere. He tried humming military airs to himself and imagined what it must have been like at Rorke’s Drift.
Presently they heard voices and the banging of feet.
‘Getting fair choppy out there,’ said Trevor.
Bognor’s heart sank. The news was unwelcome. Reception, on the other hand, was excellent. Both he and Molly had a number of spy-hole chinks and crevices. These not only allowed a view but also seemed to enhance hearing. Voices from on deck came through loud and clear. Through his number-one hole he could also see all six legs from the knees down. Galumphing sea boots for Trevor; moderately sensible brown Veldtshoen for Arthur Green; hopelessly inappropriate sling-backs for Romany Flange. All he could see of Trevor was his waterproof waders; Green’s shoes were topped by grey flannel; La Flange was in patterned black stockings. Good calves, he thought.