by Tim Heald
‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘At the beginning, I guess, Simon.’
‘I’m not sure where that is.’
The Mountie shifted his gum from one cheek to the other and laughed explosively.
‘Glad to see you’ve kept your sense of humour,’ he said. ‘So what happened?’
‘Someone hit me on the head.’
‘Any idea who?’
‘None whatever. He hit me from behind.’
‘Where was this?’
‘At the zoo.’
‘The zoo?’ Smith gave Bognor a hard look. ‘You keen on animals?’
‘Not particularly. I went skiing.’
Another hard, sceptical look. ‘You keen on skiing?’
‘Not particularly. That is to say, I, er, well, let’s just say I thought I’d give it a whirl.’
‘A whirl?’
‘A whirl. A try. I thought I’d try it. To see what it was like.’ God, thought Bognor, the man is an imbecile.
‘So you were out skiing at the zoo and this French bastard comes up behind you and thumps you?’
‘I don’t know he was French. Otherwise yes.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘No. Except there was more than one of them. Three, in fact.’
‘Three French bastards?’
‘If you insist.’
Smith wrote eagerly, flicking his chewing gum about as he did. ‘So you’re in the zoo, skiing all on your own and suddenly you’re jumped by these three French bastards. Then what?’
‘I woke up in the boot of this car.’
‘In the boot! Holy mackerel!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What sort of car was this, Si? I mean you should have fried to death stuck in there in the engine. I don’t see how they found room for you in there.’
‘In the boot, not under the bonnet.’ Simon hurt and he was exasperated. ‘I don’t know what sort of car it was. I was in the back and the engine was up front.’
‘Oh,’ said Smith. ‘So you were in the trunk, not the boot.’
‘For god’s sake,’ said Bognor. ‘I was in the part of the car where you put suitcases. Now can we get on? I’m not well.’
‘OK, steady on, Simon.’ Smith wrote ponderously. ‘I know how you feel but I have a job to do and I intend nailing these French bastards if it’s the last thing I do.’
Bognor closed his eyes and prayed for patience.
‘Then what?’ asked Smith.
‘Then I was taken out of the car and they hit me about a bit more and I must have passed out because I woke up here.’
‘Where was this?’
‘A big house. A bit like Harrison Bentley’s in Rosedale.’
‘Are you telling me you were beaten up at Harrison Bentley’s house?’
‘No, in a house like Harrison Bentley’s.’
And so the questioning ground on. Bognor managed to avoid saying anything about Johnny Baker or his wife or Louise. He also managed to avoid anything as potentially dangerous as a direct lie. Finally Smith was told by the sympathetic nurse he was tiring the patient and that he must rest. No sooner had Smith been ejected, having eaten all but a handful of his grapes, than Louise was shown in.
8
BOGNOR WAS BECOMING QUITE used to having her around now and although it could scarcely be said that they enjoyed anything even approaching a relationship he was beginning to believe in their little subterfuge.
‘Hello, girlfriend,’ he croaked, voice exhausted from answering Smith’s tiresome questions, ‘what’s the news from the great outdoors?’
She pulled a face. ‘Not so good. Jean-Claude was taken in for questioning. Three hours they kept him. He said they were very polite. That is always a bad sign.’
‘And you. Have they questioned you?’
‘Not so much. They don’t know I am a friend of Maggie’s. And they don’t know I am seeing you.’ She smiled. She was in jeans and a crisp white shirt today. Very neat and trim. ‘You didn’t tell your friend that you were at the zoo with Maggie and me, did you?’
‘He’s not my friend. And no. Have a grape. I don’t care for them. Present from the Mounties.’
‘No, thank you. How are you feeling?’
‘I thought you’d never ask. So so. Better, I think. But they’re not giving me so much painkiller so it feels worse, if you follow.’ He lay back and wallowed. It was good to be fussed over. He was inclined to agree with what she had said the other night on the island. It didn’t really matter who killed Farquhar. The world was well shot of him. He was not much missed. He smiled. She smiled. ‘Are you still going to have dinner with me?’
‘Of course. There’s just one condition.’
‘You mean …’ His voice trailed away. Outside in the corridor he heard voices raised in argument. One voice was persistent, authoritative, cool, Canadian, the other was persistent, authoritative, shrill, English. They were getting nearer.
‘Oh,’ said Bognor, gulping hard. ‘I’m afraid our dinner is suddenly at risk. I’m afraid that’s the first Mrs Bognor you hear without.’
Louise gave him a shy grin of delicious complicity, which was to haunt him for years. ‘I’d better go,’ she said.
‘Um,’ said Bognor, not wishing to seem ungallant, but feeling apprehensive. ‘You might be well advised.’
‘There’s only one way out,’ she giggled. ‘It’s like Feydeau.’
‘That’s exactly what it’s not like,’ he said. ‘In Feydeau there are always other ways out. Lots of them. That’s the whole point of Feydeau.’
The door opened. The nurse was doing her best to play immovable object but to no avail. She had her back to the door but she was being pushed, quite literally, through it. Monica was taller than her and could see over the nurse’s shoulder and into the room as soon as the door gave way.
‘Simon. Darling. You look ghastly,’ she said.
Bognor smiled as brightly as possible. ‘Not too hot, actually.’
‘I came as soon as I heard. I only got in an hour ago, I came straight from the airport.’ She took in Louise for the first time, registered slight shock followed by disapproval and marginal alarm all in quick succession before breeding got the better of her.
‘Hello,’ she said, putting out her hand. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Monica Bognor.’
‘Louise Poitou.’
They shook hands. Bognor looked on grimly.
‘I was just leaving, Mrs Bognor. I only came by for a moment. I have an appointment at the university.’
‘Oh, don’t go on my account,’ said Monica, beaming.
‘No really, I must rush.’ Louise, halfway to the door, made a play of looking at her watch and letting out a little gasp of incredulity and Gallic horror. ‘Good-bye, Simon. Good-bye, Mrs Bognor,’ she said, breathlessly, ‘I’ll see you soon.’ And she was gone.
‘Nice girl,’ said Monica, sitting down and delivering a somewhat perfunctory peck on the Bognor forehead. ‘Pretty too. French?’
‘Well, you know, Quebecois. As a matter of fact she’s a girlfriend of the main suspect. That’s how I met her.’
‘How interesting,’ she said. ‘Darling, I mean it. You do look perfectly frightful. Even worse than I expected. I’ve been desperately worried. You are an incredible BF. Parkinson is livid with rage.’
Dear old Monica, thought Bognor. A good sort. He was glad he’d married her. No doubt about it. He was fond of the old thing. And she wasn’t bad-looking. In her own particular sort of way, and even if she wasn’t to everyone’s taste she was no slouch when it came to—well, no one could accuse her of not being able to function properly. Not that there would be much question of that with two broken ribs and a leg in plaster. Still, they would have to cross that bridge when they came to it.
‘Parkinson has no business being livid with rage,’ he said. ‘If anyone has a right to be livid with rage then it’s me.’
‘He thinks you’re an idiot,’ said Mon
ica. ‘I mean deep down underneath it all he’s really quite fond of you but he thinks you’re an idiot. And one has to admit that he does have a point.’
‘Thanks for the sympathy.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ She plucked a grape. ‘You know perfectly well I’m sympathetic. I’m also a realist where you’re concerned and it’s my opinion that you’re not safe to be allowed out on your own.’
‘The only reason,’ said Bognor, stuffily, ‘that I got hit on the head and beaten up is that I’m on to something.’
‘Oh, darling, you always say that. Nice grapes.’ She walked over to the window. ‘Did that little French girl bring them?’
‘No, as a matter of fact it was that oaf from the Mounties. Smith.’
‘I spoke to him on the phone. He was the one who told me what had happened. He sounded rather nice as a matter of fact. Sensible too. He seemed to think it was something to do with the French.’
‘He’s an imbecile,’ said Bognor. ‘He thinks everything is to do with the French.’
‘Well then if it isn’t to do with the French what is it to do with?’
‘Sex,’ said Bognor.
She spun round and regarded him superciliously. ‘Sometimes I think you’re an imbecile. You think everything is to do with sex unless it’s to do with food and drink.’
‘That’s not even remotely fair,’ expostulated the patient, so far enjoying the conjugal cut and thrust that he was beginning to forget how much he hurt.
‘In this particular case, as it happens, the late Sir Roderick Farquhar, a nasty piece of work with a keen eye for the ladies, had enticed away the wife of a rival tycoon, an equally nasty piece of work named Johnny Baker. When Mrs Baker tried to drop Farquhar he didn’t like it so he sent all her love letters to Baker. Baker is impotent. So he killed Farquhar.’
Monica elevated her eyebrows in an expression of intense scepticism. ‘I don’t think much of that as a theory,’ she said mildly. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘The girl told me.’
‘What girl?’
‘The one who was married to Baker. Is married to Baker. She told me at the zoo.’
‘Another girl,’ observed Monica acidly.
‘She’s a friend of Louise’s. I was at the zoo with both of them.’
‘I see.’ Monica sounded long-suffering. She had been here too often before to take much pleasure in it. ‘So this girl told you that her husband killed Farquhar?’
‘More or less.’
‘Odd thing to tell you.’ Monica took another grape. ‘Wouldn’t you say? Even if your husband is impotent.’
‘Then I was jumped by these three gorillas, figuratively speaking, that is.’
‘And the girls?’
‘They got away.’
Monica’s eyebrows threatened to disappear altogether. ‘Convenient,’ she said. ‘And I suppose now you’re going to tell me you were taken to this other tycoon’s house and beaten up for having it off with his wife at the zoo?’
‘Yes. In fact that’s almost exactly what happened. Apart from anything else he threw a bottle of Chivas Regal at me when I accused him of killing Farquhar.’
‘Oh, Simon!’ She appeared to choke on a grape. ‘You must admit, it’s quite funny.’
‘Hilarious,’ said Bognor dryly. ‘They suspected brain damage. And a skull fracture.’
‘No, not that,’ she grinned. ‘I really am very sympathetic about that. It’s the idea of your making off with this tycoon’s wife at the zoo. Was she sexy?’
‘Yes,’ said Bognor. ‘Very.’
‘Oooh,’ said Monica. ‘Temper!’
‘No, really, Monica.’ Bognor assumed his stroppiest voice. ‘It’s all very well. I do my best for queen and country and all you do is mock.’
‘I’m not mocking, Simon. Really. Mind if I finish the grapes?’ She picked the last one without waiting for an answer. ‘It’s been a rotten experience and I’ve been very worried. And now I’m going to nurse you through a gentle convalescence and we can forget all about the whole absurd business.’
‘It’s still got to be solved.’
‘But not by you, dear.’
‘I’m still on the case,’ he remonstrated. ‘Just because of all this doesn’t mean to say I’m giving up. Not just when I’m getting somewhere. And I’ve had no instructions from Parkinson.’
‘Parkinson gave me firm instructions to make sure you lie doggo. I’m to supervise your recovery and then bring you home.’
‘But meanwhile I’m still investigating the Farquhar murder.’
‘Nominally. You’ll have to check with Parkinson.’
‘He can’t object if I just talk to one or two people.’
Monica looked doubtful. ‘The trouble with your talks is that they always seem to lead to such fearful arguments,’ she said. ‘Who do you want to talk to?’
‘All the people that Farquhar gave bath oil to for Christmas.’
Monica sighed deeply, then sat down on the bed, causing his broken leg to swing slightly from the pulley which was holding it up at a forty-five degree angle.
‘God! Careful!’ he shouted.
She got up quickly.
‘We’ll see,’ said Monica, ‘and now I must be going. I’m using your hotel room, which obviously you won’t be needing for a while. Parkinson said the Board will pay.’
After she had gone, the nurse came in, looking mischievous and conspiratorial. She held an envelope.
‘Oh, dear, Mr Bognor,’ she said, her Canadian accent, he realized for the first time, heavily overlaid with Scots, ‘we’ve been a naughty boy.’ She favoured him with a schoolmistress expression which mixed censure with amusement in equal quantities. ‘Your friend asked me to give you this. She quite forgot, in the confusion.’
He did not read it until she had changed his dressings and tidied his bed. When he opened it he found that it was not from Louise but Jean-Claude. It was a list of Farquhar’s Christmas gifts from last year. Just enough of his friends and acquaintances had received bath oil to make it intriguing.
He mended rapidly and he was a bad patient. His injuries turned out to be less severe—though no less painful—than originally supposed: more cracks than breaks. This meant that he earned an early discharge and was able to leave hospital at the end of a week. He spent his time in bed trying to read the novels of Robertson Davies and Margaret Laurence, making lists and thinking.
The lists were virtually identical and went as follows:
SUSPECTS ON THE SPOT:
Jean-Claude Prideaux. Opportunity: innumerable. Motive: political?
Amos Littlejohn. Opportunity: as above. Motive: to benefit from will (not very strong but must talk).
SUSPECTS NOT ON SPOT BUT WITH MURDER WEAPONS AT HAND (viz. bottles of bath oil):
Mr and Mrs Ainsley Cernik
Dolores V. Crump (alias La Bandanna Rouge)
Colonel Crombie (Senior Vice-President Mammoncorp)
The Honourable John C. Baker (the bath oil had, somewhat indiscreetly, been given to Maggie)
Harrison Bentley
Opportunities: All had bottles of oil. These could have been opened, diluted with crystals of phosphorus trioxide, reseated and insinuated into Farquhar’s own personal supply. N.B. Could they? If Farquhar had many boxes of oil what guarantee was there that oil would be used this year, next year, sometime, never? Presumably Littlejohn kept a small supply with him to put in place when the old bottles ran out.
At this point the scribblings disintegrated and went off at any number of different tangents until in exasperation he crumpled them into balls and threw them at the wastepaper basket, usually missing. Twice a day Monica called, bringing with her a brace of peach-blossom yoghurt shakes from the stall in the rabbit warren below the Sheraton Hotel. She would pick up the balls of paper, occasionally trying to decipher them. Then she would ask, ‘Penny for your thoughts?’
He was not always able to reply honestly to this because he found himself frequently
thinking about Louise. She, presumably discomfited by her encounter with the first Mrs Bognor, had made no effort to resume contact. Despite his efforts to dismiss her he found that the more she was out of sight, the more she was in his mind. His other dominant thought was that he must visit Amos Littlejohn as soon as possible. When he mentioned this to Monica she merely smiled and said that they would have to see.
After three days he had a phone call from Parkinson.
‘Your wife tells me you’re on the mend,’ he said breezily.
‘Ah.’
‘Once you’re out of that place you’re to take a month’s leave.’
‘But …’
‘No buts. I want you fit and well and raring to go.’
‘What about the Farquhar case?’
‘I’ve spoken to all the necessary people and we can regard that as settled. I’m told there’ll be an arrest as soon as the political situation allows.’
‘You mean Prideaux.’
‘Correct.’
‘But I don’t think he did it.’
‘What’s the weather like out there?’
‘Where I am it’s about eighty degrees Fahrenheit twenty-four hours round the clock,’ said Bognor. ‘I want to talk to someone called Amos Littlejohn.’
‘With what object in view?’ Parkinson sounded abstracted.
‘He was Farquhar’s manservant.’
‘I told you the case is closed. I don’t want you being beaten up again. And I don’t want any unpleasantness with the Canadians.’
‘If I’m on leave I can do what I like.’
‘Bognor,’ Parkinson’s voice sounded bored and irritated, ‘I don’t frankly give a damn what you do with your leave provided you report back here in a fit state when it’s over. The only other stipulation I make is that you keep that wife of yours by your side at all times. At all times. She is all that stands between you, me and an institute for the criminally insane.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Bognor. ‘See you anon.’
Which partly explains how, a week later, Bognor and Monica were driving north to the Farquhar stud. Littlejohn, who had served Farquhar faithfully for years, had inherited his horses. This was a sufficiently generous bequest to rank as a motive since the Farquhar horses were world-famous—genuinely so. Even those whose interest in horses extended only to an annual flutter on the Kentucky or Epsom Derbies had heard of such Farquhar thoroughbreds as Byron, Fraser Canyon and Richibucto. Both of the last two now stood at stud on the Farquhar ranch by the shores of Lake Simcoe just south of Barrie. They would make Littlejohn rich.