Murder at Moose Jaw (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the line, Pete. It’s the idea that’s difficult to get hold of. My theory is that this is Sir Roderick Farquhar’s suicide letter.’

  ‘Suicide letter?’

  ‘That’s my theory.’

  ‘Say, Si, you’re way ahead of me on this one. Now you say you can’t have this letter unless we arrest someone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter who?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll have to talk to Ottawa, Si. This sure is dynamite. Maybe they’ll let me bring in that French bastard and charge him.’

  ‘He’d do,’ said Bognor. ‘My point is that anyone will do. You can charge Gary if you want, it doesn’t matter. You just have to be able to say to this doctor chappie that you’ve arrested someone for the murder of Sir Roderick Farquhar. OK?’

  ‘I read you, Si. I’ll do what I can. I’d sure as hell like to know what Farquhar put in that letter.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bognor. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow.’

  That night he sat up late working on the report. It was heavy going. Monica made him a series of buck rarebits and when he had finished those he moved on to slim cigars and whisky toddies. Chain smoking and chain drinking. Not good for the figure or the complexion but essential for report writing. The problem was imposing order on chaos, convincing Parkinson that he had proceeded in the methodical, frankly boring manner prescribed by the Board of Trade’s Special Operations Department’s ground rules, operatives for the use of. He had, of course, done nothing of the sort. Never did. Whenever he tried, something came up. Like strange ladies giving him tickets to execrable performances of The Mousetrap or strange gentlemen pursuing him across the snow-swept wastes of the Toronto Metro Zoo. Proceeding according to the book yielded no pleasure and no result. Flying by the ample seat of his baggy pants was altogether to be preferred. Gut feeling was what counted. The problem was convincing Parkinson. In this case, what was so tiresome was that the solution was about to be made known, in the shape of the dead man’s last letter, and yet Parkinson had insisted on having the report on his desk, in triplicate, by first thing next morning. Well, he would miss the deadline. Or at the very least leave room for a long postscript.

  ‘What was it you said?’ he asked his wife as he came to bed, thoughtlessly waking her as he sat, inadvertently, on one of her feet, which had strayed over to his side of the nuptial couch. ‘Misanthropes leave no letters?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Monica. ‘It sounds like me. Was he a complete misanthrope?’

  ‘He liked ladies,’ said Bognor. ‘Sexually that is.’

  ‘Hate your neighbour, love your neighbour’s wife.’

  ‘That’s right. Is that you too?’

  Monica sat up. ‘Are you coming to bed or not?’ she asked impatiently. ‘It’s a paraphrase of Macaulay. Macaulay’s description of Byron’s ethics, if you must know.’

  ‘So Farquhar was a latter-day Byron?’

  ‘Macaulay would say he was a disciple. Perhaps. Anyway, I was wrong.’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘He did leave a letter.’

  Bognor undressed and put on his pyjamas. He still found such manoevres difficult and marginally painful, but not as much as he liked to pretend.

  ‘Oh,’ he moaned, glumly, as he pulled the quilt up to his chin and listened to his wife’s regular, fast-asleep breathing. ‘If only …’

  14

  NEXT MORNING HE HAD a mild hangover which he quickly set to rights with a couple of Alka-Seltzer and a plate of bacon and egg. For some reason he was feeling aggressive and ebullient. Today was the day. Today all would be revealed. He whistled on his way to work, hummed Aïda in the tube, provoking curious and hostile glances. At the office, summoned by Parkinson, he was positively breezy about the not quite finished report.

  ‘Won’t be a tick now,’ he told Parkinson.

  Parkinson looked sour. ‘I asked you to have it done by this morning.’

  ‘It is. Almost. But not in triplicate. It’s not typed up yet. And there are just a few finishing touches. An “i” here, a “t” there. Dottings and crossings. Verstehen Sie?’

  ‘You feeling all right, Bognor?’

  ‘Not too bad actually.’

  ‘Leg working again OK?’

  ‘Yes. Rose up and walked.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you did not blaspheme in this office,’ said Parkinson grimly. ‘I worry about you, Bognor, I really do. How is it you came to be in this department?’

  ‘We’ve been through that a thousand and one times,’ Bognor grinned. ‘Administrative error.’

  Parkinson shook his head several times and drummed his pencil on the desk.

  ‘Should have had you transferred years ago,’ he said.

  ‘Aha. But you didn’t. Because secretly, you like having me around the place, as well you know.’

  Parkinson said nothing but contemplated his subordinate with ruminative distaste. Then he picked a brown folder from his ‘pending’ tray.

  ‘Here’s your positive vetting subject,’ he said. ‘Some sociology wallah from the University of Sussex being posted to the Cabinet Office. Usual drill. And do please remember that sociology is not a crime.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Bognor grinned again. ‘A sin not a crime. A matter of morality not an indictable offence.’

  ‘Oh, get out,’ shouted Parkinson. ‘You’re insufferable this morning. And don’t come back till you’re servile and depressed again.’

  Bognor knew when he was in danger of overstepping the mark. He turned and limped out, not allowing himself another word.

  He phoned Toronto immediately after a disgusting canteen lunch. It was 9 a.m., their time.

  ‘Hi, Si. Good to hear you. We nailed him.’

  ‘You did? That’s terrific. Wonderful news.’ Bognor’s heart leaped. There was no need today for an exchange of temperatures or hockey scores. This was a meeting of minds, two ace investigators working in concert.

  ‘Ottawa’s shit scared,’ said Smith. ‘Federal-Provincial Relations are up in arms. All the Frog ministers in Cabinet complaining. It’s hell up there.’

  ‘How did you pull it off?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know, Si. Our liaison guys lobbied Justice and Trade. In the end I figure the Mammoncorp share drop is what decided them. Besides Quebec’s kind of quiet right now while they wait for the next referendum.’

  ‘And has he said anything?’

  ‘We’re letting him cool his heels for a while, Si. No reason to ask him too much till you’ve found out what’s in that letter. If you’re correct and that is a suicide note, then we just have to let the bastard go.’

  ‘Yes. I see that. Listen, Pete, what I’m going to do is this.’ He enunciated very carefully, willing himself to remember that he was dealing with a foreigner of below average IQ, and one who, in the past at least, had not concealed his misgivings about Bognor’s patronizing British ways. ‘I am going straight round to Harley Street to where this doctor lives and I am going to telephone from there. When I have spoken to you I am going to hand you over to the doctor and you will identify yourself and confirm to him that you have arrested Jean-Claude Prideaux and charged him with the murder of Sir Roderick Farquhar. Is that clear?’

  ‘Clear as a bell, Si baby.’ Goodness, thought Bognor, he is mellowing.

  He put the receiver down, then phoned through to Farquhar’s doctor and arranged to come round at once. He thought of referring to Parkinson but remembered his boss’s sour expression that morning and decided against. This was his own coup. He would present it to Parkinson when it was a fait accompli and he could claim the credit, the whole credit and nothing but the credit.

  At Harley Street he was shown straight into the doctor’s presence. He, suave and dapper, as the day before, affected to express surprise.

  ‘Quick work, Mr Bognor, though I must say it hardly inspires confidence in the forces of international law and order. It is usually so easy to charge people wit
h murder?’

  ‘The Mounties have been wanting to arrest this man for weeks. It’s only the international political situation which had been holding them back.’ Bognor spoke with an air of considerable self-importance.

  ‘Ah,’ the doctor smiled knowingly, as if such considerations were his daily bread. ‘The only question now is proving that the charge has been made. Can you do that?’

  ‘What I propose, sir,’ Bognor tended towards the deferential when on a supposedly winning streak, ‘is that you should call International Enquiries and ask for the RCMP number in Toronto. That way you will know for certain that the number is correct. When you get through to the Mounties you ask to speak to Peter Smith. Smith is the man in charge of the Farquhar murder. He will confirm to you that he has made the charge.’

  The doctor appeared to think for a moment. ‘That sounds fair,’ he said eventually. ‘May I ask, by the way, against whom the charge has been made?’

  ‘Chap called Prideaux. He was Sir Roderick’s secretary.’

  ‘Ah yes, Prideaux.’ Another of those glacial introspective smiles. ‘I remember him well. Very well, then, let us proceed.’

  And so they proceeded. It went entirely according to plan. Directory Enquiries were able to find the number in less than five minutes and the International Exchange obtained it in less than ten. Smith did not muff his lines. The doctor was convinced.

  ‘The letter is in my safe downstairs,’ he said to Bognor, ‘and your friend in Toronto would like a word. I’ll go and fetch it while you talk to him.’

  Bognor took the receiver. ‘Well done, Pete. Just the ticket. How’s Prideaux?’

  ‘Mad as hell. He wants a lawyer. He’s not saying nothing. Say, Si, there’s something I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘What now?’ Bognor was not much interested in anything that Smith had to tell him now. All his attention was focussed on the posthumous words of Sir Roderick Farquhar, words addressed to him alone. It was an awesome moment.

  ‘Our people arrested that French bastard at some cottage on Ward’s Island.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know it,’ said Bognor conversationally, then wished he hadn’t.

  ‘How come, Si?’ The Mountie’s voice had turned suspicious again. Bognor swore to himself. He must remember that their mutual goodwill was wafer-thin.

  ‘Prideaux mentioned it,’ he said. ‘That’s all. But what about it?’

  ‘He was with a woman, Si,’ said Smith portentously. Bognor experienced a sudden onset of depression. Louise. He had assumed that the relationship between Prideaux and Louise was entirely political. This sounded sexual and it made him sad. ‘Our boys believe he was keeping this woman at the cottage against her will,’ continued Smith. ‘She had cuts and bruises consistent with being hit about by some bastard, and they think she may have been tied up.’ Bognor’s emotions changed gear again. Now he was shocked, outraged, distressed. ‘French bastard’ was not nearly strong enough. He recalled Louise’s tearful, drawn appearance the last time he had seen her. How could he have done such a thing? ‘She was emotionally disturbed,’ said Smith. ‘Very emotionally disturbed. And she was keen to talk to you. Matter of fact, she said she had a very important story to tell but that you were the only person in the world to whom she was going to tell it. You must have made some impression on the lady, Si.’ Bognor experienced elation, joy, a renewed belief in himself and the essential goodness of life. ‘Only thing is, Si, I have to warn you that lady is dynamite, like she is bad news. She is one hundred per cent dangerous.’

  Bognor knit his brows in an expression of puzzlement. ‘Dangerous?’ Pretty, intelligent, sad, vulnerable but surely not dangerous. ‘Are we talking about the same person, Pete?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Si.’ Now Smith sounded really self-important. ‘The lady I am talking about is Maggie Fox, wife of the Honourable John C. Baker.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bognor. ‘Oh. I see.’ He closed his eyes and passed a hand across his forehead. It came away damp, though he was not certain why. He felt muddled and nervous.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ The doctor had come back into the room without his noticing. In his hand he held a stiff white envelope which he now gave to Bognor. On the outside in firm, looped, forward-sloping black ink handwriting were the words, ‘Personal. Mr Simon Bognor. Special Operations Department. Board of Trade, London, England.’

  Bognor shook his head at the doctor, ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m fine, thanks. Just a slight wrinkle in the arrangements on the other side of the Atlantic. Nothing too serious.’ Then speaking into the mouthpiece he said, ‘Hey, Pete, I am going to put the phone down for a second while I open the letter. Then I’ll come right back.’

  There was a grunt of agreement from Smith and Bognor put the phone down and tore the envelope open with shaking fingers. There were several sheets of paper inside covered in the same black hand. Although it was large writing and there were not that many words to a page it was still a long letter.

  Dear Mr Bognor.

  It may be that you will never have occasion to open this letter, but if your past performance and reputation are anything to go by I guess that you will become involved in the investigation which will surely follow my somewhat mysterious death. And I feel certain that only your peculiar brand of perverted logic and insane intuition will actually lead to anyone being accused of my murder. I have, as you may have surmised, no great love for my fellow men but at life’s end I am allowing myself a final act of charity. No man shall be convicted for a murder which I myself committed. This letter is to explain to you that my death is not murder but suicide. I have killed myself.’

  Bognor exhaled a long, drawn-out, conclusive sigh which signified the end of the road. There had been a deal of needless hustle and bustle to arrive at this moment. He had the scars to prove it. It was not in his heart to forgive the dead man, and yet there was something chillingly pathetic in this message from beyond the grave. He put it to one side and returned to the trans-Atlantic telephone.

  ‘Pete,’ he said, in a voice grave to a point not far short of sepulchral, ‘it’s as I thought.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it. It’s a suicide note. You’ll have to let Prideaux go. And there had better be a formal announcement. Hang on, I’ll read you the relevant passage.’ He picked up the letter and repeated the crucial words: ‘No man shall be convicted for a murder which I myself committed. This letter is to explain to you that my death is not murder but suicide. I have killed myself!’

  There was a delay before Smith’s reply and his voice when it came was laden with frustration and disappointment. ‘Guess that’s kind of conclusive Si,’ he conceded. ‘That Prideaux guy will have to go free, goddammit. You sure that’s Farquhar’s handwriting. It really is his letter?’ Bognor glanced at the doctor. ‘It’s his, is it?’ he asked. ‘Authentic Farquhar?’ The doctor nodded. ‘Affirmative,’ said Bognor. ‘To quote the deceased’s unloved son-in-law. It’s a long letter. I won’t read it now. I suppose I’d better bring it over with me. You’ll have to have it and there’s no way I am going to entrust it to Her Majesty’s mails.’

  ‘Right on, Si.’ There was no mistaking the gloom in the Mountie’s voice. ‘Just let me know your flight and I’ll have a limo meet you at the airport. I’m kinda sorry it turned out like this. But thanks for your help. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I agree.’ Bognor, too, felt oddly let down, though he couldn’t explain quite why. After all, they had their solution. He and Pete Smith said their good-byes, then Bognor gathered up the letter and thrust it into his disintegrating brown leather briefcase, and was shown out into the street. He took a cab back home. His report could perfectly well be composed at home. Parkinson should be pleased. In the end, by luck rather than judgement perhaps, Bognor had, as usual, got his man. The man was dead, true, but a line could be drawn under the report and ‘finis’ could be written. A ribbon could be tied about it and it could be consigned to the files, there to awai
t an eager researcher in the years to come. Bognor ought to have been pleased.

  He did not read the rest of the letter until he got home. Monica had been helping out at her friend Sara Blackrock’s art gallery, one of the many part-time occupations in which she indulged from time to time. She had stopped off at the delicatessen for various frozen gourmet dinner items. Bognor himself had stopped off at the off-licence for a bottle of Cliquot and another of Marques de Riscal. They would help to alleviate his sense of anti-climax.

  ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ he asked Monica when he had opened the champagne. She was sprawled on the floor, her head resting against his good knee. He sat on the sofa, the letter open in front of him. Monica said, ‘Yes,’ and so he answered, ‘Good. Then I’ll begin.’ He started to read aloud in his reading-aloud voice, a cross, he liked to think, between John Gielgud and Anna Ford.

  After the first paragraph, which Bognor had already taken in, the letter moved on to some only mildly interesting generalizations about ‘life’ as seen from Sir Roderick’s side of the fence.

  ‘You will observe from the above,’ he wrote, ‘that there is virtually no one, even among my closest colleagues, so-called friends, and even family whom I do not despise, distrust, detest or at the very best, dislike.’

  ‘Cor,’ said Monica, ‘what an admission! Quite a turn of phrase for a disgusting old plutocrat.’

  There followed a paragraph each on those who were alleged to be his nearest and dearest. These were real ear-burners, though they did little more than confirm Bognor’s own impressions. The extent of Farquhar’s hatreds was perhaps surprising but the general assessment was much as he had supposed. After this bilious catalogue, the deceased briefly described his own illnesses. Bognor, ever squeamish, skipped this bit which was included, as far as he could see, simply to indicate that Sir Roderick had little time left, and knew it.

  ‘And so you see, Mr Bognor,’ he wrote, ‘I find myself faced with only a few weeks, maybe days before I shuffle this mortal coil. And when I look about me I see nothing but those I loathe. So what am I to make of imminent death and a handful of enemies? A little game perhaps … but with a happy ending, for despite everything, I should like to be remembered as having a sense of humour and a heart of gold.’