It arrived as she spoke. She frowned at the waiter. ‘Very small double that. What’s the point of paying Dorchester prices if you don’t get a decent measure?’
The waiter smiled. ‘A very beautiful dress, if I may say so, Signora.’
She beamed. ‘Italians,’ she said to Amiss. ‘Bloody brilliant. They always get it right. Can’t fight, but boy, can they flatter! You could take a leaf out of their book. Always pays off with women. Now what do you want? Why am I here?’
‘Because you’re a kind, thoughtful woman who responds to SOSs from friends even when with the SAS.’ He saw her expression. ‘Sorry. Because I have a proposition for you.’
‘I’m the one who makes the propositions.’
‘Not this time.’
‘I like making propositions.’
‘Hermione Babcock’s dead.’
‘Good.’
‘That’s a rather callous response.’
‘Did you ask me here to elicit hypocritical drivel?’
‘No. Sorry. Why didn’t you like her?’
‘Stuck-up, patronising bitch. Every time she spoke in the Lords she looked as if she had a pole up her arse. What a bloody menace! Do you know she wanted us to stop being called “Lord” and “Lady”. How would we ever get a table in a decent restaurant?’ She took a copious swig of whisky. ‘What did she die of anyway? Aridity? Acidity?’ She laughed uproariously.
‘A mystery ailment,’ said Amiss, rather primly. ‘Anyway, her death leaves the Warburton judges without a chairman and I wondered if you’d take over.’
The baroness sat upright. ‘Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?’
‘You gave that nearly as many syllables as Lady Bracknell did the handbag. And more volume. You’ve got half the Dorchester’s clientele transfixed.’
She snorted. ‘If they think that’s loud…Why would I want to be chairman of the Warburton? It’s boring, boring, boring, boring, boring. Self-important judges. Staged feuds. Rotten writers. Why would I want to have anything to do with it?’
‘It’s more to do with why I want you to. I’m on it, we’ve got troublesome committee members, and it needs a firm hand.’
The pianist moved smoothly from ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’ into ‘Anything Goes’ and the baroness broke into tuneless, loud song. ‘…was looked on as something shocking…’
‘Jack. Pay attention.’
‘Why are you on it?’
‘As ex-editor of The Wrangler, but really because a mate wanted an ally.’
She yawned. ‘So you become chairman. You can handle it. After all, I’ve trained you.’
‘You haven’t trained me well enough. Even if they’d have me, which they won’t, because I’m too obscure, I couldn’t do it. Without you in control, the whole thing’ll collapse in acrimony.’
‘Why shouldn’t it collapse? Best thing for it.’
‘You don’t really disapprove of literary prizes, Jack. It’s a way of transferring money from business to poor starving writers who can spend it on food and drink. You were very pleased when your Dean of Studies won the Butterfield.’
‘Maybe. But that was history. This is fiction. And all modern fiction is a waste of paper.’ She signalled vigorously in no particular direction. A waiter materialised.
‘I want a decent cigar.’
‘Certainly, ma’am.’ He reappeared within seconds with a mahogany box which he opened with a flourish. She sighed. ‘I’ll have a small one. There isn’t time to do justice to a decent one before bedtime.’
‘Sir?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Robert, why not?’
‘Afraid I’d go back to smoking cigarettes.’
‘Have you any pleasures? How’s your sex life?’
‘Jack, this gentleman is waiting to light your cigar.’
When the business with clipper and lighter and energetic puffing was concluded and her cigar safely lit, she leaned back in her chair and smiled happily. ‘You were saying about your sex life.’
‘Non-existent at present.’
‘Good God, I don’t know what’s wrong with you young people. When I was your age I’d have had three on the go.’ She swallowed some whisky noisily. ‘Or maybe four. Depending on how busy I was at the time.’
Amiss changed tack. ‘Den Smith’s on the committee. And there are some people you’d hate just as much as him. You’d have endless scope for making their lives a misery.’
‘Den Smith? We should be dealing with him too. Second only to Saddam as a public nuisance. Nobody could be as bad as Smith.’
‘Rosa Karp?’
‘Well, maybe Rosa Karp.’ She drew on her cigar meditatively. ‘Tempting. Mind you, I’m not having an attack of false modesty, but even if I agreed, which I won’t, I don’t see how you’d swing it. I daresay they hate me even more than I despise them.’
‘Things are desperate. They’d almost certainly have to agree.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘The key man in all this is Ron Knapper. You’ll have heard of him, won’t you?’
She wasn’t listening. Her attention had wandered to a small, fat, swarthy, elderly man who was passing by their table along with his companion, a young and striking blonde a head taller than him, who wore skin-tight, low-cut, micro-skirted gold lamé with thigh-high leopardskin boots. Her slender fingers were festooned with rings, both wrists sported sparkling bracelets, a single large bright stone lay between her vast breasts and her ears were completely covered with a jewelled lid.
‘My,’ said the baroness. ‘He’s certainly paying for his pleasures.’
‘Maybe it’s his daughter.’
‘The technical term is niece. This place is a fixer’s paradise. Good fixers acquire nieces like that. The currency is rocks. Big rocks.’
‘Ron Knapper, Jack. Canadian wallpaper manufacturer who acquired the Warburton Corporation a couple of years ago. The Warburton prize came with it. Knapper, apparently, is a writer manqué. Always going on about how he wishes he’d been a novelist instead of a businessman. Likes to see himself as a patron of the arts.’
‘Like that advertising idiot who spends hundreds of thousands of pounds buying up piles of dirty laundry—knickers they’ve called “Journey’s End” or “Finder’s Keepers.” That kind of thing?’
‘That kind of thing.’
The baroness blew a smoke-ring. ‘I had a most enjoyable fight about him last week on a TV programme. With Den Smith, as it happens. Den, of course, so much believes that ugliness is truth, that he’d rather art galleries showed pickled hedgehogs than Michelangelo’s “David.” He called me a dinosaur.’ She smiled and picked up her whisky glass.
‘So you called him?’
‘A dung beetle. He seemed quite vexed.’
‘Augers well. Anyway, Knapper leaped upon the Warburton with cries of glee, renamed it Knapper-Warburton and, because he’s the mega-ambitious sod he is, decided it had to be the biggest and best prize ever. Big-money literary prize, Jack. His equivalent of rocks. Got him to the dinner tables of the literati.’
‘Who wants to get to their dinner tables? They don’t know anything about food. Look at Iris Murdoch. Ate dog food. And not even decent home-made dog food. Tinned. Probably drank bad wine as well.’
‘So,’ said Amiss wearily, ‘once Hermione won the prize he consulted her on how to make it famous. She took him under her wing, he made her chair…’
‘What!’
‘Sorry, chairman, and all our present problems stem from that. Do you want to know the state of play?’
‘No.’
A familiar small figure darted into the room, strode down to their table and clapped Amiss on the back. ‘Good to see you, Robert. Can’t stop. Ida’s got to take off for Cambridge at six tomorrow so I’d better get her home to bed. Have you finished?’
‘No, I haven’t, Myles. I’ve been trying to persuade her to do something but she won’
t listen properly and I need an answer tonight.’
Myles Cavendish gazed sternly at the baroness. ‘If Robert wants you to do it, Ida, you must do it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s your friend and he always does the things you want him to do. It’s a matter of honour.’
She drained her glass. ‘In that case, of course I’ll do it. Now why didn’t you say that, Robert? I thought you were supposed to be good at handling me.’
‘I was about to try the throwing-myself-on-your-mercy gambit.’
She yawned noisily. ‘Honour’s quicker. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty tomorrow and you can tell me all about it on the way down to Cambridge.’
As she began shouting for the bill, Cavendish looked at Amiss and winked.
2
‘Are you ready?’
‘Up, dressed and waiting, Jack. Where are you?’
‘Hammersmith Bridge. With you in five minutes. Find your umbrella and wait outside.’ The phone went dead and, fretfully, Amiss dialled her back. ‘I won’t wait outside. You’ll want to see Plutarch. And what’s more you claimed recently that you wished to see where I’m living now.’
‘Did I? To check you’ve improved on the hostel you used to call home? Not the House Beautiful tour, though. I’ve no time to waste. Be ready.’
He was checking his e-mails when the bell rang. As he hastily scanned a message from Geraint Griffiths, the ringing went on and on until, cursing, he leaped from his chair, ran to the buzzer, pressed it and dashed out into the hall.
‘Is Plutarch on parade?’ she shouted, as she banged the front door behind her.
‘Sssshhhhh!’ said Amiss, wondering why he was bothering.
‘What are you sssshhhhhing for?’
He ran back into his flat, waited until she was in and shut the door gently. ‘I was sssshhhhhing in the vain hope that you would remember that not everyone in the vicinity wants to be woken up at six-thirty. But of course I’d forgotten what you’ve told me often enough.’
She nodded approvingly. ‘When I’m up, everyone should be up. Now where is she?’
Plutarch arrived in a whirl of ginger and launched herself at the baroness, who staggered, nearly fell, but recovered herself gamely and scooped the cat into her arms. ‘What have you got I can give her? I forgot to bring anything.’
‘You should seek to have a relationship free of bribes.’
‘Bollocks. Plutarch’s a cat. Cats have no sentiment. She’s glad to see me because she associates me with pleasure. Get me something. Cats shouldn’t be let down.’
‘I haven’t anything suitable.’
She strode into the kitchen and yanked open the door of his refrigerator. ‘Bugger all here. No wonder you’re so thin. You need a woman to put meat on your bones. Get Rachel back.’
Plutarch lunged at the top shelf. ‘Ah, yes. Clever girl. Sausages.’ She handed the packet to Amiss. ‘No time to cook it. Get the meat out of two of these and mould them into bite-size pieces.’
As he was wrestling with his task she looked disapprovingly at the label. ‘These are unfit for feline consumption. You should never have sausages made from anything except Tamworths. No other pig is worth eating.’
Amiss handed her a few balls of sausage meat. Plutarch, who up to now had been behaving exceptionally politely, snatched one rudely from the baroness’ grasp, leaped to the floor and tucked in.
The baroness looked at Amiss disapprovingly. ‘I’m surprised she’s survived this long if you’re feeding her such inferior food.’
‘That’s what I eat.’
‘Quite.’
Plutarch finished her first course and was given three more in quick succession. Then the baroness pulled a vast handkerchief out of her Gladstone bag, wiped her hands energetically and turned back to Amiss. ‘Are you ready?’
‘The flat. You wanted to see it.’
She threw a glance around the living room. ‘Is there a decent garden for Plutarch?’
‘Yes. Small but secluded. I regret to say she plays merry hell with our feathered friends. I do not enjoy dealing with the corpses.’
‘Tough. Nature’s nature. Plutarch has to have her fun. Now come on, come on, we haven’t got all day.’
Amiss picked up his coat. ‘Christ, Jack, I’m not exactly house-proud, but you made such a song and dance about my buying somewhere decent that I’d have thought you’d have a passing interest in what I bought.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s all right. Indeed a signal improvement on that hideous place you were renting. But you need more bookshelves. It’s a tip.’
‘Those piles are Warburton contestants. I’ll be getting rid of most of them at the first opportunity.’
‘And do something about pictures. And get some decent rugs. Then it’ll do as a transient stop before you make millions from your novel and move into a Georgian crescent. Have you finished it yet?’
‘I only started it last month.’
‘What’s holding you up?’
‘The bloody Warburton for starters.’
Plutarch, who had been yowling lustfully, leaped back into the baroness’ arms in search of more sausage. The baroness dropped her unceremoniously. ‘That’s it, Plutarch. Can’t stop any longer. See you shortly. Someone I must introduce you to. I’d take you with me now if I had a Mickey Finn to keep you quiet on the journey.’
Amiss looked at the baroness suspiciously as he closed the door. ‘Whom do you want to introduce her to?’
‘That would be telling. You’ll meet him. At St Martha’s.’
‘A dog, presumably. Or an ailurophobe.’
‘Better than that.’ She skipped out of the front door grinning, dashed down the steps through the rain, pointed her key at the car, clicked the remote control and dived into the driver’s seat. ‘Are you impressed?’ she demanded, as Amiss climbed in ‘I’m becoming technological.’
‘What brought that on?’
‘Myles convinced me that it was in my interests.’
‘You two seem very Darby-and-Joanish at the moment,’ said Amiss, as he buckled his seat belt. ‘Are you settling down?’
‘I’m too young to settle down.’ She revved up the engine. ‘Told Myles I might marry him when I’m eighty and have sown enough wild oats. Vrooom, vrooom,’ she carolled, as the car took off. ‘Now, to business. Is it settled? I presume you’d have got round to telling me if they didn’t want me.’
‘How am I supposed to settle something like that between midnight and six a.m.?’
‘I thought this was urgent.’
‘Well, actually, I have. Georgie Prothero…’
‘Who?’
‘The PR guy who’s in charge of the Warburton.’
‘What an extraordinary name. Sounds like a lovelorn 1930s provincial draper.’
‘Well, he’s certainly keen on clothes.’
‘Woofdah?’
‘Very much so, though restrained when on duty.’
‘The supply of heterosexuals seems to be completely drying up. No wonder I stick with Myles.’
‘Except when you’re being a lesbian.’
‘Except when I’m being a lesbian. But I’d be much less a lesbian if there were more available men. Doesn’t mean I approve of woofdahs. They spoil things for us by turning real men into pansies.’ The brakes screamed as the lights ahead turned red, and the car juddered to a halt. Amiss squeezed his hands together tightly and mentally rehearsed his painfully acquired techniques for getting through a journey with Jack Troutbeck. There was no point in cajoling, begging or warning.
Rule One: pretend not to notice she’s driving fast or recklessly or you’ll encourage her.
‘Anyway, Georgie was on after we parted last night and reported that Ron Knapper was thrilled to bits that you’ve agreed.’
‘You mean he’d heard of me?’
‘He recognised your name, but fortunately didn’t know what he knew about you, if y
ou follow me. If he did, he probably wouldn’t have wanted you; I can’t imagine you are the toast of the literary dinner parties he so enjoys. But he’s delighted to have a peeress…’ There was a deafening blast of her horn and the car in front took off at high speed.
‘Imbecile,’ she shouted at its rear. ‘Were you asleep?’
Rule Two: never remonstrate about bad behaviour; she won’t know what you’re talking about.
‘He’s delighted to have a peeress and college mistress all in one and what’s more…’ As the lights ahead turned orange to red, she accelerated and raced through.
Rules Three, Four and Five: keep repeating Rule One.
‘What’s more, he’s in no position to be choosy, since Georgie also reported that it’s beginning to look as if Hermione may have been murdered.’
‘Really? You’ve taken rather a long time to impart that not uninteresting titbit.’
‘I was seeking the right moment. Didn’t want to upset you.’
The baroness snorted. ‘I’m not upset. There were times when I’d have murdered the bloody woman myself if I weren’t too busy.’
‘Just because she wanted to get rid of titles?’
‘Just because of her disdainful upper lip. When she spoke in the Lords she had a way of looking at us as if we were something Plutarch had dragged in through the cat-flap that riled me not a little. I don’t mind people being superior if they’ve got something to be superior about, but Hermione was rich because of her husband, titled because she sucked up to New Labour and gave them some of William’s money, and distinguished because her literary cronies puffed her.’
‘She did win the Warburton.’
‘Bet you anything you like the judges included some ex-lovers, social climbers and the superciliati.’
‘Superciliati is right,’ cried Amiss, in sudden anger. ‘The way she banned genre novels was a disgrace.’
‘What novels?’
‘Crime, science fiction, fantasy, romance, comedy—anything that you find in publishers’ lists separated from pure literary fiction.’
‘But that would have excluded Wilkie Collins or Conan Doyle.’
Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery Page 2
