Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘You’ll want to be with Dervla. She’s only a kid.’

  ‘Hmm. What was her response?’

  ‘Something along the lines of “Like omigahd that’s so totally weird. Den said she was like…duuuuhh.”’

  The baroness winced and took a large swig of her martini. ‘I get enough of this at St Martha’s as it is. It’s like Aids. They’re all infected. I’m terrified the parrot will hear any of them talk.’

  ‘It would be vexing, wouldn’t it? They’ll presumably grow out of it and the lingo will change anyway, but parrots don’t adjust to fashion. Imagine him telling the St Martha’s Mistress in 2050 that “Like, this is like so totally head-wrecking.”’

  She jumped up. ‘Lunch time. I fear my head is about to be totally wrecked, so my stomach needs all the nourishment it can get.’

  ***

  ‘I left her,’ Amiss told Ellis Pooley several hours later, ‘surrounded by novels and crying “Rubbish”, with Mary Lou kindly but firmly refusing to allow her to jettison a book until she’d read at least a chapter.’

  ‘She’s wonderful, isn’t she?’

  ‘Your betrothed, I presume you mean? Or were you talking about Jack?’

  The waiter arrived and poured Amiss’ wine and Pooley’s water. Pooley took a sip, shook his head and looked across at Amiss. ‘I get nervous sometimes that it won’t work.’

  ‘So does she. She’s not convinced that your father is ready for black grandchildren.’

  ‘Bugger my father. Anyway he’s mad about her. And it’s not as if I were the heir.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Amiss. ‘It’s amazing the compensations there are for being a younger son. But if it’s not that, what is it? Different cultures?’

  ‘Not really. Minnesota and rural England can coexist without too much trouble. It’s more the practicalities. She’s in Cambridge in a job she loves and I’m in London in one I love just as much and which has antisocial hours. We’re always fighting circumstances to have time together. And I keep thinking how Jim and Ann split up. Not to speak of you and Rachel.’

  ‘Both our relationships died over rows about values rather than clashing timetables, Ellis. Though I admit they didn’t help.’

  Pooley looked at him worriedly. ‘How are you coping, Robert? You’ve been at a loose end ever since Rachel left. Do you miss her a lot?’

  ‘I’m getting over her.’

  ‘Any other women on the horizon?’

  ‘My mind is on higher things. Like writing a novel in your favourite genre.’

  ‘What? You’re writing a crime novel?’

  ‘Having a go. Probably hopeless, but I am rather enjoying it. I’ve already murdered two ex-colleagues.’

  ‘What style is it? Cosy? Hard-boiled? And where’s it set?’

  ‘I’m certainly not going to tell an aficionado like you anything about it at this stage, Ellis. You’ll get all dreamy about the greats of the past and destroy my confidence.’

  Pooley looked disappointed. ‘Oh, all right. I’ll wait. Do you expect it to make you any money?’

  ‘Probably not. Probably won’t even get published. But between the remains of the legacy and bits of reasonably lucrative freelance writing, I’ve enough to keep going for now. And the Warburton pays a few bob, and in theory at least makes me useful contacts.’

  ‘Good luck. Now, about the murder of Hermione Babcock. You’ve heard the news?’

  ‘No. There wasn’t anything on the six o’clock bulletin.’

  ‘It was on the seven o’clock. Just said the police suspected she had been poisoned and probably by ricin.’

  ‘Oh, God. I shouldn’t have switched my phone off.’ Amiss reached into his inside pocket.

  ‘Just hold on a sec, Robert. Before you do anything, let’s just be sure you know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘All I’m supposed to know is what the news said. Was there any indication of who you think did it?’

  ‘None. We’ve no idea. It’s early days, and we’ve only interviewed her husband, but there’s no whiff of a motive.’

  ‘I hope to God it wasn’t connected with the Warburton. I know Jack takes these things lightly, but I wouldn’t like to think I was putting her in danger.’

  ‘She’d do it to you without a thought.’

  ‘True. But that’s because she thinks we’re invincible. Which I don’t. However, there’s no point in even thinking like that. We are where we are. I’d better alert her.’

  ‘It’s OK. When I couldn’t get through to you, I rang her and warned her to expect an avalanche of calls. She said the drawbridge was up and no one would breach the castle walls.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ Amiss jumped up. ‘Give me a minute. I must talk to Georgie.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Georgie Prothero, our PR guy.’

  ‘Oh, him. Yes. Our people have already seen him. Why do you need to ring him?’

  ‘He’ll be in a state.’

  Pooley shook his head and picked up his newspaper. Amiss was back within a couple of minutes. ‘Georgie’s surprisingly calm. Tells me Jack rang him and instructed him to refer everyone to her, stop worrying and have a stiff brandy.’

  ‘But I thought you said she wasn’t speaking to anyone.’

  ‘Precisely. But she’ll take the blame rather than Georgie. So he’s happy and she’s acquired a fan.’

  ‘Good. Now let’s choose some food and then you can tell me everything about what I’ll be dealing with.’

  ***

  Coming up to ten o’clock and having snorted her way through several pages, the baroness shouted ‘That’s enough bilge’ and hurled the book at maximum force against the oak door. Horace, who had been peacefully napping, saved himself from tumbling off her head by digging in his claws.

  Mary Lou watched with interest as the baroness leaped up shouting with pain. ‘That’s not the way to persuade him to let go, Jack,’ she commented mildly. Ignored, she shrugged and returned to her book and did not re-emerge until the parrot had been placated with crooning and stroking and a piece of fig and returned to his cage.

  ‘I could die of psittacosis,’ grumbled the baroness, as she began to pack her pipe with tobacco. ‘I wonder if it’s painful.’

  ‘I looked it up after he attacked me, and my incubation period would have passed by now, so I shouldn’t worry. Now what was it that caused your outbreak of violence?’

  ‘The one about the shy, solitary monk who bonds mystically in a Sumatran rain forest with an equally shy, solitary rhinoceros. I’ve never read such boring drivel in my life.’ She flicked a lighter, directed its enormous flame at the pipe bowl and sucked noisily.

  ‘Robert said your old pal Wysteria Wilcox was very keen on it.’

  The baroness expelled a mouthful of smoke vigorously towards the ceiling. ‘Trixie always had a brain even a rhinoceros would despise.’

  ‘Have you found anything you can bear yet?’

  ‘How could I?’ She leaned over to the pile of books to her left and picked one off the top. ‘Have you sampled Flesh-Eating? It’s about how timid, deaf Lionel Carter finds a purpose to his life when as a cleaner in the British Museum he first comes across a sarcophagus. It was popular with Hermione, apparently.’ It thudded to the floor.

  ‘But you like sarcophagi, Jack. Didn’t you float the idea of being buried in one in the college grounds?’

  ‘Buried, yes. Fucked, no. And I want Roman, not Egyptian. Figures. Not hieroglyphics.’

  ‘Did you look at the one Geraint Griffiths liked?’

  ‘Robert tells me I have to read the whole thing, but the tirade about the limitations of the Koran had me nodding off, so I adjourned to Proust’s Madeleine, which appears to be a volume of impenetrable existential musings on the nature of women and small cakes. I can’t stand much more.’

  ‘I thought Robert said there are some you’d like—or at least not hate.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought I’d
save them for later.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Put on the news.’

  It was another quiet day, so the admission from the police that she appeared to have died in suspicious circumstances gave Hermione top billing.

  ‘Family and friends can think of no reason why anyone would harm a woman so loved and respected. Asked to comment on speculation that her death might be associated with her chairing of the Knapper-Warburton Prize, the organisers refused to comment.’ A photograph of the baroness waggling her finger appeared behind the newsreader. ‘Lady Babcock’s successor as chairperson, the controversialist, Lady Troutbeck, Mistress of St Martha’s in Cambridge, was not available for interview.’

  ‘What’s a controversialist?’ asked the baroness.

  ‘Someone the BBC doesn’t agree with, I guess.’

  ‘The Irish singer and soap-star, Dervla, is a Knapper-Warburton judge. Susie Briggs spoke to her earlier this evening.’

  ‘It’s, like, weird,’ confessed a worried-looking, pretty, curly-haired redhead with a bare midriff. ‘It’s, like, aaaaggghhh!’

  ‘Do you think the committee will be able to function in the light of this tragedy? Especially if Lady Babcock’s death turns out to be connected to the Warburton.’

  Dervla looked hunted. ‘I’m, like, whatever,’ she proffered.

  ‘Thank you, Dervla.’ Susie Briggs faced the camera. ‘Like Dervla, the rest of the committee are determined on business as usual.’ A photograph of a vast head topped with wild white hair took over the screen. ‘Geraint Griffiths, the well-known commentator, rang our newsroom to denounce what he described as a clear conspiracy to stifle free speech and intimidate the judges. Asked to explain what he meant, he said that all would become clear in time.’

  ‘Thank you, Susie. Speaking in the House today, the Chancellor emphasised that…’

  Mary Lou pressed the ‘off’ button. ‘Back to work, Jack.’

  The baroness surveyed the pile to the right of her chair. ‘I’m usually given to tears only at the opera,’ she said, ‘but I’m on the verge of bursting into noisy, self-pitying sobs.’

  ‘Troutbecks get on with it, Jack. Remember?’

  The baroness managed a wan smile as she picked up the top book.

  * Matricide at St Martha’s

  6

  ‘It’s me, darling,’ said an excited Pooley. ‘I’ve got terrific news.’

  ‘You’re coming here for the weekend?’

  ‘Wish I were.’

  ‘The Warburton’s been cancelled?’

  Pooley’s forehead furrowed. ‘No. Why would that be good?’

  Mary Lou sighed. ‘It would prevent Jack from running amok. I think she’s about to declare war on the entire literary establishment. And she won’t be using conventional weapons. More those of mass destruction.’

  ‘Robert mentioned he didn’t think she was keen on modern fiction.’

  ‘Robert sure got that right, honey. But what’s the terrific news?’

  ‘It’s the old team on the job. Jim’s been asked to step in and I’ll be his right-hand man.’

  ‘How did he wangle that? Isn’t a solitary murder a bit beneath him these days?’

  ‘The Met gets very jittery when cases are high-profile. And this is high-profile. And requires tact, which even Jim’s detractors admit he has in abundance. Will you tell Jack? It might cheer her up a bit.’

  ‘I’ll tell her. Though I doubt if anything could cheer her up the way things are. When are you getting started?’

  ‘I’m just going into Jim’s office now, darling. Will ring when I can. Bye.’

  ***

  ‘I photocopied the Who’s Who entries of Hermione Babcock and her husband,’ said Pooley to Detective Chief Superintendent Milton, as they sat in the back of a car on their way to north London to interview Sir William Rawlinson.

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Interesting-ish.’ He held out two sheets of paper. ‘Do you want to read them?’

  Milton squinted at the tiny print. ‘I can’t. Forgot my glasses. Read them to me.’

  ‘“Babcock of Islington, Baroness created 1997 (Life Peer) of Bloomsbury in the County of London; Hermione Joan Babcock (Lady Rawlinson); writer; born 27 November 1943, daughter of the late Revd Reginald Michael Massingham and the late…”’

  ‘Could you make it a bit more selective and digestible, Ellis?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. She married first in 1964 Ralph Babcock; they were divorced in 1975 having had a son and daughter.’

  ‘Oh, so it wasn’t her maiden name.’

  ‘No. But by the time she was divorced presumably she was well-known enough to be stuck with Babcock.’

  ‘It must have been rather irritating; Massingham’s rather more attractive, don’t you think?’

  Pooley nodded. ‘And so is Rawlinson. She married William Rawlinson the year of her divorce and he was knighted in 1986.’

  ‘I don’t know how these things work, Ellis. You do. She remained Mrs Babcock for professional reasons while first being Mrs and then Lady Rawlinson, but later became Lady Babcock. Is that right?’

  ‘Ms Babcock, I expect, sir. She was the type. Anyway, she was educated at grammar school and Oxford, where she got a first-class BA in English and was awarded the Chiddick Honorary Fellowship, whatever that is.’

  ‘Speed up, Ellis. I admire your thoroughness, but spare me too much academic detail. Especially since we’re nearly in Islington.’

  ‘A couple of translations of French novels and one of her own while with Babcock, and then she seems to have taken to committees in a big way.’

  ‘All literary?’

  ‘Broadly cultural—authors’ organisations, judging literary prizes, dishing out grants, British Council activities, that kind of thing. Edited a couple of anthologies of French short stories, did reviewing and broadcasting and churned out the odd novel as well. The last one, Virginia Falling, won the Warburton last year. She collected a couple of honorary degrees over the last decade or so and was given a peerage in 1997.’

  ‘Why do people want honorary degrees if they’ve already got one?’

  ‘I suppose some of them like the attention and others like being called Doctor.’

  ‘Even if they haven’t earned it?’

  ‘I don’t know much about that, sir. I’ll consult Mary Lou.’

  ‘And Rawlinson? Hurry up. We’re nearly there.’

  ‘Short entry. Babcock his second wife, first one died, no children, went into Graylings Bank straight from school and became CEO five years ago.’

  The car turned into a square and pulled up in front of a white, four-storey, double-fronted Georgian house. ‘Unless you expect to be in there a long time, I’ll wait here, sir,’ said Detective Inspector (retired) Pike.

  ‘Thanks, Sammy. I doubt if we’ll be very long. Keep an ear to the news, will you? I’d like to know if any other members of the Warburton committee are sounding off.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  Milton pressed the bell. ‘What do you reckon it’s worth, Ellis? A couple of mill?’

  ‘Easily, sir. It’s the most desirable part of Islington.’

  The door was opened by a tall, good-looking man with white hair so perfectly coiffed that its wings were utterly symmetrical. He led them through the narrow hall into a large sitting room and then held out his hand. ‘I’m William Rawlinson. You, I presume, are Chief Superintendent Milton.’

  ‘Yes, Sir William. And this is my colleague, Detective Inspector Pooley. May I offer our sincere sympathy on this tragedy.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rawlinson waved towards one of the white sofas. ‘Please sit down, gentlemen. Would you care for coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Quite sure? I’m going to have some.’

  ‘Oh, well, in that case, thank you.’

  ‘And you, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Rawlinson left calling
, ‘Alina.’

  Milton and Pooley surveyed the room. Apart from a large number of abstract paintings, most of which featured greys or black, it was exclusively decorated and furnished in white or chrome. Pooley jumped up and rushed around the room reading the plaques under the pictures. ‘Ben Nicholsons and Victor Passmores,’ he reported as he sat down again.

  ‘Mean anything to you?’

  ‘I’ve heard of Nicholson. He’ll be expensive.’

  Rawlinson returned, threw himself into an armchair and took a packet of small cigars out of his pocket. ‘Do either of you smoke?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Mind if I do?’

  ‘Good heavens, no, sir.’

  Rawlinson lit his cigar and looked around for a receptacle for his match. ‘Damn.’ He got up and went over to the mantelpiece, picked up a piece of metal, put it on the bare chrome table in front of him and dropped his match on it. He leaned back in his chair. ‘So what do you want me to tell you? I’ve already been through the story of Hermione’s illness twice.’

  ‘I realise that, sir. And I’m loath to ask you to go through it again, but it would be very helpful if you would.’

  ‘Hermione rang me at work on Tuesday afternoon to say she felt sick and was worried that she might be too ill to make the dinner party we were due to go to that evening if she didn’t get some urgent medical help. I told her she should cancel immediately, but she didn’t want to; there was some Romanian dramatist expected who’s the toast of literary London and she didn’t want to miss him.’

  ‘Did she go into any details about her symptoms?’

  ‘Just said she felt feverish and nauseous and had difficulty breathing. She tried to get hold of our doctor but he was out and she didn’t think much of his partner, so I arranged for the bank’s doctor to call her. He reported that he thought she’d picked up a virus and had told her to go straight to bed and drink plenty of water and see her doctor in the morning if she wasn’t better. I checked with her, and, reluctantly, she’d given up on the Romanian and agreed she’d go to bed as soon as she’d finished whatever she was doing with the long-list. At about five-thirty Alina rang to say she’d found Hermione slumped over her desk. She was very alarmed, since Hermione had fallen on the piles of Warburton novels she’d been sorting and had knocked them all over the place.’ He gave a slight smile and gestured towards their surroundings. ‘As you can see, untidiness was not my wife’s style.’