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

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  Rather flustered, Rosa shuffled her papers. ‘There are ten long-lists…’

  ‘Come again?’ The baroness looked around the table and ticked names off on her fingers: ‘Me, you, Professor Ferriter, Miss Dervla, Mr Amiss, Mr Smith, Professor Griffiths, Sir Hugo Hurlingham and Lady Wilcox. I make that nine.’

  ‘But Hermione did a list. You’re surely not going to ignore it?’

  ‘Lady Karp, as I have already had occasion to point out, Hermione Babcock is dead and I have replaced her. I shall bear her list in mind should we become deadlocked at any stage, but that will be at my discretion.’

  Rosa looked close to tears. ‘But my list is based on the ten.’

  The baroness’ patience snapped. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake get on with giving us your general conclusions. We haven’t got all day.’

  Rosa began to gabble. ‘The ten lists have come up with on average twenty-seven titles, making a total of two hundred and seventy, but many of these are common to several lists, so there are just one hundred and thirty-four novels that need to be reduced to an agreed short-list of twenty-five. To help us decide which ones to drop, I’ve analysed them by author and by content according to various categories, awarding scores for certain elements; my proposal is that no book scoring less than five points should be on the long-list.’

  ‘Fewer than five points, Lady Karp. I assume grammar isn’t one of your criteria.’

  Amiss clenched his teeth like an embarrassed parent. Dervla, he observed, was gazing at the baroness awestruck.

  Rosa ploughed on. ‘First, obviously, I have a breakdown for each writer by such categories as gender, age, ethnicity, origin, physical ableness and sexual orientation—but there are subsections within some of these, obviously. And then I grade the progressiveness of the content into which obviously gender, ethnicity and so on are replicated, but there are also considerations such as inclusiveness, anti-racism, attitudes to the European Union, social responsibility, the progressiveness of the ideas expressed and so on.’

  ‘Let me take a shot at this, Lady Karp. Let us suppose we have two authors, one of whom is female, seventy, Asian, lesbian and suffers from Aids and the other is a middle-aged, fit, heterosexual, male, white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant from Tunbridge Wells. How many points would each get?’

  Rosa had been taking notes. ‘She would get six and he would get none.’

  ‘Where does the sixth point come from?’

  ‘One for a disability, but an extra one because it is a disability which attracts discrimination.’

  ‘I see. So the man’s only chance of catching up is if she has written about a middle-aged, fit, heterosexual male WASP living in Tunbridge Wells and he has written about a female, Asian, lesbian, seventy-year-old suffering from Aids?’

  Rosa shook her head vigorously. ‘Oh, no. We don’t accept that oppressors can validly write about the oppressed.’

  Ferriter nodded equally vigorously and Griffiths and Smith squawked competing noises of disagreement.

  ‘Hold on, gentlemen. Just let me get to the bottom of this. So how many points does our male author have now?’

  ‘He still doesn’t have any, since whites lack the ability to understand the plight of the colonised and those afflicted by racism any more than the abled understand the physically challenged or the straights understand people with other sexual orientations or the young understand the old.’

  ‘Goodness me,’ said the baroness. ‘Poor chap. He doesn’t stand much of a chance. How would it be if she’s an anti-Semite and he’s a Jew?’

  ‘It depends on if he’s a Zionist or not. If he is, he’s automatically disqualified. And she would lose no points for being anti-Zionist.’

  ‘What about if she’s like me, a reactionary and a Europhobe and our Tunbridge Wells scribbler is a Europhile and what you call a progressive?’

  ‘In that unlikely event,’ said Rosa rather stiffly, ‘he would get a point. Maybe two, however…’

  Griffiths was waving his arms wildly.

  The baroness gazed at him benignly. ‘It’s all right, Dr Griffiths. Don’t get worked up over this. I’m in charge and all will be well. Now, Lady Karp, can you enlighten us as to what all this has to do with literature?’

  ‘It has to do with the relevance of literature to life. To social responsibility.’

  ‘It’s a matter of civilising cultural conversation,’ added Ferriter. ‘I’m with Rosa.’

  ‘And so am I,’ said Den Smith. ‘Mostly.’

  ‘No surprises there,’ said the baroness gaily. ‘I, however, regard everything Lady Karp has said as balls. I’ve gone through this charade because I’m accommodating, but here’s an end to it.’ She picked up the spreadsheets in front of her and tore them up. ‘Now, let me make it clear how the judging is to be conducted henceforward. I have decided on the criteria and there’s only one: literary excellence. If you don’t accept that, Mr Prothero here can issue a statement that I’m resigning.’ Observing the pleased look on several faces, she added, ‘I should add that I’ve talked to Ron Knapper about this and he said if I resign he’s scrapping the prize.’ She smiled broadly. ‘Everyone happy to go ahead on my terms? Yes? Good. Georgie, tell the excellent Birkett to hurry the coffee along.’

  Her eyes flickered up and down the table, looking in the eyes of each committee member. ‘Right, now we get started on the sensible part of this. Which means everyone volunteering in the first round to sacrifice their least favourite five. And I want no histrionics. Try to behave like grown-ups.’

  13

  ‘It was grim and hilarious by turns,’ said Amiss over dinner to Pooley. ‘For reasons best known to herself, Jack had set out to alienate most of the judges, which added further rancour to the inevitable arguments. Naturally, the books half the judges wanted to get rid of were the ones the other half liked most and vice versa. Not, you understand, that there is anything as simple going on as two blocs. Rosa and Ferriter are usually agreed…’ He paused. ‘Oh, yes, there was an enjoyable moment when we were considering the gay logger and Jack referred to Rosa’s and Ferriter’s choices as being of a particular bent, Ferriter said that proved she was homophobic and Jack said, “That, Professor Ferriter, is a fallacy, spelt phallacy.”’

  He helped himself to more peas. ‘Then there was a very jolly clash about the regional novels Rosa was so keen on, and Geraint went into an entertaining tirade about the Celtic contingent along the lines that the Scots novel was “pukelit,” consisting as it did of “fucking Glaswegians saying ‘fuck’ between injecting themselves with heroin and throwing up,” the Irish one was yet another droning exercise in misery tourism and if he had to read another piece of criminally fraudulent Welsh nostalgia about singing socialists bonding in the pits he’d puke himself.’

  ‘Pity you couldn’t have recorded the meeting and produced the edited highlights.’

  ‘Like Big Brother? Now, that would be a gripping show. Rosa would be first out, I think, on the grounds of being sanctimonious and boring.’

  ‘So how many has she on her side?’ Pooley took another sip of sparkling water, as Amiss took one of wine.

  ‘Den often agrees with her, though he defends men and his right to write from the point of view of the oppressed. Wysteria isn’t interested in anything except herself but it suits her usually to agree with Rosa, which Hugo sometimes does, especially if Europe comes into it anywhere. Griffiths is so focused on pushing his candidate that he only gets worked up against books he considers have bad authority, but he tends to side with Jack and me because he hates most of the others, as does Dervla, who has become positively clingy and who is happy now with Jack who was unfailingly courteous and respectful to her. As opposed to anyone else.’

  Pooley looked at Amiss gravely. ‘You’re not being tempted, are you, Robert? Dervla’s very vulnerable.’

  Amiss bridled. ‘Do you think she’d be better off with the sweepings of the latest boyband?’

  ‘No
, it’s just that…’

  ‘Oh, knock it off, Ellis. She’s a nice kid but I couldn’t get involved with someone who hasn’t yet got the hang of how to hold a conversation. Though I have to say that between Jack urging me into bed with everyone and you warning me off someone I’m not even attracted by, I’m thinking of declaring my sex-life—or lack of it—off-limits to my friends.’

  Pooley looked grave again. ‘Mary Lou wanted to know if you were still pining for Rachel.’

  ‘Did she now?’ Amiss ate another forkful of potato and took another gulp of wine.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, in truth, yes and no.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I miss the old Rachel, not the Rachel who so lost her marbles as to fall into the arms of Eric Sinclair, who, as New Labour twerps go, is a megatwerp.’

  ‘I’ve never really asked you how bad all that was, Robert.’

  ‘Of course not, Ellis. We’re Englishmen.’

  ‘And I really shouldn’t be asking you now, since we need to talk Warburton, but Mary Lou will tick me off if I don’t seize the opportunity.’

  ‘It won’t surprise you that it was much worse than I pretended, will it? I kept hoping she would recover from the madness and rush back to me cured of the prig-virus, but of course she didn’t.’

  ‘Why of course?’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten the press coverage?’

  ‘What I saw was pretty grim.’

  ‘With someone like Rachel, the effect of being held up to public odium as a marriage-breaking power-crazed bimbo ensured there was no going back. And then, of course, when he lost his job owing to getting on the wrong side of the Chancellor and being made a sacrificial victim…’

  Pooley nodded. ‘I can guess. She felt bound to stick by him.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘She’s never been in touch with Jim. I think he was a bit hurt. They go back a long way.’

  ‘She didn’t want to be the cause of any split loyalties so she said she’d leave to me those people who were primarily my friends. I did the same with hers. I should have told you that, but it was hard enough keeping the lip stiff without actually talking to anyone about her.’

  ‘We’ll never be New Men, will we, Robert?’

  ‘I think we’re sort of Third-Way Men, caught somewhere between Captain Oates and Felix Ferriter.’

  ‘Felix Ferriter!’

  ‘Well, OK, not Felix Ferriter, but touchy-feely-searching-for-their-feminine-side types.’

  Pooley grinned. ‘Fortunately, Mary Lou seems to prefer Oates to Ferriter.’

  ‘So did Rachel once.’

  ‘Have you heard from her since you split up?’

  ‘Occasionally. We tried to stay friends but I wasn’t sufficiently over it to be able to meet her, let alone to be so Hampstead I could meet her with that awful little git, so the occasional stiff phone call about practicalities was the only contact. Latterly, though, we’ve exchanged the odd e-mail. Even the odd frivolous e-mail, so, who knows, maybe she’s recovering her sense of humour. Now, back to the committee meeting.’

  Pooley took the hint. ‘Was it very fractious?’

  ‘The threat of Knapper pulling out so frightened the wits out of all of them—though Dervla and I would have been glad—that grudgingly and grumblingly they compromised. We came out at one with an agreed long-list. Jack wanted to stick out for cutting it down to twenty-five, but the prospect of being late for lunch put her off that. I was quite peevish with her, as the one she was gunning for as the last sacrificial victim was one I think very well of, but she can’t stick it because it’s about a neurotic Frenchman and Hurlingham liked its profound European significance. Eventually she said, with the air of one offering an enormous olive branch, that as a gesture, since Hermione had liked it, she’d let it stay on the list.’

  ‘So it was a good day?’

  ‘Considering. There were plenty of verbicuffs but no fisticuffs, Georgie was mad with excitement at being able to release the list on the appointed day and even lunch went without major incident. Oh, well, that is apart from the way Wysteria carried on when Jack called for a cigar. Said it would finish her off as her lungs were so delicate.’

  ‘Jack’s response?’

  ‘Trotted out her oft-repeated Kipling lines about a woman being only a woman, but a good cigar a smoke. Wysteria stamped off followed by Rosa. Hurlingham, rather guiltily, stayed for a cigar and the rest of them chose to finish their liqueurs.’

  ‘How did Wysteria seem after her ordeal?’

  ‘I think she was fine and that Jack was right to say she was putting it on. Not that she hadn’t been utterly terrified by the journey. Anyone would be. And I felt momentarily—but only momentarily—guilty for having been the cause. But she’s as tough as she’s nasty, Wysteria. Of course, she now loathes Jack even more than do Rosa, Den, Felix and Hugo, and I can’t really blame her. Geraint Griffiths, however, seems to think Jack’s a bit of a laugh, but then he has reason to think her authority good. She came in hard on his side when Rosa, to some acclaim, tried to have Pursuing the Virgins disqualified on the grounds that it was promoting racial hatred. Jack said it mightn’t be literature but it was literate and that was more than could be said for most of their choices.’

  Amiss’ phone rang. ‘Yes, Jack…I’m eating with Ellis…Sausages and mash, since you ask, and, no, they won’t be Tamworth, but they’re delicious anyway. Yes…Yes…I’ve told Ellis you smote the whole lot of them…You what? You unscrupulous old bat…But what if he?…Oh, OK…Yes, will do. Bye.’

  ‘She really likes praise,’ said Pooley.

  ‘Don’t we all? It’s just that we’re too reserved to demand it. Mind you, she deserves it, I suppose. Turns out she hadn’t talked to Knapper at all but decided praying him in aid was the only way to swat Rosa.’

  ‘But what happens if…?’

  ‘She’s already told him. Made him laugh, apparently. Anyway, I’ve to go to Cambridge tomorrow so we can plot the next stage.’

  Pooley’s phone rang. ‘My God…How?…When?…Are you sure it was suicide?…I’ll be there in ten. Bye.’

  He looked at Amiss. ‘Oh, dear God.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Wysteria Wilcox. She seems to have drowned herself.’

  ***

  Amiss saw Pooley off, hailed a taxi and rang the baroness, who reacted robustly. ‘Don’t be absurd, Robert. Wysteria’s far too much of a cow to kill herself while there are still people in the world she could make miserable. I bet it’s an accident.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right,’ she said testily. ‘If you’ve taken the notion into your fat head that she topped herself because I upset her this morning, expunge it forthwith. Might I remind you that in the middle of all the metaphorical swooning-on-the-chaise-longue-and-calling-for-the-smelling-salts, she grabbed every opportunity to push the books of people she considers her protégés and nearly made Dervla cry.’

  ‘True. Now you mention it, she was really, really unpleasant in her underhand way and you did well to bawl her out.’

  ‘So, as I said, it’s an accident. Or, of course, she might have been bumped off. Let me know if that turns out to be the case. It would raise some interesting questions.’ She yawned noisily. ‘But I’m off to bed now and won’t be available before seven a.m. whatever happens. One way or another, things will be hotting up tomorrow so I need my beauty sleep. And I suggest you emulate me. There’s nothing useful you can do between now and then since you can’t admit to having inside knowledge about Wysteria popping her clogs.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘I’m always right. But don’t forget that I want you here by eleven at the latest.’

  ***

  As Amiss climbed into bed, he heard Wysteria’s death being announced on the BBC’s eleven o’clock news. So, it turned out, did Ron Knapper, who rang Georgie Proth
ero, who having tried and failed to reach the baroness rang Amiss in a state of mingled hysteria and frustration. Having calmed Prothero and persuaded him to go to bed, Amiss fell asleep, but was then woken by a somewhat inebriated Dervla, who had seen the midnight news on television. As best Amiss could decipher the tumble of words, Geraint Griffiths had been on, talking of a pogrom of judges initiated by dark forces. ‘Robert, I’m, like, so head-wrecked and alone,’ she cried pitifully, so Amiss got up, dressed and took a taxi to the Ritz, where he held her hand as they sat on the sofa and shared a bottle of wine, spoke to her agent and made him promise to turn up at breakfast time and, at about three, put Dervla to bed and—at her insistence—slept beside her, which—at the dictates of his conscience but with extreme difficulty—he managed to do chastely in spite of her advances by dint of keeping a sheet between them. At six-fifteen he slipped out of bed, left a reassuring note for Dervla on the washbasin in her bathroom and headed off to tend to Plutarch, change and leave for King’s Cross. Reaching home in time to hear the seven o’clock news, he learned that while the police still suspected accident or suicide, Den Smith as well as Geraint Griffiths was being quoted as suspecting foul play. Having got through to the baroness with this news, Amiss was told to stop fussing and leave everything to her.

  ***

  At nine, with his phone switched off, Amiss settled into the Cambridge train and began to go through his vast pile of newspapers. The news coverage was sketchy, but all the broadsheets as well as the up-market tabloids had photographs of Wysteria looking soulful: here poised against a background of apple blossom, there, with hands loosely clasped, gazing rapturously at nothing in particular.

  Rosa Karp surfaced in the Guardian expressing her grief at having lost two such close, brilliant and wonderful friends in a matter of weeks, The Times featured a long quote from Geraint about attacks on free speech which was as dark as it was impenetrable and, in the Mirror, Den Smith pointed out the likely significance of both women having been opponents of the Iraq war. All three were asked should the Warburton go ahead: Rosa equivocated, fearing the possibility of offending the bereaved, while wanting to do what the dead would have wished, Den said he would never follow the securocrat agenda—a comment he refused to explain—and Griffiths said the future of Western democracy depended on the Warburton challenging the forces of fascism. Opening the Sun, Amiss was appalled to see it had eschewed Wysteria for Dervla, who was shown arriving at a recent Britpop event wearing thigh-high boots and a few scraps of sequinned denim. The headline—‘IS DERVLA NEXT?’—caused him to ring her, but there was no answer.