‘What would you do? London University?’
‘No. I realise more and more that while I enjoy being Bursar, I’ve had it with the catfight that is Eng. Lit. these days. If I have to go to a conference, I wake up depressed and there are hardly any papers I can bear to listen to. If I have to give a paper myself, it’s as much as I can do not to be as rude as Jack. And students are beginning to annoy me rather than stimulate me. I think I want out.’
‘To what?’
‘That’s what I’d like some advice about. Publishing? Journalism? Broadcasting? I know they’re the sort of glamorous careers my own students are always keen on, but I’m a bit stuck for inspiration.’
Amiss sighed. ‘I’m sorry for Jack. And for all of us, for whom St Martha’s will lose a considerable part of its charm, but I think you’re probably right. Let me think a bit about what you could do.’
‘Sure. And don’t tell Jack. I don’t want her upset before it’s necessary.’
‘Your decision. And the second thing?’
‘Rachel.’
‘Rachel? What about Rachel?’
‘We’ve been in touch.’
‘So that’s why you got Ellis to do the third-degree last night.’
‘Yes, but he didn’t know why as I wouldn’t have wanted to make him prevaricate. Rachel rang me when she read about Hermione Babcock and wanted to know that you were OK, so I thought it would be useful to suss out the lie of the land. Then she rang this morning all worked up about Wysteria Wilcox.’
‘Oh.’
‘She said she’d like to ring you, but wondered how you’d feel.’
‘How do you think I’d feel?’
Mary Lou stopped and faced him this time. She looked at him squarely. ‘Pleased?’
‘Pleased, thrilled, apprehensive, alarmed, delighted, worried, hopeful—and a lot more adjectives.’
‘They’ll be enough to get on with. I’ll let her know. Now we’d better go in and address the little matter of the short-list.’
***
Rachel rang at twelve, much to Amiss’ relief, as he and the baroness were coming near to blows about the merits of an Italian novel. ‘Wops haven’t written anything worth a damn since The Leopard’ was the position she was sticking to, insisting that the four pages she had read of this one were sufficient to know it was dross. ‘Oh, hang on, Rachel, I’ll just take you outside.’
‘Don’t be long,’ shouted the baroness. ‘We’ve a lot to do before lunch.’
‘I heard that,’ said Rachel. ‘Jack seems in good voice.’
‘Some things don’t change.’
Rachel seemed momentarily nonplussed.
‘Oh, sorry, Rachel. I wasn’t being snide. How are you?’
‘I’ve been better. And you?’
‘Ditto.’
‘Are you staying in Cambridge?’
‘No. I’ll be going back this afternoon.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘I can’t abandon Plutarch.’
Rachel laughed. ‘And how is she?’
‘Still gross in her appetites, but rather more mellow in character.’
‘There was certainly plenty of room for improvement.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Robert, would you by any chance be free this evening? And, if so, would you like to have dinner?’
‘With you? I mean, just you?’
‘Oh, yes. Just me.’
‘I can’t think of anything I’d like better, Rachel. Where? When?’
‘I’ll book somewhere and let you know. Central London OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good. And it’s on me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s the way I want it. Now go back to being pushed around by Jack.’
***
‘Georgie Porgie’s been on. Knapper’s a bit bothered about Wysteria, but he’s pleased about Mary Lou and thrilled about the publicity.’
‘He really must believe that all publicity is good publicity,’ said Amiss. ‘There was plenty of rubbishing of the long-list.’
‘Nothing to speak of,’ said the baroness. ‘Very mild, really, I thought, considering most of it’s crap.’
Amiss picked up a newspaper at random. ‘“It defies belief that a committee that includes such a champion of the marginalised as Rosa Karp could have allowed on the long-list Pursuing the Virgins—a novel more offensive to our peace-loving Muslim community than even Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses. Even more bizarre is that she should have gone along with the choice of Mbeike’s Curse—which implicitly blames the sexual habits of Africans rather than the drug companies for the Aids scourge in Africa.”’
‘Quite an achievement, when you think of it,’ crowed the baroness. ‘Not Pursuing the Virgins. Geraint’s bullying did the job there. But getting Mbeike’s Curse on took some doing.’
‘Huh,’ said Amiss. ‘Did she tell you how that happened, Mary Lou?’
‘No. You know what a rotten debriefer she is.’
‘She pretended to adore The Slut’s Tale.’
The baroness was giggling delightedly. ‘You’ll have to tell her. She’s had more sense than to read the Gloomsberries.’
‘But you know that Virginia Woolf had a big passionate number with Vita Sackville-West, Mary Lou?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, one of dear old Vita’s more memorable throwaway lines was apropos the irritation caused her by having to step over soapy water generated by “a dreary slut on her knees scrubbing the stairs.” So this novel was an exposé of the nastiness of the Bloomsbury crew from the viewpoint of said slut.’
‘What’s wrong with that? Sounds eminently worthwhile.’
‘In principle, yes, but sadly it was a rotten novel, which is why I was against it. So were Wysteria and Hugo, who of course hated it because it cast aspersions inter alia on Saint Virginia and they made much of the fact that it would be a posthumous insult to Hermione. Theoretically, Rosa should have liked it on class grounds, but she’s protective of feminist patron saints so she lined up against it too. Geraint and Den loved it for ideological reasons and Jack did a great and eloquent song-and-dance about how it had moved her, and Dervla agreed and said she’d found it very sad, but after a long battle, Jack finally and reluctantly gave in to the anti-sluts in exchange for their letting Mbeike and a couple of others she wanted go through.’
‘Normal Jack committee tactics then.’
‘Don’t change a winning formula,’ said the baroness smugly.
Amiss picked up another newspaper. ‘“It beggars belief that a committee chaired by that redoubtable High Tory, Lady Troutbeck, should have placed on a long-list Once and Future Heroes, a preposterous fantasy about an Iraqi anti-imperialist of a philosophical disposition who leads a successful revolt against American world domination.”’
‘What did you get in exchange for that, Jack?’
‘Den Smith to drop a couple of less preposterous favourites.’
Mary Lou nodded. ‘Ah, yes. Exclude candidates who are in with a chance but allow one on the list that has rickets. Didn’t they realise what you were up to?’
The baroness snorted. ‘Writers are by and large thick.’
‘Or, as a kinder person would put it,’ said Amiss, ‘Writers are by and large politically naïve.’
‘Thank heavens for that. Gives us a head start. Now, come on, come on. We have to agree on what short-list we’re going to push through.’
***
They broke for lunch and switched on the radio for The World at One. ‘There is shock and dismay in literary circles over the Knapper-Warburton Prize,’ said the BBC announcer. ‘Not only has the world of letters suffered two devastating blows with the murder of Hermione Babcock and the suspicious death of Wysteria Wilcox, but the committee is in turmoil over the long-list published yesterday which has elicited much criticism in this morning’s press. Susie Briggs has talked to two committee members and I will be
discussing what he calls an inflammatory book with Abu Mohammed, the imam of Bethnal Green mosque.’
‘Inflammatory is right,’ snorted the baroness. ‘If that madman had his way every book in the country would go up in smoke.’
‘Except the Koran and Once and Future Heroes,’ offered Mary Lou. ‘Have some salad, Jack.’
The baroness helped herself, took a forkful and shook her head. ‘There’s too much tarragon in the dressing, Mary Lou. Tell Nara.’
‘OK.’
‘And I’m not at all sure about that chicken. Not as good as usual. Tell Nara to tick off the supplier.’
Mary Lou nodded. ‘Now, that’s enough about food. Here’s Susie Briggs.’
‘Sir Hugo Hurlingham, Literary Editor of the Sunday Oracle, doyen of the literary establishment and last year chairman of the Warburton, spoke to me earlier…You must be very distressed at this second blow, Sir Hugo.’
‘I am distressed beyond words, Susie. Distressed and diminished. To lose Wysteria, that rare and gentle artist, as well as dear Hermione, that great figure of literary integrity, and within a very few days, and not as a result of natural causes—what can I say? I am diminished. We are all diminished. It would not be too much to suggest that…’
‘Oh, stop gibbering and bugger off, you old cretin,’ shouted the baroness as she took a healthy glug of wine.
‘Sssssshhhhhhh!’ said Amiss.
‘…for had Hermione’s guiding and experienced hand still been on the tiller, we might not perhaps have had such a—quite frankly—shocking long-list.’
‘Shocking? Sir Hugo,’ squeaked Susie.
‘I choose my words carefully, young lady. I said “shocking” and I mean “shocking.” When I think of some of the great names ignored and of the thoughtful, cultured, cosmopolitan novels that have been sacrificed to make room for thinly disguised political tracts, words fail me…’
The baroness sniggered. ‘He was very sore over losing a couple of his bosom buddies and even sorer at losing Gesundheit, or whatever that cheery day-in-the-life of the syphilitic German shoe-fetishist was called.’ She leaned back in her chair and extracted her pipe from her pocket.
‘Den Smith, another member of the Knapper-Warburton committee, also spoke to me this morning by telephone from Cambridge.’
‘Cambridge?’ said the baroness, vigorously prodding tobacco into her pipe. ‘Why is he infesting my territory?’
‘Ssssssshhhhhhh,’ said Mary Lou.
‘Den Smith, can you hear me? The line is rather crackly?’
‘I hear you, Susie.’
‘Sir Hugo Hurlingham has complained about what he called “political tracts” on the long-list and seems to be implying the list would have been different had Lady Babcock not been replaced by Lady Troutbeck.’
‘Many things would have been different if Hermione hadn’t died and we hadn’t been saddled with a reactionary fossil,’ snarled Smith, ‘but that doesn’t mean it’s not right to have political novels. Just that it’s wrong to have fascist, imperialist novels that lick George Bush’s…’
‘And there we had to leave Susie Briggs and Mr Smith,’ said the presenter.
‘So much for the idea of collective responsibility,’ said Amiss.
‘Sssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’ said the baroness.
‘We asked Lady Troutbeck to comment on those criticisms, but she said—and I quote—“I suggest that on a day when we are mourning Lady Wilcox, my colleagues might be better occupied in sober reflection than in stirring up controversy.”’
‘Brilliant,’ said Mary Lou. ‘That’ll drive them bonkers.’
‘They’re already bonkers,’ said the baroness, directing a large flame at the bowl of her pipe. ‘I’m just putting my foot on the accelerator.’
‘Imam Abu Mohammed is in the studio with me,’ said the announcer smoothly. ‘Now, Imam Abu Mohammed, I understand you are unhappy that the Knapper-Warburton committee has long-listed Pursuing the Virgins, a novel about what goes on in the mind of an Islamic terrorist?’
Being an Islamofascist with the excellent English that came from being British-born—indeed he was a graduate of the London School of Economics—Abu Mohammed, formerly known as Kevin, was particularly popular with the BBC. ‘I and all other devout worshippers of Allah are not just unhappy at this deliberate insult; we are outraged. It goes to show that there will be no protection for Muslims until Britain becomes an Islamic state.’
‘But this is merely a novel about extremists—Islamists—not ordinary peace-loving Muslims. Have you read it?’
‘I do not read blasphemy and filth.’
‘And you wish to deny others the right to read what you disapprove of, even if you haven’t read it?’
‘Certainly. This is a very serious matter. I can assure you,’ said Abu Mohammed, as ever choosing his words carefully, ‘there will be those calling for a fatwa on this infidel author and on the committee who chose to give publicity to his infamous libel.’
‘You’re surely not suggesting that these people should be murdered?’ asked the interviewer, his mock horror hiding his delight that the lunch-time programme was generating a story.
‘I am merely reflecting what will inevitably be the view of many people whose religion has been mocked. When we have an Islamic state, perpetrators of religious libel, like those practising homosexuality, adultery, fornication and bestiality, will be stoned to death.’
‘Thank you, Imam Mohammed. Today, at Prime Minister’s Questions, the Leader of the Opposition…’
Mary Lou switched off the radio. ‘It’s some committee I’ve joined. Unless it was Muslims who did the earlier murders, it looks as if we’ll have two lots of killers after us.’
The baroness emitted a cloud of smoke and smiled broadly. ‘Don’t pay any attention to that idiot,’ she said. ‘Our job is to sort out the idiots who would like to prevent me having my way. Let’s get on with it.’
***
Amiss arrived at the little Italian restaurant early, and was sitting at the table reading the current Wrangler and drinking a Campari when Rachel touched his shoulder. He jumped up and kissed her on the right cheek. ‘I don’t do the kiss on both cheeks since some people started doing right, left, right,’ he said. ‘I’m too uncoordinated.’
She smiled wanly and sat down.
‘You’re looking good, Rachel.’
‘Honestly, Robert?’
‘Honestly, no. I was lying. You look tired and pale and too thin.’
‘That’s about how I feel, but I’m better than I was.’ She looked up at the hovering waiter. ‘I’ll have a Campari too, please.’
In the awkward few moments that followed, they took refuge in exchanges about a menu which did not much interest either of them. Then, when food had been ordered and a bottle of Frascati had arrived, Rachel looked squarely at Amiss. ‘I know roughly from Mary Lou what’s been going on with you. Do you want to know what’s been going on with me?’
‘Very much.’
‘Broadly, I left you for a creep.’
‘What happened to the principled, high-minded Eric who was going to make the world a better place?’
‘I suspect he never existed, but if he had, he didn’t survive the corruption of power. And he certainly didn’t survive the disappointment of losing it.’
‘How long had you been together when you went off him?’
She gave a strained laugh. ‘A couple of months. No, that’s not true, but that’s when the occasional nagging doubt surfaced. I was ready to leave and then he was fired so…’
‘So you had to stand loyally by him?’
‘Yes. How could I stop working for him and throw him out of my flat when he was down on his luck? And, in truth, I couldn’t bear that anyone—including Eric—would think that I was chucking him for selfish reasons. So a mixture of compassion and vanity kept me at his side until a couple of months ago.’
‘I u
nderstand the dilemma. Tell me, what was the worst thing about him?’
‘He was so self-important. And never any fun. You were right when you accused me of having succumbed to a prig-virus.’
‘Maybe, but I was being so irritatingly uncertain at the time that someone with a sense of purpose must have seemed very attractive.’
‘That’s true. We hadn’t learned how to live together, Robert. And I was amazingly naïve about politicians. Now what about you?’
‘We’ll get to me in a minute. What are you working at now?’
‘Nothing. I’m having a crise about what to do with myself. I don’t want to go back to the Foreign Office—even if they’d have me after my bad behaviour in going off with a minister. And I definitely don’t want to have anything to do with politics again. I’ve been looking in the appointments pages and so far haven’t found anything I want. But I’m not going to rush into anything this time.’
‘You sound like me.’
‘Mary Lou said you were writing a book. What kind of book?’
‘I don’t really want to talk about it until it’s finished and it’ll probably never get published, but I can assure you it’s not the sort of thing that would appeal to the average Knapper-Warburton judge.’
‘The average judge seems to be dead.’
‘Come now, it’s only a minority who’re dead. Anyway, it’s an old-fashioned detective story, I’m doing. Retro, that’s what I’m going for. There’s so much mystery fiction around these days that is harrowing or disgusting that I thought fashion was sure to change. It’ll be the kind of book you’ll be able to give your maiden aunt without any fear of being subsequently disinherited.’
‘In my present state that sounds like my sort of book. Now, what’s going on with that bloody committee? I was worried when I heard about Hermione Babcock. That’s what had me ring Mary Lou. And I got really worried when I heard about Wysteria Wilcox. I thought you might be in danger and I couldn’t bear not to talk to you. Even to offer you a refuge.’
Amiss smiled. ‘Well now, that’s the mystery solved. I murdered both of them so as to provoke you into getting in touch.’
Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery Page 17
