‘It didn’t seem appropriate. I don’t think one is encouraged to bring guests to safe houses, is one, Ellis? Anyway, Rachel will be looking after Plutarch.’
‘My goodness, she really must have fallen for you all over again. She used to be singularly unappreciative of that excellent cat.’
‘She’s still unappreciative. Just more tolerant. Now, please, can Ellis tell the story from the beginning? I find myself strangely interested.’
‘When I was rung with the news about Hurlingham, I got up, rang Jim, agreed on the safe-house strategy, set it in motion and warned Mary Lou to get herself and Jack ready. Your phone was off and Dervla and Ferriter and Den Smith weren’t answering, but I got through to Griffiths, who told me he was just back from a debate in Cambridge where he’d wiped the floor with Den Smith, who, unlike him, was staying overnight. That was a bit of a relief, since we thought it meant Smith was safe.
‘Griffiths sounded almost pleased at the news about Hugo— not that he was glad he was dead, but that it showed his heavy warnings had been justified. Still, he was nonetheless extremely happy to hear he was going to be looked after. Jim then got through to Rosa’s husband, who sounded very relieved to hear she was going to be taken away. “She’s been completely hysterical, poor thing,” he said. “Luisa and I have been trying to calm her for hours.”’
‘Who’s Luisa?’ asked Amiss.
‘Yet another Filipino housekeeper.’
‘Wonderful, these lefties,’ said the baroness. ‘Someone told me Den has one too. They’re bleeding the Philippines dry of its workforce so they can have their houses cleaned and they still call themselves international socialists.’
Pooley ignored her. ‘The husband was extremely nervous at the thought of how she’d take the news about Hugo, but he went off to tell her and get her ready to leave. I was on my way to Dervla and Jim to Ferriter when we heard from Cambridge.
‘Ferriter was in an awful state, apparently. They knew he was in because the doorman said so, but he wouldn’t answer either the phone or his doorbell, so in the end Jim had to get the doorman to use his master key. Jim said he kept crooning in a low, calm voice as he went through the flat, “It’s all right, sir, it’s just the police and we’ve come to look after you,” but Ferriter was actually sobbing with fright and—it turned out—drink, so it took quite a while to sort him out. In the end, Jim had to help him pack.’
‘And you, meanwhile, were off to see the gorgeous Dervla, you lucky old thing,’ said the baroness lasciviously.
Pooley glared at her. ‘Dealing with a sick, terrified child is not an erotic experience, Jack.’
‘You’re always so negative…’ began the baroness, and then, remembering her promise, she waved a placatory hand. ‘Carry on.’
‘Turned out Dervla had fainted after some event that evening. Though she’d had four bodyguards who took her back to the Ritz, they’d just parked her on the sofa and left. Still, she’s a resilient little thing and she was very rational about it.’
‘So where is she now?’ asked the baroness and Amiss in unison.
‘In a similar hideaway with Ferriter, Rosa Karp and Griffiths.’
‘The poor child,’ said the baroness. ‘That’s cruel and unusual punishment and she doesn’t deserve it. Why didn’t you bring her here?’
‘It’s just the way it worked out logistically.’
The baroness sat up and set down her glass with a bang. ‘We should all go to bed now. My view is that you have a straightforward choice. Either one of the committee is the murderer, in which case you should find everyone separate homes—except for us, since we’d have murdered each other years ago if we were ever going to do it—or none of us is, so you should find somewhere that accommodates us all.’ She held up her hand. ‘In any event, that child should be with us. A.S.A.P.’
‘Agreed,’ said Amiss.
‘Agreed,’ said Mary Lou.
‘What’s more,’ said the baroness, ‘my thinking is that moving in a leisurely fashion toward the publication of the short-list and the grand prize-giving evening when the winner is announced is no longer a luxury anyone can afford. We all need to get together to find a way of dealing with these…unusual circumstances. This, I suggest, we might do better if we were in secure premises together.’
‘Got you,’ said Pooley.
‘Then see to it. But if it’s going to take time to decide, fetch us Dervla first. Oh, yes. One more thing. What about Georgie Porgie?’
‘What about him?’
‘Isn’t he a target? And isn’t Knapper? And the butler and the chef and the waiter for all I know?’
Pooley looked worried. ‘Jim and I were focusing on the committee, but now you mention it, I’ll get on to him and see what he thinks.’
The baroness yawned again. ‘Good. Now, if you’ll forgive me for being so pathetic, it’s four-forty-five and I’m going to bed.’
***
Amiss’ day began at eleven, when he rolled over, peered at his watch and rang Rachel’s mobile. After a few minutes, he felt reassured that last night had not been a mirage, but mindful of the unpropitious circumstances, he kept his emotions in check.
‘I haven’t heard any news or seen any newspapers.’
‘If I were you I’d have a shower and, preferably, have something to eat before you face what the world is saying. The story is huge and for anyone involved, it’s extremely frightening. I wish I were with you.’
‘Ditto. Where are you now?’
‘Attending to Plutarch. She glared at me threateningly when I turned up, but the salmon seemed to placate her.’
‘Was it wild?’
‘It was tinned. She’s a cat. Not Jack Troutbeck.’
Amiss rolled over again. ‘It’s so good to have you back, Rachel. Now I’ll get up.’
***
‘“CARNAGE ON THE COMMITTEE” is good,’ observed the baroness, ‘but on the whole I think I prefer “EXECUTION OF THE EGGHEADS.”’ She turned over a few pages. ‘Well, Mary Lou, you’ve certainly become quite a pin-up. Dervla had better look to her laurels.’
‘I’m not pleased, Jack, but at least they haven’t yet found out about me and Ellis.’
‘Is there any sign of said Ellis?’ enquired the baroness. ‘Any news of what plans he might have for us? Not that I’m complaining, you understand.’
Mary Lou shook her head and continued perusing newsprint until her phone rang and she left. Besides papers, the kitchen table also held the debris of the scrambled eggs and bacon she had prepared earlier for the three of them as well as for two hungry policemen. The baroness fished around for a while among the broadsheets for items of interest and then got up and went into the living room, from which soon came sounds of loud whistling and ringing telephones. She returned with the parrot on her shoulder, but as soon as she sat down, ignoring her imprecations, he began to climb up her hair, until, crying ‘Shiver me timbers,’ he reached his favourite spot, commenced the gentle cooing he had learned from the St Martha’s pigeons and then tucked his head under his wing and fell asleep.
‘I thought you were going to train him out of that,’ said Amiss. ‘You should pray that the tabloids don’t get to hear that you wear a parrot on your head. They might infer that you’re eccentric.’
She was not paying attention. ‘Where’s Mary Lou?’
‘On the phone to Ellis, billing-and-cooing like Horace.’
‘Hmmm. They don’t spend enough time together. It’s time they stopped pussyfooting around and got married. She’s going to have to do something about that.’
‘Like what?’
The baroness sighed. ‘She’d better move to London.’
‘How would you get on without her?’
She sighed again. ‘Not the point. I’ve never been one to mess up Love’s Young Dream and I’m not going to start now. She doesn’t have to abandon St Martha’s totally; she can be a Visiting Fellow. And I’ll find something
to distract me from my loss.’
‘You’re not really as selfish an old trout as you like to pretend, are you?’
‘I’m more a self-centred old trout than a selfish one. Now, don’t tell Mary Lou what I said just yet; this is not the right time for her to be contemplating major changes. Besides I want to give more thought to what she should do in London instead of being an academic. It’s time she got out of that world. I don’t want her youth and beauty worn down by bureaucrats and halfwits.’
Mary Lou came bounding in. ‘Ellis says Dervla will be delivered here this afternoon. Knapper has prudently gone off on a business trip to New York where he intends to stay until this is resolved, but Georgie Prothero’s on his way to replace Dervla in the House of Horrors. Higher authority has decided that there’s absolutely no reason to believe that this is anything more than a grudge against the Knapper-Warburton, so we’ll all be reunited tomorrow in a new location.’
‘Are we sure we’re sure our co-judges are in the clear?’ asked Amiss.
Mary Lou looked at her watch. ‘Let’s get the one o’clock news and talk about the judges afterwards.’ They moved into the living room and she switched on the television. The portentous music played against a backdrop of the deceased quartet of judges, in front of which sat a well-made-up blonde trying to look serious. Horace woke up with a start and began wolf-whistling.
‘If any of the rest of us gets knocked off, there won’t be room for our photographs on the screen,’ shouted the baroness over the din.
‘Horace, Jack. Please!’ said Mary Lou. The baroness pushed the parrot back into his cage, as the blonde was explaining that the Home Secretary had promised to make available to the Metropolitan Police ‘whatever resources they need to hunt down the killer of Lady Babcock, Den Smith, Sir Hugo Hurlingham and possibly also Lady Wilcox. In the meantime, the surviving judges of the Knapper-Warburton Prize are under armed police protection at an unknown location.’ Behind her the images changed to photographs of the baroness, Amiss, Mary Lou, Dervla, Griffiths, Ferriter and Rosa Karp. ‘There now,’ said Mary Lou. ‘They managed to fit us all in just fine.’
‘And now we cross to Scotland Yard where Detective Superintendent James Milton is about to read a statement to the media.’
‘God, he looks terrible,’ said the baroness.
‘He hasn’t had any sleep since the night before last,’ said Mary Lou, ‘and Ellis says the AC is making his life hell by blaming him for not protecting the judges even though the AC was the one who insisted Wysteria had had an accident and there was no threat.’
‘We deeply sympathise with the families, friends and many admirers of these four gifted people,’ announced Milton. ‘We know definitely that three of the four have been brutally murdered, and although we do not wish to pre-empt the coroner, we are working on the assumption that Lady Wilcox’s death was no accident either. This is a time for action rather than words. The other Knapper-Warburton judges are well and safe and we are working day and night to find the murderer.’ Shouted questions flew at him. ‘I’m sorry, but I will not be answering questions. We have to get on.’ And Milton turned and walked back into New Scotland Yard.
‘Good statement,’ said the baroness. ‘Economical with the bullshit.’
‘And here is our Home Affairs correspondent, Gavin Jenkins. Gavin, this is all terrible, isn’t it? Do you think the police are doing enough?’
‘Well, Fiona, there’s a big question mark over the police performance to date. People are asking why, after the second death, that of Lady Wilcox, were the other judges not given police protection and why the investigation was led by a Detective Chief Superintendent and not by someone of a higher rank. There will be some relief that the investigation has been taken over by Assistant Commissioner Robinson, whose professionalism is beyond reproach.’
‘Thank you, Gavin. Now, the literary world is in mourning today. The Secretary of State for Culture, Sports and Media had this to say this morning.’ A worried, earnest woman in black read to camera a statement considerably longer than Milton’s and almost devoid of any content other than general concerned clucking about tragedies and reiterations of the government’s commitment to the arts. ‘But not all writers are prepared to grieve in private. Here in the studio is Billy Jones, the radical performance poet, who has just formed “Artists against Violence against Artists.”’ She turned to a balding man wearing a T-shirt saying ‘THE CLASH.’ ‘Mr Jones…’
Jones held up a chiding hand. ‘Billy, please. We’re at the cuttin’ edge, us, not part of the bleedin’ Establishment.’
‘I was a toddler when The Clash were the cutting edge…’ remarked Amiss.
‘Never heard of them,’ said the baroness.
‘Punk band,’ said Amiss. ‘Political punk.’
‘Sssssssssshhhhhhhhhh!’ said Mary Lou.
‘So, Mr Jones, the purpose of your march to Downing Street is…?’
‘To demand that the government stop this pogrom against writers. We agree wif Den Smith, who always said it like it was. A beacon that guy, a guy what gave his life for his beliefs. Only yesterday he gave the world a last, great poem that’s now electrifying the globe. “Stiff George Bush and his poodle Tony Blair,”’ he intoned, ‘“hired to sniff…”’
The presenter waved at him agitatedly. ‘I’m sorry, Billy, but we cannot allow you to recite that poem on prime-time television while there are children watching.’
‘Typical,’ said Billy Jones. ‘He’s been murdered, and he’s still being censored. I’ll tell you one thing, Fiona, that poem’s going all round the world on the Net and by the time we’ve finished chanting it all the way down Whitehall and in front of Downing Street and handing it out to passers-by, there’ll be a lot more people out there who know why Den Smith was killed.’
‘What are you suggesting, Billy?’
‘I’m suggesting what everyone knows. That like Den always said, there’s a lot that’s sinister going on in the West. We’ll be demanding of the poodle that he set up a public inquiry to see why securocrats are murdering artists.’
‘What possible evidence do you have for such an assertion, Billy?’
‘We’re artists. We don’t need evidence, we’ve got our intuition.’
‘Thank you, Billy Jones. Now Susie Briggs will take us through the careers of these four great English people of letters—now sadly lost to the nation.’
‘Oh, God Almighty,’ said the baroness, ‘there’s a paranoid lunatic born every minute. Can we not do something more useful than watch what our Irish cousins would rightly call shite?’
Amiss reached for the remote control and switched the television off. ‘I was just thinking that,’ he said. ‘OK, guys, let’s talk it through before Dervla arrives. I’ve scribbled a few thoughts down.’ He pulled a chequebook from his inner pocket and looked at the back. ‘Ah, yes. Now, only a few days ago, the prime suspects for Hermione’s murder were those who could have slipped her the ricin: her husband, housekeeper, the committee, Georgie, the butler, the waiter and the mysterious Ed. Out, I think, go Sir William Rawlinson and Alina. I decline to believe either or both were prepared to hire gangs of hitmen to murder Den and Hugo so they could screw without fear of interruption. OK?’
‘Fair enough,’ said the baroness.
‘Ditto Edward Cumming. Since Hermione was pushing his pseudy book it seems difficult to think of a motive for him to murder her. Nor indeed did he have to own up to seeing her that morning.’
‘Can’t rule him out,’ said Mary Lou.
‘I suppose not completely. He might secretly have hated his own book and have brought a flask of poisoned coffee on the off chance she’d want some. But for practical purposes, I think we forget about him for now.’
‘I agree,’ said the baroness. ‘I’m getting bored.’
‘Now,’ said Amiss patiently, ‘when Wysteria died, alibis were checked and some of the committee were in the clear. But that’s no longer
relevant. Each of the drive-by shootings was done by two people, which means the murderer had at least four employees. This looks to be a managerial rather than a hands-on murderer, so for all we know, he or she could have delegated the murders of Hermione and Wysteria as well.’
‘Oh, don’t start that “he or she” rubbish,’ said the baroness. ‘He embraces she or rather her or even me if I’ve got anything to do with it.’
Amiss ignored her.
‘So those with alibis go back to being suspects,’ said Mary Lou.
‘Yes,’ said the baroness. ‘But since we now know all the murders could have been delegated, judges are no more likely suspects than anyone else.’
‘Except that individual judges might have some plausible motive.’
‘Like who?’
‘Let’s go through them systematically,’ said Mary Lou. ‘Robert’s right. If we’re to share a house with them, it’d be good to know they’re in the clear.’
‘There are only five survivors from the original nine,’ said Amiss. ‘I didn’t do it, so that leaves four, and call me a sentimentalist, but I don’t see Dervla as a homicidal maniac.’
‘Not least,’ pointed out the baroness, ‘that from what you tell me, she’s so well-known she’d be instantly spotted if she went scouring the East End for competent gangsters. And anyway, none of them would have understood what she was looking for. However, I don’t think we should get hung up on homicidal maniacs; our murderer might be absolutely rational.’
‘Accepted. Now we’re down to three.’
‘Geraint is all mouth and no trousers.’
‘You say that,’ said Mary Lou, ‘but weren’t the four dead judges all against Pursuing the Virgins?’
‘They were, but so are all the rest of us. It can’t win the prize unless we’re all dead, and I think someone just might smell a rat if Griffiths were the only survivor. They might even cancel the prize.’
‘Still, the book has done brilliantly as a result of all the publicity,’ said Mary Lou. ‘Perhaps Griffiths is in cahoots with the author, or in his pay, or actually wrote it himself. Or perhaps it’s the author who’s doing the murdering.’
Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery Page 19
