The baroness looked interested. ‘A stimulating train of thought, Mary Lou. Have you considered the possibility that Griffiths may have been only pretending that he wanted Pursuing the Virgins to win because he’s really concealing the fact that he’s a Muslim extremist.’
‘Thanks, Jack. Very helpful. OK, we’ll put Geraint down as a possible. What do you think about Ferriter?’
‘Can’t think of a motive, unless it’s a career move to homicidal mania,’ said Mary Lou brightly. ‘Next stop HomStud.’
‘Rosa?’
‘Maybe,’ said the baroness. ‘After all, the victims have been gender-balanced.’
‘You two aren’t taking this seriously,’ said Amiss.
‘How can we? Next you’ll be suggesting the parrot did it.’
‘Georgie?’ asked Amiss stubbornly.
‘For God’s sake, why?’ asked the baroness. ‘Porgie’s a child. How could he have a grievance against any of those oldies? Besides which, he’s frightened of his own shadow.’
‘The cops have already arrived at this conclusion,’ said Mary Lou, ‘which is why they’ve decided the judges and Georgie Prothero can all shack up together.’
‘Then there are Jungbert and Birkett.’
‘Who?’ asked the baroness.
‘The waiter and the butler.’
‘Ah, yes, I quite fancy the idea of Birkett the butler. He disappointed me over the lamb. Despite my instructions it was overdone: and a man who is unsound on how pink lamb should be is capable of anything.’
‘That makes anyone who doesn’t like bloody meat a potential mass murderer,’ said Amiss. ‘And it wasn’t overdone. Plenty of it was pink.’
‘Any ideas for a motive for Birkett?’ asked Mary Lou.
‘Maybe, like Griffiths, he has a secret life. Perhaps he disapproves of the honours system and is making his protest.’
‘Den Smith didn’t have a title,’ pointed out Mary Lou.
‘Birkett was trying to put us off the scent.’
Amiss drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I want to get through this before Dervla arrives, Jack. Will you please stop reducing everything to farce. The cops checked Birkett out and like the waiter and the chef, he was completely clean.’
‘So no one thinks any of the suspects are serious possibilities,’ said Mary Lou. ‘So who did it?’
‘Mad Muslims?’ asked Amiss.
‘I don’t like being fair,’ said the baroness, ‘but I’ve never heard of Muslims who go around murdering people without claiming the credit for it. Disinclined to hide their lights under bushels, I think you’ll find. And for all that they have a habit of being a bit random, to go out of their way to target Den Smith would seem a touch perverse.’
‘Besides,’ said Mary Lou, ‘wouldn’t they start with Geraint Griffiths?’
‘Indeed, they would,’ said Amiss. ‘He would be highly insulted otherwise. In fact even as it is he’s rather miffed he isn’t the main target—while obviously being pleased he’s not dead.’
‘So it’s someone who has something against the Knapper-Warburton Prize.’
‘Or its judges.’
‘Same thing, isn’t it?’
‘Let’s assume it is,’ said Mary Lou. ‘Somebody—perhaps because they feel they were done down by Knapper—decides to destroy his prize.’
‘Well, they’ve made a right hash of it then,’ said the baroness. ‘It must by now be well on its way to being the most famous prize in the world.’
‘Perhaps Knapper decided to destroy it because he can’t afford the prize money?’ suggested Mary Lou.
‘Hardly,’ said the baroness. ‘He’s worth about a hundred million.’
‘Someone who hates the whole literary world?’ suggested Mary Lou. ‘But then why would they pick on the Warburton?’
‘Why not?’ said Amiss. ‘It did, after all, have a particularly noxious cross-representation of literati.’
‘A blow against literary cliques, then?’ said the baroness. ‘That’s not a completely stupid idea.’
‘Pretty wide field,’ said Amiss. ‘I hadn’t even finished a book, but exposure to the Warburton had me loathing the complacent closed shop represented by Hugo and Hermione and their sneering attitude to what people like to read.’
‘Got it at last,’ said the baroness. ‘It’s murder by genre novelists. The massed ranks of British crime writers clubbed together to hire hit squads.’
‘From what I’ve heard,’ said Mary Lou, ‘it’s more likely to be the romantic novelists. They’ve a reputation for being vicious.’
‘If you’ll forgive me, ladies, I am determined to keep to the point. And the point we’ve reached, I think, is that the most likely perpetrator would be a writer with a grievance.’
‘And some inside knowledge of the literary world,’ said the baroness.
‘How much inside knowledge would you need?’ asked Mary Lou. ‘Your frustrated, angry author would only have to read the arts pages and the gossip columns to know about literary incest.’
‘And if he or she…oh shut up Jack,’ said Amiss, ‘if said frustrated, angry author was curious about the committee and used the Net like Ellis did, said frustrated, angry author would soon know that Hugo and Hermione and Den and Wysteria were all back-scratching vigorously and profitably.’
‘Excellent,’ said the baroness. ‘We’ve cracked it.’
‘Except for the little matter of finding the errant author in a haystack of the disappointed.’
‘Except for that,’ said the baroness. ‘Mary Lou, you’d better ring Ellis and tell him that’s what he’s got to do. And while he’s about it, tell him to have another look at Birkett.’ She stood up, stretched and marched across to the covered cage. ‘You can come out now, Horrie. You’ve parrot’s work to do. Get ready to cheer up young Dervla. And teach her to speak English while you’re about it.’
17
‘How are you all this morning, Robert?’
‘Better than yesterday, Jim. At least we’ve had a reasonable sleep and Dervla cooked us plenty of eggs and bacon so we’re fortified for our journey.’
‘How is she?’
‘Dervla? Much improved. She was very shaky and tearful when she arrived, but she calmed down a lot, Mary Lou was very good with her and Jack distracted her by getting her to teach the parrot to say “faith and begorrah.”’
‘Did she succeed?’
‘Hard to know with that parrot. It fixes you with its beady eye and keeps you guessing until a time of its own choosing.’
‘Dervla told Ellis she’d had a dreadful time with Ferriter and co.’
‘Yes. Apparently Ferriter and Rosa were semi-hysterical and Geraint made them worse by going on and on about Islamic conspiracies, so she hid in her room until your people arrived to get her.’
‘Poor child.’
‘That’s what we all keep saying. I think we’re getting old. How are you getting on?’
‘Planning the serial murder of some of my bosses.’
‘Starting with your AC?’
‘Too damn right starting with my AC.’
‘Presumably Ellis told you about our great brainstorming session yesterday.’
‘Indeed he did, but there’s not a lot we can do, what with the country being full of unsuccessful writers or would-be writers. We’d already checked with families and friends about who might have a grudge against any of the dead and I wouldn’t quite know where to start with trying to find out what person or persons unknown has a grudge against the whole literary establishment. So we press on with the more mundane end of things—grubbing around among the low life trying to find out where the ricin came from, who did the hits, that kind of thing.’
The baroness stuck her head around the door. ‘There you are, gab, gab, gab as usual. Come on, come on, transport’s arrived and it’s time to be off.’
‘In a minute, Jack. Jim and I are just finishing.’
&
nbsp; ‘Ah.’ She advanced on him, making an imperious hand gesture. ‘Pass him over.’
‘I’m afraid she wants you, Jim. Bye.’
The baroness grabbed the phone. ‘Two things.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been worrying about where we’ll have our celebratory dinner.’
‘When we’ve got something to celebrate.’
‘We will soon. I’ve decided on ffeatherstonehaugh’s.’
‘That’d be good. I haven’t been there under the new dispensation.’*
‘The new chef is excellent. However, I particularly want his knuckle of veal but when I rang him this morning he told me he’s having problems with the butcher. So there may be a delay.’
‘I’ll be patient, Jack. What’s the second thing?’
‘Have you given him the Third Degree?’
‘Who?’
‘Birkett.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Jack, why Birkett? Ellis said you had taken against him because of the food.’
‘That wasn’t wholly serious. It’s just a hunch. Thought him a bit too interested in me.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Kept looking at me strangely. And often.’
‘All right, Jack. Just to please you, I’ll have Birkett checked out again. Now can you put Robert back on?’
As the baroness marched out calling, ‘Mary Lou, Mary Lou, hurry up!’ Milton said to Amiss, ‘Robert, Jack seems to think that Birkett was looking at her suspiciously and often. Apart from not knowing what’s significant about that, is she right?’
‘Everyone kept looking at her—mostly as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. She was dressed in a manner one might justly call “striking” and she expressed quite a few arresting opinions over lunch. What’s more, when she got to the cigar stage, she pulled her chair back and her rucked-up skirt revealed silver satin directoire knickers at which everyone, including Birkett and the waiter, gazed incredulously. Jack’s not always a good reporter of how people react to her since most of the time she’s under the impression that her appearance and behaviour are normal. On that occasion, even by her standards, and, indeed, the standards of Geraint Griffiths and Den Smith, they weren’t.’
‘Thought as much,’ said Milton.
***
On the way to the new location, the baroness announced she wished to stop at a wine shop and a good delicatessen; protests from the police escort were overridden. The group reached a country house in Sussex at five-thirty, about ten minutes before the Ferriter-Rosa-Griffiths contingent, now augmented by Georgie Prothero. After a brief introduction to Mary Lou, on the baroness’ instructions the newcomers were shown first to their bedrooms and then to the drawing room, where they found the baroness busily filling glasses and the parrot bawling ‘Prothero, Prothero, Prothero’ in the corner.
‘What’s that fuckin’ bird doing here?’ demanded Griffiths.
‘And why does it know my name?’ asked Prothero nervously.
‘Horace is keeping Jack company,’ said Mary Lou soothingly, ‘and he knows lots of names. It’s just that he particularly likes the sound of Prothero.’
‘It has a swagger to it,’ observed the baroness.
‘Don’t panic,’ roared the parrot. ‘I’m in charge. Stap me vitals and burst me britches. Faith and begorrah.’
Dervla giggled and clapped. ‘At last. That’s, like, so…awesome.’
‘Dervla put a lot of work into teaching him yesterday,’ explained Amiss, ‘but this is the first time he’s actually uttered the words “faith and begorrah.”’
‘Why would you want to teach him such a stereotypical Irish phrase?’ asked Rosa.
Dervla looked crushed.
‘For fun,’ said the baroness. ‘She taught it to him for fun, Rosa. It’s time you got it into your earnest head that fun is good and we need all of it we can get. Especially now, which is why I’ve provided champagne. Help yourselves, drink to being alive and then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.’
Everyone obeyed instructions, and though Ferriter and Rosa stayed glum, the others brightened up. Getting into the spirit of things, the parrot went into a sudden blast of ‘God Save the Queen.’
‘Good idea, Horrie,’ said the baroness. ‘We’ll have a loyal toast as well.’ She waved her glass around. ‘Her Majesty,’ she cried. Following suit, Amiss and Mary Lou looked appreciatively at the disbelieving faces of Ferriter and Rosa, both of whom pointedly abstained.
The baroness threw herself into the biggest armchair in the room. ‘That’s enough of that. Everyone sit down. Mary Lou, keep the champagne circulating. Robert, switch on the news so we can find out if any more of us are dead. Then we’ll get down to business.’
‘Stow the parrot,’ said Mary Lou, as Horace began stapping his vitals again; the baroness grumblingly stood up again and stuffed him into his cage. She was back in her chair with her feet up on a coffee table as the BBC announced that the administrator of the Knapper-Warburton had been taken into protective custody; there followed a clip from Prothero’s appearance on the night of Hermione’s death. There was then a dull statement from a spokesman for several writers’ organisations protesting about this assault on artistic integrity and demanding that the police find the murderers without delay so the imprisoned judges could be released. Dervla became annoyed when her mother came on crying and begging the Prime Minister to save her daughter.
‘That’s sooooooo out-of-order, Mammy.’ Mammy, it emerged, had been instructed by Dervla that very morning to stay away from the press, but, being a prima donna, had been unable to resist television.
‘My little girl,’ she sobbed. ‘My poor little Dervla. Away in a dark prison with no mammy to comfort her.’
‘Your mother certainly knows how to ham it up,’ observed the baroness.
‘That’s, like, my mammy.’
The scene abruptly changed to a motorway pile-up. ‘Switch it off, Robert.’
It was a strange inversion of Reality TV, Amiss thought, as he followed instructions. Instead of the outside world watching this small group holed up in a compound, the group in the compound were watching the outside world. The baroness disturbed his train of thought.
‘Right, everyone. I’ve talked to Knapper and told him we’re going to go through with it.’
‘Are we?’ asked Rosa tremulously.
‘Of course we are. What else can we do? Any objections?’
‘I’m fuckin’ with you,’ said Griffiths. ‘Fuckin’ with you all the way.’
‘I appreciate that, Geraint. But I’d appreciate it even more if you didn’t say “fuckin’” every second word.’
Griffiths looked surprised. ‘Do I?’
‘You fucking do and it gets on my nerves.’
‘What should I say instead?’
‘Try “by George”.’
‘OK, I’ll try, by George.’
The baroness beamed at him. ‘Well done. Now that’s settled, Knapper asked me to thank you all and tell you he’s behind you.’ She snorted. ‘Three thousand miles behind you, as a matter of fact: I don’t think he’ll be leaving New York in a hurry. I told him that since we were enduring the heat and burden of the day, a bit of the folding stuff wouldn’t go amiss to compensate people and he said that strictly without prejudice and out of the kindness of his heart he’ll give everyone a bonus of twenty thousand pounds. Including Georgie.’ She looked around. ‘There now, that’s brightened things up a bit, hasn’t it?’
It had. Even Rosa managed a little smile.
‘He’s already given instructions to cancel the big awards dinner. There’ll be a simple ceremony instead. And Knapper agrees too that we’d better hurry things up, so tonight we’re choosing the short-list.’
‘How can we do that?’ squeaked Ferriter.
‘Tricky question of etiquette here, I acknowledge. We’ve four dead judges and one new one who’s read only a few of the books. I’ve given i
t some thought and this is what we’re going to do. As a tribute to our departed colleagues, we’ll put on the short-list what we believe would have been the favourite book of each of them. We’ll discuss that now. And after that we’ll eat the picnic I brought with me today. By tomorrow at ten I want each of the living judges—except Mary Lou—to put forward their choice of three and we’ll fight it out and agree a short-list which Mary Lou will read at great speed so she can then participate in choosing the winner. Which we’ll do as quickly as is possible.’ She looked around the circle. ‘Any objections?’
It was as if there was no vitality left in any of them, Amiss would report later to Rachel. To a man they nodded obediently.
The baroness pointed at Prothero. ‘You take notes.’
‘Yes, Jack.’
‘Yes, Madam Chairman. We’re still a committee and we need to observe the conventions. Now, could I have your views on which book Lady Babcock would have chosen? Lady Karp? Professor Ferriter?’
‘Babushka Mirrored, I think. She said it wasn’t just post-modern, with its rejection of moral absolutism, but it was post-postmodern in its…’
The baroness cut in. ‘Mr Amiss, help me place it.’
‘It’s the one about the novelist who’s writing a book about a novelist writing a book about a novelist writing a…’
The baroness groaned. ‘Yes, yes, it comes back to me. Seven layers of wankery. Lady Karp, do you agree with Professor Ferriter?’
‘Oh, yes. Hermione was so moved by the significance of the imagery, the universality of the suffering, the cosmopolitan…’
‘And by the fact that it was written by her colleague Edward Cumming,’ added Amiss, to a glare from Rosa. ‘She wasn’t really prepared to give house-room to any other contender.’
‘Dr Griffiths?’
‘I don’t know what she wanted. I didn’t pay any fuck…by George attention, since the purpose of the whole business from where I stood, by George…’
The baroness nodded. ‘Fine. Unless someone objects, Babushka Mirrored goes on the list as Lady Babcock’s choice. Whatever her reasons.’
Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery Page 20
