by Tim Heald
Half an hour later Monica sat up in bed, yawned, rubbed her eyes, and said: ‘Good God. Have you looked at yourself in a mirror?’
‘No.’
‘You look terrible.’
‘I feel terrible.’
‘You’d better have a drink.’
‘I’ve had a drink.’
She looked at him more closely. She was properly awake now.
‘Yes, you have, haven’t you? And you’ve fallen over. And why in God’s name are you wearing those ludicrous garments?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Well,’ she sighed. ‘Even if you don’t want a drink, I do.’
She got up and went out of the bedroom in search of scotch.
‘I’ll have one too,’ he called after her. She was wearing a sexy nightie, but he had to admit that compared with Honeysuckle Johnson she was on the plain side. Still, he was fond of her. At least he supposed he was; it was a long time since he’d bothered to think about it.
She came back with the glasses and gave him a kiss.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘That’s really nasty. Do you want a plaster?’
‘It’ll be all right.’
‘Well take those things off and get into bed and tell me all about it.’
He did as he was told. Eventually, when he’d told her everything, including the sexual assault, she sighed a long, long sigh and said: ‘And after all that you’re honestly going back to spend the weekend, and expecting me to go with you.’
‘Yes.’
‘But next time they may make a better job of you.’
‘It was a mistake.’
‘Like the kiss?’
‘Like the kiss.’
‘Huh.’
‘Huh what?’
‘People don’t make mistakes like that.’
‘They do in the dark.’
‘Even less in the dark.’
‘Anyway you don’t have to come.’
‘Oh, I’ll come. If you’re going to be bumped off by some loony in a stately-home I’d rather be around to see it. How are we getting there?’
‘The Rolls is coming at eleven. I think I’m going to make a list. Have you got a pencil?’ Bognor always made lists when under severe stress or when totally perplexed. It helped him to arrange his mind.
‘You are not, repeat not making a list. Not now. In the morning. If you want to know who did it, it was the McCrum.’
‘He couldn’t. He’d hurt his ankle.’
‘Subterfuge. Anyway I don’t mean the river, I mean the kiss. Much more important.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘Mmmm.’
‘Prove it.’
Next morning Bognor was struggling with his list and some scrambled egg when the phone rang. ‘It’s for you,’ said Monica, ‘Basil Lydeard.’
‘Basil Lydeard?’
‘Yes.’
Monica had her hand over the receiver. ‘Help,’ he said, ‘how do you address a Marquess on the phone?’
‘Your Grace?’
He took the phone from her. ‘Good morning, your… er, good morning, it’s Simon Bognor here. Can I help you?’
‘I found your name in the phone book,’ said Lydeard. ‘Not a very usual name. Any relation of Sir Humphrey?’
‘Distant.’
‘Ah. Old chum of mine. Give him my regards when you see him.’
‘Of course.
‘I’m in a phone box.’
‘Oh!’
‘I’m not ringing from Abney. Slipped out for a moment. So we can talk freely.’
‘Good.’
‘Yes. Well not to beat about the bush, I have a nasty feeling you didn’t fall last night. My hunch is you were pushed.’
‘Whatever makes you think that?’
‘I could be wrong, I suppose, but I think I have an idea who might have done it. Without wishing to tell tales, of course.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Just before it happened I was being chased by Grithbrice.’
‘Chased by Grithbrice? But we were supposed to be chasing him.’
‘I know that, only as you probably noticed the fellow was getting fearfully over excited. Anyway I gave him the slip, and then I think he made off towards the river, and pushed you in.’
‘But why should he do a thing like that? And why should he chase you in the first place?’
‘He knew I was on to them.’
‘Sorry?’
‘On to them. Him and the girl. All this Mangolan nonsense.’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Bognor. ‘This is an awfully bad line. Could you speak up?’
‘Mangolo,’ shouted Lydeard. ‘Brother of mine was governor there. Recognized that Johnson girl straight away. Bad lot those Johnsons. Smell them a mile off.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that Honeysuckle Johnson comes from Mangolo?’
‘Course. Must go now. Talk to you later. Someone coming.’
There was a click and the line went dead.
‘Funny,’ said Bognor, ‘Lydeard says the Johnson girl comes from Mangolo.’
‘That follows,’ said Monica.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Intuition maybe. She just sounds a bit too good to be true.’ The phone rang.
‘That’ll be him again,’ he said, ‘he had to hang up in a hurry. ‘Hello,’ he said into the phone. ‘Bognor speaking.’
There was the rapid ‘pip… pip… pip’ of a call box then his caller put the money in.
‘Hello, Bognor? It’s Tony Grithbrice here.’
‘Oh. Good morning.’
‘Look, I think I may owe you some sort of an apology for last night.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, I have a suspicion you didn’t fall into the river.’
‘Go on.’
‘Am I right?’
‘Um…’ Bognor decided to stall. This was becoming confused. He had hoped Grithbrice was going to confess. ‘Tell me more.’
‘It’s just a feeling I have, and Honey agrees. I think whoever did it was trying to get me.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I can’t swim.’
‘Can’t swim?’
‘No.’
‘You realize what you’re saying.’
‘That someone wanted to kill me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
Bognor sucked his teeth, another nervous tick which affected him, like list-making, in moments of stress or perplexity.
‘How many people knew you couldn’t swim?’
‘Oh, everyone. It’s a standing joke. There’s no secret about it.’
‘So who would want to kill you?’
‘Anyone you care to mention.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not exactly popular but there are a number of specific reasons. I’ll tell you later. Anyway I just thought I’d let you know.’
‘It’s very kind of you. I might add that if someone did push me in the river it might perfectly easily have been you.’
‘No motive.’
‘Because I was asking too many questions about the Umdaka.’
‘So?’
‘Well, your girl friend comes from Mangolo, doesn’t she?’
There was a pause and then he said tersely, ‘I suppose that interfering old bugger Lydeard told you that. He was in the phone box when I got here. I thought he looked shifty. I’ll have to talk to him.’ They were interrupted by more pips as the call box ran out of money. ‘No more change,’ said Grithbrice, ‘I’ll talk to you later when you arrive.’
‘Funny,’ said Bognor, putting the phone down. ‘Suddenly everyone wants to tell me things. I wonder why?’
‘It must be your frank open face and your winning boyish ways,’ said Monica. ‘More coffee?’
Bognor said yes and went back to the list. From the zoo he could hear indeterminate animal noises. They reminded him of his stately peers. One of them was a murderer. Worse, he appeared to be on the
verge of striking again. He pencilled in ‘Political motive’ against Johnson’s and Grithbrice’s names and sucked the pencil.
In the left-hand column of his list he had written down the name of each of Sir Canning’s guests as well as the Abneys themselves. Every one of them could have killed Maidenhead, except his wife Dora and Peter Williams, who were at the Compleat Angler. On the other hand it would have been no great problem for one of them—or both—to leave the hotel, go to Abney, shoot Maidenhead, and get back without being spotted. But risky. Grithbrice and his girl friend might have done it in the cause of African nationalism but that was far-fetched.
Sexual jealousy? Had Maidenhead really spent the night with Cosmo Green? Was there some business or financial motive? Green could help with that too. He remembered the little man tapping his nose at dinner the night before and felt in his pocket for the card. ‘Cosmo Green,’ it said, ‘Hook, Herefordshire, Telephone Number Hook One.’
‘I think,’ he said to Monica, ‘we’ll try to engineer a drink with Cosmo Green, before we actually get to Abney. I’ll get the Rolls to drop us off at the Feathers.’
An hour and a half later Monica and Bognor sat in the saloon bar of the Feathers, waiting for Cosmo Green. He had expressed himself delighted to be able to help, quite understood the need for discretion and had agreed to meet them in the pub at eleven-forty-five. Bognor ordered two gin and tonics and the two of them eavesdropped as the barman chatted to the only other occupant of the bar, a clergyman with a Welsh accent.
‘Big do down at the boat museum today,’ said the barman.
‘So I hear,’ said the cleric, who was drinking Guinness.
‘Mind, I don’t know it shows proper respect for the dead. And him not yet buried.’
‘Shocking business.’
‘Terrible.’
‘They do say,’ here the clergyman leant forward and they had to strain to hear, ‘they do say there’s a lot of carrying on. That Lady Maidenhead, for instance. Not a great example of marital fidelity, or so I believe.’
‘Come to that,’ the barman was also talking very conspiratorially, ‘they say old Freddie wasn’t above a bit of hanky-panky. Got himself a bit of Scotch crumpet, I heard.’
For a giddy moment Bognor wondered if they were talking about Mabel McCrum, but the clergyman was disputing it. ‘I’d always understood he was keener on men than women myself,’ he said, ‘though I shouldn’t say it really, him being only just dead.’
‘What Sid Grubb at the boatyard always used to say was “No member of either sex is safe with the Earl of Maidenhead in the back of a taxi,”’ said the barman. ‘Not that he ever had to take a taxi.’
Unfortunately this revealing conversation was halted by the entrance of Cosmo Green, who was wearing white flannel trousers, a yachting blazer with anchors on the brass buttons, and a beige turtle-neck shirt.
‘Simon, my boy,’ he said, removing the immense dark glasses which had been shielding his eyes and accentuating his nose, ‘I’m sorry to have kept you. And this must be Monica. Delighted to meet you, my dear, and what can I get you? Would a Pimms be nice? Three Pimms, if you please, barman, and a pint of what you fancy for yourself, and make one of the Pimms without a cherry if you wouldn’t mind.’ He indicated his stomach. ‘Have to watch the figure at my age, you know.’ He sat down and patted Simon on the knee. ‘Terrible business about last night. Terrible business. Whatever happened? You know if I didn’t think I was being silly I’d think you were pushed in the river. If you want to know what I think, I’m afraid we haven’t finished with all these unpleasant things.’
The Pimms came and they all said ‘Cheers’.
‘What can I do for you, then?’ asked Mr. Green.
‘Well,’ said Bognor, nervously. ‘For a start I wonder if you could tell us how well you knew the Earl of Maidenhead.’
‘Freddie?’ said Mr. Green, shaking his head and smacking his lips. ‘Like a brother.’
‘Through business?’
‘Through business to start with of course, but later on we were just buddies. Like I said, he was like a brother to me.’
‘I don’t want to seem personal, Mr. Green, but…’
‘Personal, personal, you go ahead, you be as personal as you like, and call me Cosmo. All my friends call me Cosmo.’
‘Well, did he owe you money?’
‘Sure he owed me money. They all owe me money. Sir Canning, he owes me money, the Grithbrice kid, he owes me money. Even old McCrum, he owes me money. Only person who doesn’t owe me money’s Lydeard. Would never lend him a farthing. Not a farthing. And for why? Because his security’s so terrible. Nothing to secure it with. Terrible.’
‘Did Maidenhead owe you a lot of money?’
‘Not as much as he did. A few thousand, that’s all.’
‘Really?’
‘Simon, I’d like to help you, but I can’t give numbers.’
‘Oh all right.’ Simon took a swig of Pimms. ‘Was your friendship with Maidenhead, well, was it anything more than a friendship? I mean.’ He went rather red. ‘I mean was it any more than…’
‘What Simon is trying to say,’ said Monica, ‘is “Was your relationship with the Earl of Maidenhead homosexual?”’
Bognor shut his eyes and counted to ten, but Mr. Green was unabashed. ‘Me and Freddie Maidenhead?’ he said, smiling. ‘You must be joking. Freddie and Mabel McCrum maybe. Me and Freddie, no. He was too much of a gentleman for that. Besides,’ he lowered his voice still further below the extreme sotto in which the conversation had so far been conducted, ‘that sort of thing never works when there’s money involved.’
There was a pause while they all drank more Pimms and avoided looking at each other. Then Mr. Green spoke again:
‘Tell you what, though. One or two things you don’t know. They may help you a bit. Abney and Grithbrice aim to merge, soon as Grithbrice’s old man passes over. “Abney-Arborfield Enterprises.” Joint publicity campaigns, joint ticket sales. Be a big business. Should do well, specially Stateside.’
‘Who would that threaten?’
‘Could threaten everyone.’
‘How would it have affected Maidenhead?’
‘Not too good. They tried to get him to come in on it.’
‘Oh?’
‘He didn’t play. Said he was big enough already.’
‘So that’s another motive?’
‘Another motive?’ asked Mr. Green. ‘You have one already?’
‘Sort of,’ said Bognor. ‘What else can you tell us? Was Maidenhead really having it off with Mabel McCrum?’
Mr. Green looked shifty. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about that,’ he said. ‘There’s no proof. So. You know we have a proverb in Yiddish which says “A fool is his own informer”. Shall we go?’
They drove on to Abney in Mr. Green’s emerald-green Aston Martin (number plate CG1), and on the drive Mr. Green used the car telephone to say they were coming.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Bognor to Lady Abney when they arrived. ‘But I wanted to have a quiet word with Mr. Green about business. I hope you don’t mind.’ Lady Abney gave his hand an extra squeeze, and was studiously polite to Monica. He wondered if it had been her the night before. She didn’t look strong enough.
Their room looked out over the Thames and across the National Trust land opposite, to Winter Hill. It was lavishly furnished with a fourposter bed, a fridge full of drink, a bottle of Balenciaga scent on the dressing table, and two John Pipers and a Helen Bradley on the walls. Bognor left Monica to unpack, and sauntered downstairs in the hope of finding someone else interesting to talk to. He had forgotten until the pub conversation that the grand opening was that afternoon, but it was not until four p.m. Because of it, there was a definite air of ‘business’ and there was no one about until he wandered into the library and found Basil Lydeard, immersed in Sporting Life.
‘Ah,’ said the Marquess, ‘I was having a gin. Have a gin.’ He rang a bell and a Spanish ser
vant appeared. ‘Pink gin for Mr. Bognor,’ he said, ‘and another for me. And a bit more gin this time, if you don’t mind.’ He waited until the man had left before saying, ‘Damn foreign servants. Won’t have them myself.’
‘That must make life difficult.’
‘We manage. Get a very good class of servant in our part of Somerset. None of your home counties’ nonsense.’
‘No. By the way, thank you for telephoning.’
‘Telephoning?’ He looked muddled, and then brightened. ‘Of course. Yes.’ The Spanish servant came back with the gins, which were large and almost neat.
‘Yes,’ continued Lydeard, when the man had gone. ‘Thought I ought to let you know. Wouldn’t do to have them hanging round the place when George Mangolo turns up. Could lead to no end of trouble.’
‘Yes.’ Bognor coughed on his gin. ‘Are you quite certain this Johnson girl comes from the same family as the ones you remember?’
‘Certain. Rang my brother Hubert to check. This one’s the worst of the lot. She’ll hang if they get her back. Deservedly too. Professional agitator of the worst sort.’
It seemed to Bognor that for a man with such an enviable reputation for charity and peacefulness Basil Lydeard was being unusually bloody and thundery. ‘I’ll have to look into it,’ he said.
‘You won’t get much chance today,’ said the Marquess morosely. ‘All these shenanigans over Canning’s steamboats. Place’ll be full of journalists.’ He pronounced the word ‘jawnalist’, and with contempt. ‘Rather have foreign staff than journalists.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think I’m getting a bit old for all this larking about with the bison. Never thought about having bison until Bath imported all those circus animals. Sometimes I think it might have been better to sell up. Still, there’s been a Lydeard at Lydeard since 1143 and I’m not budging, even if it means bison.’
‘Why did you open in the first place?’
‘Death duties, same as everybody else. Not that it makes much difference. Never made money out of opening. Lost a whole herd of bison during foot and mouth. Set me back a small fortune.’
‘Good heavens. How did you replace them?’
