by Tim Heald
‘In principle.’
‘He had a motive for killing Maidenhead because his wife, Mabel, was having an affair with him.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Practically.’
‘Well, make sure before you do anything about it. You’d better go and see him. In fact, I promised him you would. He claims he’s got conclusive proof that Grithbrice was responsible, but he won’t discuss it over the telephone. So you’ll have to go and see him.’
‘But it’s bloody miles!’
‘Four hundred and ninety-seven if you go by car and take the ferry. But you’re not. You’re booked on the sleeper from King’s Cross. Which means that you’ll be at McCrum Castle in time for porridge and finnan haddies with his ilk.’
Bognor was not amused. He rang Smith who was.
‘It’s why we were so keen to have you,’ he said. ‘I can’t afford to go chasing the wild geese. My expenses don’t stretch that far, and I’m indispensable anyway.’
8
THE SLEEPING CAR ATTENDANT woke him next morning at six-thirty with a small pot of British Rail tea and two anaemic biscuits. He had a mild hangover, as he and Monica had gone to a Russian restaurant in Fulham and had blinis and too much vodka. Blearily he pulled aside the blind and looked out. The train was running smoothly along the moor of Rannoch and it was raining. He could vaguely make out grey-green rock and the odd crag through the mist but the visibility was poor and the place looked desolate. The tea was cool and the biscuits uninteresting. He shivered slightly.
The previous afternoon he had telephoned Invercrum One and had spoken to Lady Mabel who had sounded relieved that he was coming. A car would be dispatched to Spean Bridge and breakfast, as Parkinson had predicted, would be waiting when he arrived. The trip was, he felt sure, a complete red herring. It would achieve nothing. As the train pounded along the eastern shore of Loch Treig he dressed slowly and shaved, peering out through the window in the direction of Stob Coire Easain, most of whose three and a half thousand feet were hidden in cloud and mist. Luckily he had brought an old riding mac, but he was going to need gumboots as well and he had an uneasy feeling that the McCrum was the sort of man who would insist on talking business over a fifteen-mile deer stalk. He was glad that the grouse season had yet to begin.
By the time they reached Spean Bridge he was tweeded-up and clean shaven, though he still suffered from a headache and a general malaise of damp and depression. Although he had only been into the public rooms of McCrum Castle and that a long time ago, he remembered it as wet, windy, wintry and gaunt. He wondered if he would be able to go back on the return sleeper, but Lady McCrum had said something about dinner and he knew that the last train left in mid-afternoon. He shuddered. No electric blankets at McCrum Castle, he bet. More like stone hot-water bottles.
Nobody else got out at Spean Bridge and the platform appeared to be deserted. He stood for a moment as the train drew out, and then, as the rain began to soak into his hair and his shoes, he trotted unenthusiastically towards the ticket office. Outside it he could see a single Land Rover parked in a large puddle. There was a man sitting in the driver’s seat, motionless.
Bognor ran across to the vehicle and tapped on the window. With a considerable show of reluctance the driver opened the window and stared at him. It was a red, stubbly, boorish face, surmounted by a tweed hat with a small feather in one side of the band.
‘Sorry,’ said Bognor. ‘Are you from McCrum Castle?’
‘I am.’
‘Well, I expect you’ve come to meet me, my name’s Bognor.’ He was beginning to get extremely wet. The rain was dripping off the bottom of the mac on to his knees and the puddle was soaking steadily into his suedes. The boorish person continued to look at him expressionlessly.
‘Happen,’ he said, enigmatically.
‘Look, I don’t want to seem importunate but I’ve just got off the train and I’m getting wet.’
‘You’ll be the gentleman from London.’
‘Of course I’m the gentleman from London.’
‘Well, there’s no use standing in the rain. You’d best put the case in the back and get in.’ The man made no move to assist, so Bognor, greatly irritated, did as he was told. Before he was properly in, the Land Rover started with a lurch, which almost threw Bognor into the windscreen. He said nothing. As they left the village he saw a hoarding by the side of the road. ‘Have a Highland Fling. Visit McCrum Castle. Highland Wildlife Park. Historic Home of Clan McCrum. Teas. Children Half Price.’ The McCrum evidently lacked the flair of his southern rivals. Even in the rain he could see that the notice was ill-designed and crudely lettered.
‘Filthy day,’ he said conversationally as they turned right at the commando memorial and took the main road to Fort Augustus.
‘Aye.’
‘Still, I expect the farmers will be pleased.’
‘Happen.’
He gave up. His chauffeur drove too fast for the conditions and after a further two miles turned sharply right and started to climb a narrow, steep, single-track road, which led through fir forests. Bognor had seen no signpost and imagined it was a back entrance. After a further few minutes they came to a lodge, with open gates and a cattle grid over which they rumbled.
A mile away across a Highland apology for a park he could make out the dim grey shape of the castle. As they drew nearer he recognized it from the recesses of memory: the wild Disney-like battlements, the great banner of the McCrums flapping sodden from the flagpole, the vast wooden doors, the minute slit-like windows, the mad phoney gloom of the place. The dour driver stopped the machine in a swirl of gravel and waited. Bognor got out and, since he was clearly to get no assistance, went to the back and hauled out his case. The Land Rover drove off immediately leaving him alone before the castle gates. He walked over to them and pulled at the heavy pendulous piece of wrought iron at one side. A moment later there was a distant clang and a baying sound which denoted large dog.
He waited. A minute or so later he heard shuffling noises from within and then the sound of bolts being drawn back. Then the door was opened a couple of inches and a thin, pale-faced woman peered out at him.
‘Not open this morning,’ she said. ‘Come back at three.’ By this time Bognor was so wet and so cross that before the door was closed again he put his foot in it.
‘I’ve come from London to see Sir Archibald,’ he said loudly.
The old woman looked unimpressed. ‘They all say that,’ she said. ‘London, did you say?’
‘Yes, London. Look, please will you let me in.’
Before she could reply, Bognor heard another noise of door-opening from within and a familiar voice called, ‘That will do, thank you, Mrs. Campbell. It must be Mr. Bognor.’
Mrs. Campbell withdrew her face from the chink in the doorway and a second later it opened a further couple of feet. It was Mabel McCrum.
‘My dear Mr. Bognor, I am sorry. You must be wet through. I’m so sorry. Do please come in. I’m afraid we’re having a terrible time with the staff. Mrs. Campbell has been with us years and years but she’s quite deaf and becoming more senile by the minute. I am sorry. I think it will be safer if I show you to your room myself.’
Minutes later she left him, after a long walk through cavernous corridors, in a large chamber which gave every impression of having been hewn from the living granite. She had given him detailed directions of how to get to the morning room where breakfast was waiting, but without a map he was not optimistic. He towelled himself down and wondered if there would be lumps in the porridge. There was a fireplace in the room, but needless to say no fire. The chimney had not been blocked off and the wind sighed down it, eddying out of the grate, flicking at the bottoms of the curtains and the corners of the counterpane and increasing his sense of unhappiness. Partly dry, he set off in search of breakfast and found it with surprising ease not two minutes later. Luckily his sense of smell had not deserted him.
Lady McCrum was as dumpy and plain as he remembered her. Bu
t she was nice with it. He supposed that for Freddie Maidenhead the niceness might have been an attraction after the very obvious nastiness of his own wife, but even so the relationship seemed surprising.
‘I hope you like kippers,’ she said brightly. ‘They come from Mallaig up the coast.’
‘Very much,’ he said. She pushed the bell under the table with her foot, and a few minutes later a maid came in. ‘Two pairs of kippers, please,’ she said, ‘and do ask cook not to overdo them this time.’ The porridge, meanwhile, was relatively lump-free, if tepid.
‘What a dreadful few days this has been,’ said Lady McCrum. ‘Poor Archie is absolutely beside himself with rage, but I’m afraid I just find the whole thing terribly depressing. But I expect you’re always dealing with sudden death and disaster.’
‘Not really,’ said Bognor, ‘I’m afraid most of my work is very dull. Where is your husband by the way?’
‘Oh,’ Lady Mabel flushed, ‘how silly of me, I quite forgot to tell you. He’s gone fishing. He thought he’d manage to get in a couple of hours before you arrived. I do hope he hasn’t forgotten.’
Bognor looked out of the window at the rain driving across the park and hiding the hills, and winced. His worst suspicions about the McCrum were confirmed. Lady McCrum noticed.
‘I’m afraid bad weather brings out the worst in Archie,’ she said. ‘I thought it might get better with age but if anything it’s worse. Sometimes he’s out all night with the ghillies. Last year when we had that dreadful blizzard he went for a swim in the loch.’
‘Was that wise?’
‘Not in the least. He caught a terrible cold, but he insisted it was nothing to do with the swim. He said it was the central heating. Apparently it’s a well-known fact that central heating gives you colds, but as our central heating hasn’t worked properly for at least fifteen years, it didn’t seem awfully likely.’
The kippers arrived. Bognor pronounced them excellent.
‘I’m so glad. We’re rather proud of them ourselves.’ She smiled at him and suddenly, to Bognor’s horror, burst into tears. He went on eating his kipper and pretended not to notice. After a while she mopped herself up with her small lace handkerchief and said, ‘I am sorry, Mr. Bognor. Please forgive me. It’s just that it’s such a relief to have someone to talk to.’
Bognor could think of nothing very apt to say. ‘Do please talk if it’s any help,’ he said, slightly spoiling the effect by having a mouth full of kipper.
‘Archie’s so insensitive about everything,’ she said. ‘All he’s interested in is doing down Grithbrice because he thinks he’s a bad show. He doesn’t seem to have any regrets about what’s happened.’ She paused and then said nervously, ‘I suppose you know about me and poor Freddie?’
‘I don’t know anything, Lady McCrum, but yes, I have heard things said.’
‘It’s true,’ she said in a very small voice and Bognor had a ghastly feeling she was going to burst into tears again. ‘It’s all true. I’ve tried to tell Archie, only he wouldn’t understand and he never listens. I don’t seem to be able to get near him any longer. Freddie was so gentle.’
Bognor had no wish to hear confession, not that he was lacking in sensitivity. Rather the reverse. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘you have no idea about who might have done it? Murdered Lord Maidenhead, I mean.’
Lady McCrum dabbed at her eyes again. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I have two sorts of ideas, but one of them’s so dreadful I can’t think about it.’
‘You mean,’ Bognor said it as gently as he knew how, ‘you mean that perhaps your husband might have done it?’
She nodded sadly, the tears cascading down her cheeks and making her make-up run. ‘Yes,’ she sobbed, making no attempt now to control herself. ‘And whatever I think about him, I couldn’t bear to lose both of them.’ She gave way to incoherent sobs. Bognor made comforting noises.
‘But you were with your husband all the time. You must know he couldn’t have done it.’
‘That’s just it,’ she said, between sobs. ‘He said he had an upset stomach and he got up to go to the loo at about ten to seven and he took a book with him and he didn’t come back for simply ages.’
‘He wouldn’t have gone all the way over to the shooting range, collected a .22, come back and shot Lord Maidenhead, put the rifle back in the range and come back to you, wearing his pyjamas and dressing-gown,’ said Bognor, trying to inject some realism into the situation.
‘You don’t know Archie,’ she said, dissolving into further hysterics.
Bognor got a kipper bone caught between two of his front teeth and spent some time wrestling it out. When he had done so, he said, ‘I still think it’s very unlikely. Do you think he might have found out about you and the Earl? I mean, it’s rather odd that he hasn’t said anything about it to you since.’
‘He’s been rather odd, that’s just it. I’m sorry, you must think me awfully childish and silly, but I’ve been so upset lately. It was The Law o’ the Lariat by Oliver Strange.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bognor, who had helped himself to toast, ‘what was?’
‘The book Archie took to the loo. He always reads westerns on the loo. He says it helps. He’s always had trouble like that. It’s been worse lately. I’ve always said he should try syrup of figs but he just doesn’t seem to listen. He never listens.’
The tears were getting him down. ‘I’m quite sure it was somebody else, Lady McCrum. There’s nothing to worry about.’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t Tony Grithbrice. He and Freddie were quite close until Canning Abney started intriguing. He was always intriguing. I expect you knew that. You couldn’t say something to Archie, could you?’
Bognor was perplexed. ‘How do you mean?’
‘About me and Freddie.’
‘It’s hardly my place to tell him something like that. I mean it is rather personal.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘don’t tell him anything, just find out if he knows. For all our sakes. But I’m sure he’d listen to you. You’re a man.’
He didn’t like the way the conversation was going, but she suddenly seemed pathetically eager and hopeful.
‘I am sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m neglecting you terribly. Do have some more coffee. But listen, don’t you see if you just mentioned it somehow in passing, while you were talking about the murders and things. I mean it could come out quite naturally, and you could treat it all as if it was terribly matter of fact and didn’t threaten him in any way. Couldn’t you?’
‘But just suppose,’ Bognor shifted his ground, ‘just suppose he had found out about you and Lord Maidenhead and that he did object and went out and shot him. What then?’
‘But you said you didn’t think he did.’
‘I don’t, but I don’t know.’
‘You will try, won’t you? Please?’
Oh God, thought Bognor, anything to stop that terrible wailing voice and that martyred expression. Out loud he said, ‘Yes, of course, Lady McCrum, I’ll try. I’ll do my best, I really will. Only of course it may not work.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said, with such genuine gratitude that Bognor immediately felt guilty. He drank more coffee and had another piece of toast.
‘You were saying,’ he said, ‘that you had two sorts of ideas. What was the other?’
‘The other?’ She looked blank and fingered her pearls. ‘You’re quite right, I did say there was another and for the moment I’ve quite forgotten what it was.’
‘Perhaps you thought someone else might have had a motive for killing the Earl of Maidenhead. Someone other than your husband.’
‘Of course. That horrid Mr. Green.’
‘Cosmo Green?’
‘Yes. He is unspeakable. I have nothing against him in principle, you understand. I mean, I’m not like that. I’m not in the least prejudiced. I know it’s a cliché to say it and you’ll probably laugh but some of my best friends are Jews. Really. Only Mr. Green is
such a Jewish little Jew. I really do think he might have killed Freddie. I really do.’
‘Go on.’ Bognor could see it coming. Money again. He knew that already.
‘Freddie owed him two hundred thousand pounds. He’d needed some new elephants and the ladies’ loos had to be done up. You’ve no idea what women get up to in lavatories, they’re far worse than men. Anyway there were all sorts of things he had to spend money on and the bank were being very difficult. You know how difficult banks can be these days. And then just when Freddie was going to take some of the silver down to Sotheby’s, Mr. Green came to dinner, and it all happened.’
‘But with respect,’ said Bognor, ‘two hundred thousand pounds is nothing to Cosmo Green. If Lord Maidenhead had never repaid it I doubt if Green would have noticed. He’s got millions, literally. He’s richer than Getty.’
‘It wasn’t as simple as that,’ said Lady McCrum. ‘In fact it was odious, quite odious. He wanted Freddie to do things in return for the loan. He didn’t say anything about it at first. Not until Freddie had bought the elephants and done the loos and everything. Then he suddenly turned round and said he wanted to go to a garden party at the Palace. Well, that was all right. Freddie got him in there without any trouble. Him and a friend mind you. But that wasn’t all.’
She fiddled under the table for the bell and suggested they moved to her drawing-room. It turned out to be the best room so far. It was high in a turret, octagonal and had fitted floral carpet. An off-cream pekingese sat on a sofa and there were family photographs everywhere.
‘Rather like blackmail,’ said Bognor, walking to the window and noticing with relief that the rain had stopped and the cloud cleared. The McCrum had evidently carried out a forestry programme since his last visit. The surrounding mountains were covered in small fir trees.
‘It was blackmail. First it was the Palace garden party. Then he wanted to meet Freddie’s friends. Racing people particularly, but anyone with a title seemed to do. Freddie gritted his teeth and had him to stay for a weekend, and he took him to lunch at the Turf and White’s. Then Freddie and Dora went to Hook for a weekend and had the Lincolnshires and the Berkshires in. And I believe they took Mr. Green to see Cynthia Worcester but Buffy Berkshire had warned her and she pretended to be out.’
