by Tim Heald
‘I don’t like the look of this much,’ said Bognor. ‘I’m famished.’
‘It’ll do us both good,’ said his wife without conviction.
‘I do not wish to be done good,’ said Bognor, ‘I do not want magret de canard with ginger and raspberry vinegar nor ceviche of swordfish marinated in dill nor calves’ liver in a sauce of elderflower wine and wild Wiltshire truffles.’
‘No,’ said Monica. ‘Do you think we should slip out and find a fish and chippy or a take out tandoori?’
‘Too late,’ said Bognor, ‘Felix is coming to take our order.’
Felix recommended the dishes of the day in a tastefully discreet whisper and they both, reluctantly, ordered breast of guinea fowl in a choux pastry. Bognor chose a decent claret from the gratifyingly decent wine list. Only when this had been accomplished did he finally say, ‘Well what did you think of Sir Nimrod’s confession?’
Monica nibbled a minute bouchée of Boursin-flavoured brioche.
‘It’s a jolly odd story,’ she said eventually.
‘He’s quite an odd cove.’
‘That’s incontestable,’ she agreed.
‘Not to say barmy.’
‘That wouldn’t be pushing it too far.’
‘I don’t see Naomi as a child of passion.’ Bognor took the last of the cheesy appetisers which melted away in his mouth as tantalisingly as candyfloss.
‘Well be reasonable, darling, she is forty, if she’s a day. I mean frankly you don’t look as if you were conceived in an act of fine careless rapture yourself.’
‘I say,’ Bognor was put out, ‘steady on.’
‘I’m not being personal. No one does, much, once they’ve passed the six-month mark. I agree it’s difficult to imagine Sir Nimrod having a bit of a fling, but we’re talking about forty odd years ago when he was younger than us.’
‘Cave,’ said Bognor, ‘Felix is coming back. With bad news by the look of it. He’s wringing his hands like a frustrated washerwoman.’
It was rather bad news. If it had been a different sort of place and Felix a different sort of person he would have said simply, ‘Guinea fowl’s off.’ Instead of this he said, ‘I am most terribly sorry, sir, madam, but there appears to have been the teensiest bit of a crossed wire in the commissariat and it seems that we’re down to our very last guinea fowl.’ He fixed Bognor with a fraudulently obsequious smile in the style of Uriah Heep and said, ‘We do have some very good fillet steak which Norman could flash under the grill for you.’
If there was one thing Bognor was exceptionally partial to it was fillet steak, just the well done side of sanglant. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘in the circumstances I’m prepared to be a bit of a martyr. Madam will take the last guinea fowl and I’ll make do with the boring old steak. Never mind. Can’t be helped.’
As Felix went on his way Monica skewered her spouse with a wounding glance that would have deeply unsettled someone less used to them than Bognor of the Board of Trade. If looks could kill Monica Bognor’s would have been the facial equivalent of the black mamba or that peculiarly lethal spider which lives in Australia. Over the years however Simon had developed an impressive immunity. Nevertheless the hostility of this one was so marked that even he flinched.
‘Qu’est ce que c’est?’ he enquired dutifully. ‘You look as if you’ve swallowed a prune lightly sautéed in raspberry vinegar and garnished with kiwi fruit.’
‘Pig!’ said Monica. ‘Selfish pig!’
‘What do you mean, “pig”?’ Bognor was affronted and genuinely surprised.
‘Don’t you “what do you mean, pig” me, Simon Bognor,’ said Monica her voice rising ominously. ‘First of all you force me to stay down here in this hell hole and then you have the effrontery to order steak when I’m stuck with a mingy bit of raw pigeon in a poncy piece of puff pastry.’
‘But you ordered pigeon. And it wasn’t pigeon it was guinea fowl.’
‘I don’t care, I don’t want it. And you know perfectly well I don’t want it. I want to go home. No one ever offered me steak. It’s the most disgusting form of sex discrimination. Typical. Men get steaks while women have to make do with itty bitty little bits of bird wrapped up in fussy flakes.’
Bognor decided that a tactical withdrawal was in order.
‘O.K.,’ he said, ‘have the steak.’
‘No, no,’ Monica was getting worryingly near the edge. ‘You have the steak. I’ll make do with the guinea fowl. You’re a man. You need the steak. Why don’t you have it raw with a handful of red chillis and a flagon of foaming ale?’
‘This is silly,’ said Bognor. ‘If you want the steak have the bloody steak. If you don’t want it then have the guinea fowl. I really don’t mind. I just want you to be happy.’
Monica glowered.
‘All right,’ she said, eventually, ‘I will.’
‘Good.’ Bognor smiled. ‘And I’ll have the guinea fowl.’
‘Yes,’ said Monica.
Bognor knew from years of experience that the correct procedure now was to leave bad alone. If you pursued the matter Monica would flare up, remaining in full volcanic eruption for quite astonishingly long periods. If ignored, however, she subsided, quite fast. She was inclined to smoulder for a while but provided one said as little as possible there were no more explosions.
After what seemed like a very long time Monica said: ‘I suppose it could have been a sort of double bluff.’
For a moment he thought she was still talking about the steak. Just in time he realised she was talking about Sir Nimrod Herring and checked what might have proved an incendiary response.
‘Go on,’ he said cautiously.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘if Wilmslow was trying to blackmail him again and if he did murder him then coming to you in a burst of honesty would be likely to throw you off the scent. As it has.’
‘But he’s drawn attention to it. If he hadn’t said anything no one else would have said anything about it either. I’d never have known.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Monica smiled as Felix bought the claret, a bourgeois growth she couldn’t pronounce, and they paused while Bognor sniffed and gurgled plausibly enough to satisfy everyone’s amour-propre. When Felix retired Monica said, ‘If you and the police were conducting a murder investigation, there’s no telling what might come out in the wash. Including the extra-marital affairs of the nineteen forties.’
Bognor said he supposed that was possible though if it had been his skeleton in his cupboard he would have kept quiet about it and hoped no one would find out.
‘Typical man!’ said Monica, but if she was hoping to elicit an immoderate response she was having no luck. Her husband preferred a quiet life if he could get it – which was not often. Presently their first course arrived. It appeared to be ducks’ livers in a savoury custard with a garnish of carved radishes. Two mouthfuls each.
‘Still,’ said Bognor, ‘even if there’s something fishy about Sir Nimrod’s story I can’t regard him as a suspect. He’s too old and batty.’
‘An accomplice?’
‘Conceivably.’ Bognor sipped the wine. ‘But I don’t see whose at the moment. I’m inclined to take him at face value. The blackmailing butler’s son turns up unexpectedly and drops dead probably murdered by person or persons unknown. Old Herring knows he’s got a motive and that if anyone finds out then fingers are liable to be pointed. So he comes along and owns up.’
‘Thus putting himself in the clear.’ Monica sounded suspicious.
‘Correct,’ agreed Bognor. ‘But wanting to establish your innocence isn’t an acknowledgement of guilt. We’re not that cynical, surely?’
‘I suppose not.’ Monica did not seem very sure but her uncertainty was curtailed by the advent of their main course borne in by Felix who seemed to be doing everything tonight. Lucky it was a quiet evening.
‘Guinea fowl for madam,’ he said, beaming suavely at Monica.
‘Er, no,’ said Monica. ‘Steak for madam. Guinea fowl for s
ir. We had a change of plan.’
Felix seemed oddly obstinate. He put the pastry case on the mat in front of Monica and said, ‘If you’ll allow me, madam, I think that the guinea fowl has just that little subtlety and refinement of taste which madam will enjoy.’
He could not have said anything less tactful. Monica was no conventional feminist. She had a considerable antipathy to most card-carrying feminists, frequently on less than rational grounds. She had never liked Germaine Greer, for instance, since reading somewhere that she never shaved her armpits. The Guardian’s women’s page infuriated her because one of its leading contributors had been at school with her and edged her out of the lacrosse team. But Monica did have one thing in common with her more strident sisters. She did not like to be patronised.
‘I said,’ said Monica, icily, ‘that my husband is having the guinea fowl. And I am having the steak.’
Felix appealed to his fellow man.
‘The steak is just as you asked,’ he said, ‘a little more cooked than rare with just a hint of red wine and local herbs.’
Bognor did not remember any mention being made of red wine or local herbs. But that was beside the point.
‘My wife and I,’ he said, ‘changed our minds. She very sweetly decided to let me have the guinea fowl in pastry as it’s something of a speciality of the house. And she feels very much like a steak. You know how sometimes one … well one does feel like a steak.’
Felix still did not relinquish his hold on the steak which looked and smelt extremely appetising.
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘the magret de canard is exceptional. A great speciality of the house and particularly fine tonight.’
Monica stared at him. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I don’t for one instant see why you have chosen to make such an issue but I would be obliged – we would both be obliged – if you would give me my steak and him his guinea fowl before they get cold. I simply do not see that who eats which is the slightest concern of yours. If either of them is less than edible we shall send them back.’
Say what you like about a convent education, it can make a woman exceedingly fierce in her middle years. Felix blanched like any mere vegetable exposed to steam; deposited the plates as instructed; and retired to the kitchen. Seconds later however he re-emerged accompanied by Norman Bone in full cheffly fig, toque at a rakish angle as if put on in great haste.
‘I’m afraid there has been some mistake,’ he said.
Monica glared up at him, the first morsel of meat transfixed on her fork and halfway from plate to mouth. ‘No mistake,’ she said. ‘No mistake at all.’
Norman’s hand reached out towards the plate. ‘I, that is, I just happened to look at the rest of the steak and I have a terrible feeling it may be just that little bit over the top. I couldn’t possibly run the risk of your going down with a gippy tummy. If it was salmonella the health people would close us down.’
Bognor was somewhat alarmed by this but Monica sat her ground. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I will be the judge of that. If it tastes off I shall send it back. I’ve already told your colleague I’ll do that. And if I go down with food poisoning that’s my affair. I shan’t prosecute. And my husband is with the Board of Trade. He will guarantee that there’s no trouble from the authorities. Is that all right?’ And she put the steak into her mouth, chewed briefly, swallowed and drank an eighth of a glass of wine. Then she smiled glacially at the joint patrons of the Pickled Herring. ‘Perfectly delicious,’ she said, ‘just as I like it. Thank you both so very much!’
The two men glanced at each other, shrugged, and returned whence they had come, muttering but vanquished.
‘Actually,’ said Bognor, a little morosely, ‘this guinea fowl isn’t at all bad. A bit anaemic but that’s to be expected. It’s very tender.’
They ate on in silence.
‘A bit heavy on the tarragon,’ said Bognor, ‘but the pastry’s light as anything.’
‘Knock me down with a pastry,’ said Monica, with her mouth full.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said.
‘I thought you were going to say light as a feather.’
‘I stopped myself just in time,’ said Bognor, who had been taught that the use of clichés even – no especially – in conversation, was the sign of a lazy mind. ‘How is the steak? I mean really.’
‘The meat’s delicious,’ said Monica, chewing thoughtfully, ‘but I’m not a hundred per cent certain of the sauce. It’s on the bitter side.’
‘Some local herb, no doubt,’ said Bognor, ‘ragwort or dandelion root.’
‘Could be,’ agreed Monica. ‘It’s not unpleasant, just bitter. Perhaps that’s why they made such a fuss. Perhaps it’s a special masculine herb unsuitable for ladies.’
‘An aphrodisiac you mean? The rural English equivalent of rhinoceros horn.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘It would explain that extraordinary performance, though,’ said Bognor. ‘Very rum. Never seen anything like it. Not even when old Escoffier Savarin Smith was in charge at the Dour Dragoon.’
‘Poor old Scoff,’ said Monica. Scoff had been murdered. Bognor had solved the crime.
‘How did you get on with Guy before I arrived?’ asked Monica. ‘He’s an awful stuffed shirt. A real tailor’s dummy.’
‘I thought you fancied him.’ Bognor regretted this remark as soon as it was uttered.
‘Me? Guy? You must be joking.’
‘He didn’t have anything very interesting to say,’ said Bognor. ‘He’s going to plod about the place asking ploddy questions about people’s whereabouts at crucial times.’
‘Meanwhile you zoom around conducting snappy interrogations about id, ego, Oedipus complex and whether or not the deceased was having an affair with someone.’
‘No need to be sarcastic. You know quite well that that kind of thing is my forte.’ Bognor had always considered himself a fine judge of character, a shrewd analyst of personal behaviour, and an outstanding critic of the broad sweep of history and current affairs. He had little time for dates which, like addresses, telephone numbers and other ‘facts’ were best kept in books where they could always be looked up. Any fool could do that. He liked to keep his mind uncluttered so that it could deal with nothing but essentials.
‘I wasn’t being sarcastic,’ said Monica. ‘Really.’
Bognor smiled. Things appeared to be improving and there were no disagreements over their desserts – jellied fruit salad in a pastry basket for her, a chocolate and almond sorbet with crystallised mint leaves for him. Then coffee from a brass and glass cafetière left on the table with tiny squares of healthfood fudge.
‘What plans for the morning?’ she asked, stifling a yawn.
‘I thought I’d start with the mysterious Emerald Carlsbad. She intrigues me. We know less about her than almost anyone in this set-up and her VAT papers are peculiar. Too much money to be explained by therapy and psychiatry. Unless she has some extraordinary practice in Harley Street or wherever high-class shrinks hang out these days.’ He also yawned. ‘Quite a day,’ he said, ‘I think I’m going to pack it in and try for an early start. What do you imagine they give you for breakfast – poached kiwi fruit?’
Chapter 5
Bognor was renowned as a very heavy sleeper. He often had trouble getting to sleep, especially as he had a phobia about sleeping pills, but once there, snoring heavily (Monica assured him) he was almost impossible to wake. When woken he very quickly had all his wits about him, as he was quick to remind her. If there was a burglar in the house Simon would have chopped him with a poker before he could say knife once he was awake; but Monica claimed that on occasion he had slept for twenty-three and a half minutes after she had stuck a bar of sandalwood soap in his mouth and secured his nose with a large paperclip. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ he would protest when she complained of a night disturbed by his gutturally whistling nostrils. Then she would attack him with pillows or hairbrushes or whatever lay close at hand
.
When, therefore, he suddenly sat up in bed and saw from the bedside alarm that it was twenty past two he realised that something was badly wrong or very noisy indeed. Turning to his left he saw that his wife was not with him. Then he heard a wretched moaning and gagging sound from the bathroom. Leaping from the bed he hurried in and found Monica slumped over the lavatory, heaving and retching.
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was all right but he realised the fatuity of the question just as he realised that she was almost beyond speech. Quickly he knelt down beside her. Her forehead was streaming with sweat and her face had virtually no colour left.
Monica was never ill. It was always him. Suddenly he felt very lost.
‘I’ll call a doctor,’ he said.
She moaned.
‘Don’t move. I’ll be right back.’
He hurried back into the bedroom, grabbed at the phone, then wondered what on earth to do. He would hardly get room service in a country pub, however pretentious, at this hour of the morning. He could only get an outside line by going through the hotel’s miniature switchboard and that would hardly be working at 2 a.m. either. The one thing he could not do was nothing. Despairing he dialled ‘0’ and to his amazement heard a click from the other end of the line before there was even a ring.
‘Yes. Can I help?’ It was Felix’s voice, sounding very awake and quite alarmed.
‘It’s Simon Bognor in, er, Myrtle. My wife … I think you must have been right about the steak. She’s very sick. I think we need a doctor. Or perhaps an ambulance. I don’t want to be melodramatic but she’s very bad.’ From the bathroom a further spasm of moaning and retching could be heard. ‘She seems to have a fever too.’
