Red Herrings

by Tim Heald

  ‘Well,’ Bognor realised that he could not go on drying himself for ever and that he had better take an initiative he was far from feeling, ‘what have you got to say for yourself, Dandiprat?’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ said Dandiprat, ‘I feel that I should be putting that question to you.’

  ‘Now listen, Dandiprat,’ said Bognor, rolling the butler’s surname about in his mouth like Donald Sinden on a first night, ‘since when has it been part of a butler’s job to spy on his mistress and take photographs of her with her guests?’

  ‘Compromising photographs if I might say so, sir.’

  ‘All right, yes, they might look compromising, yes.’

  ‘I have always regarded my most important role in life as the safeguarding of my master’s interests. Sir.’

  The ‘sir’ seemed to Bognor to be rather slow in coming. He resented this. He had always had a low opinion of Dandiprat, partly because he was so very small, partly because he was so absurdly obsequious. He had also found him unnerving because he was so bloodlessly sinister.

  ‘It’s blackmail is it, Dandiprat?’ he asked. This seemed the logical conclusion. And he couldn’t for the life of him see how that would help his master.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, sir.’ The butler leered.

  ‘No,’ said Bognor, ‘blackmailers never do, do they?’

  ‘I’ll be brief,’ said Dandiprat, suddenly assuming an air of authority which Bognor found surprising and unbecoming. ‘The fact of the matter is that we’re none too happy about your line of enquiry since the death of Wilmslow.’

  ‘What do you mean “we”?’ Bognor wanted to know, but the truculent butler ignored him. ‘In particular,’ he said, ‘we don’t appreciate your interest in Dull Boy Productions and I think you ought to know that if you persevere with that particular line of questioning we can’t be held answerable for the consequences.’ At this point Dandiprat took the film from his pocket and made a point of studying it. ‘Seriously, sir,’ he said, ‘seems to us locals here in Herring St George that poor Mr Wilmslow was the victim of a most unfortunate accident. RIP is what we say. Nothing you can do will bring him back to life, poor bugger. And the rest of us have to knuckle down and make the best of what’s left to us. Don’t you think, sir?’

  ‘Is that all you have to say, Dandiprat?’ asked Bognor.

  The butler simpered.

  ‘If we don’t like the way you’re treating us,’ he said, ‘then one set of these pictures goes to Mrs Bognor and one to Mr Parkinson at the Board of Trade. No wife and no job, Mr Bognor sir. And all on account of being so concerned about what happened to a poor VAT inspector who just happened to get drunk one night.’

  ‘I have to get changed now, Dandiprat,’ said Bognor. ‘Do you have anything sensible to say? Or is that it?’

  But Dandiprat said nothing at all. He just stood there tossing the film from one hand to the other and whistling tunelessly through his teeth.

  ‘Melodramatic little runt,’ said Bognor, half to himself, as he stomped off to change. It was a bit much. All he had done was have a swim. It was hardly his fault if he had been lying about in the pool when he was attacked by a voracious lingerie model without any clothes on. He had tried to fight her off but she had been too strong for him. He frowned. He did see that if the photographs were anything like as revealing as he imagined then they would be difficult to excuse.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed, getting back into his oppressively inappropriate clothes. And there was a long walk back to the Pickled Herring ahead of him. He had hoped to ride there in the Mercedes with the wind ruffling his remaining hair as he and Samantha careered down the high banked corniche into Herring St George. That was obviously out of the question now.

  What was most galling was the way she had set him up. She had obviously gone straight to the wretched butler the second they had entered the house and said, Bognor of the Board of Trade is in the pool without any clothes on, I’ll get undressed and you can come and take some saucy pictures of us. Which, in retrospect, was pretty upsetting. Even worse was the fact that try as he might it was difficult to feel entirely innocent.

  Not that he had anticipated anything quite like that. Well … if he was absolutely honest, her suggestion of going for what used to be called a ‘skinny dip’ had rather excited him in a subconscious sort of way. Not that he had for an instant contemplated being unfaithful to Monica. Absolutely not. He had never been unfaithful to Monica. Not entirely anyway. Something had always conspired to prevent it happening which he always found on the one hand rather a relief and on the other immensely frustrating. Now, it seemed, he was about to incur Monica’s wrath without having had the pleasure which might have made it worthwhile. There was no justice. And as for Parkinson, it did not bear thinking about. Worst of all was the idea of Parkinson handing the pictures around at lunch in the Reform Club, sucking his teeth with the Permanent Under Secretary and the Principal Private Secretary, while underneath the mimsy disapproval they would all be having a quiet giggle and a quiet salivate.

  Nevertheless his mind was made up. Dandiprat and Samantha (for he had to accept that Samantha was part of a conspiracy much though it distressed him) had picked the wrong person. You couldn’t blackmail a victim who refused to be blackmailed. He would go straight to Monica and straight to Parkinson and confess everything. Not that there was anything to confess. He would explain that he had simply gone for a swim when Samantha had tried to rape him.

  ‘With no clothes on, Bognor? Is that your usual custom? ‘He could imagine Parkinson asking with that thin Presbyterian scepticism.

  ‘Alone in the house with that woman and you jumped into the pool in the nude? And you expect me to believe you weren’t dying for her to jump in with you?’ He could visualise the quality of Monica’s disbelief all too well.

  Nevertheless he had no alternative. He might not broach the subject quite yet. Might just let it ride for a while and see how things panned out. Dandiprat might not need to threaten him and the films with exposure. But he didn’t see how.

  On his way out past the drawing room he heard a sound and poking his head around the door he found Samantha, now dressed in a white trouser suit and high-heeled gold sandals. She was pouring herself a Scotch from the drinks trolley and when she looked up at him she seemed quite distressed.

  ‘That was a very low trick, Samantha, a very low trick indeed.’

  The door opened at the far end of the room and Dandiprat slunk in, servile menace festering in every pore. Samantha looked up, then back at Bognor, and seemed on the point of words or even tears for all Bognor knew.

  ‘And I thought you liked me,’ said Bognor in a voice which was supposed to sound like ice but came out rather unimpressively strangulated. He ignored the butler, however, spun on his heel with considerable panache and exited smartly in the direction of the Pickled Herring.

  Chapter 6

  Guy and Monica were waiting for him outside the pub. Or so they said. Actually they were sitting at a table on the front lawn under a parasol labelled Campari and as Bognor grumped sweatily down the lane towards them he would have said that until they spotted him they were staring into each other’s eyes at close range. Monica had obviously decided Guy was not such an ass; Guy that Monica was not to be patronised. Suddenly Bognor felt less guilty about himself and Samantha in the pool.

  ‘Hello there Simon,’ called Guy. Guy was looking as cool as the younger man in the Harrods catalogue. He had the same chiselled tailor’s dummy looks which Bognor, especially in his present frame of mind, couldn’t abide. Same blazer too.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Monica. ‘We were beginning to worry.’ Bognor could see no evidence of concern from either party.

  ‘You look hot,’ said Guy. ‘Drink?’

  ‘I’d love a pint,’ said Bognor. ‘Thanks.’

  Guy was on aerated water as usual. Monica asked for a glass of white wine. Her second by the look of things.

  �
�You shouldn’t be drinking,’ he said, shortly. ‘Remember what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘I’m not impressed with that doctor,’ said Monica. ‘Nor is Guy. Guy thought he was very shifty.’

  ‘Guy’s right for once,’ said Bognor. ‘My information is that he’s an aspiring drug pusher.’

  ‘Where does your information come from?’

  ‘You’ll never guess. The Chosen Light himself told me. Said Macpherson propositioned him as soon as he and his Blessed Followers got here. You’ll never guess who he is.’

  ‘Who?’ Monica looked ungratifyingly curious.

  ‘The swami. We were right about his being a Balliol man. But he’s a real one. He sends his regards.’

  Monica chewed her thumbnail. ‘Too long ago,’ she said, ‘and there were so many flawed Indians in Balliol.’

  ‘Bhagwan Josht,’ said Bognor. ‘Phoney Fred is Bhagwan Josht.’

  ‘Is he really?’ Monica smiled indulgently. ‘Bhagwan Josht. He asked me to a Balliol commem one year.’

  ‘And did you go?’

  ‘No, I’d already promised to go with you to the Apocrypha one. It was the year you got so drunk.’

  ‘You were drunk too.’

  ‘So? What else did Bhagwan say?’

  ‘Quite a bit actually. Perry Contractor came nosing around looking for some sort of sex and was sent packing. But, more interesting, he says that when Wilmslow came to check over the VAT figures he offered him a deal.’

  Guy returned with the drinks.

  ‘Did you hear that, Guy?’ asked Monica. Bognor did not care for the enthusiasm in her voice. He could be quite a jealous husband.

  ‘No.’ Guy looked enquiringly at Bognor.

  ‘I was up at the hall,’ said Bognor, ‘and the swami told me that Wilmslow tried to cut him in on some crooked deal to do with Value Added Tax. They’d cook up some fake figures and share the profit.’

  ‘I was up at the hall, too,’ said Guy. ‘And he didn’t say anything about it to me.’

  ‘Well you were asking about alibis,’ said Bognor, wiping beer froth off his lip. ‘Whereas I was asking about motive. I warned you I’d have more fun.’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust that swami further than I could throw him,’ said Guy. ‘He was very offhand with me. Rushing off to play real tennis. Or so he said.’

  ‘It’s their holy game,’ said Bognor knowledgeably. ‘Did he have a good alibi?’

  Guy shrugged. ‘He said he was in bed with a bride of his called Blessed Orchid.’

  Bognor smiled. ‘I met her,’ he said. ‘Pretty girl. I suppose most of our potential suspects claim to have gone to bed early and stayed there all night.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Monica with a gleam. ‘Tell him about your discovery, Guy.’

  Bognor did not at all like this ‘Listen to this Guy,’ ‘Tell him that, Guy’ business. He decided to put any ‘confession’ about Samantha and the pool firmly on the back burner.

  ‘Well it is rather interesting,’ said Guy, bursting with mock modesty.

  ‘What?’ Bognor was sure it would be something irrelevant.

  ‘The only person with a proper alibi is the padre.’

  ‘That drunken sky pilot as Sir Nimrod would call him,’ said Bognor. ‘Where was he, then?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this, old boy, but he told me he was spending the night with Lady Amanda Mandible at Groove.’

  ‘Amanda Mandible.’ Bognor frowned. ‘The Society Tart.’

  ‘Penny farthing Mandible as she’s known round Annabel’s,’ said Guy. ‘The oldest bicycle in the business.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Bognor was not with him.

  ‘Sorry,’ Guy flushed, ‘vulgar slang I’m afraid. She has a considerable reputation as a nymphomaniac of a certain age but it’s an open secret that she’s also one of the top three Madams in Britain.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Bognor was not up on that sort of thing. ‘Prostitution doesn’t come under the Board of Trade,’ he said. ‘Though the Treasury seem to be taking an increasing interest.’

  ‘No, well.’ Guy was looking very self-important. ‘You can take it from me that that’s who she is. So it’s a very rum place for the Reverend Branwell Larch to be spending the night. Much less to be proud of spending the night.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Bognor, ‘he’s probably as ignorant about her line of work as I was. You can’t expect country vicars to know about that sort of thing. He’s probably just a social climber. After all she does have a title of sorts. Maybe the reverend is impressed by all that.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with having a title,’ said Monica pointedly.

  ‘Oops! Sorry, Guy. I didn’t mean to imply anything. I just meant. Oh, well never mind. What exactly are you implying? That the vicar of Herring St George is a sort of chaplain to a brothel?’

  ‘I motored over to Groove,’ said Guy. ‘It’s only ten miles away. Lady Amanda confirmed it. His name was in the visitors’ book.’

  ‘It’s all very interesting,’ said Bognor, ‘but where exactly does it get us?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. You see Wilmslow had been working on Lady Amanda’s VAT business immediately before moving on here. As I say, she lives only a few miles away.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I checked with Customs and Excise as soon as I found out about Larch. I’ve asked them to see if there is any record anywhere of Larch having received money from Lady Amanda.’

  ‘It’s all very interesting.’ Bognor tapped his pocket to make sure the computer disk was still there. ‘But the only thing it actually proves is that Larch was several miles away on the night of Wilmslow’s disappearance. So he can’t have done it.’

  ‘We may be looking at a conspiracy here, Simon.’

  ‘I agree.’ Bognor paused for effect. ‘Tell me something,’ he said, slowly, ‘does the name Dull Boy Productions mean anything to you?’

  Guy shook his head.

  ‘Not offhand,’ he said. ‘Should it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But it seems to be cropping up with sudden frequency. I first heard it this morning from Parkinson, my boss at SIDBOT HQ. He said the Americans were investigating it. It’s Miami based but the president is Sir Nimrod Herring and Peregrine Contractor is chief executive.’

  ‘Sir Nimrod Herring!?’ Guy and Monica combined in incredulity.

  ‘You must be joking,’ said Guy.

  ‘Parkinson doesn’t make jokes.’ Bognor spoke with feeling.

  ‘I can confirm that.’ Monica spoke with almost as much feeling as her spouse.

  ‘When Parkinson phoned this morning about Dull Boy I’m more or less certain that Felix or Norman were listening in. I cut the phone off as soon as I realised and rang back from the public call box in the village. But I think that whoever it was must have heard the message about Sir Nimrod and Dull Boy because, when I called round at Herring and Daughter, Naomi said the old boy had done a bunk rather rapidly, and just after fielding a phone call. It’s only a guess but I have a hunch that one or other of the Pickled Herring boys tipped him off.’

  ‘But tipped him off about what?’ Guy was plainly exasperated at having his thunder stolen.

  ‘Rumbled the fact that there was more to him than purveyor of gumboots and mouldy bacon to the rural proletariat,’ said Monica crisply. ‘He was supposed to be totally broke. That’s what the VAT figures show; that’s what he was saying all through his confession about Wilmslow and the blackmail business. And now it transpires he’s the president of some company based in Miami. It doesn’t square. Where did the money go?’

  ‘I have a nasty feeling,’ said Bognor, ‘that he was only telling us half the truth. Naomi says he made a trip up to town once a month, ostensibly to have lunch with some old military muckers of his. But what if Wilmslow was blackmailing him all the time? What if old Sir Nimrod was drawing a monthly packet from his presidency of Dull Boy and passing it straight on to Wilmslow? It makes a horrid sense. You can bet your li
fe Wilmslow would insist on cash. And nobody would trust that sort of cash in the post.’

  ‘Pure speculation!’ said Guy. ‘You’ve got no proof at all. And what in hell is Dull Boy Productions anyway?’

  ‘London are finding out all they can.’ Bognor was pleased by Guy Rotherhithe’s obvious pique. Monica looked almost impressed. He pressed home his advantage.

  ‘After I’d been to the stores,’ he said, ‘I wandered off to the mysterious Emerald Carlsbad.’

  Guy nodded. ‘I went there. Typical dykey old trout with a raft of dogs. She claims she was at home and asleep all night. On her own though, no Blessed Orchid in sight. Though I dare say she’d have welcomed the opportunity.’ He laughed sourly.

  ‘But you didn’t discover the source of her secret income, did you Guy?’ He felt he was entitled to feel superior now. This made Guy’s stuff about the Reverend Larch seem very small beer. At least he thought so. So, obviously, did Monica.

  ‘Do tell,’ she said. ‘Is her secret as sexy as the vicar’s?’

  ‘No, not really.’ Bognor allowed himself a not altogether appealing smirk. ‘You’ll never guess but apart from her seminal two volume treatise on Freudian Traumdeutung in the Cook Islands she is also the author of God knows how many pulp novels. She writes hardboiled American whodunnits as Earl J. Tuxedo; westerns as Matt Durango and, best of all, bodice-busters as Emerald A. Trawle, which as you will instantly appreciate just happens to be an anagram of Walter de la Mare.’

  ‘She never!’ said Monica. ‘Good for her.’

  Guy was looking frosty.

  ‘With respect,’ he said, ‘that’s extraordinarily interesting, but I fail to see quite how it’s relevant.’

  ‘It almost certainly isn’t.’ Bognor thought he was playing his cards rather effectively. Just as he conceded a point like that he trumped Guy with another. ‘This, however,’ and here he extracted the computer disk from his pocket, ‘did seem rather more pertinent. I was in her study and on her table next to the IBM Personal she uses for her work I saw a disk labelled, would you believe, Dull Boy Productions.’ He paused again.