Carnage on the Committee (7 page)

'Satisfactory,' she grunted, as she strode across the room, removed the black cover from the cage, released Horace and plonked him on her shoulder. 'Who's been a good Horrie then? Good Horrie. To be or not to be, that is the question.'

'Prothero, Prothero, Prothero,' contributed the parrot.

in a passable imitation of an irritable Amiss.

'He has a tendency to be undiscriminating,' observed the baroness.

'Like Rosa.'

'Huh?'

'Nothing. How much will Knapper cough up?'

'Thirty grand. That'll help the wine cellar. I want to stock up on Eastern European wine as part of my sanctions against the frogs for their pusillanimity over Iraq.' The phone on her desk rang. 'Bring them here . . . Oh, all right, I'll send Robert.

'The books have arrived. They're in the hall and too heavy for Petunia. Fetch them.'

Horace flew off her shoulder and parked himselff on a high bookshelff. 'Not bloody likely! Rubbish. I'm only a bird. Every nice .. .'

'I'm only a bird in a gilded cage,' bellowed the baroness. 'I'm only a bird in a gilded cage.'

Horace swooped onto her head.

'Owwwwwwww!!!!!!! Be careful, for Christ's sake, Horace. That hurt.' Immovable and unperturbed, the parrot began an imitation of popping a champagne cork.

Amiss surveyed the scene. 'If you don't mind. Jack, I'll work in a corner of Mary Lou's office. I've got calls to make, I have to think and I find you and Horace strangely distracting.'

She looked surprised. 'Really? I'd have thought you'd have got used to us by now. But as you wish. See you here for a pre-lunch snifter at twelve-thirty.'

With total concentration, she applied herselff to her in-tray.

'So what's the news?' the baroness demanded, a few hours later.

'Uniformly excellent,' said Amiss, as he savoured his gin

and tonic. 'For a start, Horace is talking quietly, which is a nice change.'

'He's more subdued when he's in his cage. Cramps his style a bit.'

'Let's leave it cramped for the moment, if you don't mind. Now, on the books front, I've reduced the two hundred to fifty and the ten I've just given you will keep you going this afternoon. You'll have your long-list before I leave this evening.'

'Why are you leaving?'

'Novel. Plutarch. Remember? And I'm meeting Ellis tonight. He's been assigned to the case on the grounds that it would be helpful to have a copper who knows something about books, so we're meeting for a late dinner to exchange notes.'

'Most satisfactory. What else?'

'Georgie reports that while rumours are circulating about Hermione's death not being straightforward, the press haven't yet been tipped the wink about murder, so we should have a brief respite.'

'Haven't the cops said anything?'

'They're waiting until the medics are ready to go public on the post-mortem, which will be tonight. Tomorrow should be lively.'

'And the committee?'

'They won't know about Hermione until it's official. Some of them have grumbled about you refusing to hold an emergency meeting.'

'What's wrong with them? I'll never understand why people want pointless meetings. Do they seriously think I have time to leg it up to London in order to sit round a table bemoaning the loss of Hermione Babcock?'

'I think they thought it important that you all get to know each other.'

'I already know more about most of them than I could

ever possibly want to,' she said, shuddering slightly. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'

'Most of them, on the other hand, are consumed with curiosity to know more about you.'

'They've got nothing better to do, that's the top and bottom of it.'

'Georgie did, however, get it through to them that you needed time to read the books.'

'Didn't stop Griffiths and Rosa trying to get through to me. I presume Griffiths wanted to be sure I didn't pass up his favourites and Rosa wanted to tell me what was beyond the pale.'

'So you didn't speak to them?'

'Certainly not. I instructed Petunia to tell them to get lost.'

'I've had Wysteria, Dervla, Felix and Hugo on the phone. I'd agreed to Georgie telling everyone you and I used to be colleagues on
The Wrangler [
Publish and he Murdered]
on the grounds that it would become public anyway, so they wanted the low-down.'

'And?'

'Wysteria's apprehensive. Doesn't seem to have happy memories of you.'

'Afraid I'll call her Trixie, probably. Which I will if she's stroppy. What did you tell her?'

'That you're a thorough professional.'

'Meaningless drivel.'

'Not to Wysteria, who seemed comforted.'

'And the literary editor? What do you call him?'

'Sir Hugo Hurlingham. You must have heard of him.'

'Frightful old wanker, I seem to remember.'

'Portentous is the word, I think. Well, he said in hushed tones that although this was not to go any further, he had

heard on excellent authority something very disturbing about you.'

'Oh, good. What?'

'You are reputed to be a Eurosceptic.'

'Rubbish, I'm a Europhobe. I thought everyone knew that.'

'Well, I'm sorry to tell you this, but old Hugo hasn't quite placed you yet. Anyway, I reassured him that - whatever your views - you were an experienced university politician who would not let any prejudices you might have cloud your judgement.'

'Sometimes I think you should have stayed in the civil service, Robert. You could have made Cabinet Secretary. And Dervla whatshername?'

'Just Dervla. She doesn't sport a surname. She's just generally terrified, poor kid. She's only on the committee because youth was thought to be a good idea, she'd made it as a singer, had joined a popular soap opera, and had told interviewers she loved reading. When she came on the committee she was full of confidence, not to speak of Irish bullshit, and she jabbered about the importance of wards.'

'Wards? As in hospitals or dependants?'

'Wards as in words. Wards, wards, wards. She loved wards, she told us. And indeed by the standards of the young, she really did. But she's been patronised by Hermione and Hugo, sneered at by Wysteria, bullied by Geraint, lectured by Rosa, insulted by Den and confused by Felix and she's intellectually very bedraggled and intimidated these days, afraid of everyone except me, and not knowing from day to day what she thinks of the books.'

'What did you tell her?'

'That she wasn't to tell anyone else but that you were really a pussycat.'

'You're not supposed to tell people that. It's a secret. Besides, I'm only a pussycat when I want to be.'

'You'll want to be with Dervla. She's only a kid.'

'Hmm. What was her response?'

'Something along the lines of "Like omigahd that's so totally weird. Den said she was like ... dimuuhh."'

The baroness winced and took a large swig of her martini. 'I get enough of this at St Martha's as it is. It's like Aids. They're all infected. I'm terrified the parrot will hear any of them talk.'

'It would be vexing, wouldn't it? They'll presumably grow out of it and the lingo will change anyway, but parrots don't adjust to fashion. Imagine him telling the St Martha's Mistress in 2050 that "Like, this is like
so
totally head-wrecking."'

She jumped up. 'Lunch time. I fear my head is about to be totally wrecked, so my stomach needs all the nourishment it can get.'

'I left her,' Amiss told Ellis Pooley several hours later, 'surrounded by novels and crying "Rubbish", with Mary Lou kindly but firmly refusing to allow her to jettison a book until she'd read at least a chapter.'

'She's wonderful, isn't she?'

'Your betrothed, I presume you mean? Or were you talking about Jack?'

The waiter arrived and poured Amiss's wine and Pooley's water. Pooley took a sip, shook his head and looked across at Amiss. 'I get nervous sometimes that it won't work.'

'So does she. She's not convinced that your father is ready for black grandchildren.'

'Bugger my father. Anyway he's mad about her. And it's not as if I were the heir.'

'Quite,' said Amiss. 'It's amazing the compensations there are for being a younger son. But if it's not that, what is it? Different cultures?'

'Not really. Minnesota and rural England can coexist without too much trouble. It's more the practicalities. She's in Cambridge in a job she loves and I'm in London in one I love just as much and which has antisocial hours. We're always fighting circumstances to have time together. And I keep thinking how Jim and Ann split up. Not to speak of you and Rachel.'

'Both our relationships died over rows about values rather than clashing timetables, Ellis. Though I admit they didn't help.'

Pooley looked at him worriedly. 'How are you coping, Robert? You've been at a loose end ever since Rachel left. Do you miss her a lot?'

'I'm getting over her.'

'Any other women on the horizon?'

'My mind is on higher things. Like writing a novel in your favourite genre.'

'What? You're writing a crime novel?'

'Having a go. Probably hopeless, but I am rather enjoying it. I've already murdered two ex-colleagues.'

'What style is it? Cosy? Hard-boiled? And where's it set?'

'I'm certainly not going to tell an aficionado like you anything about it at this stage, Ellis. You'll get all dreamy about the greats of the past and destroy my confidence.'

Pooley looked disappointed. 'Oh, all right. I'll wait. Do you expect it to make you any money?'

'Probably not. Probably won't even get published. But between the remains of the legacy and bits of reasonably lucrative freelance writing, I've enough to keep going for now. And the Warburton pays a few bob, and in theory at least makes me useful contacts.'

'Good luck. Now, about the murder of Hermione Babcock. You've heard the news?'

'No. There wasn't anything on the six o'clock bulletin.'

'It was on the seven o'clock. Just said the police suspected she had been poisoned and probably by ricin.'

'Oh, God. I shouldn't have switched my phone of.' Amiss reached into his inside pocket.

'Just hold on a sec, Robert. Before you do anything, let's just be sure you know what you're talking about.'

'All I'm supposed to know is what the news said. Was there any indication of who you think did it?'

'None. We've no idea. It's early days, and we've only interviewed her husband, but there's no whiff of a motive.'

'I hope to God it wasn't connected with the Warburton. I know Jack takes these things lightly, but I wouldn't like to think I was putting her in danger.'

'She'd do it to you without a thought.'

'True. But that's because she thinks we're invincible. Which I don't. However, there's no point in even thinking like that. We are where we are. I'd better alert her.'

'It's OK. When I couldn't get through to you, I rang her and warned her to expect an avalanche of calls. She said the drawbridge was up and no one would breach the castle walls.'

'Oh, Christ.' Amiss jumped up. 'Give me a minute. 1 must talk to Georgie.'

'Who?'

'Georgie Prothero, our PR guy.'

'Oh, him. Yes. Our people have already seen him. Why do you need to ring him?'

'He'll be in a state.'

Pooley shook his head and picked up his newspaper. Amiss was back within a couple of minutes. 'Georgie's surprisingly calm. Tells me Jack rang him and instructed him to refer everyone to her, stop worrying and have a stiff brandy.'

'But I thought you said she wasn't speaking to anyone.'

'Precisely. But she'll take the blame rather than Georgie. So he's happy and she's acquired a fan.'

'Good. Now let's choose some food and then you can tell me everything about what I'll be dealing with.'

Coming up to ten o'clock and having snorted her way through several pages, the baroness shouted 'That's enough bilge' and hurled the book at maximum force against the oak door. Horace, who had been peacefully napping, saved himself from tumbling off her head by digging in his claws.

Mary Lou watched with interest as the baroness leaped up shouting with pain. 'That's not the way to persuade him to let go, Jack,' she commented mildly. Ignored, she shrugged and returned to her book and did not re-emerge until the parrot had been placated with crooning and stroking and a piece of fig and returned to his cage.

'I could die of psittacosis,' grumbled the baroness, as she began to pack her pipe with tobacco. 'I wonder if it's painful.'

'I looked it up after he attacked me, and my incubation period would have passed by now, so I shouldn't worry. Now what was it that caused your outbreak of violence?'

'The one about the shy, solitary monk who bonds mystically in a Sumatran rain forest with an equally shy, solitary rhinoceros. I've never read such boring drivel in my life.' She flicked a lighter, directed its enormous flame at the pipe bowl and sucked noisily.

'Robert said your old pal Wysteria Wilcox was very keen on it.'

The baroness expelled a mouthful of smoke vigorously towards the ceiling. 'Trixie always had a brain even a rhinoceros would despise.'

'Have you found anything you can bear yet?'

'How could I?' She leaned over to the pile of books to her left and picked one off the top. 'Have you sampled
Flesh-Eating?
It's about how timid, deaf Lionel Carter finds a purpose to his life when as a cleaner in the British Museum he first comes across a sarcophagus. It was popular with Hermione, apparently.' It thudded to the floor.

'But you like sarcophagi. Jack. Didn't you float the idea of being buried in one in the college grounds?'

'Buried, yes. Fucked, no. And I want Roman, not Egyptian. Figures. Not hieroglyphics.'

'Did you look at the one Geraint Griffiths liked?'

'Robert tells me I have to read the whole thing, but the tirade about the limitations of the Koran had me nodding off, so I adjourned to
Proust's Madeleine,
which appears to be a volume of impenetrable existential musings on the nature of women and small cakes. I can't stand much more.'