Red Herrings (8 page)

‘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 sir. 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?'

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.'

Bognor was not entirely clear what was happening at the other end of the line but he could hear muffled voices. Presumably Felix was talking to his partner, Norman. They presumably shared a bed since they appeared to share everything else.

‘Mr Bognor, are you still there?'

Bognor said ‘yes', impatiently. He was anxious to get back to his wife even if he could do nothing more useful than hold her hand and wipe her brow and say ‘there, there'. He suddenly realised that if anything were to happen to her he'd be quite upset. ‘Please God, don't let her die,' he said to himself and then heard Felix say, ‘Don't try to move her whatever you do. Just let her stay exactly where she is until Doctor Macpherson gets to you. He should be there in a jiffy.'

And, amazingly, even as these words were uttered, he heard heavy hurrying footsteps, two pairs, followed by a knocking on the door. He cast aside the telephone, feverishly adjusted his ageing Viyella pyjamas to make himself as presentable as possible, and rushed over to the door. It took him a moment to release the chain and unlock it (you couldn't be too careful even in Herring St George, especially after what had happened to Wilmslow) and fling it open. There, breathing heavily in the corridor, was Norman Bone in a shantung bathrobe, black, embroidered with crimson poppies. Beside him was a thin, etiolated figure in striped trousers and a black jacket. He carried a worn black grip with the initials ‘E.St. G. MacP.' embossed on one side. Bognor recognised it as a doctor's bag of pre or immediately post war vintage, not from personal experience but from watching black and white films of that era on late-night television. Such bags were invariably carried by Miles Malleson and other character actors. They were often cinematic code for imminent birth.

‘Doctor!' said Bognor, slipping unconsciously into vintage celluloid argot. ‘Thank heavens you've come!'

For a giddy moment he thought Macpherson was going to say ‘I just happened to be passing' but instead he just pushed past rather roughly, opening his bag as he did. He passed through into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, leaving Bognor and Norman Bone, standing there looking at each other sheepishly.