Privately, Bognor thought women made rotten detectives and, if forced to admit it, he would have included his wife in that generalization. Monica, more or less, up to a point, thought precisely the opposite.
But neither of them would ever admit it.
‘I feel like a dry sherry,’ he said, looking, like all Englishman, at his watch whenever the question of alcoholic drink was mentioned.
‘G and T for me,’ she said, ‘and an olive from Fortnums. One thing I’ll say for your old friend, he does Bombay Sapphire and a mean olive.’
And they turned for the ha-ha and home, with nothing resolved and the mysterious death of the vicar still hovering uneasily on what was otherwise a perfect country Sunday. They both enjoyed habit, particularly when it blurred into tradition. There was something comforting about the sort of library drinks, decent but unfussy meat and two veg with a claret to match and a couple of Labradors under the table. It may not have made Britain Great but it certainly made England English.
Even a murdered vicar had an agreeably timeless feel to it. One felt the English had been murdering vicars and drinking warm sherry since time immemorial. Rooks cawed as they negotiated the cattle grid on to the gravel and lawn, which led up to an Englishman’s cockeyed version of what Palladio had built for the nobility of the Veneto. It was like so many things English – a friendly, agreeable, slightly tumbledown misunderstanding of the real thing. England was meant to be frayed at the edges, well worn and a not quite perfect fit.
Even sudden death had an old banger, rust-bucket feel to it. That was the British way of murder that was.
SEVEN
One of the forensic pleasures of weekends chez Fludd was working out the antecedents of the principle component of the main course at Sunday lunch. Sometimes, it was so difficult to be sure, that there was argument about whether this was fish, fowl or something furry. In fairness to the kitchen, it had to be admitted that it was usually possible to eliminate chicken and fish which seldom featured on Sundays anyway. (There had been a memorable occasion when they had been completely foxed by some pheasant masquerading as something completely different.)
The Bognors couldn’t agree on whether the blame was Mrs Brandon’s or Lady Fludd’s. The problem lay in the habit of roasting the meat the night before serving, carving it into servable slices, and then dousing it in gravy and reheating in time for Sunday lunch. It was invariably double-over-cooked and grey in colour, blotting paper in taste. This was a well-established custom in a certain sort of traditional country house. It had everything to do with convenience and nothing whatever to do with gastronomy.
From a Julia Child, Elizabeth David, or celebrity chef point of view, Sunday lunch at the Fludds had nothing to recommend it, but for a semi-professional nostalgic, such as Sir Simon, it had a lot going for it. This was how life used to be when he was growing up. It didn’t taste of much but it was the same for everyone; equality of nothing very much. It was a bit like the former East Germany, for which he had a sneaking regard. Nobody had anything much better than a lawnmower masquerading as a motor car; you all lived off a hundred and one ways with wurst and dumplings; but on the other hand everyone had beer and jobs. Also, in a curious way, each other. The older and grander Bognor became, the more he believed in society, in pulling together and being kind to one’s neighbours. Consumerism, conspicuous consumption and celebrity seemed to involve competition of a sort he could not relish. He liked the quiet contemplative life and did not much care for kicking sand in the face of the people who lived next door.
Thus Sunday lunch with the Fludds. It was an oddly relaxing meal, familiar, unflashy and sound in an old-fashioned way that had gone out of favour, along with tweed, leather and shaving brushes made from badger bristle. There were more efficient, and indeed more enjoyable, ways of eating but he took pleasure in Sunday lunch at the Fludds not because of the food and drink, but despite them.
‘Tiresome,’ said Sir Branwell, carving something which had probably once been a bird. There was evidence of wings. ‘If one is going to be murdered there is a time and place. Immediately before the festival is not one of them. And who in his right mind would want to kill the Reverend Sebastian? Sebby would never hurt a fly.’
‘Who said anything about their right mind?’ enquired Lady Bognor, watching the dissection with apprehension.
‘The point I am making is that Sebby’s death is “tiresome”. I simply don’t believe any other word will do.’
The point Sir Branwell was actually making was that any event which interfered with the world as he knew it was inappropriate. Although he would deny that he had actually created that world, it was the one which he had inherited and with which he felt comfortable. He was not the fourteenth baronet for nothing, but even if he was he enjoyed the tidy, predictable society in which he found himself, and did not like it being compromised by murder or even accidental death. Life for Sir Branwell and his ilk was convenient or it was nothing. Murder was inconvenient.
This was the whole point of sudden death. For a certain sort of Englishman, it lacked drama and excitement, and definitely such emotions as grief or upset of an essentially trivial nature. Grief, unless one’s dogs or horses were involved, was alien to Sir Branwell and men like him, of whom there were a surprisingly large number. Maybe that was why the majority of British crime fiction was so anodyne and bloodless. Perhaps it was the fault of all those middle-class Dames – from Agatha Christie to Phyllis James. Not that Bognor had anything but admiration for these formidable ladies, but he wasn’t altogether sure that they had done a lot for murder most foul. In their hands, it wasn’t as foul as it was in real life.
Except that for Sir Branwell, it wasn’t.
‘Inconvenient, very,’ he said. ‘If he wanted to top himself, he could surely have waited until after the festival, not to mention his sermon.’
‘If he did kill himself – which seems improbable – then the balance of his mind would have been disturbed, which in turn would have meant that he didn’t give a flying whatsit for the festival or his sermon. Hard to believe but true nonetheless.’ This from Lady Bognor. As always, he thought to himself, the still shrill voice of reason, and yet reason and common sense were strangely inapplicable at times like this. This was what was so often wrong with the English murder. It had become a middle-class affair: sanitized; rendered prim. Even the traditional English funeral – of the sort the Reverend Sebastian would soon enjoy – took place with a closed wooden box. There was no public burning of the body, no eating by vultures, no sense of the catastrophe of death. It was all neat, tidy, orderly, and part of the warp and weft Agatha Christie and the other women had a lot to answer for.
‘What Monica means is that it’s all a bit of a shambles,’ he found himself saying. ‘Of course it’s inconvenient. Dashed inconvenient, you could say, but murder’s like that. Messy.’
Monica gave him one of her looks, in which affection and exasperation were mixed in equal measure, but she said nothing.