Bognor’s young minion, Harvey Contractor, had obviously enjoyed his researches into the background of Gunther Battenburg. As Bognor had surmised, this was not his real name, nor German his nationality. He had been born around the Elephant and Castle, christened Frederick Micklewhite, some sort of cousin of the actor Michael Caine, another who had changed his name. Apparently, he had been having tea in some pseudo-swagger London hotel with his ‘image consultant’, who had told him that no celebrity chef could make it while named Micklewhite. ‘Let me be cake,’ said our man, parodying Marie Antoinette, but getting the third syllable wrong.
Battenburg and the deceased cleric had enjoyed a spectacular argument just two evenings before the crucial death. It had taken place at Gunther’s restaurant when the vicar had come calling. The entire community, apart from the squire and his lady – the Bognors’ host and hostess – seemed to know exactly what had happened, sentence by sentence, and, it seemed (though Battenburg denied fisticuffs), blow by blow. Sir Branwell, incidentally, resembled one of those old-fashioned pedagogues who claimed to know everything, while actually knowing nothing at all. The squire claimed to be omniscient and to have his finger on the pulse of the village. The reality was that the only person on whose person the squire’s finger actually lay – and lightly at that – was his wife. And the same went for her. Maximum claim of intelligence, minimum basis in fact: the bane of bad security services everywhere.
The Reverend Sebastian Fludd had had a good idea. ‘Good ideas’ were frequently fatal in Bognor’s view. They invariably seemed wonderful at the point of genesis, which was often the bath, but they almost always seemed less so at the point of delivery. It was also a mistake to start a conversation, particularly when one was the supplicant, with the words ‘I have an idea’. It seemed to be acknowledged that this was how the vicar opened. It was not good. The equivalent of a feeble loosener or underarm lob. It cried out to be hit over a distant boundary or smashed for an immediate winner.
Battenburg, aka Micklewhite, duly obliged.
‘I deal in food, not ideas,’ he said. ‘Recipes, maybe. Ideas are for boffins and buffoons.’
‘My big idea is to have a foodless Christmas dinner, with all profits going to the starving millions around the world.’
‘Bugger the starving millions,’ said the chef pithily.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the reverend.
‘Granted,’ said Gunther. ‘My punters are paying a lot of money for their Christmas gourmet break. They expect some bang for their buck. Edible bang; drinkable bang; bang they can stuff in their gobs.’
From there on, the conversation had deteriorated, though whether or not words gave way to something more physical was a moot point.
At some point, apparently, Battenburg had threatened the vicar with death, though this was in dispute and vehemently denied by Battenburg, though affirmed by Dorcas Fludd who, needless to say, had evidence only at second-hand.
‘I see,’ said Bognor, finishing Contractor’s report and staring into space. As usual, when he uttered these words, he saw nothing and, even if he did, he saw it through a glass, darkly.
There had obviously been a clash and it was inevitable. Battenburg relied on conspicuous consumption for his living; the reverend owed what little living he enjoyed to sackcloth and ashes. Battenburg owed his ease to rich people eating and drinking more than they should, without regard to any of the consequences. Fludd was the opposite. He would have been happier in a world without wealth, a world in which everyone starved, a world in which not only was Jack as good as his master, but all Jacks were sprats.
Bognor sighed. He could see the point of view of Mammon, aka Gluttony, and he could see the point of view of the ascetic who wanted everyone else to be in a state of similar self-denial. Fence-sitting was a hazard as far as he was concerned. This didn’t mean that he was slow to apportion real blame and to find people guilty. Nor did it involve a suspension of prejudice. He was always on the side of indulgence and against abstinence. That didn’t, however, make him unprofessional.
So, did he believe that the chef murdered the vicar? On balance, no. Chef Battenburg, in the heat of the moment, with a knife. Well, yes. Plausible. This, however, was a cold-blooded, premeditated crime and Battenberg did not seem that sort of person. Crime de passion in the heat of the kitchen, but not a murder in the still watches, in the presence of God. That was Bognor’s feeling and, on the whole, his feelings served him well. They were not, however, infallible and while he was always careful to take them into account, he never allowed them to overrule ratiocination. So Battenburg could have done it. Of course he could. And he had a thoroughly plausible motive. Instinct said no, and the heart was often as reliable as the head.
Sir Branwell and Lady Fludd had only eaten at the Two by Two once since Battenburg took the place over and changed its name, but Sir Branwell pronounced it poncey and Camilla did not disagree. Not that the Fludds were unadventurous. They went abroad and ate well; the food at Sir Branwell’s club was quietly ambitious and Sir Branwell quite enjoyed it. They particularly enjoyed Wilton’s in Jermyn Street whenever a rich friend or relation took them there, but that didn’t alter the fact that he found Gunther’s food ‘poncey’. It was a bit like changing one’s kit at the Hogarth Roundabout. There was some stuff that one simply didn’t eat on home turf, and Battenburg’s came into that category. Likewise, the decor; though the cellar, despite new world additions, remained passable.
The chef was preparing snail porridge, the idea for which had been cribbed from his friend Heston Blumenthal, when the Bognors came calling.
Snail porridge was an unusual starter for the literary festival’s inaugural supper, but it made a change from prawn cocktail, and it was, for many of the guests, acceptable and surprising.
Supper came after evensong and Sebastian’s sermon. Snail porridge followed his grace. This year, His Grace, the Rt Rev. Ebenezer, would fill the gap, but meanwhile Bognor had some questions to ask the chef.
TEN
‘ Tell me, chef,’ began Bognor, enjoying the cliche and wondering why Gunther was wearing a toque and check trousers, ‘where were you yesterday, between the hours of five and seven?’
Gunther took off his toque, rubbed his eyes, and beamed at Lady Bognor.
‘Would you care for a cup of something? Camomile tea? Herbal infusions? Or something a little stronger? A glass of prosecco, perhaps? I have a particularly fine one from a small estate in a village a few miles outside Verona. I have been buying from Guiseppe for several years.’
Monica said she’d like a glass of prosecco. She had learned recently that it was a sparkling wine in its own right, and not simply a cheaper Italian substitute for champagne. This was true, generally. Other people’s sparkling whites were not just imitations of the French elixir, but wines with their own character. This was a lesson for life. People were not just inferior imitations of other people, but individuals in their own image. Same with chefs; same with Gunther. He wasn’t just the next Heston Blumenthal – or a poor man’s version of Heston – he was Gunther Battenburg. Or maybe not. But whoever he was, he existed in his own skin and he was his own man. There was no one quite like him.
Same with the Bognors. They were sui generis.
This was probably just as well, and it did not always seem thus to others. To Bognor, however, an element of nonconformity raised his best game.
‘I always associate Battenberg with cake,’ said Monica, puckering over her fizz. ‘From a small town in Germany. Marzipan. Brightly coloured squares. Mildly embarrassing name for our own dear House of Windsor.’
‘The cake is spelt with an “e” not a “u”,’ said Gunther. ‘My name has little or nothing to do with the cake. Hoffentlich. I do not like cake in general, and I abhor this one in particular.’