‘Descended from Flanagan?’
‘Everyone was descended from Flanagan on one side or other of the proverbial blanket. Randy old goat.’
‘He had the baronetcy?’ asked Bognor, really not knowing.
‘Briefly,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘He was number ten, but not for long. He inherited from some cousin.’
Life in the Fludd family was one cousin after another, reflected Bognor. This was not uncommon in titled families. The title itself zigzagged around, leaping from one branch to another. Chaps changed names from time to time in order to inherit the title, which was no more direct than the crown of England. The Fludds had been the equivalent of Plantaganets, Yorkists, Lancastrians, Tudors, Hanoverians, Schleswig-Holsteiners or whatever, ersatz Windsors and sundry assorted Krauts, Russians, New Zealanders, commoners, Normans, Anglo-Saxons and lesser breeds. Being baronets, however, they had an inordinately high opinion of themselves and took considerable pride in their Britishness, which was more imaginary than real.
Sir Flanagan was the only Fludd, however, who really merited even a footnote in the rich tapestry of English history. Not that the Fludds hadn’t been all very well, in their way, ever since Athelstan Fludd had become an improbable friend of the Conqueror and been rewarded with the first of the fourteen titles. Fourteen was not that many, given the length of time Fludds had been around and the relatively scant time Fludds such as Flanagan had held the title. One or two of them had inherited when very young and lived to a very ripe old Fludd. One Fludd, a mediaeval Henry, was thought to have lived to be more than a hundred after acquiring the title before puberty. This compensated for the Montague Fludd who had been killed on the Somme. There were others, some of whom had not even inherited. An elder son had gone down with the White Ship and another perished at Trafalgar while serving as a midshipman on the Victory. No Fludd, however, had ever been Prime Minister, Chancellor or even Master of the family college. Their way was modest, local and unobtrusive. They were the salt of the earth, good men who did good things, but seldom remarkable.
‘I think Sebastian was something to do with your great-aunt Mildred.’ This was from Camilla, who had been uncharacteristically silent.
‘We tend not to talk about Great Auntie Em,’ said Sir Branwell, looking embarrassed. ‘She was a bit of a black sheep. Friend of the Pankhursts; bookish. Swanned around on the fringe of the Bloomsbury business. Crossed swords with Lady Ottoline Morell over some chap. Said she even went abroad to have his child.’
‘Great Aunt Mildred sounds rather fun,’ said Monica, with feeling.
‘Always thought to be something of a goer,’ said the squire. ‘Kept a boarding house somewhere near Biarritz, I believe. Played petanque. Read Proust in the original. Before her time, unfortunately. Before anyone’s time, if you ask me. I think Sebastian was something to do with her.’
‘What exactly?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest. Great-aunt Em was married to Philip, who sounds a bit simple. Supposed to have had one or two sprogs with him, but I don’t know that any were actually Philip’s. If they were, then I suspect poor old Sebastian came down that line somehow. But I honestly don’t know. He was a Fludd, all right. He had the Fludd ears. But I couldn’t honestly say how exactly he fitted in.’
‘Maybe he didn’t,’ said Bognor archly.
There was a conceit that people such as Sir Branwell didn’t exist, that no one nowadays spoke like this, nor held such old-fashioned beliefs or maintained such old-fashioned values. They did, however. They were not celebrities and they tended to remain in the shires – or, as trendy people liked to believe, the sticks. They still wore their grandfather’s three-piece suits, changed for dinner and sometimes boasted fob watches. They would outlive many flashier success stories, for these came and went like moths in the night, garish flutterbies who glowed briefly before fading away into crepuscular obscurity. The Fludds seldom troubled the tabloids, but they often seemed to stretch out for ever, gathering dust, but little or no moss.
‘Oh, I was fond of Sebastian in his way,’ said Branwell. ‘He was family after all. Funny way of showing it, but we Fludds stick together, no matter what.’
‘But there was a “matter what”, if you see what I mean. A sense in which Sebastian wasn’t one of you, despite being a Fludd, albeit from a cadet branch. How would you describe that?’
Sir Branwell gave the matter his attention.
‘Bit of a lefty,’ he said eventually. ‘Not exactly a Bolshevik but pretty socialist. Read novels, which isn’t exactly our bag. The sort of stuff which gets on the shortlist for prizes. I like Trollope. Now that’s what I call writing. Sebastian liked foreign muck. Marques. That Peruvian chap. Llhosa. Girl’s stuff. Not that I ever held it against him. In fact, we used to have quite animated conversations about books and that sort of thing.’
Bognor could believe it. Sir Branwell might do his best to appear stupid, but he didn’t fool the Bognors.
‘Would you say he had doubts?’ he asked.
‘Doubts?’ echoed the squire. ‘Doubts.’ He rolled the world around as if it were some sort of cigar, or a recalcitrant piece of food that had got stuck in his teeth. More than an abstract idea. ‘Sebastian wasn’t into certainty,’ he said eventually, ‘which I found rather attractive. So many clerics are a pain in the bum; try to convert you to their way of thinking. Sebastian wasn’t like that. I never heard him giving a lecture. Even his sermons asked questions, rather than provide answers. I liked that. Reassuring, very.’
‘You don’t think that this indecisiveness had anything to do with his death?’
Not for the first time Sir Branwell appeared to give the question some thought. Eventually, he said, ‘Rum notion.’ Then he thought some more and said, ‘I suppose not being certain might have helped suicide, but, as it happens, I don’t think he killed himself. Difficult to tie the knot and Sebastian wasn’t practically inclined. Not one of nature’s knot-tiers. And, if someone else killed him, the doubt would be neither here nor there. But none of this matters a jot, because it won’t bring him back. Which is why, basically, I think the whole investigation is a waste of time.’
TWELVE
‘ Branwell and Camilla didn’t do it,’ said Bognor. ‘I knew that already, but I needed to get it down in black and white. Besides which, I thought what he had to say about Sebastian was quite interesting.’
‘Quite,’ said Monica. She was easily bored, only interested in the really interesting; difficult to please.
They were sitting quietly in a corner of the maize. This was a modern number designed at Sir Branwell’s request, and conceived and executed by Michael Ayrton. It was made of well-topiaried beech and was a tribute to the squire’s unexpected complexity. The bench they sat on was of burnished something or other. Wood. No plaque. Sturdy. Modern. Designed to last.
‘Well, I thought it was interesting. It can’t be easy being Branwell.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling,’ she said. ‘Nothing could be easier. He has a title, money, a nice house, reputation, and he’s never done a hand’s turn in his life.’
‘That’s not fair,’ he expostulated.
‘Maybe not,’ she said, ‘but who said anything about “fairness”? To echo the immortal words of Malcolm Fraser: “Life’s not supposed to be fair.”’
Malcolm Fraser was a tall, notably patrician, Australian prime minister who had many inherited acres of prime land, was born with silver spoons in every aperture and pretended that he had worked hard to get where he was. Monica evidently believed that Sir Branwell Fludd shared some of these attributes.
‘I wouldn’t want a literary festival named after me.’
‘It’s not named after Branwell,’ protested Monica. ‘It’s named after Flanagan. Flanagan was an ancestor. Or not, as the case may be. I don’t actually think he was a real ancestor. He didn’t have the family ears.’