‘Yup,’ said Miss Book, her mouth full of emu and apricot. ‘And you’re the police. I don’t like police.’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ he agreed. ‘I’m investigating the death. But I’m doing it instead of the police. I don’t like them either.’
‘Good to hear it,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘If that’s an emu, my father’s the pope. Just chicken tarted up, if you ask me. I sing as Vicenza Book, but my friends call me Dolly. Pleased to meet you, Si.’
And she stuck out a hand which Bognor shook with enthusiasm. He decided he liked Ms Book, aka Dolly.
‘Hi, Dolly,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind?’
‘Cool,’ she said, which could have meant anything, but which Bognor took to mean assent.
‘What exactly are you singing?’ he asked politely, though he sensed that Dolly didn’t do politeness.
‘Usual load of crap,’ she said. ‘Plus a bit of Faure’s requiem and what they’re describing as a “medley” by Flanagan Fludd. That really is crap. Old man Fludd makes Andrew Lloyd Webber look original. Everything’s like, you know, pastiche Gilbert and Sullivan. They say Queen Victoria liked to hum along to Fludd. Typical effing royalty. Ever done a Royal Variety Performance?’
Bognor said he hadn’t had the pleasure.
‘Then don’t,’ said Ms Book. ‘Absolute crap. None of them are interested. Couldn’t sing a note. Only one who could was that Princess Margaret. Liked a smoke and a drink. Dead, but she could tinkle the ivories. Or so they say. Mind you, she liked tinkling more than just ivories.’ And she let out a mirthless cackle which would sound witchlike when she had grown into it. Bognor reckoned she had been at the booze, but could not think how as it was flowing like treacle. She either had a very low tolerance for alcohol or carried her own flask.
‘Been here long?’ he asked, eye on a possible alibi.
‘Came down yesterday afternoon to have a look at the old place. Me Mum used to work here. Right here, when it was the Fludd Arms. Proper little knocking shop by all accounts. All sorts of people used to come down from London for dirty weekends. You’d never guess who. Royalty and all.’
‘Probably better at that sort of thing than the other kind of Royal Variety.’
She laughed again. Immoderately. One or two people turned to look. The brigadier was one. He was obviously not enjoying himself and was half-inclined to share in the joke, except that he obviously suspected – correctly – that there was no real joke involved.
‘Anyway,’ she said, pulling herself together rapidly and giving him a queer look. ‘I was here when the poor old beggar snuffed it. I didn’t know him. I can’t really account for my movements. And I didn’t do it. Next question.’
Bognor couldn’t think of one.
Instead, he bit into the white stuff on his side plate and said, ‘Is this bread?’
She bit into hers, made a face and said, ‘Toilet paper more like.’
For the rest of the meal, Bognor swapped inane pleasantries with the soprano, managing to virtually ignore Esther Blenkinsop who suffered in silence, picked at her food, and was just as ignored by Martin Allgood on her other side. She didn’t enjoy the meal any more than her husband, but she made less effort to conceal the fact.
Ms Book on the other hand consumed her fudge fondue with gusto, though she left her whitebait foam, which she referred to as ‘fish froth’, a description which Bognor preferred. In deference to his companion, he too left his whitebait, while doing his best with the fudge, which he thought as disgusting as most of the rest of the meal.
The only proper speech was a welcome from a tiny Scottish person called William Glasgow, who rose from a long way below the salt and who plainly did all the work. He held the title of ‘Festival Convenor’.
‘To all those who do not actually live here but are here as guests of the Fludd Festival, I say welcome,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Mallborne.’
The Fludds scowled. As far as they were concerned, they were the only people entitled to issue a welcome, or otherwise. Mr Glasgow was an impostor. And a paid pipsqueak to boot.
Glasgow’s was a poor speech, but a welcome respite nonetheless. He got tied in knots over the late priest, got the punchline at the wrong end of a story involving Scotsmen, Irishmen, Welshmen and Englishmen, and neglected to mention the brigadier who appeared unfazed, but whose wife seemed furious. Nevertheless, it made a change, and the Bognors enjoyed it for its amateurishness. There was too much polish around, too much style getting in the way of substance. Bit like life, actually.
When Mr Glasgow had finished, Bognor leant across to the brigadier and said, ‘I wonder if I might have a word afterwards? In confidence. In private.’
‘Of course,’ said Brigadier Blenkinsop. ‘Not a problem. Delighted.’
His wife, Esther, who heard the invitation and its acceptance, and was obviously not included in either, pursed her lips even more than before, and was clearly even less happy than hitherto.
And it wasn’t just the food or the company.
SIXTEEN
The brigadier’s was a Highland Park, which he said he hadn’t tasted since he was on manoeuvres in the Orkneys some twenty years ago. He remembered the battalion attending matins in St Magnus’ Cathedral in Kirkwall. Very red. Rather gaunt. Mind you, he liked his churches austere. Like religion. No time for smells, bells and poncing about. Bognor’s was a calvados. He paid. He usually did. In more ways than one.
‘So what can I do for you?’ The brigadier didn’t beat about the bush. Brigadiers didn’t. That was part of what being a brigadier was all about. Like short sentences. Staccato. Very.
‘Cheers,’ said the brigadier planting his bottom (ample) in an armchair (capacious, chintzy, leftover from the last regime) by the fire (roaring). ‘I’m afraid I didn’t know the reverend gentleman. But fire away. Ball’s in your court. Cheers.’ And he raided his glass and leant back in anticipation.
The first question was the usual one about where exactly the brigadier had been the previous day between five and seven. The answer was disarming and impossible. He had been in his room at the hotel doing The Times crossword with Esther. This was a habitual occupation and Bognor had no doubt that Mrs Blenkinsop would corroborate her husband. What’s more, the two of them would certainly be able to provide a convincing account of the clues. The brigadier said they had completed the puzzle in an hour and ten minutes, which was about usual. They almost always completed it, and they usually took between an hour and an hour and twenty minutes. He was probably telling the truth, thought Bognor, but the alibi wouldn’t hold water in a court of law. Few alibis did. Not many people knew what they were doing from one moment to the next, even when they were doing it. If you saw what he meant.
‘You know, that’s not really a cast-iron alibi?’ he asked.
The brigadier shifted his bottom and shrugged.
‘Best I can do,’ he said. ‘Reception will confirm that they didn’t have a key. They saw both of us go upstairs, didn’t see either of us leave.’
‘It’s better than nothing,’ said Bognor. ‘You could have shinned down the drainpipe, done the business and shinned back up.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I didn’t, but I could have. I don’t think alibi’s going to get you very far. I’d move on to motive if I were you.’
‘All right,’ said Bognor. ‘Motive.’
‘None,’ said the brigadier, smiling. ‘Absolutely bugger all.’
‘Had you ever met him?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said the brigadier. ‘ Pas du tout. Never clapped eyes on him. Not too keen on sky pilots, if you catch my drift.’
Bognor found himself thinking that the brigadier was too like a brigadier to actually be one. He was reminded of a Simon Raven short story about his caddish anti-hero Fingle impersonating his brigadier during some night exercise. Confronted with the real brigadier, Fingle says that the man must be an impostor because ‘his’ brigadier wouldn’t behave in such a ludicrous self-parodying manner. Faced with Brigadier Blenkinsop, Bognor felt a bit like Fingle. He had known a number of brigadiers in what passed for real life, and most of them had been decent and civilized – unlike this one. Besides, Bognor had always had rather a soft spot for ‘sky pilots’, coming as he did from a family full of them.