Red Herrings (21 page)

Monica treated him to a shrivelling glare. ‘For the former things are passed away,' she said, tartly.

‘“And he that sat upon the throne …”' began the clergyman, whose breath smelt of double strength mints and alcohol of dubious origin. He did not continue the quotation because he was stopped in his tracks by the second barrel of Monica's disdainful stare. Monica knew Revelation backwards.

‘I am sorry,' she said to Naomi, ‘he seemed such a nice man. I'm afraid my husband and I are partly to blame. I mean if we hadn't started investigating Mr Wilmslow's death then perhaps …'

‘It's not your fault,' said Naomi. ‘It was all going wrong even before they killed that horrible man.'

‘What happened to Mr Wilmslow was an accident Naomi, my dear,' said Larch, sharply. ‘An accident … just as your poor dear father's death … well, by his own hand did he perish and by his own petard was he hoist.'

‘Oh, shut up!' said Monica.

The clergyman had a complexion green as the grey Limpopo. Greasy as the Limpopo too. It turned greyer and greasier yet and acquired an additional livid pink, suggestive of tropical sunset. His lip quivered and a small, creamy bubble of spittle appeared at the left hand corner of his mouth. Not a pretty sight.

‘The Lord is not to be slighted thus,' he said.

Monica could look amazingly fierce. ‘“Beware of the scribes,”' she said, ‘“which love to go in long clothing, and love salutations in the marketplaces, and the chief seats in the synagogues, and the uppermost rooms at feasts: Which devour widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayers.'”

Mr Larch gaped, jaw dangerously adrift.

‘Before long,' said Monica, taking advantage of her advantage, ‘my husband and I and Chief Inspector the Earl of Rotherhithe will want to know why a man of the cloth is consorting with the likes of Lady Amanda Mandible. And talking in a very bad pastiche of the language of the Authorised Version. “The Lord is not to be slighted thus” indeed. Is that something you made up or is it the alternative form of community worship as practised by the Bishop of Durham? Better men than you have been unfrocked, Mr Larch.'

This little tirade had very much the effect intended. Monica had correctly judged the reverend gentleman to be more mouse than man as well as very small fry in the Dull Boy conspiracy. If indeed he was involved in it at all. Or if, come to that, there
was
a Dull Boy conspiracy. The words ‘guilty not proven' kept reverberating around her grey matter.

‘If you were a man, Mrs Bognor,' said Mr Larch, ‘you'd be hearing from my solicitors.' He contorted his features into the ingratiating clerical apology for a smile made popular by the Reverend Obadiah Slope and said to Naomi Herring, ‘If there is anything … anything at all … that I can do to help, then you have only to ask. I shall remember you in my prayers.' Then he retrieved his theatrically brimmed black hat from beside the bacon on the counter, hitched up his cassock and scuttled away.

‘Not a very nice sort of person,' said Monica.

‘I think he meant well,' said Naomi. ‘It's just his manner.'

‘His manner is very unfortunate,' agreed Monica, ‘and he has the filthiest finger nails. I shouldn't like taking communion from him.'

‘No.' Naomi took a handkerchief from the folds of her smock and blew her nose very noisily. The handkerchief was very used and dirty and, Monica realised too late, her fingernails were also chipped and stained. ‘Thank you for coming, Mrs Bognor,' she said, when she had finished her trumpeting. ‘It's awfully thoughtful of you. I don't think it's really sunk in yet.' She smiled tearfully. ‘I know he didn't do it,' she said. ‘I'm sure of it. No matter how bad things got there's no way he would ever have killed himself. He wasn't that sort of person. And also he left a message.' She dabbed at her eyes with her dirty rag. ‘I didn't tell you before because it … well because I didn't know then even though I had a nasty feeling … you know how you always have feelings about people you're very close to and it wasn't until I knew for certain that he was dead that, oh dear …' She started to snuffle again and was unable to talk for a few moments. Monica put an arm round her and made consoling noises.

‘The message,' said Monica, when she judged the bereaved woman had had time to compose herself. ‘What exactly was the message?'

‘It was rather peculiar,' said Naomi, ‘like a crossword clue. He was awfully good at the crossword. He said to tell your husband that if anything happened he must look for a bad penny ha'penny.'

‘Are you sure?' Monica was startled. ‘A bad penny maybe. Or a penny farthing. But a penny ha'penny I don't understand. Why did he have to be so cryptic?'

‘I've been thinking about that,' said Naomi. ‘And the only answer that makes sense is that he didn't want me to know.'

‘What do you mean?'

Naomi hesitated. ‘Well,' she said, ‘it may seem silly but he was always frightfully protective towards me. Only child and all that, I suppose.' Her mouth started to wobble and her voice to quaver.

‘Yes,' said Monica, encouragingly.

Naomi made an effort to pull herself together. ‘So if there was someone who was, you know, bad, someone who was a threat, then he wouldn't want me to know who it was.'

Monica looked at her with new respect. It sounded like a reasonable piece of analysis. Sir Nimrod would not have liked his daughter to become embroiled in the Dull Boy Productions mess if he could possibly avoid it. And yet he had obviously been anticipating trouble. Trouble bad enough to leave messages about. Unfortunately although the clue was cryptic enough to elude Naomi (which was what he had presumably intended) it was also too cryptic for Monica. And if it was too cryptic for her it would assuredly be too cryptic for her beloved husband let alone for Guy with his meticulous, methodical, boring ratiocinatory approach.

Out loud she said, ‘I wonder what it means. You've no ideas?'

‘None.' Naomi started to snivel again.

‘He didn't collect old coins for instance?'

‘No.'

‘Well.' Monica grimaced. ‘I shall pass it on to my husband and we'll just have to hope that someone or other will be able to come up with an answer.' She smiled at the forlorn Naomi Herring, miserably aware that she was no more help to her than the ghastly vicar. ‘If I were you I'd have a very stiff drink and a good cry. And if you want to come and cry on someone's shoulder just nip over to the Pickled Herring and have a good cry on mine.'

Naomi sniffed and smiled wanly and said she was very grateful and yes she might open the bottle of port Sir Nimrod had won in a raffle at Easter and she might just come over later for a bit of company. Monica felt that after all she might have been of a little solace.

Bognor was not in their room when Monica returned. It was half an hour since he had set off on his snoop. This on its own might have been mildly worrying but what really threw her was that she had passed Felix Entwistle and hadn't liked the way he smiled at her. She seldom liked the way men smiled at her but this particular smile had been qualitatively different. Greasier if possible than the Reverend Larch's reptilian bared dentures. The smile of someone who knew something unpleasant which put him at an advantage and which he was not going to divulge until later. A smile which suggested, didn't it, that something nasty had happened to her husband. ‘Oh, come on, Monica!' she said to herself, out loud. ‘Don't beat about the bush. Felix and/or Norman have done something horrid to Simon.'

The question was what should she do about it.

She could, she supposed, go on a snoop herself. But since Felix and Norman were evidently back home there was no way she could snoop undetected. She could confront them: ‘Oh, Norman, Oh, Felix. Have you seen my husband, he was having a bit of a snoop round your kitchen and office and he hasn't come back?' Another no-no. She could imagine the leering response.

Reluctantly she realised that she needed assistance. Normally her support came from her husband. He, obviously, was unavailable, which meant, in present circumstances, that she should turn to Chief Inspector the Earl of Rotherhithe. She reached out for the phone, then remembered, just in time, that it was a dangerous instrument. She would have to walk over to the phone box on the green.

She was halfway across the sward and closing in on the little red sentry box which was Herring St George's main link with the outside world when she saw an emerald green Bugatti steaming down the hill escorted by saffron-clad outriders on Harley Davidson motorbikes. The little cavalcade zoned in on her and closed before she could reach the phone. The second the Bugatti stopped the driver pushed his World War Two flying goggles back on his forehead and beamed a toothy greeting.

‘Monica,' he exclaimed. ‘Long time no see.'

‘Good heavens!' she said. ‘Bhagwan Josht!'

‘Not any longer,' laughed the swami. ‘I am by way of being a living god, as Simon will have told you. A fitting career for a Balliol man. But where is he? I feel he is in great danger.'

‘How do you know? Has your divinity given you ESP?'

‘In a manner of speaking, yes. A combination of intuition and Citizens' Band radio. The natives around here are not exactly friendly, Monica, and we therefore make it our practice to listen in to police messages on their wavelength. It is as well to be prepared for any unpleasantness.'

‘So what have you heard on the radio?'

‘That Sir Nimrod Herring has been murdered and that Simon is pursuing investigations in the village. I'm no policeman but it seems to me that whoever is running this Dull Boy Productions caper has started to panic. As I understand it your friend the chief inspector is detained at his office in Whelk which means that Simon is walking around unprotected and at the mercy of some homicidal maniac.'

Monica gazed incredulously at the four young men in combat fatigues astride the silver Harley Davidsons. Then at the exquisite white robed oriental girl in the Bugatti passenger seat. ‘So you're giving him a bodyguard?' she said.

The swami laughed. ‘I thought it best if you moved out of the pub and stayed up at my place until the murderer is apprehended. Which can't be long if he goes on like this. I'll wait while you pack.'

‘But Bhagwan,' said Monica, ‘we can't do that. I don't even know where Simon is. He's vanished.'

‘Vanished?!' The swami's eyebrows shot up. ‘Great Scot!' he said. ‘Where did he vanish? And how?'

‘He went off on a snoop,' said Monica.' He thought the coast was clear and there was no one around so he decided to case the Pickled Herring. He's very suspicious of Felix and Norman.'

‘He is entirely correct to be suspicious of Felix and Norman,' said the swami. ‘They are absolutely not to be trusted. In my view they are two very dangerous men. Is Simon armed?'

‘I very much doubt it.'

‘Then there is not a moment to lose. Squeeze in!'

Monica got into the Bugatti which was, as the swami implied, a very tight fit, and they drove the fifty or so yards to the Pickled Herring very fast.

‘You two go round the back,' ordered the swami. ‘The rest stay with me.'

As they entered the hall, Felix appeared, shooting his cuffs, and smiling nervously.

‘Yes,' he said, ingratiatingly.

‘I'm looking for my husband,' said Monica. ‘He's gone missing.'

Felix frowned, put a hand under his beautiful blazer and massaged his chest thoughtfully. ‘I'm sorry to hear that Mrs Bognor,' he said. ‘How can I help?'

‘I thought,' said Monica, ‘you might have seen him.'

‘I'm afraid not.' Felix shook his head and managed to look genuinely regretful. ‘He's probably just gone for a walk. It's a lovely afternoon, though I shouldn't be surprised if we don't have a bit of a storm later on. Getting a bit close.'

‘Leave this to me, Monica,' said the swami. He advanced to within inches of Felix so that had he not been at least six inches shorter his nose would have touched the hotelier's. ‘Now listen, Entwistle, Mr Bognor is a very old friend of mine, and if anything has happened to him you're going to be sorry. And if you won't tell me where he is my men and I are just going to have to search the place. We may make a mess. So are you going to tell me?'

‘You've no right,' said Felix. ‘I shall call the police. You can't just barge in here.'

‘I just have,' said the swami, and he pushed past the unhappy Felix, who, intimidated by the impressively constructed bodyguards, made no effort to stop him.

In the kitchen they found the two other guards in noisy conversation with Norman. Like his partner, Norman was expressing affronted indignation, invaded privacy and general umbrage, but in a manner which was not altogether convincing.

‘There's a locked door out the back,' said one of the guards, a six-foot-three negro with LOVE stencilled across his uniform, ‘and chef won't open it.'

‘Chef had better do as we ask,' said the swami, ‘or we'll break his door down.'

‘This is a disgrace!' said Norman. ‘It's a fridge. If you open it before six o'clock an extremely elaborate mousse full of incredibly expensive ingredients will be totally ruined. Ruined.' He seemed genuinely distressed.

‘There are a couple of crowbars in the boot of the Bugatti,' said the swami improbably, ‘so it shouldn't take a second.'

Felix looked at Norman. Norman looked at Felix. Felix shrugged. Norman shrugged.

‘Bang goes the mousse,' said Felix.

‘
C'est la vie,
' said Norman. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys, selected one and handed it to the swami. Together they all moved outside to the fridge door, which opened easily enough to emit a blast of freezing fog.