fiction was so anodyne and bloodless. Perhaps it was the fault of all those middle-class Dames â from Agatha Christie to Phyllis James. Not that Bognor had anything but admiration for these formidable ladies, but he wasnât altogether sure that they had done a lot for murder most foul. In their hands, it wasnât as foul as it was in real life.
Except that for Sir Branwell, it wasnât.
âInconvenient, very,â he said. âIf he wanted to top himself, he could surely have waited until after the festival, not to mention his sermon.â
âIf he did kill himself â which seems improbable â then the balance of his mind would have been disturbed, which in turn would have meant that he didnât give a flying whatsit for the festival or his sermon. Hard to believe but true nonetheless.â 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 â of the sort the Reverend Sebastian would soon enjoy â 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.
âWhat Monica means is that itâs all a bit of a shambles,â he found himself saying. âOf course itâs inconvenient. Dashed inconvenient, you could say, but murderâs like that. Messy.â
Monica gave him one of her looks, in which affection and exasperation were mixed in equal measure, but she said nothing.
âAll I can say,â said Sir Branwell, handing round plates of charred bird, âis that mess is for other people. I donât do mess. As you should well know, Simon.â
This was perfectly true. Even at Apocrypha, Fludd had been remarkable for his fastidiousness. In an untidy world, he was almost impossibly neat. Even when vomiting after drink, he always managed to make an excuse and find the loo, causing as little trouble as possible. He was like that. â Noblesse ,â he said, rather too often, â oblige .â
âWeâll try to reduce the mess,â said Bognor, sounding pompous, aware of the fact, but unable to see a way of seeming otherwise, âthatâs our job. Or part of it. Lucky that we were here. On the other hand, a very important part of my job is to see that justice is done. And seen to be done.â
The pomposity was on overload. He knew this but could think of no way of diminishing it.
âBugger justice!â said his host, doing it for him.
The roast bird was barely edible and defied identification. Down under it would probably have been roadkill, but in England it was more likely to be Fluddkill, brought down by the squireâs ancient Purdey twelve-bore. The pudding was equally themeless, though it was steamed and came with custard. You didnât dine at Casa Fludd on account of what the baronet insisted on calling âscoffâ, although he kept a decent cellar and served perfectly acceptable claret to accompany the execrable food.
Conversation continued to focus on the death of the Reverend Sebastian, but was procedural rather than forensic. The wives did not have particularly strong opinions for once and were, on the whole, content to take their husbandsâ side. This was unusual, as was the menâs diametrically opposed opinion. They usually agreed, if only to differ, but, faced with the death of the vicar, they took up very decided positions on either side of the fence.
Sir Branwell was all for tidiness, Bognor for solving the puzzle. Time was when Simon might have agreed with the need for order, but age had not wearied him, nor the
Except that for Sir Branwell, it wasnât.
âInconvenient, very,â he said. âIf he wanted to top himself, he could surely have waited until after the festival, not to mention his sermon.â
âIf he did kill himself â which seems improbable â then the balance of his mind would have been disturbed, which in turn would have meant that he didnât give a flying whatsit for the festival or his sermon. Hard to believe but true nonetheless.â 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 â of the sort the Reverend Sebastian would soon enjoy â 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.
âWhat Monica means is that itâs all a bit of a shambles,â he found himself saying. âOf course itâs inconvenient. Dashed inconvenient, you could say, but murderâs like that. Messy.â
Monica gave him one of her looks, in which affection and exasperation were mixed in equal measure, but she said nothing.
âAll I can say,â said Sir Branwell, handing round plates of charred bird, âis that mess is for other people. I donât do mess. As you should well know, Simon.â
This was perfectly true. Even at Apocrypha, Fludd had been remarkable for his fastidiousness. In an untidy world, he was almost impossibly neat. Even when vomiting after drink, he always managed to make an excuse and find the loo, causing as little trouble as possible. He was like that. â Noblesse ,â he said, rather too often, â oblige .â
âWeâll try to reduce the mess,â said Bognor, sounding pompous, aware of the fact, but unable to see a way of seeming otherwise, âthatâs our job. Or part of it. Lucky that we were here. On the other hand, a very important part of my job is to see that justice is done. And seen to be done.â
The pomposity was on overload. He knew this but could think of no way of diminishing it.
âBugger justice!â said his host, doing it for him.
The roast bird was barely edible and defied identification. Down under it would probably have been roadkill, but in England it was more likely to be Fluddkill, brought down by the squireâs ancient Purdey twelve-bore. The pudding was equally themeless, though it was steamed and came with custard. You didnât dine at Casa Fludd on account of what the baronet insisted on calling âscoffâ, although he kept a decent cellar and served perfectly acceptable claret to accompany the execrable food.
Conversation continued to focus on the death of the Reverend Sebastian, but was procedural rather than forensic. The wives did not have particularly strong opinions for once and were, on the whole, content to take their husbandsâ side. This was unusual, as was the menâs diametrically opposed opinion. They usually agreed, if only to differ, but, faced with the death of the vicar, they took up very decided positions on either side of the fence.
Sir Branwell was all for tidiness, Bognor for solving the puzzle. Time was when Simon might have agreed with the need for order, but age had not wearied him, nor the
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