Death in the Opening Chapter Read Online Free PDF Page B

British had an unusual, possibly unique, propensity for combining the two. This meant that life was either a conspiratorial cock-up or a cocked-up conspiracy – probably both. The British had an almost unerring gift for getting things hopelessly wrong. They also possessed an apparently limitless capacity for gossip and plotting, as in Gunpowder and Popish. The Gunpowder Plot was a brilliant example of a conspiratorial cock-up and a cocked-up conspiracy. As far as Bognor was concerned, Guy, or Guido Fawkes, was the ultimate Englishman. He wondered if he was an ancestor of Sebastian, the writer, but it was an idle and irrelevant wonder and not one worth worrying about. The Fawkes of gunpowder, treason and plot – the man for whom one still paid a penny before setting fire to him every November 5th – may not have been the greatest Englishman ever, but he was the most English.
    Chief Constable Jones had arrived to explain the invisible solution to the questions posed by the death of the Reverend Sebastian Fludd. It was obviously suicide. He had assigned one of his most trusted lieutenants, a detective chief inspector, no less, to the case and this man was adept at going through the necessary motions with absolute conviction. He would examine the scene of crime and the body – or rather he would cause minions to do so, for even in make-believe DCIs did not get their hands dirty – and then he would report. He would issue dozens of reports, all beautifully typed. This would be done by other minions, for chief constables did not type. In this case, typing was a skill that the chief constable had not seen fit to acquire. He was a good shot though; a skill that he had acquired relatively late in life, through the offices of his ambitious wife who recognized that shooting was still, in the county, a skill essential for social advancement.
    Sir Branwell had shot since he was so high. Bognor did not shoot, never having seen the point. He ate birds mowed down by others but deplored their turning it into sport. His disapproval was, however, mild and did not extend to the table.
    Chief Constable Jones said the suicide was sad, that the balance of the poor man’s mind had obviously been disturbed, but that he would have wished life, and more particularly, the festival, to go on as near to normal as was decently possible. The chief constable had not yet won his knighthood. Bognor had, risibly, acquired his; Sir Branwell’s came as his natural inheritance.
    â€˜I’m not at all sure he did kill himself,’ said Sir Simon.
    â€˜Sir Simon thinks it was murder,’ said Sir Branwell. He laid emphasis on the word ‘sir’ and noticed that the chief constable noticed. This pleased him.
    Mr Jones shrugged a man-of-the-world shrug and smiled what was meant to be a man-of-the-world smile but came out as more of a pained rictus.
    â€˜Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t,’ he said, ‘but it will be much more convenient all round if it’s suicide. And seen to be so. I’m sure that can be arranged. The local press is very good. Editor has a decent handicap. We play eighteen holes every Thursday at Royal Mallborne. Suicide’s the ticket. Much the best for everyone.’
    â€˜Not for the widow,’ said Bognor. ‘If it’s suicide, the insurance company won’t pay up.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said the chief constable, ‘God will provide.’
    â€˜Doubt it,’ said Sir Branwell. ‘His people are strapped for cash right now. The diocese made some ill-advised investments in Iceland. Besides, the Lord thy God is inclined to be a bit tight where lucre is concerned. His son came down to tell us it was filthy and diminished one’s chances of making it upstairs. Eyes of needles, camels, haystacks and all that.’ He paused, proud of his Biblical knowledge. Bognor was impressed; the policeman less so.
    â€˜My professional opinion is that it was suicide,’