Death in the Opening Chapter by Tim Heald Read Free Book Online Page A

with Dorcas. Is there . . . was there anyone else?’
    â€˜Of course not.’ Sir Branwell seemed incensed. ‘Sebastian was the most chaste man I ever knew. I assume he and Dorcas must once have enjoyed some sort of carnal relations. Otherwise they wouldn’t have had the two children. But if virgin birth was a human possibility, you’d have to put up Sebastian and Dorcas as prime candidates for virgin parenthood. Whatever else it may have been, you can’t imagine sex with those two being anything other than a sacred duty. A bit of a chore. Certainly not fun.’
    He paused, possibly imagining sex in the other Fludd household, and briefly shuddered. He was basically rather keen on sex; the Sebastian-Fludds weren’t. End of story. The Sebastian-Fludds weren’t built for it either. Different chapter, same book. Shame that droit de seigneur had gone out with the ark. He was rather in favour, but there were certain things best left unsaid.
    â€˜So, the Reverend Sebastian wasn’t the victim of a crime passionelle ? At least not in a conventional sense.’ Bognor seemed thoughtful. He had seen enough of life, and more particularly of death, to rule out crimes of passion even in unlikely candidates. Perhaps, most of all, in unlikely candidates. Still waters could run exceedingly deep. Springs sprung in unexpected places. He was disinclined to rule out something to do with sex where the vicar was concerned.
    â€˜How many festival performers were in town already?’ he asked, changing tack unexpectedly, though sex and the festival performer could not be ruled out at this stage either.
    Sir Branwell thought.
    â€˜Not many, as far as I know,’ he said. ‘The Brigadier and Mrs Brigadier. Vicenza Book.’
    â€˜Not the Vicenza Book?’
    â€˜Why? Do you know her?’
    â€˜She’s famous,’ said Bognor, irritably. ‘Even I have heard of Vicenza Book. She’s probably the most famous soprano in world opera.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t know,’ said Sir Branwell, who didn’t.
    â€˜Monica will be incredibly overexcited,’ said Bognor. ‘ The Nightingale of Padella in Brodo. Italy’s Stoke on Trent. We heard her do an obscure Handel with the ENO.’
    â€˜Yes. Well,’ said Branwell, ‘her father used to work behind the bar in the pub when it was still a recognizable pub. Her mother’s Italian. Hence Padella in whatsit. She was, as it were, passing. She and Bert didn’t last long and she took the girl back to Italy. Bert died. Drank himself to death. Sad story. Vicenza wrote out of the blue saying she’d like to come and sing at the festival, had such happy memories of Mallborne, blah, blah. Sebastian was all for it. All for her. So we signed her up. She should be here. She’s taken a house with her camp followers.’
    â€˜And she’s already in town?’
    â€˜Stretch limo sighted shortly before lunch yesterday. Not many of those in Mallborne. Tinted glass. White. Personalized number plate.’
    â€˜Sounds authentic,’ Bognor conceded.
    â€˜Anyone else?’
    â€˜Martin Allgood.’
    â€˜The novelist?’ Bognor had read an Allgood once and didn’t like it.
    â€˜He’s this year’s writer-in-residence. Here for the duration. Does lots of readings, interviews, judging of things. We put him in Thatch Cottage on the estate and call it the Writer’s House for the week. Rather a good publicity stunt. Always attracts masses of publicity, and Allgood can be relied on to say something suitably foul and controversial. We had him once before, about ten years ago. Seemed surprisingly nice actually. Pretty girlfriend but I think she’s done a bunk. I read an interview with him a year or so ago which seemed to suggest he batted and bowled. AC/DC.’
    â€˜Probably another publicity stunt.’ Bognor had a low opinion of Allgood based mainly on the one reading of