Red Herrings Read Online Free Page B

unreformed public house dealing almost exclusively in mild, bitter, dandelion and burdock, had recently been purchased by an enterprising pair of gay entrepreneurs, Felix Entwistle and Norman Bone. They were restaurateurs, Felix working front of house, Norman in the kitchen. Norman was an enthusiastic devotee of Nouvelle Cuisine, specialising in magret de canard and raspberry vinegar with almost everything. Last year the Good Food Guide had mortified them by removing their prized mortar and pestle though they still had the bottle for their wine list. The cellar was Felix’s province.
    The two men had refurbished the entire place with the exception of the public bar which in deference to local opinion, as articulated by Sir Nimrod, had been left untouched. It had flagstones, wooden pews and a dartboard. To the great irritation of Sir Nimrod an increasing number of the Herring’s new upmarket clientele had taken to barging into the public on the grounds that they found it ‘real’. ‘Real’ was the new vogue word and could certainly not be applied to the rest of the pub which was filled with ferns and outsize teddy bears, chandeliers from Christopher Wray and even (in the gents) posters of Humphrey Bogart and Gary Cooper. Bognor rather liked it. It reminded him of Toronto.
    He and Monica had checked into a double room called Myrtle. (Other bedrooms were Colombine, Hyacinth, Elderflower, Jasmine and Ragwort. Bognor rather liked the idea of Ragwort but it had no bathroom. Myrtle had a bathroom en suite. With a bidet.)
    When Felix Entwistle had enquired how long Mr and Mrs Bognor would be staying, Bognor replied, grimly and with a touch of bravado, ‘As long as it takes to solve the mystery.’
    â€˜What mystery would that be, sir?’ asked Felix, to which Bognor made no reply but merely looked inscrutable.
    â€˜I think we’re doing the right thing,’ he said in the privacy of Myrtle. ‘We can’t very well stay with Perry and Sam if they’re under suspicion of having anything to do with it.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and stared moodily at an indifferent print of a Tom Keating Samuel Palmer.
    â€˜Who said anything about Perry and Sam being under suspicion?’ Monica was snappish. She did not at all like the Pickled Herring and had been all for going home to the London suburbs. Bognor had seemed so miserable when she said this that she had melted and remained. She had married him for richer for poorer, for better or worse and she supposed she ought to stand by him, tiresome though it might be to be holed up indefinitely in the middle of nowhere.
    â€˜Guy,’ said Bognor. ‘Guy says that everyone must be regarded as under suspicion until proved otherwise. He says this is a very suspicious village. He says he’s had his eye on it for some time, mainly on account of the swami’s outfit. Not that I’m inclined to believe what Guy says. He really is a bit of an ass.’
    Bognor had had a brief but relatively inconsequential encounter with the chief inspector earlier in the morning shortly after his conversation with Parkinson. The two men had agreed to meet for a drink around six in the lounge bar to discuss tactics. Bognor was not much looking forward to it.
    â€˜I think Guy’s right for once,’ said Monica irritatingly. She had always rather fancied Guy in the old days and the hint of grey he now had at the temples rather enhanced his appeal. ‘Personally speaking it gives me the creeps. There’s something spooky about the place. I know you think Phoney Fred is just a joke but I think he’s positively dangerous. Some of his so-called acolytes can’t be more than twelve. All junked out of their minds by the look of it.’
    The swami, otherwise known to villagers as Phoney Fred, had taken over Herring Hall five years ago. Ever since, rumours of drugs, sex, drink and all round zombie-ism had abounded.
    Like so many