Red Herrings Read Free Page A

experiences in an Anglican friary early in his career, but the vicar knew nothing of this and was in any case not keen on monasticism himself. He believed in getting in among his flock, and was fond of describing himself as ‘a people’s parson’.
    â€˜I’ve always found death disturbingly straightforward once it happens,’ said Bognor. ‘It’s the events leading up to death which are mysterious.’
    â€˜That may be your experience,’ said Mr Larch. ‘But in my line of work life after death is the ultimate mystery.’
    â€˜My husband takes a rather prosaic view of this sort of thing,’ said Monica slipping a protective arm through Simon’s. ‘In fact he takes a prosaic view of almost everything. Don’t you, darling? But so would you if you worked for the Board of Trade.’
    â€˜In any event,’ said Peregrine Contractor, pouring more champagne, ‘I’m sure we all agree that it’s absolutely tragic. A tragedy for the village, too.’ Everyone looked suitably solemn but they were disturbed in this moment of reverent contemplation by the advent of Sir Nimrod Herring and his daughter Naomi. Sir Nimrod, last of the Herrings who had come to the village on the coat tails of the Conqueror, had once lived in the manor, now occupied by the Contractors. New money had, as it always did, driven out old; ancient lineage and immaculate breeding had proved no match for ladies’ lingerie. Despite having fallen on hard times, however, the old squire had not moved from the village which had borne his family’s name these nine hundred years and more. Forced to trim his cloth and turn an honest penny he had taken over the village post office and there he now presided with Naomi under the legend ‘Herring and Daughter’.
    He was an amiable seeming person with a white tonsure and a tuft of hair in the middle of his chin. This, unaccountably, was rust coloured with only a few flecks of grey. His daughter, Naomi, was a round faced woman in her early forties, figure concealed in a smock which was as discreet as Samantha’s was not.
    â€˜What a perfectly bloody business!’ he exclaimed, helping himself to champagne. ‘Thank God for something decent to drink after that bloody mead. It doesn’t matter how much ice you put in the damned stuff it still tastes of bees’ wax.’
    â€˜Oh, Daddy!’ said Naomi. Naomi was permanently embarrassed by her father and none too bright. After Lady Herring, her mother, died in faintly mysterious circumstances (drowned in the moat) Naomi had gone through a prolonged ‘difficult’ spell. She had been a hippy among the flower people of Haight Ashbury in the sixties; then returned to ride pillion with a chapter of Hell’s Angels from Ruislip before setting off on the road to Katmandu and spending a saucy two years in an ashram in Poona. Latterly she was alleged to have settled down though no one was entirely convinced. She was rumoured to have had a child by one of the Rolling Stones but, if so, no one knew what had happened to it. It was also said that she was devoted to Sir Nimrod and it was certainly true that she put in extremely long hours behind the counter. And she was very decent at coming out late at night to drive the old squire home when he was too tight to do it himself.
    â€˜What a silly fellow, wandering into the field of fire during Clout,’ said Sir Nimrod, ‘asking for trouble. Could have been killed.’
    â€˜But he was, Daddy,’ said Naomi, eyes very round, face very pale.
    â€˜Just as I said, child.’ He glanced at Bognor to whom he had not previously been introduced. ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ he said, sticking out a hand which Bognor shook, ‘Herring.’
    â€˜Bognor,’ said Bognor, ‘and this is my wife Monica.’
    â€˜Bognor!’ Sir Nimrod’s eyes flashed. ‘Any relation of old Theo