Poison At The Pueblo (29 page)

‘He obviously knew exactly who Jimmy Trubshawe was and who cooked his mushrooms. Just wouldn't admit it.'

‘What do you expect?'

Monica, had, in a manner of speaking, been here before. Most of the other customers looked as if they might be paying their own bills. The proprietor called himself Gaston and had pointy moustaches, which almost certainly meant that he came from the East End of London.

‘I think Trubshawe is worth something,' said Bognor. He was tipsy but not drunk. His wife also.

‘Was,' she corrected. ‘James Trubshawe is no more. Let's face it, we wouldn't have liked him. He probably supported Brentford or Yeovil Town; liked pickled onions; shepherd's pie, maybe, but give him a pint of ale and not some frog fizz. Know what I mean?'

‘You're being snobbish. And Man U, not Brentford or Yeovil.'

‘Why Man U?' she wanted to know.

‘Because,' he said.

‘Now,' she said, ‘you're the one who's being snobbish. Mind you, I still don't really understand about Trubshawe and the PM.'

‘What's to understand?' asked Bognor. ‘The Prime Minister despises men such as Trubshawe but he needs them. It's all part of the same game that you mentioned when you talked about the difference between arriving and travelling.'

‘Climbing is a better word than travelling. Greasy pole and all that. Many a slip. Social ditto. The point is that men like the PM believe that men like Trubshawe are expendable. Necessary, but you dump them when you have to, and if people like you protest, you set up a formal enquiry.'

‘Here's to James Trubshawe, whoever he was,' said Bognor. And he and his wife drank silently and thoughtfully to the man they never knew but whose corner they were posthumously fighting.

‘I wonder what Trubshawe would say if he were here,' said Monica after a while.

‘Give me a pint and a pie and no foreign muck, I should think,' said her husband, grinning.

‘Don't be silly,' she said. ‘All right. He was a small-time crook and not very good at what he did. And he was in exile on some Costa or other, surrounded by a lot of similar spivs and con men. Do you imagine he was happy? Or fulfilled?'

‘I shouldn't think so,' said Bognor, ‘but who is? Happy and fulfilled. I'm certainly not. I think I've probably done my best. When St Peter stands with his clipboard at the Pearly Gates, I think I'll be able to say that I made the most of my talents.'

‘You'll be lucky to make the Pearly Gates,' said Monica. She laughed. ‘You'll be way below, boiling in oil with James Trubshawe, the PM and the saintly Edward.'

‘And I'm not drinking to Edward,' she said. ‘Do you imagine you're introduced? Do you think some Hieronymus Bosch creature takes a moment off stoking with his trident and says words to the effect of “I don't think you've met your former Prime Minister. Prime Minister, I don't believe you've met James Trubshawe.”'

‘And the blessed Edward will tell everyone what they really mean,' said Simon. ‘I suppose that's his role in life. Translator max. Always putting his own words into more important mouths.'

‘Do you imagine Trubshawe was middle class?' asked Monica.

‘He would have said so because everyone now calls themselves middle class, even if they are really upper or lower. Very few people admit to belonging to any other class except middle. Fact of life. Distressing but true. Shall we call a cab?'

They called a cab. Gaston said it would take five minutes.

‘Cabbies are working class. By definition,' said Bognor. ‘And members of the Marylebone Cricket Club are middle class. Yet most cabbies are members of MCC and many members of MCC are cabbies. So what class do you belong to if you are a cabbie and a member of MCC?'

‘Now who's being silly!' she said. ‘Trubshawe wasn't a member of MCC and he never drove a cab.'

‘Prove it,' said Bognor with an air of triumph. ‘Prove it! All right the Club will have records and they should be able to prove membership one way or another. But driving a cab is something else. And the only person who really knows about the cab is Trubshawe, and he's dead.'

‘You could be right.' Monica spoke grudgingly. ‘I always maintain that death is doubly deceitful. It's not just that it destroys evidence and witnesses, but that it gives credence to the last one left standing. Last one alive gets the final word. So if Trubshawe hadn't succumbed to the mushrooms, but had outlived the rest of us, he could have invented whatever he wanted and no one would have been able to contradict him.'

‘Which is why letters and diaries and written evidence is so historically important.'

‘Up to a point,' said Monica, ‘but what are they worth without verbal corroboration. Not a lot in my view. Just because it's written down doesn't make it accurate. Trubshawe could have written “I am middle class” a million times but that wouldn't make it accurate. We believe he was originally working for “us”, whoever we may be, and that he was murdered by “us” as well. The PM and others are doing their darnedest to prove otherwise and, who knows, they may even believe it. I doubt that, but I am a cynical old biddy. Bears out what I say, though. “Death, he taketh all away”.'

‘But them he cannot take,' said Bognor, completing the quote. ‘I accept what you say but only up to a point.'

Their cab arrived. They got up. Bognor paid by credit card. Monica left a tip in cash. It was ever thus. Outside, the minicab was Japanese, small and the driver came originally from Beirut. He was a university professor fallen on hard times. Maybe that made him middle class going on working. Maybe it didn't matter.

‘That's part of your problem,' said Monica. She sounded censorious but, actually, she was fond. ‘You only ever believe things up to a point.'

‘Well,' he said, ‘up to a point.'

They laughed and squeezed hands.

In the driver's seat their cabbie tried to remember his Euclid.