A Bedlam of Bones (20 page)

There was a long pause while she presumably gave thought to Clinker’s imminent elevation to the Arch-bishop’s entourage. And then she said, ‘If Superintendent Slowcome imagines he can be officious with me, he’ll have to think again! I have heard all about police harassment and have no intention of inviting it. I shall spare them five minutes and no more. Silence is my policy and I suggest it be yours, Canon!’ There was a loud snort and then the line went dead.

So that was a relief. With Gladys in granite-wall mood, Slowcome’s chances of sniffing a lead were nil. I could rest easy for a little longer, and taking the opportunity went to the piano and embarked on a rousing keyboard version of
Tannhäuser
. The cat wailed pathetically, seized its woollen mouse and scuttled from the room.

Lunch the following day was a somewhat onerous business. It took place in the parish hall and was one of those earnestly ‘frugal’ bread and cheese affairs put on periodically by the Vestry Circle to support the starving.

While applauding the intention I can never quite fathom the logic. The idea is that the world’s poor will be the recipients of the saving made between such basic fare and the price of an average two- or three-courser. However, since seemingly fewer people are making luncheon their main meal (and with those at work often settling for no more than a sandwich) the gap between the two sets of prices is narrow. Indeed, partaking of the ‘rustic’ fare will sometimes involve an excess rather than reduction in outlay – in which case a straight five-shilling donation might be both simpler and more lucrative. I have also observed that those still in the habit of consuming a full meal at lunchtime tend to stuff themselves so full of bread, cheese, beverages and assorted pickles that again the profit is negligible. I mentioned this once to a colleague who evidently missed the point, explaining that it was all about productive self-denial – ‘practical penance’ being the exact words, I think. Judging from the steady chomping of jaws, gales of hearty laughter and very moderate proceeds, I see little that is either penitential or practical – and rather wonder what the starving poor might think. If I have the nerve (unlikely), one day I shall put a stop to the practice and urge instead greater generosity in the collection plate …
Do I digress? Then I digress
(as the noted Mr Eliot might have put it), and so back to the bun fight and its consequence:

There were two problems here – first the awfulness of the chosen cheese (not a mature Cheddar but some base imitation of pallid hue and matching taste); and second, a flanking attack by Miss Dalrymple and Colonel Dawlish regarding the latter’s proposal that a dog show be held in my garden. For once both were in perfect unison and I was subjected to an enthusiastic briefing on its fund-raising value and the plans already in place for the categories and prizes. These seemed many and elaborate and I realized with dawning awe that the thing was a virtual fait accompli. However, adopting a brave face I enquired if there was anything in particular they would like me to do, and wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or affronted when Miss Dalrymple said, ‘Well actually, Canon, if you don’t mind, you could go out for the day and take Bouncer and Maurice with you.’

The Colonel must have seen my look of surprise for he explained hastily, ‘It’s not that we don’t want you, dear man, but I’ve lined up the stewards and judging panel, got the women organized with the tea and raffle, and so that only leaves the gate.’ He paused, and with a sly grin added, ‘Don’t think that’s quite your forte, is it, old chap? Bit of a problem at the Christmas party, wasn’t there – sorting the door-payers from the ticket-holders? Queues halfway down the road!’ He laughed loudly and I gave a polite smile.

‘And of course,’ chimed Miss Dalrymple, ‘there
is
the difficulty of Maurice. I mean – how shall I put this? – he’s not exactly the most sociable of cats, is he?’ I nodded in grudging agreement, while she went on to point out that while Bouncer was ‘absolutely charming’, he might not take too kindly to having his home ground invaded and perhaps turn ‘a little tricky’. She was right there – when he puts his mind to it Bouncer is a past master at trickiness, and I could indeed envisage ructions of a spectacular kind.

Thus I was just thanking my lucky stars that I was being offered a heaven-sent let-out, when she said magnanimously, ‘But of course we
would
want you back by six o’clock to award the special prize at the end of it all.’

‘And what will that be?’ I asked.

‘A year’s supply of Sparkling Chews for the dog with the whitest fangs – and
you
may do the final inspection!’ She beamed encouragingly and strode away to hack off more of the awful cheese.

Yes, it had been a gruelling period and I was grateful to escape to the haven of my armchair and absorb the silence. Idly I picked up a copy of the
Church Times
. It is not the most enlivening publication but at moments of boredom or abstraction I will occasionally peruse it. For once the headlines were startlingly fresh: ‘MOZAMBIQUE MISSIONARIES CASTRATED IN CREWE.’

What?
But prurient shock quickly turned to disappointment as I realized my mistake. Alas, the mind can play a sleight of eye, and the words ‘slated’ and ‘castigated’ had somehow fused themselves upon my muddled brain. The reality was that Bishop Horace Clinker, attending the Crewe conference, was reported as having slated clerical inertia in foreign parts and in particular castigated the Little Band of Hopeful Brethren for its failure to garner converts to the Anglican cause. (Hardly surprising, I thought: confronted with a name like that, any self-respecting heathen would run a mile!)

But more interestingly the article went on to say that while the good bishop had made his customary mark at the conference, delegates were sorry to see him looking so drawn and tired and trusted that the strain of duty would not affect his expected appointment as the Archbishop of York’s new aide. There was a photograph of him looking uncharacteristically tense – the result, no doubt, of the blackmailer’s latest handiwork. Clinker infuriates me, but I was even more infuriated to think of his being the target of such perverse and callous attention. No, there was nothing else for it – he would just have to go to the police, painful though that might be …

But how
could
he? And yet again I quailed at the enormity of the cost: revelations about his previous illegal liaison with Ingaza, failure to report Felter’s death on his own doorstep, his deliberate silence over the identity of the body, and worst of all the distinct possibility that he would be facing a charge of murder … Yes, bad for the bishop – and not too good for the enchanting Gladys either. And naturally it would hardly stop there. The blackmail probings could unearth other things: Primrose’s picture heist with Ingaza, Ingaza’s own part in the ridding of Felter’s body,
my
part in its disposal, not to mention obstructing and lying to the police … And if it was established that I had been less than frank in this current enquiry, might they not start wondering about my responses in the earlier one – the ‘Fotherington Case’? The more I considered the ramifications, the more I thought I might be carried off by a quiet seizure. Indeed, I was just beginning to think that might be no bad thing when I heard the flop of the afternoon post on the hall mat. Morosely I went to investigate. There were only two items – a bulky manila envelope bearing a Molehill postmark, and a much smaller one.

I opened the larger first. It contained a wad of closely and rather badly typed pages, plus a covering note:

Three or four pages! Justice to the text! Was she utterly barking? (Absolutely.) I stared, horrified, at the words and the accompanying sheaf of papers. A few moments ago I had been contemplating having a quiet seizure; my instinct now was to endure the drama of the kitchen knife.

Clearly an early whisky was indicated and I hastened to the sideboard, poured a drink and scavenged for crisps. There weren’t any so I settled for Huntley & Palmers’ Breakfast Biscuits. These are impossible to eat silently and Bouncer adores them. I threw him a couple and the room crackled with our joint crunchings and munchings. The cat appeared, emitted a long miaow and disappeared rapidly. I often think that Maurice is not entirely attuned to this world …

After a further glass I felt sufficiently fortified to open the second envelope. Its size was so slight in comparison that I guessed it held no fears.

A message was enclosed. It read as follows:

I leapt to the telephone; but as feared heard not Ingaza’s voice but Eric’s raucous twang. ‘Wotcha, Frankie,’ he began. ‘His Nibs said yer might ring and seeing as ’ow it was you I made a special point of staying in and scrapped the darts.’

‘Oh dear,’ I murmured apologetically, ‘I’m so sorry, I hope it hasn’t caused too much—’

‘Don’t worry, old son,’ was the cheery response, ‘the other team are the Rottingdean Rotters – not werf turning aht for!’ There was a caustic guffaw and I hastily adjusted the receiver. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘Nick wants to see yer. He’s orf to see that Cranleigh twister on Thursday and wants you to meet him at the posh pub in Chiddingfold. Says he’ll find it soothing after Lil.’

‘Yes, I rather gathered he might be engaged with her … everything all right, is it?’

‘All right? With that old baggage? You must be joking!’ There was another mirthful explosion.

I laughed politely and asked if it was the Eastbourne bandstand again.

‘Nah, the dogs at Kemp Town. Complained she’d missed the last two meetings and said what was the point of having a bleeding nephew if he didn’t escort her to social whatsits? Mind you, it’s not the
escorting
that he minds but having to lay out dosh for her drink and losses. And then of course there are the argie-bargies she has wiv the bookies … Gawd, he comes back like a poleaxed rabbit!’

I have to admit that the picture of Ingaza so discomfited was not uncongenial, and I made a mental note to keep the image in mind when next he made one of his outlandish demands. Clearly there was something to be said for Aunt Lil.

Thursday morning proved a little tricky. I was halfway down the High Street in search of slab toffee before embarking for Chiddingfold, when I was waylaid by Edith Hopgarden.

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘all ready, are we?’

‘Ready for what?’ I enquired warily.

‘To do Mavis’s introduction, of course – the third volume of those remarkable gems of wisdom. I gather you are about to produce a glowing endorsement – or should I say a scintillating exegesis?’ She barred my path with a stance of unsmiling challenge.

Edith’s disdain for her ‘friend’ is trumped only by her dislike of me. I have few weapons in my armoury other than the knowledge of her rather tiresome liaison with Tapsell. Ever since I once encountered them in compromising circumstances she has taken against me; and as for myself, I have only to see a bicycle clip to be reminded uncomfortably of that abortive evening … However, this was not the time to dwell on such things, and if evasive action were needed I could always enquire after the health of Mr Hopgarden. It usually works.

‘Yes, Mavis’s literary energy is prodigious, isn’t it?’ I laughed. ‘But I am sure the new outpouring will speak for itself and needs only a short paragraph from me.’

‘Oh, she’s expecting more than a short paragraph,’ was the sadistic reply. ‘Half a book of praise and perceptive analysis, I gather.’

‘Don’t think I can quite run to that,’ I said jovially. ‘Just a few choice words might fit the bill. And besides, Edith, since you think so highly of her talent, why don’t
you
compose something for the next edition of the parish newsletter? A really full-blown encomium. You have such style and wit and she would be delighted! I’ll put you down for it straight away.’ I raised my hat, fixed her with a dazzling smile and rushed onwards to the toffee shop.

Driving over to Chiddingfold was a relief and a fear. Cocooned in the Singer I was safe from marauding parishioners, but the prospect of the luncheon topic was not a happy one and my mind was once more beset with anxious gloom. Chiddingfold is an attractive place, and as I drew up beside its small village green edged with trees and cottages, I thought wistfully of how nice it would be if the only agenda for our meal were the latest cricket scores or some government scandal. As it was …

I got out, sniffed the fresh air, and then seeing Ingaza’s elderly Citroën sprawled at the side of the inn, steeled myself for trouble.

He sat in a corner gazing abstractedly at the menu, his lean fingers caressing a Bloody Mary, smoke curling up from a discarded Sobranie in the ashtray. For one who was supposed to have been poleaxed by his aunt he didn’t look too bad, but I couldn’t help noticing the prominence of his cheekbones and the signs of strain around the mouth. Yes, Clinker wasn’t the only one being put through it. We were all on a knife-edge, and it would only take an accident or wrong decision and we could fall spectacularly. There flashed in my memory the image of a recent acquaintance plunging into a mountain ravine, vanishing God knows where … I shut my eyes.