A Bedlam of Bones (21 page)

‘You look a wreck,’ drawled the nasal voice. ‘Better have one of these – perk you up and blow your head off!’ He gestured to the Bloody Mary and offered me a cigarette. I took his advice, fetched the drink from the bar, took a sip and nearly exploded. ‘Well that’s brought colour to the boy’s cheeks,’ he observed. ‘Now, have you heard from Primrose?’

‘About a week ago I suppose. Why? Should I have?’

‘I meant more recently than that. She called me yesterday – had another letter.’

‘Oh my God, her as well! What on earth does it say?’

‘Very little apparently. No preliminaries or anything, simply the payment details, i.e. the sum of £1,000 to be paid into a numbered Swiss bank account by the third of September. Smaller sum than mine and a different bank, but that was the instruction. Nothing else said.’

I took a thoughtlessly large sip of my drink, scalded my throat and gazed unseeingly at the menu. ‘This is becoming appalling,’ I muttered. ‘What the hell can we do?’

‘Play the sod at his own game,’ he snapped. ‘As I said before, we’re possibly in a stronger position than he is – or at least no worse.’

‘So you really do think it’s Turnbull?’

‘Don’t you? You seemed pretty convinced earlier on.’

I nodded, and started to tell him about our conversation down in Lewes: ‘Perhaps I was being oversensitive but I just had the impression that everything he said about Hor and Felter’s death was somehow loaded, as if he was taunting me – guessing that we were the most likely ones to have taken the body.’ I paused, then added, ‘Mind you, things weren’t exactly helped by you stirring things up over the Timms affair. He must have known what you were getting at. It was as if you were throwing down a glove, and now he’s bloody well taken it up!’

He shrugged. ‘Don’t twitch. We’ll have some lunch and then hatch plans.’

‘Plans?’ I exclaimed. ‘How can we make plans? The whole thing is a frightful mess, the police are out of the question and we know from what happened in France that Turnbull is as cool as hell!’

‘Getting our theology a trifle muddled, aren’t we, old boy? In my time it was the burning fiery furnace, but of course the Church changes its views so often these days that one loses track … Anyway, I can thoroughly recommend the Chicken à la King – the sauce is good and the creamed potato all nice and crispy. I also suggest we have a bottle of Montrachet.’

‘You can’t afford it,’ I said acidly, ‘you’ve got that £2,000 to pay.’ He ignored me and waved imperiously to the waiter.

The wine was delivered and we set about our meal, and for a brief spell immersed ourselves exclusively in drink and chicken, carefully avoiding anything touching on blackmail. It didn’t last of course, and by the time we had reached the apple tart we were back on the subject.

‘So, if we are fully decided that it’s really Turnbull, what do you propose?’ I asked him.

‘Confrontation. I think that the best thing would—’

‘You mean beard him in his den?’ I asked.

‘
Beard
him in his
den
! My, what a quaint, old-fashioned term! Where on earth do you get them from?’

‘It’s what we learnt at prep school,’ I said defensively. ‘Lists of “handy” idioms.’

‘Ah well, being but a grammar school product I was denied such lists. Doubtless there is a gaping lacuna in my—’

‘But you read Classics at Merton, didn’t you? Got a First. And then what, Nicholas, then what?’

He looked surprised at my question, or perhaps at the tone of insistence which possibly the Montrachet had given it.

‘And then what? Well, the theology thing at St Bede’s – you know that. You were there, if you recall. And since there was such a hoo-ha when they chucked me out I imagine you remember only too well!’

‘Oh I’m not talking about St Bede’s,’ I said impatiently. ‘Before – during the war. What were you
doing
? You’ve never said … I mean, you weren’t in it, were you?’ Yes, it must have been the drink talking; I had consumed nearly half a bottle, not to mention the lethal Bloody Mary, and it had clearly made me bold. Ingaza’s reticence about the war years had always slightly puzzled me but I had been too diffident to ask. And now for some reason, suddenly at this quiet table in a country inn, I was pinning him down for an answer.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow and regarded me coolly; and leaning back in his chair, said, ‘Well old cock, I wasn’t a conchie if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘No, I didn’t think you were – not entirely your style, I shouldn’t have thought.’

He must have noticed the hint of sarcasm but shrugged good-humouredly and said, ‘Wasn’t batting for the other side, either – at least, not
that
other side.’ He winked.

I cleared my throat and poured him the dregs of the wine, feeling rather a fool. Was I being unduly inquisitive? I wondered. Perhaps he had been a Bevin Boy and felt cheated of not being in the thick of things. Some did, I gathered. A clerk in the Home Office debarred service on account of flat feet? (But his feet weren’t flat!) Or perhaps, I reflected, a tuberculosis case huddled in blankets on a sanatorium veranda, listening to the Allied planes droning overhead … After all, he had always been pale.

‘Don’t look so worried, Francis,’ the voice mocked. ‘Spoils the classical features! I’ll tell you sometime … Perhaps. But meanwhile let’s get that bastard nailed.’ He ordered coffee and a couple of brandies, and puffing my humble Craven ‘A’s – the Sobranies having vanished in smoke – we discussed tactics.

No, that is not quite correct … I was given my instructions.

Ingaza’s plan and my instructions were simple and to the point: I was to attend the inaugural reception in Oxford and make all the expected noises, i.e. compliment Turnbull fulsomely on his acumen and enterprise, mingle with the other guests, express astonishment at the splendid facilities of the place and be generally impressed by the whole setup. And then just when Turnbull was at his most flattered and disarmed, put the boot in by slipping him a copy of the two-line note I had appropriated in France. No words would be needed, the note itself would do the trick.

‘You mean the trick of making him back off?’ I had asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Ingaza had said confidently. ‘With that staring him in the face there’ll be nothing else he can do, especially if you murmur the magic name of little Inspector Dumont
*
in his ear!’

‘There
is
something else he could do,’ I had objected. ‘What he did to Boris – bash my brains out!’

‘Well hardly there in the midst of everything, dear boy – people might notice. And besides, he would know that the evidence was only a copy and that the original must be held elsewhere. Snuffing you out wouldn’t achieve anything.’

‘No it wouldn’t,’ I had replied impatiently, ‘and neither will your damn fool idea. Really, Nicholas, you’ve been living with Eric too long. It’s crude, rash and theatrical and I want no part of it!’

He had looked put out and retorted acidly that doubtless with my fertile mind I could devise something better. ‘But you had better be
quick
, Francis – he’s not bluffing, you know. He has the power to blow everything sky high, including your sister’s reputation and very likely yours. The press will be only too delighted to learn that she has a vicar for a brother and they’ll milk it for all it’s worth. The name Oughterard will hold a stigma for life. And of course, if you want your bishop to be branded a nancy boy, let alone a possible murderer, then just allow things to take their course. And you can bet they will! Turnbull needs the money, and if he doesn’t get it you don’t imagine he’s going to sit back without exacting some sort of payment, do you? Think about it.’

I had thought about it, and did think about it all the way home in the car. And although I recognized only too well the likely consequences of doing nothing, Ingaza’s proposal struck me as wildly precarious. Shock tactics of the kind he envisaged might work in Jacobean melodrama, but hardly in real life or with one as cool as Turnbull. Besides, despite the weight of circumstantial evidence, and indeed my own instinct, there was still no absolute
certainty
that he was the one. Probable, yes, but definite? Hardly. No, the whole suggestion was a preposterous gamble and there had to be a better way.

Of course, underneath the rationalizing lurked something else: my own failure of nerve. Some people are suited to precipitating events and relish the risk. I am not one of those. And the one time in my life when I did turn protagonist had been a moment of horrific and gross disaster whose effects are remorseless … Thus I was loath to take centre stage in such a bald and uncertain initiative.

*    *    *

Back at the vicarage I fed the animals and started to tidy my study. The latter does not happen very often but I suppose it was a vain attempt to distract the mind and engage in something safely prosaic. However, despite my efforts at sifting papers and redistributing the general rubble, my thoughts were still riveted on how to deal with matters. I was annoyed, but not surprised, that Ingaza had put the immediate onus on me. After all, I thought ruefully, it was
he
who had been Clinker’s inamorato, however briefly; and he who had persuaded Primrose to collaborate with him over the fake paintings to Canada. He was also considerably more seasoned at games of chance and daring than I … But then that had always been his strength (skill, rather): using others to procure his own ends. Memories of St Bede’s came flooding over me and I remembered how suavely he had called the shots while poised mockingly in the shadows.

So absorbed was I in old memories and tidying old books that I didn’t hear the telephone at first, and it was only when the cat started a peevish mewing that it caught my attention. Thinking it might be Primrose wanting to let off steam about her recent ‘invoice’, I hurried to lift the receiver.

‘Is that Francis Oughterard?’ asked a man’s voice.

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘Ah, Francis,’ said Rupert Turnbull, ‘glad to catch you in. I have a little problem which I rather hope you might be able to help me with.’

Before I could muster thought or words, he had moved on: ‘This is in strict confidence, you understand, but frankly I am rather worried about Lavinia. And as she’s my cousin as well as being such a good friend I really feel I need to confide in someone.’

‘Confide what?’ I asked guardedly, wondering what on earth he was getting at.

He hesitated, and then said quietly, ‘Well it’s a little delicate, Francis, but actually I don’t think she is terribly well … I mean, not well in the
head
.’

‘Oh dear!’ I exclaimed reassuringly. ‘Er, in what way in the head?’

‘From what I can make out, it’s not so much mental as spiritual, as if she is undergoing some sort of’ – here he paused, seeming to search for a term – ‘well, what one might call a crisis of the soul.’

Crisis of the soul?
Why should he want to telephone me about it! I fumbled nervously for a cigarette and nearly dropped the receiver. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I know it’s a bit of a cheek but I was wondering if you might possibly help her to sort matters out, help her to get things in perspective. You see, apart from Bishop Clinker, I don’t really know any other clergymen, so it’s a bit tricky. But that’s what I think she needs – at this stage, at any rate – guidance from the Church, not Harley Street.’

I had a momentary memory of Lavinia in France, drearily garbed and gabbling incessantly about the hermit’s bones with cranky Boris. Was it possible that despite the startling transformation, she was now having a relapse and reverting to the nut cutlets and earnest mysticism of six months previously? It seemed unlikely. But even if it was the case, it was hardly something I wanted to become involved with!

I scanned the hall, struggling to formulate some tactful excuse, and my gaze fell on my father, sepia and stern in an ancient school photograph. Ranks of blazered boys stared out anonymously, but I could always spot him – back row, third from the right: C. K. Oughterard, House Prefect; beetle-browed and ramrod-stiff. And I remembered his later words addressed to a less than ramrod son: ‘Always respond to the call of duty, my boy, it’s the least any of us can do. Fail in that and it’ll haunt you for life.’ He had been right, of course (though how did he know?). I sighed … Yes, forgetting to feed those hamsters and carelessly letting them escape on to the busy road had dogged me for years.

And thus with Pa and hamsters firmly in mind, I heard myself saying, ‘Well if you really think I could be useful, then naturally I’ll see what I can do. But perhaps you could give me a little more information …’

There was an audible sigh of relief at the other end and he gave fulsome thanks. ‘That’s such a weight off my mind! She likes you, you know, and I’m sure she will respond well to any counsel you care to give. It’s all a question of nipping things in the bud, wouldn’t you say?’

I was mildly flattered but still unclear. ‘Yes, I should think so – but what things exactly? I would really need to know a little more about her difficulties before I could—’

‘Oh, of course! You need to be put in the full picture – the only problem is
when
. It’s not the sort of thing one can really explain over the telephone, but my problem is I’m stuck here in London, bogged down in the Kensington project – builders, staff interviews, equipment deliveries, etc. And it’s all got to be sorted out before the Oxford opening in ten days’ time. I don’t suppose you could possibly … No, I’m sure you’re far too busy.’

‘Busy for what?’

‘To come up to London, have lunch at my flat. We can chew it over and down a bottle of Fleurie. Seem to remember you rather enjoying that in France!’ He laughed.

He was right, but a bottle of Fleurie was hardly enticement to go to Turnbull’s flat!

‘Ah, well,’ I stammered, mind racing, ‘not sure if I can …’

‘I mean, I rather wondered if you had any appointments which you could combine with lunching here. I can tell you, Francis, I really want to get Lavinia sorted out. Poor girl, I think she’s going through it.’

I was flustered but intrigued. Was she really ill? In which case, as Pa had directed, there was not much choice … On the other hand, how far (if at all) could I trust Turnbull? What was he playing at?
Was
he playing? There was only one way to find out, and the next moment I had said mechanically, ‘I do have to go to Whipple’s on Thursday to collect some shirts and be measured for a new cassock. I could pop in for a quick lunch if you wanted, but it would have to be—’

‘Splendid!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll be here, one thirty on the dot. I really appreciate this, Francis, you’ve no idea.’ He gave me an address off Wimpole Street and after a few niceties our conversation ended.

I returned to the sitting room, stared at the cat and cursed myself for being so weak. It passed through my mind to seize the telephone again and tell him I had been horribly confused about dates and couldn’t possibly get to London for at least two months. The problem was I didn’t have his number, and it would mean going through all the palaver of Directory Enquiries. Besides, to suddenly cancel now would look so obvious and churlish … I stood studying the dog, chewing a peppermint and weighing things up. Resolution: I would ring Primrose.

‘Sounds a bit fishy,’ my sister said, ‘though can’t say I’m surprised about Lavinia going bonkers. Always thought she was fey. She was on cloud nine at her party and seemed in good spirits when they all came over to Lewes, but who knows, perhaps the gruesome fate of hubby has triggered buried insanities – even if she did engineer it!’

‘We don’t know that she engineered it,’ I reminded her severely, ‘and in any case, Turnbull suggested the trouble was some sort of spiritual malaise, not madness as such.’

‘Well I think
you
would be mad to go to Turnbull’s flat without some sort of reinforcement.’

‘Such as?’

‘Me. It’s high time I paid another visit to Marshall & Snelgrove. I need a new corset, and they’ve got some very pretty patterned ones there and just the right size. Might as well go up on Thursday as any other day. You have lunch with Turnbull as planned and I’ll meet you afterwards in that Greek coffee shop round the corner. If you don’t appear by two forty-five I shall come up and see what’s what!’

‘In the corset?’

*    *    *

So that was the arrangement. And I didn’t know whether to be pleased that I was doing something positive to confront whatever was going on, gratified that I might be of conceivable help to Lavinia, or scared witless in case I ended up as mincemeat. On the whole I thought the last unlikely, and yet for some ridiculous reason I decided to take Bouncer with me. He would be a companionable ally, and never having been to London before would perhaps enjoy the novelty of the city’s lamp posts …