Bone Idle (13 page)

Sunday morning again. There had been a good attendance and some lusty hymn singing, and thus I mounted the pulpit steps confident that my sermon – rigorously cut to the bone – would meet with their approval. The opening paragraph was quite dramatic in flavour, and noting the stir of interest, I continued with a degree of pleasure … until my glance fell on an alien face: Victor Crumpelmeyer’s.

He sat fatly in a central pew, his pallid skin and hair contrasting starkly with the tightly buttoned black raincoat. His eyes were fixed unswervingly on the pulpit – or to be more exact, on me. Wretched man, why wasn’t he at home in Godalming with the newly acquired Violet? Surely he had better things to do on a Sunday than come traipsing over to Molehill to listen to my words of wavering wisdom! I started to glare; and then remembering he was not the only member of the congregation, hastily adjusted my features to a more amiable cast.

Things continued to progress well enough, but Crumpelmeyer’s presence had unsettled me and I concluded both sermon and service in a mood of disquiet. What the hell was he doing there!

Fortunately he was not among the loiterers in the porch afterwards, nor was there sight of him elsewhere – for which I was certainly thankful. On the other hand, if he had not come to harass me further about the bracelet, what on earth was his purpose? Devotion to Sunday worship seemed unlikely, but in any case if he wanted to do that sort of thing there was a perfectly good church in Godalming. It was peculiar, and I did not like it at all.

I walked home disconsolately with Wattle’s warning – ‘they’re gunning for you’ – echoing in my mind, fed the dog his Bonio and embarked on a long snooze.

This was pleasant except for the latter part, which was punctuated by dreams of Ingaza, Primrose, and a miscellany of her po-faced sheep sporting diamond bracelets and wandering around the plains of Ontario bleating hymns of ovine joy …

I awoke stiff from the sofa’s confinements and was just about to turn on the six o’clock news when there was a loud knocking at the window. The whey face of the telegraph boy peered in. My heart sank. There was only one person I knew who still used that particular service – Primrose; and on such occasions the content invariably spelt trouble.

I put off opening it for as long as I could – long enough at any rate to pour a whisky and hunt for my cigarettes. And then, having no further reason to delay, I slit open the small yellow envelope. My surmise was correct.

I took the receiver off the hook and ruminated. Evidently Nicholas had already got at her, put his proposal and indicated that I had been sceptical of her interest. Foolishly I had overlooked the fact that where there was a conflict between Primrose’s high-minded pride and her interest in money, the latter would invariably triumph. Wearily I replaced the receiver and waited. It did not take long.

‘You get a stipend for life,’ she stormed, ‘little to do,
and
a free parsonage. While your poor sister has to earn her crusts by the sweat of her brow and her talent. I consider your words to that Ingaza person officious in the extreme. It is entirely
my
affair what commissions I choose to take!’

‘Well, yes,’ I rejoined, ‘but in this case the plan is a bit dodgy, isn’t it? You know – painting fakes for gullible Canadians –’

‘Not half as dodgy as something else I could mention,’ came the swift reply.

I considered that well below the belt but said nothing; instead, remarked mildly that I thought she had always held an aversion to Nicholas.

‘Most certainly I do – a distinctly unsavoury type. But this is
business
, Francis, something I couldn’t possibly expect you to understand!’

‘So what are you going to do?’ I asked. ‘Flog the frauds and let your agent take his cut? He sets a high price, I can tell you!’

There was a pause, and then in icy tones she said, ‘Well, I gather you know all about that. And in any case, they will not be frauds – as you so delicately put it – but items of singular taste and artistic skill which any discerning buyer would be grateful to hang on their walls. In the world of culture, Francis, there is always space for imaginative, creative licence. Kindly remember that!’

‘Yes, Primrose.’ And then I took a gamble: ‘Tell me, how are the chinchillas? Eating well, are they?’

It did the trick, and we spent an amiable ten minutes engrossed in the exploits of Boris and Karloff and execrating the inanity of show judges who failed to appreciate their remarkable distinction.

Gardening is not my forte, and other than responding to the occasional summons from Primrose, I avoid it whenever possible. But that Monday morning with the sun shining, and suddenly struck by the rabble of weeds romping over the sun dial, I had felt that a little clearance was in order. I was also prompted by Edith Hopgarden’s scathing remark two days previously, that the vicarage lawn was fast resembling the back end of the Garden of Eden – wholly wild and uncultivated. She had been with Mavis Briggs at the time and thus the jibe had lost its edge by the pun having to be laboriously explained. However, the memory still rankled and I attacked the weeds with irritable energy.

Heavily absorbed in this, I did not at first register their presence; but I suddenly realized that I was not alone. People were standing behind me – specifically March and Samson.

I started to rise from my crouching position while March made some jocular crack about the Reverend spending so much time on his knees. I smiled falsely and asked what I could do for them. March seemed in no hurry to enlighten me, and instead embarked on an involved disquisition concerning the relative merits of two popular brands of weed-killer. Having dispensed this information, he turned his thoughts to the quality of my trowel, the recalcitrance of slugs and the best kind of ground cover for north-facing corners. I listened with polite interest while the Whippet scanned the distance with sullen eye.

Eventually the horticultural treatise changed tack. ‘Ever been to France, sir?’ March asked suddenly.

I was startled, my mind occupied by visions of slugs and paraquat. ‘ Er … no. Well, not recently at any rate. We had a family holiday in Brittany once when I was a boy … but why do you ask?’ (Surely they weren’t going to resurrect the art theft business all over again! Or was he about to suggest the efficacy of garlic as a weed suppressant?)

‘So you are not familiar with the Auvergne?’ cut in Samson curtly.

My knowledge of France and its geography is limited, and so it was with genuine puzzlement that I told him that I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

‘You see, sir,’ continued March, delving into his briefcase, ‘we’ve got Mrs Fotherington’s diary here, and –’

‘Yes, yes,’ I replied impatiently, ‘you’ve shown me that before.’

‘Ah, but
this
isn’t the same one. It’s an earlier one, written quite a few years previously.’ He spoke with patient satisfaction. ‘And if you wouldn’t mind, sir, I’d just like you to cast your eye over this here passage.’ He thrust the notebook at me, and I took it, thinking him mad. How could a diary dated well before my arrival in Molehill have any conceivable relevance either to me or to their investigations! Dutifully, however, I ‘cast my eye’ over the entry. It read as follows:

I looked at him blankly. ‘What on earth’s all that about?’

‘So it doesn’t ring any bells, then?’ barked Samson aggressively.

I turned to look at him, replying coldly, ‘No, Sergeant, it does not ring any bells. And I cannot imagine why you should think it might!’

He was about to answer but March got there first, and in conciliatory tone said, ‘You’re right. By itself it doesn’t amount to much, but when set alongside the letter, things tend to cohere … as our Mr Slowcome would say.’ He beamed. I did not. Was I participating in some ghastly Kafka novel? What ‘things’ and what letter, for crying out loud!

‘Show him the document, Sidney,’ directed March. The Whippet put his hand in his raincoat pocket and pulled out a crumpled page which he passed to me in sour silence.

I looked enquiringly at March. ‘It’s the start of a letter apparently addressed to someone called Mildred,’ he explained. ‘You’ll note that it’s dated a couple of weeks prior to the lady’s unfortunate end. Looks as if she put it aside meaning to continue later. But as things turned out, she was … er, overtaken by events.’ He coughed discreetly. ‘Anyway, have a read of it if you wouldn’t mind, sir, and I think you’ll find the matter becomes clearer.’ It did. Clear and disturbing.

Presumably at this point, and in a flurry of indignation, Elizabeth had downed pen and rushed out to remonstrate with the asparagus despoiler.

I continued to stare at the words on the page, certain of one thing: whatever her intentions, she had omitted to present me with any such ‘surprising’ deeds (as if I didn’t have enough shocks to contend with!) or even mention the existence of that inelegant though possibly valuable ruin.
I
knew that, but how to convince others? At the time of my ‘event’ I had spent much energy in devising means of ridding myself of the embarrassment of her legacy, and had finally rested secure in the knowledge that in no way could financial gain possibly link me with her death. But then I had not reckoned on the chance of even later posthumous gifts!

I stared at March in bewilderment. ‘I know nothing about it,’ I said blankly.

‘So at no point,’ he said slowly, ‘did the deceased hand over these deeds to you?’

‘No, never!’ I exclaimed.

‘And we take it that there was no mention of the documents or her intention?’ Samson interposed.

I was about to assure him of that, when he continued quickly, ‘You see, sir, we wouldn’t want any misunderstanding like last time, would we?’

‘What do you mean “like last time”?’

‘That little mix-up over your times of departure to Sussex on the day of the murder. You forgot to mention to us that you had started out twice, i.e. returned once and set out again.’

‘No, Sergeant. As I explained to you, I did not forget –
you
omitted to ask and then proceeded to another line of enquiry. I think we need to be clear about that.’ I fixed him with the sort of look that would just occasionally quell Edith Hopgarden. No such luck with the Whippet of course.

He was about to respond, when March cut in hastily: ‘You’re right, sir, clarity is of the essence, and that’s why it’s imperative that nothing can be misconstrued about these deeds … You are absolutely certain that they were never in your possession and you knew nothing of them?’

‘Absolutely certain, Inspector.’

He nodded to Samson and pocketed his notebook. ‘Ah well, that’s it then, Sidney, isn’t it? That’s another item we can cross off Mr Slowcome’s list.’ He turned towards the path, cast a critical eye over the rose bed, and added thoughtfully, ‘Take my advice, sir, they’re too old. Root ’em out and put in begonias instead – nice splash of colour in the summer …’ He seemed to ruminate for a moment, and then said briskly, ‘Anyway, Reverend, won’t keep you any longer, that’s all we need.’ And so saying, he began to lumber towards the gate.

‘For the time being,’ murmured Samson.

Bastard.
 

After they had gone I sat down on the rusting lawn roller and pondered. It was a mercy at least that Elizabeth had never foisted those wretched things upon me. And I wondered idly what had delayed her and where they were in any case. Still, a lucky escape all right! But it was maddening that the matter should have come to light at all, and my name be linked with hers yet again. To have this added to the bracelet business was the last thing I needed. I wondered gloomily whether the Crumpelmeyers knew about this latest development … Bound to. Doubtless March would have informed them. Or more likely it was they who had found the letter and diary in the first place and, incensed and triumphant, presented them to the police. I groaned. It was true – not one jot of peace for the wicked! There was only one thing to do: bash up Beethoven. And crunching a peppermint, I threw the trowel aside and marched indoors to the piano.