Bone Idle (19 page)

‘What’s deeds?’ Bouncer suddenly asked. I was monitoring the movements of a spider at the time and in no mood to be drawn into the dog’s interrogations.

‘Another term for actions,’ I replied shortly, keeping a lynx eye on my prey.

There was a silence. And then just as I was preparing to pounce, the dog burped loudly and said, ‘Oh no, Maurice, I don’t think so. More to do with words probably.’

Too late. I missed the crucial moment and the spider scurried off among the lobelias. I glared at Bouncer. ‘Thanks to your din that creature has just escaped my paw. Kindly go elsewhere!’ He didn’t of course, and instead sat down and began to scratch. I scanned the grass clippings for another diversion, and not spying any, asked him what he thought he was talking about.

He stopped scratching, and cocking his ears replied thoughtfully, ‘Well, when we were down in Sussex with F.O. staying with that sister and the Brighton type, they allkept using this word “deeds” and talking about them being lost … You won’t remember, Maurice – out for the count on the Brighton type’s lap.’ (I most certainly was, prostrated by the noise and the people!) ‘Anyway, for some reason it seemed to upset the vicar and he got quite shirty. Kept telling them that he hadn’t seen them and didn’t have them. The Brighton type sounded excited and said that was a pity as these deed things could come in useful and perhaps still might be found … So you see, Maurice, it can’t mean actions. You’re wrong there.’

I am not accustomed to being called wrong and was nettled. Nevertheless the dog had a point, so I pondered the matter while trying to look indifferent … Yes, I recalled, there was another meaning: something told to me in kittenhood by my great-uncle Marmaduke (the gallant hero of the hen-run plunder mentioned in an earlier memoir). I think he had said something to the effect that they were documents showing entitlement to property.

I explained this to Bouncer who nodded eagerly. ‘That’s more like it,’ he said, ‘papers with words on, that’s it!’ He got up, shook himself vigorously and informed me that he was going down to the crypt. It was not his usual hour for visiting and I asked why the hurry.

‘Got to think,’ he replied mysteriously. And picking up his rubber ring, he dog-trotted off towards the church. I was puzzled, but glad of the peace resumed my surveillance of the lobelias.

An hour later he reappeared. ‘I have been THINKING,’ he announced.

‘Yes, you did mention it,’ I murmured.

‘These deeds I was telling you about – the sister and the Brighton type seemed to think the old girl was meaning to give them to F.O., but didn’t. I think I know where they are.’

‘Nonsense,’ I laughed indulgently, ‘you couldn’t possibly know.’

‘Yes I do!’ he retorted. There was a defiant look in his eye.

‘All right then, where?’

‘In O’Shaughnessy’s kennel.’

‘O’Shaughnessy’s kennel!’ I exclaimed. ‘What
are
you talking about? You’re imagining things.’ And I gave an impatient flick of my tail.

He peered out from the shaggy fringe. ‘It’s a bit complicated, Maurice. Might take a little time …’

I sighed. ‘Well, if it’s going to be one of your interminable sagas we had better discuss the matter over supper. Unless F.O. has been remiss with the shopping there should be pilchards tonight. Perhaps they will aid concentration!’

He grinned. ‘Right-ho, Maurice!’ And thus later that evening we continued the conversation under the kitchen table.

I was both surprised and irritated to hear what he had to say: surprised because I had had no inkling of the events he described; irritated because yet again the dog had concealed matters of which I should have been informed. It was too bad!

‘You remember when I told you about me finding the old trout’s corpse in Foxford Wood?’ he began.

‘How could I forget?’ I exclaimed. ‘The noise was excruciating. I thought your lungs would explode and my ears be split!’

‘No, not then,’ he snorted impatiently, ‘later, when I got down to the details.’

‘About you scoffing the gobstoppers and burying F.O.’s cigarette lighter?’

‘That’s it. Only there was something else, you see.’

‘What else?’ I asked indignantly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘It didn’t seem all that important then. Besides, there was so much to think about I couldn’t remember everything …’ He knit his brows.

‘Yes, all right.’

‘Well, when she was lying there and I was sort of sniffing around seeing what was what, and after I’d eaten the humbugs, I noticed there was a bulge in the pocket of her dress. And you know, Maurice, it crossed my mind that she might have some biscuits there and –’

‘Really, Bouncer! Even in the midst of death you can think of nothing but your stomach!’ I closed my eyes in pained displeasure.

‘That’s as may be,’ he replied, ‘but what I found was pretty interesting. Not then of course, but it is now. You see I reckon what I had found was the DEEDS!’ He let out a bellow of triumph causing me to close my eyes again.

When I opened them I asked him to kindly justify his assumption, and he said that what he had dragged out of her pocket had been a wedge of typewritten papers tied up in blue ribbon covered in silver stars. ‘Sort of like a present,’ he explained.

My quick brain immediately grasped the implications. ‘So you think these were the deeds which Primrose thought Mrs F. meant to give him.’

‘
Yes!
’ shouted Bouncer. ‘And she would have if he hadn’t done for her first!
That’s
why she pursued him into the wood – to hand them over!’ He stood panting, gazing at me expectantly.

‘Hmm,’ I mused, ‘you could well be right.’ His tail threshed the air. ‘But,’ I continued sternly, ‘having retrieved the packet, what did you do with it?’

‘Buried it.’

‘Whatever for? After all, unlike the lighter, as far as you knew it was of no significance.’

He explained that he had been in training for a bone-burying contest with some of the neighbourhood dogs – apparently a vital challenge requiring much expertise. And feeling he was a trifle out of practice but determined to win, he had been taking every opportunity to hone his technique by using anything which came to paw. ‘Seemed a pity to pass up the chance,’ he said.

‘Quite,’ I agreed drily. ‘But tell me, Bouncer, what are the documents now doing in the setter’s kennel? Why aren’t they still in the ground?’

‘Ah,’ he said, looking shifty, ‘that happened when you got us together to go and dig up the lighter before the sniffer dogs found it. You remember, when –’

‘Of course I remember,’ I replied impatiently, ‘it was that masterly plan of mine to organize the vicar’s defences. I accompanied you both to the wood to supervise the excavation, but I certainly do not recall anything about a sheaf of papers being recovered.’

‘No,’ he answered slowly, ‘thought you hadn’t noticed.’

‘What do you mean? Noticed what?’

He cleared his throat and shifted from paw to paw. ‘It was like this: I happened to mention to O’Shaughnessy that I had buried some stuff close to the lighter, and
he
said wouldn’t it be a good wheeze if we could dig it up again without you noticing and carry it home along with the lighter. You know, a sort of test of speed and … oh, that word you are always using – dexter something or other. Anyway, he bet me it couldn’t be done without you seeing. “Betcha!” I said. So when you were busy chasing a pheasant that O’Shaughnessy had put up right across your path, I grubbed up the papers, and he clamped them in his jaws and bounded on ahead – while I trotted along with the lighter just like you told me to. When we got back to the vicarage and met O’Shaughnessy again he had already dashed home and shoved the papers in his kennel … Quite a neat little op really.’ The dog cleared his throat again and gazed vacantly into the far distance, while I contemplated the monstrous duplicity of the canine race.

As you may imagine, this disgraceful tale put me into a sulk for the entire evening, and it was only by the afternoon of the following day that I could bring myself to even glance in his direction.

Maurice is in a right old bate! Hasn’t spoken all day and looks at me as if I’m something the cat’s brought in. Still, I don’t mind really – it’s been quite peaceful and given me time to collect my thoughts
and
talk to that nice giant Florence. (She’s been most helpful and given me a few ideas to chew over.) Still, he’ll come round soon enough because he gets bored if there isn’t somebody to trouble or complain about. It’s probably to do with that furtive brain that he’s always on about – at least I think that’s what he calls it – but it could be another word beginning with f. He uses so many I get confused!

So what’s bugging him? I’ll tell you. It’s all the result of our time down in Sussex when he went to sleep on the Brighton type’s lap and I stayed awake and listened to them all yapping and burbling. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, or at least the Prim and Gaza persons were, but F.O. looked a bit uneasy. But then he often looks like that – something to do with having done the old girl in, I suppose. He was swigging back the brandy all right and smiling now and again, but I could tell his heart wasn’t really in it. Too much on his plate, if you ask me, and not just the Foxford Wood murder either! My special sixth sense (which Clever Claws is always so rude about) tells me that there are some pretty odd things going on – pretty odd. But there you are, if you live with a cat and a vicar what else can you expect!

Anyway, the three of them kept using this word ‘deeds’ – flying all over the place it was – and the more I listened the more I knew it was VERY IMPORTANT. But the problem was I hadn’t a clue what it meant. There are some words you can work out, but this one had me really foxed. So after some hard thinking I gave up and thought about other things: my grub, my new ball, having my toenails cut at the vet’s, that nice new patch of smell by the garden gate, the organist’s dustbin (you can get some good pickings there all right!), rats and cats – oh and heaps of other stuff! So you see, the deeds thing rather went out of my head, and it was only when we got back home that I began to think about it again. That’s when I asked Maurice, and
that’s
when he started to get shirty.

He told me that deeds are like the letters humans write: pieces of paper covered in words, except that these tell you that you are the owner of a building or some such – a bit like O’Shaughnessy owning his kennel perhaps. So I went off down to the crypt, thought some more and had a snooze. When I woke up it was nearly ALL CLEAR! These deeds that F.O. has lost, or doesn’t have, show that he owns some place which is different from the vicarage. The sister in Sussex kept saying that the old girl, Mrs F., had been going to give them to him, but for some reason never did, and she wondered why. So in the crypt I began to wonder why too. And then, of course, the bone dropped with a great crash: they were probably those papers that
I
had pulled out of the corpse’s pocket and then buried! What do you think of that?

So that’s what I told Maurice; which in a way was a mistake because then I had to explain how O’Shaughnessy and me had dug the papers up again right under his nose and hid them in the setter’s kennel. It had been a joke really, to see if we could get away with it without him noticing. Well, we
did
get away with it, and O’ Shaughnessy said it was the best bit of craic he had had for weeks! But of course the cat doesn’t see the funny side at all, not at all – which is why he is now crouched under the apple tree looking like the Wrath of God.

Still, as said, he’ll soon come round, and in the meantime I’ll tell you about Florence of Fermanagh. She’s a really nice lady and full of useful advice.

You see, while all this cat-sulking has been going on, I thought I’d just nip out and have a little potter around the block. So I was doing that – sniffing here and there and having a good pee against the verger’s gatepost – when I suddenly remembered that I was in the road where Florence lives, and thought I would just trot past her drive and see if by chance she was in the garden … And there she was – on her back in the middle of the gravel having a good old roll! (Cor, you’ve never seen such long legs, stretched up to the sky they did!) So I gave a couple of sharp barks just to draw her attention, and she came lolloping over.

We had a good old gas, and she said she liked living here in Molehill because although there wasn’t as much space to bound about in as in that Fermanagh place, she found the neighbourhood dogs really friendly, and the humans not bad either.

‘Huh,’ I said, ‘some are! There are certain types you’d do best to avoid if you can. At least – it’s not that they’re bad exactly, just mor … mor … uhm, it’s one of Maurice’s favourite words. Can’t quite remember –’

‘Moronic,’ she said, wagging her tail.

‘That’s it,’ I barked, ‘MOR-ONIC! There’s quite a lot of those about, I can tell you!’

She nodded her big head and sat back folding her paws. (Just as I said, those forelegs aren’t half long!) ‘Yes, I know what you mean, we have a good number of them in Ireland too. Over there things are more spread out so they get sort of lost among the mountains and fields and bogs; but here in Molehill where the population is more concentrated –’

‘What?’ I said, a bit puzzled.

‘… where there are more people in a smaller space, you tend to notice them more.’

‘You can say that again!’ I agreed eagerly. ‘The place is crawling with them, especially in church on Sunday.’ And I told her about how I quite often go with F.O. and sit in the pulpit while he’s spouting his sermons, and watch the people below. ‘A pretty rum lot, if you ask me!’

She did ask me. ‘So who’s the rummest?’ she said.

I had to think about that because there are so many different sorts of rum. ‘Well,’ I told her, ‘for a start there’s that schoolmistress Miss Peachy, the one that keeps white mice in her saddle bag and a bottle of gin in her satchel. I would steer clear of that one if I were you: she doesn’t like dogs and has a sort of fit every time you get near. I said hello to her once and there was an awful hullabaloo! And then of course there’s the Mayor’s nephew – a real nut cutlet and no mistake! And Mavis Briggs who’s everywhere and has a weedy voice which she uses a lot, and keeps creeping up on people and reading things to them from a notebook. I’ve noticed that whenever she appears in the High Street the shoppers start to walk very fast. In fact, one time when I was with F.O. he began to tug so hard on my lead that I nearly choked. And as for –’

‘So what about the vicar? Is he rum?’

‘Crikey, yes – he’s really off his chump! But he’s very nice to live with – if you can stand the ups and downs and don’t weaken.’ She looked puzzled, and I
very
nearly told her all about the Foxford Wood business, but stopped myself just in time. Maurice told me once that I must never,
ever
mention it. Just now and again he’s right, I suppose. Anyway, he was very fierce about it, so I try to keep my trap shut. We’ve got a very cushy number at the vicarage and it would be a pity to spoil it.

Florence unfolded her paws and stood up. And bending her head, she put her nose close to mine and said quietly, ‘But there’s someone dafter than him, isn’t there?’

I was a bit startled by that, and sniffed the gravel while I thought about it.

‘Er – I’m not sure …’ I began.

‘It’s that fat, white-faced one with the staring eyes,’ she explained, ‘who lives somewhere else but comes to Molehill quite often. My sixth sense tells me he needs watching.’

‘Your sixth sense!’ I barked excitedly. ‘You’ve got one too?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘all the best dogs have that.’

That really made my day! In fact I was so pleased that I nearly forgot to tell her about my set-to with Crumplehorn in F.O.’s study – which I then did at some length.

When I had finished I thought she looked a bit sleepy, but I expect she had spent a busy morning: all that rolling around, it can tire a dog out, you know. Anyway, she said I was clearly a very
brave
guard hound and that the vicar was lucky to have me (which I keep telling Maurice, but he just stares blankly). And what’s more, she said that if we ever needed any help she would be only too happy to muck in as she knew a trick or two that might come in useful. I thought that was jolly sporting!

It was nice talking to her and I am sure the cat will approve,
when
he snaps out of his sulk. I think I’ll just go and sniff around and see what’s what – it’s about time he surfaced.

He did surface and was quite matey, even asked if I had had a pleasant day. I told him it had been jolly good and that I had spent some of it talking to the wolfhound. He said he was delighted to hear that as it could only do me some good. Didn’t quite know what he meant by that, but it obviously meant
something –
it always does!

He then said that he had been thinking about those deed things in O’Shaughnessy’s kennel, and that on reflection (one of his favourite words) he felt they would be far safer in his custard. (Matter of fact, the cat’s not too keen on custard, so why he wanted to put the deeds in it I don’t know. Still, Maurice is full of funny ideas and sometimes it’s simpler not to ask.)

‘Oh yes?’ I said.

‘Most definitely,’ he replied, and the sooner I nipped along and brought them back to him, the better.

I explained it wasn’t as easy as that because O’Shaugh-nessy doesn’t like having his toys nicked and was bound to cut up rough. He gave his typical cat smile and said if anyone could do it, I could. Well, of course he was right there. No fleas on Bouncer! Besides, just because he beat me in our last peeing contest O’Shaughnessy has been getting a mite big-headed lately and needs taking down a few pegs. If he’s not careful his collar will burst.

So that’s what I did – waited till I knew the setter was being exercised in the park, and then sneaked along, dived into his kennel and found the packet stuffed under his bedding at the back, and brought it smartly home to Maurice.

We sat staring at it for a while and the cat seemed very keen to tweak the ribbon with his claws, but I pointed out that the wrapping was already pretty grubby from being carried by O’Shaughnessy and perhaps we had better leave things as they were. For once the cat agreed, and then we took it in turns to carry it back to the house. By that time the package was not just grubby but slobbery too, but with F.O. being out we could dry it by the boiler.

When I asked Maurice if he was going to put it in the custard, he said I must be barking mad, and in any case wouldn’t I like to know! Considering it was me who had fetched the stupid thing I thought that was a bit rotten. Still, there are better things to think about than a bunch of soggy papers: bones for instance. I’ve got a very nice one on the go at the moment, only two days old. But it will be due for burial soon so it’s time I started to nose round for just the right spot. In the meantime the cat can go and shove those things exactly where he wants!