Bones in High Places (10 page)

I was tempted to lie abed the following morning. But mindful of Clinker’s visit, plus the fact that Bouncer was desperate to be loosed into the yard to romp with Clemenceau, I resisted the urge and presented myself at the breakfast table geared for the demands of the day. I was slightly worried that Henri might be around when the bishop arrived. It was difficult to imagine them having much in common. Keeping Clinker in temper was an exacting task at the best of times and unlikely to be helped by the priest’s anarchic presence.

Thus I was about to ask how the land lay, when I was pre-empted by Nicholas saying, ‘Old Henri has taken himself off to Vichy for the day. According to him there’s a church there with some incredible stained glass that he’s been wanting to see for years.’ He must have seen my look of surprise, for he went on, ‘Yes, I know, artistic discernment is not something to be associated with Henri, and I suspect that the real reason is that he’s arranged to meet a pal who is due to stand him a gargantuan meal. Can’t think why – something to do with a lost bet, I gather.’

‘How did he get to the station?’ I asked. ‘Did you run him there?’

‘At that hour in the morning? Like heck. No, he hitched a lift with some nun driving a Studebaker. Told her he had to get to confession tooty sweety.’

‘Huh,’ I remarked, ‘not before time, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Nicholas gave me what used to be known as an old-fashioned look and said mildly, ‘Yes, the Roman Catholics do have the convenience of that particular outlet –
unlike
those of the Anglican persuasion …’ Thus rebuked I buried my blushes in the newspaper and my coffee cup.

Eleven o’clock arrived – as did Clinker, on the dot. This time, unencumbered by heat and blackberries, he looked less weary; but there was a tension in his face, which relaxed somewhat when he saw me. Indeed, a tolerable smile spread across his features. Goodness, I thought, things must be bad.

The weather being still mild, I took him out on to what passed for the veranda, a cramped area with rickety chairs and tables, desultory stone pots and a rather moth-eaten sunshade. However, the views were good, the coffee strong, and Georges had thrown in some madeleines in honour of ‘
milord l’évêque anglais
’. For my sweet tooth these dry Proustian specialities have little appeal, but Clinker set upon them with gusto and I was reminded of his earlier reference to his hosts’ diet of spinach and lentils … Suffering from daytime starvation, presumably.

It was not, I learnt, the only thing he was suffering from: the Belvedere bones were proving tiresome. ‘The fellow’s obsessed with them,’ he grumbled, ‘and seems to think that he and Lavinia have some special responsibility for their care. I mean, it’s bad enough having to sit with the things in the dining room, but he now tells me he has recently built a special shrine to the chap somewhere in the grounds, and along with other crackpots intends parading the bones in front of it as some form of consecration ceremony. Seems to imagine I would be interested – even participate. Really, Oughterard, what one has to put up with!’

I was about to commiserate and enquire who the other crackpots were, when Maurice emerged, picking his way along the balustrade; seeing me, and with an uncharacteristic mew of welcome, he launched himself upon my lap. This rocked the table and upset my cup (empty fortunately). Clinker grimaced. ‘Wretched cats, you never know what they are going to do next. Myrtle has one, a most contrary creature …’ He broke off and stared hard. ‘I think I’ve seen that one before. It can’t be yours, surely, not
here
!’

I confessed that it was, and began a stammered explanation as to why the cat was with me in addition to the dog. He cut me short. ‘Extraordinary that you seem incapable of travelling except in the company of a menagerie of animals. However, I suppose …’

I did not learn of his supposition, for just then Primrose and Nicholas appeared, and all conversation stopped as Clinker confronted the erstwhile bane of St Bede’s and his pre-war amatory adventure.

I was amused to see that the object of his gaze had clearly made careful sartorial preparation. Despite the thin frame, gaunt cheeks and grey-streaked temples, in a louche sort of way Nicholas Ingaza still cut quite a decent figure – at least to my unpractised eye. Doubtless the slightly crumpled linen suit was more in keeping with the Riviera (or Singapore), and the glistening brilliantine and carefully arranged neckerchief too ostentatious for the purest of tastes, but one had to concede that the overall effect lent a certain raffish distinction to the scruffy veranda – and mercifully diverted the bishop’s attention away from me and my ‘menagerie’.

I was glad of my sister’s presence for it made the handling of the preliminaries less awkward, and in answer to Clinker ‘s polite enquiries about her painting career Primrose spoke with wit and animation.

Initially quiet, Nicholas gradually insinuated himself into the conversation, biding the cues, murmuring appreciatively in the pauses, contributing a nod, a decorous chuckle, even a mild joke. Thus little by little, rather like calming a nervous horse, he made the bishop at ease with his presence. It was a deft little manoeuvre of tact and nice judgement, and not for the first time I had a glimpse of those qualities which made him such a consummate rogue … and which presumably had disarmed Clinker all those years ago at Oxford.

We ordered more coffee and Clinker told us a little more about the people he was staying with and their ascetic habits. ‘It’s not that they aren’t hospitable,’ he said, ‘but frankly, it’s all a bit
intense
, and with those bone relics staring at me across the breakfast table sometimes it’s downright uncomfortable.’ He paused, and then said hesitantly, ‘As a matter of fact I have a confession to make. Mrs Birtle-Figgins – Lavinia – is inviting one or two people to lunch tomorrow: her cousin Rupert Turnbull who owns a local language school, and a couple of neighbours. Gladys seemed to think it would be nice if you and your sister could be included too, and Lavinia says she will be delighted.’ He coughed apologetically. ‘I think my wife thought it might help things along – er, make it all a bit jollier …’

I was astonished that Gladys Clinker should regard me as being remotely jolly. She had certainly never given any indication of that view before, and was obviously out of sorts. However, if in a moment of abstraction I was seen as some sort of court jester, then I supposed I had better oblige.

Primrose laughed and said we would be only too happy to help out. Then saying she had some letters to write made her excuses and slipped away.

Left alone, we started to reminisce about Oxford before the war; although by tacit accord the post-war events at St Bede’s theological college were tactfully skated over. Relaxed though he was, I doubted whether the bishop would take kindly to that particular turn in memory lane. As it was there was a sticky moment anyway, for at one point in the conversation Nicholas sailed rather too close to the wind (deliberately, I think) and it looked as if our guest might stalk off in dudgeon.

I cannot recall exactly what was said but it elicited an irascible response: ‘You were always difficult!’ the bishop had snapped.

‘Ah,’ replied Ingaza slyly, ‘but you were such a tease.’

There was silence, and for one moment I thought Clinker was about to explode. He seemed to go puce around the edges and I noticed the vein in his temple working fit to burst. But when something finally issued from his twitching mouth it was a sound not of wrath but of mirth, and in a tone of mingled fury and fond nostalgia he cried, ‘My God, you little bugger, you haven’t changed a jot!’

Nicholas gave a self-deprecating shrug, sleeked his hair and offered Clinker a cigarette. The latter muttered something about never touching the things these days and took it swiftly. The three of us leant against the balustrade smoking in silence and regarding the distant dome of Le Puy. It was a moment of rare peace broken only by the bleating of a goat and the distant strains of the French national anthem.

My anxieties about the lurking presence of Climp and Mullion had left me feeling jaded; and thus after supper that night I decided a little walk might help settle my mind and refresh the spirit. It was a pleasant stroll down to the village, the evening’s quiet broken only by the occasional cluck of duck and a distant braying of donkey. The fireflies were out, puncturing the dusk with eerie darting gleams, and now and again I caught the whiff of wood smoke and the insidious sweetness of late lilies.

At the pond’s edge I stood gazing at the reflection of the rising moon, savouring the silence, feeling a wave of rare tranquillity and wishing it could be ever thus. A firefly winked, a frog plopped and I could just catch the faint chirruping of an early nightjar.

‘Not a bad sort of place, is it, Canon? Leastways, not if you want to get away from things it isn’t.’ The voice came suddenly from the gloaming behind me and, startled though I was, I did not need to look round to know it was Mullion’s.

‘Not bad at all,’ I agreed easily, ‘very attractive in fact.’

He came and stood beside me and lobbed a pebble into the middle of the pond where it made an explosive splash and set up a protest from one of the ducks. He studied the widening ripples and remarked casually, ‘Water, it’s like life really, one disturbance leads to another … messes everything else up. But then I expect you’d know about that, wouldn’t you? I mean, I expect it’s the sort of thing you tell your congregation during your Sunday sermons.’ I made no answer. ‘Isn’t it?’ he persisted.

‘Not specially,’ I replied evenly, ‘there are quite a lot of topics which –’

‘I bet there are,’ he said quickly. ‘All that good and evil stuff you vicars have to preach about. Must get a bit boring sometimes – or
worrying,
more like.’ He laughed loudly and added, ‘You know, when I was a nipper I always thought it was the parson’s job to prick consciences – other people’s, I mean. Never occurred to me to think that even a vicar might be tarred with guilt. Funny really.’ And he laughed again. (Oh yes, side-splitting, I thought … and thought too of Bouncer, Nicholas, Primrose, even Clinker, and wished to God they were with me.) ‘You know what?’ he continued, and paused.

The question was clearly not rhetorical, and reluctantly I asked, ‘What?’

‘Our Mr Crumpelmeyer – now he’s a one that’s interested in good and evil too; and with him spending his days inside it has – how shall I put it? – sort of unleashed his imagination. Keeps making up odd stories, very odd. Want to hear one?’

‘Haven’t got time,’ I mumbled, ‘must get back to the inn.’

‘Oh, but you’ll like this one, it’s worth waiting for. Right up your street, I should say. All about a vicar and the murder of an old lady – in a wood.’ He gripped my elbow; and turning my head I saw the smile … and the menace.

‘Look,’ I said stiffly, trying to ease my arm, ‘I’ve no idea what you are talking about, and as I said, I am in rather a hurry.’

‘Really? But you’ve only just got here. Been watching you, Mr Oughterard, been watching for some time … and thinking.’ The grip tightened, the smile vanished and was replaced by a sneer of hostility.

‘What is it you want?’ I asked as coldly as I could.

He relaxed his hold. ‘That’s better. Like I always say to old Victor when he gets on his high horse, things go much easier when you co-operate. Much easier.’

My heart was starting to race, and absurdly the only thing I could think of saying was to query his use of the adjective. But I doubted if the observation would be well received and so kept silent.

‘You see,’ he went on softly, ‘Ken and I, we know what you’re doing here. Same as us: you’ve come to sniff out that Nazi bullion. I was in these parts during the war and heard a lot of the local talk. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but I have since; and when old Victor comes along ranting and raving about you and his ma-in-law and the lost deeds and all, I put two and two together. Ay, ay, I thought, he’s on the make, on the bloody make! There was something else I thought too – but we won’t bother to go into that now, will we? Not
just
now …’

Apart from the surge of indignation at the injustice of his words ‘on the make’, my immediate reaction was one of craven despair … At last, after all this time of cringing fear, all the evasions and subterfuge, I was being directly confronted about Elizabeth’s death. Sparring with the police had been tense enough; but whatever their suspicions, no one had actually
voiced
them so explicitly as this man now, standing close and confident in the gathering gloom. The flat sardonic words, ‘all about a vicar and the murder of an old lady’, hammered in my head and struck ice in my gut. He might not have the proof but he had the conviction, and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

Thoughts reeled helplessly. What to do? What to say? Think, Francis, think! The self-assured voice of my father echoed in my mind: ‘When in doubt, my boy, stay still. Wait for the other bugger to show his hand …’ All very well, but suppose the other bugger had already shown his hand and you hadn’t a clue how to act? What then, for God’s sake? I heard another voice – Ingaza’s – nasal, bantering: ‘Never admit a thing, old chap, not a thing. Laugh it off – gives you time and they get confused.’

But I was too flustered to cope with that, and instead said feebly, ‘A bit beyond me, I’m afraid, you’re not making a lot of sense. I really must be –’

‘Then I’ll spell it out for you, Dumbo,’ he suddenly snarled. ‘That stuff is there all right and we want it. I’ve been waiting for a break like this all my life and I’m not having some grasping parson foul things up!’

‘I am not grasping,’ I began angrily, ‘I –’

‘Shut up and listen. We know you’ve got the plan with the places marked and we’re pretty sure it’s reliable. You can do one of two things – either hand it over to us now or deliver the stuff when you find it. It’s a gamble but I’m not passing up a chance like this, and if there is anything going,
I’m
getting it.’

‘And Climp,’ I murmured.

‘Yeah, there’s always Climp,’ he replied indifferently.

‘But even if what you are saying is true – about us seeking the treasure – suppose we don’t choose to comply with your request?’ I waited, knowing and dreading the answer. It came.

‘Well, we’ll have to think about that, Mr Oughterard, won’t we? Have to think about that very carefully. I mean, things could turn nasty,
really
nasty. And we’re not just talking about a broken nose, are we?’

I took his point … No, not a nose – a broken neck on the scaffold. And again I heard Ingaza’s advice:
Laugh it off
…

‘Good Lord, Mullion,’ I chuckled, ‘you’re like something out of Laurel and Hardy!’ And I launched into a peal of carefully calculated laughter. The only problem was that the mirth did not remain calculated. It grew in power and intensity until, with tears coursing down my cheeks, I became doubled up in helpless paroxysms, lurching and hooting uncontrollably at the water’s edge. Nervous tension, I suppose.

‘Streuth!’ I heard Mullion mutter. And in his surprise he must have stepped back and lost his footing, for the next thing I heard was a curse and a colossal splash … And there he was: floundering and snorting like some befuddled hippo. Clearly it was time to beat a tactical retreat.

Thus moderately sobered, and to the cries of indignant geese rushing to appraise the spectacle, I hurried back to the safety of the inn – to be greeted by Clemenceau and the rallying notes of the Marseillaise.

‘What ever have you been doing?’ exclaimed Primrose as I entered the bar. ‘You look awful!’

‘‘Orrible.’ agreed Henri.

They were sitting at the card table, monitored by Maurice and drinking coffee.

‘It’s Mullion,’ I announced breathlessly. ‘He has exposed himself!’

‘Disgusting,’ remarked Nicholas. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed.’

‘He’s done what?’ Primrose yelped.

‘No, no,’ I said hastily, ‘not that.’ And I started to explain.

When I reached the part about him falling in the pond, Nicholas said caustically, ‘Well, that’s sure to endear him to you, Francis – you’ve got a friend for life there. Must say, I think you could have managed it with a little more finesse.’

I rounded on him. ‘
Finesse
? How would you like to be threatened by that vicious thug? I tell you, they mean business!’

‘Yes, well so do we,’ he snapped. ‘Blowed if I am going to be beaten by some toerag of a bent screw. I know that type, too cocky by half.’ He spoke with feeling, and, I suspected, from bitter memory.

‘This is too much,’ protested Primrose. ‘I know you are not in favour, Nicholas, but I really think we should pull out before things get dangerous. They are clearly a most unsavoury pair and I really do not wish to be further embroiled. We should go
home
.’ She spoke with the decisive authority employed for the tiresome and vexatious (and in whose ranks I invariably featured), but I knew it would cut no ice with Ingaza: he had his own agenda. And I guessed that part of that agenda included his resentment of Mullion and determination to beat him at his own game: a rival in the treasure hunt stakes had not featured in the original plan and was fast becoming a personal affront. I recalled our days at St Bede’s and how tenacious he had been – not simply in pursuit of his own ends, but in ensuring that those ends should be undiluted by the actions of others. Selfishness played a part, I suppose, but more basic were the goads of challenge and vanity. Thus the greater the opposition, the greater his obstinacy. (There was also, of course, the harridan spectre of Aunt Lil … incurring her scorn being, I suspected, the least tolerable of Ingaza’s nightmares.)

My supposition was right. There was a pause, and then he said mildly, ‘That’s not entirely convenient, Primrose. You see, this whole affair has put me to substantial trouble and I do not propose turning tail now.’ (Put
him
to trouble? What about me? I was irked by the words but unsurprised.)

She started to argue but was forestalled by an indulgent smile and the offer of a Sobranie. With a resigned sigh and only fractional hesitation, Primrose took the proffered cigarette. There are few people to whom my sister capitulates, and Ingaza is one of them.

‘Good,’ he said briskly. ‘Now we must put our heads together and get down to tactics.’