Bones in High Places (11 page)

Primrose is more adventurous than me and she was amused at the prospect of ‘helping things along’ at the Birtle-Figgins’ lunch party. ‘I say,’ she laughed, ‘they must be having a tough time if Gladys Clinker wants us there! It could be quite amusing in a masochistic way.’

‘Anything must be funnier than rooting around with Henri Martineau and his metal detector,’ I replied gloomily. ‘I wonder what she’ll give us to eat – not much, according to Clinker.’

‘No chance of gourmet splendour, that’s for sure. But from what your bishop was saying, the house itself is nice and with some lovely gardens. It’ll be quite interesting really. Besides, if you are good, Francis, that cranky Boris will show you his bone collection. You’ll enjoy the treat.’

We arrived at Le Petit Rêve just before midday and were met in the gravel drive by a tall man who introduced himself as Rupert Turnbull, a cousin of Lavinia Birtle-Figgins. He at least seemed perfectly normal, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries he took us indoors where we were introduced to our host. Boris was also tall, but thick-set, lumbering and pallid; and to my rather disapproving eye wore his hair far too long for a man of his age – or of any age. It gave him the look of a lugubrious bloodhound. He did not look like a rabid fanatic, but then you can’t always tell with these things … However, he gave us a friendly welcome and said warmly, ‘Now, you all go in while I mix the drinks.’

My spirits perked up immediately. Perhaps Clinker’s tale of the menage being a more than temperate zone had been exaggerated. I mentally prepared my palate for a dry martini or, given the weather, possibly a Pimm’s … Or what was that nice concoction we had tried on the way down, the cassis and white wine thing? A kir – that’s what Ingaza had called it, and very tasty too …

My reverie was abruptly curtailed by our hostess thrusting a glass of ochre liquid into my hand saying, ‘I think you’ll like this – spearmint and Tizer with chopped apple pips, Boris’s speciality!’ I thanked her and moved dolefully to the window. The view was good at any rate.

Accompanying the liquid libations were miniature rice cakes embellished with what I took to be mounds of wet woven grass. ‘Interesting, aren’t they?’ a voice said challengingly. Myrtle.

‘Fascinating,’ I agreed.

‘I so admire the Birtle-Figgins,’ she confided. ‘It’s not often one meets genuine purists, least of all within the Church, and it is most refreshing to be among true ascetics for once. Why, I was saying to my brother-in-law only this morning what a shame it is that more people don’t practise a diet of such cleansing simplicity – the world would be a better place. Don’t you agree, Canon?’

I recalled the picture of Myrtle emerging from the pâtisserie, knees bent under the weight of cakes and buns, and avoiding her question asked instead what the bishop had to say on the matter.

‘Huh,’ she snorted, ‘nothing of any coherence – never has.’

I smiled wanly and asked if she was enjoying her stay. ‘Yes,’ she replied shortly, ‘it is always pleasant to
goûter la nouvelle
.’

‘I’m sorry?’

She gave a pained sigh. ‘To taste the unaccustomed – it is always stimulating. After all –’ and she gestured expansively towards the rice cakes and jugs of Tizer and spearmint – ‘so different from Brussels and the embassy, don’t you think?’

I confessed to not knowing either.

‘No,’ she murmured sourly, ‘no, I don’t suppose you would …’ And with a dismissive nod she turned away and lumbered off in the direction of Turnbull.

It had never occurred to me that I should be glad to speak with Gladys, but beside her sister, the bishop’s wife seemed almost human – briefly at any rate. She wore the habitual scowl of course, but her opening words were startlingly cordial. ‘Nice to see you, Francis,’ she began. (How alien the greeting!) ‘Horace mentioned he had bumped into you … Surprising really, I always assumed you took your holidays in Clacton. But I dare say the mountain air may do you some good – although,’ and here she lowered her voice, ‘you would have done better to stay further
north
.’

‘Really?’ I said in surprise. ‘Why is that?’

‘Because then you would have been spared this ludicrous man and his nonsensical notions. All these bones and the mumbo-jumbo are tiresome beyond endurance. Myrtle’s fault naturally. She would insist on dragging us down here to stay with these people, and now pretends she’s enjoying it when I know very well she can’t wait to get back to Brussels. Typical.’

‘Oh dear …’ I began.

‘Yes, it is oh dear,’ she replied in a booming whisper. ‘I can assure you, more than vexing!’

‘What is Gladys saying?’ laughed Lavinia, gliding up and offering to replenish my reluctant glass. ‘What is it you find so vexing, my dear?’

‘The hill,’ replied Gladys gruffly, ‘very steep and long in this warm weather.’

‘Ah, but you must rest awhile at the allotted stops,’ soothed our hostess. ‘Boris had them made specially – Belvedere’s Niches for the Afflicted, that’s what we call them – holy respites for weary travellers.’

‘I am not in need of a niche,’ answered Gladys. And excusing herself abruptly, she went off to rattle Clinker.

Left alone with Lavinia I made polite enquiries about the Belvedere relics, saying that I understood her husband was quite an expert on the hermit.

‘He most certainly is,’ she enthused. ‘Devotes so much of his time to the good man. Just as well really, stops him from …’ She broke off, went slightly pink in the face and cleared her throat, before hurriedly adding, ‘But I too help in my small way – organizing the followers and festivities, and telling the village children how lucky they are to have such a pious example in their history. Oh yes, we both hold a torch for dear St Belvedere!’

‘But he is not a saint,’ I pointed out, ‘not even reached first base of a Venerable.’ Yes, it was an ungracious remark, but my spirits were flagging, and lack of gin in the Tizer was proving an irritant.

However, she seemed not to notice and prattled on merrily. And then just as my attention was giving up the ghost, she hailed Clinker. ‘Oh, Horace, do come and persuade Francis and his sister to join us for the harp and recorder recital this evening, it will be such a joy for them! And then they could stay overnight, and tomorrow Primrose could join us
girls
for the shopping trip to Clermont and Francis could keep you and Boris company while we are gone. Why, you could all go fishing.’ She clapped her hands delightedly.

I froze. Harp?
Recorder
? … The delights of Duke Ellington swam into my mind, and the brilliance of Bach and the Goldberg Variations, Vivaldi, Brahms, Count Basie, Savage’s drumming hero Gene Kruppa. For an instant I even thought of Eddie Calvert (he of the ‘golden trumpet’) and Gilbert and Sullivan. And what about Alban Berg, Liszt, Dizzie Gillespie and countless other possibilities … anyone, any
thing
rather than harp and recorder!

‘What a capital idea,’ agreed Clinker viciously, and summoned reinforcements from Gladys and Myrtle.

To my surprised chagrin both women seemed in favour of the suggestion and a distinct expression of relief appeared on their faces. Myrtle instantly sought out Primrose to entice her with the delights of Clermont. Just goes to show, I thought ruefully, when social desperation drives, even the Oughterards are in demand.

Everything depended on Primrose. If she could stand firm and think of a cogent reason for our not staying the night at Le Petit Rêve I should be spared the horror. I tried to catch her eye as she was being buttonholed by Myrtle. She must have seen me grimacing but made no sign. And then to my fury I saw her smiling and nodding in apparent agreement. The treachery of it!

They came over, and Myrtle announced triumphantly, ‘Well, that’s all wrapped up then. Primrose says she would love to stay and is
so
fond of the harp.’ Liar, I fumed. She hates it. What on earth was her game?

I glared at her grimly. ‘Francis, dear,’ she responded, ‘we shall have to excuse ourselves to our friends at the inn, but I’m sure they won’t miss us for just one night. Could you possibly pop back and fetch my nightdress and vanity case. It’s on the dressing table – and I dare say you’ll need something yourself. And perhaps you could bring my spare pair of shoes from the car.’ She smiled sweetly.

The others drifted away and I was able to mutter to her, ‘Whatever did you want to do that for? It’ll be ghastly.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly, ‘but worth it. I think I’ve got that Turnbull man about to place an order for three of my pictures. Says he’s got a mass of wall space at his language school and it needs filling up. If I turn on the old charm this evening he might settle for another two.’

I should have known it: Primrose would flog a picture to St Peter if she ever got that far. ‘Huh,’ I replied, ‘Ingaza won’t like it. Old Henri’s paraphernalia is due at the station this evening and he wanted to get things up and running tonight before those beggars start snooping.’

She shrugged. ‘Well, he’ll just have to be patient,’ she said, ‘or careful.’

After a mournful lunch of limp salad and unadorned blackberries, I hitched a lift from the gardener back to the inn. Here I found Ingaza hunched at the the small writing desk in what Madame fancifully called the residents’ salon. He was chewing his pen over a postcard and sighing irritably, and I guessed Aunt Lil was about to receive a rapturous report from
la belle France
. Judging from his mood I rather doubted whether he would take kindly to my news.

‘Ah, Nicholas,’ I started, ‘if you don’t mind, Primrose and I have been invited to stay the night at Le Petit Rêve. They’ve roped us in to listen to some concert by a few of the locals – and I think we’re also expected to be around for a while tomorrow. Couldn’t get out of it really, they were so insistent, and it was becoming difficult to –’

‘Do what you like,’ was the careless reply. ‘There’s a bloody rail strike in Paris and Henri’s stuff won’t be delivered until tomorrow morning at the earliest – which in Frog lingo means considerably later.’ He paused, and adding sourly, ‘Give my love to the bishop,’ returned to his labours.

I collected Primrose’s things and a change of shirt and trousers for myself, and in a frame of mind similar to Ingaza’s trudged back to the house. Gladys had been right about the steepness of the hill, and like her I did not fancy stuffing myself into a wayside niche to crouch cheek by jowl with the hermit’s effigy.

When I arrived, Primrose was waiting in the hall and took me upstairs to my bedroom. It was splendid: huge, hushed and opulent, with its own bathroom and blissful-looking double bed draped in folds of toile de Jouy. Compared with my rabbit hutch at the inn it was a palace. I began to feel stronger instantly.

‘Yes, I thought you’d like that,’ laughed Primrose. ‘Mine’s even better. For a couple so dedicated to a life of lentils and austerity they do pretty well in the sleeping department. Dinner’s at seven, so you’ve got plenty of time for a nice little shut-eye.’

One bonus at any rate. I took off shoes and tie and sank gratefully on to the feathered pillows. My eyes closed and sleep came swiftly.

When I awoke it was nearly seven, and skipping the pleasure of a leisurely shower I changed quickly and hurried downstairs. In the hall there stood a large harp and a number of music stands. My heart sank. Clearly the performers had arrived and preparations were afoot. There would be no escape …

With the prospect of the recorders hanging over me, and surrounded by their withered and earnest virtuosi, I found supper an irksome affair – although to some extent leavened by the sight of Primrose trying to seduce Turnbull into purchasing more of her sheep and church pictures. If they learnt nothing else, I reflected, at least his students would graduate with an enriched vocabulary of matters ovine and ecclesiastical. From what I could make out he seemed to be weakening, and I wondered idly whether Primrose would offer much of a discount. Unlikely.

I was also pondering the looming imminence of the metal detecting which, despite the Paris strike, seemed as inescapable as the Birtle-Figgins’ recital. And as with the latter, and whatever its outcome, the process was sure to be painful. However, sitting next to my host, and having nothing riveting to say, I asked him casually about the rumoured gold.

‘Huh! That old canard!’ Boris replied scornfully. ‘Thought it had been laid to rest years ago.’ He turned to Lavinia. ‘My dear, fancy people still pursuing that piece of nonsense. Extraordinary. Still, I suppose it keeps the tabloid press amused. I remember
Picture Post
trying to drum up …’ He broke off, seeing my look of perplexity, and turning to his wife said, ‘You explain, Lavinia. I am sure the canon and his dear sister would far rather hear it in your dulcet tones.’

Underneath her simper I thought I glimpsed a curling lip. However, with a bright laugh Lavinia started to elucidate. ‘Oh, Boris is quite right, there is no gold there now, absolutely none at all … There was at one point and for a short while – some German commandant had amassed a stack of gold napoleons, and guessing they would be handy after the war had hidden them under the floor of the old dairy. But he wasn’t very bright and used to swagger into the local hostelry, overdo the drink, and broadcast their presence to all and sundry. You can imagine! Over the months the coins were simply leached away by the locals, and then at the liberation they strung him up anyway: bully gone and his said bullion spent. So you see, the whole thing is merely a charming little myth!’ She gave a silvery giggle, which for one cringing moment reminded me of Elizabeth.

Just as I was deciding whether to be relieved or dismayed by the revelation, and doubting that Ingaza would appreciate the myth’s ‘charm’, her husband broke in: ‘But there is of course the diamond-encrusted swastika … Now that
is
worth a bob or two – assuming one were ever concerned with such tawdry matters.’ And he gave a superior laugh.

‘So what’s that?’ asked Primrose quickly.