Bones in High Places (17 page)

‘Tell you what,’ said Nicholas the next day, ‘I’ll come with you – give old Horace a thrill.’

‘Heart attack more like.’

He grinned, checked the mirror and adjusted his scarf. ‘Come on. Let’s see what’s what. So you got the flowers all right – always a handy gesture. Puts you on top straight away!’ I nodded, looking doubtfully at the forlornly ragged dahlias hastily purchased from the village shop.

The weather was bright and the previous night’s shower had given a tang to things, so we decided to walk the mile and enjoy the last of the summer air. I had thought of taking Bouncer, but decided against it … doubtless there would be quite enough to occupy us without the dog’s cavortings.

As we climbed the steep hill, a thought occurred – presumably Climp and Mullion’s tent and car would still be lodged in the Birtle-Figgins’ orchard: a realization that for some reason struck chill, and yet perversely I wanted to take a look – half expecting to see them still there, tending a fire, adjusting guy ropes or whatever it is campers do. I wondered too what Lavinia had thought when, taking them the morning milk, she had found only an empty tent …
But
, it suddenly dawned, much more to the point was what the police would think – as presumably at some stage the campers too must have been roped in for routine questioning, and like ourselves put under temporary curfew.

‘Oh Lord, Nicholas,’ I gasped, ‘I bet the police have got their eye on them as well, and are bound to come sniffing round asking if we have seen any signs and generally raising a hue and cry. So much for keeping quiet and trying to get out while the going’s good. We’re bound to be dragged in!’

‘Not if you can control your nerve we won’t,’ he said severely. ‘I’m damn sure nobody saw us with them, and if that little Inspector Maigret, or whatever he’s called, asks questions, it’s just a matter of brazening it out. After all,’ he added wryly, ‘it’s not as if you haven’t had enough practice.’ I thought the comment unnecessary but said nothing, and instead strode to the other side of the lane and peered down into the orchard below.

There was nothing there. No car, no tent, no clue to suggest that anyone had been present at all. My eyes swept the wide field with its brook, the few apple trees and newly planted saplings. Nothing.

Nicholas joined me and gazed down at the empty space where the campers had been. ‘They’re alive,’ I squeaked. ‘Came back, got their stuff and driven off. Oh my God, they’ll get me in the end!’

‘Shut up,’ he said roughly. ‘Of course they’re bloody dead. You saw for yourself. We all did. My God, Francis, with you in the army, it’s amazing we had any chance in the war at all!’

I was stung by that, and retorted quickly, ‘Well, at least I was
in
the services – don’t know what you were doing during that time.’

‘Being considerably more useful than you, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he muttered, and turned away to light a cigarette.

I went on scanning the orchard, trying to work out what had happened in the hours between our pursuers losing their lives on the high plateau and their things vanishing from the Birtle-Figgins’ land.

‘There’s a simple explanation,’ he said, ‘which we shall doubtless discover. Now, stay cool and best foot forward, and let’s see what My Lord Bishop has to say.’

We recommenced our climb to Le Petit Rêve – or nightmare, as it was fast becoming.

But as we approached the house I was struck again by how attractive it was. Rustic yet elegant, it wore an air of confident repose, both the building and its surrounding pastures exuding feelings of safety, civility and rooted ease … an ease horribly at odds with the fate of its late owner.

‘Hmm,’ said Ingaza, gazing around appreciatively, ‘this would make a nice little bolt hole from Brighton – a sort of bucolic sanctuary. I can see myself here communing with the blackbirds and a gin and tonic. Just the job!’

‘Thought you hankered after a smart town house in Manchester Square,’ I replied acidly, the dreadful mission to Claude Blenkinsop’s flat still sharp in my mind.
*

He grinned. ‘That would do too, dear boy – town and country, what could be better?’

I was about to ask how Eric would take to such a ‘bucolic sanctuary’ and whether he might miss the dartboard at the Crown and Anchor, but I was forestalled by a shout from an upper window: ‘If you have come to see the bishop he’s in the bath. You’ll have to wait!’ Gladys.

Nicholas sighed. ‘Hell, she doesn’t improve, does she?’

‘No,’ I answered, ‘but you want to see the other one, Myrtle.’

‘Rather not, old chap.’

At that moment Lavinia emerged, draped in the same trailing garb as she had been wearing on the day of her husband’s death, but this time embellished with long strings of green and silver beads. They were rather pretty. I thrust the flowers into her arms, said I trusted she was bearing up, and introduced Nicholas. As always he was lavish in his compliments, and, leaving me to wait for Clinker, she took him off to view the gardens. I wandered into the salon, hoping fervently not to bump into Myrtle, and was about to take a chair when I realized someone was sitting on the window seat: Rupert Turnbull.

He put down the book he was reading and greeted me warmly. ‘Good to see you again, Canon, though sorry the circumstances are so tragic. Poor Lavinia, she’s being fearfully brave about it all but it’s a terrible ordeal, terrible!’ He offered me a cigarette and went to ask the housekeeper to bring some coffee.

I glanced down at his book, and was interested to see it was the same one I had been perusing on the fateful day,
Ventures Among the Myths: Haunting Tales from the Auvergne
by Herbert Castris MA.

‘Writes quite well, doesn’t he?’ I remarked when Turnbull returned.

‘Too florid for my taste, but he knows his stuff all right – been researching it for years. A prep school master originally – French and History – but he retired early, couldn’t stand the little tykes, I suppose, and settled in the valley below to devote his days to cultivation of the Muse and “all things scholarly”.’ On the last phrase Turnbull assumed a slightly mannered voice and laughed. ‘Actually he’s not bad, old Castris, but takes himself too seriously. Ought to get out more.’ He lowered his voice. ‘As a matter of fact, a bit like poor Boris – has a bee in his bonnet about the local hermit. But whereas Boris saw himself as some sort of spiritual advocate proclaiming the man’s sanctity and pushing for canonization, Castris is hellbent on scaling the heights of academia with Belvedere as his ladder. Actually, he and Boris were not exactly bosom pals – too many petty rivalries. You know what these zealots are like. Castris has already published one short study of the chap and was hoping to make scholarly capital by uncovering the precious tambourine. Been on its trail for ages – a sort of holy grail, you might say.’ He paused, and laughed again. ‘But unfortunately just when he thought he had cracked the –’

He was interrupted by Clinker’s voice from the doorway: ‘Ah, there you are, Francis, Gladys said she had seen you – and with Ingaza.’ He coughed, adding, ‘At least, that’s what I gathered from her description …’

Fresh from his ablutions, the bishop looked spruce and almost sprightly, and despite the trials of the mountainside I wondered if Lavinia’s sudden culinary interests were taking effect. He certainly appeared more relaxed than when last seen – although in the circumstances, I suppose that would not be difficult. But it also crossed my mind that perhaps the Clinkers had received the order of release from the French police – a possibility that should augur well for ourselves. I was about to make tentative enquiry, when I saw Lavinia and Nicholas approaching the french windows. For one in the midst of dire disaster, our hostess seemed remarkably animated, chatting gaily to her companion and pointing out aspects of the local flora and fauna. Nicholas looked suitably attentive, but I suspected that by this hour his thoughts were largely focused on a Sobranie and snifter. Well, I thought wryly, he might manage the first, but unless he liked Tizer or elderberry, he could forget the drink!

How wrong one can be. As she stepped over the threshold Lavinia gave us a dazzling smile, consulted her wristwatch and exclaimed, ‘Oh, a quarter to twelve already! Not too early for a cocktail, I think.’ With a gay little laugh she went off to the kitchen, murmuring something about finding some brandy and Cointreau.

Given the dearth of spirituous uplift on previous visits, I was amazed by this turn of events. As clearly was Clinker. ‘Good Lord,’ he muttered, ‘she’s going to give us a
Sidecar
.’ He emphasized the word with delighted disbelief. And then rather tactlessly added, ‘Must be the end of Lent!’

‘What are you talking about, Horace?’ demanded his sister-in-law as she billowed into the room. ‘Lent’s been over for months.’

‘Speaking metaphorically, Myrtle. Lavinia is mixing
cocktails
for us.’

‘Really,’ was the acid retort. ‘Squash and pineapple?’

‘Not at all – a Sidecar.’ Clinker beamed.

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘No, but I shall be shortly.’ He gave a gleeful chuckle.

Myrtle evinced surprised interest. ‘Does Gladys know about this?’ He shook his head. ‘Then I suggest you inform her immediately. She could do with a sweetener – been frightful all morning!’

‘What a treat,’ Ingaza drawled suddenly. ‘Yes, do fetch her, Horace, it’ll be quite a little party.’

Myrtle regarded him with suspicion. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked. I explained as best I could; but clearly unimpressed with the deftly sleeked hair and raffish tie, she gave a hostile grunt and turned her attention to Turnbull.

Nice though the prospect of cocktails was, it was hardly enough to assuage my fearful perplexity about the disappearance of the campers’ tent. But as I was on the point of going into the kitchen to sound out Lavinia, Nicholas sidled up and said, ‘I’ve got the answer to our little puzzle.’

I didn’t have a chance to learn more, for at that moment Clinker returned with Gladys, who, having been delivered of the good news, looked mildly pleased. She nodded to me, glared at her sister, and seemed about to say something, when Lavinia arrived with a tray of glasses and a shaker.

‘I am so sorry,’ she began, ‘but the brandy is all gone. Can’t think how.’ (I felt a pang of guilt, recalling its avid consumption on the day of the murder.)

‘Are you sure?’ the bishop asked plaintively.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘not a drop – but I’ve found some gin, so you will have to settle for White Ladies.’

There was an audible sigh of relief from Clinker. ‘Better and better,’ he enthused. ‘I’m rather partial to that particular concoction.’ (As I knew only too well!)

‘How many?’ Nicholas whispered to me out of the side of his mouth.

‘Curb your greed,’ I muttered.

For my personal taste our hostess had underplayed the lemon; but they were good all the same, and we sipped appreciatively. Gradually a sort of ease prevailed: the sisters becoming disposed to speak to each other, and Clinker and Nicholas exchanging more (guarded) memories of their Oxford days. I drifted towards Lavinia and Turnbull on the window seat. It seemed the right moment to enquire the state of play re the police investigation. And I was just deciding how I might introduce the subject, when Turnbull pre-empted me. ‘You know, Canon, I was just saying to Lavinia how splendid she is being over all of this – attending to her house guests, laying on these delicious cocktails
and
coping with the incessant police presence!’

‘Oh well,’ she said lightly, ‘one can’t give in. And as to the police presence, “incessant” is a bit of an exaggeration. That Inspector Dumont has been here only a couple of times and he is always so polite. I am afraid it’s just one of those things that have to be gone through.’ She looked painfully brave.

‘Well, I think you are remarkable.’ He looked at me. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Rather!’ I replied stoutly; and then asked casually how the investigation was progressing.

‘Quite swiftly, I gather,’ Lavinia replied. ‘That’s to say, the inspector is expecting to eliminate all those in the immediate vicinity, so he tells me.’ She cast a quick look in the direction of Gladys. ‘To tell the truth, I suspect the two ladies are getting a trifle tired of their enforced sojourn here. They’ll be glad to go home, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Surely not,’ I said gallantly.

She laughed. ‘I certainly would. After all, it’s not quite what you expect on a holiday, is it? Anyway, I think you will all be able to get away soon – Dumont seems to know what he is doing.’ There was a pause, and then she said, suddenly pensive, ‘Not that that will bring back Boris of course … Such a shame.’ I was struck by that final phrase … a trifle limp for the loss described?

But I had no time to ponder semantics, for having detached himself from Nicholas (or the other way round), Clinker was moving towards me looking agitated. Excusing himself to Lavinia and Turnbull, he intimated that he had a professional matter to discuss and would I mind taking a stroll with him in the garden. As a matter of fact I did mind. It was well past one o’clock and I was getting hungry and keen to catch the last of lunch at the inn. Besides, having got what I came for, i.e. confirmation that with luck we might soon be off the inspector’s hook, there seemed little point in staying. Bouncer too would be bustling for his walk. However, Clinker was evidently determined to get me alone, and reluctantly I followed him out on to the lawn.

‘Typical,’ he hissed, ‘just typical!’

‘What is?’ I asked, perplexed.

‘Ingaza of course. Hasn’t changed one iota, just as infuriating!’ I had no idea what he was talking about but could certainly identify with the feeling.

‘What’s the trouble?’

‘The trouble
is
that he won’t give me a straight answer. When I told him that naturally I had not apprised Gladys and Myrtle of our dreadful experience on the mountain and it was vital that they never hear of it, he had the nerve to say –’ and Clinker turned pink with annoyance – ‘“A bit late now, Hor old chap, the nag’s bolted.” When I asked him what on earth he meant by that, he kept smiling that maddening smile and said he rather thought that you knew.
Do
you know, Oughterard?’