Bones in High Places (18 page)

‘No,’ I said blankly. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I am. When would I have had a chance to tell Gladys and Myrtle? And besides,’ I added, smiling faintly, ‘if I had done so, don’t you think you would have heard about it by now?’

He frowned, and then said, ‘Yes, you’re right … I would.’ He too started to smile, albeit grimly, but then stopped abruptly. ‘So what’s Ingaza babbling about?’

‘Since you ask me, sir, I would say he was pulling your leg.’

‘Pulling my …? How absurd. Always was puerile! I remember at Oxford when I was dining with him at Merton one night, he … Oh well, we won’t go into that now,’ the bishop said hastily.

I was about to make my excuses and hurry away, when a thought struck me. ‘Uhm … I don’t wish to appear prurient, but what made you say that Lavinia had been on the point of filing for divorce? I thought she and Boris were so compatible.’

‘Oh, women and such,’ was the reply, ‘you know the sort of thing …’

The ‘sort of thing’ was not something I was much acquainted with (unless one counted those instructive afternoons in wartime Brighton with the redoubtable Madge
*
), but nevertheless I found myself protesting, ‘But he was so ugly!’

Clinker gave me a withering look. ‘If you knew anything about the fair sex, Oughterard, you would know that that doesn’t stop ‘em.’ He coughed delicately and added, ‘Well, some at any rate … not all of course.’

Of the latter I assumed he was thinking of Gladys and Myrtle whom, I imagine, most things in that department would have stopped – but thought it unwise to enquire. We got on to firmer ground: the Belvedere bones.

‘In my opinion,’ pronounced Clinker, ‘he was asking for it.’

I was startled. ‘You mean he invited the attack?’

‘No, no, not
invited
, but behaved in such a way as to lay himself open to alien forces.’ He obviously saw my look of puzzlement, for lowering his voice said, ‘I never really cared for Birtle-Figgins – a rum sort in more ways than one. But then of course, being an acquaintance of Myrtle’s, what else could you expect?’

This may have been the bishop’s opinion of his host, but as a means of shedding light on either Boris or those ‘alien forces’ it had little value. I tried again. ‘I am sorry to sound dense, sir, but what exactly do you mean by alien forces?’

‘Oh, all those fakes and fantasists he cultivated, crackpots of one sort or another: spiritualists, communists, Rosicrucians, druids, vegans, the Jung squad – all the usual woolgatherers. You saw some of them the other evening … I must say, Francis, I wouldn’t like to meet that harpist on a dark night!’ He gave a snort of mirth. ‘Yes, Boris certainly had a mania for the esoteric all right – hence his obsession with that absurd little hermit. And besides,’ he continued, ‘as Lavinia let drop, the man was a
libertine
– out and out, if you get my meaning.’ The term was articulated with conviction and relish.

I pondered the information. ‘Ah, so some of those alien forces might also have been the cuckolded husbands?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Oughterard, you have been watching too many French films … No, I do not mean the husbands – though I dare say a few may well have borne grudges. As a matter of fact, it is far more likely to have been one of his fellow enthusiasts, some rival crank piqued at having his chances scuppered as Master of the Bones.’

‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it – to kill him simply for loss of professional kudos?’

‘Not at all. You would be surprised at the flimsy motives people have for such activity. I haven’t been a bishop for all these years without learning a little about the vagaries of human nature. Of course, as a lesser canon, your own insights are necessarily limited.’ He gave a genial and superior laugh.

Disregarding the inevitable put-down, I reflected sombrely that Clinker was right. My own ‘activity’ in that area had been an unpremeditated act of desperation triggered by a longing for quiet which had come to dominate my whole being … The sudden dispatch of Mrs Fotherington had taken me by surprise, and I wondered whether Boris’s assailant had been similarly wrong-footed. Was he too now paralysed by incredulity – stunned at his own capacity and flinching at every footfall and gendarme’s shadow? Or perhaps he was at this very moment calmly taking stock of his action and meticulously planning the next move. The second response I had read about, the first I knew only too well …

As I ruminated I realized that the bishop was similarly engaged. He wore a look of frowning concentration as if tussling with some recalcitrant puzzle.

The silence was eventually broken. ‘Yes, that must be it,’ he intoned triumphantly. ‘
Cherchez la femme!
’

‘What?’

‘It’s the woman, Clothilde de Vere,’ he explained. ‘Turnbull has told me all about it: apparently a local widow of impeccable respectability and stupendous poitrine. For some reason her uncle owned the hermit’s tambourine – a sort of heirloom, I gather – and gave it to her as a fiftieth birthday present. And Castris – that historian fellow writing the life of Belvedere – dazzled by her physical endowment but even more by the said instrument and eager for both, had been paying court for several months. Apparently the campaign met with great success, and at the very point when both desires were about to be satisfied, Birtle-Figgins stepped in and snaffled the lot.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Er – you mean spectacular poitrine
and
musical instrument?’

‘Precisely,’ replied Clinker. ‘Sex and laurels – all vanished in a puff of smoke. Yes, the good widow transferred both her endowment and the tambourine to Boris … Triumph for one, ignominy for the other. Just goes to show, Oughterard,’ he observed sententiously, ‘nothing is certain. One would do well to remember that.’

Thanks for the tip, I thought sourly, and asked how Castris had taken it.

‘Badly,’ was the reply. ‘Wrote a vitriolic letter to the
Church Times
castigating religious charlatans, and has cut Boris dead ever since.’ There was a pause, and then lowering his voice, he confided, ‘In fact, Oughterard, it is my belief that there was a cut too far – i.e. it is highly likely that Herbert Castris is the
slayer
!’ He flourished the last word as a conjuror might pull a rabbit from a hat.

‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you really think so? When did you get that idea?’

He hesitated, and then said with a tinge of regret, ‘Well, it wasn’t me really … Gladys’s view actually, she’s good like that – all those trashy novels. I didn’t take much notice at first, seemed pretty far-fetched. But the more I look at it and remember what Turnbull was saying, the more I think there may be something in it.
She’s
certainly convinced all right.’

She would be, I thought. Once Gladys gets an idea in her head wild horses wouldn’t dislodge it. A mule by any other name … But still, recalling the homicidal jealousy of Victor Crumpelmeyer when also baulked of what he felt to be his, I reflected that in this instance she could just be right.

‘Have you said anything to the police of your suspicions?’

‘Certainly not!’ the bishop snapped. ‘I told you the other day, the less we have to do with any of this business the better. There is much at stake, Francis. You may not be fully aware, but my chance of selection as the archbishop’s adjutant is no small matter.’ I nodded respectfully. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘given your unfortunate involvement with that Crumpel fellow and all the unsavoury press attention, I’d have thought you would recognize the need for reticence. After all, there is the reputation of the Church to consider!’

Ah yes, I mused, the reputation of the Church … safe in the capable hands of H. Clinker and F. Oughterard.

*
See
Bone Idle

*
As recalled by Francis in
A Load of Old Bones

I walked back to the village on my own, for by the time I left the house Nicholas had already taken off, presumably sated with small talk and the pronouncements of Myrtle and Gladys.

Back at the inn I attended to Bouncer, ate what little was left on the lunch menu and then went in search of the others. But to my surprise Georges reported that Primrose and Henri had borrowed bicycles and gone for ‘
un petit spin
’ to the neighbouring village. I had not expected such freewheeling fraternity and wondered what on earth they would have to talk about. I was also a little fearful for any pedestrians they might encounter. ‘And Monsieur Ingaza?’ I asked. ‘Has he been back for his lunch?’ Georges shook his head and said not as far as he was aware. I was slightly put out by this, being anxious to hear what he had discovered re the vacated orchard. What was he doing – buying more postcards to send to the insatiable Lil? Stepping over Maurice lolling on the threshold, I settled on the ramshackle veranda and lit a cigarette; but then sleepy from the White Ladies and the walk back from Le Petit Rêve, stubbed it out and shut my eyes.

I was awoken by a soft voice saying, ‘My apologies for intruding, monsieur, but Georges said I might find you here, and I would be grateful for your time.’ I looked up to see the smiling face of Inspector Dumont.

Over recent years I have developed a nervousness of the police, a Pavlovian response engendered by earlier events and my dealings with DS Sidney Samson. But this was no quivering whippet ready to sniff and pounce at my least hesitation, but a mild-eyed spaniel, polite and almost companionable. Thus I said he was more than welcome and invited him to sit down on one of the rickety chairs.

He began by confirming Lavinia’s assumption that our group was on his
liste d’élimination
and would soon be free to collect the passports. ‘However, these things always take more time than one hopes, and as you are perhaps aware, we French have a system of bureaucracy which is
très pénible –
or what I think in English would be termed red tape most bloody. But I am sure it will not be long before you can continue with your well-earned
vacances
. In the meantime I would appreciate if you could give me your thoughts – quite informally – on one or two small matters.’ I gave a co-operative smile.

‘You see, I am trying to establish a picture of Monsieur Birtle-Figgins, the unfortunate victim of this frenzied attack. Without an image of the victim it is impossible to deduce the murderer.’ I nodded agreement, wondering vaguely if March and Samson had been so intent on establishing an ‘image’ of Elizabeth. ‘In the case of Monsieur Birtle-Figgins,’ he continued, ‘it is rather perplexing – there seem to be a number of incongruities …’ He paused, looking at me quizzically. ‘And I wonder if you as a “man of the cloth”, to use your Anglican phrase, could shed some light. I have of course spoken to the good
l’évêque
Clinker, but the two ladies, they make rather a noise and it is not easy …’ He trailed off and I smiled sympathetically. ‘For instance, perhaps you can explain his rabid passion for those hermit’s bones. I always assumed such interests alien to the Protestant mentality.’

‘Oh, they are,’ I said firmly. ‘Absolutely!’ (I have never been drawn to bones myself, and ever since the Crumpelmeyers had threatened to have Elizabeth disinterred my wariness of them has increased.)

‘Yes, that is what I thought. So I am inclined to suspect that Monsieur’s concern for those relics was less the product of religious conviction than of an uncertain
psychologie
. During your sojourn at the house had you noticed any signs of this?’

‘He didn’t eat much,’ I said.

He looked surprised. ‘No – well, I wasn’t really thinking of his appetite … although,’ and here he leant forward, dropping his voice, ‘in some ways I suppose I am.’

I looked at him blankly. ‘You see,
entre nous
I think the bones were a form of sublimation, a surrogate for
autres choses
.’

‘What other things?’ I asked, not quite clear what he was getting at.

‘For
la sexualité
of course.’ Of course. What else? Trust the French to put that construction on things!

‘Well, possibly,’ I replied, ‘but maybe he was just a bit eccentric, what we call a harmless crank. Quite a number of people are – they just get bees in their bonnets about things.’

‘Yes,’ he said doubtfully, ‘it is true there are a lot of English people like that. We have a number living in this area. That writer Castris for example, he too has a fixation but in his case it is for a tambourine. Yes, the English are very inventive and rarely logical … But as for our victim at Le Petit Rêve, I think you will find there is some truth in what I say. It is my belief that he had not been getting – forgive me if I use a crude expression, I encountered it when studying at Cambridge – he had not been getting his fill of oats. And bereft of oats he turned to bones.’

‘Really?’ I gasped. ‘Is that so?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ he replied gravely.

There was silence while I tried to formulate a suitable response, but I was forestalled by a voice behind us saying, ‘Who’s not getting his oats?’ Ingaza stood there grinning.

‘Boris,’ I explained. ‘The inspector feels that his concern for the Belvedere relics was a sort of substitute for, er – sexual relations.’

‘Oh well,’ Nicholas said blithely, ‘any port in a storm, I suppose. Though I must say, that’s not exactly what I have heard. I have heard various –’

‘Ah,’ said Dumont, ‘that has been a more recent development. I think the bones were only a partial diversion – or they were beginning to provide diminishing returns. For all his earnestness – dullness, one might say – he appeared to be cultivating a taste for the local ladies. In fact we are beginning to work on the possibility of a
crime passionnel
. But naturally I have to keep an open mind. You see, there was also the question of status and power: the relics may certainly have been a form of sublimation, but it was quite obvious that the man was greatly enjoying his role as Guardian of the Bones and leader of the
culte de Belvedere
. Thus he could have provoked enemies of a political nature. Or conversely, it may simply have been a question of personality: it is amazing how mere dislike can grow into loathing. I remember being on a case once in Aurillac where the wife poisoned her husband for no other reason than she found his presence distasteful and the prospect of divorce tiresome …’

As Dumont continued to speculate about the ramifications of Boris’s psyche, my own thoughts were increasingly occupied with Climp and Mullion. I was longing to have it confirmed by Nicholas that there was a perfectly simple explanation for the disappearance of their things in the field, and that Mullion, at least, had not somehow survived and was still at large and poised to resume his harassment. I recalled only too well his less than veiled threats by the duck pond, and felt again the cold clawing of fear … Besides, I argued to myself, even assuming that all was well, there was still the problem of a search being made if the men were needed for further questioning or if it was thought they had left without sanction. Presumably, like us, they would have been required to surrender their passports, and thus their failure to collect these would surely be a matter of immediate concern. It would be just our luck for someone to have seen us with them, talking perhaps on the hillside before the dreadful chase, or me with Mullion by the pond … Supposing there had been a witness to his fall from the bank – it might be assumed we had been fighting and I had knocked him in! Any such sightings would inevitably unleash a whole mass of officious probing; the bodies would be ferreted out and our chances of an unobtrusive exit – of just driving off from the area and ‘throwing away the key’ – completely wrecked.

With hindsight and now at a safe distance in my study at Molehill, such anxieties seem a trifle excessive. But I have discovered that murder sharpens the sensibilities and makes one uncomfortably alert to whatever attracts attention or leads to curiosity from officialdom, however irrelevant. Thus I wondered if the pair were also on Dumont’s elimination list, or whether he was intending to question them further.

‘Very complex,’ I said, ‘but at least you have been able to narrow down the search a bit. Some of us can very nearly rest easy!’ And I laughed genially, adding, ‘I suppose any strangers in the area are bound to widen the range of suspects and increase the work. Must be difficult.’

Dumont laughed. ‘As a matter of fact I was rather pinning my hopes on those campers in the Birtle-Figgins’ orchard. It would have been most expedient: their tent was close to the bathing area and they could easily have got through the hedge and given him
un bon coup –
or as you English would say, a right bashing. But there was no obvious motive … and besides, unfortunately they had what I think your police call a watertight alibi. On that afternoon they were drinking in a bar in Aurillac – and causing a bit of trouble too: singing questionable songs and disturbing the card players. Nor did it go down too well with the locals when one of them continually bragged of having liberated the town at the end of the war.
Le patron
was most indignant and said that it was de Gaulle himself who had done them that honour.’ He sighed ruefully. ‘No, we had to eliminate them almost immediately, and I fear must look closer to home for our assassin than among passing strangers.
Quelle dommage
– or to quote Monsieur Gilbert, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one!’

He stood up, shook our hands vigorously, and giving Maurice several fond strokes, took his leave. The cat exhibited glazed shock, while Nicholas laughed and exclaimed, ‘
What
a nice man – just your type, Francis.’

‘He is at the moment,’ I said in some relief. ‘Now, what about their things? Why on earth aren’t they still there?’

‘Because, dear boy, being freed from police surveillance, they packed up the car, said bye-bye to Lavinia and buggered off … She mentioned it when we were together in the garden and said they meant to do some local exploring before heading on down south. What they didn’t tell her, of course, was that they would stop at the Folly gates and hang about in the hope of spotting us – as of course they did.’ He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Presumably they thought they could relieve us of the swastika – which in the course of her milk round your talkative hostess had so thoughtfully told them about – nip down to Cannes and make hay on the proceeds. And if for some reason that didn’t work they were obviously planning to make trouble for you anyway. They were chancers whose chances backfired. Lucky escape for you, old fellow, if you ask me.’

‘Yes,’ I said faintly, ‘it was.’ However, just as I was beginning to feel the stirrings of safety a thought struck me: ‘But I say, what about the Austin-Healey, it must still be at the Folly gates or somewhere around there. It’s bound to be noticed, especially if it’s got all their gear inside. Oh my Lord!’

‘Don’t panic, old cock, all in hand. I’ve been rather busy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Uncle Nick has deposited it in a place of safe-keeping – temporarily safe, at any rate.’

‘What do you mean? Where?’

‘When you were gassing with Clinker in the garden at Le Petit Rêve I nipped down the road to the Folly entrance (plodded, actually, it took a hell of a time), located the car parked behind some trees and drove it back to that makeshift barn in the corner of the orchard. Given the current preoccupations, it is highly unlikely that Lavinia or anyone else will bother to go near the place for quite a while, weeks probably, by which time we shall be well away knowing nowt about owt.’ He looked pleased with himself.

‘But the car – was it open? How did you get in or start it?’

‘It is amazing,’ said Nicholas reflectively, ‘how living with Eric can be such an education. Best lock-picker and car mechanic on the whole of the south coast …’ He winked slyly.