Read Bones in High Places Online

Authors: Suzette Hill

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

Bones in High Places (2 page)

BOOK: Bones in High Places
4.95Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

   

The next day the post brought two books for me to review for the parish magazine –
Tips for Vergers
by one Cliff Underdown and
Best Baking for Bazaars
by a Lady Doworthy. Neither excited my imagination, and I dispensed with them quickly in favour of a frantic telephone call to Nicholas.

Just as feared, it was not Nicholas but Eric who answered. ‘Oh, it’s you, Frankie,’ was the cheery response. ‘Might have known – there’s nobody else what calls us before ten o’clock in the morning. What can I do for you?’

Wincing at his term of address – a recent adoption which I feared I was stuck with – I apologized for my ridiculously early call (9.50 a.m.) and explained that I had some rather bad news for Nicholas. ‘You see, Eric, I have just learned that Bishop Clinker and some of his family will be in the French village at the same time as ourselves. It could all be a bit tricky … Uhm, in the circumstances I fear he may feel we ought to cancel.’ (I tried not to sound too hopeful.)

There was a pause, and then Eric said doubtfully, ‘Well, I shouldn’t think so – bought the three ferry tickets, he has, and got the documents and all. There’s a hefty fee for cancelling, and you know what Nick’s like wiv the old spondulicks.’ I did know. ‘Still,’ he went on, ‘you’d better speak to him later – after he’s had his gasper and coffee. He won’t make no sense at the moment.’ And he gave a throaty chuckle.

I agreed that that would be best, and was about to put the phone down when a thought struck me. ‘Eric, did you say three tickets? But there are four of us – you, me, Nicholas and Primrose.’

‘Oh no, old son – just you and yer sister. You don’t catch me going orf to Frogland and eatin’ bleedin’ snails and such – no fear! Besides, somebody’s got to stay behind and mind the shop – there’s a couple of deals going on here what needs
rahver
careful handling, as yer might say. And if His Nibs wants to go gadding orf to foreign parts, then he’s welcome, but
I’m
staying here.’

Well, that was a relief at any rate. But I envied him his resolution, and thought wistfully how pleasant it would be to remain in Brighton with nothing to do but ‘mind the shop’.

I sighed and turned my thoughts back to
Baking for Vergers
and
Tips for the Bizarre
.

   

A little later, bogged down by vergers and bazaars and wondering if it was too early to knock off for a restorative, I was disturbed by a loud thump at the door. It was the telegraph boy, an increasingly rare species, and I knew it could mean only one thing: Primrose.

In her youth my sister had been a rabid sender of telegrams – usually requesting money of our parents or announcing some firm purpose unlooked for by the recipient. In middle age, and a successful artist earning a lucrative living churning out scenes of sheep and churches for the popular market, she has considerably less monetary need. However, though now comparatively sparse, her telegrams still have the power to bemuse and unsettle. And thus it was with some reluctance that I took the yellow envelope from the boy, read it quickly and assured him it needed no reply.

BLOWER KAPUT, it read, KINDLY INFORM RE FRANCE STOP WHOSE CAR WHAT LUGGAGE QUESTION MARK IMPERATIVE THAT I KNOW STOP YOUR SISTER.

I sighed and shoved it on the mantelpiece. Since the French trip was more than two weeks away I failed to see the urgency; but women tend to fuss over these matters and I knew that a delayed reply would only provoke further demands. The need for an early restorative grew more pressing and so I poured a small gin and lit a cigarette.

I was just reflecting what details I should put in my letter, when the telephone rang. Assuming it would be a parish matter at that hour in the morning, I was surprised to hear Primrose’s own voice.

‘I thought your phone was up the spout,’ I said.

‘Well, it’s better now,’ she said briskly, ‘some little man came to fix it and he actually got it right. Now Francis, I have a lot of preparations to make and need your full attention. I hope you are listening.’ I assured her I was hanging on every word.

‘Oh yes? That’ll be the day! Now look here, what about the travel arrangements? I assume that we shan’t be expected to cripple ourselves stuffed into your Singer. Presumably Nicholas will bring that old Citroën of his. Can’t say I like the look of it, always reminds me of the sort of thing the SS used to favour in the war. Still, at least it’s bigger than your rabbit hutch.’

I was stung by that, having particular affection for my battered but trusty roadster. However, I assured her we would indeed be travelling in Ingaza’s car, and that since Eric had elected not to come there should be plenty of room.

‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ she said, echoing my own thoughts, ‘he makes such a
noise
on the telephone! Doubtless he is the soul of charm and wit, but I don’t wish to be deafened before my time.’

Primrose had only recently become acquainted with Eric – or rather his disembodied voice at the end of Ingaza’s phone line. Indeed, she had only recently become acquainted with Ingaza, to my considerable disquiet having allowed herself to be bamboozled into joining forces with him in a project of joint benefit and dubious good: namely supplying the Ontario art market with fake eighteenth-century pastorals. At the time I had objected strongly and warned her of the dangers of such an undertaking, especially with someone like Nicholas. But my words had fallen on deaf ears and I was gently reminded by both of them that, being a murderer, I wasn’t exactly in the best position to give advice on such matters. Which of course was true – but it did not stop me worrying, nor for that matter feeling distinct pangs of moral unease. Old habits and values die hard, and it went against the grain to see my sister in collusion with someone as tortuous as Ingaza.

Was perhaps Primrose herself crooked? No – that’s the irony. In many ways she is a model of propriety. Her student days at the Courtauld had, admittedly, been wildly wayward, but she possesses an inherent sense of justice and fair play and is a stalwart, if bossy, ally in times of crisis. She is, however, incorrigibly mercenary; and I think it is this, coupled with an acute pride in her artistic ability, that made her susceptible to Ingaza’s overtures. The painting of those fakes was a challenge to her ingenuity, and the thrill of a financial coup a draw she could not resist. Fundamentally honest, she had, I think, persuaded herself that the whole venture was simply a test of artistic endeavour and entrepreneurial skill. In this of course she was pandered to and encouraged by Ingaza … However, it is not my intention to ruminate upon Primrose and her moral ambiguities. I write simply to record as best I can how the three of us (four if you count the impossible Henri) fared on that questionable trip to Berceau-Lamont and La Folie de Fotherington.

 

*
See
Bone Idle

The Cat’s Memoir
 
 

All I can say is that if the vicar and his sister assumed they could swan off to France without my being involved, then they could certainly think again! I am a cat of agile brain and probing curiosity and had no intention of being left behind by F.O. while he embarked on so questionable an enterprise with the Type from Brighton. Admittedly, when Bouncer and I first sniffed it in the wind I had thought the plan was bound to abort, being too absurd to get further than F.O.’s atlas. Indeed, I expressed that opinion to the dog. Bouncer, however, seemed less certain, saying that his bones told him otherwise – his exact words being, ‘You just see, the bugger will go and we’ll be left.’ Naturally I never pay attention to his wretched bones and assured him it would come to nothing.

However, with the Type’s telephone calls more frequent and F.O. growing more tense, I began to think that the dog wasn’t so far off the mark. It was when the sister started sending her telegrams that my suspicions were really aroused … and the vicar’s frantic purchase of a new French dictionary finally confirmed them.

It was plain that the dog was disturbed by the thought of his master disappearing to foreign parts (having had a bad experience with his original owner decamping to South America
*
). However, when I told him it would be only for a short time and that I had overheard F.O. arranging to settle him with Florence, he recovered his spirits remarkably well, reminding me incessantly of how admired he was by the wolfhound, and that her nice owners were ‘dab hands with the grub’. In fact, as the time drew nearer for the vicar’s trip, the more excited Bouncer became at the prospect of his own little holiday – going so far as to ask whether he should apply a spit and polish to his rubber ring. Since the item was ingrained with months of dirt, I said I thought this an excellent idea but it would need a considerable amount of saliva. The ensuing cleaning process was objectionable but useful, for it kept him fully occupied and thus gave me time to consider my own plans. These naturally were both bold and masterly.

Although the odious Crumplehorn was firmly incarcerated in Broadmoor (the lunatic asylum in Berkshire distrusted by humans), I was nevertheless worried that things might yet again prove perilous for the vicar. He is not of a robust ilk, and accompanied by one as slippery as the Brighton Type his chances of being dragged into more dangers seemed distinctly high. There was of course the sister – who might be expected to exert a modicum of control over matters, but having seen her assaulting the sherry and drooling over those dire chinchillas, I could not be too sure. Thus I felt it my inescapable duty to accompany our master on his travels and ensure that he returned, if not hearty (God forbid), then at least hale.

This decision was not such a sacrifice as you might think, for I have to admit that having once been treated to the ramblings of Pierre the Ponce (Bouncer’s friend, the toy poodle) re the pleasures of Continental life, I was now tempted to see for myself just how well the other half lived. According to Pierre, the French pilchard was of a quality so rare and exquisite as to make all other varieties pale into watered milk. Of course the poodle is a notorious
blagueur
and such claims are typical of his Gallic showmanship. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help wondering …

*    *    *

So, the decision made, I drew up my strategy. Quite a simple one really: I would become a stowaway – both on land and on the high seas! The prospect gave me a frisson of excitement, and despite my usual discretion I could not resist confiding my plans to Bouncer. He stared at me for some time with what I took to be surprised awe. And then he said gravely, ‘You’ll rue it, Maurice. You’ll be as sick as a dog.’

This was not the response I had expected, and for a few moments my buoyant spirits were quite dashed … so much so that I considered a sulk was in order. But just as I was preparing for such, it occurred to me that with only three days to go before the vicar’s departure, time would be better spent in planning tactics. Thus pausing only to tell Bouncer to watch his tongue I made my way briskly to the graveyard, and under the branches of the old yew spent a most profitable hour devising ways and means.

I was interrupted in this by a loud barking, and the next moment the dog appeared tousled and panting. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he announced.

‘That’s nice,’ I murmured. ‘What about?’

‘Your trip to foreign parts. You had better start practising.’

‘Practising what?’

‘Mewing in French of course.’

‘If you imagine,’ I replied, ‘that I have any intention of adjusting either my accent or my vocal cords, you are entirely wrong. Foreign soil does not necessitate adopting foreign peculiarities!’ He took no notice of course, and hurtled into the shrubbery, rump triumphant and lungs fit to burst. Deafened, I returned to the kitchen; and settling myself by the boiler engaged in some meditative grooming.

This lasted for a lengthy period, but was broken by the arrival of F. O. who, fresh from bell ringing, started to warble and grind peppermints in the most irritating way. However, the interruption was just as well for it reminded me that it was time to reflect further upon my stowaway – i.e. how best to insinuate myself into F.O.’s car and thus to France. I slipped through the cat flap and returned to the graveyard where, settled comfortably on one of the sunnier tombs, I cogitated.

This went well, and I was on the verge of returning to the vicarage and my pre-prandial milk, when in the distance I saw the dog bounding about. I watched his antics for some moments, and then, just as I was poised to slip into the long grass, he saw me and came cantering over. In some excitement he suggested we should settle ourselves beneath the yew tree as he had something important to say. Travel plans complete and in no hurry for my milk, I said I could spare a few minutes, followed him to the base of the tree and sat down expectantly.

‘I know something you don’t know, Maurice,’ he began smugly.

‘Oh yes,’ I said indulgently, ‘and what is that?’

‘It’s what I heard some of F.O.’s cronies gassing about. It’s to do with London and something they had seen there – something like a story with curtains.’

I pondered. ‘Ah, I think you mean a play, it’s what humans look at from time to time and pretend they are other people.’

‘You mean like us when you pretend to be a giant tiger and I’m the brave wolf?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Well, this play thing has got a special name, and I thought you would like it because it’s to do with catching mice.’ He cocked his ears and grinned.

‘Catching mice?’ I said with interest. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because it’s called …’ He paused dramatically. ‘It’s called THE MOUSETRAP!’

As it happens I did have a vague recollection of the title. Stem Ginger, the cat down the road, had said his people had seen it – but it sounded disappointing as from what he could make out there were no mice in it at all.

I was about to say as much to Bouncer, but before I had a chance he went rollicking on: ‘And what’s more, there’s a murder in it – just like F.O.’s.’

‘Not like F.O.’s,’ I observed, ‘I gather there are substantial differences. Besides, I cannot quite trace the direction your thought is …’

He looked blank and then shook his head impatiently. ‘If you mean you can’t see what I’m getting at, I’ll tell you …
I
know whodunit. Heard the piano tuner telling the vicar. And it’s a
deadly
secret – has been for ages. But I
know
, you see. So what do you think of that?’ He swaggered around wriggling his stern.

‘Bouncer,’ I exclaimed sharply, ‘on no account must you ever divulge that secret. Stem Ginger told me it brings years of bad luck – and there’s quite enough of that around as it is, coping with the vicar.’ I fixed him with a forbidding glare.

‘Hmm,’ he muttered, ‘we’ll have to see about that. I heard F.O. say the thing had gone on far too long and would probably last for a hundred years. I shall be dead by then and won’t have told anybody. BORING.’

‘Well, you’ll just have to be bored,’ I snapped. ‘I do not propose having my fate put in jeopardy because you cannot keep your mouth shut. So kindly remember!’

It cut little ice. He looked sly, commenced to snuffle at the yew roots and lifted his leg. I gave a disdainful mew and left him to it.

 

*
See
A Load of Old Bones

BOOK: Bones in High Places
4.95Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Deadman's Crossing by Joe R. Lansdale
At the Water's Edge by Sara Gruen
Incomplete by Zart, Lindy
A Different Sort of Perfect by Vivian Roycroft
Twisted Hills by Ralph Cotton
Crown of Crystal Flame by C. L. Wilson
Last Gasp by Robert F Barker