Bones in High Places (3 page)

As expected, the Canonical Address was mildly nightmarish; but I managed to survive both it and the attendant ceremonial, exhausted but unscathed. And with the whole thing safely behind me I was able to relax somewhat, revert to normal parish life and take stock of things to come, i.e. the Auvergne project.

Despite my dread misgivings, such was the relief at the resolution of the cathedral business, that I began to view this event with a degree of equanimity. Perhaps after all it would prove to be simply no more than a diverting break from pastoral responsibilities. With luck Ingaza’s obsession about my entitlement to the Fotherington domain would subside, fizzle out into a whim of no practical consequence. The three of us (four if the questionable Henri ever did materialize) would merely pass an agreeable sojourn in foreign territory not normally explored.

A surfeit of encounters with the cloying Mavis Briggs and the acerbic Edith Hopgarden served to bolster this vagary, and I almost began to relish the prospect of the trip. Mavis had been particularly irksome regarding her wretched
Little Gems of Uplift
. You would have thought that having contrived to get two volumes of those mawkish verses printed she would be content to let things rest. Not a bit of it: enthused by the success of the first two (displays on diocese bookstalls and quavering readings to captive audiences), she was now obsessed with producing a third … and with me writing its Introduction. This was a burden that began to eclipse all else in its awfulness and made the prospect of the French expedition positively rosy.

Thus it was with moderate resignation that I started to prepare for my departure. This included making arrangements for Bouncer and Maurice to be fed and overseen. The cat, being the more independent and self-contained, needed only scant attention, but I had managed to prevail upon the owners of the giant wolfhound Florence to take Bouncer as a lodger for the duration. They are canny creatures, dogs, and on one or two occasions I had caught him gazing at me with that intent quizzical look which seemed to suggest he knew something was afoot. Fanciful perhaps, but live with a dog long enough and you develop a nose for such things. Maurice of course remained inscrutable on the subject.

Bouncer had not stayed away before on his own and I was a little worried about how he might cope – or behave. The Watkins were a cheery couple and I did not want our relationship to come to grief should the dog cut up rough and be impossible. Thus it was decided that he should be left with them a couple of days prior to my departure to adapt to his new surroundings and get used to my absence. I pinned my hopes on the wolfhound: with luck her placid presence would be a comfort. I also ensured that the guest arrived equipped with his basket and box of trusted toys.

In fact Bouncer took to the move like a duck to water, sniffing around the house, wagging his tail and rolling nonchalantly on the kitchen floor. He then rushed off to cavort with Florence without giving me a backward glance … which in the circumstances struck me as a trifle cavalier. However, it meant I could now attend to the journey without further qualm.

To my dismay I learnt that our ferry to Dieppe would be leaving Newhaven at crack of dawn. The obvious thing would have been to stay the night with Primrose in Lewes, but the previous evening I was due to chair a meeting of the St Botolph’s Historical Society, something which I rather enjoy. Thus there was nothing for it but to get up before first light and drive straight to Newhaven picking up Primrose en route. I had loaded the car the night before, but nevertheless rising at four in the morning is not my idea of fun, and I was not exactly in sparky mood as I set off from Molehill on damp roads and under blustery skies. But I got down to Sussex in good time and collected my sister as arranged.

We drove to Newhaven in silence, at that grey hour neither of us in the mood for chat. But as we approached the dock Primrose exclaimed anxiously, ‘I know we’ve got our passports, but I suppose we
can
rely on Nicholas to bring all the tickets. I don’t fancy walking up the gangplank only to have my way barred at the last moment for want of some vital document. It would be most disappointing!’

‘Oh, he’ll have everything,’ I assured her gloomily, ‘including the wretched deeds. He’s not going to let the chance of gain slip by on account of lost travel tickets – more’s the pity.’

‘Don’t be such a killjoy, Francis. You’ll see, you’ll probably fall in love with the place when we find it, stake your claim and retire there for life.’

‘Oh yes?’ I answered. ‘If the new police superintendent or that ferret-nosed Samson get to hear of my link with the Fotherington estate I shan’t be retiring anywhere except into one of Her Majesty’s penitentiaries – or more likely, through Mr Pierrepoint’s trap door.’

‘Too late to think of that now,’ she said briskly, ‘and don’t be so theatrical. Now, brace up … and mind that seagull, you nearly ran it over!’

I swerved, and drove into the car park beside the main quay where we were to rendezvous with Ingaza. There was a scattering of vehicles but no sign of the black Citroën, and for a few moments of joyous reverie I had a vision of its owner being confined indefinitely to bed with lumbago or cholera. Naturally, the vision faded, for seconds later we saw his car appear around the side of the Customs shed and drive smartly through the gates into a space close to our own.

He got out and opened up the boot, gesturing to us to bring our bags. I think I had half expected him to be sporting a Breton beret or jaunty Maurice Chevalier boater, and was relieved to see otherwise. As it was, with raincoat collar turned up against the morning dank, and slouch hat pulled well down over his sharp profile, he looked not unlike an effete form of Philip Marlowe. Presumably as a gesture to holiday convention, the customary emaciated tie was replaced by a knotted silk scarf.

It was as well that we had little luggage, for large though the boot was, almost half of it seemed to be allocated to assorted cases of whisky. I recoiled. ‘Good God, Nicholas, we can’t take that with us. It’ll be impounded and so shall we – are you mad? Besides, what on earth do you want that amount for? We can hardly drink it all ourselves.’

‘Always handy for oiling palms and wheels,’ was the reply. ‘Scotch is one of the few British things the French appreciate – it’s considered “
très snob
” over there. Now keep your hair on, old chap, it’ll be perfectly all right. They never bother at this hour. Besides, we’ve got the vestments.’

‘Vestments! What are you talking about?’

‘Camouflage of course. Borrowed them from a mate of mine who’s keen on dressing up as a choirboy. They come in quite handy for this sort of thing – a couple of surplices strewn on top of the stuff and they’ll think we’re a bunch of ecclesiastical outfitters, or parsons off for a sing-song at Taizé. Now, where’s your collar?’

‘My collar?’ I asked faintly.

‘The dog collar. You did bring it, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but I wasn’t expecting to –’

‘Well, then, put it on! The boat sails soon and we’ve got to find the right loading bay. Hurry up.’

I went back to the Singer, shut and locked its boot, fumbled under the dashboard for the collar and clipped it round my neck. As I did so I surveyed the Channel with its bleak skies and sullen waves, and felt slightly sick.

I returned to the other two who were standing in front of the Citroën’s bonnet engaged apparently in some sort of dispute. ‘But it will spoil my hairdo,’ I heard Primrose complaining, ‘and besides, I never wear black next to my face, it’s so ageing!’

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘It’s your sister, she refuses to wear this black headscarf,’ explained Nicholas taking it from his pocket.

I stared in bewilderment. ‘But why ever should she?’

‘Because it will all contribute to the clerical effect. Seeing her with you the Customs will probably think she’s a sort of part-time nun. Lot of them about these days. The more sober we look the better.’

I eyed him up and down. ‘Nicholas,’ I said firmly, ‘do not imagine that anyone could ever take you for being sober, either in look or in deed. I think this whole thing is utterly preposterous and I see no reason why my sister should be expected to go around with squashed hair looking like a quasi nun just because you cannot resist filling your car with alcoholic contraband.’

‘Exactly!’ added Primrose.

He looked at us, slightly taken aback by our joint revolt, and then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh well, if that’s how you feel, we can waive the headscarf, I suppose – but mind you display that collar, Francis, until we’re out of Dieppe at least … and remember to smile. It makes you look witless.’ I scowled, lifted our cases into what space there was, and leaving Nicholas to arrange the ‘vestments’ clambered into the back seat. I was not looking forward to the voyage … In fact I was not looking forward to anything.

They’ve put up a lamp post, you know – at the end of the road. Only a couple of canters from F.O.’s front gate, and BRAND new. What do you think of that! I told O’Shaughnessy, and he said we should have a race to see who could christen it first. He bet me his leftover bits of Chum that I couldn’t get there before him. Well, that was a challenge all right. I mean, I wasn’t having that setter sniffing around and shoving his leg all over the place ahead of me, so I took his bet – and won! They don’t call me Fleetfoot Bouncer for nothing … Though as a matter of fact it’s got nothing to do with speed but all to do with KNOWING the route. Which I do. It’s the route that F.O takes me on his nightly hike around the churchyard, and I know every inch, corner and paving stone of the way. And I know about that crumbling kerb in front of Edith Hopgarden’s house that she’s always moaning about, and the way the pavement dips just before you reach the place where they’ve put the lamp post,
and
the short-cut by Tapsell’s fence. So for all his long legs, poor old O’Shaughnessy didn’t stand a chance – not a cat’s chance in hell.

And talking of cats, I’m beginning to miss that bastard. I think he’s only been gone a short while – though I’m not too clued up about time and such things, so can’t be sure. But it’s already starting to feel a bit draughty without him … You get used to all that hissing and spitting and laying down of the law, and somehow without him and the general ballyhoo from F.O. life seems a bit tame. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Staying with Florence the wolfhound and her owners is jolly good. The grub is first class and everyone is very nice and chummy, and I’ve been given a new blanket with a really good SMELL. I sneaked over to the church yesterday and dragged it down to the crypt and had a kip among the ghosts. Then I tried to fix some more of those Latin words in my mind so I could tell Maurice when he comes back, but the ghosts were making such a racket it was difficult to concentrate. But I’ve managed a couple, such as
tua culpa
which means ‘It’s all your fault, Maurice,’ and
canibus gratias
– ‘Thanks be to dogs’. Of course the cat will look superior and pretend I’ve got it all wrong but secretly he’ll be quite impressed. After all, no fleas on Bouncer!

Matter of fact, though, I am feeling a bit itchy – but it’s nothing to do with fleas. It’s my Sixth Sense (the one the cat is so sniffy about): it gets into the bones and doesn’t half make me feel funny. Like now for instance. My nose is getting all warm and dry and the fur round my collar has started to prick. That’s a sure sign of something odd going on – probably ABROAD where Maurice and F.O. have swanned off to. The cat’s all right, more or less (he usually is), but I’m not so sure about the vicar. I think his feet are in it again … though of course, being with the Brighton Type, I suppose they are bound to be. Only this time I think they’re in deeper than usual and things are going to be a bit HAIRY. Mind you, the cat would say I was imagining things. But I know what I know.

Anyway, think I’ll trot off now and chew things over with Florence. She is very big and very soothing and talks a lot of sense. I like that. Her owner is taking us both to the park this morning and we shall have a right old romp, and because she’s a bit soft will probably buy us some chocolates on the way home – especially if I put on my Orphan Bouncer act.

As Nicholas had predicted, the Customs procedures presented no threat and we were waved through without a word – though whether that was to do with my dog collar and ‘witless’ smile or simply early morning apathy, it was hard to tell. Far more disturbing and painful was the crossing itself: a nightmare journey of churned-up seas and churned-up stomachs.

The principal problem was whether to sit quietly below with a book and steadying brandy or to totter around on deck braced by gale and drenching spray. Neither was congenial: the saloon being hot and full of the wan and whingeing, the deck cold and heaving. In the end I divided my time between both areas, feeling sorry for myself and yearning for sight of the French coast. Of Nicholas there was not a sign. Having boasted on a number of occasions of his impervious sea-legs, he had, I later learnt, procured a space in the purser’s cabin where he had remained prostrate and green for the entire voyage. Indeed, it was probably the sight of the driver’s jaundiced face and bloodshot eyes that deterred investigation of the Citroën’s boot when we finally reached Dieppe.

Of the three of us it was my sister who held up the best. Indeed, to my envy, she seemed to be almost enjoying herself. Chatting gaily to the French barman and exchanging Gauloises and pleasantries with two male passengers standing next to her, she was clearly getting in the holiday mood.

Returning later to the saloon after a challenging stagger on deck, I saw that the three of them had retired to a table and were playing dominoes. Admittedly, the table was anchored to the floor, but given the circumstances I felt this was no mean feat. Seeing me, Primrose hailed me over and made introductions.

‘Francis,’ she said, ‘do come and meet Mr Climp and Mr Mullion. They live quite near you, over in Berkshire … Crowthorne, didn’t you say?’ she asked, turning to the taller of the two.

He nodded. ‘That’s right – nice little place as long as you like rhododendrons and adders. It’s the sandy soil, makes ‘em both flourish!’

I smiled politely and asked if they were on holiday.

‘You could say so. Got a bit of business to attend to in the south,’ said the other, ‘but thought we’d combine it with a spot of walking and sightseeing first. I was here in the war, you know. First time back. Be interesting to look at a few old haunts. Though things have changed of course – no more tanks and Jerries getting in the way.’ He laughed.

At that moment the boat gave a sudden lurch and the dominoes skidded to the floor but I was checked in picking them up by the sound of a child’s excited voice announcing that the town was in sight. I rushed to the porthole, eager as the child to salute dry land. We were indeed approaching the arms of the harbour, and already I could make out the buildings on the quay and in the distance the outline of the cathedral tower.

Disembarkation was what you might call leisurely, and the crawling pace as we edged nose to tail down the vehicle gangway did little to improve Ingaza’s recovery from his
mal de mer
. He slumped limply over the steering wheel, mechanically fumbling at the gear stick as might a sort of clockwork cadaver, groaning and muttering oaths at any official who impeded us – or for that matter waved us on.

As we made our slow way down to the quay, my attention was caught by a smart-looking Austin-Healey a couple of vehicles ahead. Sleek and low-slung, its silver-grey chassis made stylish contrast to the more homespun appearance of others in the queue. Of those only our vintage Citroën Avant was in any way distinctive, but whereas that vehicle had about it an aura of subtle menace, the Austin sparkled with breezy elegance.

Primrose too had obviously noticed the car, for she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Goodness, look who’s in that Austin-Healey. It’s the two I was talking to in the bar, Messrs Climp and … oh, I can’t remember the name, something like a fish or a window … Ah, yes, that was it, Mullion. Anyway, fancy them driving a make like that!’

I was also slightly surprised, for they had not struck me as the sort to ride about in high-powered sports cars – though admittedly such judgements are absurdly shallow. Primrose turned to Nicholas who, now that we had negotiated both gangway and officials and were moving more briskly along the quayside, was beginning to look vaguely human.

‘What do you think, Nicholas? Isn’t it odd that those two should be in a thing like that? They weren’t even good dominoes players.’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ was the weary reply. ‘You may recall that I have been dying for the last three hours. In the circumstances my fellow passengers are of little account … Christ, I could do with a drink!’

‘It’s only ten o’clock. You’ll just have to wait.’ And she proceeded to tell him about her companions in the bar, while he manoeuvred us around the cobbled streets of Dieppe having missed the turn for the exit road south.

‘Useless signposts,’ he muttered, ‘give you no warning. We’ll have to go all the way round again.’ And performing an abrasive three-point turn he shot up the nearest side street.

‘Stop! Stop!’ I suddenly shouted, gripping his shoulder.

‘For God’s sake, Francis, you’ll have us all in the ditch!’

‘Yes, but you must stop, you really must!’ He swerved to the side of the road and braked violently, and I started to wrench at the handle.

‘Oh really, Francis, you haven’t been taken short, have you?’ protested Primrose. ‘Why on earth didn’t you go on the –’

I made no answer, being now out of the car and starting to race back the way we had come. I rounded the corner and stared. The street was empty except for a passing cyclist, crossbar draped with onions; and I felt a fool. Clearly the months of subterfuge were taking their toll and I was having visions … And then I saw it in a shop doorway: the dog, lifting its leg against a sack of vegetables.

‘Bouncer,’ I cried, ‘stop that!’

The creature lowered its leg and looked round guiltily, saw me and started to bay.

As always the noise was dire.

‘Shut up!’ I yelled. He stopped, and with head cocked on one side slowly began to wag his tail. There was no doubt about it, it was him all right – every mark and hairy feature. And even from a distance I could discern bits of the old green collar peeping out from the thicket around his scruff.

I approached cautiously, my mind a whirligig of confusion and disbelief. How? How? How? Why wasn’t he with the Watkins and the wolfhound? I had settled him there only three days ago, leaving him safe and smug sucking up to Florence. What on earth had happened, and how on earth did he get
here
of all places? In a daze I called him to heel (an order which for once he instantly obeyed) and together we walked slowly back to the car.

Not unexpectedly we were greeted with consternation and horror.

‘How
could
you, Francis!’ cried my sister.

‘Trust you to foul up the works. That’s all we need!’ echoed Ingaza.

They seemed to think I was somehow responsible and had engineered the whole thing. It took me some time to convince them otherwise. Then once the fulminating had subsided I suggested I try to ring the Watkins to find out what had happened.

‘You had better let me come with you,’ said Primrose. ‘You’ll never cope with the French telephone system on your own.’ I was grateful for that and we set off in search of a public phone box, leaving Nicholas to grumble at the dog.

With Primrose’s help the mechanics of connection went surprisingly smoothly and I was relieved to hear Diana Watkins’ voice at the other end. I was just clearing my throat to make diffident enquiry, when she broke in: ‘Oh Canon, I can’t tell you how sorry I am, the most dreadful thing has happened. I feel so ashamed. It’s, uhm … well, I’m afraid it’s Bouncer: he’s escaped – in a lorry!’ And she launched into a long and tearful explanation.

It was a curious tale, but knowing Bouncer’s habits I felt a measure of sympathy and could hardly blame his distraught custodian. Apparently she had been exercising the two dogs in the park, and because Bouncer was being so good had let him off the lead to frolic with Florence. All had gone well until she was approached by a fellow dog owner eager to chat. They had been talking for barely a minute, when glancing up she saw a very large pantechnicon parked in a lane adjacent to the park, and into which Bouncer’s stern was rapidly disappearing. Before she had a chance to do anything, the driver had walked round to the rear, slammed the doors and driven off. As the thing disappeared down the road all she saw was a foreign number plate, and its doors bearing the slogan: ‘Grinders’ Dog Biscuits – Only the Best’.

Between tears and gulps Diana made further apologies and said how much Florence was missing her playmate. I calmed her down, said that miraculously the fugitive was safe with me, and assured her there were no hard feelings. I think she went off to have a triple gin. I wished I could do the same, but that would have to come later …

Eventually, back in the car with the dog settled next to me and my companions grimly resigned to his presence, we once more traversed the town. This time we managed to find the right route and were soon out on the open road. We had not gone far when a lay-by came up on our right where there were a couple of British cars parked, a battered Humber and, apart from a patched tear in its hood, a pristine silver Austin-Healey. As we drove by I saw one of its occupants hunched over a map spread out on the bonnet. It was the taller of the two Primrose had introduced me to on the boat. The sighting prompted her to resume telling Nicholas of her encounter with them.

When she had finished there was a long silence. And then he said musingly, ‘Crowthorne … that’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ At the time the remark’s significance entirely escaped me, but later it became only too clear.