Bones in High Places (5 page)

‘No fear,’ he said.

Thus we pushed on. And other than Nicholas treating us to an embarrassingly awful travesty of Charles Trenet singing ‘La Mer’, all went peaceably. But despite the novelty of the landscape with its changing scenery I was glad when Primrose announced that it was high time we started looking for somewhere to lodge for the night.

‘I know it’s still only late afternoon but if we leave it much longer our choice will be limited, and I for one do not propose sleeping in some third-rate B&B with dodgy plumbing and cackling geese.’

‘Such negative thoughts,’ replied Nicholas lightly. ‘One’s in France, you know, not England. We’re bound to find something perfectly adequate that even you will approve. I’ve marked a number of places listed in the Michelin, they can’t all be full this late in the season. And who knows, we might even bump into the Episcopal Progress.’

‘Don’t even joke about it,’ I said. ‘Besides, they left days before us and are bound to be settled in their friends’ house by now.’ Gloom fell as I had a momentary vision of Clinker with rod and waders suddenly bearing down on me from some mountain tarn in the vicinity of Berceau-Lamont …

We had made good progress and were now about fifty miles north of Clermont-Ferrand, and began to look seriously for somewhere to stay. We passed and discounted a couple of nondescript places at the roadside, and were just wondering about a third, equally indifferent, when Nicholas suddenly slammed on the brakes and made a sharp turn into a winding lane. Primrose emitted a shriek of protest and the dog barked reproachfully.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I only just saw the sign.’

‘What sign?’ she asked indignantly.

‘The one to L’Auberge du Cheval Blanc. It’s listed in the book and is supposed to be pretty good. Might as well have one night of civilized living at least. Don’t think we can expect much from Berceau so we had better make the most of it while we can. It says they do a wonderful
civet de lièvre
for which people travel miles, and the wine list is supposed to be superb.’

‘Yes, and probably jolly expensive,’ I said grimly.

‘Come on, dear boy, you only live once. Besides, just think, when we’ve taken possession of your property
and
its Nazi treasure, we’ll be quids in and can treat ourselves to all manner of fancy places.’

Before I could tell him he inhabited a world of crazed delusion, he had launched once more into a mangled version of ‘La Mer’; only this time it was accompanied by growls from Bouncer and a peevish protest from Maurice, who having woken up was intent on making his presence felt.

And thus a few yards further on we made our musical entry into the car park of L’Auberge du Cheval Blanc. It did indeed look expensive, but also very nice; and despite my qualms, the thought of a comfortable bed and lavish dining room was an inviting prospect. I hoped they could accommodate us.

‘You two stay here,’ directed Nicholas, ‘while I make enquiries.’ He got out and strolled towards the entrance. While he was gone Primrose and I discussed the question of the animals, i.e. how best to manage them. I thought it unwise to resurrect the possibility of her handbag for the cat, and suggested instead that we left both in the car for the time being and that after dinner I would make a surreptitious retrieval and sneak them up to my room.

‘But you’ll still have to feed the brutes,’ she said.

This time I did mention her bag: ‘It’s got a very neat outside pocket, just the place for a few scraps from the table. It would be ideal.’ I waited for the eruption but none came for her attention was focused elsewhere.

‘I say, Francis,’ she exclaimed, ‘you’ll never guess what I’ve just seen.’

‘What?’

‘Over there, on the other side of the big Renault – it’s that Austin-Healey again. It’s just driven in. I’m sure it’s the same one that Climp and Mullion were in. What a coincidence!’

I looked in the direction she was pointing and saw the sleek silver bonnet and distinctive headlamps. It was an Austin-Healey 100 all right, but whether theirs one couldn’t be sure. The occupants weren’t visible and I was about to get out to take a discreet look when Nicholas appeared and signalled a thumbs up. ‘No difficulty,’ he announced, ‘they’ll be only too delighted to have us. I’ve seen the rooms and everything is absolutely
comme il faut
. In fact, a distinctly good find.’ He grinned broadly, obviously pleased with himself.

As you may expect from one practised in feline strategy, all went entirely to plan, and it was with little difficulty that I concealed myself in the vicar’s car and then subsequently the Type’s. I was rather pleased with my handling of this later transference for it required both speed and fine judgement. But it is not for nothing that I am the great nephew of Marmaduke The Houdini, and fine genes will always out.

I cannot say that my sojourn in the boot of the Brighton Type’s car was congenial (distinctly cramped and stuffy), but unlike my human companions I found the motion of the waves pleasantly soothing – a fact that I was careful to impress upon Bouncer when next I saw him. Some of my earliest memories are of spending long hours being cat’s-cradled in the garden hammock with Uncle Marmaduke, and I think its swaying rhythm must have fitted me for undulation. Anyway, whatever the cause, my time on the boat was agreeable – which is not something that can be said for the first hour or so on land. Squashed, hungry and hot, I was becoming as Bouncer might say distinctly ‘ratty’. And added to the physical discomfort there was also a nagging disquiet over something I had happened to overhear as the boat docked.

Roused from my snooze by thuds and noises, I realized that preparations were afoot to move the cars and rally the passengers. And then there was a light rap on the roof and I heard an alien voice say, ‘So you think this is theirs, do you?’ Whoever was being addressed must have confirmed, for the voice then added, ‘With that type and vintage it shouldn’t be too difficult to keep tabs on ‘em, even though it is a French one. It’s definitely him all right. Just like his picture in the paper – same gangling legs.’ There was a pause, and then another voice said, ‘Watch it, they’re coming!’

A few moments later I heard the driver’s door being opened and the Brighton Type groaning, ‘For God’s sake where are those sodding pills!’ He was clearly under the weather and I had no sympathy. Besides, I was too puzzled by what I had just heard to give thought to Ingaza’s foolish agues. Unlike Bouncer, I do not possess – or imagine that I possess – a sixth sense. Nevertheless there was something in the air and in the voices that I did not like. I couldn’t quite put my paw on it, but it gave me a distinct feeling of unease. However, in my current position there was nothing to be done, so I curled up again and attempted to snooze.

Fat chance of that. After twenty minutes of aimless cruising around, the car suddenly screeched to a halt, and five minutes later there was a violent commotion and I could hear the
hound
, of all creatures, being hauled on to the back seat! Later of course he gave me a rambling explanation as to how he had arrived, but at the time his presence seemed incredible – and I was distinctly put out by the intrusion. Nevertheless, being a cat of philosophical cast, I resigned myself to the new situation with characteristic goodwill and unruffled fortitude … But as we drove along I could not help being piqued by the thought of Bouncer lolling in comfort while I was squashed beneath the luggage and whisky. Eventually, of course, I made my presence felt by staging a spectacular escape into bushes at the side of the road. Irritated by the long incarceration, I naturally made the whole episode as difficult as I could for them, and for the rest of the journey ensured that I was comfortably nursed on F.O.’s lap and given all due attention.

We trooped in and deposited our cases in the rather plush bedrooms. Primrose suggested we should reassemble in the bar immediately. But as there seemed to be nobody about in the corridor I thought that if I was quick I might be able to sneak the animals in via the fire exit at the end of the passage. Thus I returned to the car but quickly realized that it was more than I could handle to smuggle both cat and dog simultaneously – one pet might pass unobserved, but two? So with Maurice curled on the back seat, I seized Bouncer and we sloped our way back to the side entrance. The cat would just have to wait till later.

After a lightning wash and brush up I joined the others, who were already taking their ease with aperitifs and menus in the lounge. The room was warmly lit and had a large wood-burning stove sizzling in one corner. Thick rugs were strewn on polished flagstones, and a set of stags’ heads bearing remarkably imperial antlers adorned the walls. Settling ourselves under their placid gaze we discussed the day’s journey and surveyed the other guests.

There weren’t many of these: a trio of what I took to be local farmers, scrubbed and shiny-booted and obviously entranced by the host’s bill of fare; a well-padded woman in pink, nursing a diminutive poodle which she was fondly feeding with cocktail nuts; and a young couple on a far sofa cocooned in martinis and mutual admiration. Apart from appreciative grunts from the farmers as they scanned the menus, the place was quiet and the mood mellow. I smoked a Gauloise (when in Rome etc.), savouring the moment and glad of the comfort of the armchair after the confines of the Citroën’s back seat.

Like the farmers, Nicholas and Primrose had immersed themselves in the menu, discussing earnestly the relative merits of the
civet de lièvre
and
canard pressé
. My own choice already made, I watched with interest the white poodle on its owner’s pink satin lap, and was just musing on the little dog’s fastidious table manners compared to the chumping chops of Bouncer, when I heard a rather flat English voice at the bar asking for a gin and tonic. I turned my head … Mullion stood there. Or Climp.

Clearly Primrose had been right about their arrival in the car park. I felt an ill-defined irritation, which increased when I saw the man’s companion enter the room and join him at the bar. I could not explain the irritation but somehow their presence annoyed me. Certainly they had been perfectly civil when Primrose had introduced us on the boat – but that did not necessarily mean that I wanted my journey through France punctuated by their appearances. It was, I suppose, simply xenophobia in reverse: enjoying the novelty of France I did not wish to be dogged by my compatriots, least of all by the same ones.

I averted my head, hoping not to catch their attention; but too late, they had already seen us and were moving across the room. Inwardly grumbling, I composed my features into a smile of surprised welcome.

‘Well, see who it is, fancy meeting you again,’ began the taller (Mullion, I subsequently learned). ‘Thought we had left you at Dieppe! Your sister did mention you were making for this area but it’s funny meeting up here, all the same.’ He laughed loudly, and nodding towards Nicholas added, ‘I must say, your friend looks rather the better for wear than when we last saw him. Thought he wasn’t long for this world!’ And he laughed again, raising his glass to Nicholas who returned the gesture with a wintry stare.

‘Are you staying long?’ asked Primrose brightly. ‘It’s such a comfortable hotel, it almost seems a pity to leave.’

‘No, we’re pushing on in the morning,’ said Climp. ‘We’ve only got a fortnight’s leave and I want to get some fishing in, and Ted’s keen on revisiting his old wartime haunts – somewhere in the Massif Central, wherever that is. My geography’s none too good so I leave the map reading and such to him. Dominoes is more my line and I like a good opponent.’ He grinned familiarly at Primrose and looked around – clearly hoping to draw up a chair. Fortunately none was to hand. They hovered vaguely for a few moments, and then Nicholas stood up, waved imperiously to the waiter and announced in impeccable French (which I think he must have been silently practising) that we were ready for our table. Nodding curtly to Climp and Mullion, and with Primrose and myself dutifully following, he moved briskly towards the dining room.

The pink lady was already ensconced and busy with a bowl of mussels which she was attacking with dedicated relish. I noticed the poodle was still on her lap, but now largely obscured by the folds of the enormous napkin cascading from its mistress’s throat. A twitching nose would occasionally poke out rather like a hedgehog emerging from hibernation. The sight of the creature being so casually accommodated lessened my anxiety about Maurice and Bouncer and I felt easier about having them up in the bedroom. That at least was a relief. And like the pink lady, and following the French custom, I tucked my napkin into my collar and fell to my steak.

For a short while there was silence as we attacked our food and savoured the burgundy. And then turning to Primrose, Nicholas said, ‘Those two – what was it you said they were talking about on the boat?’

She frowned, trying to recall. ‘Oh, I don’t know – I told you in the car – this and that, nothing in particular … anything to pass the time really.’ Then she smiled complacently: ‘But I held my own during the dominoes all right, swept the board with them!’ I also smiled for I remembered from old my sister’s skill in that particular sphere, and our father’s fury when yet again he found himself trounced by her sharper skill.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas patiently, ‘but what were they
saying
? I mean, did they ask you any questions about where you were going or who you were?’

‘Well, they asked the usual questions as travellers do. Wanted to know if we were on holiday and were we visiting any particular area in France, all that sort of thing.’

‘I see … and did you volunteer any information?’

‘
Volunteer
information? You sound like an intelligence officer! I merely said we were going somewhere in the Auvergne to look at an old ruin that Francis was interested in. I certainly didn’t say that he was the actual owner or that he had the deeds.’

‘Wait a minute,’ I interrupted, looking up from my steak, ‘I certainly do
not
have the deeds. They were appropriated, as you may remember, by someone else sitting not two feet away.’ I glared at Nicholas who naturally took no notice.

‘Oh well, as good as,’ she replied. ‘Though, as a matter of fact, when I mentioned that my brother was a clergyman they did seem very eager to know your parish, and I remember that when I told them what it was, Mullion had laughed and said, “Ah, yes, of course, the Reverend Francis Oughterard of Molehill – that’s the name. I remember.”‘ She turned to me: ‘Don’t know why he should exactly, but I suppose you were in the papers over that frightful Crumpelmeyer rumpus … Or only being in the next county perhaps he read it in one of those dreary diocesan magazines they strew in dentists’ waiting rooms – though can’t say he seems the type to read that sort of thing. On the ferry he kept muttering about how nice it was to be out of “blinking uniform”, and it crossed my mind he might be a fireman or one of those cinema commissionaires …’ She broke off, looking towards the pink lady. ‘I say, have you
ever
seen such an enormous gâteau! My goodness, I can’t resist it, I shall have to have some.’ And picking up the menu she started to peruse the dessert section with avid concentration.

‘Hmm,’ said Nicholas, frowning slightly, ‘think I’ll just settle for a smoke and a Scotch – although blowed if I’m paying inflated Frog prices when we’ve got our own supply in the car. I’ll see you two later.’ And he got up and strolled towards the door, ignoring Climp and Mullion but flashing the pink one a smile of lavish charm. When this was beamingly reciprocated over the mound of gâteau I was reminded of how adroit he was at handling old ladies. Perhaps if I had possessed the same talent I should now be a free agent and in thrall neither to him nor to nightmares. As it was …

After coffee in the lounge I bade goodnight to Primrose, exchanged a few pleasantries with Climp and Mullion, and went out to the car to retrieve Maurice. With a pang of guilt I realized I had completely forgotten to get him any food and felt nervous about my reception. A pinpoint of light glowed near the car and I smelt the familiar scent of a Russian Sobranie. Nicholas was leaning against the bonnet, cigarette in one hand, plastic cup of whisky in the other.

‘So there you are, dear boy,’ he greeted me. ‘Thought you’d forgotten the cat. Not that it matters – little bugger’s fast asleep. In fact, you could probably leave him there all night.’

‘No fear! He’d make a mess deliberately, just to show who’s boss.’

‘Ah – well, that’s the last thing we want,’ he said nervously. ‘Better get him out pronto!’

I opened the door and yanked out Maurice while Nicholas rootled for another cup and poured a generous ration of whisky. Given the amount stashed in the boot this seemed an entirely proper offering. We sipped in silence and I kept a straining eye on Maurice as he prowled around the shadowy car park.

And then Nicholas said quietly, ‘Your sister hasn’t been too bright, has she?’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Pouring out our business to those two.’

‘I would hardly say “pouring it out”. Anyway, why worry? The main thing is she didn’t reveal that I had been left the deeds by Mrs Fotherington and am thus technically the owner. The last thing I want is for that particular link to be publicized. Otherwise I can’t see that it really matters. It’s not as if she gave the name of the place – and in any case they’re only a couple of rather intrusive chaps on holiday from their work or wives. We shan’t see them again – at least I hope not, three times is quite enough!’ I laughed, and scanned the car park searching for a feline shape with glittering eyes.

There was a long pause, and then Nicholas said, ‘Look, Francis, I know you’re not the brightest spark in the box, but hasn’t it struck you that there’s a rather consistent pattern emerging?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘For a start they come from Crowthorne. And then, according to Primrose, Mullion seemed unduly curious about your parish and clearly recognized your name. They are also heading roughly in the same direction as we are, i.e. into the Massif Central – a large area admittedly – and just happen to have chosen for their first night the selfsame place as ourselves. The odds for that particular coincidence are very long indeed, especially as we had already seen them whizz through that village in Normandy at a hell of a lick … so by rights you would expect them to be miles ahead of us, and yet they drive in here within minutes of our own arrival.’

‘Perhaps they took a long diversion,’ I suggested.

‘Perhaps – but try looking at the whole picture.’

‘The picture would be clearer,’ I said irritably, stung by his earlier jibe, ‘if I knew why you keep harping on about them coming from Crowthorne. You mentioned it in the car as well.’

He groaned. ‘Crowthorne, Francis, is where bloody Broadmoor is and your fat chum Crumpelmeyer! Or had you forgotten?’

As a matter of fact I had forgotten, and apart from being startled by his words, I also felt a fool. Such was the notoriety of that grim establishment that, despite once learning otherwise, my schoolboy imagination invariably placed it vaguely in some desolate mythic outpost far removed from the security of conventional life. That it was situated in the vicinity of a pleasant Home Counties village rarely registered with my consciousness … It did now.

I cleared my throat and took another mouthful of whisky. ‘Are you saying that they have something to do with the prison and are thus interested in my connection with Victor Crumpelmeyer?’

‘Got it in one, old cock.’

‘But that’s absurd! I grant you it’s a coincidence that they come from Crowthorne and also seem to know my name, but there must be hundreds of people living in the neighbourhood who have no connections with the asylum at all.’

‘Not if they are “on leave” and glad to get out of their “uniforms”.’

‘You mean that they are …’

‘Yes, of course I do. Screws. Bloody screws!’

I stared into the dark, digesting his words. ‘So you are saying that these screws know Crumpelmeyer and that it is through him that they have heard of me, and for some reason, having bumped into us on the boat, are keen to cultivate my company and to discover precisely where I am going?’

‘Something like that,’ he murmured.

I laughed nervously. ‘Oh really, Nicholas,’ I protested, ‘you read too many cheap thrillers. Just because there are one or two rather tenuously linked coincidences you have created a whole scenario in your head!’

‘That’s just it, old cock, I do
not
have a scenario in my head. Far from it – which is why I need to work things out.’ He sighed. ‘However, clearly nothing helpful can be expected from your direction, so I’m off to bed.’ And thus saying, he stubbed out his cigarette and ambled off back to the hotel, leaving me to finish the whisky and round up the cat.