Bones in High Places (6 page)

It is just as well I am a cat of stoical disposition for, as earlier mentioned, the indignities I had to undergo on that foreign journey were disgraceful! No doubt lesser felines would have collapsed under the strain, but being of fine fortitude and not easily thwarted by the slights and blunders of human beings (even those of the vicar), I naturally persevered. Having made it my mission to protect F.O. from his own ineptitude I had no intention of failing. But I can tell you, the deprivations were considerable.

Take that first night in the hostelry the Brighton Type had chosen … they forgot to feed me, if you please. Yes, so intent were they on their own food that they entirely overlooked
my
nutritional requirements – wasn’t even offered a pre-prandial saucer of milk. When F.O. and the Type later woke me from my nap on the car seat I fully expected to be offered some choice titbits – but all they did was shove me out to stretch my legs while they smoked and guzzled whisky. Not a word about my supper! And then the vicar whisked me off to his room assuming I would be content to sleep the night through. Well, I certainly wasn’t having that, oh no!

The moment he was in bed and had started to snore, I quickly moved to the bedroom door which fortunately was only on the latch. After teasing it with a paw I was able to open it a crack and insinuate my way into the corridor. From thence I padded downstairs towards the kitchens – easily located by the lingering odours – and slipped into a pantry and commenced my midnight forage. Very productive it was too: I liberated a wealth of enticing scraps, threatened a mouse, harried a cockroach, and enjoyed what Bouncer would doubtless describe as ‘a right old feast’.

Satiated but by now far from sleepy, I decided to take the air before retiring. No difficulties with this – the pantry window was gaping wide and I easily jumped on to the lawn below. Here I crouched by what seemed to be a ground-floor wing with a number of sash windows, some still lit. Being curious by nature I thought I would practise my skills of reconnaissance. So with a lithe leap to the sill I crept along, peering into the various rooms. Disappointingly there was nothing of note: people stumbling around in pyjamas, cleaning their teeth, arguing, reading books, clambering over each other – the usual nightly antics of human beings.

But just as I was losing interest and about to seek diversion elsewhere I encountered a window that was open; and sitting at a nearby table were two men, still fully dressed, stooped over a large map. Nothing remarkable in that, you might think. Not normally. But when alongside the map there is a folded newspaper with a clear picture of your master squinting up from the page, it does tend to give you pause for thought … And that is exactly what I did: paused, thought, looked and listened.

As soon as I caught their words I realized they must be the same pair I had heard muttering outside the car on the boat. It is not always easy to grasp what humans say – their vocal cords are defective and they enunciate poorly – but over the years I have developed a fair grasp, and the conversation was roughly as follows:

‘Apart from that cock-up earlier, so far so good. Just as well you spotted them when you did otherwise we wouldn’t have stood a chance. We’ll have to stick pretty close tomorrow … But my God, that was a stroke of luck bumping into him on the boat like that – obviously “meant”!’ There was a coarse guffaw which made me flinch and I backed into the shadows.

‘It’s only
meant
,’ said the other voice, ‘if he can be used, i.e. if we can relieve him of that map of the Fotherington place you seem so sure he’s got – though I still think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

‘Look,’ said the larger one slowly, ‘our friend Crumpelmeyer may be a blathering loon but there’s shrewd cunning there all the same … he was probably quite bright before he flipped and murdered his wife. If Oughterard is travelling to the Auvergne and looking for some property, as the sister let drop on the boat, ten to one he’s on the same trail as ourselves and going to the same place. Crumpelmeyer didn’t knife him for nothing, deranged though he is. There’s method in that madness and I’m damn sure he knows the vicar’s got the plan … You do realize that according to him the likely positions of that gold are actually marked on it by two dots? We’d be mad not to follow this up!’

‘But Crumpelmeyer never had a sighting of those documents. How does he know there are two dots?’

‘Apparently the wife was always going on about them. Her mother held the title deeds and had told the daughter all the details. That’s why Victor murdered her, stupid sod. When the old girl died he assumed her daughter would automatically inherit the deeds and plans as well as the money – only she didn’t. Left it all to the parson instead! Poor old Victor was so incensed he strangled the wife out of spite and then went on to knife the vicar while trying to get hold of the things.’ There was another snort of laughter.

‘Cor,’ replied the other, ‘what you might call a fated family. Didn’t he do the mother in as well?’

‘That’s the story and what the authorities reckon, but I’m not convinced of it myself. During the last couple of months I’ve got to know our friend pretty well – sort of made a study of him. And the odd thing is he freely confesses to murdering the wife and attacking the vicar – one of his most favoured topics of conversation in fact, sort of takes a pride in it –
but
he almost never mentions the mother, shows no interest at all. It’s as if she never existed for him. No, I think someone else was responsible for that one.’

There was a chortle from across the table. ‘Maybe it was the vicar. That’d be a laugh!’ He picked up the newspaper and stared quizzically at F.O.’s photograph. Some laugh, I thought, flinching nervously. This was getting too near the hind leg! ‘But I still think it’s a long shot,’ he continued. ‘On the other hand, if Crumpelmeyer’s right and the stuff
is
there like you think, I don’t see why some poncy parson should get his mitts on it. What about the Workers, I say!’

There was a pause, and then the other said slowly. ‘As it happens, you could be right. Crumplelmeyer’s bonkers all right, but all the same he’s clearer in his mind than when he first came in; and although he barely mentions the mother-in-law, just recently he made an interesting comment on Oughterard.’

‘Oh yes, what was that then?’

‘It was something like, “I know that sort – cool as they come, and devious as hell. I wouldn’t put anything past him. Not anything.” Well, at first, of course, I thought it was just old Victor having another of his mad rants, angry about his lost money … Except that he wasn’t ranting. He was thoughtful,
very
thoughtful. I asked him what he was getting at, but he just smiled that fat smile, muttered something that sounded like “killer clerics”, and then clammed up … didn’t utter another word. But I could see he was still thinking, sort of preoccupied. And you know, I keep remembering that … and wondering if he wasn’t on to something, something which could prove
exceedingly
useful – what you might call a handy little lever … Though, mind you, it’s not only the parson we’ve got to deal with – there’s that other one, his minder or whatever. Smarmy bastard. Didn’t like the look of him at all – pretty shifty if you ask me. Snooty with it!’

I was just thinking how right he was, when with a gasp and an oath he leapt to his feet. ‘There’s a bloody cat out there. Get down, you little bugger!’ And before I had a chance to retreat I was knocked roughly from the sill, landing heavily on some stony ground below. ‘Can’t abide cats,’ I heard him exclaim. ‘Mean slinking creatures.’

Hell hath no fury like a cat maligned, and I made it my mission there and then to get my own back on such a gross specimen. Even the Brighton Type treats me with more respect than that! However, it is not for nothing that I am Great Uncle Marmaduke’s nephew. And taking a leaf out of his discerning book I limped valiantly back to F.O.’s room, where, having told Bouncer exactly what I thought of the human species, I spent the entire night under the bed plotting my revenge.

My bed was extremely comfortable despite the large bolster favoured by the French, and for the first half of the night I slept soundly. However, I awoke at about four o’clock and, although enjoying the softness of the mattress, had the greatest difficulty in getting off to sleep again. Nicholas’s comments in the car park were bothersome, and try as I might I could not rid myself of images of our fellow travellers and their apparent interest in my movements. As in the car park, I kept telling myself that Nicholas was jumping to conclusions and that his suspicion of their being Broadmoor warders and knowing the wretched Crumpelmeyer was wildly off beam. But the more I thought the less I slept, and thus the more I thought …

Finally I must have drifted off, for the next thing I saw was the sun shining through the blinds and Maurice’s petulant face thrust close to my own. He was clearly impatient to be out, and dutifully I pulled on shirt and trousers and discreetly took him down to the side door into the car park. (Better than tempt fate and risk bedlam, I had left Bouncer snoring and chasing dreamtime rabbits.)

Hoping to snatch a little longer in bed I was about to go upstairs again, when a voice behind me said, ‘Well, you’re up early, Reverend. Must be like us, making an early start.’ Climp stood there grinning amiably. Clutching a raincoat and a large holdall, he was evidently on his way to the car.

‘Well, actually,’ I began vaguely, ‘I was about to check the oil –’

‘
And
let your cat out, I dare say.’ He must have seen my startled look for he went on. ‘Oh yes, I guessed that little geezer was yours. Saw you with him last night. Put him in your room, you did. And then when we heard the dog bark we knew he had a friend in there too. Still, don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us.’ And he leered conspiratorially.

‘What secret?’ I asked defensively.

‘You carrying animal contraband,’ he laughed. ‘Going to put them in six months’ quarantine when you get back to England, are you? Seems a long price for the old mop and mog to pay for such a short trip.’

‘Ah … well, you see – uhm – extraordinary really, they seem to have jumped into the car at the last moment and it was difficult to know quite what to do.’ My voice trailed off. I was annoyed to be put on the spot like that and could hear the confusion in my tone, which annoyed me even more.

‘Oh well, you’re bound to get them through all right. After all, you being a vicar and on the straight and narrow and all that, I don’t suppose Customs will bother. And if that’s your only fiddle you can’t have much to worry about, can you?’ He grinned, opened the door to the car park and added, ‘See you at breakfast before we go, I expect. Toodle-oo.’

It was ridiculous, but for some reason I was rattled. In itself the animal business was less than minor, and yet I was irked to think that their concealment had been noted by Climp and Mullion: something to do with loss of face and dignity, I suppose. But there was another thing that nagged. Was that reference to the ‘straight and narrow’ and my ‘only fiddle’ merely the crude banter that it seemed, or did it veil a more sinister meaning? The Fotherington affair has coloured my sensitivities, and sometimes the most innocent remarks seem to hold a menace never intended. I tried to persuade myself that I was overreacting, and would doubtless have succeeded had it not been for Nicholas’s remarks the previous night. As it was, I climbed the stairs back to my room irritable and disheartened.

Breakfast lifted my mood. In keeping with the excellence of our supper, the Auberge provided a rich assortment of freshly baked croissants, bulbous brioches, a kind of cream cheese, bowls of luscious apricot jam and even additional sticky pastries. I have a sweet tooth, and along with the real coffee such fare more than compensated for the absence of an English ‘cooked’.

‘Doesn’t stint himself, does he?’ observed Nicholas to Primrose as I returned from the sideboard to our table with laden plate.

‘Never did,’ she replied, ‘even on Cook’s day off when we had to endure Mother’s burnt offerings … disgusting really.’

I took no notice, enjoying the novelty of cakes at breakfast and thinking that at least I might as well reap some small benefit from Ingaza’s avarice.

After a brief discussion about our itinerary, the others went off to finish packing and settle the bill, while I poured more coffee and pondered the merits of brioche or a second pastry.

Thus occupied, I did not at first see him. Indeed, when I did he had already seated himself across the table in the chair Primrose had just vacated. I was startled and distinctly peeved by the interruption. The pastry lost its savour.

‘Ah,’ said Mullion, ‘Ken said he thought you were leaving pretty soon. Long journey, I expect.’

‘One could say so,’ I replied vaguely.

‘Oh yes, like ourselves … very like ourselves.’ He paused, smiling but eyeing me intently. ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘I think we’re all set on the same route.’

‘Really?’ I said with some indifference.

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘really.’ The tone was pleasant enough but the words were pointed, and I began to feel a gnawing discomfort. ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘according to our Mr Crumpelmeyer, it looks to me as if we might be heading to the same area, somewhere high up in those French mountains.’ Discomfort ceased to gnaw and became a ravening wolf.

‘Ah,’ I said faintly, ‘Mr Crumpelmeyer … you, er, know him, do you?’

‘Oh yes. Well, we would, wouldn’t we … I mean, us all coming from the one place. We’re what you might call his special mates –
look after him
, if you get my meaning.’

‘At Crowthorne.’

He nodded. ‘At Crowthorne.’

There was a silence. And then I said stiffly, ‘Well, I hope Mr Crumpelmeyer is doing well … must be rather difficult, I imagine …’

‘Oh no,’ Mullion exclaimed, ‘not difficult – more what I’d call
interesting
.’ He continued to stare hard.

‘Yes, I suppose it is … the er, the psychology of it all …’

He laughed. ‘You could say that – though of course it rather depends on whose psychology we’re talking about, doesn’t it?’ I made no answer, trying to make out where the hell we were going and not liking it one jot. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘he’s very talkative, is Mr Crumpelmeyer. Likes nothing better than a good natter … Oh yes, old Victor will talk the hind leg off a donkey once he gets going!’ I said nothing and rather pointedly looked at my watch.

It had no effect, for he went on: ‘Yes. And do you know, the funny thing is he talks a lot about
you
… Odd that, isn’t it? About you having got some documents which rightly belong to him.’ And he had the nerve to stretch out a hand for one of the croissants. Had I been Primrose doubtless I would have slapped his fingers, but being her brother I merely looked po-faced and tried fruitlessly to cast my mind elsewhere.

He leaned further forward and with a slow wink said, ‘I think you know the ones I mean – those papers the old girl had, that old girl found strangled in the wood just near you, the one you were so friendly with. Or at least, that’s what the press said at the time … Of course, Victor’s always had that bee in his bonnet about you and his wife’s money – it’s why he knifed you. But we rather get the impression it’s not the only thing on his mind. It’s as if he suspects something else, something in the past … silly really. But then that’s Victor, you can never be sure what’s fact and what’s fiction. It’s the madness, makes things difficult to sift … On the other hand, sometimes he’s right on the ball,
right
on it. You’d be surprised.’ He relaxed his elbows and sat back, face in repose.

I opened my mouth to utter I knew not what. But at that moment Nicholas appeared in the far doorway impatiently signalling me to hurry up. I don’t think I had ever been so pleased to see him and, despite his obvious irritation at my leisurely breakfast, I gave him an eager wave. And with a curt nod to Mullion left the room as fast as dignity would permit.

Once in the haven of the car and clutching the cat on my knees with Bouncer heavy on my feet, I crunched peppermints obsessively.

‘For God’s sake,’ drawled Nicholas, half turning, ‘can’t you stop that racket? It’s like having a wildebeest in the back.’

‘Or a gnu,’ said Primrose, ‘and you’ve only just breakfasted!’

‘So what’s a gnu?’ enquired Nicholas.

‘Much the same, I think,’ she replied. And they launched into an earnest debate about the variety and habitat of giant antelopes, while I closed my eyes and tried to digest the import of my recent exchange with Mullion. Later I would recount it to my companions, but at that particular juncture all I wanted was amnesia and a smooth ride.

To begin with, the ride proved smooth enough; but amnesia was less achievable, and despite the muted snoring of Maurice I was only too awake to the memory of my encounters with Climp and Mullion. There was something smooth and knowing about the pair of them, and I was unnerved by Mullion’s brazen innuendoes and his pointed surmise that they were travelling to the same area. Ingaza’s earlier disquiet had now infected my own imagination, and I felt as if I were being shadowed, taunted … targeted.

I eased my foot from under Bouncer’s dead weight, and brooded further. At best their close link with Crumpelmeyer was an uncomfortable coincidence – his attack upon me and connection to Mrs Fotherington being something I preferred to forget. But at worst – and I was beginning to fear the worst – there could be something really sinister in their purpose … What exactly had mad Crumpelmeyer been saying to them? Clearly that I possessed the wretched deeds to Elizabeth’s property – but what
else
might he have alleged in those crazed babblings? Anything and everything!

Such was my agitation that I very nearly asked Nicholas to stop the car and return to Dieppe. The whole enterprise had been absurd from the start, and now, with this latest set of events, it was distinctly alarming. However, even as the impulse came upon me I knew it to be futile. Ingaza was hell-bent on getting something out of that ruin – whether gold or equity – and to believe he might abandon the scheme now was like expecting Canterbury to turn Muslim. Besides, I thought, suddenly riled, why should I permit myself to be intimidated by those two leering jokers? They might be used to browbeating the lunatics in Broadmoor, but the lunatic from Molehill was another case altogether! Thus temporarily emboldened, I ruffled the dog’s fur, lit a cigarette, and gave myself up to watching the rolling pleasures of the French countryside.

As we moved further south the terrain became rugged, the road winding, and what had been blurrily distant hills were now rearing craggy peaks. Our valley was green and wooded but up on the heights the vegetation appeared sparser and the early autumn colours were largely veiled in a pall of grey.

‘Looks a bit murky up there,’ observed Nicholas cheerily. ‘Poor old Henri won’t like that when he arrives – gets tetchy in bad weather. He’s difficult enough at the best of times.’

‘Well, if that curé starts getting difficult with me,’ observed Primrose tartly, ‘he’ll soon learn otherwise. There are quite enough fractious clergy as it is.’ She turned in her seat and gave me a dazzling smile which I returned with appropriate gestures. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘apart from being useful for his French, I don’t really see why he should be with us at all. From what I recall he wasn’t exactly a tower of strength over those ridiculous hidden paintings last year.’
*

‘No, not a tower,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘just marginally less cack-handed than the other one.’

‘Oh, very funny,’ I said, and was just about to make a scathing comment about his own part in things, when he continued:

‘But you see, Henri is bringing something of essential value.’

‘Oh yes?’ I said doubtfully. ‘So what’s that?’

‘His contraption.’

‘His
what
?’ cried Primrose.

‘His gold-digging contraption, his metal detector.’

‘Oh no,’ she groaned. ‘Are you really serious? I thought we were just going to have a little potter around – make a general surveillance for future exploration and see if the place was saleable. I didn’t really think you intended hacking into the ground at this stage.’

‘Grass doesn’t grow under Old Nick’s feet,’ he replied blithely. ‘No time like the present. Get in there while the sun shines – before our friend in the back has another turn.’

‘I do not have turns!’ I said testily. ‘And besides, we don’t have any shovels.’

‘Ah, but we soon shall, he’s bringing those as well.’

There was a silence as we reflected upon the curé replete with shovels and his contraption. And then Primrose said, ‘I think I need a large drink – and I dare say the dog could do with one too. Perhaps, Nicholas, you would be so kind as to stop at the next likely place.’

The next likely place proved to be a good ten miles further up the valley on a road of tortuous bends; and by the time we arrived Primrose was not the only one in need of sustenance and a breather.

We parked in the village square, an attractive space with an ornate war memorial at one end and fountain and flower beds at the other. While Nicholas and Primrose went ahead to a café, I introduced the cat to the flowers and exercised Bouncer. Then, fearing he might cut up rough in the car, I shoved Maurice under my arm and joined the others. They were sitting in front of three large Pernods and had ordered bowls of
pommes frites
accompanied by thick, heavily garlicked mayonnaise – a dressing as deliciously different from our native salad cream as Münster cheese from blackboard chalk.

We ate and sipped in appreciative silence. Eventually, clearing my throat, I broached the subject of Climp and Mullion.

‘I don’t entirely trust them,’ I said.

‘Hmm,’ observed Nicholas drily, ‘took you a bit of time to reach that conclusion, didn’t it?’

‘Yes, well, we’re not all au fait with the criminal classes,’ I replied irritably.