Bones in High Places (7 page)

The moment the words were out of my mouth I began to flush to the roots of my hair, feeling a prize fool; and was grateful that Nicholas merely gave a lop-sided grin and murmured, ‘No, of course not, old bean, of course not …’

‘Look,’ broke in Primrose, ‘just because that Mullion man was impertinent at breakfast doesn’t mean to say that he’s harbouring sinister intentions. Doesn’t know how to conduct himself, that’s all. You’re being oversensitive, Francis, always have been … Besides, even if we do meet them again – which I very much doubt – what on earth do they hope to achieve? Rob you of the gold?’ She laughed derisively and turning round tickled Maurice under the chin.

‘As a matter of fact, Primrose, I suspect that is exactly what they
are
hoping to do, given half a chance,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘Or at any rate, get hold of that plan to the property. You may remember that Mullion was in the Berceau-Lamont area during the war and probably knows the château, and is quite likely to have heard local tales about the legendary Nazi loot.’

‘Oh, come on!’

‘Just think about it,’ he said. ‘They made a point of getting into conversation with you on the boat, showed keen interest in where we were going, turned up at the Cheval Blanc just as we also happened to be there and tried to insinuate themselves into our company. It’s now confirmed that not only are they warders from Broadmoor where Crumpelmeyer is banged up, but they’re his own allotted minders and obviously familiar with the original case and his connection with Francis. But what is even more to the point is what Mullion revealed at breakfast, i.e. that they know all about these deeds and the plan marking the supposed location of the rumoured gold. They also believe – according to the ranting Crumpelmeyer – that Francis deliberately curried favour with Fotherington, overturned Violet Pond’s claim to her mother’s property, smartly whipped the deeds and is hoping to reap the benefit while keeping it all deadly secret.’ He paused, lit a cigarette and turned to me. ‘You see, old chap, with you sniffing around in the grounds of that ruin flourishing the vital map they think they’re in with a chance; especially as they suspect you’re not quite straight, a weakness which of course they hope to fully –’

‘But Francis
is
straight,’ protested Primrose. ‘He never wanted to get his hands on those papers! If anything it was you who –’

Nicholas raised a quizzical eyebrow and coughed discreetly. ‘Straight
ish
perhaps. But there is that other little problem which he’s not too keen to bruit abroad. And unfortunately that one is
fact
and not merely a supposition … Makes you a trifle vulnerable, dear boy.’

Vulnerable, my foot! Ingaza should know! But for a moment my persecutor looked almost sympathetic, while I inwardly quailed to hear him echo my own nagging fears about our fellow travellers.

‘Yes,’ I murmured faintly, ‘ but there’s more than that. Clearly Mullion is intrigued by Crumpelmeyer’s suspicions and thinks the château claim is not the only thing I may have been involved in … You’re right, Nicholas – they are after the loot. But what’s far worse is they’re determined to get me anyway – probably banking on a whopping reward. Think of the headlines: “Violent Vicar Brought to Noose by Her Majesty’s Bold Prison Officers.” Oh my God, it’s ghastly!’ I leapt from the table, frightening the cat and spilling my drink.

‘Francis is not well,’ cried Primrose. ‘We must go home immediately.’

‘Like hell,’ muttered Ingaza. ‘If you imagine I’m going to be unsettled by this pantomime, you’re wrong. Mullion, Climp, poor old Francis – I’m not budging. We shall continue as planned: hunt the treasure – or at the very least lay claim to the château – get back to Blighty and keep our heads down. Damned if I’m going to be buggered about by a pair of thieving mercenary screws from a godforsaken lunatic asylum.’ He polished off the dregs of his Pernod, glared at Maurice and told me to sit down. I did as ordered, but this time it was my turn to raise an eyebrow …

And thus, quitting the café, we proceeded on our merry way up to Berceau-Lamont: me nervous as a kitten, Ingaza grimly obstinate, Primrose resigned, and the animals snoring their heads off.

*
See
Bones in the Belfry

Eventually we arrived at the village, and drew up outside its only hostelry, La Truite Bleue, a small undistinguished place where Nicholas had somehow managed to make an advance booking. How he had found its reference I had no idea – clearly not from the Michelin Guide, that was for certain! We got out of the car and began to unload the luggage. I was nervous about the reception of Bouncer and Maurice and left them temporarily on the back seat while we went in to announce ourselves. Nobody was in evidence, and we hung around awkwardly in the small shabby foyer, coughing politely in the hope that our presence would eventually be registered. Nothing happened.

‘Surely there’s a bell or something,’ muttered Primrose. ‘We can’t stand here all day. Absurd! Go and look in the bar, Francis, somebody must be around.’ I was about to do her bidding, when from the nether regions came a cacophony of wild violent barking, followed by an ear-splitting blast of the Marseillaise and what sounded like a door being targeted by a battering ram.

‘
Tais-toi, méchant chien! Tu veux une claque?
’ shrieked a female voice. The pounding of the door came to a shuddering halt, the barking trailed off; but the music – martial and magisterial – played on. And then that too was abruptly halted.

In the merciful silence we regarded one another with startled eyes. ‘Well, something’s stirring,’ observed Nicholas.

A door at the back finally opened, and down the narrow passage advanced a thin woman in a flowered pinafore and with greying hair pinned in an impressive bun. She greeted us affably enough, announced that she was Madame Vernier the patron’s wife, and requested that we sign the hotel register. This was produced from a rickety side table artistically graced by a vase of virulent plastic flowers and a sheaf of faded tourist leaflets.

As we completed the signing ceremony, supplying the usual details and passport numbers, there was a further canine thudding from the rear, and loud snatches of the French national anthem could again be heard. Madame must have seen my look of puzzlement for she embarked on a voluble explanation far too rapid for my untuned ears. The distinguished name of President Clemenceau featured largely in her discourse, as did the words ‘
pour la patrie
’, ‘
très musicale
’ and ‘
méchant garçon
’.

Frankly I couldn’t make head nor tail of it but, seeing Nicholas grinning to himself, asked him if he could broach the subject of Bouncer and Maurice. He nodded, and in his usual mix of floral French and absurdly flattering English indicated that we had brought two animal companions and would be eternally grateful if Madame could possibly accommodate them. As hint of such gratitude, he said that should anyone be remotely interested, there were a few samples of best Scotch in the car boot taking up valuable space.

I thought she might not understand, but quick as a flash came the response: ‘
Alors, combien de bouteilles?
’ Nicholas said that for the time being there were three. This evidently satisfied her, for to my relief she shrugged indifferently and replied that since the inn already had a dog, horse, two pigs, hens, goat and donkey, additional creatures would be of little account.

That settled, I returned to the car to rally its occupants, while the others went ahead up to the bedrooms. As I opened the door Maurice darted out and shot ahead towards the entrance, clearly intent on making the new place his own. Bouncer and I followed more slowly, the dog sniffing the air and making ruminative growling noises. Presumably he could smell the pigs.

Halfway up the stairs we bumped into Nicholas coming down. ‘What was all that about Clemenceau and the dog?’ I asked.

‘Good question,’ he replied, smiling wryly. ‘Simple really. The animal is called after Clemenceau because the original owner, Madame’s father, was intensely patriotic and an avid admirer of the old statesman. The music emanates from the creature’s collar via a batteried security device primed to operate every time he tries to escape – i.e. whenever he moves beyond a hundred yards of the inn’s perimeter. Sometimes the thing misfires and goes off at random moments – as we heard just now.’

‘But it’s an awful racket!’ I exclaimed. ‘How can they live with it? Can’t they change the collar – or the tune?’

‘They like it. Reminds them of Madame’s late parent. Apparently it took the old boy months to devise the thing and it was his pride and joy. But more to the point, the dog likes it too. Gets moody if he’s parted from it for too long – like a sort of musical comfort blanket, I suppose.’ Nicholas looked down at Bouncer, and added musingly, ‘And I thought your hound was mad enough …’

‘Did she say what breed it is?’

‘Didn’t need to. We were introduced when you were out at the car. I’m not good on these things, but I should say he’s a sort of cross between an Airedale and one of those giant poodles – a bit like a curly camel really. Actually, I think he’s mildly batty.’

He continued on down the stairs while Bouncer and I went in search of our quarters – a small room with garish wallpaper and basic facilities.

*    *    *

Ten minutes later, having unpacked and briefly tested the narrow bed, I joined the others in the hallway.

‘I think we should take a walk to get our bearings,’ said Primrose briskly, ‘and see if we can get a glimpse of the Folie from up here.’

‘Good idea,’ I agreed. ‘But we need to be a bit discreet – it would be awful to bump into Clinker or Gladys. They’re staying close by – though with luck may have moved on by now, but somehow I doubt it.’

‘Oh, come on, Francis, always the pessimist. We probably shan’t get a single sighting of them – and even if we did, would it really matter?’

‘Yes,’ I said shortly, my mind once more beset with lurid images.

She laughed and turned to Ingaza. ‘You’re coming, aren’t you, Nicholas? It’ll do us good to stretch our legs after all that time in the car.’

‘Not just now,’ he muttered. ‘Er … got something rather pressing to do first – in the village.’ He sounded slightly shifty and I was curious.

‘What ever do you want to do in the village? We’ve only just got here.’

He hesitated. ‘Postcards actually – I noticed they had a few on display outside that mangy shop we passed.’

‘Postcards? Who on earth are you going to send postcards to? Besides – can’t they wait?’

He looked sheepish. ‘It’s Aunt Lil. Old bat always demands at least two, otherwise there’s hell to pay and it’ll cost me an extra visit to the bandstand at Eastbourne. Or worse still, the casino at Bournemouth.’ He sighed. ‘Better get it over with, stop it preying on my mind.’

Surprise gave way to sadistic satisfaction as I recalled the elderly Lil’s penchant for bandmasters and gambling dens. It was gratifying to think of my Nemesis in the merciless grip of his incorrigible old aunt. Whether she preyed on Ingaza’s mind to the same degree as he preyed on mine, I rather doubted; but there seemed a certain piquancy which satisfied my sense of justice. Thus I grinned cheerfully and said something to the effect that I was sure his fond aunt deserved such an attentive nephew. His response was unprintable, and getting up abruptly he sloped off towards the village.

Left to our own devices, Primrose and I decided that a walk would indeed do us good; and leaving Maurice curled up on my bed but taking the dog with us, we set out to sniff the mountain air and get our bearings.

In fact our bearings were stupendous: jagged vistas of brooding mountains and shadowed valleys, expansive skies and trailing clouds, sudden meadows, sparkling tarns, sunlit crevices, gnarled tangled thickets, cairns of slatey granite … and everywhere, perched perilously and munching imperviously, po-faced mountain goats, their straggling beards moving rhythmically as they stared with blank, indifferent eye. Wild and ruggedly beautiful, it was the kind of mythical landscape that I had read about yet never encountered. I gazed transfixed by the hugeness and romantic grandeur; and for a few precious moments all fears and guilts dissolved – slipped away into some annihilating ether. I closed my eyes …

‘Well, that’s nice, isn’t it, Francis?’ Primrose’s voice rang out. ‘Pity I haven’t brought my Kodak, it would make a good snap. Shall I let the dog off his lead?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘he could do with a good run.’ And dragging my eyes from the surrounding beauty I watched Bouncer lunge at his freedom – dancing and barking, happy as the day he was born. Lucky beggar …

For a little while we walked in silence, sniffing the pure air and absorbed in the unaccustomed space and stillness. Bouncer had rushed off on some excursion of his own, reappearing now and again to snuffle at our heels and leer at the goats before darting away for fresh reconnaissance. I took out my cigarettes, and was just about to light one for Primrose when she suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh my goodness, that must be it down there. Look. It has to be the Fotherington Folly!’ And grabbing my arm, she gestured excitedly towards the valley below. At first I saw nothing except trees and remnants of a crumbling stone wall. I strained my eyes, perplexed. ‘No, not there,’ she urged, ‘further on, to the right, past those trees. To the
right
, Francis – you can’t miss it.’

And nor I could. Grey, formless, sprawling and turreted, it was a piece of dissipated architecture of a kind that might have been discarded following an abortive attempt at a Disney film. Had it been less monumentally ugly, it might have been risible. As it was, it was simply a large depressing blot on what originally must have been a lovely landscape … Some folly all right! I thought of Elizabeth and the diary jotting where she had expressed her distaste for the place and her vow never to set foot over its threshold again. Ugly and sinister, she had called it. Well, at least she had been right there; and I experienced a sudden flash of aesthetic kinship. But it was only a flash, for in the next instant the sound of those arch wheedling tones welled up in my mind, and I heard the tinsel laugh, even caught a whiff of the cloying attar of violets wafting around my nostrils. And when Primrose tapped me on the shoulder, I leaped back like a stricken deer.

‘Well, don’t stand there gawping,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s awful,’ I said bleakly.

‘Hmm, pretty grim. Though I suppose having occupying troops in ‘44 wouldn’t have helped much. I wonder who slept in the turrets – Oberstleutnant Schmidt and Hauptmann Braun presumably, or some such. Perhaps we’ll meet their ghosts when we’re digging up the gold.’ She giggled and I gave her a scornful look.

‘That treasure business is a load of hooey; and as for selling the place, Nicholas must be mad if he thinks anyone would want it. Total white elephant – which is just as well. The last thing I want is to have my name brought into things, least of all if there’s profit to be had.’ I stuck my hands in my pockets and scowled down at the monstrous pile.

There was a pause. And then she said, ‘Now look here, Francis, you are being a complete wet blanket. Do not, as Pa would say, spoil the party. One hasn’t travelled all this way to a most lovely region in France just for you to be gloomy and negative. Besides, we have the right to claim this enormous place for
free
, and even if there’s no buyer it could at least be renovated and enjoyed. Also, with a bit of luck – unlikely, admittedly – we might even literally strike gold. Just think of all the hymn books and hassocks you could buy with that … even run to a new weathercock for the church spire. Where’s your sense of adventure and romance? Take a chance for once!’

I whirled around and confronted her. ‘
Take a chance for once?
What in heaven’s name do you mean! What do you think I took that day in Foxford Wood – a cup of tea?’

She stared back, startled. And then lowering her eyes, murmured quietly, ‘No, not tea … and not just a chance. You took something else.’

‘Pre
cisely
,’ I echoed, ‘I took something else.’ For a few moments we regarded each other in silence, before shifting our gaze to the valley below and my victim’s moribund property unlovely in the waning sun. I shivered.

And then Primrose said briskly, ‘Yes, Francis, I grant you – some whopping chance … Now, let’s go back to the inn, find Nicholas and get a bottle of whisky out of the car.’ I nodded, whistled Bouncer, and we set off back to the village.