Bones in High Places (8 page)

Well, I tell you, it’s all happening now! Talk about Bouncer the Bold, I’m having no end of adventures! You should have seen the cat’s face when we finally met after he had escaped from the car. Looked as if he had been eating lemons smeared in castor oil.

‘Bah,’ he said, ‘trust you to get here, muzzling in on everything! Why aren’t you with the Watkins? Borrowed a magic carpet, I suppose.’

I explained that as a matter of fact I had made a small error of judgement which had involved some dog biscuits, and that sometimes mistakes lead to good endings.

‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘what good endings?’

‘Such as seeing you again, Maurice!’ And I gave my best friendly bark.

There was a long silence while he flattened his ears and closed his eyes. Then he opened them, and do you know what he said? He said, ‘You are most welcome, Bouncer. Things are not good with the vicar and we must guard him closely.’ I thought that was pretty good, and I told him he could rely on me all right and would he like to see the way I dealt with rabbits? He said he didn’t think that would be necessary but it would be most helpful if I just lay
very
quietly on the back seat and kept an eye on F.O. So that’s what I did.

And then of course there was all that business on our first night in that big place with lots of doors and where the vicar was so windy when he took me up to his room. That’s where the cat sneaked downstairs to the pantry and overheard those types talking and was chucked off the window sill. He wasn’t half in a bait when he came back to the room. Spitting and hissing all over the shop – and you should have heard some of his words! I thought knew a few like that, but they’re not a patch on Maurice’s … I suppose that’s what education does for you. He spent the whole night under the bed planning how to get his own back. But I told him that I thought that was pretty useless because we probably wouldn’t see them again and he’d miss the chance. That didn’t go down too well and he went into another sulk.

Still, he’s all right now because we are at this new place high in the mountains, and there’s a table right in the sun where he’s allowed to lie, and he’s given special pilchards by a chap called George behind the bar who he approves of. They spend a lot of time talking to each other – which is odd for Maurice as he generally ignores most humans. Unless he doesn’t like them of course – and then they know it!

But I’ve found a friend too. He’s called Clemso and he’s like a brown woolly horse only shorter. Do you know, he’s got this collar which plays
music
. How about that! I wouldn’t mind having one of those, but I don’t suppose I ever will … Still, can’t have everything. After all, there’s always the cat and F.O.

And talking of F.O., he’s stewing up again. Got a bee in his bonnet about those two types. Thinks they’re out to get him … Though come to think of it, he often feels that about people. There’s that bishop person, the Mavis woman, the organist, fat Crumplehorn, the Brighton Type, the whole of the Mothers’ Union, Violet Pond before Crumple did her in – oh, and lots of others. It must be pretty tiring if you ask me. A bit like always being on the run after you’ve been caught raiding Miss Dalrymple’s dustbin – great hoofs bearing down on you …

That evening, over a rustic supper of robust ham and vigorous wine, Ingaza gave me my instructions. The following afternoon I was to take his car, drive to the local railway station and meet the fourth member of our party off the train. Henri Martineau, rapscallion curé of Taupinière and long-time accomplice (dupe?) of Ingaza, was evidently an essential part of our enterprise, his principal qualification – other than the linguistic one – being an acute expertise in the art of metal detecting.

‘Oh yes,’ Nicholas had said, ‘set old Henri loose with one of those things and he’s like a pig turning up acorns. Makes a small mint out of those Picardy battlefields – though the idiot blows it all on booze and betting. But believe me, if anyone can locate that stuff, he will. Snout and mind like a prime ferret.’ I do not often believe Ingaza, but having seen photographs of the cleric during the paintings débâcle and heard a little of his language and manner from newspaper reports at that time, I was prepared to credit every word. The prospect of a rendezvous at the station was not an enticing one, and I asked why Nicholas could not do it himself. He explained that a transaction of some delicacy was being conducted in Brighton and that he needed to keep telephone tabs on Eric to ensure that all went smoothly. ‘After which,’ he added, ‘I intend taking a little nose round the Folie to get the lie of the land – test out the accuracy of the map.’

‘You could take Bouncer,’ suggested Primrose brightly.

‘No,’ was the short response. ‘Bouncer and I have little in common; and besides, the last thing I need is a dog trailing at my heels when I’m trying to be unobtrusive.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘discretion is not his finest point, and in any case I doubt whether he would trail at your heels – much more likely to be plunging ahead bellowing his lungs out among the rabbit holes.’ I cast a kindly look at the dog who returned it with a grumbling sigh and settled himself deeper into the basket beside the cat. They both began to snore gently.

It had to happen of course … Clinker and his entourage. The nightmare I had been dreading, and of which Primrose had been so dismissive, manifested itself the very next morning. (Few concessions from impatient Fate.)

I had risen later than intended and, leaving the others wrangling over the last and rather emaciated croissant, wandered into the village in search of something more substantial at the bakery. However, entry proved difficult, for its doorway was occupied by a woman of enormous bulk, and although she was speaking French to the girl inside, the familiar hectoring tones struck chill to my heart. Voice and girth made her unmistakable: Myrtle, Clinker’s sister-in-law and my querulous neighbour at his luncheon table four months previously. I doubted whether she would remember me (not distinguished enough), but where there was Myrtle there was surely Gladys – who most certainly would. I backed away, hunger subsumed by fear; and turning down a small alleyway scuttled into a conveniently placed
pissoir
. Less well camouflaged than a wartime pillbox and affording poorer protection (legs on show), it nevertheless had the properties of both haven and lookout post. Here I skulked, squinting through the narrow slits at the enemy in the square.

Sure enough, as Myrtle lumbered from the shop bearing armfuls of cakes and baguettes, she was greeted by another woman, taller, less huge but beefy: Gladys. The two sisters exchanged a few words and then, as luck would have it, proceeded in my direction. They paused momentarily at the corner of the alley where they seemed to be in dispute over Myrtle’s shopping. ‘No,’ I heard Gladys say firmly, ‘there is certainly not room for those things in my bag.’ (She was wearing a large canvas rucksack slung over one shoulder.) ‘As you well know, it’s my best sketching satchel, and I do not propose having my pencils and paints mixed up with all that pastry and flaking crust! If you were going to buy so much I cannot imagine why you didn’t bring something with you. Lavinia has endless string bags at the villa – indeed, if you ask me she seems to have an obsession with them. Absurd.’ I couldn’t catch Myrtle’s reply but she looked pretty sour, and in any case by that stage they had drawn level with my sanctuary and I was more concerned with matters of concealment than with bread and bags.

I held my breath and they passed … but Myrtle had turned round, and in ringing tones announced, ‘I think it’s disgusting the way their legs are always exposed – so unsettling.’

There was a dry laugh from Gladys, and in an equally scathing tone she replied, ‘What else would you expect? Typical Gallic exhibitionism!’

They continued on their forthright way and I slunk from behind my screen, anxiously wondering whether my legs would be for ever recognizable.

The nervous strain of my sojourn in the
pissoir
had produced a ravenous hunger, and the moment the women were out of sight I slipped back to the pâtisserie and bought a pair of almond tarts which I consumed with gluttonous relief. Feeling better fortified but with the prospect of Henri that afternoon, I thought a little peace among the hills would be a good idea. So returning to the inn for stouter shoes, I summoned Bouncer and we set out for a leisurely ramble.

Despite the shadow of the episcopal presence – wherever that was exactly – the first hour of this was delightful. Bouncer was in his element, and we spent a happy time sniffing our way along narrow paths, splashing over rock-strewn brooks and putting up rabbits whenever the chance. The dog’s energy was tireless. Not so the owner’s: and eventually, despite the interest of the scenery and stimulus of the mountain air, I felt the need for a sit down and a smoke.

I found a comfortable spot with a good view of the surrounding vista and settled my back against a broad tree stump. Above me was a shepherd’s hut with a solitary goat tethered beside it, but apart from its occasional bleating and the muted hum of bees, there was nothing to break the enveloping silence. And knowing full well the transience of such peace I leant back, closed my eyes and gave myself up to its ephemeral charm …

Ephemeral. Yes, I was permitted about five minutes of it. And then the voice burst down upon me: ‘My God, it’s not Oughterard, is it? What in heaven’s name are
you
doing here!’ Clinker’s words tumbled indignantly upon my ears.

I opened my eyes: and beheld not a spectacle of the bishop draped with rods and waders as once envisioned in a mild nightmare, but His Lordship in floppy straw hat, open-necked shirt and portly cotton trousers. Slung round his neck was a large wicker pannier filled to the brim with what looked like blackberries. For an absurd moment I wondered if he was rehearsing for some bucolic role in a musical version of the
Eclogues
; but banished it instantly, feeling that at all costs I must keep my grip on grim reality.

‘Hello, sir,’ I said faintly. ‘What a pleasant surprise! Enjoying the mountain air, are you?’

He advanced towards me silently, put down the basket, took a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow, and said in measured syllables, ‘No, Oughterard, I am not enjoying the mountain air: it is too hot, I am too tired, these damn things weigh a ton and I have just stepped in a mess made by your perishing dog.’ He sat down and started to remove one of his shoes and wipe it on the grass. ‘Saw the animal a few moments ago … thought it looked vaguely familiar – hairy hound – but naturally didn’t connect it with you. How did you get here? What are you doing? Are you with anybody?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Ye-es,’ I volunteered, ‘if you remember, when we last met in the cathedral, I did mention I was going to France with my sister … but how amazing our meeting here. Extraordinary coincidence!’ Naturally it couldn’t be left at that, and he quizzed me for more details; and uneasily I revealed we were staying at the La Truite Bleue in the middle of Berceau-Lamont.

‘Oh yes,’ he acknowledged vaguely, ‘we’ve passed it a couple of times. Rather a seedy joint, isn’t it?’ I nodded but said it was all right for a short time.

‘Hmm, dare say. Surprising what one can cope with for a short time – sometimes at least. Anyone else staying, or just you and your sister?’

Instinct was to lie of course, but reason prompted otherwise. Just conceivably Ingaza’s presence might remain under wraps, but knowing my luck it seemed unlikely; and the embarrassment of such a revelation after the blatant lie would be even worse than the revelation itself. Thus I took a deep breath and said as casually as possible, ‘As a matter of fact, Nicholas Ingaza is with us. Hardly ever see him these days – but just now and again we bump into each other … He, er, rather decently offered the use of his car and a bit of chauffeuring for our French trip, and since he knows the region so much better than we do he seemed a rather useful fellow to bring along …’ My voice trailed off indecisively, waiting for the explosion. Rather surprisingly none came; and at that moment Bouncer appeared from the bushes, evidently tired of his adventures, and trotted over to sit beside me. I was able to pay elaborate attention to brushing the burrs from his coat and adjusting his collar.

Immersed in this I took a covert glance at Clinker. He had gone scarlet in the face and was steadily filling his mouth with the blackberries. I wondered fleetingly whether to mention the imminence of Henri, but felt that this was not the moment.

At last he said, ‘Hmm, I seem to remember your mentioning him a couple of years ago –’ the memory was mutual: half an hour later the bishop had been nine sheets to the wind on my sitting-room carpet
*
– ‘but I had no idea you were still in touch.’ He cleared his throat, adding sternly, ‘Not the best of associates, Francis, especially now that you’re a canon.’ He took another blackberry and stared intently into the far distance. I wondered what he was thinking about – the embarrassing scandal of Nicholas’s outrageous behaviour at St Bede’s? Or perhaps further back to Oxford before the war and –
pace
Ingaza – their brief dalliance before the melancholy advent of Gladys. Judging from the drumming fingers and the quantities of blackberries being consumed I assumed the latter.

To defuse the awkwardness, I asked him about those blackberries. Did he propose making a fruit sponge perhaps? His features hardened and I fully expected an icy riposte. But instead he gave a sardonic smile, and turning to me exclaimed ruefully, ‘Sponge? That would be something. Nothing but fruit, vegetables and sulphurous water since we arrived here – and now I’ve been sent out to gather these things for a
compôte
, if you please!’ The term was rendered as if it were one of Maurice’s more distasteful trophies. He must have seen my puzzlement, for after a brief hesitation he lowered his voice and, checking that only the goat was in earshot, launched into a diatribe of protest against his hosts the Birtle-Figgins.

‘You see,’ he exclaimed earnestly and furiously, ‘they are complete nut cutlets.
Complete
. Myrtle’s friends or not, if I’d known beforehand I’d have put my foot down and we’d have steered clear. As it is, we are stuck there with a pair of spinach-munching religious cranks who do nothing except rattle on about a cache of desiccated bones. It’s too bad!’

I groped for a useful response but could think of none, so said weakly, ‘Well, I never.’ And since there was no reply added, ‘Er, these bones … are they very desiccated?’

‘Of course they are,’ he snapped. ‘Nineteenth-century. Been kept in an outhouse for decades. All very hush-hush.’ I was none the wiser so tried again; and with a loud sigh Clinker commenced his tale.

Apparently the bones – two tibias, a patella, a single metatarsal, phalanges, a complete set of false teeth and a glass eye – had pertained to the local hermit: one Belvedere Bondolphi, who had lived in the area in the 1830s surviving on roots, berries and impeccable rectitude. Once a novice in a nearby monastery (long since defunct), he had fallen out of favour with the abbot, and indeed the Church itself, by adopting ritualistic practices not normally recognized. So idiosyncratic did these practices become that he was finally dismissed. But undeterred, and convinced he was destined for God’s special notice, he had established himself in a hut outside the monastery walls, where he spent the rest of his days singing psalms and banging a tambourine.

‘A tambourine?’ I exclaimed.

‘Apparently. Drove the abbot mad.’ Clinker paused in his account and offered the dog some blackberries, while I pondered the idiosyncratic practices. Rather diffidently I enquired what they were.

‘What? Oh, I don’t know … interfering with bees or some such.’

‘Interfering with
bees
! What ever do you mean, sir?’ I was more than puzzled and a trifle disappointed.

‘Yes, seemed he couldn’t keep away from the monastery beehives – kept making the creatures swarm when they shouldn’t; and then took to wearing one of those beekeeping veils during Vespers and Compline … frightened the life out of the younger novices. He had to go.’

‘Well, I should think so … but what has this to do with your hosts and their obsession with the bones?’

Clinker grimaced. ‘Boris Birtle-Figgins has got it into his head that the fellow should be canonized. Claims he performed a couple of miracles just before his death. Apparently those plus his lifelong penance of self-denial and silence (apart from the tambourine) make him a prime candidate for sainthood. The Catholic Church won’t touch it with a bargepole, but that cuts no ice with Boris. Oh no! He’s determined to hijack the chap for the Anglicans and is set on getting him recognized by Canterbury. In fact – and this is the ghastly part – he seems to imagine that I can put in a word with the archbishop.’ He closed his eyes and shuddered.

‘So where are these bones kept?’ I asked curiously. ‘Still in an outhouse?’

‘No, more’s the pity. In a crummy casket on the dining-room sideboard. It’s always there leering at one over lunch and dinner. Doesn’t exactly help in the digestion of lentils and dandelion leaves, I can tell you.’

‘Shouldn’t think it would. How awful.’