Bones in High Places (9 page)

‘The whole thing’s awful,’ he said tightly. ‘And it hasn’t helped Gladys’s temper either. She can’t stand him.’ Unsurprising, I thought. There were, after all, few people that the bishop’s wife could stand (and Molehill’s canon not of the elect).

‘But can’t you leave? You know – make an excuse and motor on to other parts?’

‘Huh!’ he snorted bitterly. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. Damn car’s kaput and the idiot at the garage says it’ll take days to fix. We’re marooned … doomed.’ He seemed to enjoy the rhyming assonance and repeated the words sombrely.

A thought occurred. Helpful? Mischievous? I don’t know – but I heard myself saying, ‘Well, sir, of course Ingaza is pretty good with engines, always has been. Amazing the number of old jalopies he was able to resuscitate at St Bede’s. Don’t you remember when the Bishop of Pontefract’s Rover gave up the ghost in the quadrangle, and Nick fixed it in a couple of seconds despite all the false starts from the AA?’

This was greeted by a massive clearing of throat that rumbled on for some time. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘one will have to see about that. Might be useful, I suppose … I’ll, er, let you know perhaps …’ He had gone pink in the face again and I changed the subject to something less sensitive: Myrtle. I asked how long his sister-in-law had known the Birtle-Figgins and – recalling the armful of bread and cakes – what she thought of their culinary regime.

‘Six months and not much,’ was the curt answer.

He enlarged on this, explaining that she had first encountered them at some embassy function in Brussels when her husband was still alive. At the time they had seemed normal enough and they had got on moderately well. Later, after her husband’s death, they had popped up again and issued a standing invitation to stay at their villa, Le Petit Rêve, should she ever be in the area. ‘On the strength of that,’ he continued ruefully, ‘Myrtle insisted that we change our normal holiday plans and the three of us travel down here to stay with “dear” Boris and Lavinia.’ He sighed. ‘Not a good idea.’

‘But aren’t there things to do?’ I asked. ‘The fishing is supposed to be pretty good, isn’t it?’

‘Oh yes, the fishing’s all right, and plenty for Gladys to paint …
puys
and such,’ he added vaguely. ‘But there’s too much singing for my liking.’

‘Singing?’ I asked, startled.

‘Yes, mad keen on hymns – always at it.’

I laughed. ‘Well, you should be used to that, sir. Plenty of singing in the cathedral.’

‘Yes, Oughterard,’ he replied testily, ‘but not on
holiday
. One’s got to draw the line somewhere … and besides, I don’t recognize them, clearly not out of
Ancient & Modern
. Bizarre.’

‘Are there any neighbours? I mean, do people drop in – that sort of thing?’

‘Not so far,’ he replied gloomily, ‘unless you count the campers, of course.’

‘Campers? Are there many?’

‘No, no. Just a couple. They turned up last night and Lavinia allowed them to pitch their tent in one of the orchards and insisted on supplying jugs of milk. Seems to have taken to them for some reason … shouldn’t have thought they were her cup of tea. Not exactly
comme il faut
, if you get my drift. Still, none of
my
business, of course … Small world though, I gather they come from Crowthorne and –’ He broke off, looked at his watch and scowled. ‘Oh Lor’, nearly lunchtime. Back to the bones, I suppose.’ And shouldering the fruit basket and muttering something about being in touch, he stomped off up the path and disappeared among the beech trees.

*
See
A Load of Old Bones

When I reached the inn I was bursting to unburden my shock on Primrose and Nicholas, but my sister was nowhere to be seen and Nicholas so engrossed in his telephone instructions to Eric that it was obvious I would not get his attention for some time.

I mooched into the bar where Georges, smouldering Gitane stuck to lower lip, was polishing glasses and addressing Maurice in lengthy discourse as if he were some intimate crony. The cat looked surprisingly attentive (more so than he ever does with me), and I hesitated to ask for a drink, not wishing to intrude on their tête-à-tête. However, seeing me, Georges broke off his disquisition and reached for the cognac.

‘You look tired. Monsieur should not go on the mountains – too much ees no good.
Il faut rester tranquille ici
. Be like cat and stay ‘ere ‘appy and
doucement
.’ He grinned, pushed the glass in my direction and poured one for himself.

Happy and
doucement
– yes, I could do with a bit of that, I thought grimly. (What the
hell
were they up to, the scheming blighters?) I sipped the brandy, debating whether to order some bread and pâté, but felt too agitated to bother. Instead I asked Georges about Le Petit Rêve. He gave a graphic description – a large eighteenth-century farmhouse recently modernized and refurbished, occupying a broad corniche a mile above the village and replete with meadows and small boating lake. But when I enquired about the owners he was less forthcoming. ‘
Comme ci comme ça
,’ was the indifferent response. ‘I do not see zem often, they not come here. She OK –
assez jolie
– but
le monsieur
…’ He trailed off, giving a mild shrug. I did not pursue the matter.

‘Many campers?’ I asked casually.

‘
Le camping
? Only
les Allemands – toujours les Allemands
!’

He gave a wry smile.

‘No English?’ I asked, feigning surprise.

‘They have big passion for
les caravanes
– no good for
montagnes
.’ He opened his arms wide indicating their size, but then paused and added, ‘Ah, I forget … yes, some
messieurs
come yesterday with big tent and
très chic moteur
. Vairee fast! They have drink and ask questions about
la grande Folie en bas
. But I am busy and they soon go.’ He shrugged again, winked at Maurice and turned to greet a customer.

Big tent and
très chic
motor car? Them all right. Bastards! Bastards! What were they doing? Lying in wait for me? I threw down the dregs of the brandy and wandered morosely into the passage. Nicholas had just replaced the receiver and was jotting something briskly in a notebook. I began to tell him about Climp and Mullion but he waved me aside impatiently. ‘Not now, old boy. Got to call my Cranleigh contact. It’s his Goodwood day … must catch the sod before he goes.’ He was about to dial, and then paused. ‘Time’s getting on, Francis, don’t forget old Henri.’ I sighed. As if I could.

An hour later I was gingerly steering Ingaza’s Citroën round tortuous bends en route for the station. Small and empty, it dozed in the afternoon sun, the single track glinting dully like a basking grass snake. Alone on the silent platform, I wondered if in fact anything would appear at all. But after five minutes or so I detected the faintest sound and in the far distance saw a whiff of smoke. I watched nervously, as rounding the bend the train gradually drew into the station. With clanking wheels and a sigh of exhaustion it came to a juddering halt, steam billowing from the engine. I waited for carriage doors to be flung wide and passengers to alight … None did.

The air was still, the train now mute, all exits remaining resolutely closed. Then a whistle blew. And just as it was cranking itself up to depart, a door at the far end finally opened and a small figure clad in black emerged, and in a sort of weaving motion began to amble its way down the long platform. Bearing only a knapsack, the figure nevertheless moved with halting gait and, drawing closer, patently rasping breath.

However, despite being apparently broken in wind and limb, on seeing me it let out a cry of exultation: ‘
Mon vieux
,’ it croaked, ‘
vous devez être l’idiot prêtre anglais! Bienvenu en la belle France! Je suis enchanté de vous rencontrer
.’ And before I had a chance to dodge, I was seized in a vice-like grip and kissed fervently on both cheeks.

Reeling from the bristles and a blast of brandy, I said politely in English (too flustered to try my French), ‘Er, good afternoon, Monsieur Martineau, I hope you have had a pleasant journey.’

‘
Je ne sais pas
,’ was the cheery reply, ‘
je ne me souviens rien!
’ Couldn’t remember? No wonder. Obviously tight as a tick the whole damn way.

I eased the tick into the Citroën, and amidst clouds of Gitanes and garlic-laden gabble, none of which I understood, we drove back to the inn where I decanted him into the care of Nicholas. On the way I had puzzled over his lack of impedimenta – Nicholas having assured us that he was coming equipped with metal detector and shovels – and I had begun to harbour hopes that he had left them behind. No such luck. In fractured English (his one attempt) he announced that the luggage was due for collection at the station two days hence. ‘You go fetch,’ he directed. I do not go fetch, I thought grimly, Ingaza can do his own dirty work.

A couple of hours later, having prised some sleep from my springless mattress, I gathered myself together and went down to the bar. It was empty except for a group at a corner table. There, huddled over a pack of cards and watched intently by Maurice and Bouncer, were Nicholas, Georges, the curé – and, rather to my surprise, Primrose. I could hear low mutterings, and then my sister’s ringing voice: ‘No, Henri, that is definitely
my
trick. And I’ll thank you to remove your sleeve from that ace!’ There was an anguished splutter of indeterminate French, an expletive from the barman, and then silence as they bent again to the cards.

I watched for a little longer, and then, fancying the thought of an aperitif, cleared my throat politely and asked Georges if he would mind pouring me a small Dubonnet. He gestured expansively towards the bottle on the counter signalling I should help myself. However, as he did so, Nicholas exclaimed, ‘Good idea, Francis, I’m tired of this – and old Henri is such a bloody cheat, it’s like having to play two games at once, the one on the table and the one in his thieving head.’

‘
Moi
, sheet?’ the latter expostulated. ‘
Jamais ma foi!
Henri Martineau ees virtue eemself. He
nevaire
sheet!’

‘All the frigging time,’ replied Nicholas cheerfully.

With grumbles and mumbles, the curé got up from the table, blew a mouth raspberry and shook his fist at Maurice. The cat stared back bleakly and then closed his eyes – though whether through drowsiness or disdain it was hard to tell.

Over supper we discussed logistics – or rather Ingaza instructed us in how we should proceed once Henri’s ‘contraption’ had arrived. An unsubtle plan: under cover of darkness the three of us (Primrose having obdurately opted out) would proceed to the Folly, and equipped with the priest’s shovels and metal detector embark on an intensive search of the areas marked on the plan.

‘I know exactly where they are,’ said Nicholas. ‘My reconnaissance yesterday was most fruitful: it’s a surprisingly clear map and seems to tally precisely with the estate’s terrain and features. One of the places is under a ring of oak trees close to the perimeter wall, and the other is inside what looks like an old dairy – a ruined shed next to the house. The spot under the trees should be easy enough, but the shed will be tricky. I took a squint inside and it’s full of rubble and shattered tiles … Good for those etiolated muscles, Francis!’ He turned to me and grinned. I did not.

Instead I said, ‘And suppose there’s nothing there?’

‘In that case, dear boy, you will go straight to the notary, stake your claim and say you want to sell the whole kaboosh.’ Given the two prospects – the physical cost of delving for gold or parleying with a French
notaire
– the former seemed the preferable. But both were daunting and I was less than eager.

‘Oh, but I thought we might keep it for ourselves,’ exclaimed Primrose. ‘You know, do it up and then use it as a holiday home. It would be lovely!’

‘With all due respect,’ Nicholas murmured, ‘such an undertaking would be prohibitive. And charming though they are, I very much doubt whether your sheep paintings, even with the Canadian market, would run to the renovations that your exquisite taste would require.’ He beamed and she nodded reluctantly. ‘So,’ he concluded firmly, ‘it’s gold or sale.’

‘Neek is right: gold or sale, sale or gold,’ Henri chanted. ‘Le Curé de Taupinière – ‘ee say, strike while ‘ot bird ees in zee ‘and!’ We regarded him in cold silence.

‘Good, that’s settled,’ announced Nicholas briskly. ‘We’ll have a cognac on it.’ And he waved to Georges.

‘Wait a minute,’ I broke in, ‘what about Climp and Mullion? I’ve told you, they are camped somewhere on the Birtle-Figgins’ land, and it can’t possibly be a coincidence again. They’re watching us, waiting – I know it.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas coolly, ‘you are very probably right. But there’s two of them and three of us – four if you count Henri. We must just keep alert and see that we’re ahead of the game. Shouldn’t be too difficult.’

‘It’s all right for you,’ I protested, ‘but it’s me they’re interested in. I’m the one that is going to suffer.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Primrose, ‘there isn’t going to be any suffering. Don’t be so melodramatic, Francis. It’s disgraceful them harassing innocent travellers, and if they try any monkey business I shall have no hesitation in going straight to the police.’

‘Er, actually, Primrose, I would rather you didn’t,’ I said hastily.

‘What? … Oh, I see. Well, I shall certainly do something.’ She took out her lipstick and applied it with grim force.

We were just thinking it was time to call it a day and retire to bed, when the telephone in the lobby rang, and a few moments later Georges appeared to announce that a gentleman was seeking Monsieur Francis. I froze. Oh my God, I thought, it’s them. They’re at me already!

In fact it was Clinker. He had muttered something that morning about getting in touch, but I hadn’t taken it too seriously and was surprised at his speed.

‘Is that you, Oughterard?’ the bishop enquired warily. I assured him that it was. ‘Ah good … I thought I might stroll down to the village tomorrow morning – stretch my legs a bit and, er, perhaps call in for a coffee at your inn. Are you likely to be about? You might like to join me – you and your sister of course.’ He paused, and then added casually, ‘And er, bring uhm …’

‘Ingaza?’ I said helpfully.

‘Yes,’ he replied shortly.

I asked what time would suit him and we agreed on eleven o’clock.

‘Good, good,’ he said briskly. ‘All news then.’

News? What news? I had not realized we were on such matey terms, but before I had a chance to enquire further he had rung off.

I returned to the dining room where fortunately only Primrose and Nicholas remained. This was just as well as somehow I did not think that Clinker’s invitation for coffee stretched as far as Taupinière’s illustrious incumbent.

‘It’s Clinker,’ I said. ‘Wants to have coffee with us tomorrow. I think the combination of Myrtle and his hosts is getting him down, he needs a break.’

‘Don’t suppose Gladys helps either,’ added Nicholas waspishly.

‘Probably not. Anyway he seems very keen to see you after all this time,’ I replied in mild exaggeration.

He grunted. ‘Aren’t I the lucky one.’