Bones in the Belfry (15 page)

‘He didn’t like that,’ observed Bouncer. ‘Didn’t like it at all.’

‘Didn’t like what?’ I asked.

‘What the rozzer said.’

I sighed irritably. ‘I take it you are referring to one of the investigating police officers here earlier – though which one and what he said, I have no idea! Kindly clarify.’

He took another chew at his Bonio and then said slowly, ‘The scraggy one, the one that looks like something the cat’s brought in.’

It was clearly meant to annoy, and not wishing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me riled, I replied smoothly, ‘Ah yes, Samson.’

‘Yes,’ he answered, sounding disappointed, ‘that one. Just when he was leaving: the bit about old Fotherington. It was as if he was trying to make a point – letting the vicar know that
he
knew!’

‘Well, he doesn’t know – there’s absolutely no proof.’

‘Ah,’ Bouncer replied darkly, ‘you don’t have to have proof to
know
something.’

‘Those of us who are rational do!’ I exclaimed.

He continued worrying his Bonio, and then peering at me through the drooping fronds said, ‘You know, Maurice, you may have nine lives but what you could really do with is a sixth sense like us dogs. You would find it helpful.’

‘I was not aware that I needed help!’ I replied crossly. It was really getting too much, and I concluded that he had either been down in the crypt again or consorting with O’Shaughnessy. The latter’s influence is not of the best.

‘Keep your fur on, I was just saying that –’

‘You are saying too much, Bouncer. Enough is enough!’ And to stress the point I arched my back and flattened my ears. I liked to think that he looked suitably chastened but it is not always easy to tell what goes on behind that shaggy pelmet.

He burped, and continued. ‘Anyway, he was pretty upset even
before
the cops came – just after that Ingaza man left. Sat there drumming his fingers and crunching those humbugs. I tried to cheer him up – wagging my tail and that sort of thing – but it didn’t seem to help.’

‘Not surprised,’ I observed mildly, ‘probably drove him mad.’

There was a sudden deafening explosion of canine mirth. ‘I say, Maurice,’ he spluttered amidst rasping yelps, ‘you mean like I drive you mad!’

‘Precisely.’

At that point there came a crashing of chords from the sitting room: F.O. drowning his sorrows in the piano. It only needed the church bells to burst forth their din, and pandemonium would be complete. I got up hastily, slipped through the cat flap and commenced my evening prowl.

On my return the house was mercifully quiet, with Bouncer asleep and F.O. chewing his pencil over the crossword. With dog and man thus engaged I was able to enjoy my milk undisturbed and reflect on the current situation. The dog, I conceded, was right: although there might be a temporary respite from the Brighton type, the police visitation had clearly unsettled our master; or at any rate, the scraggy one’s parting comment had. Yet, as I had noted to Bouncer, their earlier investigations had yielded no evidence to link the vicar with the Fotherington murder (thanks largely to our manoeuvres with the cigarette lighter), and with that dead tramp providing a convenient scapegoat, the fuss had subsided. But from the outset there had been mutual dislike between F.O. and Samson, and it could well be that the latter was intent on stirring up trouble – probably seeing F.O. as a stepping stone to promotion. It was doubtful whether there was anything concrete to go on, but it was a worrying possibility nevertheless.

I finished my milk and then mewed in exasperation. Typical of F.O. to get embroiled with that Ingaza person and his unsavoury paintings! If that hadn’t happened our life here would have been proceeding in relative calm: the murder buried like Bouncer’s bones, and the two of us left safe in clover. Kind though our vicar was, he could also be painfully obtuse! But still, what else could you expect from a human …

I spent an unsettled night, and was less than pleased to be woken in the early morning by Bouncer scrabbling at my tail. The dog was clearly in sociable mood and, undeterred by my twitching claw, eager to talk. I listened with closed eyes and half an ear.

He rambled on for a while, and then announced excitedly, ‘I’m going to see the rabbits again!’

‘What rabbits?’

‘You know, Boris and Karloff – at that place F.O. took us to.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He was on the phone last night talking to the Prim person.’

‘His sister.’

‘Yes, that’s right. I heard them arranging it. He’s going down for the day to fetch back that other picture and he’s taking ME with him – though he didn’t mention you, Maurice.’

‘Well, that’s a
great
pity,’ I murmured sleepily. ‘How on earth shall I survive the day without you two crashing about?’

‘Oh, that’ll be all right – I’ll get O’Shaughnessy to come and keep you company.’

‘What!’ I hissed, suddenly awake.

‘O’Shaughnessy, I’ll ask him to spare a few hours. He’s got quite a soft spot for you, Maurice. Why, only the other day I heard him telling Gunga Din that you were a fine fellow of a cat, so you were, “bejasus”!’

‘Nice to know the creature has
some
discernment,’ I observed. ‘What did Gunga Din say?’

‘He didn’t. Just looked glazed.’

‘Well, what can you expect – obviously hung over as usual!’ And then requiring some light diversion, and after telling the dog that on no account was he to issue any invitations to O’Shaughnessy, I sauntered into the garden to set myself among the pigeons.

The rest of the day proved quite eventful – harrying recalcitrant hedgehogs in the graveyard, squaring up to an intrusive Siamese, and laying waste the Veaseys’ prize primulas. (Most deservedly, considering the disgraceful way they had treated me over the matter of their goldfish the previous summer!) Thus when I returned to the house I was all ready for some quiet repose.

No such luck. Bouncer was still in garrulous mood (excitement presumably at the prospect of seeing the chinchillas again), and seemed intent on regaling me about some parish visitor that F.O. had been entertaining.

‘Anyway,’ the dog said, ‘he was talking about that geezer with a lady’s name – Dolly Vera, the new Irish batsman. He said he had a great future if only they could get him over to England … some problem or other.’

I stared at him. ‘What
are
you talking about?’

‘Well, I don’t suppose you know much about cricket, Maurice, not being a lover of ball games, but some of us are up in these things.’

‘
Excuse
me,’ I said, ‘I know a great deal. Certainly enough to know that he happens to be South African, and his name is not Dolly, it is –’

‘Yes it is!’ he growled.

‘Nonsense. And in any case you are getting confused. The other one, the Irish gentleman, is a distinguished statesman – although opinions are sharply divided as to whether –’

‘Yes, yes, but he plays
cricket
, doesn’t he?’

‘I doubt it. Hurling more likely.’

‘Hurling what?’

‘Hurling sticks at stupid dogs!’ I screeched.

It had been a tiring day and we retreated to our respective sanctuaries: me behind the sofa and he to his crypt.

I had been holding my own fairly well until Samson’s remark about Elizabeth Fotherington. But his parting shot had left me quite weak at the knees, and it was with a prayer of thanks and a glass of brandy that I watched their ambling departure down the garden path. What on earth had he
meant
? Nothing or everything? I stared into Bouncer’s solemn eyes and then sat down on the sofa to meditate.

For the first twenty minutes meditation yielded nothing except unsettling past images of Elizabeth and the sounds of barking roebucks and snapping twigs. And then I think I must have drifted off, for soon those sounds were replaced by others:
her
still so familiar mincing voice overlaid with blasts from Maud Tubbly Pole. It was a disturbing mixture, and I awoke uneasily to a dark but thankfully silent room.

Whatever the earlier matter might bode, I still had to deal with the present problem: disposal of the larger picture,
Dead Reckoning
. Once Nicholas had recovered from his pique, sooner or later he would want it back. And judging from his recent comments about my custodial capacity it would probably be sooner. There was nothing for it: a further trip to Primrose to retrieve the wretched thing – assuming of course that, like the first, she hadn’t slipped it behind another of her own works and dispatched it God knew where! I switched on the light, picked up the receiver, and announced my intention.

Primrose sounded more than receptive to the idea but was clearly sorry that it was to be only a day visit. Evidently the garden was ready for another seeing to. I told her that I would have to bring Bouncer.

‘Well, that creature’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s the other one that’s such a pain!’ For once I felt defensive of Maurice and asked her what she meant.

‘It’s got very funny eyes, that cat. Does nothing but stare. And when it’s not staring it’s snooping.’

‘Well, he prowls about, I suppose … but you know cats, they do that sort of thing.’

‘Not like that,’ she replied. ‘Last time it was here I caught it putting the evil eye on Boris and Karloff. They didn’t like it at all – quivering wrecks, they were!’

‘He was probably curious. Only looking, you know.’

‘Exactly. And very peculiar looks he has!’

Primrose gets these bees in her bonnet so I didn’t pursue the matter. The main thing was to get my hands on the painting and bring it back safely ready for Ingaza’s mercenary grasp.

Two days later Bouncer and I set off once more for Sussex, arriving at Primrose’s in time for lunch. The dog hung about for a while waiting for titbits from the table, and then scooted off into the garden looking purposeful. Primrose, pleased with the prospect of ridding herself of the picture, seemed in an unusually mellow mood and had produced a decanter of more than tolerable burgundy.

‘Remains of Pa’s cellar,’ she announced. ‘He always enjoyed a good Beaune. In fact, come to think of it, wine was the one thing he really
did
know about!’

‘And model railways,’ I was going to add, but thought better of it. She would only bring up the dreadful incident of my blunder with the Hornby train, from which I suspect my father never fully recovered. It had certainly been a perennial topic of his conversation for years afterwards. Instead I said, ‘Yes, but he generally gave a fair impression of knowledge.’

‘Only to the gullible,’ she replied.

We brooded in silence on our late and partially lamented parent, and then raised our glasses in dutiful salutation.

‘Well, this is all right, anyway!’ Primrose exclaimed, and with unwonted generosity refilled my glass almost to the brim. She then asked about the smaller Spendler and seemed quite unabashed when I told her that thanks to herself and Mrs Clinker it had been consigned to the White Elephant stall of Pick’s fête.

‘What a hoot! You mean to say that valuable piece of daubing is now gracing the walls of some shed or semi in Horsham. How droll!’

‘It was not a hoot,’ I retorted irritably, ‘and neither is it droll. The whole thing put me to considerable trouble, but fortunately it has since been retrieved and restored to its owner … Well, to its custodian at any rate.’

‘Your friend presumably – the one who stole it in the first place.’

‘Yes – no. I mean, I don’t think he exactly stole it, just acquired it temporarily, and then he needed a spare place to –’

‘Yes, you’ve explained all that before. It’s a load of hooey, as well you know. He’s obviously up to his ears in skulduggery and has dragged you into it. And you’re the very last person equipped for that kind of thing, everyone knows that!’ And she laughed accusingly. I smiled wanly, wishing the skulduggery involved only the paintings.

After some more wine and a pleasurably pungent Camembert, she suggested it was time for me to bring the picture downstairs. ‘And once that’s done I know you’d like to say hello to Boris and Karloff!’ I had no particular hankerings in that direction but, feeling indebted for the good lunch, indicated I could think of nothing nicer. She offered to give me a hand carrying the thing down, but by now I felt fairly practised in manhandling stolen goods and said I could manage.

It was still in its wrappings, but I noticed that the sellotaped bindings which had taken me so long to attach had been ripped apart and replaced by string. ‘Can’t think why you had to interfere with them in the first place!’ I exclaimed irritably.

‘Well, naturally I was going to take a look. What else did you expect? Still, don’t know about
interfering
with them – it’s not as if I were a scoutmaster in the
News of the World
!’ And she began to giggle. Whether her mirth was the result of the wine or relief at offloading the thing back on to me, I wasn’t sure. But whatever it was, the giggling gathered momentum until she spluttered, ‘I say, Francis, they really are awful, far worse than the photographs. The first one with the dreadful youth was bad enough, but this bone-strewn thing is simply frightful!’ And she collapsed on the stairs in peals of laughter. Being, as you might say, in the thick of things, I hadn’t exactly appreciated the comedy of the matter; but watching Primrose hooting her head off I too started to laugh, and for a few moments it was as if we were back at home again savouring one of Mother’s many absurdities.

Bouncer appeared from the garden, stared at both of us, and then slowly wagging his tail added something of his own cacophony. Thus the visit ended on a surprising note of noise and merriment. The gruesome Spendler was once more stowed in the Singer, and, mercifully spared the charms of Boris and Karloff, I departed for Molehill.

The prospect of yet again having to lug the picture up to the belfry was not a happy one – especially as Mrs T.P. had made that crack about it being the ideal place to conceal a painting. So I delivered it to the alternative cache: the church crypt. Descent into Avernus was marginally easier than negotiating the perilous ladder to Elysium. But it was an awkward business all the same, and made the more so by Bouncer showing an officious concern in the matter. His snuffling attentions almost had me falling headlong down the steps, and it was with relief that I at last gained the comfort of the sitting room and the solace of a smoke with a good John Buchan.

This, however, was only temporary solace, for later that evening I was scheduled to attend the St Botolph’s Ladies’ League AGM: an event not known for its wit and gaiety, and this time interminably protracted by bleating interruptions from Mavis Briggs as she struggled to record the minutes. I made a mental note to suggest that perhaps in future she might like Edith Hopgarden to relieve her of that chore. I suspected she wouldn’t like it at all. And my vision of the two ladies battle-locked over who was the better fitted for the task helped to ease a little of the tedium.

Eventually the meeting wound up and we trooped into the night. Declining the offer of cocoa from Miss Dalrymple and some of the more socially minded of the group, I started to make my way home. And then just as I rounded the corner of the parish hall, I heard what can only be described as a loud ‘Psst!’, followed by thudding footsteps. My elbow was suddenly caught in the steely grip of a well-sprung gin-trap. It was Mrs Tubbly Pole.

‘Good gracious!’ I gasped. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here!’

‘No,’ she chuckled, ‘but
I
expected to see
you
. They told me this was where you’d be, so I’ve been lying in wait!’

I suppose it was the tone of triumph and the words ‘lying in wait’ which touched a nerve and induced a sudden and appalling déjà vu. And for a mad panicking moment I was back in the wood, confronted by that dreadful beaming apparition … Surely not Maud Tubbly Pole as well! Oh dear God, not
another
unhinged predator!

The horror must have shown, for she said, ‘Goodness, Francis, you’ve gone quite white – I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re obviously not used to being accosted by ladies from the shadows!’ And she emitted a long and braying cachinnation. That steadied things all right: I was quite safe with Mrs T.P.! (‘And she with him!’ the cynical might add.)

Taking my arm firmly, she propelled me along the pavement, and then said in throaty
sotto voce
, ‘My dear, I’ve discovered something quite extraordinary, and you are the first to know!’

‘Really? What’s that?’

She clutched me more tightly. ‘One of the missing Spendlers has actually been in
this
locality, and is perhaps still here! What do you think of that!’ She almost danced, while I froze.

‘Whatever gives you such an idea?’ I gasped.

‘Well, you know the woman who looks like an emaciated hamster and always seems to have a cold and was burgled recently – Mavis somebody.’

‘Briggs,’ I said tensely.

‘Yes, that’s the name. Well, there was only one item taken, and it just happened to be a painting and –’

‘But Mavis wouldn’t have had a Spendler!’ I laughed.

‘Oh, but she did!’ she cried. ‘I am convinced of it.’ By this time we had reached the vicarage gate, and as we paused she said, ‘I must get back to poor old Gunga, he gets fractious if Mummy’s out too long – but there’s still time for a quick nightcap and then I can tell you more! What do you say?’ I said nothing, but dutifully opened the gate and ushered her up the path.

I was tired and the whisky low. But I was also desperate to know what she had to say about Mavis’s picture. ‘Er, what makes you think that painting was a Spendler? It was only a bit of White Elephant junk … I was there when she picked it up, nothing of any interest.’ I tried to sound as casual as my nerves would allow.

‘I happened to be behind her in the queue at the post office. She was talking to a friend about the robbery, though I don’t think the friend heard a word – looked bored out of her mind – but
I
heard, and it got me thinking. She was describing the picture: a dark seascape, all swirling clouds and waves and a naked youth in the foreground – seemed embarrassed about that part and kept giggling – so don’t you
see
, Francis!’

Trying to sound as unmoved as possible, I muttered vaguely, ‘Not really – afraid I’m not up in these things.’

‘But it’s obviously
On the Brink
!’

‘On the blink?’

She looked impatient and took a large gulp from her glass. ‘
On the Brink –
that’s the
title
of one of the stolen paintings. And from what the newspapers said at the time it sounds exactly like it.’

I smiled indulgently. ‘But surely there must be hundreds of pictures of beaches and bathers, they’re churned out all the time.’

‘But not with male nudes, I shouldn’t have thought.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said firmly. ‘Quite a fashion back in the early twenties, almost a cult, you know, especially in Germany; but it caught on here too.’

She looked surprised (as was I by my powers of invention). ‘Thought you said you weren’t up in that sort of thing – you seem very knowledgeable on the subject!’

I had obviously overplayed my hand, but replied smoothly that for some odd reason it was the one thing that I remembered from school art classes. ‘It’s simply a coincidence, you know. And besides, all the experts are agreed that those pictures are halfway across the world by now – they’d never have been kept here, far too dangerous!’ And I laughed loudly. She looked so deflated that I almost felt a pang of guilt.

‘What a bore. I was going to offer my services to the police and see what they thought of my theory, but if you think –’

‘I do think,’ I said quickly. ‘You know what the police are like, no sensitivity. They would give you short shrift and make you look a fool – and that you are certainly not, Mrs Tubbly Pole! And can’t you just see the press headlines if they got hold of it? Newspapers can be so crude … Just imagine: “Famous lady detective writer fails to sift fact from fiction.” Wouldn’t do that renowned literary reputation much good, would it?’ I flashed a warm smile and poured her the remnants of the whisky. It seemed to do the trick.

‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘you are probably right. Just jumping to exciting conclusions. It’s the novelist’s imagination – runs away with me sometimes. I do love a bit of drama! Don’t
you
, Francis?’

‘Rather overrated,’ I replied drily.

‘Oh, come now! Everyone needs a little spice in their life – even you, dear friend. Your life is far too staid. You should have become a big-game hunter instead of a clergyman,
much
more fun!’ And she gurgled merrily. Given my present situation, I couldn’t help feeling that the role of big-game hunter might have been infinitely soothing.

She continued to speculate about the robbery. And in the hope of leading her away from the subject, I asked how the novel was coming along and whether she had managed to find a title for it.

‘I most certainly have!’ she cried. ‘So far there have been four murders, two suicides and a manslaughter, so I have called it
No Dearth of Death
. Pretty neat, eh? Of course, it
has
moved some way beyond the original case, i.e. your corpse in the bluebells,’ (how I wished she would stop using that possessive!) ‘but I couldn’t stop at just one, could I? Far too tame! But it’s got all the Molehill features, not to mention the church and that marvellous belfry. You’ll love it!’ I thought bitterly that Mrs T.P.’s conception of ‘tame’ differed widely from my own; and then asked her warily whether, in view of its ecclesiastical setting, the murder plot contained any parsons.