Bones in the Belfry (22 page)

‘Anyway, what’s he up to these days?’ he continued.

‘Plays tiddlywinks.’

‘Christ!’

The rest of the evening passed without interruption or, mercifully, further revelations – from either side. The brandy finished, I volunteered to do my Marx Brother act at the piano, but my guest seemed less than taken with the idea and so we decided to call it a day. Fortified with water and headache pills, I went to bed – trusting fervently that come the morning Ingaza’s fertile curiosity would not lead him back to the events of the previous year.

To my relief, the next morning nothing more was said about those earlier events, Ingaza being far too intent on downing copious cups of black coffee and consuming outlandish quantities of bread and Marmite. Eventually, having satisfied his cravings and thanking me profusely for my hospitality – in particular ‘the female cabaret’, as he termed Mavis’s antics – he rescued the lost car keys from Bouncer’s basket and took off for Brighton.

As I stood on the pavement his parting words had been, ‘We must do this again, old mate. Peps you up!’, an observation which made me return to the house feeling tired. However, no time for rest: there were two weddings in the offing plus a baptism and a burial, not to mention attendance at the Mothers’ Union Discussion Day, a perennially gruesome event of much sound and fury – although whether anything was ever signified I could never quite make out.

Thus the week proceeded at a sprightly pace, and by the weekend I could have done with a breather. However, Saturday too was destined to be busy for I was due up in London at midday to attend the usual bi-monthly meeting in the Brompton Road. I hadn’t really recovered from the last time, and it had more than crossed my mind to give this one a miss; but noting on the agenda an item proposing that such meetings be held at rarer intervals in future, I was eager to vote to that effect.

Mission accomplished – i.e. the vote having gone substantially in favour of the proposal – I fought my way back to Waterloo hoping to arrive in Molehill in time for an evening concert on the Third Programme.

The train was fuller than I had expected, and my hopes of procuring a compartment to myself were swiftly dashed. Fortunately I had managed a corner seat, which was the only advantage, for we sat crammed five aside and my opposite numbers were two large and garrulous women with two diminutive but loudly snuffling children. The snuffles were soon punctuated by guttural coughs, generally in tandem, and to shut out both noise and germs I contrived to insulate myself behind the evening paper. Since my neighbour already had his open this was not an easy manoeuvre, but eventually I was able to unfurl it to a readable degree, and somewhat squintingly began to scan the headlines. These yielded little of interest, being largely concerned with sport and the unremarkable views of some political has-been, and with subtle elbowing I managed to turn to the inside page and the crossword.

I was just about to embark on this when my eye was caught by the item next to it. This was a photograph of what I at first assumed to be a French onion seller – i.e. sporting the usual accoutrements of beret, push-bike, some odd smock-like garment, and a drooping Gauloise. No onions were visible, but since he was also wearing a distinct expression of Gallic pique I thought perhaps they had been stolen. My mild curiosity turned to incredulity as I started to read the accompanying article. ARTISTIC BONES IN HIS BELFRY ran the headline, and the ensuing words filled me with fascinated horror:

‘Père Martineau, respected curé of the church of St Denis in the village of Taupinière close to Le Touquet, was none too pleased yesterday when gendarmes stormed his church, raided the belfry, and took from it two paintings found concealed under a heap of old sacks. It is understood that the French police had received an unknown tip-off to the effect that the missing Claus Spendler pictures, far from being on the other side of the world as has generally been assumed, might well be located in the curé’s bell tower. One of these works,
Dead Reckoning
, has as its main subject a pile of starkly glittering human bones – or as the artist prefers to call them,
fragmenti mori
. Art experts called to the scene confirmed that there was a strong likelihood of these being the stolen items. When asked what he knew of the matter, Father Martineau replied – among other things – “
Sacrée merde!
” and “
Je m’en fous!
” He further added that since he had always hated the Austrians as much as “
les sales Boches
” why in the “
nom de Dieu
” should he wish to keep their “
peintures putrides
” in his belfry, and that Herr Spendler and the investigating officers could park the said items up their “
grandes fesses
”. After a night in the cells, the curé was released pending further enquiries.’

I stared unseeingly at the snuffling child opposite, who, possibly unsettled by my look of wild consternation, promptly began to howl. For once, however, the noise was of little concern, my mind being far too engaged with images of the uncovered plunder and a blaspheming French priest. The parallels of our situation were bizarre to say the least – though I doubted whether, similarly apprehended, I could have shown the same truculent élan as my Gallic counterpart. But then the French have a knack with these things.

I gazed into the darkness beyond the window-pane, cursing the quirks of fate and wishing, rather like the curé, that Spendler could shove his stupid
fragmenti mori
into some convenient recess. Last seen, the pictures had been in the grasping hands of Nicholas Ingaza as he ‘rescued’ them from my inadequate care. So what were they now doing near Le Touquet of all places? And who was this Père Martineau? A genuinely dumbfounded innocent? Or simply another conniving cleric caught haplessly in Ingaza’s slithery web? For one brief moment I felt a pang of comradely sympathy: after all, we were in a sense victims-in-arms. However, glancing again at the lowering figure in the photograph, I changed my mind. Apart from the dangling cigarette, I very much doubted whether the curé of Taupinière and the vicar of Molehill had anything in common other than their parish names … and of course the ‘fingered’ merchandise!

The rest of the journey passed swiftly but in a haze of frenzied speculation and worry. This latest turn of events would certainly account for the postcard earlier in the year lauding the gaming delights of Le Touquet’s casino. Presumably Nicholas’s visit there had been a sort of belt and braces reconnaissance jaunt in case the Molehill venture aborted – as it assuredly had! And if indeed he
were
party to the pictures’ concealment, would the curé now rat on his English accomplice? Would Nicholas rat on me? After all, questions would surely be asked about the location of the goods prior to their arrival in Taupinière! I shut my eyes and groaned – an action which redoubled the howls from opposite.

When the train reached Molehill I irrationally but instinctively made my way home via the less frequented route. Quite what I was expecting I do not know – phalanxes of the Metropolitan Art Squad poised at every wall and corner? It is amazing the strength of the imagination in such circumstances! Thus, head down and keeping to the shadows, I slunk back to the vicarage, my mind in a turmoil of questions.
Where
exactly was Nicholas now: Brighton, Cranleigh – Bangkok? Was he perhaps holed up in some rustic outhouse in the Pas-de-Calais surviving on stale crusts and Calvados while
les flics
‘pursued their enquiries’ in nearby fields? The possibilities were legion. Would it be safe to try telephoning his Brighton abode, or might there be a bug on the line? After much pondering I decided against it; better not anticipate things. My father’s words came back to me: ‘When in doubt, Francis old man, do damn all!’ But it was all very well for Pa, he had never been faced with imprisonment – let alone the noose!

The next four days were agony. Nothing further appeared in the newspapers and not a word from Nicholas, but my mind was relentlessly plagued with lurid fears. I tried vainly to concentrate on parish matters, until eventually, unable to stand the tension any longer, I dialled the Brighton number.

I had done this only once before – also at a time of crisis – and, as previously, the voice that answered was not Ingaza’s but the rasping tones of Eric, his East End associate.

‘Oh yes,’ he said cheerfully, ‘you was that geezer what called before. I remember – some vicar friend from Nick’s past. How are yer?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ I replied meekly, wincing slightly at the linkage of ‘friend’ and ‘past’ (the latter carrying unfortunate connotations of mammoth press headlines regarding a certain Turkish bath). ‘Er, do you think I might speak to Nicholas if he’s in by any chance?’

‘Out of luck, old son. He’s not here. Gone to see his auntie in Eastbourne.’

‘Gone to see his
auntie
!’ I gasped. ‘What ever do you mean? He hasn’t got an auntie!’

‘Oh yes he has, old mate. Had her for a long time, ever since he was a nipper as you might say. Very fond of Aunt Lil he is, visits her reg’lar. Takes her to the flicks, and then in good weather they toddle along to the bandstand. He likes the cut of the conductor’s jib!’ And he gave a raucous laugh.

The idea of Ingaza having anything so domestic as an elderly aunt was somehow disconcerting. That he was in the habit of regularly accompanying her to the cinema and thence to the sedate joys of the Eastbourne bandstand was even more startling, and for a couple of moments I was literally lost for words. My silence prompted the voice to ask if I wanted to leave a message.

‘No … no, it’s all right, thank you,’ I replied, still shocked. ‘I’ll call again – tomorrow perhaps.’

‘OK. Suit yourself, but I’ll let him know you called anyway. Ta-ta for now.’ And so saying he rang off.

I gazed down at the receiver, trying to picture Ingaza entertaining his aunt on the Eastbourne sea front. But I also started to picture the fulminating Frenchman in Taupinière … What on earth did he think he was
doing
lolling in a deckchair listening to the band when the Spendlers were discovered and our futures in such jeopardy! Plainly unhinged!

I lit a cigarette and reflected. Maurice glided into the room and deposited his woollen mouse at my feet. Needless to say, this was not meant as a friendly offering, merely a cue to throw it across the room so he could flaunt his pouncing skills. I did as required, made a complimentary noise, and resumed my brooding.

Assuming that it
was
Nicholas responsible for delivering the pictures to Taupinière, who had tipped off the French police? Had the information come from England, and if so from what source, for God’s sake? Was Nicholas being watched? Was
I
being watched? Or was it the work of some maleficent Frog cleric determined to do down his rival in the promotion stakes? But recalling the photograph and the article, I rather doubted this. Sourly saturnine and trenchant in abuse, Father Martineau seemed an unlikely candidate for imminent elevation.

The telephone rang: Edith Hopgarden wanting to know if I had decided on the venue for the Sunday School Treat, and if it wasn’t
too
much trouble would I kindly give her some indication of the numbers. I produced a negative answer on both counts and went to bed. It had been a hard day.

Despite what I had said to Eric, I delayed telephoning again. Anxious though I was, the state of not knowing was marginally better than confronting the worst, and for the moment the luxury of ignorance suited me well. But I knew it could only be a matter of time.

And a short time it was. For four days later, just as Bouncer and I were leaving the church porch after the early service, I saw with a lurch of fear the familiar bulk of Ingaza’s black Citroën parked a few yards from the lychgate. There was a figure in the driving seat, and even from a distance I recognized the tilt of the slouch hat and the thin elbow draped casually over the sill as he flicked ash on to the gravel. As I drew closer, the arm gave a languid wave and he had the nerve to toot the horn.

‘Don’t do that, you idiot,’ I hissed, ‘people will notice! What are you here for!’

‘Can’t see any people, old chap. You obviously need to get your numbers up. As to why I’m here – well, I’ve been conducting some more business with my chum in Cranleigh, so thought that as I was in the district I might as well toddle over and see how Francis was getting on.’ And he grinned sardonically.

‘Francis was perfectly all right until he saw you,’ I replied crossly. ‘I suppose you do know the balloon’s gone up! How could you possibly be parading up and down on Eastbourne sea front when all this kerfuffle was going on in France? They’ll be on to your tail –
and
mine, at any moment!’

He looked entirely unperturbed by my protests and said blandly, ‘Take it easy, old cock, you’ll bust something if you go on like that.’

‘I should think I will,’ I exclaimed, ‘and mainly thanks to you! What on earth did you think you were doing palming those things off on the French priest? Looks a most unsavoury character, bound to shop you quicker than anything!’

‘Oh, he won’t shop me,’ he replied blithely, ‘I know too much. But you’re quite right. It was a tactical error. Might have guessed Henri would balls it up. You’re all the same: unreliable.’

‘We are not all the same!’ I snapped. ‘I bear no comparison to that questionable type, and it was hardly my fault if Primrose made a mess of things by shoving
On the Brink
behind that other canvas … Besides,’ I added, ‘he’s an RC!’

‘RC or not, you’ve both got something to hide. With Henri it’s gambling debts, among other things. Too fond of poker and Chantilly, hence his alacrity to accept my offer of a fat fee in exchange for a little co-operation – bit of a
quid pro quo
. With you it’s something else. Don’t know what, but there’s something there all right!’ And he laughed. I did not. In fact I went rather quiet and fumbled to light a cigarette.

‘Here, have one of mine,’ said Nicholas smoothly. ‘Much better than your coarse weeds. Now, get in and I’ll tell you what the score is.’

He proceeded to outline what he referred to as ‘the current situation’.

Apparently he had known Martineau for some years and they had, he indicated, ‘an arrangement of mutual convenience’. What this entailed I did not enquire and he did not enlarge. But it meant that when he was seeking a storage facility for the Spendlers he had always had the Taupinière connection at the back of his mind. In the event, however, he had selected Molehill: partly for its greater ease of access, but also on account of his earlier help to me. He had been sure I would jump at the chance to oblige an old pal (!) But after the débâcle of Mavis and the fête business he had reverted to his original plan, feeling that my involvement was more liability than boon.