Bones in the Belfry (10 page)

Primrose’s idea of a ‘strategy’ turned out to be nothing more than the proposal that she should return the pictures to me forthwith. As a means to getting me off the hook with Ingaza, Interpol, the press, and the Church authorities, this struck me as being less than imaginative. I pointed out reproachfully that during our earlier telephone conversation she had appeared to show a constructive interest in her brother’s plight. To which she responded that it was not so much my plight as her own which was of immediate concern.

I said coldly that I thought she was being a trifle selfish, and that she had certainly intimated a greater co-operation the previous evening.

‘Perhaps. But there’s been a development since then,’ she replied darkly.

‘What sort of development?’

‘Haven’t you read your
Times
this morning?’

‘No,’ I answered irritably. ‘I have a busy parish to run and unlike those of more
artistic
pursuits do not have the time to read the papers until much later in the day.’

There was a snort of laughter, and then down the line came a thin sing-songy voice, ‘High horse! High horse!’ A good thirty-five years fell away and we were back in the playroom again.

‘It’s all very well for you –’ I started.

‘No, Francis. It is not all very well for me. I suggest you
do
look at the paper, busy or not!’

I told her I didn’t have it to hand and would she please explain what she meant.

‘If you check the arts page you’ll see an item on your Spendlers. Apparently the latest view among those who are supposed to know about such things is that the paintings never left the country at all, and that far from being in America or wherever, they are being harboured on the south coast. There’s some dealer with a foreign name who keeps insisting they’re bound to be abroad, but the police and some of the specialists are convinced they’re being fenced down here. In fact – and this is the really worrying thing – even Lewes is mentioned. Things are far too close for comfort!’

It was a tiresome coincidence admittedly (and I could well imagine Nicholas still trying to divert attention overseas), but I felt that Primrose was being unduly apprehensive. After all, the police had no grounds for turning up on her doorstep out of the blue.

‘Don’t be so dense, Francis. I have some small reputation in Sussex art circles and often give interviews, talks etc. You know how quickly the police put two and two together and make six. They tar all artists with the same brush and are convinced that we operate a sort of freemasonry and are in cahoots with the underworld. They’re bound to come sniffing round asking questions, “following lines of enquiry” or whatever they say they do. I can’t afford the risk. There’s no question about it: you’ll have to fetch them back!’

Having recently become acquainted with police methods via my interrogators March and Samson, I saw what she meant, but nevertheless was exasperated by the dramatizing paranoia and felt she was being unnecessarily harsh.

‘Oh, come on, Prim,’ I pleaded, ‘they won’t come near you! And nobody would ever think of raiding
your
attic.’

‘Or yours!’ she snapped.

I knew I was losing the fight but had one desperate card up my sleeve: bribery. Primrose is not short of a penny – largely through the ruthless marketing of her sheep and church scenes – but she has always had an interest in hard cash and this was where it might just work to my advantage.

‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘why don’t I buy four of your pictures?’ – adding generously, ‘At the proper going rate of course. They’d be ideal for auctioning at our Spring Bazaar!’

‘Six.’

‘
Six!
’

‘Absolutely. And I would want forty-nine per cent commission on each sale.’

I sighed. ‘That’s a bit steep, isn’t it?’

‘Not half as steep as expecting your poor sister to hide your ill-gotten gains.’

I was about to protest that they were hardly
my
gains, but thought better of it. It would only stir further curiosity re the lender.

‘All right then,’ I agreed reluctantly, ‘a bargain.’

That settled, she became quite bright and animated, making suggestions as to which ones would be the most suitable, and asked if I would like to go down to Sussex to make a selection.

‘No,’ I said wearily. ‘Just send the bloody things …’

A victory but a tediously pyrrhic one. Tough on my pocket, further clutter in the vicarage, but above all no real solution to the underlying problem: how to dispose of the wretched Spendlers once and for all! Goodness only knew how long Nicholas intended leaving them in my ‘safe hands’. And as for Primrose, despite our bargain there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t change her mind – or ask for more money. People could be so unreliable!

I lit a cigarette and turned to the
Times
arts page. Yes, the article was there all right, prominently displayed in the first column. It was even accompanied by a photograph of the larger of the two paintings, the so-called
Dead Reckoning
. In black and white the thing looked less gruesome than when I had encountered it in the belfry but, if anything, more dismal. There was the usual gush about metaphysical angst and interior plasticities, and much was made of the artist’s brooding sensibility. I bet he was brooding – gnashing his dentures over the loss of a nice little money-spinner! Still, I reflected wryly, it was bound to be insured; and in any case, with all the publicity he was probably raking it in.

Primrose had been right about the speculation regarding their whereabouts. Apart from the lone voice of Nicholas still stubbornly insisting they were abroad, the general consensus was that they were indeed somewhere in the locality of the south coast. It wasn’t clear how that assumption was arrived at, but presumably there must have been a tip-off when they were first stolen. Nicholas, one step ahead of the field as usual, had been quick to think of sober Molehill (none of that Brighton raffishness up here!), and it occurred to me that by now I was doubtless featuring in his list of ‘useful’ contacts. That list had been helpful during my own troubles the previous summer, but little had I thought that one day I should be among its members.

I wandered into the sitting room, sat down at the piano and morosely embarked on the Dead March from
Saul
. This is one of Bouncer’s favourites, and sure enough, I had only gone a few bars into the piece when there was a draught from the hallway and I saw his woolly head appear round the door. He was carrying his rubber ring which he deposited at my feet and then sat down solemnly beside the music stool. In his way he is a companionable animal, and for a brief while pianist and listener became lost in the peace of their own harmonies.

Maurice put an end to that; or rather he
and
Mrs Tubbly Pole. Just as I had reached one of the quieter passages I heard a familiar noise – Maurice’s wail of affronted rage. But it seemed to be accompanied by another sound, a sort of throaty, scolding obbligato, and I realized that some human intrusion was imminent. There was a crash from the porch and another howl of indignation from the cat. Going into the hall I encountered Mrs Tubbly Pole already halfway through the front door. That was a surprise in itself, but even more of a shock was the fact that she was clutching Maurice to her bosom. Since his arrival at the vicarage nobody apart from myself had ever had the temerity to pick him up, and judging from his expression the shock was not confined to me.

‘Ah, Francis,’ she boomed, ‘I was just passing and saw your dear old moggy loitering in the porch. He obviously wanted to get in, so thought I’d give him a helping hand – though can’t say he seems to appreciate it much!’

‘Very kind of you,’ I said, hastily wresting the cat from her grasp and thrusting him into the kitchen, ‘but actually he often hangs about in the porch. It’s sunny there and he likes chasing the flies, and when he’s had enough he uses the pet flap at the back door.’

‘Oh well, it’s the thought that counts as they say … Anyway, now that I’m here you may as well get the lowdown on my latest plot. I’ve invented a marvellous twist to the main theme. You’ll be thrilled when you hear it!’

I couldn’t recall many thrills in my life and very much doubted whether Maud Tubbly Pole was going to add to them. However, I smiled benignly and tried to look interested.

‘You remember my telling you I was going to transpose the corpse from the wood to the belfry?’ I nodded wanly. ‘Well, that’s not the only way the original scenario is going to change!’ (What on earth could she or anyone else know about that original ghastly scenario!)

‘Really? What do you have in mind?’

‘The stolen Spendler paintings! I’m going to put them in the belfry along with the body, the ideal place! Don’t you think that tying up the two cases in one novel is quite masterly? Plenty of topical appeal
and
ingenuity!’ She grinned from ear to ear, almost executing a war dance of triumph, while I stared dumbstruck …

It seemed the right moment to invite her to sit down: my own legs were feeling distinctly weak and some sort of physical support was a matter of urgency. We repaired to the sitting room where – rather ungallantly, I recall – I was the first to slump down on the sofa. Fortunately, such was her delight in the feat of her own invention that she appeared not to notice this, or indeed what must have been my look of quivering horror.

But then, realizing she wasn’t getting quite the appreciative response expected, she exclaimed, ‘You do
know
which pictures I am talking about, don’t you?’

‘Er – yes, I think so,’ I replied vaguely.

‘Of course you do! The case has been in the papers for weeks. Quite a little mystery. Though I must say I think the fuss is excessive – they look a dreary pair from the photographs, not at all my cup of tea. Still, linking them with the Fotherington mystery will sell my novel all right. You mark my words!’ I did, and shuddered.

‘And talking of tea,’ she continued, ‘what about a glass of something?’

In trance-like state I arose dutifully, fetched the bottle and cast around for a lemon. Settled once more on the sofa, I said the first thing that came into my head. ‘Where’s Gunga Din? He’ll miss his evening tipple.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ she replied airily. ‘We were at a bridge party earlier on and he overdid things rather – bit of a greedy boy sometimes! I’ve left him at home to sleep it off.’ I felt a pang of envy, wishing that I could be doing the same, and preferably far away.

‘Anyway, my dear Francis, at the moment we’ve got better things to do than talk about Gunga Din. I need to pick your brains …’

Dear God! I thought.

Having my brains picked by Mrs Tubbly Pole was, as I had feared, a grisly business – not least because she was still hell-bent on my accompanying her to Foxford Wood. She said she wanted to have a ‘good rootle around’ and to ‘feel the emanations’, and that though she was not now going to have the body found there, a close encounter with the original murder scene would help stimulate the imaginative process. Naturally I ducked and weaved all I could, listing a whole series of pressing duties which would, alas, prevent my being her escort. Indeed, I was quite impressed by the busy schedule I had managed to fabricate in so short a space. But not so Mrs Tubbbly Pole.

‘Hmm. That sounds pretty tedious. And all the more reason to take time off and help me in my project. Much more fun! Besides, we could always unleash the monsters.’

‘Monsters!’ I exclaimed. ‘What monsters?’

‘The dogs of course: my Gunga and your Bouncer. It will make a nice little outing for them.’

Surely I hadn’t staked all just to provide an afternoon’s outing for an obese bulldog and a manic mongrel! The woman was impossible!

I cleared my throat and tried other prevarications. To no avail. The scarlet Smythson engagement diary was snapped open, and I was clearly expected to produce something similar. Unearthing a tattered Church calendar, I scanned it with furrowed brow, sighing heavily over the evidently filled dates. She was undeterred.

‘After lunch, Sunday afternoon,’ she declared briskly. ‘You’re always free then: the vicar’s snoozing hour, if I’m not mistaken. Well, you’ll just have to miss it for once; a walk will be much better for you!’ And she emitted a backslapping laugh. I smiled feebly.

The Roman Catholics have a special saint allocated to Hopeless Cases – St Jude, I believe – and I wondered vaguely whether I shouldn’t start making overtures in that direction; but on second thoughts felt the challenge a trifle unfair.

The ‘outing’ settled, she proceeded to regale me with the twists and turns of the projected novel; and despite the delicacy of my own situation I have to admit to being drawn into its convoluted plot. Though unsettling, it was certainly clever the way she had linked the two cases, and in other circumstances I might have been entertained. However, as she continued with her train of outlandish invention, thoughts of those carefully secreted pictures and the too familiar settings of wood, fields, and now belfry, pressed in upon me with a stifling weight. Her fiction was wild yet the relevance uncanny. Despite its ridiculous and lurid inaccuracies, the tale was far too close for comfort! I started to fidget but there was no release.

Slurping her drink and chortling happily, she went on to ask my opinion of the Spendlers: where they might be, how it had been done, how many persons did I think were involved; and then inevitably … what was my particular slant on the Fotherington case and that ‘unfortunate parishioner of yours’. It was a nightmarish hour, and by the time she had finished my nerves were shot to pieces. One thing was decided though: on no account would I accompany her to Foxford Wood! The ‘monsters’ would have to forfeit their outing.

*    *    *

The next day Primrose’s sheep pictures arrived. A fairish exchange, I supposed – the essential thing being that, technically at any rate, I was no longer ‘in possession’. Fortunately they were considerably smaller than the Spendlers, but even so it was tiresome having to find somewhere to store the six of them, and I had no intention of trying the belfry again. Eventually I managed to clear a space in the recess behind the piano, and stacked them against the wall. They were not exactly my favourite articles, being hard on the pocket and intrusive in my home, but I comforted myself with the thought that at least they had a fund-raising use. As such they could certainly cover the costs of the belfry’s shattered floorboard, and probably the loose organ seat that Tapsell was always whingeing about. And while on the subject, wasn’t it time for an electric fire in the pulpit? All very well dispensing warmth and comfort to the congregation but what about the ice-bound vicar!

As I dwelt on that cheering possibility and debated whether a two-bar model would be excessive, I noticed an envelope on the floor addressed in Primrose’s writing. She must have stuck it to part of the packing paper and it had become detached as I was propping the things in the alcove. Perhaps it was to say that she had reconsidered her absurd conditions and was suggesting a reduced commission, or better still, a cut in the fee. Vain thoughts. The note simply confirmed the terms of the deal with a curt request to send my cheque (plus the extra for the delivery charge) at my earliest convenience. I sighed in exasperation. Early or late, it was far from convenient! She would just have to wait. But as I was gauging how long I could delay settlement before incurring further demands, I noticed she had added a scrawled PS:

‘Have just re-read that
Times
article about the Spendlers, and the name Ingaza rings a distinct bell. Wasn’t that the name of that awful friend of yours at the St Bede’s place – the one who all the fuss was about? Seem to remember it being said at the trial that he had “delicate tendencies”. Wholly
in
delicate I should say! Brighton’s not so far from Molehill, so I just hope you’re not consorting with him again. A very suspect character, Francis. Highly dodgy, as Daddy would say!’

I wrote the cheque immediately; thanked her profusely for the paintings, discoursed eloquently on the realism of her sheep, admired the chiaroscuro effects on the church architecture, and made no reference to Nicholas. The last thing I wanted was Primrose pursuing that particular line of enquiry! With cash in hand and ego massaged, she might find the subject of waning interest. I fervently hoped so.

Somehow, dealing with the pictures and settling Primrose’s account had imposed quite a strain, and I felt that a quiet potter in the church might put me in a less jaded frame of mind. It was nearing lunchtime and I judged that there would be few people about, so with luck I could enjoy its cloistered calm uninterrupted.

As I had hoped, the building was empty; and with the shafts of the noonday sun dappling the transept and stroking the tombs of the three chain-mailed warriors, it presented a scene of slumbering serenity. The polishers had been at work earlier in the day; and as I strolled towards the Lady Chapel savouring the whiff of the beeswaxed pews, I paused to admire the gleaming candlesticks in the chancel, the freshly scrubbed flagstones, and the angel faces shining out from the frieze on the lectern. It had to be admitted that, tiresome though they often were, Edith Hopgarden and her cohorts of cleaners did a remarkably good job in preserving both the aura and odour of St Botolph’s modest sanctity. Perhaps the next issue of the newsletter should include a note of commendation …

I settled in one of the pews and tried to work out how I could best phrase the compliments without further encouraging Edith’s firm conviction that she was indispensable – which of course she was. And then, unwrapping a peppermint from my pocket, I began to think of other things, of this and that … and then of
that
. I flinched, shut my eyes, and pondered the final lines of the Herrick poem which I had selected for Elizabeth’s Memorial Anthem:

All very well for Herrick, I reflected. His confidence was touching, but our situations were hardly analogous. I continued to sit with my eyes closed …

Suddenly there was an almighty crash, followed by an anguished shriek. The sounds came from the organ loft. I leaped up, startled out of my wits and angry at the unwanted intrusion. Dead silence. Scowling upwards I could see nothing, and nothing stirred. And then, barely discernible, there was the faintest sound of furtive whisperings, followed by a pause and the creaking of a floorboard. Some damn-fool choirboys larking about? It was too bad! Anyway, what were they doing at that time of day? Surely it wasn’t half-term yet. I cleared my throat irritably, ready to make stern enquiry. However, before I could say anything, a head appeared gingerly over the loft railing. It was Tapsell’s.

Given the location, I suppose the organist’s presence was unremarkable, but sensing he was not alone I groaned inwardly. Surely to God they were not at it
again
, and not here of all places! It had been embarrassing enough in the wood a few months earlier. More really, for then I had had the difficulty of explaining my own presence, whereas now no such explanation was required. Still, it was a bit much!

Red-faced, Tapsell craned over the rail and in accusing tones cried, ‘Look here, now see what’s happened – this seat’s completely had it! I’ve been telling you about it for weeks. Should have been seen to ages ago!’ There was a scuffling behind him which I took to be Edith adjusting her hat or whatever else needed attention.

I gave a wintry smile and observed acidly that perhaps his organ practice was becoming a trifle too enthusiastic of late and that those old seats couldn’t always withstand the wilder flights of artistic passion. He glared down and started to bluster something, but I turned away and affected to tidy the hymn books. And then, with a casual wave of my hand, I strolled towards the south porch and out into the sunshine.

As I went I reflected that at least it solved the problem of how to write the tribute in the parish newsletter: there wouldn’t be any. Edith would just have to settle for her own smug laurels!