Bones in the Belfry (11 page)

‘He’s in a right buggers’ muddle!’ the dog announced.

‘When isn’t he?’ I murmured, sipping my milk.

‘Well, he hasn’t been too bad for a while, Maurice, but you should see him now – doing his nut, he is! I’m jolly sure it’s to do with that Tubbly person; she’s been at him again. My bones tell me.’

‘Your bones tell you too much, Bouncer!’ I replied curtly, feeling rather sleepy and not wishing to be drawn into one of the dog’s dramas.

‘Oh no,’ he protested, ‘bones are a very good measure of what’s in the wind. They tell you a lot of things, and I’ve got certain views about what’s going on. For instance …’ Not wishing to be subjected to Bouncer’s
obiter dicta
I hastily closed my eyes and pretended to drop off to sleep. It didn’t work of course, and the next moment I could feel his hot breath rasping down my ear and a cold nose on the back of my neck.

‘Wake
up
, Maurice! I’ve been doing some of my special thinking and I’ve got something to say.’

‘Speak,’ I sighed.

‘Well, you see, it’s like this …’ and his tone became earnest and confidential. ‘Something or somebody – probably Tubbly – is stewing him up again over that corpse business in the woods.
Also
he’s in a blue funk about those old pictures: they’re on his nerves. For some reason they could put him in the cart.’

‘Perhaps, but he got rid of those on his sister. They shouldn’t pose a problem now. And as to the corpse of my unlamented mistress – well, that’s all over and done with.
We
saw to that.’ I noticed a belligerent look come into his eye, and added hastily, ‘Thanks to you largely.’

Mollified, he continued. ‘Yes, but I’ve got a nasty feeling it may be brewing up again. And what with that and now this rum picture business, it’s all getting on his fins.’

‘Things often get on his fins,’ I said, ‘but he seems to survive.’

‘Yes, but will
we
? That’s the question. S’pose he goes funny like my old master Bowler, and does a bunk to South America or some such. Where does that leave us?’

I considered. ‘Well, I suppose it might –’

‘Leaves us in the cat litter. That’s what!’

I stared at him coldly. ‘I think you might moderate your turn of phrase.’

‘Turn of phrase be damned!’ he barked. ‘What about our skins!’

He had a point but I didn’t want to look too concerned. Instead I observed coolly, ‘I am sure all will be well, Bouncer. No sense in crossing mole traps before we meet them. Believe me, a steady head is essential in such matters. As my great uncle used to say: “Panic is the bane of self-preservation.”’

‘
I
am not panicking but F.O. is. And we all know what happened to your great uncle!’

As it happened, my Great Uncle Marmaduke had been shot while bravely plundering a hen-run, but I did not think it Bouncer’s place to mention the fact. And taking exception to his presumption I went into one of my better sulks. This had the desired effect: got rid of the dog and gave me satisfaction and time to think.

*    *    *

Emerging from the sulk and having thought, I summoned Bouncer. He came bounding up, wagging his tail as if he hadn’t a care in the world. So much for his earlier fears! Then I noticed that his chops were looking more than usually grisly, and realized that F.O. must have given him a fresh marrow bone. Food plays a key part in shaping the dog’s frame of mind.

‘With regard to your earlier comments,’ I began, ‘I do recall a conversation I happened to overhear between our master and the Tubbly Pole. It concerned a walk in Foxford Wood which she seemed keen to take him on.’

‘Was he keen?’ asked Bouncer.

‘Distinctly reluctant, I would say.’

‘That’s probably it then. Just like me when I’ve been a bit thoughtless on the carpet: he’s going to get his nose rubbed in it and doesn’t like the idea. Can’t face looking at the same patch.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, my thoughts exactly. So to calm his nerves and bring peace to the household we must ensure that he never goes on that walk. There are two means of distraction: either we can contrive that something untoward befall Gunga Din which will fluster Mrs Tubbly and thus –’

‘You mean like me savaging his bum again!’ guffawed Bouncer.

‘Or,’ I continued patiently, ‘
you
affecting an illness you do not have. It’s called malingering.’

‘Don’t care what it’s called,’ he growled, ‘I’m not doing it – it’ll mean a visit to the vet.’

‘You don’t mind that really,’ I said. ‘It’s just the thought. Once you’re there you generally go to sleep, or so you tell me. Besides,’ I purred, ‘think of the attention you’re likely to get – all that petting and cosseting, and doubtless extra dollops of Muncho. Why, it will be food for old bones!’

He chewed his paw and pondered. And then gave a snort. ‘Something to tell O’Shaughnessy, I suppose! He’s a bit down since I beat him in the peeing game but this might cheer him up. He likes a good joke – especially if I put on a really nice show with masses of moaning and groaning and eating grass and looking mournful. You know the sort of thing!’

I knew it only too well, but was glad that the dog was entering into the spirit of the thing. With luck, Bouncer’s malady would provide just the right pretext to enable F.O. to fob off the Tubbly.

Dismissing him with a winning smile, I curled up for the night well satisfied with my fertile ruse. Distantly, as I began to doze, I could hear the faint tones of Great Uncle Marmaduke miaowing his approbation …

Sunday was fast looming and I still hadn’t devised a way of getting out of the walk. Such was Mrs Tubbly Pole’s tenacity that, short of an Act of God or breaking my leg, there seemed little to thwart her plans. I strummed disconsolately on the piano but it yielded no inspiration, and I dropped the lid irritably and lit a cigarette.

Bouncer was sprawled in the far corner and it was strange he hadn’t set up a hullabaloo. I had used more force on the lid than intended, even startling myself. But the dog lay torpid and apparently undisturbed. I continued to grapple vainly with implausible excuses, and then as it was close to supper time shelved the matter: Bouncer tends to get agitated if he doesn’t hear the sawing of the tin-opener.

I went into the kitchen expecting him to follow, but it was only when I was halfway through prising the lid off the Muncho that I noticed he wasn’t there. I called his name but there was no response; and then there came a loud canine groan from the sitting room followed by a halfhearted howl. Was Maurice being bloody again? Leaving the Muncho, I hastened from the room ready to set the cat by its ears. But there was no sign of it – only Bouncer on his own, lolling about on the floor with pathetic look and rolling eye. He seemed distinctly seedy.

I tried coaxing him up and into the kitchen, but he lay firmly anchored to the carpet whimpering feebly. Perhaps thrusting some food right under his nose might perk him up. Not a success. After a few tentative mouthfuls he spat it out over my shoes, rolled over and went into what appeared to be some sort of coma.

This was high drama and I telephoned the vet immediately. Fortunately the surgery was just finishing and Robinson agreed to stop off on his way home. It was only about a ten-minute wait but it seemed an age; and in the meantime, having draped the dog in a blanket, I watched anxiously while he twitched and snuffled, apparently oblivious of everything. Maurice appeared, and wandering over to his ailing companion stared curiously, gave him a thoughtful butt with his head, and wandered out again.

By the time Robinson arrived, Bouncer’s tongue was lolling out of his mouth and he looked alarmingly corpse-like.

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the vet cheerfully. ‘What’s wrong with him, then?’

‘How should I know!’ I answered irritably. ‘Thought that was your brief.’

Though it was mildly reassuring to know that others could be as befogged in their calling as oneself, this did not seem a particularly useful start to proceedings. I looked on gloomily as he set about poking and prodding and doing the usual things with stethoscope and probe. The dog lay with an expression that I can only describe as stricken.

Hearing the door creak faintly, I noticed Maurice glide in once more. He hovered some yards away watching Bouncer intently, and then apparently losing interest proceeded to engage in one of his elaborate grooming sessions. He was purring – which in the circumstances struck me as tasteless. I always thought animals were supposed to share some sort of intuitive empathy. Trust the cat to buck the norm.

Finally Robinson knelt back on his heels, and scratching his head said in a puzzled voice, ‘Can’t make it out really: there don’t seem to be any obvious symptoms – nose is cold, heart’s all right, no lumps or tender spots on his tummy, temperature’s okay. If he were human I’d say he was swinging the lead!’

‘There must be something wrong,’ I expostulated. ‘Can’t you give him anything … pills, medicine?

‘Well, I
can
,’ he replied doubtfully, ‘though don’t suppose it’ll do much good. Tell you what though, we’ll try him with a sedative, that should keep him quiet.’

‘But he
is
quiet!’ I protested.

‘Well, he’ll be even quieter then, won’t he.’ And following that helpful observation he produced a syringe, and with a deft movement stuck it into Bouncer’s haunch. The dog emitted an anguished roar.

‘Lungs are in good nick anyway,’ said Robinson. ‘I’m off now – got a nice spot of liver and bacon for supper. Keep him warm, give him water, and any problems get on the blower. Cheerio for now!’ So saying, he picked up his case, eased Maurice out of the way with the toe of his shoe, and departed into the night.

I stared down at the now loudly snoring Bouncer, wishing that I could treat my parishioners with the same cavalier bonhomie as the vet did his patients. Oddly enough, the latter invariably thrived; whereas I could never be entirely sure about my own particular flock.

The next day was Saturday, and to my relief the dog seemed more his normal self: still lethargic but certainly back on his food. Indeed, if anything he seemed more avid than usual, presumably the result of the previous day’s fast. But there was still a great deal of sprawling about going on and the tail remained resolutely unwagged – an omission which in Bouncer is a sure sign of something amiss. I kept a watchful eye on him (as did Maurice, who barely left the kitchen and kept circling the dog’s basket in a really rather irritating way).

Concern for the invalid had temporarily eclipsed my worry about Sunday and what Mrs Tubbly Pole was merrily calling our ‘jaunt’ to Foxford Wood. I still hadn’t worked out an exit strategy … And then, as I sat at the kitchen table putting the finishing touches to the next day’s sermon, the obvious pretext struck me: Bouncer’s malady! Clearly no one with a pet in such a perilous condition could possibly leave it all afternoon to fend for itself in an empty house. And besides, wouldn’t I be far too agitated to do full justice to her fascinating sleuthing project, not knowing quite what I might find on my return home? Surely as a fellow animal lover etc., etc. …

I sat there smoking, embroidering the fabric and pumping up the drama. (Not that the drama needed much pumping. After all, the dog had appeared only too moribund the night before.) Glancing at the victim again, I was glad to see that he was beginning to look considerably more human. But that was a detail, and getting up I marched to the telephone.

It is amazing how a few minutes of telecommunication can change one’s mood so radically, inducing abject misery or wildest relief. In this case it was mercifully the latter. Maud Tubbly Pole could not have been more attentive to Bouncer’s plight, advising innumerable remedies and nostrums and sending him Gunga Din’s fondest wishes. Indeed, such was her solicitude that I began to feel mildly guilty about chickening out. But such scruples were short-lived, and with brisk step I went into the sitting room, sat at the piano and embarked on a loud and lavish rendering of ‘Me and My Gal’. In the distance I could just detect a howl of protest from Maurice.

Sunday afternoon was bliss: service and sermon over, fire stoked, phone off the hook, a fresh packet of humbugs, crossword amenable – and
no
Tubbly Pole! What could be nicer? Even Maurice seemed in benign mood, playing ingeniously with a cotton reel while Bouncer dozed on the hearthrug. It was at moments like that when I really enjoyed being in Molehill … and indeed in the Church.

Of course, God’s mercies are tantalizingly brief but they are very pleasant while they last. And with only the occasional parish hiccup to deal with, that particular benison lasted a good few days, after which I was sufficiently rested to face the trials inevitably in store. The first and major trial was Primrose. She had lost one of the Spendlers.

‘You’ve done what!’ I cried. ‘What do you mean,
lost
it?’

‘Well, not exactly lost, sort of sent elsewhere … by mistake, naturally,’ she added coolly.

‘Some mistake! It’s a monumental cock-up! How did you do it – and which one anyway?’

‘The smaller one, the one with the beach and the horse-faced youth. Most people would be only too glad to see the back of him – although,’ and she giggled, ‘come to think of it, with a vast behind like that, I’m not so sure!’

‘Vast arse or not, this is no laughing matter. My reputa-tion’s at stake!’

‘What, as vicar or fence?’

‘Both – I mean neither … Oh, for pity’s sake, Primrose, be serious and kindly explain!’

She told me that she had been getting increasingly worried about having the two pictures on her premises and had decided that the safest means of concealment was disguise, i.e. to take them from their frames and slip the canvases into the backs of two of her own paintings. The larger was the problem as she didn’t have a picture of comparable size but at least she could deal with the smaller one, and selecting one of the less appealing sheep scenes she shoved it into the back of that.

‘Well, that’s all right,’ I said, ‘quite a sensible idea. So what went wrong?’

She explained that her studio was becoming hopelessly cluttered and so she had removed a large number of the sketches and paintings to the attic. With a tight schedule to complete, she had been in a hurry and hadn’t bothered to sort or even stack them properly, intending to do it later.

Sensing what might be coming next, I said acidly, ‘So in the meantime that priceless Spendler was stuck there overlaid and cheek by jowl with all the sheep rubbish! And now I suppose you’re going to tell me that in the general shambles you’ve shipped it off to some unknown client or gallery!’

‘Gosh, Francis, just now and again you’re pretty sharp! But actually you haven’t got it
quite
right –’

‘Why not?’ I snapped.

‘Well, you see, the client – or purchaser rather – is not unknown.’

‘Oh? Who?’

There was a pause, and then she said quietly, ‘I think you may know someone by the name of Gladys Clinker …’

The receiver dropped from my hand and I sat down heavily on the cat whose screech of horror seemed entirely commensurate with the occasion. Then taking a deep breath and groping on the desk for an Anadin, I asked her as calmly as I was able how she had come to encounter the bishop’s wife.

‘This large woman appeared one day in the Lewes gift shop where I flog some of my stuff. She was with a couple of others and they all had loud voices, though hers was the loudest,’ (Gladys all right!) ‘and after a bit of
oohing
and
aahing
over the pots and gew-gaws, she asked if by any chance I would sell her three or four of my things at a discount. Said something about wanting to surprise her husband, and that as she was attending picture-framing classes thought they might also come in handy for practising on. Wasn’t too keen on that last part – a bit cheeky, I thought! But four pictures in one go, even with a discount, is quite a haul, so naturally I sold them to her.’

‘Naturally,’ I said wearily.

‘It was only when I got home that I realized the hidden Spendler was among them; and after checking the name and address on the invoice, recognized she must be the wife of that bishop you’re always cursing. Small world, isn’t it!’

Ignoring the last observation, I told her that her negligence had placed me in an appalling position and I felt deeply wounded by one I had supposed an ally. An apology was surely forthcoming.

‘Apology be damned! I’ve gone to considerable lengths for you and it’s been distinctly troublesome. After all,
I
never wanted the things here in the first place. And frankly, Francis dear, if you ever again refer to my sheep as being rubbish I shall lose the other Spendler as well!’ I sighed. She would too.

It was a facer all right, and I sat down soberly, trying to concoct some plan of action, even taking up pencil and notepad in the hope that by committing ideas to paper they might look vaguely feasible. This could have been helpful had there been any ideas to commit. As it was, I sat there blankly, chewing the pencil and once more cursing Nicholas. Ten minutes later the telephone rang again. Perhaps it was Primrose in more penitent frame of mind.

It was Primrose all right, but far from penitent and exceedingly angry.

‘Do you realize,’ she commenced icily, ‘the danger this has put
me
in? If that frightful woman starts hacking around with those frames the Spendler will be exposed and
I
shall be required to provide an explanation! Should that occur I shall have no hesitation in explaining that it had been passed to me by my brother, the vicar of Molehill.’

‘Ah,’ I said.

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘Er … for the moment, yes.’

‘Well, let me put a few words into your mouth,’ she seethed. ‘How about, “Yes, Primrose, I will do my level best to prise the painting out of that woman’s hands before it is too late. And failing that, should you be hauled before the High Court I will solemnly swear to take the rap for everything and tell the world that Primrose Oughterard is a woman of unimpeachable probity.”’

‘Yes, yes, yes …’ I said, tired of the drama and rather badly wanting a restorative. There came a further shell blast from the other end and then the line went dead. I took the receiver off the hook.

It was not one of my better nights, and the following morning was hardly helped by an unexpected visit from the rector of St Hilda’s of the adjoining parish. I don’t dislike Theodore Pick and he has done me a few good turns in the past, not least by lending me his curate, Barry, when I was forced to make that fateful trip to Sussex with the paintings. However, there is something about Pick which dampens the spirits and weakens the sinews. He is perfectly civil, and it is difficult to understand why he should have this effect, but I know that I am not the only one who experiences a distinct lowering of temperature in his presence. Indeed, I recall Rummage at some conference observing that ‘old Theo’ was the last person from whom you could expect a good
pick
-me-up! I am always loath to agree with Basil Rummage about anything, but in this particular case I think he was right.

Anyway, Pick appeared just as I was finishing my last slice of toast. He was still in his cassock from early service, and with his beaky nose and furrowed brow had the air of a careworn raven.

‘Hope you can get rid of these,’ he announced dolefully, thrusting a bunch of leaflets into my hands, ‘flyers for our Spring Fête. It’s some centenary or other and we’ve got to put on a good show. Need all the numbers we can get –
and
helpers,’ he added pointedly.

I gave a wan smile. ‘You’d like me to come along, would you? Help with the teas or something?’

‘Exactly!’ he replied. ‘That would be most useful, Francis. Thought I could rely on you to put a shoulder to the wheel!’ (As if I hadn’t got enough wheels of my own to shoulder!) ‘The problem is finding something new to offer – one gets so tired of the Mothers’ Union hammering their tambourines all over the place and Major Pegley doing his impressions of an Indian snake charmer … Don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas, have you?’

I told him my mind was like kapok that morning but I would alert him should inspiration strike. He sighed heavily. ‘Oh well, I suppose we shall get through it, we generally do. At least the bishop is coming which is something, though I fear
Mrs
will be accompanying him – as usual. Think she said she’d be bringing a picture for the White Elephant stall. Much help that’ll be!’

The word ‘picture’ struck a Pavlovian chill of fear, but I nodded sympathetically and enquired casually what sort of picture and did it have any sheep in it.

‘
I
don’t know. Why on earth should it have sheep? Anyway, does it matter? It’s all junk and never raises more than a pittance! … Matter of fact, I think she said something about finding it stuck behind another canvas – it’s some beach scene or other – but she’s always spouting garbage, I never listen to the woman. One thing’s for certain, it’s not going to help my fête get off the ground!’ And producing more leaflets from the folds of his cassock and dropping them on the table, he took his leave and flapped mournfully down the path.

After he had gone I lit a cigarette and brooded. The news was dire. Thanks to Gladys’s framing zeal, the Spendler’s fate was problematic to say the least. Given its artistic awfulness this wouldn’t have mattered a jot, despite the high price. But if Nicholas Ingaza were to forfeit a nice fat pay-off on account of my negligence, it would not just be the picture’s fate that hung in the balance! Recalling our days at St Bede’s, I remembered how firmly he had embraced the principle of
quid pro quo
and how those less scrupulous in their adherence to the code had suffered accordingly. Were he now to feel my
quid
had shortchanged his
quo
I suspected that things could get more than bumpy! The spectre of the forest glade with its incriminating binoculars danced before my eyes,
*
and I shuddered.

Besides, quite apart from the Nicholas angle, supposing the thing were recognized anyway? The excitement would be intense, questions asked, trails pursued. The Clinkers would be interviewed, Primrose traced … the vicar of Molehill arrested. I sat sick with fear as the awesome possibilities crowded into my mind. If they started investigating my part in the picture theft, what
else
might they not uncover! Despite the room’s warmth, I felt cold and my hands clammy with fear. Limbs numbed, imagination horribly active, I sat staring at the mantelpiece and the photograph of my father, whose large cigar and complacent expression did little to assuage the mounting panic. I turned my gaze to the dozing dog; and calming a little, reflected that at least I knew where the thing was, who had it and where it was currently destined. Knowledge is power. How to exercise it? Letting an hour elapse to allow him time to reach home, I dialled the number of the Reverend Theodore Pick.

‘I say, Pick,’ I began, beaming down the telephone, ‘I’ve been thinking about your fête and would be more than happy to man the White Elephant stall, I rather enjoy that sort of thing – if nobody else has offered of course.’

‘Who on earth would offer?’ he intoned grimly. ‘Surprised you don’t want the tombola, people seem to like it for some reason. Still, far be it from me to question a gift horse … Thanks, Oughterard, you’re on!’ I was about to replace the receiver when he added, ‘I tell you what would be really good, if you could organize a coachload from Molehill to help swell the numbers. I don’t trust my lot. It’s a Saturday and they’d as soon be at the cinema or the races as support their parish fête. Bound to be a poor turn-out. Probably rain anyway.’

Always the optimist, Pick. ‘Of course,’ I cried gaily. ‘No problem at all. Molehill will be there, you can count on us!’

I would pledge him anything if it meant I could secure that White Elephant stall and pip the other beggars to the post!