Bones in the Belfry (13 page)

All in all, an abortive day. And now once more I was faced with the impossible task of retrieving the picture! Slumped on the sofa and chewing an aspirin, I stared morosely at Maurice. He returned my stare with a look of searing indifference and then proceeded to groom his nether parts. No help there. From the hall came the faint sounds of the dog tackling his bone. After the previous year’s fracas with the music stool, bones were supposed to be off-limits in the sitting room (a rule, needless to say, consistently flouted). He had a perfectly good basket in the kitchen for such activity but seemed to take a perverse pleasure in grappling with the things as near to the forbidden area as possible, i.e. just on the other side of the door. However, despite its guttural overtone, the noise had a certain rhythm which was oddly soporific, and worn out by the day’s exertions I gradually dozed off.

I awoke to the shrilling of the telephone. To my surprise it was Savage, the piano tuner. I say ‘surprise’, because although I liked Savage and our random meetings had always been amicable (indeed, he had helped me out on a couple of rather crucial occasions some months earlier), we were not so close as to be on telephoning terms. He must have felt the same sense of novelty for his tone sounded guarded and apologetic.

‘Ah,’ he began, ‘the wife’s been getting on at me to give you a call. She’s made some more of her fairy cakes – went a bit mad this time and the place is full of ’em. All over the shop, they are! She seems to think you could do with a batch. Don’t suppose you could – could you?’

The first time I had encountered Mrs Savage’s fairy cakes was the occasion when Bishop Clinker, a little worse for wear, had just concluded an exhibition of the finer points of the cancan by collapsing on my sitting-room floor. Savage, bearing gifts of cakes, had arrived just in time to help heave the episcopal burden from the carpet and assist in its semi-revival. It had been a stressful experience, but when all was over, those sugary cakes had brought much comfort to jangled nerves. Perhaps this time too their silver balls and cochineal icing would induce a similar calm (or better still, inspire solution to the current difficulty).

Thus I told Savage I would be most glad to help him out, and suggested he came round in an hour’s time. He sounded rather relieved and I wondered whether Mrs S. was having another of her ‘turns’. I never quite understood what these actually comprised, but judging from Savage’s cheery allusions presumably nothing unduly dire. Was frenzied activity in the baking department one of their symptoms perhaps …? I pondered this briefly but was soon re-immersed in thoughts of my own problem: how to tackle Mavis Briggs and her ‘lucky find’.

Indeed, so absorbed was I by this question that I had quite forgotten to pour a drink or even light a cigarette. Both omissions were remedied with the arrival of Savage.

He came in clutching his white stick and a large cardboard box which he was insistent I should open immediately and sample the contents. I wasn’t quite sure whether fairy cakes would go with whisky, but wanting the latter rather badly I was prepared to try the combination. As was Savage.

We sat quietly, sipping and munching. The mixture was not unpleasant.

‘Nice bit of Scotch,’ he observed.

‘Jolly nice cakes!’ I exclaimed.

He beamed. ‘Yes. Taste good, look good. She’s pretty slick at that kind of thing.’

‘How do you know how they look?’ I asked curiously. ‘I mean, you can’t see much, can you?’

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ he replied blithely. ‘After all, I
used
to see. Besides, she describes them so often I know them like the back of my hand!’ And he chuckled indulgently. I recalled that Savage had indeed once seen – until 1944 on the Normandy beaches, when, to quote his own words, ‘A landmine well nigh blew me to buggery.’ Unlike his companions he had – again to quote his own words – ‘got off lightly’, losing neither his life nor his manhood … merely his sight. My own war had been prosaic, tiring, occasionally frightening, but never heroic. We were different, Savage and myself, and I respected him accordingly.

‘So,’ he said, settling further into his chair and finding the crisps, ‘what have you been up to, Rev? Not seen much of you recently. Piano all right, is it?’ I assured him it was fine thanks to his ministrations, but I was still struggling hopelessly with the ‘Goldberg’ pieces.

‘Oh well,’ he laughed, ‘they’ll see you out, make no mistake! I keep telling you to try the drums instead. Gene Krupa. Now there’s a marvel. Cor! If I could play like that I shouldn’t have to spend my time footling around with Molehill’s pianos!’ And he grinned blissfully, obviously seeing himself in some louche dive revving up the timpani Krupa-wise.

I smiled sympathetically, knowing what it was to have unrealized dreams, and thought irritably of Nicholas Ingaza and his genius for messing them up. But it was not drums I hankered for, merely a little peace and quiet. And, between them, Nicholas and Mavis Briggs had made sure that I wasn’t getting either! I gazed at the two remaining fairy cakes, ruminating dolefully on the contrariness of things, as Savage continued to discourse on drumming and neighbourhood gossip, for both of which he had an unfailing ear.

‘… Anyway she’s hell bent on Bexhill,’ I heard him saying, ‘but I told her Las Vegas was more her style!’ And he roared with laughter.

‘Sorry – I missed that … who did you say?’

‘Mavis – Mavis Briggs. She’s off on holiday next week. Keen as mustard to go to Bexhill for some reason. Can’t think why, even the wife thinks it’s dreary!’

I took another sip of whisky and then a bite of my cake, and examining its magenta icing said casually, ‘Well, that will be nice for her. How long is she going for? A week, I suppose – Monday to Monday or something like that … ?’

‘Wednesday, I think. Something about the coach being cheaper mid-week.’

‘What about the house? Does somebody look after it for her?’

‘Matter of fact I asked her that. But you know Mavis! She twittered a bit and then said that people were far too nice to think of breaking into
her
house and that she was blessed with a trusting nature, unlike some people she could mention – meaning me, I suppose!’ He grinned broadly and added, ‘Mavis’s idea of household security is to hide the spare key under the front mat! Told the wife so only last week. When Mrs S. asked if that wasn’t a bit dangerous, she said it suited her there because it was easy to remember. I ask you!’

We laughed indulgently, drank some more whisky, and spent what was left of the evening putting the world and Molehill to rights.

The clock struck ten. ‘Ah well,’ said Savage, getting up to go, ‘time I was off. Any later and the missus will be starting her baking again – can’t have that, not just yet anyway!’ I opened the front door for him, and still chuckling he tapped his way down the path and into the night.

Returning to the sitting room I poured a final drink, dimmed the lights, and thought about Mavis being hell bent for Bexhill. And wondered …

Exactly as threatened in his postcard from Le Touquet, Nicholas soon alerted me to his imminent intention of taking back the smaller Spendler and replacing it with an unspecified other. He was to arrive in two days’ time. Thanks to Savage’s revelation about Mavis’s intended holiday I had been able to make certain rudimentary plans re the picture’s retrieval. Nevertheless, I cannot say that the prospect of his visit filled me with rapturous delight.

He arrived in what my father would doubtless have called ‘some damned Frog job’, i.e. a black and sprawling Citroën Traction Avant circa 1945, which had the air of something one might have encountered winding its way up the tortuous bends between Berchtesgaden and Hitler’s Kehlsteinhaus. I thought irritably that it was typical of Ingaza’s perversity to prowl about in some sinister foreign car. Why he couldn’t run a decent Rover or Hillman like anyone else the Lord only knew!

However, such irritation was swiftly eclipsed by acute anxiety: for reaching into the back seat he proceeded to extricate not simply another closely wrapped canvas, but one whose dimensions outstripped the two Spendlers put together! I watched bleakly as he manoeuvred it up the front path, and with heavy heart opened the porch door.

‘Well, old mate,’ he breezed, ‘nice to see you on your own holy ground again. Suits you better than the Old Schooner – more in keeping, you might say!’ And he grinned around quizzically at the tired linoleum and worn stair carpet adorned by a couple of Bouncer’s chewed Bonios. I said nothing, but indicated he should prop his burden against the banister, and took him into the sitting room where, dreading the news I had to impart, I poured him a particularly lavish gin. Two thirty in the afternoon was not exactly the normal drinking hour, but that was immaterial. What mattered was trying to soften the wrath which, after my confession, would surely come.

It came. Unsoftened. ‘What the hell do you mean, you haven’t got it!’ he rasped. ‘Where is it, in God’s name?’

My garbled and largely fabricated explanation was cut short by a graphic diatribe in which the phrases ‘twisting bastard’, ‘witless nincompoop’ and ‘frigging fruitcake’ seemed to feature quite forcefully. Other terms were also used. Eventually he subsided, and sleeking his hair with practised poise asked me in tones of silky menace how I proposed to retrieve his property. Not wishing to risk further ire by querying the accuracy of the possessive adjective, I told him it was all perfectly in hand and that we would go that very afternoon to Mavis’s empty house, remove the object from the wall and return to the vicarage for a celebratory cup of tea and cream bun.

He stared at me in cold silence, and then went to the sideboard and helped himself liberally to more of my gin. None was offered to me. He sipped it steadily while I nursed the cat, which for some reason had made one of its rare forays on to my lap.

Then suddenly, and to my considerable relief, he started to laugh – one of those protracted nasal titters that in our student days at St Bede’s had so irritated the authorities. ‘Well, Francis,’ he said, ‘you may be dull but at least no one could accuse you of being predictable! How you cope with this job or it with you I just don’t know. Bloody shambles, I should think!’ And the titter turned into a splutter of mirth.

I was glad that his mood had changed (albeit at the expense of my gin) but a trifle peeved by the aspersions cast on my pastoral competence. Apart from that disastrous wedding and the occasional near drowning of a baptismal infant, St Botolph’s services conformed to the strictest protocol, maintaining standards of professionalism quite alien to one such as Nicholas! However, in the circumstances it seemed imprudent to dispute the matter, and instead I suggested amiably that if he had finished his drink it was time we paid a visit to Mavis Briggs – or rather her deserted house.

Having managed earlier in the week to inspect Mavis’s grossly inadequate security measures (and checked with Edith Hopgarden the exact date of her departure), I was able to stroll along the road with Nicholas confident in the knowledge that the coast was clear and access assured. We would slip in and out in a trice, lift the picture, and toting it casually in a large shopping bag bought specially for the purpose, return swiftly and unremarked to the vicarage. It wouldn’t take a moment.

The only thing clouding my mind was the thought of that outsize object (presumably of similar ilk to the Spendlers) blocking up my hallway. Give Ingaza an inch and he would invariably take several miles! The situation was no better now than when he had first deposited the awful things with me two months ago. To be rid of the dreary seascape with its over-endowed and horse-faced youth was relief indeed, but to have a replacement foisted upon me – and one of so mammoth a size – was intolerable. And this time I couldn’t even shunt it off on to Primrose. Not that that had done any good – quite the opposite in fact. Elizabeth Fotherington, I mused, certainly knew how to direct her Nemesis!

With Nemesis in mind I suddenly clutched Nicholas and hauled him into the hedge. My other persecutor, Maud Tubbly Pole, followed by her drooling bulldog, had appeared around the bend and was lumbering straight in our direction.

‘Christ, Francis,’ gasped Nicholas, ‘what
are
you doing! Not here, dear boy, it wouldn’t be seemly!’

‘Shut up and keep still!’ I hissed between clenched teeth.

‘Whatever for?’

‘Just shut up,’ I repeated, dragging him further into the thicket and its nettles.

‘Bloody hell, Francis –’ he started to protest. But I silenced him with a sharp elbow to the ribs as dog and mistress drew level … and then went wheezing past.

‘Phew, that was near!’ I gasped, releasing Nicholas and picking up the fallen carrier bag.

‘It wasn’t near – it was effing mad! Just look at my suit, all covered in burrs, and I’ve got a scalding nettle sting on my cheek. It’s a bit bloody much! What were you
doing
?’

In view of the trouble he and his pictures had put me to I have to admit to experiencing a whiff of satisfaction as I regarded the burr-strewn suit and reddening skin. However, Christian charity prevailed and I apologized for the inconvenience, explaining that I had been trying to side-step a parishioner.

For some reason, that seemed to silence him. And then he said musingly, ‘Of course, I always knew you were quietly barking. I remember when –’

‘Barking I may be,’ I replied with asperity, ‘but at least I’ve never been rampant in a Turkish bath!’

And thus, wrangling and carping, we continued our way to Mavis Briggs’s cottage. Once there things were remarkably easy. The blinds were drawn and the key still lay obligingly under the mat. However, it proved redundant for surprisingly the door was unlocked. Poor Mavis, she really hadn’t a clue! And just for a moment I had a pang of guilt and hoped she was enjoying the Bexhill air.

We stepped smartly into the small hallway, its silence lacerated by the ticking of the cuckoo clock, took our bearings and edged towards what I vaguely remembered to be the drawing room. I say ‘vaguely’ as I had only once before been in Mavis’s house – a dismal occasion held ostensibly to welcome the new vicar (me), but in reality an excuse for its owner to indulge in some of her execrable and interminable recitations. The memory was indelibly incised upon my mind, and even as I crossed the threshold a terrible weight of gloom came upon me. We scanned the walls, but apart from random flying ducks and geese, plus of course the stampeding elephants, there was no sign of the Spendler.

‘You see,’ whispered Nicholas querulously, ‘it’s not bloody here!’

‘Have faith,’ I answered, ‘it’s not the only place. I think the dining room is next door. We’ll try that.’ We moved back into the hall, passed the kitchen, and entered the dining room. It was rather dark, and apart from a table and sideboard there was little to see. I went over to the window and swished back the curtains. The afternoon sun flooded in. And there, displayed over the serving hatch, hung the Spendler in all its grim glory. I winced and Nicholas emitted a sound of rapturous relief.

‘That’s the fucker!’ he exclaimed.

‘Would you mind …’ I started to protest, and then stopped abruptly. From above there was the unmistakable sound of movement. Footsteps could be heard stomping across the ceiling. A door creaked, and as we froze there came the quavering voice of Mavis Briggs!

‘Hello … hello. Is there someone there? Do you want something?’

Caught in that dreadful instant of fear and unreality, we stared at each other like paralysed rats in a trap, while Mavis repeated her question. ‘Excuse me, is anyone there? Can I help you? Who is it?’ The timid tones, though faint, seemed to echo around the house like the voice of doom.

Taking a deep breath I cleared my throat resolutely, and marching into the hall said, ‘It’s all right, Mavis. It’s only me, the vicar. Just passing – thought I’d check to see that everything was in order. Can’t be too careful, you know!’ The words sounded falsely hearty, as indeed they were, and my confidence was hardly helped by a sneeze and strangulated curse from Nicholas hovering in the dining room. I shut the door firmly and went to the foot of the stairs. At the top stood Mavis whey-faced and draped in what looked like a shroud. I recoiled, but then realized it was her nightgown.

‘I – er, thought you were in Bexhill,’ I began, ‘otherwise wouldn’t dream of disturbing …’

‘Well, I
was
going,’ she said still quavering, ‘but you see, I was struck down at the last moment by a very nasty cold’ (and she coughed delicately to make the point) ‘and I didn’t think I could do justice to the seaside. My friend down there agreed with me. Indeed she was most insistent I should not come.’

‘Quite right,’ I replied, trusting the friend was making the most of the reprieve. ‘There’s nothing worse than being on holiday and not feeling a hundred per cent.’

‘And then of course there’s my arm,’ she continued plaintively. ‘It’s not mended yet, you know – I still have spasms.’ And like some mesmerized ghost she flapped it vaguely in the air. ‘So what with that and this cold I decided …’

At that moment there was what you might call a spasm from the dining room and something that sounded horribly like splintering glass. Desperately I searched for some explanation or pre-emptive tactic – for surely Mavis could not have failed to hear. What the
hell
was he up to!

In fact, Mavis now seemed oblivious of all disturbance for she was clearly intent on apprising me of her various aches and ailments, and appeared deaf to any racket of Ingaza’s making.

‘… and so you see,’ she continued, ‘although aspirin
can
be useful I really prefer Friars Balsam and a nice cup of Horlicks. It works wonders for most things – but not unfortunately for
spasms
… Do you ever suffer from those, Vicar?’ (Yes, I thought bitterly, all the time.) ‘I notice that your leg is still causing problems, but of course in
my
case …’ And thus she droned and droned.

Out of the corner of my eye I sensed a shadow at the hall window, and shooting a furtive glance saw Nicholas. He must have forced the garden door in the dining room (hence the tinkling glass), and was now holding aloft the Spendler, while simultaneously pulling faces and making frantic movements with his elbow. I think he wanted the shopping bag.

At that moment Mavis broke off her ramblings and enquired graciously if I would like a cup of tea. ‘I fear my poor throat can’t cope with anything at the moment but I’m sure
you
would like one, Vicar. I’ll be down in a jiffy – just let me slip on a dressing gown. Oh, and while I think of it, you must see my
fascinating
acquisition in the dining room. The dear bishop will be so glad to know that it’s come to a good home. Now you’ll be sure to tell him, won’t you?’

‘No!’ I shouted. She looked startled.

‘Why ever not?’

‘Because I don’t like it!’

‘Oh,’ she said, sounding pained, ‘I think it’s very nice – very nice indeed. Still, they tell me it’s all a matter of taste …’

‘Not to my taste, it isn’t – at least not at this time of day. Only in the morning!’

She looked even more moronically baffled than usual. ‘Well, Vicar, I can’t see what the time of day has to do with it, and in any case surely it wouldn’t hurt to tell him.’

‘Tell who?’

‘Why, Bishop Clinker of course!’

‘Not Clinker,
tea
!’ I expostulated. ‘I don’t like it. Do NOT come down!’

‘Oh, but I must!’ she insisted. ‘You may not like tea but at least you’ll love the picture!’ And so saying she shuffled back along the landing to fetch the dressing gown. I shot to the front door and found Nicholas skulking in the porch with the picture propped up against a decorative urn just outside.

‘For Christ’s sake give me the bag!’ he cried. ‘I can’t carry it like this, far too risky. Where’s the old bat now?’

‘About to come downstairs and raise the roof. Bugger the bag, just get
going
!’ I tried to propel him out of the way but it was too late. Mavis was descending the stairs, shroud on shroud.

Framed in the doorway as we were, even she could not fail to see the pair of us. ‘Oh dear – so you’re going. But who is …?’

‘This is Archdeacon Benchley,’ I answered firmly, closing the door and ushering Nicholas forward.