Bones in the Belfry (16 page)

‘Oh yes, dozens,’ she replied gaily. As I had feared. But at least, I supposed, there was safety in numbers …

Eventually she got up to go, exclaiming that it was long past the ‘little man’s’ bedtime and there were bound to be ructions if she stayed any more. For once I felt grateful to Gunga Din, and made a mental note to give him a drop more gin when next he called.

I don’t think much of those rabbits. They haven’t got anything of what Maurice keeps calling SAVVY FUR. In fact, in normal dog lingo I’d call them jolly rude! I mean to say, when F.O. took me down to his sister’s I naturally went to call on them. Don’t suppose they get many visitors and I thought they would be pleased to see me. Not a bit of it! They twitched and glared and rolled those popping pink eyes; and then just as I was going to speak, the really giant one turned round and thrust its fluffy backside right up against the wire of its hutch. In my face, if you please! I tell you, I would have given it a socking big bite if I could but the meshes were too small – otherwise he’d have felt it all right!

The other one, Boris, was no better. Sat there crunching its stupid carrot, and then had the cat’s neck to ask me if I hadn’t got something better to do with my time. I told him I had HEAPS of better things, but being a well-brought-up dog was just being polite and paying my respects. He told me where to put my respects and said that if I didn’t take my snout away from his wire he would spit in my eye. Well, I didn’t fancy a shot of chewed carrot hurtling my way, so I backed off. But they needn’t think they’ve seen the last of me. Oh no! I’ll ask Maurice what to do. When he’s not preening himself he’s got a fiendish mind and is bound to think of something.

Anyway, it was fun being down there for a change. She’s got a nice garden, bigger than the vicar’s, with some good bone-burying areas and plenty of trees for sniffing and spraying. (You have to keep your leg in practice, you know, otherwise it seizes up.) So apart from those pink-eyed loons, I had a very nice time. I think F.O. enjoyed himself too. When I went back to the house they had finished their lunch and for some reason were roaring with laughter. That doesn’t often happen with the vicar, so I took the opportunity and joined in. There wasn’t half a racket! Probably just as well that Maurice didn’t come, he’d have complained non-stop!

The journey back was good fun and we hurtled along like cats out of hell, with F.O. singing some hymn about a cross-eyed bear called Gladly. Don’t know who
he
is, but the tune’s all right and I joined in myself a couple of times – though that seemed to make the vicar wince, so I stoppedand went to sleep.

Anyway, all was well until we got back to Molehill. And then, blow me, if he doesn’t take the picture out of the car and start to haul it down the steps to my crypt! Usually I wouldn’t care a bit, but the belfry isn’t the only place I keep my bones: there’s a special heap of them in the crypt, just in the corner behind the door where it’s darkest and the mice don’t go. One or two spare toys are stashed there as well – useful emergency stores for when I get bored with Maurice. It would be just like F.O. to shove his picture there and mess up my whole system like he did in the belfry. So I tried my best to head him off, but he was hell-bent on getting it down there and I had to give up in the end. You could hear him blundering about and cursing; but afterwards I saw he had put the parcel at the far end, so with luck things should be all right … though it doesn’t do to bank on it – not here at the vicarage, it doesn’t!

He came back late last night, some church meeting I suppose, but he wasn’t alone: got the Tubbly person with him and they sat jawing for ages – leastwise she did. He didn’t say much at all, just sat there with that dazed expression he often has. Still, getting the picture back here again seems to have calmed him down, and I think he’s sleeping better – less crashing about in the middle of the night searching for fags and aspirin. Who knows, perhaps we are in for a smooth run. And if he gets in a good mood he’s likely to give me a bath again. I should like that, but the cat won’t!

I was in the kitchen toying quietly with a dead mouse when Bouncer suddenly announced that he felt a bath coming upon him and hoped that I wouldn’t mind. Well, of course I minded! The last occasion had been an affair of epic horror; a dreadful assault on my nerves from which I was barely recovered. The noise had been atrocious: an ear-splitting cacophony of clerical curses, canine shrieks, and the squawking of butchered rubber ducks (the dog fancies himself as a retriever at such times). But it was the bathroom floor and landing which had been especially distasteful – water everywhere (my particular aversion), with filthy towels and shredded cigarettes littered all over the place. Why the vicar finds it necessary to smoke when he baths the dog, I do not know. Calms his nerves presumably, but it does little for mine. Having to pussy-foot my way among sodden butt-ends and pools of wet is not good for a cat of my sensibilities.

I asked Bouncer what made him think the household was due for another such deluge, to which he replied gnomically that he knew what he knew! I suppose he was implying it was his sixth sense at work again. He grossly exaggerates this faculty, although just occasionally
does
exhibit an uncanny prescience of things. So I told him that if he had any more aquatic premonitions would he kindly inform me in advance so that I could escape to the graveyard for the duration. He agreed to this, and than proceeded to tell me about his day down in Sussex.

It was clearly going to be a lengthy saga with the usual theatrical embellishments. So I settled myself comfortably by the boiler, and to pass the time embarked on my ablutions. He took umbrage at this and had the nerve to tell me to sit up straight and pay attention. Naturally I immediately lay down with my eyes tightly shut. However, I did assure him that I was all
ears
, and seeming satisfied with this he commenced his tale.

As Bouncer’s tales go it was not without interest – mainly for what it revealed of the vicar’s dealings with his sister. They seem to have an oddly collusive relationship – close yet mutually wary, a mixture of guarded affection and irritable impatience. He said that he went into the garden leaving them bickering like billy-o but when he returned they were in fits of laughter! I find this blend of coolness and mirth quite beyond me – but then I am a mere cat and cannot be expected to fathom the mystery of human absurdity. It’s bad enough coping with the dog. Talking of which, much of his tale was taken up with descriptions of those crackpot chinchillas. They had obviously got on his whiskers and he grumbled endlessly about their uncouthness. A tinge ironic coming from Bouncer of all creatures! However, I was my reasonable forbearing self, and listened patiently to his complaints.

‘… so you see, Maurice,’ he grumbled, ‘I can’t let them get away with it – it’s not right! I mean to say, why should a decent dog like me put up with insults from those poncey layabouts? You’ve got to think of something!’ He looked sullen and started to shove his rubber ring around.

I was about to tell him to stop rabbiting on, but in his present mood thought that might not go down too well. So instead I suggested that he took his mind off things by chasing Gunga Din. ‘After all,’ I purred, ‘you’ve not had a go at him for some time – mustn’t get out of practice, you know!’

‘Oh, I can do that any day,’ he said. ‘It’s those bastard bunnies I’ve got to get my teeth into!’ I pointed out that the chances of his making a repeat visit to the sister’s house in the immediate future were fairly slim, and it might be some time before he could settle his score.

‘I can wait,’ he growled. And he sat back heavily on his haunches with paws splayed and furrowed brow.

I sighed. ‘All right, Bouncer, be assured. Should the time ever come, I will devise an appropriate strategy: one to afford you maximum pleasure and them minimum comfort.’

‘That’s the ticket!’ he cried. ‘You mean we’ll duff ‘em up!’

‘Well,’ I replied cautiously, ‘not in so many words, but …’

‘How many words?’ he barked eagerly.

‘Enough to do the trick,’ I replied, and with a swish of my tail made it clear I had no intention of pursuing the conversation further. He grinned amiably, and dragging his ring squeezed himself through the pet flap into the garden. Off into the crypt, I surmised, doubtless to christen the new acquisition. Peace at last.

There came a loud clearing of throat from the sitting room followed by a thunderous crash of keys. F.O. tuning up …

When I returned from my enforced stroll it was to find the vicar sitting at his desk amidst swirls of smoke, writing feverishly. There was an intensity about his look not normally noted in his efforts with the Confirmation lists or his sermons, so I assumed something was in the air. I also observed that in addition to the cigarettes there were a number of his favourite mint humbugs strewn across the blotting paper. The simultaneous consumption of smoke and gobstoppers suggested a task of some moment, and I was curious to find out what.

Adopting a benign expression I sidled over to his chair, twitched playfully at his trouser leg, and gave a winsome mew. The writing stopped and he looked startled. (Admittedly, I don’t often make such generous gestures.) Then asking me what I thought I was up to – surprising how cynical even vicars can be – he reached down and settled me on his lap. I purred reassuringly and he continued with his task. By gradually shifting into an upright position I was able to see over the top of the desk and get a fair view of the writing pad.

Now, although I am an animal of some erudition (unlike Bouncer), I have never quite managed to grasp the intricacies of human hieroglyphics – especially those scrawled by F.O. – but at least I can recognize the vicarage stationery when I see it, and so deduced he was writing one of his rare letters. And judging from the bits of screwed-up paper cast among the mints, this had obviously been occupying him for some while. It was tiresome not being able to satisfy my curiosity, and by way of diversion I extended an idle paw to toy with one of the crumpled drafts.

I have observed that F.O.’s fountain pens are invariably defective, and seem to require constant replenishment from the ink which he keeps close at hand. Thus it was that, just as I reached for the discarded paper, my claw happened to catch the top of the bottle causing it to teeter … and then fall. Unfortunate.

Ink trickled on to the carpet, my ears, and his trousers; and with an explosive oath he tipped me to the floor. I was nettled, to say the least, and emitted a particularly fearsome screech. That woke the dog, who started to howl, whereupon F.O. made a lunge for the whisky crying, ‘Bloody cat, and bloody Rummage!’ As he clattered with the ice and decanter I took refuge behind the sofa and brooded.

Rummage, I vaguely recalled, was the name of the raucous type who had stayed at the vicarage the previous year while F.O. was in Brighton recovering from that fatal contretemps with my mistress. At the time the visitor had served a certain purpose, but I had found the uncouth joviality tedious and he was not to my taste – nor, I subsequently learned, to F.O.’s. Yet now, I concluded, it was this very Rummage who was the recipient of the vicar’s urgent attentions. Why? There was no obvious answer and I decided to shelve the matter until I had had my evening milk and attended to my poor besmirched ears. First things first.

In the kitchen Bouncer was already bolting his Muncho and at first too engrossed to notice my presence. When he did, he stared for a few moments, and then grinning inanely asked if I had been at the sheep dip. I told him coldly to keep his feeble jokes to himself and that if he had nothing better to say he might like to listen instead. I then proceeded to tell him about the vicar and his letter to Rummage, adding scathingly that perhaps he or his sixth sense could shed some light on the matter.

He pondered, and then said, ‘No, we can’t. But you don’t know that he was writing to Rummage.’

‘I have just explained,’ I replied patiently. ‘When the ink was spilt and you woke howling like a dingo, apart from rudely cursing me he
also
cursed Rummage. The name just came out of the blue. Obviously that was because F.O. was in the middle of writing to him and the wretched man was on his mind!’

There was silence and the dog looked vacant. Then he said slowly, ‘Well, if you say so, but it seems to me that –’

‘Of course I say so! It is what is known as intelligent deduction. Some of us have that facility!’

He started to grin again. ‘I say, Maurice, you do look funny with your face all navy blue!’ It was too much. A claw to the snout was what was needed, but as I stretched out my paw he suddenly barked, ‘Not
to
but
about
!’ Just occasionally the dog has a point.

Maurice’s antics on top of my letter to Archdeacon Blenkinsop had been the last straw, and for the rest of the evening I took refuge in the lamentations of Job – a set of afflictions mildly more bearable than my own. It had been a particularly hectic day. Tapsell had thrown one of his more spectacular tantrums, the Mothers’ Union had burst its tea-urn boiler, and at the last minute I had been summoned to stand in for one of Pick’s cremations halfway across the county. By the time the four o’clock post arrived I was in no mood for further trials. But trials there were – firstly the letter itself and then Maurice’s circus trick with the ink bottle. The latter was messy, the former dynamite.

‘I have it on good authority,’ Blenkinsop fulminated, ‘that the dolt has already anticipated his appointment and had the nerve to order a new cassock. It is insufferable to think of that man being my successor. It reflects badly on me and I take it as a personal slur. And after all I have done to bring dignity to the diocese. The whole thing is monstrous!’

He was, of course, talking about Basil Rummage. Recent events had rather jostled Clinker’s curious choice for the archdeaconry out of my mind. When he had first told me that Rummage was up his sleeve as trump card in the appointment stakes, I had been shocked but sceptical. Clinker is given to hare-brained whims and I had not thought that this particular folly would see the light of day: the Cathedral Chapter would surely never countenance it. But according to Blenkinsop the Chapter was weakening, and the joker in the bishop’s pack close to becoming his ace!

Over the years Blenkinsop’s vaunted ‘dignity’ had often been wearisome, but was as nothing compared to the havoc that Basil Rummage would wreak were he to get his hands on a few clerical levers. As if there wasn’t enough to contend with already! The awful incident in Foxford Wood had unleashed a train of turbulence from which it seemed impossible to escape. And now on top of everything, Rummage as archdeacon! Isaiah was spot on – there was indeed to be no peace for the wicked.

I brooded dismally on the news, and was even more depressed when it became clear that Blenkinsop was expecting me to do something to forestall the event.

‘As the retiring incumbent,’ he wrote, ‘I of course hold little sway in such matters – at any rate not in any formal sense – but you, Oughterard, are in a different position, and of course will be directly affected by the new appointment. So not only is it in your own interests, it is your duty to the diocese and your brother clergy to organize some sort of ground resistance. Rummage is a most unsuitable candidate, and the bishop has always been wayward. Both need curbing. To this end I have taken the liberty of informing your immediate colleagues – Pick, Dooley, young Rothermere at Alfold – that you will shortly be convening a meeting and urging their support. This thing must be stopped!’

It was reassuring to learn that Blenkinsop shared my aversion to Rummage, but it was irksome to have been pushed into a position of required action. He had always been officious, and presumably this was his last chance of exercising control before retirement. Certainly the last thing I wanted was Rummage trumpeting about – but then neither did I want the chore and responsibility of heading a pressure group of Blenkinsop’s devising! Being in thrall to Nicholas and Mrs Tubbly Pole was trouble enough; to have yet another ringmaster would be unendurable.

Lighting a cigarette and opening a fresh packet of humbugs, I began to grapple with penning a reply at once expressive of firm agreement yet somehow retaining a bland evasiveness. It was an arduous task but brought to an abrupt end – though not resolution – by Maurice’s dastardly raid on the ink bottle.

Two days later I was still in a stew, having made no headway in my reply to Blenkinsop and certainly done nothing to summon the prescribed meeting. I am not very practised in ‘ground resistance’, and in any case doubted whether I had the flair to inspire others to the sort of insurrection Blenkinsop had in mind. The issue hung heavily upon me and I spent much of my time escaping at the piano in the musical reveries of Cole Porter. An impractical response but soothing.

Of all people it was Nicholas Ingaza who provided the answer, and to whom, despite his usual tiresomeness, I had reason to be grateful.

After the episode with the picture he had returned to Brighton in a state of pique and had remained mercifully silent. But I knew it could not last as he was bound to start agitating about the remaining Spendler still in my care (although I don’t think ‘care’ was quite how he saw it, ‘frigging useless!’ having been his last remark to me). However, now safely installed in the crypt, the picture awaited his instructions.

These came over the telephone one evening, when he informed me that he would again be in the Cranleigh area doing some business with one of his ‘old contacts’ (scheming? hounding? putting the frighteners on?), and he could thus collect the goods on the way home. He sounded in a relatively mellow mood and I was glad that I had had the foresight to fetch the thing back from Primrose.

The next day I lugged the picture out of the crypt (yet again obstructed by Bouncer’s antics) and placed it in the hall to await the arrival of its ‘owner’. He appeared promptly at six o’clock the following evening, looking quite pleased with himself and evidently ready to enjoy a light supper of liver and baked beans before relieving me of the item and departing for Brighton. I assumed the negotiations with his ‘contact’ had gone well.

Now that I was about to see the end of the Spendler I felt much more relaxed and could almost take pleasure in Ingaza’s presence. On form and uncrossed, he can be an engaging companion, and we spent a pleasant enough hour reminiscing about St Bede’s and sipping the Beaujolais which I had bought as an emollient should he have been in less amiable mood.

Somehow the conversation got around to Rummage, about whom he made caustic remarks before adding, ‘But you have to hand it to him. I mean, that card-sharping racket of his was a pretty slick business and they never rumbled it, you know.’

‘Card-sharping?’ I exclaimed.

‘Oh yes. And for one as crass as Rummage, very successful,’ Nicholas said bitterly. ‘Fleeced me out of a nice little lot, I can tell you!’

I wasn’t sure which astonished me the more – Rummage’s activity at St Bede’s or that in the course of it he had succeeded in fleecing Nicholas. I felt a twinge of unaccustomed respect for Rummage but it passed swiftly.

‘But before I could even things up,’ he went on, ‘I was overtaken by events.’

‘Thrown out, you mean.’

He blew a smoke ring. ‘For a country parson, Francis, you have an amazingly subtle way with words!’ There was silence as he appeared to brood, not on my verbal infelicity but on the missed opportunities of bringing Nemesis to Rummage.

After a while I cleared my throat, and said tentatively, ‘Well, he’s still making trouble all right. So actually, Nicholas, it might not be too late now … to even things up, I mean.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow, and I proceeded to tell him about Rummage’s outlandish aspirations and Clinker’s determination to fast-track him into the archdeaconry. ‘It’s virtually a fait accompli,’ I moaned.

‘Shouldn’t count on it, dear boy. After all, it’s surprising how a judiciously placed word here or there can scuttle a chap’s chances. I’ve seen it happen often. Of course, compared to when we were students, I gather the Church is pretty broad-minded these days. But even so, I doubt whether their lordships would be too keen on it being known that one of their archdeacons had been the godfather of a dodgy gaming syndicate!’ He grinned slyly.

‘No,’ I said hesitantly but with vague stirrings of hope. ‘No, I don’t suppose they would … Er, do you have any details?’

‘I should say so!’ And he proceeded to supply them with graphic zest.

‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed. ‘I had no idea. What an incredible set-up. Who’d have thought it!’

‘Well, certainly not you, Francis. Little Johnnie-Head-In-Air, that was you in those days. In fact, come to think of it, not much change there – judging from the cock-up with the pictures!’ And he pulled a mocking face. I affected not to notice.

Then helping himself to more wine, he said smoothly, ‘Would you like me to do something about it? Might serve both our purposes – you know, tit for tat,
quid pro quo
etc. …’ The term struck echoes from the past, and I thought wryly that lack of change was not confined to me. But I think it was not so much the lost stakes in themselves that annoyed Nicholas, but rather the blow to his pride in being duped by Rummage.

I took another sip of wine and said slowly, ‘But how could you possibly drop a word anywhere? I mean, let’s face it, Nicholas, you are not exactly
persona grata
with the Church authorities, I rather doubt whether they would …’

‘Take any notice, you mean? Easy. Ever heard of anonymous letters?’

I recoiled. ‘Oh, don’t be absurd, that’s ridiculous! Besides, who on earth would be persuaded by something as crude as that?’

He grinned. ‘Caspard would.’

‘Caspard? Who’s he?’

He sighed. ‘Your memory, Francis! He was in your year at St Bede’s, and now if I’m not mistaken – well, according to the
Times
clerical column – quite a powerful influence at Lambeth, one of Fisher’s
éminences grises
, so I gather.’

I cast my mind back, trying to recall. And at last the image came. Yes, that was him, always in the front seat of the lecture hall, feverishly writing down every syllable: that boring little twerp Hugo – Hugo Caspard, white of face and slow of wit. Fancy him climbing the heights to Lambeth! Just went to show … something or other at any rate.

‘But why should Caspard in particular be persuaded by an anonymous letter?’ I asked.

‘Rummage decapitated his rubber duck.’

‘He did
what
!’ I cried.

‘Yes, garrotted the duck and drank the gin.’

I stared blankly. ‘What gin?’

‘The gin in the duck of course.’

I began to wonder whether the Beaujolais was more potent than I had thought, or whether Nicholas was in the early stages of dementia. Clearly one of us was having problems. However, I politely asked him to explain.

‘You remember that St Bede’s was a dry house – still is probably – and alcohol strictly off bounds and the nearest pub three miles away?’ I nodded. ‘Well, Caspard had a kid’s floating duck which had originally contained some scented squirty stuff – swiped it off a small niece, I think – which he replaced with gin. So every time he took a bath (which was pretty often), out would come the duck. Quite sharp really for Caspard. Anyway, Rummage got wind of this, stole the duck, and because the valve was clogged with soap or something, cut its neck with his penknife and demolished the contents. In a hurry, I suppose. Caspard never got over it.’

At first the tale seemed wildly improbable; but remembering Rummage’s outrageous plundering of my best malt whisky when staying at the vicarage the previous year, I began to think it was very likely true.

‘So you think Caspard might be susceptible, do you?’

‘I’d put a tenner on it easily. After all, he wouldn’t need to
believe
the gambling business; simply use it as a convenient pretext to query the candidate and scupper the appointment. A lot would be made about “no smoke without fire” and “can’t afford the risk” etc. etc. Oh yes, he’d be susceptible all right: a heaven-sent chance to even up the score and get Rummage out for a duck, you might say!’

The prospect was enticing but I felt uneasy. ‘It’s all very well, Nicholas, but I don’t think I really like the anonymous letter bit. It seems rather extreme – and besides, it’s not quite cricket, is it? You know, poison pens and all that …’ And with a pang of humiliation I recalled my father’s withering scorn when he had once caught me surreptitiously forcing the lock on Primrose’s tuck box.

‘Oh, come off it, Francis. Ever the moralist!’

‘Well …’ I began defensively.

‘So what do you suggest then?’

‘Perhaps we could get someone else to drop a word in Caspard’s direction, someone who knows him and whose views, unlike yours, he might listen to.’

‘Can’t help you there. Rather out of touch with the network, dear boy!’

I took another helping of baked beans, and pondered. ‘Blenkinsop,’ I said. ‘He’s often at Lambeth and may well have met Caspard – or he’ll make it his business to once I’ve alerted him to one or two things!’

‘You’re learning, Francis,’ laughed Nicholas. ‘Should have been in the Vatican!’

‘Certainly not,’ I protested. ‘Heaven forfend!’

It worked. I convened Blenkinsop’s prescribed meeting, explained the situation and told them of the incipient dangers should Rummage be appointed, i.e. labour and mayhem. They were as disinclined as myself to be harried by some manic narcissist, and voted unanimously that Blenkinsop be apprised of what I had learnt of the can-didate’s past activities.

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘one cannot be sure that one’s informant is entirely reliable and there may well be an element of exaggeration, but in the circumstances I think it is something that at least ought to be
aired
.’

There was a snigger from Rothermere. ‘Yes, and who better to air it than old man Blenkinsop! Give a dog a bone …’

I fixed him with a sober eye. ‘The archdeacon has the interests of the diocese at heart, and it is incumbent upon us to assist him in his efforts to secure a calm and worthy successor to his own office. It ill becomes you, Rothermere, to treat this matter as a jest.’

‘No blooming jest,’ moaned Pick. ‘Mark my words, if Basil Rummage gets in we shall have church fêtes foisted upon us for every season of the year!’

‘Tell Blenkinsop anything you like,’ cried Dooley. ‘We must get to the pub, it’s nearly closing time!’

Thus I was able to report to the archdeacon that I had done as he wished: organized the meeting and secured the full support of my colleagues in questioning Rummage’s fitness for the post. I added that it had come to our notice that rumours were circulating suggesting that the bishop’s candidate was not unacquainted with gambling dens – scurrilous tales, of course, but then …