Bones in the Belfry (17 page)

Rothermere was right about the bone. Blenkinsop seized it, rushed up to Lambeth and laid it smartly at Caspard’s feet. The latter must have thought it was Christmas and moved like lightning, for only a week later I had a telephone call from Blenkinsop informing me that the ‘little problem’ of his successor had been removed and the normal selection procedures resumed. ‘It is reassuring to know,’ he said acidly, ‘that one’s contribution to the diocese will not now be rendered futile by the cavortings of a demented Scaramouche. Caspard’s got his wits about him all right, grasped the matter instantly and moved accordingly.’

Huh! I thought. Could never grasp anything at St Bede’s – except for the perishing duck of course!

The following week I had to go up to London for one of the conferences so beloved of The Powers That Be. ‘Parish Strategy’ was this month’s theme, and not finding any obvious excuse for staying away, I duly caught the train to Waterloo and made my way over to the conference centre in the Brompton Road. The one real benefit of these meetings is that I have the chance to pop into Harrods and stock up with my favourite brand of peppermint, Jumbo Johnnies. These are a rather superior kind of humbug to which I am particularly partial, but which, as far as I can make out, are obtainable only from Harrods. In this respect the bi-monthly meetings are very useful.

As a matter of fact, I quite like visiting the pet department in Harrods. It is next door to Toys on the third floor. You used to be able to buy kittens there and even puppies, but nowadays it seems confined largely to guinea pigs and hamsters. However, it makes a pleasant little prelude to the gruelling complexities of Church policy. Indeed, so engrossed was I in the antics of a white mouse on its wheel that I nearly forgot the time and arrived at the conference hall breathless and ill-prepared. In my haste I think I had dropped the agenda somewhere near the white mouse’s cage, and as there didn’t seem to be any spare copies around, I had little idea of the topics under discussion. However, at such times I generally find that a sharpened pencil and an enquiring expression do much to conceal the inner void.

Eventually proceedings came to a close and we repaired to the canteen for tea and cake. There were more people than usual and long queues at the counter. Deciding that it wasn’t worth the wait, I was about to leave when I received a hearty thump between the shoulder blades.

‘Wotcha, Francis! How’s it going?’

Rummage. I hadn’t noticed him at the meeting and presumably he must have arrived even later than me and slipped into the back row. For one who had just seen advancement slither from his predatory fingers, he seemed remarkably sanguine, not to say jaunty. I told him that things were going very well, thank you. But then to my annoyance he proceeded to rake over the events of the previous year, i.e. the Foxford Wood affair.

‘Funny that old girl getting bumped off like that,’ he observed cheerfully. ‘Must have caused quite a stir in the parish. You knew her pretty well, didn’t you? Always at the church apparently – keen as mustard, they say!’

‘She did attend,’ I murmured.

‘Must have happened just before you popped down to Brighton. Funny to think of her lying there only half a mile away, while there was me sitting in your kitchen keeping the cat company and reading the papers!’ (
And
drinking my best malt, I thought bitterly.) ‘Anyway, I suppose it’s all died down now – though don’t think anyone was actually nailed for it, were they? Some nutter probably.’

‘It has completely died down,’ I said firmly. ‘And in any case, it is generally presumed to have been the flashing tramp.’

‘Ah, but they don’t
know
, do they? replied Rummage darkly.

‘No,’ I agreed, ‘they don’t know.’

‘Oh well, nice little mystery waiting for some cub reporter to cut his teeth on! “Investigative journalism”, I think they call it … Anyway, how’s the cat?’

I don’t normally talk about Maurice. His presence has an insistency requiring no further reference. But for once I was only too glad to turn the conversation in his direction and talked fulsomely of his latest sulks and antics.

Rummage listened for a time, and then said suddenly, ‘You know, Francis, some swine ruined my chances over the archdeacon business. I’d had Clinker eating out of my hand, and then just at the last moment it was all off and they turned me down flat. Very fishy. Just goes to show – they’re so hidebound they don’t know a good man when they see one. Shame really, I was all geared up to give the diocese a real rocket – had some
very
bright ideas up my sleeve, I can tell you!’

I recoiled, but said soothingly, ‘Ah well, plenty of time yet – you’ll get your chance, I’m sure …’

He grinned. ‘Not here I won’t! I’m off to Swaziland.’

‘To where?’

‘You know, one of those African outposts. Got an uncle there who’s quite big in Church administration, and he says they’re crying out for archdeacons and there’s a nice little number all lined up for me if I care to take it. It’s got the added kudos of being Director of Missionary Studies. Just up my street. With my flair and energy I’ll soon put the skids under our coloured friends!’ And giving me another hearty slap on the back he sauntered off. I winced and offered up a prayer for Swaziland.

The Spendlers off my hands, Blenkinsop mollified and Rummage’s hash settled, I began to feel mildly relaxed. For the next couple of weeks life in Molehill continued at its normal stately pace, and apart from being regularly buttonholed by Mavis Briggs complaining about the loss of her picture, I spent a tranquil time.

This was not to last, for Primrose telephoned announcing her imminent intention of coming to stay for a couple of nights on her way up north to some sheep-etching fest. It sounded a rather dreary affair to me but she seemed to be relishing the prospect, and I set about making the spare bedroom moderately habitable. This took rather a time as it hadn’t been used since Rummage’s visit nearly a year ago and still bore his traces – discarded socks, rusting razor blades, dust-laden copies of
Sporting Life
, deposits of chewing gum, and under the bed a well-worn vest. Such had been my nightmare preoccupations in the weeks following the Wood Incident that domestic matters had sunk low on the scale of priorities. But now, in slightly better frame of mind, I could attend to the room’s cleansing with a degree of zeal.

I was pleased with the result and began vaguely to look forward to Primrose’s stay. The first night of this proved congenial; the second less so, for events occurred over which I had no control – although she clearly thought I should.

There was a sudden squall of fur and fury as the dog cannonballed through the doorway.

‘They’re here!’ he bellowed.

‘Who’s here?’ I cried, leaping on to the desk-top.

‘THEY are here! Those sodding chinchillas!’

‘She hasn’t brought those, surely!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re imagining it. They are on your mind too much.’

‘They are not on my mind. They are in THIS HOUSE!’ he bawled. Slipping from the desk, I scurried across the room and poked my head round the door and peered into the hall.

The dog was right. The rabbits sat there fatly in their cage, munching complacently as their owner talked volubly and defensively to her brother.

‘Well, you always bring your creatures to my house,’ I heard her exclaim. ‘And these are so much better behaved than yours. They’ll be no trouble at all! All they need is a bit of warmth and some lettuce. A few kind words wouldn’t come amiss either, but I suppose that is too much to expect!’ She threw her hat down decisively on the hall table, an action that seemed to stake a claim for the rabbits’ rights. I could see F.O. wilting.

Returning to the study, I found Bouncer in a state of high agitation. Excitement at the creatures’ presence coupled with the prospect of ‘settling their hash’ was making him scuttle about the room in a maddening way, and it took me some time to calm his nerves and restore a modicum of quiet. Eventually, however, he subsided and I promised I would do what I could to help him secure retaliation for their earlier rudeness. I suggested gently that he might prefer to sleep in the crypt that night, but he rejected the idea, saying that it was imperative he kept guard on the house as you ‘never knew’ with chinchillas. Quite what he expected the chinchillas to do I had no idea – but then, as I have remarked before, the minds of dogs move in mysterious ways.

The next morning he was up at the break of dawn, scrabbling around, sniffing the air and muttering continuously about ‘bastard bunnies’. I began to wonder if he was quite right in the head – but then I often wonder that.

Mercifully some of the fuss was defused by the vicar’s sister coming downstairs in her nightdgown to make some early morning tea. Ever since she fed him a marrow bone on our visit to Sussex, the dog imagines he has a special relationship with her and is invariably eager to please in the hope of getting another. Thus the moment she entered the kitchen he turned meek and fawning, a spectacle which I found distinctly nauseous. In fact, after she had gone upstairs again I told him exactly that. Needless to say he was quite unabashed and simply grinned, saying something about ‘survival tactics’. I reminded him that since he was one of the most privileged dogs in the neighbourhood the matter of his survival was hardly in question. That too cut no ice, and still grinning he squirmed his way through the pet flap and out into the garden. Peace was brief, as ten minutes later he was back again.

‘I’ve been having a good look at them,’ he announced.

‘Oh yes? So what are they doing?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘Well, that
is
exciting!’ I observed.

‘Yes, but you see, Maurice,’ he said eagerly, ‘while they’re like that you can prepare your plans!’

‘My plans! What plans?’

‘Your plans for settling their hash!’

‘Ah yes,
those
plans,’ I said hastily, remembering my rash promise. Fortunately I am never wrong-pawed for long, and a ruse quickly presented itself.

‘We’ll set Goliath on them,’ I murmured.

‘Goliath!’ he yelped. ‘You don’t mean that squitty little midget with the red bow? Fat lot of good he’ll be!’

‘That squitty little midget has very sharp teeth and hellish screams. Put him near the rabbits and they’ll go berserk. The sound alone should do the trick! Those lop ears are extremely sensitive.’ And I winced, remembering the last time I had heard theYorkshire terrier in full cry.

‘Think I’d rather have a go myself,’ he growled. ‘I don’t much care for that Goliath, he’s a stuck-up little prig. Swaggers around on those titchy pins as if he owned the place. And he looks silly anyway, with that stupid ribbon on his head!’

I told him that sartorial matters were hardly our concern, and that the essential thing was to give maximum disturbance to the chinchillas while exposing ourselves to minimum attention. ‘After all, Bouncer, you wouldn’t want that Primrose woman to think that you’d had anything to do with her rabbits’ discomfort. No chance of marrow bones then! And
I
certainly do not propose getting my paws sullied in the affair.’

‘I suppose so,’ he agreed grudgingly.

‘Look,’ I said briskly, ‘it’s quite simple. You go and chat up Goliath – ask him round to play. He’ll be so surprised he’ll turn up out of curiosity. Then when you two are busy sniffing and racing around I will saunter over to the rabbits’ cage and with a deft flip of my paw release the catch. The rabbits will come thumping out on to the lawn, at which point you give Goliath the slip and go and lie down quietly in your basket. The garden table is thus set for a feast of Yorkshire Batter and Rabbit Pie!’

I was rather pleased by that witty sally and laughed loudly, not something I do very often. But the dog looked puzzled as he often does, and merely said, ‘If you say so, Maurice.’

Were it not for the rabbits, I am sure Primrose’s visit would have been a moderate success. As it was, Boris and Karloff played a major part in ruining the peace that might have prevailed had she been travelling alone. Their appearance in my hall, hutched and munching, took me by surprise and I was irritated that she had not forewarned me of their advent.

At first she was set on their spending the night in the kitchen next to the boiler, but I explained that, being conservative by nature, Bouncer might not take kindly to flop-eared strangers usurping his favourite spot. Eventually she conceded that they would fare best under the apple tree in the back garden. The process of carrying the hutch there, watering and feeding the inmates, and establishing whether they preferred a southerly or westerly outlook, seemed to take an unconscionable time; and when eventually my guest was satisfied, I was in acute need of rest and sustenance myself.

Finally the ritual was complete, and we retired to the kitchen and to supper. The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough, with Primrose talking animatedly about the injustices of the tax system and how she, as an artist, should be allowed substantial concessions in matters fiscal. I asked whether that might not also apply to vicars, but from what I could make out she didn’t seem to think they counted in the scheme of things.

My earlier domestic efforts were rewarded, for Primrose appeared well satisfied with the spare room and actually complimented me on the choice of bed linen. The next morning she announced that she had slept well – something I had failed to do, being kept awake by the dog roaming about below grumbling and scrabbling. He doesn’t usually do that and I concluded it must have had something to do with the invasion of foreign pets. However, despite such minor irritations the visit was proving fairly congenial … It was the afternoon’s events that curdled the cream.

Primrose had decided to do a spot of shopping in Guildford before setting off for the north. And after tackling the usual paperwork I had settled down for a brief session with the crossword. I wasn’t making much headway, and glancing out of the window saw Bouncer ambling around accompanied by what at first I took to be a large red squirrel. Such creatures are rarely seen in these parts of the country, and I was intrigued. But squirrels, red or grey, are not normally known for sporting scarlet topknots, and I quickly realized that the dog’s companion was no squirrel but Goliath, the miniature Yorkshire terrier belonging to Tapsell’s aunt. However, as the two dogs seemed to be behaving themselves I lost interest and began to doze off …

A minute later sleep was shattered by ear-piercing yelps. And leaping from my chair I was horrified to see Primrose’s chinchillas bounding about the lawn pursued by the screaming Goliath. Fortunately the study has a french window and I was able to intervene before carnage occurred, but it was a close-run thing. The miscreant scooted off through the hedge and I was left to minister to his victims as best I could.

The smaller one – Boris, I think – lay spread-eagled on the grass clearly in a state of imminent demise. Desperately I started to stroke its ruffled fur and psyche. And then crooning words of comfort and shoving a carrot under the twitching nose, I eased the creature back into the hutch where it sprawled vacantly. So engrossed was I with Boris that I had overlooked his stable mate; and when I turned round, Karloff was nowhere to be seen. I wasn’t sure what to do about this and tried a few tentative whistles and sundry coaxing noises which I thought perhaps congenial to rabbits. They obviously weren’t, for Karloff remained resolutely out of sight while I spent a good half-hour vainly peering into bushes and scrabbling about in flower-beds and the depths of the potting shed. To no avail: the creature had completely vanished. I trailed back to the house dreading Primrose’s return and cursing everything and everybody.

In the kitchen Bouncer lay curled in his basket snoring loudly, and I envied him his innocent ease. Then, just as I was working out how best to mollify Primrose, there was a loud banging on the front door. It was rather early for my sister, and I assumed it was some parishioner too myopic to see the bell. Irritably I flung open the door … and came face to face with the Whippet.

Instantly all thoughts of rabbits evaporated and were replaced by images of the summer beech wood with its torn bracken, barking roebuck, and mangled bluebells. With frozen smile, I ushered him in.

Normally March and Samson would appear in tandem and I was surprised to see the latter on his own for once. Somehow Samson without March was more worrying than with, and I could feel a tightening in my chest as I tried to work out the reason for his visit.

‘Glad to find you in, sir,’ he began nasally. ‘Got something important to ask you.’ He paused, glanced at me quickly, and then started to scan the room as if choosing his words. I noted the sallow cheeks and darting eyes, and wondered numbly what it was to be – Foxford Wood or the Spendlers. ‘Yes,’ he continued slowly, ‘Mr March sent me. He’s got one of his ideas …’ (When hasn’t he! I thought. And my mind raced frantically, trying to predict which aspect of my pathetic subterfuge was about to be explored, exposed.)

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. Wants me to find out whether you’d be prepared to support the Police Benevolent Fund. Says what with you being charitable and all that, you might like to contribute to our fund-raising drive.’ And thrusting his thin fingers into his raincoat pocket, he pulled out a biro and crumpled booklet. ‘Raffle tickets,’ he said. ‘Half-a-crown a strip.’

I gazed incredulously. ‘Of course … er, of course … I’ll, uhm, take five strips!’

Such was my shock I might easily have suggested ten or twenty, but Samson seemed entirely satisfied with the five and was already intent on laboriously tearing them from their perforations and scribbling down my name. The normally sour expression had relaxed somewhat (satisfaction at an easy touch?), and in a sudden access of gratitude I invited him to sit down and have a cigarette. I had forgotten that he rolled his own, and lit a Craven ‘A’, while he ferreted around with his tin and Rizla papers. In the process copious threads of tobacco were shed, and while to my inexpert eye the resulting cylinder looked thin and squashed, he began to draw upon it with obvious relish.

Given the social nature of the visit I felt that perhaps a few pleasantries were in order, and was just about to embark on these when I noticed him staring past me with a look of glazed horror.

‘God in heaven!’ he ejaculated.

I turned, and was confronted by the mountainous white fur and staring pink eyes of the chinchilla. It sat stolidly on the table by the open window, its fat flanks moving rhythmically and nose twitching. For a few seconds I was mesmerized, and then made a lunge to grab it; tripped, missed, and fell on my knees. The rabbit scuttled to the far end of the table, plopped heavily on to the sofa and then on to the floor.

‘Quick!’ I yelled to Samson. ‘He’s valuable, head him off!’

Whether it was the reference to money, or whether chasing rabbits was a more stimulating option than selling raffle tickets, I do not know; but the Whippet suddenly bestirred his legs, and in a sort of wild rugby dive flung himself in the direction of Karloff. The latter was quick and, for all its size, nimble. But Samson somehow managed to grab the creature’s scruff, and with a yelp of triumph and grinning from ear to ear, scrambled to his feet brandishing the kicking trophy aloft.

It was at that moment that Primrose walked in.

Presented with the sudden spectacle of her brother on all fours, and an unknown man standing with smouldering fag-end in one hand and her rabbit swinging from the other, I suppose it is not surprising that Primrose went mildly berserk. With a cry of fury she launched herself upon Samson, relieved him of Karloff, and with a spare fist knocked him into the armchair.

‘Here!’ he protested weakly. ‘You can’t do …’ His voice trailed off as, clutching the chinchilla in her arms, she towered menacingly above him.

‘Oh yes I can!’ she snarled. ‘I’ve read about your sort. You’re one of those urban poachers who go around stealing people’s prize pets and then sell them for vast sums of money. Well, you’re not going to get away with it here. I’ll have you know my brother’s the vicar!’

‘Yes,’ said Samson wearily, passing his hand over his eyes, ‘I know.’

I got up off my knees and cleared my throat. ‘Uhm … actually, Prim, he’s not a poacher, he’s a policeman. He was just helping me to …’ And I proceeded to outline the after-noon’s events.