Bones in the Belfry (2 page)

‘Of course I do!’ she cried. And then changing her voice to a deafening stage whisper, she craned forward and announced, ‘I am …
Cecil Piltdown
!’

There was a silence as I absorbed this piece of intelligence. She stared wistfully at her last drops of gin. I hastened to fill the glass, cleared my throat and said dutifully, ‘Well, I never!’ It sounded a bit limp but seemed to please her all the same.

‘Oh yes,’ she continued, ‘Cecil is my alter ego – what you might call my guiding doppelgänger! We’ve been together for years. A most productive partnership, and earned us a nice little bob or two – as the vulgar would say!’ She gurgled merrily. ‘And now – and now we have come to Molehill!’

‘Ah,’ I ventured. ‘That’s very nice – but I still don’t entirely see what has brought you …’

She tutted in mock exasperation. ‘Surely that’s obvious, Vicar. It’s
your
murder! The corpse in the woods!’

My stomach muscles clenched with such violence that I thought I was going to bust a gut and I stared at Mrs Tubbly Pole in paralysed horror.

She went rollicking on. ‘Don’t tell me you’re surprised – everyone knows about Molehill’s unsolved crime: that beautiful June day, the harmless lady lying flat on her back amidst bracken and birdsong, the charming little dog who found the body and alerted his master, fields awash with cowslips …’

Even in my discomfort I was struck by her writer’s instinct for lyrical hyperbole, and wondered grimly at Elizabeth’s so-called harmlessness and Bouncer’s ‘charm’. Neither description was what you would call accurate.

‘Splendid material,’ she enthused, ‘and I’m going to base my very next novel upon it – and
you
are going to help me!’

Unlike Gunga Din I am not used to taking my gin unadulterated, so when in panic I groped robot-like for the bottle, poured a liberal stream and downed it in one gulp, I was unprepared for its explosive effect. Throat burning, eyes awash, I listened in a state of glazed catalepsy as she unfolded her plans.

She explained that as a stranger to the area she had scant grasp of its ‘special character’, i.e. its essential features, inhabitants, topography, local customs and social practice. If she were to produce a plausible novel with plenty of local colour she would need an insight into such matters. As it was, she had merely an outsider’s view – not without its use of course, but only of partial value. What was needed was
inside
knowledge – which was where I came in. As erstwhile friend of the deceased and pastor of the parish, I was apparently ideally placed to supply an authentic whiff of Molehill life and thus play a crucial role in her literary project. My assistance would be invaluable; success was assured.

‘Why, you will be my partner in crime!’ she laughed gaily. (Was Cecil to be supplanted? I wondered.) ‘With my imagination and you supplying the local detail – who knows, we might even crack the original case itself!’ And she literally rubbed her hands together in glee.

Naturally I made what protests I could, emphasizing that I was virtually a newcomer myself and not nearly as well rooted in the community as she seemed to think: that despite the press reports, my involvement with Elizabeth had been more as acquaintance than friend; and that since my feet (I resolutely lied) had never trodden the paths of Foxford Wood, as guide to the murder site I would be less than useless, etc. etc. All was ignored. Fate it seemed had selected me for special treatment, and the Hand of Destiny in the form of Mrs Tubbly Pole held me in its grip.

At last, after a barrage of intemperate reminiscence, scurrilous tales of rival writers, and a lavish toast to her current literary mission, mistress and dog prepared to leave: the one jubilant, the other in a state of drooling torpor. As for myself, once they had gone I cut supper, downed a handful of pills and crawled up to my usual refuge. Too tired even to light a cigarette, I fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

I’m really settled into this place now and don’t even miss my old master any more. In fact I’m probably better off without him, though at the time it seemed pretty disastrous when he left me all on my own and rushed off to Brazil with half the bank’s dosh. They still talk about it now – ‘That dreadful Mr Bowler’s bezzlement,’ (or some such word) ‘we never liked him.’ (Yes they did! Always giving him bottles of sherry and such – though I suppose that was just sweeteners for their overdrafts.) ‘A disgrace to the bank, shouldn’t have been allowed!’ they squawk. Well, allowed or not, he did it: took the money and buggered off leaving everyone in the lurch, not least me! There’s a new manager there now – rather a weedy one by all accounts. Doesn’t look as if he’d say boo to a cat. At least my old master had some nerve … Which brings me on to my present owner: the vicar, Francis Oughterard (or F.O. as it’s easier to call him). That’s a bit of another story, make no mistake!

He’s got nerve too, I suppose, though most of the time you wouldn’t think it. Always seems to be in a flat spin – crunching those humbugs and smoking his head off; either that or lying on his bed throwing down pills with a cold flannel over his eyes. Still, you have to hand it to him – it’s not every human who can do away with one of their own, hold the rozzers off his trail,
and
keep the church going (well, sort of). Sometimes I feel quite proud of him: I bet there’s no other dog around here who can boast of having a murderer as a master. Maurice, the cat that I share F.O.’s house with, says I’ve got to keep
very
quiet about it otherwise we shall all be in the can. He’s right of course (one of the few occasions), and I haven’t told a soul, not even O’Shaughnessy, my best friend the Irish setter – which is probably just as well as he
is
a bit of a blabbermouth, though jolly good fun. Maurice says he’s goash and glumfing though I don’t really know what those words mean, but then there are a lot of Maurice’s words which sound peculiar.

Anyway, all of that stuff was last year and things have calmed down now – although my special sixth sense tells me that it won’t last. For someone hell-bent on finding peace and quiet, the vicar always seems up to his neck in some mess or other. Which is maybe why I like living here: it keeps a dog on its toes! There’s the crypt and graveyard too, my most favourite places. The crypt is best because it’s dark and restful and neither F.O. nor Maurice ever go down there. The vicar is too lazy to go anywhere that isn’t essential and Maurice is secretly nervous of the mice. They’re fiercer than his usual type though they seem all right with me.

The other place, the graveyard, is cracking fun! When I’m feeling a bit bored and want some extra life about me I always go off there. It’s
much
bigger than Bowler’s old garden where I used to play when I belonged to him, and is full of funny nooks and corners (good sniffing areas), and grassy paths where I can race up and down. There’s even a small rabbit colony which comes in very handy when I’m in sporting mood as it saves me the trek to Foxford Wood (that place where he did the old girl in). Sometimes I do make just a teeny bit of a noise – you know the sort of thing, clearing my throat and testing my lungs – but that’s all right, except when Maurice happens to bethere lounging on one of the tombstones. He gets awfully ratty, hisses and spits and uses words which I
do
know but didn’t think
he
did!

All in all it’s a good life – which is why at all costs Maurice and me must PROTECT THE VICAR!!

Since the not unfortunate demise of my mistress, Mrs Elizabeth Fotherington, I have been living at the vicarage of St Botolph’s. It is a smaller and less salubrious establishment than the one to which I had been accustomed, but its incumbent the Reverend Oughterard, although somewhat trying, is kind and generally inoffensive. The smothering blandishments of my former owner had driven me almost to distraction and there were times when – had I the strength and the means (and were less dependent on the good food she provided) – I could have readily strangled her. But fortunately the vicar did that instead.

He and I share the same need for peace and quiet. She gave it to neither of us, and in the end he could stand it no more. As things turned out, his lapse worked to my advantage and I am really more than moderately content in this clerical abode. However, nothing is painless, and so there is of course the problem of the dog: Bouncer. When his master, the local bank manager, absconded with the bank’s funds I generously made arrangements to install him here in the vicarage (as detailed in my earlier Memoir). I do not regret this gesture, for fundamentally Bouncer is a good-natured creature; but being a dog, his raucous temperament can jar the nerves. Indeed, there are times when I have to assert myself quite strongly and instruct him in the arts of etiquette and savoir-faire. It is a thankless business.

One unusually warm day in late January I was sitting cleaning my paws on the vicar’s crazy paving, when Bouncer appeared from behind the tool shed toting his rubber ring. He looked edgy.

‘What’s wrong?’ I enquired.

‘Nothing much,’ he growled, ‘except that those big parcels that he’s put up in the belfry have fallen against my bag of secret marrow bones and now they’re all bloody jammed underneath and I can’t get at them.’

‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for,’ I exclaimed, adding sharply, ‘but kindly refrain from swearing. You know I don’t like it!’ He was quite unabashed and started to chew his foot. I left him to it, and slipping through the hedge made my way over to the church and up to the belfry.

He was right. The parcels, which had been rather carelessly deposited, had become dislodged and fallen across the bone bag making it quite inaccessible to the dog’s ferreting nose. One of them was lying very close to the opening of the trap door and the slightest shunt could send it toppling down the steps. I could see where he had been scratching – shreds of brown paper and chewed string littered the floor, and protruding from one of the parcels was the corner of what seemed to be a picture frame. Typical of F.O., I thought, to want to put his paintings in the belfry. Any normal person would hang them in the house! But then of course …

As I gazed at the ripped paper it occurred to me that if the vicar were to visit the belfry to inspect his parcels or check the bells he would see the debris, move the pictures and discover the wedged bones. There would doubtless be a palaver, the bones would be confiscated, and Bouncer would have to devise yet another storage space – and probably one closer to the house. I recalled with a shudder their previous hidey-hole – and my appalled shock when I encountered them there. At least in the church belfry they were well out of harm’s way, or at any rate
my
way. I don’t know which I dislike more, the sound of bells or the sight of bones. Both are obnoxious.

As I pondered the question there was a loud scrabbling noise a few feet below. Covered in dust and bits of flaking plaster Bouncer emerged into the chamber panting heavily. ‘Cor!’ he exclaimed. ‘It doesn’t get any easier!’

‘If you curbed your peculiar passions,’ I answered coldly, ‘you wouldn’t have to resort to such exertions.’

He grinned vaguely and started to sniff at the parcels. For one distasteful moment it seemed as if he was going to lift a leg, but instead he turned and said, ‘You know, Maurice, we’re going to have to shift those things. I’ve taken a great deal of trouble rebuilding my collection after that business with the piano stool, and there’s one or two in that sack which I don’t wish to be without –
delicacies
, you would call them.’

‘I most certainly would not!’ I cried.

He looked pained but added amiably, ‘Besides, if he comes up here again and sees that mess he’s bound to get twitchy and then we’ll all cop it. He’s already working himself into a lather over that Tubbly woman!’

‘Not to mention her gin-sodden bulldog,’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘Enough to give anyone a turn!’

He laughed raucously. ‘Your face when you came in and saw him lying in front of the fire, especially when Tubbly said, “Oh, he
loves
pussy cats!”’ And Bouncer put on what he fondly imagined to be an imitation of Mrs Tubbly’s darkly expansive voice. It was a disagreeable noise and I was not amused.

‘I am glad you appreciate the trouble your antics may cause. Why you had to start interfering with those parcels I cannot imagine!’

‘Well, you know how it is when you want to gnaw something rather badly – you haven’t time to pussy-foot around.’

I told him what I thought of his gross appetites, not to mention his crude terminology; but after a quick sulk I resumed my usual geniality and started to apply my wits to the problem. The two parcels were square and very large – much bigger than us – and looked quite heavy. Getting them away from the open trap door, withdrawing the sack of bones and concealing the general mess was going to be a taxing task and would require all my ingenuity. The rope securing one of them had got hitched up on a nail protruding from the surrounding balustrade and would clearly further hinder removal. I pondered.

‘I tell you what,’ said Bouncer, ‘the fellow we need is O’Shaughnessy. I’m sure he could fix it.’

I flinched. ‘Certainly not! The last thing we want is that great creature floundering about up here – he would do untold damage!’ (O’Shaughnessy was Bouncer’s special friend, a wild Irish setter who had recently come to the neighbourhood and for whom Bouncer had developed an inexplicable hero-worship.)

‘Oh well,’ he said moodily, ‘it was just a thought.’

‘Look,’ I pointed out, ‘I know he was helpful when we had that problem with the vicar’s cigarette lighter in Foxford Wood, and I appreciate his bringing that piece of haddock for me at Christmas, but what we have here is an extremely delicate situation which requires equally delicate handling. That is not something which comes within O’Shaughnessy’s sphere.’

‘If you say so,’ he growled.

‘I do say so. The object is to ease the bones from underneath the parcels in such a way as not to give ourselves a hernia and without causing conspicuous damage to the goods or sending them hurtling to the floor below. As you say, if F.O. discovers something has been at these parcels
and
sees your mangy fossils strewn around them he’ll become fraught and fragile again and it will be we who endure the fallout. It doesn’t take much! He is also bound to confiscate the bones. You wouldn’t like that, would you? The task requires finesse and a certain – how shall I put it? – feline subtlety.’

‘You mean you want to have a go,’ he said.

I sighed. ‘It would be safer!’

Picking my way carefully, I strolled to the far corner of the belfry from where I could get a better perspective. The whole thing needed meticulous appraisal and I spent some time in assessing the dimensions of the parcels, the circumference of the trap door, the tension of the securing rope, and the weight of his dreadful bone bag. Bouncer watched, grinning inanely.

Finally I returned slowly to the middle of the chamber, settled myself comfortably and proceeded to sleek my paws and touch up my ears.

‘Well?’ said Bouncer. ‘What do you think? Chop chop!’

‘What I think,’ I replied coolly, ‘is that the task is not without difficulties but is perfectly possible. All that is required is a steady nerve, a dextrous touch, and a quick tweak of the rope. That will slacken the tension, ease the bigger parcel and facilitate withdrawal of the bone bag with minimal disturbance. It is quite straightforward really.’

He stared at me with his mouth half open and head tilted slightly on one side. He normally does that if he is feeling sceptical or bloody-minded. But in this case I think he was impressed by my powers of analysis.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘so you’re going to do that, are you?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘Right-ho.’ And he took up a position close to the open trap door.

Despite my words of assurance to Bouncer, I wasn’t
quite
sure how I was going to proceed, for in the course of my inspection I had noticed a further complication – a long corner of the sack with its strands of hessian was closely entwined with the parcel’s string binding, and detaching the two would not be easy. However, it doesn’t do to look flummoxed. My left paw is particularly adroit in such matters and I judged that with concentrated patience the bits could be unravelled. That done and the rope gently tweaked, the dog could give a quick tug with his teeth and so pull the sack from the overlying pictures. I explained this to him and directed that he be poised for the ready.

Extending a claw I started to pick tentatively at the muddle of string and sacking. Gradually it began to unravel, and thus emboldened I intensified my efforts and then applied my teeth. The additional pressure was a mistake: the top parcel trembled slightly, its rope fell from the nail, and then suddenly, as I was so delicately teasing the string of the one underneath, it started to slither towards the open trap door. In the nick of time I leaped back as the great thing slid past me, and then bumped and trundled its way down the belfry steps. There was a great deal of noise which made my ears go quite numb.

We stared down in dismay and saw the picture with its wrappings ripped apart lying face up at the foot of the stairs. From our angle it looked like something abandoned in a junk yard.

‘Well, you’ve properly put your paw in it there, haven’t you!’ Bouncer observed.

Despite the shock I naturally had my wits about me. ‘You may recall that it was
your
bones that were responsible for this absurdity in the first place.
I
was merely pandering to your appetites and trying to help you out of a tight corner. My theory was excellent but theories occasionally go adrift – through no fault of their devisor!’

‘Oh well,’ he grumbled, ‘those who can, do: those who can’t, teach!’ I could see from his smug expression that he was pleased with that, and tired of his insolence gave him a prod with my unsheathed claw. It had the desired effect and he looked suitably contrite.

‘I suggest you start to remove those confounded bones to some recess where F.O. is unlikely to chuck his lumber! While you are doing that I shall assess the damage.’ So saying, I picked my way down the narrow stairway to the loft below and proceeded to survey the picture.

Apart from a few scrapes and minor splinterings of the frame, there didn’t seem to be any obvious damage – or at least none that F.O. was likely to notice – and I turned my attention to the subject itself. This I found peculiar and distasteful. The background was unattractive – all dark and grim and murky with great swirls of pallid mist and streaks of muddy orange. But it was the front part that really made me shudder: a vast conglomeration of human bones and skulls – white and glistening and nasty! I am a cat of delicate sensibilities and, as you have probably gathered, do not share Bouncer’s partiality for things osseous. It is bad enough having to endure the sight of his gnarled trophies, but they at least are smaller both in dimension and number; and to face such a stark and sudden panorama was more than I could stomach. I emitted a long mew of disgust which brought the dog floundering down the steps.

‘What’s up? What are you making that racket for? It’s enough to wake the dead!’

‘They
are
woken,’ I said. ‘Just look at that!’ And I gestured with my tail towards the canvas. He sat down in front of it and stared for a long time.

Eventually I asked him what he thought. ‘I suppose you like it, your sort of thing presumably – all those bones!’

‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t, as a matter of fact. I think it is SILLY. They’re not proper bones at all – like plastic, too white and no meat. They don’t look anywhere near real.’

‘They look real enough to me!’ I exclaimed.

‘Ah, but you’re not a conners whatsit. I am.’ I graciously accepted his connoisseurship in the matter but still preferred to avert my eyes, and suggested that since there was nothing else we could do about the painting it was time to return to the vicarage and to supper. On the way back I observed that if that was an example of what the humans call ‘art’ I didn’t think much of it.

‘Don’t suppose he does either. That’s probably why he shoved them up there. Wanted to get ‘em out of the way!’

‘You could well be right,’ I acknowledged. He wagged his tail vigorously.