Bones in the Belfry (21 page)

Following Edith’s departure, I walked home in a state of dazed and cautious delight. I say ‘cautious’ for experience has long taught me that things are rarely what they appear, and that chickens should never be counted etc., etc. However, my mind was certainly verging on optimism. But only when it came from the horse’s mouth could I really be sure. Obviously further words with Mavis were required.

This was not a prospect I relished, and I wondered what would be the best line of approach. A telephone call ostensibly about some parish matter? A ‘chance’ meeting during one of her church floral sessions? Both were possible. But it struck me that if she was in such a state of disturbance as Edith had intimated, her resolution might be flagging and she might already be harbouring ideas of reconciliation with the scorned Miss Prinkley. Any such notions should be firmly squashed: it was imperative that Mavis’s decision not to attend the Spendler lecture be final! Chance meetings or random telephone calls were not enough; only a full and formal session would suffice. She would have to be invited to the vicarage, plied with flattery and cups of tea, and firmly persuaded that the Tate Gallery was grossly overrated and that Herr Spendler’s paintings far removed from the interests of one so discerning as herself.

Thus I telephoned and unctuously invited her to tea the following day. She accepted with alacrity, and I went out to procure scones and meringues from one of Molehill’s better bakeries.

Preparatory to her arrival I had worked out a tactful means of introducing the topic – but none was needed, for she arrived promptly at four o’clock flushed and garrulous, and obviously only too eager to talk about her altercation with the art teacher.

‘Do you know, Vicar,’ she exclaimed, ‘my last essay took such a long time to prepare, and I presented it in a charming folder which I had decorated with pink roses and gambolling gazelles. Everyone said how pretty it looked! But when Miss Prinkley handed it back she said that the significance of the cover had entirely escaped her, and as to the contents, did the words “vapid” and “banal” mean anything to me? Well, as a matter of fact they didn’t, and I had to ask the gentleman sitting next to me. He seemed to take great pleasure in explaining the terms very loudly and at considerable length. It was all most embarrassing!’

‘Oh dear,’ I murmured, pushing a consoling scone in her direction, ‘that seems a bit rotten! What was the topic of the essay?’

‘Picasso’s
Guernica
.’

‘Ah … ye-es … I see.’ And like Miss Prinkley, I too wondered at the cover’s significance, but refrained from enquiring: there was quite enough sugar in the meringues.

‘Well, Mavis, I’m sure you are not the first person to have trouble with Picasso,’ I ventured soothingly, ‘and that particular picture is notoriously tricky. Why, I remember when it first appeared, how difficult it was to grasp the full –’

‘Oh, it’s not difficult!’ she protested. ‘Not difficult at all. It’s all about war, you see, and how dreadful it is – particularly in Spain.’

I nodded encouragingly. ‘Well, yes, I suppose that is the general theme … but, uhm, what about its style and treatment? How did you deal with that?’

‘Oh,’ she said airily, ‘I skated over that, naturally. I mean, it’s the
fundamental concept
that matters, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose … but the technique needs some –’

‘What I wrote, Vicar, were my reminiscences of wartime here in England, and our Anderson shelter at the bottom of the garden, and Mother doing her fire watching and getting stuck on the roof, and those nice Canadian soldiers billeted next door coming to her rescue, and the nylons that they gave my sister, and her Californian Poppy scent, and the problem with the sweet-points and my ration book, and putting the sticky tape on the windows, and how in the nursing canteen we all had to knit scarves for Britain, and what fun it was when …’

I cleared my throat and asked if she had devoted the entire essay to this catalogue of quotidian memory.

‘Oh no,’ she exclaimed, ‘that was only the first five pages. After that I talked about the Brotherhood of Man and how we should all be one happy family and be nice to one another, and that in my opinion if only women were allowed to rule the world there would be no more fighting and all that silly nonsense! It would be so simple really.’ And she smiled confidently.

I poured her another cup of tea, digesting these philosophical pearls. ‘Very interesting, Mavis. But I gather your tutor thought otherwise?’

She tossed her head dismissively. ‘That Miss Prinkley – she’s so high and mighty! Just because she’s got some degree in Art History she thinks she’s the cat’s whiskers! Do you know what she said to me at the end of the class?’

I shook my head and contrived to look sympathetic. ‘She said that over the weeks she had come to the conclusion that I was following the wrong course and wouldn’t I feel much more comfortable in the basket-weaving group next door.’

‘And would you?’

‘Certainly not. I do have a mind, you know! And I told her so in no uncertain terms!’

‘Goodness! What did she say?’

‘She said it was a pity about that as I clearly had talents elsewhere, and that she knew several old baskets richly deserving of my attention.’

‘Crikey!’ I gasped.

‘What?’

‘Er – well, I never!’

‘Yes. She’s obviously got a peculiar fixation about baskets. I didn’t really know what she was talking about but she looked distinctly disagreeable. So I decided there and then that I was wasting my time
and
my intellect on her boring course, and so I resigned immediately. Resigned!’ And picking up her fork, she attacked a meringue with a savagery that I never thought to witness in Mavis.

There was brief pause as she munched, while I reflected upon Miss Prinkley and her problem with elderly baskets.

‘Does that mean that you won’t be going up to London to hear the Spendler lecture?’ I then enquired hesitantly.

‘Certainly not with that woman!’ she exclaimed. ‘But I
might
go under my own steam. After all, it seems a pity to miss such a
distinguished
artist, although of course I’m not at all familiar with London, so it would be rather an adventure, especially on my own!’ And she simpered archly through the remains of her meringue.

For one fearful moment I thought she was going to ask me to accompany her; but the moment passed, and I said in firm voice, ‘Simply not worth it, Mavis, not worth it at all. As I said before, Spendler’s a has-been. Always was really. It’s only journalists and, er, out-of-date art teachers who go on about him. The real cognoscenti know far better.’ I gave a superior smile and passed her another meringue.

She took it thoughtfully, and then said brightly, ‘Is that your considered opinion, Vicar?’

‘Absolutely. You are far too sensible to waste your intellectual powers on that sort of thing!’

‘Well …’ she said, flushing demurely, ‘I
am
rather busy, of course. I mean, there’s always my poetry project …’

‘Ah yes! Your
Little Gems of Uplift
,’ I interrupted. ‘How is that going these days? It was such a success last year – the Young Wives were enquiring about it only the other day. Mustn’t neglect that, you know!’

She nodded in agreement. ‘You’re so right, Vicar. I mustn’t let the patrons down. There’s a lot to be done and no time to waste on that, that … old man and his –
footling
pictures!’ She clapped a hand to her mouth delighted at her own daring.

‘That’s the spirit, Mavis!’ I cried. And in an access of triumph I asked if she would like some sherry. She twittered and wittered, and then having expressed the fear that it might make her tiddly, accepted with a coy giggle – but not before eliciting my promise to attend the
Little Gems
event in the parish hall. There is always a price.

As we sipped sedately, I wistfully recalled the gun-cracking blast from Maud Tubbly Pole demanding her second treble Scotch …

That bone was one of the best I’ve ever had – what the cat would probably call
bona rara
or some such, but what I call JOLLY GOOD! In fact, it’s been so good that I’ve hidden it in one of my special places so I can go and visit it from time to time and pretend it’s still got some meat on. The master had been pretty twitchy for a couple of days (that Mavis woman getting on his nerves) but all of a sudden he became normal again – well, as normal as he’s ever likely to be – and came waltzing into the kitchen one morning grinning all over his face and dropped this bone in my basket. As I’ve said before, one of the
bonuses
of living here (yes, Maurice isn’t the only one who can make jokes, quite good at them myself when I try) is that you never really know which way the wind will blow next. He’s up and down like a rubber ball; but as I tell O’Shaughnessy, that’s what keeps a dog on his toes all right!

Anyway, a day or so later, that Mavis person came to the house for tea, and they went droning on in the sitting room while I lay quietly under the piano. F.O. seemed fairly in control, as you might say, and kept smirking to himself, so I guessed things were going his way. I was pleased about that because what with one thing and another, and especially the rabbit business, things have been a bit bumpy recently and he could do with a rest. Well, they went on jawing, and then he gave her some brown stuff in a small glass and they talked some more – at least, she garbled and he just nodded.

I was just beginning to think that I might be getting a bit bored and that it was time I went to look for Maurice, when there was a sudden crash in the front porch which made the vicar nearly leap out of his skin, while the Mavis person squeaked like a demented mouse and spilt her drink all over the floor. It set me off too, and I had a good old airing of lungs! F.O. shouted at me and then lolloped off to see what the racket was about. I was quite interested myself, and not finding the Mavis much fun, followed him into the hall. There seemed to be a lot of scuffling and cursing going on, and then I heard him say, ‘Oh my God, not you!’

Yes, it was the Brighton type – clutching a bottle in one hand and a suitcase in the other. It struck me that he wasn’t entirely steady. But then you can’t always tell with humans – they often walk peculiarly; something to do with themhaving only two legs.

Anyway, putting it mildly, F.O.looked none too pleased, and the two of them did a lot of jabbering and whispering which I didn’t really understand; but by that time I needed to stretch my leg against a tree, and I was just beetling off to the pet flap in the kitchen and throwing a few barks over my shoulder for good measure, when the sitting-room door opened and the Mavis appeared, saw the Brighton type, and squawked: ‘Why, if it’s not the Venerable Benchley! What a delightful surprise!’

Don’t know what happened after that as the need for a leak was getting urgent and F.O. gets ratty if I disgrace myself indoors, so I scooted off pronto to the garden.

The tedium of Mavis was appallingly alleviated by the sudden arrival of Nicholas Ingaza. Unlooked for and out of the night, he appeared on my doorstep in a state of dishevelled and fearsome jollity. In vicious mood Nicholas is dangerous but manageable; amused and inebriated he is incorrigible. That he should be clutching a large bottle of brandy was, given his lurching stance, only to be expected. What was not expected, and distinctly ominous, was the accompanying suitcase which he deposited in the hall with a deafening crash.

I was just in the middle of saying that Mavis Briggs was in the other room and would he kindly return whence he had come, when over the din of the dog’s barking I heard her voice behind me exclaiming, ‘Why, if it isn’t the Venerable Benchley! What a delightful surprise!’ I shut my eyes and suddenly felt very old and tired …

‘Who’s she?’ gurgled Nicholas.

‘Don’t you remember?’ I hissed. ‘The woman whose picture you nicked, the one who made you smell all those geraniums!’

‘Oh Christ! She hasn’t got any more with her, has she?’

‘No, but she thinks you’re an archdeacon,’ I moaned.

‘Better put on a good show then!’ he replied in a bellowed whisper. And adopting a sickening leer and mincing gait, he advanced upon Mavis with proffered hand.

She took it eagerly and simpered up at him, scanning the spivvy suit and raffish tie. In my heightened state I doubtless only imagined her look of puzzlement, but muttered something to the effect that the Reverend had just returned from holiday and what a relief it always was to be able to relax in mufti for a few days! She nodded respectfully and continued to simper.

We returned to the sitting room where I noted Mavis’s upturned sherry glass on the floor and its contents seeping into the carpet. She was clearly embarrassed and full of abject apologies, but before I had a chance to calm her down Nicholas took it upon himself to observe in tones of silky indulgence that that was
exactly
the sort of little upset he himself had
every
day with the altar wine, and that God didn’t put us on this earth to cry over spilt alcohol, did he now? The words may have been somewhat slurred but were accompanied by a smile of such unctuous beatitude that Mavis was deaf to any such verbal laxity. And as for myself, recalling the amount of alcohol that Ingaza had always managed to spill over the floorboards of St Bede’s, not to mention down his own throat, I rather assumed he knew what he was talking about.

She regarded him gratefully, which was unfortunate as it emboldened him to go further: ‘In fact, my child,’ (‘my child’ ? How
could
he!) ‘far from crying over alcohol – spilt or otherwise – it is my belief that the good Lord likes nothing better than to see his creatures make merry with the grape.’ (‘Make merry with the grape’! Was he raving?) ‘And so, as token of my gratitude to Francis who has been so kind in welcoming me to his humble abode, I suggest we spurn the sherry and instead partake of some of this excellent cognac I happen to have with me!’ So saying, and continuing to smile winsomely at Mavis, he proceeded to wrench the foil from the neck of the bottle.

Mavis looked flustered and excited. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly!’ she twittered. ‘I mean, I’ve never had brandy before, except in mince pies of course, I don’t think I could …’

‘Of course you could – steady your nerves before going home. One for the road – as the heathen say!’ And he laughed loudly in a wheezing falsetto.

‘Actually,’ I broke in hastily, ‘I think Mavis
is
in rather a hurry. Perhaps this isn’t quite the time … Didn’t you say you had to meet Edith or somebody, Mavis?’

‘No,’ she said, looking fixedly at the brandy. ‘No, I didn’t.’

Reluctantly I got out the glasses. With a theatrical flourish, Nicholas splashed a large dose into one of them and thrust it towards Mavis.

‘Rémy Martin – rather a good one, I think you’ll find. A personal gift from the archbishop …’

‘The
arch
bishop!’ she exclaimed wide-eyed. ‘Good gracious! How kind. Which one?’

‘Oh … Durham, I think – or it could have been York. They’re all much of a muchness really … one meets so many in my job, you know.’ He spoke with a preening nonchalance. It was an absurd display and I thought sourly that no one but Mavis could possibly swallow it.

‘Well,’ she ventured, ‘if it’s from the archbishop, I suppose I
might
just sample a little …’ and she raised the glass to her lips and took a tentative sip.

I was momentarily distracted by Nicholas offering me a cigarette, but when I next glanced at Mavis I realized that his absurdity was not the only thing she had swallowed: the entire contents of the brandy glass had disappeared – drained to the last drop, and I hadn’t even started on mine! She looked quite well on it: pink and glazed and obviously waiting for a filler. With uncharacteristic generosity, Nicholas duly obliged. She downed it in two, an action which made even Ingaza’s jaw drop open. ‘Stone the crows!’ he muttered. Crows wouldn’t be the only ones stoned, I thought grimly, eyeing Mavis’s once more empty glass.

The spectacle of his cognac going down at the rate of knots seemed to have a sobering effect on Nicholas, and the ingratiating leer was rapidly replaced by an expression of twitching alarm. As Mavis, grown suddenly expansive, began to drool over the cat who had just strolled in, he gestured frantically while at the same time mouthing what I inferred to be, ‘Get her
out
of here!’

Receiving no response from Maurice, Mavis returned her attentions to the Rémy and its owner. ‘What a delicious cordial!’ she enthused. ‘Very tasty indeed. Most unusual. It’s nice to have a little treat now and again, isn’t it, Archbish … I mean, Archdeacon?’ And she giggled gaily.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas drily. ‘How are your geraniums?’

‘My what? … Oh, oh yes, my geraniums. They’re doing very well, thank you.’ She toyed with the stem of her glass, looking at the bottle. Nicholas gazed fixedly at the cat.

There was a pause, and then clearing my throat I said briskly, ‘My goodness, is that the time? We’ll never finish things at this rate. No peace for the wicked, I fear! Such a shame, but I’m afraid the archdeacon and I have a mass of paperwork to get through. So boring!’

‘Oh yes, frightfully boring!’ exclaimed Nicholas eagerly, whipping out a fountain pen.

Mavis looked momentarily put out, but rallying quickly said, ‘In that case, we must all have another little drop to give you strength! Shall I be mother?’ And seizing the bottle she proceeded to top up the glasses. We watched mesmerized, and then dutifully began to sip. Needless to say, Mavis finished first. At which point I stood up, and taking her firmly by the arm and muttering about the paperwork, propelled her towards the front door. Effusive farewells were expressed and she toddled happily down the path.

I returned to the sitting room to find Nicholas slumped on the sofa, pale and silent. Eventually he said slowly, ‘Well, if that’s a specimen of your parishioners, no wonder you’re a bit odd. Are they all like that?’

‘They are not all like that. And I am not odd!’

‘Uhm. If you say so …’

‘Look here, Nicholas,’ I exclaimed in irritation, ‘you didn’t have to come here at all. I mean, what are you
doing
, suddenly turning up with no prior warning? It’s not particularly convenient, I –’

‘Well, that’s a nice welcome, I must say, dear boy,’ he protested. ‘It’s a poor thing if a chap can’t drop in on an old colleague once in a while to have a friendly natter. You see,’ and he dropped his voice, grinning conspiratorially, ‘you see, I’ve pulled off rather a good deal. Thought you might like to help me celebrate. Hence the cognac – or what’s left of it after your friend got her paws on it!’

‘She is
not
my friend, she is …’

At that instant there was a light tap on the window, and through the gloom the spectral face of Mavis appeared.

‘God in heaven!’ Nicholas yelped. ‘She’s come back for more!’

I sighed resignedly and went to the door.

At first I didn’t understand what she was saying – something about a car, and what a problem it all was, and that she was very sorry, and would the archdeacon mind …

Gradually the breathy and brandied tones became clear. The ‘problem’ was Ingaza’s cumbersome Citroën – sprawled up on the pavement and slewed right across my front gate; and thin though she was, even Mavis was unable to insinuate herself past either bonnet or bumper.

‘Don’t worry, Mavis. We can shift that quickly enough! I’ll just get the Reverend Benchley to fetch his keys.’ I went inside and explained the situation.

Nicholas groaned and levered himself off the sofa. There followed a lengthy and fruitless search for his car keys, accompanied by much tut-tutting – or rather its graphic equivalent. Finally he expostulated, ‘
I
don’t know where the hell they are! Surely she can get out some other way. Haven’t you got a back gate or something?’

‘No,’ I said testily, ‘I haven’t. Only a couple of holes in the hedge.’

‘Well, shove her through one of those and then perhaps we’ll get a bit of peace.’ (Peace! If only! I thought.)

The upshot was that, gallantly assisted by the ‘archdeacon’ and myself, Mavis did indeed exit through the hedge. She seemed to relish the experience, emerging on to the pavement in a mood of dishevelled triumph; and declining my offer to accompany her home, disappeared into the night singing a hymn. Nicholas and I returned to the house and tidied up the remaining brandy.

We were down to the last quarter when, recalling the suitcase in the hall and the fact that I was evidently required to house him for the night, I asked him again what on earth he was doing in the area.

‘Ah, wondered when you might get back to that,’ he replied. ‘As it happens, I’ve been in Cranleigh, doing a bit of business with my old chum there, and very productive it’s been too!’

I sighed. ‘One of your “contacts”, I suppose.’

‘Yes, and we’ve come to a nice little agreement. Very nice indeed. In fact, Francis, if you play your cards right I might do you a favour and cut you in on it.’

‘
Cut
me
in
on it!’ I cried. ‘What do you think I am, some sort of shady racketeer? I leave that sort of thing to you, Nicholas!’

‘Not entirely, dear boy. After all, you did – as they say in the trade –
finger
the goods.’ He smiled blandly and smoothed his hair.

‘Yes, but only because you …’

‘Helped you out of a tight spot? Don’t I recall a little police matter a few months back to do with a lady and some binoculars …’ And he leered mockingly.

‘Well –’ I began defensively.

‘Something pretty shady there, if you ask me. Never did get to the bottom of it.’

‘Nonsense,’ I replied uneasily. ‘As I explained at the time, it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding and as usual the police had got a bee in their bonnet and wouldn’t let it go. It was annoying, that’s all.’

‘If you say so, old man. If you say so.’ The tone was suave, the look cynical.

The events of the evening had been more than tiresome; but now things were turning uncomfortable in the extreme. Ingaza was too damn sharp, and I sought desperately for a way of changing the subject.

‘I say,’ I ventured brightly, ‘a pity all your smart cognac’s gone. I could do with another drop. We’ll just have to make do with something less exalted! I think there’s still a bit left.’ And getting up quickly but unsteadily, I went into the kitchen and spent some time rootling for clean glasses.

When I returned he was smoking one of his sleek Russian Sobranies. No offer came my way and I had to make do with a Capstan. Putting the bottle between us, I said jocularly, ‘Now, who shall we drink to?’

‘To
whom
shall we drink?’ corrected Nicholas solemnly. He paused, and then raising his glass in mock gravity, announced: ‘To His Lordship The Right Reverend Horace Clinker!’

‘Good Lord!’ I said. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Anyone living with Gladys probably needs all the help they can get.’

Whether the accompanying grimace related to my grocer’s brandy or to Gladys, it was hard to know. Either way, it seemed to have diverted him from pursuing the matter of my ‘shady past’, and my own private toast was to the hope that things should stay that way, and so I nudged the conversation further in the direction of Clinker. ‘Yes, I suppose she must be a bit of a trial … not the easiest of ladies. In fact, probably quite a blight one way and the other!’ And I chuckled encouragingly.

There was a pause, and then he said languidly, lighting another Sobranie, ‘But then of course he did have that grand night of passion …’

‘With
Gladys
?’ I exclaimed.

‘No, of course not Gladys. Who do you think!’

I must have looked blank for he raised his eyes to the ceiling, and then fixing me with a cool stare said, ‘Me, of course.’

Even as I reeled from the shock, I nevertheless experienced a curious sense of recognition … Funny the way things fall into place. The latitude Nicholas had enjoyed at St Bede’s when Clinker had been acting dean had always been a source of mystery. But I had rather assumed it was on account of their earlier drinking sessions at Oxford when Clinker had been a young Classics don and Nicholas an undergraduate. By all accounts (principally Nicholas’s) in those days Clinker’s toping capacity had been prodigious, and I had vaguely assumed that this had been the cause of his leniency with Nicholas at St Bede’s: some mad escapade from the wilder past which he feared might surface were his erstwhile bar crony not given the kid glove. Little had it occurred to me the exact nature of the escapade. It would certainly explain Nicholas’s antipathy to the ghastly Gladys – although, I reflected, that was an antipathy universally shared.

‘Ah,’ I said.

Blowing a smoke ring in my direction, he gave a heavy-lidded smile, and with the old bantering tone said, ‘Oh yes, I was quite a catch in those days – but then strangely enough so was Hor. Difficult to credit, I know, but life and marriage can play funny tricks: a pretty lethal combination really – Episcopal Office
and
Gladys!’ And he gave a hollow laugh, while I tried to get my mind round the picture of Clinker being ‘a catch’. It was difficult.