Bones in the Belfry (4 page)

I was sorry about the wedding fracas – not just because of its ghastly embarrassment and the mess it had made in the church, but because I had quite liked Madeline and had rather looked forward to assisting her in tying the knot with some nice young man. I am generally good at doing weddings and enjoy them almost as much as I do funerals, so felt vaguely cheated that this one had not worked as well as it might.

Christenings, on the other hand, are not my métier: I am sensitive to noise, and the infant squalls invariably put me off my stroke. I am also (despite a certain skill at the piano) rather maladroit, and there have been one or two occasions when the subject of the ceremony has slid head first into the font. Surprisingly it is not so much the parents who have been bothered by this, as the godparents. They seem to get unduly exercised and can create a fuss. I think this is probably something to do with the novelty of their new spiritual status: they feel constrained to demonstrate their fitness for the job. Still, it does make it all a bit nerve-racking.

There was also a further reason why the wedding bothered me: the press. At the time there had been such a shindig going on that I had not really registered the clicking of flashbulbs, but thinking back remembered them only too vividly. Slung with cameras, a bevy of local reporters had been assembled on the grass ready to snap the happy pair when they emerged from the nuptials. They had got more than they bargained for! The ennui of waiting had been miraculously curtailed by the arrival of Fred; and his entry upon the church had left its doors agape, graphically exposing the horrors within. I imagine it was what Fleet Street would call a ‘scoop’. And scoop the photographers certainly did – gleefully and relentlessly.

Once safely home and sprawled on the bed, I dwelt on this aspect of events, but convinced myself that although St Botolph’s could do without such publicity it was essentially a local matter and unlikely to hit the national papers. I could not have been more wrong. Two days later there were articles plus photographs not only in the
Daily Sketch
and
Mirror
, but also in
The Times
which seemed to take particular relish in describing the affair. Naturally I was dismayed – but I was also deeply worried: the cause of my anxiety being less to do with ridicule from the public than with the reaction of my bishop, Horace Clinker.

The previous year when the Elizabeth Fotherington business had been at its height Clinker had taken it into his head to transfer me from my current appointment in Molehill and make me chaplain to some obscure and moth-eaten Home for Retired Clergy. He had been keenly set on this and seemed to think I should be grateful to quit a parish becoming notorious for its ‘Glade-in-the-Woods Murder’. I was in fact appalled at the prospect as I had grown very fond of Molehill, and the bishop’s glowing descriptions of the new posting were so awful as to make me desperate. It had been a delicate and complicated matter: but put briefly, to force Clinker into having a change of heart I had resorted to getting him spectacularly drunk.

Amazingly the ruse had gone without a hitch, and soon afterwards, shamed into passivity, he rescinded his decision and left me severely in peace. Indeed, the silence from the Bishop’s Palace was so pronounced that I had begun to think I might never be bothered by episcopal diktats again. However, this latest turn of events might well ruffle the calm! Years ago when I had been an ordinand at St Bede’s Clinker had been the temporary dean, so I had some knowledge of his habits – one of which was an obsessive daily perusal of
The Times
. I had no reason to assume that things had changed.

Mercifully, the next morning I had a dental appointment in Guildford. ‘Mercifully’ because my absence from the vicarage would at least temporarily foil any telephone contact from Clinker or his gauleiters. In my job one is grateful for such respites.

Escaping from the dentist unscathed and wanting to prolong my freedom from Clinker for as long as possible, I dawdled over some household shopping; and then, having skipped breakfast, decided that elevenses were in order. I bought a newspaper and headed for one of the darker recesses of the Angel Hotel, and settling into a capacious armchair ordered coffee and a couple of cream buns. I have rather a sweet tooth, and in times of stress – which with Clinker doubtless in the offing I considered this to be – will occasionally indulge myself. I had just finished the first confection and was debating whether to light a cigarette before embarking on the second, when my eye was caught by an intriguing headline: WHAT PRICE THE STOLEN BONES? The article that followed gave me more than pause for thought. It practically gave me a heart attack.

The item involved the description of two paintings by an artist of whom I had never heard – one Claus Spendler – which had recently disappeared in transit from a gallery in the Hague to a Mayfair establishment for inclusion in its exhibition of early twentieth-century oils. Apparently their loss had created quite a furore in the art world, for Spendler – a hitherto obscure Austrian artist – had been recently ‘discovered’ and was not only enjoying a spate of earnest attention from the cognoscenti but also commanding increasingly high prices among sharp-eyed dealers. At the advanced age of eighty-two, the artist was fast becoming an international celebrity. The smaller of the missing pictures was apparently entitled
On the Brink
and had as its subject a nude youth standing upon a rock-strewn shore poised to plunge into dark and swirling waters. According to the writer of the article, its sub-title should have been ‘The Leap in the Dark’ for its Kierkegaardian links were, he opined, ‘only too apparent’. I am sure he was absolutely right.

However, what made my blood suddenly run cold was his account of the other picture,
Dead Reckoning
: ‘… a lowering canvas of midnight glooms and yawning lunar scars contrasting starkly with myriads of polished skulls and cairns of desolate bones … A painting of such stunning metaphysical power that the viewer quakes before its appalling depths.’ Recognition was instant. It was undoubtedly the oppressive thing which I had uncovered only three days ago! My original suspicions about Nicholas and the reason for my custodianship were horribly confirmed.

Worse was to come: ‘When asked to put a price on the pair, a spokesman for the Art Dealers’ Association of Brighton and the South Coast, Mr Nicholas Ingaza, suggested a sum in the region of £14,000,
*
adding that of course the longer they remained untraced the more this figure was likely to increase. He also said that it was highly improbable they were still in Europe, let alone England, but were by now doubtless residing in some collector’s den in Tangier or Boston.’

Tangier? Boston? … They were in my blithering belfry!

No longer attracted by the cream bun, I left money for the bill and re-emerged into the sunlight of the High Street. And then, just as I had started to wander back to the car park bearing my parcels and my fears, I was suddenly grabbed from behind and a voice boomed in my ear, ‘Ah, the Reverend! Just the man I wanted to see!’ It was Mrs Tubbly Pole. She clutched my arm and I dropped the parcels.

‘Good morning,’ I said from a crouching position on the pavement. ‘Fancy meeting you!’

‘Yes, well met, wasn’t it! Now, I have an urgent matter I need to discuss and if you’ve nothing better to do this evening I think you had better pay me a visit. Don’t suppose you
have
got anything else lined up so I’ll expect you about six o’clock.’ She grinned encouragingly, and before I had staggered to my feet was pursuing her stout course down the hill.

Wonderingly I watched her go. And then, thinking my absence from the vicarage that evening might further delay speech with Clinker, and since, as she had correctly surmised, there was indeed nothing scheduled, I resigned myself to spending another alarming session with Mrs T.P. and her bulldog drinking partner. It might, after all, take my mind off other matters.

When I got home the first thing I did was to rush up to the belfry and wrench the wrapping from the other picture. I suppose I hoped that it might be something quite other than the one described in the newspaper. After all, being a receiver of just
one
internationally acclaimed painting would be only half as culpable as fencing for two … wouldn’t it? However, as things turned out, such Jesuitical niceties proved immaterial, for the second picture was exactly as the paper had described – although wherein lay its worth I was still unclear.

Like the first, it too was of tenebrous hue, but unlike its companion it featured a human figure: an androgynous youth whose naked buttocks seemed disproportionately large for his slender frame. As the article had stated, he was standing on a pebbled shore gazing out at a tumescent sea. Whether he was indeed about to launch himself upon the waters, as the commentator had declared, or was merely enjoying the fresh air, I was undecided. But neither possibility was especially interesting. To my untutored eye the painting seemed flat and crude, and the dark seascape generated none of that subtle drama or mystery which will sometimes envelop beaches at twilight.

Still, whatever their quality, these were the missing pictures all right! And what had been a dreadful but untested suspicion had now become an only too concrete reality … Bugger Nicholas!

As directed, I arrived at Mrs Tubbly Pole’s shortly after six o’clock and was ushered into the large drawing room. I had visited the house once before when the Cohens were still in residence, and as they had let it partly furnished recognized a good deal of the original rather stylish contents. However, these had been largely overlaid by several imported and ramshackle sets of shelves crammed to bursting with box files and books, journals, sheaves of newspaper cuttings and papers of all sorts. These last, stuffed randomly among the interstices, gave the shelves a look of wild dissolution – in keeping, I thought, with the rest of the room.

The Cohens’ carpet – a large Tiensin rug of impeccable design and provenance – was littered with wads of used and unused typing paper, the intervening areas largely occupied by an assortment of briefcases and bulging waste-paper baskets. The Chippendale sideboard, once elegantly adorned with Regency candlesticks, was now the repository for two large typewriters, a discarded shopping bag, and a remarkable array of gin and liqueur bottles – placed with what can only be described as carefree abandon. A couple of knee rugs, Gunga Din’s tartan coats, and unfinished bits of knitting were draped haphazardly over backs of chairs; and everywhere there was a conglomeration of fading photographs. Apart from sepoys and elephants, these seemed mainly to feature a little man with fearsome moustache, glaring angrily from beneath a sola-topi. In front of the sofa was a large dog basket; and whether the liberal sprinkling of surrounding cake crumbs was connected with the absent occupant or his owner, it was difficult to tell.

I surveyed the scene with interest, feeling that my own domestic bedlam was rather paltry in comparison.

‘What will you have?’ she asked, propelling me towards one of the few empty chairs. I intimated that a small Scotch would be welcome, and from the sideboard she fetched two bottles, one whisky and one gin, and dumped them on the nearby table.

‘One for you and one for me,’ she announced. Tumblers, a pail of ice, and some rather dusty-looking biscuits followed. Then, having poured two generous measures and settling herself opposite, she raised her glass in my direction. I suppose I was expecting something hearty like ‘Bung Ho!’ or possibly even ‘Bottoms Up!’ Instead, in a voice that was a fair imitation of Humphrey Bogart she said, ‘Here’s looking at you, kid!’

The phrase was familiar of course, but certainly no one had ever toasted
me
in that way before. In fact, as I came to think of it, no one had ever toasted me at all. I was both pleased and flustered. ‘Er – your good health,’ I responded feebly. There was a pause as we sipped our respective drinks. At least, I sipped mine; she, I think, made a rather bolder assault.

‘Well now, Vicar, what have you been up to lately? Had a bit of a dust-up in the church, so I hear. Quite a little party!’ She chuckled. ‘Must have been fun!’

‘It wasn’t,’ I said glumly. ‘It was awful.’

‘Oh well, I shouldn’t worry. It’s bound to blow over!’

‘I doubt it,’ I replied. ‘I think the bishop could be on my tail. He was my boss at training college which makes him keep an officious eye on me … And you see, there was a small upset last year which was slightly embarrassing, so I think this wedding business might re-stir his concern about Molehill and my future prospects here. Wouldn’t be surprised if there was another visitation at any moment!’

‘You can cross that bridge when it comes,’ she said briskly, ‘and it probably won’t anyway. He’ll rant a bit and then do nothing. It’s part of the pattern.’ I must have looked sceptical for she added, ‘Besides, if he does try anything, leave him to me: I know all about bishops!’

‘Do you?’ I said in surprise.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied airily. ‘My late husband –’ and she gestured towards the photographs – ‘had at least two on his side of the family: rather tiresome cousins. I soon settled
their
hash.’

‘Goodness!’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes, they’re like gun-dogs, you know. Handle them firmly and they soon come to heel. It’s simply a question of your will against theirs.’

I rather suspected that Mrs Tubbly Pole’s will was considerably stronger than mine, but made a mental note that should the worst come to the worst I might well employ her services.

‘Now,’ she said, refilling the glasses and eyeing me intently, ‘we must get down to brass tacks. What I
need
is to get into your belfry!’

I recoiled. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Because,’ she replied patiently, ‘I require special information which I can only gain by inspecting the church tower and its bell chamber.’

‘What sort of information?’ I asked faintly, as images of the purloined paintings danced before my eyes.

‘Oh,’ she replied vaguely, ‘you know – position of the bells, dimensions, the general feel of the place …’

‘But
why
?’ I protested.

‘It’s my novel: there’s been a slight change of plan. As I told you, it’s to be based on your murder –’

‘The
Molehill
murder,’ I interjected quickly. (How I wished she wouldn’t be so free with the possessive case!)

‘Yes, yes – the one in Foxford Wood. I’ve decided it would be more interesting to have the corpse discovered not in the wood but in the church belfry. Not new of course – Dorothy Sayers did it years ago – but I think I can put a pretty good twist on the original!’ She grinned confidently.

‘I am sure you can,’ I murmured, ‘but you don’t really need to go up there, do you? I mean, there’s nothing much to see and I can always describe it to you.’

‘Certainly not,’ she said severely, ‘that wouldn’t do at all. Never in all my career have I relied on second-hand data. I must test things for myself – a question of professional pride. After all, my readers expect it of me. Never let it be said that Cecil Piltdown didn’t know exactly what he was talking about!’

She stressed the point with another slug of gin, while I racked my brain for excuses. None came and I was reduced to babbling ineffectually about the dust and debris, the narrow rickety steps, even the smell. She was undeterred and pressed me for a date and a time.

‘That’s settled then,’ she cried triumphantly. ‘Saturday night it is! Now, time to get old Gunga in … he’s been in the garden quite long enough.’ So saying, she disappeared into the hall where I heard the front door being wrenched open and the sound of much whistling and yoo-hooing. This was replaced by bellowed endearments as dog and mistress were reunited, and together they returned to the room.

Gunga Din looked reasonably sober, and evidently recognized his guest for he plodded over and ceremoniously licked my hand; and then breathing heavily sat down at my feet and gazed up in solemn scrutiny.

‘He
likes
you,’ she declared. ‘Give him a little of your whisky and he’ll be your pet for life!’ I was unenticed by this prospect but dutifully poured a drop into the proffered saucer and set it before him. As with the gin at our last meeting, he lapped it slowly, and then with a contented sigh rolled over and began to snore gently. I was reminded momentarily of Bishop Clinker who six months earlier, and also as a result of my ministrations, had been in a similar position.

Fortunately the entry of the dog had diverted my hostess from her novel and questions about the death in the woods. Instead she talked amusingly about her days in India and the exploits of her late husband, Jacko – who at five foot two and of uncertain temper had evidently been the scourge of the Indian Civil Service.

‘Oh yes! They talk of him even now … he was awful, you know. Quite, quite
awful
!’ And she gurgled in happy reminiscence. Glancing again at the figure in the photographs I could well believe her.

We chatted a little longer, and then glancing at my watch I realized it was far later than I had thought. ‘It’s been a delight, Mrs Tubbly Pole, and thank you so much – but I have an early service in the morning and really must be going!’

‘Well, if you must, you must – but surely one for that long road!’ And despite my protests she poured another generous libation. ‘I
also
think it is time we were on Christian name terms,’ she announced. ‘You must be tired of addressing me as Mrs Tubbly Pole and I am perfectly prepared to be called by my first name.’

‘Ah …’ I said, not sure what else was required.

‘Yes, it’s high time,’ she said. ‘The name is …
Rosebud
.’ She must have seen my look of consternation, for grinning slyly added, ‘Didn’t think you would like that, nobody does! Don’t worry, I have a middle name –
much
better: Maud.’

‘Ah,’ I repeated in some relief. ‘Yes – yes, I think perhaps that does suit you better: clear and to the point with a sort of no-nonsense ring.’

She beamed. ‘Exactly, Francis, exactly. I knew we were on the same wavelength!’ I very much doubted whether I could ever be on the same wavelength as Mrs Tubbly Pole, but smiled obligingly, cleared my throat, and rather precariously got to my feet and moved towards the hall. Oblivious of my departure, the Pet-For-Life continued its fireside slumber.

Hooting words of encouragement, my hostess waved cheerily from the porch as I unsteadily negotiated the gate and began my way home – not sure, in more senses than one, whether I was coming or going.