Bones in the Belfry (5 page)

He saw me and came racing over amid much sound and fury and announced, ‘I could kill that bog-eyed basket, kill him I could!’

‘I thought you felt sorry for Gunga Din.’

‘Not any more I don’t. Flirty Gerty is making a beeline for him and he’s bound to take advantage, the basket!’

‘I doubt it,’ I said, ‘he’s not very observant. She won’t get far.’

‘Yes, but she always likes a challenge,’ he answered grimly.

‘Well, she’s got one there all right!’

I must explain that Flirty Gerty is a pert and foxy Pomeranian who has been giving Bouncer the run-around (and most of the other male dogs in the neighbourhood) for some considerable time. She’s a contrary little creature of whom I disapprove (one of many in that category), but Bouncer being less discerning is of course susceptible.

‘It wasn’t so bad being seen off by a bit of posh like William,’ he grumbled, ‘but to lose out to that short-legged fathead is a bit much!’ (William was a rather distinguished Great Dane who for a brief spell had entertained a mild fancy for Flirty but had moved on to higher things – a Russian borzoi, I seem to remember.)

‘Try ignoring her,’ I suggested. ‘Withdraw your favours, that might do the trick.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he growled, ‘can never get near enough to give her any!’ And despite his misery, he leered.

Ignoring the coarseness I continued kindly, ‘The thing is, Bouncer, you’re too good for her. There are plenty more fish in the sea, you know.’

He looked puzzled and started to say, ‘But you know I don’t like fi—’

‘A mere
façon de parler
,’ I said patiently. He seemed even more perplexed and I tried again. ‘Flirty by name, flighty by nature! You should look elsewhere. I am sure there are many ladies who would be only too ready to appreciate your …
rugged
charms.’ Yes, when necessity requires even I will – to use one of Bouncer’s own terms – lob the flannel.

He seized it eagerly. ‘I say, do you really think so? They’d like my rugged charms, would they?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said quickly, not wanting to go too far down that questionable path. He began to look smug.

‘So you think I should ditch her?’

‘Emphatically. She’s not worth the biscuit.’

I could see he was rapidly recovering, and was not surprised when he barked, ‘Biscuits! Where
did
I leave them? Under F.O.’s bed, I think.’ And wearing his special foraging expression he hurtled off towards the vicarage.

Later that afternoon, safe from the distractions of the vicarage, I was basking on my favourite tombstone, enjoying some rare moments of tranquillity. Then stretching languidly I sensed a slight movement from below, and glancing down found myself confronted by the upturned face of Gunga Din. Naturally, I fixed him with a hostile glare and prepared to make a scene, but before I could do so he said solemnly, ‘Hullo, I’ve come to play.’

I was in no mood for playing, and least of all with that inebriate. However, being a cat of impeccable manners I said graciously that I was feeling a little tired but knew a good game that he might like and in which I would join him later. He pondered and then asked what sort of game.

‘You see that tree over there?’ I said, flicking my tail in the direction of a large chestnut. He nodded. ‘Well, it’s quite fun competing to see how many times one can run round it without feeling dizzy. Bouncer and I often do that. You go and practise and I’ll be over soon.’ He wheezed off towards the tree and I watched as he slowly proceeded to circumambulate its trunk. A few seconds later I had slipped off the tombstone and was making my way back to the vicarage.

Halfway there I bumped into Bouncer who said, ‘I’ve just seen old Gunga. He hadn’t got his harness on – must have escaped from Tubbly. What’s he up to?’

‘Walking round a tree,’ I replied.

‘What’s he doing that for?’

‘Seeing how long it takes him to feel dizzy. It’s a new game.’

‘Doesn’t sound much of a game to me,’ growled Bouncer. ‘Still, I’ll go and take a look,’ and he trotted off towards the graveyard. I continued on my way, thinking that with Bouncer thus occupied and F.O. about to go off to one of those dire bell-ringing sessions I might manage a quiet nap.

I woke to the sound of him chewing his rubber ring. ‘How did you get on?’ I asked with interest.

‘Quite well,’ he replied. ‘It’s not a bad game.’

‘Really?’ I said in surprise. ‘I should have thought it was a trifle boring.’

He grinned. ‘Not the way I played it. Bit his arse.’ And with one of his coarser guffaws he bounded off into the kitchen. Just occasionally Bouncer makes quite a diverting companion.

At that moment F.O. came mooching into the room and folded himself into the armchair. He was clearly in one of his twitchy moods and I surmised the bell-ringing hadn’t gone too well or something had happened to shake his nerve. It doesn’t take much. Mind you, dispatching one of your parishioners must be quite an onerous matter and ideally would require a disposition of steely sangfroid. This our master does not possess. Nevertheless, though lacking the qualities of a competent murderer, he had so far managed to elude suspicion (partly due to my ingenuity with the cigarette lighter, as detailed in my previous Memoir) and the case had conveniently tailed off.

So what was causing his current state it was hard to tell – unless of course it had something to do with the adventof that Tubbly woman and her dropsical bulldog (the latter enough to induce a decline in anyone!). I remembered that their recent visit had indeed seemed to send him into one of his spins, and that after her departure he had retired abruptly to bed without even the courtesy of preparing my usual milk. Yes, it was clearly something to do with Mrs T.P. – and quite possibly those pictures in the belfry brought over by the questionable type from Brighton. Because of Bouncer those things had caused me insufferable trouble, so perhaps they were also in some way responsible for the vicar’s edginess. It wouldn’t surprise me. I hadn’t liked the look of them one bit.

As I pondered these things I noticed that F.O. was gearing himself up to make an assault on the piano. You can always tell when this is about to happen: his fingers start to drum on the arm of the chair and he rotates his left ankle. The urge to play seems to hit him at moments of extremity, i.e. when in either a good or a bad mood. That night it was evidently the latter and I hastened from the room just in time to escape the opening chords.

In the hall I nearly collided with Bouncer for whom, unlike myself, music has a peculiar attraction. He invariably appears when the vicar is playing, and sits listening with a glazed and vacant expression. For a dog with such philistine tastes this so-called ‘musical sensibility’ never ceases to surprise me. But it takes all sorts, I suppose, and of course Bouncer
is
a very peculiar sort.

Anyway, I gave him a brisk jab with my paw and told him this was no time to be mooning over the vicar’s piano-playing as I had important matters to discuss, and if he wouldn’t mind detaching himself from the sitting-room door we might find a place of peace where I could apprise him of my thoughts. Naturally he grumbled, as he invariably does, but was sufficiently intrigued to leave the door and pay attention.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘there is something afoot. I have been putting two and two together and –’

‘Made zero!’ exploded Bouncer amidst yelps of mirth. I narrowed my eyes, arched my back and fixed him with a stiletto stare. That quietened things.

I continued. ‘He was all right over Christmas and most of New Year once all that police business died down; relatively balanced you might say, but since then he’s become edgy again and I think there’s something on his mind which, as you know, will rebound on
us
. If he is in jeopardy it will upset the –’

‘STATUS QUO!’ boomed Bouncer. ‘And we shall be out on our ears!’

‘Precisely,’ I said quietly, closing my eyes to blot out the din.

In fact I had been going to say ‘the apple cart’ but the dog is both fond and proud of the term ‘status quo’ having somehow picked it up during his long sessions in the crypt where he noses about among the old tombs and ossuaries sniffing the past, and in his weird canine way absorbing the Latin inscriptions. For a creature of normally such crude and limited vocabulary he has an uncanny knack of producing the most bizarre phrases. In this case, however, he was right. We had spent the whole of the previous summer trying to protect our master and preserve our own domestic interests. It had been a delicate business and had imposed a considerable strain. The last thing we now wanted was further threats to the vicar’s – and indeed our own – status quo!

‘There is something going on,’ I warned, ‘and we shall need to be vigilant. Keep your nose to the ground, Bouncer. And if you’ve got any sense you will make amends to Gunga Din. Show solicitude about his backside; he could be very useful in telling us what his mistress is up to. I just hope she’s not going to prove dangerous to F.O.!’

‘So do I,’ he replied. ‘Otherwise she may be for the high jump like the other one.’

I reflected on Mrs Tubbly Pole’s proposed inspection of the belfry and wondered whether she would bring the dog with her. I hoped not: the prospect of hoisting both Gunga Din and his mistress up those narrow steps was not a happy one. I still couldn’t really make out what she hoped to
do
up there. She had said something about ‘breathing in the atmosphere’. Some atmosphere! Woodwormed joists, bat and bird droppings, cobwebs the size of small sheets, and above all freezing cold. Too many breaths and she would surely choke or catch pneumonia. No bad thing perhaps, at least it would keep her at bay for a while!

There was one benefit, I supposed: at least her fascination with the belfry would stop her snooping in Foxford Wood. It had been bad enough having to return there on my own on that abortive mission to retrieve the cigarette lighter, but to be accompanied by Maud Tubbly Pole playing Sherlock Holmes would have been intolerable. Tiresome though it might be, introducing her to the dubious delights of the belfry was a less unsettling prospect than showing her the place of Elizabeth’s end.

However, there was still the problem of the pictures. With her novelist’s obsession for ‘authentic detail’ she was bound to spot them, and I doubted whether draping them in dustsheets would deter either her probing eye or her curiosity. The only other place for them was the crypt, but that meant yet more exertions – and in any case, ten-to-one she would demand to explore down there next! They
had
to be got rid of – not just because of her visit but for my peace of mind generally. Now that I had concrete proof of the things being undoubtedly ‘hot’ their continuing presence was unsettling in the extreme.

The problem was how to dispose of them without provoking Ingaza. To renege on our tacit compact – me to store the paintings in payment for his help during the previous year’s police enquiry – could well be dangerous. At theological college he had always treated me with a careless geniality. But we had never been close, and on occasions I had observed the steely and inventive way in which he had handled those whom he had found ‘tiresome’. Fortunately I had not seemed to belong to that category, but were I to upset his current project I might just become one of its number. It was a risk I could not take. At the time of my unfortunate incident Nicholas had colluded in a tale I had spun to the police, and though distinctly curious, had asked no questions. To lose his indulgence now might prove disastrous. I lit a cigarette and brooded.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bouncer watching me with that half vacant, half intent expression that he often has, and not being in a mood for his quizzical attentions I told him to buzz off p.d.q. He loped away to the kitchen from where I could hear the faint rattle of his bowl and the querulous miaowings of the cat. They are a peculiar pair, but in a masochistic way I find them oddly companionable and do not regret taking them in.

With the dog out of the way, I settled seriously to the problem of what to do with Nicholas’s ill-gotten goods. My sister Primrose had telephoned earlier in the day, and although we had chatted only briefly I suppose she must still have been in my mind. Anyway, in mind or not, I suddenly saw what might be done: I would get
her
to store the wretched things!

Inhabiting a sizeable house and being an artist herself, albeit of a very different kind from Herr Spendler (and, at least in my estimation, of better quality), she had plenty of space in her studio or a spare room where they could lie safe and undetected until such time as Nicholas was ready to reclaim them. That would surely solve everything: not only get me off the hook but, more immediately, save them from the prying eyes of Mrs T.P. It was the obvious solution and I couldn’t think why it had not occurred to me before. And then of course I realized: Primrose.

On the whole I am fond of my sister, and compared perhaps with some siblings we have quite a good relationship – good in that we lead entirely separate lives and have only sporadic contact. This suits us both, for on the few occasions that we do meet our time together, while not exactly warm, is invariably cordial. However, Primrose is five years older, and right from childhood has treated me with a mixture of pained exasperation and wry indulgence. Sometimes she can be exceedingly bossy, although I am not the sole target in that respect. For the most part, however, she is placid – provided her arrangements are not disturbed or will thwarted, when she can turn distinctly awkward. It was this latter trait that might prove a problem … If it did not suit Primrose to house the paintings she would make that abundantly clear and no amount of wheedling on my part would shift her. In any case, she was bound to ask questions, and since for some reason she always seems dubious of my activities, parrying those would not be easy.

Still, I reflected, nothing venture nothing gain. And after all, even if she did turn me down there was nothing to lose – except possibly my sanity were I lumbered with the goods indefinitely! The sooner they were away from the vicarage the better – and if I were to feel remotely at ease with Mrs Tubbly Pole during her crazy belfry project then they would have to be got rid of within the next five days. There was no time to lose, I would have to telephone Primrose immediately.

I paused, struck by the delicacy of the task. Much would depend on her mood and my tact. It seemed easier to pour a glass of delaying whisky which at least would give me time to consider my strategy and steel my nerve …

An hour later, with half the bottle gone but strategy and nerve prepared, I dialled the Sussex number. Primrose answered straightaway and I launched into my spiel. As spiels go it ran quite smoothly, most of what I said having at least a grain of truth – albeit with certain rococo embellishments.

I told her that an art dealer friend whose storage facilities were hopelessly inadequate had accepted my offer to house a couple of his paintings. Normally he would have tried to place them somewhere nearer home; but driving through Molehill shortly after Christmas he had dropped in to wish me a happy New Year, and as we chatted, happened to mention the new acquisitions which he had just been to collect from a seller in Northamptonshire. (I had never been to Northamptonshire, which is perhaps why it came into my head.) I told her he had grumbled about his lack of space, and that in a thoughtless moment I had suggested he leave them in my safekeeping until needed. Despite his protests I had been insistent, and he had gratefully agreed … But after only a few days of their presence I realized I had taken on more than my small house could cope with, especially as I was now having to accommodate some of the props for the bible class’s Nativity play. Embarrassed by my rashness but not wanting to let my friend down, I was in a bit of a quandary. Could Primrose by
any
chance … might she conceivably be willing to …?

There was a long silence at the other end. And then she said, ‘Did I hear you mention your safekeeping?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

There was a further pause, and then came what can only be described as a snort of derision. ‘Don’t be absurd, Francis, you’ve never kept anything safe in your life! Always losing or ruining things. You’re the last person to entrust a pair of paintings to!’ I was taken aback by that and felt quite indignant.

‘I call that very unfair,’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t you remember the infinite pains I used to take over my stamp album, not to mention my marbles collection!’

‘Perhaps,’ she replied doubtfully, ‘but what about the rocking-horse and your Hornby train set!’

I blushed. They had indeed been unfortunate incidents, and even now I can hear my father’s angry tones as he berated me for buckling the precious Hornby and thus denying him his fondest pastime.

‘They could have happened to anyone!’

‘No, only to you,’ she said firmly.

I sighed. Clearly Primrose was in no mood to be soft-soaped, and glumly I resigned myself to abandoning the plan. However, her next words took the wind out of my sails.

‘Obviously you must bring them down here immediately – the sooner they’re out of your clutches the safer! And while you’re about it, you had better stay for a couple of days: the garden is getting so overgrown and there’s a large patch I need clearing.’

Stung by the allusion to my imputed incompetence, I was nevertheless delighted at the ease with which she had complied – though rather less pleased with the reference to the garden. Still, in the circumstances I could hardly decline. There was also a slight snag about the length of my stay. My original hope had been to nip down to Sussex, hand over the pictures and get back to Molehill the same day. Parish matters had been slightly more pressing than usual and I really couldn’t afford to take the time off. But clearly Duty would have to bow to Expedience for I certainly couldn’t risk offending Primrose! Some arrangement had to be devised.

The neighbouring parish had just taken delivery of a new curate, a fresh-faced tyro endearingly eager to please but, I gathered, somewhat lacking in initiative. Perhaps I could borrow him for the duration: such an opportunity surely providing him with admirable practice.

My luck must have been in, for St Hilda’s rector, possibly wearying of his protégé’s dependence, seemed only too eager to co-operate and asked rather plaintively if I was sure I didn’t want him for longer. Thus the matter was settled, and after drawing up a set of instructions for the newcomer I started to prepare for my visit.

The first thing to do of course was to rewrap the pictures. This was a laborious task as deftness is not my forte and it was maddening having to grapple with so much recalcitrant paper and twine. But I finally managed it and sealed the things with as much sticky tape as I could find. (The last thing I wanted was their being vulnerable to Primrose’s inquisitive probings!) Then came the chore of lugging them down from the belfry and into the car; an exhausting business, and what with that and some preliminary packing I felt quite overcome by fatigue, and slumped thankfully into an armchair.

I was just dozing off when there was a scrabbling at my knees: Bouncer, reminding me that it was long past his supper time. Seeing him there reproachful and insistent, I suddenly realized that in my concern with the pictures I had made no provision for the animals. What should I do? Leave them with the new curate? Possibly, but perhaps better not. From what I had heard of Barry – as I gathered his name to be – the additional responsibility of a wayward cat and dog would doubtless prove too much. Two days ministering to Tapsell’s tantrums and the likes of Mavis Briggs was chancy enough for anyone, let alone a nervous novice! There was nothing for it but to take them with me.