Bones in the Belfry (9 page)

I’ve been doing a bit of thinking lately. I like to do that now and again as it’s good practice. Generally I do it in the crypt, but today I thought I’d try the belfry for a change, and do you know – it works just as well up there as it does down below! The only thing is, I was pretty fed up to find my bone bag had been interfered with. After that spot of bother with F.O.’s silly pictures I’d gone to no end of trouble to get those bones in their proper order, but when I went to check them this morning they were all muddled up again and the sack wasn’t in the same place either. It had taken me ages to straighten them all out. Maurice said that he had seen F.O. and the Tubbly woman going up there –
and
Gunga Din. If I learn that it was old Fatso snuffling about with them I’ll give him a right going over!

Anyway, back to my thinking. There’s something a bit rum about those pictures – I don’t just mean the scene in that big one with all those daft clouds and fake bones, but the reason for them being there at all. (Or, of course,
not
being there now.) When F.O. first lugged them up I didn’t think much about it. After all, he does a lot of funny things which don’t make sense, so I thought that putting the pictures in the belfry and not on his wall – like most human beings seem to do – was just another of those.

But then he was dead set on taking them down to that other house where we had the nice holiday. And the funny thing is,
she
didn’t hang them on her wall either. Kept the wrappings on and shoved them up to a spare room, just like F.O. did. And then there was that man who brought them to the vicarage in the first place. He’s someone else who can’t have wanted them on his wall – otherwise why would he have bothered to bring them to F.O.? It’s as if they are all playing that party game which I learnt from my other master Bowler, Pass the Parcel. It’s all very queer and I shall have to do some more thinking.

Perhaps Maurice has got some ideas. On the other hand, perhaps he hasn’t. Of course, he’s very clever and all that, but it’s a cat’s cleverness. They think differently from us dogs. Still, I’ll have a word with him, he’s bound to have something to
say
if nothing else.

O’Shaughnessy came round today and he says he’s discovered a new playground, and the funny thing is it was F.O. who led him to it! O’Shaughnessy happened to be inhis front garden doing a bit of digging under the apple tree, when he suddenly saw the vicar’s head passing along the top of the hedge. So being a bit bored with the digging and wanting to stretch his legs, he thought he’d follow him and see where he was off to. He said he was careful to keep well back in case F.O. saw him and told his mistress he was on the loose again (needn’t have worried, the vicar never sees a thing); and after a while they came to one of those big houses behind the High Street. F.O. traipsed up the drive and O’Shaughnessy sneaked in behind him. Well, that’s what
he
says – but I’ve never seen that setter sneak anywhere: legs too long and feet too big!

Anyway, he says it’s not a bad garden for playing Hunt the Cat in – lots of bushes and hidey-holes – and that the best thing is the masses of funny-looking stone things near the front door, masses of them! I told him I couldn’t see what was so good about that. So he said, ‘Ah sure, aren’t they just the loveliest t’ing for a spot of leg-cocking, bejasus!’

I could see his point then, but wouldn’t have thought of it on my own. He’s very quick-witted, is O’Shaughnessy. He is going to take me there in a couple of days when his mistress is safely at the hairdresser’s. She spends hours there so he won’t be missed, and we are going to have a competition to see how many of those things we can spray in the shortest time. I’m pretty good at that sort of thing – what you might call a champion pee-er. So I think O’Shaughnessy may have met his match there … Shan’t warn him of course. No fleas on Bouncer!

Despite visitations from F.O.’s superior – an inane personage by name of Clinker – the vicarage had been going through one of its rare periods of calm and I had enjoyed the unaccustomed luxury. But all good things come to an end, and living with the vicar they tend to end sooner rather than later. Mrs Tubbly Pole and the idiot bulldog had been held at bay for a time, but I surmised that that particular benison could not last and, as so often, I was proved right.

They appeared together one evening just as I was settling down to my pre-prandial saucer of milk, and in the ensuing mêlée the bowl was upset and my nerves put on edge. Mine were not the only ones to suffer, as I noticed that F.O. had started one of his twitching bouts and for a brief moment I felt a measure of sympathy. However, it doesn’t do to indulge humans too much, they take advantage; so I was careful not to show undue concern. Luckily the three of them soon set off in the direction of the belfry tower leaving me to the remnants of my evening’s rest.

An hour later he returned – mercifully alone – but in a parlous condition of pique and self-pity. Somehow he had contrived to gash his leg (he has always been clumsy) and spent the next half-hour lurching and cursing in what I can only describe as a most unseemly way. Anybody else would have had bandages to hand, neatly coiled in a first-aid box and set aside for just such an emergency. Not of course the vicar. Much energy was expended in blundering around the house pulling out drawers and staring into cupboards in the vain hope that some medical supplies would emerge. Naturally none did, and eventually he settled for a large tea-towel and a brandy. It was all very trying.

The next morning was worse, as by that time the leg had stiffened up and he had taken to hobbling around with a walking stick and emitting loud groans of histrionic agony. I observed to Bouncer that I thought our master was hardly one to win the prize for stoical fortitude, only to be asked what prize was I talking about and who was Fortescue? It is sometimes trying for a cat of my calibre to be placed in the midst of such feebleness and ignorance.

The dog has been in high spirits lately, engrossed in some harebrained venture involving O’Shaughnessy. The latter has discovered the garden belonging to that Carruthers woman, plus her array of nauseous gnomes. Naturally, I have been familiar with the place for some time, making it my business to be acquainted with all gardens in the neighbourhood; and strolling in hers is not uncongenial – always providing, of course, one avoids the porch area. However, I do not always reveal my haunts to Bouncer. As in most things, one needs to preserve a modicum of distance and privacy. Alas, thanks to O’Shaughnessy those conditions can no longer be found in the Carruthers domain. But fortunately there are other patches in Molehill affording contemplative seclusion, and in which, without a gnome in sight, one is assured safe refuge from the gross.

From what I can gather, the two of them have devised a game which entails a contest using the gnomes as lampposts: a puerile exercise, but mildly diverting nonetheless. Indeed, I have told Bouncer that should he succeed in out-spraying the setter I will stand sentry for him when next he is foraging for ham bones in Mavis Briggs’s pantry. Now and again it is good to show the dog what graciousness is all about.

He is very excited at the prospect of the game and talks endlessly of ‘my peeing prowess’ and has embarked on a training regime in the graveyard. Latterly our visits there have not coincided so one has been spared the spectacle, but I gather it involves a lot of racing about from grave to grave and much squirting from different heights and angles. He tells me that during one of these sessions he encountered F.O. – not I think on the same mission – and that the vicar seemed very impressed by his performance. I rather doubt this as our master is not known for his powers of observation. And besides, from what
I
have observed, he seems to be heavily occupied with some matter quite other than Bouncer and his bladder. What it is I don’t know, but rather suspect it may relate to those tedious pictures he was getting so obsessed about. I fear there may be further ructions in store … In rash moments, which are fortunately few, the thought strikes me that life in the household of my late mistress was marginally less fraught than in the vicarage!

It was, I suppose, ludicrous to imagine that the matter of Nicholas’s booty could be dealt with in so simple a way. That I could offload it on Primrose with never a thought for consequence was, to quote my father, ‘an inanity of the first water’. But panic and Mrs Tubbly Pole were a formidable force and had induced an action which in normal circumstances would have been seen for the absurdity it was. At the time, however, it had seemed the obvious solution, and for several weeks afterwards I was able to pursue my parish duties unencumbered by fear of complication, let alone exposure. My father’s voice intoning ‘cloud-cuckoo-land’ again assails my memory.

It was Monday morning, and after the rigours of Sunday I was enjoying a leisurely breakfast, when I received the telegram. This was an event which even in those days was an increasing rarity, and as I took it from the boy I guessed it could only be from Primrose.

In her youth my sister had eschewed both telephone and writing pad in favour of this particular form of communication. Its gnomic brevity and unlooked-for arrival seemed to fit in with her natural bias to secrecy and flair for the dramatic. During her days at the Courtauld the advent of the little yellow envelopes with their curt demands for money or provisions, or announcing her imminent arrival with escort in tow – invariably unsuitable – had been a source of continuing harassment to my parents. In later life, though more amenable to the conventional mode of telephone and writing paper, she would still occasionally resort to the theatrical. Thus it was with a certain wariness that I slit open the envelope and unfolded its missive. It read as follows: ALL IS UNCOVERED STOP ARE YOU MAD QUESTION MARK TELEPHONING IMMEDIATELY STOP YOUR SISTER STOP

I leaped from the table, and pausing only to discard my egg-stained napkin, rushed from the house. Maurice was in the hall, and in my flight I must have trodden on his tail as there was an outraged howl of fury. But the cat’s pain was nothing compared to mine should I be forced to listen to Primrose’s voice demanding explanation for the Spendler monstrosities! Distance from the telephone was essential: time to think imperative.

I made my way to the graveyard, where in the lee of a convenient tomb I desperately lit cigarettes and crunched humbugs. The combination of peppermint and nicotine had the desired effect and after a while I was able to assemble some degree of coherent thought.

Obviously Primrose’s curiosity (which had seemed so quiescent when I delivered the pictures) had got the better of her, and without any advance warning she had entered the attic and quite calculatedly opened them up. I was peeved to think of this flagrant infringement of privacy, but reflected that Primrose had always been cavalier in her treatment of my possessions, recalling in particular the incident of my kitbag during the war.

Home on leave once, I had casually dumped it in the hall, only to find it two hours later brazenly ransacked for chocolate, nylons, Lucky Strikes, or anything else my sister could lay her predatory hands upon. What had really rankled was the fact that Mother was convinced that the resulting mess of debris and discarded underclothes was something of my doing! Needless to say, by then Primrose had swept herself off for the evening to a dance at the local Officers’ Mess and I was left to carry the can …

Puffing and crunching, I leant against the tombstone brooding on the petty injustices of family life. But the memory was soon eclipsed by the current more urgent dilemma: how to keep Primrose at bay or at least quiet, and above all what precisely to do with the wretched paintings.

Returning them to Nicholas was not an option. In no respect could I risk provoking his displeasure. One good turn deserves another, and the turn he had done me by colluding in my story to the police was a crucial factor in my continuing safety. Should he feel short-changed in that tacit contract of mutual help things could get exceedingly nasty. I reflected wryly that were I a character in one of Mrs Tubbly Pole’s novels I would doubtless set off smartly for Brighton and cut his throat. However, despite my unfortunate experience with Elizabeth Fotherington, I am of a squeamish disposition and one dispatch in a lifetime is more than enough. So what to do?

As I smoked and brooded I could see Bouncer in the distance. He was trundling around the graves in an abstracted sort of way, and then suddenly seemed to be galvanized into brisk activity, bounding from headstone to headstone in a flurry of urgent speed. I watched, surprised by this sudden change of tempo, but was even more curious to note that a tremendous amount of urinating seemed to be going on and that his left back leg barely touched the ground. Had he developed a sudden kidney infection? A gallstone perhaps? I hoped not as it would mean all the chore and drama of a visit to the vet. He had seemed perfectly all right earlier on, and in any case why the frantic pace? Racing helter-skelter from one stone to another he looked in the peak of health!

I gazed absorbed by these antics and reflected vaguely that there was something about the dog which had never really added up. His sudden and dishevelled appearance in the middle of my sitting room two weeks after his master had absconded with the bank’s funds had itself been peculiar. Where had he come from? How had he got into the house? Why hadn’t the cat protested? And in any case, why choose me? It was a mystery which I had never fathomed. Even more of a mystery, and considerably more unsettling, had been the matter of those appalling bones in the music stool … and then of course the sinister incident of the cigarette lighter (which even now can haunt my dreams).
*
Was that too connected with him? I didn’t know and hardly liked to think.

Eventually he stopped, saw me, and came trotting over. He was wagging his tail and baring his teeth in that lopsided leer that passes for a grin. He looked pleased with himself, though quite why was not clear. However, a congratulatory pat seemed in order, and he settled down beside me, breathing heavily. After a moment and with a sort of torpid grunt he dropped off to sleep – worn out presumably by the urinary exertions. I returned my thoughts to Primrose and the paintings.

Other than taking the telephone off the hook there was no escaping her, and even that would only be a temporary respite. Sooner or later, and doubtless sooner, heated confrontation would occur. How on earth should I play it? I stared at the grass and listened disconsolately to Bouncer’s snores.

After a while the obvious struck me: the injured innocent. That was it. Deny all knowledge, express indignation that I should be so duped, should be the victim of such a dastardly imposition. (Some truth there after all!) Would she believe me? Probably not. Primrose is of a sceptical nature – especially for some reason where I am concerned. But there was no alternative and I should have to brazen it out.

Of course, she was bound to demand what sort of friend it was who had had the gall to involve me in that way (let alone the nerve to intercept the pictures in the first place), but there I could maintain a stoutly loyal silence. Hadn’t some writer once said that given the choice between betraying his friend or his country he would choose the latter? Well, substitute ‘art world’ for ‘country’ and it still might persuade. With those thoughts in mind I prodded Bouncer and returned to the vicarage braced for the barrage.

Eight o’clock and the barrage commenced. I had made the necessary preparation by consuming two double whiskies and was thus moderately armed to withstand the first salvo. It came hurtling down the line with the force of a torpedo, and to one less fortified might have proved fatal. But gallantly I stood my ground, gripped the receiver, and fixing Maurice with unflinching eye said, ‘Frankly, Primrose, what you are saying is utter nonsense!’

The words had a ring of familiarity and I realized that down the years I had heard many a similar thing from Primrose herself. Whether she recognized her own words I do not know, but it seemed to do the trick as there was a sudden and surprising silence. With no time to waste I launched into my defence, assuring her that I had never unwrapped the pictures and knew nothing of their significance, was at a loss to know why my friend had taken such liberties, and that of course I had had no intention of using her attic as anything but the most fleeting repository etc., etc.

Despite the whisky I had some difficulty in sustaining the bravado, and as I went on I could hear my tone trailing off into its usual diffidence. For some reason this had a defusing effect and her voice took on a more conciliatory note.

‘Well, it’s all very well your saying that, Francis, but what on earth is one going to do? I mean, those paintings are rubbish, we all know that – at least anyone with a ha’porth of sense does – but they
are
famous and for some ridiculous reason absurdly valuable. You
must
get this so-called friend to take them back.’

‘I don’t think he’s in the country at the moment,’ I murmured, ‘and I’ve no idea when he’ll be home, and in the meantime I can hardly shop him!’

‘Why not?’

‘Er – well, you know, old friends and all that …’

‘Old friends my foot! He has used you, Francis, in the most flagrant way and you’re under no obligation to shield blackguards!’ This time it was my mother’s voice I could hear.

‘He’s not really a blackguard, at least not entirely – quite nice sometimes – but anyway, you know Pa always said we should be loyal to our pals.’

‘Yes, but Daddy didn’t always talk a lot of sense; and besides, in this case he’s a funny kind of pal. Still, you being a parson and all that – I suppose you think differently from most normal people. Really Francis, we’ll have to think of something!’

Wonderful! I had an ally. That ‘we’ was a sure triumph! Even merited a third Scotch. But I suddenly started to feel a little tired and unsteady, and pleading a headache asked Primrose if we could continue the conversation in the morning. She concurred, saying that in the meantime she would give thought to the matter and devise a strategy. Sometimes, I mused, having an older sister – even one as bossy as Primrose – could be an advantage.