Unsurprisingly, he seemed disinclined to pursue the topic of the two siblings and we turned to other matters, specifically his golfing handicap, his swing, his niblick, and the officiousness of caddies. None of this I understood, but in the interests of time gained and bad news postponed, I sat with a smile of absorbed fascination.
The clock ticked by and I kept a hopeful ear cocked for the sound of the retrieving Daimler. The sound eventually came, but not before he had dropped his bombshell.
‘… Now, Oughterard, talking of the necessity of a steady arm and a keen eye brings me to the matter of the diocesan appointments. As you know, with the imminent retirement of Archdeacon Blenkinsop we have a vacancy in the diocese, and, as I think you also know, there are two strong candidates.’ I nodded vaguely. ‘But,’ he added with a gleam of satisfaction, ‘I have another up my sleeve which I’ve been keeping rather quiet about. However, the time is now ripe for me to divulge my man …’ He paused expectantly, awaiting my response.
‘Oh yes?’ I said.
‘Yes, you know him pretty well, I think. In fact quite a chum of yours if I’m not mistaken!’
‘Really?’ I said, by now intrigued. As far as I was aware I didn’t have any chums, as he put it; tolerable colleagues perhaps, and one or two pleasant acquaintances, but not chums. I waited for the revelation. It came.
‘Rummage!’ he boomed.
Once during the war I had been on the periphery of a shell blast, and even now in my dreams I occasionally still feel that dreadful thump on my thorax, the sickening sense of weightlessness and sheer physical disbelief. In like manner I received the news of the bishop’s choice.
All along I had assumed Clinker was nursing some dark proposal connected with myself: a transfer, a demotion. But an absurdity of this kind had never entered my head! That Basil Rummage of all people should be in the running for the post of archdeacon was a gaffe of monumental lunacy. Only Clinker could have thought that one up! I gazed incredulously.
‘Yes, thought you’d be pleased,’ he said. ‘I remember how close you two were at St Bede’s. If I can get him the job it’ll be quite a turn-up for the books! You’d find him a most useful adviser to have around. Very ingenious is Rummage.’
Other than the mistaken memory of our friendship at St Bede’s Theological College, there was an element of truth in this. Rummage had ingenuity all right – of the narrow variety, focused exclusively on himself and his own ends. In every other respect he was an oaf. Nicholas Ingaza had once referred to him as a self-serving poltroon. It was an apt description. Nicholas too was self-serving, but at least he had style and ‘a talent to amuse’. Rummage had neither.
I brooded on the last time I had seen him – at the vicarage six months previously, as locum when I was ‘holidaying’ in Brighton after my ghastly event. It had been a terrible period, and not helped by the appalling shambles in which I found the house when I eventually returned in the wake of that dreadful episode. More than anything else I had been in need of calm and order. What I had found was the fallout from his sojourn: a shattered gatepost, a blitzkrieg of litter, empty cans, beer bottles, and the wholesale consumption of my favourite malt whisky – carefully secreted where none but the most dedicated plunderer would have looked.
As Clinker continued, singing the plunderer’s praises and gauging his chances in the clerical stakes, I thought bitterly of the way that Rummage’s ability to wreak havoc on other people’s houses was matched only by his skill in pulling strings on his own behalf. And so here he was, fast en route to becoming a Venerable – and my immediate overseer! No doubt given a few more years he would be swanking about in a mitre. The thought was intolerable and I suddenly felt very fatigued.
My visitor was obviously too engrossed in freedom from Gladys and delight in his new plus-fours to notice my gloomy responses, and the moment the car arrived he whisked himself off with a cheery wave and an injunction to ‘keep up the good work!’
It was barely eight o’clock, but too tired even for the piano, I took the phone off the hook and sloped up to bed for a consoling aspirin and brandy.
15
The Vicar’s Version
The telephone rang and I was dismayed to hear Clinker’s voice again. I had thought he was off my back for a while, but apparently not.
‘Ah, Francis,’ he said (always a good sign when he uses my first name), ‘glad to catch you in. There’s – uhm – something I’d like to discuss with you. It’s moderately urgent so oblige me by being at home on Friday afternoon when I shall be in the area. Now don’t forget! It’s … well, of a personal nature and I shouldn’t like to waste my time.’ I was a trifle worried about that ‘personal nature’ – his person or mine? – but assured him I would be there, pleased that this particular ill wind had blown in the excuse to cancel a Vestry meeting with Mavis Briggs and her henchmen. Even Clinker was an improvement on that.
Friday afternoon: and glancing out of the window I saw a battered Riley parked at a rakish angle athwart my gateposts. Evidently the bishop had arrived under his own steam without the assistance of Barnes and the official car. I opened the front door and ushered him in. To my relief he was dressed in normal garb (difficult to have faced the golfing gear a second time!) and seemed in semi-cordial mood.
A few pleasantries were exchanged followed by a silence. Then clearing his throat he said, ‘Now, Francis, you’re a man of the world – well, in a manner of speaking – and there’s a matter on which I would value your opinion.’
Notwithstanding the qualification, I was surprised and flattered by his words, and flashed him what I felt was a worldly smile. It wasn’t reciprocated and there followed a further silence. Eventually he leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, ‘I think you might know Mrs Carruthers, a lady of your parish but not, I think, an actual churchgoer.’
I didn’t know the lady but vaguely remembered her name being mentioned somewhere or other. However, feeling it might speed whatever revelation Clinker was about to make, I nodded confidently.
‘Well, you see,’ he continued, ‘Mrs Carruthers and I are on quite good terms – close really. We have, you might say, certain interests in common …’ He cleared his throat noisily. I didn’t like to ask if those interests included Gladys, feeling sure that they didn’t, but continued to smile blandly, wondering how on earth I was going to handle the next few moments.
He paused again, looking distinctly shifty, and then said, ‘It’s – ah – a slightly delicate situation …’ I had feared it might be and braced myself for embarrassment. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘once a week – Wednesdays mostly – we meet in the afternoon.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said casually, ‘that’s nice.’
‘Yes, it is,’ he said, brightening, ‘very nice indeed. Mind you, there are not just the two of us, others are involved sometimes as well. Spices it up a bit, if you know what I mean!’
I wasn’t sure that I did know and felt myself starting to blush. However, this hardly suited my newly acquired role as ‘man of the world’ and I tried to think mournful thoughts hoping they might restore my customary pallor.
But as I entertained pictures of suicides and graves he went burbling on, his words making me increasingly uncomfortable.
‘Of course a foursome is the ideal, evenly balanced and everyone gets a go. Six can be fun but it gets a bit crowded, and at my time of life I tire too easily. Generally though, it’s just Mrs Carruthers and me which is all very cosy but – and don’t get me wrong here – it can be a little predictable!’ By this time he was emboldened enough to give a loud laugh, and tiring of my man of the world persona I fixed him with a stern eye. He seemed not to notice.
‘Of course I don’t suppose you’ve ever engaged in that sort of thing – not your line of country at all, I imagine, and I realize it’s not to everyone’s taste, a bit esoteric one might say, which is why the whole thing is a little tricky. Wouldn’t do for the press to get hold of it – not for a man in my position!’ And
he giggled.
‘No,’ I said faintly, ‘it wouldn’t. And I don’t suppose Gladys, I mean your wife, would be too keen either!’
‘Exactly,’ he confided. ‘That’s part of the problem. It’s not at all the sort of thing she would understand. Still, a chap’s got to have his recreations and it takes all sorts.’ He was beginning to evince a certain nonchalance which, in the circumstances, I thought rather brazen. How could I tactfully point out the error of his ways while still appearing both deferential and unruffled?
‘Er, what does Mrs Carruthers think?’
‘Oh, she doesn’t care a hoot – no false pride there. Doesn’t mind who knows!’
‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed, wondering what sort of hussy would choose to live in Molehill of all places!
‘In fact that’s the chief problem. She’s far from discreet, and despite our friendship, unless she can be persuaded to silence I’m afraid I shall have to forgo our little sessions – which would be a great pity.’
‘Well,’ I ventured diffidently, ‘that might be a blessing in disguise.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It might give you a chance to … well, to get yourself sorted out.’
‘I don’t need sorting out,’ he replied testily, ‘I need your help, Oughterard!’
The tone had become querulous and I noted the reversion to my surname, and shifted uneasily. Perhaps in answer to his appeal I should suggest that he try being a little more sober and vigilant – though I doubted its efficacy, and in any case, in view of my own worrying transgression of the previous year, such an injunction might be a trifle de trop even for my conscience. However, clearly some such spiritual advice was in order, so I asked him had he considered that the person most likely to be harmed by those engagements was himself.
‘Of course I have, Oughterard, which is why I want you to approach Mrs Carruthers and get her to keep it under her hat. She won’t take it from me, we’re too matey. But with an outsider like yourself and not one of our little circle, she might see some sense.’
I regarded him in dazed wonder. Surely he wasn’t expecting his subordinate to play the part of a pander in his lewd activities! I was incensed. Not of their ‘little circle’ – I should hope not indeed! Had Clinker taken leave ofhis senses?
Before I could gather my wits he had stood up, looked wistfully at the glasses on the sideboard and said, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve any more of those cocktails, White Ladies, have you, Oughterard?’
‘No,’ I snapped. (Blowed if I was going to allow my hard-bought drink near that complacent libertine!) He seemed surprised at the asperity of my tone but said mildly that he would settle for a cup of tea if I didn’t mind. I did mind, but complied with his request, thinking grimly that a spike of bromide wouldn’t have gone amiss!
As I handed him the cup he returned to the subject of Mrs Carruthers and ‘the circle’.
‘Sounds absurd, I know, but I’ve become quite obsessed with the whole thing. Keep waking in the night and devising new methods and positions and wondering how different partners will make out. Makes me quite restless and Gladys gets furious. Ridiculous, isn’t it, to get excited about such a mere pursuit!’
I maintained a po-face but said pointedly that I was rather surprised that he should deem it so mere a pursuit and that traditionally the Church had always been rather strict on that sort of thing, regarding such practices – especially with the numbers he had mentioned – with a less than tolerant eye. A reference to Sodom and Gomorrah sprang to my lips, but I felt that might be excessive and cause contention. Having to teach moral commonplaces to my superior, even to one such as Clinker, was difficult enough as it was. But clearly the man was going through some sort of crisis and might be grateful for a bit of straight talk. He didn’t appear particularly grateful, in fact stared at me as if I was some sort of congenital idiot.
‘What are you babbling about, Oughterard? Don’t know what part of the scriptures you’ve been reading – unless you haven’t been listening at all! I suppose that’s it. I’ve noticed before – your attention span is singularly short, always has been.’ He sighed in exasperation, and somewhere from the distant past there echoed my father’s equally irritable tone.
‘I simply ask for a little help in drawing a veil over my rather puerile indulgence in tiddlywinks and you preach me some prissy sermon on Church precepts. Really, it’s enough to try the patience of a saint!’
And you’re certainly no saint, I thought. ‘Tiddlywinks’! Is that what he called it! … And then I stared at him aghast.
‘I’m, I’m sorry, sir – did you say tiddlywinks?’
‘Yes, Oughterard, that is exactly what I said. For goodness sake concentrate, will you! Now, I’ll give you Mrs Carruthers’ address and you must go round and tactfully explain to her that it won’t do my reputation a jot of good if it gets out that the diocesan bishop wastes his Wednesday afternoons on hands and knees playing childish games which should have been dropped when he was in short pants. I shall be a laughing stock! It besmirches the dignity of the Church. It besmirches my dignity, Oughterard, so kindly do something about it – and quickly!’
When he eventually left I retired to bed feeling that in such matters oblivion was the only medicine.
16
The Vicar’s Version
The gaffe itself was bad enough, but now I was faced with the chore of finding Mrs Carruthers and persuading her to keep quiet about the bishop’s absurd antics. Would there be no end to these impositions? Apparently not.
The address he had given me was within walking distance so with luck the matter need not take up too much time. I debated whether I should telephone first – it would be tiresome if she were out – but thought better of it. Prior warning might lead to evasive action: in such matters surprise was the essence.
I set out reluctantly but with firm stride and soon found the house. As I had rather imagined, it was a detached residence of mock Tudor design (beloved of Molehill) and with the usual mix of privet and forsythia lining the front drive. But what distinguished it from any other house in the vicinity was the area immediately in front of the gabled porch …
I stopped in my tracks, gaping in horrified amazement. Arranged in precise and nightmarish circles was an array of stone garden gnomes whose scale and garish variety defied belief. In every shape and posture, they jostled brazenly: winsome, coy, grotesque. I stared transfixed. At least Clinker had the decency to keep his vices under wraps!
I edged around the creatures and gained what I thought would be the sanctuary of the porch; but even here there were more. Armed with rakes and fishing rods, sitting cross-legged, standing on tiptoe, perched on toadstools, they simpered and beckoned, inviting the hapless visitor to join their merry throng. It was a relief when the door was finally opened and I could make my escape inside.
Fortunately the interior was normal – decidedly bland in fact, and I concluded that Mrs Carruthers kept the gnomes as some sort of outlet for artistic perversion. She was a small woman probably in her early fifties, plump and greying. Nondescript really, except for gigantic hoop earrings, a scarlet mouth and trousers to match. In between the two, and neutralizing the effect, she wore a grubby gardening jacket, and since she was holding a trowel had clearly been engaged in some sort of horticultural activity in the back garden – which made me wonder if perhaps more of them were there as well.
I introduced myself and she showed an affable interest. But it was when I mentioned Clinker that she really took off. ‘Oh, he’s a one, he is!’ she cried delightedly. ‘Quite merciless, you know.’ And she laughed with a high and raucous pitch. ‘Things always get better when he comes along!’ I was surprised, never having observed that particular effect before.
I smiled. ‘In what way better?’
‘Oh, he’s such a love – throws his heart and soul into it, really gets us all going. And very bold too – some of those moves, my, my!’ And she laughed again, another jangling shriek to set the
mammoth ear hoops dancing.
‘What kind of moves?’ I asked suspiciously. ‘I thought tiddlywinks was quite a simple game, or at least it used to be.’
‘Not now, it’s not. At least not for us afici … afici, oh, you know the word!’ And rather boldly, I thought, she gave me a prod in the ribs. ‘They hold championships these days. And do you know what?’
I said that I didn’t.
‘Horace is going to represent our circle, and I think we’re in with a big chance. He’s ever so good, you know!’
‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed. ‘Didn’t know he harboured such talent.’
‘Oh yes, dear, he’s very talented for a bishop. The circle wouldn’t be the same without him. We’re very proud of our Mr Clinker.’
I have to admit to being fascinated by these revelations (and fortunately they held none of the discomfort of my earlier misapprehension); but since my reason for being there was essentially to silence the lady, I thought this was the moment to broach the matter. ‘I’m sure you are proud of him, Mrs Carruthers,’ (‘Call me Annie, dear!’) ‘but the problem is that his superiors in the Church might be less impressed – even taking a dim view of his hobby. They can be rather stuffy, you know …’
‘Didn’t think he had any superiors,’ she said, ‘never gives that impression anyway!’ (That rang true all right!)
‘Well, there are just one or two of them and they can cut up rough sometimes, so perhaps for his sake the less said the better. In any case, sometimes these things are more fun kept private, makes them special and exclusive, a sort of heightened pleasure you might say!’ And I smiled confidingly.
It clearly appealed to her sense of drama for she emitted another gunshot laugh, and exclaimed, ‘Yes, see what you mean – a sort of conspiracy, I suppose, like a secret cabal!’ The paste hoops tinkled with a trill of excitement.
Bones in the Belfry Page 8
