In the kitchen Bouncer lay curled in his basket snoring loudly, and I envied him his innocent ease. Then, just as I was working out how best to mollify Primrose, there was a loud banging on the front door. It was rather early for my sister, and I assumed it was some parishioner too myopic to see the bell. Irritably I flung open the door … and came face to face with the Whippet.
Instantly all thoughts of rabbits evaporated and were replaced by images of the summer beech wood with its torn bracken, barking roebuck, and mangled bluebells. With frozen smile, I ushered him in.
Normally March and Samson would appear in tandem and I was surprised to see the latter on his own for once. Somehow Samson without March was more worrying than with, and I could feel a tightening in my chest as I tried to work out the reason for his visit.
‘Glad to find you in, sir,’ he began nasally. ‘Got something important to ask you.’ He paused, glanced at me quickly, and then started to scan the room as if choosing his words. I noted the sallow cheeks and darting eyes, and wondered numbly what it was to be – Foxford Wood or the Spendlers. ‘Yes,’ he continued slowly, ‘Mr March sent me. He’s got one of his ideas …’ (When hasn’t he! I thought. And my mind raced frantically, trying to predict which aspect of my pathetic subterfuge was about to be explored, exposed.)
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. Wants me to find out whether you’d be prepared to support the Police Benevolent Fund. Says what with you being charitable and all that, you might like to contribute to our fund-raising drive.’ And thrusting his thin fingers into his raincoat pocket, he pulled out a biro and crumpled booklet. ‘Raffle tickets,’ he said. ‘Half-a-crown a strip.’
I gazed incredulously. ‘Of course … er, of course … I’ll, uhm, take five strips!’
Such was my shock I might easily have suggested ten or twenty, but Samson seemed entirely satisfied with the five and was already intent on laboriously tearing them from their perforations and scribbling down my name. The normally sour expression had relaxed somewhat (satisfaction at an easy touch?), and in a sudden access of gratitude I invited him to sit down and have a cigarette. I had forgotten that he rolled his own, and lit a Craven ‘A’, while he ferreted around with his tin and Rizla papers. In the process copious threads of tobacco were shed, and while to my inexpert eye the resulting cylinder looked thin and squashed, he began to draw upon it with obvious relish.
Given the social nature of the visit I felt that perhaps a few pleasantries were in order, and was just about to embark on these when I noticed him staring past me with a look of glazed horror.
‘God in heaven!’ he ejaculated.
I turned, and was confronted by the mountainous white fur and staring pink eyes of the chinchilla. It sat stolidly on the table by the open window, its fat flanks moving rhythmically and nose twitching. For a few seconds I was mesmerized, and then made a lunge to grab it; tripped, missed, and fell on my knees. The rabbit scuttled to the far end of the table, plopped heavily on to the sofa and then on to the floor.
‘Quick!’ I yelled to Samson. ‘He’s valuable, head him off!’
Whether it was the reference to money, or whether chasing rabbits was a more stimulating option than selling raffle tickets, I do not know; but the Whippet suddenly bestirred his legs, and in a sort of wild rugby dive flung himself in the direction of Karloff. The latter was quick and, for all its size, nimble. But Samson somehow managed to grab the creature’s scruff, and with a yelp of triumph and grinning from ear to ear, scrambled to his feet brandishing the kicking trophy aloft.
It was at that moment that Primrose walked in.
Presented with the sudden spectacle of her brother on all fours, and an unknown man standing with smouldering fag-end in one hand and her rabbit swinging from the other, I suppose it is not surprising that Primrose went mildly berserk. With a cry of fury she launched herself upon Samson, relieved him of Karloff, and with a spare fist knocked him into the armchair.
‘Here!’ he protested weakly. ‘You can’t do …’ His voice trailed off as, clutching the chinchilla in her arms, she towered menacingly above him.
‘Oh yes I can!’ she snarled. ‘I’ve read about your sort. You’re one of those urban poachers who go around stealing people’s prize pets and then sell them for vast sums of money. Well, you’re not going to get away with it here. I’ll have you know my brother’s the vicar!’
‘Yes,’ said Samson wearily, passing his hand over his eyes, ‘I know.’
I got up off my knees and cleared my throat. ‘Uhm … actually, Prim, he’s not a poacher, he’s a policeman. He was just helping me to …’ And I proceeded to outline the after-noon’s events.
37
The Dog’s Diary
Sometimes that cat can be too clever by half! Take last week, for example. Those lop-eared loons really got their come-uppance, but the point is I didn’t see any of it! I mean, it was all very well him getting me to invite Goliath over and then opening their cage door, but it’s not much cop getting your own back if you’re not there to enjoy it! ‘Go to your basket,’ the cat directed, ‘and lie doggo.’ Well, I did just that and then missed all the fun!
Maurice says that it’s not seeing but knowing that matters. He can say that of course – he knows and saw! Apparently that little snitch Goliath gave ’em a right run around and I did hear some of the noise, but by then I was doing what Maurice told me to – lying in my basket pretending to be asleep. Mind you, it worked all right. F.O. came traipsing into the kitchen effing and blinding because he had lost Karloff, and I just lay there snoring my head off. He gave me a pat and I heard him say what a good boy I was. Still, I’d much rather have been with Goliath giving those rabbits a seeing to! Oh well, can’t have everything, I suppose, and at least I’m in the vicar’s good books for a while. Perhaps if I play my biscuits right he’ll give me another bone.
I don’t think that sister was too pleased with things. Maurice said she didn’t half rough up the policeman, and then gave F.O. a right earful. But she smiled at me when she left (though I noticed not at Maurice), so that was all right. Somehow I don’t think we’ll be seeing those chinchillas again.
He’s beginning to calm down now, and I heard him in the bath this morning belting out ‘Fight the Good Fight’ (generally a good sign); though can’t say I’ve ever seen him fighting for anything much, gets knackered too easily. I like a good scrimmage myself, clears the lungs and tones the muscles. That’s why I was fed up missing out on the rabbits. Still, I’ve got a lot to tell O’Shaughnessy, and perhaps when I get to the main part I’ll put myself in the picture a bit more. After all, if I had been there I would have been JOLLY GOOD.
I had a nice time in the crypt today and really put the frighteners on those spiders. If you leave them alone for too long they get smug and bossy, so now and again they need to be reminded who’s really in charge. I told them – ‘Bouncer’s Boss down here!’ – and they soon got the message. After that I had a good listen to the old ghosts gabbling on. They make a terrible row sometimes, but if they get too noisy I start on my baying practice, and that generally does the trick – they go as silent as the grave!
I did a lot of my special thinking too. I know that the type from Brighton has gone away with the pictures, and the vicar’s pleased about that. But I think he’s counting his bones before they’re safely buried. I’ve got one of those feelings coming on that Maurice is so sniffy about. I think the Brighton man is going to come back and mess things up again. Shan’t tell the cat just yet as he’ll only get tetchy. But mark my words, something’s brewing up and it’s not the vicar’s tea!
38
The Vicar’s Version
It is painful to dwell on the mood of Primrose’s departure. Suffice it to say that she went, and I survived. For some days afterwards my nerves were not at their best, and it was with particular horror that I once again heard a thundering on the front door. I opened it with knotted fears, convinced that I would see March and Samson, this time presenting
not raffle tickets, but handcuffs. It was, in fact, Mrs Tubbly Pole.
Relief turned to dazed wonder as, pushing past me and striking a charadic pose, she announced breathlessly: ‘Gunga Din has slain Goliath!’
‘What do you mean!’ I exclaimed.
‘What I say! My poor boy has scuppered that little beast, and we must get away from Molehill immediately or I shall be lynched by the owner and Gunga put down. You must help us, Francis! Where’s your gin?’
I silently poured her the drink, disturbed less by the news itself than by the part I was evidently required to play in it.
‘Er – what on earth induced him to do it? He always seems so docile!’ (Euphemism for bovine.)
‘That tarty ribbon the little beast always wore. It was a red bow to a bulldog. Gunga hated it. All the owner’s fault!’ She paced up and down swigging the gin and chewing the lemon abstractedly. ‘We must make our escape,’ she continued, ‘out of season, threading dark-eyed night.’
‘What?’
‘King Lear, King Lear!’ she cried impatiently.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what –’
‘Lear – don’t you know your Shakespeare? Really, Francis, for a parson you are totally illiterate!’
‘I’m not!’ I protested. ‘I know a good number of poems. Learnt them at school. For example there’s that nice one beginning –’
‘For goodness sake, Francis, stop blathering and let me think. It’s action we need, not poems!’ She frowned and sat down heavily on the sofa. I lit a cigarette and waited.
‘Now,’ she said in more reflective tones, ‘what I shall need is your car. You must drive us up to London tonight. I shall deposit Gunga Din with my niece, Lily, and embark for America the day after.’
‘America?’ I queried. ‘Isn’t that a trifle excessive?’
She looked up. ‘Ah, didn’t I tell you? They want me to do a lecture tour in a month’s time – very lucrative. Thought I could get my researches here wrapped up and then take off, but this little matter has rather accelerated things. Shall have to leave immediately. Pity, really, as I was just beginning to get the feel of Molehill’s murder. And because of your hound’s mysterious illness you haven’t even had time to show me the crime spot … Still, I shall have to go. Can’t risk being had up in court and Gunga being impounded. Needs must when the devil drives!’
‘I know just what you mean,’ I cried eagerly. ‘You’ll have to go!’
We sat a little longer discussing the logistics of her decampment. It was arranged that I should collect her at half past eight that evening when she would be ready with dog and essential luggage. I apparently would be responsible for boxing up the remaining impedimenta, dispatching it to London and returning the keys to the estate agent. Normally the prospect of such onerous tasks would have filled me with gloom, but in the circumstances I agreed to undertake them with sprightly heart.
As directed, I arrived at Mrs Tubbly Pole’s promptly at eight thirty. The house was unlit and, without the glow of the porch lamp, the garden in darkness. I made my way up the front path, tripped over a watering can, and cursed.
‘Ssh!’ came a loud stage whisper from inside the porch. ‘You’ll wake the whole neighbourhood!’
‘It is awake,’ I said, peering into the depths and seeing nothing, ‘it’s only half past eight.’
‘Don’t be so literal, Francis,’ the voice exclaimed impatiently. ‘Here, take the dog.’ And the next moment a leaden weight, draped in what seemed an army blanket, was thrust into my arms. It proceeded to lick my face with dedicated vigour. From behind my burden I could now make out the bulky form of its owner, clad also in something resembling an army blanket but darker and more voluminous. Clamped on her head was the Bud Flanagan velour. ‘We’re wearing our escape gear,’ she hissed excitedly. ‘Good camouflage, don’t you think?’ I said nothing, trying vainly to dodge Gunga Din’s doting kisses. The slaying of Goliath, it seemed, had done little to chasten the bulldog’s inbred mawkishness.
Fortunately she seemed to be carrying only modest baggage, a small suitcase and a holdall – the latter, I suspected, containing the essentials of typewriter and dog food. We processed slowly down the path: she leading the way on a sort of lumbering tiptoe, and me, with my now squirming and loudly panting companion-in-arms, bringing up the rear.
‘Keep his head covered, Francis!’ she hissed, looking over her shoulder. ‘It’s essential he’s not recognized!’ I struggled to adjust the blanket but to little effect. As we reached the car, she added, ‘Can’t think why you didn’t leave your collar off.’
‘Whatever for?’ I whispered. (Mrs T.P.’s conspiratorial stealth was becoming infectious.)
‘Disguise, of course. We don’t want all and sundry noticing the vicar driving hell for leather out of Molehill at this time in the evening.’
‘I have no intention of driving hell for leather,’ I protested.
‘Well, you can’t mess about, you know. It’s imperative we make good our escape with maximum speed and minimum observation. Now put Gunga in the back and hurry up!’ So saying, she wrenched open the passenger door of the Singer and started to install herself. The Singer was small and low slung, Mrs Tubbly Pole large. The logistics of squeezing much into little proved a challenging task. However, it was finally achieved and she sank back with a sigh of relief. It was at this point that the dog, suddenly tiring of its slobbering attentions, leaped from my arms, and grasping a corner of the blanket in its teeth shot off down the road. ‘Shot’ perhaps is an overstatement. It lumbered briskly.
‘Gunga!’ she bellowed out of the car window, all care of secrecy gone. ‘Come back, you hound! After him, Francis! After him!’
I began the pursuit, but as he reached the kerb he was joined by a large setter that I had seen on a number of occasions loitering near the vicarage. There followed a spirited skirmish, each dog intent on gaining/retaining the blanket. It was a kind of running battle with a good deal of growls and yelps but not, mercifully, much aggression. Just as the setter wrested it from the bulldog, a diminutive figure appeared round the corner, got caught in the mêlée, and was promptly knocked flat by the victor’s war dance of triumph.
I went forward and began to pick up Mavis Briggs.
* * *
There is not much difference between Mavis standing and Mavis supine. In neither position does she make much sense. ‘Where am I?’ she asked fatuously. ‘What happened?’
‘On the pavement. You were run over by a dog,’ I replied shortly, hauling her up.
‘Oh dear! How dreadful, how dreadful!’ she quavered. ‘Do you think I’ve broken anything?’
‘Not for one moment,’ I said briskly. ‘Now sit on this bit of wall, you’ll soon feel better.’ And I tried to propel her towards the crumbling masonry. She eyed it doubtfully.
‘It looks rather damp, Vicar, and I don’t think I’d like to … Oh, isn’t that your car over there?’
‘My car?’ I muttered vaguely. ‘Er … oh, yes it is, actually – but you can’t sit in there!’
‘Why ever not? After all, I may have broken some bones – people do, you know.’
‘Yes, but you haven’t and I am afraid the car is full.’
‘Full? Full of what?’
I thought of Mrs Tubbly Pole slumped and shrouded in the passenger seat. ‘Sacks of coal. Stocking up for the winter, you know!’ And I laughed encouragingly. She seemed disinclined to share the mirth. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the errant Gunga scrabbling to get in at the rear door which had been left slightly open. It was now nearly nine o’clock and he must have been missing his evening gin – as presumably was the occupant. I stood squarely in front of Mavis, blotting her vision.
Suddenly, the air was rent with the blaring of a klaxon; a single burst, its provenance unmistakable. I spun round in horror. For God’s sake, what was she doing!
‘But that’s your car!’ Mavis exclaimed. ‘I thought you said it was full of coal. There must be somebod
y –’
‘Oh no, it’s the electrics,’ I gabbled, ‘awful trouble with them recently. Completely up the spout! It keeps doing that for no reason, must get it fixed!’ She looked dazed, as well she might.
And then just at that moment I heard the familiar tap-tapping of stick on stone, accompanied by the faint notes of tuneless whistling … Savage, returning home from one of his late calls.
‘Why, here’s Mr Savage,’ I cried, ‘the piano doctor! Just the chap to keep you company on this wall, Mavis. You can tell him all about your accident and those marauding dogs!’ Mavis brightened. Savage did not.
‘Here, what’s going on?’ he said.
‘Mavis has had a little upset,’ I explained, ‘but I’m sure if you stay with her for a moment or two she’ll soon be to rights.’
‘Why can’t you stay?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Sorry, in a rush. Got to see a man about a hymn book … terribly late!’
Not that he could know, but Mavis had resumed her victim’s expression and I felt a pang of guilt as I scuttled away knowing that Savage was in for a long saga.
Regaining the dubious sanctuary of the car, I pressed the starter, crashed the gear, and propelled us forward with a lurch.
‘What did you do that for?’ I expostulated. ‘Woke the whole neighbourhood!’
‘I thought you said it was awake already,’ she replied sweetly. ‘Anyway, I didn’t do it, it was Gunga. He wanted to sit on my lap and knocked against the horn. Getting agitated, poor boy.’ Not the only one, I thought grimly.
My passenger pulled the Flanagan hat further down over her eyes, turned up the collar of her escape garb, and with a sigh settled into sleep and what she fondly supposed to be anonymity. I gave thanks for very small mercies and pressed on into the night.
Bones in the Belfry Page 19
