‘Old or not, he is coming – it’s all in today’s papers. And we are so privileged!’ She beamed rapturously.
I had not had a chance to read The Times that day, and felt suddenly very tired. But after a pause to collect my thoughts, I asked cautiously, ‘Do you know much about Spendler, Mavis? I mean, have you ever seen photographs of his paintings?’
‘No, I haven’t. And as a matter of fact, Vicar,’ she confided apologetically, ‘until our tutor said she had got tickets, I had never even heard of him – but I understand he’s very good, and very avant … avant …’
‘Garde,’ I completed.
‘Yes, that’s it, avant-garde. And what’s more, he is bound to tell us all about his stolen paintings. Just think,’ she giggled, ‘he and I might have something in common. Why, we’ll have to compare notes!’ And she prattled on while my tiredness grew to inner prostration.
However, I cleared my throat and said with as much authority as I could muster, ‘He’s not really avant-garde, you know. In fact by today’s standards pretty old hat. He did his stuff years ago, and even then it was largely derivative. You’d do far better getting tickets for the Royal Variety Show at the Palladium. They’ve got Arthur Askey appearing this year.’
It was a lame and vain attempt. She thought I was joking and went into peals of laughter. ‘You’re just jealous you’re not coming. Wait till I tell Edith – she won’t like it at all!’ And smirking gaily she trotted off. I yanked on Bouncer’s lead and we set off home in a cloud of gloom.
It was a facer all right. And I could visualize the whole grisly scene: Spendler at the lectern prosing on about his doleful daubings, interminable slides being shown of his ‘bohemian’ life in Salzburg before the First World War, earnest self-important questioning from the audience; but above all, graphic illustrations of Dead Reckoning and – crucially – On the Brink, which even Mavis could not fail to recognize. I saw and heard it all: Mavis’s sudden screech of delight as ‘her’ picture appeared on the screen; the audi-ence’s amused scorn turning to sceptical wonder as she insistently pressed her claim; reporters swarming around brandishing notebooks and cameras; and then – horror of horrors – the police summoned by the Tate officials to interview the witness.
The moment I got home I launched myself upon the unread Times, hoping wildly that Mavis or her art tutor had somehow been mistaken and confused the name. But of course no such miracle. The announcement was only too clear: VENERABLE AUSTRIAN ARTIST, CLAUS SPENDLER, TO VISIT TATE GALLERY. The writer reported that the ‘acclaimed’ painter was due to arrive in London in a month’s time to give a series of talks entitled The Teutonic Muse and its Place in the Post-Expressionist Oedipal Psyche. In the course of these ‘probing reflections’ Herr Spendler, the reader was assured, would make close scrutiny of his own formidable output – with particular reference to the two works whose recent mysterious disappearance had so shocked art lovers the world over. (Nonsense! I thought. No one in their right mind lamented their loss, except of course the coteries of posturing humbugs or grasping spivs like Nicholas!)
The worst part of the article was where it stressed that the audience would be invited to submit questions and comments. And once again I began to visualize Mavis’s excited reaction and hear those quavering tones as she described the way the picture had fallen into her hands at Pick’s fête, and the happy coincidence of the two ‘nice clergymen’ being in her house at the very time that the dastardly theft had occurred! The horror dawned in all its gory detail and I felt sick to the roots.
Bed was the only answer, but it was hardly a palliative; and I lay there twitching and desperate, until worn out by anguish I drifted into troubled sleep. Some time later I awoke with a dead weight pinioning my knees and the room rent with bouts of rhythmic snores. Why Bouncer had chosen to visit the bedroom that night I did not know, but despite the noise his presence was vaguely reassuring, and I was able to drift back to sleep in comparative calm.
That of course did not last, for by early morning the fears and images had resurrected themselves, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I instructed a wooden-faced couple on the joys of marriage and the benefits of mutual support. Neither looked particularly supportive – nor indeed joyful – and I wondered how long their proposed arrangement would last. I also wondered whether I myself would have fared better – not to mention Elizabeth Fotherington – had I ever had the temerity to take a spouse. Might this whole dreadful business have been avoided with a consort at my side? Quite possibly. But then recalling some of the women I had encountered in my life, it seemed that boredom would have been a high price to pay for safety … although at the moment a little of the latter was what I craved above all else!
I sighed, and returned my thoughts to the couple sitting opposite, who by now were looking not so much wooden as ossified. ‘Marriage,’ I said brightly, ‘is a great adventure …’ Their faces did not reflect my optimism.
As the days went by and Spendler’s advent grew closer, I became increasingly desperate. My nerve crumbled with helplessness as I contemplated that dread rendezvous in the Tate Gallery and the appalling results which must surely ensue. Should I forewarn Primrose to flee the country before it was too late? Should I flee the country? Should Nicholas be alerted? … Damn Nicholas! Blow Mavis! And above all, bugger me!
I tried to lose myself in the daily maze of parish paperwork, but the humdrum lists and reports soon melted under the insidious memory of Spendler’s grim and desolate scenes. And always in my ear was the winsome voice of Mavis retelling her tale: ‘And you know, it was such an amazing coincidence that I found our dear vicar and his friend downstairs in the hallway just at the very moment when the burglar must have been there too!’ However, it wasn’t simply the matter of the paintings that haunted my thoughts – but what it could so easily lead back to: the Fotherington Affair. If I was arrested and ‘Benchley’ interviewed, who knew what might emerge – or Ingaza let drop! It was one thing parrying March’s bovine brain but quite another to confront the relentless probings of THE YARD. No! At all costs Mavis and Spendler could not be permitted to meet.
The prospect of a further elimination appalled me and I discounted the thought immediately. Such a recourse would be, to echo Maud Tubbly Pole, ‘a stiff too far’. But what else? What else for heaven’s sake! For days I vainly cudgelled my brain. Until with only three days to go I decided that, if nothing else, I could at least write my will and leave my modest means to a haven (if such existed) for persecuted clergy. I found some scrap paper, made the draft and went to bed.
For once the dreams were good. We were back in the war again, beset with bombs and barbed-wire entanglements and – joy of joy – Spendler’s cross-Channel ferry torpedoed by enemy U-boats, and the Tate Gallery demolished by incendiary. What bliss, what ecstasy …
I awoke in a muck sweat, and prepared myself soberly for Matins.
Returning to the vicarage calmed but still without plan, I encountered Edith Hopgarden – or rather she made it her business to encounter me. She looked dolled up, and I wondered, perhaps unjustly, if she was on her way to meet Tapsell, although it did seem a trifle early for such assignations. But as long as it wasn’t the organ loft again, I really couldn’t care: more pressing matters gripped my mind. She confronted me, high-heeled and resolute, and I prepared for the worst. But rather to my surprise she started to smile – although, being Edith, there was a sharply sardonic edge to the gesture.
‘Well, of course it couldn’t last,’ she began. ‘After all, what could you expect?’
‘Er … I’m not quite sure I understand.’
‘Mavis of course. All that art nonsense she’s been babbling on about. Simply a fad … I knew it would end in tears. And so it has!’ she added with triumph.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, she’s in a frightful state,’ she exclaimed scornfully. ‘A lot of fuss about nothing, if you ask me!’
‘I am asking you!’ I murmured. ‘What are
you talking about?’
‘They’ve had a monumental row, she and the art teacher; and Mavis has cancelled her term fees and flounced out. Says she’ll never attend a class again and that she had never really liked it anyway. If that isn’t typical!’ And she smirked in satisfaction.
For a moment my mind was blank as I tried to absorb the import of her words. And then wild hope and fearful incredulity whirled in tandem as I came to see their possible significance.
‘Do you mean,’ I asked cautiously, ‘that Mavis has really walked out, that she’s chucked it all in? What about those essays she always seemed to be doing, and … er … that London lecture she was looking forward to? Surely she’ll attend that, won’t she?’
‘She’s thrown the essays on the compost heap and told the tutor what she can do with the lecture,’ replied Edith. ‘Shown a bit of spirit for once – but it won’t last of course.’ And she sniffed confidently.
‘But you think she won’t go up to the Tate?’ I pursued.
‘Oh no, that’s all off. Says she has no intention of spending her hard-earned savings on anything organized by Miss Rachel Prinkley – Spendlow or no Spendlow.’
‘Spendler,’ I said absently.
‘Well, whatever his name, she’s gone off him, and the whole silly charade. A good thing too: at least now we shall be spared her bleating on about spatial significances – whatever they’re supposed to mean. I asked her once and she hadn’t a clue. Typical!’
Edith tapped a smug and pointed toe on the pavement and gave a dismissive laugh. Then having apprised me of her friend’s folly, she patted her perm, drew on her gloves, and marched off in a swirl of self-satisfaction. For once I felt sorry for Mavis.
42
The Cat’s Memoir
I was sitting behind the sofa quietly savouring memories of the haddock recently liberated from Miss Dalrymple’s shopping bag, when Bouncer thrust his head around the corner and grinned broadly.
‘He’s in a right lather now,’ the dog announced cheerfully. ‘Make no mistake!’
I consider this part of the room essentially my domain and do not take kindly to Bouncer’s incursions. So regarding him coldly I said I was not in the habit of making mistakes and would he kindly remove himself forthwith. He promptly sat down on his haunches and began to chew the cushion that F.O. had carelessly flung over the arm. There was silence as I considered my next move. But curiosity (a trait common among cats of an intellectual bent) got the better of me, and reluctantly I asked what he was talking about.
‘The vicar. He’s pacing about and throwing pills down as if there was no tomorrow. It’s the pictures again. That Mavis woman – I think she’s told him something he doesn’t like.’
I sighed. ‘More thumping on the piano, I suppose. Never a quiet moment in this household … And kindly get off my tail!’ He shifted himself and sneezed explosively.
‘Do you mind!’ I protested. ‘I have just groomed my fur and you have to start spreading your germs and damp everywhere!’
‘It’s the cobwebs,’ he grinned, ‘they’re getting pretty thick down there. It’s time F.O. rolled up his sleeves and did a bit of dusting.’
‘And dogs might fly,’ I said. ‘The crypt isn’t exactly his favourite place – except when he’s got stolen goods to store!’
‘Ah,’ replied Bouncer solemnly, ‘now that brings me back to what I was saying …’ And he settled himself more solidly in the small space, while I shelved all thoughts of peace and haddock.
As a matter of fact, what the dog had to say was not without interest – albeit interest of a somewhat disquieting kind. The vicar occasionally takes him to Evensong – saves a walk later in the evening – and he told me that they were on their way home when the Mavis woman appeared and started to jabber her head off about going up to London for some talk given by a very old man called Spent. (At least, that’s what the dog said his name was.) He said the vicar’s agitation seemed to grow in commensurate proportion to the lady’s pleasure. (No – one must be accurate. Bouncer’s precise words were: ‘The more the old bird squawked, the more he spluttered and twitched.’)
Apparently, by the time they parted F.O. was in a dreadful state and seemed intent on getting home as quickly as possible. Needless to say that didn’t suit Bouncer at all, and he made it his business to stop and sniff at every object they passed. He said he knew the smells by heart but it was a matter of principle, and he was blowed if he was going to be cheated of his evening exercise just because F.O. was desperate to get at his pills. The dog can be amazingly stubborn at times!
I asked what happened when they eventually reached the vicarage.
‘Oh, he gulped the pills, fiddled around on the piano and then mooched off to bed. I went up later … thought he could do with a bit of company. You can hear those bed springs right down in the kitchen! Anyway, I jumped up on the bed, soothed him down and he went off to sleep.’
‘You soothed him down? That’s hard to imagine!’ And I gave a hollow mew.
He seemed to miss the point, and replied airily that it was a talent he had developed as a puppy and one not given to every animal, least of all to cats. Naturally I would have produced some choice riposte, but just at that moment F.O. came blundering in searching for lost documents. This happens with trying frequency, and it doesn’t do to hang about as the experience is not unlike being caught in the Sack of Rome. So I shot out of the door and into the garden – but not before delivering one of my better protests. It sets the vicar’s teeth on edge, but I consider it essential to register disapproval at such times: humans will take the most disgraceful liberties if their antics go unremarked.
Anyway, we had two days of tears and tantrums; and then, unaccountably, all was sudden radiance and bonhomie. Evidently something had happened to put him in a better mood. I asked Bouncer if he knew what had wrought the sudden change in our master. He replied that he didn’t, but that it must have been something pretty good as he had been given an extra large marrow bone. When I pressed him to at least hazard an opinion, all he could do was smack his chops, extol the ‘finer’ points of the foul thing and ask if I didn’t wish I had been given one too! One day I’ll wring that dog’s neck.
43
The Vicar’s Version
Following Edith’s departure, I walked home in a state of dazed and cautious delight. I say ‘cautious’ for experience has long taught me that things are rarely what they appear, and that chickens should never be counted etc., etc. However, my mind was certainly verging on optimism. But only when it came from the horse’s mouth could I really be sure. Obviously further words with Mavis were required.
This was not a prospect I relished, and I wondered what would be the best line of approach. A telephone call ostensibly about some parish matter? A ‘chance’ meeting during one of her church floral sessions? Both were possible. But it struck me that if she was in such a state of disturbance as Edith had intimated, her resolution might be flagging and she might already be harbouring ideas of reconciliation with the scorned Miss Prinkley. Any such notions should be firmly squashed: it was imperative that Mavis’s decision not to attend the Spendler lecture be final! Chance meetings or random telephone calls were not enough; only a full and formal session would suffice. She would have to be invited to the vicarage, plied with flattery and cups of tea, and firmly persuaded that the Tate Gallery was grossly overrated and that Herr Spendler’s paintings far removed from the interests of one so discerning as herself.
Thus I telephoned and unctuously invited her to tea the following day. She accepted with alacrity, and I went out to procure scones and meringues from one of Molehill’s better bakeries.
Preparatory to her arrival I had worked out a tactful means of introducing the topic – but none was needed, for she arrived promptly at four o’clock flushed and garrulous, and obviously only too eager to talk about her altercation with the art teacher.
‘Do you know, Vicar,’ she exclaimed, ‘my last essay took such a long
time to prepare, and I presented it in a charming folder which I had decorated with pink roses and gambolling gazelles. Everyone said how pretty it looked! But when Miss Prinkley handed it back she said that the significance of the cover had entirely escaped her, and as to the contents, did the words “vapid” and “banal” mean anything to me? Well, as a matter of fact they didn’t, and I had to ask the gentleman sitting next to me. He seemed to take great pleasure in explaining the terms very loudly and at considerable length. It was all most embarrassing!’
‘Oh dear,’ I murmured, pushing a consoling scone in her direction, ‘that seems a bit rotten! What was the topic of the essay?’
‘Picasso’s Guernica.’
‘Ah … ye-es … I see.’ And like Miss Prinkley, I too wondered at the cover’s significance, but refrained from enquiring: there was quite enough sugar in the meringues.
‘Well, Mavis, I’m sure you are not the first person to have trouble with Picasso,’ I ventured soothingly, ‘and that particular picture is notoriously tricky. Why, I remember when it first appeared, how difficult it was to grasp the full –’
‘Oh, it’s not difficult!’ she protested. ‘Not difficult at all. It’s all about war, you see, and how dreadful it is – particularly in Spain.’
I nodded encouragingly. ‘Well, yes, I suppose that is the general theme … but, uhm, what about its style and treatment? How did you deal with that?’
‘Oh,’ she said airily, ‘I skated over that, naturally. I mean, it’s the fundamental concept that matters, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose … but the technique needs some –’
‘What I wrote, Vicar, were my reminiscences of wartime here in England, and our Anderson shelter at the bottom of the garden, and Mother doing her fire watching and getting stuck on the roof, and those nice Canadian soldiers billeted next door coming to her rescue, and the nylons that they gave my sister, and her Californian Poppy scent, and the problem with the sweet-points and my ration book, and putting the sticky tape on the windows, and how in the nursing canteen we all had to knit scarves for Britain, and what fun it was when …’
Bones in the Belfry Page 21
