‘Yes, yes,’ I said impatiently. ‘But what the hell is going on now?’
‘What is going on now, Francis, is that the whole heist has failed – i.e. the paintings are virtually worthless, Spendler discredited, and fortunately, with no evidence to disprove his defence, no charges are being brought against old Henri.’
‘What do you mean?’ I exclaimed. ‘Those pictures are as hot as hell!’
‘They were for a time,’ he replied drily, ‘but that is no longer the case.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I’ve told you – their stock has fallen.’
‘Yes, but why?’
‘Because of that sod Higginbottom.’
‘Who’s Higginbottom, for God’s sake!’
‘Professor Sir Giles Higginbottom, éminence grise of the art world: narcissistic, toffee-nosed, opinionated, and unfortunately one who knows his artistic onions better than anyone else on the cultural scene. Of course, having little knowledge of cultural scenes you wouldn’t have heard of him,’ (I was stung by that, but felt insufficiently sure to dispute it) ‘but I can assure you, when he speaks it’s like the voice of God.’
‘And I suppose he’s spoken, has he?’
‘Too right he has,’ Nicholas said bitterly. ‘Blown the pictures sky-high and declared Spendler a posturing charlatan.’
‘Huh,’ I grunted, still piqued by his allusion to my cultural ignorance, ‘you don’t need to be an art pundit to know that!’
He sighed impatiently. ‘The quality of the stuff is immaterial, Francis. What matters is the value. And thanks to Higginbottom their value has dropped to bottomless depths: nobody wants the things, and I’ve lost a pretty packet!’
‘But why has he spoken out now? I mean, the paintings have been missing for some months, and there’s been quite a lot in the press about their importance and so on. Why didn’t he slate them earlier?’
‘Because for the last year he’s been off the planet – i.e. walled up in some crumbling pile in the Outer Hebrides putting the finishing touches to his magnum opus on Chinese line drawings. Spendler and his poxy pictures were the last things on his mind. Now, however, amidst much rejoicing and acclaim the great tome is finally finished. And it would seem that as a light diversion from all his hard labours he has transferred his attention to putting the boot into Spendler. As a result the chap’s reputation is in shreds, a number of fashionable critics have egg on their face and, as said, I’ve lost a hefty whack.’
For a couple of moments he looked sour in a way that only Nicholas can, but then he brightened, and said, ‘However, all is not lost. In fact, fingers crossed, quite a nice little windfall is heading my way. Doubtless you’ll be glad to know that negotiations with my Cranleigh friend are progressing rather well. Things on a much surer footing this time … and fortunately, of course, Lil won’t be involved.’
‘Lil? Your aunt? What on earth had she got to do with it?’
‘Oh, it was all her idea from the start,’ he replied carelessly. ‘And frankly, if she ever makes another dud suggestion like that she can kiss goodbye to the bandstand at Eastbourne!’
He must have seen my look of astonishment for he went on to say, ‘Oh yes, bright old bird is Aunt Lil. Too damn bright sometimes, gets carried away … sort of folie de grandeur. Anyway, one thing’s for certain – she’s not getting her thieving mittens in the Cranleigh pie!’ And he gave a mirthless laugh.
I was too flabbergasted to pursue the matter, and instead asked who it was that had tipped the wink about the paintings being in the curé’s belfry.
‘No one of importance,’ he replied, ‘some racing crony that he had blabbed to in his cups. Foolish chap imagined he’d get a reward. Another of Higginbottom’s casualties!’ I began to warm to Higginbottom: clearly a thorn in the side of venality and humbug!
There followed a brief silence as I struggled to absorb the import of his account. And then I shifted in my seat and glared at him.
‘What unspeakable folly!’ I burst out. ‘To think that I went to all that trouble to house those repellent paintings – risking life and limb in the belfry, lurking like a lost lemon in all that garbage at Pick’s fête, enduring the vacuous chatter of Mavis Briggs, putting up with Primrose’s tantrums, and above all having a heart attack every time I heard the words “art” or “Spendler” … And now you tell me they are worthless and you’ve lost interest in the matter and are engaged in something else! Well, this time kindly don’t drag me into your schemes, I really can’t stand the strain! It’s all been most unsettling, I –’
‘Keep cool, dear boy, keep cool. Fret not – your secret’s perfectly safe with Old Nick!’ And he blew a conciliatory smoke ring in my direction.
‘Secret?’ I repeated suspiciously. ‘What secret?’
‘Well,’ and he cleared his throat, ‘you being a professional fence of course. What else could there be?’
I closed my eyes. What else indeed! What else, Oh Lord, what else …?
I was too tired to sustain my anger and we parted on fairly cordial terms, Nicholas even suggesting I was in need of a little holiday and how about buzzing down to Brighton for a couple of days where he and Eric could show me some of the more exclusive delights. But my previous experiences had taught me quite enough about Brighton and I had no need for further acquaintance with its charms, exclusive or otherwise. And besides, neither was I overwhelmingly keen to encounter the so far faceless Eric. However matey they may be, some people are best kept disembodied and at a distance. Indeed, I reflected, when one came to think of it, probably most … It would save a lot of bother.
The next day brought much relief: I had a funeral to conduct. Funerals are my forte; and in all modesty I think I can say that at such times I rise to the occasion with a suitable mixture of panache and sobriety. Of course, one can never be sure of the deceased’s opinion – but ever since I was a curate let loose on my first burial, people have been highly complimentary of my performance, and seem to leave the churchyard in a more ordered frame of mind than when they entered. Speaking for myself, I have always found the ceremonial of the Anglican obsequies a particularly soothing experience, and invariably return home with a feeling of a good thing done, and in a rare state of spiritual confidence. Baptisms are less felicitous: partly because, unlike funerals, one is never entirely in control of the subject.
However, that day it was a funeral and not a baptism, and after the recent trauma of Ingaza and the paintings – not to mention other nagging fears – I sunk myself into its sombre ritual with the same pleasurable ease as one lowering himself into the benison of a warm bath.
Bath over, I strolled home, took the dog for a run, and then after a sandwich supper played a little boogie on the piano. It was only when I was preparing for bed that I saw the letter. It had obviously arrived by the afternoon post and was still stuck under the flap of the letterbox.
At first I wasn’t going to open it, thinking it might as well wait till the next day and be included with the rest of the post. But then in a moment of abstraction, I picked up the paper knife and slit open the envelope. A stiff white card with black embossed lettering emerged. I groaned, for it was the annual invitation to the Bishop’s Palace for tea and buns in the Episcopal Chamber with the ‘opportunity’ to meet Clinker, various other church dignitaries, fellow clergy, the more zealous of the laity (which invariably included Mavis Briggs), and the usual assortment of chain-clanking aldermen. It is my experience of such functions that these latter are invariably the first to arrive and the last to leave. The ‘county’, on the other hand, attend late and bugger off smartish. My own tactic is to avoid Clinker (and even more so Gladys), home in on the sandwiches and remain firmly in the shadows. This of course does not always work but one has a good try.
Thus I retired to bed moderately calmed – albeit a trifle irked by the prospect of the impending ‘festivities’.
47
The Cat’s Memoir
The last couple of weeks h
ad been a time of great turbulence – or as the dog would say, ‘a right pantomime’. F.O. seemed to oscillate between states of darkest gloom and moods of absurd euphoria. I could not quite make out what caused these switchbacks but they seemed largely connected with that drooping Mavis woman and the type from Brighton.
The latter’s sudden arrival early one evening coincided with a visit from her, and the combination of the two sent the vicar spinning like a humming top. Bouncer had disappeared into the garden, and being curious to discover what was going on I had gone into the sitting room. A mistake really, for no sooner had I settled by the fire than the Mavis person grabbed my tail and began yanking at it in a most unseemly fashion; and then, emitting ludicrous gurgling noises, started to tickle my ears. Well, naturally I wasn’t standing for that! So giving her a brisk tap with one of my claws I escaped into the hall.
After about half an hour I observed F.O. and his friend escorting the lady into the garden and bundling her through a hole in the hedge. When I later remarked to Bouncer that I thought this rather odd behaviour, he said that in his opinion it was by far the best hole to have chosen as the others were filled with nettles. He knows about these things so I suppose he had a point.
Anyway, having dispensed with the guest, the vicar and his companion returned to the sitting room where they proceeded to imbibe large quantities of kitchen brandy. The result was unaesthetic but at least it meant that they slept well, and the house remained calm until well into the next morning.
Eventually the visitor departed, and our master went up to London for one of his routine meetings in Knightsbridge, whence he returned with a fresh stock of his special peppermints from Harrods. Having almost depleted the previous batch, he had latterly been sparing in their consumption. The new ration, however, precipitated a reckless orgy of crunching and grinding, in the course of which he broke a tooth, and the house was strewn with sweet wrappings for days on end. He also brought a newspaper back with him which he kept reading and rereading, and judging from the attendant imprecations I concluded it contained something not to his taste.
Thus up and down we went for several days, until one morning Bouncer came trundling into the kitchen and reported that he had just seen F.O. and the Brighton type ‘jawing away in that big black car’. Apparently he had been cajoled into accompanying the vicar to the early service and, when it was over, the Brighton type had appeared and they had started talking. Bouncer said he hung around for a while, and then getting bored came home. When I asked if he had overheard anything useful, he said that from what he could make out it had been the usual subject of the paintings. I replied that as long it was only the paintings and not the murder, things were probably all right. He agreed – but it made us think, and we sat for some time pondering quietly.
Then he suddenly turned to me, wagged his tail and gave a snort.
‘I say,’ he exclaimed cheerfully, ‘I’ve been with O’Shaughnessy and we’ve made up a poem about you.’
‘Really?’ I said with interest, swishing my tail.
‘Yes. Do you want to hear it?’
‘By all means,’ I replied graciously, and settled myself comfortably.
‘Here goes then:
‘There once was a cat called Maurice
Who fancied a Tabby called Doris;
When he put out a paw
She cried, “Crikey!” and “Cor!”
And buggered off fast to the forest.’
There was a silence while I regarded him bleakly. And then mustering my iciest tones, I observed, ‘If you imagine, Bouncer, I should be likely to consort with a commonplace Tabby, let alone one called Doris, you are greatly mistaken. And you can tell that to O’Shaughnessy too.’
‘Oh well, if you don’t like it we’ll try another one …’
‘That will not be necessary, thank you. Your literary endeavours do not impress me.’ And stalking out of the room, I launched into a spectacular sulk that lasted the entire day. It was very satisfying.
48
The Vicar’s Version
I arrived a little late at the Bishop’s Palace, having dozed too deeply after the one o’clock news and misjudged the time it would take to clear the Hog’s Back. One can usually zip along at prodigious speed, but for some reason, that afternoon the road was endlessly clogged by hearse-like Morris Oxfords. Thus when I was ushered into the Episcopal Chamber things were already in full swing and my route to the sandwiches perforce circuitous.
There was the usual mix: hordes of soberly clad clerics of varying degree and rank, their be-hatted wives (of similar gradation), the predicted aldermen, fearsome delegates from the Townswomen’s Guild, Mothers’ Union, and Women For Peace (these last the most frightening of all), and worthy bevies of bustling laity. Among these – though perhaps not exactly a ‘worthy’ and certainly not bustling – I was surprised to see Mrs Carruthers.
She stuck out like a sore thumb, and a very colourful one too! Last seen she had been in her gardening clothes sporting hoop earrings of singular size. That afternoon she was dressed in vibrant green from head to toe – even down to the shoes, which, being patent leather, gave off a kind of electrical aura. Her green headgear was a taffeta concoction crowned by a scarlet feather. The earrings were also much in evidence but this time the diamanté had been replaced by shimmering jet. She looked not unlike some plump but exotic bird – an impression enhanced by the bursts of staccato shrieks emanating from her corner of the room. There was quite a lot of noise coming from the opposite corner too, where Gladys was holding court with her usual assertion, and volubly declaiming Lord-knows-what to a couple of callow curates and the suffragan bishop. The latter looked bored, the curates cowed. Now and again she would stop her barrage and cast baleful glances in the direction of Mrs Carruthers who was hugely enjoying herself in the midst of an audience clearly entranced by the quivering feather. I just caught the last part of a sentence:
‘… well, dears, if you fancy a few gnomes – better come round to me. I’ve got every flipping gnome under the sun!’ There followed the usual screech of jangling mirth, and I thought wryly that Clinker would cop it that evening, and wondered what had prompted him to invite her. Defiance? A sudden desire to live dangerously? Either way, glancing at Gladys, I feared the storm clouds were fast brewing.
As I hovered in the corner, trying to manipulate my well-filled plate with one hand while balancing a teacup with the other, I caught sight of the bishop jawing intently with – or rather at – a diminutive cleric by name of Fiskins. The latter was looking tired, and I wondered for how long he had been standing thus buttonholed. Not for much longer as it happened, for at that moment Clinker looked up, and catching my eye started to move in my direction. This was disappointing as I was enjoying the sandwiches and didn’t want distraction, least of all from Clinker.
He prefaced his greeting with a loud clearing of throat and gave me a look which I can only describe as shifty. He seemed strangely ill at ease and I had the impression that he wanted to say something but was reluctant to begin. Diffidence from Clinker was almost as unnerving as the usual bombast, and I wished that he would go away and leave me alone with the salmon and cucumber.
‘Ah, Oughterard,’ he commenced, ‘thought you might be here, gives me an opportunity to, uhm …’ He paused, staring fixedly at the empty plate in his hand. I wondered irritably whether he was expecting me to offer a titbit from my own carefully chosen fare. He began to clear his throat again, while I steadfastly sipped my tea and waited.
At last he said, ‘Well, Oughterard, they have decided. And you … er, might as well hear it from me before they send you the letter …’ (What letter, for God’s sake! What dire decision had been taken? And in any case, who were ‘they’? Canterbury and Co. demanding my resignation? The Mothers’ Union declaring me persona non grata? Some Church body for overseas affairs sending me to join Rummage in Swaziland?) I must have looked nervous, for Clinker suddenly rallied, and in the old hectoring tones exclaimed, ‘Oh,
for goodness sake, man, stop looking like a startled rabbit and listen to what I am telling you! The Powers That Be in their questionable wisdom have, for some reason best known to themselves, decided to make you a …’ He paused as if groping for the word. ‘… have decided, Oughterard, to make you a canon.’
I could see from his sour expression that it wasn’t a joke, and in dazed wonder fumbled for an appropriate response.
‘Well, I never!’ I said weakly.
‘Yes, thought you would find it mildly preposterous – as any sane person would. Still, it’s done now and we’ll have to make the best of it. One good thing: it’s non-stipendiary. You won’t be required to do anything – at least, not of any consequence.’ And he seemed to brighten. As did I.
But then he frowned again and added grumpily, ‘Pretty ironic! They turn down my candidate, Rummage, for the archdeaconry and then appoint you as canon! Some very peculiar people getting on the selection boards these days. Fisher’s losing his grip. Anyway, we’ll talk about it later.’ And whipping one of my sandwiches and muttering something about loose cannons, he moved off to quell Gladys.
I stood in a state of blank perplexity trying to absorb the startling news and wondering, like Clinker, what I had done to merit such elevation. As I pondered, my eye was distracted by a nearby tray on which reposed a solitary cream cake. It looked particularly enticing – smothered in jam, and with cherries augmenting its oozing cream. But as I started to move towards it I saw Edith Hopgarden making a similar beeline. Undeterred, I stretched out my hand and took it smartly. First pickings for the new canon! I thought.
Bones in the Belfry Page 24
