Thug in the making … That fitted. And I recalled the fate of little Castris in France, strung up on the door jamb in his own dining room. But I also pictured Turnbull in the sedate ambience of Brown’s tea lounge being the model of temperate good nature. It was amazing how diverse a person could be! And then rather uneasily I started to think of my own diversity. But surely in my case there was far more consistency. From what I recalled of those fateful moments in the wood, the deed had been done almost in passing and with no obvious transformation of character. I wondered: did that make me more or less dangerous than Turnbull? Difficult to say …
However, there was no time to cogitate, for, dilution achieved, my companion resumed her narrative: ‘You see, Francis, there was one particularly unsavoury incident which involved the atrocious beating-up of a thirteen-year-old – Bobbie Timms, rather a nice kid. He and his housemaster were old enemies, and one day the boy came across a compromising photograph of Felter and another man. This he proceeded to pass among his schoolmates amidst much giggling and ribaldry. One gathers that no harm was intended other than to have a good laugh at Felter’s expense. The boys were too naïve to grasp the more serious implications of the find, and there was no question of their reporting the matter to the Head. Apparently, seeing “old Freddie with his pants down” was amusement enough. However, Felter discovered what had been going on, retrieved the photograph but said nothing.’
Here Mrs Tubbly Pole paused and made a further assault on the crisps, which she proceeded to crunch loudly.
I waited, letting the sound subside, and then asked: ‘So what happened? Didn’t you say there was a beating?’
‘Oh yes, there was that all right – but not until a month later. Pure revenge. The boy was so bruised he had to spend three days in the school sanatorium. They say his spleen was ruptured.’
‘Good Lord! So the housemaster had laid into him – how frightful!’
‘Oh no, not Felter – Turnbull. At the former’s behest. There was an enormous brouhaha, and master and satellite left under a joint cloud, each blaming the other. I heard that Felter went back to England – joined some accountancy firm near Oxford I rather think; but what happened to Turnbull I had no idea. Didn’t care either.’
‘But you do think that was him at tea the other day?’
‘Oh yes, the more I think about it, the more I am certain. It would be too much of a coincidence otherwise. Seems to have done well for himself with those language schools. Perhaps he has changed his spots. But I doubt it – they don’t generally, that sort.’ She nodded confidently, and by way of illustration embarked on a graphic résumé of one of her wilder novels in which the detective, a man of unimpeachable probity, had turned out to be the grandson of Jack the Ripper – and with similar propensities.
‘Did it sell?’ I enquired innocently.
‘Sell?’ she boomed. ‘I should say. Kept Gunga in gin for at least two years!’
* See Bones in the Belfry
8
The Vicar’s Version
As predicted, after my talk with Eric and his cryptic reference to the bishop’s ‘pickle’, the telephone rang with an episcopal summons. The thin voice of Clinker’s secretary informed me that his Lordship would be obliged if I would call at the Palace at my earliest convenience, i.e. Monday, or Tuesday at the latest. Monday was Bouncer’s day to have his teeth scrubbed, and as far as I was concerned if there was to be a clash between diocesan business and the dog’s dentistry the latter had priority. Thus I opted for ‘the latest’.
There was a displeased pause at the other end. ‘Hmm, I think his Lordship would have preferred the Monday.’ I murmured something about there being an urgent christening. ‘Very well,’ the voice sighed, ‘I’ll slot you in for nine thirty sharp. You’ve made a note of that, have you, Canon?’
I assured him I had and asked tentatively if he knew what it might concern.
‘Not the least idea,’ was the pained reply. ‘I am merely the messenger.’ He rang off and I lit a cigarette and brooded.
Clearly, after the enforced intimacies of France and its dramas, Clinker had reverted to official mode – thankful perhaps to resume the mantle of rank and distance. Provided it meant I was not to be embroiled in fresh embarrassment, this mattered not a jot. However, coming so soon after Eric’s news, I suspected that the summons signalled only two things: grief and gloom. I went to the piano and embarked upon Chopin’s Funeral March.
As was his habit, Bouncer came and took his place beside me, staring up intently at the keys. For a dog of such extrovert temperament, he has a curious penchant for such dirges, and I can never decide which is his favourite, the one from Handel’s Saul or the Chopin. Either way he is apt to punctuate the notes with a series of gurgling whines which I fondly interpret as discerning appreciation – though of course one can never be entirely certain with that dog.
Maurice, on the other hand, hates all music; and the moment he sees me making for the piano stalks from the room in dudgeon … Although there was one memorable occasion when Savage had lent me his precious gramophone record of Joe Venuti playing ‘Honeysuckle Rose’, and the cat had pranced in curious boogie fashion up and down the piano top. I suppose the wailing violin sounds must have struck some atavistic feline chord. He’s never done it since … but then neither have I borrowed the Venuti since. Time for another sampling, perhaps.
Apart from an overture (parried) from Mavis Briggs about my penning the introduction to her less than inspiring Little Gems, the weekend passed off tolerably well. There was of course the usual prima donna tantrum from Tapsell in the organ loft and complaints from Colonel Dawlish regarding the state of the banners in the Lady Chapel, but such things are par for the course and I survived to Monday no more scathed than usual.
Monday itself was a little more taxing, for as mentioned, it was Bouncer’s dental date. Naturally the usual drama erupted; but eventually master and dog emerged into the sunshine none the worse for wear and with the latter sporting alarmingly chalky fangs. No, it was Tuesday that was the real killer: my rendezvous at the episcopal palace, where I arrived poised for difficulty but not imagining it would take quite the course it did …
I had set off at what seemed like the crack of dawn, i.e. a quarter to nine, and through lashing rain drove slowly along the Hog’s Back. In better conditions and without a defective windscreen-wiper I thoroughly enjoy this stretch of Surrey, and it is amazing the speed the old Singer can get up. But that day, with visibility almost nil and my mind clouded with the prospect of Clinker’s demands (whatever they were likely to be), the journey was a chore and a bore. However, I reached the Palace in good time, and after waiting only two minutes was ushered into the bishop’s study.
It was the first time we had met since our time in France and I was taken aback by the sudden change in my superior. He must have shed nearly half a stone, and his eyes had that slightly hang-dog expression I’ve seen on Bouncer in one of his rare under-the-weather moods. The voice, however, retained its customary edge.
‘Ah, Oughterard, glad you could spare a few minutes from your frantically busy schedule. Doubtless very tiresome having to come over to Guildford. Much obliged I’m sure.’ He did not look particularly obliged. However, I made suitably tactful responses and waited.
He cleared his throat, paused, and then said, ‘And, ah, how is Maurice?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Maurice, your cat. Nice little fellow. Survived the trip back, did he?’
‘Er, yes,’ I replied in wonder. Cat and bishop had not notably taken to each other in France, so why on earth this sudden solicitude?
‘Good, good. And Bouncer?’
Bouncer? What on earth had got into him?! ‘Yes,’ I mumbled vaguely, ‘in fine fettle, I think. Teeth have had to have their annual cleaning, but other than that he …’ I stopped, noticing that Clinker was drumming his fingers and staring out of the window. Of course, I thought, that’s what it’s about – playing for time. So whe
n is he going to lob it to me? In the next instant.
‘Have you heard from Ingaza?’ he snapped. I told him I hadn’t – assuming that Eric’s enigmatic bawlings hardly counted. ‘Hmm,’ he said bleakly, ‘thought you might have by now.’ There was another pause. And then, staring me in the eye and as if suddenly seizing the bull by the horns, he announced, ‘There’s a bit of a problem going on, Francis – delicate, really.’ Clinker’s use of my first name, although in theory a mark of chumminess, invariably spells embarrassment and trouble, and I steeled myself accordingly.
‘Oh dear,’ I replied, adjusting my features to show sympathetic concern. ‘Not too bad, I hope.’
‘Huh! Couldn’t be worse,’ he said curtly. And to my surprise he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and proceeded to light up. I had never witnessed this before, and in fact was so surprised that I even forgot to feel piqued at not being offered one.
‘Yes,’ he continued, amid clumsy puffs, ‘distressing really. Not what one wants at my time of life – especially with the possibility of this new appointment in the offing.’ (The appointment involved being a sort of supplementary aide to the Archbishop of York; a post, I gathered, that entailed few duties but much prestige. Clinker had been angling for it for some time, and it was one of the reasons why he had been so desperate to hush up the recent French shamozzle. His chances were good, the only rival being a fellow bishop, Percival Crawley, whom Clinker detested. To lose the post would be painful, but to lose to ‘Creep’ Percival intolerable.)
‘If I can be of any help …’ I began reluctantly.
He sighed heavily. ‘I doubt it – I just thought you might have heard from Ingaza. Are you sure he hasn’t said anything?’ I shook my head, and he looked perplexed. ‘Hmm – perhaps he can’t have been approached yet.’
‘Approached about what?’
‘Blackmail,’ he muttered, almost inaudibly. I gazed in astonishment. ‘Good Lord! You mean you are being blackmailed, sir? But who on earth by?’
‘The blackmailer, of course. And keep your voice down!’ He ground out the cigarette on his desktop, burnt his finger and winced.
‘I see,’ I said slowly. ‘And what does Mrs Clinker say?’
‘Gladys? What are you talking about, Oughterard! She doesn’t say anything – she doesn’t know. It’s hardly the sort of thing we might discuss at the breakfast table! Oxford before the war may be a long time ago now, but even so, you surely don’t imagine that I would confide—’ He broke off and started to scrabble through an address book. ‘Where is that confounded man’s number?’
I studied him, things falling into place: Nicholas Ingaza and Oxford pre-war. Oh my hat! And after all this time … They were both being got at! So that was it: the younger Clinker’s momentary lapse, an absurd whimsical indiscretion and quickly eclipsed by Gladys and the respectable tentacles of the Church. Surely nobody could be on his tail now! And what about Nicholas? Who on earth would want to dig up that particular passing episode when there must have been so many scurrilous antics since, not to mention the infamous Turkish Bath incident?* He had done time for that. So who was wanting to pursue him now? Surely it was all yesterday’s news … On the other hand, I reflected grimly, Ingaza’s bathtime high jinks might be old news – but not the bishop’s gaffe. That could be dynamite!
‘How much?’ I said to Clinker.
‘What?’
‘How much money do they want for their silence?’
‘Don’t know,’ he replied shortly. ‘It’s not been mentioned.’
‘But presumably it will be.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes, yes, I imagine … But it’s not the money as such, it’s just the – it’s just the ghastliness of it all! That letter was brazen, taunting. It really made me feel so—’ He broke off and stared at me intently. ‘Of course, I’m forgetting. You wouldn’t know about it, would you?’
I hesitated. ‘Well, I did rather gather from Eric, Ingaza’s friend—’
‘Suppose you’re going to ask me to enlarge,’ he cut in bitterly, ‘all the damn details. Shouldn’t have called you over here really, stupid of me … Still, it will probably all surface sooner or later. Oh my God …’ He got up abruptly, scattering papers, and stumbled to the window where he stood chewing a pencil and scowling at the beating rain. Tricky.
I cleared my throat and said mildly, ‘Think I’ve got the gist of things, sir. A minor aberration years ago. Small matter between you and Nicholas – no great shakes, water under a bridge really …’
He whirled round. ‘No great shakes! That’s hardly the idiom I would use! I suppose that’s how he described it. Typical. You do realize the matter is an indictable offence, Oughterard! Not on the scale of Ingaza’s later shocking tomfoolery, I grant you, but an offence all the same. If this is raked up, I’m done for!’
‘I am sure it won’t come to that,’ I ventured reassuringly. ‘And besides, I gather they are getting much softer on that sort of thing nowadays. There’s so much more to …’
‘Look, Oughterard,’ he said bitingly. ‘Having led a life of such sheltered and singular rectitude, presumably you are unable to grasp the straits that I am in. The merest hint that the Bishop of Surrey and Berkshire once had a fling, however fleetingly, with one such as Nicholas is enough to scupper both my boat and my pension – and Mrs Clinker can kiss goodbye to being Vice-President of the National League for Darning and Elocution. She’s set her heart on that, and I shan’t hear the end of it.’
‘Goodness,’ I exclaimed, ‘I didn’t know there was such a thing. Whatever do they—’ I broke off hastily. No, this was not the time to pursue such curiosities. Instead, assuming an air of cool efficiency, I said, ‘Well, I had better take a look at the letter then.’
He hesitated, slightly surprised at my tone. ‘Er – yes, of course. I suppose you had better.’ He rummaged in his desk, produced an envelope and passed it over in silence. It bore a central London postmark, date-stamped ten days previously. Like the envelope, the single sheet of white paper was neatly typed:
Sir,
It has come to my notice that you were once a naughty boy with a bit of fluff at Oxford. First lecturing post, wasn’t it? And he an undergraduate at Merton. Well, ‘boys will be boys’ – except of course you weren’t a boy, were you? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine – an Oxford don who, as many would think, ought to have known better. Tut, tut! Still, I expect you enjoyed it all right. Gave you a thrill, did it? Walking on the edge, all that sort of thing! Do you think of it now sometimes, when you traipse around in your Mickey Mouse mitre all rigged up like a Christmas tree? Or is it swept under the rug like the filthy bit of dirt it is? Mud sticks. Dirt sticks. And make no mistake, I’ll stick too.
Yours faithfully,
Donald Duck
P.S. Your old friend has been doing pretty well forhimself I hear. Have sent him a note too – he’ll probably relish a trip down memory lane.
I handed the letter back to Clinker. ‘Seems to have a fixation with Walt Disney,’ I remarked drily.
‘Hmm,’ he replied dismally. ‘Bastard.’
He was right. It was a vicious little note, mean and low, and I suddenly began to take the bishop’s plight seriously.
‘As you say, he’s not actually asked for money,’ I mused. ‘I wonder what he has in mind.’
‘What he has in mind,’ fumed Clinker, ‘is to play silly beggars with me, soften me up and then go in for the kill and take me for everything I have. I’ve read about this sort of thing. That’s what they do – keep you on hot bricks. But of course that’s not something you would be aware of.’
Oh no? I thought, recalling the French nightmare.*
‘I take it that the police would not be a good thing?’
‘Too right they wouldn’t!’ he yelped. ‘Not at this stage at any rate, though God knows it may come to that …’ He groaned.
‘But who could it be?’ I asked. ‘Who would have known about you and Nicholas at Oxf
ord? Although I suppose the writer needn’t have actually been there himself – it could have been dug up recently. Doesn’t he say “it has come to my notice”? Unless of course that’s simply a blind, or a façon de parler.’
‘A façon de Christ Almighty!’ cried the bishop. ‘No, I’ve no idea who it could be! Perhaps Ingaza has. Why hasn’t the wretched fellow contacted me? He must have received that note by now. What on earth is he doing?’
‘Languishing,’ I replied absently.
‘What? Well he has no business to languish. He ought to be here, giving constructive advice. He’s not in my address book – have you got his number?’
‘Oh yes, I’ve got his number all right.’
‘Well ring him up then! Tell him there are vital things to discuss and he must come up to Guildford straight away … No, wait a minute, not here at the Palace. That wouldn’t do at all, it will only set Gladys off – she couldn’t abide him in France. It’ll have to be your vicarage. That’s it: telephone him this afternoon and tell him it is imperative I see him. Now Francis, I know I can rely on you. See to it, there’s a good fellow.’
The good fellow returned to Molehill, poured a large gin, consumed three cream cakes, and then feeling suitably fortified, did as requested.
* First mentioned in A Load of Old Bones
* See Bones in High Places
9
A Bedlam of Bones Page 4
