A Bedlam of Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  All went well, and when the time came for tea and biscuits it seemed that escape was nigh. Not so. The breathy voice of Mavis Briggs was suddenly heard announcing she wished to give a vote of thanks to their ‘quite dazzling’ speaker, and if we didn’t mind, she had a few things of her own to add as well. Dear God, I thought, she’s going to spout some poems! That we were spared. But she launched into a long and meandering reminiscence about the origin of the organization and the vital part played by its founding members – of which, naturally, she was one.

  If looks could kill, Mavis would have been struck thrice dead by Edith Hopgarden. But for the most part the other ladies lapsed into a resigned torpor, with one or two of the less comatose taking out their knitting. Not having any knitting to hand, I allowed my thoughts to wander back to the blackmail.

  Given the length of Mavis’s discourse I was able to brood at some leisure upon the identity of ‘Donald Duck’. What an absurd soubriquet – only an idiot or warped mind would dream that one up! Oddly enough it was this signature to the letters that annoyed me more than anything else. It was so insufferably insolent … I wondered when the next approach would be made and for how long he intended to make them sweat. And what about the method of payment – one large sum or relentless instalments? He? Yes, it was likely to be a man – improbable that a woman would have such a close knowledge of that particular topic or indeed enjoy exploiting it so fully. Still, one could never be entirely sure … I closed my eyes, lulled by the gnat-like droning from the platform.

  And then, just as I was beginning to nod off, unaccountably the amiable face of Rupert Turnbull came into my mind, and with that face the memory of the lucrative little racket he had been running at his language school in France. Learning that a number of the foreign students were domiciled without the requisite papers, he had been blithely threatening to shop them to the authorities unless they produced suitably enhanced fees. Turnbull – as smooth a blackmailer as he was a murderer … I opened my eyes with a start. ‘Good Lord!’ I gasped. ‘Surely not!’

  The droning stopped. ‘Oh dear! Is there something wrong, Canon?’ Mavis’s solicitous voice enquired.

  ‘I, er, well, not really … so sorry, I—’

  I was cut short by Miss Dalrymple, who, seizing the opportunity, cried, ‘Fascinating, Mavis, most succinct! Now, I think it’s time we all went home.’ And grasping handbag, gloves and next-door neighbour, she made a beeline for the exit. Others were quick to follow. I rather suspect I may have gone up a notch in her estimation.

  I wandered back to the vicarage, musing uneasily upon the possibility of Turnbull being the blackmailer of Clinker and Nicholas. There wasn’t a shred of evidence of course, but as with intractable crosswords, in this type of worrying mystery one grasps at the remotest straws to provide a lead. And it seemed to me that here were three straws: Turnbull had already previously engaged in blackmailing activities to supplement his commercial enterprise; although unproved, he was believed by three of us to be a double murderer, ruthless in pursuit of his own ends; and according to Maud Tubbly Pole he had an innately sadistic temperament – which would make him entirely capable of exerting relentless and teasing pressure on his victims. But why those particular victims? Because they were known to him: the French connection! As Lavinia’s cousin, he had been a frequent presence in the Birtle-Figgins’s house above Berceau, and would have become friendly with the Clinkers during their sojourn there. Nicholas too he had encountered at least a couple of times (indeed, I specifically recalled them chatting most amicably in the aftermath of Boris’s funeral). What might he have guessed, ascertained and subsequently rooted out about that past liaison? And now, returned to London with a fresh enterprise and seeking additional funds, what better pickings to swell the coffers than the noble bishop and his ‘bit of fluff’!

  Far-flung conjecture? Possibly. But the thought had taken root in my mind and I was stuck with it for the rest of the evening, even in sleep that night it coloured and troubled my dreams.

  * See Bones in High Places

  11

  The Vicar’s Version

  Waking early the next morning I was even more determined to persuade Primrose not to involve herself further with Lavinia Birtle-Figgins and Turnbull. If the latter really was doing the blackmailing then all the more reason to give them a wide berth. Primrose was wayward and I doubted whether she really appreciated the danger she was courting. At the back of my mind, too, was now the nagging thought that if Rupert Turnbull could rake up their past, might he not turn to mine as well? If he was on to rich pickings with them, they’d be even richer with me! And with a shudder my thoughts went back to France and the sneering menace of Mullion’s predatory eye …

  I was startled out of my broodings by the antics of the dog. He had been sleeping peacefully at the foot of the bed, but with a sudden flurried shake woke up and scrambled towards me, licked my face and then flopped down again with his head on my chest. I lay surprised and still, wondering what had precipitated such a manoeuvre, but oddly soothed by the snuffling closeness. The snuffling lapsed into heavy breathing as he dozed off again.

  I lay unmoving, my mind still beset with images of danger. But somehow the animal’s unexpected interruption and furry proximity had produced a calming effect and put things in a better light. It was absurd to think that Turnbull could possibly get a handle on the Fotherington incident. He had never known her and barely knew me; I had not been charged, nor indeed had any hints or allegations been made in the press. The matter was entirely remote to him. No, as usual the old underlying fear was playing up and I was seeing personal threats where none existed. Of far more pressing concern was the plight of Clinker and Ingaza.

  In their different ways both men infuriated me, but each had become an integral part of my life and I held them in grudging if exasperated regard. The last thing I wanted was to see either of them hounded mercilessly by a prurient public. Nicholas had suffered it once and I suspected it might destroy the bishop. Yes, theirs was the real problem – but how on earth to deal with it? I gave the dog a pat,and throwing back the bedclothes went downstairs to see about breakfast.

  The post had arrived and among the letters was one from Primrose. Her preferred method of communication is the telephone (or telegram if feeling especially assertive), but now and again she will resort to epistle form, partly I think to prevent me from interrupting. Thus, pouring a cup of coffee and fortified by a fresh cigarette, I slit open the envelope and unfolded the scrawled double sheets of her favourite blue writing paper.

  Francis dear, the letter began,

  You have no idea what an absorbing time I have spent with Lavinia! And I have come to the conclusion that she is either completely doolally or worryingly sane – a bit of both I suspect. Anyway, the combination has certainly been an intriguing experience and in an odd way rather enjoyable.

  To begin with, she arrived soused in Chanel (though a welcome change from that pungent herbal stuff she wore in France) and nursing a dog! (Similarly soused.) Fortunately, said dog was minuscule, a kind of mongrel chihuahua – otherwise, like your galumphing Bouncer it would have scared the chinchillas witless. She explained it was a recent present from Rupert and was called Attlee – for whom, for some obscure reason, she had conceived a yen during the war. Fortunately the creature took after its namesake, keeping silent at all times except to emit a brisk irascible bark whenever it wanted to go out. I enquired if it smoked a pipe and she said not as far as she knew.

  Anyway, unpacking and pleasantries over, I took them both on a tour of the garden (looking rather good actually – though I do think you could have tied the hollyhocks more securely, they are flopping all over the place). We then sat in the summer house and I asked her if she missed France – meaning, of course, Boris.

  Well, you’ll never guess what she said! After gazing pensively at the distant Downs, she replied that on the whole, no, and sad though Boris’s death was, had it not been for such an untimely event she
would never have had the good fortune to meet Mr Attlee. She must have seen my surprise, for she explained that her husband had been allergic to all animals and would never allow her to have one. Other than observing that it was an ill wind, I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to say. However, the remark evidently suited her for she exclaimed, ‘My feelings exactly!’, adding that it was strange the way things would often ‘pan out’, even when least expected. I agreed that it was very strange – and considered throwing in something about silver linings and the undoubted rewards of patience, but thought better of it.

  By this time a breeze was getting up and my own view was that things were ‘panning out’ in the direction of a large gin. So we moved indoors and Lavinia said she would join me later as she had a new frock she wanted to wear for the opening and it was essential to get it exactly right. She seemed to expect the dog to join her upstairs, but it remained rooted to the sofa, unmoved and unwilling. It’s a dour-faced little creature, but once it had ascertained that I had no intention of smothering it in scent and kisses we became quite matey.

  Half an hour later the owner reappeared, resplendent in pearls and shimmering blue satin – with, I may say, eyeshadow and snazzy Louis heels to match. I can tell you, Francis, a far cry from the dirndls and drooping tent dresses of Berceau-Lamont! Naturally, with that as an example I felt obliged to cut a dash myself (Mother’s antique earrings and dear Uncle Herbert’s sequinned bolero). So there we were – two tall women decked to the nines, gadding off for the evening in the impeccable company of the tacit Attlee!

  I was just pondering in which particular game of charades I had last seen Uncle Herbert sporting that bolero (a garment he would regularly struggle into regardless of theme or suitability), when Maurice leapt through the open window and, evidently in tolerant mood, settled himself on my lap. This doesn’t happen very often and I felt duty-bound to stop my reading and express gratitude and surprise. Courtesies were exchanged, an inquisitive paw extended to scrabble with the discarded envelope, and then, after a few gracious purrs and a quick tweak of my tie, he was off again to harry the woollen mouse. I returned to the letter.

  When we arrived, there was already a great mob of people: quite a number I knew, of course, but a whole gaggle that I didn’t (down from London I think) and presumably associates of Lavinia’s old school chum, a plump mousy little creature – though judging from the diamond studs and necklace, obviously loaded. Business must be booming! Certainly she had spared no expense in furnishing the new premises, and everything looked frightfully chic and à la mode. The champagne wasn’t bad either.

  Which, Francis, brings me to our friend Ingaza. Oh yes, he was there all right – draped over a dry martini and muttering querulously about the owner’s taste in contemporary abstracts. ‘If little Miss Prissy imagines the cognoscenti of Brighton are going to be dazzled by these daubings she’s in for a shock,’ he opined. ‘So passé! You’ll see – the whole thing will go bust in a month.’ And deftly intercepting a passing drinks tray, he replaced his empty cocktail glass with a full one of ‘Miss Prissy’s’ vintage champagne.

  Yes, on standard form you might say. Except that I couldn’t help feeling he seemed a trifle tense: dragging on even more gaspers than usual and nearly jumping out of his skin when some art-dealing crony tapped him lightly on the shoulder. I made a joke about his looking like a marked man – to which he replied darkly that he probably was. And when I asked marked by whom, he said that that was exactly what he wanted to know. Well frankly I had better things to do than stand grappling with Ingaza’s conundrums – e.g. to reach the caviar canapés before they were all snaffled. So after giving him a sharp reminder that I still awaited my Canadian fee, I rejoined the hordes.

  And that’s when I saw Lavinia talking animatedly with some elderly gent of about ninety (sixty-five, probably, but he looked pretty decrepit to me) whom she introduced vaguely as an old friend of the family (hers or Boris’s?) and whom she hadn’t met for ages but so hoped to see more of now she was back in London. Apparently the hope was reciprocated as I noticed he plied her with Sidecars for the rest of the evening. Eventually he joined a group about to get the train back to London. But just before he left she whispered to me that he owned a yacht and was ‘worth quite a bob or two’ – an observation which personally I couldn’t help thinking just a mite vulgar. Anyway, she said he was called Frederick – though whether that was his first or second name it wasn’t clear. But she also added that he had once been a schoolmaster in India – Jaipur, I think – but had moved on to more lucrative things. Would need to, presumably, if he was able to afford a yacht!

  I reread those last lines with startled curiosity … It couldn’t be, surely! No, of course not. The scholastic world must abound in English ex-schoolmasters who had taught in India twenty years ago or more, and doubtless quite a few in Jaipur … But would so many Fredericks have gravitated to Jaipur? Perhaps not. Even so, it seemed improbable that Lavinia’s elderly friend should be the Freddie Felter so luridly described by Mrs Tubbly Pole. Of course not. It was bound to transpire that this man was called John Frederick, an Oxford graduate in History who couldn’t add up for toffee and had never worn a moustache in his life, drooping or otherwise. That firmly settled I continued with the remainder of the letter.

  Anyway, eventually things wound up and we hitched a lift back with one of the guests, Lavinia clearly having enjoyed herself chewing the cud with her old school chum – Ingaza’s ‘Miss Prissy’ – and then latterly with the attentive Frederick chap. As a matter of fact she had taken quite a bit on board, so when we got home I suggested some coffee but she said it was ‘safer’ to stick with gin. So the three of us (if you count the beloved Attlee) put our feet up in the sitting room and indulged in the usual post-mortem, in the course of which she said she had glimpsed Ingaza across the room but hadn’t the nerve to approach as he had looked so grim(!)

  I was going to ask her more about Turnbull’s professional plans and whether she was thinking of partnering him in the language schools project, but before I got there she suddenly trilled, ‘It’s such fun living dangerously, don’t you think?’

  Without mentioning the gory French episode, I asked if that was what she had been doing with Boris. She took a sip of gin and grimaced, though I wasn’t sure whether that was on account of the lack of bitters or the thought of her late husband. The latter I think, for she exclaimed, ‘Good gracious, nothing dangerous there – just crashing boredom from start to finish. What a fool I was to be so influenced! Ah well, water under the bridge, things are different now.’ She then turned to the dog and crooned, ‘Isn’t that so, mon petit cheri?’ I don’t think Attlee liked being addressed as ‘cheri’ as he gazed fixedly ahead, making no response.

  Well, Francis, all I can say is that either she’s totally unaware that Turnbull did in her old man or she hasn’t the slightest clue that you or I suspect anything. Otherwise how on earth could she be so gormlessly indiscreet!! As said, either perfectly intelligent or as thick as they come! Make sure you give me a bell when you can tear yourself away from clerical delights. Shall be interested to hear your views.

  All love – P.

  I put down the letter, and tackling tomato and fried bread began to ponder the import of Primrose’s news.

  I didn’t get far, as there was a sudden rap on the window accompanied by the lowering face of the organist. I stood up reluctantly, draping a napkin over my breakfast things. If Tapsell imagined he was going to be offered coffee and bacon he had another think coming!

  I opened the window. ‘Good morning, Tapsell,’ I said affably. ‘You’re up early, aren’t you?’

  ‘Just as well,’ he snapped. ‘We’ve got mice in the organ pipes and they’re all fighting! What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Shoot the buggers,’ I said, and closed the window.

  12

  The Cat’s Memoir

  It had been an entertaining morning really. First, anguished roars from the infan
t next door having been foolish enough to plunge into the water butt (I had been watching its approach with interest, guessing that something dramatic might happen); then squabbles among the pigeons over a rather disagreeable piece of cake – which naturally I appropriated, leaving them gaping and furious; and then the arrival of the postman with a letter from the vicar’s sister. How did I know it was from her? Well I didn’t really, but I was assured by Bouncer that that was the case. And how did the dog know? Precisely the question I asked him.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he announced airily, ‘definitely from the Prim.’

  ‘Since your only reading material is the dog-Latin in the crypt,’ I pointed out, ‘I don’t see how you can possibly tell.’

  ‘Huh, you don’t have to read – smelling’s enough.’

  ‘Smelling what?’

  He sighed (almost as if I were defective!) ‘That Sussex air and her skin, of course. Envelope’s smothered in spoor of both. Obvious.’

  ‘Really?’ I said doubtfully. ‘Unusual sensitivity, Bouncer.’

  ‘Nothing unusual about it,’ he replied, ‘just bred in the bone. It’s what us dogs have. Cats don’t.’ He spoke with nonchalant authority and I thought it best not to pursue the matter.

  ‘But rather rare for her to write a whole letter, isn’t it?’ I suggested. ‘Normally it’s the telephone or those little yellow envelopes delivered by the red-headed boy. Must be something special.’