A Bedlam of Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  Still, things looked up because when at last they started to drag the goon out of the car I managed to get in a really good bite on its ankle. Mind you, it was a bit of a let-down really. You see I’m what the Frogs call a bone con-o-sewer, and I can tell you that this bone was NOT in the top bracket! Left a very nasty taste in my mouth. (When I told Maurice about this he said that he was sorry about the poor quality of the ankle, but that there are times when we all have to suffer for our principles and I had done a noble thing … I don’t know what ‘principles’ are, but I think the cat was saying I had done well. Howzat, then!)

  So after giving it that bite I felt much better and went to sleep – chuffed that whatever else happened to the thing, Bouncer had jolly well got in first and LEFT HIS MARK. That was good … But what’s not so good is that it will be quite a while before I try to jump into the vicar’s car again. After all, you never know what might be there!

  21

  The Vicar’s Version

  We arrived at the vicarage in a state of mild catalepsy (including, I think, the dog, who leapt into its basket, and as if grasping at the comfortingly familiar, immediately shoved its head down to inspect its nether regions). Also in search of comfort, Nicholas and I repaired to the sitting room where we took solace in whisky. We sipped and cogitated.

  ‘Well, at least that’s Felter fixed,’ he observed at last. ‘So what’s next on the merry agenda?’

  I winced. ‘Mavis Briggs.’

  ‘Hmm, you can count me out of that one,’ he said drily. ‘I’m off first thing in the morning. There are some things that even the strong can’t take.’

  ‘So you’re staying the night, then?’ I asked.

  ‘If the spare room is remotely habitable and its owner agreeable I think I just might. Nerves a trifle fragile. Besides, the petrol’s down and most garages are shut – and I certainly don’t want to risk another encounter with some hare-brained police cordon!’

  I was glad of his decision for my mind was a whirligig of fears and questions and I needed company. The first question of course was who on earth had done it.

  ‘You know,’ I said uneasily, ‘there’s nothing really to suggest that it wasn’t Clinker. I mean, I know he denied it and so on, and seemed as shocked as we were, but you can never tell with that sort of thing, and it’s amazing how some people genuinely believe in their own stories. Dispatching someone is a pretty big psychological upheaval and—’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he agreed, ‘and of course you would know about such matters.’

  I ignored that and continued to ponder the question. ‘As we know, there was an awful lot at stake, particularly for someone like Hor: status and reputation are crucial matters to him. And in any case it’s not as if he has only himself to think about – there’s always Gladys. (‘Always,’ was the grim response.) If Felter was taunting him in the way he said, it’s quite possible he suddenly lost his nerve and out of blind panic shot him, then hid the gun intending to dispose of it later.’

  ‘Like you did with those binoculars,’ Nicholas helpfully reminded me.*

  ‘Look, I should be grateful if you would stop bringing me into it all the time! It’s discourteous and irrelevant!’ I glowered at him and he had the grace to look mildly apologetic.

  ‘I told you, nerves a bit fraught – leads to unthinking remarks. And you are quite right: Clinker is the first one the police will suspect. Only one on the premises, easy opportunity. Except that I don’t actually think it happened like that. I’m pretty sure he’s on the level … But even if he isn’t, it’s hardly anything to do with us. After all, it’s not as if we would “bring it to the attention of the authorities”, is it?’

  I took another sip of whisky. ‘No,’ I said, ‘no we wouldn’t …’

  ‘Good. Glad that’s settled. Now, assuming I’m right and that he is telling the truth, let’s consider possibilities.’ There was a long silence during which Maurice wandered in, and ignoring me, turned his attention to the guest. Settling at Nicholas’s feet, he toyed daintily with his shoelaces while now and again giving a speculative tweak to his trouser turn-up. Nicholas shuffled his feet irritably.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I warned. ‘He’s pretending you are a fieldmouse and will pounce if he senses resistance.’

  The fieldmouse rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Your creatures, Francis!’

  ‘But,’ I continued, ‘if Clinker didn’t do it, someone else did. Must have followed him to the Palace and lain in wait. But what puzzles me is how did Felter get there in the first place? Hor just said he had “presented himself”. Presumably he didn’t drive otherwise his car would have been there when we arrived. A taxi is possible I suppose, but in that case it would surely have waited while Felter was conducting his business.’

  ‘Unless he paid it off, intending to stroll back to the railway station.’

  ‘Stroll? It’s nearly four miles!’

  ‘Oh well, perhaps he was a keen cyclist.’

  ‘Huh! He would have had to be fanatical to slog it all the way down from London. And even then he must have left the bicycle somewhere. And no point in hiding it if he was going to leap back into the saddle and pedal home again.’

  ‘Of course, we don’t actually know that he arrived from London,’ said Nicholas more seriously. ‘Could have been staying locally and just sauntered over.’

  ‘What, like in a hotel or pub, you mean?’

  ‘Possibly, but maybe at a private house close by.’

  I sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose the thing to do would be to check out all the likely places within a half-mile radius where he might have been …’

  ‘Just a minute, Francis,’ exclaimed Nicholas. ‘Don’t get carried away, dear boy! It hardly matters how the bloody man got there. The main point is that he is mercifully dead and that thanks to us nobody knows he was at Clinker’s place anyway.’

  ‘Except the murderer,’ I murmured.

  ‘Except the murderer. Which brings us back to the original question. Discounting Hor, who?’

  ‘Gladys?’ I suggested hopefully. ‘Perhaps she never went away at all, but somehow learning of the rendezvous and knowing more than she let on to Clinker, hid in the bushes and just as the visitor was leaving plugged him at close range with the air-rifle.’

  Nicholas grinned. ‘Don’t get your hopes up! Besides, according to Clinker the rifle was having its stock done – easily verifiable.’

  ‘There’s also the why,’ I went on, discarding my reverie.

  ‘Well that’s obvious. According to Hor he had a long list of victims, he and I certainly weren’t the only ones. Somebody had had enough and thought it time to exterminate the little toad.’ He paused, and then chuckled. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t me, was it? I was with the Reverend Canon Oughterard – an impeccable alibi. And being with you, I also know for a fact that you haven’t been up to your tricks again!’

  ‘I do not get up to tricks!’ I cried, scattering the cat and spilling my whisky.

  ‘Keep your hair on, old cock, just testing.’ He stood up, stretched and yawned and announced his departure for bed. ‘I suggest you do the same. Busy day tomorrow – Mavis and all. You’ll need a good night’s sleep!’

  I groaned and followed suit.

  Of course I didn’t sleep – or not until much later when I snatched a couple of hours before dawn. Instead I lay awake reliving the nightmare, thinking of Clinker (possibly similarly engaged), dreading the kerfuffle that was bound to erupt the next day and asking myself incessantly who had done it, and why on the bishop’s premises … always assuming, of course, the resident to be innocent.

  As I lay staring into the darkness, I heard the onrush of rain pelting the windows and toolshed roof. That’s all we need, I thought: corpse waterlogged as well as bitten … I turned fretfully on my side and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the vision of the sodden body and willing a sleep that refused to come. Lids closed, mind wide open.

  Our conjectures had been vague to say the least, and I
was still puzzled by how Felter had arrived at the house. The Palace was relatively secluded and even if, as Ingaza had suggested, he had been staying locally, he would still have had to cover almost a mile along the main road and then a further distance down the long drive. Elderly, fastidious, and apart from the sailing, not notably the outdoor type, it seemed unlikely that he would have walked. So why no car? The answer was suddenly plain: because he had not been followed but taken there by someone else! Clinker seemed to think he may have caught the sound of an engine shortly after discovering the body. Well, sound or no, it did seem perfectly feasible that Felter had been dropped a little way from the house – perhaps among the trees in the drive – and with the business completed, intended returning to the vehicle to be whisked away. But clearly his driver had had alternative plans: to ambush him as he left the house. And with no one but Clinker at home to observe proceedings, had performed the task and slipped safely away. If this were indeed the case it would mean that Felter had known his assassin, who, given the nature of the visit, might presumably have been a confidant: a confidant turned turncoat.

  Perhaps, perhaps. ‘If ifs and ans were pots and pans …’ My mother’s voice echoed languidly down the years, as, befuddled by fruitless speculation, I at last slipped into a curiously dreamless sleep.

  ‘Well, I’m off now,’ announced a brisk voice from the doorway. ‘Mustn’t keep old Eric waiting. I used your telephone last night to tell him I wanted a slap-up breakfast the instant I arrived. He gets fractious if the porridge overcooks. Still, at this hour of the morning I should get a clear run.’ Ingaza paused, and then added cheerfully, ‘Better give yourself a good one too – you’ll need it!’

  He disappeared and I heard the front door slam. The dog barked and I slid beneath the bedclothes.

  * See A Load of Old Bones

  22

  The Vicar’s Version

  It was Savage who received the first onslaught. He had gone over early to tune Mavis’s piano, and had been met halfway up the path by an avalanche of frenzied screams. ‘The police, the police,’ the banshee voice had shrieked, ‘they’ll be here at any minute. I thought you were one of them. It’s disgusting!’

  He explained to me that being blind, he was particularly sensitive to sound and that the cacophony was like being blasted by loudhailers from hell. ‘Gave me a nasty turn, it did,’ he complained. ‘I mean, a racket like that’s not what you expect when you’re minding your business en route to tuning a lady’s piano.’

  ‘No,’ I sympathized, ‘I am sure it isn’t.’

  Apparently Mavis had clutched his arm so violently that he had dropped his tuning fork. ‘Fell into the long grass. I spent ages scrabbling about trying to find it. The ground was sodden and I got my trousers all wet. I can tell you, Mrs S. was none too pleased!’

  Plying him with more of his wife’s fairy cakes that he had kindly brought, I asked what happened next, and he told me that while he was still on all fours with Mavis caterwauling above, there was the sound of a police car roaring up the lane, its clanging bell adding to the rumpus. The next thing he heard was Sergeant Withers saying, ‘What are you doing down there, Mr Savage?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ Savage had said. ‘Searching for a body, that’s what.’ He paused in his account, smiling wryly. ‘Given the circumstances, Rev, it wasn’t the best of answers, but at that stage I didn’t know the circumstances. If I had, I might have said something else. As it was, it set Mavis off again and Withers got all shirty and asked if I knew something that he didn’t. Anyway, eventually they took themselves off to her back garden and found the thing.’

  ‘And did you find your tuning fork?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Under the bloody tortoise.’

  After he left I polished off another fairy cake and decided that the best place for respite from telephone and callers was the church. Apart from Savage, I was reluctant to discuss the matter with anyone; but I also knew that in a small place like Molehill, untoward events invariably embroil the vicar, and that it would not be long before I was inundated with excited news-bearers eager for a reaction. Still dazed by the whole nightmare, it was the last thing I was ready to face. But the balloon was poised for take-off, and well before lunchtime the parish would be agog with Mavis’s discovery.

  Thus, with Bouncer trotting docilely at my heels, I repaired to the sanctuary of St Botolph’s. The dog’s dutiful adherence was untypical and I put it down to the chastening effect of the night before. I felt pretty chastened myself, and it would be a relief to sit quietly in one of the side pews and get my bearings before being engulfed by the tidal rush of rumour and gleeful speculation.

  We had just reached the lychgate, when round the corner strode Colonel Dawlish, preceded by a prancing Tojo. Seeing Bouncer, the West Highland emitted a piercing snarl of recognition, to which my companion responded with a throaty ‘Gurtcha!’ Greetings of a less acerbic nature were exchanged between their owners, and after a brief pause Dawlish asked if I had heard about the body in Mavis’s back garden.

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted cautiously, ‘all very unfortunate.’

  ‘You can say that again!’ he replied. ‘You know what it means, don’t you?’

  ‘Er, well I suppose—’

  ‘It means that we shall all be plagued by yet another volume of lamentable verse. Only this time it won’t be about Mother Nature’s benison, but the frailty of life’s natal gift and how death is “but a whisper away”. You’ll see.’

  ‘Alternatively,’ I murmured, ‘about the beatitude of the quaintly unexpected …’

  ‘Exactly. Either way, after this she’ll really have the bit between her teeth and there’ll be no stopping her! Won’t be long,’ he added darkly.

  ‘So, ah, what is she doing at the moment?’ I asked casually.

  ‘According to Edith Hopgarden, torn between taking to her bed with shock and milking it for all it’s worth in every tea shop on the High Street. Still, you’ll find out shortly when you visit her.’

  ‘What?’ I said, startled.

  ‘When you visit her – you are going, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, I hadn’t really thought that far …’ I began.

  ‘Oh she’ll be expecting you,’ he said confidently. ‘After all, that’s what you chaps do – comfort the afflicted.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I hesitated. ‘But Mavis isn’t exactly afflicted, she just happened to find the—’

  ‘Ah, but that’s how she will see it, mark my words! Take my advice – get it over with, you’ll feel much better.’

  ‘Will I?’

  At that point Tojo gave a brisk bark and an impatient tug on his lead. ‘That’s my cue,’ said the Colonel, ‘can’t keep the little beggar waiting.’ And giving me a solemn wink, he marched off. Left alone, Bouncer and I wandered into the church, sat down and cogitated, the dog seeming as preoccupied as myself.

  I sat for some time mulling things over, calmed, if not comforted, by the silence and familiar smell of polished wood and the ingrained legacy of incense. The early sun warmed the muted colours of the stained glass, and the ancient altar and flagstones gave anchorage to a mind adrift on confusion and fears. Current fears were focused on the immediate business surrounding Felter’s corpse and our part in its disposal. But, I reflected, there was more. Much, much more. Far too much to confront at that particular moment … A time to keep silence, and a time to speak? One day.

  But regarding the present time, one thing was certain: Dawlish was right, I should have to go and visit Mavis. I glanced at my watch. Yes, just time to fit it in before the midday Intercessions and the blessing of the Brownies. I stirred Bouncer and we set off with resolute tread.

  When I reached the vicinity of Cowslip Cottage, rather as feared there was a substantial police presence. There was also a cordon across the lane, a couple of press photographers; and clustered in an adjacent field a bevy of small boys mysteriously not at school. One had shinned up a tree with a pair of binoculars. As
I approached I heard him yell, ‘Cor, here’s the vicar. I bet he done it!’

  ‘Nah,’ was the reply, ‘not ’im, it’ll be that organist – ’e ’ates everybody!’

  I glared at them but felt a smug superiority in being ranked less suspect than Tapsell.

  Approaching the cordon, I asked if it would be possible to see Miss Briggs as I understood she had had a great shock and might be in need of some moral support.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ answered the WPC gloomily. ‘Done nothing but babble ever since we got here. Non-stop. Don’t know where she gets the energy! Still, if you think she wants supporting I suppose you’d better go in. D.C. Hopkins is with her, trying to get his report right. He’s done it once but Sergeant Withers sent it back – said it was a load of rambling whatsit.’ (Mavis’s narrative style is not known for its clarity and one could see the constable’s problem.)

  I entered the cottage with an uneasy feeling of déjà vu. The last time I had been there was with Ingaza, intent on our mission re the Spendler painting.* Then, except for the ticking of the cuckoo clock in the hall, there had been an eerie silence. Now, however, the ticking was submerged under a welter of gabble from the sitting room, and any sudden effusion from the cuckoo was doomed to be upstaged.

  Gingerly I slid into the room.

  ‘Canon!’ she cried immediately, leaping up and scattering Hopkins’ notes. ‘I knew you would come to aid a damsel in her distress! You were so wonderful over my stolen painting – but this is much, much worse. A dead body amid the polyanthus!’

  ‘Wasn’t it the pansies?’ I said rather thoughtlessly.

  ‘No, no. His hat was on the pansies but the rest of him on the polyanthus plants – and I had only just put them in! Dreadful, dreadful!’ I glanced at Hopkins, on his knees gathering his notes. He stared back with glazed expression.