A Bedlam of Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  35

  The Vicar’s Version

  Though mercifully overlaid by clerical duties, the fear engendered by my encounter with Rupert Turnbull hovered for most of the following day. It was not unlike a persistent headache – low-key, yet impossible to shift. Eventually, as a means of distraction, I decided to take the dog for a walk. Though it was earlier than his usual hour, Bouncer was raucously cooperative and we set off at a brisk gait.

  We had just rounded the corner by Tapsell’s house (me dragging the lead, fearful there might be a repeat of his previous performance) when I saw a slight figure carrying a large canvas bag, moving in our direction: Savage, on the homeward lap from his tuning rounds. As he drew near I hailed him and Bouncer gave a friendly woof; with a wave of the white cane he stopped and smiled broadly.

  ‘Must be the vicar,’ he said cheerily. ‘Not seen you for some time, Rev! In fact I was just saying to Mrs S. only the other day that I thought your piano was well overdue – it’s probably feeling a bit under the weather by now.’

  I agreed that it most certainly was but that I been terribly busy.

  ‘Ah yes, goes in phases, doesn’t it? One moment slack, the next it’s all coming at you every which way! Anyway, how are things? Winning, are you?’

  ‘Not noticeably,’ I replied. ‘Treading water more like.’

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ he said cheerily. ‘Just keep treading and nil carborundum – don’t let the baskets, etc, etc.’

  I told him that said baskets were currently proving rather recalcitrant.

  He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll pass, it always does. I’ve told you before – you should do as I do, get the old drums out and give ’em hell. A piano’s all right in its place but nothing beats a pounding à la Krupa!’

  I laughed. ‘One day, Savage, I’ll surprise you and come and ask for lessons, and do just that – and Mrs S. can teach me how to bake fairy cakes.’

  ‘You’re on!’

  I felt a sudden pang of envious longing …Yes, to be amid the safe domesticity of the gentle Savages with all the time in the world and nothing more taxing to do than watch Mrs S. at her redoubtable baking and listen to him demonstrating the finer points and pleasures of jazz timpani. What could be nicer? Or more remote …

  We fixed a date for the next tuning, and giving a tug to Bouncer’s lead I was about to set off when he said, ‘Mind you, you’re not the only one who’s busy, Rev. That Mr Slowcome, he’s really at it, isn’t he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s Mavis’s dead body. All over the place with it, he is – interviews, press briefings, mugshots in the Clarion, or so Mrs S. tells me. Even heard him on the wireless this morning talking about how a good copper is tireless in his pursuit of detail, however small or seemingly trivial, and that that was how he had made his mark as a tyro sergeant: “following minute leads that others had discounted”. There was quite a lot of trumpet-blowing on that theme (trying to impress the Chief Constable, if you ask me). And then the interviewer wanted to know what lead, minute or otherwise, was being pursued regarding Molehill’s murder victim, because from what he had heard the local police were getting nowhere fast.’ Savage chuckled. ‘He didn’t like that, and said all cold and huffy that there was a great deal going on behind the scenes which naturally couldn’t be revealed to the public. But what he could divulge was the matter of the dog.’

  I started. ‘The dog! What dog?’

  ‘The barking dog from Bognor – at least that’s where they thought it must have come from. He said that according to the witness – Mavis, I suppose – a voice had been heard outside her window talking about getting back to Bognor, but that she had also heard a dog bark. Slowcome being super-bright, assumes the dog was in the car during the unloading of the body and that it and its owners came from Bognor.’ Savage scratched his head and added sceptically, ‘Mind you, it all sounds a bit what you might call “recherché” to me. And besides, if I were the superintendent I wouldn’t set too much store by Mavis’s evidence … not what you would call exactly watertight, I shouldn’t have thought! Still, I suppose he felt he had to say something positive. Any crumb would do!’ He grinned again and, whistling tunelessly, went on his way.

  I stared after him, cursing Bouncer and cursing Mavis even more. Not a word to me about having heard a dog! Presumably something must have jogged that addled memory and she had mentioned it to Slowcome after her recent interview. I cast my mind back to those grisly moments outside her cottage and our efforts heaving the corpse on to the grass. Certainly Bouncer had given the thing a crafty nip to the ankle but had he barked as well? Perhaps. After all, he had been roaring his head off for most of the journey.

  As I was brooding thus, there was a light tap on my shoulder. ‘Oh, Canon,’ squeaked Mavis Briggs excitedly, ‘I think I may have been able to assist the police even further with their enquiries – I told the superintendent that I was sure the miscreants had a dog with them and that it must have been the one that had inflicted those dreadful bite marks!’

  ‘How do you know it wasn’t a cat?’ I said accusingly.

  She looked startled and in a pained voice replied, ‘Well, I think at my age, Canon, I can be relied upon to know the difference between a cat and a dog.’ I apologized, explaining it had been a rather feeble joke.

  This seemed to satisfy her and, mollified, she launched into a rambling account of how grateful Mr Slowcome had been for her information and how so much nicer he was than the previous Inspector March.* ‘I mean,’ she said, lowering her voice confidingly, ‘he’s what you might call a gentleman.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I murmured. ‘Now tell me, Mavis, is there anything else you have been able to help him with?’

  She frowned. ‘Well not so far … but you never know what other little clues may come to mind. I mean, when they first interviewed me I was so shocked that I could hardly think. But now – well, one’s recollections could be invaluable!’ Despite being encumbered by shopping bags and brolly, she contrived to clap her hands.

  Dear God! I thought, and raising my hat said I had to hurry back to prepare for Evensong.

  As I approached the vicarage (hastily reminding myself to ask Primrose about the handkerchiefs), I saw a black Wolseley drawing up at the kerb, and the next moment the passenger door was flung open and Superintendent Slowcome emerged. Reining in Bouncer, I composed my features into what I fondly imagined to be a sociable expression and enquired whether it was myself or the neighbours that he had come to see.

  ‘You, actually, Canon,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Withers and I were just passing and thought we might drop in on the off-chance you were at home. Saves a telephone call in the morning. Have you got a few minutes to spare?’

  I told him that I was a little pressed as Evensong was in an hour, but if it didn’t take too long I would be only too happy to oblige. I ushered them into the study, tense at the prospect of questions re my encounter with Felter at Lavinia’s party – for that was surely the purpose of their visit.

  It proved to be the case. And as presumably with others on their list, Slowcome wanted to know how long I had known the dead man and was there anything in his demeanour which had struck me as unusual. I explained truthfully that since I had only ever met him at the party, I was not in a position to say whether he had been his usual self or not.

  ‘So what was your impression of him, sir?’ asked Withers.

  I was undecided whether to tell them that he looked exactly like a man ravaged with fear and about to be shot to death at any moment, or to tell the truth and say I had found him entirely at ease and convivial. Prudently I opted for the latter.

  ‘And did he mention what his immediate plans might be – whether he was going anywhere in the near future?’

  There flashed through my mind Primrose’s voice saying, ‘I can’t think why you didn’t leave him somewhere else – Wigan, for example,’ and I was tempted to recommend that they focus their enquiries on that particular pa
rt of the country and leave Guildford and its clergy in peace. Instead I said that I could not recall any mention of plans but that he seemed to be keen on sailing …

  ‘You see, sir,’ Withers interjected, ‘one of his neighbours reports that the last time they had seen him he had been in good spirits and said he must hurry off to prepare for an episcopal progress. The neighbour didn’t know what he meant by that – and neither do we, but apparently he seemed to find it very funny and even repeated the phrase. Seems an odd thing to have said. In fact, it is something we thought Bishop Clinker might be able to shed light on when we see him. He’s on tomorrow’s list and may have a suggestion.’

  ‘Probably of no significance,’ said Slowcome, ‘but it must be followed up. Oh yes. As I always say, Canon, it is amazing how often the most trivial remark carries a weight of meaning. Multum in parvo, that’s my motto – known for it, aren’t I, Withers?’ The sergeant nodded, looking suddenly bored.

  I, however, was not. For having been initially shaken by Felter’s remark and fearful of what the police might make of it (and suspecting that a question regarding the movements of bishops would send Clinker into a frenzy of panic), I realized that with luck I could pre-empt further probing. ‘I doubt if the bishop can enlighten you,’ I laughed, ‘he doesn’t know a thing about chess, never played it in his life!’

  They looked at me blankly. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ I continued, ‘but I gather from one of the newspaper reports that Mr Felter was a keen chess player, leading light of his local chess society, apparently. I should think you will find that he was making a rather oblique reference to the bishop’s move – you know, the one where the black bishop sweeps the board of the knight and other tiresome adversaries. It’s a handy manoeuvre if you can work it, but it needs a bit of attention. Presumably that is what he was off to do – ponder his strategy.’ I beamed helpfully while also praying that neither was au fait with the rules of chess. My own scant memory of it came from family squabbles in the drawing room after tea, when across the chequered board Primrose and Pa would lock themselves in mortal and voluble combat.

  ‘Ah – yes,’ said Slowcome, looking both puzzled and disappointed, ‘yes, that would, er, fit, I suppose … Hmm. Sharp of you, Canon. We’ll have you in the Force yet!’ And with a few more words of wisdom and jocular patronage, he rallied the sergeant and took his leave.

  I turned to the cat. ‘Preparing an episcopal progress, my foot!’ I exclaimed. ‘Cocky little stinker deserved all he got!’ For once Maurice seemed in agreement, for he emitted a piercing miaow which took me by surprise – though it may simply have been a demand for haddock.

  After they had gone I began to think of Clinker. Did he know they were coming? Or were they giving him as little notice as they had intended for me, i.e. a telephone call in the morning? But even with prior notice, how well would he cope? With the memory of that appalling encounter looming over him, how equipped was he to parry their questions? Would his nerve snap? Would he stumble, make some thoughtless remark, something that would link him more closely with the dead man than he cared to admit? But perhaps I was worrying unnecessarily, judging him by my own incompetence. Yes, doubtless the bishop was fully prepared and had some smoothly honed narrative all lined up ready to fox and disarm …

  Like hell! This was Horace Clinker, I reminded myself, not Nicholas Ingaza! I hurried to the hall and dialled the Palace number, eager to warn and if necessary advise.

  ‘My husband is away,’ announced Gladys. ‘Surely you know that, don’t you, Canon? In fact, I rather gathered he was expecting you to be there. Why aren’t you?’

  ‘Where?’ I faltered.

  ‘Crewe, of course … or possibly Carlisle. Well anyway, one of those northern towns. It’s the annual Missionary Conference – this time something about the difficulty of their position in Mozambique. You always attend, you can’t have forgotten!’ Her voice had a ring of accusation.

  I sighed. It was precisely because I always attended that somehow I had now conveniently forgotten. Custom can blunt the memory as well as sharpen. Besides, did I really need to know about the ins and outs of the ‘missionary position’ in Mozambique – or indeed anywhere? Whatever the locality, it was bound to be exhausting …

  I started to invent vague excuses but she cut me short. ‘Of course it’s really none of my business how you organize your duties – and besides, I have other matters to consider: the police are coming here tomorrow. Practically first thing, so tiresome!’

  ‘Ah yes, presumably about Mr Felter at Lavinia’s party. Er – what are you likely to say?’

  ‘Likely to say, Canon? I shall say exactly what I have been saying to the bishop: that I considered him a rather common little man and that it was a great shame that my husband and he were planning to meet again. Just because he jawed on about sailing in the Baltic and had read that wretched book Horace is so keen on, doesn’t mean that one wished to become socially involved!’

  ‘But they weren’t, were they?’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, socially involved. They may have telephoned, but they didn’t actually meet …’

  ‘What? Well I don’t know, really – quite possibly, I suppose. Horace sees all manner of people … But he certainly wasn’t invited for lunch here!’

  ‘Well,’ I foolishly ventured, ‘if you want my advice, I wouldn’t—’

  ‘I can’t think why I should want your advice, Francis, but you are obviously keen to give it. What have you in mind?’

  ‘It’s, um, it’s simply that given the circumstances – the appointment matter – it might be best not to mention anything at all about the bishop and the deceased having been in contact. I mean, you know how quick the police are to jump to conclusions – always getting the wrong end of the stick and spreading alarm and despondency. They, er – they do have a tendency to be rather officious …’ I trailed off weakly.

  There was a long pause while she presumably gave thought to Clinker’s imminent elevation to the Arch-bishop’s entourage. And then she said, ‘If Superintendent Slowcome imagines he can be officious with me, he’ll have to think again! I have heard all about police harassment and have no intention of inviting it. I shall spare them five minutes and no more. Silence is my policy and I suggest it be yours, Canon!’ There was a loud snort and then the line went dead.

  So that was a relief. With Gladys in granite-wall mood, Slowcome’s chances of sniffing a lead were nil. I could rest easy for a little longer, and taking the opportunity went to the piano and embarked on a rousing keyboard version of Tannhäuser. The cat wailed pathetically, seized its woollen mouse and scuttled from the room.

  * Inspector March, with his assistant DS Samson, appears in the first three books.

  36

  The Vicar’s Version

  Lunch the following day was a somewhat onerous business. It took place in the parish hall and was one of those earnestly ‘frugal’ bread and cheese affairs put on periodically by the Vestry Circle to support the starving.

  While applauding the intention I can never quite fathom the logic. The idea is that the world’s poor will be the recipients of the saving made between such basic fare and the price of an average two- or three-courser. However, since seemingly fewer people are making luncheon their main meal (and with those at work often settling for no more than a sandwich) the gap between the two sets of prices is narrow. Indeed, partaking of the ‘rustic’ fare will sometimes involve an excess rather than reduction in outlay – in which case a straight five-shilling donation might be both simpler and more lucrative. I have also observed that those still in the habit of consuming a full meal at lunchtime tend to stuff themselves so full of bread, cheese, beverages and assorted pickles that again the profit is negligible. I mentioned this once to a colleague who evidently missed the point, explaining that it was all about productive self-denial – ‘practical penance’ being the exact words, I think. Judging from the steady chomping of jaws, gales of hearty laughter and very moderate proceeds, I see litt
le that is either penitential or practical – and rather wonder what the starving poor might think. If I have the nerve (unlikely), one day I shall put a stop to the practice and urge instead greater generosity in the collection plate … Do I digress? Then I digress (as the noted Mr Eliot might have put it), and so back to the bun fight and its consequence:

  There were two problems here – first the awfulness of the chosen cheese (not a mature Cheddar but some base imitation of pallid hue and matching taste); and second, a flanking attack by Miss Dalrymple and Colonel Dawlish regarding the latter’s proposal that a dog show be held in my garden. For once both were in perfect unison and I was subjected to an enthusiastic briefing on its fund-raising value and the plans already in place for the categories and prizes. These seemed many and elaborate and I realized with dawning awe that the thing was a virtual fait accompli. However, adopting a brave face I enquired if there was anything in particular they would like me to do, and wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or affronted when Miss Dalrymple said, ‘Well actually, Canon, if you don’t mind, you could go out for the day and take Bouncer and Maurice with you.’

  The Colonel must have seen my look of surprise for he explained hastily, ‘It’s not that we don’t want you, dear man, but I’ve lined up the stewards and judging panel, got the women organized with the tea and raffle, and so that only leaves the gate.’ He paused, and with a sly grin added, ‘Don’t think that’s quite your forte, is it, old chap? Bit of a problem at the Christmas party, wasn’t there – sorting the door-payers from the ticket-holders? Queues halfway down the road!’ He laughed loudly and I gave a polite smile.