Bones in High Places

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘ Yes, that’s his special front seat noise. It happens whenever –’

  ‘Look,’ broke in Clinker testily, ‘when you two have finished jawing about these wretched animals, I should appreciate a small reviver. It is all extremely unsettling, and there’s the painful task of breaking the news to the ladies.’

  Ingaza regarded him wide-eyed. ‘I say, Hor, you don’t look too good. What news? May one ask what is perturbing His Lordship?’

  ‘The suicide, of course! And kindly refrain from calling me Hor. It may have been all right at Oxford but it certainly isn’t now. Most indecorous.’

  Ingaza’s smile faded as he looked at me for explanation. Clinker and I accompanied him out to the car to fetch the requested Scotch, and standing around the Citroën’s boot told him what had happened.

  ‘Poor old bugger,’ he observed. ‘Just goes to show the power of a tasselled tambourine.’

  ‘Do you really think it was to do with their feud and all that?’ I asked. ‘It seems a bit extreme.’

  ‘All depends on your point of view,’ he replied soberly. ‘Loneliness plus dashed hopes can be a killer. One’s seen it often enough.’

  ‘Yes, but his rival was dead. Who knows, given time he may have been able to reclaim both widow and instrument. And according to Primrose, he seemed chirpy enough yesterday.’

  ‘Ah,’ interjected Clinker, ‘what you are overlooking, Oughterard, is that for some people the existence of an irritant is precisely what keeps them going: fury is a good galvanizer. I’ve often seen it with Myrtle. Remove the cause of annoyance and she becomes prostrate with boredom.’

  It was, I thought, one of the bishop’s better observations, and I was just about to pursue it, when Nicholas tittered and said: ‘Better watch it, Francis, if anything happens to me or Mavis Briggs, you’ll be as dead as a doornail!’

  At that moment Turnbull, Dumont and the gendarme emerged from the inn, and with a nod in our direction the two latter got into their car and drove off. If anything Turnbull looked shakier than before, but offered the bishop a lift back to Le Petit Rêve. ‘Poor Lavinia,’ he said, ‘another blow for her. This is all very disturbing, but good of you to conduct the funeral service – one less thing for her to worry about at any rate.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Clinker, ‘glad to be of help. I’ll prepare a few words for an address this afternoon. Of course, I didn’t know the poor fellow really, so you may be able to give me a few pointers …’

  Nicholas and I returned indoors where we were met by Primrose and Henri. ‘How did it go?’ I asked. ‘Were you able to help the inspector?’

  ‘Well,’ she replied slowly, ‘I think we probably just confirmed what he suspected already – that Castris had committed suicide. His questions to us were just a formality.’

  ‘But does he know why he should have done it?’

  She hesitated, and then said, ‘As a matter of fact I think he does. You see, he is pretty convinced that it was Herbert Castris who murdered Boris and that in a fit of remorse he took his own life.’

  ‘Goodness!’ I gasped.

  ‘That’s a pretty swift assumption, isn’t it?’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s one thing to recognize that the chap committed suicide, but quite another to link him with the murder.’

  ‘Rupert has been filling him in about his relations with Boris and their rivalries, but that was only after he had shown us the note.’

  ‘What note?’

  ‘The suicide note. It was found on the dining-room table. What it said was …’ Primrose frowned, trying to recall the words. ‘Uhm … yes, that’s it: “That nincompoop B.F. has blighted all my hopes and I have done for him now. He deserved his end as I do mine. H.C.” I remember clearly because it had a rather old-fashioned ring to it.’ My sister has an almost photographic memory which stood her in good stead in her Courtauld days, and indeed for her sheep paintings, and I guessed her version of the note was accurate.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ suddenly chimed Henri, ‘I, le curé de Taupinière, was drinking tea next to a maleficent English murderer. Quelle horreur!’ Despite the last words, I detected little sign of horror in Henri. Glee, perhaps. I wondered what terms he would have used had he known of other such proximities.

  Ingaza must have had the same thought, for he gave a brief smile, and then said briskly, ‘Well, at least this should finally let us off Dumont’s hook. Once the funeral is over we can scarper off home pronto. As said, there’s a nice little packet waiting for me there, and Eric says he has already netted a likely purchaser for a rare miniature I just happen to have access to.’

  Later that afternoon, accompanied by Maurice and Bouncer I had a quiet shut-eye on my bed which, with the pressure off and the prospect of imminent departure, now suddenly felt almost comfortable.

  When I woke I started to peruse again Castris’s book, which I had borrowed from Le Petit Rêve. Despite the slightly mannered style, it was really a very interesting exploration and I suspected that once the author’s role in the murder became generally known its intrinsic value would more than double. I took it downstairs with me to show to Primrose before supper.

  There was a strong whiff of Gitanes in the foyer and I guessed that Henri had already preceded me to the bar. I entered to find him in animated conversation with Georges, obviously giving a graphic and doubtlessly embroidered account of his questioning by the police and tea with Castris. On seeing me Georges said it was time he went off to supervise the preparation of the rabbit. ‘It is Monsieur’s favourite, I believe.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I enthused, ‘with plenty of garlic!’ On the whole the inspector had been right about the quality of the cuisine at La Truite Bleue. It was not the most remarkable, but the rabbit stew was one of its better offerings. Leaving me to administer the drinks, Georges wandered off towards the kitchen.

  Primrose and Ingaza came in from the veranda and I busied myself with the bottles.

  ‘What book you read?’ demanded Henri.

  I explained, and he took it from me with interest. As he did so a slip of folded paper fell out from where it had been clipped to the inner flap. I had seen but overlooked it earlier, assuming it to be some sort of improvised book mark. Henri picked it up and smoothed it out. He frowned, trying to decipher the words, gave up and handed it to Ingaza. ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?’

  Ingaza glanced at it indifferently, and then suddenly began to peer more closely. ‘Streuth,’ he breathed, ‘extraordinary.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. He passed me the paper. It was in pencil and looked like a roughly scribbled draft for a letter.

  My dear Rupert, I have it from a reliable source (which I choose not to name) that you have been exerting financial pressure upon some of your students, who, I gather, do not have the requisite papers for residence in this country. Penalties for such an offence can be serious and would most likely involve the transgressor being permanently debarred from domicile in this country. Personally I have little time for the pedantry of French officialdom and cannot say that I am unduly bothered when it is flouted.

  However, what I do find objectionable is that these vulnerable and earnest young people should be made to dance to your sordid tune. Unless you desist in your blackmailing activities I shall be forced to mention your nefarious practice to the Board of Education, who would take a dim view of a college principal who cynically exploits the peccadilloes and meagre pockets of his pupils. I am sure you are aware that there is such a thing as ‘withdrawal of licence’.

  In passing, I must also make it plain that I did not appreciate the tasteless joke you made the other day regarding my relationship with the splendid Madame de Vere – or indeed with the other ladies who have been so kind as to accommodate my urgent needs. The terms ‘moral humbuggery’ and ‘randy old goat’ do not fall happily upon my ears and it ill behoves you to employ such terms. Further references of that kind will only ruffle Lavinia whose sensibilities in that sphere are of the most delicate, and who has little understan
ding of my passionate nature. However, the consequences to me of your aspersions are nothing as compared to the effects upon your own career should I be disposed to publicly question your professional fitness.

  Yours in sorrow and sincerity,

  Boris Birtle-Figgins

  PS As you know, the Belvedere Bondolphi Canonization Project is always in need of funds. Were you to make a substantial donation to this worthy cause I might be prepared to overlook the above matters.

  ‘What ees meaning of all thees blah?’ asked Henri.

  ‘Well, old fruit, this blah is what you could call dynamite,’ replied Ingaza thoughtfully. ‘It tells us, for example, that Boris was a sanctimonious, lecherous mountebank, and that Turnbull is a shit and quite possibly his murderer.’

  There was a silence, and then a gasp from Primrose. ‘But he can’t be the murderer! It’s obvious that it was Castris, it all fits in. That is certainly what little Inspector Dumont thinks. I mean to say, there was all the ridiculous sexual rivalry and the quarrelling over that piddling tambourine; and when Boris made it on both counts Herbert Castris was beside himself with rage. Not surprising really – who on earth would like to be ousted by that bore! And surely the final proof was that suicide note. It was a dead giveaway – what could be more self-explanatory?’

  ‘Hmm … He didn’t wrap it up, did he?’ Nicholas conceded.

  ‘No, he didn’t. Castris was a man broken by disappointment and humiliation. Mad for revenge. And so – perhaps still hoping to win back the widow and get his hands on the tambourine – he waited for the hated rival and did him in. Afterwards, racked by guilt and unable to live with himself, he wrote the note and took his life. Obvious.’

  ‘So what about this letter? Are you saying Boris never sent it?’

  ‘I don’t know whether he sent it or not, but it merely confirms that Birtle-Figgins was a narcissistic hypocrite and that Turnbull is a nasty piece of work. But it doesn’t mean he would go so far as murder.’

  ‘It might if he was about to lose a nice little earner from milking those students and, courtesy of Boris, saw his whole professional career hanging by a thread. We know from what he said recently that he has grandiose plans to develop the language school and open branches in Paris, Holland and England. It’s a big project, and if successful likely to net him a lot of dosh. Boris only had to say the word and the whole thing would be up the spout and his future reputation in shreds. Quite a lot at stake, I should have thought.’ Nicholas paused, studying the letter again. ‘Added to which, judging from the way those bones and gnashers were strewn over the body, it looked as if the assailant had been in a bit of a paddy – the result perhaps of this charming postscriptum. Enough to get anyone steamed up. It’s a wonder he didn’t cut off his head as well and ram it in the casket!’

  ‘That’s all pretty speculative,’ said Primrose doubtfully, ‘and there’s no proof; whereas Dumont has got something tangible on Castris.’ She looked at me. ‘What do you think, Francis?’

  I said nothing for a few moments, being too preoccupied trying to clarify a blurred memory nagging away at the back of my mind. For some obscure reason it had to do with the word ‘nincompoop’, one of the words Castris had used in his rather stylized note. I had seen the term somewhere else only recently.

  Primrose sighed impatiently. ‘In one of your trances as usual – what Pa always used to call your “blooming brown study”.’

  ‘No,’ I replied slowly. ‘No, I am not in a trance, I have just thought of something … and you know, Nicholas could be spot on – except I don’t quite understand about the suicide …’

  ‘Yes, well, don’t keep us in suspense, there’s a good chap,’ said Ingaza cheerfully.

  ‘You remember when Primrose and I visited his school? Well, while we were in the office and he and Primrose were discussing her paintings and making arrangements for their shipment, I was looking at his books and some unusual figurines on the desk. He needed to jot down an address or something, because he turned and asked if I could find a pen which should be in one of the drawers. I couldn’t see anything there so started to move some of the papers on the desk top, and found one lying under a writing pad. At the time I barely registered the fact, but there were some words scribbled on the page. Naturally I didn’t give them a thought – except that now I suddenly remember what they were.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘“That nincompoop has blighted all my hopes”.’

  There was a silence. And then Nicholas observed, ‘My, my, you’re a right little Autolycus, aren’t you? Talk about being a “snapper up of unconsidered trifles” – Oughterard the bloodhound!’

  ‘Didn’t Castris say something like that in his note?’ exclaimed Primrose.

  ‘Exactly – and old Hawk-Eye here has made the vital connection. What do you know!’ He flashed me a mocking grin.

  ‘It all sounds a peculiar coincidence to me. I mean, what on earth –’ Primrose began.

  ‘Hardly a coincidence,’ I said. ‘I think it can mean only one thing: Castris was Turnbull’s scapegoat. He killed him to make it look like suicide – throttled him first, I suppose – and planted the note which he had already been rehearsing on that pad. Probably wanted to make sure he had the form right: it’s a bit precise and literary, typical of Castris’s written style.’

  Ingaza nodded. ‘It adds up all right. Boris was putting the frighteners on Turnbull, who promptly silenced him and then went on to kill Castris as cover. This draft letter of his together with Turnbull’s jottings would seem to be pretty good proof … Besides,’ he added slyly and to my discomfort, ‘you’re the expert, old chap. Doubtless we can rely on your judgement in such matters.’

  ‘That is most uncalled for, Nicholas!’ Primrose protested.

  ‘Why ees François expert?’ asked Henri.

  ‘He writes detective novels in his spare time,’ she snapped.

  32

  The Vicar’s Version

  We sat on the veranda after supper smoking feverishly. ‘So what on earth are we going to do?’ exclaimed Primrose. ‘Show Dumont the letter and tell him our suspicions?’

  ‘No fear,’ replied Nicholas. ‘There’s been enough trouble as it is. Let Dumont know and we shall be stuck here till hell freezes over. There’ll be no end to the questions and entanglements. We’ll have to write affidavits or even appear in court – and the longer we remain the greater the chance of our being around when they find Climp and Mullion, and then we shall have that to cope with on top of everything else … And another thing,’ he added fiercely, ‘for God’s sake don’t tell Hor. It’ll give him a stroke and we’ll be left with those two frightful harridans!’

  It was one of the rare occasions when I agreed wholeheartedly with Ingaza. All I wanted now was to slip back to Molehill unknown, unseen and untroubled. I thought of the vicarage and its stolid ordinariness, a place of refuge and embalming peace. I longed to get at my piano and immerse heart and fingers in the notes of Bach and Duke Ellington; saw myself slumped with the Times crossword in the shabby confines of my study; could hear the sound of St Botolph’s bells floating across the graveyard, and smelt the polish on the vestry floor after it had suffered the frenzied attentions of Edith Hopgarden and her cohorts. Even the penning of an improving sermon seemed a welcome task after the recent rigours … Yes, I wanted to get back rather badly. I looked at Bouncer and wondered what he was thinking. He returned my gaze blankly, but through the gathering dusk I could just discern the slow wagging of his tail.

  ‘You are so right,’ I replied. ‘As Clinker said earlier, don’t let’s muddy the waters.’

  Apart from Henri muttering something about Turnbull being yet another example of English perfidy, the consensus was absolute, and we turned our minds to the forthcoming funeral and the difficulties of not letting our guard slip re the Castris/Turnbull business. To my relief, Henri said that since he had never met the deceased nor his wife, he had no reason to attend the burial and would thus spend his t
ime more profitably with his metal detector at the Fotherington Folly.

  ‘You do that,’ said Nicholas ‘and if you turn up some coins with that useless contraption you can buy us drinks when we get back.’

  ‘Tu crois!’ replied the curé indignantly.

  ‘Actually,’ said Primrose, ‘I quite like Rupert Turnbull, he’s always very affable and has an extremely discerning taste in pictures. But it’s going to feel pretty peculiar making small talk with him when one knows the truth.’

  ‘You talk to Francis, don’t you?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Oh yes, but that’s different. He’s family.’

  I was grateful for that, but could see her point. It would be awkward all right! And of course we would also have to play along with the grieving widow and try to make out that Boris was no end of a fine chap … Although on reflection I suspected that that was not necessarily her own view. I wondered if Clothilde de Vere would attend, and whether the coffin would be crowned with the troublesome tambourine. It could make quite a decorative feature laced with ribbons, lilies and autumn-flowering pansies. Perhaps too there would be a tasteful display of the reassembled bones bedecked with –

  My reverie was interrupted by Primrose saying, ‘Oh Lor’, I’ve still got the key to the Folly. What shall I do with it – chuck it away?’

  ‘Don’t suppose it matters really,’ said Nicholas. ‘I mean, when Lavinia eventually discovers that it’s missing we shall be back in England. And I don’t imagine she would be much bothered anyway. She seems pretty vague about most things.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I broke in anxiously, ‘we can’t be too careful. Both she and Boris told us all about the swastika that evening at dinner. And who knows, perhaps now that he’s dead she might get a sudden urge to fish it out from the boot. Death focuses the mind in the oddest ways. If she can’t find the key and discovers the thing gone, when she finally gets access she might put two and two together and assume it was us. I really think you ought to put it back, Primrose.’