‘Who says?’ Bouncer asked truculently. ‘You’ll see – I’ll settle that bugger’s hash, Bonio or no Bonio!’ He made a lunge at the fly as it zoomed past, missed, and roared an oath.
‘Keep your voice down,’ I hissed. ‘You’ll wake F.O., and then there’ll be more hubbub.’
The dog turned his attention to the comatose form on the bed. ‘Huh! He’s out for the count, won’t surface for ages. All that larking about.’
I lowered my leg in mild surprise. ‘Larking about? What do you mean?’
‘Well, he’s done nothing but chase his tail ever since we got here – rushing down to look at that dead geezer by the pool, running away from those nasties, hiking up and down to the big house, arguing with the Frog vicar, swanning off with Clemso in the car and not taking me, and then getting all het up about the chap they found swinging in the doorway, and then –’
‘Yes, yes, Bouncer, but what’s new? He’s always in a state and chasing his tail. Tiresome, I grant you, but unremarkable – no different from usual.’
‘The difference,’ he replied, snapping ineffectually at the air, ‘is that over here he hasn’t got his piano. That’s what soothes him in the vicarage and keeps him sort of sane. Bit like a dog basket, you could say. He goes there when things get on top of him and he wants some comfort. When he sits down on that stool he feels at home – like me on my hairy blanket.’
‘But in the vicarage he is at home.’
‘Yes, but more at home.’
I regarded him blankly. ‘I do not entirely follow your point, Bouncer. And except that both offend my sensibilities I see little resemblance between F.O.’s piano and your basket: the one is noisy, the other smelly. Beyond that the comparison ends. And quite honestly if –’ I broke off for the dog had ceased to listen, being far too occupied with making futile attacks on the fly.
It occurred to me that I could do with a little more soothing exercise myself. F.O. had tiresomely confiscated the Special Eye and left it in the ashtray on the bedside table, but with a lithe leap I made a quick retrieval and started to roll and toss it about.
‘Look out!’ barked Bouncer. ‘I nearly got the bugger then, and you’ve just set it off again!’ Naturally I took not a blind bit of notice and continued to hone my dexterity. The dog’s antics were far from dextrous and he went on floundering about the room until I was convinced that the vicar would wake up.
‘That thing is flying circles round you,’ I remarked. ‘Why don’t you give up and go and find Clemenceau?’
‘I think it’s my toenails,’ he grumbled, ‘they’ve got too long again and they make my paws feel funny. Can’t always get a proper grip, so it slows me down. Time we went back to England and I had them cut.’
‘But you hate having them cut,’ I exclaimed. ‘You make such a fuss!’
‘Oh no,’ he said airily, ‘I don’t mind the cutting one jot.’
‘So why the fuss?’
‘Well, of course I make a fuss! I mean, what are vets for except to make fusses at?’ He made another aimless snap into the air. ‘Blooming toenails,’ he muttered.
I refrained from saying that a poor workman blames his tools (or in Bouncer’s case, lack of pedicure), and instead, seeing that he was getting fractious, remarked tactfully that it was obvious his true forte was decimating the rabbits and he should conserve his energies for that heroic feat. ‘After all,’ I added, ‘why should a dog of your talent waste his time on piddling bluebottles!’ He liked that last phrase, as I knew he would. And muttering ‘piddling bluebottles’ to himself, he trotted out on to the landing in search of Clemenceau. Peace at last.
I executed a few more twirls with the eye, jumped on to the window sill to survey the wood pigeon, and noting the fly hovering in my direction put up a languid paw and brought it down with one fell smack. Very satisfying.
There was a movement on the bed and I guessed that the vicar would soon be resurrecting himself. I must have been in benign mood for it occurred to me that when he opened his eyes it would be a comforting sight to find the Special Eye resting next to him on the pillow: a little trinket to welcome him back to the land of the living. Thus carefully taking the precious thing in my mouth I jumped up on to the bed – a rather hazardous manoeuvre I must admit, for it very nearly went down my throat. However, all was well and I was able to regurgitate it on to F.O.’s pillow with no ill effects. That done, I tweaked it to a position within inches of his face. Having been in my mouth the eye had taken on an even better shine than usual, all moist and glossy, and I was pleased with my endeavour. Then returning to the window sill, I sat and watched intently, waiting for the first stirrings.
These came swiftly and profanely. ‘Bloody hell!’ he screeched. ‘Jesus, what’s that!’ And picking up the pillow he hurled it to the floor, adding for good measure, ‘Sodding cat!’
Well, really! Just how churlish can one be?
35
The Vicar’s Version
Henri Martineau’s departure for his parish of Taupinière was both complex and voluble. Complex, because although originally accepting Ingaza’s suggestion that he should prolong his stay to see what debris he and his contraption could salvage from La Folie, he had now changed his mind and was set on returning to his parish at the speed of light. The reason, I gathered, was something to do with the runners at Longchamp – a kindly (or fearful) parishioner having procured ringside seats and a complimentary ticket ‘should the curé be so disposed’.
‘You bet the sod is disposed,’ sniffed Ingaza. ‘Anything for a free handout and a guzzle of top-class fizz. Never misses a trick, our Henri.’ Not entirely alone there, I thought …
The problem was that the curé’s urgency could not be immediately met. His impedimenta of detector, shovels and related items would first have to be dispatched in advance – a chore which fell to me to organize. And since there were only two passenger trains a week to the Pas de Calais, the traveller himself would be required to possess himself in patience for three days. This of course Henri was ill prepared to do, and much noise and energy was expended in trying to persuade us to accommodate him in the Citroën. However, for once we presented a united front and the suggestion was firmly quashed. Undaunted, his response was to seek out the nun in the Studebaker who had helped him earlier. And plying her with flattery and guarantees that his flock would pay for the vehicle’s next service, he managed to persuade her to drive him some of the way. It was, I suspected, an act of Christian charity which the nun would take some time to forget.
Our own departure was more straightforward and, apart from some valedictory fanfares from Clemenceau’s collar, moderately quiet. We shared with Henri, however, an eagerness to get home as soon as possible, and thus we had decided to attempt the marathon in one day – a proposal which entailed rising at five in the morning. It was a raw experience and all grumbled, humans and animals alike.
For the first hour and a half we drove in smoke and silence, but then spotting a likely-looking workmen’s café stopped for a snatch breakfast. Like the other early risers, Nicholas stood at the bar with espresso in one hand and small cognac in the other. Unable to face the grape quite so early in the day, Primrose and I settled for large bowls of café au lait and croissants.
The breakfast interlude did us all good and animation gradually returned. I was surprised how compliant the animals were being. Fed, watered and ablutioned, they settled down placidly, and except for heavy breathing from Bouncer remained uncannily quiet. I just hoped they would be as well behaved when we reached Customs.
A sudden thought struck me. ‘I say, did Lavinia or Turn-bull make any mention of the Austin-Healey – or any reference to those two?’
‘Not to me,’ said Nicholas. ‘They obviously took care to persuade her they were quitting the area that day and motoring on south. And as for the car, not a yelp. I told you at the time it was unlikely that anyone would bother to look in the shed. There was nothing much there, only some old sacks … No, when it�
�s eventually discovered we shall be far away and forgotten, and they’ll just have a little mystery on their hands. Lavinia will bleat, but Turnbull won’t bother. He’ll be far too busy hatching his business plans and covering his tracks re Boris and Castris.’ He laughed wryly: ‘Mind you, it’ll keep little Dumont busy. I don’t suppose he sees much action up there, he’ll welcome the challenge, especially when the bodies come to light. That Boris business must have been a rare treat for him.’
We were silent for a while. And then Primrose said casually, ‘Of course we don’t actually know that Mullion is dead. Climp yes, but not Mullion.’
‘Now, now, Primrose, stop spreading alarm and despondency, you’ll give old Francis a heart attack, he’s windy enough as it is.’
‘Yes,’ I said irritably from the back, ‘that’s an absurd idea. He went straight over. It was a hell of a drop – didn’t stand a chance thanks to our friend here.’ I glanced confidently at Maurice who immediately closed his eyes.
Primrose shrugged. ‘Oh well, I expect you’re right –’
‘Of course I’m jolly right!’ I exclaimed angrily.
‘Keep your hair on, old boy, you’ll do yourself a mischief. Here, have one of these, it’ll calm you down.’ With his free arm Nicholas passed a Sobranie over his head and then offered one to Primrose. We smoked in silence and sped on towards the Channel coast.
Eventually signposts started appearing for Paris, and I was just beginning to feel the need to stop for a bite of lunch when I noticed Primrose peering intently into the passenger mirror. ‘I say,’ she said slowly, ‘is that what I think it is?’
‘Think what?’ asked Nicholas.
‘That car behind us … it looks like a silver Austin-Healey …’
Nicholas glanced in his own mirror. ‘Looks like it,’ he said easily. ‘French number plates, I think, won’t be theirs. Stop teasing your brother!’
I craned round, squinting through the rear window. There was indeed a silver sports car – and moving at some lick. I fished out the binoculars from the glove pocket, and after adjusting the focus, trained them unsteadily on the bonnet. Nothing emerged except a large smear on the lens, but after a rub with my handkerchief the image became clear. And what I saw filled me with dread and a numbing sense of déjà vu. ‘You’re wrong,’ I said flatly. ‘I think it is theirs.’
‘Hardly, old boy,’ replied Nicholas.
‘What do you mean, Francis? asked Primrose sharply.
‘Different number plates, but it has a British right-hand drive – and very few of those are made, most are for the export market. I noticed it in Dieppe, quite a rare feature. And also,’ I said, getting more agitated, ‘the bonnet badge is missing, just like theirs was, and they had shoved on a square wing mirror – the standard one is round. And this one’s exactly the same …’ I moved the binoculars up an inch to scan the hood, and glimpsed what I had feared. ‘It’s them, I tell you … Oh my God, they’re after us!’ And I shrank down in the seat, fully expecting a bullet in my neck at any moment.
‘Well, unless there’s a corpse in the passenger seat, it won’t be Climp,’ muttered Nicholas, pushing the speedometer up to ninety. We hurtled along at the rate of knots, but sneaking a furtive look I saw the Austin gaining rapidly. It must have been doing well over a ton.
Suddenly the sparse traffic thickened and Nicholas was forced to ease the pedal. ‘Watch out!’ Primrose cried. ‘There’s a crossroads ahead and it’s priorité à droite, you’ll have to give way.’
‘Only a farm cart,’ he murmured, ‘we can beat that.’ With a surge of power he briskly bypassed a dawdling deux chevaux and sailed over the intersection. I closed my eyes. What would be worse, the resurrected Mullion or the French police?
We speeded on. ‘It’s still there,’ said Primrose, ‘and there’s definitely someone in the passenger seat. He must have another accomplice!’
‘Bastards,’ I muttered, clutching Bouncer nervously. The dog gave me a gormless look.
‘Look!’ Primrose cried again. ‘They’re flashing their lights. They must want us to stop – we’re going to be hijacked!’
‘Like fuck,’ muttered Nicholas, slowing slightly as we approached a roundabout. The Austin-Healey sailed up alongside and I recognized the roughly sewn patch on its canvas hood. This is when they do it, I thought, this is when they take us out … And then with a blast of its horn, the car veered to the right, screeched into the roundabout and took off in the direction of Paris.
‘I am sure that bitch waved,’ said Primrose. We were sitting at the roadside, recovering our nerves with the final dregs of Ingaza’s whisky. ‘What was it she said to you about wanting to live dangerously … something about fast cars and Monte Carlo?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘but I guess Paris is as good as Monte Carlo, better probably – especially if one were thinking of opening a language school there.’
Primrose gave a wry laugh. ‘You mean business research on the one hand and making whoopee on the other.’
‘It has been known.’
‘Disgraceful,’ Nicholas said. ‘So unprofessional!’
I poured him the final drop of whisky. ‘If you don’t mind my saying – you did rather miscalculate over its hiding place, didn’t you? I wonder why they found it so soon.’ He shrugged, and looked piqued.
‘They must have wanted something from the shed,’ Primrose suggested.
‘I told you, there was nothing there, only some old sacks,’ he muttered irritably.
‘Containing what?’ she pressed.
‘How should I know? Fertilizer or some such.’
‘Oh well,’ replied Primrose, ‘that’s it then.’
‘What is?’
‘Lavinia mentioned it at the funeral. She was sick to death of Boris’s geraniums. He had insisted on planting them year in year out and always in the same colour. She said that now autumn was here it was just the time to root out the whole lot and establish a shrubbery. The only problem was the soil: it was very poor and would need masses of fertilizer. She said she couldn’t wait – was raring to have a go at it.’
‘Huh,’ I said, ‘raring to have a joy ride in that sports car too, I assume, and frighten us all to death.’ I paused, thinking about it. ‘You know, that Turnbull is a cool customer – bashes Boris’s brains out, strangles and hangs Castris, and then, switching number plates, whisks the widow off in someone else’s car for a jolly in Paris. Can’t think where he gets the nerve – or the energy.’
‘Didn’t you say something about her wanting to dance the tango until six in the morning? Presumably he’s got that in prospect as well. I can’t see you doing that, Francis.’
‘No,’ I mused ruefully, ‘a waltz is about my limit.’
There was a discreet cough from Nicholas. ‘As it happens, the tango is rather my forte – Snake Hips Ingaza, that’s my name in the Brighton Palais. In fact, Primrose, once we get back on terra firma I’ll treat you to a night out and a demonstration. Eric won’t mind … I have cups, you know,’ he added modestly.
‘How nice,’ murmured Primrose.
‘So where did you acquire this remarkable talent?’ I asked.
‘Aunt Lil of course.’
We returned to the car, and at a more seemly pace resumed our journey. I still felt shaken at what had happened, and kept seeing images of the wretched Austin-Healey zipping towards us like some pursuing silver nemesis. Already the memory was assuming a bizarre, surreal quality; but for its short time the experience had been only too palpable.
I ruminated, astonished at how carefree Turnbull and Lavinia had seemed. What on earth had possessed them to zoom up to us so brazenly, with flashing lights and blaring horn? Turnbull had been driving. Had he been experiencing some sort of triumphal rush of adrenalin, a flow of euphoric relief at having successfully discharged his dreadful tasks? … I cast my mind back to my own reactions after the Fotherington event, but could recall little except a sense of prolonged numbness and blankness. Somehow everythin
g had seemed very prosaic. Flat really. Although I do remember enjoying a strawberry ice cream on Brighton beach and speaking briefly to a rather inquisitive little Cairn terrier. But I don’t think one could have called those actions euphoric exactly …
Primrose broke in on my thoughts: ‘But you know, what I don’t understand is Lavinia. Do you think she was in cahoots with Rupert all along – that it was a joint project and she was as keen as he was to dispose of hubby? Or is she so dense that she hasn’t a clue he did it, and is just glad to have found her freedom so she can be whirled off to Paris for weekends?’
‘I don’t think Lavinia is dense,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘She may simply be shrewd – i.e. is keeping her head down and deliberately not asking questions or showing suspicions. I think she is exploiting his death while ostensibly, at least, not being complicit.’
‘You mean keeping her nose clean and affecting ignorance; acknowledging nothing – either to herself or to anyone else – in the hope it will just fade away? A bit like all of us in fact.’
‘Something like that,’ I agreed.
‘Safest policy, dear boy. Never does to get too involved – can lead to all manner of unsavoury entanglements. I am sure the good bishop would be the first to agree,’ said Ingaza. ‘By the way, what are the current odds on his promotion?’
‘Depends on the height of the parapet,’ I said.
‘Getting pretty close now,’ announced Nicholas. ‘Little sod needs his pill.’
I looked at Bouncer, now fully awake and on his haunches, quizzing eagerly the passing cows and poplars. ‘It seems a pity,’ I murmured.
‘It will seem even more of a pity when he is impounded and detained in quarantine for six months,’ he rejoined tartly.
‘Yes, you are right,’ I said. ‘But even when he is out for the count, how are we going to hide him? I’m not sure if there’s much air in the boot – enough for a cat perhaps, but not for a dog Bouncer’s size. Besides, they might open it up.’
Bones in High Places Page 22
