‘Ah … hello, Nicholas,’ I replied guardedly. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well actually, dear boy, it’s not so much what you can do for me but rather what yours truly might do for you – or at least for your talented sister.’
‘Primrose?’ I exclaimed. ‘But you don’t know her.’
‘Not as yet, no – but it might be arranged.’
‘Who by? What for?’
He cleared his throat, and said severely, ‘If you mean, Francis, by whom and for what purpose, the answer is by you and for the purpose of helping your sister.’
‘Primrose doesn’t need helping, she never does.’
‘All artists are interested in financial patronage, and I don’t imagine your sister is any different from the rest.’
Too right she wasn’t – but what on earth was he getting at? I was to learn.
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘my Cranleigh chum has a rather useful Canadian contact who just happened to mention that for some bizarre reason the art denizens of Ontario have recently conceived a passion for paintings of sheep and churches, and there is an enormous demand for them out there. Don’t ask me why, a more boring subject I cannot imagine! Still, that’s the Canadians for you … Anyway, they are paying high prices for consignments from all over Europe: Switzerland, Holland, Italy etc. So my Cranleigh pal told his chum that he thought he might just be able to lay hands on a likely source of supply, and none of this bland Continental stuff they’re being palmed off with, but really good British sheep and decent native churches …’
‘Oh yes?’ I said bleakly.
‘Yes – you see my drift, don’t you, dear chap?’
I said nothing but nodded dismally down the telephone.
‘I mean to say, if your sister could keep up a steady trickle – preferably stream – of said paintings, I would ensure that she was richly rewarded … after the usual deductions, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I murmured.
‘What do you think?’
‘We-ll,’ I said slowly, ‘she might be interested, I suppose, but I don’t know that –’
‘There’s only one slight snag, and that is that what they really like is original eighteenth-century stuff: you know the sort of thing, rural idylls with pious peasants loitering by crumbling chapels tending their sheep, and painted by obscure pastoral artists of whom nobody has ever heard. I can tell you, dear boy, a mint is being made over there!’
‘Oh well,’ I said greatly relieved, ‘that lets Primrose out then, doesn’t it!’
There was a pause. And then he said quietly, ‘Well, not necessarily …’
Ingaza’s proposal that my sister should supply the Ontario art market with fake eighteenth-century pictures was both risible and outlandish, and I told him so in no uncertain terms.
He seemed unruffled by my outburst and said it was merely a suggestion and that doubtless some accommodation might be reached. I told him that I was not too keen on his ‘accommodations’ and knew for a fact that Primrose would not be in the least receptive.
‘If you say so, Francis old boy, if you say so. Just a thought.’
The subject was dropped and we moved to safer matters: specifically Eric’s recent triumphs in the Brighton darts championships.
* * *
The rest of the week was taken up with the usual parish duties, although evading Mavis Briggs had been one of the principal preoccupations. Such evasions are normal but this month I had particular reason for keeping a wide berth. The second volume of her Little Gems of Uplift had been unwisely published a couple of weeks previously, and I knew that this would eventually involve an evening of lugubrious recitations in the church hall. I suspected that her immediate mission was to commandeer me, fix a definite date and ensure that I gave the event my endorsing patronage. Naturally I did all I could to postpone the inevitable, but she caught me in the end: outside the sweet-shop where I go periodically to buy packets of slab toffee.
I had just slipped a large and particularly jagged piece into my mouth, when I heard Mavis’s winsome tones: ‘Oh, Canon, at last I have found you! Might you possibly spare a minute?’
Jaws firmly clamped by the toffee, I nodded silently. She beamed and launched into a breathless résumé of her literary endeavours and of what she evidently imagined to be the finer points of some of the poems.
‘And so, Canon, when I talk about hearts being “sprinkled with lissom sprites and fanned with lace-wrought doilies” and “the south wind bloweth all wet and weeping” the audience will immediately grasp the underlying significance, don’t you think?’
I shifted a piece of toffee from one side of my mouth to the other, got it stuck on a molar and nodded again.
‘And then you see, the simile “like phalanxes of plangent cows moaning in the plaintive morn” is bound to strike a chord in the souls of the more …’
She broke off and looked at me quizzically. ‘Oh dear, I didn’t realize. Have you just been to the dentist? You must be in great pain – your cheek is all swollen!’
I swallowed unsuccessfully, tried to speak and resorted to spluttering into my handkerchief. Inadvertently this had the desired effect, for Mavis, full of solicitations and squeaking about rest and oil of cloves, took herself off, saying she would catch me at a more propitious time. A brief reprieve, and I scuttled home gratefully.
The telephone rang. It was Wattle.
‘I’ve got the exhumation sewn up,’ he announced.
‘Ah.’
‘Yes, it’s off – absolutely. The municipal authorities won’t stand for it. Thought you’d like to know … Mind you, there’s been a hell of a rumpus, but the Crumpelmeyers had to climb down in the end.’ He paused and then chuckled. ‘Better watch your back, Francis – they’re gunning for you!’
‘Oh yes?’ I said wearily.
‘Yes. They are convinced you’ve hatched some dire plot to deprive them of the wife’s inheritance. Apparently being balked of the bracelet was the last straw. Crumpelmeyer used some pretty choice language in the matter. Speaking personally I’d put in for a sabbatical!’ He chuckled again.
‘Very droll,’ I muttered.
Something to be thankful for at least. The possibility of Elizabeth being disinterred had been weighing on me heavily and it was certainly a relief to hear of the project’s veto. For once the executive had proved its worth. However, the ire of the Crumpelmeyers was still in prospect … Clearly a time for some rousing Brahms. And, lighting a cigarette, I made for the genial haven of the piano.
22
The Dog’s Diary
That Primrose was here the other day; stayed the night again and made a lot of noise. I quite like her really, and she often feeds me titbits when F.O. isn’t looking. But I’ve noticed that whenever she comes, or we go there, the vicar goes pale round the gills and gets sort of ratty – like I do when I’ve lost a bone. Mind you, sometimes they are on jolly good form with lots of laughing and alcohol swilling about, but generally one of them seems to say something that sets the other off and then there is a contrytomp. (That’s Pierre the Poodle’s word for a buggers’ shindig.) Well, they had one of those the night she was here, and a right little up and downer it was too! Maurice was in the graveyard and missed it all and is spitting mad that I only tell him about it in bits – one haddock-head at a time, as you might say. Really gets him going!
Anyway, from what I could make out, F.O. told the Prim that he was the one who had bumped off old Fotherington. And oh my backside, didn’t the balloon go up! She didn’t half give him an earful: said he was stupid and that it was going to jep – something or other, her artist’s reputation. I think she meant she would lose some lolly if people got to hear about it. So she went ranting on and then demanded details. But when he had finished the story she started to giggle. The master didn’t think much of that and said it was all right for her! They went wrangling on for another hour and then stomped up to bed. The next morning things had calmed down a bit, and she went aw
ay and he took himself off to Guildford. I know where he went – to stuff his face with cream buns at the Angel. It’s where he usually goes when he’s on form – or off. Off generally.
Since then he’s been up and down like a cat’s tail. I think the Brighton type telephoned, and that seemed to put him in another spin, though I couldn’t quite make out why. And then there was somebody called What-Ho, and that was GOOD news because the vicar went to the piano and started pounding the keys like crazy. I liked that and tried to join in – but he didn’t seem terribly keen.
While all this has been going on I’ve made a new friend – newer even than O’Shaughnessy. This one is huge, much bigger than the setter, though she comes from the same country as him – that place over the western seas where they all gabble their heads off. But she’s much easier to understand than O’Shaughnessy, and in any case doesn’t speak as much. She is grey all over, with a shaggy coat and a big head, and I think she is VERY NICE. I shall talk to Maurice about her, but knowing him he’ll probably be snooty and not want to know. But I can tell you, if she puts a paw on him he’ll know all right, so he had better watch out!
23
The Cat’s Memoir
I had passed a very agreeable afternoon basking on my favourite tomb in the graveyard. It really is a remarkably comfortable place of rest, better even than the large gatepost gracing the drive of my late mistress’s abode. That was highly convenient as it afforded such a broad view of The Avenue and thus kept me well apprised of Molehill’s business. It had been, you might say, my civic watch tower.
However, perched on a knoll overhanging the vicarage lane, the tomb too has sentinel properties. And it is from here, well camouflaged by the mounds of ivy, that when in curious vein I can glean all manner of useful information. I know for example that the organist Tapsell is not the only romantic interest in Edith Hopgarden’s life: she now has her eye on the verger! I don’t think F.O. is aware of that, but on at least two occasions I have observed them sidling past, gazing at each other with expressions not usual to those discussing the exigencies of church maintenance. Nor has it escaped my notice that sundry members of the preparatory school choir regularly congregate under the sycamore tree to smoke and play gin rummy when fleeing the summons of their music mistress. The lane is also favoured by Mavis Briggs to practise those verses so abhorred by the vicar. He has a point. Never in my nine lives have I witnessed such ludicrous sounds and gestures! Then there are the antics of the animal species: the cavortings of fellow felines, the absurdities of dogs, the stupid posturings of pigeons … Yes, a veritable charivari passes my basking-place and I do not regret the transfer from gatepost to tomb-top.
However, there was one thing I did regret. Being thus engaged, i.e. watching the pavement cabaret, I was not at home on the night that the vicar’s sister came to stay and when her addled brother confessed his role in the Fotherington assassination.
Bouncer was insufferable in providing only a partial account, a garbled version proceeding in fits and starts and stopping at the most crucial moments. It was tantalizing, and, I suspect, deliberate. However, being sharp-witted and accustomed to the dog’s ramblings, I quickly grasped the import of his words and made the appropriate comment – an observation to the effect that our master was showing even greater signs of derangement than usual. The dog replied that he wasn’t sure about that and perhaps the vicar had felt the need of an ally. Allies are all very well, I replied, but it rather depended who they were. Some allies – Irish setters for example – could be a distinct liability; whereas others, such as cats with fertile minds, could be of singular asset.
He stared blankly and said that, since the vicar’s sister was neither a setter nor a cat, he didn’t know what I was talking about.
Some time later the dog returned from wherever he had gone and seemed to be in an excitable state.
‘I’ve just been talking to our new neighbour,’ he announced, ‘the one that’s moved in with the people opposite the vet’s. I met her a couple of days ago but she was on the lead so I didn’t get a chance to say much. But just now she was wandering around on her own and we got on jolly well.’
‘You mean the Irish wolfhound?’
‘Yes, she’s huge but very pretty, with a nice kind face.’
‘Well, evidently an improvement on that foxy little Pomeranian, Flirty-Gerty, you were always pursuing! Nevertheless, Bouncer,’ I admonished, ‘she’s clearly out of your league. Too tall and too educated. Do not get ideas above your station – it will only end in distemper.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he replied airily, ‘I think she rather fancies me.’ And he gave a cocky flick of his back leg.
I sighed. ‘So what is her name?’
‘Florence.’
‘Florence? Florence! That’s no name for a dog.’
‘Oh, yes it is,’ he growled. ‘And it’s a jolly good name – but then cats wouldn’t know about such things …’
I mewed irritably and stalked off to the potting shed.
I had not been there long when I heard the door creaking open, and turning round was startled to see a very large and very grey head poised upon the threshold. I stared in some perplexity, and the head moved slowly in my direction followed by an immense, angular and shaggy body and long sweeping tail. I retreated a few steps, nervously weighing up the apparition.
It sat down splaying and then crossing its forelegs and fixed me with a mellow gaze.
There was a momentary silence, and then it said, ‘Good afternoon. I am Bouncer’s new acquaintance and I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to his good companion Maurice. My name is –’
‘Florence,’ I said.
She beamed and slowly moved her tail in a sort of stately wag. ‘How clever of you to remember … I mean, I know you are a very busy cat and it cannot be easy recalling everything Bouncer tells you.’
‘Oh,’ I purred modestly, ‘it’s just a knack, you know …’
‘Ah, but it is not a knack everyone can cultivate, only those with very sharp minds.’
I smiled self-deprecatingly. For a dog, she struck me as being remarkably well informed and I was disposed to speak with her further. Thus wafting a paw, I said that I gathered she was one of our Hibernian cousins and had she met Bouncer’s other friend, O’Shaughnessy? She explained that she was Anglo-Irish but so loved the setter’s Cork accent and didn’t I think he was no end of a sport!
I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that, O’Shaughnessy’s sporting activities being largely confined to putting his gallumphing feet into his garrulous mouth and goading Bouncer to ever-increasing heights of ludicrous horseplay. As to his accent, one was hard pressed to understand any third word he uttered! However, I mewed graciously and said I trusted she would settle down well in the neighbourhood. She thanked me gravely, unfolded her paws, and rising to her full height (which was very full indeed) said what a pleasure it was to have met so civilized a cat and how fortunate Bouncer was to have such a friend. And thus saying, she turned around and glided off into the dusk.
It is rare to meet dogs of such breeding and intelligence. I remained for some time in the potting shed, lingering rather longer than usual over the evening ritual of washing my face and sleeking my ears.
When I returned to the kitchen Bouncer was already gobbling his Muncho, and I informed him that I too had just had a very agreeable encounter with the wolfhound.
‘Hmm,’ he said between mouthfuls, ‘she’s the goods, isn’t she?’
‘If you mean that the lady possesses fine manners, style and good sense, then I agree. But I fear they are qualities entirely unsuited to your proclivities.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ he growled, and resumed his chomping.
24
The Vicar’s Version
Sunday morning again. There had been a good attendance and some lusty hymn singing, and thus I mounted the pulpit steps confident that my sermon – rigorously cut to the bone – would meet with their approval. The
opening paragraph was quite dramatic in flavour, and noting the stir of interest, I continued with a degree of pleasure … until my glance fell on an alien face: Victor Crumpelmeyer’s.
He sat fatly in a central pew, his pallid skin and hair contrasting starkly with the tightly buttoned black raincoat. His eyes were fixed unswervingly on the pulpit – or to be more exact, on me. Wretched man, why wasn’t he at home in Godalming with the newly acquired Violet? Surely he had better things to do on a Sunday than come traipsing over to Molehill to listen to my words of wavering wisdom! I started to glare; and then remembering he was not the only member of the congregation, hastily adjusted my features to a more amiable cast.
Things continued to progress well enough, but Crumpelmeyer’s presence had unsettled me and I concluded both sermon and service in a mood of disquiet. What the hell was he doing there!
Fortunately he was not among the loiterers in the porch afterwards, nor was there sight of him elsewhere – for which I was certainly thankful. On the other hand, if he had not come to harass me further about the bracelet, what on earth was his purpose? Devotion to Sunday worship seemed unlikely, but in any case if he wanted to do that sort of thing there was a perfectly good church in Godalming. It was peculiar, and I did not like it at all.
I walked home disconsolately with Wattle’s warning – ‘they’re gunning for you’ – echoing in my mind, fed the dog his Bonio and embarked on a long snooze.
This was pleasant except for the latter part, which was punctuated by dreams of Ingaza, Primrose, and a miscellany of her po-faced sheep sporting diamond bracelets and wandering around the plains of Ontario bleating hymns of ovine joy …
I awoke stiff from the sofa’s confinements and was just about to turn on the six o’clock news when there was a loud knocking at the window. The whey face of the telegraph boy peered in. My heart sank. There was only one person I knew who still used that particular service – Primrose; and on such occasions the content invariably spelt trouble.
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