Bones in the Belfry

by Suzette A. Hill

  The neighbouring parish had just taken delivery of a new curate, a fresh-faced tyro endearingly eager to please but, I gathered, somewhat lacking in initiative. Perhaps I could borrow him for the duration: such an opportunity surely providing him with admirable practice.

  My luck must have been in, for St Hilda’s rector, possibly wearying of his protégé’s dependence, seemed only too eager to co-operate and asked rather plaintively if I was sure I didn’t want him for longer. Thus the matter was settled, and after drawing up a set of instructions for the newcomer I started to prepare for my visit.

  The first thing to do of course was to rewrap the pictures. This was a laborious task as deftness is not my forte and it was maddening having to grapple with so much recalcitrant paper and twine. But I finally managed it and sealed the things with as much sticky tape as I could find. (The last thing I wanted was their being vulnerable to Primrose’s inquisitive probings!) Then came the chore of lugging them down from the belfry and into the car; an exhausting business, and what with that and some preliminary packing I felt quite overcome by fatigue, and slumped thankfully into an armchair.

  I was just dozing off when there was a scrabbling at my knees: Bouncer, reminding me that it was long past his supper time. Seeing him there reproachful and insistent, I suddenly realized that in my concern with the pictures I had made no provision for the animals. What should I do? Leave them with the new curate? Possibly, but perhaps better not. From what I had heard of Barry – as I gathered his name to be – the additional responsibility of a wayward cat and dog would doubtless prove too much. Two days ministering to Tapsell’s tantrums and the likes of Mavis Briggs was chancy enough for anyone, let alone a nervous novice! There was nothing for it but to take them with me.

  10

  The Dog’s Diary

  Of course he grumbled all the way down there – hissing, spitting, mewing. No chance of getting a kip. Not that I wanted one really, because I like looking out of the window and seeing all the cows and trees and sheep go by; and you never know when you might see another dog whirling past in his master’s car, and you can make faces at it and look very fierce.

  Mind you, Maurice was in a different position from me – in his cat-cage on the back seat. So I suppose you canunderstand him being a bit cheesed off. He hadn’t been in a car before so I don’t expect that helped either. Of course, I’ve been in one lots of times and know all about them. But Maurice doesn’t like me knowing things he doesn’t, so that had put him in a pet from the start. The moment F.O. shoved him in that cage and I saw him scowling out through the wire I knew we were in for a bumpy ride. Not that the vicar noticed – too busy singing hymns and puffing his fags. (With that amount of smoke swirling around I’m surprised he could see out!) Human beings don’t have a good baying technique like us dogs, and when they sing their voices can sound pretty queer – and F.O.’s is one of the queerer. Not in the first league, you might say. The piano is his thing and he’d do better to stick to it.

  Anyway, for some reason he was in one of his cheerful moods – something to do with those paintings he’d stuck in the boot, I think. As a matter of fact, I felt quite cheerful myself. With those stupid things out of the way I could get at my bones in the belfry again without any more upsets!

  When we arrived Maurice was let out, went earsplittingly berserk, and with bullet face scooted off into the bushes. Didn’t see him for a long time and meanwhile I was allowed into the house. There was this woman – Prim something, I think she was called – and I noticed she had the same smell as F.O. I suppose they’re connected in some way. Anyway, they got on all right but I think she was surprised to see me.

  ‘Whatever’s that!’ she said, and didn’t seem to know whether to frown or laugh. In the end she roared with laughter which annoyed me a bit, but I sat quietly – thinking that if I was GOOD they might lob some grub in my direction. They didn’t, of course. Too busy getting those pictures out of the boot and burbling on about them. I got fed up and went into the garden to explore and take a sniff around. I can tell you, there were some very peculiar things out there – very peculiar indeed … But that’s another story and I’m beginning to feel a bit snoozy now so it’ll have to wait.

  11

  The Cat’s Memoir

  There are some things in life which are putrid. And crammed in a cage in the back of the vicar’s clapped-out banger while he warbles his way down to Sussex is one of them. The journey was a nightmare: my nerves shot to pieces and dignity in shreds. To make matters worse there was that oaf of a dog sitting up on the front seat nodding and beaming as if he was the Queen Mother. It took me quite some time to collect myself, but I can assure you that when I did, I gave it to them with knobs on – one of the best productions I’ve mounted for a long time. Even Bouncer looked a trifle sheepish. And I could hear that tall sister berating F.O. for bringing me with him. Very satisfying.

  When I had fully recovered and was disposed to being gracious again, I took an evening stroll around her domain and was agreeably impressed by its size and undergrowth. In the course of these perambulations I encountered Bouncer crouched in front of a large wooden crate with his head thrust up against its wire-mesh screen. I asked him what he thought he was doing.

  He didn’t answer at first, and then said slowly in a sort of muffled sotto voce, ‘You want to take a look at this, Maurice. Give you another turn, it will!’ I ignored that sally, and pushing my way past him sat down and peered in.

  My eyes were met by two gigantic fluffy heads, one white and one grey; heads with long drooping ears, wild staring pink eyes and an inordinate growth of twitching whiskers. I have to admit to being startled but naturally wasn’t going to let him see that.

  I flicked my tail and in a casual voice said, ‘Ah yes, rabbits.’

  ‘Rabbits!’ he exclaimed. ‘My arse, they’re not rabbits, they’re monsters!’ And thus saying, he pushed his snout more tightly against the wire.

  After a while he muttered, ‘They don’t say much, do they?’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t think they do,’ I replied, ‘not with your great face bearing down on them. Enough to dumbfound any creature!’ He didn’t seem to hear and continued staring in as if mesmerized. Having better things to do with my time than gape at freak rabbits I left him to it, and wandered off to make further assessment of our temporary abode.

  When I returned it was supper time and the three of them were assembled in the kitchen: F.O. gulping down red wine as if it was his last day on earth, and Bouncer gnawing a brand new ham bone – presumably a product of the sister’s misplaced charity. I elected to keep a dignified distance, still somewhat peeved at my treatment in the motor car and having no wish to make their amends easy. Time enough for apologies in the morning. However, before sampling my milk I did ask Bouncer if he had made any progress with the rabbits.

  ‘Have they spoken yet?’

  ‘The grey one did – sort of.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Sod off!’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘I was in two minds. I mean, I wasn’t going to have that carrot-chomping Jumbo telling me what to do! But I was beginning to feel a bit peckish and thought that if I went indoors and played my biscuits right I might get that Prim person to give me a nice titbit … which she did.’ And grinning smugly he attacked the bone with renewed and noisy relish.

  I felt it time to seek a quieter and more congenial setting and repaired to the drawing room where, tired from the rigours of the day, I curled up and slept the night through in moderate comfort.

  I was glad to get home. The new scenery, though not without its interest, was quite enough for two days; and pleasant though the sister’s garden was, it lacked the breadth and majesty of the graveyard. There is a great deal to be said for tried and tested surroundings – as indeed for people. The vicar certainly tries me often enough, but I have tested him sufficiently to know that, although defective in a number of ways, he is on the whole a congenial h
ost. Primrose, the sister, I found less so. Not of course that she was impossible like my former mistress Elizabeth Fotherington – let alone that gallumphing daughter – but she has what you might call a certain spikiness which is inimical to my kindly urbanity. Needless to say, because she had given him that disgusting ham bone, Bouncer thought she was ‘JOLLY GOOD’. The dog never learns.

  He also seems obsessed with her moronic rabbits and has talked of little else since our return. Indeed, only this morning I overheard him telling O’Shaughnessy about them and exaggerating their dimensions out of all proportion. The setter seemed entirely receptive to his lies and I could see him egging him on, flailing that duster of a tail and grinning from ear to ear. I don’t think the Celtic influence is very good for Bouncer; he is fey enough as it is.

  From what I could make out, the vicar’s mission was successful, in that the sister had seemed prepared to house the gross pictures with (absurdly in my view) few questions asked. I watched them heaving the things up into some sort of attic, and gave thanks that this at least would be one thing off F.O.’s mind, and trusted we might now be in for a spate of repose.

  In the vicarage, however, such periods are of only relative calm. On the evening of our return, for example, I had to endure a particularly painful re-enactment of Bouncer’s bedtime rituals. In the unfamiliar surroundings of the Sussex house these had been largely curtailed, but once back on terra cognita they were resumed with a vengeance.

  The ceremony is elaborate and unattractive. First there is the matter of his playthings which have to be retrieved from various corners and dragged into his basket: the mangy rubber ring, one of F.O.’s old socks, invariably a chewed Bonio or two, and of course the awful ball with its jangling bells. This process will take some time; after which, evidently thirsty from his exertions, he laps loudly and clumsily from his bowl. Then once in the basket, the ablutions and scratchings begin and his head goes down to explore his nether regions. This involves much snorting and shifting about. Finally, after making several scrabbling pirouettes and emitting a loud groan, he flops down dead to the world. At that point I breathe a sigh of relief.

  But as you might expect, the vicar is little better. One can hear him all over the house – thumping about on the landing, opening and slamming the bathroom door, gargling and coughing, pulling chains, turning on taps. An earsplitting palaver! I often think that there’s not much difference between dogs and humans: both are noisy and largely insane.

  12

  The Vicar’s Version

  It had been a pleasant journey down; partly because I enjoy driving but mainly because I felt a blessed relief that the pictures were to be safely transferred. Primrose greeted me kindly, but at first seemed a trifle put out by the presence of Maurice and Bouncer. In my preoccupation with the paintings I had entirely forgotten to alert her to their coming, and the omission had not been helped by Maurice being particularly bloody when he was let out of the car. However, by the time we had hauled the parcels out of the boot and gone into the house for a drink she had calmed down, later even supplying Bouncer with an exceptionally meaty bone – a gift to which he applied his usual full-throttled attention.

  I like my sister’s house. It is solid and spacious and occupies a sheltered position facing the South Downs. It gets a good deal of sun and the garden is pleasantly secluded. She had moved into it about six months previously, and when I had first visited her, just after my dire event, it had seemed an almost restful haven. I say ‘almost’, because being Primrose she had inevitably prepared a number of chores for me (although these, given the circumstances, did have their diversionary use). But the brief visit had nevertheless allowed me to collect my thoughts and stiffen my nerve for the return to Molehill and the overtures of the local police.

  At that time she had also just taken possession of a rather sinister pair of chinchilla rabbits whom she had dubbed Boris and Karloff. Their appeal was what one might call esoteric, but knowing that Primrose had grown attached to them I now dutifully enquired after their welfare. She regaled me at some length about their quirks, habits and dietary preference; but even when the topic was finally exhausted I couldn’t help thinking that their charm was subtle rather than manifest.

  At one point I did ask whether perhaps she was thinking of substituting chinchillas for sheep in her sketches of downland churches. This didn’t go down terribly well and I was told with some asperity that I clearly hadn’t lost my knack for the facetious. I was slightly put out by this as I had genuinely wondered whether her celebrated (and lucrative) little churches might not benefit from a change in their accompanying fauna. However, since the buying public’s enthusiasm for scenes of church, sheep and Sussex Downs showed no sign of flagging, she was probably right to keep to the winning formula.

  Tactfully I started to change the subject, but before I could she said briskly, ‘Now, what about your paintings? As said, I don’t mind storing them here for a while – at least they’re better off with me than with you – so long as they’re not those ghastly Spendlers of course! Goodness, what a fuss the papers are making about that business!’ She laughed derisively and started to open another bottle.

  I smiled palely, proffered my glass and tried to think what line I might spin about the contents of their frames. In my eagerness to offload the things it had not occurred to me that she might ask direct questions about their subject or provenance. Now, looking at them resting wrapped and stacked against the kitchen dresser, I could see she might be curious.

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing!’ I replied jocularly. ‘Those pictures would set me up for life all right!’ And I began to laugh loudly but catching Bouncer’s startled eye adjusted my tone and said something to the effect that my colleague had talked so much during his visit that I hadn’t really given the details my full attention, adding vaguely that I thought they were some sort of modern abstracts but couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Really, Francis,’ she expostulated, ‘you are hopeless, never listen to anything! Daddy was quite right – a head stuffed with nothing but sea air!’

  Yes, he had said that quite often, I recalled – indeed, right up to the day before his death in the nursing home when I had absent-mindedly poured Lucozade into his whisky glass. He had been so incensed we thought he might rally, but capricious to the end he fooled everyone. I seized on the memory of our parent as a means of diversion from the pictures, and we spent a congenially masochistic time dwelling on our life with him.

  What with the wine and the family reminiscences, the problem of the paintings started to fade and I began to feel pleasantly relaxed. But Primrose has inherited from our father the uncanny knack of stirring things up just when you think they have simmered down; and suddenly, apropos of nothing, she said, ‘Of course, they’ll never drop that case, you know. They never do, not fully. They’ll let it go dormant for a while and then sometime – even years later – start gnawing away again. You mark my words, it won’t be the end of it.’

  It had been quite a demanding day and I suppose I was feeling sleepy, for the import of her words didn’t really register and I said lazily, ‘What case? Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘The Molehill Murder of course! That woman parishioner of yours, the one that left you all the money – though why you had to go and give it away like that I simply can’t imagine. Sometimes I think I have a complete idiot for a brother!’ Even in my welling panic I reflected that Primrose had always been mercenary.

  ‘Oh well,’ I mumbled, ‘it seemed a good idea at the time. Hadn’t got much use for it really. You know how it is …’

  ‘No, I don’t, as a matter of fact,’ she rejoined tartly. ‘I don’t know at all. Sometimes I think you live in another world, Francis! But still,’ she relented, ‘I suppose it could be worse. After all, you might have turned into a drunkard – or a bishop.’

  I enjoy a good tipple, but having a rather uncertain stomach and being prone to headaches, thought the first option almost as unlike
ly as the second. Then recalling the episode of Bishop Clinker and the White Ladies I also wondered why Primrose should in any case have made the distinction. The two fates, I had learned, were not mutually exclusive.

  Grasping the topic of bishops as a means of steering matters away from Elizabeth and my inexplicable bounty, I said hastily, ‘Talking of bishops, I think old Horace may be gearing up for another visit. There was a bit of a shindig at one of my weddings a couple of weeks ago and I think he’s got wind of it.’

  Primrose was surprisingly sympathetic; and, the Molehill affair safely circumvented, we spent some time mulling over the officiousness of high office. My sister addressed the subject with characteristic pungency, being herself currently embroiled in some complicated dispute with the burgers of Lewes. From what I could make out, it revolved around the rival claims of the town’s High Street and her Morris Oxford, although the finer points of the saga rather escaped me. Suffice it to say, she was in one of her litigious moods and I felt a glancing sympathy for the municipal authorities. I could have done with Primrose to help me with Clinker, but then with a pang of trepidation remembered that I already had an ally in that sphere – Mrs Tubbly Pole.

  The next day, with Primrose’s curiosity fortunately faded, the pictures were consigned to her spare room where, amidst the general clutter of trunks, cardboard boxes and other accumulated debris, they melted into reassuring anonymity. Then, having finally completed my prescribed tasks in house and garden, and, as instructed, having bade a ceremonious farewell to Boris and Karloff, I was free to return to Molehill – considerably lightened in one way but with the shadow of Clinker still looming in another …