In fact, when I arrived home, there was surprisingly no sign of Clinker’s shadow. I had feared that at least one missive would be awaiting me from the Palace, but the post proved mercifully bland. Neither was there a telephone call that evening nor indeed the next. I began to wonder whether, despite its extensive press coverage, the wedding matter had somehow escaped his notice. It seemed unlikely. And even if it had, the oversight would surely have been amply remedied by the diocesan grapevine. However, there was no point in meeting trouble more than halfway and I had better things to do than fret over a hypothetical barrage from the bishop. There was, for example, the belfry tryst with Mrs Tubbly Pole.
With the paintings out of the way this was now a less daunting prospect. Nevertheless, the thought of devoting much of Saturday evening in assisting her – and presumably Gunga Din – to negotiate the belfry’s perilous stairway did not exactly inspire delight. It also occurred to me that the gin was low. On my own I could have eked it out until the following week, but knowing their joint capacity there was nothing for it but to put hand prematurely in pocket. I thought grimly that had I foreseen Mrs Tubbly Pole’s arrival in Molehill I might have retained rather more of Elizabeth’s legacy than I did!
13
The Vicar’s Version
It would be nice to draw a veil over Mrs Tubbly Pole’s belfry inspection. It is not an episode I care to dwell upon. However, certain things arose which for the purpose of narrative I am forced to recall.
She arrived at six o’clock sharp, accompanied as feared by Gunga Din. Both wore the appearance of bulldog resolution and I realized that my vague hope of diverting them by drink was a non-starter. Sartorially they were clearly prepared for the venture: the dog – presumably to ease its scramble to the top – was now divested of his usual coat and harness, while his mistress was encased in a pair of serge knee breeches making her look not unlike a portly Pantalone from the commedia dell’arte. She carried a large walking stick – whether for prodding the dog, fending off bats, or merely as a symbol of mountaineering endeavour, I could not be sure. It proved a more than tiresome encumbrance.
She was in high spirits and we set off briskly and volubly up the lane to the church. As we went she discoursed graphically on the writer’s duty to set the scene so the reader could ‘breathe in the atmosphere’, imbibing its very taste and smell. Atmosphere, she assured me, was half the novelist’s battle. There would be plenty of that, I thought grimly, recalling the mouldering rafters and cobwebbed mice droppings. I asked her what the other half was.
‘Plot,’ she intoned, ‘plot, plot, plot! Which is why, Francis, it is so vital that you supply me with your views of the original crime so that I can work them into my narrative pattern.’
‘I’m not sure that I have any views,’ I said nervously, adding by way of distraction, ‘But what about character – surely that matters?’
‘Not a bit,’ she observed. ‘Readers don’t want character, they want action!’
‘Really? You surprise me. I thought perhaps …’ My voice trailed off as she wagged an admonishing finger.
‘Now, Francis, don’t teach your grandmother etc.! Do you think that Cecil Piltdown and I got where we are today by wasting our time on character? After all, think of the great queen!’ She grinned triumphantly. I didn’t know who or what she was talking about and said as much.
‘Why, the great Queen of Crime of course, Agatha Christie! Her characters are as flat as pancakes but nobody complains – and the books sell like hot cakes. As do mine! Now, tell me all about that dark wood. I’ve read the newspaper reports of course, but there’s nothing like getting it from a local horse’s mouth!’ She gave a hearty snort of laughter but by this time we had reached the bell tower and I was able to evade answer by addressing the matter in hand: the ascent of the steps.
This, as I had feared, proved a slow and demanding process, made all the more tricky by Gunga Din’s obvious reluctance to participate. I had been right in my assumption about the walking stick – its principal function was indeed the persuasive prodding of the dog, and despite his mournful protests he was eventually manoeuvred to the first floor. His mistress followed laboriously and I brought up the rear, wishing ruefully that I could be back in the vicarage slumped with a gin and a good book.
The lower chamber looked its usual dank self, and I felt almost apologetic for there not being a greater air of mystery. What she would get out of it I couldn’t imagine! But the visitor seemed more than happy trundling around touching the walls, eyeing the bell ropes, even producing a small notebook in which she seemed to be noting down dimensions. Such was her absorption that I began to hope that further exploration up the rickety steps to the next stage would be unnecessary … Foolish Francis, as my father would have said.
‘Excellent,’ she exclaimed. ‘Excellent! Now, let us proceed.’ And giving Gunga Din another prod she turned towards the narrow staircase and the open trap door.
‘Are you sure you really want to go up there? I mean, it’s awfully dirty and I can assure you there isn’t much to see!’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ she said firmly. And seizing the dog by the scruff of his neck she began to propel him on to the bottom stair. He was clearly disinclined, and with bulging eye sprawled stubbornly at the base.
‘He’s not too keen,’ I said, stating the obvious. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to leave him down here? He’d probably be far happier.’
‘No fear!’ she answered. ‘You don’t know him. As soon as Mummy’s back is turned he’ll be off down those stairs and going God knows where! He’s a wily old bird.’ I looked at him. He didn’t look the remotest bit wily, just morose and bloody.
‘There’s nothing for it – you’ll have to carry him. Now up you go, the pair of you, and I’ll follow!’
I gazed askance at Gunga Din and he stared back lugubriously.
‘Well,’ I said weakly, ‘I’m not sure that I’m used to –’
‘Nonsense!’ she cried. ‘You know how fond he is of you, he’ll be as good as gold.’ Clearly there was to be no option. I bent down and hauled the creature into my arms. The weight was stupendous.
With rasping breath I started to stagger upwards. It didn’t work of course: the burden was far too cumbersome and the steps vertiginous. I panted and tottered.
‘Over your shoulder, Francis. Put him over your shoulder!’
I struggled to do her bidding and managed to shift the weight into a more accommodating position. This would have been tolerable had my left ear not now been subjected to prolonged and snuffling slobbers. The heavy breathing from both dog and carrier was enough to raise the rafters, but by dint of superhuman effort we achieved the top and collapsed jointly upon the floor. In comparison, and given the proportions of girth and age, Mrs Tubbly Pole’s ascent was remarkably nimble. She had obviously got into her stride, and from my recumbent posture I regarded her with pained envy.
‘There you are, you see, not so difficult after all!’ she announced. I nodded faintly, still too winded to utter, and watched as once again she embarked upon her reconnaissance. My one relief was that the wretched paintings were safely out of the way. That at least was a mercy and I congratulated myself on the success of their transfer. Gunga Din was now out for the count and the air was rent by his stentorian snores.
I continued to watch as she prowled about. Suddenly she turned, and with a broad grin said, ‘I say, Francis, this would make an ideal hidey-hole, just right for the corpse. This belfry must have quite a few tales to tell. I feel it in my bones! I bet they used to shove the R.C. priests up here, not to mention the paintings.’
Sweat poured upon me. ‘Paintings, corpse – what on earth do you mean!’ I gasped.
‘During the Reformation – all the paintings and silver in the church when it was under threat from Thom. Cromwell and Co. Surely as a vicar you know all about that!’
‘Ah yes … those paintings! Er – yes, naturally.’
‘Don’t know wha
t other paintings there could be, and as to the corpse – well, the one in my novel, of course. I told you I was thinking of moving it from the woods to the belfry, and now that I’ve seen the place I’m absolutely certain. Admittedly a major change in setting but the underlying situation will remain the same. You’ll see!’
Yes, I thought ruefully, the underlying situation would always remain the same …
‘Mind you,’ she continued breezily, ‘I shall still need to hear as much as possible about the original murder in that Foxford Wood close to you. It’ll help to establish the mindset of the assassin (pretty grisly by all accounts!) and I’m sure you can help me there.’
I said nothing and stared glumly at the snoring dog. My back was hurting and I seemed to be sitting on a sack of some lumpy material; it felt like bits of concrete, and not wanting to add to the discomfort I stood up unsteadily. My toe became enmeshed in one of its corners and I nearly tripped. I couldn’t recall seeing the thing previously, and was about to investigate when a wave of weariness descended, sapping both energy and interest. Surely there were nicer things to do than mooch about in that freezing belfry pandering to the whims of some half-crazed writer! Irritably I pushed the sack to one side and returned my attention to the latter.
She was stomping up and down apparently in her element; but then glancing in my direction said in a solicitous tone, ‘I say, Francis, you don’t look too good – a bit peaky. Too much sermonizing, I shouldn’t wonder. What you need is a good nightcap!’ What I need, I thought, is a bit of peace and quiet …
However, it was not to be, for as the three of us renegotiated the rickety stairway Mrs Tubbly Pole’s walking stick got entangled in my trouser leg. The ensuing complications brought confusion to all and we arrived at the lower floor more promptly than foreseen.
The other two lumbered to their feet. I was unable to do so, my leg having gone through the defective floorboard reproachfully reported by Mavis Briggs. Grist to her bloody mill, I raged.
14
The Vicar’s Version
It took me several days to recover from the ordeal in the belfry; and things were not helped by the fact that, my leg being particularly sore, I was reduced to hobbling around with one of my father’s old walking sticks. Clearly some emollient treat was due. So pleading urgent business in Guildford, I cancelled my appearance at the Vestry Circle’s annual luncheon (an excruciatingly dreary affair) and took myself off to the cinema and cream buns in the Angel.
Driving home sated with the buns and still chuckling over Peter Lorre’s performance in The Maltese Falcon, I very nearly ran over Mavis Briggs, whose earlier unctuous concern about the leg business had been sickening in the extreme. My mind was still wrapped in the delightful skulduggery of the film, and when she stepped off the pavement looking resolutely in the opposite direction from the oncoming traffic, I very nearly caught her a smacker. This wouldn’t have mattered so much had she not been accompanied by Edith Hopgarden (presumably the pair were currently in truce mode), so when I stopped and wound down the window to apologize I was met with a blast of pained expostulation. This, of course, came from Edith; Mavis just stood there wearing her usual look of simpering martyrdom.
She said I had been much missed at the Vestry Circle’s gathering and trusted I had spent a nice day in Guildford. For one embarrassing moment I thought she guessed what I had been doing, but then recalled that this was Mavis speaking, not Edith, and thus the remark was free from innuendo. Smiling benignly, I replied that it had been a most productive afternoon. Edith said pointedly that, judging from my speed, I was clearly in a great hurry to get home and that they wouldn’t delay me. Occasionally one is granted such small mercies.
Later, feeling generous after my stolen hours, I decided to attack the requirements of the parish magazine. This is a task that can be diverting but is often onerous. Together with Colonel Dawlish, I am its co-editor, and in addition to my own monthly address one of my responsibilities is to vet the letters submitted by parishioners. These can range from the woolly and worthy, via the smugly righteous, to the downright actionable. These last are by far the most interesting but invariably their grammar is defective, so in addition to excising some of the more scurrilous passages there is also the chore of smoothing the syntax.
I was fully immersed in this when there was a sudden screech from the doorbell. What with that and Bouncer’s howl of excitement I nearly had a seizure. But before I could collect myself there was another loud clarion by which time the dog was in full tongue. Shouting at him to be quiet, I grimly flung open the front door. It was the bishop.
What shocked me was not so much his presence as his apparel. Clinker was wearing plus-fours, scarlet socks, and a tweed ratting-cap of such vulgar check that ‘mine eyes dazzled’. His small feet (surprising for a large man) were encased in the nattiest pair of co-respondent’s shoes I have ever seen. The clerical collar was retained: presumably as a passing nod to episcopal sobriety. In every other way he was utterly transformed. As I gazed I caught sight of the Daimler’s tail-end gliding into the distance, and with sinking heart realized we were in for a lengthy session.
‘Ah, Oughterard,’ he breezed, ‘hoped I might catch you. Been rather busy – golfing you know, my new hobby. Otherwise would have telephoned ahead, but just couldn’t tear myself away from that new clubhouse they’ve opened a couple of miles from you. A fine course they’ve got there, very fine indeed!’ (Busy my hat! Thought he might catch me unawares, that was all.)
Still stunned by the sporting attire, I led him into the sitting room. And this time, not having a concoction of White Ladies to hand, firmly offered a cup of tea. Standing over the kettle in the kitchen, I racked my brain for some sort of defence of the wedding débâcle. None was forthcoming and I returned gloomily to the sitting room with the tea tray. I wondered if he remembered the finer details of his previous visit. To be once more in the context of such spectacular inebriation might have been embarrassing; but he showed no signs of discomfort and, firmly settled on the sofa, sipped his tea with an expression bordering on pleasure. I cleared my throat, awaiting the attack.
Surveying the paperwork strewn across the dining table, he nodded approvingly. ‘Glad to see you’re hard at it, Oughterard. Always did feel that Molehill was in a safe pair of hands.’ Liar, I thought, recalling our last encounter. He’s playing for time – just gearing up for the kill.
However, he went prosing on about the usefulness of parish magazines, their place in the community, the vital job of the editor and the general value of workaday endeavour. He sounded so enthusiastic that I began to wonder whether he wasn’t preparing to strip me of my sacerdotal duties in favour of some pen-pushing role. It would, after all, be in keeping with his plan of six months previously – to palm me off as chaplain to some dismal home for pensioned clergy. The episode of the White Ladies had scotched that one all right, but he might just try something similar. I was brooding on that possibility when I was startled by a loud snort of laughter.
‘I say, Oughterard, that wedding of yours was a bit of a fiasco, wasn’t it! A few more like that and you’ll have the wrath of Canterbury upon us! It doesn’t take much to stir His Grace!’ And flashing his scarlet socks he launched into a series of spluttering guffaws. I gazed nonplussed, wondering whether it had been less the Golf Club’s sward that had engaged his time, than its bar. However, not wishing to dampen proceedings I joined in the merriment.
Eventually he subsided, and leaning forward said, ‘Now seriously, Oughterard, among other things there’s something rather important I wish to discuss with you – well, alert you to really. If it works out as I hope, you will be partly affected.’ Here we go, I thought. What’s it to be – banishment to the Cairngorms as I had once feared, or the imposition of some meddling curate? Whatever the case, it would doubtless bring tribulation and make my quest for peace an even wilder pipe dream.
Then, with the numerous possibilities flashing before my eyes, I reminded myself that I did h
ave one very real advantage: the Cocktail Card. Clinker’s fear that it still might be played could – as before – provide a useful lever in changing whatever he had in mind. Admittedly, at the moment he appeared to have no obvious recollection of once being sprawled out tight as a tick on my carpet; nor indeed of his remarkable imitation of a cancan dancer, and the ignominious exit beached comatose on the back seat of the Daimler. But I guessed it would take only a few well-placed hints to rekindle the horror.
Braced by those thoughts, I decided to divert him from the purpose of his visit for as long as possible, trusting that in the meantime unsettling memories might assert themselves. To this end I wondered whether I should rouse Bouncer (the previous summer the dog having played a key role in the bishop’s downfall), but thought better of it. Confronting Clinker with his erstwhile dancing partner might not so much unsettle as enrage, a risk I could ill afford. The best ploy, surely, would be Gladys: invariably a subject of chastening effect, and one which would at least allow me a satisfying schadenfreude.
Thus busily pouring more tea, I enquired politely, ‘And how is Mrs Clinker these days? A grass widow, I fear!’ I sat back confidently, expecting the usual scowl. To my surprise he beamed.
‘Out of the country, Oughterard. Out of the country!’ He thrust his feet forward, admiring the two-tone shoes, and sighed happily.
I asked if she was on holiday. ‘Some might call it that,’ he replied. ‘She’s visiting her sister in Belgium. Seems to give her a boost. Can’t think why! Belgium’s bad enough, the sister’s worse.’ I wondered whether the latter was also worse than Gladys. Unlikely … but then it’s amazing what people are capable of.
Bones in the Belfry Page 7