Bones in the Belfry

by Suzette A. Hill

  Somehow, dealing with the pictures and settling Primrose’s account had imposed quite a strain, and I felt that a quiet potter in the church might put me in a less jaded frame of mind. It was nearing lunchtime and I judged that there would be few people about, so with luck I could enjoy its cloistered calm uninterrupted.

  As I had hoped, the building was empty; and with the shafts of the noonday sun dappling the transept and stroking the tombs of the three chain-mailed warriors, it presented a scene of slumbering serenity. The polishers had been at work earlier in the day; and as I strolled towards the Lady Chapel savouring the whiff of the beeswaxed pews, I paused to admire the gleaming candlesticks in the chancel, the freshly scrubbed flagstones, and the angel faces shining out from the frieze on the lectern. It had to be admitted that, tiresome though they often were, Edith Hopgarden and her cohorts of cleaners did a remarkably good job in preserving both the aura and odour of St Botolph’s modest sanctity. Perhaps the next issue of the newsletter should include a note of commendation …

  I settled in one of the pews and tried to work out how I could best phrase the compliments without further encouraging Edith’s firm conviction that she was indispensable – which of course she was. And then, unwrapping a peppermint from my pocket, I began to think of other things, of this and that … and then of that. I flinched, shut my eyes, and pondered the final lines of the Herrick poem which I had selected for Elizabeth’s Memorial Anthem:

  I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall)

  Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.

  All very well for Herrick, I reflected. His confidence was touching, but our situations were hardly analogous. I continued to sit with my eyes closed …

  Suddenly there was an almighty crash, followed by an anguished shriek. The sounds came from the organ loft. I leaped up, startled out of my wits and angry at the unwanted intrusion. Dead silence. Scowling upwards I could see nothing, and nothing stirred. And then, barely discernible, there was the faintest sound of furtive whisperings, followed by a pause and the creaking of a floorboard. Some damn-fool choirboys larking about? It was too bad! Anyway, what were they doing at that time of day? Surely it wasn’t half-term yet. I cleared my throat irritably, ready to make stern enquiry. However, before I could say anything, a head appeared gingerly over the loft railing. It was Tapsell’s.

  Given the location, I suppose the organist’s presence was unremarkable, but sensing he was not alone I groaned inwardly. Surely to God they were not at it again, and not here of all places! It had been embarrassing enough in the wood a few months earlier. More really, for then I had had the difficulty of explaining my own presence, whereas now no such explanation was required. Still, it was a bit much!

  Red-faced, Tapsell craned over the rail and in accusing tones cried, ‘Look here, now see what’s happened – this seat’s completely had it! I’ve been telling you about it for weeks. Should have been seen to ages ago!’ There was a scuffling behind him which I took to be Edith adjusting her hat or whatever else needed attention.

  I gave a wintry smile and observed acidly that perhaps his organ practice was becoming a trifle too enthusiastic of late and that those old seats couldn’t always withstand the wilder flights of artistic passion. He glared down and started to bluster something, but I turned away and affected to tidy the hymn books. And then, with a casual wave of my hand, I strolled towards the south porch and out into the sunshine.

  As I went I reflected that at least it solved the problem of how to write the tribute in the parish newsletter: there wouldn’t be any. Edith would just have to settle for her own smug laurels!

  22

  The Cat’s Memoir

  ‘He’s in a right buggers’ muddle!’ the dog announced.

  ‘When isn’t he?’ I murmured, sipping my milk.

  ‘Well, he hasn’t been too bad for a while, Maurice, but you should see him now – doing his nut, he is! I’m jolly sure it’s to do with that Tubbly person; she’s been at him again. My bones tell me.’

  ‘Your bones tell you too much, Bouncer!’ I replied curtly, feeling rather sleepy and not wishing to be drawn into one of the dog’s dramas.

  ‘Oh no,’ he protested, ‘bones are a very good measure of what’s in the wind. They tell you a lot of things, and I’ve got certain views about what’s going on. For instance …’ Not wishing to be subjected to Bouncer’s obiter dicta I hastily closed my eyes and pretended to drop off to sleep. It didn’t work of course, and the next moment I could feel his hot breath rasping down my ear and a cold nose on the back of my neck.

  ‘Wake up, Maurice! I’ve been doing some of my special thinking and I’ve got something to say.’

  ‘Speak,’ I sighed.

  ‘Well, you see, it’s like this …’ and his tone became earnest and confidential. ‘Something or somebody – probably Tubbly – is stewing him up again over that corpse business in the woods. Also he’s in a blue funk about those old pictures: they’re on his nerves. For some reason they could put him in the cart.’

  ‘Perhaps, but he got rid of those on his sister. They shouldn’t pose a problem now. And as to the corpse of my unlamented mistress – well, that’s all over and done with. We saw to that.’ I noticed a belligerent look come into his eye, and added hastily, ‘Thanks to you largely.’

  Mollified, he continued. ‘Yes, but I’ve got a nasty feeling it may be brewing up again. And what with that and now this rum picture business, it’s all getting on his fins.’

  ‘Things often get on his fins,’ I said, ‘but he seems to survive.’

  ‘Yes, but will we? That’s the question. S’pose he goes funny like my old master Bowler, and does a bunk to South America or some such. Where does that leave us?’

  I considered. ‘Well, I suppose it might –’

  ‘Leaves us in the cat litter. That’s what!’

  I stared at him coldly. ‘I think you might moderate your turn of phrase.’

  ‘Turn of phrase be damned!’ he barked. ‘What about our skins!’

  He had a point but I didn’t want to look too concerned. Instead I observed coolly, ‘I am sure all will be well, Bouncer. No sense in crossing mole traps before we meet them. Believe me, a steady head is essential in such matters. As my great uncle used to say: “Panic is the bane of self-preservation.”’

  ‘I am not panicking but F.O. is. And we all know what happened to your great uncle!’

  As it happened, my Great Uncle Marmaduke had been shot while bravely plundering a hen-run, but I did not think it Bouncer’s place to mention the fact. And taking exception to his presumption I went into one of my better sulks. This had the desired effect: got rid of the dog and gave me satisfaction and time to think.

  * * *

  Emerging from the sulk and having thought, I summoned Bouncer. He came bounding up, wagging his tail as if he hadn’t a care in the world. So much for his earlier fears! Then I noticed that his chops were looking more than usually grisly, and realized that F.O. must have given him a fresh marrow bone. Food plays a key part in shaping the dog’s frame of mind.

  ‘With regard to your earlier comments,’ I began, ‘I do recall a conversation I happened to overhear between our master and the Tubbly Pole. It concerned a walk in Foxford Wood which she seemed keen to take him on.’

  ‘Was he keen?’ asked Bouncer.

  ‘Distinctly reluctant, I would say.’

  ‘That’s probably it then. Just like me when I’ve been a bit thoughtless on the carpet: he’s going to get his nose rubbed in it and doesn’t like the idea. Can’t face looking at the same patch.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, my thoughts exactly. So to calm his nerves and bring peace to the household we must ensure that he never goes on that walk. There are two means of distraction: either we can contrive that something untoward befall Gunga Din which will fluster Mrs Tubbly and thus –’

  ‘You mean like me savaging his bum again!’ guffawed Bouncer.

  ‘Or,’ I continued patiently, ‘you affect
ing an illness you do not have. It’s called malingering.’

  ‘Don’t care what it’s called,’ he growled, ‘I’m not doing it – it’ll mean a visit to the vet.’

  ‘You don’t mind that really,’ I said. ‘It’s just the thought. Once you’re there you generally go to sleep, or so you tell me. Besides,’ I purred, ‘think of the attention you’re likely to get – all that petting and cosseting, and doubtless extra dollops of Muncho. Why, it will be food for old bones!’

  He chewed his paw and pondered. And then gave a snort. ‘Something to tell O’Shaughnessy, I suppose! He’s a bit down since I beat him in the peeing game but this might cheer him up. He likes a good joke – especially if I put on a really nice show with masses of moaning and groaning and eating grass and looking mournful. You know the sort of thing!’

  I knew it only too well, but was glad that the dog was entering into the spirit of the thing. With luck, Bouncer’s malady would provide just the right pretext to enable F.O. to fob off the Tubbly.

  Dismissing him with a winning smile, I curled up for the night well satisfied with my fertile ruse. Distantly, as I began to doze, I could hear the faint tones of Great Uncle Marmaduke miaowing his approbation …

  23

  The Vicar’s Version

  Sunday was fast looming and I still hadn’t devised a way of getting out of the walk. Such was Mrs Tubbly Pole’s tenacity that, short of an Act of God or breaking my leg, there seemed little to thwart her plans. I strummed disconsolately on the piano but it yielded no inspiration, and I dropped the lid irritably and lit a cigarette.

  Bouncer was sprawled in the far corner and it was strange he hadn’t set up a hullabaloo. I had used more force on the lid than intended, even startling myself. But the dog lay torpid and apparently undisturbed. I continued to grapple vainly with implausible excuses, and then as it was close to supper time shelved the matter: Bouncer tends to get agitated if he doesn’t hear the sawing of the tin-opener.

  I went into the kitchen expecting him to follow, but it was only when I was halfway through prising the lid off the Muncho that I noticed he wasn’t there. I called his name but there was no response; and then there came a loud canine groan from the sitting room followed by a halfhearted howl. Was Maurice being bloody again? Leaving the Muncho, I hastened from the room ready to set the cat by its ears. But there was no sign of it – only Bouncer on his own, lolling about on the floor with pathetic look and rolling eye. He seemed distinctly seedy.

  I tried coaxing him up and into the kitchen, but he lay firmly anchored to the carpet whimpering feebly. Perhaps thrusting some food right under his nose might perk him up. Not a success. After a few tentative mouthfuls he spat it out over my shoes, rolled over and went into what appeared to be some sort of coma.

  This was high drama and I telephoned the vet immediately. Fortunately the surgery was just finishing and Robinson agreed to stop off on his way home. It was only about a ten-minute wait but it seemed an age; and in the meantime, having draped the dog in a blanket, I watched anxiously while he twitched and snuffled, apparently oblivious of everything. Maurice appeared, and wandering over to his ailing companion stared curiously, gave him a thoughtful butt with his head, and wandered out again.

  By the time Robinson arrived, Bouncer’s tongue was lolling out of his mouth and he looked alarmingly corpse-like.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the vet cheerfully. ‘What’s wrong with him, then?’

  ‘How should I know!’ I answered irritably. ‘Thought that was your brief.’

  Though it was mildly reassuring to know that others could be as befogged in their calling as oneself, this did not seem a particularly useful start to proceedings. I looked on gloomily as he set about poking and prodding and doing the usual things with stethoscope and probe. The dog lay with an expression that I can only describe as stricken.

  Hearing the door creak faintly, I noticed Maurice glide in once more. He hovered some yards away watching Bouncer intently, and then apparently losing interest proceeded to engage in one of his elaborate grooming sessions. He was purring – which in the circumstances struck me as tasteless. I always thought animals were supposed to share some sort of intuitive empathy. Trust the cat to buck the norm.

  Finally Robinson knelt back on his heels, and scratching his head said in a puzzled voice, ‘Can’t make it out really: there don’t seem to be any obvious symptoms – nose is cold, heart’s all right, no lumps or tender spots on his tummy, temperature’s okay. If he were human I’d say he was swinging the lead!’

  ‘There must be something wrong,’ I expostulated. ‘Can’t you give him anything … pills, medicine?

  ‘Well, I can,’ he replied doubtfully, ‘though don’t suppose it’ll do much good. Tell you what though, we’ll try him with a sedative, that should keep him quiet.’

  ‘But he is quiet!’ I protested.

  ‘Well, he’ll be even quieter then, won’t he.’ And following that helpful observation he produced a syringe, and with a deft movement stuck it into Bouncer’s haunch. The dog emitted an anguished roar.

  ‘Lungs are in good nick anyway,’ said Robinson. ‘I’m off now – got a nice spot of liver and bacon for supper. Keep him warm, give him water, and any problems get on the blower. Cheerio for now!’ So saying, he picked up his case, eased Maurice out of the way with the toe of his shoe, and departed into the night.

  I stared down at the now loudly snoring Bouncer, wishing that I could treat my parishioners with the same cavalier bonhomie as the vet did his patients. Oddly enough, the latter invariably thrived; whereas I could never be entirely sure about my own particular flock.

  The next day was Saturday, and to my relief the dog seemed more his normal self: still lethargic but certainly back on his food. Indeed, if anything he seemed more avid than usual, presumably the result of the previous day’s fast. But there was still a great deal of sprawling about going on and the tail remained resolutely unwagged – an omission which in Bouncer is a sure sign of something amiss. I kept a watchful eye on him (as did Maurice, who barely left the kitchen and kept circling the dog’s basket in a really rather irritating way).

  Concern for the invalid had temporarily eclipsed my worry about Sunday and what Mrs Tubbly Pole was merrily calling our ‘jaunt’ to Foxford Wood. I still hadn’t worked out an exit strategy … And then, as I sat at the kitchen table putting the finishing touches to the next day’s sermon, the obvious pretext struck me: Bouncer’s malady! Clearly no one with a pet in such a perilous condition could possibly leave it all afternoon to fend for itself in an empty house. And besides, wouldn’t I be far too agitated to do full justice to her fascinating sleuthing project, not knowing quite what I might find on my return home? Surely as a fellow animal lover etc., etc. …

  I sat there smoking, embroidering the fabric and pumping up the drama. (Not that the drama needed much pumping. After all, the dog had appeared only too moribund the night before.) Glancing at the victim again, I was glad to see that he was beginning to look considerably more human. But that was a detail, and getting up I marched to the telephone.

  It is amazing how a few minutes of telecommunication can change one’s mood so radically, inducing abject misery or wildest relief. In this case it was mercifully the latter. Maud Tubbly Pole could not have been more attentive to Bouncer’s plight, advising innumerable remedies and nostrums and sending him Gunga Din’s fondest wishes. Indeed, such was her solicitude that I began to feel mildly guilty about chickening out. But such scruples were short-lived, and with brisk step I went into the sitting room, sat at the piano and embarked on a loud and lavish rendering of ‘Me and My Gal’. In the distance I could just detect a howl of protest from Maurice.

  Sunday afternoon was bliss: service and sermon over, fire stoked, phone off the hook, a fresh packet of humbugs, crossword amenable – and no Tubbly Pole! What could be nicer? Even Maurice seemed in benign mood, playing ingeniously with a cotton reel while Bouncer dozed on the hearthrug. It was at moments
like that when I really enjoyed being in Molehill … and indeed in the Church.

  Of course, God’s mercies are tantalizingly brief but they are very pleasant while they last. And with only the occasional parish hiccup to deal with, that particular benison lasted a good few days, after which I was sufficiently rested to face the trials inevitably in store. The first and major trial was Primrose. She had lost one of the Spendlers.

  24

  The Vicar’s Version

  ‘You’ve done what!’ I cried. ‘What do you mean, lost it?’

  ‘Well, not exactly lost, sort of sent elsewhere … by mistake, naturally,’ she added coolly.

  ‘Some mistake! It’s a monumental cock-up! How did you do it – and which one anyway?’

  ‘The smaller one, the one with the beach and the horse-faced youth. Most people would be only too glad to see the back of him – although,’ and she giggled, ‘come to think of it, with a vast behind like that, I’m not so sure!’

  ‘Vast arse or not, this is no laughing matter. My reputa-tion’s at stake!’

  ‘What, as vicar or fence?’

  ‘Both – I mean neither … Oh, for pity’s sake, Primrose, be serious and kindly explain!’

  She told me that she had been getting increasingly worried about having the two pictures on her premises and had decided that the safest means of concealment was disguise, i.e. to take them from their frames and slip the canvases into the backs of two of her own paintings. The larger was the problem as she didn’t have a picture of comparable size but at least she could deal with the smaller one, and selecting one of the less appealing sheep scenes she shoved it into the back of that.