‘Well, that’s all right,’ I said, ‘quite a sensible idea. So what went wrong?’
She explained that her studio was becoming hopelessly cluttered and so she had removed a large number of the sketches and paintings to the attic. With a tight schedule to complete, she had been in a hurry and hadn’t bothered to sort or even stack them properly, intending to do it later.
Sensing what might be coming next, I said acidly, ‘So in the meantime that priceless Spendler was stuck there overlaid and cheek by jowl with all the sheep rubbish! And now I suppose you’re going to tell me that in the general shambles you’ve shipped it off to some unknown client or gallery!’
‘Gosh, Francis, just now and again you’re pretty sharp! But actually you haven’t got it quite right –’
‘Why not?’ I snapped.
‘Well, you see, the client – or purchaser rather – is not unknown.’
‘Oh? Who?’
There was a pause, and then she said quietly, ‘I think you may know someone by the name of Gladys Clinker …’
The receiver dropped from my hand and I sat down heavily on the cat whose screech of horror seemed entirely commensurate with the occasion. Then taking a deep breath and groping on the desk for an Anadin, I asked her as calmly as I was able how she had come to encounter the bishop’s wife.
‘This large woman appeared one day in the Lewes gift shop where I flog some of my stuff. She was with a couple of others and they all had loud voices, though hers was the loudest,’ (Gladys all right!) ‘and after a bit of oohing and aahing over the pots and gew-gaws, she asked if by any chance I would sell her three or four of my things at a discount. Said something about wanting to surprise her husband, and that as she was attending picture-framing classes thought they might also come in handy for practising on. Wasn’t too keen on that last part – a bit cheeky, I thought! But four pictures in one go, even with a discount, is quite a haul, so naturally I sold them to her.’
‘Naturally,’ I said wearily.
‘It was only when I got home that I realized the hidden Spendler was among them; and after checking the name and address on the invoice, recognized she must be the wife of that bishop you’re always cursing. Small world, isn’t it!’
Ignoring the last observation, I told her that her negligence had placed me in an appalling position and I felt deeply wounded by one I had supposed an ally. An apology was surely forthcoming.
‘Apology be damned! I’ve gone to considerable lengths for you and it’s been distinctly troublesome. After all, I never wanted the things here in the first place. And frankly, Francis dear, if you ever again refer to my sheep as being rubbish I shall lose the other Spendler as well!’ I sighed. She would too.
It was a facer all right, and I sat down soberly, trying to concoct some plan of action, even taking up pencil and notepad in the hope that by committing ideas to paper they might look vaguely feasible. This could have been helpful had there been any ideas to commit. As it was, I sat there blankly, chewing the pencil and once more cursing Nicholas. Ten minutes later the telephone rang again. Perhaps it was Primrose in more penitent frame of mind.
It was Primrose all right, but far from penitent and exceedingly angry.
‘Do you realize,’ she commenced icily, ‘the danger this has put me in? If that frightful woman starts hacking around with those frames the Spendler will be exposed and I shall be required to provide an explanation! Should that occur I shall have no hesitation in explaining that it had been passed to me by my brother, the vicar of Molehill.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘Er … for the moment, yes.’
‘Well, let me put a few words into your mouth,’ she seethed. ‘How about, “Yes, Primrose, I will do my level best to prise the painting out of that woman’s hands before it is too late. And failing that, should you be hauled before the High Court I will solemnly swear to take the rap for everything and tell the world that Primrose Oughterard is a woman of unimpeachable probity.”’
‘Yes, yes, yes …’ I said, tired of the drama and rather badly wanting a restorative. There came a further shell blast from the other end and then the line went dead. I took the receiver off the hook.
It was not one of my better nights, and the following morning was hardly helped by an unexpected visit from the rector of St Hilda’s of the adjoining parish. I don’t dislike Theodore Pick and he has done me a few good turns in the past, not least by lending me his curate, Barry, when I was forced to make that fateful trip to Sussex with the paintings. However, there is something about Pick which dampens the spirits and weakens the sinews. He is perfectly civil, and it is difficult to understand why he should have this effect, but I know that I am not the only one who experiences a distinct lowering of temperature in his presence. Indeed, I recall Rummage at some conference observing that ‘old Theo’ was the last person from whom you could expect a good pick-me-up! I am always loath to agree with Basil Rummage about anything, but in this particular case I think he was right.
Anyway, Pick appeared just as I was finishing my last slice of toast. He was still in his cassock from early service, and with his beaky nose and furrowed brow had the air of a careworn raven.
‘Hope you can get rid of these,’ he announced dolefully, thrusting a bunch of leaflets into my hands, ‘flyers for our Spring Fête. It’s some centenary or other and we’ve got to put on a good show. Need all the numbers we can get – and helpers,’ he added pointedly.
I gave a wan smile. ‘You’d like me to come along, would you? Help with the teas or something?’
‘Exactly!’ he replied. ‘That would be most useful, Francis. Thought I could rely on you to put a shoulder to the wheel!’ (As if I hadn’t got enough wheels of my own to shoulder!) ‘The problem is finding something new to offer – one gets so tired of the Mothers’ Union hammering their tambourines all over the place and Major Pegley doing his impressions of an Indian snake charmer … Don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas, have you?’
I told him my mind was like kapok that morning but I would alert him should inspiration strike. He sighed heavily. ‘Oh well, I suppose we shall get through it, we generally do. At least the bishop is coming which is something, though I fear Mrs will be accompanying him – as usual. Think she said she’d be bringing a picture for the White Elephant stall. Much help that’ll be!’
The word ‘picture’ struck a Pavlovian chill of fear, but I nodded sympathetically and enquired casually what sort of picture and did it have any sheep in it.
‘I don’t know. Why on earth should it have sheep? Anyway, does it matter? It’s all junk and never raises more than a pittance! … Matter of fact, I think she said something about finding it stuck behind another canvas – it’s some beach scene or other – but she’s always spouting garbage, I never listen to the woman. One thing’s for certain, it’s not going to help my fête get off the ground!’ And producing more leaflets from the folds of his cassock and dropping them on the table, he took his leave and flapped mournfully down the path.
After he had gone I lit a cigarette and brooded. The news was dire. Thanks to Gladys’s framing zeal, the Spendler’s fate was problematic to say the least. Given its artistic awfulness this wouldn’t have mattered a jot, despite the high price. But if Nicholas Ingaza were to forfeit a nice fat pay-off on account of my negligence, it would not just be the picture’s fate that hung in the balance! Recalling our days at St Bede’s, I remembered how firmly he had embraced the principle of quid pro quo and how those less scrupulous in their adherence to the code had suffered accordingly. Were he now to feel my quid had shortchanged his quo I suspected that things could get more than bumpy! The spectre of the forest glade with its incriminating binoculars danced before my eyes,* and I shuddered.
Besides, quite apart from the Nicholas angle, supposing the thing were recognized anyway? The excitement would be intense, questions asked, trails pursued. The Clinkers would be interviewed,
Primrose traced … the vicar of Molehill arrested. I sat sick with fear as the awesome possibilities crowded into my mind. If they started investigating my part in the picture theft, what else might they not uncover! Despite the room’s warmth, I felt cold and my hands clammy with fear. Limbs numbed, imagination horribly active, I sat staring at the mantelpiece and the photograph of my father, whose large cigar and complacent expression did little to assuage the mounting panic. I turned my gaze to the dozing dog; and calming a little, reflected that at least I knew where the thing was, who had it and where it was currently destined. Knowledge is power. How to exercise it? Letting an hour elapse to allow him time to reach home, I dialled the number of the Reverend Theodore Pick.
‘I say, Pick,’ I began, beaming down the telephone, ‘I’ve been thinking about your fête and would be more than happy to man the White Elephant stall, I rather enjoy that sort of thing – if nobody else has offered of course.’
‘Who on earth would offer?’ he intoned grimly. ‘Surprised you don’t want the tombola, people seem to like it for some reason. Still, far be it from me to question a gift horse … Thanks, Oughterard, you’re on!’ I was about to replace the receiver when he added, ‘I tell you what would be really good, if you could organize a coachload from Molehill to help swell the numbers. I don’t trust my lot. It’s a Saturday and they’d as soon be at the cinema or the races as support their parish fête. Bound to be a poor turn-out. Probably rain anyway.’
Always the optimist, Pick. ‘Of course,’ I cried gaily. ‘No problem at all. Molehill will be there, you can count on us!’
I would pledge him anything if it meant I could secure that White Elephant stall and pip the other beggars to the post!
* See A Load of Old Bones
25
The Dog’s Diary
Well, I can tell you, I was JOLLY GOOD, and thanks to me F.O. didn’t have to go with Tubbly and be forced to loiter around the murder patch. We could see he was working himself into a lather, and that’s the last thing that’s needed. If he cracks we’ve all had it! It suits us here and if anything was to happen to our master, things could get pretty hairy! In any case, the vicar’s kind and we like him. At least I do, though you never really know what the cat likes except for the sound of his own voice. (You’d never guess the number of instructions he kept giving me when I was dying in my basket. Made snoozing a nightmare!)
As a matter of fact, Maurice has been very civil lately. Probably impressed by my MALING thing or whatever he calls it. I know it was his idea but it was me who did it – just like with the cigarette lighter in the wood last year. Goes to show, I’m quite a useful dog to have around. Maurice said he overheard F.O. telling Tubbly about me being ill and why he couldn’t go with her on the walk. He was perched right by the telephone and could hear her saying that Gunga Din sent me his love. I always knew bulldogs had a soppy side to them!
Anyway, this last week has been pretty good: F.O. on form and playing endlessly on that nice piano, Maurice busy with his mice (there’s a new lot arrived and they haven’t got the hang of him yet), and me getting extra Bonios on account of my AGUE. All in all, everyone’s had a nice easy time of it, but I don’t suppose it’ll last – it never does. He had a phone call from that sister of his today and went as white as the cat’s left paw. Something’s brewing, I feel it in my bones …
The bones were right: he’s on the pills again and crunching humbugs like some berserk rabbit with fangs. Even Maurice has noticed. That nice Mr Savage came to tune the piano this evening and I thought that might help, as his visits generally have a calming effect and put the vicar in a good mood; but it didn’t work, or at least not for long.
It’s bound to be something to do with those boring pictures again. Ever since that flash type from Brighton brought them here there’s been trouble. It’s a great pity that when Maurice and me first found them in the belfry we didn’t do a nice little demolition job. With his claws and my teeth we could have buggered them up in no time and they’d be gone for ever! (O’Shaughnessy could have lent a paw as well, he’d have enjoyed that.) Still, as Maurice is given to saying, it’s no use mewing over spilt milk. We’ll just have to keep an eye on things, try to be good, and do what we can …
You know, after all this thinking I’m beginning to feel pretty peckish so perhaps I’ll raid the pantry. In his present state he’ll never notice a thing!
He did notice and now I’ve got a tanned backside.
26
The Vicar’s Version
The next fortnight was a time of great tension and I could think of little else except the wretched painting. It was typical of Fate’s law that the picture chosen by Gladys as victim for her framing practice had been the one concealing the Spendler. But why had she not recognized the thing? After all, I reflected, the case had received wide publicity with photographs appearing on the arts pages of at least two of the broadsheets. It was curious … Or was it? For surely my own interest had been sparked only by force of circumstance. Had I been less intimately involved I should probably have given the matter scant attention. Perhaps, like thousands of others, the Clinkers were not remotely interested in contemporary art (Gladys in particular, I suspected, being far more absorbed in reading the obituary columns and the Court Circular than dwelling on matters cultural). Yes, quite clearly they had simply overlooked the newspaper reports and had no idea of the value of their find: hence the White Elephant stall. I just prayed no one would enlighten them in the meantime!
The main thing was that I had got charge of the stall. Items were generally delivered prior to the event, and thus if all went well I could intercept the donation before the need to display it. Bolstered by that thought, my mind turned to drumming up trade and organizing a charabanc.
Local interest proved more keen than I had expected, and rallying forty people for the coach required little effort. In this respect Edith Hopgarden was unusually helpful, distributing the bulk of Pick’s flyers and even designing posters coyly decorated with beribboned Easter eggs and prancing fairies (or angels – the distinction being unclear). When I congratulated Edith on her artistic endeavours she sniffed loudly and said that the embellishments were not of her doing but had been appended unsanctioned by Mavis Briggs who was beginning to fancy herself as a latter-day Leonardo. I might have guessed.
Three days before the event I had a phone call from Pick asking if there might be a spare seat in the coach on its way back to Molehill. Barry, the curate, was due for some leave starting the following Monday, and Pick had suggested he should begin it a couple of days early as soon as the fête was over. ‘He lives up in Scunthorpe or Wigan – or somewhere,’ he said vaguely, ‘and there’s an evening train from Guildford going in that direction. Failing that he’ll have to wait till after the weekend as the Sunday service is hopeless. You could drop him off at the station. The sooner he gets away the better. No need for the poor fellow to hang about more than he has to.’
What Pick meant was that the sooner the curate was off his hands, the sooner he could enjoy his absence. Barry Smith’s probationary stint at St Hilda’s had not been an unqualified success (something of which he himself seemed happily unaware). On arrival he had been quiet, diffident and ineffectual: six months later he was still ineffectual but had grown unnervingly loud and eager. The boy’s cheerfulness was endearing but it was a cheer unproductive of anything remotely useful. I was glad that he belonged to St Hilda’s and not St Botolph’s.
As I had surmised, the arrangement for the White Elephant stall was that items should be delivered in advance and stored in Pick’s garage. On the day itself I was required to drive over a good hour before the opening to select the merchandise and set up my wares. This suited me very well for it meant that with a combination of nonchalance and sleight of hand I could appropriate the painting and surreptitiously transport it to my car without anyone being the wiser. It seemed straightforward enough and I felt relieved that the matter was at last settled. The piano began to
beckon and I spent a pleasant hour reminiscing with Ellington and Cole Porter.
The Saturday was sunny but cold, and I was glad that St Hilda’s fête committee had had the foresight to lay on a tent for the teas and some of the stalls. The hoopla and the tambourine players had the misfortune of being allocated a particularly draughty corner of the rectory field; but by arriving early I was able to secure a place well within the portals of the marquee.
I went to investigate Pick’s garage. He had been right: there was an awful lot of junk to be accounted for and it would be quite difficult setting things up to give an illusion of enticement. Garish plastic flowers, rusting tea trays, a blue knitted giraffe with mangled ear, and an object that looked uncomfortably like some ancient truss, were some of the items which would have challenged the ingenuity of the most practised window-dresser. How on earth could such things attract attention, let alone coins! I scanned the rubbish for Gladys’s picture, and seeing a large parcel wrapped in brown paper eagerly tore off its covers. What was revealed was not the anaemic youth on his sodden beach, but a mildewed tapestry of faded blooms, its frame bent and glass splintered. I was aghast. Surely even Gladys wouldn’t have had the nerve to present something quite so useless! It couldn’t possibly be her offering. But in which case, where on earth was it? My renewed scrabblings produced nothing. The painting simply wasn’t there.
I surveyed the collection in furious disappointment, cursing Gladys for her treachery. Why promise the wretched thing if she had no intention of giving it? It was too bad! In the distance I could hear the strains of the Scout band and then the fractured garglings of the loudspeaker: Pick doing his warm-up act. Gloomily I gathered up the bits and pieces and started to tote them over to the marquee and arrange them on the table. It was a rather meagre display and I felt embarrassed being associated with such a sorry collection. In fact I said as much to the stallholder next to me, an angular lady with wild hair and friendly face.
Bones in the Belfry Page 12