Bones in the Belfry

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘Oh, don’t worry!’ she said. ‘It’s always like this to begin with. It’s amazing how quickly the spaces fill up once they start bringing their bits in. What you’ve got there is only the beginning, there’ll be far more junk to come!’

  ‘But I thought the idea was for things to be delivered in advance.’

  ‘Oh, that’s the idea, but the system always breaks down. People never take any notice of what they’re told, they just bring the stuff and dump it on you. You wait!’ So conceivably there was hope yet.

  Gradually people started trickling into the marquee and I assumed an expression of benign encouragement. It didn’t work terribly well, but the boredom was palliated by playing the game of ‘Spot the Bishop’. In fact the bishop was conspicuously absent, and as time wore on I grew more and more agitated.

  Almost an hour had passed and still no sign of Clinker, let alone Gladys. And then I saw Pick approaching wearing one of his habitually harassed expressions.

  ‘My Lord Bishop is late,’ he announced acidly. ‘Just telephoned. Claims he’s had a puncture. More likely too busy sleeping off his lunch!’ (‘Or practising tiddlywinks,’ I nearly said.) ‘Still, it all seems to be going perfectly well without him – plenty of punters, so can’t complain, I suppose …’ and he loped off to rummage in the Lucky Bran Tub. I sighed. Confound the man. Surely he could have got Gladys to change the wheel!

  A few minutes later Edith Hopgarden minced by, stopped, and cast a disdainful eye over my wares.

  ‘I see they’ve given you the wooden spoon, then,’ she observed with satisfaction.

  ‘Oh, it’s rather jolly,’ I replied enthusiastically. ‘It’s fascinating guessing what people are going to buy, you know!’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. How’s Mavis? Don’t think I’ve seen her this afternoon.’

  It was a topic she could not resist. ‘Oh, she’s bound to turn up! Been to one of those Art Appreciation classes in Godalming – so of course we shall all have to hear about that.’

  ‘Goodness!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is this a new venture? I didn’t know Mavis was so keen on art.’

  ‘It is and she isn’t,’ Edith replied tartly.

  ‘Oh – so why …?’

  ‘Because she likes to give the impression.’

  ‘Ah well, we all have our foibles …’ I observed vaguely.

  With a final withering look at the contents of my stall, she departed in the direction of the cake display. Needless to say no purchase had been made.

  A further twenty minutes elapsed and still no sign of the Clinkers. If they didn’t come soon the whole thing would be over – and what then, for God’s sake! My mood grew progressively darker and it was not helped by the curate sauntering over grinning foolishly.

  ‘Hey, that’s a right load of cobblers you’ve got there, Francis. Not much mileage in that lot!’

  I was about to retort that he could call me sir and get me a cup of tea – when out of the corner of my eye I suddenly glimpsed Gladys. She was talking volubly to anyone fool enough to listen; but other than the usual rucksack of a handbag, held nothing in her hands. Hope took another battering. Still, where there was Gladys there must also be Clinker.

  I scanned the crowd. And then, out of the blue, saw him standing only a few yards away … clutching a large square packet! Frantically hustling Barry out of the way, I adopted an air of ingratiating welcome.

  ‘Good afternoon, Oughterard,’ he boomed genially. ‘Glad you’re doing your bit. It’s what I always like to see, parishes getting together. Spreads the load, you know. What one might call ECU-MEN-ICAL!’ He chuckled.

  I laughed dutifully and eyed the package. ‘Is that something for the stall, sir?’

  ‘This? Oh yes, yes … nearly forgot. My wife sent it. Some frightful picture she dredged up. She’s been doing a spot of picture framing and found this at the back of another one. Presumably the last owner had had enough of it – though I’d have thought the bin a better place! Anyway you’re welcome to it, just right for your stall.’ He took off the wrappers and handed it over.

  I was about to place it unobtrusively against the side of the table when suddenly a familiar voice exclaimed, ‘Oh my, what a striking picture! How deeply significant!’

  Only Mavis Briggs could make an observation like that. We stared at her. ‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘such interesting tones: the dark shore, the dark sea, the dark sky, the dark moon, the dark-haired young man – though I hope he’s not too chilly!’ And she tittered coyly. ‘Then of course there’s the composition – waves, rocks … and er, pebbles,’ she added vaguely. ‘And, and – such depths!’

  ‘Depths?’ echoed Clinker blankly. ‘And I suppose they’re dark too!’

  She smiled pensively. ‘Oh yes, deeply dark …’

  Clearly the Art Appreciation classes were not adding much to Mavis’s wits and I wished she would clear off. The afternoon was drawing to a close, and with mission accomplished I was eager to shut up shop and make my getaway. However, it was not to be.

  ‘Well, if you think so much of it you’d better buy it,’ said Clinker challengingly. ‘Nothing’s more than one-and-sixpence on this stall, and since it’s the end of the day I’m sure the vicar will let you have it for a bob. Though come to think of it, I doubt if there’ll be any customers for this sort of artistry, so you can take it with my compliments.’ I shot him a furious look but he saw nothing. ‘Not my sort of thing at all, glad to get rid of it, dear lady. My wife found it and …’

  Mavis became even more animated, picked up the Spendler, and clasping it to her thin bosom exclaimed breathlessly, ‘Oh, Your Grace, what a wonderful gift, a truly wonderful gift. My lucky day, my lucky find!’ And bowing her head, she curtsied theatrically and precariously. Even Clinker had the grace to look embarrassed by his sudden elevation, and indeed so surprised by her obeisance that for one moment I thought he was going to curtsy back.

  ‘It will have pride of place in my little cottage and fit in so well with the stampeding elephants. Are you sure you have no use for it – I mean, what about your good wife? Surely a sensitive picture like this is bound to delight!’

  Clinker stared bleakly at the sensitive picture, contemplating the lugubrious youth with his emaciated shanks and outsize posterior, the raging seas, the desolate beach … ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘she has no use for it.’

  ‘Well, it must be worth something,’ Mavis bleated. ‘And I’m sure the Church can always do with a little extra!’ And so saying, she began to scrabble in her bag, eventually locating a purse from which, after further frenzied gropings, she produced a coin and thrust it into the bishop’s hand. And then, clutching the picture firmly, she capered off into the thinning crowd, pink-faced and babbling.

  ‘Why does she think it’s sensitive?’ exclaimed Clinker, staring down in wonder at the half-crown in his palm. ‘And what did she mean about the elephants?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir,’ I murmured, leaden-hearted. ‘You know how the ladies have their whims.’

  ‘I do indeed!’ he replied, staring balefully at the figure of Gladys in the far distance. He moved off, and I looked around wildly for Mavis thinking she might be cajoled into yielding up her prize. But she was already far ahead, gripping her trophy and tottering purposefully towards the waiting charabanc.

  ‘Dear God, don’t let her show it around!’ I implored. And then looking at her companions clambering on to the bus, I decided it wouldn’t really matter if she did. Festooned with thermoses and cake-stall produce, they were clearly far too engrossed in the teatime ritual to bother with the dreary daubings of Herr Spendler. In any case, as Nicholas Ingaza might have remarked, ‘Couldn’t tell a Spendler from a spent knitting needle!’ And why indeed should they?

  Nevertheless, she could not keep it – that was for certain. Nicholas would hardly be content with the return of only half his plunder. Something had to be done, and done quickly!

  Thankful that I had waived my right to a lift in
the coach, I left the overseeing of the return journey in the incapable hands of Barry, and sought the sanctuary of the Singer. Here I meditated – or rather, cudgelled my brains for some means of wresting the picture from its new owner. Nothing emerged, and enveloped in gloom I let in the clutch and started for home. Halfway there I overtook the coach, and through its window saw the curate standing at the front waving his arms as one possessed: presumably conducting a sing-song. I shuddered and pressed on grimly.

  All in all, an abortive day. And now once more I was faced with the impossible task of retrieving the picture! Slumped on the sofa and chewing an aspirin, I stared morosely at Maurice. He returned my stare with a look of searing indifference and then proceeded to groom his nether parts. No help there. From the hall came the faint sounds of the dog tackling his bone. After the previous year’s fracas with the music stool, bones were supposed to be off-limits in the sitting room (a rule, needless to say, consistently flouted). He had a perfectly good basket in the kitchen for such activity but seemed to take a perverse pleasure in grappling with the things as near to the forbidden area as possible, i.e. just on the other side of the door. However, despite its guttural overtone, the noise had a certain rhythm which was oddly soporific, and worn out by the day’s exertions I gradually dozed off.

  I awoke to the shrilling of the telephone. To my surprise it was Savage, the piano tuner. I say ‘surprise’, because although I liked Savage and our random meetings had always been amicable (indeed, he had helped me out on a couple of rather crucial occasions some months earlier), we were not so close as to be on telephoning terms. He must have felt the same sense of novelty for his tone sounded guarded and apologetic.

  ‘Ah,’ he began, ‘the wife’s been getting on at me to give you a call. She’s made some more of her fairy cakes – went a bit mad this time and the place is full of ’em. All over the shop, they are! She seems to think you could do with a batch. Don’t suppose you could – could you?’

  The first time I had encountered Mrs Savage’s fairy cakes was the occasion when Bishop Clinker, a little worse for wear, had just concluded an exhibition of the finer points of the cancan by collapsing on my sitting-room floor. Savage, bearing gifts of cakes, had arrived just in time to help heave the episcopal burden from the carpet and assist in its semi-revival. It had been a stressful experience, but when all was over, those sugary cakes had brought much comfort to jangled nerves. Perhaps this time too their silver balls and cochineal icing would induce a similar calm (or better still, inspire solution to the current difficulty).

  Thus I told Savage I would be most glad to help him out, and suggested he came round in an hour’s time. He sounded rather relieved and I wondered whether Mrs S. was having another of her ‘turns’. I never quite understood what these actually comprised, but judging from Savage’s cheery allusions presumably nothing unduly dire. Was frenzied activity in the baking department one of their symptoms perhaps …? I pondered this briefly but was soon re-immersed in thoughts of my own problem: how to tackle Mavis Briggs and her ‘lucky find’.

  Indeed, so absorbed was I by this question that I had quite forgotten to pour a drink or even light a cigarette. Both omissions were remedied with the arrival of Savage.

  He came in clutching his white stick and a large cardboard box which he was insistent I should open immediately and sample the contents. I wasn’t quite sure whether fairy cakes would go with whisky, but wanting the latter rather badly I was prepared to try the combination. As was Savage.

  We sat quietly, sipping and munching. The mixture was not unpleasant.

  ‘Nice bit of Scotch,’ he observed.

  ‘Jolly nice cakes!’ I exclaimed.

  He beamed. ‘Yes. Taste good, look good. She’s pretty slick at that kind of thing.’

  ‘How do you know how they look?’ I asked curiously. ‘I mean, you can’t see much, can you?’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ he replied blithely. ‘After all, I used to see. Besides, she describes them so often I know them like the back of my hand!’ And he chuckled indulgently. I recalled that Savage had indeed once seen – until 1944 on the Normandy beaches, when, to quote his own words, ‘A landmine well nigh blew me to buggery.’ Unlike his companions he had – again to quote his own words – ‘got off lightly’, losing neither his life nor his manhood … merely his sight. My own war had been prosaic, tiring, occasionally frightening, but never heroic. We were different, Savage and myself, and I respected him accordingly.

  ‘So,’ he said, settling further into his chair and finding the crisps, ‘what have you been up to, Rev? Not seen much of you recently. Piano all right, is it?’ I assured him it was fine thanks to his ministrations, but I was still struggling hopelessly with the ‘Goldberg’ pieces.

  ‘Oh well,’ he laughed, ‘they’ll see you out, make no mistake! I keep telling you to try the drums instead. Gene Krupa. Now there’s a marvel. Cor! If I could play like that I shouldn’t have to spend my time footling around with Molehill’s pianos!’ And he grinned blissfully, obviously seeing himself in some louche dive revving up the timpani Krupa-wise.

  I smiled sympathetically, knowing what it was to have unrealized dreams, and thought irritably of Nicholas Ingaza and his genius for messing them up. But it was not drums I hankered for, merely a little peace and quiet. And, between them, Nicholas and Mavis Briggs had made sure that I wasn’t getting either! I gazed at the two remaining fairy cakes, ruminating dolefully on the contrariness of things, as Savage continued to discourse on drumming and neighbourhood gossip, for both of which he had an unfailing ear.

  ‘… Anyway she’s hell bent on Bexhill,’ I heard him saying, ‘but I told her Las Vegas was more her style!’ And he roared with laughter.

  ‘Sorry – I missed that … who did you say?’

  ‘Mavis – Mavis Briggs. She’s off on holiday next week. Keen as mustard to go to Bexhill for some reason. Can’t think why, even the wife thinks it’s dreary!’

  I took another sip of whisky and then a bite of my cake, and examining its magenta icing said casually, ‘Well, that will be nice for her. How long is she going for? A week, I suppose – Monday to Monday or something like that … ?’

  ‘Wednesday, I think. Something about the coach being cheaper mid-week.’

  ‘What about the house? Does somebody look after it for her?’

  ‘Matter of fact I asked her that. But you know Mavis! She twittered a bit and then said that people were far too nice to think of breaking into her house and that she was blessed with a trusting nature, unlike some people she could mention – meaning me, I suppose!’ He grinned broadly and added, ‘Mavis’s idea of household security is to hide the spare key under the front mat! Told the wife so only last week. When Mrs S. asked if that wasn’t a bit dangerous, she said it suited her there because it was easy to remember. I ask you!’

  We laughed indulgently, drank some more whisky, and spent what was left of the evening putting the world and Molehill to rights.

  The clock struck ten. ‘Ah well,’ said Savage, getting up to go, ‘time I was off. Any later and the missus will be starting her baking again – can’t have that, not just yet anyway!’ I opened the front door for him, and still chuckling he tapped his way down the path and into the night.

  Returning to the sitting room I poured a final drink, dimmed the lights, and thought about Mavis being hell bent for Bexhill. And wondered …

  27

  The Vicar’s Version

  Exactly as threatened in his postcard from Le Touquet, Nicholas soon alerted me to his imminent intention of taking back the smaller Spendler and replacing it with an unspecified other. He was to arrive in two days’ time. Thanks to Savage’s revelation about Mavis’s intended holiday I had been able to make certain rudimentary plans re the picture’s retrieval. Nevertheless, I cannot say that the prospect of his visit filled me with rapturous delight.

  He arrived in what my father would doubtless have called ‘some damned Frog job’, i.e. a black
and sprawling Citroën Traction Avant circa 1945, which had the air of something one might have encountered winding its way up the tortuous bends between Berchtesgaden and Hitler’s Kehlsteinhaus. I thought irritably that it was typical of Ingaza’s perversity to prowl about in some sinister foreign car. Why he couldn’t run a decent Rover or Hillman like anyone else the Lord only knew!

  However, such irritation was swiftly eclipsed by acute anxiety: for reaching into the back seat he proceeded to extricate not simply another closely wrapped canvas, but one whose dimensions outstripped the two Spendlers put together! I watched bleakly as he manoeuvred it up the front path, and with heavy heart opened the porch door.

  ‘Well, old mate,’ he breezed, ‘nice to see you on your own holy ground again. Suits you better than the Old Schooner – more in keeping, you might say!’ And he grinned around quizzically at the tired linoleum and worn stair carpet adorned by a couple of Bouncer’s chewed Bonios. I said nothing, but indicated he should prop his burden against the banister, and took him into the sitting room where, dreading the news I had to impart, I poured him a particularly lavish gin. Two thirty in the afternoon was not exactly the normal drinking hour, but that was immaterial. What mattered was trying to soften the wrath which, after my confession, would surely come.

  It came. Unsoftened. ‘What the hell do you mean, you haven’t got it!’ he rasped. ‘Where is it, in God’s name?’

  My garbled and largely fabricated explanation was cut short by a graphic diatribe in which the phrases ‘twisting bastard’, ‘witless nincompoop’ and ‘frigging fruitcake’ seemed to feature quite forcefully. Other terms were also used. Eventually he subsided, and sleeking his hair with practised poise asked me in tones of silky menace how I proposed to retrieve his property. Not wishing to risk further ire by querying the accuracy of the possessive adjective, I told him it was all perfectly in hand and that we would go that very afternoon to Mavis’s empty house, remove the object from the wall and return to the vicarage for a celebratory cup of tea and cream bun.