Bones in the Belfry

by Suzette A. Hill

  He stared at me in cold silence, and then went to the sideboard and helped himself liberally to more of my gin. None was offered to me. He sipped it steadily while I nursed the cat, which for some reason had made one of its rare forays on to my lap.

  Then suddenly, and to my considerable relief, he started to laugh – one of those protracted nasal titters that in our student days at St Bede’s had so irritated the authorities. ‘Well, Francis,’ he said, ‘you may be dull but at least no one could accuse you of being predictable! How you cope with this job or it with you I just don’t know. Bloody shambles, I should think!’ And the titter turned into a splutter of mirth.

  I was glad that his mood had changed (albeit at the expense of my gin) but a trifle peeved by the aspersions cast on my pastoral competence. Apart from that disastrous wedding and the occasional near drowning of a baptismal infant, St Botolph’s services conformed to the strictest protocol, maintaining standards of professionalism quite alien to one such as Nicholas! However, in the circumstances it seemed imprudent to dispute the matter, and instead I suggested amiably that if he had finished his drink it was time we paid a visit to Mavis Briggs – or rather her deserted house.

  Having managed earlier in the week to inspect Mavis’s grossly inadequate security measures (and checked with Edith Hopgarden the exact date of her departure), I was able to stroll along the road with Nicholas confident in the knowledge that the coast was clear and access assured. We would slip in and out in a trice, lift the picture, and toting it casually in a large shopping bag bought specially for the purpose, return swiftly and unremarked to the vicarage. It wouldn’t take a moment.

  The only thing clouding my mind was the thought of that outsize object (presumably of similar ilk to the Spendlers) blocking up my hallway. Give Ingaza an inch and he would invariably take several miles! The situation was no better now than when he had first deposited the awful things with me two months ago. To be rid of the dreary seascape with its over-endowed and horse-faced youth was relief indeed, but to have a replacement foisted upon me – and one of so mammoth a size – was intolerable. And this time I couldn’t even shunt it off on to Primrose. Not that that had done any good – quite the opposite in fact. Elizabeth Fotherington, I mused, certainly knew how to direct her Nemesis!

  With Nemesis in mind I suddenly clutched Nicholas and hauled him into the hedge. My other persecutor, Maud Tubbly Pole, followed by her drooling bulldog, had appeared around the bend and was lumbering straight in our direction.

  ‘Christ, Francis,’ gasped Nicholas, ‘what are you doing! Not here, dear boy, it wouldn’t be seemly!’

  ‘Shut up and keep still!’ I hissed between clenched teeth.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Just shut up,’ I repeated, dragging him further into the thicket and its nettles.

  ‘Bloody hell, Francis –’ he started to protest. But I silenced him with a sharp elbow to the ribs as dog and mistress drew level … and then went wheezing past.

  ‘Phew, that was near!’ I gasped, releasing Nicholas and picking up the fallen carrier bag.

  ‘It wasn’t near – it was effing mad! Just look at my suit, all covered in burrs, and I’ve got a scalding nettle sting on my cheek. It’s a bit bloody much! What were you doing?’

  In view of the trouble he and his pictures had put me to I have to admit to experiencing a whiff of satisfaction as I regarded the burr-strewn suit and reddening skin. However, Christian charity prevailed and I apologized for the inconvenience, explaining that I had been trying to side-step a parishioner.

  For some reason, that seemed to silence him. And then he said musingly, ‘Of course, I always knew you were quietly barking. I remember when –’

  ‘Barking I may be,’ I replied with asperity, ‘but at least I’ve never been rampant in a Turkish bath!’

  And thus, wrangling and carping, we continued our way to Mavis Briggs’s cottage. Once there things were remarkably easy. The blinds were drawn and the key still lay obligingly under the mat. However, it proved redundant for surprisingly the door was unlocked. Poor Mavis, she really hadn’t a clue! And just for a moment I had a pang of guilt and hoped she was enjoying the Bexhill air.

  We stepped smartly into the small hallway, its silence lacerated by the ticking of the cuckoo clock, took our bearings and edged towards what I vaguely remembered to be the drawing room. I say ‘vaguely’ as I had only once before been in Mavis’s house – a dismal occasion held ostensibly to welcome the new vicar (me), but in reality an excuse for its owner to indulge in some of her execrable and interminable recitations. The memory was indelibly incised upon my mind, and even as I crossed the threshold a terrible weight of gloom came upon me. We scanned the walls, but apart from random flying ducks and geese, plus of course the stampeding elephants, there was no sign of the Spendler.

  ‘You see,’ whispered Nicholas querulously, ‘it’s not bloody here!’

  ‘Have faith,’ I answered, ‘it’s not the only place. I think the dining room is next door. We’ll try that.’ We moved back into the hall, passed the kitchen, and entered the dining room. It was rather dark, and apart from a table and sideboard there was little to see. I went over to the window and swished back the curtains. The afternoon sun flooded in. And there, displayed over the serving hatch, hung the Spendler in all its grim glory. I winced and Nicholas emitted a sound of rapturous relief.

  ‘That’s the fucker!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Would you mind …’ I started to protest, and then stopped abruptly. From above there was the unmistakable sound of movement. Footsteps could be heard stomping across the ceiling. A door creaked, and as we froze there came the quavering voice of Mavis Briggs!

  ‘Hello … hello. Is there someone there? Do you want something?’

  Caught in that dreadful instant of fear and unreality, we stared at each other like paralysed rats in a trap, while Mavis repeated her question. ‘Excuse me, is anyone there? Can I help you? Who is it?’ The timid tones, though faint, seemed to echo around the house like the voice of doom.

  Taking a deep breath I cleared my throat resolutely, and marching into the hall said, ‘It’s all right, Mavis. It’s only me, the vicar. Just passing – thought I’d check to see that everything was in order. Can’t be too careful, you know!’ The words sounded falsely hearty, as indeed they were, and my confidence was hardly helped by a sneeze and strangulated curse from Nicholas hovering in the dining room. I shut the door firmly and went to the foot of the stairs. At the top stood Mavis whey-faced and draped in what looked like a shroud. I recoiled, but then realized it was her nightgown.

  ‘I – er, thought you were in Bexhill,’ I began, ‘otherwise wouldn’t dream of disturbing …’

  ‘Well, I was going,’ she said still quavering, ‘but you see, I was struck down at the last moment by a very nasty cold’ (and she coughed delicately to make the point) ‘and I didn’t think I could do justice to the seaside. My friend down there agreed with me. Indeed she was most insistent I should not come.’

  ‘Quite right,’ I replied, trusting the friend was making the most of the reprieve. ‘There’s nothing worse than being on holiday and not feeling a hundred per cent.’

  ‘And then of course there’s my arm,’ she continued plaintively. ‘It’s not mended yet, you know – I still have spasms.’ And like some mesmerized ghost she flapped it vaguely in the air. ‘So what with that and this cold I decided …’

  At that moment there was what you might call a spasm from the dining room and something that sounded horribly like splintering glass. Desperately I searched for some explanation or pre-emptive tactic – for surely Mavis could not have failed to hear. What the hell was he up to!

  In fact, Mavis now seemed oblivious of all disturbance for she was clearly intent on apprising me of her various aches and ailments, and appeared deaf to any racket of Ingaza’s making.

  ‘… and so you see,’ she continued, ‘although aspirin can be useful I really prefer Friars Balsam and a nice
cup of Horlicks. It works wonders for most things – but not unfortunately for spasms … Do you ever suffer from those, Vicar?’ (Yes, I thought bitterly, all the time.) ‘I notice that your leg is still causing problems, but of course in my case …’ And thus she droned and droned.

  Out of the corner of my eye I sensed a shadow at the hall window, and shooting a furtive glance saw Nicholas. He must have forced the garden door in the dining room (hence the tinkling glass), and was now holding aloft the Spendler, while simultaneously pulling faces and making frantic movements with his elbow. I think he wanted the shopping bag.

  At that moment Mavis broke off her ramblings and enquired graciously if I would like a cup of tea. ‘I fear my poor throat can’t cope with anything at the moment but I’m sure you would like one, Vicar. I’ll be down in a jiffy – just let me slip on a dressing gown. Oh, and while I think of it, you must see my fascinating acquisition in the dining room. The dear bishop will be so glad to know that it’s come to a good home. Now you’ll be sure to tell him, won’t you?’

  ‘No!’ I shouted. She looked startled.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because I don’t like it!’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, sounding pained, ‘I think it’s very nice – very nice indeed. Still, they tell me it’s all a matter of taste …’

  ‘Not to my taste, it isn’t – at least not at this time of day. Only in the morning!’

  She looked even more moronically baffled than usual. ‘Well, Vicar, I can’t see what the time of day has to do with it, and in any case surely it wouldn’t hurt to tell him.’

  ‘Tell who?’

  ‘Why, Bishop Clinker of course!’

  ‘Not Clinker, tea!’ I expostulated. ‘I don’t like it. Do NOT come down!’

  ‘Oh, but I must!’ she insisted. ‘You may not like tea but at least you’ll love the picture!’ And so saying she shuffled back along the landing to fetch the dressing gown. I shot to the front door and found Nicholas skulking in the porch with the picture propped up against a decorative urn just outside.

  ‘For Christ’s sake give me the bag!’ he cried. ‘I can’t carry it like this, far too risky. Where’s the old bat now?’

  ‘About to come downstairs and raise the roof. Bugger the bag, just get going!’ I tried to propel him out of the way but it was too late. Mavis was descending the stairs, shroud on shroud.

  Framed in the doorway as we were, even she could not fail to see the pair of us. ‘Oh dear – so you’re going. But who is …?’

  ‘This is Archdeacon Benchley,’ I answered firmly, closing the door and ushering Nicholas forward.

  28

  The Cat’s Memoir

  ‘And then what happened?’ asked Bouncer as we crouched beneath our favourite yew tree.

  ‘Well, by then F.O. had shut the front door and it was quite difficult to ascertain the exact procedures …’

  ‘You mean you don’t know,’ the dog said.

  I told him that I most certainly did know and that if he had the courtesy to listen I would apprise him of events. He sighed, scratched his ear and said, ‘All right then, go on.’ I went on.

  ‘The instant the door was closed and my view impeded, I whisked round to the side of the house and positioned myself on the window ledge overlooking the hallway. The window was slightly ajar and so, Bouncer, I could see and hear everything.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘The Ingaza man stood there white and twitching while F.O. discoursed on the length of their friendship, claiming that his companion was a visiting archdeacon from Brighton called Benchley who had a passion for geraniums.’

  ‘What’s geraniums got to do with it?’ asked Bouncer.

  ‘Kindly don’t interrupt, I am coming to that. Mavis Briggs – the apparition on the stairs – has a penchant for geraniums –’

  ‘Has what?’

  I sighed. ‘She likes them. Has them trailing in pots all round the house and garden – a little like the Carruthers woman, only with that one it’s gnomes. Personally, I find them rather tasteless – too obvious. Now the occasional bergamot and drifts of Nepeta mussinii would be a different matter altogether, but unfortunately –’

  ‘Oh, do go on, Maurice!’ the dog growled.

  I sighed, and continued my narrative. ‘Well, as she likes geraniums and takes great pains to cultivate them, I suppose F.O. thought she might be disarmed by the arch-deacon’s interest and thus be diverted from wondering what two parsons were doing in her house in the middle of the afternoon stealing her painting.’

  ‘And was she?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

  ‘What do you mean “in a manner of speaking”?’

  ‘Oh, really, Bouncer,’ I hissed impatiently, ‘there are times when you are singularly obtuse!’

  ‘And you,’ he replied, suddenly lurching to his feet and fixing me with a belligerent stare, ‘you are …’ He hesitated, panting loudly and shifting from paw to paw. ‘You are – PRO … LICKS!!’

  I recoiled, momentarily stunned by both content and delivery. And then swiftly recovering my wits, put two and two together. He had been in truculent mood all afternoon, something to do with O’Shaughnessy beating him in the weekly race around the graveyard, so obviously the ill temper was due to injured pride. But prolix was more difficult to explain. Where had he got it from? And then of course I remembered: he had been in the crypt again – quite a long sojourn, only two days ago. It’s all that dog Latin on the tombs and plaques, it has a curious effect on his canine psyche and he comes out with the most extraordinary terms which you would never think he could know! Of course, he doesn’t know them really; just snaps them up and spits them out, but occasionally they can be uncannily apposite. Not in this case, naturally. After all, no one could accuse yours truly of being prolix!

  Anyway, feeling in benign mood I chose to overlook the dog’s outburst, and after a casual ablution continued with my account.

  ‘In the circumstances,’ I opined, ‘the vicar dealt with the matter tolerably well and had that Briggs woman eating out of his hand – though of course she is not exactly renowned for her acumen. The friend was less convincing; and standing there with Brylcreemed hair, flashing signet ring and spivvy suit, anyone less like an archdeacon it would be hard to imagine. F.O. forced him to examine the geraniums and make appropriate remarks but he looked distinctly sick and one felt not really entering into the spirit of the thing.’

  ‘But it worked, did it?’ pressed Bouncer anxiously. ‘They got out all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, they got out – and with the picture.’

  ‘So everything’s OK, is it?’

  ‘Well, yes and no.’

  ‘MAURICE!’

  I continued hastily. ‘You see, just as they got into the lane there was a great cascade of shrieks from the house.’

  Bouncer guffawed. ‘Old girl discovered the theft, had she?’

  ‘Yes, and that really set them running – puffing and blinding all along the Guildford road and back to the vicarage. I thought that the Benchley/Ingaza man was going to expire. An absurd spectacle, only humans can behave like that!’

  ‘Or vicars,’ said Bouncer.

  29

  The Vicar’s Version

  Crises provoke excessive reactions, and conferring the status of archdeacon upon Nicholas Ingaza was clearly an error of judgement. At the time it had been useful, inducing in Mavis a state of such fawning deference that we had been able to make our getaway with relative ease – despite the return to the vicarage being necessarily energetic. It was the repercussions that were embarrassing. Incensed by the robbery, Mavis had taken it into her head to telephone Clinker lamenting the loss of his gift, but applauding myself and the archdeacon – without whose presence, she declared, dire and intimate results might have ensued! I learnt this from Clinker himself who the following day had contacted me in some annoyance.

  ‘Look here, Oughterard, that woman who accosted me about the picture I
brought to Pick’s bazaar – I’ve just had her on the blower telling me she’s been burgled, and apparently rescued from a fate worse than death by you and some archdeacon called Benchley. I can’t imagine you rescuing anybody, whatever the circumstances … but who’s this chap Benchley? What’s his diocese? Certainly not mine! She seemed to think he was an expert on geraniums – I don’t know anyone of that kind. Where does he come from? She said something about Brighton, but that’s nonsense. I’d look him up but can’t find my confounded Crockford – Gladys dusting the books again!’

  ‘Ah …’ I ventured.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, it’s always annoying when one’s books are disturbed.’

  ‘That’s hardly the point, Oughterard! Who is Benchley?’

  ‘Oh,’ I laughed, ‘she’s got it wrong! Benchley has been staying in Brighton but comes from Australia – the Outback actually, special work among the aborigines …’

  ‘I see,’ said Clinker drily. ‘Helping them to grow their geraniums, I suppose.’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve quite enough on my plate without being rung up by witless females from your parish thinking they’ve been on the point of rape. Kindly see that it doesn’t happen again. Wednesday is my busy day, I’ve got a full programme this afternoon and I am running late as it is.’

  ‘I am sure Mrs Carruthers won’t mind …’ I began, but he had already rung off.