Bones in the Belfry

by Suzette A. Hill

  There were of course other embarrassments: Nicholas and the police. The former was in even poorer physical condition than myself, and when we arrived back at the vicarage it was some time before he could recover and, unfortunately, speak. When he did so, it was to provide a colourful and imaginative account of my parentage embellished by quizzical references to my sanity. Once that was over, I suggested he try one of the cream buns specially reserved for our return; but he didn’t seem to think much of that so I dropped the idea.

  However, at least the crisis produced one good thing: I would not now have to suffer the penance of harbouring yet another of his ‘belongings’. Mavis’s Spendler was not the only picture to be deposited in his car: for after more heaving, the large item in the hall was also returned to the Citroën’s back seat. Apparently, I was not to be entrusted with further consignments from the art world! Theoretically, this should have been my cue to suggest that he also relieve me of the remaining one stored in the belfry – except, of course, that by now it wasn’t in the belfry but with Primrose. It did not seem quite the right moment to reveal this fact … indeed, I was fearful that the same idea might occur to Nicholas, but mercifully he was too preoccupied with the matters in hand and nothing was said.

  Getting rid of both visitor and merchandise was one thing: but there was surely still the inevitable problem of a police interview. I sighed morosely and scowled at Bouncer who promptly wagged his tail. Another brush with the law to be endured and parried!

  The following day my spirits might have been soothed by the prospect of Choral Evensong – had I not been met in the church porch by Mavis, clearly recovered from her ague and eager to rake over the robbery. The clerical presence had, she felt sure, affected the conscience of the intruder and deterred him from making further inroads. Indeed, were it not for myself and the nice archdeacon anything might have happened! Recalling Clinker’s words, it struck me that her evident excitement was perhaps based on the hope that the burglar’s motive was less the theft of her picture than her honour. I was about to observe that surely nobody in their right mind would consider the latter, when Edith Hopgarden appeared and the two got into a heated huddle over the distribution of hymn books.

  Evensong over, I was again waylaid by Mavis bursting to relate her experiences with the police officers.

  ‘… and that Mr March, so sensible and comforting. He assured me he would get my painting back in next to no time!’ (Was Ingaza aware of that? I wondered.)

  Having previously encountered March engaged on the Fotherington case, I was unsurprised that the detective inspector had so far failed to link Mavis’s picture with the Spendler work. He was not somebody who struck me as being especially clued up on artistic matters, or indeed on anything of a cultural bias – unless one counted the prize dahlias. But I just hoped that this time his investigations would not be aided by the weedy Samson, a sallow, sharp-nosed type whose presence some months previously I had found more than irksome. Surely by now he would have got promotion and gone elsewhere.

  Naturally, no such luck. So once more, looking rather like a sinister parody of Abbott and Costello and clad in matching raincoats, they appeared together on my doorstep: the one narrow and pinched, the other stout and grizzled. And, as before, I faced them in a state of genial terror.

  After the preliminary pleasantries (from March, not Samson) they got down to brass tacks.

  ‘Lucky for the lady that you were actually there at the time of the intrusion,’ March commenced, ‘you and the, er, other clerical gentleman.’

  ‘Well, ye-es,’ I replied hesitantly. ‘But of course one isn’t entirely sure if we were there, I mean …’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t know whether you were at her house or not?’ cut in Samson with his usual acidity. I recalled how like a suspicious whippet he had seemed that first time around; and confronting him now, almost a year later, I felt the resemblance even more marked. He quivered in his corner as I patiently explained my position.

  ‘I was about to say that although we were indeed there, it is quite possible that the robbery took place long before our arrival.’

  ‘She doesn’t think so.’

  ‘Perhaps the lady is mistaken,’ I suggested gently. ‘After all, we didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘No? And what might you have expected to hear?’

  The words ‘breaking glass’ sprang to my lips but I bit them back, realizing that although Mavis had mentioned the shattered garden door it wouldn’t do to sound too knowledgeable. Instead I said the first thing that came into my head: ‘Bumps, I should imagine.’ He wrote something in his notebook (‘bumps’?), and I was about to continue but was interrupted by March clearing his throat loudly.

  ‘You see, Mr Oughterard, Miss Briggs says she had occasion to go down into the dining room just before you and the other gentleman arrived – said something about looking for a chest poultice in the sideboard. Funny the places people like to keep things.’ And he grinned. His colleague did not. ‘Apparently the picture was on the wall then all right, in fact she kept going on about how nice she thought it had looked.’

  ‘So it’s obvious the theft took place while you were both there,’ snapped the Whippet.

  ‘So it would seem … how extraordinary!’ I exclaimed. ‘That means the burglar must have already been in the dining room when we arrived, skulking there and –’

  ‘I think there were two of them,’ interjected Samson. I didn’t like the sound of that but assumed an air of fascinated curiosity.

  ‘Really? Whatever makes you think that? They must have been jolly quiet!’

  ‘Yes. Jolly.’ He had always been impertinent.

  ‘Ah, Samson and his hunches!’ March laughed. ‘Often they’re wrong – but mind you, more often they’re right! Isn’t that so, Sidney?’ The latter sat in silence examining his nicotined fingers. ‘Anyway, Reverend, what about this other gentleman, the, uhm, archdeacon. Are you sure he didn’t see or hear anything?’

  ‘He didn’t mention it,’ I said, ‘besides, he’s rather deaf.’

  ‘And blind?’ asked the Whippet.

  I ignored that, as did March, who went on to ask if I had Benchley’s contact details. This was what I had been fearing, but hoped they would be fobbed off with my reply that the archdeacon had embarked on an indefinite walking tour of the Austrian Alps prior to returning to Australia, and was thus currently without fixed abode.

  To my relief March seemed to accept this, saying he had always enjoyed Kitzbühel himself though had never really taken to all that snow and skiing business. To my even greater relief he added vaguely, ‘Oh well, when all’s said and done, it’s only a picture she found in a jumble sale or some such, small value, no great loss … Might turn up eventually, I suppose. It’s what they often do when they realize their mistake – chuck the things in the nearest ditch or front garden and then scarper. Someone will come across it, I daresay.’ (Given the earlier assurances to Mavis, his attitude struck me as a mite cavalier, though it was not a point I was keen to raise.) He nodded to Samson and they got up to leave.

  ‘Nice to see you again, sir,’ said March, belting his raincoat across his paunch. And then, pausing, he added, ‘Singing your praises she was, that Miss Briggs. Seems to think you being there had prevented an assault – if you get my meaning!’ And he leered gently.

  I smiled in return. But as I showed them out Samson suddenly turned, and said in an expressionless voice, ‘I expect you miss that other lady, don’t you, sir? That Mrs Fotherington. A pity about all of that …’

  ‘Yes,’ I said faintly, the smile evaporating, ‘a great pity.’

  30

  The Cat’s Memoir

  ‘He didn’t like that,’ observed Bouncer. ‘Didn’t like it at all.’

  ‘Didn’t like what?’ I asked.

  ‘What the rozzer said.’

  I sighed irritably. ‘I take it you are referring to one of the investigating police officers here earlier – though which one a
nd what he said, I have no idea! Kindly clarify.’

  He took another chew at his Bonio and then said slowly, ‘The scraggy one, the one that looks like something the cat’s brought in.’

  It was clearly meant to annoy, and not wishing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me riled, I replied smoothly, ‘Ah yes, Samson.’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, sounding disappointed, ‘that one. Just when he was leaving: the bit about old Fotherington. It was as if he was trying to make a point – letting the vicar know that he knew!’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t know – there’s absolutely no proof.’

  ‘Ah,’ Bouncer replied darkly, ‘you don’t have to have proof to know something.’

  ‘Those of us who are rational do!’ I exclaimed.

  He continued worrying his Bonio, and then peering at me through the drooping fronds said, ‘You know, Maurice, you may have nine lives but what you could really do with is a sixth sense like us dogs. You would find it helpful.’

  ‘I was not aware that I needed help!’ I replied crossly. It was really getting too much, and I concluded that he had either been down in the crypt again or consorting with O’Shaughnessy. The latter’s influence is not of the best.

  ‘Keep your fur on, I was just saying that –’

  ‘You are saying too much, Bouncer. Enough is enough!’ And to stress the point I arched my back and flattened my ears. I liked to think that he looked suitably chastened but it is not always easy to tell what goes on behind that shaggy pelmet.

  He burped, and continued. ‘Anyway, he was pretty upset even before the cops came – just after that Ingaza man left. Sat there drumming his fingers and crunching those humbugs. I tried to cheer him up – wagging my tail and that sort of thing – but it didn’t seem to help.’

  ‘Not surprised,’ I observed mildly, ‘probably drove him mad.’

  There was a sudden deafening explosion of canine mirth. ‘I say, Maurice,’ he spluttered amidst rasping yelps, ‘you mean like I drive you mad!’

  ‘Precisely.’

  At that point there came a crashing of chords from the sitting room: F.O. drowning his sorrows in the piano. It only needed the church bells to burst forth their din, and pandemonium would be complete. I got up hastily, slipped through the cat flap and commenced my evening prowl.

  On my return the house was mercifully quiet, with Bouncer asleep and F.O. chewing his pencil over the crossword. With dog and man thus engaged I was able to enjoy my milk undisturbed and reflect on the current situation. The dog, I conceded, was right: although there might be a temporary respite from the Brighton type, the police visitation had clearly unsettled our master; or at any rate, the scraggy one’s parting comment had. Yet, as I had noted to Bouncer, their earlier investigations had yielded no evidence to link the vicar with the Fotherington murder (thanks largely to our manoeuvres with the cigarette lighter), and with that dead tramp providing a convenient scapegoat, the fuss had subsided. But from the outset there had been mutual dislike between F.O. and Samson, and it could well be that the latter was intent on stirring up trouble – probably seeing F.O. as a stepping stone to promotion. It was doubtful whether there was anything concrete to go on, but it was a worrying possibility nevertheless.

  I finished my milk and then mewed in exasperation. Typical of F.O. to get embroiled with that Ingaza person and his unsavoury paintings! If that hadn’t happened our life here would have been proceeding in relative calm: the murder buried like Bouncer’s bones, and the two of us left safe in clover. Kind though our vicar was, he could also be painfully obtuse! But still, what else could you expect from a human …

  I spent an unsettled night, and was less than pleased to be woken in the early morning by Bouncer scrabbling at my tail. The dog was clearly in sociable mood and, undeterred by my twitching claw, eager to talk. I listened with closed eyes and half an ear.

  He rambled on for a while, and then announced excitedly, ‘I’m going to see the rabbits again!’

  ‘What rabbits?’

  ‘You know, Boris and Karloff – at that place F.O. took us to.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He was on the phone last night talking to the Prim person.’

  ‘His sister.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I heard them arranging it. He’s going down for the day to fetch back that other picture and he’s taking ME with him – though he didn’t mention you, Maurice.’

  ‘Well, that’s a great pity,’ I murmured sleepily. ‘How on earth shall I survive the day without you two crashing about?’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be all right – I’ll get O’Shaughnessy to come and keep you company.’

  ‘What!’ I hissed, suddenly awake.

  ‘O’Shaughnessy, I’ll ask him to spare a few hours. He’s got quite a soft spot for you, Maurice. Why, only the other day I heard him telling Gunga Din that you were a fine fellow of a cat, so you were, “bejasus”!’

  ‘Nice to know the creature has some discernment,’ I observed. ‘What did Gunga Din say?’

  ‘He didn’t. Just looked glazed.’

  ‘Well, what can you expect – obviously hung over as usual!’ And then requiring some light diversion, and after telling the dog that on no account was he to issue any invitations to O’Shaughnessy, I sauntered into the garden to set myself among the pigeons.

  The rest of the day proved quite eventful – harrying recalcitrant hedgehogs in the graveyard, squaring up to an intrusive Siamese, and laying waste the Veaseys’ prize primulas. (Most deservedly, considering the disgraceful way they had treated me over the matter of their goldfish the previous summer!) Thus when I returned to the house I was all ready for some quiet repose.

  No such luck. Bouncer was still in garrulous mood (excitement presumably at the prospect of seeing the chinchillas again), and seemed intent on regaling me about some parish visitor that F.O. had been entertaining.

  ‘Anyway,’ the dog said, ‘he was talking about that geezer with a lady’s name – Dolly Vera, the new Irish batsman. He said he had a great future if only they could get him over to England … some problem or other.’

  I stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose you know much about cricket, Maurice, not being a lover of ball games, but some of us are up in these things.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I know a great deal. Certainly enough to know that he happens to be South African, and his name is not Dolly, it is –’

  ‘Yes it is!’ he growled.

  ‘Nonsense. And in any case you are getting confused. The other one, the Irish gentleman, is a distinguished statesman – although opinions are sharply divided as to whether –’

  ‘Yes, yes, but he plays cricket, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I doubt it. Hurling more likely.’

  ‘Hurling what?’

  ‘Hurling sticks at stupid dogs!’ I screeched.

  It had been a tiring day and we retreated to our respective sanctuaries: me behind the sofa and he to his crypt.

  31

  The Vicar’s Version

  I had been holding my own fairly well until Samson’s remark about Elizabeth Fotherington. But his parting shot had left me quite weak at the knees, and it was with a prayer of thanks and a glass of brandy that I watched their ambling departure down the garden path. What on earth had he meant? Nothing or everything? I stared into Bouncer’s solemn eyes and then sat down on the sofa to meditate.

  For the first twenty minutes meditation yielded nothing except unsettling past images of Elizabeth and the sounds of barking roebucks and snapping twigs. And then I think I must have drifted off, for soon those sounds were replaced by others: her still so familiar mincing voice overlaid with blasts from Maud Tubbly Pole. It was a disturbing mixture, and I awoke uneasily to a dark but thankfully silent room.

  Whatever the earlier matter might bode, I still had to deal with the present problem: disposal of the larger picture, Dead Reckoning. Once Nicholas had recovered from his piqu
e, sooner or later he would want it back. And judging from his recent comments about my custodial capacity it would probably be sooner. There was nothing for it: a further trip to Primrose to retrieve the wretched thing – assuming of course that, like the first, she hadn’t slipped it behind another of her own works and dispatched it God knew where! I switched on the light, picked up the receiver, and announced my intention.

  Primrose sounded more than receptive to the idea but was clearly sorry that it was to be only a day visit. Evidently the garden was ready for another seeing to. I told her that I would have to bring Bouncer.

  ‘Well, that creature’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s the other one that’s such a pain!’ For once I felt defensive of Maurice and asked her what she meant.

  ‘It’s got very funny eyes, that cat. Does nothing but stare. And when it’s not staring it’s snooping.’

  ‘Well, he prowls about, I suppose … but you know cats, they do that sort of thing.’

  ‘Not like that,’ she replied. ‘Last time it was here I caught it putting the evil eye on Boris and Karloff. They didn’t like it at all – quivering wrecks, they were!’

  ‘He was probably curious. Only looking, you know.’

  ‘Exactly. And very peculiar looks he has!’

  Primrose gets these bees in her bonnet so I didn’t pursue the matter. The main thing was to get my hands on the painting and bring it back safely ready for Ingaza’s mercenary grasp.

  Two days later Bouncer and I set off once more for Sussex, arriving at Primrose’s in time for lunch. The dog hung about for a while waiting for titbits from the table, and then scooted off into the garden looking purposeful. Primrose, pleased with the prospect of ridding herself of the picture, seemed in an unusually mellow mood and had produced a decanter of more than tolerable burgundy.