Bones in the Belfry

by Suzette A. Hill

‘Remains of Pa’s cellar,’ she announced. ‘He always enjoyed a good Beaune. In fact, come to think of it, wine was the one thing he really did know about!’

  ‘And model railways,’ I was going to add, but thought better of it. She would only bring up the dreadful incident of my blunder with the Hornby train, from which I suspect my father never fully recovered. It had certainly been a perennial topic of his conversation for years afterwards. Instead I said, ‘Yes, but he generally gave a fair impression of knowledge.’

  ‘Only to the gullible,’ she replied.

  We brooded in silence on our late and partially lamented parent, and then raised our glasses in dutiful salutation.

  ‘Well, this is all right, anyway!’ Primrose exclaimed, and with unwonted generosity refilled my glass almost to the brim. She then asked about the smaller Spendler and seemed quite unabashed when I told her that thanks to herself and Mrs Clinker it had been consigned to the White Elephant stall of Pick’s fête.

  ‘What a hoot! You mean to say that valuable piece of daubing is now gracing the walls of some shed or semi in Horsham. How droll!’

  ‘It was not a hoot,’ I retorted irritably, ‘and neither is it droll. The whole thing put me to considerable trouble, but fortunately it has since been retrieved and restored to its owner … Well, to its custodian at any rate.’

  ‘Your friend presumably – the one who stole it in the first place.’

  ‘Yes – no. I mean, I don’t think he exactly stole it, just acquired it temporarily, and then he needed a spare place to –’

  ‘Yes, you’ve explained all that before. It’s a load of hooey, as well you know. He’s obviously up to his ears in skulduggery and has dragged you into it. And you’re the very last person equipped for that kind of thing, everyone knows that!’ And she laughed accusingly. I smiled wanly, wishing the skulduggery involved only the paintings.

  After some more wine and a pleasurably pungent Camembert, she suggested it was time for me to bring the picture downstairs. ‘And once that’s done I know you’d like to say hello to Boris and Karloff!’ I had no particular hankerings in that direction but, feeling indebted for the good lunch, indicated I could think of nothing nicer. She offered to give me a hand carrying the thing down, but by now I felt fairly practised in manhandling stolen goods and said I could manage.

  It was still in its wrappings, but I noticed that the sellotaped bindings which had taken me so long to attach had been ripped apart and replaced by string. ‘Can’t think why you had to interfere with them in the first place!’ I exclaimed irritably.

  ‘Well, naturally I was going to take a look. What else did you expect? Still, don’t know about interfering with them – it’s not as if I were a scoutmaster in the News of the World!’ And she began to giggle. Whether her mirth was the result of the wine or relief at offloading the thing back on to me, I wasn’t sure. But whatever it was, the giggling gathered momentum until she spluttered, ‘I say, Francis, they really are awful, far worse than the photographs. The first one with the dreadful youth was bad enough, but this bone-strewn thing is simply frightful!’ And she collapsed on the stairs in peals of laughter. Being, as you might say, in the thick of things, I hadn’t exactly appreciated the comedy of the matter; but watching Primrose hooting her head off I too started to laugh, and for a few moments it was as if we were back at home again savouring one of Mother’s many absurdities.

  Bouncer appeared from the garden, stared at both of us, and then slowly wagging his tail added something of his own cacophony. Thus the visit ended on a surprising note of noise and merriment. The gruesome Spendler was once more stowed in the Singer, and, mercifully spared the charms of Boris and Karloff, I departed for Molehill.

  The prospect of yet again having to lug the picture up to the belfry was not a happy one – especially as Mrs T.P. had made that crack about it being the ideal place to conceal a painting. So I delivered it to the alternative cache: the church crypt. Descent into Avernus was marginally easier than negotiating the perilous ladder to Elysium. But it was an awkward business all the same, and made the more so by Bouncer showing an officious concern in the matter. His snuffling attentions almost had me falling headlong down the steps, and it was with relief that I at last gained the comfort of the sitting room and the solace of a smoke with a good John Buchan.

  This, however, was only temporary solace, for later that evening I was scheduled to attend the St Botolph’s Ladies’ League AGM: an event not known for its wit and gaiety, and this time interminably protracted by bleating interruptions from Mavis Briggs as she struggled to record the minutes. I made a mental note to suggest that perhaps in future she might like Edith Hopgarden to relieve her of that chore. I suspected she wouldn’t like it at all. And my vision of the two ladies battle-locked over who was the better fitted for the task helped to ease a little of the tedium.

  Eventually the meeting wound up and we trooped into the night. Declining the offer of cocoa from Miss Dalrymple and some of the more socially minded of the group, I started to make my way home. And then just as I rounded the corner of the parish hall, I heard what can only be described as a loud ‘Psst!’, followed by thudding footsteps. My elbow was suddenly caught in the steely grip of a well-sprung gin-trap. It was Mrs Tubbly Pole.

  ‘Good gracious!’ I gasped. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here!’

  ‘No,’ she chuckled, ‘but I expected to see you. They told me this was where you’d be, so I’ve been lying in wait!’

  I suppose it was the tone of triumph and the words ‘lying in wait’ which touched a nerve and induced a sudden and appalling déjà vu. And for a mad panicking moment I was back in the wood, confronted by that dreadful beaming apparition … Surely not Maud Tubbly Pole as well! Oh dear God, not another unhinged predator!

  The horror must have shown, for she said, ‘Goodness, Francis, you’ve gone quite white – I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re obviously not used to being accosted by ladies from the shadows!’ And she emitted a long and braying cachinnation. That steadied things all right: I was quite safe with Mrs T.P.! (‘And she with him!’ the cynical might add.)

  Taking my arm firmly, she propelled me along the pavement, and then said in throaty sotto voce, ‘My dear, I’ve discovered something quite extraordinary, and you are the first to know!’

  ‘Really? What’s that?’

  She clutched me more tightly. ‘One of the missing Spendlers has actually been in this locality, and is perhaps still here! What do you think of that!’ She almost danced, while I froze.

  ‘Whatever gives you such an idea?’ I gasped.

  ‘Well, you know the woman who looks like an emaciated hamster and always seems to have a cold and was burgled recently – Mavis somebody.’

  ‘Briggs,’ I said tensely.

  ‘Yes, that’s the name. Well, there was only one item taken, and it just happened to be a painting and –’

  ‘But Mavis wouldn’t have had a Spendler!’ I laughed.

  ‘Oh, but she did!’ she cried. ‘I am convinced of it.’ By this time we had reached the vicarage gate, and as we paused she said, ‘I must get back to poor old Gunga, he gets fractious if Mummy’s out too long – but there’s still time for a quick nightcap and then I can tell you more! What do you say?’ I said nothing, but dutifully opened the gate and ushered her up the path.

  I was tired and the whisky low. But I was also desperate to know what she had to say about Mavis’s picture. ‘Er, what makes you think that painting was a Spendler? It was only a bit of White Elephant junk … I was there when she picked it up, nothing of any interest.’ I tried to sound as casual as my nerves would allow.

  ‘I happened to be behind her in the queue at the post office. She was talking to a friend about the robbery, though I don’t think the friend heard a word – looked bored out of her mind – but I heard, and it got me thinking. She was describing the picture: a dark seascape, all swirling clouds and waves and a naked youth in the foreground – seemed embarrassed about
that part and kept giggling – so don’t you see, Francis!’

  Trying to sound as unmoved as possible, I muttered vaguely, ‘Not really – afraid I’m not up in these things.’

  ‘But it’s obviously On the Brink!’

  ‘On the blink?’

  She looked impatient and took a large gulp from her glass. ‘On the Brink – that’s the title of one of the stolen paintings. And from what the newspapers said at the time it sounds exactly like it.’

  I smiled indulgently. ‘But surely there must be hundreds of pictures of beaches and bathers, they’re churned out all the time.’

  ‘But not with male nudes, I shouldn’t have thought.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said firmly. ‘Quite a fashion back in the early twenties, almost a cult, you know, especially in Germany; but it caught on here too.’

  She looked surprised (as was I by my powers of invention). ‘Thought you said you weren’t up in that sort of thing – you seem very knowledgeable on the subject!’

  I had obviously overplayed my hand, but replied smoothly that for some odd reason it was the one thing that I remembered from school art classes. ‘It’s simply a coincidence, you know. And besides, all the experts are agreed that those pictures are halfway across the world by now – they’d never have been kept here, far too dangerous!’ And I laughed loudly. She looked so deflated that I almost felt a pang of guilt.

  ‘What a bore. I was going to offer my services to the police and see what they thought of my theory, but if you think –’

  ‘I do think,’ I said quickly. ‘You know what the police are like, no sensitivity. They would give you short shrift and make you look a fool – and that you are certainly not, Mrs Tubbly Pole! And can’t you just see the press headlines if they got hold of it? Newspapers can be so crude … Just imagine: “Famous lady detective writer fails to sift fact from fiction.” Wouldn’t do that renowned literary reputation much good, would it?’ I flashed a warm smile and poured her the remnants of the whisky. It seemed to do the trick.

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘you are probably right. Just jumping to exciting conclusions. It’s the novelist’s imagination – runs away with me sometimes. I do love a bit of drama! Don’t you, Francis?’

  ‘Rather overrated,’ I replied drily.

  ‘Oh, come now! Everyone needs a little spice in their life – even you, dear friend. Your life is far too staid. You should have become a big-game hunter instead of a clergyman, much more fun!’ And she gurgled merrily. Given my present situation, I couldn’t help feeling that the role of big-game hunter might have been infinitely soothing.

  She continued to speculate about the robbery. And in the hope of leading her away from the subject, I asked how the novel was coming along and whether she had managed to find a title for it.

  ‘I most certainly have!’ she cried. ‘So far there have been four murders, two suicides and a manslaughter, so I have called it No Dearth of Death. Pretty neat, eh? Of course, it has moved some way beyond the original case, i.e. your corpse in the bluebells,’ (how I wished she would stop using that possessive!) ‘but I couldn’t stop at just one, could I? Far too tame! But it’s got all the Molehill features, not to mention the church and that marvellous belfry. You’ll love it!’ I thought bitterly that Mrs T.P.’s conception of ‘tame’ differed widely from my own; and then asked her warily whether, in view of its ecclesiastical setting, the murder plot contained any parsons.

  ‘Oh yes, dozens,’ she replied gaily. As I had feared. But at least, I supposed, there was safety in numbers …

  Eventually she got up to go, exclaiming that it was long past the ‘little man’s’ bedtime and there were bound to be ructions if she stayed any more. For once I felt grateful to Gunga Din, and made a mental note to give him a drop more gin when next he called.

  32

  The Dog’s Diary

  I don’t think much of those rabbits. They haven’t got anything of what Maurice keeps calling SAVVY FUR. In fact, in normal dog lingo I’d call them jolly rude! I mean to say, when F.O. took me down to his sister’s I naturally went to call on them. Don’t suppose they get many visitors and I thought they would be pleased to see me. Not a bit of it! They twitched and glared and rolled those popping pink eyes; and then just as I was going to speak, the really giant one turned round and thrust its fluffy backside right up against the wire of its hutch. In my face, if you please! I tell you, I would have given it a socking big bite if I could but the meshes were too small – otherwise he’d have felt it all right!

  The other one, Boris, was no better. Sat there crunching its stupid carrot, and then had the cat’s neck to ask me if I hadn’t got something better to do with my time. I told him I had HEAPS of better things, but being a well-brought-up dog was just being polite and paying my respects. He told me where to put my respects and said that if I didn’t take my snout away from his wire he would spit in my eye. Well, I didn’t fancy a shot of chewed carrot hurtling my way, so I backed off. But they needn’t think they’ve seen the last of me. Oh no! I’ll ask Maurice what to do. When he’s not preening himself he’s got a fiendish mind and is bound to think of something.

  Anyway, it was fun being down there for a change. She’s got a nice garden, bigger than the vicar’s, with some good bone-burying areas and plenty of trees for sniffing and spraying. (You have to keep your leg in practice, you know, otherwise it seizes up.) So apart from those pink-eyed loons, I had a very nice time. I think F.O. enjoyed himself too. When I went back to the house they had finished their lunch and for some reason were roaring with laughter. That doesn’t often happen with the vicar, so I took the opportunity and joined in. There wasn’t half a racket! Probably just as well that Maurice didn’t come, he’d have complained non-stop!

  The journey back was good fun and we hurtled along like cats out of hell, with F.O. singing some hymn about a cross-eyed bear called Gladly. Don’t know who he is, but the tune’s all right and I joined in myself a couple of times – though that seemed to make the vicar wince, so I stoppedand went to sleep.

  Anyway, all was well until we got back to Molehill. And then, blow me, if he doesn’t take the picture out of the car and start to haul it down the steps to my crypt! Usually I wouldn’t care a bit, but the belfry isn’t the only place I keep my bones: there’s a special heap of them in the crypt, just in the corner behind the door where it’s darkest and the mice don’t go. One or two spare toys are stashed there as well – useful emergency stores for when I get bored with Maurice. It would be just like F.O. to shove his picture there and mess up my whole system like he did in the belfry. So I tried my best to head him off, but he was hell-bent on getting it down there and I had to give up in the end. You could hear him blundering about and cursing; but afterwards I saw he had put the parcel at the far end, so with luck things should be all right … though it doesn’t do to bank on it – not here at the vicarage, it doesn’t!

  He came back late last night, some church meeting I suppose, but he wasn’t alone: got the Tubbly person with him and they sat jawing for ages – leastwise she did. He didn’t say much at all, just sat there with that dazed expression he often has. Still, getting the picture back here again seems to have calmed him down, and I think he’s sleeping better – less crashing about in the middle of the night searching for fags and aspirin. Who knows, perhaps we are in for a smooth run. And if he gets in a good mood he’s likely to give me a bath again. I should like that, but the cat won’t!

  33

  The Cat’s Memoir

  I was in the kitchen toying quietly with a dead mouse when Bouncer suddenly announced that he felt a bath coming upon him and hoped that I wouldn’t mind. Well, of course I minded! The last occasion had been an affair of epic horror; a dreadful assault on my nerves from which I was barely recovered. The noise had been atrocious: an ear-splitting cacophony of clerical curses, canine shrieks, and the squawking of butchered rubber ducks (the dog fancies himself as a retriever at such times). But it was the bathroom floor and la
nding which had been especially distasteful – water everywhere (my particular aversion), with filthy towels and shredded cigarettes littered all over the place. Why the vicar finds it necessary to smoke when he baths the dog, I do not know. Calms his nerves presumably, but it does little for mine. Having to pussy-foot my way among sodden butt-ends and pools of wet is not good for a cat of my sensibilities.

  I asked Bouncer what made him think the household was due for another such deluge, to which he replied gnomically that he knew what he knew! I suppose he was implying it was his sixth sense at work again. He grossly exaggerates this faculty, although just occasionally does exhibit an uncanny prescience of things. So I told him that if he had any more aquatic premonitions would he kindly inform me in advance so that I could escape to the graveyard for the duration. He agreed to this, and than proceeded to tell me about his day down in Sussex.

  It was clearly going to be a lengthy saga with the usual theatrical embellishments. So I settled myself comfortably by the boiler, and to pass the time embarked on my ablutions. He took umbrage at this and had the nerve to tell me to sit up straight and pay attention. Naturally I immediately lay down with my eyes tightly shut. However, I did assure him that I was all ears, and seeming satisfied with this he commenced his tale.

  As Bouncer’s tales go it was not without interest – mainly for what it revealed of the vicar’s dealings with his sister. They seem to have an oddly collusive relationship – close yet mutually wary, a mixture of guarded affection and irritable impatience. He said that he went into the garden leaving them bickering like billy-o but when he returned they were in fits of laughter! I find this blend of coolness and mirth quite beyond me – but then I am a mere cat and cannot be expected to fathom the mystery of human absurdity. It’s bad enough coping with the dog. Talking of which, much of his tale was taken up with descriptions of those crackpot chinchillas. They had obviously got on his whiskers and he grumbled endlessly about their uncouthness. A tinge ironic coming from Bouncer of all creatures! However, I was my reasonable forbearing self, and listened patiently to his complaints.