A Bedlam of Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  Thus with our meeting scheduled for midday, I rose at dawn on the Saturday morning. Apparently Clinker had to return to Lambeth in the afternoon to chair one of the sessions, hence the early lunch at his club.

  I was just checking the timetable for a fast train to Waterloo when the phone rang. It was Ingaza, in some dudgeon.

  ‘Change of plan,’ he exclaimed, ‘you can go back to bed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I say. Hor wants us in the evening instead. We’ve got to meet him at the Albert Hall.’

  ‘The Albert Hall! Why there, in Heaven’s name?’

  ‘You might well ask,’ he said acidly. ‘It’s bloody Gladys – something to do with her joining him unexpectedly inLondon and wanting to go to a concert there. Messed up all his plans.’

  ‘But we can hardly discuss the letter with him if she’s hovering.’

  ‘That’s what I said, but he seemed to think he could manage some diversionary tactic. Apparently he’s up to his eyes with meetings in the coming week and it’s the only chance he’ll get to give us a sighting of this thing.’

  ‘But I was going to listen to a good concert on the Third Programme tonight,’ I protested.

  ‘Well, dear boy, what could be better? We might get seats at the Albert Hall. Far better than the wireless! Not my thing entirely, but since we’re there I don’t mind staying for a couple of good tunes.’

  ‘What tunes?’ I asked suspiciously. ‘No idea, but I gather Sargent’s conducting, and some old trout called Myra Hess is tickling the ivories.’

  ‘Myra Hess!’ I exclaimed. ‘Good Lord, put me down for that!’

  And that’s what he did. And I met him that evening in the bar of the Rubens Hotel for a quick snifter before confronting the purlieus of Kensington Gore and the laments of Clinker.

  Actually, the snifter wasn’t so quick. And after we had finished making fruitless speculation about the blackmail, and Nicholas had eyed up the barman and regaled me with gruesome tales of his awful Aunt Lil, time was running out. We had fifteen minutes to find a cab and take our seats.

  The resultant race was undignified and exhausting. But we arrived with seconds to spare and decanted ourselves into the auditorium, pushing our way past tutting seats and irate glares just in time for the entry of the orchestra leader. With a flourish of coat-tails he took his place to the sound of polite applause, fiddled with his fiddle, and with a look of quizzical expectation peered towards the wings from which, after a fractional pause, Sargent appeared.

  Evening dress impeccably cut, carnation pristine, black hair finely sleeked and shoes polished to perfection – dapper, stylish Flash Harry took his bow to a wave of thunderous acclaim. Graciously the confident smile raked stalls and loggias. The clapping swelled, subsided... Then with a nod to the first violin, the svelte figure turned to face his players and with a shooting of cuffs and brisk flourish of baton, signalled the opening bars...Yes, as always, intelligent musician and consummate showman was in fine fettle.

  ‘Christ,’ Ingaza muttered, ‘wouldn’t mind a bit of that!’

  ‘Didn’t think you liked Brahms,’ I whispered.

  There was a pause. And then he replied sotto voce, ‘Not Brahms, dear boy – the other chap.’

  In fact, given our situation, there was scant chance for either of us to savour the performance – musical or otherwise. For ten rows away I could see Clinker and, despite my hopes, Gladys at his side. Just marvellous! How on earth were we going to have a chance of seeing that letter with his wife in tow?

  And then my eyes alighted on someone else: Hubert Hesketh, dean of Clinker’s cathedral. He was sitting next to Gladys, flapping his programme and nodding rhythmically to the music. She won’t like that, I thought with some satisfaction. However, Gladys’s irritation was of little concern compared with my own annoyance that we were fated to negotiate the bishop’s entourage before getting a glimpse of the letter. What an absurd idea – to demand that we meet him here and then to bring his wife and dean! I slumped irritably in my seat. But unlike Ingaza, whose eyes were clearly magnetized by the figure on the platform, I soon became diverted by those plangent magisterial strains; and closing my eyes and banishing all thoughts of the Clinker contingent, gave myself up to Brahmsian sonorities …

  With a final swirl of the baton and discreet nod to the brass, the crashing chords were stilled, to be replaced by a tidal wave of applause. The maestro turned, beamed, bowed, exited; re-entered, beamed, bowed, exited; re-entered …

  Nicholas leered. ‘Not bad at all, at all...Now, where’s old Hor?’

  ‘Scarpered.’ I scanned the exit and just caught sight of the backs of Gladys and Hesketh disappearing into the throng.

  ‘Who’s that with her?’ asked Nicholas. ‘It looks like another of your crew.’

  ‘It is,’ I said shortly. ‘Hesketh, the dean.’

  ‘Good Lord, you don’t mean old Hubert Hesketh – the one who was always so keen on reading the lessons at St Bede’s? Fancy him turning up again! Thought he might have made his name by now at the Folies Bergère.’ He sniggered.

  ‘At the Folies … What are you talking about, Nicholas?’

  Still grinning, he dropped his voice and in confidential tones said, ‘Well according to the college grapevine, his balls used to light up like Christmas trees … on certain occasions at any rate, I gather.’

  ‘Light up like what?’ I cried, blushing to my roots.

  ‘Yes, all silver and sort of—’

  ‘Would you mind, Nicholas,’ I protested. ‘I really don’t need to know these things!’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘you’re probably right, old man. Wouldn’t do your psyche any good. Now, what’s Hor up to?’

  Still retaining uneasy pictures of flashing baubles, I told him that in view of the latest development, he was probably trying to escape his companions or anaesthetize himself at the bar.

  We pushed our way out into the foyer and glimpsed the other two, but not the bishop. ‘Probably gone for a leak,’ said Nicholas. ‘You hang on here and I’ll see if I can find him.’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Gladys has just noticed us. I’ll go and you can hold the fort.’

  Without waiting for a response, I made my way purposefully towards the gents. As luck would have it, Clinker was just coming out as I went in.

  ‘Ah, Francis,’ he exclaimed, ‘glad to see you. Thought you weren’t here. Couldn’t see you when we arrived. Ghastly day, ghastly!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said hastily, ‘but what about the letter? Have you got it?’

  ‘Of course I’ve got it,’ he replied testily. ‘You don’t imagine I left it at home in Gladys’s sewing basket, do you?’ With a furtive glance to left and right, he delved into his inside pocket and fished it out. This time there were only a few lines:

  No, my Lord Bishop, I can assure you it won’t go away – and given the tasteless nature of the offence and the amount of public prurience should it become known, the requested sum will not be chicken feed! Better start approaching your brokers – and tell your sharkish friend to flog a few more artefacts! By the way, be careful where you tread – your movements are being noted.

  Quack quack for now,

  Donald

  ‘Still the farmyard fixation,’ I observed, ‘and still no mention of the exact money.’

  ‘No,’ replied Clinker bitterly. ‘As I said, he’s enjoying making me sweat, spinning it out for the sudden pounce. And what’s that sneaky bit about being watched? Oh my God, this is awful. Where’s Ingaza? He’s got to see this.’ He scanned the crowd distractedly.

  ‘Slightly tricky at the moment, he’s collared by...er, he’s talking with your wife and the Reverend Hesketh.’

  Clinker sighed. ‘Yes, the moment it was known I would be up in London for the Dioceses’ Forum she insisted on a shopping expedition to Derry & Toms, plus this concert some friend had given her tickets for. Friend bowed out – hence Hesketh. I hadn’t a chance.’ He scowled; and ta
king the note from me, stuffed it back in his pocket.

  ‘But you have to admit the music’s rather good,’ I ventured. ‘Some time since I’ve been to a full-blown performance, and it’s always inspiring under a conductor like Sir Malcolm. And with Dame Myra doing the Beethoven after the interval it will really be—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ muttered Clinker impatiently, ‘all very nice I’m sure, but I have no intention of staying for the second half. That fellow Turnbull has invited us to his cousin’s housewarming party. Apparently she’s putting on quite a show. It’s in one of those flats behind the Hall, just a couple of streets away. So with luck one can get there before everything’s scoffed. Having starved on salad for lunch and listened to the Lambeth contingent droning on about the dearth of African missionaries I could do with something substantial.’ He paused, and as I was digesting the bit about Lavinia’s housewarming, added in anguished tones, ‘But I must see Nicholas, it’s essential we compare notes!’

  ‘Yes, he certainly wants to look at the letter, but I don’t think there’s anything to compare. So far he hasn’t received a second one.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Clinker in surprise. ‘Well it’s about time he did. I don’t see why I should bear all the brunt!’

  ‘Probably come in tomorrow’s post,’ I murmured. And on that reassuring note we returned to seek out the others.

  Gladys had already donned her coat and, looking like the wrath of God, was cramming on her hat. ‘There you are,’ she began. ‘Couldn’t think where you had got to! It’ll look so rude if we’re late.’ She glared at me, obviously assuming I was responsible for the bishop’s absence – which in a way I was. ‘Do hurry up!’

  ‘All in good time,’ replied Clinker shortly. ‘Besides, there’s something I need to discuss with Nicholas first,’ and he made to draw him aside.

  ‘Can’t think what,’ was the brusque retort. ‘In any case, people are already returning to their seats. We don’t want to delay Mr Ingaza’s musical enjoyment, do we?’ (This said with a smile of icy politeness.)

  Her husband looked mulish, so sensing defeat, Gladys declared she would go on ahead and grasping the hapless Hesketh by the elbow, propelled him towards the exit.

  Clinker breathed a sigh of relief and once more taking the letter from his pocket, thrust it under Ingaza’s nose. The latter read it impassively.

  ‘So what do you think of that?’ the bishop demanded.

  Ingaza shrugged. ‘Not much. A borderline case, I would say – unless he’s assuming a persona.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well...so far the tone of these letters has suggested spite and obsession, i.e. the classic style of a twisted temperament. But that might just be a misleading front – or an amusement. It’s possible the writer is entirely sane and detached, his very normality his insurance.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Clinker, ‘you may be right, but either way, what a scoundrel! And as for that crack about my movements being noted...why, he might be here now!’ He glanced around nervously.

  ‘Yes, it’s probably Hesketh,’ grinned Nicholas.

  Clinker eyed him coldly. ‘I consider that in very poor taste. Typical. No help at all!’ He sighed heavily. ‘Hmm. Perhaps I really ought to start shifting some shares …’

  As the bishop pondered, I thought of Ingaza’s earlier words: ‘sane and detached, his very normality his insurance.’ And again the amiable face and pleasant voice of Rupert Turnbull swam into mind …

  ‘This party you’ve been invited to,’ Ingaza suddenly broke in, ‘can anyone go?’

  ‘What?’ said Clinker vaguely.

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Ingaza explained smoothly, ‘you did drag us up here on the promise of a few drinks and a cosy confab at your swish club, but so far all we’ve had is the Albert Hall; and other than Flash Harry, no entertainment. Personally I could do with some champers and a little pâté de whatsit. Do us all good!’

  Clinker looked doubtful. And then he brightened. ‘Yes, I take your point … a spot of epicurean indulgence to blot out the horror. All right then – don’t suppose they’d mind a couple of extras, it’s not as if they’ve never met you.’ He turned to me and added, ‘Besides, Lavinia seems to like you, Francis, and anything’s better than being stuck with the dean all evening!’

  I hung back, nettled by this last observation and reluctant to forego the pleasure of hearing Dame Myra. I was even more reluctant to re-encounter Turnbull. However, the other two were already striding ahead, and thus I followed in a mood of nervous curiosity …

  15

  The Cat’s Memoir

  ‘Stupid idiot!’ the dog grumbled. ‘He’s gone and taken my bone and dropped it in the dustbin.’

  ‘Hardly the first time,’ I murmured. ‘Why don’t you get it out? Knock the thing over, you usually do.’

  ‘I have. But he’s clamped the lid on so tight I can’t get into it. You’ll have to do something, Maurice.’

  ‘Me!’

  ‘Yes, you can shove one of your claws under the rim and ease it off.’

  ‘I hardly see why I should employ my undoubted dexterity in retrieving one of your beastly bones.’

  ‘Ah, but you might if I tell you what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Oh? What have you heard?’

  ‘Shan’t say,’ he chortled, plunging his head down to his nether regions.

  I viewed the inelegance with narrowed eyes, debating whether to succumb to the dog’s blackmail or remain in ignorance. Being an enquiring cat, I eventually bowed to curiosity and graciously told him that I was always ready to help a fellow creature combat the vicar’s foibles.

  He frowned. ‘What’s foi …?’

  ‘A minor silliness,’ I explained patiently.

  ‘Huh! No silliness,’ he growled, ‘plain revenge!’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Went arse over tip on his way to the blower. The idiot hadn’t seen my bone on the bottom stair.’

  ‘How careless,’ I tactfully agreed.

  He nodded eagerly. ‘So you’ll do it?’

  ‘Provided you tell me exactly what you know.’

  He embarked on a fractured, albeit theatrical account of F.O.’s telephone conversations, first with the Brighton Type and then with the Prim. From what I could make out there was some disturbance involving the Clinker: unsavoury letters had been received and pressure applied. I tried to read between the lines of Bouncer’s narrative but could glean little other than the bishop person was in danger over something in his past and that the Brighton Type was incandescent. (According to Bouncer, F.O. had gone quite pink at the quality of the invective … though of course those were not the dog’s words, his being something about the vicar going red as a baboon’s backside.) Anyway, the upshot seemed to be that F.O. was required to join the Brighton Type in London – though regarding when or for what purpose the dog was tantalizingly vague. I tried to elicit further details but he lapsed into gormless truculence and asked when I was going to rescue his bone.

  Needless to say, the lid slipped off the bin with the ease of an oiled haddock and Bouncer was suitably impressed. I have a knack with such things, learnt long ago at the paws of my redoubtable grandfather, Maltravers. Under his tuition I was able to assimilate a wealth of skills necessary to the confounding of human guile … And from the same source came my refusal to kowtow to the obstinacy of dogs. Thus if Bouncer imagined I would be fobbed off by vague evasions regarding F.O.’s mission to London, he could think again! Such is the bedlam in this household that it doesn’t do to permit lapses in intelligence: at all costs a cat must keep ahead of the chaos!

  16

  The Vicar’s Version

  The flat was in one of those Victorian red-brick mansion blocks favoured by the fashionable and well heeled; and as we went up the solid steps I couldn’t help thinking that Lavinia must have done pretty well out of the sale of the French property – and indeed any other remunerations accruing from her husband’s murder.
r />   We took the lift to the third floor, and guided by a buzz of voices and a slightly open door, entered the vestibule of her new abode. The room beyond was large, beautifully furnished – and packed. We hovered on the threshold, bemused by the throng but eager to forage. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Hesketh, still attached to Gladys and presumably still making dutiful small talk. In his hand he held a glass of water (conceivably gin, though it seemed unlikely). Clinker, too, had probably seen them, for with a brisk clearing of throat he began to push his way in the opposite direction, muttering something about looking for his hostess. He wasn’t of course; just seeking the nearest source of food.

  Ingaza became similarly engaged, but in his case the focus was a distant tray of champagne – although I wasn’t sure whether the attraction was the drink or its purveyor, a handsome youth whose white flunky’s jacket conferred a passing air of distinction.

  And then just as I was thinking that I too might go in quest of libations, I noticed the new tenant standing in a far corner talking animatedly among a group of her guests. I had not seen Lavinia since taking tea at Brown’s, and her now total transformation from frump to moderate siren was striking. I had forgotten the sartorial details in Prim-rose’s letter, but the cobalt-blue sheath-dress, elaborately coiffed hair and glittering bangles jogged my memory. I also recalled my sister’s description of the newly acquired lap-dog Attlee, and I scanned the room, curious to spy the little creature, but he had obviously elected to remain aloofly out of sight. (Nevertheless, mindful of the embarrassing encounter with Bouncer at an earlier and fateful soirée, I was careful where I put my feet.*)