‘I say, Oughterard,’ said a voice behind me, ‘awfully good of you to come. A most pleasant surprise!’ I turned round and was met with the benign features of Rupert Turnbull. Slightly embarrassed, I started to explain that I had been ‘swept up’ by the bishop at the concert and was on the point of leaving for Molehill.
‘Oh no, don’t do that,’ he beamed, ‘all the more the merrier. You must stay, Lavinia will be delighted that you are here!’ And so saying, he thrust a drink into my hand and propelled me towards where she was standing.
She greeted me warmly and I complimented her on the decor of the new flat. She looked almost radiant, and divested of the late Mr Birtle-Figgins was clearly in her element.
We chatted for a while, and she enthused about her cousin’s language schools, saying she was helping to back a fresh project in Oxford. ‘Of course they’ve got masses of such places there already, but Rupert’s will be ultra up to date with all the very latest equipment, and catering only for the high-flying specialists … you know, the Foreign Office bods and MI5 – and MI6 too, I gather, or whatever number they give themselves!’ She giggled. ‘Oh yes, it’s going to be all rather special, and so enterprising. Mind you, there’s a huge outlay required. But knowing Rupert he’s bound to recoup it in next to no time, he’s awfully good like that!’ She prattled on merrily, while I visualized Boris’s fate upon the flagstones.
After a little I was able to melt away in the direction of the dining room, which displayed a still-enticing buffet. Just as I was piling up my plate and nodding vaguely at some fox-faced woman twittering on my left, there was a tap on my shoulder and the earnest form of Hubert Hesketh presented itself. Unless he had had a refill, he was still clutching the same glass of cheerless water.
‘Ah, good to have a word with you, Canon,’ he whispered. (Except when bawling canticles, Hesketh invariably whispers – a habit that sends Clinker mad and the congregation to sleep.)
‘I trust you are enjoying things … though I have to say it’s not entirely my cup of tea. Too many people and, er,’ (eyeing my heaped-up plate) ‘so much food and noise. I always try to avoid these things in Guildford if I can. But when Mrs Clinker heard I was up at Lambeth with the bishop for the annual Forum she most kindly invited me to accompany them to the concert. And then … ah, well the next thing was I seemed to be here …’ He smiled ruefully and took an abstemious sip from his glass.
I could see that he was indeed out of his element – even more so than myself, who was at least bolstered by Scotch and kedgeree. (And as to Gladys’s ‘kind’ invitation, I rather suspected the dean’s presence was subtle revenge on Clinker for some infringement of her domestic regime.) Dutifully I enquired after his life’s work, an ongoing tome devoted to the lesser points of Canon Law in fourth-century Anatolia, and whose proportions and desiccation grew mightier by the year. He gave the customary answer of: ‘So much to do and so little time!’
I smiled, observing that it always sounded like a task of daunting complexity, and rather he than me.
‘Ah, but you see when one is bent on uncovering the truth, nothing daunts. One plods on patiently, intrigued, inspired – and liberated!’
‘Liberated?’
‘Most definitely,’ he whispered. ‘After all, every truth is a freedom. Man is but fettered by ignorance. Wouldn’t you agree?’
I nodded soberly, while at the same time seeing such truth sending me spiralling down through Pierrepoint’s trapdoor. Which was better, I mused: to be revealed and dead or concealed and alive? Given the biological instinct for life over death, I opted for the latter condition. It would do for the meanwhile … I also wondered just how liberated our revered bishop might feel if Turnbull or A. N. Other chose to blazon abroad the truth of his Oxford friendship with Ingaza. I had a glimpse of Clinker kicking up his heels on the episcopal lawn, cope and crozier flung to the winds as he tasted the novelty of his ‘unfettered’ state … The scene dissolved with uncanny speed.
Beginning to tire of both kedgeree and Hesketh, I glanced around for Ingaza. With luck he would be ready to leave. At first there seemed no sign, and rather uncharitably I assumed he had slid into the kitchen in pursuit of the white-jacketed waiter. But then I suddenly saw him with Lavinia, talking to a smallish elderly man with bow tie and pincenez. Lavinia must have seen my gaze for she waved me over, saying, ‘We were just talking about you, Francis, and I was telling Freddie here what a strength you and Nicholas were during that appalling business with my poor Boris in Berceau-Lamont!’ She turned to her companion, adding in rather gushing tones, ‘They were simply wonderful, you know, simply wonderful!’ Nicholas smiled modestly, smoothly attuned to the charade, while I felt absurd.
However, feelings of absurdity quickly gave way to shock as the name ‘Freddie’ struck sparks in my brain. Could this be …? I looked to see what he was drinking. But other than a cigarette in an ivory holder he held nothing, let alone anything resembling a Sidecar. No, I was obviously becoming ridiculously obsessed – unhinged, you might say (it doesn’t take much) … Except that, turning to me and extending a hand, he announced: ‘Freddie, Freddie Felter. A pleasure to meet you, Canon. I think I just missed talking to your sister in Brighton – Millie’s new gallery launch. Lavinia was going to introduce us, but alas, I had to make a wild dash for my train. Pathetic really, how one is in thrall to railway timetables. Indeed, one gathers that the mobilization of the Great War was utterly dependent on such trivia!’ He laughed genially, snapping open a tortoiseshell cigarette case. I accepted the offer, catching the faint echo of Maud Tubbly Pole’s voice: Felter and Turnbull: a nasty pair then and probably much worse now!
In fact, Felter struck me as being perfectly agreeable. (But then of course so was Turnbull. And by now I knew full well that being agreeable was no test of probity! Nevertheless, given Maud’s novelist’s imagination and her penchant for drama I began to think that she may have been inflating his vices. It was in any case a long time ago, and people changed.) He talked engagingly on a number of subjects, not least his early experiences as a novice yachtsman in the English Channel. ‘Still, nothing like the Baltic. Now that was baptism by fire – or wave!’ he chuckled.
‘Know the Baltic, do you?’ a voice asked with sudden interest. Clinker had joined us, and I could see exactly where the conversation would lead: his favourite book, Childers’ The Riddle of the Sands. I muttered an excuse and quickly slid away, disinclined to hear yet another of the bishop’s paeans. I knew them too well, and in any case could not share his enthusiasm. Whether Felter could I didn’t wait to learn.
Nicholas followed my cue. And carefully sidestepping Gladys nattering with some similarly lantern-jawed female, we went for a final raid on the buffet. Nicholas had scooped up yet another champagne en route, and when in a careful undertone I asked him whether he had made any further assessment of Turnbull as blackmailer, he replied loudly that he hadn’t and didn’t care an eff anyway, and had I seen that bloody Millie creature?
I winced, thankful that few guests were within earshot. The lady’s name rang a bell but I was pretty sure I had not so far encountered her. Telling him to keep his voice down, I asked who she was.
He took a slurp from his glass and replied witheringly, ‘Oh, you know, that whey-faced troll from the Brighton gallery – the owner – stacked with diamonds and without a discerning thought in her head. Some crony of Lavinia’s. Had the nerve to accost me just now and suggest I give the place a plug among my own clientele!’
I realized from his description that it must of course be the same woman Primrose had mentioned in her letter and, presumably, the one Felter had referred to a few moments before.
‘So what did you say?’
‘Well if she hadn’t been simpering up at blue-eyed Turnbull I’d have told her to take a running jump. As it was, I said that my clients were interested in art and not the populist posturings of third-rate amateurs.’ He smirked with satisfaction, while I closed my eyes.
‘Oh yes,
if Turnbull really is the blackmailer that’s bound to endear you to him! Insulting one of their guests will probably double the fee!’
He shrugged indifferently, and draining his glass replied, ‘As I said before, and as Clark Gable or somebody once remarked, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck.”‘
‘Damn, actually.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Let’s get out of here. Party’s over.’ I set him carefully in the direction of the outer hall while I sought our hosts and made the appropriate farewells.
Lavinia looked pleased with the evening’s success and was most insistent that we should meet in Oxford to celebrate the opening of the new establishment. ‘After all, it’s not very far from you really, and I’m sure the dear bishop would love the opportunity to drop in on his alma mater and relive old times!’
‘As doubtless would Mr Ingaza,’ chimed Turnbull blandly. His face betrayed nothing – although I thought I caught the hint of a sardonic note in his voice, but I couldn’t be sure …
* * *
It had been a strenuous evening (whole day in fact) and I was ready to return to the vicarage and the comparatively temperate company of cat and dog. But before that, it looked as if I might have to shepherd Ingaza back to Victoria for the Brighton train. Fortunately, however, once out on the pavement my companion seemed to recover himself sufficiently to flag down a taxi, and with an airy, ‘Toodle-oo, old cock,’ disappeared into its depths and into the night.
Left alone, I wondered whether he too could expect a second note, and my jocular quip to Clinker about it arriving the next day prove only too true. But if so, would it really be by Turnbull’s agency? And even if it were, what the hell was to be done about it? One thing was certain, such an event would certainly shift the recipient’s current insouciance all right! I strolled towards the tube station, grimly imagining the sound and scale of the victim’s fury. And for a brief spell the twittering inanities of Mavis Briggs seemed almost bearable …
* See A Load of Old Bones
17
The Vicar’s Version
To my slight surprise and much relief, the next few days yielded nothing from Brighton; and thus I assumed that unlike the unfortunate Clinker, Ingaza had been spared a second approach. So clinging to the principle of no news being good news, I immersed myself in the palliative routine of matters ecclesiastical. Here I could exert at least moderate control over events … although not, as it turned out, in the case of the Inter-Church Flower Festival.
This was an annual affair in which churches of the diocese came together to celebrate the benisons of summer – an elaborate business involving copious processions, floral dances, decorative floats and general junketing. The week’s events were crowned by a prize-giving ceremony to award a cup for the most imaginatively decorated lychgate and church porch. For several years St Botolph’s and the adjacent parish of St Hilda’s had been limp rivals in these floral stakes, though both were regularly out-manoeuvred by a church in the north of the county. I cannot say that this bothered me unduly – being merely thankful that we could put on a respectable show and that nothing actually went wrong.
However, under the directive of Gauleiter Edith Hop-garden, this year moves were afoot to smarten up our act and win the coveted laurels. ‘St Botolph’s in Bloom shall not be beaten!’ was Edith’s war-cry (to which, I gather, the response from St Hilda’s was ‘Buggery and bedlam to the blooming Bots!’ I do not think this was the Reverend Pick’s personal composition, but doubtless he shared the sentiment).
Anyway, the result was an inordinately lavish and convoluted display which so overwhelmed both gate and porch that access could only be gained by crab-like insinuation. To gild the various lilies, Mavis Briggs was fixated on inserting home-made pixies amid the foliage – an idea which prompted Mrs Carruthers (arch sceptic and Clinker’s erstwhile tiddlywinks partner) to volunteer some of her egregious garden gnomes. Pulling rank and in my best canonical voice, I directed both ladies to where they could put their suggestions.
So far, so good. And then the blow fell. The selection committee for the prize was traditionally headed by some county dignitary who would visit each parish to make the final judgement. This year it was to be the Honourable Daphne Porringer, a rather nice old bird with whom I had always got on well; and I was quite looking forward to meeting her off the train and showing her the delights of Molehill prior to being confronted with our floral efforts. But at the last moment she had telephoned announcing she was fearfully sorry, but her diplomat godson had wired from Monte Carlo to say he had booked her into the Hotel Hermitage before dining with Prince Rainier and enjoying a little flutter at the Casino, and would I be frightfully put out if she sent a proxy to judge the flowers? ‘There are some things, Canon,’ she declared, ‘that one simply cannot pass by! Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Absolutely!’ I agreed. ‘Er, who is your stand-in?’
‘Gladys. Gladys Clinker, our bishop’s wife.’
‘Charming,’ I replied through clenched teeth.
And that was it. I was faced with the grating task of entertaining Gladys alone, and no doubt being the butt and practice for her scathing observations. Penance, penance, penance!
* * *
Inspection day dawned with an awesome sun. And closing the blinds in the kitchen I drank buckets of coffee and morosely attacked an egg. Coming only from Guildford, Gladys would not be on a train but was apparently arriving in Clinker’s formal car, chauffeured by his driver Barnes. The last time I had encountered the latter was when his employer was in the process of being levered from the vicarage in a condition of mild paralysis – or legless in Gaza as some might put it.* Though hardly in a position to comment, Barnes had nevertheless conveyed tacit disapproval of what he clearly saw as my doing (which it was). Thus the prospect of the chauffeur’s cold eye and his passenger’s acid tongue was not a happy one, and I told Maurice so in no uncertain terms. Ignoring me, the cat looked the other way and began to groom itself with dedicated absorption.
Gladys arrived promptly at ten o’clock and I went out to the car to greet her. Barnes, as coffin-faced as when last seen and clad in Gestapo black, was already standing at the passenger door ushering her on to the pavement. She emerged looking mildly human, but I knew that wouldn’t last.
‘Ah, Canon,’ she began, ‘what a lovely day – spoilt only by the fact that here I am in Molehill instead of on the golf course as planned. Daphne Porringer begged me to do this little favour for her and so of course I could hardly refuse. But looking at lychgates decked in wilting cornucopias of grossly extravagant blooms is not my idea of a stimulating morning. However, duty calls …’
I replied something to the effect that I was sure she would find the flowers well watered, that matters need take no more than fifty minutes (twenty with luck!), and would she perhaps like some coffee before commencing her inspection? She said she would, and instructed Barnes to return in good time as there were other contestants to see and she had no intention of letting things drag on into the afternoon. The chauffeur gave a dutiful nod, and turning to me murmured quietly that this time he was sure he could rely on ‘sir’ to return madam in an upright state. Then still po-faced, he had the effrontery to give me a sombre wink. The cheek of it!
Quietly seething, I took Gladys indoors, produced the coffee and sat meekly while she pontificated on this, that and the other. I asked if she had enjoyed Lavinia Birtle-Figgins’ housewarming party the previous week.
‘Well,’ she replied with a sniff, ‘at least we were spared the parsley sandwiches she seemed so keen on serving in France. In fact, with that awful husband out of the way she seems to have smartened up considerably. Mind you,’ she added cuttingly, ‘it doesn’t do to get too grand and pushy, looks rather vulgar I always think. Personally I do not regard that Felter person as the best of influences, though Rupert Turnbull appears pleasant enough – always very courteous when he visited their house in Berceau. I dare-say they’ll marry
once his language schools are up and running …’
‘Er, what’s wrong with Freddie Felter? He seemed very friendly at the party and I gathered the bishop got on well with him—’
‘Oh, my husband will get on well with anyone who speaks highly of Erskine Childers and his tedious boat novel. The man was shot, you know – a traitor!’
I was disinclined to discuss either the politics or the literary worth of Childers, being far more interested in her opinion of Freddie Felter. It was intriguing that two women as different as Gladys Clinker and Maud Tubbly Pole should be so averse to him. Maud of course had apparently good reason from the past, but what were Gladys’s objections?
‘So what didn’t you like about Felter?’ I persisted gently.
She shrugged dismissively and twitched her nose in a way I had witnessed many times. ‘Oh, I don’t know … just rather a common little man, I suppose – touch of the parvenu if you ask me. Besides, he had the discourtesy to howl with laughter when I was expressing a very serious opinion. Can’t remember what it was now but he seemed to think it highly droll. I did not!’ She glowered at the memory, while I warmed further to Freddie.
‘Unfortunately,’ she continued, ‘now that Horace has learnt of his shared liking for that novel and knows its setting, they have been corresponding and exchanging views.’ She sighed impatiently. ‘I suppose I shall be expected to ask him to luncheon next!’
Recalling my own experience at Gladys’s lunch table* I wished Felter well of it. Politely I offered her another cup of coffee, but glancing at her watch she declined and intimated it was time to inspect the flower arrangements. ‘One isn’t here to gossip, you know, Canon. Some of us have things to do!’
Duly rebuked, I hastened her into the sunshine and up to the church, where, sidling through the heavily garlanded lychgate, we made our way to the west porch. Though lacking both gnome and pixie (one had feared Mavis might have made furtive adjustments during the night) this now looked remarkably like Queen Titania’s fairy bower, and I have to admit that personally I found it rather charming.
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