A Bedlam of Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘One thing’s certain,’ said Nicholas, ‘there’s no gun around so it couldn’t have been suicide. Didn’t you hear a shot?’ Clinker shook his head bleakly.

  ‘Perhaps a silencer,’ I suggested tentatively, and asked whether he had heard anything at all – feet on the gravel, a car engine …

  He looked up and shook his head dumbly; but then with a sudden frown, said, ‘As a matter of fact, now you mention it I think there may have been the sound of a car – but I really can’t be sure … it’s all so confused!’ He gave a despairing sigh, white-faced and woebegone.

  And then I made a tactical error: I asked him if he owned a firearm. Big mistake.

  The leaked stuffing came flooding back: ‘Are you still insinuating, Oughterard, that I was responsible for this? The only weapon in the house is Gladys’s air-gun for the rooks – and that’s having its stock adjusted at the gunsmith’s. Sokindly don’t try going down that road! If you imagine that your bishop is given to picking off visitors to his palace like some Chicago mobster, you are out of your mind. Must be the quiet life you lead!’ He glared angrily.

  I suppose Nicholas was trying to be helpful when he said, ‘But he wasn’t any old visitor was he, Hor? I mean, a good defence counsel could probably drum up a lot of sympathy for dispatching a blackmailer, especially if it could be proved that—’

  I thought for one moment Clinker would explode. ‘There will be no need for a defence counsel,’ he roared. ‘Just because Felter is dead, it doesn’t mean that I—’

  And then he suddenly stopped. And fury was replaced by an expression of what can only be described as angelic bliss. He looked down at the corpse and then at Ingaza. ‘The man is dead,’ he repeated slowly and in awed tones. ‘Do you realize what this means? We are off the hook, Nicholas, off the bally hook! We are free!’ He stood up and began to pace around the hall, swinging his arms exultingly as if testing his wings in new-found air, and I rather wondered whether he might break into a triumphal dance – or go mad.

  Actually he did something far more disturbing, for, suddenly, looking at his watch, he exclaimed, ‘Good grief, he’ll be here in half an hour. Quick, Oughterard, do something! And Nicholas, don’t just stand there, good fellow, give him a hand!’

  ‘Do? Do what?’ I exclaimed. ‘I mean we can’t just—’

  ‘Get him off the premises of course!’

  ‘But where?’ I asked helplessly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he cried, ‘anywhere will do, just as long as he doesn’t stay here! It’s vital that Ridley doesn’t notice anything – that man’s got eyes and nose like a ferret … Now where on earth does Gladys keep the mops?’ He thundered off into the nether regions while Nicholas and I were left alone, contemplating the visitor on the floor.

  ‘Hor’s got a point,’ he said. ‘If this Ridley chap is due any minute he won’t take kindly to a stiff strewn in his pathway. It’ll have to go somewhere else.’ He must have seen my discomfort for he added, ‘Look, if it’s left here, not only Ridley but the whole world and his wife will know – police and press swarming everywhere, banner headlines and interminable questions leading to God knows what! Best thing is to remove the evidence and ask questions afterwards. After all, it’s not the first time you’ve dealt with a dead body, so don’t be so squeamish. Now come on and take his legs.’

  Gingerly I did as I was bid, and with much grunting and straining we managed to heave our burden into the back seat of the Singer and thrust it into a sitting position. And leaving Clinker to wield the mop and welcome the Archbishop’s secretary, we sped off into the night.

  19

  The Vicar’s Version

  The initial problem was the dog. To say he was startled at having a lolling effigy thrust upon him would be putting it mildly: Bouncer went unquietly berserk. And for the first five minutes it was like being transported in a mobile version of Dante’s Inferno. After a while tumult subsided into mere tempest, then mercifully to indignant growls, and eventually into what I took to be shocked silence.

  I glanced uneasily in the mirror and was relieved to see that Ingaza had had the good sense to push Felter’s hat well down over his face, so one was spared too gory a sight. Nevertheless I shuddered to see the shapeless form propped mutely within two feet of my neck, and found myself pumping the pedal hard as if to flee its grisly presence.

  ‘Could do with a cigarette, Nicholas, if you wouldn’t mind,’ I muttered. He lit one and passed it to me silently, and we drove on saying nothing.

  As to where we were going I had no idea. In some ways it seemed easier not to think and to just keep driving: at least in motion one was spared the necessity of manhandling the cargo.

  ‘Do you think Ridley has arrived yet?’ I asked.

  He peered at his watch. ‘Twenty past seven. Probably just settling down to whiskies and sodas and Hor’s offering him one of those putrid cigars.’

  ‘All right for some,’ I said, glancing again at the thing in the back.

  Ingaza didn’t answer at first, then he said musingly, ‘You know, Francis, I must have been mad to have approached you in the Old Schooner that time – raving mad!* Just think, if I had kept my distance and remained on that bar stool, my life would be free of all this – blameless and trouble-free.’

  ‘Huh! I like that,’ I cried. ‘That’s rich coming from you. You’ve been on my coat-tails ever since we met. Just because I once asked you a simple favour, you’ve done nothing but harry me ever since. And as for being blameless, well that really is a hoot! And, I might point out, you’re the one who is being blackmailed and got us into this fix!’

  ‘Blackmailed? Don’t know what you’re talking about, dear boy. Who is blackmailing me?’ he replied airily.

  ‘What? Oh I see – very funny … No, actually Nicholas, it’s not funny at all. It’s ghastly! What on earth are we going to do with Felter? And what about Clinker – do you think he did it?’

  ‘Question one, I haven’t a clue; question two, shouldn’t think so. He’s not the brightest but surprisingly he’s not a complete fool, and was also probably telling the truth when he said he hadn’t got a gun. But that’s hardly the point just now. The main thing is what to do with Chummy here. We can’t go driving round in circles or we’ll end up where we started – outside Hor’s front door. He won’t like that.’ He tittered.

  I put my mind to the niceties of disposal. ‘Well if we’re going to dump him perhaps it should be on hallowed ground. It seems better somehow.’

  ‘Like in your graveyard, you mean?’

  ‘Certainly not! It would create endless problems.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Actually I was thinking of another parish – e.g. Theodore Pick’s. St Hilda’s has a very roomy porch and a large settle. We could prop him up on that. There would be a hue and cry in the morning of course, when the cleaners found him, or the Reverend Pick before early service, but at least it would ensure the poor chap was given all due attention before the police took charge … Mind you,’ I added, ‘don’t suppose old Theo would like it much, grumbles enough as it is.’

  ‘Very thoughtful of you, Francis,’ observed Nicholas, ‘though I’m not sure about the “poor chap” part. Personally I think he was a creeping little shit. Still, you always were a bit soft – part of that witless charm.’

  I sighed. ‘Perhaps if I had been a little softer, Elizabeth Fotherington would still be plaguing her budgerigar …’

  ‘Yes,’ he remarked drily, ‘life is full of cumulative complexities … And just think, you might have been married to her by now.’

  ‘Never!’ I yelped, almost driving into the ditch.

  ‘Watch out, you idiot, you’ll upset our passenger!’ At that moment the other passenger decided to give tongue again, and once more the tiny space was rent with shrieks and unholy bellows.

  ‘Can’t stand much more of this,’ said Nicholas. ‘Better get to that church as soon as possible before my eardrums give out!’ I pressed on grim
ly through the drizzling darkness.

  As we reached the outskirts of Molehill before turning left for Pick’s church, there was a blaze of lights ahead, and through the rain I could just discern what looked like a roadblock. I changed swiftly into second, and as we crawled nearer I could see uniformed figures with torches. Apart from a Ford Anglia some distance ahead, there had been no traffic on the road; but then to my horror I saw that the vehicle had been flagged down and seemed to be undergoing some sort of search or enquiry. Three constables were clustered around its boot and driver’s window.

  ‘Christ, that’s torn it,’ muttered Nicholas.

  I braked, doused the lights and quelled the dog. ‘Oh my God, you don’t think they’re looking for us, do you?’ I whispered.

  ‘Not unless Clinker’s gone mad and dialled 999. Can you turn round?’

  ‘No, there are ditches either side and I’m not risking it without lights. I’ll try backing.’ I engaged reverse and slowly trundled us backwards. This necessitated twisting round in my seat, and thus the manoeuvre was not helped by enforced intimacy with Felter’s head. Mercifully the hat shielded me from the worst, but even so, fear and distaste were beginning to make me sweat and it felt like a terminal nightmare.

  ‘Look, there’s a recess there,’ said Nicholas. ‘Turn in and we’ll shove him through the hedge.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Just do it! Do you want the police thundering up to us? They may have heard the engine. We’ll jettison Chummy and then drive on smoothly and say we’ve just come from the flicks in Guildford.’

  ‘What about Bouncer? It’s unlikely that we would have taken—’

  ‘All right – so just say we’ve come from some bloody dog show! Now hurry up!’

  We got out of the car, and flinching at every sound started to haul the now stiffening Felter out of the back seat. Finally, just as his feet were being dragged over the sill, I noticed Bouncer crane forward and give one of the ankles a surreptitious nip. The action was swift, silent and mildly vicious. Deed done, the dog retired to the far corner, and with a guttural snort curled up and went to sleep.

  Panting heavily and with the cadaver at our feet, we took stock of our surroundings. Although it was dark, I realized that we were parked at the opening to a small path spanned by a wicket gate. Somehow the area seemed vaguely familiar, and peering at the gate I could make out a rectangular plaque. ‘Cowslip Cottage’, the lettering announced, ‘No Hawkers. No Circulars’.

  I froze. ‘We can’t leave it here,’ I gasped. ‘That’s Mavis’s garden over the hedge!’

  ‘Who’s Mavis?’

  ‘Mavis Briggs – the one whose painting we lifted that time!’*

  ‘Well in that case, she’s lost a picture and gained a corpse. Lucky Mavis. Now come on, Francis – do you want the police on us?’

  Once more we struggled with the burden, slipping and cursing on the wet grass, and finding a suitable dent in the hedge finally managed to bundle it through.

  The weight may have been off our hands but the exertions had been gruelling, and I was left literally bowed and weak-kneed. Ingaza looked pretty ropey too, and we were just about to clamber back into the car when I heard him wheeze, ‘Oh crumbs, there’s its ruddy hat! May as well have it,’ and holding the brim between finger and thumb tossed it over the hedge to join its owner. I remember thinking vaguely that Mavis wouldn’t be too pleased if it landed on her winter pansies.

  Looking back on things it seems remarkable that we were able to negotiate the police barrier as well as we did. Perhaps we had become anaesthetized by the journey’s horror, blasé at the shedding of our load, punch-drunk from gothic pummelling. But whatever the reason, we sailed through the obstruction as cool as proverbial cucumbers.

  Obeying the signal I slowed to a stop and, winding down the window, heard myself saying with beaming voice, ‘Good evening, Officer, what can we do for … oh, it’s Sergeant Withers, isn’t it? Must be something serious if they’ve put you in charge. But very reassuring all the same! So how can we help?’

  ‘Good evening, Canon,’ he replied affably. ‘No, nothing serious, it’s just Mr Slowcome mounting another exercise. He’s been to one of those courses he’s always going on – Roadblock Tactics this time. Judging by the sheaf of instructions we’ve been issued, you would think none of us had stopped a vehicle in our lives! Bit of a waste of time if you ask me. Still, as I am sure you would agree, when He on High speaks, you jump to it – sort of.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I replied jovially, ‘I know just what you mean. But you disappoint me, Sergeant, I thought it must be at least an escaped convict. How dull! Anyway, I expect you want some details, do you?’

  He nodded, notebook poised. ‘Just the usual.’

  I gave our names and professions – clergyman and distinguished art historian (sounded better than dodgy picture dealer), and explained that I had just fetched my friend from Brighton and we were returning to my vicarage; the journey’s purpose had been for pleasure and we had not stopped anywhere en route.

  He wrote it all down slowly, then looking into the back, said, ‘Ah, I see you’ve got old Bouncer in there. Being good, is he? Looks a bit sleepy.’

  I refrained from explaining that he was worn out with baying at corpses and biting their ankles, and instead lapsed into a graphic account of the dog’s antics as he had besported himself along the Brighton promenade and chased rabbits on the Sussex Downs.

  As we drove away, Nicholas sighed and said wearily, ‘Look, I know you were a rising star in the Dramatics Society at St Bede’s, but there’s no need to overdo it: anyone would think you were auditioning for a part in My Fair Lady!’

  ‘Huh! Arsenic and Old Lace, more like.’

  * See A Load of Old Bones

  * See Bones in the Belfry

  20

  The Dog’s Diary

  ‘As a matter of fact, Maurice, I don’t feel too well,’ I told the cat. ‘I’ve had a very hairy time, very hairy. In fact, so hairy that you are lucky to see me still here!’ The cat yawned and said he couldn’t be too sure about that, and what was I on about anyway? So I told him to take a deep breath and pin back his ears. Being Maurice he said he had no intention of doing any such thing, but if I cared to explain he would guarantee not to walk away.

  I thought that was a bit RUDE and normally I would have done something about it tootie-sweetie! But do you know what? I didn’t feel up to it. After all, I’ve had a VERY NASTY SHOCK, which I’ll tell you about.

  It all started when I had just come back from knocking over Edith Hopgarden’s dustbins with O’Shaughnessy. We had managed to scoff some nice tit-bits, then having a bit of time on our paws we went and shouted at Stem Ginger the cat down the road. (He quite likes that as he lives with a very boring family and enjoys a dust-up now and again.) But after that O’Shaughnessy said he had to get back to his mistress as otherwise she would be screaming blue murder and refuse to give him his evening nosh. ‘Can’t have that,’ I said. ‘No grub: awful nightmares!’ So we said cheerio and I went home to the vicarage.

  When I got there I saw that big black car parked in the drive, the one which belongs to the Type from Brighton and which we went to France in. I was just putting my leg up on one of its wheels when the two of them – F.O. and the Type – came bounding out of the house and rushed towards the vicar’s car. I could see they were in a hurry, so I thought, Ah ha! If Bouncer plays his biscuits right they will take him too!

  So before they had a chance, I whizzed ahead, hurled myself against one of the doors and scrabbled like hell.

  ‘Get off the paintwork, bloody dog!’ bawled the vicar. Of course I took no notice, so he opened the door, saying, ‘Oh all right then, if you must,’ and shoved me in.

  We set off smartish and soon got to that bit of road called the Hog’s Back. (I keep looking out for hogs but never see any. But one day I will, and then there’ll be a racket!!) Anyway, F.O. likes that stretch, and so do I because usually we go VERY FAST, and if
he’s in a good mood he’ll sing his head off – hymns mostly, but other things too such as ‘Run Rabbit Run’. Now that’s really good – all about bastard bunnies, and guns and farmers and chasing the beggars! Still, there wasn’t any singing that afternoon as the two of them were too busy nattering. Don’t know what about (wasn’t listening really, too busy watching for hogs) but something was on their minds. I can always tell, it’s the old sixth sense.

  After a while we drove down a long drive and came to a big house where they parked. I jumped out pronto for a sniff and a leak, but then F.O. put me back inside and told me to be a good boy. I don’t mind being left on my own as it gives me a chance to mee-use – as Maurice would say – or to have a quiet kip. But after all that rushing about with O’Shaughnessy I didn’t feel like doing much mee-using (takes it out of a chap), so I curled up and went to sleep – like a good boy.

  When I woke up it was nearly dark. And I was just thinking it was time to be going home, and wondering what F.O. would give me for supper and if I could wheedle some extra rations, when the door was suddenly wrenched open and this GOD-AWFUL THING came in!

  Whew! It was ten times worse than anything the cat brings home! Really made my hackles stand up, it did. Dead humans in daylight and in open spaces are one thing, but that doesn’t mean you want to be crammed up against them in the pitch dark and with no cat to keep you company. Oh no! And that’s what I told F.O. and Gaza in no uncertain terms. Gave it to ’em good and proper, I did. ‘Shut up and be a good dog,’ yelled the Brighton Type … Be a good dog, my arse! He should have tried sitting where I was – in the back on a stiff’s lap!