Well, I did my best – i.e. poured a bucketful of oil and said how brave she was and that the whole town was buzzing with her name. This seemed to do the trick and I was able to make my escape comparatively unscathed. It wouldn’t last of course, but for the time being I was a free man.
However, just as Bouncer and I were sidling into the lane, a couple of cub reporters bounded up asking if I had any particular views on ‘the tragedy’. ‘None,’ I answered curtly. ‘These things happen.’ I hurried on, knowing I was likely to be late for midday prayers. On reflection, I think I could have phrased my response a little more judiciously. A headline flashed before my eyes: ‘Murdered man is “just one of those things”, announces busy vicar.’
Later that afternoon, having finished my stint with the Brownies and blessed both them and Giles (a particularly bellicose guinea pig), I went into town to get a haircut. The local evening paper was already on sale (rushed out an hour earlier than usual), the front page proclaiming: MURDERED CORPSE FOUND IN LOCAL FLOWER BED. Out of resigned curiosity I bought a copy and took it home to read at leisure.
A prominent Molehill figure was faced with the discovery of a man’s dead body lying in one of her flower beds this morning. He is believed to have been shot through the head. Miss Mavis Briggs (inveterate amateur poet, church bell-ringer and staunch member of countless local societies) was faced with the grisly spectacle when she went out before breakfast to feed the squirrels. ‘I was very surprised,’ she told us graphically. ‘I mean, it’s not really what you expect to find at that hour of the morning, is it?’
According to police information little is known of the victim except that he is likely to have been in his late sixties, was well dressed and had deep teeth marks on one of his ankles. It is not yet confirmed whether these had been inflicted by human agency or animal. As always the police are pursuing their enquiries with the utmost zeal and diligence, and Superintendent Slowcome is confident that the mystery will be rapidly solved and an arrest made.
This is not the first time that Miss Briggs has been embroiled in disturbing events. Readers may remember that not so long ago she had the misfortune to have one of her pictures stolen. Neither it nor the thief was ever found. We trust that there is no connection between the two incidents.
I laid the paper aside. Typical: only Mavis would be daft enough to go and feed squirrels!
I sighed and turned to Bouncer. ‘And trust you to plunge your teeth in where they’re not wanted. If you’re not careful they’ll be taking fang-prints soon. Ruddy dog!’ He stared back gormlessly. And then, very slowly, began to wag his tail.
* See Bones in the Belfry
23
The Vicar’s Version
‘DOG’S MAULING OF CORPSE’S ANKLE!’ blazoned the Clarion’s headline. ‘It is now confirmed that teeth marks on the ankle of the unknown murder victim found in a Surrey garden were not inflicted by human agency but most probably by a dog of fearsome disposition. According to our sources the injury occurred shortly after death. The mystery deepens as to why or how …’
And thus cheated of the possibility of ‘human agency’, the newspaper substituted lurid speculation regarding the size and savagery of the canine assailant. Of the human attacker little was said, presumably for lack of evidence, and by the end of the article Bouncer had assumed the proportions and ferocity of a Baskerville.
I slung the paper aside, lit a cigarette and cogitated. My instinct was to take to my bed for a week – or a year – until the whole thing was over, but unfortunately current demands prohibited such luxury.
The first demand came from the bishop: The Times had also briefly reported the incident of Molehill’s mysterious victim, and Clinker, with a mind like a razor, had put two and two together. ‘I take it this was your doing,’ he trumpeted down the telephone. ‘What on earth possessed you and Ingaza to leave it in that woman’s garden? Surely you could have thought of somewhere more discreet. Now the whole area will be in a state of hue and cry. It’s too bad!’
Considering the awfulness of our experience, I felt the reprimand less than gracious, and with uncharacteristic boldness observed that since it was his corpse and nothing to do with me, he couldn’t be too picky as to where it was deposited.
This produced a thunderous silence followed by a spate of throat clearing, while I waited for the next volley. This in fact was less a volley than a grumbling protest to the effect that it certainly was not his corpse, and neither was it his fault if Felter happened to have been dispatched on Church premises. There being no useful response to this, I enquired how his session with the Archbishop’s secretary had gone.
‘Quite good,’ was the reply. ‘In fact, between you and me, Francis,’ (note the cajoling first name) ‘it’s virtually in the bag. Which is why discretion is imperative … a tactical silence is required. The last thing I want is for Creep Percival to get wind of anything. You do grasp that, I trust?’ he added anxiously. Oh yes, I grasped it all right!
The next demand was from Primrose. She too had seen the item in The Times, and agog to hear more about the corpse in my parishioner’s flower bed thought she might stop off for a night en route to stay with friends in Harrow. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I want to know if there have been any more developments regarding you know what!’
‘What?’
‘You know, the blackmailer! I’ve got one or two theories which—’
‘Yes, well, um, that’s been rather resolved …’ I hesitated.
‘Anyway,’ she continued briskly, ‘I’ll be with you on Friday, six o’clock sharp. So make sure you’ve got something decent to eat.’
With that injunction she rang off, and I was left staring at the dozing dog with its ‘fearsome disposition’ and propensity for manic mauling. I shifted my ankle.
That afternoon came fresh disturbance: Mavis Briggs. She accosted me in the High Street, and seeing my car asked if she could have a lift. To give her her due, she does not normally do this, but gesturing plaintively to her shin she explained she had tripped over the milk bottles at the front door and bruised her leg. ‘It’s the new milkman,’ she grumbled. ‘He’s so disorganized, never in the same place twice!’
Encumbered with library books and shopping bags, she clambered into the Singer’s rear seat, presumably imagining that there might be more space there. Mavis does not talk, she bleats. And it was not unlike carrying an under-the-weather sheep in the back.
I drove off, paying scant attention to the passenger’s ramblings, my mind largely occupied with Primrose’s forthcoming visit. I had got as far as remembering to buy some dry sherry (beloved of Primrose but not to my taste) when there was an exclamation from Mavis: ‘What a large handkerchief – and look, somebody’s initials. Perhaps it belongs to one of your clergy friends?’
‘Hmm,’ I said abstractedly, circumventing a small child dangling its foot over the kerb.
‘F.F.,’ the voice bleated. ‘Now I wonder who that can be? Certainly not Archdeacon Foggarty, I know for a fact his Christian names are Auberon Peregrine – rather a mouthful, I always think!’ She gave an ovine titter.
I glanced in the mirror to see her peering at a pale blue pocket handkerchief presumably plucked from the floor. ‘It’s mine,’ I said quickly, ‘Francis Philip.’
‘But Philip begins with a P,’ she protested. ‘It can’t be—’
‘Not in our family,’ I said firmly. ‘Always an F.’
‘Really, Canon? How very unusual, I’ve never come across—’
‘Where do you want to be dropped, Mavis?’ I asked abruptly, cursing Felter for his posthumous carelessness. It must have been pulled from his pocket when we were dragging him out – or pushing him in.
‘Edith’s house. I’ve got something very important to tell her!’
Edith Hopgarden and Mavis conduct a running skirmish in gossip and one-upmanship, and their relations are not so much cordial as spirited. I suspected therefore that this was to be a visit of careful briefing rather
than social courtesy. How right I was! In the next instant she said, ‘You see, I doubt if she has heard the latest development about my dreadful body!’
‘Your …?’
‘The body in my garden. Superintendent Slowcome has told me personally that the police are convinced it was transported there by car and probably left on my premises to avoid the nearby roadblock … You know, Canon, in many ways that is a great relief!’
‘Why?’ I asked faintly.
‘Well, it means I was not specially singled out, and that pushing that poor man through my hedge was simply a faute de mieux, if you see what I mean.’
Some faute de bloody mieux all right! ‘Oh well, they’re always full of theories at this stage,’ I replied vaguely. ‘Don’t suppose it’s anything more than—’
‘Oh it’s definitely a fact, Canon,’ she breathed down my neck. ‘The Superintendent himself took me aside and said: “Be assured, Miss Briggs, that’s what happened all right, your garden must have been a godsend to him – or more likely them – and we’re working on that very thing. Once we’ve established the victim’s identity, it won’t take long to find the person or persons responsible.” Well, I must say I find that very reassuring. Don’t you, Canon? This Mr Slowcome, he’s so much more professional than that Inspector March, much more up to date!’
‘Is that so?’ I said, stopping hastily at Edith’s house and wistfully recalling March’s bumbling bonhomie.
‘Oh yes, much,’ she gasped, clawing her way out of the back seat, ‘and of course he also told me about those tyre marks …’ And thanking me and squaring her shoulders in preparation for Edith, she turned towards the latter’s gate.
Tyre marks? Oh my God! Retrieving Felter’s handkerchief from where Mavis had mercifully left it, and stuffing it firmly into my own pocket, I drove off at breakneck speed.
‘I need a whole set of tyres,’ I yelled down the phone. ‘Get Eric to find some!’
‘Can’t you buy them yourself?’ asked Ingaza indifferently. ‘A full set is pretty expensive – besides, what’s wrong with your local garage?’
‘Not new ones – used ones of course. They must be put on immediately!’
‘Bit risky isn’t it, old man? I mean, I know you are a parsimonious bastard, but even you need to draw the line somewhere.’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘Thrift is all very well, but breaking your neck is—’
‘Thrift be damned!’ I snapped. ‘The police have found tyre marks by Mavis’s hedge and there’s bound to be a full-scale door-to-door enquiry. I’ve got to do a swap – and pronto!’
‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘I see what you mean. A complete new set could look a bit obvious; and I suppose if it got about locally that the vicar had just ordered some fresh ones, new or old, they might just mark your card.’
‘And yours,’ I said sharply.
He sighed. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll get Eric on to it and he can bring them up. Always been keen to meet you, he has.’
It was not a keenness that was reciprocated. Parleying with Eric on the telephone was one thing, but the thought of being faced with his bludgeoning good cheer in the flesh, particularly at this juncture, was more than frazzled nerves could stand.
‘Er, actually, Nicholas, if you don’t mind, could you possibly bring them yourself? I mean to say, Eric hasn’t been here before and, um, well, he might lose the way …’ I trailed off feebly.
There was a crack of laughter. ‘What’s the problem, old cock? Afraid he might fancy you?’
I felt myself blushing. ‘No. No, of course not. It’s just that … well, I’m feeling a little tired at the moment, and—’
‘And you just need Uncle Nick’s hand on your brow; a sort of soothing poultice, as one might say.’
‘I do not need a blooming poultice, or your hand! Just bring the bloody tyres, will you?’
‘Absolutely, dear boy. Have no fear, Nick is here!’
Ten minutes later, with a large whisky inside me, I took my seat at the piano and launched into a curious medley of my own devising, involving Scarlatti, Edmundo Ros and Ivor Novello. It was what you might call esoteric and I don’t think the dog liked it particularly, but it kept me sane and my mind off things criminal and cadaverous.
24
The Vicar’s Version
‘What on earth are you doing?’ demanded Primrose. She stood on the threshold of the garage, suitcase in hand and looking extremely put out. ‘I’ve been hammering on your front door for ages and all I got were roars from the dog! And why is Nicholas here?’
‘Nice to be welcomed,’ murmured Ingaza, rising from his haunches and smoothing his hair with a grimy hand.
‘Yes, well, you see we’ve been changing the tyres, Primrose,’ I explained apologetically. ‘It had to be done rather urgently.’
‘What, all four?’ she asked, gesturing towards the discarded pile.
I nodded. ‘There’s been a bit of a problem, and, er … Anyway, let’s all go in and have a drink, shall we?’ I grabbed her case and propelled her towards the house, leaving Ingaza to sling the spares in the boot of his Citroën.
When he rejoined us Primrose had powdered her nose and was absorbed in the sherry. ‘Not quite as dry as mine,’ she observed, ‘but I’ve known worse.’
I acknowledged the compliment and poured a gin for my co-mechanic. Mechanic? The term is inadequate. Given the circumstances, Nicholas had been a saving grace and I was grateful for his help. However, I felt less warmly when, in answer to my sister’s repeated query about the tyres, he observed casually, ‘You had better tell her, she won’t be put off.’
Primrose replaced her sherry glass on the table and fixed me with an astringent stare. ‘Yes, Francis, I think you had better.’
And so I told her the whole story. It took some time and she kept unnervingly silent throughout. But when I had finally finished, she said, ‘If you want my opinion it was definitely Clinker – I always have thought he was murky. Anyway, why on earth didn’t you tell him to take care of his own damn corpse? I would have!’
Ingaza giggled. ‘You’re too harsh, Primrose. Poor old Hor may be odd but he’s no murderer – and as for taking care of a corpse, he’d have only made a hash of it.’
‘As you did,’ she replied coldly. ‘Thrusting it through that woman’s hedge!’
There being no answer to that, we lit fresh cigarettes and contemplated the dog.
The main topic at supper was naturally ‘the situation’. ‘It stands to reason it’s the bishop,’ declared Primrose. ‘He’s hell-bent on securing that post – much kudos and little work; and in any case, even if they don’t appoint him he couldn’t endure anything getting out about his Oxford lapse. You’ll see – he did it in a crisis of terror. Mark my words!’
Her words were duly marked and duly ignored.
‘Honestly, Primrose, I just don’t think it’s in him,’ I said.
‘That means nothing. One could say that about a lot of people,’ she replied darkly, giving me a pointed look.
‘Speaking as part of the “Oxford lapse”,’ interrupted Ingaza smoothly, ‘I’ll lay you a treble fee for your Canadian sales that he didn’t do it.’
‘Done,’ she said swiftly, refilling her glass; and after a pause added brightly, ‘Well if it wasn’t Horace, perhaps it was someone who bore him a grudge … you know, thought it amusing to do the job on the bishop’s premises and then sit back and watch events.’
‘Huh,’ I said drily, ‘so that backfired, didn’t it? Thanks to our ministrations, no events to observe! Whoever did it must be utterly baffled.’
‘You mean poisonous Gladys has been robbed of her fun?’ laughed Nicholas. ‘But you’re right – somebody must be feeling pretty puzzled. After all, it’s one thing to have killed a chap, but quite another to hear no response from the person outside whose door you left the remains! Normally all hell would have been let loose with police and press everywhere, and photographs of the bishop looking pale and pained. Instead an uncanny hush. Rather disquieting
I should say. What do you think, dear boy? You’re the expert.’ He gave a broad wink, and I glared.
‘That’s enough, Nicholas,’ said Primrose sharply, ‘you are being most unfair!’
I have noticed with my sister that while she has no compunction about needling me herself, she is generally quick to defend me to others. It was like that when we were children, and so it remains. I am grateful.
A thought struck me. ‘Of course, she won’t know yet presumably – but I wonder how Lavinia will take the news once it eventually gets out. She seemed pretty friendly with Felter at that party in Kensington.’
‘And at the Brighton binge,’ added Primrose. ‘They clung to each other like limpets nearly all evening.’
‘The great thing is to avoid any contact with her until it’s public knowledge,’ warned Nicholas. ‘And that goes for Hor too. I wouldn’t put it past him to let something slip in a thoughtless moment – like paying his condolences on the death of her friend! I’d better warn him …’
At that moment the telephone rang in the hall, and I got up to answer it. And returned at some speed.
‘It’s Slowcome,’ I gasped. ‘Wants to come round with a couple of questions – if it’s not too inconvenient!’
‘Well of course it’s inconvenient,’ exclaimed Primrose. ‘Did you tell him your sister was here and we had only just finished dinner?’
I ignored that and turned to Nicholas: ‘For God’s sake, leave immediately and take those tyres with you! Get rid of them, destroy them, cut them into pieces!’
‘All right, old man, keep your hair on,’ Ingaza replied, but he rose quickly. ‘I’ll leave in a tick, but I just need to christen your gents.’
A Bedlam of Bones Page 13