A Bedlam of Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘Surely you can hold on or use a hedge,’ I protested.

  ‘Certainly not,’ he replied indignantly.

  After what seemed an age of messing about, Ingaza left. And with the thankful sound of the departing engine in my ears, I scurried around tidying the sitting room and trying to create an air of bland innocence. This included replacing my sports jacket with one of shadowy hue, putting on my dog collar and strewing copies of the Church Times in prominent places.

  ‘What are you doing, Francis? You’re like a flea in a fit!’ exclaimed Primrose. ‘What about offering me a glass of port?’

  ‘No,’ I snapped, ‘you’ll have to make do with coffee if you must. It wouldn’t look good.’

  ‘Oh, really!’ She took out her compact and applied lipstick. ‘This Slowcome, is he good-looking?’

  ‘Awful,’ I said, searching vainly for a picture of the Archbishop of Canterbury to hang on the wall.

  ‘And is he likely to turn up on his own?’

  ‘Bound to be a sidekick, there always is.’ I thought gloomily of the dreaded Samson, who, with Inspector March, had plagued me for months over the Fotherington affair. At least I should be spared his foxy presence. Too shrewd for Molehill, Samson had transferred to Scotland Yard where his sullen and questing eye was presumably striking fear into villains far above my league. Occasionally life grants small mercies.

  The doorbell rang and I went to answer it with sinking heart.

  Yes, there were two of them: Slowcome, of course, and a round-faced youth in a navy mac, carrying a briefcase.

  I ushered them in, and made introductions to Primrose. The latter immediately assumed her lady-of-the-manor mode. ‘Do let me make you some coffee, Superintendent, you must be chilled to the bone on a night like this!’ (It was in fact unusually mild, but such details are of little account to Primrose.) She made great show of taking their coats and settling them in the warmest places by the fire; then before going for the coffee, said to Slowcome, ‘My brother tells me you are a lay-reader at the cathedral and that Bishop Clinker says you are an absolute stalwart, in fact the only one with real voice!’ She laughed gaily and disappeared to the kitchen.

  Absurdly she had hit the mark. For flushing slightly, Slowcome said, ‘Very complimentary of His Lordship. One does try to do one’s best, you know. A steady tone is what’s needed – at least that’s what I always think, and in my modest way it’s what I feel I achieve …’ (Modest way, my foot! Bumptious ass.)

  ‘Ah,’ I said earnestly, ‘but of course it’s not just a matter of tone and resonance, it’s also interpretation, intelligent interpretation – that’s what Clinker looks for in his readers. Not easily come by, I fear, which is why he’s so thankful to have a veteran like yourself among the cohorts!’ I chuckled conspiratorially.

  When Primrose returned with the coffee it was to find us absorbed in the niceties and snares of public gospel reading. I say ‘us’, but in fact it was principally Slowcome pronouncing and airing his views, with me supplying an obsequious obligato. (Anything, anything to delay the ‘couple of questions’!)

  Primrose dispensed the coffee, and turning to the round-faced youth enquired whether he shared his superior’s interest in public reading. The young man shook his head; but before he had a chance to reply, Slowcome said jovially, ‘Thomas doesn’t read, he sings. In the church choir, he is.’ (Yes, I thought I had seen him before: Thomas Winjohn – one of the tenors, and always half a beat behind everyone else.)

  ‘Really? How splendid!’ gushed Primrose. She was clearly ready to initiate further diversionary discussion, but the boy got in first.

  ‘Yes,’ he said eagerly, ‘and do you know, it was when I was on my way back from choir practice that I think I may have passed the car!’

  I had taken a small sip of coffee, but it suddenly went down with a whoosh, burning my throat. ‘Car?’ I asked mildly. ‘What car?’

  ‘The one parked by Miss Briggs’s hedge. The one we are trying to trace the tyre marks of.’ He tapped his notebook importantly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Slowcome sharply, all thoughts of lay-reading vanished, ‘and if your bike had had its lights functioning properly like a constable’s ought, you might have seen something useful. As it is, you can’t recall a thing!’

  ‘Well, except that it may have been some sort of sports car … But like I said, sir, it was pitch dark and my dynamo had failed, and I’d got my head down against the rain. Wasn’t seeing anything very clearly except the pot holes …’ He trailed off, crestfallen.

  ‘Maddening, isn’t it, to have been so close?’ said Primrose sympathetically. ‘But I know how contrary those dynamos can be – always giving up just when you need them most! Besides, it’s not as if you were even searching for a car. So easy to be wise after the event. Don’t you think so, Superintendent?’ She gave the latter a worldly smile.

  Slowcome nodded briefly, and turning to me said, ‘Now this is where you might be able to help us, Canon. I gather that on that night you and a friend were returning from Brighton and got flagged down at our roadblock. They tell me there was a Ford Anglia ahead of you. But can you recall seeing any other vehicle either in front or behind, say within a couple of miles of Molehill?’

  Which would be best? To say I had seen nothing, or dozens? Helplessly I glanced at the dog for inspiration. Bouncer stared back and gave a single wag of his tail.

  ‘The roads were very empty – but I think there may have been one,’ I ventured.

  ‘Can you remember its make, sir?’ asked Thomas Winjohn briskly, clearly wanting to reinstate himself with Slowcome.

  ‘A Humber … yes, a Humber Snipe. Or come to think of it, it may have been an MG.’ I frowned.

  Slowcome cleared his throat. ‘Bit of a difference, I should have thought, between a Snipe and an MG.’

  ‘Oh, Francis is hopeless on cars!’ broke in Primrose. ‘I remember when we were children – he couldn’t even distinguish the Dinky ones!’ She emitted a gale of laughter, while I was torn between being grateful for her intervention and feeling piqued at having my reputation with Dinky cars so traduced. They had in fact been my favourite toy and I had taken particular pride in my expertise.

  ‘Still,’ continued Slowcome, ‘given that DC Winjohn thinks that the one parked by the lady’s hedge may have been a sports model, and that those tyre marks show a fairly narrow width – who knows, what you saw just may have been the one. A long shot, but worth pursuing anyway.’ He turned to his companion: ‘That’ll be your job first thing tomorrow – make a list of all MGs registered in the Surrey area and then you and DS Withers can have a go at them.’ I closed my eyes, thinking of all the innocent MG owners about to be so plagued.

  However, my sympathy was short-lived, for at the next moment Slowcome said, ‘And now if you don’t mind, Canon, perhaps we could take a quick shufti at the tyres on your vehicle – or rather DC Winjohn will. He likes doing tyres, it’s his speciality – never happier than when he’s on his knees measuring treads and such. Just give him the garage key, it won’t take long. He’s got all the necessary in that smart new briefcase of his – torch, camera, measuring stick, reference manual. He’s got the whole works in there – haven’t you, Thomas?’ The latter nodded, though I was not sure whether with pain or pleasure.

  ‘Goodness,’ cried Primrose, ‘is my brother on the suspect list? That’ll be a novelty for him!’ (No need to over-ice the cake, Primrose, I thought irritably.)

  Slowcome gave an indulgent smile. ‘All car owners are suspects at this stage, Miss Oughterard – even vicars. Bishops too I daresay!’ He laughed complacently at his own joke, and I started to wonder how I might scupper his chances on Clinker’s lay-reading rota.

  With Winjohn doing his bit in the garage, we turned to other matters, i.e. Bouncer. ‘Cheerful old boy, that one,’ observed our guest. ‘Looks nice and docile too. I like an obedient dog. In fact now that I’m out of London and settled in the country, I quite fancy getting something like that myself
.’ He gave Bouncer a friendly pat. The latter cocked his head on one side, presumably trying to appear cutely docile, but in fact looking mildly insane. ‘Yes, nice little chap,’ observed Slowcome, ‘not like that savage cur that bit our victim … According to the pathologist it happened post-mortem, you know – all very peculiar, not quite savoury!’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed quietly, ‘very odd.’

  I did not like the turn the conversation was taking and was thankful when the constable returned. However, though confident that the original tyres were well away, I still felt a pang of fear. Despite the failure of the wretched dynamo, supposing there was something familiar about the Singer that had jogged Winjohn’s memory? I glanced nervously at Primrose who stared ahead, a fixed smile on her face.

  The young man wore a solemn expression. And with briefcase grasped firmly in hand, went over to his superior and muttered something in his ear. They both turned to look at me.

  ‘Are you aware, Canon,’ said Slowcome accusingly, ‘that you have got two punctures fore and aft and that the tread on the offside front is well below the permitted limit?’

  ‘Good gracious,’ I exclaimed, ‘how dreadful!’

  I think both of us slept well that night, and the following morning we reviewed matters over a large breakfast, prior to Primrose departing for Harrow.

  ‘It’s all very well your saying we should cut our connection with Lavinia and Turnbull,’ she said, ‘but we can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Millie Merton wants me to exhibit in her Brighton gallery.’

  ‘Who? Oh, her. Why? And what’s that to do with the price of coal?’

  ‘It has nothing to do with the price of coal but much to do with my bank account,’ replied Primrose icily. ‘And as to why, I should have thought that was obvious – I am a local artist of increasing national renown. She’s lucky to get me.’

  ‘Hmm. From what you told me about those peculiar abstracts, I shouldn’t think your sheep and church pictures would fit in there, far too traditional.’

  She gave an imperious shrug. ‘Quality will always out, you know. Something that Millie Merton will doubtless learn.’

  ‘But where do Lavinia and Turnbull come in?’ I protested.

  ‘They come in by being her friends and by Lavinia having specially recommended my work to the gallery. Actually, I think I was far too charming to her when she stayed overnight for its opening. She now seems to look upon me as a valued chum … Anyway, the point is that it rather commits me, wouldn’t you say?’

  Grudgingly I agreed that it probably did, but that I personally intended keeping my distance.

  ‘If you can,’ she retorted. ‘Once it becomes known that that body is Felter’s, they are bound to want to chew the cud. I mean to say, their friend suddenly turns up assassinated and, of all places, discarded in your parish … Well naturally they will want to hear what you think about it all. It’s not as if you are merely a passing acquaintance. We stayed at Lavinia’s house in France, supported her over her husband’s death, we’ve taken tea with them both in London, and you and Ingaza were recently guzzling their champagne at her housewarming. You can’t just cut them – even if Turnbull did murder Boris. It’ll look so odd.’

  ‘Oh really,’ I exploded, ‘it’s too bad!’

  She sniffed. ‘More fool you for getting involved in the first place. If you and Ingaza had had your wits about you you’d have left well alone, or at least dumped the body somewhere else. Wigan, for example.’

  ‘Wigan? Why there?’

  She shrugged again. ‘Well any place would have done, except Molehill of course.’

  I began to feel the onset of an enormous headache, and thought wistfully of my bed and several aspirin. If she left for Harrow within the next twenty minutes, it meant I could get in a good two hours’ snooze before sallying forth to confront Colonel Dawlish and the church wardens.

  ‘Primrose,’ I said winningly, ‘would you like me to help you down with your suitcase?’

  25

  The Cat’s Memoir

  Needless to say, once he had recovered from the initial shock, the dog was in his element and swaggered around the garden gabbling incessantly about the ‘the stiff that I savaged’. The dimensions of the ankle into which he plunged his teeth increased substantially with each telling; as did the rankness of the ‘muttony’ smell, which even now he swears pervaded the car for the entire journey. I very much doubted this last detail, but in his current heated state it was pointless to argue. Besides, I have to admit to a sneaking respect for the dog’s tenacity in the face of distasteful circumstance. It is amazing what these humans think they can impose on the rest of us (not that F.O. ever thinks very much), and I consider that thrusting a corpse upon a sleeping dog is the height of ill manners. Naturally I did not say this to Bouncer, who needs no encouragement in the role of injured innocent. There was enough gilding of the Bonio as it was.

  But naturally the gruesome drama went well beyond the dog and its fangs. There was, for example, another martyr claiming centre stage: Mavis Briggs. To decant the thing into that person’s domain was an act of unmitigated folly! But with the vicar and the questionable Brighton Type at the root of things, what else could you expect? Increasingly I felt myself immured in a bedlam of bone-headed buffoons. But that, alas, is the fate of most cats … other than tabbies. (With that breed foolishness goes with the genes, and the concept of lunacy naturally passes them by.)

  As an example of such bedlam, the events of that past week had been a testing challenge to an animal of my sensibilities. However, a prolonged sojourn in the graveyard sun did much to restore my natural bonhomie (so much so, that I found myself addressing an affable miaow to the Persian jezebel three doors down, who seemed surprised and scuttled in the direction of her voluminous mistress).

  But still, despite renewal of spirits, I did not relish seeing a repeat of the rubber tyre episode! That performance might have been risible had it not been so disruptive of my peace and comfort. As it was, I was disturbed not once but twice by the vicar’s mismanagement of the affair. The first occurrence was a Sunday afternoon – when he is normally out for the count on the sitting-room sofa and thus safely immobilized. Not so this time.

  I had just finished a particularly choice lunch of cream and hake-cakes, and feeling well sated (and with Bouncer absorbed in his usual spider-hunt in the crypt) had repaired to the garage for a snooze upon the bonnet of the car. For a time this went very nicely, and I was slipping in and out of consciousness, musing about the days of boyhood under the tutelage of my redoubtable grandfather (he of the upstanding fur) and his brother the wily Marmaduke. What a heroic pair! And how patient with the callow kitten I then was! Ah well, another story perhaps, another time …

  Anyway, there I was quietly absorbed in my reverie, when all of a sudden came a stupendous crash, and shattering the idyll a voice cried, ‘Watch out you idiot, that was my blithering foot!’

  ‘Bugger your foot,’ was the nasal reply, ‘what about my trousers? What the hell’s that can of oil doing in the way?’

  Instantly those dulcet days vanished and were replaced by the unsavoury sight of F.O. and the Brighton Type lumbering around heaving a pile of motor tyres!

  I emitted a startled screech, followed by a series of piercing hisses. But to my chagrin no one took the least bit of notice – far too busy scrabbling around in the dust, levering away at the wheels of the car. It was too bad! And after a few seconds’ rapid thought I leapt to the sanctuary of the shelf under the skylight. From here I monitored the scene in all its grisly absurdity.

  Amid curses and swirls of fag smoke, the two of them crawled around the vehicle wrenching at hub caps, manipulating something the Type referred to as the ‘bleeding jack’, and with a metal rod yanking off one set of tyres and replacing them with another. It seemed a pointless, not to say noisy, pursuit, and I was puzzled. However, eventually the task seemed finished and they sat back on their heels, panting. Desp
ite his exertions, F.O. looked relieved and I heard him say, ‘Well at least that’s done. One less thing to worry about!’

  ‘Hold on,’ said the Brighton Type, ‘better dirty up the rims otherwise they might smell a rat. Trust some smart arse to notice recent activity!’ And he started to smear the hub caps and tyre crevices with dust and mud from the garage floor. I regarded this with some curiosity … And then of course everything suddenly fell into place and my agile brain saw the light! It was something to do with tell-tale tread marks at the scene of the corpse’s disposal! Bouncer had told me that it had been raining when they had stopped at the Mavis woman’s hedge, and that F.O. had had to shunt the vehicle to and fro to get off the slippery grass. So perhaps that was what they were up to: foiling the police by eradicating clues. Having witnessed similar antics from F.O. in the past, I concluded this to be the case.

  However, all I can say is that while explanation may satisfy curiosity, it hardly compensates for ruined peace. And I was just about to embark on a sulk when I heard a third voice at the garage entrance: the vicar’s sister demanding to know what they were doing. Enough was more than enough and I made a hurried exit through the open skylight.

  * * *

  Such had been my haste to find a more suitable snoozing place that I left behind my Special Eye. This glass orb is an exquisite plaything, and if it were not to be trampled under some galumphing foot, rescue was imperative. Thus, when the vicar was occupied with his visitors later that evening, I slipped back into the garage via the still-open skylight and started to scour the floor.

  Crouched by one of the back wheels I glimpsed the thing lurking under the chassis, and with a miaow of pleasure darted to retrieve it. Then just as I had it under my paw, there was a thud on the door and the rattling of a key in the lock. Surely F.O. wasn’t planning a joy ride at this time of night!

  No, not the vicar. It was, as Bouncer would say, some other joker – to wit, the round-faced youth who had arrived with Slowcome. I remained deadly still as he started to scan the tyres with a flashlight, then got down on his knees to commence a minute inspection of each one. The process went on for some time with much puffing and muttering and fumbling with tape measure. This item rather fascinated me, and seeing it momentarily discarded on the floor I couldn’t resist giving it the merest tweak. A foolish move, for the youth lowered his head to peer under the sill and then cried, ‘Oh my Christ, a rat! Get out you little bugger!’ And grasping an old broom-handle, he had the gall to thrust it under the car where it made contact with my hindquarter.