A Bedlam of Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  Well, you can imagine my fury. Bad enough being assaulted in that manner, but to be actually mistaken for a rat was insufferable! Really, sometimes I think the obtuseness of these humans knows no bounds. Indeed I later observed as much to Bouncer, who nodded sagely and said, ‘You are quite right, Maurice. And what’s more, they’re stupid.’

  Anyway, the upshot of such churlish conduct was that in my haste to escape I was forced to abandon the Eye yet again. But fortunately, despite discomforted stern, I returned the following day to collect it. So all was well … albeit as well as anything ever can be in the vicar’s household!

  I imparted all this to Florence the wolfhound who is one of those rare canine breeds to display good sense. She listened gravely to my tale (though judging from the drooping eyelids may have been a little sleepy – too much horseplay in the park, I daresay) and when I had finished, murmured that such things must be a great trial for a cat of my calibre and suggested I went lickety-split to the graveyard to recuperate.

  ‘You are so right, Florence,’ I exclaimed, ‘and I will go immediately!’ She wagged her tail vigorously. And then with a languid wave of massive paw turned and ambled back to the house … Matey though Bouncer is, it is always refreshing to talk to one of reciprocal intelligence and whose remarks soothe rather than grate.

  26

  The Dog’s Diary

  It’s just as well that Florence is around otherwise I don’t know what the cat would do! He was in a rare old bate the other evening. The two goons arrived to interview F.O. about the car tyres and one of them mistook Maurice for a rat. And oh my backside, did the balloon go up! Thought I’d never hear the end of it. Spitting and hissing half the night, he was. No wonder I’ve spent most of the day down in the crypt trying to get a bit of kip!

  Anyway, he’s better now, as he went off to complain to Florence and she put him right like she usually does. Wolfhounds can do that – they have a knack of calming ruffled fur. A bit like a donkey with a horse. Maurice is what you might call a bit special and needs careful treatment. It’s his nerves. Of course, my nerves are sound as a cricket ball, bone-solid you might say … except of course when faced with a ruddy great human corpse shoved on top of me! Still, as mentioned, I got my own back there all right.

  But as a matter of fact, biting the bastard is not the only thing I did. Oh no! I’m getting pretty canny with corpses, what with the body in the wood and then the Boris person in France. It’s living with the vicar that does it. I mean, it was me who dealt with those deeds in old Fotherington’s pocket and took the Special Eye from the stiff by the pool. And now I’ve done SOMETHING ELSE. But I’m not telling the cat as he’ll only get bossy and then take all the jam. Of course I don’t know that there will be any jam, but in this life you have to keep your wits about you and snaffle things when you get the chance JUST IN CASE! As I’ve said before, no fleas on Bouncer!

  Mind you, anyone would think that the vicar was smothered in ’em. Oh yes, he’s a very nice master and all that, but as my friend O’Shaughnessy would say, he’s a couple of studs short of a full collar. Or as you and I might put it, doesn’t always know his arse from his whatsit.

  Take the other day for instance. There I was, lying quietly in the long grass by the rhubarb, when he suddenly leaps out from his study, yelling, ‘Oh hell and dies irae!’ Now, I’m not too good on words – as the cat often tells me – but you don’t spend time in the crypt with all thoseghosts and mouldering tombs around you without picking up a few handy terms. And dies irae is one of them. I’m getting pretty smart on the old Latino and I know that it means ‘Watch out! God-awful day ahead!’ So when F.O. shot on to the lawn and started ranting at the buddleia, I thought to myself, Ho ho, Bouncer, time for more marrowbone … better prime the gut for the next palaver!

  Well, after I had visited my secret hidey-hole and had a few good gnaws, I saw that the vicar had gone back inside, so I followed him in. And do you know what? As I bounded into the hall, I nearly bashed into something – GUNGA DIN!

  Yes, old Gunga, all beams and blubber, and I could hear his mistress shouting the odds in the sitting room.

  ‘Cor,’ I said, ‘fancy meeting you here! Thought you’d gone back to London.’

  ‘Yes, nice, isn’t it?’ he answered, wagging that joke of a tail. ‘Thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘We-ll,’ I said, ‘I’m surprised.’

  So we had a few matey sniffs, and then I asked if he had seen Maurice. He told me that he had but didn’t think the cat had seen him as it had walked by looking the other way. ‘Thinking about mice I expect,’ he wheezed. (More like thinking about how to sidestep jumbo bulldogs!)

  So I asked him again why they weren’t in London and he said that Mrs T.P. was in one of her nosy moods and seemed to want to pick the vicar’s brains about ‘urgent matters’.

  ‘Huh!’ I barked. ‘With the size of our master’s brain, that shouldn’t take long!’ I thought that was very funny but he just looked vacant and started to scratch … slowly, because of being fat.

  Still, he must have been chewing over my words, because when he had finished scratching, he said, ‘Ah but you see, Bouncer, it is taking long because there is another lady with them and that’s why he had to rush into the garden. Probably thought it was getting a bit crowded.’

  ‘What other lady?’

  ‘She’s got a high, squeaky voice but sometimes it fades away like a dying gas jet.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘that’ll be Mavis Briggs. She’s very fond of bulldogs. You go back in and sit on her lap, she’ll love that.’

  He frowned. ‘Do you think so, Bouncer? I thought she looked a bit worried.’

  ‘That’s her usual look,’ I told him. ‘Give her a big kiss and she’ll be much better – you’ll see.’

  ‘All right,’ he snuffled, ‘I’ll have a go.’

  He turned round and plodded back into the sitting room. The door was half open and I could hear the rumbling sound of the Tubbly’s voice, the squeaks of Mavis and the vicar’s ummings and aahings. And then suddenly everything went dead quiet …

  But not for long, because the next moment there was an almighty crash of tea cups hitting the floor, a bone-busting squawk (a bit like those ducks in France) and the Mavis person shrieked, ‘Keep him away, Vicar! He’s going to eat me! Keep him away!’ There was another crash, a howl from Gunga, and then the noise of the Tubbly booming out, ‘My poor little boy! Come to Mummy then! Come to Mummy!’

  It sounded like good sport, and I was just edging up a bit to take a crafty peek, when Maurice strolled by. He stopped, shoved his paw in my ribs and said, ‘You’ve been at it, haven’t you, Bouncer? You’ve been at it!’

  You can’t always tell what sort of mood the cat’s in. So at first I didn’t say anything – just put my head and tail down and peered up from under my fringe. But then he gave me another prod, purred and said, ‘Bravissimo, Bouncer! Larks in the afternoon. Whatever next!’ I think that is cat-speak for THE DOG DONE WELL … Either that or he had been at Gunga’s saucer of gin!

  27

  The Vicar’s Version

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if they had arrived separately; but appearing as they did, within ten minutes of each other, was – to put it politely – challenging. Neither would it have been quite so dire had Maud not brought Gunga Din. Faced with mistress and dog on their own I can cope fairly well, but the addition of Mavis Briggs created a situation of fearsome consequence.

  It was Wednesday afternoon, generally a fairly slack period, and other than the crossword before Evensong I had nothing especially to do. So when an unexpected telephone call from Mrs Tubbly Pole announced that lady’s imminent arrival, though surprised I was not unduly perturbed … That is to say until she revealed the purpose of her visit: to ‘ferret out, my dear, a little more of your murky mystery!’

  So acute are my personal sensitivities to the ‘Fotherington Case’ that my immediate reaction was one of frenzied horror. Was she really bent on
its resurrection? First time round had been bad enough*, but to have her sleuthing yet again into that awful business was more than flesh and blood could stand. What on earth could I do?

  ‘Why?’ I asked faintly. ‘I thought you’d already written one novel based on it – surely you don’t need another.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said impatiently, ‘that was Murder at the Moleheap – jolly good too, it was. But there’s no more mileage there. What I want to know about now is this recent business in that woman’s garden – the anonymous body. It’s been in the newspapers but no details yet, so I just thought that my old friend in Molehill might have an idea or two.’

  ‘Well he hasn’t,’ I replied. ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘You are so modest, my dear,’ she chortled. ‘There’s more in that head than one might think!’ There being no answer to that, I cleared my throat. ‘Now,’ she continued avidly, ‘have you spoken to the garden owner yet? What has she to say about it all? You know, I have a theory that it may have been a lover whom she had tired of – blew his head off and then left him out in the rain while she was thinking what to do. Have you considered that, Francis?’

  I admitted that on the whole I had not, and that given the lady in question, it seemed highly unlikely.

  ‘Ah,’ she replied darkly, ‘but if you knew human nature as I do, you would realize that the improbable is always possible. I haven’t been a crime writer all these years without discovering that it is often the most innocent-seeming who are the most dastardly!’

  ‘Is that so?’ I remarked drily.

  ‘Oh yes. Anyway, I’ll tell you more when we arrive.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Well I know you would like to see Gunga Din again, and as you know, he is so fond of you! Expect us in half an hour. Toodle-oo.’

  I went into the kitchen, cheered by her claim that there was ‘no more mileage’ to the Fotherington affair, and abstractedly started to assemble tea things; then, remembering the bulldog’s penchant for gin, checked the level in the bottle … low. Too bad. I had no intention of sacrificing my après-Evensong comforts to those of the dog. He would just have to go without. Unchristian? Undoubtedly.

  She arrived, vivid and volatile, accompanied as promised by her rather less than animated companion. He greeted me solemnly and rolled a bulging eye. Hmm, I thought, if he thinks that’s going to produce the tipple, he’s in for a disappointment. To my relief, however, Maud declared that the ‘little boy’ was on the wagon but that a drop of Schweppes in a saucer would be most acceptable. It evidently was, for after a few ruminative laps he went and sat quietly by the French window, gazing intently at two butterflies crawling up the pane.

  With dog thus occupied and mistress firmly settled on the sofa, we turned – or she did – to things criminal, namely the abandoned corpse. Despite reluctance to get drawn into her speculations, it would have looked strange had I kept silent, and so I did my best to appear suitably intrigued. She romped on merrily, then asked why I was sure that her original theory about it being a despised lover was so unlikely.

  I closed my eyes in a spasm of pain, and then opening them, said quietly, ‘I think you will see why at any moment.’ She followed my gaze through the window, to the front gate and the figure of Mavis Briggs purposeful with asparagus.

  I do not like asparagus and I could have done without Mavis, but clearly both were to be my lot that afternoon and I coped as best I could – which was not terribly well.

  Each visitor recognized the other from Maud’s recent literary talk when Mavis had had the temerity to quiz the novelist about the importance of the ‘moral dimension’. According to Colonel Dawlish, the author’s puzzled response that as far as she was aware there wasn’t one, had not won favour with Mavis, who spent the rest of the session tut-tutting loudly. (‘Frightful racket!’ he had complained.)

  Initially, therefore, a froideur of mutual suspicion hung in the air, but I rather clumsily broke the ice by telling Mavis how much my guest sympathized with her dreadful experience with the body. It was meant to kill two birds with one stone – to mollify Mavis while at the same time slaking Maud’s rampant curiosity. In fact it produced such a barrage of excited dissonance as each strove to wield her oar, that I was reduced to escaping to the garden under the pretext of seeing off the pigeons.

  When I returned, although things had calmed somewhat I did not get the impression that they were entirely ‘at one’. Despite their shared interest in the topic (Mavis as drama queen and Mrs Tubbly Pole playing amateur detective), I sensed that neither was overly impressed with the other – Mavis still doubtful of Maud’s literary propriety and the latter clearly bored with her fellow guest’s vapid prattle.

  I was just wondering how to get rid of Mavis, or at least turn the conversation, when, grabbing the tea pot, Mrs Tubbly Pole splashed a dark stream into the visitor’s cup and pushed the plate of buns in her direction. It was, I think, an effort to keep her quiet, which for a time it did.

  During the pause Mrs T.P. turned to me and, cutting across both our companion and the previous topic, said, ‘Tell me, Francis, have you seen much of Freddie Felter recently? I’ve been giving him some thought and come to a conclusion about which I’ll tell you later.’ She nodded meaningfully in the direction of the munching Mavis.

  ‘Er, no, not really,’ I answered vaguely, ‘except at Lavinia Birtle-Figgins’ housewarming. Saw him there briefly.’ I shot a fond glance in the direction of Gunga Din, hoping to divert her attention, but the dog seemed to have disappeared.

  ‘Was Turnbull with him?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, not with him as such. But he was there with Lavinia – helped her to organize the thing. They are quite close.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she brooded. ‘So what’s F.F. like these days? Still as slimy?’

  I was about to give a non-committal response, when there was a neighing laugh from Mavis. ‘F.F.? Weren’t those the initials on that handkerchief in your car, Canon – you know, the one you thought was yours?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got handkerchiefs all over the place,’ I said lightly, cursing Mavis’s elephantine memory. ‘Always dropping them!’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, but do they all bear the initials F.F.?’ And turning to Maud she exclaimed breathily, ‘Did you know that in the Canon’s family, the name Philip is spelt with an F? Isn’t that quaint? I’ve never heard of such a thing before! Have you?’

  ‘Of course,’ answered Mrs T.P. woodenly. ‘It’s a medieval derivation.’

  ‘Well I never! But tell me, how—’

  She never completed her question. For at that moment the bulldog came lumbering back, advanced slowly towards her, and with a guttural grunt hauled itself on to her lap. Here he floundered while Mavis screamed and sent buns and crockery flying. Undeterred, the creature proceeded to smother her in lavish and snorting endearments while the object of his affections drummed her heels and tried vainly to beat him off.

  ‘Absurd!’ I heard Maud expostulate. ‘Just keep still and give him a pat.’

  That was the last thing Mavis was going to do, and I rose hastily to pull the dog away. Indeed, such was my haste that I knocked over a small table of books, scattering the volumes in all directions. Then just as I was reaching for the dog’s collar, with a cascade of squawks Mavis heaved the friendly one to the floor where he emitted an anguished roar. This coincided with a similar eruption from the owner. ‘Come to Mummy!’ bellowed an enraged Mrs Tubbly Pole. ‘Look what you’ve done to him!’

  Mavis’s departure was swift and unceremonial. Mrs Tubbly Pole’s was slower and more thoughtful. After she had demanded that I yield my remaining gin to soothe the victim’s injured psyche, she tried to quiz me re the handkerchief. ‘What was that bit about spelling your second name with an F?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense! There’s more to this than meets the eye. If I were a private dick in one of my novels I’d say you had been giving that toad Felter a lift!’ She gave a caustic laugh.

  ‘Rath
er a long story which I’ll tell you sometime,’ I parried. ‘But if you don’t mind, not just now, Maud, I’m a little fatigued.’

  After she had gone I surveyed the fall-out from their visit: the debris of broken china, far-flung books and squashed buns. Chewing dolefully on one of these, I set about tidying things up. With or without the gin, that evening’s choral service would be a balm and therapy of which I had much need …

  * See Bones in the Belfry

  28

  The Vicar’s Version

  As it happens Evensong did do the trick, and despite the run-in with Maud and Mavis, the continuing embarrassment of the flower fiasco, and not least the visitation from Slowcome, I returned home moderately refreshed. Indeed, such was the refreshment that my spirits remained buoyant until a late breakfast the following day. At this point, however, tensions resumed and I started once more to contemplate the mystery surrounding Felter and our ill-judged disposal of his body.

  I munched my toast despondently and wondered what on earth I should do if the tedious Slowcome succeeded in linking us with the corpse. It wouldn’t just be Clinker who was suspected of murder – we should all be in the can! And meanwhile the killer was loose, presumably well away and smug at the possibility of there being a ready-made set of scapegoats – or fall-guys, as the Americans put it.