I gazed at the dog snoring blissfully by the boiler and wished I could share its ease … Still, I thought, no point in crossing premature bridges. Even when Felter was identified (which he surely would be), despite my anxiety, I reasoned that there was nothing to make the police suspect the wretched man had ever been near the bishop’s Palace – let alone in the Reverend Oughterard’s car. Except, I recalled with a pang, the initialled handkerchief and Mavis’s babbling tongue … Nasty. (And I wasn’t too keen on Mrs T.P.’s crack about my giving him a lift, either!)
The handkerchief, of course, I had got rid of – but not Mavis’s memory, and there was no knowing when, or with whom, she might mention the thing again. It was a worrying problem and for the moment there seemed no answer … I sighed and returned my gaze to the sleeping dog, and wondered not for the first time how on earth it could see anything through that impenetrable mop. Looking at Bouncer put me in mind of Gunga Din and his owner’s latest whim – a richly embroidered dog-coat to clothe his portly flanks. Absurd!
And then, of course, I had my answer: embroidery. Yes, not only would I resolutely stick to my yarn about the initials (modifying it to invent a family soubriquet for Philip – Fillo, perhaps) but I would get Primrose to embellish a dozen handkerchiefs to that effect. Thus, flaunting the letters F.F. I could blow my nose with casual panache and bamboozle the lot of them – Maud included! Primrose naturally was bound to grumble, but with a little cajoling and promise of remuneration she would soon yield.
I grinned, congratulating myself on the neatness of the plan, and in lighter mood poured more coffee and smothered the toast in peanut butter. I was just poised to bite into this when the telephone rang. It shrilled insistently and Bouncer awoke with a bark. There was no choice but to answer.
Still smarting from Gladys’s visit, I was far from pleased to hear her husband’s voice. ‘I am in a call box,’ the bishop announced, ‘and will be with you in ten minutes. Kindly do not leave the house.’ He rang off and I was left staring at the receiver.
‘Oh, what the hell now?’ I protested to the cat. ‘What the ruddy hell now?’
MY LORD BISHOP, it said, I KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. That was all. Short, crisp, unadorned, unsigned.
I stared down at the paper in my hand and then up at its recipient, the stark monosyllables dancing before my eyes.
‘When did this come?’ I whispered.
‘The morning delivery,’ he replied. ‘Typed brown envelope, first class, smudged postmark.’
I gazed at the black capitalized message, trying to make it speak, to see something in it other than those nine faceless words.
‘But how on earth …’ I began.
‘I do not know, Francis! Obviously someone else. And neither do I know what it means,’ replied Clinker, cheeks grey and drawn. ‘An allusion to the past? Or to the disposal of the body? Your guess is as good as mine …’ He paused, and then added ruminatively, ‘What an effing bastard.’
I could merely nod, having nothing more useful nor more apt to say.
‘She’ll divorce me, you know.’
‘What?’
‘Gladys, she won’t stand for it. Couldn’t bear the scandal. She’ll go to her sister in Brussels.’
I refrained from offering my congratulations. And instead said stoutly, ‘Nonsense, sir, it will never come to that – and in any case, I’m sure Mrs Clinker would look upon this as a challenge. I can’t see her being defeated by some malicious little guttersnipe, whatever the circumstances!’
Actually, despite my aversion to the bishop’s wife – and even more to her sister, the appalling Myrtle – I think my words held a ring of truth. Presumably Clinker agreed, for he suddenly stiffened, and with a gleam of mild battle in his eye said, ‘You are right, Oughterard, she wouldn’t. And neither shall I. Whoever it is shan’t get away with it!’ But even as he spoke I could see the spirit slumping and the old fears jostling back: ‘But if it wasn’t only Felter – who else? Do you suppose there’s a whole gang of them out there?’
I was silent, grappling with similar thoughts … But I grasped at a straw: ‘You know, it would have been perfectly possible for him to have written that note earlier on, before visiting you, and for it to have got delayed in the post. There have been a number of strikes lately, the unions playing up again. Or maybe he had wanted to fox you and post it away from London, and gave it to someone else to mail at a later date, and then decided to approach you in person anyway.’
‘Could be,’ he muttered. But he didn’t sound very convinced. As neither was I.
I know what you have done … It was the wretched ambiguity that was so puzzling. Obviously, if it meant the shifting of the corpse, then someone else was responsible. But if it referred to the Oxford business, it might just conceivably have been penned by Felter at an earlier date – although it was not in the style of the three previous notes. Those had been much more expansive – bantering, cocky; whereas this, apart from the mannered ‘My Lord Bishop’, was tersely deadpan. Nor was there any allusion to money, as there had been in the last one. If Felter had composed a fourth message prior to his fatal visit to the Palace, would he not have pursued the money aspect and made the demand more explicit? And besides, what had happened to the quacking duck? Had Felter grown bored with his puerile nonsense?
No, the straw was too pale and too weak: clearly another person was on the bishop’s trail. And despite the sparsity of the letter’s content, I felt a chilling fear. They were out to get him, all right – and quite possibly Ingaza too. But why, for God’s sake? Clinker was well heeled enough but he was no millionaire, and Nicholas’s funds were decidedly up and down. The wretched Felter may have felt he would try his luck with them for a single limited payment, but surely the financial potential was not enough to excite the persistence of a second pursuer? And even if it were, why continue to be so oblique? Why not just demand the damn money and be done with it?
Perhaps, I thought with a surge of anger, it was indeed the Oxford folly and some sanctimonious pygmy was intent on stirring mischief less for monetary gain than the satisfaction of massaging the egos of the righteous. Clinker’s gaffe may have been years ago, but the police still took a disproportionate interest in such ‘deviant’ behaviour and he was right to fear the threat of social disgrace – if not gaol itself. Yes, whether simple blackmail, malicious revenge for some past slight, or a perverted sense of moral justice – whatever the motive, the bishop’s position was highly precarious … But then, of course, if it were the other blunder, disposal of the body, such a revelation could be equally dire – and substantially worse if they pinned a murder charge on him!
‘Have you spoken to Nicholas?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Telephoned as soon as I read it, but that strange Eric person told me he had gone to visit an “old auntie” and wouldn’t be back till later … I didn’t know Ingaza had an aunt – and in any case, why should he suddenly need to visit her, for Heaven’s sake? I don’t believe a word of it! The fellow asked if I wanted to leave a message or my name, and when I said that neither would be necessary, he had the nerve to say, “Right-o, Bish, I’ll tell him when he’s back.” The effrontery!’ Clinker glowered, the note momentarily eclipsed by the impudence of Ingaza’s cheery house mate.
‘Actually,’ I murmured, ‘it’s true, he does have an aunt. Aunt Lil. Probably taking her to the Eastbourne bandstand. They go there sometimes and then stop off at Fullers for tea and ices, and walnut—’
‘Oh, blow the aunt!’ cried Clinker wildly. ‘What about me and this damn letter? I tell you, I shall be ruined and Creep Percival will dance on my grave!’ Not with that gouty leg, I thought.
Indeed, Creep Percival’s inability to dance was the one certainty I had in the matter. However, I tried to calm the bishop as best I could, assuring him (with failing conviction) that things were bound to blow over and to think of Mother Julian.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Er – well, you know, sir, “All things shall be we
ll, and all manner of things shall be well …”‘
He regarded me glassily, and then said: ‘You may recall, Oughterard, that Mother Julian was not about to be accused of sodomy or of unlawfully concealing a corpse. Had that been the case, she may have been less sanguine … Now if you don’t mind, perhaps you could offer me something a little more sustaining.’ He stared fixedly at the whisky decanter, and I hastened to find a glass.
As we sat sipping and brooding, there was the shrill of the telephone, and I got up wearily, assuming it might be Colonel Dawlish complaining about the deputy church warden. In fact it was my sister’s voice, but without its usual briskness.
‘Are you alone?’ she breathed.
I told her that the bishop was with me.
‘Where?’
‘Not at my elbow, if that’s what you mean. He’s in the sitting room, guzzling my Scotch. I say, Primrose, have you got a sore throat? You sound a bit hoarse.’
‘Hoarse?’ she hissed. ‘I am unsettled, Francis, unsettled!’ Before I could ask why, she said, ‘I have just received a very peculiar communication – most peculiar.’
‘Oh yes? Turnbull proposed marriage, has he?’
‘Don’t be facetious,’ she snapped, ‘this is serious.’
I said that I was sure it was and that I was all ears.
‘Well there’s not much to hear, actually. It’s a message of some brevity: “What price the Canada geese?”‘
‘No idea. What are you talking about?’
‘Oh really, Francis!’ she expostulated at full volume. ‘Go back to Clinker and I’ll phone you later when you are more attuned!’
‘But Primrose—’ I protested. The line went dead; and perplexed, I returned to my visitor.
He prosed, fulminated and finally left. And thankful but worried, I went into the kitchen and started to open a tin of meatballs.
I was just throwing these into a saucepan and heating the stove, when light and alarm dawned: Oh my God, she had had one too!
Narrowly missing the sleeping cat, I sat down heavily at the table and pondered her words: ‘What price the Canada geese?’ My sister had only one connection with Canada: the paintings that she and Ingaza palmed off as original eighteenth-century pastorals and from which they made a ‘pretty packet’. It was a project and collaboration that had always perturbed me, but little had I thought that the gravest danger would be from blackmail. But that was obviously what it was, and judging from the note’s cryptic economy, it came from the same source as Clinker’s.
Shelving the meatballs, I lit a cigarette and brooded. Perhaps there was an outside chance of its being a coincidence … No, not even an outside. The provenance had to be the same. The person pursuing Clinker had also set their sights on my sister – and presumably, because it was their joint venture, Ingaza too. I groaned. Back to square one with a vengeance!
But who could possibly suspect that Primrose’s painting activities were anything other than above board? Court-auld shenanigans apart, until snared in Ingaza’s silky web, Primrose had led a life of patent, if impatient, rectitude. There was nothing dubious either in her past or her persona to suggest artistic chicanery. It would seem, surely, that the writer of the note had discovered the deception entirely by accident. But how? A chance remark? Unlikely from Primrose and certainly not from Ingaza. A loose tongue among the latter’s cronies? The Cranleigh Contact? Or … a picture of Eric, garrulous amidst beer and darts, sprung to mind, but I banished it instantly. No, at St Bede’s Nicholas had been attended by satellites of a sly discretion, and it was unthinkable that his present chum, though lacking their social grace, would not share that essential quality. Raucous though he might be, Eric was no blabbermouth.
I sighed, went into the hall and dialled. ‘Ah, Nicholas, glad to get you. Nice time with Aunt Lil?’
‘Knackered,’ was the terse reply.
‘All in a good cause,’ I answered vaguely. ‘Um – afraid I’ve got some bad news.’
‘You’re coming to Brighton.’
‘No, worse. Hor and Prim have both had blackmail letters – or at least I think that’s their object.’
There was a silence. And then he said slowly, ‘You mean since Felter?’
‘Yes,’ I said firmly, ‘since Felter.’
The response was explosive and unprintable.
29
The Vicar’s Version
I am not energetic, but given the circumstances I felt that an early evening stroll would help clear the mind and calm the spirit. This being the aim, I did not take Bouncer.
Others might have chosen Foxford Wood for a peaceful ramble – and from a distance it did look inviting. But for reasons earlier detailed,* for me it had become forbidden territory, so I settled for the local park, a pleasant enough spot beloved of dogs and small children. At this hour fortunately the latter were largely absent, being presumably occupied by supper or prep. Thus the place was virtually deserted and I wandered slowly, enjoying the solitude. Gradually, amidst begonias and scent of box the day’s revelations receded somewhat … although I knew that the lull could only be temporary.
However, temporary or not, it was slightly marred by the sudden sight of Mavis and Edith Hopgarden lurking by the lily pond. Edith was busy laying down the law – her gestures unmistakable – and had not seen me. Mavis clearly had, and for one dire instant I thought she might come trailing over. But instead she tossed her head and looked away. Evidently I was in the doghouse over the Gunga Din debacle. Small mercies …
After pausing to feed the ducks, I made my way back to the vicarage via the churchyard and cobbled lane. A figure was moving briskly down it: Colonel Dawlish, stick and newspaper tucked firmly under one arm. He greeted me genially and asked if I had seen the latest news.
‘What news?’ I replied, wondering if the government had fallen or the Test been lost.
‘That cove in Mavis’s garden. He’s been recognized.’
‘Ah,’ I said guardedly, ‘is that so? And, er, who is he?’
‘Name of Felter, lived in North Oxford apparently. A retired accountant they seem to think.’
It would have been nice to have been able to reply, ‘How curious,’ or something equally non-committal, and feigning all ignorance, walk on. As it was, I affected astonishment and exclaimed in my best thespian tone, ‘How extraordinary – I met a man called Felter only recently at a soirée in London. But I don’t suppose it could possibly be the same!’
‘Unusual name,’ Dawlish said, ‘you never know, could well be the same chap. What height was yours?’
‘Well, not very tall,’ I replied hesitantly.
‘There you are then. Just like the corpse! A little squit.’ He drew himself up to his own six foot two, and added, ‘Mark my words, old Slowcome will be on your tail before you can say knife!’ He chuckled. ‘“Last observed, the victim was seen conversing with the Reverend Francis Oughterard at a private rendezvous in London.”’ And with a cheerful leer and thrusting the evening paper into my hand, he went on his way.
I pondered his words, wondering how long it would take before Felter’s social calendar was checked and the interviews begun. They were probably at it then, methodically working their way down Lavinia’s guest list … Oh well, time would tell. I entered the house and went into the kitchen where I was met with a scene that occurs regularly every six months or so: Bouncer’s basket ritual.
This is an elaborate performance which involves the dog dragging the contents of its basket – rug and debris – on to the floor. Bits of bone, gnarled toys and generally one or two of my old socks lie strewn in haphazard array, while the dog sits on his haunches staring and sniffing at each. This can go on for a good half-hour, and any attempt to tidy things up is met with bared teeth and sepulchral growls. I have long since learnt that my role in this ritual is to show admiration and keep my distance. Whether the display is for my benefit or as a means of impressing the cat I can never be sure. Certainly Maurice participates – by crouching sta
tue-like and fixing the wares with gimlet eye. At the end of the allotted period, i.e. when the stuff is retrieved and returned to the basket, the cat gives a long miaow and stalks away. It is a curious and unvarying business.
Thus, to pass the time and not wishing to incommode the dog, I lit a cigarette and started to scan the Colonel’s paper for the Felter article. I found the item and was about to start reading, when for some reason I glanced again at the mess on the floor. In the midst of the usual rubbish lay a small, black, shiny notebook – one of those smart ones with a slim pencil slipped down the side. I was intrigued. What was the dog doing with something like that? It certainly wasn’t mine, so where had he got it? Besides, what on earth did he want with it? Hardly typical of his usual stock! I resisted the urge to pick the thing up, knowing that the gesture would not be appreciated. Instead, curbing my curiosity for a safer time, I returned to the newspaper article.
The information was predictable, providing nothing more than the bare facts: Frederick John Felter, sixty-nine, divorced, retired accountant, house in north Oxford for the last fifteen years, keen traveller, member of the local chess club and experienced yachtsman. Neighbours were shocked, saying he was a very nice, respectable gentleman who kept himself to himself and not the sort you expected to get murdered. (Whatever that might mean!)
There was, however, one detail that startled me. Apparently there was evidence to suggest that his house had been broken into – with desk and safe showing signs of ‘vigorous exploration’, though money seemed not to be the object of the search. According to the reporter, the police were reluctant to confirm a connection between the two incidents, and local residents were being advised to keep a vigilant eye on their household security.
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