It could of course have been a total coincidence – an opportunist Joe Burglar trying his luck on an empty property. Though if that were the case, what about the money? Either there was none or it was not what the intruder was after … Odd. My thoughts were interrupted by a noise from the cat and I realized that Bouncer’s ‘show’ was over and we could all go home. I watched as the dog with much panting and badgering laboriously dragged the things back into the basket. Then with a dour look at me, as if to say, ‘Don’t you dare,’ he pottered off.
Having missed lunch I felt hungry, and was about to reheat the abandoned meatballs and see what else I could throw into the pan, when I remembered Primrose’s threat to telephone once I was more ‘attuned’. I wasn’t sure if that condition had arrived, but noting that it was nearly half-past six realized she might call at any minute. Rather than risk interruption of supper I decided to get in first.
‘I see what you meant about the geese,’ I said. ‘Has Nicholas contacted you?’
‘Yes, we’ve got to work out how to put the lid on this Canadian operation. The horse may have bolted but we’ve got to do something! He’s coming over tomorrow afternoon to discuss things.’
‘Or you could go there.’
‘What, and risk meeting Eric? No thank you! Besides, I want you here as well.’
‘Well,’ I said doubtfully, ‘I am a bit pressed at the moment, it’s getting rather a busy time – you know, weddings and so on …’
‘Ah, so you don’t want to give your sister support in her hour of tribulation?’
‘Well, it’s not that, Prim, it’s just that—’
‘Oh very well then, I shall just have to cope on my own!’ The martyred tone cut no ice for I did not doubt Primrose’s ability to ‘cope’. However, I was flattered to think I was needed, and after a brief hesitation I capitulated.
‘Good,’ she said briskly, ‘and you can stop off at that shop in Alfriston and bring some of that nice chocolate cake they do. Now don’t forget!’
Supper over and my instructions for the following day duly accepted, I turned to Bouncer’s basket. Its owner was otherwise engaged, so with a furtive glance at the cat, I flicked back the blanket and smartly appropriated the notebook.
* See A Load of Old Bones
30
The Cat’s Memoir
‘But didn’t you mind him taking that thing?’ I asked Bouncer. ‘I mean, usually you make an appalling hullabaloo if any of your toys are interfered with.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ answered the dog. ‘But this time I think it could HELP!’
‘Help? Help what?’ I replied, adjusting my ears.
‘Help the vicar of course, he’s getting more and more wound up. So I filched the thing from the stiff’s pocket just in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘In case it could HELP F.O.!’ he shouted. I cogitated while he shoved his water-bowl around with his nose, the usual sign of pique.
‘I see,’ I said quietly. ‘So what made you think it might be efficacious and why did you not inform me of your remarkable sleight of jaw?’
The shoving accelerated, and retreating a few paces, I prepared for flight.
‘If you MEAN why did I do it and why didn’t I tell you: it was because my sixth sense said I should and because I knew you would go on and on like what you are doing NOW!’ He made a lunge but I skipped sideways … unfortunately colliding with our master’s feet as he entered the kitchen to remonstrate. He stumbled, dropped his cigarette and cursed; then seizing us both by our scruffs pushed us out into the garden, ramming shut the pet-flap.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ grumbled Bouncer. ‘He’ll forget all about us and we shall be here for hours and miss our feed!’ He had a point.
‘Not if I jump up on the study window sill and push my face against the pane while he’s working. For some reason that always unsettles him.’
The dog snorted. ‘I should think it would! I mean, it’s not something you’d like to see too often, is it? A blooming cat’s face all flat and furious, squashed against the glass glaring at you. No fear!’ And he began to scuffle about in mock agitation.
I was too busy gathering myself for the jump to take much notice; but he suddenly added, ‘Do you remember how you used to do that with the Fotherington bird when you belonged to her? Gave her the screaming abdabs, it did!’
I smiled and miaowed reflectively. ‘Indeed,’ I acknowledged, ‘and sometimes I think that had I persisted and perfected my technique, F.O. would not have had to go through all that trouble in the wood.’
‘You mean she would have taken one look at you and pegged out anyway – sort of murdered by the mog!’ He gave a throaty chortle.
‘Well,’ I began, ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but—’
‘Mind you,’ he continued, ‘if that had happened it would have saved us a lot of messing about. We wouldn’t have to keep protecting him and wondering what he was up to all the time.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed musingly, ‘with my mistress dead but the vicar blameless, just think, we could have spent a life of consummate ease!’ I hesitated, and for the dog’s benefit revised my words: ‘That is to say, Bouncer, we could have had a jammy number.’ There was silence as we contemplated that vision.
Then, giving a thoughtful burp, he said, ‘But you know what – except for my bones, your haddock, the church crypt and the Veaseys’ fish pond, there wouldn’t have been much to do, would there?’
‘For those of us with resourceful minds,’ I remarked pointedly, ‘there is always something of—’
‘Like bollocks,’ said the dog.
‘I beg your pardon! Kindly refrain—’
‘Come off it, Maurice. You know I’m right. We’d have become bored and fat like Gunga Din … Now, chop chop! Up on to that ledge and start staring. I want my GRUB!’
Later that evening and having secured our food, we decided that the best policy was a low profile … that is to say, I instructed the dog to keep quiet and mind its manners. ‘We shall know if this notebook thing is of any significance by the way the vicar reacts. A subtle vigilance is required,’ I explained.
Bouncer nodded, settled in his basket, heaved his flanks and, shutting one eye, kept the other trained obsessively upon our master. At the same time I took up my position by the boiler, and silent as a garden gnome watched him lynx-eyed …
Nothing happened. He sat staring aimlessly into space, crunching peppermints and blowing smoke rings – simultaneously. Typical!
I became impatient and could already detect the sound of stertorous grunts from the dog’s basket. It was time to expedite matters. The notebook still lay on the top of the draining-board where F.O. had carelessly flung it earlier. Quietly I edged over to the sink, and in one swift movement leapt on to the board and gave the book a brisk nudge with my paw. It fell to the ground – along with a clatter of accompanying crockery.
‘Bloody cat,’ was the explosive response. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ He bent down, scooped up the debris and took the notebook back to the table and began turning the pages. The noise had woken the dog, who with a baleful bark scrambled out through the pet-flap.
For a while there was silence, and then an anguished exclamation. I watched as F.O. stared intently at one of the pages. ‘Down in black and white,’ he gurgled, bits of humbug spraying all over the table. ‘Little so and so!’ He had in fact gone quite white himself and I rather suspected that Bouncer’s ‘helpful’ retrieval might prove less of a blessing than a blight. I sighed … clearly further crisis was looming.
31
The Vicar’s Version
I was on the point of inspecting Bouncer’s trophy, but suddenly remembered I had not yet written my monthly address for the parish newsletter. Its deadline was nine o’clock the following morning. Having been late in submitting the previous month’s copy and not eager to risk another wigging from Colonel Dawlish, I hastened to the study and began making notes.
&nb
sp; I had been at my desk barely five minutes when I was interrupted by a spate of disgruntled animal noises. I strode into the kitchen, sorted them out and thrust the disputants into the garden. ‘Cool your paws there,’ I muttered, and returned to the labours of the newsletter.
There was further interruption: Maurice glowering fiendishly and yowling for his fish at the window. But bit by bit, and to the chummy accompaniment of Wilfred Pickles and other radio stalwarts, I eventually got the thing done and thankfully returned to the kitchen to forage for humbugs and black coffee. I sat at the table, reflecting on the day’s events, and was just lighting another cigarette when out of the corner of my eye I suddenly caught sight of the cat on the draining-board; the next moment the floor was strewn with cutlery and broken plates. With a screech the creature leapt to the sanctity of the boiler from where he watched and purred happily as I swept up the pieces.
Amidst the mess was also the notebook from Bouncer’s basket, and with mild curiosity I started to scan its pages. This took a couple of seconds, for it was empty except for what looked like some sort of list on the first page. I examined it idly, then with more attention, and finally with alarm. It read as follows:
Dr Wentworth? Likely
M.C.? (poss. adultery)
The Hon. Mrs Wyvoe – ditto (multiple)
R.? tba
Prof. Goring – plagiarism
Hayward MP – fraud
Sir L.L. – fraud & call girls
H.C. – buggeryJudge N. Yes – tba
P.O. fakery tbaIng. – See C & O. NB jug. Useful
Angela Dillworthy – dope peddling
Despite the varied and in places cryptic references, it would seem these were all persons having one thing in common: impropriety. And two names struck me immediately, Hayward MP and Sir L.L. The first was presumably William Hayward, colourful Labour MP for a Yorkshire constituency and in the news recently for resigning his seat on grounds of ill health and ‘family reasons’. The second could only be Sir Lionel Lucy, prominent West End backer and vaunted philanthropist. As to the others, well at first they meant nothing (though the Hon. Mrs Wyvoe with her multiple escapades sounded fun) … And then suddenly three of them meant a great deal! My gaze riveted on the references H.C., P.O., Ing. Had the annotations been less explicit I might have persuaded myself of some coincidence. As it was, buggery, fakery and a prison sentence could surely mean only one thing: Horace, Primrose and Nicholas. Oh my God! Mechanically I unwrapped another humbug and lit a cigarette, grappling with the implications.
Obviously those listed were under surveillance. By whom – the Law? But were adultery and plagiarism crimes? Dishonourable conduct perhaps, but not generally police matters. No, this was nothing official … this was surely a blackmailer’s agenda. One such as Freddie Felter might compile? Exactly! But in that case, how on earth did Bouncer …? ‘Oh my sainted aunt!’ I groaned. ‘The car, it was in the car!’ If the chap’s handkerchief could work its way from his pocket, so probably could a small notebook. What with the dog’s back-seat antics and us having to heave the freight in and out of the cramped space, there had been quite a mêlée. It must have fallen in the manoeuvres and for some reason the dog had picked it up – thought it was a trophy perhaps for biting its ankle. I inspected the rest of the notebook: the pages may have been blank, but they certainly had the mark of chew upon them. Possibly the dog itself had pulled it from Felter’s pocket. After all, judging from the amount of snuffling and growling going on, anything could have been happening!
As I reflected upon the curiosity of the matter the sheer luck of the thing suddenly struck me. With a shiver I thought of what might have happened had the notebook remained in Felter’s coat pocket. It would have been found by the police, subjected to the closest scrutiny, the list of names examined, conclusions drawn, those featured identified, followed up and questioned … Well, Bouncer’s agency or not, at least he had brought the thing to my notice and thus removed it from harm’s way. I grinned, wondering what Sir Lionel Lucy et al would think if they knew that the Reverend Canon of Molehill held certain embarrassing data in his possession. Fed up, I imagine.
And then I thought of the dog again, and went to the French window to call him for bed. ‘Bouncer,’ I yelled, ‘good dog, come on. Come on in now!’ He didn’t, of course.
Despite relief at having secured Felter’s list, I wondered if any more such details might come to light from the police investigation. They would certainly be scouring his house for personal data, and thus there was surely a chance that other incriminating tit-bits might be found. Besides, what about the recent communications? Not surprisingly I slept badly, the night beset with dreams and fears and long intervals spent staring at the darkness.
The next day I arose tired and dispirited and was glad that it was my morning for inspecting the hymn lists in the church and checking the proceeds of the charity boxes. Enforced repose amidst the shadows of St Botolph’s wouldn’t go amiss – indeed was more than welcome.
At that hour the place held a seductive serenity, and before commencing my domestic duties I paused to sit in one of the pews and contemplate … Contemplate what? This and that and this and … And then inevitably, and as so often, Elizabeth’s face swam into mind, and not for the first time I wondered what the hell I was doing and whether I would ever do anything different …
‘Canon,’ the voice cried, ‘I was going to telephone but here you are!’ Wearily I looked up to be confronted by Mavis sporting a straw hat and paisley pinafore. Evidently it was her turn for the vestry cleaning. I smiled briefly, rather surprised that she had not scurried past, still smarting from the bulldog incident. No, it takes more than that to deter Mavis. She hovered determinedly and I realized that something of moment was in the air.
‘Canon,’ she fluttered again, ‘I have a little problem and would welcome your advice. It’s, ah, a trifle delicate really. Embarrassing, in fact.’
‘Well,’ I replied with sinking heart, ‘I’m sure it can’t be that bad. What have you been up to – raiding the collection box?’
‘Of course not!’ she tittered. ‘But it’s something I’ve got to report.’
‘To me?’
‘No. To Superintendent Slowcome. It’s about that dreadful night before I discovered the body.’
My attention flared and I asked her cautiously what it was.
‘Well,’ she replied, flushing slightly, ‘I don’t think it’s the sort of thing one can discuss here – at least not in so many words.’ And she gestured vaguely in the direction of the altar and the pulpit. ‘Perhaps we should go outside – away from these hallowed precincts.’
Somewhat startled, I nodded obligingly. ‘Er, yes, of course Mavis, if that’s what you feel.’ And taking her firmly by the elbow I propelled her out into the sunshine.
She trotted down the path, then presumably deeming we were at a respectable distance from the church porch, turned and said, ‘You see, I’ve been so distracted by this whole matter, quite apart from having to order new border plants – all flattened of course – that I quite forgot to mention something which the superintendent might find useful … I mean in pursuing clues.’ She gazed at me, intent and wide-eyed.
‘So why don’t you tell him?’ I asked woodenly, fearing it might be the handkerchief.
‘Well that’s just it. I don’t quite know how to! And I wondered if you might suggest … After all, it’s not the sort of thing that I am used to—’
‘What are you talking about, Mavis?’ I muttered impatiently. ‘What exactly do you have to tell him?’ I felt worried and wished to God she would get to the point.
‘As you know, my cottage overlooks the lane. It was quite a damp night but rather warm, and I had my bedroom windows wide open. Morpheus was upon me and—’
‘What?’
‘I was fast asleep – in the land of dreams. But for some reason I suddenly woke from my slumbers and overheard something on the other side of the hedge – something of possible sig
nificance! But then I nodded off again and it quite went out of my head until today … It’s funny the way that can happen. Do you ever do that, Canon? It’s so strange because sometimes—’
‘What was it you heard, Mavis?’ I enquired through gritted teeth.
‘A man’s voice.’
‘Oh yes, and what did it say?’
She lowered her head and started to whisper. I lowered mine but couldn’t hear a word.
‘Sorry, Mavis, you’ll have to speak up.’
She cleared her throat and hesitated. And then seeming to brace herself, and staring me boldly in the eye, enunciated crisply, ‘“Hold the fucker’s legs, can’t you? Do you want me to get back to Brighton with a bleeding hernia?”’ She closed her eyes, shuddered, and then added, ‘Although now I come to think of it, he may have said Worthing, or Bognor possibly. One of those south coast towns …Yes, Bognor perhaps.’
My first instinct was to roar with laughter, but that was swiftly replaced by numbed horror as the implications hit me … Brighton. That was exactly what we had told Sergeant Withers at the roadblock! Indeed, so keen had I been to supply authentic detail of our business that I had given him a vivid account of Bouncer’s liking for the Brighton sea-front. If Mavis told her tale to the police, surely the Brighton reference might ring bells. Too clever by half, Francis!
Perhaps, I thought wildly, I could offer to go to Slow-come on her behalf and then conveniently forget. But knowing Mavis she would hardly let slip the excitement of another interview, and in any case was bound to bring it up again at some point. I clutched at a straw: her erratic memory. If she could forget something as crucial as Ingaza swearing about the corpse and be vague about the mentioned town, with steady repetition Brighton might be overlaid by Bognor. After all, they both began with the same letter. It was some distance along the coast to the west of Brighton and with Worthing in between. With a bit of luck, and assuming Mavis kept its name in her head, no significance would attach to Ingaza’s Brighton domicile as recorded at the roadblock.
A Bedlam of Bones Page 17