A Bedlam of Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘And of course,’ chimed Miss Dalrymple, ‘there is the difficulty of Maurice. I mean – how shall I put this? – he’s not exactly the most sociable of cats, is he?’ I nodded in grudging agreement, while she went on to point out that while Bouncer was ‘absolutely charming’, he might not take too kindly to having his home ground invaded and perhaps turn ‘a little tricky’. She was right there – when he puts his mind to it Bouncer is a past master at trickiness, and I could indeed envisage ructions of a spectacular kind.

  Thus I was just thanking my lucky stars that I was being offered a heaven-sent let-out, when she said magnanimously, ‘But of course we would want you back by six o’clock to award the special prize at the end of it all.’

  ‘And what will that be?’ I asked.

  ‘A year’s supply of Sparkling Chews for the dog with the whitest fangs – and you may do the final inspection!’ She beamed encouragingly and strode away to hack off more of the awful cheese.

  Yes, it had been a gruelling period and I was grateful to escape to the haven of my armchair and absorb the silence. Idly I picked up a copy of the Church Times. It is not the most enlivening publication but at moments of boredom or abstraction I will occasionally peruse it. For once the headlines were startlingly fresh: ‘MOZAMBIQUE MISSIONARIES CASTRATED IN CREWE.’

  What? But prurient shock quickly turned to disappointment as I realized my mistake. Alas, the mind can play a sleight of eye, and the words ‘slated’ and ‘castigated’ had somehow fused themselves upon my muddled brain. The reality was that Bishop Horace Clinker, attending the Crewe conference, was reported as having slated clerical inertia in foreign parts and in particular castigated the Little Band of Hopeful Brethren for its failure to garner converts to the Anglican cause. (Hardly surprising, I thought: confronted with a name like that, any self-respecting heathen would run a mile!)

  But more interestingly the article went on to say that while the good bishop had made his customary mark at the conference, delegates were sorry to see him looking so drawn and tired and trusted that the strain of duty would not affect his expected appointment as the Archbishop of York’s new aide. There was a photograph of him looking uncharacteristically tense – the result, no doubt, of the blackmailer’s latest handiwork. Clinker infuriates me, but I was even more infuriated to think of his being the target of such perverse and callous attention. No, there was nothing else for it – he would just have to go to the police, painful though that might be …

  But how could he? And yet again I quailed at the enormity of the cost: revelations about his previous illegal liaison with Ingaza, failure to report Felter’s death on his own doorstep, his deliberate silence over the identity of the body, and worst of all the distinct possibility that he would be facing a charge of murder … Yes, bad for the bishop – and not too good for the enchanting Gladys either. And naturally it would hardly stop there. The blackmail probings could unearth other things: Primrose’s picture heist with Ingaza, Ingaza’s own part in the ridding of Felter’s body, my part in its disposal, not to mention obstructing and lying to the police … And if it was established that I had been less than frank in this current enquiry, might they not start wondering about my responses in the earlier one – the ‘Fotherington Case’? The more I considered the ramifications, the more I thought I might be carried off by a quiet seizure. Indeed, I was just beginning to think that might be no bad thing when I heard the flop of the afternoon post on the hall mat. Morosely I went to investigate. There were only two items – a bulky manila envelope bearing a Molehill postmark, and a much smaller one.

  I opened the larger first. It contained a wad of closely and rather badly typed pages, plus a covering note:

  Dear Canon,

  It was so kind of you to agree to pen an introduction to the third volume of my Little Gems of Uplift and I am sure with your esteemed endorsement it cannot help but be a success! One never quite knows where the Muse may take one and I find that these days it increasingly leads me down the path of philosophy – a route that I trust will not be too complex for Molehill’s worthy readers! However, I am certain that you will appreciate the little aperçus and finer subtleties that the verses contain and will thus have no difficulty in composing a commentary of perhaps three or four pages. I so look forward to your appraisal, which I know will do justice to the text!

  Yours most sincerely,

  Mavis Briggs (Miss)

  Three or four pages! Justice to the text! Was she utterly barking? (Absolutely.) I stared, horrified, at the words and the accompanying sheaf of papers. A few moments ago I had been contemplating having a quiet seizure; my instinct now was to endure the drama of the kitchen knife.

  Clearly an early whisky was indicated and I hastened to the sideboard, poured a drink and scavenged for crisps. There weren’t any so I settled for Huntley & Palmers’ Breakfast Biscuits. These are impossible to eat silently and Bouncer adores them. I threw him a couple and the room crackled with our joint crunchings and munchings. The cat appeared, emitted a long miaow and disappeared rapidly. I often think that Maurice is not entirely attuned to this world …

  After a further glass I felt sufficiently fortified to open the second envelope. Its size was so slight in comparison that I guessed it held no fears.

  Francis, couldn’t get you on the blower, hence the enclosed. We’ve got to stop the bastard, make no mistake. Just received this. What do you think? Aunt Lil on my tail so may not be here, but ring Eric. N.I.

  A message was enclosed. It read as follows:

  So, according to your local rag you’ve netted £2,000 for some ‘long-lost’ Eric Gill. I bet the sum is authentic, but as to said item – probably as bogus as hell. No matter. It’s a nice little bonus which I am sure you can afford to forfeit. Put it my way and we’ll forget about the removal of the bishop’s nasty surprise – let alone your charming friendship. Both still at it, are you? Doubtful – but the newspapers would like to think so.

  Transaction details: by 3 Sept cash to A/C 956355206, Bank of Gottfried, Zurich.

  I leapt to the telephone; but as feared heard not Ingaza’s voice but Eric’s raucous twang. ‘Wotcha, Frankie,’ he began. ‘His Nibs said yer might ring and seeing as ’ow it was you I made a special point of staying in and scrapped the darts.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I murmured apologetically, ‘I’m so sorry, I hope it hasn’t caused too much—’

  ‘Don’t worry, old son,’ was the cheery response, ‘the other team are the Rottingdean Rotters – not werf turning aht for!’ There was a caustic guffaw and I hastily adjusted the receiver. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘Nick wants to see yer. He’s orf to see that Cranleigh twister on Thursday and wants you to meet him at the posh pub in Chiddingfold. Says he’ll find it soothing after Lil.’

  ‘Yes, I rather gathered he might be engaged with her … everything all right, is it?’

  ‘All right? With that old baggage? You must be joking!’ There was another mirthful explosion.

  I laughed politely and asked if it was the Eastbourne bandstand again.

  ‘Nah, the dogs at Kemp Town. Complained she’d missed the last two meetings and said what was the point of having a bleeding nephew if he didn’t escort her to social whatsits? Mind you, it’s not the escorting that he minds but having to lay out dosh for her drink and losses. And then of course there are the argie-bargies she has wiv the bookies … Gawd, he comes back like a poleaxed rabbit!’

  I have to admit that the picture of Ingaza so discomfited was not uncongenial, and I made a mental note to keep the image in mind when next he made one of his outlandish demands. Clearly there was something to be said for Aunt Lil.

  Thursday morning proved a little tricky. I was halfway down the High Street in search of slab toffee before embarking for Chiddingfold, when I was waylaid by Edith Hopgarden.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘all ready, are we?’

  ‘Ready for what?’ I enquired warily.

  ‘To do Mavis’s introduction, of course – the thi
rd volume of those remarkable gems of wisdom. I gather you are about to produce a glowing endorsement – or should I say a scintillating exegesis?’ She barred my path with a stance of unsmiling challenge.

  Edith’s disdain for her ‘friend’ is trumped only by her dislike of me. I have few weapons in my armoury other than the knowledge of her rather tiresome liaison with Tapsell. Ever since I once encountered them in compromising circumstances she has taken against me; and as for myself, I have only to see a bicycle clip to be reminded uncomfortably of that abortive evening … However, this was not the time to dwell on such things, and if evasive action were needed I could always enquire after the health of Mr Hopgarden. It usually works.

  ‘Yes, Mavis’s literary energy is prodigious, isn’t it?’ I laughed. ‘But I am sure the new outpouring will speak for itself and needs only a short paragraph from me.’

  ‘Oh, she’s expecting more than a short paragraph,’ was the sadistic reply. ‘Half a book of praise and perceptive analysis, I gather.’

  ‘Don’t think I can quite run to that,’ I said jovially. ‘Just a few choice words might fit the bill. And besides, Edith, since you think so highly of her talent, why don’t you compose something for the next edition of the parish newsletter? A really full-blown encomium. You have such style and wit and she would be delighted! I’ll put you down for it straight away.’ I raised my hat, fixed her with a dazzling smile and rushed onwards to the toffee shop.

  Driving over to Chiddingfold was a relief and a fear. Cocooned in the Singer I was safe from marauding parishioners, but the prospect of the luncheon topic was not a happy one and my mind was once more beset with anxious gloom. Chiddingfold is an attractive place, and as I drew up beside its small village green edged with trees and cottages, I thought wistfully of how nice it would be if the only agenda for our meal were the latest cricket scores or some government scandal. As it was …

  I got out, sniffed the fresh air, and then seeing Ingaza’s elderly Citroën sprawled at the side of the inn, steeled myself for trouble.

  He sat in a corner gazing abstractedly at the menu, his lean fingers caressing a Bloody Mary, smoke curling up from a discarded Sobranie in the ashtray. For one who was supposed to have been poleaxed by his aunt he didn’t look too bad, but I couldn’t help noticing the prominence of his cheekbones and the signs of strain around the mouth. Yes, Clinker wasn’t the only one being put through it. We were all on a knife-edge, and it would only take an accident or wrong decision and we could fall spectacularly. There flashed in my memory the image of a recent acquaintance plunging into a mountain ravine, vanishing God knows where … I shut my eyes.

  ‘You look a wreck,’ drawled the nasal voice. ‘Better have one of these – perk you up and blow your head off!’ He gestured to the Bloody Mary and offered me a cigarette. I took his advice, fetched the drink from the bar, took a sip and nearly exploded. ‘Well that’s brought colour to the boy’s cheeks,’ he observed. ‘Now, have you heard from Primrose?’

  ‘About a week ago I suppose. Why? Should I have?’

  ‘I meant more recently than that. She called me yesterday – had another letter.’

  ‘Oh my God, her as well! What on earth does it say?’

  ‘Very little apparently. No preliminaries or anything, simply the payment details, i.e. the sum of £1,000 to be paid into a numbered Swiss bank account by the third of September. Smaller sum than mine and a different bank, but that was the instruction. Nothing else said.’

  I took a thoughtlessly large sip of my drink, scalded my throat and gazed unseeingly at the menu. ‘This is becoming appalling,’ I muttered. ‘What the hell can we do?’

  ‘Play the sod at his own game,’ he snapped. ‘As I said before, we’re possibly in a stronger position than he is – or at least no worse.’

  ‘So you really do think it’s Turnbull?’

  ‘Don’t you? You seemed pretty convinced earlier on.’

  I nodded, and started to tell him about our conversation down in Lewes: ‘Perhaps I was being oversensitive but I just had the impression that everything he said about Hor and Felter’s death was somehow loaded, as if he was taunting me – guessing that we were the most likely ones to have taken the body.’ I paused, then added, ‘Mind you, things weren’t exactly helped by you stirring things up over the Timms affair. He must have known what you were getting at. It was as if you were throwing down a glove, and now he’s bloody well taken it up!’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t twitch. We’ll have some lunch and then hatch plans.’

  ‘Plans?’ I exclaimed. ‘How can we make plans? The whole thing is a frightful mess, the police are out of the question and we know from what happened in France that Turnbull is as cool as hell!’

  ‘Getting our theology a trifle muddled, aren’t we, old boy? In my time it was the burning fiery furnace, but of course the Church changes its views so often these days that one loses track … Anyway, I can thoroughly recommend the Chicken à la King – the sauce is good and the creamed potato all nice and crispy. I also suggest we have a bottle of Montrachet.’

  ‘You can’t afford it,’ I said acidly, ‘you’ve got that £2,000 to pay.’ He ignored me and waved imperiously to the waiter.

  The wine was delivered and we set about our meal, and for a brief spell immersed ourselves exclusively in drink and chicken, carefully avoiding anything touching on blackmail. It didn’t last of course, and by the time we had reached the apple tart we were back on the subject.

  ‘So, if we are fully decided that it’s really Turnbull, what do you propose?’ I asked him.

  ‘Confrontation. I think that the best thing would—’

  ‘You mean beard him in his den?’ I asked.

  ‘Beard him in his den! My, what a quaint, old-fashioned term! Where on earth do you get them from?’

  ‘It’s what we learnt at prep school,’ I said defensively. ‘Lists of “handy” idioms.’

  ‘Ah well, being but a grammar school product I was denied such lists. Doubtless there is a gaping lacuna in my—’

  ‘But you read Classics at Merton, didn’t you? Got a First. And then what, Nicholas, then what?’

  He looked surprised at my question, or perhaps at the tone of insistence which possibly the Montrachet had given it.

  ‘And then what? Well, the theology thing at St Bede’s – you know that. You were there, if you recall. And since there was such a hoo-ha when they chucked me out I imagine you remember only too well!’

  ‘Oh I’m not talking about St Bede’s,’ I said impatiently. ‘Before – during the war. What were you doing? You’ve never said … I mean, you weren’t in it, were you?’ Yes, it must have been the drink talking; I had consumed nearly half a bottle, not to mention the lethal Bloody Mary, and it had clearly made me bold. Ingaza’s reticence about the war years had always slightly puzzled me but I had been too diffident to ask. And now for some reason, suddenly at this quiet table in a country inn, I was pinning him down for an answer.

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow and regarded me coolly; and leaning back in his chair, said, ‘Well old cock, I wasn’t a conchie if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think you were – not entirely your style, I shouldn’t have thought.’

  He must have noticed the hint of sarcasm but shrugged good-humouredly and said, ‘Wasn’t batting for the other side, either – at least, not that other side.’ He winked.

  I cleared my throat and poured him the dregs of the wine, feeling rather a fool. Was I being unduly inquisitive? I wondered. Perhaps he had been a Bevin Boy and felt cheated of not being in the thick of things. Some did, I gathered. A clerk in the Home Office debarred service on account of flat feet? (But his feet weren’t flat!) Or perhaps, I reflected, a tuberculosis case huddled in blankets on a sanatorium veranda, listening to the Allied planes droning overhead … After all, he had always been pale.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Francis,’ the voice mocked. ‘Spoils the classical features! I’ll t
ell you sometime … Perhaps. But meanwhile let’s get that bastard nailed.’ He ordered coffee and a couple of brandies, and puffing my humble Craven ‘A’s – the Sobranies having vanished in smoke – we discussed tactics.

  No, that is not quite correct … I was given my instructions.

  37

  The Vicar’s Version

  Ingaza’s plan and my instructions were simple and to the point: I was to attend the inaugural reception in Oxford and make all the expected noises, i.e. compliment Turnbull fulsomely on his acumen and enterprise, mingle with the other guests, express astonishment at the splendid facilities of the place and be generally impressed by the whole setup. And then just when Turnbull was at his most flattered and disarmed, put the boot in by slipping him a copy of the two-line note I had appropriated in France. No words would be needed, the note itself would do the trick.

  ‘You mean the trick of making him back off?’ I had asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Ingaza had said confidently. ‘With that staring him in the face there’ll be nothing else he can do, especially if you murmur the magic name of little Inspector Dumont* in his ear!’

  ‘There is something else he could do,’ I had objected. ‘What he did to Boris – bash my brains out!’

  ‘Well hardly there in the midst of everything, dear boy – people might notice. And besides, he would know that the evidence was only a copy and that the original must be held elsewhere. Snuffing you out wouldn’t achieve anything.’

  ‘No it wouldn’t,’ I had replied impatiently, ‘and neither will your damn fool idea. Really, Nicholas, you’ve been living with Eric too long. It’s crude, rash and theatrical and I want no part of it!’

  He had looked put out and retorted acidly that doubtless with my fertile mind I could devise something better. ‘But you had better be quick, Francis – he’s not bluffing, you know. He has the power to blow everything sky high, including your sister’s reputation and very likely yours. The press will be only too delighted to learn that she has a vicar for a brother and they’ll milk it for all it’s worth. The name Oughterard will hold a stigma for life. And of course, if you want your bishop to be branded a nancy boy, let alone a possible murderer, then just allow things to take their course. And you can bet they will! Turnbull needs the money, and if he doesn’t get it you don’t imagine he’s going to sit back without exacting some sort of payment, do you? Think about it.’