I had thought about it, and did think about it all the way home in the car. And although I recognized only too well the likely consequences of doing nothing, Ingaza’s proposal struck me as wildly precarious. Shock tactics of the kind he envisaged might work in Jacobean melodrama, but hardly in real life or with one as cool as Turnbull. Besides, despite the weight of circumstantial evidence, and indeed my own instinct, there was still no absolute certainty that he was the one. Probable, yes, but definite? Hardly. No, the whole suggestion was a preposterous gamble and there had to be a better way.
Of course, underneath the rationalizing lurked something else: my own failure of nerve. Some people are suited to precipitating events and relish the risk. I am not one of those. And the one time in my life when I did turn protagonist had been a moment of horrific and gross disaster whose effects are remorseless … Thus I was loath to take centre stage in such a bald and uncertain initiative.
* * *
Back at the vicarage I fed the animals and started to tidy my study. The latter does not happen very often but I suppose it was a vain attempt to distract the mind and engage in something safely prosaic. However, despite my efforts at sifting papers and redistributing the general rubble, my thoughts were still riveted on how to deal with matters. I was annoyed, but not surprised, that Ingaza had put the immediate onus on me. After all, I thought ruefully, it was he who had been Clinker’s inamorato, however briefly; and he who had persuaded Primrose to collaborate with him over the fake paintings to Canada. He was also considerably more seasoned at games of chance and daring than I … But then that had always been his strength (skill, rather): using others to procure his own ends. Memories of St Bede’s came flooding over me and I remembered how suavely he had called the shots while poised mockingly in the shadows.
So absorbed was I in old memories and tidying old books that I didn’t hear the telephone at first, and it was only when the cat started a peevish mewing that it caught my attention. Thinking it might be Primrose wanting to let off steam about her recent ‘invoice’, I hurried to lift the receiver.
‘Is that Francis Oughterard?’ asked a man’s voice.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘Ah, Francis,’ said Rupert Turnbull, ‘glad to catch you in. I have a little problem which I rather hope you might be able to help me with.’
Before I could muster thought or words, he had moved on: ‘This is in strict confidence, you understand, but frankly I am rather worried about Lavinia. And as she’s my cousin as well as being such a good friend I really feel I need to confide in someone.’
‘Confide what?’ I asked guardedly, wondering what on earth he was getting at.
He hesitated, and then said quietly, ‘Well it’s a little delicate, Francis, but actually I don’t think she is terribly well … I mean, not well in the head.’
‘Oh dear!’ I exclaimed reassuringly. ‘Er, in what way in the head?’
‘From what I can make out, it’s not so much mental as spiritual, as if she is undergoing some sort of’ – here he paused, seeming to search for a term – ‘well, what one might call a crisis of the soul.’
Crisis of the soul? Why should he want to telephone me about it! I fumbled nervously for a cigarette and nearly dropped the receiver. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I know it’s a bit of a cheek but I was wondering if you might possibly help her to sort matters out, help her to get things in perspective. You see, apart from Bishop Clinker, I don’t really know any other clergymen, so it’s a bit tricky. But that’s what I think she needs – at this stage, at any rate – guidance from the Church, not Harley Street.’
I had a momentary memory of Lavinia in France, drearily garbed and gabbling incessantly about the hermit’s bones with cranky Boris. Was it possible that despite the startling transformation, she was now having a relapse and reverting to the nut cutlets and earnest mysticism of six months previously? It seemed unlikely. But even if it was the case, it was hardly something I wanted to become involved with!
I scanned the hall, struggling to formulate some tactful excuse, and my gaze fell on my father, sepia and stern in an ancient school photograph. Ranks of blazered boys stared out anonymously, but I could always spot him – back row, third from the right: C. K. Oughterard, House Prefect; beetle-browed and ramrod-stiff. And I remembered his later words addressed to a less than ramrod son: ‘Always respond to the call of duty, my boy, it’s the least any of us can do. Fail in that and it’ll haunt you for life.’ He had been right, of course (though how did he know?). I sighed … Yes, forgetting to feed those hamsters and carelessly letting them escape on to the busy road had dogged me for years.
And thus with Pa and hamsters firmly in mind, I heard myself saying, ‘Well if you really think I could be useful, then naturally I’ll see what I can do. But perhaps you could give me a little more information …’
There was an audible sigh of relief at the other end and he gave fulsome thanks. ‘That’s such a weight off my mind! She likes you, you know, and I’m sure she will respond well to any counsel you care to give. It’s all a question of nipping things in the bud, wouldn’t you say?’
I was mildly flattered but still unclear. ‘Yes, I should think so – but what things exactly? I would really need to know a little more about her difficulties before I could—’
‘Oh, of course! You need to be put in the full picture – the only problem is when. It’s not the sort of thing one can really explain over the telephone, but my problem is I’m stuck here in London, bogged down in the Kensington project – builders, staff interviews, equipment deliveries, etc. And it’s all got to be sorted out before the Oxford opening in ten days’ time. I don’t suppose you could possibly … No, I’m sure you’re far too busy.’
‘Busy for what?’
‘To come up to London, have lunch at my flat. We can chew it over and down a bottle of Fleurie. Seem to remember you rather enjoying that in France!’ He laughed.
He was right, but a bottle of Fleurie was hardly enticement to go to Turnbull’s flat!
‘Ah, well,’ I stammered, mind racing, ‘not sure if I can …’
‘I mean, I rather wondered if you had any appointments which you could combine with lunching here. I can tell you, Francis, I really want to get Lavinia sorted out. Poor girl, I think she’s going through it.’
I was flustered but intrigued. Was she really ill? In which case, as Pa had directed, there was not much choice … On the other hand, how far (if at all) could I trust Turnbull? What was he playing at? Was he playing? There was only one way to find out, and the next moment I had said mechanically, ‘I do have to go to Whipple’s on Thursday to collect some shirts and be measured for a new cassock. I could pop in for a quick lunch if you wanted, but it would have to be—’
‘Splendid!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll be here, one thirty on the dot. I really appreciate this, Francis, you’ve no idea.’ He gave me an address off Wimpole Street and after a few niceties our conversation ended.
I returned to the sitting room, stared at the cat and cursed myself for being so weak. It passed through my mind to seize the telephone again and tell him I had been horribly confused about dates and couldn’t possibly get to London for at least two months. The problem was I didn’t have his number, and it would mean going through all the palaver of Directory Enquiries. Besides, to suddenly cancel now would look so obvious and churlish … I stood studying the dog, chewing a peppermint and weighing things up. Resolution: I would ring Primrose.
‘Sounds a bit fishy,’ my sister said, ‘though can’t say I’m surprised about Lavinia going bonkers. Always thought she was fey. She was on cloud nine at her party and seemed in good spirits when they all came over to Lewes, but who knows, perhaps the gruesome fate of hubby has triggered buried insanities – even if she did engineer it!’
‘We don’t know that she engineered it,’ I reminded her severely, ‘and in any case, Turnbull suggested the trouble was some sort of spiritual malaise, not madness as such.’
‘Well I think you would be mad to go to Turnbull’s flat without some sort of reinforcement.’
‘Such as?’
‘Me. It’s high time I paid another visit to Marshall & Snelgrove. I need a new corset, and they’ve got some very pretty patterned ones there and just the right size. Might as well go up on Thursday as any other day. You have lunch with Turnbull as planned and I’ll meet you afterwards in that Greek coffee shop round the corner. If you don’t appear by two forty-five I shall come up and see what’s what!’
‘In the corset?’
* * *
So that was the arrangement. And I didn’t know whether to be pleased that I was doing something positive to confront whatever was going on, gratified that I might be of conceivable help to Lavinia, or scared witless in case I ended up as mincemeat. On the whole I thought the last unlikely, and yet for some ridiculous reason I decided to take Bouncer with me. He would be a companionable ally, and never having been to London before would perhaps enjoy the novelty of the city’s lamp posts …
* Dumont appears in Bones in High Places
38
The Vicar’s Version
I rang the doorbell and waited. Silence. I rang again, the dog fidgeted and there was still no response. I scanned the corridor, put my ear to the door and tried once more. Nothing.
It was a bit much, I thought. Turnbull issues an urgent summons, I break my neck to arrive on time and then he doesn’t appear. Wretched man, had he gone out? But why? He knew I was coming! I stared at Bouncer. ‘Some people,’ I grumbled, ‘are so ill-mannered!’ The dog looked blank and burped. Baulked of the promised Fleurie, I began to tire of the whole thing; but before turning away gave a desultory rap with my knuckles. The door must have been on the latch for it yielded slightly. I gave a tentative push and the next instant it had swung open and we were inside.
‘Are you there, Turnbull?’ I called. ‘It’s Francis – Francis Oughterard.’ Silence. Hesitantly I started to move forward but was restrained by a whine from Bouncer and a sharp tug at the lead. ‘Oh do come on,’ I muttered, ‘and stop playing silly beggars, we’ve come to see the nice man.’ Unimpressed, he sat down mulishly and refused to budge.
I let go of the lead and rather irritably called again to Turnbull, taking a few more steps into the room … And there I found him: back towards me, slumped across a writing desk by the window, his right hand clutching a toppled wine glass whose dark contents had soaked lavishly into the blotting pad.
Apart from shock, my initial reaction was one of annoyance. He had specifically asked me to come, and despite inconvenience (not to say reluctance) I had agreed. And yet here he was, out for the count in a drunken stupor! It was the last thing I had expected, and I was just wondering whether I should seek the kitchen to get a glass of water either to administer or throw, when I heard a low growl from Bouncer. I glanced round and saw the object of his vexation: Attlee.
Indifferent to the other dog, the little creature stood poised in a doorway, staring severely at the crumpled figure draped over the desk. But in the next instant he had turned tail, and with a tart bark disappeared from the room. I gazed after him, perplexed. If Attlee was here, what about his owner? Turnbull had intimated he wanted a private talk and, given the topic, it had hardly occurred to me that Lavinia herself might be present … But was she? There seemed to be no sign or sound. Unless of course she was having a quick ‘crisis of the soul’ in the bathroom – or, like Turnbull, was also laid out in a pre-prandial torpor!
I was pondering this possibility when I heard a light footfall, and in place of Attlee stood his owner, suited, be-hatted and carrying a shiny handbag and smart travelling case. The air became redolent with Je Reviens.
‘Ah, Francis,’ she exclaimed, ‘I hoped I might catch you before I left. I had been meaning to write but there has been so much to do what with one thing and another, and there simply hasn’t been time! I hope you don’t mind.’ She flashed me a dazzling smile.
I had no idea what she was talking about. Where was she going and why should she want to write to me? My puzzlement must have been plain, for she said teasingly, ‘Oh dear, you haven’t a clue, have you?’
I replied rather coldly that I did not have a clue and wouldn’t it be a good idea if before her departure we attended to her comatose companion? I gestured towards Turnbull’s slumped figure.
‘Oh, Rupert’s not comatose,’ she said, ‘he’s dead – or at least he jolly well ought to be by now, I gave him enough stuff!’
For a few seconds my mind was a static blank and I registered nothing except the ticking of the clock and Lavinia’s smiling eyes. And then the blankness gave way to a kaleidoscope of gruesome images: Boris bludgeoned on the flagstones, Violet Pond’s stark white legs upended in the potting shed, Climp sprawled in blood on the high plateau, Felter’s frozen features inches from my neck in the Singer … and in precise and graphic detail, Mrs Fotherington throttled and mottled in Foxford Wood. The scenes shifted dizzyingly before my eyes, forms and colours blending and dissolving in protean nightmare. Strange the way the proximity of death stirs our subconscious.
‘You look tired,’ her voice said. ‘Sit down and I’ll get you a drink.’
I glanced at the fallen wine glass. ‘No,’ I replied quickly, ‘it’s quite all right. Please don’t bother.’ Gingerly I perched on the arm of the sofa and groped abstractedly for Bouncer’s shaggy head.
She scrutinized her watch. ‘I shall have to be going pretty soon. My seat’s booked on the Golden Arrow and I couldn’t bear some last-minute hitch. Travelling always makes me rather jumpy, doesn’t it you?’
‘Oh yes,’ I agreed, ‘always.’ Then clearing my throat, I added, ‘But before you go, might you have time to—’
‘Explain? Of course. But I can’t be too long – I’m not risking having my plans upset all over again!’
‘What plans?’ I asked dazedly.
‘My plans to go to South America. Much safer there than here after all this kerfuffle!’ Her eyes swept the room, resting momentarily on the figure by the window.
I looked in the same direction at what I now knew to be the very dead Turnbull. ‘Why did you do it, Lavinia?’ I ventured. ‘I thought you were fond of him.’
‘I was,’ she sighed, ‘but he turned into such a rat. And after everything I had been through with Boris and the French tarts I simply wasn’t having it! I had sunk a lot of money into those wretched language schools and the toad repaid me by having a walk-out with Millie Merton of all people! Well, I can tell you, I wasn’t going to be made a fool of by that squat little thing. She’s as rich as Croesus – obviously her only quality and presumably the attraction – so I was none too pleased when I found out about it. And added to that, he actually had the nerve to imply that I was under an obligation to him for ridding me of Boris … In a way, of course, that was true, but it’s not something one cares to have pointed out.’ She frowned. ‘And then when blackmailing Freddie got wind of things and had to be silenced, I began to grasp the full extent of Rupert’s ruthlessness and the danger of my own position. After all, I knew all the details of the French business. So in case he decided to dispense with me as well, I thought I would get in first. I think it’s known as being ahead of the game. Isn’t that the expression, Francis?’
Terrified, I assured her that it was. She nodded amicably, lit a cigarette and offered me one, but I was too unsettled to accept and instead gave a weak smile. ‘Er, Freddie’s blackmailing activities,’ I murmured, ‘didn’t Rupert do a bit of that as well? I mean—’
‘Oh yes. If you are referring to that last letter to your boring bishop, that was Rupert all right. He thought he might cash in on what Freddie had started. Had him down for £10,000, I think. One of the many. He discovered all the details when he broke into Freddie’s house to rescue his own dossier. You know, it’s amazing just how comprehensive and meticulous Freddie’s notes were. Even had the dirt on your sister. My goodness, that was a turn-up for the
books!’ She laughed merrily. I did not.
‘So Rupert wrote to her as well? As well as to Ingaza and Clinker.’
‘Oh no! Not worth it. That was me. “What price the Canada geese?”,’ she trilled.
I stared aghast. ‘You mean to say it was you who sent Primrose that nonsensical note and its follow-up?’
‘We-ll, not all that nonsensical. After all, it rather hit a nail, didn’t it?’ She shot me a knowing look which I carefully ignored.
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ I said as icily as I was able, ‘Primrose has no connection with Canada and the whole thing was exceedingly puzzling.’
‘If you say so,’ she replied sweetly. ‘But Freddie used to go to Canada a lot and had a shrewd eye for pictures. He could spot a pastiche a mile off and seemed to have some knowledge of your sister’s style – but we won’t go into that now, life’s too short.’ And she shot another look at our dead companion.
Stunned though I was, I was also extremely angry. ‘That’s a bit much, isn’t it, Lavinia?’ I exclaimed. ‘You may recall that you were a guest in my sister’s house. She put you up during that gallery launch and you say you had the brass neck to send her that ridiculous missive. Frankly I think that’s a bit rotten.’
She had the grace to look mildly abashed. ‘Yes, that was rather naughty. But you see, helping Rupert over the Boris business gave me a taste for adventure, and – well, I suppose, power.’
A Bedlam of Bones Page 22