A Bedlam of Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  But Francis was ready. ‘Just typical!’ he sighed. And giving me his fag to hold, started to ease his long legs over the side of the parapet. We watched, mesmerized, as he crawled along the ledge, and then lying flat managed to stretch down and grasp Mavis by her belt and then one of her arms. He pulled and pulled … until eventually others were able to lean over, grab a hold and gradually haul her up, inch by agonizing inch. We were riveted by that burden, desperately urging it to safety. And at last they had her: winched, waxen and whimpering … but safe. A collective cry of relief went up.

  But at the very point of triumph there was a faint scrabbling noise and a flutter of something to our left, and before we realized what had happened, we saw a billowing surplice … and Francis Oughterard, like a swooping albatross or huge Pentecostal dove, was swirling earthward. Down and down through the sunlit air he flew, until finally, far below in the toy-town churchyard, he lay spreadeagled on the green sward like an obeisant neophyte …

  As you can imagine, it was a terrible time for all of us: and not least for the wretched Mavis, who, wanting to make a splash for the photographer, had apparently taken it into her head to perch roguishly on the stone balustrade. Too damn roguish! She fell backwards, arse over tip. What did she think she was doing, for pity’s sake – being a cover girl? She should have kept to her verses and crochet.

  Still, the funeral was a success – tremendous, in fact. I made sure of that. Got ’em all out. A full church parade, you might say. Splendid show! Full congregation, Scouts and Guides, choristers, the Townswomen’s Guild, the Young Wives, Mothers’ Union (brandishing their flag), lesser and major clergy – even the bishop, that Clinker fellow and his satellites. In fact it was he who gave the address – insisted on it, moreover. Wasn’t bad as those things go, except that he kept talking about the Canon having a safe pair of hands – not quite the metaphor I would have chosen – and being the mainstay of the middle path which, he opined, was the best track to follow. (Obviously didn’t know about that middle path through Foxford Wood!) But on the whole it all went like clockwork and I made it my duty to see there was no slacking in the ranks. (Give some of these clergy chaps an inch and they’ll take a yard off the ritual, and I wasn’t having that! Besides, Francis wouldn’t have approved.)

  The sister was there of course. Recognized her immediately – tall with the same thin legs and nose as her brother. She had brought Bouncer with her, for once looking quite kempt (obviously groomed for the occasion) … And wouldn’t you know it, just at the moment of committal, as the coffin was being lowered into the ground, that damned cat appeared: darted out from the bushes and settled itself on the rim of the grave, staring in. That got the dog going, of course. Dragged itself away from Primrose and joined the cat, and together they gave tongue. And how! For one moment I thought the sextons were going to drop the thing down head first! But then the racket stopped as suddenly as it had begun and they seemed to lose interest. The cat took to sleeking its whiskers and the dog had a good pee against an adjacent gravestone, and the interment continued with all due solemnity.

  Yes, altogether it was a pretty good show – though there were certain characters that I didn’t recognize and who struck me as being a bit odd. Shady, actually. Three of them: sober-suited all right, in black from head to toe, but sporting huge diamond cufflinks and outlandish tie-pins. One was muffled in a jet astrakhan – not the type of coat normally seen in Molehill, least of all in summer. Two of them were stocky and the third – the one in the coat – as thin as a lath. Rather a raddled cove, I thought, and distinctly lachrymose. Kept sniffing loudly into a yellow handkerchief. His companions seemed quite solicitous and supported him to the graveside, where with flashing cuffs and glittering pin, he loitered bleakly. They also supported him back again to the bun fight afterwards, though by that time he had produced a hip-flask the contents of which were being downed with impressive celerity. Being rather taken up by other matters, I didn’t have a chance to approach and enquire their connection with the deceased. However, I did note that tearful though he was, the thin one was scoffing Vera Dalrymple’s flapjacks at the rate of knots, while the others were making a highly focused raid on the fish-paste sandwiches. The sherry too was clearly appreciated. It was only later when I saw them sloping off in the direction of a black vintage Citröen that the penny dropped … Ingaza and his henchmen, Eric and the Cranleigh Contact. I should have known!

  * * *

  So, all in all a good send-off … though where exactly he was sent to I am not sure. But then, you might ask, where are any of us going? Not the sort of thing one likes to delve into much, easy to get bogged down! And who knows what goes through a chap’s mind when he’s hurtling hell for leather to his death – or before, for that matter? After all, diaries don’t tell everything. I remember that bit in the poem he chose for her anthem, something about ever singing of Heaven and hoping to have it ‘after all’.* Yes, reading between the lines, I think it did weigh upon him; but it was as if the matter was being continually shelved – endlessly overtaken by too many events! Perhaps if he had found rather more of that peace and quiet he was always after, he would have been able to deal with it. And maybe he did in those last months. Who can tell? So all I can really say about Francis Oughterard is to echo what little Mr Savage remarked at the funeral: ‘You know, Colonel, the missus and me, we rather liked the Rev. As vicars go, he wasn’t a bad sort, was he?’

  ‘No,’ I had answered, ‘he wasn’t a bad sort.’

  But tell you what, though, apart from his premature demise, there was a sort of retribution. After that giant plaque was erected in the nave, the Mothers’ Union felt it was time that they had a look-in, and some bright spark suggested that the annual Elizabeth Fotherington Memorial Award (which of course Francis had originally established) should somehow incorporate the memory of its founder. Thus, for many years now, the commemorative anthem composed specially for the ceremony has also borne the name of the Canon of Molehill – i.e. has become ‘The Fotherington-Oughterard Anthem’. It is solemnly played amid popular acclaim every December, and the whole event rakes in whopping funds for maintenance of the church boiler and other worthy essentials. For one so anxious never to have his name linked with that of his victim, Francis may well feel that Fate has played him a pawky trick!

  * See A Load of Old Bones

  40

  Maurice’s Epilogue

  Naturally, I knew it would not last – nothing involving F.O. possibly could. However, I was surprised by the manner of the resolution – as, presumably, was he. Our master had always been clumsy, and falling off that ledge was fairly typical. I had to explain to Bouncer that human beings do not possess the same agility as cats, and if they elect to go crawling about on hands and knees in high places then they must accept the consequences.

  The dog cogitated, rattled his bowl, and then said soberly that he thought it was ‘meant’: that lying there on the narrow shelf, listening to the bleatings of Mavis Briggs being winched up from her perch, the vicar had suddenly got tired (as he often did) and decided to call it a day – shut his eyes and just let go. I was not entirely convinced by Bouncer’s view (I rarely am) but he may have had something. However, in the rather delicate circumstances, I thought it best not to argue the point and so steered the conversation in another direction, i.e. our future.

  (I must explain that we were being temporarily housed by the owners of Florence the wolfhound. The latter had been her gracious self – although absurdly concerned for Bouncer, who of course played up to her for all he was worth. She rashly let him share one of her bones, a kindness of which he took full advantage. Being the lady she is, Florence affected not to notice and gazed into the middle distance while he made nauseous gurgling sounds and stripped the whole thing bare! Sometimes I feel I have failed with that dog.)

  ‘Anyway,’ I continued to Bouncer, ‘I rather think that in the near future we may be renewing our acquaintance with those obnoxious chinchillas.’


  His hackles went up. ‘You mean those idiot bastard bunnies in Sussex?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I murmured.

  ‘Why?’ he roared excitedly.

  ‘Because, Bouncer, from what I have gathered by keeping my ears well primed, I believe we are destined to live with our master’s sister, Primrose. She is coming for us shortly.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, pondering, ‘that should be a bit of all right. She likes me, you know.’

  I was about to reply that unfortunately not everyone’s taste is impeccable, when he had the nerve to add that since I had always made her slightly uneasy – and given our present dependence – I had better mind my manners!

  ‘My manners?’ I hissed. He grinned inanely.

  My sulk lasted for the rest of the day, but having been offered some cream and tolerable sardines from the wolfhound people, I was disposed to be genial again. Bouncer too was in a good mood – evidently relishing the idea of the chinchillas and the attentions from Primrose. (It did not seem to enter the dog’s head that were he to show too much interest in the rabbits, their owner would be less indulgent. A prospect I found mildly amusing.)

  ‘I say, Maurice,’ he exclaimed, ‘if we are good perhaps P.O. will give us some more toys, like sort of welcome presents. I could do with a new rubber ball – the one F.O. gave me has lost all its bells.’ (Yes, I had noted that and was thankful for the small mercy. But sadly, nothing lasts.) ‘And you might get a new woolly mouse!’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ I acknowledged. ‘That would be most welcome.’ There was silence as we contemplated the gift-laden future.

  And then furrowing his brows and drooping his head, the dog muttered, ‘Maurice, do you think F.O. is going to be all right?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I replied, ‘no doubt about it.’

  ‘I mean, where he’s gone – will there be any bones for him?’

  ‘Heaps! Strewn everywhere,’ I assured him.

  ‘And gin and fags?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And good loud music?’

  I winced. ‘Bound to be … harps and trumpets blaring all over the place!’

  ‘And peppermints and gobstoppers?’

  ‘Thousands.’

  ‘Ah well, he’ll be all right then!’

  ‘Yes, Bouncer, never fear, he will be all right. And so shall we.’

  Also by Suzette A. Hill

  A Load of Old Bones

  Bones in the Belfry

  Bone Idle

  Bones in High Places

  Copyright

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  3 The Lanchesters

  162 Fulham Palace Road

  London W6 9ER

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson,

  2011

  First US edition published by SohoConstable, an imprint of Soho Press, 2011

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  www.sohopress.com

  Copyright © Suzette A. Hill, 2011

  The right of Suzette A. Hill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  UK ISBN: 978–1–84901–793–0

  US ISBN: 978–1–56947–960–5

  US Library of Congress number: 2010052556