A Load of Old Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  I lit a cigarette and thought about my predecessor, the Reverend Purvis. Was it simply loneliness that had made him drink all that gin – or was there a more sinister explanation? Was Elizabeth Fotherington given to hounding harmless clergymen? Had this whole ghastly pursuit taken place before? Did Purvis too fall victim to her predatory sweetness? Topping up my tea I grimly considered his fate. And then, feeling even more depressed, I wandered into the sitting room and sat at the piano. I strummed a little Chopin and then tried to practise my Fats Waller technique but neither would lighten the gathering gloom.

  As it happened, I had a couple of weeks’ leave owing to me, and my temporary replacement, Basil Rummage, was due that evening. My sister was in the throes of moving into her new house on the outskirts of Brighton and we had arranged that I should go down and give her a hand. However, she didn’t want me there immediately and I had decided to spend a few days in Brighton itself, savouring the sea air and gathering my strength for the tasks ahead. Primrose is an exacting organizer and I knew I should be kept busy for much of my stay.

  My original intention had been to leave immediately after Evensong the previous day, but the fit of despondency had put paid to that. Instead I would set off that afternoon after some leisurely packing and a bit of tidying up for Rummage. I tried to convince myself that a break at the seaside would do me good but in my present mood couldn’t summon up much enthusiasm. Still, if nothing else it would at least provide a temporary respite from Elizabeth’s smothering attentions.

  I unlocked the back door and went to the garage to top up the radiator. It must have rained in the night as the grass was damp and there was a fresh earthy smell in the air. Wraiths of mist hung about the trees but the sun was already breaking through and the day looked promising. Good holiday weather for those so inclined. At least the drive down to Brighton would be pleasant. I had a slight headache, the result probably of too much sleep the night before, and rather than go upstairs and hunt vainly for aspirin I thought that a short walk might clear the cobwebs and induce a better mood for my trip.

  I put on stouter shoes and a light jacket and set off over the fields to Foxford Wood. These fields lie just behind the vicarage and form an attractive rural oasis amid Molehill’s gentrified suburbia. I am not much of an outdoor type and rarely walk unless having some specific purpose. But sauntering over the long grass that June morning, smelling the tang of hedgerows, hearing the birds and watching the cows as they placidly ruminated, gave me an enormous pleasure which even now, and despite everything, I sometimes recall.

  The sky was clear and the sun was growing stronger, and as I entered the beech wood the light was already dancing in dappled splodges on bush and bramble. Moving through those trees I began to feel the tensions of the last weeks gradually seep away, and caught a little of that serenity which I had feared had gone for ever.

  I had taken the main well-trodden path; but on either side of it the wood stretched dense and mysterious, the silence broken only by the occasional flurry of wood-pigeon or the rasping call of cock pheasant. It smelled good – damp, woody, mossy. Instinctively I felt in my pocket for my lighter but resisted the urge, the woodland scent being too nice to mingle with tobacco smoke. Instead I sucked a couple of mints which I always carry and watched the rabbits as they idled among the ferns and faded bluebells. Perhaps it was imagination, but I thought I detected somewhere the harsh bark of a roebuck. If I trod carefully I might just get a sighting. I thought it unlikely but, vaguely hopeful, strolled on savouring the deep peace of that enclosed and private world.

  Suddenly there was a crashing in the undergrowth, a loud snapping of twigs and tearing of roots and branches. The rabbits scattered, pheasants squawked – and equally flustered I turned quickly. It was no roebuck…

  It was Elizabeth. She stood there framed between a beech tree and a holly bush, looking like some aberrant version of the Green Man. Flushed and panting, hat adrift, stockings muddied and a bramble clinging to the front of her green dress, she flashed me one of those awesome smiles. I recoiled aghast. Christ almighty! How long, O Lord, how long!

  “Oh Francis,” she oozed, “what an amazing coincidence! I didn’t know you were an early walker. This must be your little secret. And now I’ve found you out!”

  She beamed rapturously, and still breathless took a few tottering steps towards the path I was on. I noticed that her plump ankles were thrust into brown cuban-heeled shoes with rather pointed toes. I wondered vaguely about their practicality but was more taken by the fact that her feet looked exactly like a pair of pigs’ trotters. I think a kind of hysteria came upon me because I started to giggle. This I could stifle, but not the accompanying smile which she immediately took for some sign of reciprocal pleasure. Picking her way carefully, she moved closer, seized my arm and in the usual gushing tones began to talk about the romance of the forest and the wonders of Mother Nature. The noise was ear-splitting.

  We walked along arm in arm: she squawking and gabbling, me in a trance-like daze. I recall making some polite monosyllabic responses but the whole thing had a surrealistic quality which makes it difficult to describe. As she talked I was trying in a muddled way to work out what she was doing there at that time of day and in such a dishevelled state. Why hadn’t she kept to the main path? Why, like some benign wild boar, had she suddenly broken cover from the undergrowth at the side of the track? I couldn’t fathom it out and in any case was far too distracted by the barrage of sound at my elbow.

  After about fifty yards I suddenly knew that it could not continue. It had to be stopped. Then and there and at any cost. I did not, as they say, see red. I felt no fury, no sense of despair or vengeance: just a cold impersonal necessity.

  It happened quite quickly. Looking down I saw the long blue chiffon scarf draped across her shoulders. It went well with the green of her dress. Lightly I laid my hand on the back of her neck. She looked up in surprise, and possibly with a gleam of pleasure – though I can’t be sure as everything was so swift. I took the scarf, and in one deft movement (unusual for me) wound it around her neck and pulled. Tighter, tighter…And then much tighter.

  I remember looking up at the tall trees, lovely in their arching outlines, and the foliage all lacy. There was a gap in the leaves and I could see a clear vibrant patch of sky. It was so blue and so beautiful. A group of pigeons scudded across, swooping and twirling; and above them I could just make out a glinting movement and an arc of frothy skein. To be up there, I felt, riding the sky, spiralling up into the clouds and beyond must be very heaven! Wings shimmered, birds and slipstream merged. The blue shone, the leaves danced…

  And then there was this heavy dragging weight in my arms. And lowering my eyes I saw Elizabeth like a collapsed doll, slumped and lolling. The rakish hat, still secured by its hat-pin, tilted drunkenly over her face; and her legs, with their little trotters, splayed out stiffly amongst the spent bluebells. There was not a breath of movement.

  You know, when you have some exacting or dangerous task to perform such as dismantling a mine, untangling barbed wire, cleaning a rifle, staunching a wound or dispatching a dying animal – anything in fact requiring crucial care – emotional feelings such as fear, pity, disgust, are entirely absent. You concentrate exclusively on the mechanics of the job: tying the right knots, finding the vital spot, selecting the correct screw or scalpel, twisting the wire properly. The only thing that matters is getting it right. Thus it was with Elizabeth: my pre-eminent concern was to deal efficiently with what had been done. Other instincts played no part.

  I lugged the body some yards off the path and laid it under a conveniently large and shrubby hawthorn bush; replaced the hat over her face, folded her arms and straightened her dress. The ground was covered in swathes of bracken and I wrenched these up and arranged them carefully over the body, embellishing the hawthorn’s camouflage. Then, just as I was about to leave, I suddenly noticed what looked like her handbag. In fact it was a pair of binoculars with a long strap but min
us their case. I was a bit nonplussed by this, not sure whether to leave them there shoved under the bush or take them with me. I hastily decided on the latter, remembering from the detective stories of my boyhood references to ‘damning evidence at the scene of the crime’. I wasn’t quite sure how the binoculars might constitute evidence, damning or otherwise, but you never knew and I wasn’t keen to stand about and debate the matter. It proved to be an unfortunate decision.

  I picked them up and prepared to go. The quickest way back to the vicarage would have been via the road but by now the morning was unfolding and there would be traffic and people about. To retrace my steps could be equally dangerous: another person in the fields at that hour was unlikely but not impossible, though the presence of bullocks tends to deter dog walkers. It might be a critical choice and of course I dithered. Then sickened by my indecision I turned and started to walk briskly back the way I had come.

  There is little of that walk that I recall except that mercifully I met no one and reached home in a state of peculiar calm. Once there I made another pot of tea, smoked a Gold Flake, and with absolutely nothing in my mind sat a long, long time at the kitchen table.

  ♦

  Basil Rummage was due to arrive at six o’clock that evening and eventually I was able to throw off my inertia and direct my thoughts to provisions for his stay and my own departure.

  Rummage was not a person I particularly liked. At training college he had been one of the more rumbustious of my fellow ordinands and had combined a quite remarkable obtuseness with an equally remarkable dedication to his own ends. I had no reason to believe that things had changed. A couple of years previously we had encountered each other at a weekend conference, and there too he had displayed both an oafish absurdity and a self-serving cunning. However, that was none of my business. The important thing was that his brief presence here would release me for a well-earned rest and help lend distance to what had just happened.

  I went upstairs to pack; checked that the spare bedroom was moderately welcoming, discarded my clerical collar and put on a sports coat. Downstairs I left various notes for Rummage directing him to the larder, the dustbins and the beer. I made no mention of the whisky, assuming (foolishly) that his roving eye would pass over the drinks cabinet. In an access of generosity I left a couple of packets of cigarettes on the kitchen table inviting him to help himself. It was now midday and time to be away from Molehill and en route for my vacation. Leaving the spare key in the pre-arranged place I piled my two small suitcases into the boot of the Singer, backed it out of the garage, narrowly missing a lurking errand-boy, and set its nose for Brighton.

  It was, as the earlier signs had promised, the most beautiful day. The Singer though elderly and battered ran smoothly and we were soon out of Surrey and over the border into Sussex. The South Downs reared up distant but comforting and it didn’t take long before we were on the old A23 Brighton road. The hood was down, the wind gusting and I began to experience a curious exhilaration. The car speeded happily towards the south coast, the Downs looming ever nearer. Soon the Great War Memorial pillars came into sight, were zoomed past, and the outskirts of Brighton appeared. I slowed down appropriately and glided into the Old Staine at a stately pace.

  My original intention had been to put up at one of the more salubrious guest houses just off the seafront. For some reason though, I suddenly felt that something better was called for. I am not particularly extravagant but had an unaccustomed urge to indulge myself, to enjoy an accommodation normally beyond my means. I think liberty had a hand in it – though whether the impulse was celebratory or valedictory I cannot be sure. Either way something a little out of the ordinary seemed called for and I decided to try my luck at one of the better hotels. Why not The Old Schooner? It was not quite the best but occupied an excellent position on the seafront and was certainly more fun and smarter than the guest houses lining the lesser streets. I had been in the bar there a couple of times during the war and knew that it had rooms looking out over the promenade and the two piers. What could be better for a summer sojourn?

  I parked the car in a side road, went in and enquired. Yes, they had one room left, small but with a little balcony, two floors up and overlooking the sea. I took it immediately and was soon comfortably ensconced.

  9

  The Vicar’s Version

  The last time I had been in Brighton was during the war, when there had been rolls of barbed wire along the promenade and the steps to the beach had been removed to frustrate enemy landings. Now, all such impediments were long gone and the shore stretched placid and inviting. I gazed down from the balcony, my eyes sweeping the space between the two piers, taking in the silent scene of splashing children and dogs, paddling women and the few dedicated swimmers. The sun caught the wavelets making them wink and glitter, and far in the distance, remote and toy-like, fishing smacks bobbed serenely. For a few moments I was back in the seaside holidays of my boyhood; and pleasant though it was to watch from afar, the scene beckoned and I wanted to be part of it. I unpacked quickly, took the binoculars I had picked up that morning and went downstairs for a nostalgic walk along the seafront.

  It was good to smell the sea air, to feel the sun on the back of my neck and to saunter freely among the other strollers. After a while I decided to venture on to the beach itself – feeling it incumbent upon the dedicated holiday-maker to get as close to the sand and seaweed as possible. (And after all, I mused, the chance might never come again.) As a matter of fact, while seaweed is copious, except when the tide goes far out there is very little sand at Brighton. The beaches on that part of the coast are notoriously pebbly, a condition which some dislike though personally I prefer the discomfort of pebbles to the irritation of gritty sand.

  Anyway, entering into the spirit of things I bought a strawberry ice-cream from a kiosk and set off over the crunching shingle until I found a suitable place to sit and finish the now dripping cone. There was a sheltered niche in front of the sea wall where I settled down, took off my shoes and jacket and leant back against the warm stone. The binoculars (rather good ones, I discovered) came in handy, and for ten minutes or so I was engrossed in my surroundings and lazily watched the spectacle of boats and bathers and the comings and goings on the Palace Pier.

  The entertainment was interrupted by the arrival of a small Cairn terrier who approached me with a brisk and self-important air, barked a greeting and made a bee-line for my folded jacket. At first, fearing he was about to christen it, I moved to shoo him away but after a few perfunctory sniffs and a couple of tail wags he scampered off to investigate more pressing matters. He was an engaging little fellow and I started to ponder again whether a dog would fit in at the vicarage and my life there. Once I returned to Molehill I would give serious thought to the matter. Meanwhile the sun was making me drowsy, and putting my jacket behind my head I settled back and closed my eyes. Lulled by the cries of seagulls and the distant laughter of children I slipped into a long and dreamless slumber.

  When I awoke it was well past five o’clock. There were shadows on the beach and a sharp breeze had got up. Time to return to the hotel, take a bath, have a drink and then look for a spot of supper. I felt refreshed after my long nap and contemplated the evening with a degree of pleasure. The day’s earlier events had all but faded.

  ♦

  Bathed and spruced, I went down to the bar and ordered a large gin and tonic. The room is spacious with wide windows looking out on to the pavement and the sea. It is a venue for visitors and locals alike, and that evening there was a large assorted crowd standing in groups and creating a convivial buzz. I ordered my drink, chose a small table by the wall and sat down with my back against the dark panelling. From here I had a good view of the room and my fellow drinkers. Watching others has always been a source of amusement to me and even as a boy I found it one of the more interesting of spectator sports. It is a good way to pass an idle hour. Ideally one needs an inventive companion but even alone the game of appraisa
l and speculation makes a diverting pastime.

  I took out a cigarette, remembering with a flicker of irritation that I had only matches with me. I enjoy the ceremony of the lighter – the heaviness in the palm, the snapping open of the cover, the click-clicking of the wheel and the sudden burst of blue flame. It is one of those petty hedonistic rituals which a match doesn’t quite fulfil. Given the circumstances, my holiday packing had been a rather abstracted affair and it must have been left on the bed when I was changing my jacket. I reflected grimly that if it was spotted by Rummage he would be as likely to pocket it.

  I sipped my drink, listened to the pretensions of some smarmer at the next table, watched a youngish man trying to get off with a sixty-year-old blonde, and debated whether to order dinner in the hotel or go out for something a little more adventurous. Preoccupied with these matters I did not see him at first. When I did I had the shock of my life. It was Nicholas – Nicholas Ingaza, last heard of doing time for importuning at a Turkish bath in Jermyn Street.

  He was unmistakable. Older of course, and more lined and gaunt than his forty-five years would normally warrant, but those sardonic blue eyes and graceful, slightly mannered gestures would have identified him anywhere – as indeed they did: here and now. I watched covertly, taking in the thin frame clad in its rather dated chalk-stripe, the sleeked hair brushing his collar, the flashy signet ring. I could even hear – or thought I could – those nasal, vaguely seedy and truculent tones which had set him apart from the rest of us at St Bede’s Theological College in those far-off days just after the war.