I finished my beer and went over to the shadowy bar and bought the other half. Back in my seat I mentally toasted Madge and thought ruefully that probably by now she was fat with five children and living in Penge. I hoped not – she deserved better. Perhaps, I brightened, she was the madam of a high-class brothel in Mayfair boosting the morale, and other things, of tyro punters. To that pious hope I raised my glass.
I don’t often think of women and I suppose it was that which, with a dreadful lurch, brought Elizabeth Fotherington back into my mind. Not that there was the remotest similarity between mentor and tormentor, but perhaps it was the unaccustomed musing on an individual person that made me recall Elizabeth and the events surrounding her unfortunate demise. It was the first time I had had either the leisure or the inclination to analyse the details of the matter or indeed give real thought to future action. For a few lurid minutes I relived that encounter in the woods, recalling the resinous mossy smell, the pheasants, the stillness, the distant barking. I also recalled her rearing up, breathless and beaming amidst those innocent branches…I closed my eyes.
What I couldn’t make out was why she had been there at all – and what about the binoculars? Why on earth was she toting those around with her at that early hour? Did she nurse an ‘undying passion’ for birds as well as tulips? Had the morning beckoned her irresistibly to seek magnified sightings of thrush and skylark or other woodland prey? I didn’t know…and then of course I did!
Prey. That was it! I had been the prey, was being stalked that June morning and my movements followed obsessively through the lenses of her glasses. She must have had them trained on the vicarage from the upper windows of her house, had seen me leave in the direction of the wood; and then, rushing through the garden and out by the wicket gate (that ‘postern of fate’), had cut through the furze and brambles to the main path – and to me, her unwitting victim, idling along minding my own empty business.
Grotesque though the idea was, it had a sort of dreadful irony and would certainly account for her dishevelled state and shortness of breath. Despite the horror of it all I found myself grinning with incredulity. To think that I of all people should have been singled out as the quarry for such insatiable desire! It had a certain piquancy all right: yet another of God’s practical jokes leading to dire consequences. The world had a surfeit of such comedy.
♦
The rest of my time in Brighton was spent pleasantly enough, but memories of Elizabeth had started to cast their long shadow and I could not quite recapture that holiday ease which had first coloured my hours in the town. Thus I shelved the idea of going to the races, the binoculars by now having lost their novelty, and indeed become distinctly irksome. I looked forward to my sojourn with Primrose, trusting that fresh diversions would lift the spirit and stiffen the mind for whatever might lie ahead.
I arrived there at six o’clock in the evening. She greeted me with her customary mix of distant affection and quizzical amusement; informed me that my hair was going grey and that I looked even thinner than usual. The first I knew, the other did not surprise me. She offered to show me the two chinchilla rabbits she had recently acquired, Boris and Karloff, but I told her they must wait while I took sustenance of her gin.
“Haven’t got any,” she said with a note of relish. “Only my usual dry sherry,” I winced. Primrose’s sherry was invariably South African and of a brand so desiccated that to call it bone dry would have been a kindness. However, steeling both nerve and palate I accepted a glass and embarked on a leisurely tour of her new abode.
She had chosen well. The house was of 1920s design: solid, roomy and mainly south-facing. There were four bedrooms of which one had a skylight, and with its high ceiling and airy proportions it would be ideal as a studio. It could also accommodate her accumulated stocks of church and sheep sketches. From the small veranda overlooking the garden one could see the bold and treeless curve of the Downs. The garden itself was full of trees and I noticed apprehensively that though attractive it was severely overgrown. I rather suspected it would be my task to set it to rights. It was.
Primrose does not cook; she assembles. Nevertheless, the assemblage is unfailingly deft and well chosen (an influence from her Courtauld days?) and supper that evening had, by my limited standards, the quality of a feast. It was a feast, however, slightly compromised by the remarks with which she prefaced it.
We were in the kitchen: me struggling with the corkscrew while she carved slices of ham and thick chunks of French sausage (contraband from Dieppe). Apropos of nothing she suddenly said, “It’s very odd, that murder business, you know. I hope it doesn’t involve you in any way.” My hand slipped and I broke the cork. Staring fixedly at its brown flecks scattered over the draining board I enquired what murder she was referring to.
“The one in your parish of course. It was all in yesterday’s Argus: some old trout found strangled in the woods. From what I can make out quite near to your vicarage. It says she was done in on Tuesday afternoon.”
I was about to say, “Tuesday morning actually,” but instead muttered vaguely that it must have happened after I had left for Brighton, and why in any case did she think it would involve me.
“It says she used to attend St Botolph’s church – that’s the name of yours, isn’t it? And after all, Francis, you do have a knack of getting embroiled in things.”
“I do not!” I protested indignantly. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember when the milkman paid you five guineas to do his rounds for him while he went to bed with the doctor’s wife? There was an awful stink and Daddy was so cross!”
“But that was years ago, I was just a boy!” I exclaimed.
“Old enough to keep all the money to yourself and give none to your penniless sister toiling at art school,” she retorted tartly, spearing one of the sausage bits. I recollected that my meanness with the spoils had indeed rankled with her – as it evidently still did. Primrose has an acute sense of injustice where her own interests are concerned.
“And what about that arsenal you almost blew up on the Isle of Wight? They nearly cashiered you for that.”
“Well, that was hardly my fault,” I began defensively, “it was Billings, he – ”
“Perhaps not. But just think of that ghastly business at the seminary place you were in. Splashed all over the newspapers, it was. I thought Mother was going to die of apoplexy. And it was so tiresome as I was expected to stay and look after her.”
She took the bottle from me, gouged out the rest of the cork, poured herself a large glass and as an afterthought filled a lesser one for me. “I am not saying you had anything to do with it, but you were there, and it did make waves…I mean completely ruined my chances with the editor of the Sunday Noise. Once he knew I had a brother at that place all he wanted was one thing, and one thing only: inside information. The bed never got a look in!”
I could see that that too rankled and began to feel apologetic. She must have noticed my discomfort for in milder tones she said, “Anyway, regarding this murder of yours – if the press approach you looking for special angles, local colour or whatever it is they always want, just don’t mention your artist sister in Sussex. I don’t want hordes of reporters and bishops swarming down here!”
“Why bishops?” I enquired.
“My dear, they get in everywhere. Don’t you remember the St Bede’s thing?”
Personally I could think of only one bishop in evidence at that time, Clinker’s superior, Boxwick. However, during the scandal his views and photograph had appeared with such daily monotony that I assumed Primrose had mistaken the one for the many. I refrained from telling her, not wishing to stir further contention. The matter was shelved and we turned to the more pressing issues of the garden and the chinchillas.
12
The Vicar’s Version
When I got back to Molehill I saw that Rummage had done his worst. The vicarage was a minor shambles, especially the kitchen wher
e empty beer bottles competed with unwashed plates for space on the small draining board. The waste bin overflowed with mouldering corned beef tins, discarded cigarette packets and screwed-up copies of the Daily Sketch. Around its base was a confetti of shredded betting slips. (Anyone would think we were RCs, I thought irritably.) Needless to say my lighter was nowhere to be seen. After unpacking and putting things to right I went to the bathroom where I discovered a note propped on the window-sill. Why there I do not know but the mind of Rummage moves in mysterious ways. It read as follows:
Dear Oughterard,
Nice little place you’ve got here. Hope you enjoyed the briny etc. etc. Have dented your gatepost but expect you can mend it all right. Some old girl was found dead in the wood and a couple of heavies turned up on the doorstep asking for you. Told them you’d be back soon and they went off quite happily mumbling something about routine enquiries. Let me know if you want me again.
B.R.
P.S. I like your cat.
Looking back, I am not sure which part of the note rattled me most: the news of the police visit or the reference to the cat (the gatepost bit being no more than expected from Rummage). I knew of course from the item in the Brighton Argus which Primrose had shown me that the police were already on to it, and had also guessed that since the victim was one of my congregation I could expect to be approached for details concerning her social or even personal life. However, it was one thing to recognize the probability and quite another to have it so baldly confirmed in Rummage’s unkempt scrawl. What had been a distant and theoretical prospect suddenly took on an alarming and imminent reality. But I was also puzzled by the allusion to the non-existent cat. Had Rummage suffered an hallucination? If so perhaps he had also mistaken the visit from the police. For about five seconds I clung to this comforting thought but it was hardly a hope I could sustain.
As in all times of tension I went downstairs to put the kettle on and lit a cigarette. Poised for my second puff, I suddenly sensed a presence at the window and had an uncanny feeling of déjà vu. For a wild instant I was gripped by a spasm of desperate panic. Then slowly putting down my cigarette and taking a deep breath I shot a furtive glance and saw, not the resurrected bane of my life but…her Creature. Maurice’s querulous face was squashed against the pane, the flattened nose and splayed whiskers suggesting some feline invention of Hieronymus Bosch. Just as Nicholas had been unmistakable so was Maurice. The unusual markings and accusing stare could have belonged only to him.
We confronted each other through the glass and despite my vague hand-flappings it was obvious he had no intention of deserting his perch. After a little I cautiously opened the side window and he snaked along the ledge and slipped through. Once inside he stalked around imperiously, taking not a blind bit of notice of me, and then walked purposefully into the sitting room where he settled down behind the sofa. He seemed remarkably well orientated and I assumed this was the mythical cat which had endeared itself to Rummage. I doubted whether he would do the same for me.
♦
The cat’s invasion was an irritant but of minor concern compared to the weightier matters I should soon have to confront. Brighton and my sister’s house had been a therapy, a diversionary respite; but now I was home again and on the brink of heaven knew what dire eventualities! I re-read Rummage’s note. Yes, without a doubt They would be back. On any day, at any hour. I glanced out of the window half expecting to see dark-helmeted figures lumbering up the front path, handcuffs in hand, whistles at the ready…Nothing. The garden with its gaunt buddleia and etiolated roses returned my gaze with a still and blank indifference.
After a scratch supper I went into the study to attack the post. Rummage had been uncharacteristically useful in piling it up neatly on the top of my desk. There were the usual bills, church circulars, notices of diocese meetings, jumble sales etc., two indecipherable postcards from an aunt in Calais or Timbuktu – and a long manila envelope neatly typed and postmarked London WC1. On the back in italic script was engraved the name Messrs Switcher, Switcher & Pang, of Bedford Row. This meant nothing to me and having disposed of the other detritus I slit open the envelope. The letter was brief and to the point:
Dear Sir,
Re: The Will of the late Mrs Elizabeth Fotherington of Marchbank House, Molehill, Surrey
We are pleased to inform you that under the terms of the codicil attached to the above mentioned will you are to receive the sum of £25,000 (twenty five thousand pounds).* Please be so good as to sign and send the enclosed form acknowledging receipt of this letter after which the said monies can be released to you once probate has been established.
Yours faithfully, etc., etc.
≡ Approximately £400,000 purchase power by today’s values.
I stared down at the words in a state of dumb incredulity. They were gross, inexplicable, crazy…marvellous. For a few seconds I was gripped with a mad euphoria – what couldn’t I do with £25,000! On reflection, not a great deal really. My pleasures are of a mainly sedentary kind. Sport and travel I find tiring, and apart from a long-held hankering for a rod on the Test I harboured few adventurous dreams. It did, however, strike me that here at last would be the chance to hire a first rate piano teacher to steer me through the labyrinth of the Goldberg Variations – or indeed the exquisite syncopations of Teddy Wilson. But apart from the music and the fishing it seemed that I might be hard pressed to do justice to my good fortune. Still, £25,000 was a reassuring prospect and for a brief while I was lost in a reverie of happy speculation.
♦
Naturally it did not last. The ghastly irony hit me, and with the irony came guilt – but a guilt soon overlaid by blinding panic. Here was the motive, for Christ’s sake! All this time I had felt moderately safe in the assumption that there was absolutely nothing to connect me with what had happened; there was no reason (none that any sane person might imagine) that would prompt me, a quiet ineffectual parson, to do away with the foolish Mrs Fotherington. Now, here I was down in black and white as a substantial beneficiary under her will; my name linked irrevocably with hers. It was dreadful, it was too bad. It was typical of that bloody woman! All the old despairs and fears came flooding back, and engulfed by a sudden wave of vertigo I sat on the floor and wept in horrified anguish.
♦
After a while, ashamed of my craven collapse I got up, went into the sitting room and sat down at the piano. I lifted my hands but when they came down it was no melody they performed, but scales. Slow at first, desultory; but gradually the repetitive movement took control and the energy flowed. Relentlessly my fingers made their obsessive assault on the keys. Up and down, up and down, up and down…my hands flew swiftly, adroitly over their familiar course until eventually, steadied by the sheer mechanics of the exercise, I felt a returning poise and, strangely, an almost light-headed indifference.
Closing the lid I remembered the cat. Last seen he had been ensconced behind the sofa. I peered over the back, and sure enough there was the sleek dark bundle apparently fast asleep. Certainly the eyes were tightly shut – though as I was later to learn of Maurice that does not necessarily signify sleep or oblivion.
Calmed by my bout at the piano I felt sufficiently confident to make some further acquaintance, and bending down scooped the creature up and carried him into the kitchen. He looked askance and struggled furiously but resolution was upon me and I told him firmly that if he wanted to remain in the house and get anything to eat then he had better damn well co-operate. As I was also later to learn, the concept of co-operation is alien to Maurice. However, that evening he did seem to recognize that at least a show of reasonableness would be in his interests and augur well for his future welfare. Thus we effected a relationship of fragile deference which remains moderately intact to the present day.
13
The Vicar’s Version
The next morning I sat at my desk catching up on a plethora of neglected paperwork: the Boiler Fund Appeal, altar-boy lists, the byzantine re
ports of the Vestry Circle – matters which I generally find less than absorbing; but that day their very dullness induced a sense of security and I applied myself with unusual zeal. Indeed so immersed was I that the wretched bequest was all but forgotten, and it was nearly one o’clock when I put down my fountain pen and looked with satisfaction at the piles of completed documents stacked neatly on the window-sill. Time for a gin and a breather.
Time also to check the church and inspect the new hassocks and candlesticks delivered in my absence. I strolled up the lane connecting the church with the vicarage. In the distance a stout tweed-clad figure was marching through the lychgate: Miss Dalrymple, doyenne of the hymn book menders and scourge of choirboys.
There must be few people who make it their regular mission in life to crawl on all-fours between the lines of choir stalls circling with a stick of chalk the wads of chewing-gum deposited on their undersides. However, such a one was Miss Dalrymple. Given the awkwardness of the manoeuvre, she executed it with remarkable skill – of a kind normally associated with circus contortionists and presumably the result of years of experience and a cussed dedication to the pursuit of small boys. These latter, confronted with the chalk-marked fruits of their wrongdoing, would be required to prise off the offending bits with tins of Vim and wire-wool: a laborious monthly ritual which I took care to distance myself from, feeling in any case that Miss Dalrymple’s powers of coercion were vastly superior to mine.
She hailed me cheerfully, said she hoped I had had a good holiday and did I know that poor Mrs Fotherington had met a ‘too dreadful end in that awful wood’. Just why the wood should be so designated was not clear, and I was about to say that I had always found it rather peaceful and attractive but stopped quickly. The less knowledge displayed about that particular area the better. Despite the sympathetic words I detected a gleam of excitement in her eye and reflected that to one less intimately involved the event might indeed hold a certain ghoulish appeal. All right for some, I thought glumly.
A Load of Old Bones Page 7