A Load of Old Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  “It’s good to have you back,” she said benignly. “At last things can be put on an even keel again” – meaning presumably that she and the rest of the congregation could continue to do just as they had always done with no undue interruption from their pastor. “Your locum, the Reverend Rummage, was very nice but just a trifle overbearing, you know.” I did know. “Though I must say,” she added, “his departing sermon was one of the most rousing I have ever heard! We were most impressed.”

  “Really?” I said curiously. “What was his theme?”

  “Self-denial and the ordered life.” I thought of the shambles in my kitchen and his dastardly raid on the malt whisky.

  “Ah yes, very imaginative, the Reverend Rummage…”

  She took her leave and I went into the church where I busied myself with rearranging the candlesticks, admiring the new designs of the hassocks, checking the security lights and saying a few words to the cleaners. I like pottering in the church. It is a soothing, mildly aesthetic experience; and occasionally if there is nobody about I will have a crafty go on the organ. I say ‘crafty’ because I am embarrassed by my conspicuous lack of expertise (being much more secure on the piano), but also because the organist regards the instrument as his personal property and turns nasty should anyone have the temerity to approach it. However, that afternoon was not the time for such adventures and I did not linger, hoping instead to draft a couple of sermons before Evensong and ponder my response to the police when they came – as come they surely would.

  On my way back I encountered Reginald Bowler. He did not have his dog with him and looked morose. I smiled politely, expecting some passing rebuff, but he stopped full in my path and in a cold voice said, “So you’re back, are you? Returned to enjoy the spoils, I suppose.”

  “Er – I am not sure if I understand…” I began in some confusion.

  “Of course you do, man. That money she left you!” He glared ferociously.

  “Whoever told you that?” I exclaimed.

  “Her daughter, Violet Pond.”

  “Violet what?”

  “Pond,” he spluttered. “Didn’t you hear me? Pond! Pond!”

  I stepped back hastily, trying to dodge the cascade of spray, and in so doing experienced a sudden flash of vivid memory: the last time it had been necessary to side-step Bowler the awful fracas with the dog had ensued. This time my foot met no such solid object. But Bowler was solid all right – solidly close, and impossible!

  I said coolly that I had no idea who this daughter was and certainly did not understand why she should be discussing my bequest with him. He raised his eyes to the heavens. “Because I am the co-executor of course. I know about these things! Not that I knew anything about that absurd codicil…only inserted a few days before she died. It made a hell of a difference. She should have had the whole thing dealt with here at the bank under my vigilance instead of traipsing up to London and depositing it with those wide-boy solicitors. Meddling bunch! She made other changes too. Mrs Pond is getting considerably less than she banked on – a nice bit of course – but she’s none too pleased all the same. And do you know what she left me?” Before I could hazard a guess he went crashing on, “A measly one hundred pounds – a hundred pounds if you please! After all I did for her! And you waltz off with God knows how much…I tell you it’s a disgrace, a disgrace, sir!”

  As he ranted I wondered whether I should murmur something helpful about heavenly riches or camels and needles, but thought better of it. In his present state such reminders might not be entirely welcome. He certainly looked a funny colour and was perspiring heavily. (As a matter of fact I did not feel too good myself. The news that the codicil had been added only days before her death fuelled my earlier fears and already I could see the finger of suspicion hovering perilously near.) Instead I said I was sorry that he felt so upset but there was really nothing I could do about it and I was sure Mrs Fotherington had always valued his friendship. This struck me as a fairly reasonable response in the circumstances but it seemed to inflame him further.

  “Well, don’t imagine you are going to bury her as well,” he snapped. “As soon as the pathologist released the body the daughter had the whole caboosh conducted in St Elspeth’s in Guildford. The family was in its parish for years and still have strong links. They do things properly there. So your services will not be required, vicar.”

  This was the first good news I had had all day. Nevertheless, I was stung by the aspersion cast on my handling of the Burial Service. This is something in which I have always taken particular pride, conducting the obsequies with a combination of gravitas and polish rare among the minor clergy – in whose ranks I naturally count myself.

  “What’s more,” he went on, “I think you will find that Violet Pond intends to contest the will. She’s decidedly miffed about your part in it – as well she might be. You’ll be hearing from her, I fancy.” With that as his parting shot he turned abruptly and stalked off in the direction whence he had come. I could not help wondering where it was he had been going in the first place – presumably a destination of little account. I watched him disappear, pondering that final remark. Surely, having disposed of the mother, I was not now going to be plagued by the daughter as well!

  14

  The Cat’s Memoir

  I had been sunning myself on top of one of my favourite tombstones when there was a crashing in the bushes. Bouncer stood there. Rather to my surprise I noticed he was toting his mangy rubber ring. Normally he left his toys behind when visiting or pounding the block with Bowler (except I recall when he caught me in that humiliating contretemps with the Veasey women). He looked a little seedy – even, one might say, hangdog. Dropping the ring he sat down heavily on his haunches and peered up through the matted fronds of his fringe.

  “He’s gone off,” he announced.

  “Gone off?” I queried. “You mean Bowler has gone down to Worthing to stay with that noisome sister of his?”

  “No,” he said testily. “South America.”

  “Nonsense,” I rejoined briskly. “You’ve got it wrong. What on earth would Bowler be doing in South America?”

  “Hiding from the police. He’s snaffled the dough from the bank, filled his pockets and done a runner.”

  Bouncer’s crude mode of speech has long been a source of irritation to me, so I enunciated my reply carefully: “You mean your master has appropriated the funds and absconded.”

  “Yes, that’s what I said – the bastard’s scarpered and left me behind.”

  I winced at this travesty of my words but it was clearly not the time to dispute linguistic niceties. Instead I gazed at him, taking in the full import of the news, and then ventured to enquire, “So where does that leave you?”

  “In the doghouse,” he growled, shoving his rubber ring around with his paw.

  There was a long silence as we both contemplated the implications of this. As such places go I gather the local Dogs’ Home is not so bad; raucous of course – then you would expect that from a largely vagrant population – but I hear the treatment is quite good and that it also provides a kennel facility for dogs whose owners are temporarily absent. But now to all intents and purposes Bouncer had no owner. And even if the errant Bowler returned he would presumably be in no position to reclaim his lost property. The idea of Bouncer being farmed out to a set of total strangers (or something worse) was a prospect I found oddly disturbing. Fortunately I have a fertile brain, and a plan immediately presented itself.

  “You could move in here,” I said. “It’s quite nice really. The vicar’s a bit clumsy and crashes around on the piano keys but by and large he is fairly innocuous. Ponces about in his surplice now and again but you get used to that.”

  “What’s nockus?” Bouncer asked.

  “It means harmless,” I explained kindly. He said nothing but a quizzical faraway look came into his eyes, and then he burped loudly.

  I ignored that and continued, “The only drawback is those confounded
bells. One could hardly hear them in The Avenue but here they make an infernal noise!”

  “Oh, I like the sound of bells – they speak to a fellow’s soul,” he said solemnly.

  Despite the grimness of the situation I was assailed by a spasm of mirth which I contrived to contain by a sudden bout of sneezing. The idea of Bouncer possessing a soul, let alone one receptive to the cacophony of church bells, was something that I had never really considered. It just went to show that there must be something concealed in those doggy depths after all! “Well, that’s all right then,” I said quickly. “We had better get you billeted.”

  ♦

  Obviously it would not be possible for Bouncer to get into the vicarage immediately. Vague though he is, even F.O. might notice a strange dog suddenly wandering about his house or rolling on the sofa. I felt that Bouncer should be introduced in stages so that the vicar could become acclimatized to his presence. To this end I suggested that for an interim period Bouncer could use the church crypt for his sleeping arrangements and then during the day make fleeting appearances in the garden.

  The crypt looked a bit damp and toady and I was not sure how he would react to the proposal. However, he seemed more than happy, and dragging his ring padded down the crumbling steps and disappeared through the broken panel in the door. I hovered about a little, not sure whether he expected me to accompany him. I was not particularly disposed to as I knew from bitter experience that the resident mice were less than couth. Fortunately he soon reappeared and from the vigorous tail wagging I assumed that things had met with his approval.

  “I say,” he said, “I know a good joke about cats and crypts! Shall I tell it to you? It’s a tongue-twister. It goes like this: ‘The cat crept into the crypt, era – ’ ”

  “Yes,” I said hastily. “We all know that one. Very funny, I’m sure. Remember where you are. It’s hardly the place for coarseness of that kind.” He seemed quite unabashed and scampered around in a circle snorting loudly. For one who had just lost his master to the wiles of avarice he seemed to have recovered remarkably quickly. Still, I suppose that in the grip of severe shock even the best of dogs can become crude and facetious, and Bouncer I fear is not of the best.

  “It’s a bit of all right down there,” he said. “There’s only one problem – I’ve left a few valuables back at home.” I had visited his home on a number of occasions when his master was out, and having encountered Bouncer’s basket had a good idea what those ‘valuables’ might be. The basket was far from pretty, and its contents – articles which I preferred not to view too closely – even less so. Old, chewed, hairy, they did not present an edifying sight. Presumably these were the things he was hankering after.

  “You still have your nice rubber ring,” I said encouragingly.

  “Dogs do not live by rubber rings alone,” he answered tartly.

  Even I could find no response to that and resigned myself to the task of helping him retrieve the valuables.

  ♦

  We embarked on the rescue venture that evening, having spent a pleasant afternoon roaming the graveyard. I enjoyed giving Bouncer a conducted tour, showing him the finer points and facilities and generally airing my knowledge of its more esoteric aspects. He was clearly impressed but did take an unconscionable time christening the boundaries of his new territory. You would have thought that having deposited his marker in one place it would be unnecessary to return to the identical spot quite so often. He explained that he had been brought up to be thorough – a claim that I rather doubted.

  Getting to Bowler’s house was easy: down the lane, over the vet’s stile, past the Veaseys’ fishpond, and then via a back alley into Bowler’s kitchen garden. Getting back with all of Bouncer’s impedimenta was a different matter. It took each of us several journeys and I have known few things more fatiguing. However, to give Bouncer his due he was properly appreciative of my efforts, and to celebrate our success we feasted on some bits of chicken liberated from F.O.’s pantry.

  As things turned out it was just as well that we went when we did. Despite the lateness of the hour we were surprised on letting ourselves in through the dog-flap to find a police presence. In the lounge there was a detective constable of about fourteen holding a glass of Bowler’s whisky in one hand and picking his nose with the other. In the hall a beefy female sergeant was bellowing down the telephone:

  “Yes, yes, sir…we’re leaving now. We’ve found those files you wanted plus the Buenos Aires addresses…That sister from Worthing has been on the blower again. She might be useful but at the moment all she can do is burble on about some bloody dog. Says she’ll have it put down given half a chance. God Almighty, I’ll have her put down if she doesn’t shut up and co-operate. These damn people, they never seem to realize…”

  I noticed that Bouncer had gone a little pale around the chops, and quickly hustled him out into the garden. Here we crouched among the vegetable marrows until the lights went out and the coast was clear. Then sneaking back into the house we started to gather up his toys and trophies. Fortunately this was an exacting task and helped to keep his mind off the threats from Worthing.

  Our labours finally completed and F.O.’s chicken demolished, I left him to drag his baggage down to the crypt and retired for a couple of hours’ rest before commencing my nightly prowl. This was productive and I returned pleasantly refreshed. Passing the crypt I paused at the top of the steps wondering how Bouncer was getting on. From the depths there emanated a fur-raising noise: a sort of strangulated howling whose volume and pitch fluctuated in the most uncanny way moving from a deep throaty bass to a high falsetto wail. Fortunately I had heard a little of this on other occasions, otherwise despite my undoubted fortitude I might have been severely alarmed. It was in fact merely Bouncer running through his baying scales. Nevertheless, I was struck by the sheer variety of the ululations, and it was certainly a sound to wake the dead, as – I reflected – it was quite probably doing.

  The next morning I lurked about waiting for him to surface which he eventually did looking even more tousled than usual. There was a broad grin on his face. Evidently the night and the music had been satisfactory.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked.

  “It would be difficult not to!” I exclaimed, adding that I had not known that he was so versatile.

  He smirked. “There’s a jolly good echo down there! When I bark it goes round and round and round. It’s lovely!” I said that I was glad he found his accommodation to his liking and that presumably it was quite gratifying having so many old bones at his disposal.

  “Well, not specially,” he replied. “You see they’re all sealed up; and in any case even if I could get at ‘em I don’t suppose there would be much meat hanging around.” I suppressed a shudder and turned the conversation.

  15

  The Dog’s Diary

  I was a bit fed up with my master doing a bunk like that and leaving me all alone. But Maurice has been unusually helpful, and this cemetery set-up is pretty good. I like nosing about among the gravestones – you never know what you might find (apart from Maurice of course). At the moment there’s a bit of a problem with my grub – haven’t had a decent tin of Muncho for some time. Dustbins are all right as far as they go but they don’t go far enough. Nothing really beats a human hand dishing out the fodder on a regular basis. Maurice says that now I’ve found my bearings it’s time I started to edge my way into the vicarage itself. The way to do it he says is by subtle stages so as not to startle F.O. Don’t quite know what he means by that – after all either you’re there or you’re not! Maurice’s mind is a bit tricky and I don’t always follow it.

  He tells me that once I’m in the house I should be on my best behaviour and to keep wagging my tail. Says I should do it with Brio. Who Brio is or where he comes into it I’m not sure but I like wagging my tail and can do it jolly well. He says that now and again I ought to sit up and beg. Apparently humans approve of that. But I told him begging was for sissies and I
wasn’t going to start on that lark! Still, Bowler used to teach me how to die for my country. That’s an easy one – you just flop on to the ground and lie doggo until some human pats your head and gives you a biscuit. I might try that instead. After all, if I can settle in the vicarage I shall have a brand new master, a warm home, regular food and this crypt to bound about in. It’s nice down here with all the old tombs (though a bit cobwebby which makes me sneeze but I don’t mind that). Maurice thought I might be lonely in the night but there’s plenty to do what with chasing the spiders (they’ve had a nasty scare I can tell you!) and listening to all those old ghosts gabbling on. If I told Maurice about that he would think I was barking! But you know we dogs have a sort of sixth sense which cats don’t understand.

  16

  The Vicar’s Version

  Evensong had gone smoothly and was moderately well attended. It was my first service since returning from Sussex and I was gratified to be approached by a number of the congregation enquiring after my holiday and welcoming me back. The prospect of the following Sunday’s sermon delivered without threat of Elizabeth’s simpering gaze suddenly seemed quite congenial. I was determined to make it a really good one, and so even during supper I was busily polishing the finer points of its text.

  After washing up I took the script into the sitting room where Maurice was lounging, poured myself a whisky (blended of course, Rummage having demolished the malt), settled comfortably on the sofa and started to appraise the finished version. I was happily absorbed in this when there was a loud knocking at the front door. (Why is it that policemen always knock and never ring the doorbell even when there’s a perfectly good one staring them in the face?) I knew immediately what it was and scuttled into the kitchen to dispose of the whisky. An excessive reaction perhaps, but you must understand that in such matters impeachable respectability is the essence! The porch light was on and through the glass I could see the blurry outline of two dark shapes. Taking a deep breath and adopting a neighbourly smile I opened the door.