“Good evening, sir,” said the taller. “I am Detective Inspector March, and this here is Detective Sergeant Samson. Hope you don’t mind us calling at this hour but we’re making routine enquiries about the death of one of your parishioners, a Mrs Elizabeth Fotherington. We did call some days back but your friend Mr Rummage said you were away, so…”
“Yes, yes,” I beamed, assuming my genial vicarish voice. “Do come in, officers. You’re quite right – I was having a few days at the seaside. It’s not often that one gets a chance to enjoy the old briny!” I suppose their reference to Rummage must have brought the latter’s phrase to mind and I winced inwardly as I heard myself repeating it. However, it seemed not unsuited to vacuous bonhomie and I ushered them into the sitting room smiling broadly. As I did so it occurred to me that in the circumstances perhaps this was not quite the right note to strike and I hastily composed my features into a more sober cast.
The evening was dull with an unseasonable chill in the air and as I feel the cold I had lit a fire. It burned brightly in the grate, and stretched out on the rug lay Maurice, snoring gently. It was a convivial scene and I liked to think created just the right image of cosy domestic innocence. Much of course depended on Maurice continuing to doze. Awake and in truculent spirits he could change the mood in a trice.
I invited them to sit down and waited with a look of co-operative enquiry on my face. They were an oddly matched pair. The senior man, March, was about fifty: thick-set, jowly, and with a slow rumbling voice which reminded me vaguely of one of those shunting railway engines of my childhood. In those days, listening in the night, I had found the sound oddly comforting; that evening it seemed merely tedious. Samson the sergeant looked like an emaciated whippet. He could not have been more than thirty but the pale pinched face and greasy thinning hair gave him an air of broken-down seediness not normally associated with Her Majesty’s law enforcers. I wondered vaguely if he could by any chance be a relation of Nicholas Ingaza. Notebook gripped, he perched stiffly on the edge of the chair, his darting eyes taking in everything in the room. I noticed the nicotined fingers and ingratiatingly offered him a cigarette. His face took on an almost human quality as he craned forward to take it, but he was forestalled by a glare from March.
The questioning commenced. As such things go (I assumed) it was fairly straightforward. How long had I known the deceased? Was she a regular churchgoer? Had she ever shown symptoms of worry or stress? Could I think of any reason why someone should wish her dead? What were her relations with the rest of the community? Had she ever discussed anything of an intimate nature with me? (No fear, I thought!) When had I last seen her? “At church on the Sunday morning,” I replied piously. Thus the questions took their routine course (nothing being said about the will, I noted) and I answered them easily and blandly.
“Well, thank you, sir, I think that’s all we need,” rumbled March. He got up to go, but suddenly the whippet spoke.
“Keen bird-watcher are you, sir?” His voice had that thin nasal twang, again slightly reminiscent of Nicholas’s. Ornithology was not a topic I had particularly prepared for and I had no idea what he was talking about. Perplexed, I mumbled something about feeding blue-tits.
“It’s just that I notice you’ve got a nice pair of field-glasses up there.” He nodded in the direction of the bookcase where sitting in one of the alcoves were Elizabeth’s binoculars. I had shoved them there on my return from Brighton intending to put them away later but promptly forgot.
“Ah, those…” I exclaimed, having no idea how I was going to continue. “Er – yes…racing!” I announced triumphantly. “Always go when I can – which isn’t too often these days I’m afraid. Ha! Ha!” My voice sounded hollow and Samson stared expressionlessly. It was as if he knew, as I certainly did, that I hadn’t been near a racecourse for a good twenty years.
However, March seemed to swallow it and said lugubriously, “Nice to think that the Reverend follows the gee-gees. We all have our hobbies. It’s the dahlias with me.” I wondered if it was the dogs with Samson and prayed that neither would ask a tip for the St Leger.
When they had gone I sat for some time replaying the interview in my mind, cursing my carelessness with the binoculars and staring morosely at Maurice who by now had woken up. “If it’s not one thing, it’s the bloody other…” I muttered. Maurice seemed to concur for typically he turned his back on me and swished his tail.
♦
A week or two had passed and by now I was well back in the parochial swing of things. The new hassocks had proved a great success, their embroiderers duly applauded and the candlesticks admired. My carefully prepared sermon – “As We Forgive Them That Trespass” – was equally well received and knocked Rummage’s on self-denial and the ordered life into a cocked hat. With Elizabeth out of the way things were rapidly getting back to normal. However, I knew very well that this was a false dawn for there was still the tiresome presence of March and Samson, let alone the so far mythical Violet Pond. She, of course, I was bound to meet, either in my capacity as vicar sympathetic to her mother’s untimely demise or as a resented opponent in disputing the will. Judging from Bowler’s references, the latter was the more likely. This prospect cast a shadow over the otherwise sunny agenda of my parish duties and I was haunted with lurid pictures of the shortchanged Pond.
However, such images were quickly dispersed by some astonishing news: Reginald Bowler, who had accosted me only a few days previously, had apparently decamped to South America taking a good part of the bank’s deposits with him! I was apprised of this bombshell by Miss Dalrymple who telephoned in a state of such manic excitement that at first it was impossible to grasp what was being said. Eventually her words became clear and were indeed later confirmed by reports from other quarters. The local paper was in its element – RESPECTED BANK MANAGER TAKES THE MONEY AND RUNS – and once more Molehill was plunged into a flurry of furtive delight and speculation. Such was the collective shock that it almost eclipsed the ‘incident in the woods’ but the latter was soon back in the limelight for the two events became swiftly linked in the public’s imagination. Bowler the fugitive embezzler was fast becoming Bowler the assassin. While deploring the illogicality of this (and even feeling a grudging sympathy for the maligned), I could not help savouring its convenience.
Like everyone else I was intrigued by the affair. What on earth had possessed the man! Money of course: that was the bald fact, but what about the truth? What recalcitrant impulse had prompted that bumptious, dull little man to kick over the traces and embark on such wild drama? Fury, malice, envy? Frustration at being balked of a rich widow? A belief that the world and Mrs Fotherington owed him a living? Or perhaps like the Reverend Digby Purvis fear of a blank and lonely future? Or was it, after all, just further proof of Bowler’s crass stupidity? I was inclined to the last but reflected that whatever the reason it must have taken the hell of a nerve.
While it was comforting to think that this new turn of events might deflect any possible attention from myself, it remained a tense period. There was still the problem of the will (March’s silence on that matter being ominous rather than consoling), and I was also nagged by Samson’s allusion to Elizabeth’s binoculars. I really ought to get rid of them somehow…Something else was bothering me too which at the time I could not put my finger on, but it teased away at the back of my mind and I was worried that I couldn’t place it. Fortunately the piano continued a comforting refuge and I returned to it as often as time would permit.
♦
It was on one such occasion when I was practising some Scarlatti that there was a gentle scratching sound at the sitting-room door. Assuming it to be Maurice I told him to shut up, and continued with my playing. After a little I had a distinct feeling of being not alone in the room and turned my head expecting to see the cat meandering about. There was no cat. What was there, sitting solidly on its haunches, head tilted on one side, was a dog. At least, that is what I took it to be. There were certainly
canine features but judging from the rivulets of matted hair and large splayed paws it could equally have been a miniature Yeti. I stared nonplussed, and then of course recognition dawned. The last time I had seen this creature it had been wearing a pink bonnet and lurching along the pavement like some mournful but oddly decorative Quasimodo. What Bouncer was doing here – for it was he – thumping his tail rhythmically in the middle of my carpet, I had simply no idea.
I continued to stare and he in turn stood up and accelerated the wagging. The bushy metronome began to get on my nerves and sharply I told him to stop. To my surprise he ceased immediately. I say ‘surprise’ because I had become so inured to Maurice’s dumb insolence that to have an animal actually do my bidding was a novelty not without charm. There was a sudden explosive sneeze, and then with tail stilled he started to approach me in a sort of shuffling gait and made one or two attempts to sit up and beg. These were not terribly successful and feeling a trifle sorry for him I gave him a pat on the head. When I withdrew my hand it was covered with cobwebs!
“Now look here, Bouncer,” I protested, “you can’t stay here, and if Maurice sees you there’ll be fireworks!” At these stern words he promptly flopped to the floor and seemed to go fast asleep with his head lolling on my right foot. Almost instantly the door was pushed open further and the cat sidled in. He stalked around quite indifferent to the dog’s presence and then, without any warning, took a flying leap straight on to my lap. Never before had he made such an overture and I was both shocked and flattered by this attention. Actually it was distinctly uncomfortable not to say excruciating: Maurice has exceptionally sharp claws and to retain his balance on my thin knees he had to use them with some force. However, after a little we were both able to relax and he started to purr – albeit I felt in a slightly menacing way. So there I was, pinioned by Maurice and feet blocked by the now snoring Bouncer…It seemed that together they had requisitioned me.
17
The Vicar’s Version
Violet Pond’s visit was as tiresome as I had foreseen. It was a Sunday afternoon and I had just returned from a sedate but pleasant luncheon given by one of my parishioners. Coffee had not been served and so I had made myself a cup at home, and was just settling down to enjoy it with the Sunday papers when I heard the gate click. A woman was walking up the path: thirtyish, bulky, and wrapped in a beige gaberdine raincoat with matching drooping hat. Instinctively I knew that it was Violet Pond and glanced quickly at the ankles – yes, the same thick-cut variety. Obviously Fotherington’s daughter.
After the initial pleasantries and consumption of the proffered coffee we got down to brass tacks. Or rather she did. It started fairly moderately with her pointing out that her mother had always been vague and her grasp of figures shallow in the extreme: clearly she had confused £25,000 with £250. Now, although Elizabeth was a featherbrain, to give her her due she had not been a cretin. Even she would surely have distinguished £25,000 from £250. I said as much to Mrs Pond who immediately accused me of presuming a knowledge of her mother’s mental capacity that I could not possibly have. I gave a wintry smile and she took another line.
Did I know that her mother had promised her dying husband that on no account would she ever leave any of the family fortune to an outsider (least of all, she might have added, to a parson); and that with one or two minor exceptions she, Violet, had always been intended as the sole legatee? Tut-tutting sympathetically, I murmured that if that were the case it was a pity her father had not put a clause to that effect in his will; the matter of her mother’s codicil would not then have arisen. She brushed this aside, saying in righteous tones that surely as a clergyman I was above such technical niceties, and didn’t I see the moral aspect of the matter? The words ‘Hang the morality!’ sprang to my lips but I restrained myself. Given the wider situation – Elizabeth’s untimely dispatch and my central role in it – such a retort might have been injudicious.
She began to get heated and talked laboriously about the iniquity of lawyers, the intrusiveness of vicars, the foolishness of parents, and the injustice of the world in general. Listening to this you would think she was on the brink of penury! It was a wearisome business; and contemplating the pasty complexion and well-padded thighs I wondered whether the offer of a cream bun might stop or at least divert the flow. I am rather partial to cream buns, and on the few occasions when I have run out of mint humbugs will buy a couple on my way home from the early service. (It’s surprising how one craves sweetness at that hour!) I had been looking forward to the one left in the fridge from the previous day but was ready to make the sacrifice if it would calm the Violent Pond.
“I say,” I said genially, “would you like a cream bun?” She stopped and looked impatient as if about to wave the suggestion aside, but then seemed to think better of it and asked warily where I got them from. Personally I am not one to look gift buns in the mouth and thought this question a trifle churlish. However, I told her the name of the baker and she made grudging acceptance.
I went into the kitchen, relieved by its silence; put the kettle on, got out a plate and knife and hunted for a napkin. Maurice was on the window-sill gazing intently at the sparrows on the lawn. Absent-mindedly I tweaked his tail. It was fortunate he was so engrossed otherwise there might have been a minor fracas. As it was, he continued his drooling vigilance oblivious of my presence. Just as the kettle boiled, heavy feet sounded in the hall and I realized she was coming into the kitchen.
“And what’s more…” she began. And then stopped abruptly, staring past me at the window-sill. “My God! There’s that foul cat of Mother’s! What’s it doing here?”
“Are you sure?” I said, feigning surprise.
“Of course I’m sure,” she snapped. “I would know that creature anywhere. It’s got a very nasty character. Disappeared quite suddenly – I hoped it had been run over. What on earth are you doing with it?” This was said in accusing tones as if to imply that obviously my greed knew no bounds: not content with getting my hands on her mother’s money, I had now apparently purloined her cat. I laughed weakly, saying that I had no idea that the cat had belonged to her mother and it had just turned up one day out of the blue. (That part at least was true.)
“Well,” she said, regarding Maurice with distaste, “good riddance I say. He’s the last thing I want to see again!” And with that she collected her tea and bun and marched back into the sitting room. Before following I glanced at Maurice who, rudely interrupted in his bird-watching, was now crouched on the floor with fur on end and a look of squinting malevolence on his face. I understood his feelings.
Resuming my chair I saw that my mollifying efforts had been of little avail. The sop to Cerberus was all but demolished (leaving a large blob of cream on her lapel), and judging from the knit brows and drumming fingers she was clearly poised for further dispute. I braced myself.
During the few seconds that it took for her to remarshal forces I was suddenly struck by the fact that so far there had been no word of regret regarding her mother’s death, nor indeed any reference to its manner. I was grateful for this but found the omission faintly curious. Clearly it was the financial angle that was of primary concern. Some people’s priorities were so skew-whiff, I thought primly…
She started to talk again. Retaining an air of polite interest I cast a furtive glance out of the window seeking distraction. Someone was passing the front gate. It was Savage, the blind piano tuner. In an instant I had leapt up and exclaimed, “Oh my goodness, I quite forgot…It’s the piano tuner! He’s coming to check the ‘old Joanna’!”
“On a Sunday?” she asked coldly.
“Yes, yes! He’s so busy, you know, only time he can manage it…Please excuse me!” And with those words I rushed from the room and down the garden path.
I caught up with Savage and in my agitation clutched him by the shoulder. He whirled round. “Christ!” he exclaimed.
“No, no,” I cried. “It’s me, the vicar!”
“God
almighty, you gave me a turn!”
I gabbled an apology and then said breathlessly, “Can you come in and tune my piano?”
“What, now? On a Sunday?” he protested.
“Yes, I know it’s short notice but I really need you!”
“No you don’t,” he said. “I only did yours four months ago.”
“Ah,” I replied sobering slightly, “actually it’s not the piano as such. You see – ” and here I paused conspiratorially – “I’ve got a rather troublesome visitor…a lady.”
“Oh yes?” he replied, giving a knowing leer.
“No, not that sort of trouble,” I said hastily. “It’s just that I am really rather busy – sermons, you know – and she’s taking up more time than I can spare. I’d really value an interruption.”
“I don’t know…” he said doubtfully, “…it’s all very well but I haven’t got my bits with me.”
“You don’t need bits,” I implored. “Just shunt it around, and – ”
“Shunt it around?” he echoed indignantly.
“You know, strum a few notes here and there, lift the lid up, poke about inside – that sort of thing.”
He gave me what amounted to a withering look and thrust his wrist under my nose. “What time is it?” I looked at the watch and told him that it was half-past three. He paused, and then with a slow smile said, “Well, you’re a funny bugger, vicar, but yes – I can spare ten minutes, I suppose.”
A Load of Old Bones Page 9