I had always got on with Savage. He was not one of my congregation, indeed probably not a churchgoer at all, and perhaps it was this that allowed a certain freedom in our relations less easily achieved in my pastoral contacts. We entered the house and I introduced him to Mrs Pond. She gave him a nod and a cursory glance; and ignoring my false insistence that his presence would in no way encumber our discourse, gathered up her handbag and crammed on her hat. I escorted her to the door where to the background of Savage’s tuneless tinkerings she assured me that this would not be the end of the matter and that I could expect to hear from her further.
Savage must have heard the door close for the strumming ceased immediately and in the ensuing silence I sat down heavily on the stairs and lit a cigarette. I could have done with a brandy but at four o’clock in the afternoon I suppose one had to draw the line somewhere. He came out of the sitting room grinning broadly.
“That your young lady then, is it?”
“No,” I answered testily, “that is not my young lady. She’s simply the daughter of the late Mrs Fotherington come to discuss one or two aspects of her mother’s affairs. She stayed too long, that’s all. It got a bit tiring.”
“Ah well, they all have their ways, don’t they? A bit of the old kid glove, that’s what’s needed.” He uttered this with authority and was clearly au fait with his subject. “Take my wife for instance – she’s expecting me about now and there’ll be merry hell when I turn up late. But I’ll just push the Times crossword in her direction and she’ll soon snap out of it.”
From what little I had seen of Mrs Savage she was not one I would normally associate with the Times crossword – but of course one can’t always tell in these matters. I apologized for keeping him and asked with interest if she ever managed to finish it.
“Oh, she just reads out the clues. I answer them. Simple really – calms her down and she becomes as quiet as a lamb again.” I was impressed by this and wondered if I should try the device with Violet Pond the next time she came calling. The only problem was I doubted my capacity to supply the answers.
“Well, must be off,” he announced. “Just time for a few clues before her choir practice. Then when she’s out singing her head off I can get at my drum-kit and rev it up a bit.”
“Your drum-kit?” I asked in surprise. “I thought you might be a fellow pianist.”
“Good Lord no! Can’t stand the things. It’s always been drums with me, even as a nipper.” He paused and then added ruefully, “Of course, she’s not keen…but then you can’t complain. Like I was saying, they all have their ways, don’t they?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “Yes…I suppose they do.”
18
The Dog’s Diary
I’ve got used to being here now and quite like it. I miss my nightly walks with Bowler but the graveyard is good fun and F.O. lets me do more or less what I want. Things were much stricter with my other master. Maurice can be a bit trying of course but I’m learning to handle him. I was able to bring most of my treasures with me – my rubber ring, my bit of brown hairy blanket, the lead that I used to chew on when I was a puppy, and of course my special bone collection (which I keep in a very secret place!). At first I put the other things under the sacking in my basket and only took them out at night as I thought the vicar might notice and smell a rat. But I needn’t have bothered. He lives in a world of his own, and as long as he’s got his fags and his booze and can play that nice piano there’s not much that he sees. When I left Bowler’s house I couldn’t remember where I had put my ball, but F.O. has given me a brand new one. It’s got bells on and is JOLLY GOOD; but Maurice complains of course. He has a thing about bells. Bells and bones – they drive him mad!
Still, he did help me lug most of my stuff here when I moved in – although I had to keep dark about the bones otherwise the balloon would have burst all right! Had to wait till he was off mousing and then carry them in secretly. It took a long time and meant going back the next day as well, but I got them all here in the end. At first I put them in the crypt where Maurice had suggested I slept for the time being. One of his better ideas. As a matter of fact I’ve left a couple of spares in one of its corners just for emergencies but the best are ELSEWHERE.
I can do my baying in private in this place without anyone interrupting or ticking me off. It’s got a lovely echo. Don’t use it so much now because F.O. is used to me being around and the basket he’s given me in the kitchen is really comfy. But I still like to come down here, especially if it’s hot or when I need to do some thinking and work things out a bit. It’s got a very nice atmosphere.
Mind you, the vicar’s a bit rum. Don’t know if they’re all like that or whether it’s just F.O. Anyway I’m not complaining – he’s very nice and so forth – but there’s something not quite right there. If I say anything to Maurice he’ll probably disagree like he usually does. But I feel it in my bones – and I do know a thing or two about bones. You can generally rely on them. Still, I’m not a dog to make trouble, unless I get bored of course, and there’s not much chance of that. There’s heaps to do in the graveyard. Besides, I’ve made a new friend: O’Shaughnessy. He’s an Irish set-something. Bigger than me – though not as huge as that rotten William who cut me out on Flirty-Gerty. O’Shaughnessy is really funny and mad and you never know what he’s going to do next. He’s new to the neighbourhood and has come from over the western seas and tells the most wonderful stories and jokes. (Though he talks a bit fast so I don’t always get the punch-lines.) I think we are going to get on really well. Not that I don’t get on with Maurice, but of course he’s a cat (and so has a very odd way of looking at the world) and one needs to tread a bit carefully which can get confusing, especially if his tail happens to be in the way. Still, as things go, so far so blooming good – as my old master Bowler used to say.
19
The Cat’s Memoir
“I think he did it,” Bouncer suddenly announced.
“Who did what?” I enquired.
“Him, F.O. – I think he bumped her off.”
“That’s absurd,” I said. “Can’t think where you get such notions. You’ve obviously been spending too much time in the crypt.”
He looked down at the ground and after a bit said thoughtfully, “You know, if anyone finds out, he will be debagged and sent to prison, and then what will become of us?”
I explained patiently that he would not be debagged but unfrocked.
“Well, it’s all the same,” he muttered.
“No,” I answered. “It is not all the same. Debagged means to have trousers removed. Unfrocked is to lose one’s dress. It is an entirely different process.”
He stared at me blankly for a moment, and then suddenly bellowed: “Maurice, you are such a PEDAL!”
I was startled by this show of ferocity and recoiled hastily. In the circumstances it seemed injudicious to risk further semantic correction and I withdrew to the lower branches of a tree. Here I remained with eyes tightly closed until the frenzy beneath abated, and then watched as he stalked off stiff-legged in the direction of the crypt.
♦
During the night I reflected upon his extraordinary allegation regarding the vicar. It all seemed very far-fetched and was surely yet another of his muddled vagaries. If, however, by some remote chance he was right and F.O. had done the deed, then certainly our position was distinctly precarious. Losing the vicar would mean further upheaval. There had been too much of that recently and I really couldn’t face any more, especially as things were becoming moderately comfortable. My favourite tombstone with its sentinel position on the bank overhanging the road was a fair substitute for the gatepost at the end of Fotherington’s drive, and I was loath to relinquish it – or indeed the fairly acceptable meals that F.O. was beginning to provide. I would have to speak further with Bouncer and see whether he really did know anything.
The next morning dawned dry and warm, and emboldened by the sunshine I went to the top of the crypt steps and mewed
winsomely. Bouncer emerged from the depths in his usual dishevelled state but looking quite genial, clearly having regained his composure after the previous day’s tantrum. A night among the bones must have done something to soothe that peculiar canine psyche. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side I made certain gracious overtures, even taking pains to twirl my tail in a way that amuses him.
He seemed receptive. So picking my words carefully I enquired what made him think that the vicar had relieved Elizabeth Fotherington of her tiresome life. He snuffled the ground and pondered, and then said slowly, “Well, I’ve been thinking about this for some time actually, but it takes me a while to get things straight so I haven’t bothered to mention it before.” I asked how long he had been trying to get things straight, and he said from about a day after the discovery of the body.
That startled me. Not only was I surprised that Bouncer could be so reticent for so long, but I was also piqued to think that he had chosen to conceal his suspicions from me. An acid comment sprang to my lips but in the interests of peace and curiosity I fought it down. Instead I purred softly and said, “Perhaps by now you have established a case, have some tangible evidence on which to base these allegations?”
“Not really,” he said, “I’ve eaten it.” He then started to scratch vigorously and perform other disgusting ablutions. Patiently I waited for this to take its inelegant course. And then deeming the moment right, I asked gently if he could elucidate further.
“Well, you know those mint humbugs he’s always munching – Jumbo Johnnies – the ones he eats when he’s not puffing a fag?” I nodded in vague recall. “When I found the corpse there was half a packet of them spilled all over her feet.” He looked at me expectantly as if awaiting some awestruck gasp.
Naturally none was forthcoming and with waning patience I said dismissively, “My dear Bouncer, mint humbugs are two a penny. Anyone might have dropped them.”
“Mint humbugs may be two a penny: Jumbo Johnnies are two for threepence. They are a rare quality brand and cannot be got here in Molehill, not even in Guildford. They come – ” he added dramatically – “from the most special place in the world: HARRODS!”
He aspirated the name with a reverential flourish, as if that obviously clinched the case. (How he had obtained such insight into confectionary matters I do not know. Possibly living with Bowler had something to do with it. Knowledge of comestibles – their marketing and retail distribution – might I suppose feature in a bank manager’s grasp of commodity values; but in any case it was the sort of trivial piece of nonsense which could well have occupied Bowler.) “Yes,” I conceded, “that does narrow it somewhat. But the link remains tenuous, to say the least. You will have to do better than that, old boy.”
I could not resist injecting a note of patronage into my words, but this was lost on Bouncer who went on doggedly: “Jumbo Johnnies Special Humbugs were found at Fotherington’s feet. F.O. likes Jumbo Johnnies, always has a few on him. These can only be bought from Harrods. Every other month F.O. goes to London for one of those Church meetings in the Brompton Road. When he’s there he stocks up with the humbugs and so has a constant supply.”
“Yes, yes,” I retorted impatiently. “Has it occurred to you, Sherlock, that there might just be another person in the area who has a penchant for Jumbo Johnnies, goes regularly to Knightsbridge and wanted Fotherington dead? Indeed,” I continued scornfully, “how do you know that she didn’t have an insane nephew who was manager of Harrods’ sweet department and, sick of the tiresome old aunt and impatient for her money, sneaked down to Molehill in the dead of night – pockets of course stuffed with Jumbos – did her in, and then returned to London to dispense gob-stoppers to crazy clerics!” On these last words my normally modulated tones had risen to an unseemly screech. Catching my breath I stopped abruptly, annoyed by my loss of aplomb.
Bouncer seemed quite unperturbed, and in the ensuing silence said quietly, “Yes, but why should the nephew drop a gold cigarette lighter with the initials F.O. on it? Unless, I suppose, his name was Fred Ogle.”
“Why indeed?…” I started to hiss. And then stopped, hardly able to register what had just been said. I fear my astonishment showed itself only too plainly, for Bouncer exclaimed in chummy tones, “I say, Maurice, close your mouth or you’ll swallow a fly!” This witticism was accompanied by the usual explosions of shouts and snorts integral to his puerile humour. There followed a brisk bout of leg-cocking by which time I had recovered my wits and could speak firmly to him.
“Bouncer, what lighter are you talking about?”
“You know – the one F.O. always used to carry and which Bowler was so jealous of. The one he said made F.O. look like a smarmy pansy…Maurice, what is a pansy?”
“For goodness sake!” I expostulated. “This is no time to be discussing horticultural matters. Tell me what you did with the lighter! Did you eat it?”
He stared indignantly. “What are you talking about? Of course I didn’t eat it – haven’t got elephants’ teeth, you know.” I considered the sarcasm uncalled for and reminded him icily that I had distinctly heard him say earlier that he had consumed the evidence.
“Oh, that was the humbugs,” he said carelessly. “I buried the lighter.”
I swished my tail and took a deep breath. “So you buried the lighter as you do your bones?”
He nodded.
“When exactly did all this eating and burying take place?”
“About two minutes after I found the body.”
“You never mentioned that when you were telling me what happened,” I said accusingly. “Innumerable allusions to those confounded rabbits but not a word about the really crucial thing!”
“Oh well,” he said vaguely, “you know how it is…”
“No, I don’t actually. I don’t know at all! I consider your secrecy the height of – ” It was pointless pursuing it. He had moved off and was sniffing ferociously around the trunk of a tree lost in his own world of earth and smells.
♦
It was galling to think that for all this time Bouncer had been sitting on such vital information without even hinting that he knew something that I didn’t. It was vexatious in the extreme. It was also puzzling for I could not decide whether Bouncer was beginning to show signs of that low cunning possessed by many of his tribe, or whether it was yet further proof of his general empty-headedness. Either way, I felt a sulk coming upon me and repaired beneath a holly bush.
20
The Vicar’s Version
The scandal of Bowler continued to tantalize respectable Molehill and the press milked his putative link with Elizabeth’s death for all it was worth. In fact it was worth very little. Lack of reported evidence plus police denials persuaded public interest that this was a blind alley in which it no longer wished to play. Other areas of speculation were sought and rumours abounded: the fugitive was an international con man wanted by Interpol, he was living in luxury running a string of whores and racehorses in Montevideo, he was a Russian spymaster, a dope peddler, his uncle was Fatty Arbuckle…Thus Molehill happily indulged the more lurid flights of its busy imagination while I got on quietly with my daily rounds. And then inevitably what I had feared made its appearance in the local rag:
MURDER VICTIM’S LEGACY:
VICAR RICHLY REWARDED
A little bird tells us that the Rev. Francis Oughterrard, special friend of the late lamented Elizabeth Fotherington, has been generously remembered in her will. Although a comparative newcomer to the parish, the Reverend had clearly made his mark with Mrs Fotherington; and while we commiserate with his personal loss we rejoice in his well-deserved windfall. It is, alas, a mark of our times that churchmen and other spiritual leaders receive scant recognition of their worthy endeavours, and the Molehill Clarion applauds the lady’s generosity and wishes the vicar well in his good fortune.
The unctuous tone and coy innuendo sickened me (as did the careless misspelling of my name), but I doubted whether the intention was to
stir suspicion regarding the crime itself. More likely it was just the press’s usual fascinated absorption in the private lives of clergymen and scoutmasters. Though there was also surely that sly hint of some predatory intent on my part which might prove dangerous. It was publicity I could well do without and I spent worrying hours trying to decide a line of action. Quite apart from the main problem it was in any event a disgraceful infringement of privacy, and I thought that the allusion to a special friendship might even border on the actionable.
Finally, however, working on the principle that the less said the better I decided to do nothing. Given the special nature of my circumstances I felt that to swallow pride was a more prudent course than getting embroiled in dispute with the Fourth Estate. The article was short and on an inside page, and even if raising a few prurient eyebrows it would with luck be of only passing interest. Thus having persuaded myself that all would be well I returned to the reassuring boredom of the Confirmation lists, and then to bed.
My complacent hopes were ill founded, for the next day the paper published a follow-up article. Clearly Violet Pond had been at work:
ANGUISHED DAUGHTER SPEAKS OUT
Vicar’s Right To Money Questioned
Mrs Violet Pond, grieving only child of murder victim Elizabeth Fotherington, has questioned the validity of her mother’s substantial bequest to the Rev. Francis Oughterard. “There has been a dreadful mistake,” she tearfully told the Clarion’s reporters last night. “My mother was a naive lady with little head for finance and easily influenced by emotional pressures and passing whims. This had always worried my dear father who must be turning in his grave to know that his hard-earned capital which he passionately wanted to remain in the bosom of the family is to be so wrongly diluted!…” At this point Mrs Pond broke down but rallied valiantly and smiling through her tears emphasized that in no way did she blame the Church, nor of course her mother – “lost in a maze of matters she did not understand” – but there had been a terrible travesty of moral justice, which coming on top of everything else was simply too hard to bear. She was sure that the Church would understand and take the appropriate action.
A Load of Old Bones Page 10