Gaping up at me lay an assortment of variously shaped and disgusting old bones. Gnarled, yellowing and smelly, they were arranged neatly in two lines of graduated sizes, looking for all the world like a set of mastodon’s teeth. For a nightmare instant I froze, riveted; and then, appalled by such horror, shot to the sanctuary of the window-seat where I brooded long and hard on the iniquity of dogs and their brazen beastliness.
Half an hour later there was a clatter of toenails on the hall linoleum and Bouncer wandered in looking his usual vacant self.
“Bouncer,” I hissed from behind the curtain, “you have contaminated the music stool!” He whirled around with a startled yelp and then relaxed when he saw my head emerging from the folds of the cretonne.
“Oh, it’s you!” he said.
“Of course it’s me,” I exclaimed. “Who did you think it was – Madame Butterfly?” He looked a bit blank and so I launched into a particularly eloquent and well-honed harangue. Among other things this involved Bouncer’s barbarism, his eating habits, the grisly state of his basket, and above all his general failure to observe the courtesies due to a cat of my taste and breeding. Its delivery was lucid, measured and lengthy, and it cut not one splinter of ice.
He shifted his paws, wagged his tail, and then in bright confidential tones said, “You see, Maurice, that stool has really made a prime pantry. It’s just the job for bone storage: right size, right temperature, easy to get at, and above all, safe! F.O. never bothers to file his music, and nobody would think of looking there except,” he murmured vaguely, watching a flight of swallows as they swooped past the window, “…the occasional cat perhaps.”
24
The Vicar’s Version
My hopes that by plying the bishop with drink I could somehow change his mind vanished the instant his car disappeared round the bend. Standing on the pavement in the waning sunlight, I cursed myself for being such a fool. Surely only a mind severely deranged could have devised a scheme of such preposterous inanity! That the mechanics of the scheme had gone like clockwork was neither here nor there: the consequences would be dire.
For the next few days I drifted in a kind of limbo, caught between a state of nervous tension and vague feelings of anticlimax. At first I thought that the wrath of God would descend in a maelstrom of incense and mitres. But there was nothing. Neither sign nor sound emerged from the palace – just a disquieting silence during which I concluded that Clinker was either languishing under a prolonged hangover or busily marshalling the guns of dismissal. To relieve the anxiety I decided to bath the dog.
This was a task I had not performed before but I thought it might serve as a ‘challenging therapy’. Challenging it was, therapeutic it certainly wasn’t. The problem was not that Bouncer objected to the bathing procedure but that he loved it too well. With hindsight it is obvious that a good deal of water-spaniel had gone into his mongrel genes, and that, living in the vicarage with only the dry dock of a graveyard to play in, his aquatic instincts had been cruelly thwarted.
However, at the time these thoughts had not occurred to me and I expected sullen resistance. Donning an apron and a determined air I filled the bath, tested the temperature and squirted in a tube of Rosy Bubbles. Then I opened the bathroom door and coaxingly started to call his name…A shaggy cannon-ball blasted its way past me and with a mighty bound launched itself upon the pink and fragrant waters. The displacement of liquid was huge and explosive: waves drenched the walls, tidal pools undulated across the linoleum, towels festooned themselves with strands of fairy foam and the air was torn asunder with shouts of canine gaiety.
Riots are not normally associated with tiny spaces, nor their participants with less than a certain number. Bouncer, however, had contrived to turn himself into a mob and the bathroom into a waterlogged Field of Mars. Yelping and lunging, he waded around in jubilant glee, chasing the bubbles, worrying the flannel, wringing the neck of the hapless sponge. I did what I could to calm him, even trying a few tentative strokes with the soap, but these gestures only added to his fun. The riot intensified and the waters rose…
The grand finale came when, with tail flailing like a dripping whirligig, he leaped from the bath and laid the mangled remnants of the sponge at my feet. He was clearly proud of his retrieving skills and it seemed churlish to point out that the object was to present the quarry unscathed. Drying him off was a further challenge, and when amidst my struggles I caught the shrilling of the telephone I felt as a flagging wrestler must on hearing the friendly clang of the closing bell. Draping him in a towel I closed the door firmly, went downstairs and lifted the receiver.
As a distraction from my current anxieties Bouncer’s ablutions had been a great success. Indeed, so effective were they that the desiccated tones of Clinker’s secretary came as a rude shock. He announced stiffly that His Lordship wished to speak to me in an hour’s time and this being the case would I kindly make myself available by the telephone at eleven o’clock sharp.
♦
As directed, shortly before eleven and still jaded by my exertions with Bouncer but fortified by some potato crisps and an early gin, I was hovering by the phone dutifully awaiting the bishop’s call. It came precisely as the clock was striking eleven.
At first I could barely hear him – one of those not infrequent occasions when the line was in epileptic mode. Certainly quite a lot was being said, but what exactly was impossible to grasp. Trying to decipher Clinker’s fractured garglings I absent-mindedly helped myself to the remains of the crisps – at which point the phone immediately became crystal clear and Clinker’s words thundered distinctly: “…and so anyway, as I pointed out, all things being equal I have decided – ” He broke off. “Oughterard, you are not eating, are you?”
“Oh no, sir!” I spluttered, swallowing hastily. “At least, not really, just – ”
“Of course you are,” he snapped. “It’s like listening to a dray-horse with its nosebag. Stop it at once!” The imperious directive confirmed my fears that nothing had changed since his brush with the White Ladies and that he was still hell-bent on removing me and emplacing Rummage. Maurice was sitting on the window-sill and I pulled him a face of spectacular distortion. It was met with a glacial stare, and suitably chastened I once more lent ear to the bishop.
“The problem with Rummage,” he was saying, “is that he’s too conscientious, too dedicated. There’s so much zeal there and I don’t want it wasted. Not of course that Molehill isn’t a worthy cause, you understand, but there are other parishes crying out for leadership, inspiration, succour. Rummage is the man for them! Mark my words.” I cannot say that I had ever thought of Rummage as a source of succour, and was about to say as much when I suddenly saw where things might be leading. “There are certain parishes, Oughterard,” he continued, “which need not so much inspiration as nurture. A safe pair of hands – that’s what Molehill needs, and that’s what I think it has in you. More or less, at any rate.” He paused, clearing his throat loudly and lengthily.
When he had finished I said tentatively, “Uhm – so you want me to stay in Molehill, do you, sir?” There was a snort of exasperation from the other end.
“Yes, Oughterard. I thought I had made that perfectly clear at the beginning of our conversation. You obviously didn’t hear me; too busy eating, I suppose.” I couldn’t recall engaging in any conversation but refrained from saying so. Instead I asked diffidently what his plans were for St Chad’s now that I was no longer destined to be its chaplain.
“Oh, I’ll cobble something together for them,” he replied impatiently. “The main thing is that you are to remain undisturbed in Molehill and the whole matter can now be dropped…Do you understand, Oughterard? Are you listening! The whole matter can be dropped.”
Wondering vaguely what sort of cobbled incumbent was about to be thrust upon the residents of St Chad’s, I replied meekly that of course I understood, adding as an afterthought that I trusted Mrs Clinker was well and that her culinary skills continued
to flourish. This pleasantry was met by a long silence, after which there was a click and the line went dead. I raised my glass.
25
The Cat’s Memoir
“I’ve been given a bath,” he announced proudly.
“So I heard,” I answered. “And let us hope there is a long interval before the next. I don’t think my nerves can stand much more.” He looked put out.
“I thought you would be pleased,” he grumbled. “After all, you are always going on about my cobwebs and my special smell.”
“Yes,” I retorted, “but it is a matter of costs and benefits, and in this case the cost was prohibitive. Do you realize the echo that bathroom generates? My poor ears were mangled by your din…and then there was that puddle seeping on to the landing. Needless to say F.O. never bothered to mop it up, and my tail and paws got soaked!”
“Oh well,” he said indifferently, “I don’t suppose that hurt much.”
“It most certainly did!” I snapped. “Cats and wet don’t mix.”
I was just gearing myself up to launch into a really good diatribe when I was diverted by Bouncer’s manner. He had cocked his head on one side, as he does when concentrating hard, and was looking at me with furrowed brows while at the same time slowly wagging his tail. This was accompanied by a rhythmic opening and shutting of his jaws, almost as if he were rehearsing or mimicking something though no discernible sound emerged. The effect was curious and slightly disconcerting.
I was about to resume my polemic, when suddenly in loud but oddly unctuous tones he barked: “MY DEAR GOOD LADY DO PLEASE BE QUIET!” The words slid out in a rush and hung suspended between us as we stared in mutual wonder. As you may imagine, it was less the injunction to silence that so shocked me as the mode of address on which it was predicated.
Having delivered himself of this extraordinary utterance he lay down and promptly went to sleep. I have to admit to being more than a little rattled; and in the ensuing semi-silence (he rarely sleeps without snoring or snuffling) I brooded deeply, baffled and affronted. Then deciding that it was futile trying to fathom the contortionate workings of Bouncer’s mind, and after making a reconnaissance of my nether regions just to be sure, I too curled up and fell asleep.
♦
When I awoke it was to find Bouncer standing over me, peering down intently. When one has been enjoying a peaceful doze it is quite a shock to be confronted with that woolly face thrust so close to one’s own. I shut my eyes, hoping that when I looked again it would have disappeared. It remained.
“Ah,” he said, “about time you surfaced. I’ve got something very important to tell you.”
“Oh yes?” I replied sceptically.
“Yes. It’s to do with F.O. and his lighter.”
“The one you buried?”
“Of course the one I buried – he hasn’t got any others, you know!” I resented this and fixed him with a steely eye. He continued. “You know my friend O’Shaughnessy?” I nodded wearily, expecting a catalogue of the setter’s latest exploits. “Well, he’s on good terms with one of the police sniffer dogs and she’s told him that there’s a move afoot to re-examine the place where the body was found – where I found the body.”
“They’ve already done that,” I said.
“Yes, but not with dogs. Apparently March has copped it from the high-ups for not doing it thoroughly. So they’re going to give it another going over. If that lighter’s found the vicar will be in for it – and so will we!”
“Well,” I replied, “the answer is simple enough: you had better run along and dig it up before they get there.”
He looked shifty, and then muttered, “It’s not as easy as that.”
“Why not?” I asked sharply.
“Well, you see, Maurice, sometimes I forget where I’ve buried things…”
“And this is one of those times, I suppose!”
He nodded.
“But surely,” I protested, “you must have a rough idea where it is, and I am sure the exact spot will come back to you once you’ve got going.”
“It might,” he said doubtfully, “and then again it might not. Doesn’t always work like that – and it could take ages!” He seemed so dejected that despite my irritation I felt almost sorry for him.
“Look here, Bouncer,” I said briskly, “this is one of those rare occasions when your friend O’Shaughnessy might be useful. Go and find him and tell him his services are required. The pair of you must get digging immediately. With his snout and your obstinacy you’re bound to unearth it.”
He brightened and began to wag his tail. “Do you really think so, Maurice!”
“Of course I do. Hurry up! And when you find him report to me. Naturally I shall have to accompany you both to supervise matters.” He raced off and I kept sentinel on the window-sill awaiting their return.
After a short time I saw the two dogs push their way through one of the many holes in the vicarage hedge and went to join them in the garden. O’Shaughnessy was in a state of some excitement, leaping about all over the place and generally indulging in his tiresome acrobatics. It was just as well that F.O. was at one of those tedious bell-ringing exercises otherwise the creature’s antics might have attracted even his attention. I told him to calm down and to remember that he was on a privileged and vital mission, and that while I realized sobriety was foreign to his nature he should at least try to cultivate a little discipline. He seemed to accept the admonition quite happily and gave me a broad wink. I don’t entirely understand these Hibernians.
Anyway, I marshalled the two of them together and we set off resolutely for the woods.
26
The Vicar’s Version
I did not think that they had really done with me, and inevitably March and Samson returned. It was about nine o’clock on a rainy morning when I had just got back from early service to find them lurking in the porch. They were wearing what seemed to be identical fawn raincoats, March bursting out of his and Samson’s absurdly large for his weedy frame. They looked damp and melancholy. I let them in, offered coffee which was declined, and once more took them into the sitting room. Here they grilled me. Well, not exactly, but the mood was certainly more abrasive than on the previous visit. To begin with things were moderately all right and I parried their questions with cool assurance. It was only towards the end when the matter of the wretched binoculars was broached that I became really rattled though I liked to think this was not apparent. It was entirely my own fault: I was simply ill prepared.
It had been a great relief disposing of those things in the canal and I had fully intended to have a story all ready to account for their absence should anyone (i.e. They) be interested. But what with the distractions of the bishop, the problems of the newspaper publicity, coping with the Violent Pond – not to mention the daily demands of parish duties – the matter of a plausible reason had been temporarily shelved. As things were turning out, not temporarily enough. You must understand that I was in a situation somewhat foreign to my experience and thus not especially practised in these matters.
“We’ve received an anonymous letter,” began March. “It indicates you were having a liaison with the deceased. Is that true, sir?”
“Absolutely not!” I exclaimed indignantly and with an inward shudder. “May I ask where this letter comes from?”
“South America.”
“Oh well, one might have guessed,” I said caustically. “Hardly anonymous – Mr Bowler, I presume!”
“Yes, sir, that’s what we think and we are pursuing its provenance. But in the meantime we rather wonder why the allegation should have been made at all.”
“Obvious, isn’t it?” I responded testily, “Bowler knows he’s a suspect and naturally wants to divert attention and involve some perfectly innocent bystander.”
“That’s as may be,” he rumbled patiently, “but what we’re wondering is why he should pinpoint you – I mean, you being a vicar and all that…After all, there must have been better
choices – more plausible, that is.” He coughed. I thought, but could not be sure, that there was a snigger from Samson. “And of course,” he went on, “there’s the legacy, isn’t there? The one that her daughter seems so upset about.”
“Mrs Pond’s emotional problems are nothing to do with me,” I replied frostily, “and besides, the matter of the money has already been taken care of.”
I immediately regretted using that particular expression and wasn’t surprised when there was a movement from the whippet’s corner and his thin voice snapped out, “Taken care of, sir? What do you mean by that exactly?”
“What I mean by that exactly is that while I was flattered to be mentioned in Mrs Fotherington’s will, I decided from the start to pass on the bequest to worthier causes. After all,” I added, easing the tone and chuckling nonchalantly, “what on earth would a bachelor parson like myself want with that sort of money! There are already various local projects earmarked for the funds – as no doubt you will verify. I am sure Elizabeth would have approved, she was a very charitable lady.”
“Most commendable, sir,” said March, while Samson remained expressionless and, I suspected, unconvinced. “But there’s something else that’s bothering me a bit which you may be able to help us with.” I tried to look cooperative and braced myself.
“It’s the binoculars,” interrupted Samson. “On our last visit we noticed you had a pair – which of course isn’t unusual – but so did Mrs Fotherington and she probably had them with her at the time she was murdered, bird-watching or some such in the woods.” (You mean you noticed, I thought.)
A Load of Old Bones Page 13