“I am sorry, I don’t see the connection. What on earth is the significance of both Mrs Fotherington and myself possessing a pair of field-glasses? Dozens of people have them.”
“Yes, but are they yours?”
I was about to answer, “Of course they’re bloody mine!” but just checked myself in time. Instead, in a voice that contrived to sound both patient and pained said, “I take it, officer, you are insinuating that the glasses I have in my possession belonged to the murdered lady and that for some reason I appropriated them at the scene of the crime – thinking they might fetch a good price, I suppose! Needless to say I am shocked by your suspicions but even more baffled by your reasoning.”
“We’re having to check everybody,” said March in a conciliatory tone. “You see, the problem is that when we searched the house immediately after the discovery of the body, we found an empty binoculars case on the top of her dressing table by the open window. Yet the contents of that case have never been found and it is my idea that she had been using the glasses just prior to going out that morning. She took them with her but, perhaps being in a hurry, didn’t bother to take the case. If we could locate them it would be a real help. As it is, it’s a bit of a mystery really…” His voice trailed off and he looked pensive and genuinely puzzled.
“But surely,” I laughed in mounting discomfort, “a discarded case doesn’t necessarily mean that she had taken them with her! I mean, perhaps they had been left somewhere else in the house, or one of the staff might have used them and been too frightened to own up. It happens, you know.”
He shook his head. “Yes, sir, I do know and you can be assured we’ve pursued all that, naturally. There’s no doubt about it, she had them with her all right.”
“I bow to your experience, inspector,” I answered, foolishly allowing a tinge of pique to sharpen my tone.
He ignored it and went on stolidly, “According to the stamp and style of the case they’re quite an expensive and distinctive pair: Zeiss, post-war manufacture. Not uncommon, I grant, but if in the course of our investigations we were to come across such a pair whose case could not be accounted for, then naturally we would be quite interested. You get my drift, sir?”
I got his drift only too well. Any moment they were going to demand the items I could not produce and for whose absence I had no explanation. Panic seized me and I cursed my lack of prevision. “Well,” I said lightly with mouth as dry as dust, “I suppose you want me to produce mine along with their matching case so that I can be – as I think you would say – eliminated from your enquiries?”
“That’s it exactly, sir. If you’d be good enough to fetch yours for us we can check them off our list, and then be on our way to worry somebody else and leave you in peace!” He beamed genially. (Peace! When, when?) I cleared my throat, thinking frenziedly.
“I am sorry, inspector, I can’t do that. You see, I have neither my binoculars nor their case, I – ”
“Where are they?” barked the whippet.
I fixed him with what I liked to think was a chastening look as various possibilities rampaged through my head:
I had taken them to be repaired, they had been stolen, run over by a car, I had lost them on the racecourse, sold them, I had presented them to the winner of the Egg and Spoon Race at my old school – all easily verifiable and/or lame and improbable. “I was about to say,” I continued with dignity, “that I have lent them to a friend. He has broken his and wanted some to take on holiday. He’ll be back soon, I think, but until then I am afraid – ”
“Name?” demanded Samson, pen poised.
Until that moment the dearth of close friends in my life had never really been a cause for concern, but at that point it certainly was; and I was faced with the invidious decision of conferring the privilege of my friendship upon either Savage or Nicholas. Neither of them was close yet one of them was about to be cast in that role. Even in those split seconds I thought wryly of the existential qualities of the choice; but these yielded to a moral imperative. Thus dismissing Savage on account of his wife and his innocent decency, I opted for Nicholas.
“Thank you, vicar,” said March, levering himself out of the chair. “Don’t suppose we shall need to trouble you further. But of course if anything else should crop up, or I get any ideas about the deceased’s life that you might be able to help me with, we’ll be in touch.” I showed them to the door where he turned and said, “By the way, I’ve been thinking…I like your idea about the charities – you know, passing on your money like that. A pity more people aren’t as generous. Very nice idea, sir!” Judging from his sour expression, I felt that Samson did not share his superior’s appreciation (if such it was), but by then I was too exhausted to care.
Beware the ideas of bloody March, I thought grimly, watching them walk down the path and into the road. My immediate impulse once they were safely gone was to collapse on the sofa and escape in sleep. Instead I rushed to my desk and amidst the chaos of papers started to search frantically for Nicholas Ingaza’s telephone number.
27
The Vicar’s Version
On the few occasions that one really wants to contact someone they are rarely there and one listens with growing gloom to those futile ringings. Thus it was as I repeatedly tried to get Nicholas, all efforts being met with a bleak silence which did nothing for my nerves. It would have been less frustrating had I been able to visualize the instrument’s location – see its table, room, or even building. But I had no such picture in mind, no clues as to its owner’s habitat. The ringings went on, bleating into blank space. Did Nicholas live in a flat? Or a semi in Kemp Town? A bijou town house on the borders of Hove? A seedy bed-sit above some ramshackle junk shop, its hallway smelling of cabbage and disinfectant? It could have been any or none of these – though my imagination veered, perhaps unjustly, to the last. Nicholas’s domestic life was not a subject I chose to dwell on; but I did need his help – and quickly! Clearly such help was not at hand, and to assuage annoyance I rounded up Bouncer and set off for a brisk walk.
Brisk though the intention, the reality was a fatiguing meander. I do not possess Reginald Bowler’s physical resolution nor his commanding tone, so progress was hampered by Bouncer’s steely insistence on sniffing at every object and by my fruitless efforts to drag him along. Thus the walk was slow and frustrating and I recalled wonderingly the vision of that dynamic duo when in the days before Bowler’s defection they would make their nightly assault upon The Avenue and its purlieus. I pondered whether Bouncer missed Bowler and whether he found his new master small beer in comparison. I hoped not, for in a masochistic way I had grown quite fond of the dog.
Mavis Briggs appeared round the corner and accosted me about some annual poetry reading she was mounting entitled ‘Gems of Uplift’ – and in which she no doubt would be the principal performer (unless scuppered by the other diva, Edith Hopgarden). She assured me that my predecessor had been a regular patron of the event and had always found it truly inspiring. (Poor Purvis, I thought – so inspiring that he hit the bottle and gave up the ghost.) I showed a bland and evasive interest, and mercifully her ramblings were cut short by Bouncer who at that moment chose to squat down in the road and mount his own event. She passed quickly on.
That over we proceeded at a sprightlier pace; and once back at the vicarage I tried the telephone again and was caught off guard when it was answered immediately. The voice was not Nicholas’s and had a strong Cockney accent.
“Er – could I speak to Mr Ingaza if he is in, please?” I asked diffidently.
“You might,” the voice said slowly. “Who’s calling? Not Nigel, is it?” I told him that it was not Nigel but the Reverend Francis Oughterard. I am not sure why I prefaced my name with its clerical title as it is not something that I normally do. Some sort of defence mechanism, I suppose. Anyway, there was a silence and then I heard him yell: “Nick, Nick…it’s a vicar for you.” Presumably there must have been some distant response as again I heard him
shout: “I don’t know…some geezer who says he’s a viCAR.” The term was given its maximum emphasis; and then more quietly down the mouthpiece he said, “Hang about a bit, he’ll be down in a mo.” I hung about, rehearsing my lines and feeling tense.
I could hear the soft footfall, the movement of the receiver, and then those familiar bantering tones. “Well, there’s only one vicar in my life these days – it must be Francis Oughterard. Down in Brighton again? What will your masters say!”
“No, actually I’m calling from home. I was just going to – ”
“Very wise, Francis! You of all people should never stray too far – don’t think you could manage it,” and he chuckled thinly. “To what do I owe this unexpected but certain pleasure?”
I cleared my throat and asked him if he wouldn’t mind doing me a small favour. He said he couldn’t imagine what it could be but was always ready to help out an old theology colleague. (Whether such colleagues ever invoked his help I very much doubted. Surely none but a fool would choose to venture into Ingaza’s dubious orbit – unless like me they were in dire straits.) I took a deep breath and broached the matter.
“Nicholas, I’ve been placed in a slightly embarrassing position. You see it’s the police, they – ” There were sudden peals of laughter from the other end.
“My God, Francis, you haven’t! Who’d have thought it – and after all this time! What a careless boy…”
He was right in one respect: I had been careless, but hardly in the distasteful way he seemed to be suggesting and I resented the imputation. “No,” I replied sharply, “it’s not that at all, not at all! It’s to do with a lady and some binoculars.” This produced more hoots and I cursed my choice of phrase.
“Well,” he said eventually, “that’s not quite my line of country, of course, but having some knowledge of tight corners – as you might say – who knows, I might just be able to help.” There followed another spluttering paroxysm. Had I foreseen the ribaldry my request would provoke I might have thought twice about approaching him. I was distinctly put out and felt his levity uncalled for. He must have sensed my irritation for he simmered down and asked in a tone of seeming concern what the problem was.
Skating carefully around the actual crux of the matter and with the help of some fine pruning I sketched out the peripheral details of the problem, stressing that should the Molehill police contact him regarding his ‘borrowed’ Zeiss glasses would he please ensure that he had such a pair in his possession – with matching case.
“Oh yes,” he replied, “and I suppose you would like your name inscribed in gold on the outside flap as well.”
“Very funny,” I said drily, but adding as an afterthought, “Come to think of it though, if you did just happen to come across a second-hand pair with the same initials as mine that would certainly help things along!”
“F.O. Francis!” he exclaimed. “What a fantasist! You can forget the initials but I might be able to pick up a pair of the sort you want. I’ve got a couple of contacts who owe me a favour or two…” What contacts and what favours I did not ask. But I thanked him gratefully, and not wanting to linger was about to ring off when he said smoothly, “Of course, there’s more to all this than meets the eye. I always said you were a dark horse – in your way, that is. As they say, it takes one to know – ”
I replaced the receiver and sat crossly on the hall chair. “Typical of Nicholas,” I brooded, “always did have a sneaky mind!” Nevertheless I was cheered by his promise of help and felt that a small celebration was in order. The church organ beckoned.
♦
Tapsell, its guard dog, was attending an organists’ jamboree down in Winchester and would not be back until the following day, and thus the coast was clear for me to indulge to my heart’s content. Tapsell’s pride in his musical talents is matched only by the obsessiveness with which he discharges his custodial duties. Thus when not in use the organ is resolutely locked and its key kept in a small box (also locked) in the vestry. I of course have the keys both to the vestry and to the box; so breaching Tapsell’s barriers presented no difficulty.
I sat down at the instrument, rolled up my sleeves and commenced my flawed but enthusiastic repertoire. A happy hour was spent maiming Handel, the Bachs, Widor, and ending up with my special, though perforce rather lugubrious, version of ‘Tea For Two’. It was at this point that I caught sight of Miss Dalrymple prowling in a side aisle – a sighting that made me stumble in what was to have been a superlative glissando. But this was only a passing hiccup for I recalled that Miss Dalrymple was tone-deaf and incapable of distinguishing Beethoven from Black Bottom. Besides, judging from her crouching gait she was clearly on one of her gum-seeking missions and far too intent to register either the music or the player.
I continued for another ten minutes and then, pleased with my performance and buoyed by its sense of the illicit, returned home in moderately good spirits. There was nothing pressing to attend to that evening, no more than usual at any rate, and I decided to have an early night with a good book. The books in my study are shelved in reproachful disorder for I had never got around to classifying them after the move from Bermondsey. My fingers hovered quizzically between the adjacent spines of Machiavelli and Mickey Spillane. Both are a good read, but in the end I went for the Lives of the Saints.
♦
The next morning I awoke refreshed but was irritated to discover the organ key still in my jacket pocket. I was about to return it to the vestry when the post arrived and I was diverted by an unwelcome letter. It was from Violet Pond, demanding that I be at home the following day to receive her and a couple of her cousins to ‘give further thought to Mother’s will’. I thought the woman had an infernal cheek, and certainly did not relish the prospect of family reinforcements. One specimen of Pond-life was quite enough. I rather wished that Primrose was with me. She has an awesome capacity for repulsing the unlovely and uninvited.
As I reread the letter and debated what to do, the telephone rang. It was Tapsell returned from Winchester and in a state of outrage.
“Some bugger’s swiped the key to the organ…” he began.
“Well, this bugger hasn’t,” I snapped, fingering the key in my pocket and putting down the receiver. It occurred to me afterwards that perhaps I had been a little terse. Still, Tapsell did not have to contend with Violet Pond and her cohorts. Surely in the circumstances I might be forgiven for sounding a mite fragile. Later that morning I saw Mrs Tapsell in the town and made a point of giving her a cheery wave. It was not reciprocated.
I also encountered the whippet. He was mooching along on his own, sallow face puckered as he struggled to roll a cigarette. There was a keen wind blowing and I had already noticed two papers flutter to the ground. He seemed so absorbed in the manoeuvre that at first I thought he had not seen me – but of course he had. Not much escapes Samson’s questing eye. He looked up, pocketed his tobacco tin and nodded unsmilingly.
I was eager to know whether contact had been made with Nicholas but was loath to ask for fear of appearing unduly concerned. An air of careless nonchalance was surely the best approach. Thus I bade him good morning, said a couple of words about the weather and prepared to stroll on but he stopped me.
“We’ve checked your story.”
I resented the term ‘story’ but said lightly, “Oh yes,” and waited for him to elaborate.
“Yes, the Sussex police saw your friend Mr Ingaza and they are satisfied he had the binoculars.” (That was a relief!) He sounded disappointed.
“Well, naturally they are satisfied. I had already told you he borrowed them.”
“Yes,” he replied sceptically, “you did tell us.” I was glad to see that he looked gloomy but was less glad when he suddenly brightened and said with some relish, “Your friend, this Mr Nicholas Ingaza, he’s got form, hasn’t he? He’s been inside.”
Adopting one of my colder tones I said that I could not see what on earth that had to do with it. And in any case it had
all happened years ago and was due to an entirely personal lapse.
“Buggery generally is…personal, I mean. Training to be a parson, wasn’t he? Just goes to show, can’t trust anybody these days!” And he had the gall to give a low whistle and grin sardonically.
I was incensed by his sly impertinence and for once felt defensive of Nicholas – and indeed of the Church. My instinct was to tell him that in my opinion he was a short-arsed pusillanimous little worm deserving the attentions of the garden spade. However, self-preservation prevailed. At all costs I could not afford to antagonize Them. Instead I had to be satisfied with saying in a silky vicar voice that I thought his manners could do with a polish and I trusted that the Chief Constable, one of my most zealous parishioners, would not hold such breach against him. It wasn’t very good but in the circumstances the best I could manage, and I strolled off with what I liked to think was an air of languid indifference.
28
The Vicar’s Version
I wasn’t looking forward to the day. The prospect of her visit hung like a pall and despite rising early I could not throw off its dreary weight. Fortunately Savage was coming round that morning with more of his wife’s homemade cakes. I say ‘fortunately’ because I find his company both convivial and soothing. He harbours no expectations and makes no demands, and has a kind of cheery cynicism that does wonders for the spirit. I grumbled to him about Violet Pond’s impending visit.
“Just don’t know what to do,” I said morosely.
He thought and then said brightly, “Has she got a hat?”
“How should I know! What’s that to do with it?”
“Well, you see, if she’s got a hat you could tell her you liked it. They always enjoy that sort of thing.”
A Load of Old Bones Page 14