A Load of Old Bones

by Suzette A. Hill

  “But I wouldn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t what?”

  “Like her hat.”

  “That doesn’t matter – just tell her you like it and she’ll be eating out of your hand. It works a treat with my wife.”

  Having already witnessed Violet Pond consuming a cream bun, I did not find the prospect of her eating out of my hand a happy one and told him as much.

  “Your language is getting a bit ripe these days, isn’t it, vicar!” he chuckled. I apologized, explaining that I had been under rather a strain recently, and hoped I hadn’t given offence.

  “Good Lord, no! After all, what’s a few imprecations between friends!” I was comforted by that – not so much because he hadn’t taken offence but rather by the suggestion of friendship. It was nice to know that there was at least somebody on my side.

  I was also struck by his reference to Mrs Savage and the hat-trick. “If you don’t mind my asking, since your eyesight’s a bit dodgy how are you able to compliment her on what she is wearing? I mean…are you able to see a bit of it perhaps?”

  “Oh no. Blind as a bat I am!” he said cheerfully. “But that makes no difference. Now you and I might apply logic to the situation, but they don’t, not where their vanity’s concerned. Tell ‘em they’re wearing a nice hat and they’ll believe you even if you had a paper bag over your head. Or if they did, for that matter! It’s all a question of female psychology,” he declared confidently.

  I know very little of female psychology, and reflected that had I known more perhaps Elizabeth Fotherington would yet be alive. However, such musings were by the way: the immediate problem was how to fend off her daughter. I thanked Savage for his advice and told him I would let him know how I got on.

  ♦

  Mrs Pond arrived at twelve o’clock accompanied not by two strapping male kinsmen as I had nervously expected, but by a diminutive woman wearing drooping grey tweeds, grey stockings and a shrivelled look. She was introduced vaguely as ‘a cousin of mine’ but no name was ascribed.

  Waving aside offers of sherry, Violet Pond launched into yet another of her baleful monologues. It differed little from the first time around except that now it was punctuated by expectant looks at the cousin, who quite obviously had lost the plot before it began and was heavily engrossed in examining her shoelaces. Occasionally the head would lift and a vacant nod be delivered. Other than that she contributed nothing; and unless she had a microphone up her sleeve or was a white witch silently casting spells on her cousin’s persecutor, her presence seemed to have no obvious function.

  Yet again Mrs Pond appealed to my better nature, stressing as she had done in the press interview her mother’s inability to grasp the importance of family finance. I smiled sympathetically but unhelpfully. She droned on about the hardships of being ‘a woman alone’ (in fact, gossip had it that she had wrested a more than adequate pay-off from her erstwhile husband), and I started to fidget and longed for a cigarette. Then she brought Clinker into it.

  “You do know that I’ve approached your bishop, I suppose?”

  “Really?” I asked in surprise. Certainly he had referred to the matter but I had assumed he had gained his knowledge from newspaper reports and the diocesan grapevine. I didn’t realize she had made a direct appeal.

  “Yes, really,” she snapped. Then she added acidly, “Not that he’s been much use, a more fatuous prelate I have yet to encounter. All he would do was um and ah and burble on about Molehill being in a safe pair of hands. I can hardly imagine he meant yours…What do you think?” she barked to her silent companion. The latter, increasingly riveted by the shoelaces, remained mute.

  Mrs Pond leaned forward, and as if I had become her ally against Clinker exclaimed, “Do you know, the third time I telephoned him – just when I was about to explain the illegality of that codicil, some appalling woman with a voice like a cannon interrupted and had the brass neck to tell me to get off the line! Can’t think who it was – his minder presumably!”

  “His wife actually,” I murmured, recognizing the style and giving the ghastly Gladys her due marks.

  “Well, wife or not, it isn’t the sort of response you expect from the Bishop’s Palace. I shall take the matter higher up. Much higher – make no mistake!” I felt a spasm of schadenfreude, wondering whether Fisher could possibly conceive what was brewing up for him.

  Then, feeling that it was time I tried to defuse things, I cut her short by playing what I fondly imagined to be my trump card: a resume of the charitable causes already earmarked for my bequest. She was unimpressed, observing that had pensioners made proper provision for themselves during their working lives there would be no need to waste money on Christmas bun-fights. As to the Community Hall – she knew all about Brown Owls and Cub leaders from the pages of the News of the World and had no wish to see her mother’s money being used in that particular direction! Reluctant to add fuel to flame I resisted pointing out that it was my money and not her mother’s. Instead I enthused about my idea of an Elizabeth Fotherington Memorial Prize, thinking that this at least would meet with her approval. Not a bit of it. Shooting me a look of excoriating scorn she declared that her mother’s musical knowledge had been so ludicrously abysmal that to link her name with a choral prize would be an act of gross idiocy.

  I sighed. We seemed to have reached an impasse, perhaps a suitable moment to ask her to leave. As I debated this my eye fell upon the small table next to her chair. She had placed her gloves there and a rather grubby knitted item which at first I took to be a string shopping-bag. And then I realized that it was not a bag but a form of crumpled headgear. Savage and his vaunted knowledge of female psychology came to mind. I would jolly well put it to the test!

  Clearing my throat I said winningly, “What a fetching beret you have, Mrs Pond – and in such a subtle colour too!” (I was rather proud of that last bit, feeling it showed a discerning eye.)

  She glared suspiciously, but before she could make any response there was a violent movement from the hitherto passive cousin who leapt to her feet and in a voice of sparrow glee cried, “You see, Violet – at least the vicar appreciates my efforts!” Beaming down at me from her short height, she picked the thing up and thrust it under my nose.

  “I use a special wool twine that’s waterproof – waxed, you know – they sell it in Hodge & Bewley…And then of course the stitching is my own invention, a knack I developed as a girl. Quite a little trademark you might say! People find it fascinating.” (I looked duly fascinated). She continued: “I am so glad you like the colour. Grey is such a serviceable shade, it goes with anything – though I have been thinking of branching out into khaki. Rather a daring departure! What do you think, Mr Oughterard?”

  I considered the matter. “I think you should stick to grey. Khaki is a tinge masculine whereas grey is softer and suits all complexions.”

  “Oh yes, vicar,” she squeaked, “my views exactly. What an encouragement – I shall commence a new batch immediately!” Smiling blissfully she returned the limp article to Violet Pond, who with a face of thunder rammed it into her handbag and lumbered to her feet.

  “Well, that’s it,” she exploded. “That is it! I’ve had enough…Look what I’m up against! Swamped by a sea of imbeciles: first Mother, then the solicitors, a weak-kneed bishop, an addled cousin – and now to cap it all, a plundering clergyman who thinks he’s Hardy Amies!” Seizing the Unnamed by her arm she dragged her protesting to the door and out on to the path. I watched as they made their disputing way to the gate. While Cousin Violet struggled to wrench it open the Unnamed looked back and gave me a perky wave.

  After they had gone I strode into the kitchen, scooped up Maurice, collared Bouncer and took them off to the graveyard where the three of us sat on one of the larger tombs enjoying the sun and the blessed silence. I smoked, Maurice stalked, Bouncer played. Had a corner been turned? I wondered.

  29

  The Vicar’s Version

  The snag with turning corners
is that you have no guarantee of what lies round the bend. “That when ye think all danger for to pass / Ware the lizard lieth lurking in the grass,” warned the Tudor poet John Skelton. And that afternoon a particularly sneaky one lay coiled beneath the graveyard’s sprawling tussocks. As I leant against the tombstone watching my smoke-rings spiral lazily into the trees, the elusive detail which for the past few weeks had been nagging away at the back of my mind suddenly thrust itself into sharp focus: my gold cigarette lighter with its elegantly engraved gothic initials.

  At the time its loss had been an annoyance but my attention had been absorbed by weightier issues and I had given only cursory thought to its whereabouts. Now, however, it occurred to me that the thing lay not in Rummage’s grasping pocket but more than likely in the undergrowth of Foxford Wood. I could not be sure of course, a mere conjecture, but neither could I banish the growing sense of unease. As the days passed conjecture turned to certainty and every time I lit a cigarette the match seemed to rebuke me with its loss. There was no doubt about it: the thing was there in the wood, in the place where it must have slipped from my pocket when I was lugging that dreadful burden. I could see the very spot – the kink in the path where it veered sharply to the right, the little mound of chalky broken stones, the sprawling spindle-berry brushing the bracken; and then a few yards on, the canopy of hawthorn under which she had been so carefully stowed. I shut my eyes, bludgeoned by memory, stunned by the sudden pressing reality of it all.

  Clearly that was where the lighter lay – brazenly exposed for all to see! Except, of course, they hadn’t seen it. According to the newspapers the spot had yielded nothing to the police investigation, and while March and Samson had been obsessed with the matter of the binoculars there had certainly been no reference to a cigarette lighter. Caught perhaps in a knot of bracken, shielded by a clod of earth, somehow it had escaped the searchers’ eyes; had lain there – did lie – protected by the undergrowth, lost and secret.

  Such thoughts helped at least to disperse the panic if not the underlying anxiety. But to some extent this latter I could control by pursuing the parochial round and busying myself in matters more mundane. Then of course the blow was struck…

  As I walked home one afternoon from visiting a parishioner I met Savage tapping his way along the pavement with his bag of tuning tools slung over his shoulder. Normally an encounter with Savage leaves me considerably refreshed, but not this time. He was whistling cheerfully but unmelodiously and I couldn’t help thinking that for a man of his profession he displayed a curious lack of rhythm. Indeed I said something to that effect as we drew level and he grinned good-naturedly, observing that we couldn’t all be clerical Liberaces and that if I really wanted to hear something good he would teach me how to beat up the drums one day. He also said something else, something which froze my marrow.

  “They’re going to do that wood again, you know.”

  “What do you mean ‘do it’? Who?”

  “The police. They’ve got to do another search of the murder scene in Foxwood Wood. I’ve got a nephew in the Force and according to him old man March copped it from some senior rankers for not doing the job properly first time round. Apparently he’s not coming up with the goods quick enough. Anyway they’re going to give it another going over, and with dogs this time.”

  Yes, I thought, like swine rooting for golden truffles. And in my mind’s eye I saw a triumphant dog-handler patting his charge and proudly displaying the trophy to his admiring colleagues.

  “Well,” I said casually, “let’s hope they do better this time. When will it happen?”

  “Don’t know,” he replied, “soon I suppose. It’ll have to be daylight of course – tomorrow morning maybe…Anyway, must be off now, vicar. Just one more job then home to Mrs Savage. She’s in one of her fragile moods and I’ll have to pussy-foot around a bit – get her to read out a few clues perhaps.” And with a chuckle he resumed his tuneless whistling and sauntered off.

  When I got home I was so tense I could hardly breathe, and sat on the stairs head in hands and my mind gripped alternately by whirling fears and frozen paralysis. The dog pottered out from the sitting room, and seeing me there in my agitated state stopped abruptly and stared hard. He ambled into the kitchen and returned with something in his mouth, a macerated biscuit which he deposited at my feet. I was touched by the gesture, gave him a cursory pat but declined the offer. I sat on, imagining the worst and gearing myself to act – for action was certainly required! I would go back to the wood. It was a prospect I hardly relished but if there was even the merest chance of finding the thing before They did then it would have to be done.

  The decision made, I was able to confront the situation in a calmer light, but I was troubled by the obvious risk. Apart from a natural reluctance to retrace my former footsteps there was also the question of security. At the time of the event I had been relieved not to have met anyone either going to or coming from the wood; and thus, as far as I knew, my movements that morning had gone unnoticed. But one could never be entirely sure. Memory is a curious thing and often what is overlooked at the time can be resurrected long afterwards by the stimulus of a chance sighting or event. Crime reconstructions are based precisely on that fact. Supposing there were someone out there whose buried memory of that day was suddenly rekindled by seeing me once more traipsing across the meadow? A further thought nagged me – the popularly held belief that the criminal invariably returns to the scene of the crime. True or not, at least by not going back I had up to now made myself safe from that particular suspicion.

  Such caution was fine in principle: in practice the new developments forced my hand and I should have to chance it. The difficulty lay in how to reduce the possibility of being seen while still having enough light to look for the damn thing! Eager though I was to start the search immediately, the best time surely would be early evening: dusk with people at supper, children curfewed.

  Thus resolved, I tried to spend the next couple of hours checking the week’s hymn list and making desultory forays into the crossword. I thought a little piano practice might help pass the time but it didn’t. My fingers were leaden, brain distracted. Instead I shut the lid and poured a whisky and could have done with another but resisted, knowing that the evening’s project would require all my faculties.

  At last, judging the time to be about right I put on a dark jacket and low peaked cap, pocketed a small torch and went to open the back door. I was waylaid by Bouncer clearly intent on coming with me. He could have been useful, for a person walking a dog is commonplace and somehow innocuous, whereas the sight of a solitary man roaming the woods at twilight might be remarked. However, I decided against it. Bouncer’s company is enlivening but disruptive and he would only impede and complicate matters.

  With head down and keeping close to the hedge I skirted the field and moved rapidly towards the camouflage of the trees. As I walked I recalled wryly the last time I had come this way. Then it had been a bright June morning, dew on the grass, the leaves green and fresh, birds chattering; and despite Elizabeth’s awful pursuit I had been, relatively speaking, a free man. Now it was a late September evening with shadows lengthening, leaves turning, a hint of autumnal dankness touching the air and weighing on my spirit – and I was far from free.

  The moment I entered the wood the absurdity of the situation struck me. The place was darker than I had expected, the mellow light of the fields replaced by an oppressive gloaming, and the undergrowth so much denser than I had remembered. Patently it was a fool’s errand: there wasn’t a hope in hell of finding the thing and I cursed my stupidity for even contemplating the idea. I was about to retreat but the image of those police dogs sniffing around at the scene, perhaps in only a few hours’ time, was intolerable. And so, driven by desperation, I pressed on. To buoy things up I tried to persuade myself that the task would be less impossible than I thought. After all, I could recall the exact spot where the deed had occurred, and dragging the body to the hawthorn
tree had been a matter of a mere few yards. It was only in that small area that I had engaged in the sort of strenuous activity which would have caused the lighter to slip from my pocket. A really intensive search of that confined patch might just do the trick. Perhaps for once luck would be on my side. Stranger things had happened.

  In fact, as things turned out the matter remained untested: I never reached the spot. For something occurred which drove the plan, rational or otherwise, completely from my mind.

  As I moved further in amongst the trees the light receded and I had glimpses of the rising moon gliding wanly above the entangled branches. The stillness which on that June day had seemed so soothing now felt alien; and when as before the sudden bark of a roebuck broke the silence I had a terrible sense of déjà vu and felt the creature was somehow mocking my presence. I quickened my step, eager to reach the place before the light really failed. And then, just as I had discerned the heap of broken stones at the curve of the path, there was a sound of loud scrabblings coming from the bushes to my left. At first I assumed it was a pheasant or possibly a fox but the noise continued and seemed to be accompanied by faint snortings. Badgers.

  I crept forward carefully, hoping to have a sighting of Brock with his lady and brood, and camouflaging myself behind a convenient tree trunk peered stealthily into the little clearing…What I saw was neither Brock nor his lady – but a substantial pair of lunging naked buttocks.

  I stood rooted with incredulity as the motion accelerated and the snortings got louder; and even in my shock I remember being fascinated by the way the moon cast a sort of unearthly pallor upon the heaving fundament giving it a halo-like glow. However, my absorption was short-lived for with a muffled squeal a woman’s voice cried, “Stop! Stop! Bloody hell, it’s the vicar!”

  Her escort did as he was bid. And as he scrambled to his feet, cursing and hauling up his trousers, I saw that the joy-rider was Tapsell. I also observed that he was still wearing his bicycle clips. We stared at each other in mutual horror. And then with possibly even greater horror I realized that his companion-in-arms was Mavis Briggs’ sworn enemy, Edith Hopgarden.