A Load of Old Bones
Page 17
In fact in the kitchen Bouncer looked as good as gold. Despite my crashing about he lay curled up in his basket beside the boiler seemingly fast asleep. Not much of a guard, I thought bitterly I sipped the tea and turned my waning wits to the crossword. Few of the clues looked accessible and I thought enviously of Savage’s talents in that sphere. As I wrestled with a set of conundrums unconnected with the present problem, reason gradually began to return. I drank more tea and at last found a clue which gave some hope of a solution. Five across, ten letters: “First of September’s gone, but Nora’s turn is still a tender place.” I pondered and then grabbed the pencil, and feeling rather pleased with myself wrote in S-A-N-A-T-O-R-I-U-M. Instantly pleasure vanished, and with a groan I stumbled back to bed.
♦
The next day was surprisingly congenial. With the help of breakfast the travails of the night faded somewhat and I was able to establish a perspective. Despite the embarrassment of the previous day’s events it was obvious that, by being in the piano stool rather than in Foxford Wood, the cigarette lighter had not caught the attention of March and Samson – at least not in any crucial way. If they thought me peculiar for housing my valuables amidst mice and marrow bones then that was their prerogative, but it hardly constituted proof of murder! And despite Reginald Bowler’s tasteless allegation, nor did Elizabeth’s frequent diary references. Thinking about this I felt much better. When all was said and done, salacious innuendo and an uncanny mystery were undoubtedly more manageable than a night (or far worse!) in the cells.
I celebrated this comforting thought with an extra slice of toast and Marmite. As I munched, the door pushed open and Maurice glided in. He sat down and proceeded to sleek his paws and examine his under parts. A minute later Bouncer appeared, looking I thought a trifle diffident; but he sloped across the kitchen, wagged his tail vaguely in my direction and lay down next to the cat. They projected an air of smug collusion which was slightly unsettling. Still, I mused, better to be unsettled by a dog and a cat than by the hangman’s noose.
I spent the morning busying myself with correspondence and checking the proofs of the church magazine, and then in the afternoon set off to the parish hall to present the Sunday School prizes and help with the raffle. Once over the threshold I was immediately accosted by Mavis Briggs who came twittering up describing in lurid detail her plans for the ‘Little Gems of Uplift’. She prevailed upon me to attend the event, or thought she had, and then to my surprise launched into a paean of praise about what she called my ‘munificence’. It seemed my plans re the legacy had been leaked to the Molehill Clarion which was now feting me as the saviour of the Brownies. Apparently they and the Wolf Cubs were already rehearsing a jolly jamboree in my honour!
I was flattered by the news and thought that at least a jamboree could be no worse than Mavis’s uplifting poems and probably a lot better. Two minutes later Miss Dalrymple approached, bone-crunched my hand and in stentorian tones declared that “Molehill’s OAPs can consider themselves fearfully lucky!” I was a bit thrown by this and then of course remembered: their Christmas Party Fund. So that had got off the ground, had it? Could it be possible that I was becoming Molehill’s Man of the Moment?
♦
On the way home I bought the evening paper, curious to see what was being said about my ‘munificence’. Settled with a gin and triumphantly producing the recovered lighter, I began to scan the pages. The article came up readily enough but what captured my interest much more was one in the adjacent column.
LOCAL FLASHER FOUND DEAD!
Robert Willy can no longer cause affront by his persistent appearances from behind the trees in Foxford Wood. The elderly tramp, scourge of respectable walkers for more than a decade, was found two nights ago dead in a ditch close to Holly Bush Meadow on the A281. He had obviously been drinking heavily, police reported, and his trousers were in their usual state of disarray. The young constable first called to view the body said that for a dead man he had looked quite cheerful.
The Molehill Clarion has long been of the opinion that Willy had a hand in the mysterious Fotherington case (in which it has to be said police investigation has been more than tardy). In the last few months his antics had grown increasingly bizarre, and a reliable witness from over the Berkshire border tells us that the last time she had the misfortune to encounter him he was most definitely carrying a noose and a hatchet. We urge the police to pursue this line of enquiry for the sooner the whole grisly affair can be resolved the sooner Molehill can resume its seemly business.
“Hear, hear!” I cried. “I’m all for that!” The sooner the town became its seemly self again, the more likelihood I might eventually get some peace and quiet. I turned back to the other article and reflected that if I was being so universally approved perhaps I could sponsor the Memorial Prize after all. In spite of Violet Pond’s scorn of her mother’s musical ignorance I felt that, had she been available, the lady in question would have surely revelled in the tribute. Yes, I would see Tapsell and the choirmaster the very next day!
Time for a little turn at the piano; there hadn’t been a chance for ages. Pausing only to check the inside of the stool, I sat down and prepared to play…and then hesitated. Play what? Brahms, Scarlatti, Ellington? As I debated, for some reason Bishop Clinker came into my mind and without more ado I launched into a particularly lavish rendering of ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’.
33
The Vicar’s Version
In the circumstances I felt a bit diffident in approaching Tapsell about the Choral Prize. He seemed to have been absent for a few days but I had already had an unfortunate encounter with Edith Hopgarden. She was emerging from the vestry festooned in swathes of trailing ivy and autumn foliage, no doubt bent on completing the weekly flower arrangements before Mavis Briggs could get at them. And when I said genially that the woods afforded such splendid material at this time of year she went very red in the face, gave me a baleful glare and said that I should know if anyone.
I was glad to find that when Tapsell did appear his earlier temper had been replaced by a shifty deference, and neither he nor Jenkins the choirmaster raised any objection to my idea of a Fotherington choral event. Indeed they appeared quite approving of the project and nodded solemnly when I mooted the idea of a special anthem in commemoration of its namesake. It was arranged that a Parish Committee meeting be called and the plan thoroughly aired and put to the vote.
The meeting was well attended, the subject stirring considerable interest. Following a brief discussion the proposal itself was passed unanimously but after that the actual mechanics of the matter were treated to voluble debate. Someone (doubtless Mavis Briggs) made the bright suggestion that the text should be original, i.e. that the congregation be encouraged to submit their own compositions. I was doubtful about this but the idea was eagerly seized by the others and my tentative objections overruled. They did, however, graciously concede that since the anthem was my plan in the first place and the Memorial Prize funded by my donation, I should be the final arbiter in the selection process. This at least gave me a degree of control. But it also brought interminable tedium.
As I had feared, the literary offerings were not of the highest order and ranged from maundering banality to insufferable pretension. The best were honest but uninspired and I began seriously to regret ever proposing the thing. Needless to say Mavis Briggs produced a piece of execrable mawkishness remarkable even by her standards. I told her it would be wasted as an anthem and was crying out to be used as the grand finale to her ‘Gems of Uplift’. She turned pink with pleasure and rushed away to pen more glutinous lines.
The most rhythmically robust was Miss Dalrymple’s, the verses swinging along like boots on tarmac. However, since every third line contained the words ‘wrath’ or ‘ire’ I felt it to be a trifle repetitive. The injunctions to ‘smite thine enemy’ and ‘throttle the foe’ also featured quite strongly, and thus despite the several Hallelujahs it was not a poem to which I was personally
drawn.
The more I read the more dispirited I became. If Elizabeth was to have her name up in lights in a Memorial Anthem then even she deserved better than this! Clearly it was time for me to exercise my clerical prerogative and cock a snook at democracy. Thus with unaccustomed firmness I explained to the committee that fascinating though the entries were none quite matched the exacting criteria required by an anthem, and I had therefore come to the conclusion that Elizabeth’s name would best be served by a recognized poet from the great canon of English Literature.
“Which one?” barked Colonel Dawlish. Naturally I had not the least idea; but clearing my throat and assuming a knowledgeable expression, I said I had two or three clear possibilities in mind and would give them my decision the following day.
Wearisome hours were then spent trawling through library books and old anthologies desperately trying to find something not only intrinsically fitting but which would mollify the rejected and vindicate my judgement. Much whisky was consumed and I ran out of cigarettes.
Over breakfast next morning, exhausted but satisfied, I gave a reading to Maurice and Bouncer who were sitting patiently by the boiler. The text comprised lines from the seventeenth-century lyricist Robert Herrick, and went like this:
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers:
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers.
I sing of may-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bride-grooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these, to sing of cleanly-wantonness.
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and amber-grease.
I sing of times trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the Fairy-King.
I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
I was pleased with my choice. The piece had, I felt, the merits of brevity, simplicity, beauty and joy; and in its concluding clause surely expressed a hope as universal as one was ever likely to find. If Colonel Dawlish or anybody else imagined they could do better then they could tootle off and kick a can. This time I would not be overruled. It was to be the text for her anthem.
34
The Cat’s Memoir
“That was good, wasn’t it?” said Bouncer.
“What?”
“What F.O. was burbling on about at breakfast.”
“Well, it may have been,” I said doubtfully, “but you won’t have understood it.”
“Yes I did!” he retorted truculently.
“Nonsense, the words would have escaped you.”
“Some did,” he conceded, “but I liked the sound. It was very nice indeed.” He started to rattle his bowl, a habit he has when feeling particularly obstinate. “What’s it for anyway?”
I explained patiently that it was some musical thing that F.O. was putting on in memory of the lady of whom he had disposed.
“Quite right and proper,” he said solemnly.
There is an odd streak of piety in Bouncer which manifests itself at times when one is least prepared. I think it may be the result of his sojourn among the bones in the crypt. I cannot recall noticing it prior to his arrival there. However, he suddenly cocked his ears and with a broad grin said, “Just as long as it doesn’t have any bells in, it’ll be all right, won’t it, Maurice?” Clearly he was referring to my campanological aversion. I gave a haughty whisk of my tail and for a while silence reigned. Not for long.
“Maurice,” he said suddenly, “why do you think he did it?”
“I should think that’s obvious,” I replied. “He disliked her.”
“Well, you don’t like hundreds of people, but you don’t go round bumping them off, do you?”
“No,” I said, “but unlike F.O. I have more pressing things to do with my time.”
“Like dozing on your tombstone?”
“Exactly.”
It was quite apparent that Bouncer was getting more than usually above himself – probably the influence of O’Shaughnessy. The pair needed sitting on very firmly and I would have to devise some means. It could not go on.
35
The Vicar’s Version
Fortunately my selection of the Herrick poem was well received, and the literary aspect now settled we could turn to the music itself. This was less onerous (for me at any rate) for the task of composition was put jointly in the hands of Tapsell and Jenkins. The partnership did of course produce a certain amount of friction but I kept my distance trusting that out of tumult something good would come. As in fact it did. Perhaps the stimulus of clashing egos had stirred their creative energies and lent lustre to the approaching days of winter. Whatever the reason, the end result was really a very tolerable piece of music which expressed Herrick’s words most sensitively. Everyone was pleased and I found myself contemplating the ceremony of the Memorial Prize with unexpected cheer.
It was, however, a cheer somewhat compromised by Nicholas Ingaza. Two weeks before the event, he telephoned. I was surprised by this because once the binocular business had been settled and March (if not Samson) satisfied there was no further mileage in that direction, Nicholas had rather slipped from my mind. But not apparently me from his.
“Hello! Hello!” he oiled. “Thought I’d just see how things were going. Had any good sightings recently?”
I laughed wanly and said that the little problem was all but cleared up and I was indebted to him for his help.
“I should think so, dear boy. I perjured myself black and blue with those charmers!” He chuckled. “Produced a very spruce pair of Zeiss glasses for them and the wretched case, and said I’d just got back from Minsmere where thanks to my good friend the vicar I’d had a most productive time. Babbled on about curlews and Lesser Spotted this and Greater Spotted that…bored them silly! You owe me one, old cock!”
“Well, Nicholas, if there’s anything I can ever do…” I replied nervously.
“Not at the moment there isn’t – but you never know, one day perhaps.” I felt relieved and prayed the day would never come.
“But as a matter of fact,” he continued, “I was thinking I might take a little pre-Christmas jaunt up to your neck of the woods, sample the fleshpots of Guildford and,” he added ominously, “take a nose round Molehill and see what exactly you have been up to. There’s something in your life, Francis, that doesn’t quite add up!” And again I caught the familiar strains of that thin nasal giggle.
“You really are absurd, Nicholas!” I exclaimed. “I told you at the time, it was all a stupid misunderstanding – you know how obtuse the police can be. A storm in a teacup, all blown over. I lead a very dull life here which wouldn’t interest you in the slightest! Besides,” I added quickly, “there are no fleshpots in Guildford, it’s one of the stuffiest towns in the Home Counties, not your sort of thing at all.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, “it’s all a question of knowing where to look. I’ve one or two contacts in that area – Cranleigh actually – it’s simply a matter of local knowledge.” I cursed Nicholas and his contacts, they seemed to be all over the damn place! And then he said something which really had me worried.
“Anyway, talking of fleshpots, while I’m in your area, thought I might beetle over and look up old Horace Clinker – give him a bit of a Christmas bonus!”
“No!” I yelped. “He’s had quite enough bonuses already. I’d leave him be if I were you.” The last thing I wanted was Clinker being disturbed – at least, not by anyone remotely to do with me. And certainly not by Nicholas. I was still basking in the news that I was to be left unmolested in Molehill. If Ingaza came blundering along needling the bishop and raking up the past, it was short odds that he would blame me and engineer my removal to the Cairngorms.
I breathed a sigh of relief and comforted myself with the thought that his interest in me and Molehill was a passing whim, and that come the New Year he would doubtless be embroiled in far more diverting matters. Meanwhile there was the Fotherington Memorial to deal with.
The days passed and the time for which we had all been preparing was nearly upon us. I have to admit to being in a state of considerable tension. The event had not only been absorbing my imagination but also haunting me in a strangely unsettling way. Obviously for the practical reasons already outlined – i.e. as a means to deflecting suspicion – it needed to be a success. But somehow it went deeper than that. I desperately wanted it to go not just smoothly but with style, grace, even splendour. It had to be something which people would enjoy and applaud and to which in future years they would always look forward. At the time I did not really understand these feelings but just knew that the event had an importance beyond the merely practical. Now, with reflection and hindsight, I realize what drove me. But then, though puzzled at my own intensity, I just wanted the thing to work; wanted it so much!
♦
The Day came. Jenkins had rehearsed his choir until the music was pouring out of its collective cassock, and twirling his baton expertly, he strutted on to the platform like a junior Beecham. Enthroned in his eyrie Tapsell too was in his element – shooting his cuffs, flexing his fingers, and bowing expansively to anyone careless enough to cast their eyes heavenwards. Parents and parishioners sat solidly in well-filled and well-heeled ranks. The Vestry Circle’s flowers looked untypically lovely, the silver glinted, the candles cast a mellow glow. And then at last the coughing and shuffling subsided and murmur gave way to an expectant quiet.