‘Absolutely not, sir, not at all!’ I smiled wanly.
We chatted for a while about the ceremony and other related matters, and he pointed out the new hassocks which I dutifully admired. And then, clearing his throat, he said, ‘I think, Oughterard, I might say that congratulations are in order.’
I was surprised and could not think what on earth I had done to merit such recognition. However, composing my features into a modest smile, I replied appropriately: ‘Goodness, is that so, sir?’
‘Yes, it is rather. You see, I have won my half-blue.’
Disappointment and amazement jostled for position, the latter outstripping the former by a good length. A half-blue? At his age! And in what, for heaven’s sake? I stared blankly.
‘Yes, thought you would be impressed. It was the Bracknell Cup that did it, made my mark there all right. The judges were most complimentary.’
Daylight dawned. My God, he was talking about tiddlywinks.
‘Remarkable, sir. I had simply no idea that they awarded blues for board games.’
His expression soured somewhat. ‘Of course they don’t, Oughterard, but tiddlywinks is in a league of its own and has long been regarded as one of the more civilized sports – not, I may say, a mere game. However, you lead a sheltered life and I suppose can be forgiven for not knowing.’
A sheltered life? That was rich! Nothing sheltered about cultural larceny, let alone the Foxford Wood nightmare. However, anxious to reap the bishop’s ‘forgiveness’, I said brightly that I was sure his partner Mrs Carruthers would be most gratified. To this he replied that Mrs Carruthers was but Gladys wasn’t, and on no account should I mention it to her: ‘Mrs Clinker has limited knowledge of the sport and even less of its value.’
Since I am punctilious in ensuring that my encounters with the bishop’s wife are minimal, I thought the likelihood of my conversing with her on the subject distinctly remote. Thus assuring him of my discretion, I said soothingly that doubtless true aficionados would recognize the honour and that it had surely been admirably earned.
He looked pleased and thanked me, adding a trifle wistfully, ‘Yes, it is nice to be appreciated in such matters.’ I felt a rare stirring of sympathy and was about to make further assurances, but was numbed by his next words.
‘Anyway, one thing at least will please Gladys: we are taking our holiday next month. There is of course the initial hurdle of Belgium and my sister-in-law, but after that we shall be motoring through the … uhm, never can think of the name …’
‘The Ardennes?’ I asked helpfully. ‘So easy from Brussels and I believe it is beautiful countryside.’
‘No, not the Ardennes,’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘Myrtle is always dragging us off there; after all these years I know it like the back of my hand! No, we are going well south – to the Auvergne, much more interesting.’
I had discovered from the atlas that the Auvergne is a very large area, and thus the chances of our encountering Clinker and Gladys were about a million to one. And besides, despite being in the same month, it was unlikely their sojourn would coincide with the dates of our own brief foray. But despite such rationalizing, the news struck like a blow to the solar plexus, and not for the first time I wondered why Fate had selected me for such persecution.
‘Fascinating,’ I murmured. And then gingerly, and with winded words, enquired what dates he expected to be there.
‘Mid-October. Rather a nice little place by all accounts, a village called Berceau-Lamont – quite high up, I believe. Myrtle has friends there.’ She would, I thought. She just frigging would!
Berceau-Lamont – the nearest village to La Folie de Fotherington. According to Ingaza it was a small hamlet set on the lower slopes of a precipitous mountain about a mile to the north of the château, boasting a church and, apart from a pond and some rambling goats, not much else. His description had been uncomplimentary, although if the bishop’s sister-in-law had friends living there presumably it must have had something to commend it. However, its qualities or otherwise were now entirely irrelevant: what mattered was that it was in the immediate vicinity of La Folie and that Clinker and Co. would evidently be visiting at the same time as ourselves. Did Fate know no bounds to its cruelty?
I listened to him describing the fishing he hoped to do and Gladys’s determination to take her painting paraphernalia. A blanket of gloom descended as I envisaged the likely complications and embarrassment should we have the misfortune to encounter them. Questions would be asked. What was I doing there? What was my connection with the ruined château? How extraordinary that it should have belonged to the poor lady murdered in my parish! Who were my companions? … I thought of the boisterous Eric, Ingaza’s domestic sidekick with his cockney slang and raucous guffaws; and (with a shudder) of that egregious curé from Taupinière, Henri Martineau, their seedy Gallic accomplice roped in to ‘help with the lingo, dear boy’. I could see only too vividly the raised quizzical eyebrows, Myrtle’s pursed lips, and the lowering scowl from Gladys … and mentally cringed at the prospect.
And then with a flash of horror I thought of Ingaza himself. Bad enough having to explain the other two, but how on earth after all these years was I to explain to the bishop the sudden emergence of Brighton’s sharpest and shadiest art dealer? Nicholas Ingaza: ejected from St Bede’s (then under Clinker’s own administration) for matters of gross misconduct, ex-jailbird … and long, long ago at Oxford, the bishop’s one-night standing folly. To a man such as Clinker, governed by status and Gladys, such entanglements are best forgotten or at least kept veiled. A sudden encounter with Nicholas and his satellites on a remote foreign mountain top would hardly be good for him. But more to the point, it would hardly be good for me. The fallout would be dire: I should be blamed for everything and doubtless banished to the frozen wastes of the north or packed off to administer some obscure Home for Indigent Clergy – or worse still, to manage a Temperance Mission in Peckham. And it would all be Nicholas’s fault! Wretchedly I tugged at my collar and contemplated the Auvergne in all its looming menace …
‘I say,’ said Clinker, ‘you’re looking a bit tense, Oughterard. Hope you haven’t been overdoing things. Nerves probably – I’ve noticed it before with the new canons: it’s the prospect of the ceremony. Gets them down. And then there’s the special Address of course, always a fraught business. Still, I dare say yours will be all right … more or less.’ And with those words of comfort and inspiration, he rattled his car keys and sauntered off to the main door.
I drove home, fed the dog, and with lacklustre energy attacked the piano and the whisky.
The next day the post brought two books for me to review for the parish magazine – Tips for Vergers by one Cliff Underdown and Best Baking for Bazaars by a Lady Doworthy. Neither excited my imagination, and I dispensed with them quickly in favour of a frantic telephone call to Nicholas.
Just as feared, it was not Nicholas but Eric who answered. ‘Oh, it’s you, Frankie,’ was the cheery response. ‘Might have known – there’s nobody else what calls us before ten o’clock in the morning. What can I do for you?’
Wincing at his term of address – a recent adoption which I feared I was stuck with – I apologized for my ridiculously early call (9.50 a.m.) and explained that I had some rather bad news for Nicholas. ‘You see, Eric, I have just learned that Bishop Clinker and some of his family will be in the French village at the same time as ourselves. It could all be a bit tricky … Uhm, in the circumstances I fear he may feel we ought to cancel.’ (I tried not to sound too hopeful.)
There was a pause, and then Eric said doubtfully, ‘Well, I shouldn’t think so – bought the three ferry tickets, he has, and got the documents and all. There’s a hefty fee for cancelling, and you know what Nick’s like wiv the old spondulicks.’ I did know. ‘Still,’ he went on, ‘you’d better speak to him later – after he’s had his gasper and coffee. He won’t make no sense at the moment.’ And he gave a throaty chuckle.
I agreed that
that would be best, and was about to put the phone down when a thought struck me. ‘Eric, did you say three tickets? But there are four of us – you, me, Nicholas and Primrose.’
‘Oh no, old son – just you and yer sister. You don’t catch me going orf to Frogland and eatin’ bleedin’ snails and such – no fear! Besides, somebody’s got to stay behind and mind the shop – there’s a couple of deals going on here what needs rahver careful handling, as yer might say. And if His Nibs wants to go gadding orf to foreign parts, then he’s welcome, but I’m staying here.’
Well, that was a relief at any rate. But I envied him his resolution, and thought wistfully how pleasant it would be to remain in Brighton with nothing to do but ‘mind the shop’.
I sighed and turned my thoughts back to Baking for Vergers and Tips for the Bizarre.
A little later, bogged down by vergers and bazaars and wondering if it was too early to knock off for a restorative, I was disturbed by a loud thump at the door. It was the telegraph boy, an increasingly rare species, and I knew it could mean only one thing: Primrose.
In her youth my sister had been a rabid sender of telegrams – usually requesting money of our parents or announcing some firm purpose unlooked for by the recipient. In middle age, and a successful artist earning a lucrative living churning out scenes of sheep and churches for the popular market, she has considerably less monetary need. However, though now comparatively sparse, her telegrams still have the power to bemuse and unsettle. And thus it was with some reluctance that I took the yellow envelope from the boy, read it quickly and assured him it needed no reply.
BLOWER KAPUT, it read, KINDLY INFORM RE FRANCE STOP WHOSE CAR WHAT LUGGAGE QUESTION MARK IMPERATIVE THAT I KNOW STOP YOUR SISTER.
I sighed and shoved it on the mantelpiece. Since the French trip was more than two weeks away I failed to see the urgency; but women tend to fuss over these matters and I knew that a delayed reply would only provoke further demands. The need for an early restorative grew more pressing and so I poured a small gin and lit a cigarette.
I was just reflecting what details I should put in my letter, when the telephone rang. Assuming it would be a parish matter at that hour in the morning, I was surprised to hear Primrose’s own voice.
‘I thought your phone was up the spout,’ I said.
‘Well, it’s better now,’ she said briskly, ‘some little man came to fix it and he actually got it right. Now Francis, I have a lot of preparations to make and need your full attention. I hope you are listening.’ I assured her I was hanging on every word.
‘Oh yes? That’ll be the day! Now look here, what about the travel arrangements? I assume that we shan’t be expected to cripple ourselves stuffed into your Singer. Presumably Nicholas will bring that old Citroën of his. Can’t say I like the look of it, always reminds me of the sort of thing the SS used to favour in the war. Still, at least it’s bigger than your rabbit hutch.’
I was stung by that, having particular affection for my battered but trusty roadster. However, I assured her we would indeed be travelling in Ingaza’s car, and that since Eric had elected not to come there should be plenty of room.
‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ she said, echoing my own thoughts, ‘he makes such a noise on the telephone! Doubtless he is the soul of charm and wit, but I don’t wish to be deafened before my time.’
Primrose had only recently become acquainted with Eric – or rather his disembodied voice at the end of Ingaza’s phone line. Indeed, she had only recently become acquainted with Ingaza, to my considerable disquiet having allowed herself to be bamboozled into joining forces with him in a project of joint benefit and dubious good: namely supplying the Ontario art market with fake eighteenth-century pastorals. At the time I had objected strongly and warned her of the dangers of such an undertaking, especially with someone like Nicholas. But my words had fallen on deaf ears and I was gently reminded by both of them that, being a murderer, I wasn’t exactly in the best position to give advice on such matters. Which of course was true – but it did not stop me worrying, nor for that matter feeling distinct pangs of moral unease. Old habits and values die hard, and it went against the grain to see my sister in collusion with someone as tortuous as Ingaza.
Was perhaps Primrose herself crooked? No – that’s the irony. In many ways she is a model of propriety. Her student days at the Courtauld had, admittedly, been wildly wayward, but she possesses an inherent sense of justice and fair play and is a stalwart, if bossy, ally in times of crisis. She is, however, incorrigibly mercenary; and I think it is this, coupled with an acute pride in her artistic ability, that made her susceptible to Ingaza’s overtures. The painting of those fakes was a challenge to her ingenuity, and the thrill of a financial coup a draw she could not resist. Fundamentally honest, she had, I think, persuaded herself that the whole venture was simply a test of artistic endeavour and entrepreneurial skill. In this of course she was pandered to and encouraged by Ingaza … However, it is not my intention to ruminate upon Primrose and her moral ambiguities. I write simply to record as best I can how the three of us (four if you count the impossible Henri) fared on that questionable trip to Berceau-Lamont and La Folie de Fotherington.
* See Bone Idle
4
The Cat’s Memoir
All I can say is that if the vicar and his sister assumed they could swan off to France without my being involved, then they could certainly think again! I am a cat of agile brain and probing curiosity and had no intention of being left behind by F.O. while he embarked on so questionable an enterprise with the Type from Brighton. Admittedly, when Bouncer and I first sniffed it in the wind I had thought the plan was bound to abort, being too absurd to get further than F.O.’s atlas. Indeed, I expressed that opinion to the dog. Bouncer, however, seemed less certain, saying that his bones told him otherwise – his exact words being, ‘You just see, the bugger will go and we’ll be left.’ Naturally I never pay attention to his wretched bones and assured him it would come to nothing.
However, with the Type’s telephone calls more frequent and F.O. growing more tense, I began to think that the dog wasn’t so far off the mark. It was when the sister started sending her telegrams that my suspicions were really aroused … and the vicar’s frantic purchase of a new French dictionary finally confirmed them.
It was plain that the dog was disturbed by the thought of his master disappearing to foreign parts (having had a bad experience with his original owner decamping to South America*). However, when I told him it would be only for a short time and that I had overheard F.O. arranging to settle him with Florence, he recovered his spirits remarkably well, reminding me incessantly of how admired he was by the wolfhound, and that her nice owners were ‘dab hands with the grub’. In fact, as the time drew nearer for the vicar’s trip, the more excited Bouncer became at the prospect of his own little holiday – going so far as to ask whether he should apply a spit and polish to his rubber ring. Since the item was ingrained with months of dirt, I said I thought this an excellent idea but it would need a considerable amount of saliva. The ensuing cleaning process was objectionable but useful, for it kept him fully occupied and thus gave me time to consider my own plans. These naturally were both bold and masterly.
Although the odious Crumplehorn was firmly incarcerated in Broadmoor (the lunatic asylum in Berkshire distrusted by humans), I was nevertheless worried that things might yet again prove perilous for the vicar. He is not of a robust ilk, and accompanied by one as slippery as the Brighton Type his chances of being dragged into more dangers seemed distinctly high. There was of course the sister – who might be expected to exert a modicum of control over matters, but having seen her assaulting the sherry and drooling over those dire chinchillas, I could not be too sure. Thus I felt it my inescapable duty to accompany our master on his travels and ensure that he returned, if not hearty (God forbid), then at least hale.
This decision was not such a sacrifice as you might think, for I have to admit that having once been t
reated to the ramblings of Pierre the Ponce (Bouncer’s friend, the toy poodle) re the pleasures of Continental life, I was now tempted to see for myself just how well the other half lived. According to Pierre, the French pilchard was of a quality so rare and exquisite as to make all other varieties pale into watered milk. Of course the poodle is a notorious blagueur and such claims are typical of his Gallic showmanship. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help wondering …
* * *
So, the decision made, I drew up my strategy. Quite a simple one really: I would become a stowaway – both on land and on the high seas! The prospect gave me a frisson of excitement, and despite my usual discretion I could not resist confiding my plans to Bouncer. He stared at me for some time with what I took to be surprised awe. And then he said gravely, ‘You’ll rue it, Maurice. You’ll be as sick as a dog.’
This was not the response I had expected, and for a few moments my buoyant spirits were quite dashed … so much so that I considered a sulk was in order. But just as I was preparing for such, it occurred to me that with only three days to go before the vicar’s departure, time would be better spent in planning tactics. Thus pausing only to tell Bouncer to watch his tongue I made my way briskly to the graveyard, and under the branches of the old yew spent a most profitable hour devising ways and means.
I was interrupted in this by a loud barking, and the next moment the dog appeared tousled and panting. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he announced.
‘That’s nice,’ I murmured. ‘What about?’
‘Your trip to foreign parts. You had better start practising.’
‘Practising what?’
‘Mewing in French of course.’
‘If you imagine,’ I replied, ‘that I have any intention of adjusting either my accent or my vocal cords, you are entirely wrong. Foreign soil does not necessitate adopting foreign peculiarities!’ He took no notice of course, and hurtled into the shrubbery, rump triumphant and lungs fit to burst. Deafened, I returned to the kitchen; and settling myself by the boiler engaged in some meditative grooming.
Bones in High Places Page 2