Bones in High Places

by Suzette A. Hill

  I found a comfortable spot with a good view of the surrounding vista and settled my back against a broad tree stump. Above me was a shepherd’s hut with a solitary goat tethered beside it, but apart from its occasional bleating and the muted hum of bees, there was nothing to break the enveloping silence. And knowing full well the transience of such peace I leant back, closed my eyes and gave myself up to its ephemeral charm …

  Ephemeral. Yes, I was permitted about five minutes of it. And then the voice burst down upon me: ‘My God, it’s not Oughterard, is it? What in heaven’s name are you doing here!’ Clinker’s words tumbled indignantly upon my ears.

  I opened my eyes: and beheld not a spectacle of the bishop draped with rods and waders as once envisioned in a mild nightmare, but His Lordship in floppy straw hat, open-necked shirt and portly cotton trousers. Slung round his neck was a large wicker pannier filled to the brim with what looked like blackberries. For an absurd moment I wondered if he was rehearsing for some bucolic role in a musical version of the Eclogues; but banished it instantly, feeling that at all costs I must keep my grip on grim reality.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ I said faintly. ‘What a pleasant surprise! Enjoying the mountain air, are you?’

  He advanced towards me silently, put down the basket, took a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow, and said in measured syllables, ‘No, Oughterard, I am not enjoying the mountain air: it is too hot, I am too tired, these damn things weigh a ton and I have just stepped in a mess made by your perishing dog.’ He sat down and started to remove one of his shoes and wipe it on the grass. ‘Saw the animal a few moments ago … thought it looked vaguely familiar – hairy hound – but naturally didn’t connect it with you. How did you get here? What are you doing? Are you with anybody?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Ye-es,’ I volunteered, ‘if you remember, when we last met in the cathedral, I did mention I was going to France with my sister … but how amazing our meeting here. Extraordinary coincidence!’ Naturally it couldn’t be left at that, and he quizzed me for more details; and uneasily I revealed we were staying at the La Truite Bleue in the middle of Berceau-Lamont.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he acknowledged vaguely, ‘we’ve passed it a couple of times. Rather a seedy joint, isn’t it?’ I nodded but said it was all right for a short time.

  ‘Hmm, dare say. Surprising what one can cope with for a short time – sometimes at least. Anyone else staying, or just you and your sister?’

  Instinct was to lie of course, but reason prompted otherwise. Just conceivably Ingaza’s presence might remain under wraps, but knowing my luck it seemed unlikely; and the embarrassment of such a revelation after the blatant lie would be even worse than the revelation itself. Thus I took a deep breath and said as casually as possible, ‘As a matter of fact, Nicholas Ingaza is with us. Hardly ever see him these days – but just now and again we bump into each other … He, er, rather decently offered the use of his car and a bit of chauffeuring for our French trip, and since he knows the region so much better than we do he seemed a rather useful fellow to bring along …’ My voice trailed off indecisively, waiting for the explosion. Rather surprisingly none came; and at that moment Bouncer appeared from the bushes, evidently tired of his adventures, and trotted over to sit beside me. I was able to pay elaborate attention to brushing the burrs from his coat and adjusting his collar.

  Immersed in this I took a covert glance at Clinker. He had gone scarlet in the face and was steadily filling his mouth with the blackberries. I wondered fleetingly whether to mention the imminence of Henri, but felt that this was not the moment.

  At last he said, ‘Hmm, I seem to remember your mentioning him a couple of years ago –’ the memory was mutual: half an hour later the bishop had been nine sheets to the wind on my sitting-room carpet* – ‘but I had no idea you were still in touch.’ He cleared his throat, adding sternly, ‘Not the best of associates, Francis, especially now that you’re a canon.’ He took another blackberry and stared intently into the far distance. I wondered what he was thinking about – the embarrassing scandal of Nicholas’s outrageous behaviour at St Bede’s? Or perhaps further back to Oxford before the war and – pace Ingaza – their brief dalliance before the melancholy advent of Gladys. Judging from the drumming fingers and the quantities of blackberries being consumed I assumed the latter.

  To defuse the awkwardness, I asked him about those blackberries. Did he propose making a fruit sponge perhaps? His features hardened and I fully expected an icy riposte. But instead he gave a sardonic smile, and turning to me exclaimed ruefully, ‘Sponge? That would be something. Nothing but fruit, vegetables and sulphurous water since we arrived here – and now I’ve been sent out to gather these things for a compôte, if you please!’ The term was rendered as if it were one of Maurice’s more distasteful trophies. He must have seen my puzzlement, for after a brief hesitation he lowered his voice and, checking that only the goat was in earshot, launched into a diatribe of protest against his hosts the Birtle-Figgins.

  ‘You see,’ he exclaimed earnestly and furiously, ‘they are complete nut cutlets. Complete. Myrtle’s friends or not, if I’d known beforehand I’d have put my foot down and we’d have steered clear. As it is, we are stuck there with a pair of spinach-munching religious cranks who do nothing except rattle on about a cache of desiccated bones. It’s too bad!’

  I groped for a useful response but could think of none, so said weakly, ‘Well, I never.’ And since there was no reply added, ‘Er, these bones … are they very desiccated?’

  ‘Of course they are,’ he snapped. ‘Nineteenth-century. Been kept in an outhouse for decades. All very hush-hush.’ I was none the wiser so tried again; and with a loud sigh Clinker commenced his tale.

  Apparently the bones – two tibias, a patella, a single metatarsal, phalanges, a complete set of false teeth and a glass eye – had pertained to the local hermit: one Belvedere Bondolphi, who had lived in the area in the 1830s surviving on roots, berries and impeccable rectitude. Once a novice in a nearby monastery (long since defunct), he had fallen out of favour with the abbot, and indeed the Church itself, by adopting ritualistic practices not normally recognized. So idiosyncratic did these practices become that he was finally dismissed. But undeterred, and convinced he was destined for God’s special notice, he had established himself in a hut outside the monastery walls, where he spent the rest of his days singing psalms and banging a tambourine.

  ‘A tambourine?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Apparently. Drove the abbot mad.’ Clinker paused in his account and offered the dog some blackberries, while I pondered the idiosyncratic practices. Rather diffidently I enquired what they were.

  ‘What? Oh, I don’t know … interfering with bees or some such.’

  ‘Interfering with bees! What ever do you mean, sir?’ I was more than puzzled and a trifle disappointed.

  ‘Yes, seemed he couldn’t keep away from the monastery beehives – kept making the creatures swarm when they shouldn’t; and then took to wearing one of those beekeeping veils during Vespers and Compline … frightened the life out of the younger novices. He had to go.’

  ‘Well, I should think so … but what has this to do with your hosts and their obsession with the bones?’

  Clinker grimaced. ‘Boris Birtle-Figgins has got it into his head that the fellow should be canonized. Claims he performed a couple of miracles just before his death. Apparently those plus his lifelong penance of self-denial and silence (apart from the tambourine) make him a prime candidate for sainthood. The Catholic Church won’t touch it with a bargepole, but that cuts no ice with Boris. Oh no! He’s determined to hijack the chap for the Anglicans and is set on getting him recognized by Canterbury. In fact – and this is the ghastly part – he seems to imagine that I can put in a word with the archbishop.’ He closed his eyes and shuddered.

  ‘So where are these bones kept?’ I asked curiously. ‘Still in an outhouse?’

  ‘No, more’s the pity. In a crummy casket on the dining-roo
m sideboard. It’s always there leering at one over lunch and dinner. Doesn’t exactly help in the digestion of lentils and dandelion leaves, I can tell you.’

  ‘Shouldn’t think it would. How awful.’

  ‘The whole thing’s awful,’ he said tightly. ‘And it hasn’t helped Gladys’s temper either. She can’t stand him.’ Unsurprising, I thought. There were, after all, few people that the bishop’s wife could stand (and Molehill’s canon not of the elect).

  ‘But can’t you leave? You know – make an excuse and motor on to other parts?’

  ‘Huh!’ he snorted bitterly. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. Damn car’s kaput and the idiot at the garage says it’ll take days to fix. We’re marooned … doomed.’ He seemed to enjoy the rhyming assonance and repeated the words sombrely.

  A thought occurred. Helpful? Mischievous? I don’t know – but I heard myself saying, ‘Well, sir, of course Ingaza is pretty good with engines, always has been. Amazing the number of old jalopies he was able to resuscitate at St Bede’s. Don’t you remember when the Bishop of Pontefract’s Rover gave up the ghost in the quadrangle, and Nick fixed it in a couple of seconds despite all the false starts from the AA?’

  This was greeted by a massive clearing of throat that rumbled on for some time. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘one will have to see about that. Might be useful, I suppose … I’ll, er, let you know perhaps …’ He had gone pink in the face again and I changed the subject to something less sensitive: Myrtle. I asked how long his sister-in-law had known the Birtle-Figgins and – recalling the armful of bread and cakes – what she thought of their culinary regime.

  ‘Six months and not much,’ was the curt answer.

  He enlarged on this, explaining that she had first encountered them at some embassy function in Brussels when her husband was still alive. At the time they had seemed normal enough and they had got on moderately well. Later, after her husband’s death, they had popped up again and issued a standing invitation to stay at their villa, Le Petit Rêve, should she ever be in the area. ‘On the strength of that,’ he continued ruefully, ‘Myrtle insisted that we change our normal holiday plans and the three of us travel down here to stay with “dear” Boris and Lavinia.’ He sighed. ‘Not a good idea.’

  ‘But aren’t there things to do?’ I asked. ‘The fishing is supposed to be pretty good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes, the fishing’s all right, and plenty for Gladys to paint … puys and such,’ he added vaguely. ‘But there’s too much singing for my liking.’

  ‘Singing?’ I asked, startled.

  ‘Yes, mad keen on hymns – always at it.’

  I laughed. ‘Well, you should be used to that, sir. Plenty of singing in the cathedral.’

  ‘Yes, Oughterard,’ he replied testily, ‘but not on holiday. One’s got to draw the line somewhere … and besides, I don’t recognize them, clearly not out of Ancient & Modern. Bizarre.’

  ‘Are there any neighbours? I mean, do people drop in – that sort of thing?’

  ‘Not so far,’ he replied gloomily, ‘unless you count the campers, of course.’

  ‘Campers? Are there many?’

  ‘No, no. Just a couple. They turned up last night and Lavinia allowed them to pitch their tent in one of the orchards and insisted on supplying jugs of milk. Seems to have taken to them for some reason … shouldn’t have thought they were her cup of tea. Not exactly comme il faut, if you get my drift. Still, none of my business, of course … Small world though, I gather they come from Crowthorne and –’ He broke off, looked at his watch and scowled. ‘Oh Lor’, nearly lunchtime. Back to the bones, I suppose.’ And shouldering the fruit basket and muttering something about being in touch, he stomped off up the path and disappeared among the beech trees.

  * See A Load of Old Bones

  16

  The Vicar’s Version

  When I reached the inn I was bursting to unburden my shock on Primrose and Nicholas, but my sister was nowhere to be seen and Nicholas so engrossed in his telephone instructions to Eric that it was obvious I would not get his attention for some time.

  I mooched into the bar where Georges, smouldering Gitane stuck to lower lip, was polishing glasses and addressing Maurice in lengthy discourse as if he were some intimate crony. The cat looked surprisingly attentive (more so than he ever does with me), and I hesitated to ask for a drink, not wishing to intrude on their tête-à-tête. However, seeing me, Georges broke off his disquisition and reached for the cognac.

  ‘You look tired. Monsieur should not go on the mountains – too much ees no good. Il faut rester tranquille ici. Be like cat and stay ‘ere ‘appy and doucement.’ He grinned, pushed the glass in my direction and poured one for himself.

  Happy and doucement – yes, I could do with a bit of that, I thought grimly. (What the hell were they up to, the scheming blighters?) I sipped the brandy, debating whether to order some bread and pâté, but felt too agitated to bother. Instead I asked Georges about Le Petit Rêve. He gave a graphic description – a large eighteenth-century farmhouse recently modernized and refurbished, occupying a broad corniche a mile above the village and replete with meadows and small boating lake. But when I enquired about the owners he was less forthcoming. ‘Comme ci comme ça,’ was the indifferent response. ‘I do not see zem often, they not come here. She OK – assez jolie – but le monsieur …’ He trailed off, giving a mild shrug. I did not pursue the matter.

  ‘Many campers?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Le camping? Only les Allemands – toujours les Allemands!’

  He gave a wry smile.

  ‘No English?’ I asked, feigning surprise.

  ‘They have big passion for les caravanes – no good for montagnes.’ He opened his arms wide indicating their size, but then paused and added, ‘Ah, I forget … yes, some messieurs come yesterday with big tent and très chic moteur. Vairee fast! They have drink and ask questions about la grande Folie en bas. But I am busy and they soon go.’ He shrugged again, winked at Maurice and turned to greet a customer.

  Big tent and très chic motor car? Them all right. Bastards! Bastards! What were they doing? Lying in wait for me? I threw down the dregs of the brandy and wandered morosely into the passage. Nicholas had just replaced the receiver and was jotting something briskly in a notebook. I began to tell him about Climp and Mullion but he waved me aside impatiently. ‘Not now, old boy. Got to call my Cranleigh contact. It’s his Goodwood day … must catch the sod before he goes.’ He was about to dial, and then paused. ‘Time’s getting on, Francis, don’t forget old Henri.’ I sighed. As if I could.

  An hour later I was gingerly steering Ingaza’s Citroën round tortuous bends en route for the station. Small and empty, it dozed in the afternoon sun, the single track glinting dully like a basking grass snake. Alone on the silent platform, I wondered if in fact anything would appear at all. But after five minutes or so I detected the faintest sound and in the far distance saw a whiff of smoke. I watched nervously, as rounding the bend the train gradually drew into the station. With clanking wheels and a sigh of exhaustion it came to a juddering halt, steam billowing from the engine. I waited for carriage doors to be flung wide and passengers to alight … None did.

  The air was still, the train now mute, all exits remaining resolutely closed. Then a whistle blew. And just as it was cranking itself up to depart, a door at the far end finally opened and a small figure clad in black emerged, and in a sort of weaving motion began to amble its way down the long platform. Bearing only a knapsack, the figure nevertheless moved with halting gait and, drawing closer, patently rasping breath.

  However, despite being apparently broken in wind and limb, on seeing me it let out a cry of exultation: ‘Mon vieux,’ it croaked, ‘vous devez être l’idiot prêtre anglais! Bienvenu en la belle France! Je suis enchanté de vous rencontrer.’ And before I had a chance to dodge, I was seized in a vice-like grip and kissed fervently on both cheeks.

  Reeling from the bristles and a blast of brandy, I s
aid politely in English (too flustered to try my French), ‘Er, good afternoon, Monsieur Martineau, I hope you have had a pleasant journey.’

  ‘Je ne sais pas,’ was the cheery reply, ‘je ne me souviens rien!’ Couldn’t remember? No wonder. Obviously tight as a tick the whole damn way.

  I eased the tick into the Citroën, and amidst clouds of Gitanes and garlic-laden gabble, none of which I understood, we drove back to the inn where I decanted him into the care of Nicholas. On the way I had puzzled over his lack of impedimenta – Nicholas having assured us that he was coming equipped with metal detector and shovels – and I had begun to harbour hopes that he had left them behind. No such luck. In fractured English (his one attempt) he announced that the luggage was due for collection at the station two days hence. ‘You go fetch,’ he directed. I do not go fetch, I thought grimly, Ingaza can do his own dirty work.

  A couple of hours later, having prised some sleep from my springless mattress, I gathered myself together and went down to the bar. It was empty except for a group at a corner table. There, huddled over a pack of cards and watched intently by Maurice and Bouncer, were Nicholas, Georges, the curé – and, rather to my surprise, Primrose. I could hear low mutterings, and then my sister’s ringing voice: ‘No, Henri, that is definitely my trick. And I’ll thank you to remove your sleeve from that ace!’ There was an anguished splutter of indeterminate French, an expletive from the barman, and then silence as they bent again to the cards.

  I watched for a little longer, and then, fancying the thought of an aperitif, cleared my throat politely and asked Georges if he would mind pouring me a small Dubonnet. He gestured expansively towards the bottle on the counter signalling I should help myself. However, as he did so, Nicholas exclaimed, ‘Good idea, Francis, I’m tired of this – and old Henri is such a bloody cheat, it’s like having to play two games at once, the one on the table and the one in his thieving head.’