‘Moi, sheet?’ the latter expostulated. ‘Jamais ma foi! Henri Martineau ees virtue eemself. He nevaire sheet!’
‘All the frigging time,’ replied Nicholas cheerfully.
With grumbles and mumbles, the curé got up from the table, blew a mouth raspberry and shook his fist at Maurice. The cat stared back bleakly and then closed his eyes – though whether through drowsiness or disdain it was hard to tell.
Over supper we discussed logistics – or rather Ingaza instructed us in how we should proceed once Henri’s ‘contraption’ had arrived. An unsubtle plan: under cover of darkness the three of us (Primrose having obdurately opted out) would proceed to the Folly, and equipped with the priest’s shovels and metal detector embark on an intensive search of the areas marked on the plan.
‘I know exactly where they are,’ said Nicholas. ‘My reconnaissance yesterday was most fruitful: it’s a surprisingly clear map and seems to tally precisely with the estate’s terrain and features. One of the places is under a ring of oak trees close to the perimeter wall, and the other is inside what looks like an old dairy – a ruined shed next to the house. The spot under the trees should be easy enough, but the shed will be tricky. I took a squint inside and it’s full of rubble and shattered tiles … Good for those etiolated muscles, Francis!’ He turned to me and grinned. I did not.
Instead I said, ‘And suppose there’s nothing there?’
‘In that case, dear boy, you will go straight to the notary, stake your claim and say you want to sell the whole kaboosh.’ Given the two prospects – the physical cost of delving for gold or parleying with a French notaire – the former seemed the preferable. But both were daunting and I was less than eager.
‘Oh, but I thought we might keep it for ourselves,’ exclaimed Primrose. ‘You know, do it up and then use it as a holiday home. It would be lovely!’
‘With all due respect,’ Nicholas murmured, ‘such an undertaking would be prohibitive. And charming though they are, I very much doubt whether your sheep paintings, even with the Canadian market, would run to the renovations that your exquisite taste would require.’ He beamed and she nodded reluctantly. ‘So,’ he concluded firmly, ‘it’s gold or sale.’
‘Neek is right: gold or sale, sale or gold,’ Henri chanted. ‘Le Curé de Taupinière – ‘ee say, strike while ‘ot bird ees in zee ‘and!’ We regarded him in cold silence.
‘Good, that’s settled,’ announced Nicholas briskly. ‘We’ll have a cognac on it.’ And he waved to Georges.
‘Wait a minute,’ I broke in, ‘what about Climp and Mullion? I’ve told you, they are camped somewhere on the Birtle-Figgins’ land, and it can’t possibly be a coincidence again. They’re watching us, waiting – I know it.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas coolly, ‘you are very probably right. But there’s two of them and three of us – four if you count Henri. We must just keep alert and see that we’re ahead of the game. Shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ I protested, ‘but it’s me they’re interested in. I’m the one that is going to suffer.’
‘Nonsense,’ declared Primrose, ‘there isn’t going to be any suffering. Don’t be so melodramatic, Francis. It’s disgraceful them harassing innocent travellers, and if they try any monkey business I shall have no hesitation in going straight to the police.’
‘Er, actually, Primrose, I would rather you didn’t,’ I said hastily.
‘What? … Oh, I see. Well, I shall certainly do something.’ She took out her lipstick and applied it with grim force.
We were just thinking it was time to call it a day and retire to bed, when the telephone in the lobby rang, and a few moments later Georges appeared to announce that a gentleman was seeking Monsieur Francis. I froze. Oh my God, I thought, it’s them. They’re at me already!
In fact it was Clinker. He had muttered something that morning about getting in touch, but I hadn’t taken it too seriously and was surprised at his speed.
‘Is that you, Oughterard?’ the bishop enquired warily. I assured him that it was. ‘Ah good … I thought I might stroll down to the village tomorrow morning – stretch my legs a bit and, er, perhaps call in for a coffee at your inn. Are you likely to be about? You might like to join me – you and your sister of course.’ He paused, and then added casually, ‘And er, bring uhm …’
‘Ingaza?’ I said helpfully.
‘Yes,’ he replied shortly.
I asked what time would suit him and we agreed on eleven o’clock.
‘Good, good,’ he said briskly. ‘All news then.’
News? What news? I had not realized we were on such matey terms, but before I had a chance to enquire further he had rung off.
I returned to the dining room where fortunately only Primrose and Nicholas remained. This was just as well as somehow I did not think that Clinker’s invitation for coffee stretched as far as Taupinière’s illustrious incumbent.
‘It’s Clinker,’ I said. ‘Wants to have coffee with us tomorrow. I think the combination of Myrtle and his hosts is getting him down, he needs a break.’
‘Don’t suppose Gladys helps either,’ added Nicholas waspishly.
‘Probably not. Anyway he seems very keen to see you after all this time,’ I replied in mild exaggeration.
He grunted. ‘Aren’t I the lucky one.’
17
The Vicar’s Version
I was tempted to lie abed the following morning. But mindful of Clinker’s visit, plus the fact that Bouncer was desperate to be loosed into the yard to romp with Clemenceau, I resisted the urge and presented myself at the breakfast table geared for the demands of the day. I was slightly worried that Henri might be around when the bishop arrived. It was difficult to imagine them having much in common. Keeping Clinker in temper was an exacting task at the best of times and unlikely to be helped by the priest’s anarchic presence.
Thus I was about to ask how the land lay, when I was pre-empted by Nicholas saying, ‘Old Henri has taken himself off to Vichy for the day. According to him there’s a church there with some incredible stained glass that he’s been wanting to see for years.’ He must have seen my look of surprise, for he went on, ‘Yes, I know, artistic discernment is not something to be associated with Henri, and I suspect that the real reason is that he’s arranged to meet a pal who is due to stand him a gargantuan meal. Can’t think why – something to do with a lost bet, I gather.’
‘How did he get to the station?’ I asked. ‘Did you run him there?’
‘At that hour in the morning? Like heck. No, he hitched a lift with some nun driving a Studebaker. Told her he had to get to confession tooty sweety.’
‘Huh,’ I remarked, ‘not before time, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Nicholas gave me what used to be known as an old-fashioned look and said mildly, ‘Yes, the Roman Catholics do have the convenience of that particular outlet – unlike those of the Anglican persuasion …’ Thus rebuked I buried my blushes in the newspaper and my coffee cup.
Eleven o’clock arrived – as did Clinker, on the dot. This time, unencumbered by heat and blackberries, he looked less weary; but there was a tension in his face, which relaxed somewhat when he saw me. Indeed, a tolerable smile spread across his features. Goodness, I thought, things must be bad.
The weather being still mild, I took him out on to what passed for the veranda, a cramped area with rickety chairs and tables, desultory stone pots and a rather moth-eaten sunshade. However, the views were good, the coffee strong, and Georges had thrown in some madeleines in honour of ‘milord l’évêque anglais’. For my sweet tooth these dry Proustian specialities have little appeal, but Clinker set upon them with gusto and I was reminded of his earlier reference to his hosts’ diet of spinach and lentils … Suffering from daytime starvation, presumably.
It was not, I learnt, the only thing he was suffering from: the Belvedere bones were proving tiresome. ‘The fellow’s obsessed with them,’ he grumbled, ‘and seems to think that
he and Lavinia have some special responsibility for their care. I mean, it’s bad enough having to sit with the things in the dining room, but he now tells me he has recently built a special shrine to the chap somewhere in the grounds, and along with other crackpots intends parading the bones in front of it as some form of consecration ceremony. Seems to imagine I would be interested – even participate. Really, Oughterard, what one has to put up with!’
I was about to commiserate and enquire who the other crackpots were, when Maurice emerged, picking his way along the balustrade; seeing me, and with an uncharacteristic mew of welcome, he launched himself upon my lap. This rocked the table and upset my cup (empty fortunately). Clinker grimaced. ‘Wretched cats, you never know what they are going to do next. Myrtle has one, a most contrary creature …’ He broke off and stared hard. ‘I think I’ve seen that one before. It can’t be yours, surely, not here!’
I confessed that it was, and began a stammered explanation as to why the cat was with me in addition to the dog. He cut me short. ‘Extraordinary that you seem incapable of travelling except in the company of a menagerie of animals. However, I suppose …’
I did not learn of his supposition, for just then Primrose and Nicholas appeared, and all conversation stopped as Clinker confronted the erstwhile bane of St Bede’s and his pre-war amatory adventure.
I was amused to see that the object of his gaze had clearly made careful sartorial preparation. Despite the thin frame, gaunt cheeks and grey-streaked temples, in a louche sort of way Nicholas Ingaza still cut quite a decent figure – at least to my unpractised eye. Doubtless the slightly crumpled linen suit was more in keeping with the Riviera (or Singapore), and the glistening brilliantine and carefully arranged neckerchief too ostentatious for the purest of tastes, but one had to concede that the overall effect lent a certain raffish distinction to the scruffy veranda – and mercifully diverted the bishop’s attention away from me and my ‘menagerie’.
I was glad of my sister’s presence for it made the handling of the preliminaries less awkward, and in answer to Clinker ‘s polite enquiries about her painting career Primrose spoke with wit and animation.
Initially quiet, Nicholas gradually insinuated himself into the conversation, biding the cues, murmuring appreciatively in the pauses, contributing a nod, a decorous chuckle, even a mild joke. Thus little by little, rather like calming a nervous horse, he made the bishop at ease with his presence. It was a deft little manoeuvre of tact and nice judgement, and not for the first time I had a glimpse of those qualities which made him such a consummate rogue … and which presumably had disarmed Clinker all those years ago at Oxford.
We ordered more coffee and Clinker told us a little more about the people he was staying with and their ascetic habits. ‘It’s not that they aren’t hospitable,’ he said, ‘but frankly, it’s all a bit intense, and with those bone relics staring at me across the breakfast table sometimes it’s downright uncomfortable.’ He paused, and then said hesitantly, ‘As a matter of fact I have a confession to make. Mrs Birtle-Figgins – Lavinia – is inviting one or two people to lunch tomorrow: her cousin Rupert Turnbull who owns a local language school, and a couple of neighbours. Gladys seemed to think it would be nice if you and your sister could be included too, and Lavinia says she will be delighted.’ He coughed apologetically. ‘I think my wife thought it might help things along – er, make it all a bit jollier …’
I was astonished that Gladys Clinker should regard me as being remotely jolly. She had certainly never given any indication of that view before, and was obviously out of sorts. However, if in a moment of abstraction I was seen as some sort of court jester, then I supposed I had better oblige.
Primrose laughed and said we would be only too happy to help out. Then saying she had some letters to write made her excuses and slipped away.
Left alone, we started to reminisce about Oxford before the war; although by tacit accord the post-war events at St Bede’s theological college were tactfully skated over. Relaxed though he was, I doubted whether the bishop would take kindly to that particular turn in memory lane. As it was there was a sticky moment anyway, for at one point in the conversation Nicholas sailed rather too close to the wind (deliberately, I think) and it looked as if our guest might stalk off in dudgeon.
I cannot recall exactly what was said but it elicited an irascible response: ‘You were always difficult!’ the bishop had snapped.
‘Ah,’ replied Ingaza slyly, ‘but you were such a tease.’
There was silence, and for one moment I thought Clinker was about to explode. He seemed to go puce around the edges and I noticed the vein in his temple working fit to burst. But when something finally issued from his twitching mouth it was a sound not of wrath but of mirth, and in a tone of mingled fury and fond nostalgia he cried, ‘My God, you little bugger, you haven’t changed a jot!’
Nicholas gave a self-deprecating shrug, sleeked his hair and offered Clinker a cigarette. The latter muttered something about never touching the things these days and took it swiftly. The three of us leant against the balustrade smoking in silence and regarding the distant dome of Le Puy. It was a moment of rare peace broken only by the bleating of a goat and the distant strains of the French national anthem.
18
The Vicar’s Version
My anxieties about the lurking presence of Climp and Mullion had left me feeling jaded; and thus after supper that night I decided a little walk might help settle my mind and refresh the spirit. It was a pleasant stroll down to the village, the evening’s quiet broken only by the occasional cluck of duck and a distant braying of donkey. The fireflies were out, puncturing the dusk with eerie darting gleams, and now and again I caught the whiff of wood smoke and the insidious sweetness of late lilies.
At the pond’s edge I stood gazing at the reflection of the rising moon, savouring the silence, feeling a wave of rare tranquillity and wishing it could be ever thus. A firefly winked, a frog plopped and I could just catch the faint chirruping of an early nightjar.
‘Not a bad sort of place, is it, Canon? Leastways, not if you want to get away from things it isn’t.’ The voice came suddenly from the gloaming behind me and, startled though I was, I did not need to look round to know it was Mullion’s.
‘Not bad at all,’ I agreed easily, ‘very attractive in fact.’
He came and stood beside me and lobbed a pebble into the middle of the pond where it made an explosive splash and set up a protest from one of the ducks. He studied the widening ripples and remarked casually, ‘Water, it’s like life really, one disturbance leads to another … messes everything else up. But then I expect you’d know about that, wouldn’t you? I mean, I expect it’s the sort of thing you tell your congregation during your Sunday sermons.’ I made no answer. ‘Isn’t it?’ he persisted.
‘Not specially,’ I replied evenly, ‘there are quite a lot of topics which –’
‘I bet there are,’ he said quickly. ‘All that good and evil stuff you vicars have to preach about. Must get a bit boring sometimes – or worrying, more like.’ He laughed loudly and added, ‘You know, when I was a nipper I always thought it was the parson’s job to prick consciences – other people’s, I mean. Never occurred to me to think that even a vicar might be tarred with guilt. Funny really.’ And he laughed again. (Oh yes, side-splitting, I thought … and thought too of Bouncer, Nicholas, Primrose, even Clinker, and wished to God they were with me.) ‘You know what?’ he continued, and paused.
The question was clearly not rhetorical, and reluctantly I asked, ‘What?’
‘Our Mr Crumpelmeyer – now he’s a one that’s interested in good and evil too; and with him spending his days inside it has – how shall I put it? – sort of unleashed his imagination. Keeps making up odd stories, very odd. Want to hear one?’
‘Haven’t got time,’ I mumbled, ‘must get back to the inn.’
‘Oh, but you’ll like this one, it’s worth waiting for. Right up your street, I should say. All a
bout a vicar and the murder of an old lady – in a wood.’ He gripped my elbow; and turning my head I saw the smile … and the menace.
‘Look,’ I said stiffly, trying to ease my arm, ‘I’ve no idea what you are talking about, and as I said, I am in rather a hurry.’
‘Really? But you’ve only just got here. Been watching you, Mr Oughterard, been watching for some time … and thinking.’ The grip tightened, the smile vanished and was replaced by a sneer of hostility.
‘What is it you want?’ I asked as coldly as I could.
He relaxed his hold. ‘That’s better. Like I always say to old Victor when he gets on his high horse, things go much easier when you co-operate. Much easier.’
My heart was starting to race, and absurdly the only thing I could think of saying was to query his use of the adjective. But I doubted if the observation would be well received and so kept silent.
‘You see,’ he went on softly, ‘Ken and I, we know what you’re doing here. Same as us: you’ve come to sniff out that Nazi bullion. I was in these parts during the war and heard a lot of the local talk. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but I have since; and when old Victor comes along ranting and raving about you and his ma-in-law and the lost deeds and all, I put two and two together. Ay, ay, I thought, he’s on the make, on the bloody make! There was something else I thought too – but we won’t bother to go into that now, will we? Not just now …’
Apart from the surge of indignation at the injustice of his words ‘on the make’, my immediate reaction was one of craven despair … At last, after all this time of cringing fear, all the evasions and subterfuge, I was being directly confronted about Elizabeth’s death. Sparring with the police had been tense enough; but whatever their suspicions, no one had actually voiced them so explicitly as this man now, standing close and confident in the gathering gloom. The flat sardonic words, ‘all about a vicar and the murder of an old lady’, hammered in my head and struck ice in my gut. He might not have the proof but he had the conviction, and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Bones in High Places Page 10