Thoughts reeled helplessly. What to do? What to say? Think, Francis, think! The self-assured voice of my father echoed in my mind: ‘When in doubt, my boy, stay still. Wait for the other bugger to show his hand …’ All very well, but suppose the other bugger had already shown his hand and you hadn’t a clue how to act? What then, for God’s sake? I heard another voice – Ingaza’s – nasal, bantering: ‘Never admit a thing, old chap, not a thing. Laugh it off – gives you time and they get confused.’
But I was too flustered to cope with that, and instead said feebly, ‘A bit beyond me, I’m afraid, you’re not making a lot of sense. I really must be –’
‘Then I’ll spell it out for you, Dumbo,’ he suddenly snarled. ‘That stuff is there all right and we want it. I’ve been waiting for a break like this all my life and I’m not having some grasping parson foul things up!’
‘I am not grasping,’ I began angrily, ‘I –’
‘Shut up and listen. We know you’ve got the plan with the places marked and we’re pretty sure it’s reliable. You can do one of two things – either hand it over to us now or deliver the stuff when you find it. It’s a gamble but I’m not passing up a chance like this, and if there is anything going, I’m getting it.’
‘And Climp,’ I murmured.
‘Yeah, there’s always Climp,’ he replied indifferently.
‘But even if what you are saying is true – about us seeking the treasure – suppose we don’t choose to comply with your request?’ I waited, knowing and dreading the answer. It came.
‘Well, we’ll have to think about that, Mr Oughterard, won’t we? Have to think about that very carefully. I mean, things could turn nasty, really nasty. And we’re not just talking about a broken nose, are we?’
I took his point … No, not a nose – a broken neck on the scaffold. And again I heard Ingaza’s advice: Laugh it off …
‘Good Lord, Mullion,’ I chuckled, ‘you’re like something out of Laurel and Hardy!’ And I launched into a peal of carefully calculated laughter. The only problem was that the mirth did not remain calculated. It grew in power and intensity until, with tears coursing down my cheeks, I became doubled up in helpless paroxysms, lurching and hooting uncontrollably at the water’s edge. Nervous tension, I suppose.
‘Streuth!’ I heard Mullion mutter. And in his surprise he must have stepped back and lost his footing, for the next thing I heard was a curse and a colossal splash … And there he was: floundering and snorting like some befuddled hippo. Clearly it was time to beat a tactical retreat.
Thus moderately sobered, and to the cries of indignant geese rushing to appraise the spectacle, I hurried back to the safety of the inn – to be greeted by Clemenceau and the rallying notes of the Marseillaise.
‘What ever have you been doing?’ exclaimed Primrose as I entered the bar. ‘You look awful!’
‘‘Orrible.’ agreed Henri.
They were sitting at the card table, monitored by Maurice and drinking coffee.
‘It’s Mullion,’ I announced breathlessly. ‘He has exposed himself!’
‘Disgusting,’ remarked Nicholas. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed.’
‘He’s done what?’ Primrose yelped.
‘No, no,’ I said hastily, ‘not that.’ And I started to explain.
When I reached the part about him falling in the pond, Nicholas said caustically, ‘Well, that’s sure to endear him to you, Francis – you’ve got a friend for life there. Must say, I think you could have managed it with a little more finesse.’
I rounded on him. ‘Finesse? How would you like to be threatened by that vicious thug? I tell you, they mean business!’
‘Yes, well so do we,’ he snapped. ‘Blowed if I am going to be beaten by some toerag of a bent screw. I know that type, too cocky by half.’ He spoke with feeling, and, I suspected, from bitter memory.
‘This is too much,’ protested Primrose. ‘I know you are not in favour, Nicholas, but I really think we should pull out before things get dangerous. They are clearly a most unsavoury pair and I really do not wish to be further embroiled. We should go home.’ She spoke with the decisive authority employed for the tiresome and vexatious (and in whose ranks I invariably featured), but I knew it would cut no ice with Ingaza: he had his own agenda. And I guessed that part of that agenda included his resentment of Mullion and determination to beat him at his own game: a rival in the treasure hunt stakes had not featured in the original plan and was fast becoming a personal affront. I recalled our days at St Bede’s and how tenacious he had been – not simply in pursuit of his own ends, but in ensuring that those ends should be undiluted by the actions of others. Selfishness played a part, I suppose, but more basic were the goads of challenge and vanity. Thus the greater the opposition, the greater his obstinacy. (There was also, of course, the harridan spectre of Aunt Lil … incurring her scorn being, I suspected, the least tolerable of Ingaza’s nightmares.)
My supposition was right. There was a pause, and then he said mildly, ‘That’s not entirely convenient, Primrose. You see, this whole affair has put me to substantial trouble and I do not propose turning tail now.’ (Put him to trouble? What about me? I was irked by the words but unsurprised.)
She started to argue but was forestalled by an indulgent smile and the offer of a Sobranie. With a resigned sigh and only fractional hesitation, Primrose took the proffered cigarette. There are few people to whom my sister capitulates, and Ingaza is one of them.
‘Good,’ he said briskly. ‘Now we must put our heads together and get down to tactics.’
19
The Vicar’s Version
Primrose is more adventurous than me and she was amused at the prospect of ‘helping things along’ at the Birtle-Figgins’ lunch party. ‘I say,’ she laughed, ‘they must be having a tough time if Gladys Clinker wants us there! It could be quite amusing in a masochistic way.’
‘Anything must be funnier than rooting around with Henri Martineau and his metal detector,’ I replied gloomily. ‘I wonder what she’ll give us to eat – not much, according to Clinker.’
‘No chance of gourmet splendour, that’s for sure. But from what your bishop was saying, the house itself is nice and with some lovely gardens. It’ll be quite interesting really. Besides, if you are good, Francis, that cranky Boris will show you his bone collection. You’ll enjoy the treat.’
We arrived at Le Petit Rêve just before midday and were met in the gravel drive by a tall man who introduced himself as Rupert Turnbull, a cousin of Lavinia Birtle-Figgins. He at least seemed perfectly normal, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries he took us indoors where we were introduced to our host. Boris was also tall, but thick-set, lumbering and pallid; and to my rather disapproving eye wore his hair far too long for a man of his age – or of any age. It gave him the look of a lugubrious bloodhound. He did not look like a rabid fanatic, but then you can’t always tell with these things … However, he gave us a friendly welcome and said warmly, ‘Now, you all go in while I mix the drinks.’
My spirits perked up immediately. Perhaps Clinker’s tale of the menage being a more than temperate zone had been exaggerated. I mentally prepared my palate for a dry martini or, given the weather, possibly a Pimm’s … Or what was that nice concoction we had tried on the way down, the cassis and white wine thing? A kir – that’s what Ingaza had called it, and very tasty too …
My reverie was abruptly curtailed by our hostess thrusting a glass of ochre liquid into my hand saying, ‘I think you’ll like this – spearmint and Tizer with chopped apple pips, Boris’s speciality!’ I thanked her and moved dolefully to the window. The view was good at any rate.
Accompanying the liquid libations were miniature rice cakes embellished with what I took to be mounds of wet woven grass. ‘Interesting, aren’t they?’ a voice said challengingly. Myrtle.
‘Fascinating,’ I agreed.
‘I so admire the Birtle-Figgins,’ she confided. ‘It’s not often one meets genuine purists, least of all wi
thin the Church, and it is most refreshing to be among true ascetics for once. Why, I was saying to my brother-in-law only this morning what a shame it is that more people don’t practise a diet of such cleansing simplicity – the world would be a better place. Don’t you agree, Canon?’
I recalled the picture of Myrtle emerging from the pâtisserie, knees bent under the weight of cakes and buns, and avoiding her question asked instead what the bishop had to say on the matter.
‘Huh,’ she snorted, ‘nothing of any coherence – never has.’
I smiled wanly and asked if she was enjoying her stay. ‘Yes,’ she replied shortly, ‘it is always pleasant to goûter la nouvelle.’
‘I’m sorry?’
She gave a pained sigh. ‘To taste the unaccustomed – it is always stimulating. After all –’ and she gestured expansively towards the rice cakes and jugs of Tizer and spearmint – ‘so different from Brussels and the embassy, don’t you think?’
I confessed to not knowing either.
‘No,’ she murmured sourly, ‘no, I don’t suppose you would …’ And with a dismissive nod she turned away and lumbered off in the direction of Turnbull.
It had never occurred to me that I should be glad to speak with Gladys, but beside her sister, the bishop’s wife seemed almost human – briefly at any rate. She wore the habitual scowl of course, but her opening words were startlingly cordial. ‘Nice to see you, Francis,’ she began. (How alien the greeting!) ‘Horace mentioned he had bumped into you … Surprising really, I always assumed you took your holidays in Clacton. But I dare say the mountain air may do you some good – although,’ and here she lowered her voice, ‘you would have done better to stay further north.’
‘Really?’ I said in surprise. ‘Why is that?’
‘Because then you would have been spared this ludicrous man and his nonsensical notions. All these bones and the mumbo-jumbo are tiresome beyond endurance. Myrtle’s fault naturally. She would insist on dragging us down here to stay with these people, and now pretends she’s enjoying it when I know very well she can’t wait to get back to Brussels. Typical.’
‘Oh dear …’ I began.
‘Yes, it is oh dear,’ she replied in a booming whisper. ‘I can assure you, more than vexing!’
‘What is Gladys saying?’ laughed Lavinia, gliding up and offering to replenish my reluctant glass. ‘What is it you find so vexing, my dear?’
‘The hill,’ replied Gladys gruffly, ‘very steep and long in this warm weather.’
‘Ah, but you must rest awhile at the allotted stops,’ soothed our hostess. ‘Boris had them made specially – Belvedere’s Niches for the Afflicted, that’s what we call them – holy respites for weary travellers.’
‘I am not in need of a niche,’ answered Gladys. And excusing herself abruptly, she went off to rattle Clinker.
Left alone with Lavinia I made polite enquiries about the Belvedere relics, saying that I understood her husband was quite an expert on the hermit.
‘He most certainly is,’ she enthused. ‘Devotes so much of his time to the good man. Just as well really, stops him from …’ She broke off, went slightly pink in the face and cleared her throat, before hurriedly adding, ‘But I too help in my small way – organizing the followers and festivities, and telling the village children how lucky they are to have such a pious example in their history. Oh yes, we both hold a torch for dear St Belvedere!’
‘But he is not a saint,’ I pointed out, ‘not even reached first base of a Venerable.’ Yes, it was an ungracious remark, but my spirits were flagging, and lack of gin in the Tizer was proving an irritant.
However, she seemed not to notice and prattled on merrily. And then just as my attention was giving up the ghost, she hailed Clinker. ‘Oh, Horace, do come and persuade Francis and his sister to join us for the harp and recorder recital this evening, it will be such a joy for them! And then they could stay overnight, and tomorrow Primrose could join us girls for the shopping trip to Clermont and Francis could keep you and Boris company while we are gone. Why, you could all go fishing.’ She clapped her hands delightedly.
I froze. Harp? Recorder? … The delights of Duke Ellington swam into my mind, and the brilliance of Bach and the Goldberg Variations, Vivaldi, Brahms, Count Basie, Savage’s drumming hero Gene Kruppa. For an instant I even thought of Eddie Calvert (he of the ‘golden trumpet’) and Gilbert and Sullivan. And what about Alban Berg, Liszt, Dizzie Gillespie and countless other possibilities … anyone, anything rather than harp and recorder!
‘What a capital idea,’ agreed Clinker viciously, and summoned reinforcements from Gladys and Myrtle.
To my surprised chagrin both women seemed in favour of the suggestion and a distinct expression of relief appeared on their faces. Myrtle instantly sought out Primrose to entice her with the delights of Clermont. Just goes to show, I thought ruefully, when social desperation drives, even the Oughterards are in demand.
Everything depended on Primrose. If she could stand firm and think of a cogent reason for our not staying the night at Le Petit Rêve I should be spared the horror. I tried to catch her eye as she was being buttonholed by Myrtle. She must have seen me grimacing but made no sign. And then to my fury I saw her smiling and nodding in apparent agreement. The treachery of it!
They came over, and Myrtle announced triumphantly, ‘Well, that’s all wrapped up then. Primrose says she would love to stay and is so fond of the harp.’ Liar, I fumed. She hates it. What on earth was her game?
I glared at her grimly. ‘Francis, dear,’ she responded, ‘we shall have to excuse ourselves to our friends at the inn, but I’m sure they won’t miss us for just one night. Could you possibly pop back and fetch my nightdress and vanity case. It’s on the dressing table – and I dare say you’ll need something yourself. And perhaps you could bring my spare pair of shoes from the car.’ She smiled sweetly.
The others drifted away and I was able to mutter to her, ‘Whatever did you want to do that for? It’ll be ghastly.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly, ‘but worth it. I think I’ve got that Turnbull man about to place an order for three of my pictures. Says he’s got a mass of wall space at his language school and it needs filling up. If I turn on the old charm this evening he might settle for another two.’
I should have known it: Primrose would flog a picture to St Peter if she ever got that far. ‘Huh,’ I replied, ‘Ingaza won’t like it. Old Henri’s paraphernalia is due at the station this evening and he wanted to get things up and running tonight before those beggars start snooping.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, he’ll just have to be patient,’ she said, ‘or careful.’
After a mournful lunch of limp salad and unadorned blackberries, I hitched a lift from the gardener back to the inn. Here I found Ingaza hunched at the the small writing desk in what Madame fancifully called the residents’ salon. He was chewing his pen over a postcard and sighing irritably, and I guessed Aunt Lil was about to receive a rapturous report from la belle France. Judging from his mood I rather doubted whether he would take kindly to my news.
‘Ah, Nicholas,’ I started, ‘if you don’t mind, Primrose and I have been invited to stay the night at Le Petit Rêve. They’ve roped us in to listen to some concert by a few of the locals – and I think we’re also expected to be around for a while tomorrow. Couldn’t get out of it really, they were so insistent, and it was becoming difficult to –’
‘Do what you like,’ was the careless reply. ‘There’s a bloody rail strike in Paris and Henri’s stuff won’t be delivered until tomorrow morning at the earliest – which in Frog lingo means considerably later.’ He paused, and adding sourly, ‘Give my love to the bishop,’ returned to his labours.
I collected Primrose’s things and a change of shirt and trousers for myself, and in a frame of mind similar to Ingaza’s trudged back to the house. Gladys had been right about the steepness of the hill, and like her I did not fancy stuffing myself into a wayside niche to crouch cheek by jowl wit
h the hermit’s effigy.
When I arrived, Primrose was waiting in the hall and took me upstairs to my bedroom. It was splendid: huge, hushed and opulent, with its own bathroom and blissful-looking double bed draped in folds of toile de Jouy. Compared with my rabbit hutch at the inn it was a palace. I began to feel stronger instantly.
‘Yes, I thought you’d like that,’ laughed Primrose. ‘Mine’s even better. For a couple so dedicated to a life of lentils and austerity they do pretty well in the sleeping department. Dinner’s at seven, so you’ve got plenty of time for a nice little shut-eye.’
One bonus at any rate. I took off shoes and tie and sank gratefully on to the feathered pillows. My eyes closed and sleep came swiftly.
When I awoke it was nearly seven, and skipping the pleasure of a leisurely shower I changed quickly and hurried downstairs. In the hall there stood a large harp and a number of music stands. My heart sank. Clearly the performers had arrived and preparations were afoot. There would be no escape …
With the prospect of the recorders hanging over me, and surrounded by their withered and earnest virtuosi, I found supper an irksome affair – although to some extent leavened by the sight of Primrose trying to seduce Turnbull into purchasing more of her sheep and church pictures. If they learnt nothing else, I reflected, at least his students would graduate with an enriched vocabulary of matters ovine and ecclesiastical. From what I could make out he seemed to be weakening, and I wondered idly whether Primrose would offer much of a discount. Unlikely.
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