Bones in High Places

by Suzette A. Hill

  I was also pondering the looming imminence of the metal detecting which, despite the Paris strike, seemed as inescapable as the Birtle-Figgins’ recital. And as with the latter, and whatever its outcome, the process was sure to be painful. However, sitting next to my host, and having nothing riveting to say, I asked him casually about the rumoured gold.

  ‘Huh! That old canard!’ Boris replied scornfully. ‘Thought it had been laid to rest years ago.’ He turned to Lavinia. ‘My dear, fancy people still pursuing that piece of nonsense. Extraordinary. Still, I suppose it keeps the tabloid press amused. I remember Picture Post trying to drum up …’ He broke off, seeing my look of perplexity, and turning to his wife said, ‘You explain, Lavinia. I am sure the canon and his dear sister would far rather hear it in your dulcet tones.’

  Underneath her simper I thought I glimpsed a curling lip. However, with a bright laugh Lavinia started to elucidate. ‘Oh, Boris is quite right, there is no gold there now, absolutely none at all … There was at one point and for a short while – some German commandant had amassed a stack of gold napoleons, and guessing they would be handy after the war had hidden them under the floor of the old dairy. But he wasn’t very bright and used to swagger into the local hostelry, overdo the drink, and broadcast their presence to all and sundry. You can imagine! Over the months the coins were simply leached away by the locals, and then at the liberation they strung him up anyway: bully gone and his said bullion spent. So you see, the whole thing is merely a charming little myth!’ She gave a silvery giggle, which for one cringing moment reminded me of Elizabeth.

  Just as I was deciding whether to be relieved or dismayed by the revelation, and doubting that Ingaza would appreciate the myth’s ‘charm’, her husband broke in: ‘But there is of course the diamond-encrusted swastika … Now that is worth a bob or two – assuming one were ever concerned with such tawdry matters.’ And he gave a superior laugh.

  ‘So what’s that?’ asked Primrose quickly.

  ‘Oh, it’s a relic from Hitler’s early days,’ said Boris carelessly, ‘given to a brother of the Folly’s original owner in the early thirties. Some English Germanophile – name of Fotherington or something – a reward for sympathies to the Reich. He kept it in a wellington boot in one of the servants’ lavatories under the back stairs … and do you know, despite the shambles the Jerries made of the place, it remains there to this very day.’

  ‘But why?’ gasped Primrose.

  ‘Why what, dear lady?’ asked Boris obtusely.

  ‘Why is it still in the wellington boot?’ interjected Gladys. ‘And how do you know, anyway?’ She fixed him with a cynical stare.

  ‘I found it,’ he replied simply. ‘When I was seeking a suitable place to lay the Holy Bones … but of course, nothing was really appropriate which is why we had to prepare a special –’

  ‘Yes, yes, we know that, but why leave the swastika in the boot?’ boomed Gladys impatiently. ‘If it’s so valuable why did you not remove it to a place of safe-keeping?’

  ‘Far better,’ Clinker agreed. ‘By Jove, Boris, it could be treasure trove – you know, finders keepers. Play your cards right and they’ll probably give you permission to claim the thing. I’d get it out of the gumboot if I were you!’

  Boris looked pained. ‘I have more pressing matters to give thought to than the vulgar swag of Mammon,’ he declared sententiously.

  ‘Such as?’ demanded Gladys.

  ‘The revered Belvedere, of course,’ he exclaimed in surprise, ‘and my mission to restore his memory to its proper place: to ensure he receives the recognition, nay, the canonization he so richly deserves.’ He turned to Clinker, adding, ‘And with the help of the good bishop here I am sure that can be achieved. After all,’ and he dropped his voice in earnest confidence, ‘the paltry treasures of man are nothing to the treasures of the spirit. Wouldn’t you say so, Bishop?’

  Clinker coughed. ‘Absolutely,’ he replied.

  20

  The Vicar’s Version

  It is enough to say that like all things, good and bad, the recital passed. And punch drunk on tinkling harp and mewling recorders, I was left thankful and longing for bed.

  Flushed with success and unadulterated Tizer, the performers tottered into the night twittering about Belvedere and his custodian’s proposals for the shrine’s inaugural ceremony. Much was being made of the harpist (alas, no Harpo Marx), who, after Boris and the hermit, was billed to be the star turn of the great occasion. Thus laying plans to absent myself from the area for the entire day, I retired stealthily to bed.

  As arranged, the next morning the women were whisked off by Lavinia on their shopping spree, leaving Boris, Clinker and myself to our own devices. Lavinia’s suggestion of a few hours’ fishing was not pursued, Boris being far too heavily engrossed in polishing the bones’ casket in readiness for its public display. Clinker too was otherwise occupied, muttering something about going down to the village to supervise the progress on his motor. Although there was no reason why he should, he did not invite me to accompany him, and set off from the house at a brisk, even eager, pace. His manner had struck me as slightly furtive, and I surmised that, like Myrtle earlier, he was intent on raiding the pâtisserie and stocking up on carbohydrates.

  I wandered into the garden, found a deck chair, and lighting a cigarette gave myself up to peaceful contemplation of the still colourful flower beds and sweeps of well-tended sward leading down to the meadow and its improvised swimming pool. I grinned, thinking of Bouncer and his mania for water. Just as well the little beggar wasn’t with me: he would have been down there quick as a flash, plunging in to do his frenzied dog-paddle convinced he was a battleship or Moby Dick.

  However, as I visualized the dog besporting himself in the water, another image superimposed itself: that of Mullion in similar circumstances, not sporting but snorting furiously. My smile vanished and I flinched in recollection of that flat menacing voice.

  Well, I brooded, there was one thing to be thankful for. According to Lavinia’s tale they were on a fool’s errand as far as the gold was concerned … As, of course, were we. I thought uneasily of Ingaza and his likely anger at being baulked of the ‘treasure’, not to mention his wasted arrangements with Henri for its detection and excavation. Indeed, Henri himself would be less than pleased, and already I could see the saturnine scowl on the curé’s face and hear the enraged imprecations as he fulminated against all things connected with perfidious Albion – in particular its clergy and Oughterard of Molehill. One way or other there was bound to be a shindig, and the fallout could be interminable … Clearly there was nothing for it but to tell them of the existence of the booted swastika: with luck it would be a mollifying substitute, and presumably more accessible. Also with luck, any efforts to ‘liberate’ the thing would be less likely to attract the attention of our competitors.

  Competitors? A feeble term. Avenging Furies more like, out to get me whatever the means! Or were Climp and Mullion simply the vanguard of heaven’s infantry, dispatched to harry and discomfit the guilty before the final submission? But, I wondered, would celestial emissaries be quite so louche and prosaically thuggish? It seemed unlikely – but one could never be sure. Doubtless a case could be made …

  Unwrapping a peppermint preparatory to reflecting further, I became aware of something glinting. I looked up. There was nothing obvious, and I scanned the windows of the house thinking one of the panes might be catching the sun’s rays. Nothing there either, and I was about to settle to the newspaper when there was another sudden flicker. I scrutinized the field below and the trees beyond. And that was where I saw it – the darting flash of a lens. Yes, somebody was surely there with a pair of binoculars, trained, it would seem, on Le Petit Rêve … or perhaps more specifically, on me.

  I recalled uneasily that to the right of the trees was the apple orchard, the area where, according to Clinker, Mullion and Climp had been permitted to pitch their rotten tent. I groaned. Whether Furies, thugs or heavenly
infantry, they had me in their sights and I was clearly a marked man. I got up hastily and hurried back into the house imagining my sister’s dismissive voice telling me not to be so melodramatic. Maybe she was right and I was overreacting – although judging from the duck-pond encounter, it seemed doubtful. Despite the morning’s warmth, I shivered, and thought enviously of my locum back in Molehill with nothing more to harass him than Tapsell’s tantrums and the pallid inanities of Mavis Briggs.

  In the salon I picked up a book from the coffee table on local lore and legend by one Herbert Castris, described as ‘a notable authority’, and trying to banish all thoughts of the ‘Watchers in the Orchard’ settled down to read. A large part of the legend seemed to be devoted to Belvedere Bondolfi and the author’s tireless search for the hermit’s lost tambourine. It was quite entertaining; but I was soon startled out of my absorption by the sound of the front door being banged and heavy footsteps: Clinker, returned from the garage and fortified by the pâtisserie. I braced myself for the interruption.

  ‘Ah, Francis,’ he began (first name always a good sign), ‘surprised to find you here. Thought you might have been persuaded by our host to help him walk the bones, he’s holding a dummy run.’

  ‘Walk the bones?’ I echoed. ‘I don’t quite follow –’

  ‘No, neither does anyone in their right mind,’ he replied drily. ‘It’s some ritual he has devised as part of the ceremony, a sort of prelude to the installing of the casket in the shrine. Apparently the idea is that Boris, plus casket and assorted fellow zealots, will perambulate about the area pausing at those spots where the hermit is said to have prayed or uttered sage words. The lid of the casket will be opened, the bones exposed and the faithful fans invited to sing a Te Deum – or rather, a paean penned especially for the occasion by Lavinia. So he wants to get the route sorted out first.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ I murmured.

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Clinker. He dropped his voice. ‘Actually, he seemed to think that I should be eager to accompany him on the dress rehearsal, said something about a bishop being able to give him tips on the processing protocol. More than I can face, I’m afraid, and I’ve told him my gout is playing up.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I replied innocently, ‘didn’t realize you suffered from gout. Is it very –’

  ‘Well, I might do,’ he said truculently. There was a pause while he cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, Oughterard, the man is clearly deranged, though harmless enough I suppose. A bit of a prig, if you ask me, which wouldn’t be so bad if he weren’t such an awful bore … no conversation at all except about this Belvedere chappie. It’s getting on my wick, and I have no intention of traipsing around this afternoon playing gooseberry to him and his ossified companion.’ I smiled sympathetically. ‘Mind you,’ he continued, ‘Gladys can’t abide Boris – says I don’t know the half of it, and if he were her husband she would put bromide in his fruit juice … or arsenic.’ He gave a modest guffaw and stomped out into the garden, while I was left pondering why on earth Boris should be in need of bromide.

  A little later the man himself appeared, clearly pleased with the results of his polishing and eager for me to inspect both container and contents. The former was dazzling, the latter grey and grisly. However, I showed suitable appreciation and asked how long it would take him to ‘pace the course’.

  ‘About an hour or so,’ he replied, ‘but I might have to attend to one or two matters in the village first, before – ah – before Lavinia returns. Might be some time …’ He trailed off vaguely, and clutching the precious casket and telling me we should help ourselves to the fruit bowl and dandelion soup for lunch, he left the room. I stared after him, feeling the pangs of hunger already jostling, and wondering if the housekeeper could be prevailed upon to produce some sausage and mash … Fortunately she was more than co-operative, for taking pity on the two starved guests she presented us with an enormous baguette and some splendid rabbit pâté, the shared product of her own oven and her husband’s gun. Coffee too was brought, accompanied by a surreptitious bottle of cognac (an act of charity which even now features in the bishop’s nostalgic memory).

  After lunch, sated with cognac and pâté, Clinker took himself off for a nap, while I reapplied myself to Castris’s book. I had been tempted to take a stroll around the gardens but was becoming paranoid about our companions in the orchard – assuming of course that they were still there, and not prowling fruitlessly within the grounds of the Folly. Either way, it seemed best to remain indoors.

  An hour later, and just as I had started to wrestle with the previous week’s crossword, Clinker appeared from his slumbers wearing a towelling dressing gown and carrying a rubber bathing cap. After giving abortive advice regarding some of the clues, he announced he was off to take his daily plunge in the pool before ‘the dear ladies’ returned. Again the picture of Bouncer swam into my mind, and I wondered if the bishop favoured the same manic stroke as the dog … Quite possibly.

  Alone once more, I had discarded the crossword and returned to the book; and was just at the part describing the hermit’s fondness for his tambourine, when with an almighty crash the door was flung open, and an extraordinary spectacle met my startled gaze. Clad only in vest and dripping bathing shorts, Clinker stood there wild-eyed and mouthing.

  ‘Boris has been bludgeoned!’ he cried. ‘Murdered!’

  I gaped at him and then said the first thing that came into my head. ‘Who by … Gladys?’

  He also gaped. ‘Gladys? What in God’s name are you talking about, Oughterard! By persons unknown, of course. Who else? Give me some brandy and don’t be absurd … This has spoilt everything!’ He held out a quivering hand.

  Yes, it had been a thoughtless response and I tried to retrieve the gaffe by pouring him nearly half the bottle.

  ‘But how? Where?’ I exclaimed. ‘Have you told the police?’

  ‘Police? No, of course not … I’ve only just found him – down at the pool where I was floating, behind the bushes … And – and what’s more – he is surrounded by bones.’

  ‘Bones!’ I cried in disbelief. ‘What bones?’ He was clearly hallucinating, and I felt convinced he must be deluded about the body as well.

  ‘The Belvedere bones, of course! Tipped all over him. The casket’s there, empty! It’s appalling – I’ll never hear the end of it, never.’ He thrust the brandy to one side and covered his face with his hands, rocking backwards and forwards on his chair while the sodden bathing shorts dripped a small pool at his feet.

  I stared at the accumulating wet, thinking that Lavinia would be none too pleased when she returned from the shopping trip. It also occurred to me that Clinker was mad … or failing that, that he was somehow responsible. But I banished the latter notion, thinking it too much of a coincidence for us both to be assassins. No, obviously the man was unwell, the rigours of the holiday had unhinged him. I should have to be very gentle …

  ‘Horace,’ I ventured, thinking that use of his first name might be a soothing antidote to his obvious strain, ‘perhaps before anything else you should get out of those wet clothes, and then when you are nice and dry we’ll go down together and take a look.’ I patted his shoulder reassuringly, picturing my old nanny dealing with similar traumas from my boyhood. Yes, I recalled fondly, she had been good at that … calming the enraged and afflicted.

  ‘I don’t want another look,’ he moaned, ‘it’s ghastly. Head staved in. Gladys will never forgive me.’

  ‘But it’s nothing to do with you, is it?’ I said firmly. ‘And once you are ready we’ll go and investigate and see what’s what.’ I nodded confidently.

  Somehow these words seemed to steady him, for in the next breath and with biting emphasis he said, ‘I know exactly what is what, Oughterard. Boris is dead on the bank and I shall be blamed. Now go and get me some dry clothes and be quick about it. We haven’t got all day!’ He fixed me with a withering glare and took a swig of brandy.

  My head in a whirl, I raced up
stairs, found the right bedroom and a change of clothes, and returned to the salon. From thence we made our way down to the stream and the bathing area. I was curious rather than nervous, feeling sure that whatever was there (if anything) it would not be a dead body, least of all Boris’s.

  But he was there all right, all six foot of him, inert and solid. And just as Clinker had described – with his head staved in.

  ‘You see,’ the bishop said accusingly, ‘I told you so, and there are the bones as well.’ He jabbed his finger at the spectacle on the ground.

  I closed my eyes but could not erase the reality: our host lay spreadeagled on the paving stones, his skull a sickening mess. And strewn randomly across and about his torso were the sacred bones of St Belvedere … plus the teeth, top and bottom.

  I stared mesmerized by the sight – bones, casket, cadaver – and experienced that same feeling of dream-like absurdity which on an earlier occasion had assailed me in Foxford Wood. But at least this time I was merely the spectator …

  Soberly it occurred to me that Lavinia would have more to disturb her than the patch of wet on her drawing-room carpet, and I made such observation to Clinker, saying that at least she could count on the sympathy of Gladys and Myrtle in her hour of need.

  ‘Hmm,’ he muttered, ‘I doubt it. The last time I saw the three of them they were in a huddle working out how she could divorce him. She seemed to have it all in hand.’

  ‘Divorce him?’ I exclaimed. ‘Goodness, I had no idea … whatever for?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he replied impatiently, ‘you know how women are, they get these ideas … although,’ he added (I thought a trifle wistfully), ‘it never seems to have occurred to Gladys …’ He paused, scowling at the corpse. ‘Well, it’s too late now, and in any case she’ll probably find that being a widow is socially easier than being a divorcée – it certainly is in the Mothers’ Union.’