‘But she may not belong to the Mothers’ Union,’ I objected, ‘especially here in France. I’m not sure if they have –’
‘It really doesn’t matter in any event,’ he snapped. ‘The point is, Oughterard, the whole thing will be laid at my door, i.e. refusing to go on that stupid walk with Boris and choosing a nap instead. They’ll say that if I had been with him none of this would have happened.’
I brooded for a moment on the logic of ‘none of this’, but in the circumstances felt it best not to question the bishop’s turn of phrase. There were, after all, more pressing matters to attend to.
We retreated to the house and broke the news to the housekeeper, who after a brief bout of hysterics telephoned the police. These arrived just as the shopping party’s car was drawing up at the front door, and the resultant furore was exactly as one would have expected. The turbulence lasted for a considerable time, during which the victim was examined, statements taken, the pool area cordoned off, a search (fruitless) made for the weapon, and – as predicted – Clinker blamed by all three women (Primrose for once keeping resolutely out of it). Lavinia, I noted, seemed not so much heartbroken as peeved, and I wondered vaguely if she was feeling cheated of the retributive pleasure of the divorce court … until Primrose, taking me aside, asserted in a loud stage whisper that doubtless the wife must have done it.
‘Nonsense,’ I whispered back, ‘she was with all of you in Clermont.’
‘But she could have arranged it,’ replied Primrose darkly.
My sister has always had a vigorous imagination. Nevertheless, I found myself contemplating our hostess with new eyes. Had she really been responsible for having her husband bludgeoned to death? Surely not, the idea was absurd! Besides, she was far too other-worldly to harbour such desires let alone instigate an actual attack – or, as I believe the modern phrase is, to have ‘taken out a contract’. No, I mused, Primrose might have an artistic way of looking at things but she clearly had little grasp of human nature.
However, even as I formulated this confident judgement, I was shockingly struck by my own outlandish capacity in that sphere. Decorous respectability, it seems, is no bar to homicide … And the summer beauty of that awful wood once more darkened my mind.
Fumbling for a cigarette I hastily pulled my thoughts back to the present, and was just about to light up when a quiet voice murmured, ‘Permettez-moi, monsieur,’ and a lighter flashed in anticipation of my own. It was the senior police officer, a small dapper man with thinning hair and pale intelligent eyes. He smiled apologetically and enquired my particulars and business in the area. I gave him my credentials and clerical status, and explained hastily that my sister and I were merely passing guests in the house, had only recently met the Birtle-Figgins, and were on holiday staying at the village inn.
He grimaced. ‘You have my sympathy, monsieur. La Truite Bleue is not for the faint-hearted. Indifferent wine, questionable food, le patron of uncertain temperament, atrocious beds and a crazy dog. For your sake I hope this unfortunate affair can be resolved quickly otherwise I shall have to request you endure your sojourn there rather longer than planned. But in the meantime would you be so good as to account for your movements between the hours of two and five o’clock this afternoon? I gather you had not elected to accompany the ladies on their shopping expedition?’
I agreed that I had not made that election and instead had spent the afternoon reading and keeping the bishop company.
‘But he tells me he was asleep and then went for a swim. At what point were you keeping him company, monsieur?’
‘At the point between his waking up and going down to the pool. We spent about half an hour doing the Times crossword together – three days old admittedly, but a challenge nonetheless.’
He smiled. ‘Ah yes, of course, the English and their crossword puzzles; a national obsession, so they tell me … And was there anyone else in the house when you and the bishop were playing your word games?’
I thought I detected the merest hint of a sardonic stress on the word ‘games’, and felt a flash of irritation. Anyone would think I had confessed to playing Clinker’s beloved tiddlywinks! However, I told him firmly that the housekeeper had been in the house the whole time and had even brought us tea at some point. He seemed happy enough at that, and after murmuring that he hoped the clues to the present sad puzzle would prove less intractable than those of The Times, he moved off to interview Myrtle. She was clearly bursting to speak and I wished him well of it.
After the questioning and a caution not to leave the area without official sanction, Primrose and I at last managed to slip away back to the inn. In the circumstances it had seemed best not to trouble our hostess with our farewells … although I doubt if we would have had the chance in any case: for far from lying down sedated, Lavinia Birtle-Figgins seemed permanently draped around the telephone busily broadcasting her husband’s demise hither and yon. It struck me that it was less the desecration of Boris that troubled her than that of the scattered bones. ‘You see,’ she kept wailing, ‘he was their chosen custodian!’
We reached the inn to find Maurice asleep on top of the bar counter, and the dining area deserted except for Henri and Nicholas. They had obviously finished their supper and were busily attending to one of the latter’s whisky bottles from the boot of the Citroën. Both looked tired and the curé’s eyes were distinctly bloodshot.
‘About time you turned up,’ said Nicholas rattily. ‘We’ve had a hell of a problem with that sodding metal detector. It made a fearful racket screeching and whining, and did nothing but turn up bottle tops and Boche tunic buttons. It weighs a ton and now it’s seized up – battery’s dead or something. Bloody useless!’
‘I thought they made them so light and reliable these days – at least that’s what the advertisements claim,’ I ventured.
‘Nothing connected with Henri is reliable,’ he retorted scathingly, ‘and as to being light, I can tell you it’s blooming industrial-size and I’ve nearly broken my wrist.’ He glared at Henri who smiled sweetly and said something very, very rude.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘it’s jolly well your turn tomorrow, Francis. Don’t think you can get out of it by swanning off again to those bloody Fig people and sleeping on feather beds while the rest of us are toiling down here – rather defeats the object of our visit, old boy.’ He looked sullen and took another slurp of whisky.
Primrose walked briskly to the bar and returned with two glasses. ‘It would be very nice, Nicholas,’ she said, drawing up a chair, ‘if you were to offer us a little of what you are drinking – I think we have need.’
‘Can’t think why,’ was the answer.
‘I will tell you why,’ she said, taking out her compact and powdering her nose. ‘You see, while you two were grubbing about in the earth with that absurd contraption, Boris Birtle-Figgins was being battered to death. Now would you please pour me a drink.’
There was a silence. And then as an automaton Nicholas picked up the bottle and did as he was bid. Both men stared in disbelief, and then Henri laughed and spluttered, ‘Menteuse!’
Primrose took a sip of her whisky and fixed him with a glacial eye. ‘I do not know what tales your Norman parishioners may spin you in those murky confessional boxes, but I can assure you that Primrose Oughterard is not given to lying.’ She spoke in the imperious tones which I knew from old and which had so often squashed my grosser larks as a schoolboy. Henri slumped back in his chair suitably chastened, while I mentally explored the fine distinction between downright lying and supplying gullible Canadians with fake canvases …
‘She’s right, ‘I chimed in, ‘it really happened. There’s been an awful shindig and we’ve even been fingerprinted. Swarms of gendarmes and so on. I think perhaps we ought to abandon the digging business, far too much palaver going on. Best to keep our heads down and then scarper as soon as we’re permitted.’ I spoke with some feeling.
‘I see,’ said Nicholas, ‘you mean scuttle bac
k to England empty-handed? No fear, Francis, I haven’t gone to all this trouble for nothing – and besides, Aunt Lil will play merry hell. She’s already accused me of losing my touch, and I’m not going through all that again. No, we will proceed as planned … just have to be a little more careful, that’s all. As a matter of fact it might be to our advantage. With all that fuss going on at the house we can probably work undisturbed down at the Folly.’
‘No point. It’s a fool’s errand,’ said Primrose casually.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Nicholas.
‘What it says. There is no gold – pillaged years ago by the local peasantry. The Birtle-Figgins told us. They were most emphatic and seemed to know all about it.’ She continued with the details that Lavinia had supplied, her listener maintaining a stony silence, face impassive except for the twitching of a nerve in his cheekbone.
‘Mon Dieu!’ expostulated Henri. ‘Pas de trésor? C’est toute la faute de François!’ (Just as I had expected.)
‘Shut up,’ snapped Nicholas. There followed a lowering pause broken only by rhythmic snoring from the cat.
I took a deep breath and said brightly, ‘But there is of course the bejewelled swastika in the gumboot – that could come in handy.’ To my relief Nicholas showed more than a flicker of interest and I hastily proceeded with the tale.
When I had finished he emitted a low whistle of disbelief. ‘Are you trying to tell me that that chap Figgins actually left the thing in the wellington all this time without doing anything about it? Why on earth didn’t he fish it out? Must be mad!’
‘Dead actually,’ I reminded him, adding pointedly, ‘Besides, unlike some people he didn’t seem all that interested in matters of crude commerce: a type whose mind moved on higher planes. But you might not grasp that.’
‘You bet I wouldn’t,’ he replied, grinning.
‘Alors,’ burst out Henri, ‘qu’est-ce qu’on fait?’
Ingaza turned to him, and enunciating with studied precision said, ‘What one does, old cock, is to get the blithering swastika out of the effing boot.’
The curé digested this in silence, a small gleam of excitement in his eye. And then I ventured, ‘Yes, but how? Presumably we’ll have to break in somehow.’
‘Don’t need to,’ murmured Primrose. ‘After all, I’ve got the key to the Folly.’
‘What do you mean? You couldn’t possibly,’ I exclaimed.
‘Perfectly possible,’ she replied coolly. ‘You see, when we got back from Clermont and there was all the furore with the police and everything, and that nice little inspector was being so busy and charming, I slipped into Myrtle’s room, rummaged about a bit, and took the key from the back of the wardrobe door. Myrtle was so busy telling the inspector what he should do and how to do it that she didn’t notice a thing.’ Primrose spread her fingers and inspected her nails as we stared at her in amazement.
‘Menteuse –’ began Henri.
‘Don’t start that again!’ she retorted, fixing him with a withering glare. He subsided, muttering.
‘But Primrose,’ I said in bewilderment, ‘what gave you the idea? How on earth did you know that a key was there?’
‘Lavinia told me when we were in Clermont. Apparently years ago some sort of fête had been held in the grounds and the Birtle-Figgins had been asked by the municipal authorities to act as unofficial overseers of the place. Nothing onerous, they just had to ensure that everything was conducted in an orderly fashion – you know the sort of thing, seeing the doors and windows were kept locked and no damage to any of the furniture or fittings. Once it was all over nobody asked for the key back, so they put it in one of their spare bedrooms for safe-keeping and it’s remained there ever since.’
Nicholas fixed her with a thoughtful look. ‘And this key is now in your possession?’
‘Yes, I told you.’
‘Oh well,’ he said briskly, ‘that’s it then. We’ll raid the place tomorrow.’
21
The Cat’s Memoir
‘I have done it again!’ the dog thundered, pawing the ground like some frantic water buffalo. ‘I’ve found another one, just like before! What do you think of that, Maurice!’
I closed my eyes, composed my ears and nerves, and enquired gently as to what he might be talking about.
‘There’s a stiff,’ he bellowed, ‘laid out by some water – blood and stuff all over the shop, and … and bones!’ He danced around in an ecstasy of triumph and excitement, flailing his tale and trampling wildly over my neatly arranged pilchards.
That did it. ‘Enough, Bouncer!’ I cried. ‘I do not care how many stiffs there are, I will not have my fish interfered with. Now, sit down and be silent, and when you are collected I may listen to your news.’ Surprisingly my words had the desired effect, and for a few merciful seconds he was quiet.
During the pause I did what I could to rearrange the mangled pilchards, and once they were in some semblance of order indicated he could continue his tale.
‘You see, Maurice,’ he burbled, ‘you know when F.O. and the Primrose went up to the big house and stayed there all night – well, I got a bit bored with them being away like that and I thought it would be quite interesting to go and see what they were up to – sort of have a sniff around. So that’s what I did, this afternoon. There were masses of jumbo bunnies everywhere looking all pop-eyed and –’
‘And in the course of your sniffing you encountered the stiff,’ I interrupted quickly.
He frowned. ‘Who’s telling this story, you or me?’
‘Well, you of course, but I hardly think we need to hear about the rabbits, jumbo or otherwise.’
‘Can’t think why not,’ he growled. ‘You should have seen me – put the fear of bears in them, I did.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said wearily, ‘with your usual war cry, I suppose?’
‘You bet. “Bugger off, Bunnies! Here comes Bouncer the Brave!” And do you know, they went like –’
‘Yes, yes, splendid. Now what about the corpse?’
‘Well, he wasn’t going anywhere – what you might call a bit late.’
‘Ah, so it was a him this time?’ He nodded. ‘But where exactly? You mentioned water.’
‘Yes,’ he explained eagerly, ‘just below the house. There’s a big field with a stream, and they’ve damned some of that up to make a sort of pool – the kind humans use for splashing around in. In fact I was just thinking I wouldn’t mind having a bit of a splash myself – when I suddenly saw it, all spread out on the stones just by the water’s edge behind a couple of bushes. I thought he was sunbathing at first – they seem to like doing that – but then I thought it was pretty odd lying in the sun with all those bones around you. I mean, if it was me I’d have shoved ‘em into the ground first. Can’t be too careful, there are some very dodgy customers about … Anyway, when I got a closer look I realized why he hadn’t buried ‘em. Not in a position to.’ The dog gave a throaty laugh.
‘This is not funny ha ha,’ I reproved, ‘but distinctly funny peculiar. What sort of mood was F.O. in when you last saw him? Perhaps he’s been at it again. It’s all this travelling, probably taken its toll. Besides, there is that pernicious pair who were so rude about me … they’re skulking around here somewhere. Enough to turn anyone to homicide, I should think!’
‘Hmm, hadn’t thought of that,’ said the dog, looking anxious. ‘Just our luck for him to do it here in a foreign country where we don’t know anyone … and what about my grub?’
‘Kindly raise your mind to higher things, should that be possible,’ I admonished. ‘This is a situation, Bouncer, that requires careful handling … Now, did you touch any of the bones?’ He looked shifty. ‘Did you?’
‘Not so as you’d notice,’ he murmured.
‘What does that mean?’
He explained.
‘I see,’ I said, and smiled.
22
The Dog’s Diary
Well, of course he had to see for hims
elf. Couldn’t be satisfied with me just telling him. Oh no! Wanted piric evidence or some such, and wanted it there and then. Typical. Didn’t care that I had nearly busted a gut racing all the way back in that heat and needed a kip and some water. Couldn’t have cared less! ‘Show me immediately,’ the cat ordered, all prick-eared and bossy, ‘we haven’t time to waste while you loll around here slurping and snoring.’ I told him he wouldn’t like it – all those bones and patches of wet (he can’t stand either), but he just flattened his ears and said there were certain things in life above which one was required to rise … yes, that’s just how he said it. Couldn’t make out what he was on about at first, but I think it means something like grinning and bearing. Anyway, I asked him if we could take Clemso, but he said it would be bad enough having to cope with the wet and the bones without music as well.
So we set off on our own, and because by then I’d got the smell of things it didn’t take too long. But cor, was I hot! So hot, in fact, that after I had had a good sniff at the biggest bone and cocked my leg against the box thing, I jumped in the pool and did some very nifty paddling from one bank to the other. When I was a puppy my first master, Bowler the bank manager, used to say ‘Little bugger’s like a blooming beaver!’ and people would nod and say they were sure there was water spaniel in me … Well, that’s as may be, but all I know is that I like ponds and splashing about and such; so while Maurice was being important and checking the corpse and pussy-footing over the puddles, I was having a high old time in the water.
Didn’t last of course. I’d only been in a couple of minutes when there was a great shindig from the trees on the edge of the field, and who do you think hurtled out? F.O. and that Clinker person, rushing and crashing in our direction as if wolves were after them. ‘Dive, dive!’ the cat screeched and took off like a mog on a broomstick. Dive? What did he think I was, some sort of submarine?
Bones in High Places Page 13