Bones in High Places

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘Expose us to comment on the platform?’ drawled Nicholas.

  Clinker glared at him. ‘Oh, very funny. Trust you to bring Oscar Wilde into this!’

  I could see his point only too well, as I think we all could. Each of us had certain interests and ‘reputations’ to guard, even the wretched Henri. And although he had not mentioned it, I knew for a fact that Clinker was nursing hopes of a prestigious advancement: episcopal aide to the Archbishop of York no less. Scandal of any kind, even when supremely innocent as Clinker was, could put a swift kybosh on such hopes. It was bad enough his being interrogated over the bones affair, but to have this matter added to his curriculum vitae would be the last straw. My own situation of course was perennially perilous, and anything involving the law – home or foreign – put me in a muck sweat. As for Ingaza, he slithered through life on the seat of his pants, dependent on luck and a silver tongue to see him safe: chummy collaboration with the ‘authorities’ was not part of his policy – ‘Never expose yourself, dear boy,’ being one of his frequent and ribald precepts.

  And so after further uneasy parleying we decided to say and do nothing, reassuring ourselves that if others chose to go around chasing defenceless strangers, stealing their property (admittedly purloined), firing guns, making violent attacks and generally behaving like demented hoodlums, then it was their problem if they made a hash of things and ended up dead. The police could sort it out – if and when they discovered them missing.

  There was nevertheless still the problem of Climp’s corpse: what to do with it? To leave it where it had dropped seemed untidy and cavalier. To heave it over the edge to join its companion would be gross, while to lug it back to the village was clearly a feat beyond our capacity and in any case dangerous. Thus we decided to move it from the open ground to a more secluded place of rest, make the usual obsequies and leave it to the hands of fate or a passing goatherd. The process was distasteful and brought to mind an earlier event in a far distant wood where I had once been forced to perform a similar manoeuvre.

  The task discharged, we returned to the village as fast as possible … although actually it wasn’t that fast: Primrose’s nose was still splashing blood, Clinker had developed a sore heel, Henri, after his earlier burst of agility, had lapsed into his usual wheezing shuffle, and Ingaza, evidently so burdened with his financial loss, appeared to have difficulty in putting one foot in front of the other without pausing to hurl curses at the indifferent rock-side. Only the cat and I were fully fit and unscathed. But it seemed churlish to leap ahead to the haven of eiderdown and aspirin while the others were thus incommoded …

  26

  The Cat’s Memoir

  ‘Blimey!’ snorted the dog when I mentioned what I had been doing. ‘Do you mean you actually shoved the geezer over the side?’ He gazed in admiration.

  ‘Well,’ I replied modestly, ‘not shoved exactly, but I was what you might call instrumental in his downfall … and pretty far down it was too!’ I added with some satisfaction.

  ‘Blimey!’ he exclaimed again after I had supplied the details. ‘Now I’ve got a murderer for a master and a hit-cat for a mate. Not many dogs can say that!’ He regarded me with rare respect. It didn’t last of course. Nevertheless, it is always gratifying to be accorded one’s proper due, however brief.

  Thus I smiled benignly and reminded him I had been plotting retaliation ever since the Coarse One had so rudely slung me off the window sill at the auberge.

  He looked puzzled. ‘But you didn’t know all that chasing stuff was going to happen, did you? I mean, you were kipping most of the morning on the table in the bar.’

  ‘Yes, but at one point the hound Clemenceau came wagging in (fortunately with a flat battery) and started to jabber something abut playing games with F.O. and several other persons on the hillside. Since our master is not given to playing games (not quick enough), it struck me as rather odd – which, as things turned out, it most certainly was. At first I assumed the creature was simply mangling its words or I had misheard – his accent is atrocious – but I was intrigued nevertheless. And so being curious and resourceful, I naturally thought it my business to investigate the matter.’

  ‘Huh,’ Bouncer growled, ‘just as well you did, otherwise it might have been the vicar who went over the edge – and then where would we have been?’

  ‘Left with the bishop,’ I said drily.

  A little later, as I was stretched out on F.O.’s bed resting from my cliff-top exertions (and rather savouring the memory), Bouncer pottered in and joined me on the eiderdown. His chops were still sticky from the bone foolishly given him by the bartender. But being in a mellow mood I refrained from comment. Nevertheless, I thought it would do the dog good to hear something instructive. ‘You know, Bouncer,’ I said, ‘since my time here I have reached a certain conclusion.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘The French mouse struts and is sardonic, whereas the British mouse darts erratically and is given to bouts of surly complaint. Both are obnoxious and deserve frequent correction.’

  ‘Cor, you don’t say!’ was the response. I wasn’t entirely sure how to take that, and was just about to ask for clarification when he said slowly, ‘What you mean, Maurice, is that you are like me with rabbits – doesn’t matter where the bleeders come from, you like duffing them up.’

  I winced at the base terminology – while nevertheless recognizing the merest soupçon of truth in what he said. But naturally I received the comment in silence and briskly attended to my tail.

  After a while he cleared his throat (a sure prelude to something guttural and garrulous) and announced that he thought himself a lucky dog. I remarked warmly that I was glad he appreciated the merits of feline company.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cats – it’s so nice to be with them.’

  There was a silence as he snuffled the eiderdown thoughtfully. ‘Ah, well that’s not quite what I was going to say, Maurice. What I was going to say is that I am jolly lucky belonging to F.O. because I get a ringside seat at his circus – and get fed into the bargain.’ He licked his chops.

  This time I felt less disposed to indulgence, and reminded him tartly that there was once a Roman writer who had said something very similar about the tastes of the common herd. As you may expect, the point was entirely lost on him, and after a genial burp he asked if I knew the French for ‘marrow bone’. I replied that I most certainly did not and had no wish to find out.

  ‘I’ll tell you then. It is os à moelle. That’s what Clemso says George gave me, an os à moelle!’ He was clearly pleased with the expression for he muttered it to himself several times. ‘You wait till I get home and try it out on Pierre, he’ll wonder what’s hit him.’ For once I felt sorry for Pierre – little did he know what was being stored up for those tiny flapping ears.

  Mercifully the dog ceased his burbling and gradually dropped off to sleep, leaving me to wonder uneasily whether we ever would get home, and what further acts were jostling for display in our master’s manic circus.

  27

  The Vicar’s Version

  Eventually, dishevelled and subdued, we reached the inn. Clinker limped up to me, cleared his throat, and asked quietly if he could use my room to wash and brush up before continuing to Le Petit Rêve to ‘join the ladies’. He looked strained, and I felt sorry for him. Events had been more than bad enough, but to have to now parry the quizzical attentions of Gladys and Myrtle – not to mention the dazed and crazed Lavinia – would be penance indeed.

  I showed him up to my room and indicated the bathroom, but just as he was going to the latter, he turned and said sharply, ‘Now look here, Oughterard, we don’t want any of this to get out, do we? Quite unnecessary. All very unfortunate of course, but fundamentally nothing to do with us – well, not in principle at any rate. And the principle is that those thugs hounded us and took pot shots for no good reason other than for that paltry junk of Ingaza’s, and damn near killed your sister! And why that
Mullion fellow should call you a murderer I cannot imagine – just goes to show, obviously off his head. Yes,’ he added eagerly, ‘that’s it exactly … mad as hatters, both of them! So the less said about the whole affair the better. We have quite enough on our plate with this awful Birtle-Figgins business, and to mention anything further would only confuse the police – muddy the waters. Do you understand? Muddy the waters.’ He glared at me anxiously. I assured him he could rely on my absolute discretion. (My God he could!) I left him to his ablutions, and fetching my cigarettes wandered downstairs to the bar. I felt very tired.

  Apart from Bouncer gnawing his present from Georges, and Maurice grooming himself obsessively on the only comfortable chair, the place was empty. The others had obviously sought refuge in their rooms and it was too early for the locals. I sat down wearily on the springless sofa, and tried to rid my mind of the afternoon’s events.

  Five minutes later there was a clattering on the stairs and Clinker appeared. Still limping, he nevertheless looked mildly improved; and throwing me a curt nod, disappeared through the outer door braced for his return to Le Petit Rêve and its occupants.

  I started to brood, trying to work out at what exact point in my life things had gone so disastrously wrong … Foxford Wood, you might say. Without doubt a spectacular shift. Yet there had been other moments, before and after, which had surely contributed their own lethal input: the Church’s decision to transfer me from London to Guildford, the nightmare soirée at Marchbanks House, that chance re-encounter with Ingaza in the bar of the Old Schooner, my overlapping with Ingaza at St Bede’s just after the war, the war itself, that dramatic fall from the rocking horse in my nursery which – from what I could recall – had seemed to shatter the grown-ups considerably more than me (certainly enough doctors buzzing around). But the accident had been so long ago, and the finer details blurred in faltering memory …

  However, I thought bitterly, watching the slavering dog and his untroubled companion, the current facts were far from blurred. Only too clear! The whole vivid scenario in all its pungent detail came thrusting before my eyes: Mullion and his menaces, the sniggering bloodthirsty Climp, their gross demise on that sheer and dreadful cliff, dead boring Boris and his stupid bones, the polite probings of the French police, Ingaza’s forging my signature on the deeds and his insistence that I should claim possession, sell the property and split the profit both ways – in his favour. Well, at least for one joyous hour the discovery of the swastika had freed me from that particular fear, but its recent fate would surely rekindle Ingaza with thoughts of less princely gain, and once more I could risk danger of public scrutiny:

  DEATH STALKS THE VICAR

  Canon Francis Oughterard, once substantial heir to murdered widow Elizabeth Fotherington, and knife victim of her deranged son-in-law, yet again finds himself in the midst of violence – this time in connection with the fatal ‘Belvedere’ incident high in the French Auvergne, and only yards from his benefactor’s imposing property which he seems so eager to sell. What quirk of fate, we ask ourselves, plunges the mild-spoken Reverend into matters so deadly?

  Yes, the newspapers would enjoy themselves with that … and unleash or unearth Lord knew what further lines of enquiry.

  I closed my eyes. When I opened them it was to see Nicholas leaning against the bar scowling.

  ‘Feeling better?’ I asked brightly.

  ‘Like hell,’ he snapped.

  He seemed about to speak further, but at that moment Georges ambled in, gestured towards the hallway and announced that Monsieur Ingaza was wanted on the telephone. Nicholas turned grey.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he groaned, ‘she’s found me.’

  ‘Who?’ (Not a pursuing girlfriend, that was for sure.)

  ‘Lil. I always give her the wrong number. Must have told her the right one by mistake.’ He mooched into the hall. We all have our troubles, I reflected …

  He was gone a good fifteen minutes, and with little sympathy I assumed the old aunt was giving him an earful. But when he returned, far from being chastened, he wore the smug air of Maurice after a feast of cream and salmon, and held a bottle of whisky in his hand.

  At my look of surprise, he gave a broad grin, fetched a couple of glasses from behind the bar and began to fill them lavishly.

  ‘What’s this about?’ I asked in wonder.

  He didn’t reply at first, but sat swirling the Scotch and smirking enigmatically. Still reeling from the recent nightmare, I was in no mood to be patient, and asked again what he imagined there was to celebrate.

  ‘Oh, nothing to do with imagination, old fruit, all to do with perception and acumen. You see, that wasn’t Lil on the blower, it was Eric – Eric with the goods.’ He took a long sip of his drink, grimaced, sighed and added appreciatively, ‘Just the job, the very job.’

  ‘I still don’t understand, what –’

  ‘He’s pulled it off, the little business I was telling you about. Worked like a dream. We’re in the money!’ And taking a couple more swigs, he launched into the song of that name. It was not a melodious performance, but his glee was infectious and, despite not really knowing what it was all about, rather haltingly I found myself joining in. Release of tension, I suppose.

  It was thus that Primrose found us when she entered the bar two minutes later. Both glasses were now empty and we were about to embark on fill-ups.

  ‘What a racket!’ she expostulated. ‘What are you doing, Francis?’ Seeing her swollen nose and mottled cheek, I felt shamed, and in sober tone mumbled something about Nicholas having had a little windfall.

  ‘Good,’ she said frostily. ‘Perhaps now he will kindly pay me the commission he owes for that second consignment to the Canadians.’

  ‘Of course, dear girl. And I’ll throw in a bottle of champagne for your birthday, as well,’ he rejoined airily.

  ‘Vintage plus lunch?’

  He nodded graciously. And leaning forward, explained that while not remotely compensating for the grievous loss of the swastika, the manipulations of Eric and the Cranleigh Contact had generated a ‘handy little packet’, enough to keep him and cronies in substantial pocket money for some time … Whether I counted among those cronies I couldn’t be sure, and in any case was far from certain I wanted to. But what nudged my hopes was that Ingaza might now be steered away from acquisition of the wretched Folly. After all, as he had frequently observed, cash in hand was so much more comforting than future promise. However, I didn’t like to raise the matter just then, sensing it might be wasted in the general merriment. But to my grovelling amazement he later broached the issue himself at supper that night.

  Bribed by further whisky from the Citroën’s boot, Georges had surprisingly put on a very tolerable spread: bream from the local tarn, mammoth wedges of local sausage, a goat’s cheese of ammoniac pungency, chestnut mousse and copious flagons of an obscure but excellent Rhône.

  At first things were distinctly subdued, unease about Climp and Mullion weighing heavily upon us – even quelling the garrulous Henri. But as the meal progressed and the alcohol was imbibed, we started to relax, and Nicholas, though guarded about its exact nature, waxed lyrical about his recent coup. We repeated to one another the bishop’s view that our attackers had brought the whole thing upon themselves, and that such immoderate behaviour had been bound to backfire. And thus conveniently fortified we focused on the pleasures of the meal and speculations about the murder of Boris. Little headway was made with the latter, and it was at the point when Henri declared that in his opinion it was all the doing of a disaffected papal envoy, that Nicholas made his proposal.

  ‘Frankly,’ he yawned, ‘I’ve had enough of this French lark. There’s clearly nothing doing at the château, not now we’ve lost the swastika … and according to Lavinia the gold was pillaged years ago. In any case, after today’s little romp the sooner we put some mileage between ourselves and that plateau, the better. Those two will be found eventually and I don’t fancy being hauled in front of Fro
g magistrates to answer questions about a matter nothing to do with me … It was their own damn fault. Besides,’ he added musingly, ‘it doesn’t do to leave Eric too long to his own devices, especially with this latest development and my Cranleigh pal wanting his cut. Uncle Nick needs to be there to supervise matters. Give ‘em an inch …’

  I experienced a pang of relief and triumph; and rather than risk saying anything that might upset the delicate balance of things, nodded sagely indicating my full support.

  However, Henri was in less accord, protesting that he hadn’t come all the frigging way down from Normandy to foreign parts without getting something out of it, and what compensation was on offer? Nicholas told him he could have a bottle of Scotch and a hundred francs for his collection plate. Such a sop would hardly content this Cerberus, and I could see him opening his mouth to pour scorn and mordant invective. But Ingaza forestalled him by saying nonchalantly, ‘You could stay on, and then I’m sure, if you ask nicely, Francis will permit you to grub about on his property with the detector. Anything you happen to turn up – Roman coins, insignia etc. – you could keep all to yourself.’ He turned to me. ‘You wouldn’t object, would you, old boy?’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ I replied quickly, still loath to think of the place as being anything to do with me, and yet ready to be more than generous if it meant we could get back to England free of all entanglements. The curé cast me a smile of fawning beatitude and imperiously ordered another ration of the Rhône. Ingaza narrowed his eyes but said nothing.