Bones in High Places

by Suzette A. Hill

  I strolled along a well-trodden goat track, watching the dog throwing himself among brambles and bushes, putting up rabbits and worrying fallen branches. He was a companionable creature and I envied him his energy and freedom. I just hoped he could be smuggled back to England without trouble. Maurice would be less of a problem; but when it came to repatriating Bouncer things could be a mite tricky. I wondered about a strong sedative. Perhaps Georges could recommend a vet …

  I also started to think about Boris. Shocking though his end had been, our escapade with Climp and Mullion had rather pushed his particular event to the back of my mind. But now, safe from their threats, I once more started to ponder his fate and reflect upon the killer. Had our host really been the roué that Dumont and Clinker suggested? To my untutored eye it seemed improbable, although maybe the odd fling with a desperate female was not beyond the bounds of likelihood. Still, would that have been sufficient to goad an enraged husband to bump him off? A biff on the nose should have done the trick. Who on earth could have wanted to risk their neck to dispatch that pompous and more than ridiculous bone-keeper! … But then, I thought soberly, who on earth would have wanted to dispatch Mrs Elizabeth Fotherington?

  Yes, I mused, perhaps the ones who escape detection longest are those with the least or flimsiest of motive – flimsy at any rate to the uninitiated outsider. Naturally, gain of one sort or other was at the root of all such activity. But (as in my own case) it was perhaps gain of the negative kind which made the motive most difficult to grasp and gave it an elusiveness protective to the perpetrator. What I had needed was privacy and freedom from noise and interference, and I suspect few would see that as a likely reason for murder; yet at the time it was so desperate a need that, willy-nilly, I did what I did.

  Was Boris’s assassin cast in the same mould – prompted by some seemingly minor cause that went out of control? I remembered what Dumont had been saying about personal distaste sometimes turning to hate, and I thought of his example of the woman in Aurillac who had poisoned her husband because she was tired of his presence and found divorce an inconvenience. Well, presumably quite a few people may have become tired of Boris’s presence – a feeling one had little difficulty in sharing.

  I stopped and gazed at the distant puy. If the lady in Aurillac could do that, how about the lady in Berceau-Lamont? I reflected upon Lavinia: she was not dislikeable. Despite the air of abstracted other-worldliness, the woman was perfectly affable and, while sharing his earnestness and under-developed humour, certainly did not project the unctuous piety of her erstwhile spouse. Had the sudden serving of a cocktail and conspicuous display of glittering beads been a private celebration of his death? Death maybe … but murder? Anyone’s guess.

  And what about Herbert Castris? A disaffected would-be scholar with a thwarted fancy for a hermit’s tambourine and a spectacular cleavage (I made a mental note to keep my eyes scanned for Madame de Vere), was he really the slayer as Clinker – or rather Gladys – had asserted? True, he had held a grudge all right: after all, you would need to be fairly exercised to find time and a writing pad to pen a letter to the Church Times. But whether that was enough to prompt such an extreme reaction as murder was surely questionable … A question which made me reflect once more upon my own experience.

  Such cogitations were interrupted by Bouncer who had bounded from the bushes, jaws firmly clamped on the centre of a fallen branch. Several times his own length, it clearly put him in mind of an unduly protracted rat, and I emitted the required gasps of amazement as he proudly deposited the trophy at my feet. Such heroics had obviously induced hunger, for instead of bounding further into untapped territory, he turned briskly, and with firm foot set off for home. Shelving thoughts of Boris and his attackers, and sharing the dog’s desire for food and drink, I followed his example.

  When I reached the inn, I met Primrose at the foot of the stairs. She had obviously survived the bike ride with Henri and was making a beeline for the bar.

  ‘Did you have a good time?’ I asked doubtfully.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘and you will never guess who we met and had tea with.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Go and get changed first – there are burrs all over your trousers. I’ll tell you when you come down.’

  When I rejoined her in the bar Nicholas was also there – though no sign of the curé. Perhaps the conjunction of pedals and Primrose had proved too much and he was recovering quietly in his room. I asked who it was they had met in Villiers.

  ‘Well, Turnbull at first and then later Herbert Castris. He lives there and we went to his house and had tea – jolly nice it was too: real Earl Grey and proper bread and butter. Even Marmite. Not at all French!’

  ‘So how did that come about?’

  ‘Villiers is quite a large village and they’ve actually got a second-hand bookshop. I wanted to buy some nail polish at the hairdresser next door but Henri insisted on dragging me in to look at some ancient horse-racing books. And that’s where we met Rupert Turnbull, browsing among the dictionaries – wants some cheaply for his language school, I suppose. He was very chummy and said our arrival was well timed as he was just on his way to take tea with his friend Castris, and would we like to come too. I was slightly hesitant as it seemed unfair on the man having a couple of strangers suddenly thrust on him like that. But of course, never one to pass up a free meal Henri agreed like a shot. So we joined forces with Turnbull and it all proved very pleasant.’

  ‘So what’s he like, Castris?’ I asked, picturing him belabouring Boris at the poolside, Church Times in one hand, cricket bat or Belvedere’s tibia in the other.

  ‘Small and grey with a distinctly acid tongue. Quite amusing really, in a rather cynical way. But he was most hospitable, and really very interesting about his researches on local customs and folklore.

  ‘Did he mention the tambourine?’

  Primrose laughed. ‘Well, yes, in a roundabout way. Naturally one of the topics of conversation was Boris and his grisly end, and although Castris was fairly civil about his rival (perhaps because Henri and I were there) you could see he was hardly grief-shattered. However, he made a point of saying how sorry he felt for Lavinia, and that despite their former differences, did Turnbull think it would be in order if he went over to Le Petit Rêve to pay his respects. Turnbull said he was sure that Lavinia would be very touched. At which point Castris immediately asked about the tambourine: was it being kept in a safe place and did Lavinia have any particular use for it …’ Primrose grinned. ‘I must say, he couldn’t have been more transparent if he had tried!’

  ‘So what did Turnbull have to say about that?’

  ‘Oh, he was suitably diplomatic – said he wasn’t really sure on either count, and there was so much going on with the funeral arrangements that the question of personal effects hadn’t really arisen.’

  ‘And is Castris going over there?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ laughed Primrose, ‘pretty pronto I should think – and trying his luck with Clothilde de Vere on the way back, no doubt!’

  At that point Henri appeared, evidently rested from his exertions and moderately shaved. He went over to the bar, ordered a cognac and then hailed Primrose fulsomely.

  ‘Bonsoir, ma vieille. Ça va?’

  ‘Ça va bien, merci, mon vieux,’ answered Primrose gaily.

  ‘Goodness,’ I exclaimed, ‘you have been getting on well!’

  ‘Henri is all right,’ she replied, ‘provided he is kept in his place. With that achieved he can be quite entertaining.’

  ‘Really?’ I said drily. ‘You mean like a marmoset in a cage.’

  ‘Quite an intelligent one actually.’

  Over supper that night Primrose told me that Turnbull had offered to show us round his language establishment in the nearby town. ‘I’ve twisted his arm into buying some more of my pictures and he seems eager to show me where they will be displayed.’

  Nicholas grinned. ‘Play your cards right and you could supply all of
his schools. I gather he has plans afoot to set up some more, one in England I believe. I shall have to watch out – you’ll be so busy selling stuff to him that the Canadian market will run dry.’

  ‘At least it won’t be fakes this time,’ I remarked.

  ‘Francis,’ Primrose cried. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that the term fake is a total misnomer! What I send to the Canadians are highly artistic and sensitive reconstructions of the eighteenth-century mode. If the discerning connoisseurs over there choose to see them as originals that is their lookout. Caveat emptor, I always say. Now kindly pour me some more wine.’

  ‘You must indulge your brother,’ observed Nicholas, ‘his mind is not of the most subtle in matters aesthetic; and besides, he has had a hard day.’

  ‘Moi aussi,’ declared Henri, getting up from the table. ‘I go to bed now.’ He shambled towards the door, where he turned, and addressing himself to Primrose, said: ‘Kindly remove your unsavoury feet from that seat or I shall be forced to summon the guard.’ With that he left the room.

  There was a stunned silence. And then Nicholas gasped, ‘What the hell was that about?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Finally flipped, I suppose.’

  ‘I think he was practising,’ said Primrose. ‘You see, when we were cycling to Villiers this afternoon, we passed the time by teaching each other useful sentences in our respective tongues. I think he quite liked that one. He’s certainly remembered it very well.’

  I stared at her. ‘What other sentences did you teach him?’

  ‘Well, uhm … let me see now, there was: “Have you any idea the trouble this has caused me?” and: “ No, I am not prepared to give you a five per cent discount on my paintings.” As a matter of fact, he had difficulty with that one. Can’t think why, it seems perfectly easy to me.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I suppose he taught you how to say, “How much longer are you going to keep me hanging about in this confessional box!” and “What are the runners for the two thirty?”‘

  ‘Yes, something like that,’ said Primrose.

  31

  The Vicar’s Version

  Our visit to Turnbull’s language school was fixed for the following morning. The town was only three kilometres distant, but Primrose was not keen on the walk and had organized a lift from Madame Vernier who was taking Clemenceau to have his teeth scrubbed by the vet. ‘He is always very good,’ she explained with pride, ‘and afterwards Maman gives him a special treat … Don’t I, mon petit,’ she cooed, planting a smacking kiss on the animal’s bear-like head.

  ‘What sort of treat?’ I asked, envisaging a romp in the park with the other dogs.

  ‘He has une grosse pâtisserie from Le Café Vert in Le Grand Place – it is the best in town,’ she confided.

  I asked if the dog had any particular preference in the cake line.

  She reflected, and then replied, ‘He likes very much les choux à la crème and les bombes meringués, but his most special favourite is un éclair au chocolat avec des fruits glacés – ça il adore!’ (Clearly a dog with a discerning sweet tooth, I thought. The vet must be laughing all the way to the bank.)

  Thus we drove into town with Clemenceau sitting eagerly alert on the back seat. I noticed he was wearing a different collar. Was this a muted one for social visits? I hoped so. She drew up outside a large building surrounded by a beech hedge, black railings and elaborate wrought-iron gates, one of which displayed a shiny brass plate. ‘Voila!’ she announced. ‘L’Institut de la Langue et Culture Anglaise. Il a une bonne réputation, ici en Fleurville.’ We thanked her for her help and, wishing the dog well with his dental ablutions and ensuing treat, made our way through the gates and towards the front porch.

  Turnbull’s establishment was impressive – bright, airy and spacious, with wide corridors, polished floors and comfortable classrooms. At every turn there seemed to be bevies of projectors or glass-fronted booths full of tape recorders and earphones. The place had an aura of gleaming efficiency, and I imagined that it appealed to local businessmen as much as to younger students. It all seemed a far cry from my own memories of language tuition at the hands of an ancient French schoolmaster with a rickety blackboard and wind-up gramophone.

  Primrose spent a happy forty minutes with Turnbull, scanning walls and classrooms to select those spaces which would display her rural landscapes to maximum effect. The idea, our guide explained, was to convey to students the essential placidness of the English character as depicted in the rustic charm of the artist’s nestling churches, languid water meadows and gently grazing sheep … Clearly Turnbull’s use of entrepreneurial rhetoric was on a par with my sister’s.

  The tour over, we were taken back to his office where a cafetière of good coffee was ready but accompanied by a plate of rather desiccated biscuits. I wondered how Clemenceau was enjoying his pâtisserie at Le Café Vert and if he had managed to grab the éclair.

  After we had chatted and sipped our coffee, Primrose and Turnbull got in a huddle over purchasing details and freight arrangements, while I browsed the bookshelves. It was an eclectic assortment, but I was surprised to note that, for one whose business premises were so orderly, Turnbull’s reading material – like my own – was conspicuously ill sorted. Reference books, gardening books, volumes of poetry, biographies, detective novels, histories and two well-thumbed French cookery manuals by an Englishwoman called Elizabeth David – all jostled haphazardly cheek by jowl: a collection puzzling to negotiate, but at least having the element of surprise.

  Like Primrose, I was not particularly looking forward to the trek back to Berceau, and was relieved when Turnbull said he was lunching at Le Petit Rêve and would drop us off at the inn. As we drew up I was startled to see Inspector Dumont’s car parked in the yard, and a moment later Henri darted out exclaiming, ‘Venez vite, l’inspecteur, he ees ici. C’est très urgent! He want to speak with Primrose – and Monsieur aussi.’ He beckoned to Turnbull who hastily got out of the driving seat.

  I groaned to myself. ‘Oh my God, they’ve found Climp – now it begins!’ And with weary foot I followed the others inside.

  Henri led us to the residents’ salon, a dispiriting place well suited to bad news. Dumont was there plus a gendarme with a notebook, and unexpectedly Clinker also. His presence confirmed my fears about the discovery of Climp: we were all to be interrogated about our involvement with the missing campers – and we hadn’t even worked out a story!

  Dumont looked grave. ‘I am sorry to be the bearer of sad news. But a man has been found dead, one of your fellow countrymen. We found him at six o’clock this morning.’

  We? … What on earth were the police doing on the mountain at that hour? Dishing out speeding tickets? The inspector continued. ‘You will probably be acquainted with the gentleman. His name was Herbert Castris. He has been found hanging from a lintel above one of the doors in his house.’

  There was a heavy silence while we assimilated his words. And then Primrose burst out, ‘But he couldn’t have! Are you sure? I mean, we were with him yesterday. He was giving us tea!’

  ‘Yes, madame, I am quite sure,’ replied Dumont, tactfully refraining from saying that he knew a dead body when he saw one.

  ‘But why in heaven’s name should he have done that?’ exclaimed Turnbull. He sat down abruptly on a nearby chair, clearly upset. I gathered they had known each other for some years, and could see it must have been a dreadful blow. ‘I mean, I assume it was suicide?’

  The inspector nodded. ‘Very probably. That is what we are trying to ascertain, and why I need to ask Madame Oughterard, yourself and Monsieur le Curé a few questions about his demeanour when you were taking tea with him yesterday. The housekeeper said you arrived at about three thirty and stayed for an hour or so. During that time did he show any signs of agitation?’

  The gendarme signalled that Clinker and I were not required, and we went out leaving the other three to give their version of the previous day’s visit.<
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  ‘Ghastly, ghastly,’ exclaimed the bishop as we stood irresolutely in the foyer. ‘It’s really too much, all this mortality. Gladys will be most put out – not to mention Lavinia. She was expecting him for supper, you know. The man rang up last night and asked if he could come and give his condolences. Considering he and Boris had been at daggers drawn over that de Vere woman, it seemed a little excessive. Still, a decent gesture all the same … Of course, the women won’t have heard yet – I just happened to be in the village when that Dumont fellow drove past and gave me the news … No, Gladys won’t like it at all. As a matter of fact I was buying her some aspirin at the village shop. Gets through ‘em at a rate of knots. Can’t think why – strong as a horse. Says she likes to take them on principle … Suppose I’d better go back for another packet after this business, one won’t be enough.’ He glanced around scowling. ‘Where’s Ingaza? I could do with a Scotch.’

  ‘Here,’ said Nicholas coming in from the front entrance. I was surprised to see he was accompanied by Bouncer on a lead. ‘Just been taking your hound for a little spin in the car. He seemed at a bit of a loose end after you and Primrose had gone, and his mate has disappeared as well.’

  ‘Yes, having his fangs scrubbed prior to being stuffed with cream buns,’ I explained. I asked him how Bouncer had behaved.

  ‘Little tyke was as good as gold. Sat up on the front seat like the Queen of Sheba. The only thing is that sometimes when we went past another dog in the road he set up a most peculiar falsetto keening. It was rather disconcerting really.’