Bones in High Places

by Suzette A. Hill

  ‘He can be left on the back seat,’ said Primrose.

  ‘Oh yes, in full view of every passing passenger and official,’ I replied sarcastically.

  ‘Not if we use flowers.’

  ‘Flowers? What are you talking about?’

  ‘We can drape him in one of those absurd surplices that Nicholas had the whisky wrapped in, and then smother him in swathes of lilies and late chrysanthemums. It will just be assumed we are en route to a funeral or a wedding. Flowers are like children, always presumed innocent, never linked with the base or subversive. People will take one look and think, Ah, how lovely … and pass on by.’

  ‘But suppose he wakes up in this bed of floral pulchritude, and starts sniffing the perfumed air?’

  ‘Well, you will just have to double the dose. Feed him two pills instead of one.’

  ‘Can’t we find any other flowers? Those sound a bit death-like to me.’

  ‘Not at this time of year. Besides, that might be to our advantage, especially if we sit there looking solemn.’

  There was a snort of mirth from Nicholas. ‘Poor old bugger – he’s going to be a right little Queen of the May! That’ll teach him to hitch lifts to foreign ports. Should have stayed at home with the wolfhound.’

  ‘So where’s all this stuff coming from?’ I asked sceptically.

  ‘There are a couple of nice-looking florists in Dieppe,’ Primrose explained. ‘I noticed them after we docked and when our knowledgeable driver was meandering around losing his way all over the place …’

  ‘Reconnoitring is the word, my dear,’ observed Ingaza mildly.

  We reached Dieppe in plenty of time to walk both dog and cat, and for Primrose to buy armfuls of grossly overpriced blooms. And although I had administered the first of Bouncer’s knock-out drops, I still wasn’t really sure what to do with Maurice. Unlike the dog, he is not amenable to pills of any kind, and though coercion might have worked, I found the prospect both distasteful and fatiguing. Tentative enquiries about Primrose’s handbag had been met with obdurate silence.

  ‘Let the cat live dangerously,’ said Nicholas. ‘He chose to come in the boot and he can take his chance and go back in it. If you remember, there wasn’t a peep out of him coming over. None of us had a clue he was there.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said doubtfully, ‘but supposing Customs take a look anyway. I mean, even if he was asleep they would still see him, especially if they were rooting around for smuggled goods.’

  Nicholas shrugged. ‘Wear your dog collar. Take a gamble. It’s what’s known as operating on a wing and a prayer – you should know about that, I imagine.’

  And so that’s what we did: gave Bouncer another pill, spread the white surplice over him and piled on the flowers. He looked like a sort of canine version of St Thérèse of Lisieux. Maurice for once was amazingly co-operative and, with eyes tightly shut and nursing Belvedere’s glass eye between his paws, appeared to fall fast asleep curled under Primrose’s hat. I closed the lid of the boot gently.

  I think it must have been the blend of lilies and dog collar that did it, but whatever the reason, we evidently passed muster … although I did notice a rather sleeked official with gold-braided cuffs giving Ingaza a beady look, but that may have been merely the glad eye. Ingaza himself registered nothing, for by that time he was already turning an anticipatory green. Once we were parked in the hold, he slid away swiftly to the purser’s cabin. Primrose too disappeared, muttering something about ordering her quota of Je Reviens from the tiny Duty Free stall before stocks ran out.

  Left alone I strolled up on deck, and in the face of the wind fumbled to light a Craven ‘A’. I took a puff and gave a tentative sigh of relief. The quays of Dieppe gradually slipped away, and we chugged out of the harbour into the open Channel bound for Newhaven and the Sussex coast. Last lap, I thought. Hallelujah!

  A grateful gin seemed appropriate and I made my way to the saloon, which was more crowded than on the voyage out. But pressing through the throng I managed to place an order the moment the shutters went up. There were few vacant seats at the tables, and in any case at this stage of the journey the idea of fraternizing with fellow passengers was not particularly enticing. I could remember the results from the previous time …

  Leaning on the bar, I was just about to take my first sip, when a familiar voice boomed in my ear: ‘That’s a bit measly, isn’t it, Francis? You can make mine a double, if you please.’ I swung round and was confronted by the beaming face of Mrs Tubbly Pole.

  Suppressing shock and horror, I said faintly, ‘Well, I never!’ and mechanically signalled to the barman. Apart from a jaunty French beret and voluminous gabardine now replacing the Bud Flanagan hat and draped fur coat, she looked much as when I had last seen her in the midnight purlieus of Maida Vale, a fugitive from justice after her bulldog’s dispatch of a neighbour’s Yorkshire terrier.

  ‘So good to see you, Francis!’ she chortled. ‘How’s tricks? Been on some jolly hols, have you?’

  There flashed through my mind a picture of Boris bludgeoned at the water’s side, Climp’s body inert and bleeding on the granite plateau, Mullion being beastly by the duck pond and poor little Castris strung up on his dining-room doorpost. ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘very jolly.’

  ‘Good, good! That’s what I like to hear,’ she exclaimed. ‘You parsons, you need to get out and about. Gives you a perspective on things.’

  Refraining from saying that I had had enough perspective to last me a lifetime, I asked how her crime novels were doing and whether she had had a successful American tour.

  ‘Excellent on both counts,’ she crowed. ‘Dear Alfred has read all my books – even my very first one, Blood Must Flow, and he’s so eager to get going. But of course I said that I would have to ask you first.’

  ‘Ask me?’ I exclaimed. ‘What ever are you talking about … and who’s Alfred?’

  ‘Alfred Hitchcock, of course. He’s going to make a film of my last novel – the one based on my interpretation of the Molehill murder. I told you in my letter. Didn’t you get it? … Ah, too busy gadding in France no doubt. Anyway, we have both decided that you should have a walk-on part – it would give a delightful touch of authenticity if there were a real clergyman in the midst of all the fictional shenanigans, especially one who knew the actual victim so well. You’ll love it.’

  I closed my eyes; opened them and said woodenly, ‘But I thought Hitchcock always did the walk-on.’

  ‘Oh, he will be doing that as usual of course, but the idea is that you should be coming from the other direction and you will both meet and cross over in mid-screen. Actually, if I play my cards right I’m sure I can wangle you a small speaking part, you know, just a few words – what do you think of that!’

  I began to feel an appalling sense of unreality, and placed a steadying hand on the bar counter not sure whether my whirling head was to do with the motion of the boat or the bombshell of her news. Either way the effect was intense. ‘What sort of words?’ my voice asked.

  ‘Oh, such as, “If you ask my opinion, the lady was done to death not in the belfry but in the wood.”‘

  I gazed at her in scandalized silence.

  ‘Well, come on, what do you think? Speak!’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Er … I say, how’s your bulldog these days?’

  ‘Oh, Gunga Din is on topping form, and I can’t tell you how much the little man is longing to see you.’ She clapped her hands excitedly, picked up her glass, and giving it a gay flourish cried, ‘Meanwhile, bottoms up, dear Francis, here’s to our joint venture on to the silver screen!’ She seized my arm. ‘Now, there are many things we need to discuss …’

  36

  The Dog’s Diary

  Do you know what? They drugged me up to the eyeballs, up to the eyeballs they did! Yes, just like that time when I was a puppy and my first master, Bowler, took me to the vet’s to have a bit of ham bone taken out of my gullet. It was the same thing all over again, except that this time I
had cracking dreams. I mean really cracking. All about duffing up Maurice and shoving his haddock where you wouldn’t normally expect it to go. And then there were some to do with savaging the organist’s ankles, and others about chasing a giant bunny who kept yelling, ‘Mercy, mercy, Master Bouncer, I’ll be your servant for life!’ But the best of all was the one when F.O. hung a red ribbon round my neck with a medal that said ‘Take note: the best Bouncer in the world.’ That was really good. The more I think about it the more I know they were some of the best dreams I have ever had. Wouldn’t mind getting my paws on a few more of those pills if that’s what they do.

  As a matter of fact I think the cat is a bit jealous because when I told him about how nice it all was, he narrowed his eyes and said in that hoity-toity voice of his that it was obvious I was turning into a dope fiend. I said I didn’t care what I was turning into as long as it did the trick … Mind you, waking up wasn’t so good. I thought at first I was in the churchyard along with all those other buggers. I could hardly breathe! There was this mass of flowers on top of me with leaves and twigs and whopping great petals, and a sort of white sheet that my hind legs were all tangled up in. The smell was cat-awful – all sweet and sickly. Thought I might throw up, and the only way I could stop myself was by trying to remember really good smells like dustbins, the inside of O’Shaughnessy’s kennel, the pig yard at that foreign place we were at, and the gatepost of Pierre the Ponce’s house when he has just lifted his leg. As long as I could concentrate on those I was all right – just.

  And then there was suddenly the Prim’s voice saying, ‘Oh look, Francis, he’s woken up. I’ve just seen his eye rolling!’ I must have still been pretty dazed because when I heard her say that I began to think about Maurice’s new eye, the one he’s so pleased with – the one I got for him from under the stiff’s head. And that made me think that perhaps one of my eyes was made of glass too, and I didn’t like that much so started to kick up a fuss. Next thing was I heard the Brighton Type saying, ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, put a sock in it!’ That made me feel better because I knew things must be back to normal and that I was among the humans safe on the back seat of the car – with both my peepers working and F.O.’s fag smoke curling all round my snout. But I still felt a bit uncomfy as there was something stuck in my collar behind my ear. It turned out to be one of those stupid flowers, and for some reason this made them all laugh, especially when the Type said, ‘Well, Francis, you’ve got a right little Carmen Miranda there!’ Don’t know what he meant by that, but I wasn’t having it, I can tell you. So I set up a really good racket, and that brought them to heel all right. Quiet as the grave. That’s one of Maurice’s tips, you know. ‘Bouncer,’ he said once, ‘when the humans are playing silly beggars and you’ve had enough, just make it clear who’s in charge: be as bloody as possible. They soon get the message.’ Of course, the cat’s got being bloody down to a fine art – bred deep in the bone, if you ask me. But when he puts his mind to it old Bouncer can show ‘em a thing or two as well!

  37

  The Cat’s Memoir

  Needless to say the dog was in his element. Sprawled on the back seat, wreathed in flowers and a white shroud, he clearly imagined he was in some sort of celestial basket being borne off to Dog Wonderland. He later described to me the dreams he had been having while in this parlous condition: violent and vulgar, as you might expect. But I tried not to flinch and, apart from one or two mild jibes, assumed a tone of awed interest. This seemed to satisfy him and I overheard him telling O’Shaughnessy what extraordinary adventures he had been having and how much ‘the cat’ was impressed by his friend’s heroic endeavours. Hmm …

  My own journey back was less histrionic and considerably more decorous. For once F.O. had shown a due regard for my preferences and had been thoughtful enough to ensure that the Special Eye was within my grasp. Indeed, he exhibited unusual sensitivity in placing it right between my paws. This I found extremely soothing and I was disposed to be co-operative for the entire voyage.

  When we were eventually returned to terra firma – i.e. the Newhaven docks – there was a great palaver as the humans sorted themselves out, lugging their luggage from one car to the other and generally making much fuss and noise. This seems the usual response when they have little to do. Eventually the Brighton Type took off in a cloud of exhaust and brilliantine, and Bouncer and myself were left with the vicar and his sister. Fortunately they were both tired and so our evening in Lewes was uneventful. However, on our trip back to Molehill the following day I recounted to Bouncer what I had gathered about F.O.’s meeting with the Tubbly person on the boat. The dog was still punch drunk from the drugs they had plied him with and so had some difficulty in recalling who Mrs Tubbly Pole actually was. Patiently I reminded him that she was the person who a little while ago had been so insistent on writing a novel based on the unsolved Molehill murder, and whose beloved companion was the moronic inebriate bulldog, Gunga Din. Reference to this last name perked the dog up considerably and he recovered his limited wits quite quickly. ‘Oh,’ he growled, ‘you mean the loud lady with the bastard idiot!’

  ‘Precisely,’ I agreed, ‘but from what I overheard of the garbled remarks in the car, when we docked she disappeared immediately up to London. It is unlikely she will inflict further unrest upon our master.’

  ‘Sod our master,’ the dog grumbled, ‘what about me and you?’

  Bouncer’s syntax is a constant source of irritation to me, and I was about to make a mild correction, when he suddenly said, ‘Hang about a bit, Maurice … Funny you should mention them because now I think of it, I’m pretty sure she was in one of my dreams … Yes, that’s it, she was! Want to hear about it?’

  I told him I had heard quite enough of his dreams for one day and did not think I could cope with any more lurid narratives, and if he would excuse me I had important matters to attend to in the shrubbery.

  ‘Busy cat,’ he muttered. And raising his hind leg began to scratch.

  Settled once more in our accustomed routine, I took it upon myself to visit Florence the Fermanagh wolfhound. There are few dogs (to say the least) whom I respect but the wolfhound is one of them. She is a creature of great poise and much discernment, and can clearly appreciate a prize cat when she meets one. Thus as soon as I felt in the calling mood I set off to find her.

  I didn’t have to look far. Much of her time is spent sprawling in the middle of her people’s drive, but sufficiently near the gateway to wave a graceful paw at random passers-by. (Not too random, you understand. Like myself, Florence is selective in her companions – although she does exhibit a benignity which sometimes I feel is a trifle misplaced. I wonder whether I should tell her …)

  Anyway, I gave one of my most beguiling mews, and raising her huge head she beamed and summoned me over. ‘Good afternoon, Maurice,’ she exclaimed. ‘I was just thinking about you and Bouncer and wondering how you were both getting on in France, and suddenly here you are in front of me!’

  ‘But Florence,’ I said, ‘how on earth did you know that Bouncer was with me? I mean, when he took off in the biscuit van you couldn’t have known it was destined for Dieppe.’

  She looked vague and said she had heard her mistress saying something about it after being telephoned by the vicar, and that in any case her sixth sense always helped her to keep abreast of things. I have to admit to being taken aback by that and not a little peeved. It was one thing having Bouncer rambling on about his sixth sense but to have the wolfhound at it as well was a bit much. I was surprised that she should harbour such delusions. However, every dog has its flaw(s), even one as distinguished as Florence. Thus hiding my irritation I said we had spent a most enlivening time and would she like to hear a little about it.

  She said she most certainly would, but that since I was bound to feature prominently in events it might be best if I related it in instalments so that she could digest things at leisure. That struck me as admirably sensible, so after delivering the bare bones I went
away promising to return the very next morning. She seemed to think the evening might be better, and so that is what was arranged. It is rare to find such appreciation from another animal, let alone a dog.

  38

  The Vicar’s Version

  Maud Tubbly Pole’s plans about my role in the filming of her novel Murder at the Moleheap were so excruciating that I wasn’t sure whether to give way to wild hysteria or cut my throat. In the end I settled for the middle way – prayer and gin. This combination worked surprisingly well, for it meant that when we disembarked she miraculously vanished up to Maida Vale via taxi and boat train, while I was left in a state of tranced insouciance. So insouciant in fact, that after waving the tail end of the Citroën a thankful farewell, I allowed Primrose to take the wheel of the Singer and drive us back to her house in Lewes. Here we collapsed over Marmite sandwiches and smuggled Beaujolais; and with cat and dog fed and bedded, fell to reviewing the past fortnight.

  ‘If you ask me,’ my sister opined, ‘it is not a holiday I care to repeat.’

  ‘It was never intended as a holiday,’ I grumbled, ‘merely an excuse for Ingaza to get his hands on a fat fortune at the expense of the rest of us.’ I grimaced in painful memory. ‘After this caper I think I shall regard Edith Hopgarden, and even Mavis, as benign saviours of my sanity.’

  ‘Want a bet?’

  ‘Not really.’

  For a time we brooded in silence, and then Primrose said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder what they are doing now.’

  ‘Squabbling over cups of cocoa, I imagine.’