‘No not them, silly. Turnbull and Lavinia, of course.’
‘Probably preparing for a night on the tiles at some swish Paris hotel with Lavinia practising her tango steps for the Latin Quarter.’
‘Very likely. I mean, he obviously thinks he’s got away with it, and judging from that merry spate of horn-blowing at the roundabout was clearly feeling pretty confident … Strange really, us being the only ones who know the dark secret!’
‘Suspect, not know exactly,’ I corrected her mildly.
‘Huh! As good as. After you seeing those words on his note pad there’s no other conclusion.’
‘You’re probably right, but it’s nothing to do with us now. As agreed, we keep our heads down, stay mum and get on with normal life. We shan’t see them again.’ I yawned, closed my eyes and contemplated with rare comfort the prospect of compiling the lay-readers’ rota. Her next words made me open them in startled horror.
‘Oh, but we will. At least I should jolly well hope so! Turnbull has negotiated an order for six of my paintings for his London language school when it opens, and I have no intention of letting him renege on the deal.’
I stared at her incredulously. ‘But Primrose,’ I gasped, ‘the man is a murderer and a blackguard!’
‘But so are you,’ she replied coolly, ‘well, murderer at any rate. Though in your case I am not sure whether “blackguard” is quite the right –’
‘But I’m different!’ I expostulated. ‘I –’
‘Very different,’ was the dry retort. ‘You don’t have his money, and even less his business sense. Neither are you fly enough to attempt wriggling out of a contract. He just might, and I am not having it. If I don’t hear from him within a fortnight I shall be on his trail.’ She spoke with that grim resolution which had so flummoxed Pa in her wilder days at the Courtauld. Like him I tried first dispute and then cajoling, but both were met with calm indifference. Primrose has always been intractable, and it was quite obvious that her instinct for commercial gain had been more than encouraged by her association with Ingaza. It was really too bad. And I retired to bed to dream uneasily of the four of them – Primrose, Nicholas, Lavinia and Turnbull – tangoing with sheep in St Botolph’s churchyard while I watched helplessly, pinioned to a tombstone by Mavis Briggs.
As nightmares go I suppose it was relatively mild – but enough nonetheless to have me scuttling back to Molehill immediately after breakfast the next day. I think Primrose was slightly put out that I had not tarried to mow the grass and dig the flower beds. But pleading a bad back and a mountain of parish duties, I gathered the animals, and slipping thankfully into the Singer pointed the bonnet firmly in the direction of Surrey and the vicarage.
For three blissful days peace reigned uninterrupted. Mavis Briggs was apparently taking a late holiday in Bexhill and, unless her hostess was desperate enough to develop some rare and sudden malaise requiring immediate isolation, would not be returning for at least a week. The Mothers’ Union, in an access of rare wisdom, had mercifully decided to cancel their autumn play-reading – a woeful business in which both Shakespeare and Terence Rattigan were annually mangled in lugubrious monotone. And even more mercifully, my locum had shown himself to be a wizard with paperwork and had actually seemed to revel in challenging the labyrinth of my chaotic filing system. ‘Not too good on psalms and such,’ he had confided shyly, ‘but give me a shamble of desk stuff and I’m as happy as Larry. It beats jigsaws any time. All to do with the tarts,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘Tarts? What tarts?’
‘The jam tarts. Our mother used to bribe us with those to keep the playroom tidy. I had the neatest toy-box on the block. And do you know – I could put my hand on a king marble or special Dinky car within five seconds. None of this business of rummaging behind the bookcase or in the school satchel. Oh no, all lined up and ready to go, they were. Never lost a lead soldier in my life!’ He spoke with nostalgic pride.
I regarded him respectfully – fat, neat and spruce – and thanked him warmly for his generous attention, observing that I would do my best to retain such pristine order. He beamed amiably. ‘They all say that. But you’ll only muck it up, they always do. Another week and it’ll be like Armageddon again. Still, enjoy it while you can.’
I assured him I was bound to, and apologizing for not having any jam tarts to hand wondered whether walnut cake and whisky might do instead. He said that on the whole he thought perhaps they would.
It was Miss Dalrymple who broke the idyll. I encountered her marching stoutly through the tombs to the east door, hotfoot no doubt on her perennial mission of spying out the chewing gum stuck under the choir stalls. I braced myself for the usual complaints. Surprisingly none came. Instead she greeted me cordially, enquired after my holiday, and then pulling a newspaper from beneath the library books in her basket, said, ‘Very odd, that French thing in the Massif Central. Turned out to be one of those missing warders from Broadmoor; though really, what he was doing wandering about in those parts I cannot imagine. Should have taken his holidays in Bournemouth like anyone else – much more appropriate. Shot between the eyes, horrid! Mind you, the French seem to go in for that sort of thing … I remember there was that recent business with the poor Drummond family – all very bizarre. Still, at least you seem to have survived unscathed, Canon. They tell me it happened quite near where you were staying. Is that so?’
I hesitated, not sure whether to admit a passing knowledge or to plead ignorance of the whole affair. I opted for the latter, saying that my time in France had been mercifully very quiet and uneventful, and since I always confused French place-names I would have to check the map when I got home.
I had the impression that she felt my vagueness was no more than to be expected, and changing the subject she said, ‘A nice little man, your locum. Much nicer than the awful one we had a couple of years ago – Rum or Rumble something. But I shall be glad when it’s you in the pulpit again delivering one of your soothing homilies. This man sounded like Montgomery giving a military briefing: everything was listed and classified. Colonel Dawlish liked it of course, but I could see that some of the older ladies felt distinctly bemused – as if they were being hit by a hail of ping-pong balls! However, he was invaluable on the Ladies’ Sewing Night – sorted out all their silks and ribbons quicker than you could say “thimble”; graded Mrs Higgins’ needles for her, and even showed Edith Hop-garden the correct way to fold her embroidery cloths … being Edith, of course, she didn’t like that, but the others took note all right.’
‘Splendid,’ I beamed, mentally seeing Climp on the high cliff with the bullet between his eyes, and wondering how long it would be before Mullion too was discovered. I also started to wonder how Crumpelmeyer was reacting to his minders’ disappearance and what effect, if any, it would have on his lunacy – or indeed his loathing of me …
However, such thoughts were scattered by Miss Dalrymple’s voice exclaiming, ‘… and then, if you please, the dear man ate all the special tarts – every one. Can you imagine!’
‘Yes, yes,’ I replied hurriedly, ‘rather a sweet tooth, I believe, but worth his weight in jam. Most useful.’
‘Indeed,’ she agreed. ‘We must have him again when next you go off on one of your little jaunts. He may be able to sort out the rubble in the vestry.’ And tapping me lightly on the shoulder with the rolled-up newspaper, she took off in pursuit of the chewing gum.
Some ‘jaunt’, I thought moodily, as I wandered disconsolately back to the vicarage racking my brains as to what sort of ‘soothing homily’ I could devise for Sunday’s sermon: the necessity and rewards of gritted teeth in the face of remorseless adversity, perhaps … I mused. Rewards? Not a hope!
At the gate I was met by Bouncer who, now fully recovered from his enforced ‘bed-rest’, seemed in particularly matey mood. He belted over, pawed my knees and shook the shaggy tail in frenzied salute. His expression I could not see, shrouded as it was by cascading fringe and beard, but I assumed i
t was one of riotous welcome. I also caught sight of Maurice lurking behind the water butt and eyeing me intently – though rather surprisingly with a demeanour bordering on the benign. I guessed their recent experiences must have made them thankful for small mercies and that, like myself, they had discovered life in the vicarage could be a lot worse. Together we went into the house, where after gin, pilchards and Bonios we settled down for the evening: they to their snoozes, me to the emollient sermon. If Miss Dalrymple et al. would feel better after such comforts who was I to cast a cloud?
Clouds rolled in thick and fast the following day. First there was the postcard from Bexhill: Mavis Briggs extolling the charms of that resort and trusting that I was feeling as ‘braced’ as she after my time in the Auvergne. A postscript made the proposal that she should display her holiday snaps on the church noticeboard, or better still, give a lantern lecture. The prospect of this, let alone the looming poetry recitals, made me feel distinctly unbraced. However, the postcard was merely the prelude to far worse: the arrival of the telegraph boy. This could mean only one thing: Primrose with an edict.
GOT HIM PINNED, the message announced, PAINTINGS IN THE BAG STOP MEETING LONDON NEXT WEEK STOP WANT YOU THERE STOP SHOULD I BUY NEW HAT QUESTION MARK
I pondered the millinery query for some time, for it was a convenient means of stalling thought about the tele-gram’s essential point, namely that Rupert Turnbull would be in London, and that thanks to my dear sister’s addiction to money I was to be dragged yet again into his disquieting orbit. My own dastardly act was undeniable, but that did not necessarily fit me for hobnobbing with those of similar ilk. Besides, assuming that Turnbull really had committed the double murder and the blackmailing of the students (and it seemed likely), it put him in a class much above my own blundering capability and which I did not care to join. And in short (to quote the diffident Mr Prufrock) I was afraid …
‘Fully deserves both fear and hanging!’, the retort might be. Doubtless. But in the meantime I had Primrose’s hat to consider and how best to avoid Mavis Briggs’s holiday slides.
39
The Cat’s Memoir
He lay sprawled on the terrace in his favourite spot, facing south under F.O.’s study window, the grimy rubber ring two inches from his muzzle. Having important things to say, I approached briskly. And ignoring the snores (suspecting them bogus), I was about to open my mouth, when he growled sleepily, ‘Go away, Maurice, you are blotting out the sun – there’s not much left of it.’
‘I most certainly will not go away,’ I replied with asperity, ‘there are certain matters which I wish to discuss. So kindly listen.’
He opened an eye, rolled it and shut it again. ‘Attend!’ I mewed irritably, and gave him a light prod with my unsheathed claw. This produced a histrionic yelp, but it did the trick for he scrambled to his haunches and reluctantly cocked both ears.
‘Now look here, Bouncer,’ I said, ‘you may think that the all clear has sounded, but I can assure you it hasn’t. There is more to come.’
‘What?’
‘I said that there is –’
‘What matters?’
I paused, surprised at the swift response. ‘Matters to do with France and one of the unsavoury characters we encountered there.’
‘Which one? Do you mean that porker in the yard who kept winking at me? Or that stupid cat with cross-eyes, or those half-baked ducks by the pond? If you ask me –’
‘I am not asking you, I am trying to tell you, so be quiet!’ I took a deep breath and continued quickly. ‘No, the unsavoury one is not of the animal species but the human. And I think he is about to cause trouble.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘His name is Turnip.’
‘Oh, that one – the one that did in the corpse by the pool, where I got your Special Eye from. You know, Maurice, that was a jolly good bit of retrieving I did that day … I bet even O’Shaughnessy couldn’t have –’
‘Yes, yes,’ I exclaimed hurriedly, ‘utterly brilliant. One is most grateful. Now the point is …’ And I proceeded to relate what I had heard F.O. telling his sister on the telephone after the boy with the yellow envelope had called. ‘He told her most emphatically,’ I explained, ‘that she should indeed buy a new hat and that in his opinion it should be at an angle with a short veil.’
The dog stared blankly, sniffed his rubber ring and then said, ‘What’s hats got to do with the price of fish?’
I sighed. ‘Nothing to do with fish but all to do with what to wear when having a social engagement with an assassin in a fashionable part of London. These things have to be carefully thought out.’
‘If you say so, Maurice. But supposing he doesn’t like the hat? What then – monkey business at the crossroads?’ He gave a sinister chuckle. ‘And besides, why’s the vicar bothering?’
‘Because the vicar is going with her. And you know what that means – bedlam all round!’
The dog fell silent for a while, and then said in a faraway voice, ‘Hmm, no wonder I couldn’t settle in the crypt the other day. Kept scratching and feeling odd. Thought it was the ghosts and spiders ganging up on me, but I can see now it was the old sixth sense getting into gear.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said sceptically, ‘and what does it have to say this time?’
He pondered, and then said slowly, ‘It says that there is trouble ahead.’
‘Well, of course there is trouble ahead,’ I cried impatiently. ‘Haven’t I just said so!’
‘Ah, but you didn’t mention the bulldog.’
‘What?’ I said sharply.
‘Gunga Din of course, the large lady’s dog. I tried to tell you – he was in one of my dreams when they gave me the pills. I dreamed F.O. had bumped into Mrs T. P. on the boat coming back and that she was dead keen to see him again … That’s it, I remember now, they were drinking at the bar and she was going on about her “sweet little poppet”. Funny the way dreams work, isn’t it, Maurice?’
‘Hilarious.’
‘Yes,’ the dog snuffled thoughtfully, ‘in fact, now I put my nose to it, I can sniff old Gunga in the wind. Won’t be long now, I shouldn’t wonder.’
I stared at him in dismay. ‘You don’t mean to say that we are to be involved with Mrs Tubbly Pole and her gin-toping stooge again? And this on top of the Turnip fellow and after all I have gone through abroad!’
‘Looks like it,’ the dog said cheerfully.
‘My nerves,’ I hissed, ‘my mangled nerves!’
‘If I were you,’ said Bouncer, ‘I’d go and have a quick round with your Special Eye. Give it a good drubbing. You’ll feel much better afterwards.’
I did as he suggested, but the effects were negligible. And I curled up that evening in a mood of considerable pique, wondering not for the first time why a cat of my singular charms should be plagued by so much human and canine lunacy.
Also by Suzette A. Hill
A Load of Old Bones
Bones in the Belfry
Bone Idle
Copyright
Constable & Robinson Ltd
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First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2010
Copyright © Suzette A. Hill, 2010
The right of Suzette A. Hill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN : 978–1–84901–796–1
Suzette A. Hill, Bones in High Places
Bones in High Places Page 24