‘Wotcha, Francis,’ bellowed Eric’s voice, ‘so you’re on yer way all right! Got the goods, ’ave yer?’
I assured him that I had the goods.
‘Righto. I’ll tell His Nibs to look smartish. In the bath he is – always likes a good sluice before doing business, especially with an old mate! Anyway, I expect he’ll be there before you. Can’t hang about, old son, big darts bash at the Anchor. I’m their only ’ope!’ And with a thundering guffaw he rang off.
I was relieved about the darts match, annoyed at being cast as ‘old mate’; but didn’t know whether to be flattered by Ingaza’s careful ablutions, or piqued that unlike me – harried by the drive and the day’s events – he had the leisure for such matters. I could have done with a relaxing bath myself – but even more so with a relaxing drink! And spurred by that prospect I returned to the car and pressed on to the south coast.
* * *
Eighteen months previously the Old Schooner had played a brief but major part in my muddled life. It was there that I had fled after my terrible event in Foxford Wood; and it was there that I had encountered Nicholas – last seen a decade earlier making a handcuffed exit from the portals of St Bede’s – following his event in the Turkish bath.
I pushed open the revolving doors and, caught in a swirl of strange and painful memory, wandered into the bar. This time, instead of the early evening sun flooding the room, the curtains were closely drawn, the lamps lit and the corners dim. But the pianist was there just the same, tinkling away in an alcove – and, as predicted by Eric, so was Nicholas: draped on a bar stool, thin fingers caressing a cocktail, and exuding his customary air of raddled elegance. I had been cursing him all day – while soft-soaping Claude, kowtowing to Clinker, negotiating the mayhem of Croydon’s rush hour, and nearly getting myself blitzed by some hurtling limo. But suddenly seeing him there, sveltely poised in the mellow warmth of the Old Schooner, I experienced a pang of almost pleasurable familiarity. I say ‘almost’, because Nicholas, however occasionally engaging, is invariably dangerous. But it had been a hard day and my defences were down. So I responded to his languid wave with a broad grin, triumphant that my mission was accomplished, and moved quickly to greet him.
I was thus slightly put out by his opening words: ‘Christ, Francis, you’re not wearing that, are you!’
‘Wearing what?’ I exclaimed.
‘The dog collar of course. Not exactly the sort of thing to help you melt into the crowd, dear boy! I should think they’ve mapped your progress all the way from Wigmore Street to the Royal Pavilion. Cover it up, for God’s sake!’
I had a scarf in my raincoat pocket and obediently wound it round my neck.
‘Got it, have you?’ he asked briskly.
‘Yes, yes,’ I replied, ‘but what about a drink first? I’ve had a hell of a time!’
‘Let’s see the pig first,’ he said evenly. ‘And then, old cock, you can have anything you want …’ He smiled slyly.
‘A Scotch will do,’ I said quickly … and then groaned, remembering that yet again I had left the thing in the car. So much for careful resolutions! He raised a caustic eyebrow, and, feeling a prize idiot, I gabbled an apology and hurried back out to the sea front.
When I returned with the precious box Nicholas had moved from the bar to a nearby table. There was a drink lined up for me – not the requested whisky, but a cocktail glass containing what looked to be the same concoction as his own.
‘What’s this?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘Between The Sheets.’
‘Between what!’ I exclaimed.
‘Sheets. They’ve only just caught up with it down here, and it’s become all the rage. Try it and see.’ He raised his own glass encouragingly.
I took a tentative sip … and then another. And then, just to be sure, a third. He was right: it was very, very good. And accepting the proffered Sobranie, I settled back in the chair savouring the taste, and feeling all the pressures of the day slip from my shoulders …
‘Well, I’m going to have a quiet shufti at this thing – got to make sure you’ve brought the right one!’ Nicholas announced.
‘Of course I have …’ I started to protest; but with box in hand he had already got up and was making his way to the cloakrooms.
I stared after him indignantly. However, my attention was diverted by the arrival of three men at the next table. Loud-suited and loud-voiced, they carried beers and whisky chasers, and were smoking cigars of impressive proportion. I took them to be local bookies on the razzle. However, judging from their conversation, which was not difficult to overhear, it transpired that two of them had recently come down from London and, having joined the third, were en route to catch the Newhaven night ferry, stopping off at the hotel for a bracer before embarkation. I hoped that this would not be a protracted affair as I had been enjoying the soothing drink and found their noisy laughter grating.
The most florid of the three, who seemed to be in the chair, asked if the others had had a good journey: ‘Cut it a bit fine, didn’t you? Thought I’d have to catch the boat on my tod.’
‘Lights at the level-crossing stuck as usual. Besides, bit of luck we’re here at all after that blithering idiot braked when he did, stupid sod!’ exclaimed the one sitting nearest to me.
‘Looked like some priest,’ the other added, ‘got one of those collars on.’
His companion grunted and flicked the ash from his cigar. ‘Might have guessed. Heads in the clouds … lethal they are! If we hadn’t been in such a hurry I’d have stopped the car and rammed the collar down his bleeding throat. That would have got him to Kingdom Come all right!’ He gave a coarse laugh and the others joined in.
I could feel myself going scarlet, and nervously wound the scarf more closely around my neck. I resented his use of the word ‘lethal’, feeling that, all things considered, the Church and its ministers probably did slightly more good than harm. I was about to ponder this further, when it struck me that as applied to myself – and from Elizabeth Fotherington’s point of view – the term was unnervingly apt. I contemplated my drink soberly, took two more large sips, and then began to feel rather less sober …
Nicholas returned from the Gents, took one look at my muffled neck and said scathingly: ‘Well, you don’t need to overdo it. You look like some invalid in the last throes of laryngitis!’
I grimaced, and muttered out of the corner of my mouth, ‘If you don’t mind I think we should move elsewhere – not too keen on the present company.’
‘Look, old boy, it’s not that I’m deaf or anything, but if you must mumble into your scarf like that you can’t expect me to understand a word you’re saying!’
‘I am going to the bar,’ I announced – rather more loudly than intended – and got up sharply, promptly knocking his drink over.
‘Good thing too, old sport, you can buy me another while you’re there!’ He followed me over, instructed the barman to mix two more doubles at my expense and resumed his position on one of the stools. From the distance I heard one of the voyagers observe, ‘What’s wrong with him, then? Must be your voice, Cyril. Enough to scare the pants off anyone!’ There was a volley of laughter and another swirl of cigar smoke.
Settling myself on the stool next to Nicholas, I tentatively loosened the scarf a couple of folds, and with back firmly turned to the group at the table, reapplied myself to the cocktail. It really was rather good!
I sensed Nicholas watching me, and in the mirror caught sight of his sardonic grin.
‘Thought that might slip down well,’ he observed. ‘You can always trust Old Nick in these matters!’
‘About the only ones,’ I said drily.
‘Now, now, don’t sulk, Francis. You’ve actually done well this time – the pig’s the right one all right: and it’s going to make me a moderate mint. Congratulations, dear boy, Bishop Clinker would be proud of you.’
‘Clinker?’ I exclaimed. ‘What on earth has he got to do with it?’
&nb
sp; ‘Don’t you remember at St Bede’s how he was always saying that he didn’t mind his clergy being simple-minded as long as they were efficient? Well, at long last it seems you’re beginning to show the missing ingredient. My compliments.’
I scowled and was about to retaliate, but somehow both the drink and his accompanying laughter were infectious, and instead I started to giggle. ‘At least the Spire Fund can get its rake-off – you did mention a cut, I recall!’
‘A modest one, yes. Enough anyway to keep that inebriate female of yours tanked up on brandy for a while … God, that was awful!’ He closed his eyes, looking suddenly haggard.
Clearly the memory of Mavis Briggs simperingly and insatiably consuming his finest cognac had entered deep into Ingaza’s psyche. It was not the first time he had mentioned it.
‘That was nothing,’ I said, taking another sip, ‘you want to be there when she’s spouting her verses, nothing beats that … Anyway, she is not my female, simply a pre-p-posterous parishioner!’ I had a little difficulty with that last phrase and wondered vaguely if Between The Sheets was taking its toll. I can’t say the matter bothered me unduly … but his next words certainly did.
‘Ah, but not as preposterous as the other one,’ he murmured silkily, ‘Elizabeth Fotherington.’
This time it was I who closed my eyes. ‘No,’ I said shortly, ‘not as bad as her.’ There was a pause. And then I expostulated, ‘Do you really have to bring that up now, Nicholas? I am only just beginning to thaw out – it’s been a very taxing day!’ And to underline the point I threw down some more of The Sheets.
‘Sorry, old man – a bit like a twingeing dental cavity, I suppose.’
I stared at him open-mouthed. ‘A twingeing frigging cavity? Are you out of your mind? Have you any idea!’
He raised an enquiring eyebrow, offered me another Sobranie, lit one for himself and said smoothly, ‘Just testing, that’s all … intriguing really. You know: the psychology of it all.’
‘Oh yes,’ I retorted acidly, ‘like some curious specimen. Doubtless I provide you and Eric – whom I presume you’ve told – with endless speculative material! As it happens, there’s nothing remotely intriguing about it – she just got on my fins, that’s all, and I did it. Took me by surprise. In fact, if you want to know, I’ve been feeling bloody surprised ever since!’ I pushed my drink aside and started to get off the stool to go to the Gents.
He caught my arm, and in a low but firm voice said, ‘Listen, Francis, I’m not too keen on spreading dynamite around, one tends to get blown up oneself. I have told no one, so get that out of your addled head! Now, go and pee and then we’ll have supper.’ And so saying, he reached for the menu and started to scan its limited fare.
I left the bar feeling partly reassured and yet in a way even more unsettled. Naturally it was a relief to learn of his discretion (if that was really the case), yet his use of the term ‘dynamite’ was a painful reminder of my looming peril. Not that I needed reminding, but having it defined by someone else was a confirmation I could do without.
I peed dispiritedly, and with waning appetite returned to the bar. Nicholas, however, was clearly bent on having a full supper and was already moving to the dining room. I followed him in and we sat at a corner table. The cocktails had begun to cloy and I was glad that he had ordered a bottle of house claret.
‘Cuts the sweetness. You look as though you could do with something a little more astringent.’ And he poured me a large glass. ‘So who shall we drink to this time?’ he enquired genially.
‘Can’t think of anyone.’
He shrugged. ‘Oh well, it will just have to be My Lord Bishop again.’ And we solemnly raised our glasses to Clinker. Reference to Clinker made me think of Claude and the wretched Bone Idol. Theft seemed a bagatelle in comparison to murder.
‘Better toast the pig,’ I said. He agreed and placed the box between us. We duly drank its health, while I fervently hoped that this marked the end of my ‘assignments’.
He pushed the menu in my direction murmuring, ‘I don’t advise the macaroni, dear boy, it has the texture of a dead Durex.’ I blushed and hastily chose the beef.
In fact the food was better than expected. What with that and the absurd toasts, my mood and appetite were restored; and feeling more relaxed again, I began to embark on a richly coloured version of the day’s events. Indeed I think I must have grown quite expansive, for when I announced airily that I might start my journey home by way of the South Downs, Nicholas hastily urged that I stick to the conventional route.
‘No bloody fear, Francis, not at this time of night! In your state you’ll only end up at Beachy Head or drive into a chalk pit or something, and then there’ll be headlines in the Argus – “Vicar found drunk and disorderly in dew-pond: claims he was delivering a pig to distinguished Brighton art dealer.”’
I was about to retort that, drunk though I might be, the term ‘distinguished’ was the last I would be likely to use. However, the riposte was never uttered, for suddenly I had the shock of my life …
There she was – sitting at a table at the far end of the room, lumpish and unmistakable: Elizabeth Fotherington’s dreadful daughter, Violet Pond!
12
The Vicar’s Version
‘Whatever’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘You look as if you’re having a seizure!’
‘I am about to,’ I gasped. ‘It’s her, the Pond woman – Elizabeth’s daughter, the one who kept plaguing me about the will … I told you … seemed to think I’d rigged the whole thing and duped her mother into adding the codicil in my favour. Relentless, she is!’
‘Put your head down, she may not see you.’
‘Too late,’ I groaned, ‘she already has. Oh Lord, that’s all I need!’
‘Me too,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘I’m fed up with your marauding females. Time I was off!’ Grabbing the pig, and hastily throwing down a small share of the bill, he melted towards the door leaving me to the larger part and the tender charms of the Violent Pond.
She was halfway across the room, bearing down with purposeful stride. I affected not to see, grabbed a passing waiter, thrust far too much money at him, and with equally dedicated stride headed for the foyer. With luck I could reach the sanctuary of the Gents before she caught up … Useless. My path was blocked by a couple of dithering guests, and before I had time to change course and achieve the exit she had tapped me smartly on the shoulder.
‘If I am not very much mistaken, it must be the worthy Vicar of St Botolph’s, Francis Oughterard!’ This was said in a tone of accusing acidity.
‘Canon, actually,’ I corrected mildly (might as well make use of the few straws I had).
‘Well, whatever it is – canon or vicar – I see that you are enjoying the fruits of my mother’s money – and the wines too, I shouldn’t wonder.’ She glanced at the claret-stained napkin still trailing from my waistcoat buttonhole.
I removed it hastily and said in as dignified a voice as I could muster, ‘Mrs Pond, it is always a pleasure to meet you, but as I invariably have to point out, I had absolutely nothing to do with your mother’s will, and –’
‘Except receive what was rightfully Violet’s,’ a voice said quietly in my ear.
I spun round, and was confronted by a plump moon-faced man standing uncomfortably close to my shoulder.
I was about to ask who on earth he thought he was, when Violet Pond said preeningly, ‘This is Victor, my new and delightful husband. He is such a support! We’re on our honeymoon.’ And she gave me a look of simpering smugness.
New he may have been, but he looked far from delightful to me – squat and shifty and, from my possibly biased viewpoint, wearing a look bordering on imbecility.
‘How do you do,’ I said stiffly. ‘I fear you are rather misinformed about the will – but trust that you and Mrs … er, will be very happy.’
I was about to turn on my heel and walk away, when Pond cut in: ‘Crumpelmeyer, that’s my name now, and we’ve just bought a la
rge house near Godalming – although of course it could have been even larger had my poor late mother’s wishes been properly regarded.’
‘They were,’ I said shortly. ‘Now, if you would excuse me, I really must be getting back to Molehill. Busy day tomorrow, five funerals.’
My departure was not quite as smooth as intended, for I became entangled in the unusually brisk movement of the revolving door, and rather embarrassingly found myself circulating twice prior to reaching the pavement. However, once there I raced hell-for-leather towards the Singer, couldn’t find the key, and slumped panting and distinctly woozy upon the bonnet. I expected to hear pounding footsteps behind me, but mercifully there was nothing, and for a few moments I remained thus: staring out at the darkened sea, listening to the gentle slap of surf on shingle and the moan of distant foghorns.
After a few moments of such repose, I located the car keys in an inside pocket and climbed thankfully into the driving seat. Heeding Ingaza’s injunction not to take the Downs route, I drove at stately pace through the centre of Brighton and on to the homeward road.
There was something unreal about that journey which haunts my mind even now. It had been a long eventful day, and latterly bibulous. The sky was black and the roads deserted; and as I drove through the enclosing night in a haze of claret and muddled memory I felt detached both from my surroundings (too dark to define anyway) and even from the pressures of my situation. I thrust forward in a vacuum of unclear purpose and curious calm. Certainly Ingaza was a pain, the Pond woman impossible, my prospects dire – yet somehow, on that solitary midnight road, such things melted and nothing really seemed to matter … until, of course, I took a wrong turn and crashed the car.
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