‘Ah,’ replied Bouncer, ‘but you haven’t seen him. The poodle has. And he says he wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night!’
‘Pierre the Ponce is notoriously highly strung and absurdly imaginative. You would be wise to treat his words with a crumb of biscuit.’
‘My bones tell me different,’ the dog said darkly. ‘I think there could be trouble.’ And picking up his rubber ring he ambled off to the kitchen making grunting noises.
I sat and considered. What trouble? It was enough having the police hanging around again just when we thought all was well. Surely Pond and this Crumplehorn person couldn’t present any threat, could they? Obviously Bouncer was in one of his histrionic moods – too many hours in the crypt. Such excess always makes him go a little peculiar. Nevertheless, I was disquieted – too disquieted in fact to develop a proper sulk. One needs concentration for that, and for the moment I felt quite distracted. Instead I embarked upon the sparrows. They had become more than usually complacent of late and it was time they were unsettled.
15
The Dog’s Diary
I’ve been doing a lot more thinking lately – mainly down in the crypt where it’s nice and quiet. Not as comfy as my basket in the kitchen, of course. But sometimes it gets a bit loud in there what with the kettle whistling, Maurice hissing through the window-panes at the birds, and F.O. effing and blinding over his sermons. A dog just can’t get his thoughts together. Still, I’m a bit tired now because all this thinking is quite difficult! Makes me hungry too – but I like that because I can sort of store it all up and then have an extra old guzzle in the evening. Maurice says I’m greedy – but then cats don’t think as deeply as us dogs so they don’t need the grub as much. Mind you, he wouldn’t agree with that – doesn’t agree with anything really – and keeps calling himself an inter something or other. Well, I tell him I am inter lots of things so what’s new? But he just smiles that slippery smile of his and slinks off into the potting shed.
Anyway, the point is I’ve worked out one or two ideas down in the crypt, and I DON’T LIKE THE LOOK OF THINGS. Not one bit! You see, I bumped into that poodle the other day, Pierre the Ponce, whose owner’s brother lives in Godalming, so he’s always being taken over there on visits. Tells me it’s ‘tray snob’ and full of ‘lay bo john’ – or some such French lingo. Don’t understand what he’s talking about half the time (I don’t with Maurice either!), but what I did understand is that that Violet Pond has got herself a fancy man called Crumplehorn. According to Pierre he’s a nasty piece of work and would put the frighteners on you at the drop of a Bonio. (Matter of fact, the cat’s right there – Pierre is a bit of a ninny and it doesn’t take much to set him off, but he’s not a total fool, not like that idiot bulldog we met last year.) Of course, Pierre doesn’t know what F.O. did in Foxford Wood – naturally I haven’t told him. I mean, it’s not right for a dog to let on about all his master’s funny habits. But he warned me that he was pretty sure that Pond and thingammy were up to no good where the vicar was concerned, and that they had it in for him and were PLOTTING!
What do you think of that! Well, that’s exactly what I asked Maurice. Needless to say he didn’t think much at all; but he will. These cats, they have to … uhm, what’s the word? … Oh yes, re-flect, that’s what he’s always saying. You’ll see – when he’s done a bit of that re-flecting he’ll start showing an interest and begin bossing me around and telling me what’s what. But I shan’t mind that because, unlike with bones, two heads are better than one, and we’ve got to stick together if we are to keep the vicar safe and DEFEAT THE ENEMY!
16
The Vicar’s Version
‘Parried that one!’ I muttered to Bouncer after they had gone, and collapsed gratefully on the sofa immersing myself in wreaths of smoke. The dog stared gormlessly and then applied himself to his bone. The steady gnawing had a curiously soothing effect, and stubbing out my cigarette I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep.
When I awoke it was nearly time for supper, and I was just about to forage in the kitchen when I remembered to my horror that I shouldn’t be at home at all, but in the car en route to Archdeacon Foggarty’s inaugural drinks party. Now safely spared the appalling prospect of Rummage’s elevation, I felt moderately disposed to Foggarty and was perfectly ready to raise a thankful glass to his future ministry. After all, he could only be better than Rummage, and being relatively young surely less stuffy than Blenkinsop. The evening might even prove mildly congenial – unless by the time I got there half the guests had left, food scoffed, and the drink desolate! Thus I scooted upstairs, scattering Maurice on the landing, and in barely ten minutes had managed to clean my teeth, shave, and struggle into a fairly uncreased suit. Fortunately the Singer had petrol, and without more ado I took off speedily in the direction of Guildford.
My destination was St Elspeth’s Church House, a Victorian Gothic building used principally by the authorities for their frequent and interminable meetings, but very occasionally, as on that particular evening, for some brief jollification. The former events were invariably sombre, the latter largely sober. Still, a spot of recreational sobriety was surely preferable to sitting at home cursing the police and fretting over the newly designated Violet Crumpelmeyer!
Despite the crush of cars, I managed to park fairly close to the building and made my way quickly towards its heavy doors. I was in the middle of hanging up my raincoat in the vestibule when a voice in my ear said acidly, ‘Ah, Canon, I was just saying to my husband that you were bound to have forgotten all about it. Still, better late than never, or so they tell me …’ And waiting for neither excuse nor greeting, Gladys Clinker pounded on her hefty way towards the door marked Ladies. I glared after her and hoped the cistern fell on her head.
I walked down the draughty corridor and entered the dining hall. It was very full and – unusual for such gatherings – the mood appeared to be almost teetering on the brink of gaiety. There was a convivial buzz of conversation and even an occasional gust of muted laughter; and much to my relief I noted that there still seemed to be plenty of food around, and in addition to the inevitable fruit squash, a fair supply of alcohol. No gin of course, but one couldn’t be too picky; and studiously avoiding something calling itself Spanish Sauternes, I opted for a large glass of tolerable sherry. With this secured, and balancing a plastic plate of tinned crab and Coronation Chicken, I found a seat in a sheltered corner and embarked on supper.
It is my experience of such occasions that it is well to attend to these matters on immediate arrival, failure to do so invariably leading to short commons as one is collared by some earnest lay-reader, or worse still, the bishop. In fact I noted that Clinker was safely rooted at the other end of the room and heavily occupied with Gladys, who, despite my hopes, had evidently returned from the Ladies unscathed. But I kept my head down just the same, for fear of lurking lay-readers.
Supper demolished without hindrance, I felt more relaxed; and emerging from the shadows went to replenish my glass and begin to circulate. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mavis Briggs sporting a vapid smile and puffed sleeves. Next to her stood Edith Hopgarden wearing neither smile nor sleeves but fearsome in acid yellow. I kept my distance from both and turned in the opposite direction.
I had not gone far when I was caught by young Rothermere from Alfold. I say ‘caught’, but as a matter of fact despite his overly boisterous manner he is quite an engaging fellow, and during the Rummage rumpus had been a compliant ally.
We chatted briefly and then he said slyly, ‘That was a near miss, wasn’t it? Just think, we could have had someone else in our midst tonight instead of old Carrot Top!’
‘Old who?’ I enquired, perplexed.
‘He of the red hair – old Foggarty.’
‘The new archdeacon,’ I reproved, ‘is neither old nor redheaded, he is merely –’
‘Looks pretty ginger to me! And he’s not exactly young, is he?’
I replied that the colour of Fogg
arty’s hair was immaterial to his pastoral duties, and that in terms of age he was a mere two years older than myself; an observation which brought the cheery response: ‘Sorry, Francis! Forgot you were a canon now – and shall I get you another drink?’
‘Yes, Rothermere, you may get the canon another drink,’ I replied, ‘and be jolly quick about it!’ I turned and was confronted by Blenkinsop.
‘Ah,’ he exclaimed lugubriously, ‘thought I might see you here. I’ve got a message from Claude, something about a bone idol.’
I mentally groaned. The last thing I wanted was a message from Claude. The shenanigans with the pig still haunted me; but the less I heard of it, or its owner, the more I could persuade myself that the whole thing had never happened.
‘Oh,’ I said bleakly, ‘really?’
‘Yes, wants you to talk about it.’
‘What does he mean, “talk” about it?’
‘Don’t know exactly. He twitters on – I never listen much. Something to do with a conference on ancient Indian curios – wants you there as the honoured guest speaker. Says he’s been mentioning you to a number of his cronies and they are fascinated to hear about your researches … I must say, Oughterard, can’t think where you find the time for all that sort of thing. Should have thought that your obligations to the diocese were more than sufficient to keep you occupied, especially considering your recent advancement – in which,’ and he coughed delicately, ‘I played some modest part.’
Insufferable Blenkinsops! Why couldn’t they both just go away!
‘Absolutely!’ I agreed. ‘First things first. Much too involved with matters here for jaunts up to London jawing about some minor personal indulgence. As you say, considerably weightier things in the diocese to attend to.’
‘My views exactly,’ he replied. ‘But of course, Claude has always been frivolous. Still, I suppose you had better contact him, otherwise he’ll keep nagging at me, and I’m far too busy for that. After all, I’ve got enough on my plate steering Foggarty in his new ministry. Nothing like sound advice from an old hand!’ He nodded sagely, agreeing with his own comment, while I felt sympathy for Carrot Top.
I had even more sympathy for myself. The prospect of being further embroiled with Claude Blenkinsop and the pig business was too awful to contemplate. Surely he wasn’t going around telling people I was some sort of expert on Beano or Indian folk art, or both. The embarrassment would be dreadful, shaming! Supposing he had already set up this conference and indicated that ‘The Revd Canon Francis Oughterard, noted authority on bone effigies and eighteenth-century British explorers’ was likely to attend and answer questions on his current researches and ‘work in progress’ … Nightmare!
I steadied myself. No, the thought was absurd. My imagination was clearly overwrought. Pa had always complained of it – ‘To quote the great Bard, my boy, “That way madness lies!”’ And thus to allay the madness I procured myself another helping of Coronation Chicken and cursed Ingaza. It was all his fault!
I was brooding on Nicholas and his machinations but enjoying the chicken, when somebody sat down next to me. It was Wattle, Rector of St Elspeth’s and, despite Clinker presiding, technically our host.
‘Good evening, Canon,’ he began breezily, ‘glad to see you here. Don’t think we’ve met for quite an age. Up in London, wasn’t it? One of the Brompton things. But there’s always such a multitude one never really gets a chance to have a sensible word with anyone! How are things going at Molehill? Such a peaceful place, I always think.’
It would be, I thought bitterly, given half a chance! … Besides, what did he mean by ‘peaceful’? A veiled hint about my having a soft ride? I looked at his smiling face and ingenuous eyes, and immediately felt ashamed of such cynicism. Getting paranoid, that’s what! I returned the smile and congratulated him on the success of the party.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘people do seem to be enjoying themselves, and it’s a nice way for the new archdeacon to be launched.’ He paused, and then added in an undertone, ‘I suppose Foggarty is what one might call a merciful release – given the other possibility!’ And he chuckled benignly.
We talked briefly and lightly of Rummage and the vicissitudes of church politics, and I was enjoying his company until he suddenly said, ‘I tell you what I’ve been meaning to ask you, in fact nearly rang you up about it. You remember that unfortunate parishioner of yours who was murdered in a local wood?’
I nodded guardedly.
‘Well, you’ll probably also recall the fracas over the burial. The daughter was hell-bent on having her mother interred here at St Elspeth’s instead of at your place. She made quite a thing of it, and it was a bit tricky as at the time we were short of space and I didn’t particularly relish people from other parishes muscling in and pinching all the best places.’ He laughed. ‘Still, as you know, we managed to accommodate her in the end, and all was well.’ (I certainly did know. The news that my victim would be buried in the neighbouring parish and that I should be spared the necessity of conducting her funeral had been the one bright spot in the whole frightful affair.) ‘However,’ he continued, ‘it’s been rather odd recently.’
‘Odd? What do you mean, odd?’ I enquired nervously.
‘Well, despite all the kerfuffle about the funeral arrangements, ever since the service itself neither the daughter nor any family member has appeared again. I mean there’s been no sign of anyone coming back to tend the grave or anything, and yet –’
‘But that’s hardly unknown,’ I broke in. ‘In fact I should think far more graves are left fallow and abandoned than are properly cared for. There’s an initial flood of mourning or dutiful observance, and then what with one thing and another, it all rather peters out. Something to do with attention span.’
‘That’s true,’ he acknowledged, ‘but you see, in this particular case there’s been a rather startling upsurge of attention, quite perturbing really!’
I was beginning to feel perturbed myself. Elizabeth Fotherington’s grave was not a subject I cared to dwell upon, let alone discuss. What you might call too close to the bone … Shifting uncomfortably, I lit a cigarette and asked him casually what was the problem.
‘Well,’ he began, ‘it’s a bit delicate really … you see, they want to exhume the body.’
‘Exhume the body!’ I gasped. ‘What ever do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I say. The daughter – I think her name was Pond, though it’s different now, Crumpel something … Anyway, she and the new husband are demanding that her mother be resurrected as there is an object they need to get their hands on.’
‘Get their hands on what?!’ I cried, dropping ash and singeing my trousers.
‘A diamond bracelet apparently.’
‘A bracelet? I should have thought it was a bit late now,’ I expostulated. ‘Besides, what is she doing wearing diamonds in the grave!’ (Typical of Elizabeth, always excessive!)
‘You may well ask,’ he replied drily.
‘That’s just what I am doing. Come on!’ I exclaimed impatiently.
He was about to tell me, when we were interrupted by the arrival of Bishop Clinker who, looking a trifle worse for wear (an overdose of the Spanish Sauternes – or Gladys possibly?), drew up a chair and sat down between us mopping his brow.
‘All very splendid, these things, but they take their toll, don’t they? I wouldn’t mind being at home now in my study with the phone off the hook, cat on my lap, and door safely locked!’
We nodded in dutiful sympathy. And then Wattle said, ‘As a matter of fact, my lord, I was just telling Francis about the Fotherington affair – you know, the exhumation question …’
‘Oh Lor’, not that again!’ groaned the bishop. ‘Thought you had sorted that out by now. The whole thing’s ridiculous, all that bracelet nonsense … I mean, who does she think she is, Queen Nefertiti?’
Wattle cleared his throat and said gently, ‘Well, sir, I don’t suppose she thinks anything at all – er, at least, not n
ow exactly.’
Clinker glared. ‘She may not think anything but the daughter clearly does! What are you going to do about it, Wattle?’ The latter said nothing but regarded the remains of my Coronation Chicken as if seeking inspiration.
Despite reluctance to become involved, curiosity got the better of me, and I said, ‘I don’t understand. Surely all jewellery would have been removed prior to the interment.’
‘Normally yes,’ replied Wattle, ‘but in this case Mrs Pond – as I think she then was – particularly requested that it be buried with the deceased. Said it was a worthless paste job but much beloved of her mother, and since she herself had no use for it thought it a nice idea if it went into the grave with the wearer.’
‘So what’s changed her mind?’ asked Clinker brusquely.
‘That’s just it, I don’t know really. Couldn’t quite make it out. A confusion apparently – but they seemed to think that Francis had got something to do with it …’
‘Me!’ I yelped. ‘Why me? I wasn’t even there!’
‘No,’ said Clinker, ‘gadding in Brighton if I remember correctly.’
There was a pause, and then I said meekly, ‘It was my official term of leave, not exactly gadding, sir. I was visiting my sister – a few days’ respite, that’s all.’
‘Well, whatever it was, you weren’t there, and now we’ve got all this palaver,’ retorted Clinker grumpily. ‘In any case,’ he added, turning to Wattle, ‘it’s your grave and Oughterard’s parishioner. You’ll have to sort it out between yourselves. I’ve got better things to do than deal with families who cannot decide whether to leave their relations’ belongings sub or supra terram!’ With that he got up, and jangling his car keys removed himself to the far end and rounded up Gladys.
There was silence. And then clearing his throat, Wattle observed, ‘Well, no guidance from that direction … I had expected more.’
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