19
The Cat’s Memoir
‘Cor!’ exclaimed Bouncer. ‘Something’s got at him all right, shaking like a leaf and silent as the grave! Usually when he’s having a bad time all hell’s let loose. But not now – frozen into his armchair he was. In fact I thought we’d got a corpse on our paws!’ He emitted a throaty chuckle.
‘It is no laughing matter,’ I reproved. ‘I happen to know what it’s about.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘What it’s all about, Maurice!’
I took a few more leisurely laps of my milk and sleeked my whiskers. They really are rather fine – but clearly the dog did not think so.
‘Leave your whiskers and spill the beans!’ he roared, thrusting his hairy snout under my nose.
I backed away. ‘The Crumplehorns … they have put – as you would doubtless say – the frighteners upon him.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was there,’ I replied casually, ‘taking a little Sunday constitutional, and I happened to witness the whole encounter. Intriguing in its way: further evidence, if such be needed, of the absurdity of the human species.’ I turned my attention to my tail which Bouncer promptly grabbed and pulled.
‘All right, all right,’ I protested, ‘I’ll tell you …’
After I had finished there was a long silence. And then he said solemnly: ‘Oh lar-lar.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s what that poodle, Pierre, is always saying.’
I waved my tail. ‘Pierre the Ponce has a bizarre and Gallic vocabulary not suited to normal communication.’
‘You mean he uses funny words?’
‘Precisely.’
I heard him muttering something to the effect that Pierre was not the only one, but it was not clear to whom he was alluding.
‘So what’s he going to do?’ he went on.
I shrugged. ‘The usual presumably, panic.’
‘Oh yes, that’ll get us everywhere,’ the dog snorted, and with more mutterings sloped off to the kitchen.
I remained, staring at the sparrows and wondering how they could be so stupid, and brooding uneasily upon F.O.’s similar affliction.
The affliction became only too apparent later that evening when I heard him spluttering down the telephone to his sister: ‘It’s all very well your saying that,’ he chuntered, ‘but I’m the one who has to cope with it!’
There was a silence as Primrose presumably gave tongue to her views. Obviously I could not hear these but they provoked further gnashing of teeth.
‘Of course,’ he snapped sarcastically, ‘that’s bound to do the trick – make them as meek as the lambs in your paintings, I don’t doubt!’
What the reply was I could not gather, but it went on for some time and seemed to have a stabilizing/chastening effect. The conversation concluded with him saying: ‘All right then, see you Thursday. I look forward to it.’ Judging from his face after he had replaced the receiver, I rather doubted that last claim.
Thursday arrived, and in preparation for the sister’s arrival the house had been tidied from head to toe: things shoved higgledy-piggledy into cupboards, the kitchen table raked of its usual debris, ash swept under the carpet, newspapers moved from one pile to another, Bouncer’s unsavoury basket thrust out of sight (one mercy at least) and, in a rush of energy, my woollen mouse placed tantalizingly on a top shelf. I considered having a sulk about that but in his current state it would probably have been wasted. Something was fortunate at any rate: this time she would not be accompanied by those ridiculous chinchillas and one would thus be spared the dog’s frenzy!
I have observed that quite often the sister’s presence has a subversive effect on F.O.’s psyche, and in view of his recent contretemps with Pond and Crumplehorn I envisaged an evening fraught with tension. Thus to prepare myself for this I decided to take an afternoon nap on my favourite tombstone. When I told Bouncer of my plans for the little siesta he said he hadn’t realized they held little ones, and that personally he always found fireworks a bit frightening, and rather me than him. I ask you!
20
The Vicar’s Version
The days preceding my sister’s visit were a period of great disquiet. Ambushed by the Crumpelmeyers, plagued by thoughts of Claude Blenkinsop and his wretched lecture, telephoned by the verger re matters of little worth but great tedium, and generally put upon by the Vestry committee and its doleful complaints, I felt ill prepared to face the advent of Primrose.
This time, however, minus the giant chinchillas her arrival caused none of the commotion of the earlier occasion. She appeared punctually with minimum of fuss or luggage, spoke kindly to Bouncer, admired the kitchen’s polished tidiness, and even presented me with a bottle of (somewhat acrid) sherry. And although one never quite knows how things will proceed with Primrose, I was beginning to feel a moderate pleasure at the prospect of a ‘family’ evening.
Hat removed and nose powdered, she returned to the sitting room grinning broadly. ‘I made a nice little packet on the sheep yesterday,’ she announced. ‘Sold four to some visiting Americans who seemed to think that English lambs looked so much “cuter” than the home-grown variety and ordered another two to be shipped at the end of the month. Very lucrative, Francis!’
I observed that since she invariably painted her subjects grazing and gambolling in the shadow of some picturesque downland church, possibly their faces reflected the piety of their context. She thought about that for a moment, and then replied that as long they brought in the spondulicks she didn’t care what their faces reflected, and in any case she had not noticed the proximity of St Botolph’s illuminating my own features.
I laughed, and asked how the plans for her latest exhibition were coming along.
‘Pretty well actually. Managed to bag a private room in the Brighton Pavilion, and a couple of big gallery scouts are likely to be there from London. Should be quite a good show. You can come if you like – though you’ll have to buy your own ticket, naturally.’
Naturally. Primrose rarely misses a financial trick.
I explained that, much as I would like to, I was currently under rather a lot of pressure from parish matters, not to mention having to cope with the threatening Crumpelmeyers and the exhumation business.
‘Yes, that does sound grim,’ she replied. ‘You were in a dreadful state on the telephone, but as I said at the time, I think you are exaggerating. I doubt whether anything will come of it. Crossing too many bridges – always did, even as a boy.’ She gave a superior smile.
‘Huh,’ I said morosely, ‘it’s rather worse than you think.’
‘Oh well, we can talk about that at supper … Now I’d like some more sherry, please, and then I want to go outside and find that awful cat of yours. I’m determined to make it like me!’
Fortunately Primrose’s intended overtures to Maurice were thwarted for he was nowhere to be seen (presumably skulked off to the graveyard). This was a blessing really, as given their shared stubbornness the encounter might have proved embarrassing.
I rootled in the kitchen while she started to lay the table, grumbling from time to time about the tarnished state of the cutlery but occasionally exclaiming with pleasure when she discovered some relic from our childhood home. (‘So that’s where that pepper pot went to, I often wondered. Pa was so ham-fisted with it!’ and ‘Fancy you keeping those table mats – Mother’s pride and joy, though pretty grisly, I always thought.’)
Eventually I got the supper on the table, and while it was pleasant enough, things were somewhat clouded by further talk of the Crumpelmeyers and their determination to blame me and get at the bracelet.
Primrose was stout in my defence, asserting the pair were as mad as hatters and – despite her own mercenary leanings – indignant at their ruthless pursuit of Elizabeth’s diamonds.
‘You must stand your ground, Francis!’ she declared. ‘On no account should you let them g
et their snouts in the trough, or for that matter in the grave!’ She paused, and then added, ‘Anyway, as I said, I’m convinced they will never get away with it, the regulations are far too strict.’
‘But I told you – the husband seemed convinced he could beat the system; obviously he’s an old hand at confounding the authorities and has probably got some sort of trump card up his sleeve.’
‘Poppycock. Delusions of cleverness … Anyway, Francis, just suppose he did succeed, would it really affect you that much? After all, it wouldn’t be happening in St Botolph’s graveyard, would it? I mean, I realize it’s a bit murky to think of a corpse being dug up, especially of someone you had actually known, but when all’s said and done, it’s in the other parish – you aren’t the one that buried her.’
‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am.’
Perhaps it was the wine or the comforting warmth of the kitchen, or the fact that it was one of those rare occasions when the two of us were together in a sort of collusive intimacy reminiscent of our youth – but the years seemed to melt away and we were back at home again, wrangling, bantering … confiding. Thus when she asked what on earth I meant by that remark, I heard myself saying as if from a distance, ‘Well, if you do away with somebody I suppose it could be said that you had put them in the grave – wherever its site happens to be.’
There was a silence, and then, ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I suppose you’ll be saying next that you were the one that murdered the old trout!’
‘Yes,’ I said meekly. ‘I was.’
‘Francis, how could you!’ Primrose exploded. ‘Are you mad? What on earth would Mother say!’ She had gone quite pink in the face.
‘Fortunately Mother is no longer with us so we shall be spared those particular dramas. And as to my being mad – well, yes, I probably am, but it’s too late now to do anything about it. I’ve rather burnt my boats, I –’
‘Blow your boats! What about my reputation? Nobody will buy my Sussex sheep scenes if it gets out they’ve been painted by someone with a murderer for a brother. How can you be so appalling!’
‘As a matter of fact,’ I said, ‘that might increase their value, people like that sort of thing, I gather.’
‘Don’t bet on it!’ she snapped.
I tried to mollify her with the offer of a cigarette. It was waved aside.
‘Can’t you see I haven’t finished my parsnips yet? And kindly pass me some more.’ She heaped up her plate and launched upon them with avid intensity.
After a while she put down her knife and fork, and grabbing the bottle and refilling her glass said, ‘So whatever made you do it? Hardly a crime of passion, I imagine!’
‘Well, no … I mean to say, it was a mistake really – all happened rather quickly.’
‘Mistake, my arse. Monumental disaster! Really, what I have to put up with!’
I said nothing and gazed down at my napkin and then at Bouncer who wagged his tail cheerfully.
‘I’ll have that cigarette now.’ She took it from me, pushed her chair back and strode to the window where she stared out at the garden, drumming her scarlet nails on the sill.
‘This must never get out,’ she declared. ‘It must be suppressed at all costs! Do you hear me, Francis?’
‘Of course I hear you! What do you think I’ve been doing for the last eighteen months – wandering about with a sandwich board advertising it to all and sundry in Oxford Street?’
‘No need for sarcasm,’ she replied icily, ‘I was merely offering you some sisterly advice.’
I studied a perambulating spider on the ceiling and looked at Bouncer again, envying the dog its uncomplicated life. And then, clearing my throat, I asked diffidently if she would like some coffee.
‘Yes, but only if it’s the proper thing, not any of that ersatz stuff you usually have. And then I want a clear blow by blow account.’ She paused, and suddenly gave a thin giggle. ‘Well, not a blow by blow exactly, if you see what I mean.’
I smiled wanly and asked if she wanted black or white.
‘And so you see it’s all been rather difficult,’ I concluded.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but it makes a jolly good story, doesn’t it?’
‘Only if you are not the perpetrator,’ I replied grimly.
‘Or related to him!’ And she started to frown again.
I sighed. ‘Well, so far so good, I suppose … I mean, as long as I can go on keeping it quiet you should be all right.’
‘But can you keep it quiet? I do take it you haven’t told anyone else,’ she added sharply.
In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Er, as a matter of fact,’ I said quietly, ‘there is somebody else in the know. But,’ I lied, ‘I don’t think that should be a problem.’
‘I might have guessed,’ she exclaimed. ‘You are hopeless, Francis! Who, for God’s sake?’
I told her and as feared she hit the roof.
‘Not that dreadful specimen you knew at St Bede’s – not the one found in flagrante in the Turkish bath!’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so –’
‘You suppose so! With a name like that of course it is him – Nickerless In Gaza. I remember the whole case, it was disgraceful. Trust him to be at the bottom of it all!’
‘But he isn’t,’ I protested, ‘I merely informed him after the event. It was difficult not to. You see, he provided a sort of alibi – been quite useful in his way.’
‘Huh! That’s as may be, but you know Ma and Pa always warned us not to consort with types like that. Pa would have called him a blackguard – in fact I think he did from what I remember.’
‘Probably,’ I agreed drily. ‘It’s what he called most people.’
‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘this Nicholas person, he could be dangerous.’ (Didn’t I know it!) ‘But on the other hand, he is obviously what I believe they call an “accessory after the fact” so he had better watch out!’ And she blew a righteous smoke-ring.
‘Actually, Primrose,’ I reminded her gently, ‘so are you.’
‘Christ!’
21
The Vicar’s Version
I was relieved that I had told Primrose. Ingaza’s knowing was less of a relief – more of a penitential uncertainty. But despite the fumings and drama which had inevitably ensued, having Primrose as confidante gave me an odd comfort. Something primitive, I suppose, to do with bonds and consanguinity. Whatever the reason, I felt strangely unburdened, and after she had departed took time off to go into Guildford and sample the new cream cakes at the Angel.
I was just easing myself into one of its deep leather club chairs and reflecting upon patisserie pleasures, when a voice from the adjacent sofa said, ‘Ah, so this is where you come to prepare your sermons, is it? A sort of canon’s bolt hole!’ Colonel Dawlish emitted a shout of laughter and a billow of pipe smoke.
I don’t dislike Dawlish, and as a churchwarden he is exemplary; but I was annoyed nevertheless to be interrupted in my solitary hedonism. However, I smiled genially and said something to the effect that I had happened to be passing and thought I would just look in to see how their new extension was coming along. For some reason I was reluctant to admit the hotel was a regular refuge and that his term ‘bolt hole’ was pretty apt.
‘I come here once a month,’ he volunteered, ‘always the first Monday’ (I made a mental note to avoid) ‘while I’m waiting for Tojo to have his regular spit and polish. Rather an absurd name really, The Pets’ Beauty Parlour, but they clean him up a treat. Little blighter doesn’t know himself when he gets out. Worth the money and the wait … you ought to take your hound there. On second thoughts, beyond redemption, I shouldn’t wonder!’ There was another gun-crack laugh.
I was trying to think of a suitable riposte, when leaning forward he said, ‘Extraordinary, you know, them opening the Fotherington case again. Apparently not the flasher after all, poor bugger – some other crank, I suppose. Still, bound to be well away by now, unless of course he’s the ty
pe that lurks around. Some of them do, I gather. They get a sort of perverted excitement in remaining in the crime area, watching the police watching for them. Funny really, the criminal mentality … What do you think, Canon?’
I thought he was barking but refrained from saying so. ‘Perverted excitement’ my foot! What about the sleepless nights and abject terror?
‘Yes, it’s puzzling,’ I replied vaguely. ‘Rather beyond me, I’m afraid – not terribly good on that psychology stuff, a bit over my head!’ And I gave a weak laugh.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said grinning slyly, ‘I think less goes over that head than sometimes appears.’
I was not quite sure how to take that (and am still not), but beginning to feel uncomfortable stood up, saying something about going to look for the waitress. Dawlish also got up, and collecting his Times and trilby said it was time to fetch Tojo from the beauty parlour. I had a vision of the West Highland bounding from the doorway sparkling and irascible, and felt rather glad that my own charge was the tousled, matey and unredemptive Bouncer.
In fact I did not seek the waitress. My companion’s reflections on the Fotherington case and the workings of the criminal mind had somehow soured the prospect of cake, and leaving the hotel I returned home in sober mood.
* * *
Sobriety gave way to twitching angst when, two hours later and as I was in the middle of grappling with the Sunday school rota, the telephone rang. Mavis Briggs had been threatening to contact me about the sequel to her nauseous Little Gems, and I picked up the receiver with failing spirit.
‘Hello, old cock!’ breezed the voice. ‘How’s tricks?’ Evidently not Mavis.
Bone Idle Page 11