Bone Idle

by Suzette A. Hill

  I put off opening it for as long as I could – long enough at any rate to pour a whisky and hunt for my cigarettes. And then, having no further reason to delay, I slit open the small yellow envelope. My surmise was correct.

  ARE YOU TRYING TO BLIGHT MY ARTISTIC CAREER QUESTION MARK KINDLY DO NOT MEDDLE IN YOUR SISTER’S AFFAIRS STOP TELEPHONING STOP PRIMROSE

  I took the receiver off the hook and ruminated. Evidently Nicholas had already got at her, put his proposal and indicated that I had been sceptical of her interest. Foolishly I had overlooked the fact that where there was a conflict between Primrose’s high-minded pride and her interest in money, the latter would invariably triumph. Wearily I replaced the receiver and waited. It did not take long.

  ‘You get a stipend for life,’ she stormed, ‘little to do, and a free parsonage. While your poor sister has to earn her crusts by the sweat of her brow and her talent. I consider your words to that Ingaza person officious in the extreme. It is entirely my affair what commissions I choose to take!’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I rejoined, ‘but in this case the plan is a bit dodgy, isn’t it? You know – painting fakes for gullible Canadians –’

  ‘Not half as dodgy as something else I could mention,’ came the swift reply.

  I considered that well below the belt but said nothing; instead, remarked mildly that I thought she had always held an aversion to Nicholas.

  ‘Most certainly I do – a distinctly unsavoury type. But this is business, Francis, something I couldn’t possibly expect you to understand!’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ I asked. ‘Flog the frauds and let your agent take his cut? He sets a high price, I can tell you!’

  There was a pause, and then in icy tones she said, ‘Well, I gather you know all about that. And in any case, they will not be frauds – as you so delicately put it – but items of singular taste and artistic skill which any discerning buyer would be grateful to hang on their walls. In the world of culture, Francis, there is always space for imaginative, creative licence. Kindly remember that!’

  ‘Yes, Primrose.’ And then I took a gamble: ‘Tell me, how are the chinchillas? Eating well, are they?’

  It did the trick, and we spent an amiable ten minutes engrossed in the exploits of Boris and Karloff and execrating the inanity of show judges who failed to appreciate their remarkable distinction.

  Gardening is not my forte, and other than responding to the occasional summons from Primrose, I avoid it whenever possible. But that Monday morning with the sun shining, and suddenly struck by the rabble of weeds romping over the sun dial, I had felt that a little clearance was in order. I was also prompted by Edith Hopgarden’s scathing remark two days previously, that the vicarage lawn was fast resembling the back end of the Garden of Eden – wholly wild and uncultivated. She had been with Mavis Briggs at the time and thus the jibe had lost its edge by the pun having to be laboriously explained. However, the memory still rankled and I attacked the weeds with irritable energy.

  Heavily absorbed in this, I did not at first register their presence; but I suddenly realized that I was not alone. People were standing behind me – specifically March and Samson.

  I started to rise from my crouching position while March made some jocular crack about the Reverend spending so much time on his knees. I smiled falsely and asked what I could do for them. March seemed in no hurry to enlighten me, and instead embarked on an involved disquisition concerning the relative merits of two popular brands of weed-killer. Having dispensed this information, he turned his thoughts to the quality of my trowel, the recalcitrance of slugs and the best kind of ground cover for north-facing corners. I listened with polite interest while the Whippet scanned the distance with sullen eye.

  Eventually the horticultural treatise changed tack. ‘Ever been to France, sir?’ March asked suddenly.

  I was startled, my mind occupied by visions of slugs and paraquat. ‘ Er … no. Well, not recently at any rate. We had a family holiday in Brittany once when I was a boy … but why do you ask?’ (Surely they weren’t going to resurrect the art theft business all over again! Or was he about to suggest the efficacy of garlic as a weed suppressant?)

  ‘So you are not familiar with the Auvergne?’ cut in Samson curtly.

  My knowledge of France and its geography is limited, and so it was with genuine puzzlement that I told him that I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

  ‘You see, sir,’ continued March, delving into his briefcase, ‘we’ve got Mrs Fotherington’s diary here, and –’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I replied impatiently, ‘you’ve shown me that before.’

  ‘Ah, but this isn’t the same one. It’s an earlier one, written quite a few years previously.’ He spoke with patient satisfaction. ‘And if you wouldn’t mind, sir, I’d just like you to cast your eye over this here passage.’ He thrust the notebook at me, and I took it, thinking him mad. How could a diary dated well before my arrival in Molehill have any conceivable relevance either to me or to their investigations! Dutifully, however, I ‘cast my eye’ over the entry. It read as follows:

  So tiresome – Ernest is eager to go to the Auvergne again to see that crumbling monstrosity built by his father – ‘La Folie de Fotherington’ as the locals insist on calling it. Having been dragged there once I certainly don’t propose repeating the visit – a most dark and sinister place; and as for that tale about buried Nazi gold, I’ve never heard such nonsense!’

  I looked at him blankly. ‘What on earth’s all that about?’

  ‘So it doesn’t ring any bells, then?’ barked Samson aggressively.

  I turned to look at him, replying coldly, ‘No, Sergeant, it does not ring any bells. And I cannot imagine why you should think it might!’

  He was about to answer but March got there first, and in conciliatory tone said, ‘You’re right. By itself it doesn’t amount to much, but when set alongside the letter, things tend to cohere … as our Mr Slowcome would say.’ He beamed. I did not. Was I participating in some ghastly Kafka novel? What ‘things’ and what letter, for crying out loud!

  ‘Show him the document, Sidney,’ directed March. The Whippet put his hand in his raincoat pocket and pulled out a crumpled page which he passed to me in sour silence.

  I looked enquiringly at March. ‘It’s the start of a letter apparently addressed to someone called Mildred,’ he explained. ‘You’ll note that it’s dated a couple of weeks prior to the lady’s unfortunate end. Looks as if she put it aside meaning to continue later. But as things turned out, she was … er, overtaken by events.’ He coughed discreetly. ‘Anyway, have a read of it if you wouldn’t mind, sir, and I think you’ll find the matter becomes clearer.’ It did. Clear and disturbing.

  My dear Mildred,

  Such an exhausting day! Spent the whole morning in Guildford shopping for knitting wool and bird seed for Freddie, and then in the afternoon rearranging my will. Can’t find the deeds to that awful ruin of Ernest’s that I was telling you about. Not that it matters really … had once intended to give them to the dear Revd Purvis (such a Francophile!) but alas, he passed over before I was able to. Perhaps Francis would be interested should they emerge, a nice little present for him. Apparently people are developing a taste for that kind of architecture – becoming quite fashionable they tell me. Can’t think why! But in any case, the land itself might have some value – several acres, you know, or hectares as they say over there! Violet, of course, can’t abide the French and wouldn’t be remotely interested – and, besides, she’ll have quite enough as it is. Yes, I shall definitely offer them to Francis and really must renew my searches! I don’t think Freddie likes the new bird seed. He was a very naughty boy this evening, had a tantrum and bit my finger. It’s quite sore!

  Friday

  Would you believe it, Mildred, dear. Having scoured the house from top to bottom, I’ve found those deeds! Stuck in a pocket of one of Ernest’s old suitcases. Can’t think how they got there. Anyway, the moment I see Francis I s
hall present them to him! I’m sure the dear man will be delighted for I doubt if he has many surprises in his life. It will be a lovely moment for him. Oh, drat! Have just seen the butcher boy wheeling his bicycle straight across the asparagus bed. If I don’t catch him now he’ll only

  Presumably at this point, and in a flurry of indignation, Elizabeth had downed pen and rushed out to remonstrate with the asparagus despoiler.

  I continued to stare at the words on the page, certain of one thing: whatever her intentions, she had omitted to present me with any such ‘surprising’ deeds (as if I didn’t have enough shocks to contend with!) or even mention the existence of that inelegant though possibly valuable ruin. I knew that, but how to convince others? At the time of my ‘event’ I had spent much energy in devising means of ridding myself of the embarrassment of her legacy, and had finally rested secure in the knowledge that in no way could financial gain possibly link me with her death. But then I had not reckoned on the chance of even later posthumous gifts!

  I stared at March in bewilderment. ‘I know nothing about it,’ I said blankly.

  ‘So at no point,’ he said slowly, ‘did the deceased hand over these deeds to you?’

  ‘No, never!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘And we take it that there was no mention of the documents or her intention?’ Samson interposed.

  I was about to assure him of that, when he continued quickly, ‘You see, sir, we wouldn’t want any misunderstanding like last time, would we?’

  ‘What do you mean “like last time”?’

  ‘That little mix-up over your times of departure to Sussex on the day of the murder. You forgot to mention to us that you had started out twice, i.e. returned once and set out again.’

  ‘No, Sergeant. As I explained to you, I did not forget – you omitted to ask and then proceeded to another line of enquiry. I think we need to be clear about that.’ I fixed him with the sort of look that would just occasionally quell Edith Hopgarden. No such luck with the Whippet of course.

  He was about to respond, when March cut in hastily: ‘You’re right, sir, clarity is of the essence, and that’s why it’s imperative that nothing can be misconstrued about these deeds … You are absolutely certain that they were never in your possession and you knew nothing of them?’

  ‘Absolutely certain, Inspector.’

  He nodded to Samson and pocketed his notebook. ‘Ah well, that’s it then, Sidney, isn’t it? That’s another item we can cross off Mr Slowcome’s list.’ He turned towards the path, cast a critical eye over the rose bed, and added thoughtfully, ‘Take my advice, sir, they’re too old. Root ’em out and put in begonias instead – nice splash of colour in the summer …’ He seemed to ruminate for a moment, and then said briskly, ‘Anyway, Reverend, won’t keep you any longer, that’s all we need.’ And so saying, he began to lumber towards the gate.

  ‘For the time being,’ murmured Samson.

  Bastard.

  After they had gone I sat down on the rusting lawn roller and pondered. It was a mercy at least that Elizabeth had never foisted those wretched things upon me. And I wondered idly what had delayed her and where they were in any case. Still, a lucky escape all right! But it was maddening that the matter should have come to light at all, and my name be linked with hers yet again. To have this added to the bracelet business was the last thing I needed. I wondered gloomily whether the Crumpelmeyers knew about this latest development … Bound to. Doubtless March would have informed them. Or more likely it was they who had found the letter and diary in the first place and, incensed and triumphant, presented them to the police. I groaned. It was true – not one jot of peace for the wicked! There was only one thing to do: bash up Beethoven. And crunching a peppermint, I threw the trowel aside and marched indoors to the piano.

  25

  The Vicar’s Version

  Later that week I had a luncheon appointment: one of the bishop’s ‘intimate’ At Homes given periodically when Gladys has a social rush of blood to the head. In fact, they are generally far from intimate – chilly, cumbersome affairs from which few depart unscathed. However, having missed the last one, and in view of my new canonical status, I thought it politic to attend.

  Besides, hope springs eternal, and after the abrasions of Primrose and the Crumpelmeyers, the prospect of taking lunch in civilized surroundings – even among the Clinkers – was not without appeal. There would be a reasonable dose of wines and liqueurs, and even the possibility of congenial conversation with the other guests. The real snag was Gladys, but to mollify her I had armed myself with a large box of very expensive Charbonnel et Walker chocolates, hoping they might help parry the brickbats. Thus, dressed even more soberly than usual and bearing my gift well to the fore, I presented myself at the episcopal portals exactly five minutes after the prescribed time, and rang the bell.

  Surprisingly, it was Clinker himself who opened the door and beckoned me in with what I can only describe as a furtive finger. This he put to his lips and said in a low tone, ‘Glad you could get here, Oughterard. I might warn you that Myrtle is with us and the lamb is burnt.’

  I was nonplussed by this information but produced a sympathetic smile and a muttered ‘Ah yes.’ Who Myrtle was I had no idea. Was she perhaps the new cook tested and found wanting by the main course …?

  ‘Yes,’ he went on, still sotto voce, ‘she flew in yesterday from Brussels, since when life here has been purgatory!’

  Comprehension dawned. It was the dreaded sister-in-law from Belgium. This was grim news indeed. The prospect of Gladys reinforced by the fabled sister was unnerving to say the least. However, I put on a brave face and followed my host into the drawing room.

  A number of people were already assembled, house guests presumably or near neighbours, but over by the window I espied Archdeacon Foggarty conversing with a woman of mammoth proportion. Caught in the sunlight, his hair seemed more virulently ginger than usual, but his face was white and uncharacteristically strained. Was the combination of office and his predecessor’s attentive ‘guidance’ already taking its toll? Quite possibly. However, there was little time to ponder Foggarty’s health, for I was swiftly buttonholed by Gladys and subjected to the usual barrage of patronizing questions. I thrust the chocolates at her, a gesture which momentarily stopped the flow and allowed me to slip sideways to a hovering maid with a tray of martinis. Thus armed, and with vacuous smile, I generously forfeited my place to another victim.

  Various people I recognized, and a few whom it was agreeable to talk to. Another martini was offered, and I was just beginning to feel a degree of burgeoning warmth when Foggarty sidled up and tapped me on the elbow. He looked even more harassed than when I had first seen him.

  ‘Good to see you, Francis,’ he murmured quietly. And nodding in the direction of my drink asked, ‘Are there any more of those around?’

  Looking at his strained features it struck me that I was talking to a man in need, and in a moment of aberrant altruism I passed him mine.

  He grasped it gratefully and rather to my surprise polished it off in a trice.

  ‘That’s better!’ he muttered, and then seeing my look of enquiry, smiled sheepishly. ‘Rather a tough time, I fear!’

  I was about to ask what he meant, when he added with a broad grin, ‘But your turn next, I fancy.’

  ‘Sorry – I’m not quite clear …’ I began.

  ‘You will be,’ he replied cryptically, and still grinning sloped off to the far end of the room.

  What on earth could he mean? What did Carrot Top know that I didn’t? I stood perplexed and then heard Gladys’s booming voice chivvying the ladies to lead the way into the dining room. As the rest of us dutifully followed, Clinker caught up with me and, waving a piece of paper under my nose, announced, ‘I see you’ve got Myrtle!’

  ‘Er …?’

  ‘You’re on her left. It’s down here in black and white.’ And stabbing a sadistic finger, he pointed to the table plan in his hand. I said nothing, circled the ta
ble, found my place card … and glanced to my right. She was there, Foggarty’s erstwhile companion – vast, billowing and, it would seem, furious.

  As I pulled out her chair she glared and said in a loud stage whisper, ‘Typical of Gladys, she knew very well I wished to be seated next to Sir Gerald, there is so much I need to speak to him about. They are coming to Brussels in September, you know, to the embassy, and there are all manner of things I could have advised him upon.’ I glanced down the table at the diminutive Sir Gerald who looked remarkably unperturbed by his loss; indeed, was getting exceedingly chummy with Clinker’s niece, a pretty, busty girl clearly commanding all his attention.

  Myrtle scowled in her direction and then at me. ‘And you are …?’ she queried irritably.

  I gave my name, adding as a vague afterthought, ‘Er, Canon actually … from Molehill, rather a small place, you probably won’t have heard …’

  ‘Well, Canon Molehill,’ she observed, ‘all I can say is I hope you don’t have a fondness for meat – my dear sister has wrecked the lamb again. She does it time after time. I gave her an excellent Belgian recipe only last Easter, but will she follow it? Not one jot. Stubborn as a mule – hence my sitting here and not next to Sir Gerald! Oh well, one will have to make do, I suppose.’ And so saying, she turned abruptly to the man on her right. Her bulk obscured his identity but I was grateful to him nonetheless.

  My other neighbour being also engaged, I busied myself with the soup: Mock Turtle – very mock – and I contemplated with gloom the impending lamb. In fact, as lamb goes and despite the dire warnings, this proved rather good; and fortified by two tolerable glasses of claret I started to experience moderate enjoyment.