Bone Idle

by Suzette A. Hill

  However, this was swiftly curtailed by Myrtle suddenly turning back to me and saying, ‘I gathered from the archdeacon that yours is the parish where that dastardly crime was committed. My brother-in-law mumbled something about it, but of course I never listen to him, and Gladys is rarely to be relied upon. Still, I’ve managed to glean a few details from the Venerable Foggarty – not that he was particularly forthcoming, spent all the time coughing and clearing his throat. Typical of the clergy, they can never say yea or nay to anything! Now, Canon, what I want to know …’ She broke off. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Oughterard,’ I answered bleakly.

  ‘How peculiar … Anyway, what I want to know is, who did it?’

  Like Foggarty I also cleared my throat. ‘Uhm … it’s not known really, bit of a mystery, I suppose …’

  ‘Well, it has no business being a mystery! I don’t know what the police are doing these days. They’re as ineffectual as the Church. All part of this namby-pamby liberalism! Personally I’d have them all castrated.’

  ‘The police?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Not the police, the criminals of course. Murderers, like the one near your vicarage. That would teach him!’

  I gasped. ‘Isn’t that a bit excessive? I mean, what good would it do?’

  ‘Stop them breeding,’ she said darkly, ‘that’s what!’

  ‘Yes, I imagine it would,’ I replied, folding my hands nervously in my lap.

  Thankfully, at that point the pudding appeared and I hastily began to enthuse about its colour and texture, both of which were dreadful.

  With the arrival of the brandy the ladies mercifully withdrew, and for a brief space I was able to relax and listen to the talk around the table. Not that this was exactly scintillating, but after the onslaught from Myrtle and the braying tones of Gladys, conversation of any quality seemed a blessed relief. The departure of the siblings clearly had its effect on Clinker too, for he became genially expansive and started dishing out cigars as if they were liquorice sticks.

  I have to admit to not being terribly practised with cigars, finding cigarettes considerably more manageable; however, it would have been churlish to refuse, and after a few false starts trying to light the thing, I began to enjoy the novelty. Thus, wrapped in a pall of fragrant fumes, I took another sip of cognac, settled back in my chair, and prepared to savour the remainder of the interlude.

  I was just doing this and trying to keep up with the meanderings of a shaggy dog’s tale being told by my neighbour, when I heard the bishop’s voice bawling down the table: ‘I say, Oughterard, you’re supposed to smoke the thing, not chew it! Best Havanas these are, not Wills’ piddling Whiffs!’ The admonition was accompanied by a snort of mirth signalling general merriment.

  My discomfort was partially defused by the reedy voice of Sir Gerald observing that he had once owned a Labrador puppy who liked nothing better than a good dish of butt-ends for breakfast. This brought further merriment and I was grateful for the diversion, though not entirely pleased to be bracketed with Sir Gerald’s puppy-dog.

  Despite that hiccup, things proceeded affably enough – until interrupted by a loud hammering on the door and a voice crying, ‘Come along now, you’ve been in there for at least fifty minutes. Kindly come out at once, we are waiting!’ Gladys.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Clinker sighing, ‘better go in, I suppose …’

  Once more in the drawing room, we joined the ladies already engaged on the coffee and liqueurs. I was pleased to note my box of dark chocolates being unwrapped by my hostess, who proceeded to pass them around.

  ‘Personally,’ she announced, ‘I much prefer milk chocolate, plain is so bitter! However,’ she continued, casting a wintry smile in my direction, ‘we don’t look nice gift horses in the mouth, do we?’ I returned her smile with one of dazzling sweetness and mentally topped up her glass with cyanide.

  On the sofa next to me was a small woman dowdily dressed and amazingly quiet. I took to her like a duck to water. But she blotted her copybook by suddenly saying in an earnest voice: ‘I gather you are the great authority on the Bone Idol – you know, the Beano pig. I have always wanted to meet someone who really knows its history!’

  I stared transfixed at my coffee cup. And then finding my voice, mumbled something about there being nothing much to know really.

  ‘Oh, you scholars are always so modest!’ she exclaimed. ‘My friend Claude Blenkinsop says you are a fount of knowledge and a real expert on the subject. Do tell us something about it!’

  Bloody Blenkinsop! Bloody Ingaza! Bloody Beano!

  All eyes were turned on me. I raked the circle of enquiring faces, desperately trying to recall a few facts from the potted history that Nicholas had forced me to read.

  Unwittingly it was Clinker who retrieved the situation. He had obviously overdone the brandy; and flushed of face and glazed of eye, bellowed with laughter and cried: ‘Can’t think that Francis is a fount of knowledge on anything – except White Ladies perhaps!’

  ‘Really? Fancy that! Just shows that canons know a thing or two,’ cried Sir Gerald. ‘What proportions would you recommend, Oughterard?’

  I was able to instruct him with clarity and authority. But even as I spoke, I was pondering the extraordinary fact that Clinker had actually mentioned the name of the cocktails which, eighteen months previously, had rendered him merrily senseless on my sitting-room carpet. It was an incident which ever since had been shrouded in complicit silence – indeed, I had rather assumed it was carefully expunged from his conscious memory. Presumably the brandy (and possibly the trauma of Myrtle) had pulled the bucket from the well. In any event, it was a timely diversion and I was glad.

  My sofa companion looked disappointed and seemed poised to pursue the matter further, but by then the party was beginning to break up and I made sure I was among the first to leave.

  When I got home, despite feeling a little fragile from the effects of the alcohol and the joint proclamations of Gladys and Myrtle, I managed to put in a couple of hours of much delayed paperwork. And then feeling both tired and virtuous, I gathered the dog and set off for our evening walk.

  At first Bouncer was full of beans, straining at the leash, prancing at passers-by and, once let loose, bounding vigorously after ball and sticks. But on the way back as we neared the vicarage, his mood seemed to change. The bounce slackened, his gait slowed and he started to make odd little whining noises. This was strange, for normally on such occasions, once the initial exuberance subsides it is rapidly replaced by a jaunty eagerness as, mission accomplished, we head for home and food. This time, however, he seemed distinctly reluctant, dragging heavily on the lead and with the whines turning into hostile growls. I was perplexed as there seemed no cause for such display, but assumed there must be a fox or alien cat lurking in nearby undergrowth. But then he suddenly stood stock still, back legs stiffened and muzzle projected as if he were some sort of pointer! I had not seen this particular performance before and was intrigued. He continued to emit low growls, and I scanned the bushes trying to discern the object of such charade. There was nothing.

  ‘Oh, do come on, Bouncer!’ I protested. ‘We’ll never get home at this rate.’ He looked up briefly, but continued to stand his ground, ears cocked and tail quivering. And then, just for a moment I thought I heard footsteps – which I suppose I must have, for there was the sudden splutter of a car engine revving into life, and an unlit shape loomed slowly around the corner from the vicarage and purred off into the dark.

  It seemed to be the dog’s cue for action, for instantly the whole street was rent by his frenzied shrieks and barks, and what had been a twitching statue turned into a roaring, dancing dynamo. Deafened and embarrassed, I dragged him the remaining yards and scuttled into the house before attracting the attention of irate neighbours. Just as we gained the sanctuary of the hall, the telephone rang. The dog bounded noisily into the kitchen and I picked up the receiver. It was Clinker.

  ‘Ah, Oughte
rard,’ he said, ‘thought I might catch you. That Mrs Pinder who was sitting next to you during coffee – she’s very keen for you give a talk to her Ladies’ HistoryGuild. Says she wants to hear more about that Bone Idol thing of Claude’s, the Beano pig or whatever it’s called. Apparently her father was something big in Poona, and so she’s especially interested. Gladys seemed convinced you could oblige. Anyway, I’ve given Mrs P. your number, didn’t think you would mind … Glad you could get over for luncheon. It all went very well, I feel.’ Like hell, I thought.

  26

  The Cat’s Memoir

  Another happy sojourn amidst the gravestones! It is gratifying the number of pleasures that can be packed into so short a time: scattering the newly dug soil on the Fanshaw mound, organizing my defences against the intrusion of that foul Siamese, pressurizing the butterflies in the far corner, practising pouncing tactics behind the compost heap, and keeping vigil on my favourite tomb for any irregularities in the lane below. (Regrettably none on this particular occasion, but one always harbours the hope.) Thus I returned to the vicarage well satisfied with my morning’s diversions and looking forward to a light lunch.

  As I pushed my way through the pet flap, I was met by Bouncer in a state of noisy indignation.

  ‘Some bastard’s been here!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Probably the verger. Sometimes he changes his day to Saturday.’

  ‘No, not that bastard, another one. I knew there was something up last night on my walk, but of course you and F.O. wouldn’t believe me. There’s a very funny smell, very funny indeed!’ To demonstrate, he thrust his snout to the floor and rollicked around the kitchen snorting and growling theatrically.

  ‘Calm down, Bouncer!’ I admonished. ‘You’ll wake F.O.’ In fact I could already hear stirrings from above, the bed springs creaking and a shoe being dropped or tripped over.

  ‘It’s about time he came down,’ he muttered. ‘I want my grub. Anyway, if he hadn’t been snoring his head off this wouldn’t have happened!’

  ‘But nothing has happened!’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ he said darkly. ‘I know better. I feel it in my bones.’

  Just occasionally the dog’s bones do seem to exhibit a curious intuition, but it is not something I often acknowledge. Instead I asked him if the smell was confined to the kitchen.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘all over the shop but especially in the study. That’s why I know some bastard’s been here, and why I’ve got to go down to the crypt and THINK!’

  ‘What about your grub?’

  ‘After that, of course. You can’t think without a bit of nosh in you. I wish he’d hurry up!’

  ‘Start baying. That should do the trick.’ He took a deep breath and proceeded to let forth. Forfeiting lunch I escaped hastily through the window.

  I bided my time lurking in the tool shed for a while, but became unexpectedly embroiled with a colony of mice who had the nerve to assume they could run circles round me. Then having demonstrated otherwise and feeling rather satisfied, I curled up for a brief snooze. In fact when I awoke it was nearly tea-time. By now Bouncer would be well ensconced in the crypt and the vicar busy in church, and thus it might be a good moment to enjoy some belated haddock undisturbed …

  How easily the best laid plans of mice and cats are foiled! As I glided past the open study door I suddenly noticed an alien shape bending over the desk. Far too squat and fat for F.O., it was clearly a stranger – indeed, an intruder riffling through the vicar’s papers! I watched silently, recognizing the portly form of the Crumplehorn, but undecided whether or not to make my presence felt. As I pondered, there was the familiar sound of canine toenails rasping on the linoleum in the hall: the dog evidently returned from his subterranean thoughts. He pottered over to where I was poised by the study door and also stared in. ‘Fetch!’ I murmured …

  I must explain that this was a command that Bouncer had last heard when living with his first master, the bank manager Reginald Bowler, who would bawl it out with tedious regularity. I gather that the idea was to train the dog into performing some useful act of retrieval. However, despite Bowler’s persistence, the command would remain only partially executed – the dog invariably preferring to concentrate on the preliminaries (involving much sound and fury) rather than the concluding delivery. I once asked him why he never completed the task. ‘Boring,’ he growled. ‘Nothing beats a good bite and a chew – what’s the point of handing it over?’

  However, the word clearly awoke some Pavlovian instinct, for the dog immediately hurled himself upon the Crumplehorn’s bending buttocks, and with whoops of unfettered joy proceeded to devour the ample rump. Loosing a volley of high-pitched oaths, his victim fell to the floor dragging ink and papers with him. Here he writhed, lashing out vainly, while Bouncer, snarling like Ghengis Khan, gave no quarter. I watched with interest; and then deeming that things had gone far enough, called the assailant to heel … that is to say, I punctuated proceedings with a falsetto yowl and a claw to the dog’s tail. This had the desired effect, and relative calm descended as Bouncer, still looking his bellicose best, stood guard with quivering flanks, and snout within inches of the intruder’s ink-drenched face.

  I was about to compliment him on his martial zeal, when there was a slight movement from the study door, and turning my head I saw F.O. standing frozen on the threshold mouthing silently and clad (rather remissly, I felt) only in his shirt and sock suspenders. He seemed to be saying, ‘God in heaven, what the hell now!’ On the other hand it might have been, ‘How long, O Lord, how long?’ It was difficult to tell exactly. But what can be told is that the Crumplehorn passed out and that Bouncer – evidently overdone by his exertions – trundled on to the hearthrug, curled up, and with a satisfied sigh went fast to sleep. With the two contestants out for the count I was left alone with the vicar whom I fixed with a quizzical stare …

  He gazed wildly at the comatose Crumplehorn, began to fumble for his cigarettes, shoved one into his mouth the wrong way round, and then cautiously approached the now stirring heap by the desk. He made some initial enquiry which was swiftly followed by an interesting exchange of imprecations, Crumplehorn’s being the more explicit but the vicar’s the more literate.

  I have to admit to being impressed by Bouncer’s handiwork: he had routed and cowed his quarry without inflicting anything worse than shallow tooth marks – painful no doubt but far from serious. The victim continued to swear, but gradually levered himself off the floor and then had the nerve to demand that F.O. supply him with brandy! To his credit the vicar denied him the request – though I suspect less on account of principle than because he had demolished the last of the bottle the previous evening. However, he expressed his refusal in a suitably righteous tone and, after further and prolonged altercation, seemed to achieve the verbal advantage. Eventually, sweating and still garrulous, the visitor turned to the french window and withdrew whence he had come.

  It had been a perplexing, disturbing little incident and I was not surprised to see F.O. make a stumbling beeline for the toffee tin and thence the telephone … Presumably either the Brighton type or the sister was to be the recipient of a spluttered narrative.

  27

  The Vicar’s Version

  I had just got home from the church and gone upstairs to change into more comfortable clothes, when the house was suddenly rent by the most appalling noise from below: a bedlam of jungle snarling and human roaring, followed by a stupendous crash. In shirt and socks I tore downstairs to investigate … and then gazed transfixed by the spectacle before me, scarcely believing that I was standing in my own study. Was I experiencing some parallel existence – some mode of being hitherto unvisited? Or was it simply the overripe Stilton at lunch that had precipitated such nightmare? Perhaps at any moment I would wake, sweating but sane … None of those things. I was only too awake and the study firmly real. And at the foot of my desk, solid, ink-sodden and insensible, lay Victor Crumpelmeyer!

  His body
was surrounded by a shower of pens and papers and all the accumulated debris which had cascaded from the open lid during what had clearly been the dog’s attack. The man’s right trouser leg was split from hip to knee. And what had sounded like mayhem as I bounded down the stairs was now replaced by a deadly hush, broken only by the dog’s snoring from the hearthrug where he had retreated at my entry. The cat sat grooming himself on the window-seat, pausing now and again to stare at me with a look of accusing curiosity. I stared back helplessly, and then took a few tentative steps towards the figure on the floor.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I say, Crumpelmeyer, are you all right?’ There was silence. And I gazed down at the slumped effigy, wondering what to do next. Police? Ambulance? A cup of tea? Unsure which for the best, I lit a cigarette. Bloody man, what the hell was he doing here – and at my desk too! (It wasn’t just its lid that was wide open, I now noted, but also a couple of the drawers.) There was a movement from the hearthrug and Bouncer, evidently rested from the excitement, came padding over to survey his handiwork. I took him by the scruff, but before I had time to get a grip, he had craned forward and started to snuffle and lick his victim’s face. That stirred things.

  ‘Get that fucking hound off me!’ screeched Crumpelmeyer.

  ‘He is not a fucking hound,’ I observed reprovingly. ‘He is an extremely efficient guard dog – as I am glad to say you have discovered.’

  There followed what might be termed an animated conversation. Until finally, looking murderous and clutching his posterior, Crumpelmeyer girded his loins – or rather hoiked at his trousers – and still ranting, lurched out into the garden. I refrained from following, judging the man to be too incommoded to constitute further threat; but was careful nonetheless to shut and firmly bolt the french windows.