The whole episode had been extremely unsettling, and to soothe my nerves I made a raid on the toffee tin, before sitting down and telephoning my sister to see if she had any thoughts on the matter. A voice of moderate sanity would be welcome.
‘It was dreadful!’ I expostulated to Primrose. ‘He was here, when I came home, locked in battle with Bouncer in the study. The dog had him by the seat of his trousers and there was a fearful noise, and the desk drawers wide open and my papers strewn all over the place. Obviously having a good old rummage, if you please!’
I was about to enlarge on the details of the appalling scene, when she cut me short: ‘Francis, are you sure you’ve got your teeth in?’
‘What?’
‘Your teeth, are they in?’
‘What are you talking about?’ I replied indignantly. ‘I don’t have any teeth … false ones, I mean!’
‘Well, you could have fooled me. There’s an awful lot of chomping and gurgling going on, I can barely hear you!’
Swallowing hard, I took a piece of blotting paper from the desk and removed the caramel which had become stuck in a lower cavity, and then resumed my tale.
‘Crumpelmeyer – he was here, ransacking my desk! And quite frankly if it hadn’t been for Bouncer attacking him I don’t know what might have happened. He was in a very nasty mood … when he came to, that is. Had the effrontery to accuse me of harbouring the Hound of the Baskervilles and harassing innocent passers-by who had just dropped in for a friendly chat. I tell you, Prim, the man’s as mad as a hatter!’ Without thinking I broke off another piece of toffee, and was about to thrust it into my mouth when I remembered her previous comment and lit a fresh cigarette instead.
I continued to relate the details of the episode: Crumpelmeyer’s absurd and garbled story that he had had a matter of business to discuss with me and, not getting any response at the front door, had come round to the open french windows hoping I might be in the study. Apparently he had just entered and called my name, when the dog suddenly flew in, pinned him to the desk and proceeded to savage his backside. The attack had been so frenzied that in his attempts to remain upright he had clawed at the desk, wrenching at the drawer handles and scattering all the files and papers. ‘A likely story!’ I fulminated to Primrose. ‘He was just snooping, and I can’t think why!’
‘I can,’ she replied coolly.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ I exclaimed.
‘It’s obvious: he was after those deeds – you know, the ones for that place in France you were telling me about. Having failed in their bid to dig up the mother’s bracelet, he and the Violet woman are now after the deeds – probably think that crumbling pile may be worth quite a penny; sort of compensation for the “lost patrimony” which they’re convinced you owe them.’ And she gave a dark chuckle.
‘But I haven’t got the damn deeds,’ I moaned. ‘Besides, it’s not funny, Primrose. Crumpelmeyer is clearly deranged and I am being made the victim of a groundless persecution!’
‘We-ll,’ she murmured, ‘not entirely groundless. After all, you have to admit there’s a certain dramatic irony to it all.’
‘Look,’ I snapped, ‘this is not the perishing theatre, it is real life, and I am sick and tired of being pursued by Pond and her fat fancy man or husband, or whatever he is. I just don’t know what to do!’
There was a silence, and then she said, ‘You could always go to the police, I suppose.’
I sighed in exasperation. ‘Given the circumstances, the less I have to do with the police the better. It’ll only give them a chance to do more sniffing and questioning about other matters. And in any case, it would simply be my word against Crumpelmeyer’s: there’s no actual proof to suggest that his cock and bull tale of wanting to drop in for a chat isn’t perfectly true. And what’s more,’ I added, hearing my voice rise an octave, ‘I shall probably be accused of keeping a rabid dog in the house … and then what!’
‘Now look here, Francis,’ she said severely, ‘being accused of keeping a rabid dog is not as bad as being accused of doing away with Crumpelmeyer’s mother-in-law. Do try to keep a sense of proportion and calm down. Sometimes you sound just like Uncle Herbert!’ That sobered me. Pa had been difficult enough but his younger brother was impossible, and I did not care for the analogy.
‘So what do you suggest?’ I asked morosely.
‘Well, in the short term I recommend that you go and play on that nice piano of yours. It always does you good and you’ll feel much better afterwards.’
She was right. A turn on the piano would doubtless help to soothe the jangled nerves, but it was a temporary palliative and I needed something more far-reaching.
‘And what about the long term?’
‘That remains to be seen. But meanwhile I think you had better come down here for a couple of days and let the dust settle. The garden needs doing again, and I doubt whether Crumpelmeyer will try another incursion, not now at any rate. From what you’ve said he’s probably just as ruffled as you are and will want to lie low. And as to the pair of them lodging a complaint about Bouncer and it being your word against his, what about his word against yours? After all, you’re the one who’s the vicar – pillar of the community and all that. And by now the police are bound to know all about them having wanted to exhume the grave for her diamonds. That’s not criminal intent of course, but it doesn’t look good … No, I should think there is no immediate threat or worry, but it won’t hurt you to get away all the same. You sound peaky.’
Peaky! Who wouldn’t sound peaky with all I had to put up with? The nightmare event of the woods, March and the officious Samson, Ingaza and the Bone blithering Idol, bloody Claude, the intrusions of Clinker, and now the lunatic Crumpelmeyers: all intent on driving me insane! What else, for God’s sake? What else?
‘As it happens,’ Primrose went on, ‘if you were to come down here you could be quite useful – socially, that is.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I might be needing a little moral support …’
I found that hard to believe, but saying nothing waited for her to explain.
‘Yes, you see I’ve got that friend of yours coming over from Brighton – the Ingaza man, to discuss the matter of my paintings going on the Canadian market. You remember my telling you. I must say, he sounds very keen.’
I closed my eyes. When I opened them I heard myself saying wearily, ‘You mean the fakes.’
There was a pause, and then in distant tones she replied, ‘Francis, I have no intention of explaining to you yet again the difference between crude fakery and artistic adjustment. Clearly these are technicalities far too subtle for your understanding.’
‘You bet they are!’ I muttered irritably.
Her voice became brisk and managerial. ‘Now come along, Francis, stop being such a wet blanket! Your sister needs your brotherly support and you need a rest from those peculiar people. Padlock the house, board the animals, and tell the parish you’re going on a course.’
‘What course?’
‘Christian Ethics, I should think.’
28
The Dog’s Diary
He’s lucky to have me, you know. Very lucky indeed! I’m what’s known as a watch-dog of the first water – as my old master Bowler used to say. (Most of the time he said too much, but now and again he was SPOT ON!) Anyway, I really helped the vicar the other day and even Maurice was impressed. Got that pasty Crump person right down on the floorboards, I did, and gave him what for. Just the job! But he didn’t like it – not one bite, he didn’t!
Mind you, F.O. looked under the weather as well, and started to shake all over just like those posh show dogs at Crufts with their hind legs going like the clappers. Still, he calmed down after a while and went over to the desk and asked Chummy exactly what he thought he was doing. (Silly question really – it was obvious what the basket was up to: CASING THE JOINT! Anyone could see that, but the vicar is a bit slow sometimes. Can’t help it, I suppose – hu
mans are made that way.) Anyway, after a right old argy-bargy between the two of them, Fatso gets up and limps out on to the grass, and the vicar bolts the door. Should have done that much earlier, if you ask me, but he never does of course. Far too trusting – or just plain idle.
Of course, I’d known for days that something was going on and that it wasn’t the first time that Droopy Chops had been prowling around – he was here a few nights ago when F.O. took me for my bedtime walk. I’ve got this sixth sense, you see: it’s in the bones and you can learn all manner of stuff that way. Maurice says it’s rubbish, but then he says that about most things … Well, it wasn’t rubbish what I did the other evening. It was JOLLY GOOD, and I hope he comes back for another dose. But I don’t suppose he will … Yes, they’re lucky to have me around all right. In fact that’s just what I told Maurice – ‘Bouncer’s the chap!’ I said. He didn’t answer of course, just flattened his ears and shut his eyes tightly. But I think that secretly he’s quite proud of me. After all, it’s not every cat that has a top prize-fighter for a companion!
I was telling O’Shaughnessy all about it and it got him really excited, and he said I was no end of a fine fellow and was I after doing anything more like that. I told him not at the moment, but since he’d missed all the fun I would give him one or two demonstrations. That really got him going and he kept chasing his tail and barking, ‘Up Dev! Up Dev!’ Don’t know what he meant by that but he seemed to be enjoying himself so I joined in too, and we raced up and down the road roaring those funny words until a neighbour came out and hurled a bucket of water at us. Missed, of course.
Well, here’s a howdy-do! According to Maurice, who was listening to him burbling down the blower, the vicar is going to visit his sister again, and not taking us with him. He was talking about boarding us out, if you please! I got a bit shirty when I heard that, but Maurice says it’s all right because he has arranged to settle us with those new people down the road who own the wolfhound, Florence of Fermanagh. So maybe things won’t be too bad. In fact, come to think of it, they could be a load of all right! That Florence is a very nice lady, and I know she likes me, and even Maurice approves. And what’s more, I’ve heard that her owners are pretty free-handed with the grub. So all in all we might have quite a good few days. I’m just sorry that we shan’t be seeing those gormless rabbits again … but still, you can’t have everything. Plenty of nosh and a great friendly wolf should be enough!
29
The Vicar’s Version
I brooded on Primrose’s suggestion. Visiting my sister was always a trifle fraught, and the prospect of Ingaza’s presence of little enticement. On the other hand, my nerves really were shot to pieces by the Crumpelmeyer confrontation, not to mention March and Samson’s suspicions about those absurd deeds. And the thought of getting away – if only to dig my sister’s garden – was not uncongenial. So when the bishop telephoned to announce that he wished to speak to me on urgent business and would be shortly arriving in the area, what had been merely a mooted idea swiftly turned to firm purpose.
Unfortunately immediate escape was impossible, for in addition to a sudden spate of baptisms and funerals, there loomed the Vergers’ Social Evening – a ferocious affair of Colonel Dawlish’s devising, invariably conducted with military rigour and sadistic relish. And such were the instigator’s powers of persuasion that attendance was by far the simplest course. Thus, willy nilly, Clinker and his vagaries would have to be faced before fleeing Molehill for the sanctuary of Sussex. Still, it was something to look forward to …
A few days later my superior arrived, looking decidedly harassed; so much so that I felt a spark of sympathy. It quickly died.
He cleared his throat, looked shifty, and then said, ‘Now look here, Oughterard, uhm … it’s about Mrs Carruthers and the tiddlywinks.’
Oh Lor’, I thought, here we go!
‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘The fact is I have to practise some rather special moves with her. The team is entered in the Neasden Championships, a most prestigious event, and we stand a very good chance of winning. But it’s essential to be well prepared – some pretty stiff competition! The trouble is, she’s got her nephew staying and he’s allergic to tiddlywinks and hates bishops. I wouldn’t feel comfortable crawling about on her carpet with him there. But Wednesday evening is the only time I’m free. So I thought your vicarage would be a good substitute for her sitting room. You can easily take yourself off to the cinema … They’ve got Roman Holiday showing at the Plaza,’ he added encouragingly.
I explained that much as I would like to see Roman Holiday and Audrey Hepburn, the vicarage was unfortunately booked that evening for the bell ringers’ AGM and they wouldn’t be leaving until at least ten o’clock.
‘Surely you can shove them somewhere else,’ he protested.
‘Not really, sir, there’s quite a lot of them and the notices have already gone out. Besides, Mavis Briggs is doing the sandwiches and she won’t want to –’
‘Hell,’ he groaned, ‘that’s torn it! Can’t you think of anywhere, Oughterard?’
‘Well,’ I ventured, ‘I suppose there’s always your Palace.’
‘Don’t be facetious,’ he snapped. ‘You know perfectly well the position with Mrs Clinker!’
I pondered. What on earth would be a suitable venue for the bishop and Annie Carruthers to clamber about on all-fours rattling the dice and flicking bits of plastic at each other? There was a long silence and he drummed his fingers.
‘I know!’ I said brightly. ‘The allotments – there’s a vacant shed, third row from the end. A bit cramped, perhaps, but better than nothing!’
‘The allotments! You mean those big ones by Foxford Wood, the ones behind your graveyard? Are you mad, Oughterard? You can hardly expect me to get down on my hands and knees at dead of night in a potting shed! Most undignified. It’s an outlandish suggestion.’
The whole charade struck me as being outlandish, but I refrained from saying so, and instead stood meekly shuffling my papers while he fumed. After a while he calmed down, and enquired the dimensions of the shed and whether it had an even floor.
‘I rather think so. It’s one of those new pre-fabricated ones, all very neat and shipshape. As a matter of fact it belongs to a friend of mine – our local piano tuner – he lets it out, but at the moment no one’s using it.’
‘Hmm,’ muttered Clinker, ‘might do, I suppose … well, it’ll have to. Got to get something fixed up! But those allotments are huge – you’ll have to be there to show me where the thing is exactly. What time are your bell ringers coming?’
I told him eight o’clock.
‘Oh, plenty of time then. You can meet me at six, and meanwhile I’ll make arrangements with Mrs Carruthers.’
After he had gone I put on my slippers, removed the cat from the armchair, and easing myself into his place closed my eyes. Really, the things one did for one’s masters …
To my relief Savage was remarkably co-operative about the loan of his property and was only too happy to hand over its key. I had had to explain its purpose of course – the tiddlywinks – but naturally made no mention of Clinker, simply stating that I had a friend whose tastes in recreational pursuits were a trifle juvenile. When I explained that Mrs Carruthers shared those same tastes and would be accompanying him on the shed floor, Savage exclaimed, ‘Cor, you don’t say!’ and started to grin. I was slightly put out by this and felt we might be at cross purposes; but before I could clarify matters Mrs Savage appeared from the kitchen floured and flushed, and insisted I try her latest batch of fairy cakes, and thus the matter was shelved.
Later that day there was a telephone call from Clinker agitating about the forthcoming arrangements. Discretion, he confided, was the name of the game. It would not do for him to be observed accompanying Mrs Carruthers through the portals of the allotments: they would travel separately and he would establish himself in the shed and practise a few special thumb flips while awaiting her arrival.
‘But she doesn’t know where the shed is,’ I objected, ‘she’ll need guidance.’
‘Yes, but not from me, Oughterard. That will be your job. What I want you to do is to take me there first and then go back and meet her at the bus stop in The Avenue. I’ve told her you’ll pick her up.’
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler if I just met her at the allotment gate?’ I asked, inwardly fuming that I was to be involved in these antics at all.
‘Not really. You see, she doesn’t know that we shall be playing in the shed … I, uhm, thought it better not to mention it.’
‘Why ever not?’
There was a pause, and then he said distantly, ‘It is quite evident, Oughterard, that you know very little about the female psyche. Were she to learn that she was expected to crawl about on a hard floor amidst dust and potatoes in an alien potting shed, the ructions would be stupendous and one would doubtless forfeit an invaluable hour of practice. I’ve set my heart on that Neasden Championship and I don’t propose being under-rehearsed because my partner had chickened out on account of her nylons!’
‘But she might make an even bigger fuss when she does find out!’ I exclaimed.
‘Perhaps, but it’ll be too late by then. Face them with a fait accompli and they generally back down. Having had the benefit of Gladys all these years I know about these things.’ There was a grim note in his voice.
I sighed. Yes, I was thankful to be spared that particular benefit. Nevertheless, the prospect of Mrs Carruthers’ fury when confronted with the bishop’s choice of rendezvous was not a happy one, and I wondered disconsolately if there was any way of getting out of it. There wasn’t, of course.
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