Bone Idle

by Suzette A. Hill

  Wednesday evening arrived; and having organized the sitting room in readiness for the bell ringers and added a couple of spare chairs, I reluctantly left the vicarage and made my way to the allotments. Through the gathering dusk I could just discern a dark bulky figure lurking by the main gate: it was clearly the bishop in his incognito garb – black raincoat and face-concealing fedora hat. Fortunately there was no one about for he might just as well have been wearing cope and mitre.

  We exchanged a few pleasantries, and in answer to his anxious enquiry I assured him that Mrs Carruthers was all set and I would fetch her as arranged. He was holding a briefcase, presumably containing the tiddlywinks, which he gave me to carry. Then, keeping a nervous eye open for strangers, I led him along the winding cinder paths until we reached the far end and Savage’s shed. I took the key from my pocket and went to unlock the door. There was some difficulty as the wretched thing got stuck and wouldn’t turn properly. Either it or the lock must have been bent.

  ‘Here, let me try,’ said Clinker impatiently. And after some rattling and wrenching it eventually worked, and the door creaked open. He went in and stared into the gloom muttering something about finding a light switch. Then I heard him gasp. ‘My God!’ he cried, leaping back and crushing my foot. ‘What the hell’s that!’

  Standing behind him and in the half-light, I couldn’t make out much, and said in some pain, ‘It’s only the wheelbarrow, it’s –’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Oughterard! Can’t you see … it’s a body. Look, there are the legs!’

  I gazed into the murk. And sure enough, there was indeed a pair of legs – female ones, sticking up in the air propped behind the barrow. As I stared, I could just make out what seemed to be the head and torso sprawled on the floor, the body up-ended in a sort of jack-knife pose. There was a long silence as we peered paralysed; and then I fumbled for the switch.

  ‘Don’t!’ snapped Clinker. ‘Do you want us lit up like Christmas trees? Go and take a look and check if it’s really dead.’

  I took a few limping steps. Mercifully the face was turned away – but judging from the position of the neck, the rope around it, and the icy stillness of the form, I had no doubt we were in the presence of a corpse. (You may recall it was not the first time I had been in such proximity.)

  ‘Dead,’ I whispered, ‘… garrotted.’

  ‘My God!’ Clinker gulped. ‘I’ve got to get out of here. This is appalling! Quick, Oughterard, go back to that phone box by the main gates and ring Mrs Carruthers. Fob her off!’ And grabbing his briefcase and staying for neither God nor corpse, he pushed past me and floundered down a side path into the dusk and on to the lane. From the other side of the fence I heard the revving of a motor car. And then silence.

  Left alone, I stood for some moments in numbed horror, riveted by the legs. Pulling myself together, I stumbled to the exit, tried vainly to lock the shed door, and pocketing the redundant key, started to pick my way back along the cinder tracks. It was nearly dark, but not wishing to risk meeting a loitering plot-holder, I scrambled through a gap in the hedge to the anonymity of the road, and looked for the telephone box.

  I spun her a garbled tale of the bishop being overcome by influenza and anchored to the episcopal bed. And then with solicitous squawks ringing in my ears, and still in a state of zombied shock, I began my walk back to the vicarage. I did not get far. Coming up the road was Savage – tapping along briskly and, for once, whistling in a moderately tuneful way. Had I been thinking straight I suppose I might have side-stepped him and he would have continued none the wiser – for the time being at any rate. Time at least for me to collect my wits. But I was not thinking straight, and in any case it seemed only charitable to warn him of what lay ahead.

  Thus I coughed discreetly to herald my approach, and as he paused said: ‘It’s me, the vicar. I say, Savage, I hate to tell you – but there’s a dead body in your shed.’

  He grinned. ‘It’s not April Fool’s Day, Rev. Pull the other!’

  ‘No, really,’ I hissed, ‘it’s true. Behind the wheelbarrow – dead. Throttled, actually.’

  ‘In my shed!’ he yelped. ‘Have you been on the bottle?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ I exclaimed indignantly, and proceeded to give him the few details I knew.

  He scratched his head, emitted a low whistle, and muttered, ‘A corpse, eh? Well, here’s a howdy-do and no mistake. I don’t think Mrs S. will like that very much, especially as it’s nearly brand new.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The shed. We’ve only had it six months … This body, whose is it, anyway?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I replied. ‘But it’s all rather tricky. You see …’ And I started to impress upon him how embarrassing it would be if my ‘colleague’ were to become involved.

  ‘You mean the one that was going to have a dink-donk with the Carruthers woman?’

  ‘Yes – no! Nothing like that! I told you, they were going to practise tiddlywinks.’

  ‘I doubt if it was tiddlywinks they were going to practise.’ And he gave a sly chuckle.

  ‘Yes they were,’ I protested.

  ‘If you say so, Rev. Anyway, this friend of yours, he got more than he bargained for, didn’t he! … Mind you,’ he added musingly, ‘so have I. Better inform the police, I suppose, but I can’t do that tonight – not when she’s on one of her baking jags. More than my life’s worth! It’ll have to wait till tomorrow. What the eye doesn’t see …’

  I was grateful to Mrs Savage. Her periodic bouts of manic baking may have been a trial to her husband, but this particular occasion allowed me time to think: to produce a cogent reason why the Canon of Molehill and his bishop should be appearing in court as principal witnesses in the case of what the press would doubtless dub ‘THE ALLOTMENTS SLAUGHTER!’ Really, I fumed, as if I hadn’t enough with a murder of my own to cope with, without having to be dragged into other people’s as well. It was too bad!

  I was reflecting upon this irony and wondering just how I was going to play it, when I heard Savage say, ‘What have you done with the key, then?’

  ‘Oh, it’s here,’ I said, producing it from my pocket. ‘But it’s no use, there’s something wrong with the lock or maybe the key itself, it wouldn’t work. Kept jamming.’

  ‘There was nothing wrong before I went off this morning,’ he replied. ‘Both were oiled and in good working order.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you, it certainly wasn’t working just now,’ I muttered irritably.

  There was a pause, and then he said slowly, ‘No, and I can guess why. Whoever did her in had to pick the lock. How else could they have got access? Either he strangled her in situ, or he brought the body in from somewhere else … Still, that’s for the police to decide. In the meantime, if you’ve got any sense you’ll go back there.’

  ‘But I don’t want to go back! Whatever for?’

  ‘That lock you were grappling with will be smothered in fingerprints – yours and your friend’s. Better take a handkerchief and do a bit of polishing up. Did you touch anything else?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right then.’ Rather an overstatement, I thought.

  ‘So – what will you do?’

  ‘Oh,’ he replied casually, ‘I’ll go down there first thing tomorrow morning, see what’s what and then report it at the police station. I’ll say I tripped over it.’

  ‘Suppose they try to pin it on you?’

  He smiled. ‘No, they won’t do that.’

  ‘Unlikely, but you never know. They’re so suspicious!’ I spoke with feeling.

  ‘Ah, but I’ve got an alibi. Moorfields.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The big eye hospital in Middlesex. I go twice a year for a check-up. Spend all day there, hours on end! In fact, I’ve only just got off the train now … And do you know what?’

  I said I didn’t.

  ‘They think they’ve seen a bit of daylight. Slight signs of improvement, they say. W
hat you lot would call a miracle, I suppose … what I call a bloody piece of luck!’

  ‘Is that why you were whistling in tune?’ I asked.

  He chuckled. ‘Better get on with that polishing, Rev!’

  Somehow I managed to weather the invasion of the bell ringers, returning from my polishing in the nick of time to let them in. But I participated little in the AGM proceedings, being too fixated by images of those rearing legs to give much attention to the niceties of chimes and changes, least of all to disputes about the tea-making rota and the venue for their annual supper. My mind was grappling with other urgencies: what to do!

  In fact, I concluded, the best thing was to do nothing. Apart from Savage, who had kindly volunteered to tell the police he had tripped over the body, there was no one to know that either I or the bishop had been anywhere near the allotments on that particular evening. The fact that neither of us had anything remotely to do with the affair – innocent bystanders, you might say – was not the point. The last thing I wanted was further parleying with March and Samson, especially on matters cadaverous. All in all, the less said – or asked – the better. And for the next two days I immersed myself in parish duties with a fervour last felt as a callow curate bludgeoned by the forces of ‘muscular Christianity’. Indeed, so zealous did I become in pursuit of defaced hymn books and recalcitrant choir boys that Edith Hopgarden was heard to enquire whether I was sickening for something.

  Meanwhile not a squeak out of Clinker, and I concluded that he was engaged in comparable activity. The fear of having to account to Gladys for the body in the shed and the tiddlywinks tryst with Mrs Carruthers was enough presumably to keep any bishop silent and busy.

  However, in between these bouts of random zeal I did have time to ponder the identity of the lady – and, indeed, who it was that had been so discomfited by her existence as to take the course they had. Apart from the legs, thick and sturdy, I knew nothing about the victim – neither age nor provenance. Undoubtedly it would all come out, but for the time being I was content to bask in discreet ignorance. Not that there was much basking going on, for in addition to parish matters I was much occupied in preparing for my trip down to Primrose: cajoling young Rothermere at Alford to take some services, rescheduling a Vestry meeting, and trying vainly to organize the Boy Scouts to look after Maurice and Bouncer. None was available, all apparently being lured by some jolly camping spree in the purlieus of Surbiton.

  Thus I tried the new people with the gigantic wolfhound. For some reason they were very taken with Bouncer, and when I first enquired if they could possibly have the cat and dog as lodgers for a couple of days they had been only too delighted, saying it would be nice for Florrie to have some playmates. Then at the last minute they were called away to attend to some ailing in-law, so there was nothing for it but to take the pair with me again. I just hoped they would be less disruptive than on the previous occasion: enough trouble was likely to be generated by the presence of Nicholas without having to cope with the added burden of Maurice’s tantrums!

  The next day, luggage and animals carefully stowed, I started for Sussex; but before getting fully under way, I stopped at the florist’s to buy flowers for Primrose. If she was still smarting from my ‘intrusions’ upon her business negotiations with Nicholas they might help soften the blast.

  I was just getting back in the car when I was accosted by the breathy tones of Mavis Briggs. ‘Oh, Canon,’ she gasped, ‘isn’t it dreadful? Whatever will happen next!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘So terrible – I mean it really stops one sleeping at night!’

  ‘What does?’ I murmured irritably, trying to prise Bouncer from the driver’s seat.

  ‘But haven’t you heard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why, it’s all in the papers – another murder, here in Molehill. In a shed!’

  I gritted my teeth. It had only been a matter of time, but trust Mavis to be in full cry!

  ‘Dear me,’ I said, ‘that’s a bit much. How unfortunate! But if you don’t mind, Mavis, I really must be on my way, I’ve got to –’

  ‘But you don’t understand!’ she cried. ‘It’s the daughter!’

  ‘What daughter?’

  ‘It’s all happening again,’ she wailed. ‘Mrs Fothering-ton’s of course!’

  Having managed to push Bouncer out of the way I was about to take his place behind the wheel, but stopped in mid-manoeuvre. ‘Mrs Fotherington’s daughter!’ I yelped. ‘You mean Violet Pond? Violet Crumpelmeyer as she is – was?’

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed Mavis avidly, realizing she had got my attention. ‘You see, it’s all here in the papers …’ and she drew a Telegraph from her string shopping bag and attempted to thrust it under my nose.

  I waved it aside, murmuring, ‘Dreadful, dreadful!’ And clambering into the seat and engaging the gear, apologized for my haste, and with lurching mind drove off swiftly.

  In fact, so ruffled was I by this revelation that I delayed taking the Sussex road, and instead returned to the vicarage where I found some codeine, made coffee and tried to take stock of things. Little came of the stock-taking, and I was just about to leave when the telephone shrilled and I mechanically lifted the receiver. It was Clinker.

  ‘Ah, Francis,’ he began (use of my first name invariably precedes a request or a confidence), ‘hoped I might find you. I’ve, er, just been reading The Times and there’s a small item about Molehill and that, uhm … well, about the allotments thing, you know.’ His voice trailed off, and I told him that I did know, and that while there might be a small report in The Times, I gathered there was a very big one in the Telegraph.

  ‘Ye-es,’ he said uneasily, ‘I thought perhaps there might be.’ There was a pause, and then he said in a tone half wheedling and half hectoring, ‘Now look here, I think we both realize that this is a matter of some delicacy and I see no reason for the diocese to become involved, no reason at all … and therefore –’

  ‘The less said the better,’ I completed.

  ‘Exactly! Very shrewd, Francis. Now I take it that your man Savage is discreet … I mean to say, I’m sure he wouldn’t want any publicity for you about – ah – borrowing his shed for example …’

  ‘No,’ I answered earnestly, ‘and neither for its purpose. And fortunately Mrs Carruthers knows nothing and so that shouldn’t be a problem.’

  There was a brief silence. And then he said rather frostily, ‘As it happens, there has already been a problem. Can’t think what tale you spun her, Oughterard, but she rang up at nine o’clock this morning enquiring after my health. Said she had heard it rumoured that I had contracted some appalling lung condition and was about to be carted off to the Surrey Hospital for exploratory tests and was unlikely to emerge for at least two weeks. Unfortunately it was Gladys who took the call … told Mrs C. that she was insane and that I had never been in ruder health. I must say, Oughterard, the next time you are asked to deliver a tactful message kindly curb your imagination!’

  As you may imagine, my journey down to Lewes was not the most placid. The animals were unusually quiet, but my thoughts considerably less so. ‘Trust the Fotheringtons to pull a macabre stunt like that!’ I blustered. ‘First the mother embarrasses me by that wretched codicil, then the daughter gets herself murdered – and by the same method. It’s indecent!’ It was also very peculiar and I didn’t like it one jot.

  I reached Primrose in a state of some turbulence, but pulling myself together and having hauled Maurice and Bouncer from the back seat, gave the bell a brisk ring. I had decided to keep quiet about the whole episode. The less my sister – or indeed anyone – knew about my part in the allotment matter, the better: it is amazing how one thing can so rapidly lead to another! In any case, I was still uneasy about having confided to her the details of the original event, and did not want to muddy the waters further by revealing my role – however innocent – in this startling development with Violet. I suppose, too, I still harboured a sort of jaundiced loyal
ty to Clinker, and felt a sneaking sympathy for anyone faced with an enraged Gladys – not to mention the bemused probings of the Church authorities! With a bit of luck Primrose may have been too busy preparing for Ingaza to have delved into the Telegraph’s inside pages, and so be ignorant of the whole affair. Thus I breezed into her drawing room in a state of expansive good cheer, regaled her gaily about the antics of Maurice and Bouncer, asked fondly after the chinchillas and babbled inconsequentially about anything unconnected with Molehill and its murderous associations.

  Primrose was mildly welcoming and expatiated at some length about her proposed negotiations with Nicholas. ‘Of course, he’s a total bounder,’ she exclaimed. ‘But art and fiscal necessity transcend that sort of thing, and one does have to think of the long term.’

  I said that perhaps she now understood why I had been forced to get involved with him in the first place.

  ‘Certainly not,’ she replied, asserting that there was nothing remotely artistic about me – and that in any case, had I been thinking of the long term I would have moderated my behaviour in Foxford Wood and thus been spared his tiresome attentions. ‘Were it not for that absurd blunder with the binoculars he need never have darkened your doorstep!’ I was too tired to dispute the matter and asked instead what she was planning to give him for supper.

  ‘Gin, I should think,’ was the reply.

  After a light lunch we settled down in the sitting room: me struggling with the crossword and Primrose devouring the local Argus. I was making little headway with the clues, and was just thinking that I might take a short nap to prepare for the rigours of Nicholas, when Primrose suddenly exclaimed, ‘I say, what an extraordinary coincidence!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s your Molehill again. There’s been another murder – the daughter of Elizabeth Fotherington!’

  My heart sank. ‘Ah, I did hear something about that but –’

  ‘Francis!’ Primrose cried. ‘You haven’t done it again, have you?’