Bone Idle

by Suzette A. Hill

‘Certainly not,’ I snapped. ‘Whatever gives you that idea?’

  ‘Apparently she was strangled with a scarf. Isn’t that what happened to her mother?’

  ‘Masses of people are strangled with scarves,’ I replied irritably, ‘but not all by the same person!’ (The usual false reporting: this time rope had been the preferred material, not chiffon, but I could hardly tell Primrose.)

  She buried her head in the paper again, and then I heard a gasp. ‘Good Lord!’ she muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It says here she was found in a shed near Foxford Wood, on the allotments behind your graveyard … Are you sure you weren’t involved?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure! What do you take me for? I haven’t got over the first one yet! … Besides, I would hardly be stupid enough to use the same area again, would I?’

  ‘Well,’ she said doubtfully, ‘if you weren’t thinking, you might … and you must admit, you don’t always think!’

  ‘Think?’ I cried. ‘I do nothing but think, and so would you if you were in my shoes! What you are saying is preposterous – I thought you were supposed to be on my side.’

  ‘I am,’ she protested. ‘It’s just that one must make sure one’s got the whole picture without any blurring of the edges.’

  I groaned. ‘No, Primrose, there are no “blurred edges”. I have committed only one damn murder and that is my lot – and my doom. And now, if you don’t mind, I am going to bed!’

  As I mounted the stairs, narrowly missing the basking cat, she called out, ‘You’ll find some aspirin on the bathroom shelf …’

  By seven o’clock, washed and shaved and soothed with aspirin, I felt more myself again. Indeed, in a masochistic way I was almost ready to welcome Nicholas when he arrived.

  I went down to the sitting room where Primrose had made up a good fire and set out a tray of drinks. I poured a whisky, lit a cigarette and stared at the dog, wondering how on earth the two would get on and what, if anything, could possibly come from their ‘business negotiations’. The dog seemed disinclined to shed light on the matter, but I did not have long to wait for there was suddenly an anguished rasping of tyres on gravel, and from the window I saw the familiar and slightly sinister hulk of the black Citroën sprawled in the driveway.

  Primrose had obviously heard the din as well, for she came rushing out of the kitchen tearing off a pinafore and crying, ‘Oh my God, is he here already!’

  My sister is not normally flustered – but then neither is she normally dressed quite so vividly: scarlet sweater dress, scarlet lipstick, high heels with black stocking-seams, and a pair of mother’s jet and diamante ear-rings from the twenties. Primrose is tall and the overall effect was distinctly intimidating.

  ‘Do I look all right?’ she whispered.

  ‘Er – yes,’ I replied, ‘very, uhm, capable.’

  ‘Capable of cutting a good deal?’

  ‘I should say!’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ And she clattered off into the hall.

  The dog started to growl and I gripped his collar. ‘Nothing to worry about, Bouncer,’ I lied. ‘It’s only your nice friend Nicholas. He’s come to visit us.’ To my surprise, he stopped growling and began to wag his tail. No accounting for tastes, I suppose.

  Nicholas appeared in the doorway looking almost distinguished, his frayed elegance only partly dissipated by the brazen tie-pin and over-large silk handkerchief tumbling from his breast pocket. The brilliantined hair was shorter than when I had last seen him, and the sheen on his shoes put my own to shame. He was nursing two enormous bunches of yellow gladioli which he presented to Primrose with a theatrical flourish. He too, it seemed, was intent on cutting a good deal.

  ‘Enchanté,’ he murmured, flashing her a smile of oiled intimacy. ‘I have been longing to meet you. Your paintings are a delight, such rare intelligence and … but my goodness,’ he gasped, ‘I’ve just noticed! Those ear-rings are exquisite. Clearly the originals, and they frame your face so beautifully. How clever of you to find them!’

  I listened to the patter with cynical amusement. If Ingaza imagined he was going to impress his hostess with that sort of blague he was barking up the wrong tree. My sister was the last person to be so disarmed. And I awaited her reaction with a degree of unease, fearing a tart response. None came. Instead Primrose flushed, cleared her throat, simpered into the gladioli and muttered something to the effect that they were just some old family heirlooms which she happened to have to hand. Then instructing me to offer our visitor a drink, she gathered the flowers and retreated awkwardly into the kitchen mumbling about vases and water.

  Left to ourselves I poured him a Scotch which he grabbed with alacrity.

  ‘Christ, what a day, what a journey – all the sods in Sussex on the road!’

  ‘But you’ve only come from Brighton,’ I protested, ‘it can’t have been that bad.’

  ‘Ah, but I had to go to Eastbourne first to visit Lil. Howling gale! And I tried to get her into the cinema but she wasn’t having that – oh no, had to be the perishing bandstand as usual. Freezing cold, no hot-dogs, and now I’ve got earache.’ He took a gulp of the whisky and grimaced. ‘Bit heavy-handed with the soda, aren’t you, dear boy, or are you on one of your puritan kicks?’

  I made good the defect and enquired after the health of his Aunt Lil.

  ‘Never been better,’ he replied sourly. ‘Playing merry hell with everyone, including yours truly of course. Old baggage still blames me for that disastrous Spendler business. Had the nerve to tell me I was losing my touch and should have stayed in the Church. I ask you!’

  I could see the funny side, but to divert him from the tribulations of Aunt Lil said consolingly (albeit a trifle acidly) that doubtless his negotiations with Primrose would compensate.

  ‘Ye-es, I think they might. They just might.’ He smirked slyly and sleeked his hair. ‘Yes, I think your Primrose and I could come to a very useful, not to say lucrative, arrangement. She’s a bit sharper than you, Francis, a little more on the commercial ball if you don’t mind my saying.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I replied drily, ‘but kindly count me out, would you? I have no intention of being involved in this dubious transaction.’

  ‘Absolutely, old boy, absolutely! After all, you’ve got your own little upset to deal with, haven’t you? Wouldn’t dream of burdening you further.’ He beamed ingratiatingly.

  I scowled. Like hell he wouldn’t dream! Ingaza would dream of anything if it suited him and money was at stake.

  At that point Primrose emerged from the kitchen once more her poised self. She poured a dry sherry, accepted one of her guest’s Sobranies and embarked on a witty and scathing account of a local art exhibition she had recently attended. Nicholas appeared to hang on her every word, nodding in the pauses and chuckling conspiratorially at the more caustic of her pronouncements. Thus the gallery was played to and duly showed its appreciation. It was a collusive little display in which I formed no part, and instead spent my time brooding on ‘La Folie de Fotherington’ and Violet Crumpelmeyer’s legs in the tool shed.

  Supper went remarkably well: Nicholas continuing his role as charming and complimentary guest, and Primrose (presumably buoyed up with the prospects of a lucrative partnership) doing her best – which wasn’t at all bad – to sound artistically cosmopolitan and financially practised. My own contribution was descriptions of the grosser gaffes of Mavis Briggs and the romantic shenanigans of Tapsell and Enid Hopgarden. They listened to these with courteous good humour, but it was obvious that each was impatient to get down to business and ‘clinch the deal’. Thus, supper over and having done some of the washing up, I made the excuse of walking the dog and left them to it.

  It was a pleasant night, soft and starlit; and although Bouncer was clearly intent on visiting the chinchillas, I eventually diverted him out of the garden and into the adjacent fields. Here we wandered about peacefully: me enjoying the silence and the stars, and he in his element sniffing and peeing
at every turn. I suppose it was the novelty of the new landscape which produced such sustained activity.

  I lit a cigarette and brooded yet again on the extraordinary fate that had overcome Mrs Fotherington’s daughter. The coincidence was unnerving to say the least, but it was also intriguing. Who on earth had done it? And indeed, whatever was his or her motive (other than irritation) for taking Violet’s life? For a split second I had a pang of sympathy for the newly-weds – the bride’s demise so soon after tying the knot being surely singular bad luck! However, such altruism was immediately eclipsed by thoughts of their joint awfulness and the husband’s disgraceful behaviour at my desk. I would have pondered the matter further, but by now Bouncer seemed to have exhausted his urinary excitement and was indicating his preference for home comforts.

  Thus we made our way back to the house and re-entered by the side door. To get there one had to pass in front of the drawing-room window. The curtains were still open and I had a brief glimpse of Primrose and Nicholas taking their ease in the large fireside armchairs, each nursing a glass of cognac and looking remarkably relaxed. So much so, I noted, that Nicholas actually had Maurice on his lap and was stroking his ears – a situation which normally I would have expected neither to permit! Presumably the Canadian negotiations had gone well.

  My surmise was correct. As I entered the room I was greeted with unusual warmth from both parties and invited to share in the brandy.

  ‘You’ve been ages,’ exclaimed my sister. ‘Jolly lucky that’s there any left!’

  ‘Bung-ho!’ said Ingaza vaguely, waving his glass in my direction.

  ‘Bung-ho,’ I answered soberly.

  There was a pause, and then Primrose said, ‘Francis, dear, your friend and I have come to a most amicable arrangement regarding my paintings and I think I can say that we look forward to a most profitable partnership!’

  ‘Oh yes,’ giggled her collaborator, ‘most profitable – what you might call artistically so.’ And he downed more brandy.

  ‘Delighted,’ I said shortly, taking a small sip.

  There was another pause, and then Primrose burst out, ‘Oh come along, Francis, don’t be so moody. The Canadians are going to love my sheep, and if they are fool enough to think they’re from the eighteenth century then that’s their lookout. As we say in the art world, caveat emptor! I mean to say, when all’s said and done, it’s the quality that counts, and the quality is very good.’ She looked at Ingaza for confirmation. ‘Isn’t that so, Nicholas?’

  ‘Rather!’ he replied, taking another gulp. ‘Simply superlative!’ And turning to me he exclaimed, ‘So kind of you to introduce us, dear boy.’

  I began to say that I had made no such introductions, but looking at the pair of them triumphant in their mutual resolution, realized I was out-gunned. ‘Oh well,’ I grunted, ‘I suppose it’ll be all right – but just keep me out of it, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Nicholas cried. ‘No worries on that score. As I said before, you’re far too heavily engaged in other areas to take on artistic matters as well.’ And then lowering his left eyelid into a heavy wink, he added, ‘Besides, considering the mess you made of things last time, your involvement would be a distinct liability.’ This was followed by a hoot of laughter and he offered me a Sobranie. I have a particular liking for Sobranies and also fancied some more brandy; and so despite my misgivings regarding their scheme (let alone the brazen innuendos about my ‘other areas’), I accepted his offer and settled back on the sofa resigned to the merriment.

  The merriment proceeded for some time; until Primrose suddenly said out of the blue, ‘Well now, what about this latest murder, Francis? You can’t expect to keep it all to yourself, you know. After all, given the circumstances, you must admit the whole thing’s pretty rum!’ She looked at me intently and I knew it was something I could no longer side-step.

  ‘Well,’ I began uneasily, ‘to be frank I don’t know much about it, no more than you’ve already seen in the Argus really. I gather that Mr Savage tripped over the body in the morning when he went to prick out some cabbages … you know, despite his dodgy eyesight he’s awfully deft like that and produces some marvellous –’

  ‘Oh, blow the cabbages,’ she exclaimed impatiently, ‘what did he do next?’

  ‘Uhm … well, I don’t think anything very much. He was a bit taken aback, and had to think about it, I suppose.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ observed Nicholas caustically. ‘Sat on a flower pot and cogitated, no doubt!’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Once he had got over the shock he marched straight down to the police station and reported it to the duty officer. And beyond that I simply have no idea. It’s all very baffling.’ (Which, of course, was entirely true.)

  ‘But you must admit,’ said Primrose, ‘it does look odd … considering your earlier imbroglio with the mother. Are you sure, Francis that you didn’t –’

  ‘Of course I’m sure!’ I expostulated. ‘I’ve already told you, I know nothing about it!’

  ‘But where were you when it occurred?’ asked Nicholas softly. ‘I mean, can you produce an alibi or anything?’

  ‘I do not need an alibi,’ I replied stiffly. ‘But if my whereabouts fascinate you so much, as it happens I was out all day; and then in the evening with the bell ringers … more or less.’

  He grinned, and repeated slowly, ‘More or less with the bell ringers. Police will like that all right!’

  I glared at him. And then Primrose interjected, ‘But Francis, why didn’t you tell me about this when you first arrived? After all, Molehill can’t have many excitements – I should have thought it would have been at the forefront of your mind.’

  ‘No,’ I snapped, ‘it was not at the forefront of my mind. I have other things to consider, i.e. that deranged Crumpelmeyer and his dastardly intrusion into my study. God knows what he thought he was doing!’

  ‘We’ve discussed this on the phone,’ she replied. ‘He was obviously digging to see if he could find the deeds or any mention of that Fotherington Folly thing which Elizabeth wanted you to have. Do you have them?’

  ‘I know nothing about the Fotherington fucking Folly!’ I heard myself yelling. There was silence as they looked at me quizzically.

  ‘Steady on, old boy – you’re getting over-alliterative,’ observed Nicholas.

  ‘And kindly don’t shout,’ added Primrose.

  30

  The Vicar’s Version

  The next morning the guest departed, clearly well satisfied with the way things had gone and urging Primrose to commence her ‘creative endeavours’ as soon as possible. She needed no encouragement. The combination of outrageous flattery, artistic challenge and the expectation of handsome profit was quite enough to send her scurrying to the studio. Here she closeted herself for most of the day, while I was directed to mow and dig the garden, hack down the convolvulus and build a bonfire. I was also required to feed the chinchillas. Since my previous dealings with those creatures had been mildly catastrophic, I was surprised at this last diktat but assumed that Primrose’s zest for the Canadian project had blurred either memory or resentment.

  I applied myself to all tasks with uncharacteristic energy. Somehow, grubbing about in the garden, and even engaging with Boris and Karloff, provided a welcome diversion from the strain of recent events; and with Nicholas safely returned to Brighton and the artist absorbed in her spurious pastorals, I spent a few congenial hours communing with nature and the rabbits. I also constructed a very serviceable bonfire.

  Eventually, proud of my achievements and the unaccustomed exercise, I returned to the house where, with Primrose still occupied in the studio, I made a cup of tea, pushed Bouncer off the sofa and settled down for a well-earned nap.

  I awoke to the striking of the hall clock and the sound of my sister’s feet thudding down the stairs. She entered the room in paint-daubed smock, hair dishevelled, and grinning broadly. Her labours too, it seemed, had been productive – though I was s
till uneasy as to their outcome. But it was fruitless to issue further warning about Ingaza, let alone the thin ice of forgery. Older than me and with a stubborn will of her own, my sister would take scant notice of the moral qualms of her clergyman brother … nor presumably of one who had been instrumental in relieving the late Mrs Fotherington of her life.

  She was still intrigued about the second murder but mercifully seemed to have got over the idea that I might be in any way responsible. And thus we spent a convivial evening playing gin rummy and inventing an elaborate crime scenario in which Mavis Briggs and the bishop’s wife were the chief suspects. Rather to my relief nothing more was said about the Canadian project, but before I left in the morning I dutifully and vaguely wished her good luck with ‘things’. She smiled confidently and replied that with her talent and Ingaza’s knowledge of the market, ‘things’ could hardly fail. I was unconvinced of that but refrained from saying so; and gathering cat and dog, and waving a fond farewell, set off for Molehill – and fresh developments.

  These were slow at first but once started came thick and fast, and I was hard pressed to keep my head above water – or indeed neck from noose.

  The first problem was inevitably the press – the Molehill Clarion. This organ of mischief and public righteousness was happily wetting itself in ecstasies of conjecture. ‘Obviously,’ it assured its readers, there was a clear link between the death of Elizabeth Fotherington and the slaying of her daughter: the coincidence was too great for the crimes not to have been perpetrated by the same hand. A bestial serial killer was on the loose and all doors should be securely bolted at night. Indeed, it counselled, padlocks should be purchased for bicycle sheds and pigeon lofts … who knew where the assassin might not lurk!

  Originally the press had seized upon poor dead Robert Willy, ‘the flasher in the undergrowth’, as being Elizabeth’s killer; but now with this latest incident his place was supplanted by an unknown (and thus more exciting) predator. Good for the Clarion and its readers, less good for the vicar and his peace of mind. With Willy discounted, the way was once more open for all manner of rumour and speculation. This was bad enough in itself, but I also had to contend with the thought that in the fearful event of my being arrested it was highly likely I should be saddled with a double murder! I brooded upon the injustice of chance, and then sloped off to practise some scales.