Bone Idle

by Suzette A. Hill

  These produced little internal harmony, and quickly tiring of the exercise I decided to take Bouncer for a walk instead. It was not the dog’s normal hour, and he clearly resented the interruption to his accustomed routine. And thus we commenced our outing in mutual gloom. Typically the dog swiftly regained his snuffling good cheer. I did not. And thus when I saw Tapsell coming in our direction my spirits sank to further depths.

  The organist seemed to share my annoyance and he gave one of his customary glares. I wondered whether in retaliation I should mention Edith Hopgarden. Ever since I had unwittingly surprised them in medias res, mention of the one to the other invariably produces red-faced discomfort, a condition which generally works to my advantage.

  However, I was in no mood for mischief and prepared to let him pass with a bland smile. I was just composing my features for such when he stopped, and in querulous voice said, ‘It’s not right, you know – all these murders going on. What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Do about it?’ I said in surprise. ‘What do you mean? How can I do anything about it?’

  ‘Well … it’s your parish, isn’t it? You’re the vicar – canon in fact. I mean, you ought to organize something – vigilantes or a protest group.’

  ‘Vigilantes? A protest group?’ I exclaimed. ‘To whom would one protest, for goodness sake?’

  ‘Huh! The police for a start. In my opinion they’ve been very slow about the whole thing. Need to smarten themselves up. It shouldn’t be allowed – innocent citizens being terrorized in their beds while this vampire’s abroad. Not right at all.’

  ‘Vampire? That’s a bit colourful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied indignantly. ‘He’s done two, hasn’t he? There’s bound to be a third one, there always is. You mark my words!’ He waved a truculent finger. ‘Anyway, like I said, it’s your parish and you ought to set an example. If it was me I’d take the police by the ears and tell them what’s what.’

  ‘I doubt whether that would achieve much,’ I observed drily.

  He continued to glare, and I was just beginning to wonder whether the time had come to introduce both Edith Hopgarden and Mrs Tapsell into the conversation, when he moved closer and in a more conciliatory tone said, ‘I think you ought to hold a rally – or better still, an all-night vigil in the church: prayers, psalms, candles and such – and with me playing the organ. I’ve got a new composition I want to try out and it would be just the thing for a time like this. Why, we could even get the press to come!’

  So that was it, was it? Tapsell angling for limelight and glory in the wake of Violet’s demise. Typical! He had never really got over being centre stage at the Elizabeth Fotherington Memorial Ceremony, and now presumably was seeking similar laurels from the daughter’s misfortune. Yes, in my next breath I jolly well would mention the wife … wife and girlfriend! But again I was forestalled.

  ‘In fact come to think of it,’ he went on, ‘it would probably appeal to the grieving widower – sort of calm him down.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Him – Crumplesheet or whatever his name is; daresay he’d be quite appreciative.’ He lowered his voice and added, ‘They say he’s stricken … I could have a word with him if you like.’

  ‘No,’ I said swiftly. ‘That will not be necessary. Mr Crumpelmeyer is not of this parish and I am sure his own vicar and church are perfectly equipped to deal with his grief. We don’t want to appear officious, Tapsell, do we!’

  ‘Oh well,’ he sniffed, ‘if that’s your attitude … Just trying to be helpful, that’s all.’ And throwing a look of distaste in Bouncer’s direction, he marched off.

  Mention of Victor Crumpelmeyer pushed me into further gloom – or rather gloom compounded by agitation. So shocked had I been by the naked fact of Violet’s murder, that the victim’s spouse had been temporarily erased from my mind. The visit to Lewes and the matter of the Nicholas/Primrose collusion had also had an amnesiac effect. However, Tapsell had jolted disturbing memories and I found myself once more dwelling on the man and his brazen intrusion into my affairs. Had he really been after the deeds to that French property as Primrose was so convinced? And if so, would he launch another ‘investigative foray’ upon the vicarage? Given the outcome of his previous endeavour it seemed highly unlikely – particularly in view of the current circumstances. With spouse lately strangled, presumably even one as grasping as Crumpelmeyer would be occupied with more pressing concerns.

  We had reached the canal bridge and I let Bouncer off the lead to nose about in the bushes while I stared down into the water, brooding. And then I brightened: with Violet gone and the husband ‘stricken’ perhaps I should be permitted to merge into the background again. I whistled to the dog, who responded with uncharacteristic speed, and we set off briskly back to the vicarage.

  The following day I went into the High Street to do some shopping and was promptly accosted by Miss Dalrymple. ‘I say,’ she began, ‘this is a pretty kettle of fish, isn’t it, Canon? Two murders, and in the same family!’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied vaguely, ‘appalling.’

  ‘And of course he is frightfully cut up. It’s all over the papers,’ she added with zest.

  ‘Which papers?’

  ‘Well – the Clarion principally.’

  ‘Hmm, the Clarion rather enjoys these things. Doesn’t do to pay too much attention.’

  ‘Ah, but in this case, Canon, there is considerable truth in it all. There’s a full-page spread with photographs and interviews … and apparently there’s some reporter piecing it all together.’

  ‘What do you mean, piecing it together?’ I said sharply.

  ‘Showing the connections between the first murder and the second. After all, mother and daughter – obviously it’s by the same hand! But they’ll get the savage all right, you mark my words. Oh yes!’ And clutching brolly and library books, she strode confidently on her way.

  I sloped into the newsagent, bought a copy of the Molehill Clarion, and finding an empty table at Miss Muffet’s Teashop covertly turned to its centre page. The first thing that loomed up was not one, but three photographs of Crumpelmeyer. (Presumably the editor was short of copy that week.) ‘STUNNED WIDOWER GRIEVES’, the headline ran. He didn’t look at all stunned, merely gormless as usual; but the article underneath milked his bereavement for all it was worth, emphasizing the newness of the marriage and the spirited gaiety of the relationship. The first was a fact, the second an assertion I found hard to credit. In my experience there had been nothing remotely gay about Violet … and as for her consort, it would have been difficult to find a more unspeakable pain in the arse. However, she was dead and he evidently bereft. So who was I to raise a sceptical eyebrow? There were more insistent things to ponder: the wretched reporter for example and his zeal for ‘piecing things together’. I ordered a cream bun and stared morosely at the porcine features of the grieving widower.

  31

  The Cat’s Memoir

  ‘What’s deeds?’ Bouncer suddenly asked. I was monitoring the movements of a spider at the time and in no mood to be drawn into the dog’s interrogations.

  ‘Another term for actions,’ I replied shortly, keeping a lynx eye on my prey.

  There was a silence. And then just as I was preparing to pounce, the dog burped loudly and said, ‘Oh no, Maurice, I don’t think so. More to do with words probably.’

  Too late. I missed the crucial moment and the spider scurried off among the lobelias. I glared at Bouncer. ‘Thanks to your din that creature has just escaped my paw. Kindly go elsewhere!’ He didn’t of course, and instead sat down and began to scratch. I scanned the grass clippings for another diversion, and not spying any, asked him what he thought he was talking about.

  He stopped scratching, and cocking his ears replied thoughtfully, ‘Well, when we were down in Sussex with F.O. staying with that sister and the Brighton type, they allkept using this word “deeds” and talking about them being lost … You won’t remember, M
aurice – out for the count on the Brighton type’s lap.’ (I most certainly was, prostrated by the noise and the people!) ‘Anyway, for some reason it seemed to upset the vicar and he got quite shirty. Kept telling them that he hadn’t seen them and didn’t have them. The Brighton type sounded excited and said that was a pity as these deed things could come in useful and perhaps still might be found … So you see, Maurice, it can’t mean actions. You’re wrong there.’

  I am not accustomed to being called wrong and was nettled. Nevertheless the dog had a point, so I pondered the matter while trying to look indifferent … Yes, I recalled, there was another meaning: something told to me in kittenhood by my great-uncle Marmaduke (the gallant hero of the hen-run plunder mentioned in an earlier memoir). I think he had said something to the effect that they were documents showing entitlement to property.

  I explained this to Bouncer who nodded eagerly. ‘That’s more like it,’ he said, ‘papers with words on, that’s it!’ He got up, shook himself vigorously and informed me that he was going down to the crypt. It was not his usual hour for visiting and I asked why the hurry.

  ‘Got to think,’ he replied mysteriously. And picking up his rubber ring, he dog-trotted off towards the church. I was puzzled, but glad of the peace resumed my surveillance of the lobelias.

  An hour later he reappeared. ‘I have been THINKING,’ he announced.

  ‘Yes, you did mention it,’ I murmured.

  ‘These deeds I was telling you about – the sister and the Brighton type seemed to think the old girl was meaning to give them to F.O., but didn’t. I think I know where they are.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I laughed indulgently, ‘you couldn’t possibly know.’

  ‘Yes I do!’ he retorted. There was a defiant look in his eye.

  ‘All right then, where?’

  ‘In O’Shaughnessy’s kennel.’

  ‘O’Shaughnessy’s kennel!’ I exclaimed. ‘What are you talking about? You’re imagining things.’ And I gave an impatient flick of my tail.

  He peered out from the shaggy fringe. ‘It’s a bit complicated, Maurice. Might take a little time …’

  I sighed. ‘Well, if it’s going to be one of your interminable sagas we had better discuss the matter over supper. Unless F.O. has been remiss with the shopping there should be pilchards tonight. Perhaps they will aid concentration!’

  He grinned. ‘Right-ho, Maurice!’ And thus later that evening we continued the conversation under the kitchen table.

  I was both surprised and irritated to hear what he had to say: surprised because I had had no inkling of the events he described; irritated because yet again the dog had concealed matters of which I should have been informed. It was too bad!

  ‘You remember when I told you about me finding the old trout’s corpse in Foxford Wood?’ he began.

  ‘How could I forget?’ I exclaimed. ‘The noise was excruciating. I thought your lungs would explode and my ears be split!’

  ‘No, not then,’ he snorted impatiently, ‘later, when I got down to the details.’

  ‘About you scoffing the gobstoppers and burying F.O.’s cigarette lighter?’

  ‘That’s it. Only there was something else, you see.’

  ‘What else?’ I asked indignantly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘It didn’t seem all that important then. Besides, there was so much to think about I couldn’t remember everything …’ He knit his brows.

  ‘Yes, all right.’

  ‘Well, when she was lying there and I was sort of sniffing around seeing what was what, and after I’d eaten the humbugs, I noticed there was a bulge in the pocket of her dress. And you know, Maurice, it crossed my mind that she might have some biscuits there and –’

  ‘Really, Bouncer! Even in the midst of death you can think of nothing but your stomach!’ I closed my eyes in pained displeasure.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ he replied, ‘but what I found was pretty interesting. Not then of course, but it is now. You see I reckon what I had found was the DEEDS!’ He let out a bellow of triumph causing me to close my eyes again.

  When I opened them I asked him to kindly justify his assumption, and he said that what he had dragged out of her pocket had been a wedge of typewritten papers tied up in blue ribbon covered in silver stars. ‘Sort of like a present,’ he explained.

  My quick brain immediately grasped the implications. ‘So you think these were the deeds which Primrose thought Mrs F. meant to give him.’

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Bouncer. ‘And she would have if he hadn’t done for her first! That’s why she pursued him into the wood – to hand them over!’ He stood panting, gazing at me expectantly.

  ‘Hmm,’ I mused, ‘you could well be right.’ His tail threshed the air. ‘But,’ I continued sternly, ‘having retrieved the packet, what did you do with it?’

  ‘Buried it.’

  ‘Whatever for? After all, unlike the lighter, as far as you knew it was of no significance.’

  He explained that he had been in training for a bone-burying contest with some of the neighbourhood dogs – apparently a vital challenge requiring much expertise. And feeling he was a trifle out of practice but determined to win, he had been taking every opportunity to hone his technique by using anything which came to paw. ‘Seemed a pity to pass up the chance,’ he said.

  ‘Quite,’ I agreed drily. ‘But tell me, Bouncer, what are the documents now doing in the setter’s kennel? Why aren’t they still in the ground?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, looking shifty, ‘that happened when you got us together to go and dig up the lighter before the sniffer dogs found it. You remember, when –’

  ‘Of course I remember,’ I replied impatiently, ‘it was that masterly plan of mine to organize the vicar’s defences. I accompanied you both to the wood to supervise the excavation, but I certainly do not recall anything about a sheaf of papers being recovered.’

  ‘No,’ he answered slowly, ‘thought you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘What do you mean? Noticed what?’

  He cleared his throat and shifted from paw to paw. ‘It was like this: I happened to mention to O’Shaughnessy that I had buried some stuff close to the lighter, and he said wouldn’t it be a good wheeze if we could dig it up again without you noticing and carry it home along with the lighter. You know, a sort of test of speed and … oh, that word you are always using – dexter something or other. Anyway, he bet me it couldn’t be done without you seeing. “Betcha!” I said. So when you were busy chasing a pheasant that O’Shaughnessy had put up right across your path, I grubbed up the papers, and he clamped them in his jaws and bounded on ahead – while I trotted along with the lighter just like you told me to. When we got back to the vicarage and met O’Shaughnessy again he had already dashed home and shoved the papers in his kennel … Quite a neat little op really.’ The dog cleared his throat again and gazed vacantly into the far distance, while I contemplated the monstrous duplicity of the canine race.

  As you may imagine, this disgraceful tale put me into a sulk for the entire evening, and it was only by the afternoon of the following day that I could bring myself to even glance in his direction.

  32

  The Dog’s Diary

  Maurice is in a right old bate! Hasn’t spoken all day and looks at me as if I’m something the cat’s brought in. Still, I don’t mind really – it’s been quite peaceful and given me time to collect my thoughts and talk to that nice giant Florence. (She’s been most helpful and given me a few ideas to chew over.) Still, he’ll come round soon enough because he gets bored if there isn’t somebody to trouble or complain about. It’s probably to do with that furtive brain that he’s always on about – at least I think that’s what he calls it – but it could be another word beginning with f. He uses so many I get confused!

  So what’s bugging him? I’ll tell you. It’s all the result of our time down in Sussex when he went to sleep on the Brighton type’s lap and I stayed awake and listened to them all yapping and burbling
. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, or at least the Prim and Gaza persons were, but F.O. looked a bit uneasy. But then he often looks like that – something to do with having done the old girl in, I suppose. He was swigging back the brandy all right and smiling now and again, but I could tell his heart wasn’t really in it. Too much on his plate, if you ask me, and not just the Foxford Wood murder either! My special sixth sense (which Clever Claws is always so rude about) tells me that there are some pretty odd things going on – pretty odd. But there you are, if you live with a cat and a vicar what else can you expect!

  Anyway, the three of them kept using this word ‘deeds’ – flying all over the place it was – and the more I listened the more I knew it was VERY IMPORTANT. But the problem was I hadn’t a clue what it meant. There are some words you can work out, but this one had me really foxed. So after some hard thinking I gave up and thought about other things: my grub, my new ball, having my toenails cut at the vet’s, that nice new patch of smell by the garden gate, the organist’s dustbin (you can get some good pickings there all right!), rats and cats – oh and heaps of other stuff! So you see, the deeds thing rather went out of my head, and it was only when we got back home that I began to think about it again. That’s when I asked Maurice, and that’s when he started to get shirty.

  He told me that deeds are like the letters humans write: pieces of paper covered in words, except that these tell you that you are the owner of a building or some such – a bit like O’Shaughnessy owning his kennel perhaps. So I went off down to the crypt, thought some more and had a snooze. When I woke up it was nearly ALL CLEAR! These deeds that F.O. has lost, or doesn’t have, show that he owns some place which is different from the vicarage. The sister in Sussex kept saying that the old girl, Mrs F., had been going to give them to him, but for some reason never did, and she wondered why. So in the crypt I began to wonder why too. And then, of course, the bone dropped with a great crash: they were probably those papers that I had pulled out of the corpse’s pocket and then buried! What do you think of that?