Bone Idle

by Suzette A. Hill

  So that’s what I told Maurice; which in a way was a mistake because then I had to explain how O’Shaughnessy and me had dug the papers up again right under his nose and hid them in the setter’s kennel. It had been a joke really, to see if we could get away with it without him noticing. Well, we did get away with it, and O’ Shaughnessy said it was the best bit of craic he had had for weeks! But of course the cat doesn’t see the funny side at all, not at all – which is why he is now crouched under the apple tree looking like the Wrath of God.

  Still, as said, he’ll soon come round, and in the meantime I’ll tell you about Florence of Fermanagh. She’s a really nice lady and full of useful advice.

  You see, while all this cat-sulking has been going on, I thought I’d just nip out and have a little potter around the block. So I was doing that – sniffing here and there and having a good pee against the verger’s gatepost – when I suddenly remembered that I was in the road where Florence lives, and thought I would just trot past her drive and see if by chance she was in the garden … And there she was – on her back in the middle of the gravel having a good old roll! (Cor, you’ve never seen such long legs, stretched up to the sky they did!) So I gave a couple of sharp barks just to draw her attention, and she came lolloping over.

  We had a good old gas, and she said she liked living here in Molehill because although there wasn’t as much space to bound about in as in that Fermanagh place, she found the neighbourhood dogs really friendly, and the humans not bad either.

  ‘Huh,’ I said, ‘some are! There are certain types you’d do best to avoid if you can. At least – it’s not that they’re bad exactly, just mor … mor … uhm, it’s one of Maurice’s favourite words. Can’t quite remember –’

  ‘Moronic,’ she said, wagging her tail.

  ‘That’s it,’ I barked, ‘MOR-ONIC! There’s quite a lot of those about, I can tell you!’

  She nodded her big head and sat back folding her paws. (Just as I said, those forelegs aren’t half long!) ‘Yes, I know what you mean, we have a good number of them in Ireland too. Over there things are more spread out so they get sort of lost among the mountains and fields and bogs; but here in Molehill where the population is more concentrated –’

  ‘What?’ I said, a bit puzzled.

  ‘… where there are more people in a smaller space, you tend to notice them more.’

  ‘You can say that again!’ I agreed eagerly. ‘The place is crawling with them, especially in church on Sunday.’ And I told her about how I quite often go with F.O. and sit in the pulpit while he’s spouting his sermons, and watch the people below. ‘A pretty rum lot, if you ask me!’

  She did ask me. ‘So who’s the rummest?’ she said.

  I had to think about that because there are so many different sorts of rum. ‘Well,’ I told her, ‘for a start there’s that schoolmistress Miss Peachy, the one that keeps white mice in her saddle bag and a bottle of gin in her satchel. I would steer clear of that one if I were you: she doesn’t like dogs and has a sort of fit every time you get near. I said hello to her once and there was an awful hullabaloo! And then of course there’s the Mayor’s nephew – a real nut cutlet and no mistake! And Mavis Briggs who’s everywhere and has a weedy voice which she uses a lot, and keeps creeping up on people and reading things to them from a notebook. I’ve noticed that whenever she appears in the High Street the shoppers start to walk very fast. In fact, one time when I was with F.O. he began to tug so hard on my lead that I nearly choked. And as for –’

  ‘So what about the vicar? Is he rum?’

  ‘Crikey, yes – he’s really off his chump! But he’s very nice to live with – if you can stand the ups and downs and don’t weaken.’ She looked puzzled, and I very nearly told her all about the Foxford Wood business, but stopped myself just in time. Maurice told me once that I must never, ever mention it. Just now and again he’s right, I suppose. Anyway, he was very fierce about it, so I try to keep my trap shut. We’ve got a very cushy number at the vicarage and it would be a pity to spoil it.

  Florence unfolded her paws and stood up. And bending her head, she put her nose close to mine and said quietly, ‘But there’s someone dafter than him, isn’t there?’

  I was a bit startled by that, and sniffed the gravel while I thought about it.

  ‘Er – I’m not sure …’ I began.

  ‘It’s that fat, white-faced one with the staring eyes,’ she explained, ‘who lives somewhere else but comes to Molehill quite often. My sixth sense tells me he needs watching.’

  ‘Your sixth sense!’ I barked excitedly. ‘You’ve got one too?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘all the best dogs have that.’

  That really made my day! In fact I was so pleased that I nearly forgot to tell her about my set-to with Crumplehorn in F.O.’s study – which I then did at some length.

  When I had finished I thought she looked a bit sleepy, but I expect she had spent a busy morning: all that rolling around, it can tire a dog out, you know. Anyway, she said I was clearly a very brave guard hound and that the vicar was lucky to have me (which I keep telling Maurice, but he just stares blankly). And what’s more, she said that if we ever needed any help she would be only too happy to muck in as she knew a trick or two that might come in useful. I thought that was jolly sporting!

  It was nice talking to her and I am sure the cat will approve, when he snaps out of his sulk. I think I’ll just go and sniff around and see what’s what – it’s about time he surfaced.

  He did surface and was quite matey, even asked if I had had a pleasant day. I told him it had been jolly good and that I had spent some of it talking to the wolfhound. He said he was delighted to hear that as it could only do me some good. Didn’t quite know what he meant by that, but it obviously meant something – it always does!

  He then said that he had been thinking about those deed things in O’Shaughnessy’s kennel, and that on reflection (one of his favourite words) he felt they would be far safer in his custard. (Matter of fact, the cat’s not too keen on custard, so why he wanted to put the deeds in it I don’t know. Still, Maurice is full of funny ideas and sometimes it’s simpler not to ask.)

  ‘Oh yes?’ I said.

  ‘Most definitely,’ he replied, and the sooner I nipped along and brought them back to him, the better.

  I explained it wasn’t as easy as that because O’Shaugh-nessy doesn’t like having his toys nicked and was bound to cut up rough. He gave his typical cat smile and said if anyone could do it, I could. Well, of course he was right there. No fleas on Bouncer! Besides, just because he beat me in our last peeing contest O’Shaughnessy has been getting a mite big-headed lately and needs taking down a few pegs. If he’s not careful his collar will burst.

  So that’s what I did – waited till I knew the setter was being exercised in the park, and then sneaked along, dived into his kennel and found the packet stuffed under his bedding at the back, and brought it smartly home to Maurice.

  We sat staring at it for a while and the cat seemed very keen to tweak the ribbon with his claws, but I pointed out that the wrapping was already pretty grubby from being carried by O’Shaughnessy and perhaps we had better leave things as they were. For once the cat agreed, and then we took it in turns to carry it back to the house. By that time the package was not just grubby but slobbery too, but with F.O. being out we could dry it by the boiler.

  When I asked Maurice if he was going to put it in the custard, he said I must be barking mad, and in any case wouldn’t I like to know! Considering it was me who had fetched the stupid thing I thought that was a bit rotten. Still, there are better things to think about than a bunch of soggy papers: bones for instance. I’ve got a very nice one on the go at the moment, only two days old. But it will be due for burial soon so it’s time I started to nose round for just the right spot. In the meantime the cat can go and shove those things exactly where he wants!

  33

  The Vicar’s Version

  The next
few days passed uneventfully – uneventful that is except for the failure of the church boiler, the verger’s unceasing complaints about his lumbago, and Miss Dalrymple bemoaning the fact that there was an even greater presence of chewing gum deposits in the choir stalls than usual. ‘It’s the American sort,’ she grumbled, ‘less durable than our own brands and the boys spit it out more often.’

  I expressed concern and enquired whether the local sweet shop might be prevailed upon to revert to type. She retorted that it would be far more useful if I could preach a brisk sermon on the perils of self-abuse.

  ‘Self-abuse!’ I cried in horror. ‘Whatever do you mean, Miss Dalrymple!’

  ‘Well, Canon,’ she said, ‘as I am sure you very well know, unseemly behaviour often precedes moral turpitude. Can’t you deliver a little homily on the use of chewing gum as a prelude to dental decay and sin? That would give them pause for thought!’

  ‘Pause for sleep, I should think,’ I responded. ‘Try bribery, it might be more …’ Fortunately at that point we were approached by Colonel Dawlish in high dudgeon over some gaffe made by the auditors in the church accounts; and for the next half-hour I was subjected to a heated and technical tirade on the finer details of double entry bookkeeping. Eventually I was able to extricate myself and made my grateful way home relishing the prospect of a good restorative.

  As I opened the door I found a cream envelope on the mat. It was sealed but bore no name or address and I assumed it was a circular or some similar trifle. However, before attending to the restorative I slit it open and glanced at the contents. They didn’t amount to much. In tiny, black and scrupulous capitals were written the words: ‘YOU ARE NEXT.’

  I stared down uncomprehendingly. Next? Next what …? Puzzled, I turned the sheet over to see if anything was written on the back. There was nothing … And then of course the point dawned: a childish prank singling me out as the next victim in ‘The Allotment Plot’ as one or two of the cruder journals had begun to call it. It was half-term, and presumably the local jeunesse dorée had nothing better to do than play silly-beggars with their vicar. I tossed the note into the wastepaper basket and applied myself to gin and perusal of the evening paper.

  I hadn’t been long at this when Bouncer appeared and started to sniff about the room in a most irritating way. I sighed. ‘I suppose you want your supper, do you?’ Normally the word ‘supper’ elicits immediate response, but he seemed not to hear and continued to agitate the air and my nerves. Suddenly with a low growl he made a beeline for the wastepaper basket, tipped it over with his snout and started to rummage in its contents. ‘For goodness sake,’ I expostulated, ‘you’re not a retriever, you know. Lie down or go out!’ He paused, stared at me gormlessly, and then thrust his head into the basket again. I had had enough of these antics and, taking the dregs of gin with me, went into the kitchen to do my own foraging.

  I awoke later that night with a slight headache and, knowing better than to lie there vainly hoping it would pass, went downstairs for some tea and aspirin. Both of these I took into the study and was about to sit down when I saw the upturned wastepaper basket lying where Bouncer and I had left it the previous evening. I gathered the strewn papers and began to stuff them back in the basket, when my eye fell on the crumpled anonymous note. Idly I read it again, took the aspirin and settled down with the tea. As I sipped, disquieting images of the rearing legs came into my mind; and although at the moment of discovery there had been too little time and too much panic to examine the rest of the body, now, two weeks after the event, my imagination filled up with lurid details and I was suddenly back in the murk of Savage’s fearful shed. What had been intended as a tryst for jolly tiddlywinks had become a place of violent death, and the memory was unsettlingly real.

  Abstractedly I swallowed another aspirin and pondered the enigma of why this second dispatch should disturb me – not so much in a deeper way than the first, but in a manner more acutely frightening. Presumably, I mused, it had something to do with the fact that in the original incident it had been I who had done the deed, and thus there was neither mystery nor threat. Moral responsibility may weigh one down but it does not induce primitive terror of the unknown. And being perforce in full possession of the facts also reduces the imaginative process. To some degree what we know we can control (however dreadful); but what is outside us – things beyond our ken – can exercise a power of awesome force. In this case what was particularly awesome was the ghastly coincidence of mother and daughter! And surely it was a coincidence, wasn’t it? Or was there some obscure underlying link which connected me as first assassin with this second, unknown OTHER? Or – horror of horrors – was I that Other, and Primrose quite right in her initial suspicions? After all, it was still being mooted that the crime had taken place elsewhere and the body only later imported into the shed. Perhaps at last madness had truly come upon me and I was leading some kind of weird schizoid existence …

  I glanced once more at the note on my lap, swallowed a third pill, and settling myself in the recess of the chair, drifted into troubled sleep.

  I woke early: stiff, chilly and not noticeably rested. But after a hot bath I felt mildly revived, and having engaged in a protracted breakfast was fairly ready to deal with the day’s agenda. This as often was a humdrum schedule – although on that day set to culminate in what doubtless would be high drama: taking the dog to the vet to have his toenails cut. Fortunately the appointment was not until four thirty, so in the meantime, soothed by duty and routine, I could prime myself for the impending theatricals.

  These when they came were well up to standard, but as usual Robinson handled the subject with phlegmatic good humour. ‘Awkward customer, your Bouncer,’ he observed. ‘Still, nothing compared to the cat – now that one is a prima donna! A right old holy terror. Must be the influence of the vicarage.’ He laughed good-naturedly. I thanked him for his patience, and clipped and voluble we emerged into the late sunshine.

  Our walk home took us via the High Street and we nearly encountered Mavis Briggs traipsing along festooned with dangling shopping bags. I thought at first she hadn’t seen me but should have known better, for in the next instant there was the familiar bleat: ‘Oh, Canon …’ I affected not to hear, and yanking Bouncer’s lead took swift sanctuary in the barber’s where I spent an unconscionable time selecting a packet of razor blades. Since it was well after five o’clock and the shop on the point of closing, I think our presence was not entirely welcome. However, there are times when one cannot falter.

  The danger over, we went briskly on our way, the dog presumably as keen for his supper as his master. We were just rounding the corner leading to the lane which runs past the vicarage, when a large saloon car glided past, slowed and stopped. As I drew level the rear window was wound down and Clinker’s head emerged. The purple waistcoat and chauffeur’s presence suggested he was either coming from or going to some formal function. With luck the latter. Hopes were dashed, ‘Ah, Oughterard,’ he exclaimed, ‘just on my way back from Windsor and thought I might catch you at home – but this is as good as anywhere. Now, get in, if you wouldn’t mind, there’re a number of things I need to discuss.’ He opened the Daimler’s door and I clambered inside hauling the dog behind. ‘I trust that hound hasn’t got muddy paws,’ he grumbled, ‘Barnes has only just vacuumed the upholstery.’ I said nothing, thinking that if the bishop chose to go around hijacking people from the kerbstone then he could jolly well put up with muddy paws!

  Fortunately the back of the car was spacious and Bouncer, tired from the toenail histrionics, ready to curl up and go to sleep. Clinker leant forward and snapped shut the glass partition, and lowering his voice began. ‘Well now, Oughterard, this shed business …’

  It was really a repeat of the earlier telephone conversation, i.e. urging the necessity for discretion and enjoining me yet again to make absolutely no mention to Mrs Carruthers of what had been the intended venue. He had obviously been brooding on the matter since our last contact an
d, to quote one of Ingaza’s questionable analogies, must have been as fearful as a ferret with its arse shot off. He wanted to know if Savage was ‘safe’ and whether I knew of any developments in the current police enquiries: ‘I mean, for example, Francis, have they found anything in the shed of … er, a compromising nature – any trace of there having been other parties present?’

  I reassured him about Savage, and said that as far as I was aware nothing further had emerged, adding that in any case since we (and specifically he) had spent so little time at the scene it was highly unlikely that there would be any residual traces. ‘But there was one thing,’ I volunteered, ‘which could just make things a trifle sticky …’

  A flush of colour mottled his cheeks. ‘Good Lord, what-ever’s that, Francis?’

  ‘Well,’ I replied slowly and with straight face, ‘just by the door I gather they picked up three or four spilled tiddlywinks counters … you know, sir, little plastic blue and red ones. They seem to think the assassin may have dropped them …’

  He stared at me in horror, his mouth opening and shutting like a mesmerized goldfish. And then finding his tongue and his wits, said in icy but slightly shaky tones, ‘I take it that is your idea of a joke, Oughterard – you can generally be relied upon to produce some puerile jest at times of serious moment. Gladys was right – why they elected you a canon I cannot imagine!’ And so saying he tapped briskly on the glass partition and indicated that the Reverend Oughterard was about to leave and the engine could thus be started.