Bone Idle

by Suzette A. Hill

  Anyway, I told him I thought the whole idea totally preposterous, and that even if he were to go over and start snooping around, there was sure to be some sort of concierge or local official who would doubtless want to know who he was and what he was doing there. It could all be rather awkward.

  ‘Not awkward at all, old cock,’ was the reply, ‘I shall just say I am the Reverend Francis Oughterard from Molehill come to inspect my property.’

  I replaced the receiver, took three aspirin and retired to bed.

  36

  The Vicar’s Version

  There was nothing for it but to grit my teeth, mentally close my eyes and hope it would all somehow go away. After all, I did have a parish to run … And in any case, with luck Nicholas just might break a leg or contract typhus.

  Such hopes buoyed me up briefly, but the rosy picture was dispelled by the arrival of a postcard from Brighton thanking me in glowing terms for the lunch and saying he was due to fly off to New York for a few days’ vacation prior to entering upon negotiations with Flutzveldt. He would be back shortly having concluded, he was sure, ‘a most gratifying little piece of business’.

  My feelings were ambivalent: if he was successful it would perhaps put me in a stronger position to deter him from pursuing the Folly escapade, gratitude for my suggestion making him more amenable to dropping the idea. I also gave thought to those roofing costs … On the other hand, were he to return flushed with cash and triumph I should be even further compromised. Not only would I be accessory before, during and after the fact of the Idol’s theft, I would also be implicated in its lucrative disposal! Such considerations were all too much for me, and calling Bouncer and briskly shooting my cuffs, I settled at the piano for a display of stupendous virtuosity.

  * * *

  A few days later I was due to attend the Sunday school prize-giving, but with half an hour to spare was busily putting my feet up with the Telegraph. I had just flipped over the third page, when my eye was caught by a vaguely familiar name – Greenholt. It was part of a headline attached to a small item at the foot of the page: ‘Greenholt Institute Seeks New Curator’. The article that followed was thus:

  Harvard’s prestigious Greenholt Institute is without a curator having just bade an embarrassing farewell to its long-serving custodian Dr Hiram K. Flutzveldt. A distinguished name among collecting circles, Dr Flutzveldt is currently being investigated by the CIA for tax evasion and other questionable activities. His lawyer, Sebastian Rothmann of Rothmann, Carfax & Swindley, says he is the victim of a highly orchestrated conspiracy, and is confident that he will soon resume his desk at the Institute, and indeed be reinstated as editor of the exclusive arts magazine Collections Privées. When interviewed, a colleague said he was surprised at such confidence as in his opinion the bastard had had it coming to him for a long time.

  I stared open-mouthed. With names like that there could be no mistake: obviously Claude’s contact and Ingaza’s buyer! Whether this might jeopardize Claude’s chances of appearing in the magazine I could not have cared less. What was crucial was how it would affect Ingaza and the sale of the wretched Idol!

  Time was pushing on, and grabbing my cassock and prayer book, I left the house and strode swiftly to the church, my mind in a whirl of confusion and questions. Did Ingaza already know about it? Would the whole deal be scuppered? Would he see his visit to America as an expensive fool’s errand and blame me? (Without doubt.) Had Flutzveldt already bought the pig, and if so had he quietly disposed of it or would it form part of those ‘other questionable activities’ which the CIA was so keen to investigate? Might Nicholas himself be questioned? It could be any or all of these! He was due back the following evening, and until then I would know nothing. Perhaps I should phone Eric and tactfully enquire the lie of the land …

  Immersed in these thoughts I did not see Mavis Briggs until it was too late and I had already cannon-balled into her. She lay strewn beneath the lychgate looking martyred and reproachful, surrounded by sheets of paper evidently fallen from her bag.

  The last time I had hauled Mavis to her feet was when she had been knocked flying by the setter O’Shaughnessy on the dreadful night I had been aiding Maud Tubbly Pole and her bulldog in their flight up to London. She had been in the way then just as she was now; and late already I was none too pleased by the delay. However, I set her on her feet, made apologetic noises, and rather cursorily asked if she was all right.

  She nodded vaguely, and then just as I was about to hasten on up the path, exclaimed, ‘Oh dear! Do you think you could help me collect my gems?’

  ‘Your what?’ I said impatiently.

  ‘My poems, my Little Gems of Uplift – the new manuscripts, they’ve gone everywhere!’

  I surveyed the scattered pages and, cursing inwardly, stooped to gather them up.

  ‘Er, if you don’t mind my asking, Mavis, what are you doing with them here? Off to the printers?’

  She beamed brightly. ‘Oh no, Canon. I am on my way to the church, the prize-giving, you know! I thought that since it was such an important occasion it would be most suitable if at the end I gave a little recitation of my latest offerings. I am sure the children would enjoy them, especially the older ones. I think it would be a fitting conclusion to it all!’ And she beamed again.

  ‘But, Mavis,’ I protested, ‘the conclusion is to be the mammoth cream tea in the parish hall. It’s the grande finale. Edith has gone to great trouble to get it organized, and she won’t want things delayed.’

  Mavis’s eyes, normally pale and vacant, took on a dark and steely hue. She tossed her head. ‘Edith Hopgarden will just have to wait!’ she snapped.

  We walked in silence up the path and entered the church.

  That evening, safely back at the vicarage, I telephoned Eric.

  ‘I say, Eric,’ I began tentatively, ‘I gather there’s been a little hiccup with Nicholas’s contact in New York. Apparently he has been –’

  There was a snort of mirth. ‘Yeah, silly git. Ballsed things up there all right!’

  ‘But, er, what about the deal – has it gone through?’

  ‘Why, getting worried about your cut, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I protested (some degree of truth there), ‘I just wondered how things were and whether Nicholas was all right.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied airily. ‘He’s all right. Coming back tomorrow night with a ’tachy case of dosh. No flies on old Nick!’

  ‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed. ‘An attaché case of dosh – is that so?’

  ‘That is so, my ol’ son. That is so.’

  ‘But, uhm, well – what about Customs? I gather they’re rather hot on that sort of thing.’

  ‘Nah,’ he replied, ‘got it down to a fine art, has Nick, been doin’ it for years. Don’t you worry, Frankie.’

  ‘What!’ I cried, unused to being thus addressed.

  ‘Like I said, he’s done it too often to get caught. Mind you, it takes its toll, always does. Sort of delayed whatsit, I suppose. He won’t speak to no one for at least a week, never does. He’s what you might call delicate.’

  I cannot say that I had ever witnessed that aspect of Ingaza and was far from convinced. However, if, as Eric seemed to think, the whole affair had been successfully completed, then with a bit of luck Ingaza might be so glad of my tip-off and its financial yield that he would be content to drop the Folly nonsense. After all, there were now two things I had achieved for him – purloining the pig and finding a productive buyer. Surely that merited some peace!

  I was just reflecting on this when I heard Eric say, ‘And after that he’s taking his auntie to Bournemouth, a little celebration you might say.’

  ‘Taking Aunt Lil to Bournemouth!’ I exclaimed. ‘What ever for? What’s wrong with Eastbourne? I thought she liked the bandstand there.’

  ‘Yes, but she likes the casino better.’

  ‘The casino?’ I cried. ‘But surely Bournemouth doesn’t have a casino, it’s a most resp
ectable resort!’

  There was a chuckle. ‘For them what’s in the know there’s a very good casino, but not what you’d call open to the general public. A bit ’ush ’ush if you get my meaning, Frankie.’ This was followed by a further dark chortle.

  I stared at the opposite wall where danced unsettling images of Aunt Lil ensconced in some dimly lit gambling den shouting the odds and haranguing the hapless croupier. I flinched. Rather Nicholas than me!

  ‘Well, Eric,’ I said politely, ‘most kind of you to fill me in on things. Er, glad to hear that all is well despite Dr Flutzveldt’s misadventure …’

  ‘Silly sod,’ was the scathing response. ‘You wonder about some of these Yanks, not as bright as they think they are!’

  ‘No, perhaps not … Anyway, nice to talk to you.’

  I was about to replace the receiver when he said, ‘I’ll tell His Nibs you was asking after him, but like I said, what with him goin’ into purdah and then gadding off with Lil, you may not hear from him for a bit. But he’ll make contact sometime, don’t you worry, ol’ son.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ I replied eagerly. ‘Absolutely no hurry, no hurry at all!’

  We concluded our conversation, and I lit a cigarette and sat for some time on the hall chair, brooding. Frankie indeed!

  37

  The Vicar’s Version

  The next day I was scheduled to attend the gathering of a newly formed sorority – the Guild of Christian Ladies. Actually the organization itself was not new, but it was the first time that a branch had been established in Molehill and they were eager to get things off to a good start by throwing an inaugural soirée. Despite the worthiness of the event, my current pressures put me in no mood for jollification, and I set off that evening feeling far from sociable.

  However, to my surprise the Christian Ladies came up trumps. My gloomy mood was partially dispelled, and I found myself staying longer than I had expected. They had put on a magnificent spread which knocked the Mothers’ Union’s customary fare into a cocked hat. There were spectacular sandwiches, some peculiarly delicious corned beef and cucumber fritters, and the most inventive dessert concoctions which I had ever tasted: wonderful fabrications of nuts, nougat, British sherry and mock cream, all topped with pyramids of meringue and flakes of sticky toffee. The Ladies had also contrived to produce gallons of Blue Nun Riesling which, although very quaffable at first, did tend to pall after my fourth glass. In fact, quite a lot had started to pall by that stage and I was rapidly becoming in need of a soft pillow. Thus making tactful excuses and pleading copious paperwork, I slipped away into the dark and made my slightly uncertain way home.

  To my irritation I noticed the front gate was flapping open. This was not the first time the evening paper-boy had been remiss, and I guessed that Bouncer would have seized the opportunity to stretch his legs and seek romantic adventure.

  Clearly he had done just that for, so used was I to his excited barks of welcome, the house seemed strangely silent when I turned the key in the lock. Without bothering to switch on the hall light I took off my coat, visited the downstairs cloakroom and then went into the sitting room. I put on the reading lamp and was about to draw the curtains when I saw that they were already in place. This startled me as I was pretty sure that I had not bothered to pull them on my way out. Still, memory plays odd tricks and perhaps for once I had had a rush of busy blood to the head! I reached for the decanter … but my arm stopped midway. There was someone in the room – sitting in my chair in fact. I gaped thunderstruck at the fat face of Victor Crumpelmeyer …

  He returned my horrified gaze with a deadpan look. And then his features slowly formed a sardonic smile and he raised a podgy hand in mock salute. I don’t know how I managed to stay calm: I was furious, and also deeply shocked. But there must have been some instinct at work which warned me not to vent my feelings. Instead I heard myself saying (with only the mildest sarcasm), ‘Ah … another visit, Victor. Can I offer you a drink?’

  He nodded silently, and I poured a small glass of whisky and set it on the table in front of him, having no wish to place it directly in his outstretched hand.

  He took a sip and then said conversationally, ‘I expect you wonder why I am here …’

  ‘I do rather,’ I replied with equal calm, ‘and I also wonder how you gained entry. I tend to lock my doors at night – unlike in the afternoons.’

  ‘Makes no difference,’ he said blandly, ‘there are always ways and means – skeleton keys specifically.’ And reaching into his waistcoat pocket he produced what certainly looked like a replica of my own.

  Naturally this angered me further but I was determined to appear unruffled … though what I really wanted to do was knock his block off. In fact it was the prospect of doing just that which enabled me to retain a semblance of poise. It would, I thought, be quite easy: I was considerably taller than him and, judging from the pasty complexion, probably much fitter. Yes, if he started to be too impossible I would land him a swift upper-cut to the jaw (as Bulldog Drummond might have said). I contemplated the idea with some relish, imagining the impact of knuckle on flab, and trying to recall the bawled instructions of our boxing coach at school. But the only clear direction that came to mind was, ‘Idiot, Oughterard! Not that way, boy, the other!’ The reverie promptly vanished; and thinking that sympathetic tact might be the better course, I murmured a few words of condolence about the loss of Violet.

  It was not a good course at all. He grimaced, gave a bitter laugh and then said petulantly, ‘No loss at all. An error of judgement: I slipped up there all right! She was supposed to have pots of money, the cow, but thanks to the grasping fingers of the Church the pots were fewer than they should have been. It was all a singular disappointment!’ He twitched with suppressed rage.

  ‘The Church?’ I said faintly. ‘Why the Church?’

  ‘Not it – you, you fool! I know your sort: righteous dogooders with an eye to the main chance. Prissy, smarmy, wheedling swindlers, that’s what you all are. You think you’re clever, but not half as clever as Victor Crumpelmeyer, oh no!’ And with another mordant laugh, he downed half the tumbler in front of him

  I was incensed that my whisky should lend confidence to one so crude, and felt affronted at the insults being poured upon myself and the institution I represented … He would have to be told!

  ‘Now look here, Crumpelmeyer –’ I began.

  ‘Oh no, Reverend, you just listen to me,’ he sneered. ‘First you sweet-talked the mother, then robbed the daughter. Legacy, bracelet, deeds – you’ve snaffled the lot. I suppose you think you can get your hands on that château and its buried gold. Well, you can think again! Except that the old girl was too addled to know what she was doing, those deeds should have gone to my wife – so they’re mine by rights. I’ve come for them and the rest of what’s owed me. If it hadn’t been for your interference Violet would have had at least a million. So you’d better pay up if you’ve got any sense!’

  The idea of my ‘sweet-talking’ Elizabeth was preposterous, not to say distasteful; but I was even more indignant at the allegation of having appropriated the daughter’s wealth. I had never asked to be involved with the Fotheringtons, merely wanting a quiet parish and an untroubled life. Instead here I was in my own vicarage being accused of greed and duplicity by one of their demented in-laws eager to get his hooter in the family coffers. It was appalling! But what on earth was I going to do? Clearly nothing constructive, for when I took a deep breath and began to explain that I had never considered the Fotherington riches let alone had access to the deeds of the French estate, my guest crashed his fist on the table and launched into a rant of monumental egotism and mania.

  In the course of this he made it clear that marrying Violet had been an act of great faith and substantial sacrifice, neither of which, thanks to me, had borne fruit. ‘You cannot imagine,’ he whined, ‘how awful it was being her consort!’ (I could actually, but had no intention of showing fellow feeling with tha
t little crook.) In one of his few pauses I observed mildly that surely he was exaggerating his deprivation, and that most people would be more than content with the large Godalming property and the doubtless perfectly adequate capital that went with it.

  He glowered at me. ‘I was not born for adequacy. Neither was I born to be pipped at the post by some slick-handed sodding vicar. You won’t get away with it!’

  This was really too much, and I was just thinking that despite my youthful blunders in the boxing ring, I might after all try clocking him one, when he said in a suddenly casual tone, ‘Got my letters all right, did you?’

  I froze. Such had been my shock at finding Crumpelmeyer stuffed into my own armchair that the question of the anonymous notes had been driven from my mind. But now of course it all made sense. Yet even as I recoiled from his increasingly patent lunacy – and thus the very real implications of ‘You are next’ – I also experienced an immense surge of relief: evidently the ‘Nemesis’ of the second letter referred not to the mother’s murder, but the daughter’s assets and Crumpelmeyer’s crazed belief that I had stripped them bare.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I got your letters. And now would you kindly leave my house or I shall be forced to call the police.’