‘How?’
‘What do you mean, “how”?’
‘How will you call them?’
‘By telephoning of course!’ And I started to move towards the hall.
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Reverend,’ he said softly. ‘You see, I’ve cut the wires with this.’ And from down the side of the chair he drew a knife whose long and lethal blade glinted malevolently in the lamplight.
My mouth was suddenly sand-dry and I could feel sweat in my hair and on my neck. As a young soldier in the war one had been under dreadful bombardments from enemy shell-fire and aircraft. But those had been collective threats, and unlike some of my companions I had never experienced hand-to-hand fighting. Thus I found the close intimacy of this personal, solitary encounter terrifying. However, as from a distance, I heard my voice saying sternly, ‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together, man! You’ll kill us both!’
He leaped up, knocking the table over and brandishing the steel wildly. ‘Not me, Oughterard – only you!’ he rasped. It would have been madness to try to wrest the thing from him, and I realized that my only hope was flight. I made a rush for the door, tripped over one of Bouncer’s bones, and fell headlong. He loomed over me, eyes and knife flashing, and fat cheeks explosive with fury.
‘You thieving bastard!’ he shrieked. ‘I’ll rip your guts, I will!’ And he made a lumbering lunge which, had he been more adroit, would have got me square in the stomach. As it was, he missed by about a foot and fell against the wall, while I was able to roll myself to the scant protection of the upturned table. I had watched such scenes in the films and recalled that invariably the intrepid victim would get the upper hand by reasoning, even wisecracking, with his assailant. Wisecracking has never been my forte – besides I wasn’t in the mood. But I might try a little light conversation …
‘For Christ’s sake back off, you raving maniac!’ I gasped. ‘What the hell are you up to, you effing oaf!’
On reflection I think my words could have been better chosen for they seemed to inflame him further; and screaming, ‘I did for her and I’ll do for you!’, and pointing the knife like a bayonet while emitting the statutory yell, he rushed at me and plunged the weapon into my shoulder.
At such times, I discovered, shock takes precedence over pain, and it is the brain rather than the body which is the more sensitive. Thus as I lay paralysed less by agony than by amazement, my mind filled up with images of Elizabeth’s dead face framed by her rakish hat and Violet’s rearing jack-knifed legs. The two corpses and their contexts – the sunlit glade and the darkened creosoted shed – mingled and danced before my eyes, and I wondered what specific features of my own demise would haunt the demented memory of Victor Crumpelmeyer. In blurred confusion I awaited the fatal thrust that would surely come.
He bent down, and there was a rushing in my ears, excruciating noise – thudding, roaring, screaming – and his face came nearer and nearer … so near that I could feel my own face enveloped by his gulping breath. I shut my eyes. And then as I opened them for the last time saw that the flaccid white skin had been replaced by thick, shaggy grey fur and an enormous drooling tongue. Oh my God, a werewolf to carry me off …
38
The Cat’s Memoir
What it is to be a cat in this madhouse! Really, one is subjected to the most vexatious indignities! Take that evening, for instance, when I returned from the graveyard eager for my milk and supper: instead of F.O. crashing about on the piano or smoking idly in his chair, what did I find sitting in his place but that whey-faced scoundrel whom Bouncer had once tried to devour! Not content with rifling the vicar’s desk, he now had the effrontery to sprawl himself in the sitting room! I can tell you, seeing him there gave me a very nasty shock. Indeed, such was my surprise that I marched straight up to the creature and with a loud hiss delivered a brisk claw to the ankle. The rasp of talon on unsavoury flesh is always agreeable …
Alas, such valour did me little good – for with a violent oath the intruder kicked me right across the room – from chair to door! Not since the outrageous attack by the Veasey twins have I been so affronted or discomposed.* But naturally, once recovered, my instinct was to retaliate with all claws firing. Then as I prepared for precisely that, it occurred to me that it would be more prudent to summon reinforcements. So I gallantly limped out into the front garden and set up a loud caterwauling. Within moments Bouncer had appeared from the potting shed followed by the gigantic shadow of Florence. I told them what was afoot and said that a three-pronged assault was required. And then just as we were racing towards the house, to my amazement I suddenly saw the weedy Samson crawling on all fours in the flower bed under the sitting-room window! I called the other two to heel and, pointing him out to Bouncer, asked what he thought he was up to. The reply of course was typical – ‘Bones, Maurice. He is burying bones.’
I was about to tell the dog exactly what he could do with his stupid ideas, when fortunately the wolfhound interrupted and said gently to Bouncer that in Samson’s case osseous pursuits of that particular kind were extremely unlikely, and that our best course of action was to sit quietly and assess the situation. So we sat and assessed …
And then suddenly F.O. appeared, walking up the path (a trifle unsteadily, I recall) and whistling under his breath. Huddled behind the garden roller, we watched intently as he went into the vicarage, and then listened to the ensuing silence. This went on for some time. And then glancing in the direction of the flower bed, I realized that the crouching Samson had disappeared. I was just wondering where he had gone, when there was a great commotion from within accompanied by a maniacal yelling. Florence bounded to the open window, and standing on her long hind legs peered in. ‘Well, I never!’ she exclaimed. ‘Just look at that!’
‘What?’ cried Bouncer.
‘It’s the loon,’ she barked, ‘he’s attacking the vicar!’
Before I had a chance to collect my wits, Bouncer had shot past me and was thrusting himself through the pet flap. As I followed I noticed Florence clambering over the sill, and then in the distance the hoot of a police whistle and the wail of an approaching siren.
I slipped through the flap and into the sitting room, and despite my poor bruised hip, sprang adroitly to the top of the bookcase. The scene that met my eyes was absurd and distasteful: the loon being mauled by Bouncer, Florence slobbering over a recumbent F.O., and Samson and his cohorts rushing around like flies in a jam-jar. The noise was insufferable. But not to be outdone I naturally added my own subtly orchestrated yowls.
Eventually things calmed down, and the Crumplehorn was handcuffed and hauled off, and the vicar bundled into an ambulance. As I later observed to Bouncer – all it needed was for Mavis Briggs to come drooping in spouting her verses! But fortunately we were spared that … Still, I suppose such theatricals all add to life’s rich cabaret! Other cats, I have noticed, lead less eventful lives than my own.
* See A Load of Old Bones
39
The Dog’s Diary
‘Which bit did you like best, Maurice?’ I asked the cat. ‘The bit where I rushed in and savaged his bum AGAIN, or when Florence sat on his head and then went and woke up F.O. with big kisses?’
‘To tell you the truth, Bouncer,’ he said, ‘I think it was the first part really – your redoubtable attack!’ (I’ve been practising that word, you know. It’s given me a lot of trouble, but the cat doesn’t often give praise so I wanted to get it just right.) ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘well meaning though Florence is, I think she frightened the life out of the vicar and if she had continued much longer we might have lost him for good.’
‘You’re right,’ I agreed. ‘If the weedy Samson hadn’t squirted him with the soda siphon he’d have been a gonner.’
‘Yes,’ grumbled the cat, ‘but you do realize that half of that went on me. I was soaked to the skin all along my left flank! Co-ordination of hand and eye is not within Samson’s compass.’ (I think he meant he couldn’t aim straight.)
>
‘Oh well,’ I replied, ‘what’s a bit of wet if it meant F.O. was all right!’ There was a long pause while Maurice stared at me blankly. He opened his mouth a couple of times as if he was going to speak but seemed to think better of it. And then he started to groom his ears while I had a go at my rubber ring.
We chewed and groomed for a while, and then he said, ‘I daresay the Samson person will get a medal – or promotion at any rate. He actually seemed to know what he was doing – an achievement, I fear, which has generally escaped our master.’
‘But he is kind, isn’t he, Maurice?’
‘Oh yes, kind – just incompetent.’ I wasn’t quite sure what that last word meant, so kept quiet and went on chewing.
And then I said, ‘But I tell you what: though that Samson was quick off the mark and put two and two together and followed the fat thug to the house with those other cops, it was us that got there first and buggered things up. I mean, if we hadn’t made OUR PRESENCE FELT – as you would say, Maurice – he might have been too late and we would have been left with a third corpse on our paws and that mad chump rampaging all over the shop. And then what!’
I think I may have been making a teeny bit of noise because the cat just nodded and kept his eyes tightly shut. He does that sometimes if I get excited. But you know, it’s difficult not to make a noise living in the vicarage, there are so many things going on – which is what I like really. No point if nothing happens. BORING! I told O’Shaughnessy once about the cat saying I spoke too loudly, and he said why wouldn’t a fellow want to air his lungs now and again, it was the most natural thing in the world, and to tell the mog he was an eejit, so he was! I tried to explain to the setter that you didn’t say things like that to Maurice, not if you valued your snout you didn’t. But he just laughed and went leaping down the road. Mind you, he won’t laugh when I tell him about this latest thing – it’s the second time he’s missed out on a bit of craic. He won’t like it at all!
Well, it’s been a pretty long day what with one thing and another and I’m feeling a bit snoozy. So I’m going down to the crypt now to get some kip, and when I wake up I’ll listen to the ghosts and tell the spiders everything … but they won’t believe me, they never do.
40
The Vicar’s Version
When I regained consciousness it was to find myself lying damp and blood-soaked on the sitting-room floor, in the midst of what I can only describe as a scene of spectacular unreality. Lights, noise, people, animals, the strident wailing of a police siren – I seemed caught in a vortex of chaos and cacophony. But despite the muddle, what was very clear was the kneeling figure of Victor Crumpelmeyer, head down and arms pinioned behind his back, howling obscenities while a cherubic-faced constable struggled to apply handcuffs. The youth’s difficulty seemed to lie less with his captive than with Bouncer (emerged from goodness knows where) who, whooping frenetically, was intent on assisting the process. Another uniformed shape was shouting loudly down a walkie-talkie; and up on the bookcase, miaowing the odds with fur en brosse and furious tail, crouched Maurice. The din of course was appalling; but it was not so much the mayhem which made me think I had been shifted from vicarage to circus ring, but the fact that only a few feet away there seemed to be a couple dancing!
I assumed I was delirious and the dancing couple a figment of waning senses. Dazed from loss of blood and the pain in my shoulder, I strained to stay conscious, focusing my hazy eyes on the close-knit pair holding centre floor. One of them seemed to be enjoying the dance rather more than the other – indeed was full of affectionate delight, pawing and snuffling at the neck of their partner with unconcealed pleasure. The other, I suddenly realized, was struggling frantically to get free. There was a burst of laughter from somewhere in the room and a voice rang out: ‘She likes you, sir!’ And immediately all was clear: the dancing vision was no less than the wolfhound Florence of Fermanagh, immense on her hind legs, and embracing for all she was worth the diminutive form of DS Sidney Samson.
I must have passed out again but they evidently patched me up and carted me off to hospital for tests and rest: a brief sojourn, but in the circumstances quite welcome.
While there I was visited by March and Samson, the latter bearing a bunch of grapes which he placed morosely on the bedside table. They had come, March explained, to ‘put me in the picture’ and to confirm that I would stand witness in the police prosecution of Crumpelmeyer. I wasn’t entirely happy about that, feeling that the less I had to do with such matters, the better. After all, who knew what skeletons might emerge! However, it would have looked odd if I had declined, and so smiling benignly I reluctantly agreed.
March seemed pleased but said ruefully, ‘He’ll get off of course – plead insanity and be sent to Broadmoor, you mark my words. A pity really because apart from that poor Ruth Ellis, we’ve not had a hanging for some time. The public expect it, you know.’ He stretched for a grape, while under the bedclothes I clenched my knees in terror.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘on the whole it’s all worked out very well. The culprit’s caught, Slowcome’s preening himself, and it’s obvious to anyone with a ha’porth of sense that he did for the mother too! Oh yes, no doubt about it: he knocked her off knowing she was loaded, and then married the daughter expecting to get the lot. But then of course, as I’m sure you tell your congregation, sir, “the best laid plans of mice and men” and all that …Yes, a good bag, a left and a right as it were!’ He took another grape and turned for confirmation to Samson who was staring out of the window and seemed not to have heard.
‘Extraordinary,’ I murmured. ‘But what put you on to Crumpelmeyer? And how did the police arrive so quickly?’
‘Ah well, that was the sergeant – no flies on our Sidney,’ said March. ‘He’d had that Crumpelmeyer in his sights for some time, ever since the two of them started making such a fuss about that buried diamond bracelet. “There’s something wrong there,” he said to me, “very wrong indeed, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it, you see if I don’t. I can always spot ’em.”’ He turned to the Whippet. ‘That’s what you said, isn’t it?’ The latter nodded expressionlessly. ‘Like a leech, Sidney is,’ March continued with pride. ‘He put a tail on him some time back, been watching his every movement. Mind you,’ he added, ‘he’s had good training from yours truly, even if I do say it myself – isn’t that so, my lad? Best mentor in the Force is old March!’ His gave a rumbling laugh while his colleague remained silent.
I coughed quickly, and turning to Samson said, ‘Well, I have much to thank you for, Sergeant … why, without your sleuthing skills and exemplary speed and courage I might not be here today – dead as the proverbial doornail no doubt!’ I spoke with genuine gratitude, but as usual in Samson’s presence felt a twinge of nervous unease – and, as always, it was justified.
‘Ah well, sir, you know how it is – win one, lose one,’ he replied carelessly. ‘There’s always one that gets away … leastways, so they think.’ He looked at me thoughtfully and only the thin mouth smiled.
They took their leave and I settled down thankfully for a much-needed doze. When I awoke it was tea-time. A nurse looked in and announced that I had another visitor. I held my breath, fearful it might be Mavis Briggs …
Savage appeared bearing flowers, fruit, magazines, and the ubiquitous but always welcome fairy cakes. He plonked them down on the bed and, manoeuvring with his stick, found the chair and sat down next to me.
‘Cor,’ he exclaimed, ‘you have to walk miles in these places. No wonder everyone’s in bed – exhaustion, I should think! … Anyway, Rev, how are you keeping? Quite a little dust-up, that was! Got yourself knifed in the shoulder, I hear. You do lead a busy life! Still, as I told Mrs S., that’ll rope ’em in on a Sunday all right. There’s nothing like a bit of blood and guts to fill the aisles … and the collection plates too, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He grinned slyly and commiserated again about my shoulder.
‘As a matter of fact,’ I grumbl
ed, ‘it’s not so much the shoulder as the knee.’
‘What’s wrong with the knee then?’ he asked. ‘Took a pick-axe to it, did he?’
‘No,’ I laughed, ‘Bouncer’s bone. I fell over it trying to escape that maniac. Practically crippled me, it has!’
‘Ah, well,’ he observed sagely, ‘they say it’s always the little things that trip you up and bring you down. I remember in Normandy when that mine got me. If I hadn’t stopped to tie my bootlace I’d probably have my sight today … Still, that’s life, isn’t it: all in the detail, as you might say. Just goes to show, can’t afford to overlook anything – not even the dog’s bones!’ He smiled cheerfully and fumbled for the fairy cakes. We munched in brief silence, he possibly recalling the perils of Normandy, and me anxiously racking my brains to think what disregarded detail would play its lethal part in my own downfall …
He stayed a little longer and we mulled over the Crumpelmeyer business.
‘Well, there’s certainly one thing I’m thankful for,’ he said. ‘At least it wasn’t done in my shed. Mrs Savage is very particular about that sort of thing, she wouldn’t have liked it at all and I’d never have heard the end of it. In fact,’ he went on, ‘a lucky escape really – I mean, if it had been where the deed actually happened and not just the dumping place, she’d have probably made me pull the whole lot down. I took a heap of trouble over that shed – getting it painted and properly kitted out; it would have been a blinking waste to have had to get rid of it – a real waste.’
‘Frightful!’ I agreed.
‘Mind you,’ he mused thoughtfully, ‘I expect I could have thought of something to bring her round – I generally do. There’s usually a way if you don’t get panicked … like those tiddlywinks counters and the coppers for example.’
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