‘Oh yes?’ I said nervously.
‘Yes. I mean to say, your inaugural address isn’t far off, is it?’ She grinned wolfishly.
‘Er, no,’ I replied vaguely, ‘no, it isn’t …’
‘We are so looking forward to it!’ she brayed.
‘Good,’ I said shortly.
‘Indeed we are,’ she enthused. ‘After all, it can only be better than the last one … Can’t remember the man’s name now, but it was awful. All about turning the other cheek to those that smite you. Well,’ and she lowered her voice grimly, ‘I can tell you, Canon, were anyone to smite me they certainly wouldn’t get away with it. There is something known as righteous anger, you know!’
‘Ye-es,’ I conceded uneasily, ‘but –’
‘Anyway, there will be no such tosh from you, I’ll be bound. Why, I was saying to Colonel Dawlish only the other day – “Oughterard will have something useful up his sleeve, you mark my words!”’
I thanked her for her faith and enquired diffidently what Colonel Dawlish had had to say on the subject.
‘Oh, you know him,’ she said dismissively, ‘sucked on that foul pipe and said nothing. But I know that something good is brewing!’ And with a conspiratorial leer she stomped off towards the choir stalls.
I gazed after her flattered and despondent … A theme, a theme, my parish for a theme! If nothing emerged soon, and as a last resort, I should be forced into asking Clinker for an idea. Presumably he would at least come up with something a little more helpful than the Max Miller suggestion from Primrose! I sighed, and wandered out to inspect a damaged drainpipe.
On my way home I did something which I don’t normally do – stopped at the Swan and Goose for a pre-prandial. It’s not that I have anything against public houses, and in my Bermondsey days such visits by the clergy were considered de rigueur (all part of the democratizing process, we were earnestly told), but I am not one who is instinctively matey and I suspect that the sight of a dog-collared figure downing shorts on his own would do little to enhance the spirits of the Molehill regulars. However, that evening for some reason the inclination came upon me, and I slipped into the saloon bar and ordered a whisky and a bag of crisps.
I sat on one of the wooden settles and was just about to open the packet, when a voice cried, ‘Ooh, I could do with a couple of those, Reverend. Just what I fancy!’ I looked up startled. It was Mrs Carruthers.
She detached herself from the bar stool and, rather carefully I thought, made her way to where I was sitting. Placing a large sweet Martini on the table, she sat down beside me grinning broadly. ‘Well, dear, this is a happy surprise and no mistake! Haven’t seen you for ages. Where have you been hiding yourself these days?’
I murmured something about being terribly busy with meetings and funerals, and then offering her the crisps asked how she was.
‘In the pink, dear, in the pink! Do you know what – I’ve just won fifty nice ones on the three-thirty at Newbury. A real outsider, came in at fifty to one. And you’ll never guess its name, not in a million years you won’t!’
I took a gulp of my whisky and regarded her soberly. ‘I think I can.’
‘Course not – you’re having me on!’
‘Want a bet?’
She cackled with laughter. ‘We’ll settle for a drink. I’ll buy you another of those if you get it right, but you won’t!’
I had in fact glanced at the list of the Newbury runners earlier in the day. At the time they had meant little to me, but talking now to Mrs Carruthers one in particular came back into my mind.
‘Gnomic,’ I said. ‘You bet on Gnomic.’
There was a pause, followed by a scream of mirth so loud that I thought the glass in the lamp might break. ‘You are a one,’ she gasped, ‘trust you to know that! Really stolen my thunder, you have!’ She turned to the barman. ‘Did you hear that, Harry? The vicar’s guessed the horse I backed – what do you think of that! We’d better have another couple!’
‘Well, it was hardly difficult,’ I said. ‘I mean, owning a place positively rampant with garden gnomes what else could you have chosen?’ This was met by further gusts of delighted mirth as she scrabbled in her handbag for her purse. I told her I had no intention of accepting a drink from such a charming lady and that naturally the second round was to be mine. I ordered a small Scotch and another large Martini for her, making sure it came richly embellished with a double cherry stick.
‘Well, here’s to gnomes, dear!’ she cried gaily.
‘To gnomes,’ I said, raising my glass.
She sipped with pleasure. And then leaning towards me and lowering her voice, said, ‘You know, I am rather worried about our Mr Clinker. He’s missed the last two sessions. It’s not like him at all, specially as he hasn’t sent a message. After you telephoned that time to say he was ill and couldn’t keep his appointment for the practice I got quite anxious. In fact I did call the Palace once, but there was a very hoity-toity voice on the other end who said he was in the peak of health – his wife, I suppose!’ And she giggled.
‘I think he’s been lying low rather … er, that is to say,’ I added hastily, ‘I think he’s been pretty occupied. Synod, Lambeth and things …’
‘Sounds awfully bleak to me. He’d do far better to come back to the Wednesday sessions. Buck him up, they would. Besides,’ she added wistfully, ‘we miss him, you know, things just aren’t the same when he’s not there. He’s ever such fun when he really gets going!’
I had often witnessed the bishop ‘get going’, but in my experience fun was rarely the outcome. However, it is amazing how limited one’s knowledge of people is … But then I recalled Ingaza’s extraordinary revelation about his pre-episcopal days at Oxford; and indeed, nearer the present time, the spectacular dancing display on my sitting-room carpet fired by drink and absence from Gladys …
I smiled. ‘Yes, I expect he has his moments.’
‘Oh, doesn’t he just!’ she crowed. ‘But I tell you what, why don’t you have a word with him? Tell him his partners are pining and that we’ll never win the Bracknell Cup without him!’
‘Me?’ I said, startled.
‘Oh yes, he’d take it from you all right.’
‘I rather doubt that –’ I began.
‘Oh yes, dear,’ she exclaimed. ‘If he’s said it once, he’s said it a dozen times: “Ah, Oughterard – a safe pair of hands there, very safe.”’ She intoned throatily in a voice not dissimilar to Clinker’s. And giving me a playful slap on the knuckles, she added, ‘Well, I wouldn’t know about safe of course, but they’re very nice!’ I blushed to the roots while she lapsed into the usual cachinnations. And then recovering herself briefly, she added, ‘No, seriously, it would be ever so helpful if you could put in a word, it’s not half as nice without him.’
She looked quite pensive, and I heard myself saying that I would certainly do my best. She brightened immediately, and I think that, had I not stood up making noises about getting the animals’ supper, she would have invited me to share in a third Martini.
As I reached the door she waved a voluble and lavish farewell before turning back to engage the barman in garrulous banter.
I reached home curiously invigorated; and then, with the gales of her laughter ringing in my ears, took the bull by the horns and dialled the bishop’s number …
Instantly my buoyed spirits sank. It was Gladys. ‘What do you want?’ she rasped.
The combination of two whiskies and the gaiety of Annie Carruthers had rather blunted my mind to the possibility that the recipient might not be Clinker. Thus when she declared curtly that he was very busy and couldn’t it wait, I was at first nonplussed as to how to answer. Clearly a covert message of encouragement from his erstwhile tiddlywinks partner could not be delivered. Something else was needed.
‘Ah … His Lordship may recall that my inaugural address to the diocese is in the offing and I was rather hoping he might be able to give me a little guidance … There are one or two things
that I just need to straighten out –’
‘Oh, if that’s all,’ she said impatiently, ‘I expect he can spare a few minutes. But kindly don’t keep him long; we have my sister staying again next week and it is essential that I go over the arrangements with him.’ There was a clatter followed by a silence, and then in the distance I caught the tail end of a shouted delivery, ‘… Oughterard, rambling on about some sermon. Don’t let him take all night …’
I heard the sound of footsteps and the receiver was picked up. ‘Ah, Francis,’ said the familiar voice, ‘glad you’ve phoned, dear fellow.’ (‘Dear fellow’ – was he abstracted?) ‘Now what can I do for you? Something about your address, I gather.’ The tone was unusually emollient, avuncular even, and I guessed she had been giving him a hard time.
I wanted to launch straight into Mrs Carruthers but felt some tactful prelude was required. ‘Er, yes actually. Sounds ridiculous, sir, but I’m a bit stuck for a theme – I mean one that would be both appropriate and topical. It seems a little feeble relying on the safe and tried, but on the other hand one doesn’t want to be too radical! I suppose for this sort of thing it’s a question of finding just the right balance, and I’m not sure that I’ve –’
‘You’re so right, Oughterard,’ he broke in, ‘all a case of fine tuning, as I used to tell my students. Fine tuning! Sensible of you to appreciate that.’ The voice of confident patronage held an almost genial note, relief presumably at dealing with one more tractable than his spouse.
I told him I would be grateful for any tips. Unfortunately such deference was only too well appreciated, for the next ten minutes were taken up with a barrage of recommended topics including one which he entitled ‘spiritual homicide’. I was tempted to say that I was better acquainted with the physical kind – but refrained. However, he then got on to matters sexual and declared that in view of the current lamentable lapse into sensuality doubtless a subject along those lines would fit the bill. I said I did not think so.
‘In that case,’ he opined, ‘a good general topic on which you can put your own top spin … Sin and Sloth, that’s the one! There’s far too much bone idleness around these days – and I think somebody like you could convey that very well, and what’s more …’ And thus on he prosed, temporarily freed from Gladys and in his element. It had to stop.
‘I say, sir,’ I cut in brightly, ‘I was talking to Mrs Carruthers the other day and she was very worried that your tiddlywinks might be getting a little rusty. Seems to think that without you the Bracknell Cup is a lost cause – quite upset she was.’
There was a long pause. And then he said sotto voce, ‘Look here, Oughterard, to tell you the truth, since that ghastly business in Savage’s shed I’ve rather lost my nerve. Every time I think of counters and dice all I can see are those frightful legs! It’s beginning to get me down.’
I felt scant sympathy. Got him down? He wanted to try being knifed by a paranoid lunatic! However, assuming my most cajoling tone, I said, ‘Ah, but that’s probably what’s needed – what I believe our Freudian friends call aversion therapy. Apparently when you confront what most unsettles you there’s a sort of relief, and all the tension just drains away and …’
‘Hmm,’ he muttered. ‘Drains away, does it?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said authoritatively, ‘completely.’
Somewhere from the far distance there sounded a muted bellow. ‘Right!’ said Clinker hastily. ‘Tell her I’ll be in touch – soon!’ And with a peremptory clearing of throat he rang off.
I returned to the study feeling vaguely pleased that by effecting a rapprochement between the bishop and Mrs C. I had made modest contribution to the cause of tiddlywinks and the securing of the Bracknell Cup. It was gratifying too to think that each would once more be enjoying the other’s company and benefiting from the pleasure. For a short while I sat immersed in these rosy speculations.
And then of course I thought of Ingaza and the rosiness promptly withered. Bloody man – was he really serious about our visit to France? Foolish question, it was virtually a fait accompli! I sighed, got up and went to the bookcase. My old school atlas was on the top shelf. I took it down and searched for the Auvergne. Always as well to know where you are going, I thought gloomily.
For half an hour or so I immersed myself in the contours and place names of that mountainous region. ‘Wild, volcanic, mist-ridden …’ ran the accompanying text, ‘a land of tumbling waterfalls, brooding cliffs, forested ravines and primitive legend. Indeed, rumour has it that wolves still roam its perilous crags – but such tales are unlikely to daunt the modern wayfarer …’ Oh no? I thought grimly. Trust Nicholas to drag us into this Shangri-la!
I remembered the diary March had shown me with Elizabeth’s scathing allusion to the Folie and its ‘dark and sinister’ setting, and my gloom deepened. One bleak thought invariably leads to another: and the lowering face of the Curé of Taupinière came into my mind. Just the companion needed for such a venture! I cursed Ingaza again and, pouring a small restorative nightcap, reflected wryly, and not for the first time, that it was something I had brought entirely upon myself … Yes, the Fotherington Folly was aptly named! I closed the atlas, stretched, and prepared for an early night.
I was halfway up the stairs, relishing the prospect of a long bath and a good book, when the telephone rang. At first I was tempted to ignore it but the sound persisted, and reluctantly I returned to the hall. The dog pottered out from the kitchen and watched me quizzically. ‘My lord bishop presumably,’ I grumbled to Bouncer, ‘with more prattle on sin and sloth no doubt!’
In fact it was a woman’s tone, though due to an impossibly crackling line barely audible. I strained my ears and caught dislocated phrases – ‘my father’, ‘bone idle’, ‘tiny green eyes’, ‘several reproductions’, ‘pig in Poona’. I listened bemused by the words. But from what I could make out she seemed to be alleging that her parent was some indolent swine from Poona with mean green eyes and a penchant for procreation … Surely not! However, one of the hazards of clerical life is sudden ambush by the woolly and unhinged; and I was beginning to think that the caller was just one such, when the line became horribly clear.
‘Oh yes,’ continued the voice of Mrs Pindar, my recent luncheon companion at the Bishop’s Palace, ‘as mentioned, Daddy was very big in Poona and so knows quite a lot about those Indian bone idol things, and it was just wonderful to hear your expert views on the Beano replica – such an intriguing subject! A few of us are meeting after church on Sunday … Daddy of course, with two or three other eager beavers, and dear Claude Blenkinsop smothered in laurels from that recent magazine article! And I am rather hoping that Professor Purbright will grace us with his illustrious presence. But such a treat for everyone if the renowned specialist could attend as well!’ She paused expectantly.
I stared at Bouncer, who vigorously wagged his tail. Then resting the receiver on the table, I lit a cigarette, expelled a perfectly formed smoke ring, and with a degree of pride followed its spiralling progress as it wafted upwards into the vacant air.
‘Are you there, Canon?’ the voice anxiously enquired.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but not for much longer. You see, unfortunately I shall be absent on that date. Out of the country actually … I may be gone for some time. In fact I am about to depart at this very moment … the taxi awaits!’
Also by Suzette A. Hill
A Load of Old Bones
Bones in the Belfry
Copyright
Constable & Robinson Ltd
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First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009
Copyright © Suzette A. Hill, 2009
The right of Suzette A. Hill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988
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d. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN : 978–1–84901–794–7
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