Bone Idle (10 page)

There was silence. And then clearing his throat, Wattle observed, ‘Well, no guidance from that direction … I had expected more.’

‘Not where Violet Pond is concerned,’ I said. ‘He had a dust-up with her some months ago, and he’s not getting caught again.’ (I refrained from explaining that the dust-up had been in connection with Mrs Pond’s complaint over me featuring so prominently in her mother’s will. Like the deceased, some things are best left undisturbed.)

‘I’ve not actually been involved in an exhumation before,’ he continued. ‘Don’t know the protocol – perhaps the new archdeacon can shed some light.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said grimly, ‘that’ll test his pastoral initiative all right!’ And then added, ‘Probably the best thing is to do nothing, perhaps they’ll get bored with the whole idea and go away.’ But I spoke with little conviction. Knowing Violet, and having encountered Crumpelmeyer, I had small hope that they would just disappear – a doubt that Wattle confirmed.

‘They don’t seem bored at the moment!’ he exclaimed. ‘According to Hawkins, my sexton, the two of them have been prowling around her grave for the last three evenings: not engaged in anything like bringing flowers or doing a spot of tidying, just wandering about talking and staring. In fact Hawkins said it was as if they were eying it up, sort of taking its measure … but then one doesn’t want to believe everything Hawkins says, he’s got rather a lurid imagination. It’s the work, I suppose.’

‘I should think he has,’ I cried. ‘He’ll be telling you next that they’ve been seen with picks and shovels!’

‘No,’ he replied, ‘but we may see them appear with a magistrate and a permit to disinter.’

I closed my eyes and shuddered. This really was the last straw! And then I shuddered again: what on earth had the Crumpelmeyers meant by saying it was something to do with
me
! What dread horrors now lay jostling in my path?

Gripped by that question, I bade goodnight to Wattle, said a few encouraging words to Carrot Top, and then made my way to the car and home. It had been a dreadful evening.

‘Bugger me!’ exploded the dog. ‘If that doesn’t take the cat’s litter!’

I stared angrily. ‘Is something troubling you?’ I enquired.

‘I should say so,’ he growled. ‘Look what he’s gone and done – put his great hoof in my grub-bowl and mangled all the best bits. It’s too bad!’

I regarded the bowl. Its contents looked worse than usual. ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘that must have happened last night when he returned from Guildford. I thought he was in a bit of a state – blundering about everywhere and muttering his head off. Something about graves and bastards … the usual sort of thing.’

I resumed my grooming and hoped the dog would be quiet. He wasn’t. Instead he embarked on a long saga involving O’Shaughnessy and his latest escapade, which seemed to feature the milkman and two dozen broken eggs. Whatever it was, Bouncer clearly found it highly risible, and at least it diverted him from F.O.’s gaffe with his feeding bowl.

I let the tale sweep over me as I brooded on our master and his current preoccupation with matters subterranean. What
was
it he had been muttering? I raked my memory, and then it suddenly came back to me – yes, something to the effect of ‘… dig up the damn grave and shove Pond in too!’ I winced. Surely he was not planning
another
assault! The upheaval would be dreadful and I should have to rethink my entire routine …

Such bleak thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the dog bawling, ‘… and then, Maurice, what do you think O’Shaughnessy did? Lapped up all the milk AS WELL!’

I closed my eyes but nodded appreciatively. ‘Remarkable!’

‘Thought you’d like it,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘And what’s more –’

‘Bouncer,’ I said hastily, ‘there is something rather serious we have to consider.’

‘Well, if you mean my grub-bowl, I think he’s even chipped a bit off!’

‘No,’ I said quietly, ‘it is not your bowl, but our prospects. I think he may be gearing himself up for another disposal.’

There was silence for a few moments while he appeared to cogitate. And then he said, ‘So who’s for the high jump this time?’

I told him I thought it was the Crumple woman. He didn’t answer but lay down and chewed his paw.

This went on for some time and I began to get impatient; but eventually he said, ‘Oh no, Maurice, I don’t think so; you’ve got it wrong.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Yes, you’re miaowing up the wrong tree there.’

‘How do you know?’ I exclaimed.

‘Well, I don’t
know
exactly, just sort of feel … in my bones, you might say.’

‘No, I wouldn’t actually. It is not an expression I care to use. Presumably you will be saying it is your sixth sense next!’ (A claim he invariably imagines to be his trump card.)

‘Something like that,’ he agreed. ‘But things are going to be a bit dicey all the same, mark my words.’ And with that oracular observation, he rolled over and went snoring off to sleep.

I stared at him irritably. Dicey? Things had always been ‘dicey’ living with the vicar, there was nothing new in that … But what in particular was looming to make F.O. quite so agitated? He hadn’t been in such a state since the incident with the cigarette lighter.
*
I sighed, and carefully circumventing the dog’s tail, I too lay down and took my ease.

The morning after Foggarty’s party I woke early with a headache and a distinct sense of foreboding. The few hours that I had managed to sleep had been battered with dreams of earth mounds and shovels and the constant drone of Inspector March’s voice repeating incessantly, ‘It’s like I said – he should never of gone and done it!’ A view with which in my waking state I thoroughly concurred.

Downstairs in the kitchen I made strong coffee, lit a cigarette, and ruminated. Technically, of course, the question of Elizabeth’s exhumation did not concern me: she was in Wattle’s domain, not mine. And despite Clinker’s reference to her having been my parishioner, the actual burial location surely carried more weight in such matters than the customary place of worship. Yes, in that respect the whole matter was undoubtedly Wattle’s pigeon. Nevertheless, the possibility of her resurrection was something which I found far from congenial … indeed, not to put too fine a point on it, grotesque! And the less I knew about it the better. But in this rather closeted part of Surrey grapevines flourish, and – assuming it was ever sanctioned – I doubted whether I could escape hearing of the gruesome event.

Besides, what was immediately worrying was Wattle’s comment that the Crumpelmeyers thought that I had something to do with the buried bracelet. What on earth had they meant? Perhaps the rector had got the wrong end of the stick or misheard them. But then again, perhaps he had heard only too well. My encounters with Violet Pond had suggested a woman of wild and improbable imaginings; and emboldened with a new husband what fresh vagaries might she not indulge! It was all very dispiriting.

To assuage anxiety I toasted two thick slices of bread and smothered them in peanut butter and marmalade. Watched intently by Bouncer, I was about to embark on the first piece when the telephone rang. Irritably I put down the toast and went into the hall to answer it: some officious member of the congregation requesting alteration to the time of the Sunday services. Did I not think it would be better to hold the eleven o’clock sung Communion at ten o’clock, thus releasing worshippers to attend to their leisure pursuits sooner rather than later? I replied that, no, I did not think so; that eleven o’clock was the traditional hour, and that in any case, the scheduling of church services could hardly depend on the recreational plans of random members of the laity. I hung up briskly and returned to the kitchen. It was amazing what people occupied themselves with at that hour of the morning!

Settled once more, I reapplied my mind to the exhumation and my toast. A slice was missing and Bouncer nowhere to be seen. I cursed. Wretched dog! Presumably I should be grateful for his courtesy in leaving me the one remnant.

Thus the day started in tiresome mode and continued so until lunchtime and an encounter with Mavis Briggs and Edith Hopgarden, when it took a further lurch downwards.

They were in the High Street together, with Edith marching and Mavis trailing. As they approached (Edith in her clattering heels and Mavis in the flat wide-strapped sandals so despised by Claude) I wondered vaguely what had occasioned such sorority. They were not noted for their mutual admiration. I paused and stared fixedly into a draper’s window hoping they would miss me. Quite the reverse.

‘I cannot imagine what the canon finds so riveting about ladies’ corsets,’ announced Edith’s penetrating voice. ‘Dog collars more his line, I should have thought!’

I swung round, flushing and flustered. She was quite right, there were indeed two peach and bursting undergarments thrust close to the window-pane, which in my haste to remain unnoticed I had somehow failed to register.

Mavis tittered, while I laughed weakly, explaining that I had been looking for vests.

‘In that case,’ said Edith, again loudly and pointedly, ‘you had better try the
other
window, they’ve got plenty there, nobody could miss them!’ I did not like her tone, but then I rarely do.

Mavis started up. ‘Oh Canon,’ she bleated, ‘you remember those gurgling noises in the vestry pipes I told you about?’ I nodded. ‘Do you know, they’ve completely disappeared. It’s such a relief, I was getting really worried! It was almost … almost
uncanny
. You could hear them every Friday morning – most strange. You must obviously have done something very clever!’ She simpered up at me.

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I took a hammer.’

Back in the safety of the vicarage, I imbibed a liquid lunch and made a vigorous assault upon the keys: the old favourites, ‘Honeysuckle Rose’, ‘Stardust’ à la Errol Garner, lush and plangent, a jaunty little rendering of ‘After You’ve Gone’, and then some rather clumsily executed snatches of Schubert. After that I felt considerably better; indeed sufficiently inspired to start hunting for receipts with which to mollify the church auditors. This was a long but nevertheless moderately productive chore, and the afternoon closed on a note of relief.

However, it was a relief somewhat dissipated by my sister Primrose. She telephoned on the dot of six to announce she would require a bed for the night on her way north to visit friends. I was still a trifle frayed by our last encounter and asked diffidently if she intended bringing the chinchillas again, Boris and Karloff.

‘Certainly not!’ she exclaimed. ‘They have barely recovered from their dreadful ordeal last summer!’ That made three of us.

I brightened. ‘Well, I am sure that should be no difficulty. When do you want to come?’

After some negotiating in which Primrose was the chief protagonist, we settled on four days hence. I wondered whether she might appreciate a little company at supper, and considered inviting the Savages or even the churchwarden Colonel Dawlish. But I swiftly banished the idea. My sister’s abrasiveness would be too much for the gentle Savages, and too similar to Colonel Dawlish’s to make for an easy evening. No, Primrose alone was the best bet – and in any case it was a prospect not totally uncongenial. Although sharing a degree of mutual exasperation, on the whole we relate moderately well – provided distance is kept and meetings are few – and despite her bossiness and what she clearly regards as my muddle, enjoy a wary friendship (albeit recently severely tested by the chinchilla débâcle).

The following day was Sunday. Many can stay abed; vicars cannot. Thus I roused myself early and prepared for the three morning services, two quick and one long. The latter is by far the best, for apart from a short Evensong it marks the end of the day’s commitments, and carries the prospect of lunch and an idle afternoon with newspapers and the Third Programme. So the Sunday ritual took its customary course: two short Communions, and finally the Sung Eucharist at eleven o’clock.

It had been a rather agreeable service – good attendance, doughty hymn-singing (so different from the previous week’s dirge-like quaverings), a resolute reading from Colonel Dawlish, plenty in the collection plate, and above all a gratifying attention to my sermon. Just occasionally I can pull the rabbit out of the hat and make them sit up and take notice, and that day’s particular theme – The Fruits of Merriment – seemed to have caught their fancy and kept them moderately awake. Certainly there was a show of beaming bonhomie in the porch afterwards, and once the usual nods and pleasantries were over I was able to return to the vestry feeling almost buoyed up.

Occasionally on Sundays I am invited to lunch by one of the congregation, but sometimes I prefer the solitude of the vicarage and the prospect of a large gin and a long snooze. That day it was going to be the latter, and I walked down the path and out through the lychgate looking forward to both and wondering vaguely what I should organize for supper when Primrose arrived.

Thus occupied I did not see them at first. But as I stopped to unwrap a peppermint I noticed a couple coming towards me: she square and heavy, he shorter with plump and pallid face. The Crumpelmeyers advanced remorselessly up the lane.

I cast around wildly for an escape hatch. There was none, not even a lurking chorister whom I could buttonhole and engage in protective chatter. They approached frozen-faced, while I composed my own features into a smile of ingratiating benevolence. I would take the bulls by the horns.

‘Good morning!’ I greeted them, ‘How’s the new house at Godalming? Settling in all right, are you?’

‘In the circumstances, yes,’ replied Violet distantly. I raised an enquiring eyebrow.

‘What my wife means,’ murmured Crumpelmeyer, ‘is that we would be settled considerably better had you not chosen to interfere with the late Mrs Fotherington’s selection of jewellery.’

I stared at him literally open-mouthed. ‘Interfered with her jewellery! Whatever do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I say. You gave her gratuitous and officious advice which she was fool enough to take, and from which we are now all suffering.’ He sniffed assertively and adjusted his tie with podgy hand.

What on earth was the man babbling about? I certainly did not recall offering any advice to Elizabeth – being generally far too preoccupied in trying to extricate myself from her crushing overtures! Besides, how could my advice have possibly affected the Crumpelmeyers? I was to learn.

‘If you had exerted less influence over my poor mother,’ broke in Violet, ‘that diamond bracelet kept in her bank strong-box would have had some useful value. As it is, it has proved worthless! Not content with inveigling yourself into her will and denying me much of my rightful patrimony, you had the gall to tell her to switch the paste bracelet for the genuine article! The stupid old – the poor dear lady went about wearing the
real
diamonds while all the time the paste ones were safely and pointlessly tucked up in the bank vault. We took them to be valued a few weeks ago and were horrified to hear they were utterly bogus – paste through and through. And it’s all
your
fault!’

Shocked by the speed and volume of the onslaught and still trying to recollect my part in the matter, I said thoughtlessly, ‘So where are the real ones?’

‘In the grave of course,’ snarled Crumpelmeyer, ‘in the rotten grave!’

Ah yes, the grave. But I was still utterly perplexed about my part in the business. And then as I gazed at the lowering faces in front of me, I suddenly remembered.

It had been a Sunday, and for once Elizabeth had succeeded in persuading me to return to Marchbanks House for some sherry after the service. We had talked of this and that and nothing in particular. I had dutifully admired her flowers, her etchings, the budgerigar, the querulously staring cat (Maurice). But just as I was about to take my leave, the bracelet she always wore slipped from her wrist. I picked it up, and, as with the other items, paid the appropriate compliments. She explained rather ruefully that it was merely a copy, the original being deposited with the bank at the insistence of her daughter. I had said something to the effect that it seemed such a shame for lovely things to be locked away – surely they were made to be displayed and enjoyed; and I remembered making the vulgar quip, ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it!’ She had gone into peals of tinkling laughter and said perhaps she might just do that…

‘When I asked the bank to explain itself,’ continued Violet, ‘the head clerk airily announced that my mother had exchanged the bracelets about six months prior to her death, saying that the vicar had advised her to do so. Is there no end to your intrusions, Mr Oughterard?’ (Or my penance? I wondered.) ‘So when I requested the bracelet be buried with my mother I had no idea that it was the original. Worth several thousands! Naturally, had I realized, I should never have –’

‘It’s not that we are mercenary,’ Victor Crumpelmeyer interjected quickly, ‘it is simply a matter of principle and justice.’

I nodded. ‘Ah yes, of course, principle and justice …’

‘Yes, and we’re going to get it!’ cried Violet. ‘Just because you’ve robbed a poor weak woman of her full inheritance don’t imagine you can deny her the family jewels as well … Mother is going to be dug up!’

I cleared my throat and said quietly that the last thing I wanted was to deny her access to the family jewels, but wasn’t an exhumation going perhaps a trifle far? And did she, in any case, think her mother would have approved the project? To which she replied that it had nothing whatever to do with her mother and all to do with rights.

I did not dispute the point but murmured that I rather doubted whether they would obtain the necessary permission as the authorities were rather tight on that sort of thing.

‘Ah, but you see it’s simply a matter of knowing who to approach and how,’ said her husband confidently. ‘I am rather a dab hand in such matters – fouling the system, tweaking this and that. I generally get my way in the end.’ He stared at me blankly and then gave a slow fat smile. And exchanging smug glances they sauntered off. The Fruits of Merriment were turning distinctly sour.