Bone Idle (17 page)

‘But I don’t want to go back! Whatever for?’

‘That lock you were grappling with will be smothered in fingerprints – yours and your friend’s. Better take a handkerchief and do a bit of polishing up. Did you touch anything else?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Well, that’s all right then.’ Rather an overstatement, I thought.

‘So – what will you do?’

‘Oh,’ he replied casually, ‘I’ll go down there first thing tomorrow morning, see what’s what and then report it at the police station. I’ll say I tripped over it.’

‘Suppose they try to pin it on you?’

He smiled. ‘No, they won’t do that.’

‘Unlikely, but you never know. They’re so suspicious!’ I spoke with feeling.

‘Ah, but I’ve got an alibi. Moorfields.’

‘What?’

‘The big eye hospital in Middlesex. I go twice a year for a check-up. Spend all day there, hours on end! In fact, I’ve only just got off the train now … And do you know what?’

I said I didn’t.

‘They think they’ve seen a bit of daylight. Slight signs of improvement, they say. What you lot would call a miracle, I suppose … what I call a bloody piece of luck!’

‘Is that why you were whistling in tune?’ I asked.

He chuckled. ‘Better get on with that polishing, Rev!’

Somehow I managed to weather the invasion of the bell ringers, returning from my polishing in the nick of time to let them in. But I participated little in the AGM proceedings, being too fixated by images of those rearing legs to give much attention to the niceties of chimes and changes, least of all to disputes about the tea-making rota and the venue for their annual supper. My mind was grappling with other urgencies: what to do!

In fact, I concluded, the best thing was to do nothing. Apart from Savage, who had kindly volunteered to tell the police he had tripped over the body, there was no one to know that either I or the bishop had been anywhere near the allotments on that particular evening. The fact that neither of us had anything remotely to do with the affair – innocent bystanders, you might say – was not the point. The last thing I wanted was further parleying with March and Samson, especially on matters cadaverous. All in all, the less said – or asked – the better. And for the next two days I immersed myself in parish duties with a fervour last felt as a callow curate bludgeoned by the forces of ‘muscular Christianity’. Indeed, so zealous did I become in pursuit of defaced hymn books and recalcitrant choir boys that Edith Hopgarden was heard to enquire whether I was sickening for something.

Meanwhile not a squeak out of Clinker, and I concluded that he was engaged in comparable activity. The fear of having to account to Gladys for the body in the shed and the tiddlywinks tryst with Mrs Carruthers was enough presumably to keep any bishop silent and busy.

However, in between these bouts of random zeal I did have time to ponder the identity of the lady – and, indeed, who it was that had been so discomfited by her existence as to take the course they had. Apart from the legs, thick and sturdy, I knew nothing about the victim – neither age nor provenance. Undoubtedly it would all come out, but for the time being I was content to bask in discreet ignorance. Not that there was much basking going on, for in addition to parish matters I was much occupied in preparing for my trip down to Primrose: cajoling young Rothermere at Alford to take some services, rescheduling a Vestry meeting, and trying vainly to organize the Boy Scouts to look after Maurice and Bouncer. None was available, all apparently being lured by some jolly camping spree in the purlieus of Surbiton.

Thus I tried the new people with the gigantic wolfhound. For some reason they were very taken with Bouncer, and when I first enquired if they could possibly have the cat and dog as lodgers for a couple of days they had been only too delighted, saying it would be nice for Florrie to have some playmates. Then at the last minute they were called away to attend to some ailing in-law, so there was nothing for it but to take the pair with me again. I just hoped they would be less disruptive than on the previous occasion: enough trouble was likely to be generated by the presence of Nicholas without having to cope with the added burden of Maurice’s tantrums!

The next day, luggage and animals carefully stowed, I started for Sussex; but before getting fully under way, I stopped at the florist’s to buy flowers for Primrose. If she was still smarting from my ‘intrusions’ upon her business negotiations with Nicholas they might help soften the blast.

I was just getting back in the car when I was accosted by the breathy tones of Mavis Briggs. ‘Oh, Canon,’ she gasped, ‘isn’t it dreadful? Whatever will happen next!’

‘Sorry?’

‘So terrible – I mean it really stops one sleeping at night!’

‘What does?’ I murmured irritably, trying to prise Bouncer from the driver’s seat.

‘But haven’t you heard?’

‘No.’

‘Why, it’s all in the papers – another murder, here in Molehill. In a
shed
!’

I gritted my teeth. It had only been a matter of time, but trust Mavis to be in full cry!

‘Dear me,’ I said, ‘that’s a bit much. How unfortunate! But if you don’t mind, Mavis, I really must be on my way, I’ve got to –’

‘But you don’t understand!’ she cried. ‘It’s the daughter!’

‘What daughter?’

‘It’s all happening again,’ she wailed. ‘Mrs Fothering-ton’s of course!’

Having managed to push Bouncer out of the way I was about to take his place behind the wheel, but stopped in mid-manoeuvre. ‘Mrs Fotherington’s daughter!’ I yelped. ‘You mean Violet Pond? Violet Crumpelmeyer as she is – was?’

‘
Yes!
’ exclaimed Mavis avidly, realizing she had got my attention. ‘You see, it’s all here in the papers …’ and she drew a
Telegraph
from her string shopping bag and attempted to thrust it under my nose.

I waved it aside, murmuring, ‘Dreadful, dreadful!’ And clambering into the seat and engaging the gear, apologized for my haste, and with lurching mind drove off swiftly.

In fact, so ruffled was I by this revelation that I delayed taking the Sussex road, and instead returned to the vicarage where I found some codeine, made coffee and tried to take stock of things. Little came of the stock-taking, and I was just about to leave when the telephone shrilled and I mechanically lifted the receiver. It was Clinker.

‘Ah, Francis,’ he began (use of my first name invariably precedes a request or a confidence), ‘hoped I might find you. I’ve, er, just been reading
The Times
and there’s a small item about Molehill and that, uhm … well, about the allotments thing, you know.’ His voice trailed off, and I told him that I did know, and that while there might be a small report in
The Times
, I gathered there was a very big one in the
Telegraph
.

‘Ye-es,’ he said uneasily, ‘I thought perhaps there might be.’ There was a pause, and then he said in a tone half wheedling and half hectoring, ‘Now look here, I think we both realize that this is a matter of some delicacy and I see no reason for the diocese to become involved, no reason at all … and therefore –’

‘The less said the better,’ I completed.

‘Exactly! Very shrewd, Francis. Now I take it that your man Savage is discreet … I mean to say, I’m sure he wouldn’t want any publicity for
you
about – ah – borrowing his shed for example …’

‘No,’ I answered earnestly, ‘and neither for its purpose. And fortunately Mrs Carruthers knows nothing and so that shouldn’t be a problem.’

There was a brief silence. And then he said rather frostily, ‘As it happens, there has already been a problem. Can’t think what tale you spun her, Oughterard, but she rang up at nine o’clock this morning enquiring after my health. Said she had heard it rumoured that I had contracted some appalling lung condition and was about to be carted off to the Surrey Hospital for exploratory tests and was unlikely to emerge for at least two weeks. Unfortunately it was Gladys who took the call … told Mrs C. that she was insane and that I had never been in ruder health. I must say, Oughterard, the next time you are asked to deliver a tactful message kindly curb your imagination!’

As you may imagine, my journey down to Lewes was not the most placid. The animals were unusually quiet, but my thoughts considerably less so. ‘Trust the Fotheringtons to pull a macabre stunt like that!’ I blustered. ‘First the mother embarrasses me by that wretched codicil, then the daughter gets herself murdered – and by the same method. It’s indecent!’ It was also very peculiar and I didn’t like it one jot.

I reached Primrose in a state of some turbulence, but pulling myself together and having hauled Maurice and Bouncer from the back seat, gave the bell a brisk ring. I had decided to keep quiet about the whole episode. The less my sister – or indeed anyone – knew about my part in the allotment matter, the better: it is amazing how one thing can so rapidly lead to another! In any case, I was still uneasy about having confided to her the details of the original event, and did not want to muddy the waters further by revealing my role – however innocent – in this startling development with Violet. I suppose, too, I still harboured a sort of jaundiced loyalty to Clinker, and felt a sneaking sympathy for anyone faced with an enraged Gladys – not to mention the bemused probings of the Church authorities! With a bit of luck Primrose may have been too busy preparing for Ingaza to have delved into the
Telegraph
’s inside pages, and so be ignorant of the whole affair. Thus I breezed into her drawing room in a state of expansive good cheer, regaled her gaily about the antics of Maurice and Bouncer, asked fondly after the chinchillas and babbled inconsequentially about anything unconnected with Molehill and its murderous associations.

Primrose was mildly welcoming and expatiated at some length about her proposed negotiations with Nicholas. ‘Of course, he’s a total bounder,’ she exclaimed. ‘But
art
and fiscal necessity transcend that sort of thing, and one does have to think of the long term.’

I said that perhaps she now understood why I had been forced to get involved with him in the first place.

‘Certainly not,’ she replied, asserting that there was nothing remotely artistic about me – and that in any case, had I been thinking of the long term I would have moderated my behaviour in Foxford Wood and thus been spared his tiresome attentions. ‘Were it not for that absurd blunder with the binoculars he need never have darkened your doorstep!’ I was too tired to dispute the matter and asked instead what she was planning to give him for supper.

‘Gin, I should think,’ was the reply.

After a light lunch we settled down in the sitting room: me struggling with the crossword and Primrose devouring the local
Argus
. I was making little headway with the clues, and was just thinking that I might take a short nap to prepare for the rigours of Nicholas, when Primrose suddenly exclaimed, ‘I say, what an
extraordinary
coincidence!’

‘What?’

‘It’s your Molehill again. There’s been another murder – the daughter of Elizabeth Fotherington!’

My heart sank. ‘Ah, I did hear something about that but –’

‘Francis!’ Primrose cried. ‘You haven’t done it again, have you?’

‘Certainly not,’ I snapped. ‘Whatever gives you that idea?’

‘Apparently she was strangled with a scarf. Isn’t that what happened to her mother?’

‘Masses of people are strangled with scarves,’ I replied irritably, ‘but not all by the same person!’ (The usual false reporting: this time rope had been the preferred material, not chiffon, but I could hardly tell Primrose.)

She buried her head in the paper again, and then I heard a gasp. ‘Good Lord!’ she muttered.

‘What?’

‘It says here she was found in a shed near Foxford Wood, on the allotments behind your graveyard … Are you
sure
you weren’t involved?’

‘Of course I’m sure! What do you take me for? I haven’t got over the first one yet! … Besides, I would hardly be stupid enough to use the same area again, would I?’

‘Well,’ she said doubtfully, ‘if you weren’t thinking, you might … and you must admit, you don’t always think!’

‘Think?’ I cried. ‘I do nothing
but
think, and so would you if you were in my shoes! What you are saying is preposterous – I thought you were supposed to be on my side.’

‘I am,’ she protested. ‘It’s just that one must make sure one’s got the whole picture without any blurring of the edges.’

I groaned. ‘No, Primrose, there are no “blurred edges”. I have committed only one damn murder and that is my lot – and my doom. And now, if you don’t mind, I am going to bed!’

As I mounted the stairs, narrowly missing the basking cat, she called out, ‘You’ll find some aspirin on the bathroom shelf …’

By seven o’clock, washed and shaved and soothed with aspirin, I felt more myself again. Indeed, in a masochistic way I was almost ready to welcome Nicholas when he arrived.

I went down to the sitting room where Primrose had made up a good fire and set out a tray of drinks. I poured a whisky, lit a cigarette and stared at the dog, wondering how on earth the two would get on and what, if anything, could possibly come from their ‘business negotiations’. The dog seemed disinclined to shed light on the matter, but I did not have long to wait for there was suddenly an anguished rasping of tyres on gravel, and from the window I saw the familiar and slightly sinister hulk of the black Citroën sprawled in the driveway.

Primrose had obviously heard the din as well, for she came rushing out of the kitchen tearing off a pinafore and crying, ‘Oh my God, is he here already!’

My sister is not normally flustered – but then neither is she normally dressed quite so vividly: scarlet sweater dress, scarlet lipstick, high heels with black stocking-seams, and a pair of mother’s jet and diamante ear-rings from the twenties. Primrose is tall and the overall effect was distinctly intimidating.

‘Do I look all right?’ she whispered.

‘Er – yes,’ I replied, ‘very, uhm,
capable
.’