Bone Idle (20 page)

The next few days passed uneventfully – uneventful that is except for the failure of the church boiler, the verger’s unceasing complaints about his lumbago, and Miss Dalrymple bemoaning the fact that there was an even greater presence of chewing gum deposits in the choir stalls than usual. ‘It’s the American sort,’ she grumbled, ‘less durable than our own brands and the boys spit it out more often.’

I expressed concern and enquired whether the local sweet shop might be prevailed upon to revert to type. She retorted that it would be far more useful if I could preach a brisk sermon on the perils of self-abuse.

‘Self-abuse!’ I cried in horror. ‘Whatever do you mean, Miss Dalrymple!’

‘Well, Canon,’ she said, ‘as I am sure you very well know, unseemly behaviour often precedes moral turpitude. Can’t you deliver a little homily on the use of chewing gum as a prelude to dental decay and sin?
That
would give them pause for thought!’

‘Pause for sleep, I should think,’ I responded. ‘Try bribery, it might be more …’ Fortunately at that point we were approached by Colonel Dawlish in high dudgeon over some gaffe made by the auditors in the church accounts; and for the next half-hour I was subjected to a heated and technical tirade on the finer details of double entry bookkeeping. Eventually I was able to extricate myself and made my grateful way home relishing the prospect of a good restorative.

As I opened the door I found a cream envelope on the mat. It was sealed but bore no name or address and I assumed it was a circular or some similar trifle. However, before attending to the restorative I slit it open and glanced at the contents. They didn’t amount to much. In tiny, black and scrupulous capitals were written the words: ‘YOU ARE NEXT.’

I stared down uncomprehendingly. Next? Next what …? Puzzled, I turned the sheet over to see if anything was written on the back. There was nothing … And then of course the point dawned: a childish prank singling me out as the next victim in ‘The Allotment Plot’ as one or two of the cruder journals had begun to call it. It was half-term, and presumably the local
jeunesse dorée
had nothing better to do than play silly-beggars with their vicar. I tossed the note into the wastepaper basket and applied myself to gin and perusal of the evening paper.

I hadn’t been long at this when Bouncer appeared and started to sniff about the room in a most irritating way. I sighed. ‘I suppose you want your supper, do you?’ Normally the word ‘supper’ elicits immediate response, but he seemed not to hear and continued to agitate the air and my nerves. Suddenly with a low growl he made a beeline for the wastepaper basket, tipped it over with his snout and started to rummage in its contents. ‘For goodness sake,’ I expostulated, ‘you’re not a retriever, you know. Lie down or go out!’ He paused, stared at me gormlessly, and then thrust his head into the basket again. I had had enough of these antics and, taking the dregs of gin with me, went into the kitchen to do my own foraging.

I awoke later that night with a slight headache and, knowing better than to lie there vainly hoping it would pass, went downstairs for some tea and aspirin. Both of these I took into the study and was about to sit down when I saw the upturned wastepaper basket lying where Bouncer and I had left it the previous evening. I gathered the strewn papers and began to stuff them back in the basket, when my eye fell on the crumpled anonymous note. Idly I read it again, took the aspirin and settled down with the tea. As I sipped, disquieting images of the rearing legs came into my mind; and although at the moment of discovery there had been too little time and too much panic to examine the rest of the body, now, two weeks after the event, my imagination filled up with lurid details and I was suddenly back in the murk of Savage’s fearful shed. What had been intended as a tryst for jolly tiddlywinks had become a place of violent death, and the memory was unsettlingly real.

Abstractedly I swallowed another aspirin and pondered the enigma of why this second dispatch should disturb me – not so much in a
deeper
way than the first, but in a manner more acutely frightening. Presumably, I mused, it had something to do with the fact that in the original incident it had been I who had done the deed, and thus there was neither mystery nor threat. Moral responsibility may weigh one down but it does not induce primitive terror of the unknown. And being perforce in full possession of the facts also reduces the imaginative process. To some degree what we know we can control (however dreadful); but what is outside us – things beyond our ken – can exercise a power of awesome force. In this case what was particularly awesome was the ghastly coincidence of mother and daughter! And surely it
was
a coincidence, wasn’t it? Or was there some obscure underlying link which connected me as first assassin with this second, unknown OTHER? Or – horror of horrors – was
I
that Other, and Primrose quite right in her initial suspicions? After all, it was still being mooted that the crime had taken place elsewhere and the body only later imported into the shed. Perhaps at last madness had truly come upon me and I was leading some kind of weird schizoid existence …

I glanced once more at the note on my lap, swallowed a third pill, and settling myself in the recess of the chair, drifted into troubled sleep.

I woke early: stiff, chilly and not noticeably rested. But after a hot bath I felt mildly revived, and having engaged in a protracted breakfast was fairly ready to deal with the day’s agenda. This as often was a humdrum schedule – although on that day set to culminate in what doubtless would be high drama: taking the dog to the vet to have his toenails cut. Fortunately the appointment was not until four thirty, so in the meantime, soothed by duty and routine, I could prime myself for the impending theatricals.

These when they came were well up to standard, but as usual Robinson handled the subject with phlegmatic good humour. ‘Awkward customer, your Bouncer,’ he observed. ‘Still, nothing compared to the cat – now that one
is
a prima donna! A right old holy terror. Must be the influence of the vicarage.’ He laughed good-naturedly. I thanked him for his patience, and clipped and voluble we emerged into the late sunshine.

Our walk home took us via the High Street and we nearly encountered Mavis Briggs traipsing along festooned with dangling shopping bags. I thought at first she hadn’t seen me but should have known better, for in the next instant there was the familiar bleat: ‘Oh, Canon …’ I affected not to hear, and yanking Bouncer’s lead took swift sanctuary in the barber’s where I spent an unconscionable time selecting a packet of razor blades. Since it was well after five o’clock and the shop on the point of closing, I think our presence was not entirely welcome. However, there are times when one cannot falter.

The danger over, we went briskly on our way, the dog presumably as keen for his supper as his master. We were just rounding the corner leading to the lane which runs past the vicarage, when a large saloon car glided past, slowed and stopped. As I drew level the rear window was wound down and Clinker’s head emerged. The purple waistcoat and chauffeur’s presence suggested he was either coming from or going to some formal function. With luck the latter. Hopes were dashed, ‘Ah, Oughterard,’ he exclaimed, ‘just on my way back from Windsor and thought I might catch you at home – but this is as good as anywhere. Now, get in, if you wouldn’t mind, there’re a number of things I need to discuss.’ He opened the Daimler’s door and I clambered inside hauling the dog behind. ‘I trust that hound hasn’t got muddy paws,’ he grumbled, ‘Barnes has only just vacuumed the upholstery.’ I said nothing, thinking that if the bishop chose to go around hijacking people from the kerbstone then he could jolly well put up with muddy paws!

Fortunately the back of the car was spacious and Bouncer, tired from the toenail histrionics, ready to curl up and go to sleep. Clinker leant forward and snapped shut the glass partition, and lowering his voice began. ‘Well now, Oughterard, this shed business …’

It was really a repeat of the earlier telephone conversation, i.e. urging the necessity for discretion and enjoining me yet again to make absolutely no mention to Mrs Carruthers of what had been the intended venue. He had obviously been brooding on the matter since our last contact and, to quote one of Ingaza’s questionable analogies, must have been as fearful as a ferret with its arse shot off. He wanted to know if Savage was ‘safe’ and whether I knew of any developments in the current police enquiries: ‘I mean, for example, Francis, have they found anything in the shed of … er, a compromising nature – any trace of there having been
other parties
present?’

I reassured him about Savage, and said that as far as I was aware nothing further had emerged, adding that in any case since we (and specifically he) had spent so little time at the scene it was highly unlikely that there would be any residual traces. ‘But there was one thing,’ I volunteered, ‘which could just make things a trifle sticky …’

A flush of colour mottled his cheeks. ‘Good Lord, what-ever’s that, Francis?’

‘Well,’ I replied slowly and with straight face, ‘just by the door I gather they picked up three or four spilled tiddlywinks counters … you know, sir, little plastic blue and red ones. They seem to think the assassin may have dropped them …’

He stared at me in horror, his mouth opening and shutting like a mesmerized goldfish. And then finding his tongue and his wits, said in icy but slightly shaky tones, ‘I take it that is your idea of a joke, Oughterard – you can generally be relied upon to produce some puerile jest at times of serious moment. Gladys was right – why they elected you a canon I cannot imagine!’ And so saying he tapped briskly on the glass partition and indicated that the Reverend Oughterard was about to leave and the engine could thus be started.

Bouncer and I climbed out on to the pavement, and raising my hat I bade goodnight to the bishop and watched as the Daimler trundled on its stately way.

‘Supper at last!’ I said to the dog. ‘Come on.’

We entered by the back door, said hello to Maurice and settled to the pleasures of a leisurely meal. It was only much later, having done the washing up and listened to the Light Programme and the absurdities of Ted Ray’s
Take It From Here
, that I left the kitchen and crossed the hall to the study … On the mat by the front door lay another blank cream envelope.

I stared down despondently, and with a sigh of resignation picked it up and opened the flap. The writing was exactly as before – black ink, obsessively neat capitals. Only the message was different: ‘NEMESIS STALKS,’ it told me. I recall that my first reaction was one of annoyance. ‘Well, it can bloody well go and stalk elsewhere!’ I fumed. Nevertheless, despite the melodramatic phrasing, the word ‘Nemesis’ struck a distinctly uneasy chord, and as I pondered its source and purpose, the more agitated I became.

The first missive could indeed have been the work of some juvenile prankster cashing in on the current excitement. But this second one held a pertinence altogether too close to the bone, and I suddenly found myself shaking uncontrollably. Who could possibly know?
How
did they know? And above all, what were they going to do about it? These were questions that whirled and swirled in my mind making me feel quite faint with anxiety.

As so often in times of stress, the piano beckoned; and I hastily approached the keys trusting they might yield up some fortifying balm. They didn’t. My fingers were heavy, my shoulders tense, and even Bouncer seemed less than impressed by the resulting performance. After the fourth wrong note he lost interest and ambled back to the kitchen.

I retired to bed, my imagination engulfed in pictures of the scaffold and Albert Pierrepoint.

The public hangman pushed firmly to the back of my mind, I got on with my clerical duties. Sunday passed unremarkably, but Monday brought an avalanche of tedious post: a proliferation of bills, circulars, church notices, approaches from charities, an invitation to attend the annual dinner of the Guildford Temperance Society (no, thank you!), an unwelcome note from Archdeacon Foggarty reminding me that the time for the Canonical Address was nigh and would I please submit my theme as soon as possible (naturally I had none such), and finally a handwritten envelope in crabbed script postmarked central London. Seeing that last one nearly gave me a heart attack as the small handwriting suggested the anonymous letters, and such was my agitation that I was ready to fear the worst.

In fact it was from Claude Blenkinsop asking me to telephone him immediately as he had some intriguing news. I doubted whether there was anything pertaining to Claude that could be remotely intriguing, but nevertheless made a mental note to call him that evening.

The day proceeded busily, and I became immersed in the usual run of meetings, telephone calls, home visits and other sundry commitments of the parish. The early evening brought bell-ringing practice, an event that, despite the strenuous exercise, I find curiously soothing; and I arrived home satisfied with the day and looking forward to my armchair and a nice spot of supper. I was just beginning on the latter when I suddenly remembered Blenkinsop’s request to telephone him. I was tempted to put it off until later, but preferring to eat in a mood of ease decided to get it over with. So after returning the pie to a low oven and putting a lid on the mash, I went into the hall and dialled his number.

‘Ah, Francis,’ the mincing voice greeted me, ‘you obviously got my little note. How very kind of you to telephone.’ I told him it was my pleasure and trusted he was well. ‘Well, I
am
,’ he twittered, ‘quite overwhelmed really!’

‘Really? In what way?’

‘You see, I have just received a telephone call from America … well, I say “just received” but in fact it was two in the morning, if you please! At first I thought it was a practical joke … I don’t know about you, Francis, but I am unused to being rung up in the middle of the night – most unsettling. When I pointed this out in no uncertain terms to my caller, he said it was only nine o’clock on that side of the Atlantic and he hoped I wasn’t too disturbed. Well,
of course
I was disturbed
–
extremely! However, he explained that he is some academic in the Greenholt Institute, an offshoot of Harvard, I gather. In fact I think he said he’s the curator there – a Dr Hiram K. Flutzveldt.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, Flutzveldt – Hiram K.’ He spelled it out for me.

An image of Groucho Marx instantly filled my mind, but I said nothing, and listened politely to what he had to say.

‘I gather he is an avid collector of animal figurines, specifically British pigs and badgers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Rather an eclectic field, I grant. But you know what we connoisseurs are!’ He gave a modest laugh. ‘Apparently he edits a rather prestigious New York magazine dedicated to this kind of thing and is most eager to feature
my
Beano Pig, with several photographs and lengthy contributions from myself! Most flattering really. In fact he has already prepared the article’s title: “Blenkinsop’s Bone Idol Brings Home the Bacon!” What do you think of that, Francis … international fame at last!’ He gave an ironic titter but the underlying glee was obvious.

‘Er … but the thing isn’t British exactly, is it? It was stolen from Ali’s collection …’

‘Ah, but my dear chap, the Beano link and the addition of the gems have put the imperial stamp upon it: it’s what you would call British by association – or accident as some might prefer.’

‘I see … But this Dr Flutzveldt, does he know your model is not the original? I mean –’

‘Oh yes, of course. Apparently a mutual acquaintance made some reference to it, which is how he got my name. But that doesn’t matter. It is enough that mine is quite likely to be the first reproduction of its kind and therefore of considerable interest and appeal to the
discerning
. I am sure you will appreciate that!’ I assured him I did.

He prattled on fussily about the form the article would take and his central role in it, while I made the requisite responses. Given my own recent experience with both items, genuine and bogus, I cannot say that I was entirely smitten with the subject.

Claude continued. ‘However,’ he confided, ‘apparently Flutzveldt has been on the trail of the original for years, indeed he told me the pursuit had become quite an obsession. He even wondered whether I had any ideas on the subject, and if so he would be “grovellingly” grateful if I could give him information. He certainly sounded eager – said he would give his eye teeth to buy it, his
eye teeth
! Anyway, I am afraid I had to tell him that, flattered though I might be to have such a distinguished academic grovelling with gratitude, I feared that I had simply no idea of its whereabouts and that the thing was probably lost for all time … hence of course the special importance of
my
delightful little trinket!

‘He agreed I was probably right, but said he lives in hopes, especially since some of his researches have suggested it might still be in England … Personally I rather doubt that but I said I would apprise him of any “clues” should they come my way, as naturally I was always glad to accommodate a fellow scholar.’ Down the line came the faintest sound of a self-satisfied sniff. ‘Naturally he was exceedingly grateful, but assured me that in any event he would have great pleasure in compiling the proposed article and that I should be sent
several
copies of the issue the instant it is published.’ Here Claude paused, cleared his throat and added magnanimously, ‘And since you share similar interests, Francis, I think I could manage to spare one. The publication is doubtless not unknown to you:
Collections Privées –
highly exclusive of course.’ He gave a discreet cough.

Strange to say, his assumption of my knowledge was unfounded, but I thanked him for his generosity and enquired whether by any chance he would also be sending a copy to his brother.

‘I most certainly will,’ he declared sharply. ‘I fear Vernon has few cultural interests and it is high time he perused something a little more artistically elevated than diocesan accounts and
Picture Post
. It may also serve as a gentle reminder to him that distinction is not the exclusive preserve of the archdeaconry!’ This last remark was delivered with the waspish petulance one had come to associate with both the Blenkinsops, Major and Minor, and it was with some relief that I heard him announce that he was
far
too busy to continue chattering and that he really must ‘bustle’ off to prepare vital notes on Beano and the precious pig.

Time, too, for me to bustle into the kitchen and retrieve my supper from the oven … But needless to say, despite the carefully lowered gas, the pie looked worn and leathery; and after one bite, and cursing Claude, I tossed it irritably into the dog’s basket where it was received with noisy joy.

What with one thing and another it had been quite an eventful day, and wearied by Claude and smarting from the deprivation of my pie, I decided to have an early night.

It was only when I awoke much later and lay staring into the dark, that the relevance of his words began to impinge. Evidently this Hiram K. Flutzveldt was genuinely eager to get his hands on the original item, and according to Claude was prepared to pay big money to do so (assuming, of course, it was not merely his teeth that he was ready to trade). My own proximity to the creature had not exactly enlightened me as to its intrinsic appeal, but there was no accounting for tastes. And in any case, as both Claude and Ingaza had pointed out, it was largely its history that fascinated collectors and guaranteed a market – assuming it could be traced. But then, of course, it
had
been traced and was now firmly in Nicholas’s grip awaiting a buyer.

I reflected upon this, wondering if he had already found such a person, and if so, what sort of smokescreen was being concocted to obscure how it had been obtained. However, I cannot say that aspect occupied me for long, as I knew from old that my persecutor’s capacity for fabrication was prodigious. What did begin to occupy me was the idea of the sale itself. My role in the execution of the theft irked me considerably (though not perhaps to the degree of the other little matter), and I was loath to hear another word about the perishing creature … Nevertheless, I mused guiltily, the whole affair had been so onerous and my part so crucial (and for once successful), that perhaps indeed some small recompense was due. When Nicholas had mentioned my receiving a ‘cut’ were a sale achieved, I had firmly spurned the suggestion; but in retrospect I began to resent that he should benefit so much at my expense. I was more than tired of being his exploited lackey. To use his own words, a little quid pro quo was surely in order!

The moment that term came to mind, I flinched, fearing that I was beginning to absorb not only my master’s style of speech but possibly his mode of thought as well. However, it must be said in my own defence that I am not by nature mercenary (a fact that readers of earlier sections will perhaps recognize), but I did feel that something was owed nevertheless. The Custodians of the Church Roof were finding it increasingly difficult to afford builders of sufficient calibre to maintain its upkeep, and a little financial aid would be looked upon most favourably. Some of the older pews needed to be replaced as well, and a few pounds in that direction mightn’t come amiss either … Thus I brooded until, befuddled by grappling with the moral niceties, I shelved the matter; and drawing the blankets over my head lapsed into dreamless sleep.

I awoke to the sun beaming through the curtains and the repetitive rhythm of next door’s lawn mower being given its first spring outing. The window was open and I could smell – or thought I could smell – the faintest whiff of freshly cut grass. A blackbird twittered busily to itself in the crab-apple by the tool shed. Somehow these harbingers of summer gave a reassuring prospect to the day, and I found myself alighting from bed in a mood almost bordering on pleasure.

Still in pyjamas I went downstairs to prepare breakfast (a hearty one in view of the previous night’s meagre scrapings), and even spoke to the animals who seemed vaguely surprised by such overtures. I lingered over coffee, read the newspaper, puffed at the first cigarette of the day – and then without further ado went into the hall and lifted the receiver.

‘Ah, Nicholas,’ I began briskly, ‘I’ve just been thinking about that Bone Idol, I rather –’

‘Bit early in the day, isn’t it, old cock?’ was the sour reply. ‘I’ve got one hell of a head!’

Only slightly put out, I said I was sorry to hear that but, having a taxing schedule to complete, thought I would grab the present chance to see if he had found a buyer for the pig.

This was greeted with a loud yawn, followed by the grumbling observation that, taxing schedule or not, it was still too damned early to talk business, and anyway it was not like me to show such concern for his affairs.

I reminded him lightly that I did have some small interest in proceedings, and asked again whether there was any sign of a client.

There was a silence. And then he said, ‘Well, not at this precise moment, Francis, but then these things take time. It requires some careful planning – not something you would understand. These things are always complicated – wheels within wheels, you know … but I’m working on it all right, shouldn’t take too long. Now if you don’t mind, could you get off the effing line and let a chap have some sleep!’

‘I’ve got you a buyer,’ I announced. ‘Bird right in the hand.’

It is remarkable how the smallest hint of monetary gain can have such a transforming effect on the human psyche.

Ingaza seized the titbit, toyed with it, and then proceeded to chew with merciless dedication. Headache apparently gone, yawning arrested, even language tempered, he subjected me to a probing catechism: who was the man? what was he worth? where did he live? what was his background? And anyway, how reliable was Blenkinsop for heaven’s sake!

I told him as much as I knew, which admittedly wasn’t very much, but he seemed confident that he could trace him by the name Claude had given (which I too had to spell out) and the institute to which he was attached. ‘Right,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll get the reference books out, make a few discreet phone calls to New York, and we’ll soon see if he’s really kosher and not some figment of Blenkinsop’s demented fancy. With a name like Shickelgrüber or whatever, it shouldn’t be too difficult!’ And with a crack of laughter, he rang off.

I returned to the kitchen, made some more toast, and continued quietly with my ‘taxing schedule’.