Bone Idle (21 page)

As I might have guessed, Ingaza moved speedily with his enquiries, and three days later telephoned to say that he was satisfied that Claude’s American was who he claimed to be: a senior curator of the Greenholt Institute with a reputation as an exacting editor of the arts magazine Claude was so eager to feature in. Thus he had already established personal contact with Flutzveldt who seemed cautiously eager to do business.

‘Naturally,’ he said, ‘the chap wanted to see all the relevant documentation and details of how it had been obtained. But I told him that I was afraid that was impossible as I was acting on behalf of the owner who was extremely reclusive and
always
had his transactions executed on trust, and that naturally I would abide by my client’s wishes in the matter.’

‘Huh,’ I said, ‘that must have reassured him, I don’t think!’

Ingaza tutted. ‘Now, now, don’t be sarcastic, Francis, it doesn’t suit you … As a matter of fact he had no choice. “Take it or leave it,” I said, “it’s entirely up to you. Personally I would prefer the convenience of a quick sale, but it’s no skin off my nose to delay things for a year or so while
others
make overtures. I have no doubt the wait will be worth it.”’

‘So how did he react to that?’

‘Slowly. Kept muttering that it sounded highly irregular and he would really need some proof of provenance. “My dear fellow,” I said, “I could give you all the proof in the world if I chose – nothing could be easier! You do know, I imagine, that the English are renowned for their expertise in forgery: I could have the relevant papers done in a trice if required and you would be none the wiser. But being rather keen on upholding the standards of my profession, let alone the value of my own reputation, that is something I choose not to dabble in, simple though it would be.”’

As he spoke, Nicholas instinctively assumed an air of casual indifference and moral rectitude, and I was reminded of how easily he had fooled the authorities at St Bede’s all those years ago, and how presumably his shadowy pursuits in Brighton continued to thrive. I also thought of Primrose and the way she had been so smoothly seduced into supplying the Canadian art market with her fraudulent pictures … I thought too of myself and what a fool I had been ever to ask him to corroborate my tale of the binoculars in the Fotherington affair. It had all sprung from that moment, I mused bitterly. If I hadn’t picked up the telephone and asked for his co-operation in providing that one small detail, none of this would have happened and I should be free from his blandishing clutches … Though on the other hand, I recalled ruefully, I suppose I could equally well be a hanged man by now, or at best banged up for life amidst ruffians and lunatics! I sighed, and returned my mind to his words.

‘And the upshot?’

‘Oh, the
upshot
is that he wants me to go over there as soon as possible, bring the pig for him to make an assessment and talk further. Plain sailing!’

‘So I suppose you’re about to rush off – booking plane tickets and all that?’

‘Rush off? Certainly not, dear boy. We’re not all impetuous idiots! No, he’ll have to stew for a bit; told him I had a number of pressing engagements and couldn’t possibly get away until the end of the month. These things need careful handling, Francis. Doesn’t do to look too keen.’ He giggled, and added, ‘If you weren’t such a liability I would take you with me; as it is you’re far safer polishing candlesticks in St Botolph’s or whatever you do. Can’t afford the risk!’

I was stung by that, but also slightly regretful. I had never been to America (or anywhere very much) and my knowledge of the country was based largely on what I had seen in the cinema via the exploits of Humphrey Bogart, George Raft, Sydney Greenstreet, and other denizens of Manhattan with its ritzy bars and swish hotel suites. I experienced a pang of envy as I imagined Nicholas ensconced in the Algonquin, sipping stone dry martinis while cutting a lucrative deal with Hiram K. Flutzveldt to the elegant strains of Cole Porter …

My reverie was interrupted by his next words, ‘In the meantime, Francis, I shall be coming up to Surrey next week to see my Cranleigh pal. Perhaps I could drop in on my way back – I’ve got a little something for your Primrose which you can pass on when you next see her, a small cheque actually. There’s a postal strike down here and God knows when deliveries will be reliable again, otherwise I’d send it direct. Wouldn’t mind a spot of grub if there was any going.’

Rather reluctantly I said there probably would be some going; and we set a date for his visit. Clearly in high spirits, and with fulsome praise for my cooking (!) he then rang off, leaving me to light a cigarette and brood.

I didn’t brood long, for five minutes after his call there was another one, this time from my sister inviting herself to lunch on the same day. Apparently she would be passing near Molehill on the way back home from Derbyshire after addressing that county’s Guild of Artists’ Pastoral Circle. This group was an offshoot from the main body, dedicated to the depiction of rural pursuits and ancient churches. ‘Just my pigeon,’ she had said, ‘I can prose on for hours about wool-spun flocks and lichened buttresses, and when it’s all over rake in a nice fat fee
plus
supper, board and vast expenses. Very handy!’

I enquired what expenses other than petrol. ‘Lunch of course,’ she replied.

‘But you will be lunching with me,’ I pointed out. Apparently that was neither here nor there.

‘Funny you’ve picked that date, ‘ I said, ‘because as it happens, Nicholas Ingaza has threatened to drop by at the same time. He will have been seeing his contact in Cranleigh – some scam brewing presumably – and he did happen to mention that he had a small cheque to deliver which I could pass on to you. The Canadian business, I suppose.’

‘Well, that’s a stroke of luck,’ she replied. ‘Entrusting a cheque to your hands would be asking for trouble.’

‘What do you mean?’ I gasped indignantly. ‘I am a model of probity!’

‘That’s as may be. But you are careless, Francis,
careless
!’

I let it go and confirmed details of her arrival. We decided this should be earlier rather than later as it would give us time to have a coffee and a natter before Nicholas arrived, and she would not be rushed getting back to Sussex to prepare the chinchillas’ supper. ‘Karloff is so particular,’ she declared. ‘If he doesn’t get his carrot compôte on time he has the vapours and then throws all his bedding about cheered on by Boris. It’s a nightmare!’

Not wishing to incommode Karloff I indicated that she would be welcome any time after ten o’clock.

She arrived bearing some pots of Sussex honey, a Spotted Dick pudding, and a large vegetable marrow in a paper bag. For some reason Bouncer took an excited interest in this and seemed eager to remove its wrapping. I pushed him away and put the marrow on the hall table but he kept circling and jumping up. ‘I never knew a dog so greedy,’ she exclaimed. ‘I suppose he thinks it’s a bone. I brought him one once and he’s never forgotten.’ She removed the bag, and the dog took one sniff, gave a reproachful snort and mooched off.

I made some coffee and we settled in the sitting room and chatted about her talk to the Pastoral Circle and my inaugural Canonical Address.

‘I’m rather dreading it,’ I admitted. ‘There’s only a couple of months to go and I really haven’t given it a thought, and as one of my colleagues so helpfully pointed out, it isn’t like any ordinary sermon, it’s supposed to have style, dignity and distinction – or be so obscure that people are impressed without understanding a word.’

‘Well, why don’t you impress them by departing from the norm?’ she said encouragingly. ‘I mean, you could start cracking jokes and have them rolling in the aisles. Why, you could even do an imitation of Arthur Askey pretending to be a clergyman. He did that at the Palladium, it was marvellous. They would probably love it!’

‘What an absurd idea! … Besides, Arthur Askey is half my height.’

‘All right, how about Max Miller?’ This was followed by further suggestions in similar vein, none of which was remotely enlightening. We turned to other matters and gossiped at length, until glancing at the clock I realized it was high time I put on the stew. Primrose collected the coffee cups and followed me into the kitchen.

‘Oh really, Francis,’ she expostulated, ‘this place is appalling. Look at the mess everywhere! Can’t you get some of your female followers to lend a hand? I’m sure they would be only too delighted.’

‘No fear!’ I cried. ‘Anyway, haven’t got any
followers
, as you so sweetly put it.’

‘What about that Mavis person? Surely she’d be happy to wield a bucket and mop.’

‘The only thing Mavis can wield is a limp wrist and a volume of nauseating poems.’

‘Oh well,’ she grumbled, ‘I suppose your poor sister will have to get down to things. Nicholas is arriving soon and I do have my reputation as an international artist to think of. Seeing the squalor of your kitchen might turn him off giving me any more Canadian assignments!’

‘Not if money is involved,’ I retorted acidly. She ignored this, and donning a pair of rubber gloves began sweeping vigorously round the boiler. I sighed, and having put the casserole on to simmer, started to make my escape to the study; but as I crossed the hall I heard her exclaim, ‘Oh, for goodness sake, you don’t keep the cat litter tray here, do you! It’ll have to go!’

I returned wearily and explained that the discreet corner by the back door was the only place for it and that since Maurice was impeccable in his ablutions there really wasn’t a problem.

‘Well, I am sure it can be pushed further out of sight anyway, it’s bad enough being faced with the dog’s basket!’ And so saying, she gave the thing a sharp shove deeper into the corner. As she did so something fell out of the space between the tray and its base: a crumpled and dirty packet of papers tied in frayed blue ribbon.

‘Whatever’s that?’ said Primrose, stooping to pick it up.

I had had enough of these domestic manoeuvres, and indicated that I really didn’t care and was going into the study to make some phone calls before Ingaza arrived. Thus I made my escape, and collapsing into the armchair lit a cigarette and closed my eyes.

I was just wondering whether I had the courage to telephone Colonel Dawlish to explain that I had blundered with dates and could not after all attend his charity whist drive, when Primrose appeared at the door in a state of voluble excitement.

‘Francis,’ she babbled, waving the mangled packet at me, ‘you’ll never guess – these are the deeds to the Fotherington Folly! That place in France the old girl wanted you to have. They’ve even got your name on them and some sort of seal. Isn’t it incredible!’

I gazed horror-struck. The last things I wanted were those deeds and further connection with my victim Elizabeth Fotherington! Besides, how in living hell had they found their way into the cat’s tray? It was impossible – grotesque! Then just as I had started to think that few nightmares could be more ghastly, there was the sound of the doorbell and I knew that Nicholas had arrived …

I arose zombie-like and let him in.

‘Hello, hello, hello!’ he breezed. ‘Long time, no see! How’s clerical life these days? I must say, you don’t look too well on it, old boy – white as the proverbial sheet. Still, I expect we can fix that!’ And he thrust a bottle of gin into my hands.

I mustered a smile of thanks and took him into the sitting room where Primrose was still drooling over her find.

After lavish overtures, he stuck a hand into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a slim envelope which he presented to her with a little bow. ‘First remuneration,’ he murmured. ‘Courtesy of Canada: not too big – but not too small either, I think you’ll find.’ He smiled slyly.

Primrose tore open the envelope with an avidness of the kind displayed by Bouncer when thrown a new bone. The cheque inside evidently met with her approval, for grasping the bottle of gin she exclaimed gaily, ‘We must drink a toast – to sheep and churches!’

‘Long may they both flourish,’ added Nicholas gravely.

I fetched the glasses and we tackled the gin: they in happy celebration, me in some need. I felt gloomy, knowing that it could only be a matter of minutes before Primrose apprised Ingaza of her remarkable find in the cat litter.

My fears were well grounded, for after a couple of gulps she turned to him and said, ‘You know, something quite extraordinary has happened but we’ll tell you about it at lunch. It’s very exciting – isn’t it, Francis?’

‘Yes,’ I said glumly.

*   *   *

Inevitably lunch was no picnic. It was taken up with endless speculation as to how the deeds got where they were … Perhaps, for example, Mrs Fotherington had dropped them in the road, and Maurice, seeing the beribboned packet and thinking it a new kind of toy, had promptly hijacked it. Nicholas declared that he knew several cats given to just such magpie activities and it would be far from unusual.

We thought about that possibility. And then Primrose suggested that Elizabeth, engaged on one of her intrusive visits to the vicarage, had deliberately secreted the deeds in the receptacle hoping to persuade me to play a kind of hunt-the-parcel at a later date – ‘You know, as a sort of playful prelude to her generosity!’

I shuddered at the thought, while Nicholas shrieked with laughter, spluttering, ‘Oh yes, I can just see old Francis on hands and knees sniffing round the cat litter trying to pick up clues to a fortune!’

Primrose joined in the mirth, and the two hooted and gurgled merrily at my expense.

‘Look,’ I said stiffly, ‘it is all very well, but I am the one who will be implicated if it is thought that I have gained from her death or even her romantic partiality. The more tenuous the link between myself and Elizabeth, or indeed the wretched daughter, the better. As far as I am concerned those deeds are a hot potato leading to God knows what. I do not want them!’

‘Mixing your metaphors again, old boy,’ observed Nicholas. ‘Besides –’ he coughed delicately – ‘you might have given consideration to that when you were busy in the wood. I’ve told you before, you have no sense of foresight.’