Bone Idle (4 page)

‘It’s hardly the logistics that concern me,’ I exclaimed angrily. ‘It’s the principle … the whole suggestion is disgraceful!’

‘Perhaps,’ he said sweetly, ‘but not quite as disgraceful as murder …’

I stared helplessly, dumb with fear and outrage. Eventually I muttered something to the effect that I thought it a bit much being subjected to that kind of manipulative blackmail and that I had expected better of him. (I hadn’t really, but it sounded suitably pained.)

He was quite unruffled, and observed suavely that in view of the delicacy of my situation and the perilous nature of his own involvement in it, I could hardly begrudge him a little favour. Deep down I acknowledged that he had a point, but instinctually I was furious. However, there was little that I could do, and, having nothing else to say, I weakly offered him some more cold coffee. He accepted.

It was quite obvious that something of moment was afoot. Not long after Samson’s visit the vicar made a frantic telephone call to Brighton; the result being that two days later the questionable friend arrived – the Gaza fellow – replete with suitcase and unctuous goodwill. At first F.O. seemed pleased to see him, but by the end of the evening it was apparent that he was working himself up into ‘a right lather’, as the dog would say. In fact I rather got the impression that the vicar had foolishly divulged details of the murder business – a typical blunder, though I suppose it was only a matter of time!

Thus the following morning, curious to learn what had transpired from the night before, I settled myself discreetly under the kitchen table and lent ear to the proceedings above. At one point the visitor had the grace to address a few words to me. I responded cordially and kept my ears primed. He then embarked on some elaborate tale involving, of all things, a bone pig. Since I have an aversion to both pigs and bones I did not find this especially edifying; but in the interests of intelligence-gathering remained at my post, where listening carefully I was able to grasp the gist of his discourse – and its purpose.

As feared, the Gaza person was intent on persuading F.O. to participate in some madcap scheme which wouldinevitably line his own pockets but do little for the vicar. This worried me somewhat as our master is not noted for keeping a cool head in times of crisis – and being under pressure both from the Molehill police and from his visitor could well be regarded as such.

Thus I summoned Bouncer and told him I had been listening in on their breakfast conversation and there was something he ought to know. ‘From what I could ascertain,’ I said, ‘the type from Brighton was launching a plan which would involve F.O. raiding a flat in London and stealing some bone ornament.’

‘Likes bones, does he?’ asked the dog with interest.

I sighed. ‘No, but he likes money, and this bone thing costs a lot, and the Brighton type wants to get his paws on it. Thinks he can use the vicar to do his dirty work.’

‘And will he?’

‘If he’s desperate enough. At the moment there is much huffing and puffing and crunching of humbugs, but I think he is snared so he’ll probably have to in the end.’

‘Just as long as we’re all right.’

‘Yes, Bouncer, but that is the whole point – we may not be all right! It is bound to be more than F.O. can cope with, and coming on top of this latest development in the Fotherington affair it could make him crack under the strain.’

‘Shall I savage the Brighton type?’

‘Certainly not! That would do untold harm to all of us.’

‘Just a thought … Anyway, whereabouts in London? Any place I know?’ he asked with a casual air.

‘Of course not,’ I laughed, ‘you are hardly familiar with the Great Metropolis!’ I rather like the sound of that phrase and can trip it neatly off my tongue, but it was wasted on Bouncer.

‘The great what?’

‘
London
! You do not know it!’

‘Yes I do,’ he barked truculently.

‘All right, name me one place that you know.’

There was a long silence while he chewed his paw. And then bounding to his feet and rushing manically around the room, ‘H … H … HARRODS!’ he exploded.

The sound was deafening and it was as well that F.O. was out taking a service. But the dog was right: he did indeed know of that emporium (as detailed in my first memoir), and for some reason it has remained deeply embedded in his memory whence periodically he will pronounce its name with pride and thunder.

‘So
now
you can tell me,’ he said smugly.

‘Manchester Square.’

‘Never heard of it!’

I mewed irritably. ‘Exactly, that is what –’

‘But,’ he went on, ‘I did know a Manchester terrier once, called Marlene. A bit of all right, she was, if you get my meaning!’ And he clicked his tongue – an unpleasant sound that I have heard humans make when they wish to accelerate the speed of their horses.

I regarded him bleakly. ‘Trust you to consort with a terrier called Marlene. And in any case, your unsavoury liaisons are hardly the matter in question. What
is
in question is the vicar’s sanity and our survival. Kindly stick to the point and listen to what I am saying.’

He lay down and began to snore.

Having assured me that he would be in touch before too long to ‘discuss strategy’, Nicholas departed with a cheery wave and a spluttering exhaust. I stood on the pavement watching as the vintage Citroën wound its way out of sight. The car had always had a faintly sinister air, and now, despite the brightness of the morning, its Reichstag image struck me more forcefully than ever.

I was about to return to the house, but instead sat down on the garden roller (never used and fast rusting), and lighting a cigarette pondered who would destroy me first – the police or Ingaza.

But such speculations were suddenly interrupted by an ear-splitting screech: Mrs Carruthers, Bishop Clinker’s tiddlywinks partner. She stood at the front gate wearing her customary grin, hat jauntily angled, and sporting a pair of hoop earrings of even more outlandish proportion than usual. In my current state I was hardly in the mood for visitors, or indeed passers-by. But it could have been worse: Mavis Briggs for example.

The first time I had encountered Mrs Carruthers was when I had been detailed by Clinker to request that she be discreet about his attendance at her weekly tiddlywinks parties. It was, he had explained, a vice to be kept secret at all costs; and it had fallen to me to persuade the lady to secrecy. Apart from having to endure the nightmarish sight of her array of garden gnomes, the visit to her house had been quite diverting – not least for what I had learnt of the bishop’s skills on the carpet amidst the plastic counters. It was, however, an episcopal pastime never to be spoken of.

‘Hello, dear!’ she hooted, opening the gate. ‘Long time, no see!’

‘Well, actually,’ I said, getting up from the roller and moving forward to greet her, ‘I did see you in the distance at the bishop’s annual tea party but you were rather hemmed in at the time, and there was such a crowd that –’

‘Wasn’t there just!’ she exclaimed. ‘Never been to one of those smart church dos before – far too high and mighty for me! But His Nibs wanted me there for some reason – he can be ever so sweet, you know.’ (I did not know.) ‘Still, it wasn’t bad really – quite fun in its way. What my Alfie used to call a good posh and nosh!’ And she crowed merrily.

In fact, from what I recalled of the event, the sole source of fun had been the lady herself – hugely enlivening a group of admiring curates, while Clinker’s wife, Gladys, cast venomous looks from the other end of the room.

I asked her how she was and if she had won any tiddly winks contests lately.

‘Well, dear, that’s just what I was going to tell you! You’ll never guess … you remember I told you that we thought our Mr Clinker might win the Penge Championship for us?’

I nodded.

‘Well, he has! No doubt about it, without him we’d have lost the last two matches and there would have been a draw. But you should have seen him! Saved our bacon, he did, and more!’ Further gusts of parrot-like mirth.

‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed. ‘Didn’t know he had it in him. But – er, tell me, when he goes to these things is he incognito?’

‘In what, dear?’

‘For instance, does he wear a false moustache or anything?’

‘Well, he doesn’t wear his mitre, if that’s what you mean. But he does generally arrive in a dark raincoat.’

‘Ah yes, that’s bound to disguise him,’ I observed drily.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then added, ‘And of course he always goes under an
assumed
name.’

‘Oh really?’ I asked with interest. ‘What is it?’

‘Canon Oughterard.’

I stared incredulously. ‘
What!
You mean to say he actually … He can’t do!’

‘Oh yes,’ she said firmly. ‘Always Oughterard.’

I went on staring, open-mouthed and furious.

She gazed back wide-eyed. And then, if you please, took a compact from her handbag and started to powder her nose!

I was enraged, and just about to expostulate further when I noticed the merest twitch at the corner of her mouth, and the next moment the garden was rent with the calls of joyful cockatoos.

When the laughter finally subsided, she cried, ‘Got you there, dear, didn’t I? Got you there. Walked straight into it, you did!’

I conceded that indeed I had. And despite the residue of shock, I couldn’t help smiling at the sheer audacity of the woman … Yes, she was definitely better company than Mavis Briggs.

Comparisons being odious, it was perhaps a suitable penance that later that morning I had the misfortune to bump into Mavis in the High Street. She was drooping along wearing one of her innumerable dirndls and toting an outsize string shopping bag. It dangled limply from her wrist.

‘Ah,
Canon
,’ she quavered, ‘I have been wanting to speak to you for some time – it’s about the pipes in the vestry.’

‘Oh yes? What about them?’

‘Well, Vicar – Canon, I mean –’ and she simpered, ‘you see, they are gurgling!’

‘Yes, well, pipes tend to do that, Mavis.’

She paused. ‘But not when the heating is
off
.’

I wasn’t sure what to say about that but suggested vaguely that perhaps sometimes it was only partially off.

She looked puzzled. ‘But surely, Canon, the heating can only be on
or
off. There’s a little switch, you know, just behind the door.’ (I did know, it was one of my evening tasks to check it.)

I sighed but said reassuringly, ‘I am sure there is some simple explanation, probably won’t take a moment to fix.’

‘I hope so – you see, it has been going on for some time, Friday mornings mostly. I hear it when I’m doing the flowers. I did mention it to Edith but she didn’t seem very interested.’ Bully for Edith.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she continued, ‘it’s not really gurgling, rather a sort of knocking and grinding sound, quite loud sometimes!’

‘I expect it’s a poltergeist – a lot of them about these days.’

She looked startled. ‘Oh dear! Do you really think so?’

‘No, not really, Mavis. But don’t worry, I’m sure something can be done.’ And tiring of the pipes, I asked brightly why she was carrying such a large shopping bag. ‘It’s big enough to buy up the whole of Molehill!’ I exclaimed jocularly. A mistake.

‘Ah, I was coming to that,’ she replied earnestly. ‘You see, I am collecting items for the Cubs’ tombola – jars of pickled onions or Brylcreem, chocolate, bars of soap, packets of junket, that sort of thing … I was wondering if you have any to spare?’ (Oh yes, I thought, pantry stocked to the gills with junket and Brylcreem!)

‘Well, I’m not sure – but I expect I can find something.’

She beamed. ‘Oh, that would be nice! I’ll come round this afternoon to collect –’

‘No!’ I said hastily. ‘Couldn’t possibly trouble you. I’ll leave them in the vestry on the side table.’ Another mistake. Reference to the vestry brought her back to the pipes.

‘So you
will
look into those noises, won’t you, Canon? It’s really rather worrying.’

I assured her I would put it at the top of my Urgent Agenda list. And raising my hat and donning a busy expression, I side-stepped her neatly and scurried on my way.

As promised, I put a collection of tombola articles on the vestry table; but in so doing was irritated to find a note propped up against one of the candlesticks. It was from Mavis: ‘Just a little reminder, Canon, about the noise in the pipes. I heard it again this morning. Most disturbing! The sound seems to be coming from the cupboard under the basins. If it’s not too much trouble perhaps you would be kind enough to investigate.’

Of course it was too much trouble! As if there wasn’t enough to think about without the confounded pipes. However, I knew that if I didn’t pursue the matter, the matter via Mavis would certainly pursue me.

So taking off my jacket and getting down on hands and knees, I started to grovel about in the recesses of the glory-hole. It was slightly damp and distinctly smelly, and I hit my head on one of the pipes, and then my knuckles on some ancient cleaning bucket. The small space was far too dark to see anything clearly, and I was about to reverse out to fetch matches from my jacket when my hand closed on something round and hard but also slightly rubbery.

Back in the light I examined my find, which appeared to be a child’s dummy or teething toy. I stared at it curiously. It consisted of a pink plastic ring to which was attached a half-chewed effigy of Donald Duck. What an extraordinary place for such a thing! Had it been abandoned by an errant toddler escaping from its minder? Unlikely. Besides, on closer examination it struck me as being rather large for the average child’s mouth – though of course I was no expert in such matters.

I was about to put it to one side, but must have pressed the duck part, for it emitted a tired whimper. Then of course memory and recognition suddenly dawned: one of Bouncer’s early playthings! When he had first appeared in the vicarage it had been something which he had toted around with dedicated devotion, and it was only when I had bought him a smart rubber throwing-ring that the item finally lost its appeal and the plaintive squeaks had been silenced. So this was where it had ended up!

I fetched the matches from my coat pocket, lit an altar candle from the pile on the table and crawled back in to rootle further. There was something else there: the tattered remnants of a small plaid blanket. No mistaking
that
for a toddler’s comfort rag: another of Bouncer’s worn-out accoutrements. I had put it out by the dustbin months ago! The dog must have dragged it all the way to the vestry. What on earth had he been doing – making some kind of lair? … And then I saw them: wedged neatly under one of the pipes – two large ham bones, one clearly ancient, the other still with the marks of meat upon it.

I scrambled out and lit a cigarette. What had Mavis said? ‘Not so much gurgling as knocking and grinding.’ The dog attacking one of its bones was noise enough, but in a small space against the backing of metal pipes it could well be the sort of sound she had described. There was something else she had said, ‘Friday mornings mostly.’ Yes, that was the day when more often than not I took the dog on my parish rounds. On the way back we would generally stop off at the church where I would unleash him to potter around on his own while I gossiped with the sexton or bandied words with Tapsell. Sometimes he would disappear but always turned up at the vicarage in time for his lunchtime Bonio. So that was where the little blighter went in the interim – into the vestry sink cupboard to gnaw his bones and scare the wits out of Mavis Briggs!

It had its comic side but also put me in a dilemma. It seemed a shame to deprive the dog of his secret sanctuary if that’s what he liked. On the other hand, to allow things to continue would only generate more mournful complaints from Mavis, something to be avoided at all costs. And in any case, if I did nothing she would doubtless prevail upon Tapsell to play the bloodhound, and the last thing I intended was that he and the smitten Edith should exploit my embarrassment in the matter. As they surely would! Neither liked Bouncer, and since I had twice encountered them in flagrante – once in the woods and once in the organ loft – both were hostile to me.

So there was nothing to be done except clear the cupboard of the dog’s comforts and firmly lock the door. He would just have to find an alternative place. That was his problem. Mine was considerably greater: how to cope with Nicholas and the matter of Blenkinsop’s pig.

Three days after returning to Brighton the former had telephoned me with his proposals as to how I should ‘acquire the merchandise’. I was to approach the archdeacon with the request that he introduce me to his brother who I had heard was in the fortunate position of owning a distinguished reproduction of the Pontoon Pig. This apparently was of great interest to me as I was currently engaged in some amateur researches into the life of Sir Royston Beano and hoped eventually to publish a modest paper on the subject. The story of how the bone idol had passed into Beano’s hands was a popular anecdote and one to which I should naturally have to refer. However, since my reputation as amateur historian was at stake, second-hand references were not enough, and to give substance and additional interest to my account I would really need to see the thing for myself, or at least as authentic a copy as possible. Did the archdeacon think he might prevail upon his brother to … etc?

‘That’s all very well, Nicholas,’ I protested, ‘but I know nothing about Beano’s life other than that he was an eccentric explorer. How can I possibly convince the Blenkinsops that I’m writing a paper?’

‘Well, dear boy,
you
may not know much, but I do. There’s been only one proper biography written, produced in the 1920s and now out of print, but which I happen to have read; and more to the point, I’m also one of the few people to have had access to the unpublished diaries. I’ll send you a potted history along with some key references which you must memorize thoroughly –
and
of course a fake artefact as replacement for the original. Expect a registered parcel within the next few days.’

‘I suppose you imagine I’ve got all the time in the world to mug up this stuff. Let me remind you that –’

‘Yes, yes, Francis, I know. You’ve got a busy parish to maintain. Run off your feet etc. … Absolute nonsense. You’re bone idle, old chap, always have been really. Anything for a quiet life, that’s you!’ And he laughed good-humouredly.

I felt less good-humoured. ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ I snapped.

‘Should have thought of that at a certain sylvan moment eighteen months ago,’ he countered. ‘Anything less likely to induce a quiet life it would be hard to imagine. Still, as I’ve observed before, calculation is not your forte!’

I was about to retort that it was precisely because of my desperate need for a quiet life that I had committed the act I had, and that at the time it had seemed a pressing necessity and calculation not an option! But it was pointless to wrangle: neither Nicholas, nor anyone else, would ever understand … And so I resigned myself to absorbing and falling in with his instructions.

The younger Blenkinsop’s first name was Claude. And his abode on the edge of Manchester Square was a chic third-floor apartment overlooking the trees of the central garden and within spitting distance of the Wallace Collection. My brief was to make an appointment via the archdeacon, drive up to London, lift and replace the pig, and then drive speedily down to Brighton where it would be delivered into the hands of my ringmaster. ‘Not risking it going back to Molehill, old cock,’ Nicholas had said when I had protested that such driving would make a very long day. ‘No fear! Not after last time’s little charade. An idol in hand is worth two in your damn belfry!’ He alluded of course to the business of the paintings. I said nothing but inwardly admitted he was probably right.

As it turned out, persuading the older Blenkinsop to ingratiate me with his brother was an easier task than I had imagined. He was on the verge of retirement, and I was currently in favour for having helped to foil the Reverend Basil Rummage from stepping into his shoes.
*
Blenkinsop disapproved of Rummage (as well he might) and he had been hell-bent on blocking his promotion, and for some reason had got it into his head that I was the person to lead the opposition to the appointment. I was not exactly a natural candidate for the role, but Blenkinsop had leant heavily upon me, and after some rather crude manoeuvrings Rummage’s name had been dropped from the shortlist. The archdeacon was well satisfied and evidently regarded me as some kind of moral saviour to the diocese. (Indeed, I think it was due to his discreet and grateful string-pulling that I had achieved my canonical status – an accolade as much a shock to me as it had been an irritant to Bishop Clinker.)

Thus when I rather diffidently approached the archdeacon about his brother he was moderately receptive to the idea … or at any rate, as receptive as Vernon Blenkinsop was to anything.

‘Didn’t know you were interested in that sort of thing, Oughterard. Kept it very dark, I must say! Not my line of country at all – historical research. Far too many contemporary matters to attend to. And from what little I know about that Beano fellow he sounds to have been a rather questionable type … women, and all that sort of thing. Still, if you think Claude can be useful I’ll give him a ring. Don’t see much of him these days. Better things to do with my time than listen to my brother pontificating about
nescioquid nugarum –
as our Roman friend would say – but he’s bound to see you if he thinks you’re interested in one of his bits and pieces. Nothing he likes better than to blah on about “my precious collection”!’ And so saying, he picked up the telephone and dialled the number – while I sat wondering who our Roman friend was.

The line was evidently engaged and Blenkinsop replaced the receiver with a sigh of irritation. ‘Typical: always gassing. But then it’s not as if he has anything else to
do –
nothing useful at any rate. Polishes his ornaments and gives talks on bits of china to old ladies. I ask you! Fortunately some of us are rather more seriously employed, there’s quite enough trivia around as it is … And talking of trivia, Oughterard, I take it you haven’t heard from the Reverend Rummage lately?’

I said that I hadn’t and believed him still to be in Swaziland.

‘Hmm,’ he muttered darkly, ‘and let us hope he remains there. Best place for him! A good piece of work you did in that little matter. As I said at the time, it is just as well there remains a modicum of sobriety in the diocese …’ He had mounted upon his favourite hobby horse, church discipline and the perils of laxity, and I hastily tried to steer him back to the matter in hand, i.e. me getting into Claude’s flat.

‘No need to worry, dear fellow. I’ll have another go at him later this evening. Rest assured: no one can accuse Vernon Blenkinsop of not being persistent.’ No, I thought wryly, no one could ever do that.

Thus I drove home secure in the knowledge that the first hurdle of the dreadful project was all but over; yet oppressed by the prospect of others still to come, higher and more arduous.