Bones in the Belfry (24 page)

The days sped towards Christmas, and with a slight pang of unease I realized that the Elizabeth Fotherington Memorial Event would soon be upon us.

This was a ceremony I had instigated the previous year, principally as a means of allaying police suspicion of my involvement with Elizabeth’s end – a sort of smokescreen device which, on the face of it, had proved successful. And it had certainly been popular in the parish. The central part – the awarding of the Fotherington Chorister Prize – had produced enormous local interest, inflated the Church Spire Fund, and enhanced our choral reputation. The special anthem composed by Tapsell and the choirmaster, and set to words by the seventeenth-century lyricist Herrick, had been universally approved.

But there had been a deeper reason for the ceremony’s genesis, buried yet subtly compelling: some sort of expiatory necessity, nagging and as yet unresolved … It was something that would have to be dealt with one day. One day.

However, my immediate task was the upkeep of standards, i.e. a repeat of the previous year ’s success. Reputations were at stake – St Botolph’s and Elizabeth’s – and I was intent on preserving both. So I briskly rounded up Tapsell and the choirmaster Jenkins, and with a bit of canonical bullying heavily laced with grovelling flattery, reminded them it was high time that rehearsals were afoot. In fact they needed little urging. Both are prima donnas and each was eager to reap the last year’s plaudits and get his photograph in the newspaper again.

Thus having set in motion the two protagonists, I had to get myself organized. The earlier occasion had been highly demanding: emotionally, for obvious reasons, but intellectually too, as it had been my place to select the words of the anthem, a task that, given the circumstances and not having much literary expertise, I had found perplexing in the extreme. However, my choice of the Herrick poem had seemed to please, and for a good fortnight after the event Molehill’s two bookshops were inundated with requests for ‘that nice seventeenth-century chap’. Curious the way good reputations can spread via dubious routes.

But this second time around things were less difficult, and the only matter that really presented a problem was my address from the pulpit. Somehow it had to fit the occasion. But how? The matter would obviously require very careful thought, and to that end I poured out a large glass of my precious Talisker (kept for special occasions), lit a cigarette and sunk into my favourite armchair.

I suppose that like the Scholar Gypsy I was expecting the ‘spark from heaven to fall’, and p.d.q. at that! It didn’t of course, and an hour later, with the ashtray littered and the malt reduced by a fair third, I was no further on.

There came a slight scrabbling at the door and Bouncer nosed his way in. He sauntered over to the piano stool, regarded it for a moment, looked at me, and then made to cock his leg. Since I had seen him in the garden only a few minutes earlier, I knew very well that this was no sudden emergency and shouted at him to stop. He lowered his leg, wagged his tail, and came slinking over. There are times when I think that dog goes out of his way to wind me up!

He settled meekly at my feet and stared up with that kindly yet quizzical look which is at once reassuring and faintly unnerving. I stared back, wondering what on earth was going on behind those doggy eyes. For a few moments we sat quietly in a state of mutual regard.

And then with a start, and nearly upsetting my glass, I realized what my theme would be: God’s creatures: their comfort and companionship, and their benison in times of angst and strain. That was it, I would dissert on Man’s best friend: his wise jester and clownish sage; solace of the bereaved, safe confidant and loyal mate … Yes, that was what Molehill’s worthies would hear from the pulpit – an encomium upon the dog, the cat, and other four-footed helpers! I laughed in relief and ruffled Bouncer’s cobwebbed ears. I think he thought I was barking.

As might the reader. After all, on the face of it there seemed little to link the animal fraternity with the deceased; and given the nature of the occasion I was going to be hard pressed to justify my theme. Had animals held a particular place in Mrs Fotherington’s affections? Not as far as I was aware, unless of course you counted the waspish Maurice whom she had persecuted with unrelenting sentiment. Still, I recalled, there had been the wretched canary, and she had certainly indulged Bouncer’s greed by feeding him titbits at that fateful soirée (memory of which still sends a chill down my spine!).
*

Yes, I decided, there was ample material on which to peg my thesis. In any case it is always good to embellish people’s qualities, however limited. Indeed, one might say the greater the limitation the greater the need …

And thus supper over, I embarked eagerly on the task of eulogizing the role of domestic pets, while at the same time conferring upon Elizabeth attributes of the most tenuous kind. Regarding the latter, I think I rather over-egged the trifle, as for days afterwards people kept coming up to me and remarking how little they had realized what an
incredible
rapport Elizabeth had established with our four-footed friends and that her sensitivities in this sphere should be an example to us all! Even the
Molehill Clarion
ran a brief article to the effect that I had paid ‘shining tribute to a great animal lover’, and prefaced its report with the slightly unsettling headline, THE LADY’S SECRET: CANON CONFIDES. However, generally it was all very gratifying – although a whiff of cynical dissent did waft over from the direction of Colonel Dawlish.

He accosted me one morning, shook my hand warmly and said, ‘Nice piece of rhetoric, Oughterard. You’re getting better. I always told ’em you’d get into your stride eventually. Made an interesting change from the usual sort of thing. About time the ox and the ass got a mention. Mind you, all that stuff about Elizabeth being a protector of furry beasts was a load of my eye – as well you know!’ And he grinned sardonically.

‘Well …’ I began weakly, ‘there was her cat – and the canary …’

He snorted loudly. ‘Oh, come off it, Canon. She may have drooled over those two creatures, but fundamentally she was terrified of anything on four legs. You should have seen her with my Tojo – ran a mile rather than get near him!’

Since Tojo was a wholly manic West Highland with a propensity for duffing up both humans and fellow terriers, I had some sympathy for Elizabeth. However, before I could say anything to that effect, the Colonel added slyly – and rightly, ‘Admit it. You used a weak case on which to peg a strong argument!’ And whistling merrily he sauntered off.

Well, I mused, if that was the only objection I wasn’t doing too badly. And with that comforting thought I took a gentle potter in the church before returning home to lunch and a nap.

When I awoke, the telephone was ringing. To my surprise (consternation?) I realized it was Eric, Ingaza’s chum.

‘Wotcha, Rev!’ he began affably. ‘Thought we’d just give yer a tinkle to see how you was getting on. His Nibs would of phoned himself but he’s in bed with a chill. Leastways, that’s wot he
says
. If you ask me, he’s swinging the lead – trying to escape his Auntie Lil. She’s been playing up no end since all that picture stuff and it’s getting on his fins!’ An explosion of mirth came hurtling down the line.

‘Er, good afternoon, Eric,’ I said wonderingly. ‘How kind of you to enquire. So sorry to hear that Nicholas is laid up. The occasional rest does us all good!’ And I laughed nervously.

‘Well, funny you should say that ’coz that’s wot we was phoning about. “Get on the blower,” Nick says, “and tell Francis I meant wot I said about him coming down to Brighton. Looked peaky when I saw him last. Could do with a bit o’ the old ozone!”’ Another rasping chuckle, and I adjusted the receiver to a more convenient distance. Peaky? Of course I looked peaky. Who wouldn’t in Ingaza’s clutches! The paintings danced before my eyes.

‘That’s very kind of him,’ I said, my mind racing at breakneck speed, ‘the only problem is that things are a bit hectic just at the moment, what with a fresh spate of christenings and funerals, the verger on holiday, and, er, problems with the pews – damp rot, you know …’

‘Cor, you don’t ’arf lead a merry life. Better take a break soon or yer may crack under the strain of it all!’ More guffaws. I refrained from saying that I thought I had cracked a long while ago; and instead joined faintly in the merriment.

‘Anyhow, Nick says that congrats are in order. You’ve been a good boy, so he says!’

‘Sorry, I’m not quite sure what you –’

‘You being made a canon or whatever. Goin’ up in the world, cuttin’ the old
moutarde
!’

‘Ah, yes – yes of course. Thank you. But, uhm, how ever did Nicholas hear about it? News certainly travels fast!’

‘Oh it does, old son, it does. S’matter of fact it was his other Surrey pal. Nose like a bleedin’ ferret, that geezer!’

I might have guessed. The Cranleigh Contact!

He went breezing on. And then being persuaded that I really couldn’t manage a trip down to Brighton, bade me a fond goodbye – but not before saying that come the spring the pair of them would probably be taking a little jaunt north and thus passing quite close to Molehill …

I had intended going into Guildford that afternoon in quest of some new socks and handkerchiefs, but after my discourse with Eric suddenly felt fatigued and decided to give it a miss. I wandered over to the piano, played a few scales and then toyed with a little Cole Porter. But it was a lacklustre performance and after ten minutes I gave up and resumed my chair.

I pondered why they had invited me to Brighton. Was it really for the pleasure of my company? Surely not. There must be some darker purpose! What dubious game was Nicholas playing now – and more to the point, what role had he cast for me?

I stared at the small sepia photograph of my father on the mantelpiece, and from the distant past heard his brisk and crackling tones: ‘Now don’t mope, Francis! Moping gets you nowhere. Be bold. Be brave – and kindly stand up straight!’

As a gesture, I dutifully uncrossed my legs, straightened my shoulders, and reflected on more of the parental diktats: ‘Never sell yourself short, boy. Capitalize your assets – and what’s more,
nil illegitimi carborundum
!’ I smiled wryly. He had been proud of that one – the only ‘Latin’ he had known – and he would bark it out with force and frequency. ‘Daddy’s one bit of scholarship,’ as Primrose used to say.

But I suddenly brightened. Despite everything, his words were not without point – and in terms of my present situation were surely pertinent. I
had
been guilty of fruitless moping, and yes, was rather allowing the
illegitimi
to grind me down. Enough was enough! (Well, more or less at any rate.) As to selling myself short: it was, I supposed, just possible that Nicholas was without ulterior motive and was genuinely concerned with my welfare. Could the invitation to Brighton be really free from strings, and my company on the promenade all that they sought? The concept presented some difficulty but I flirted with the hope nevertheless.

Calculation of assets, let alone their capitalizing, was also quite difficult. But as I reviewed the events of the last few weeks I realized that things could be a lot worse, and that all was not as yet lost. For example, I was still in the clear re the ghastly Fotherington business; the picture nightmare was apparently resolved; Ingaza held at bay from Molehill until at least the spring; I had received promotion (albeit of a nominal kind); and for some curious reason I seemed to be gaining favour in the community. There was also the additional benefit of having the war-blinded Savage as my friend – not to mention the comfort of his wife’s fairy cakes. Few assassins could ask for more.

I pondered Nicholas’s suggestion of taking a break. Perhaps he was right and I really did need a little holiday: somewhere quiet and undemanding where I could recharge my batteries, or, to quote some American professor I had once heard lecturing on the wireless, get ‘reenergized’. Though whether the ‘re’ part was entirely applicable, I wasn’t sure. Energy has never played a great part in my life, and even during my ‘missionary’ phase, its display was largely a triumph of will over instinct. Still, given the present circumstances some sort of electrical surge might be no bad thing!

I brooded on the logistics of getting away – and the locations. In spite of Ingaza’s possibly well-meant offer, Brighton was definitely out. Apart from anything else, the thought of being dragged into Aunt Lil’s orbit was too awesome to contemplate. There was also the prospect of Eric …

No, I would need to go somewhere soothing, beautiful, and as remote from the south coast as feasible. The Scilly Isles perhaps – but Clinker went there. The Shetlands? No need to be excessive. Connemara and the place of my namesake? A glorious area, but overlaid with memories of fraught family holidays and Pa’s fishing fiascos.

Perhaps somewhere with religious links … Walsingham? Not with that east wind! St Columba’s Iona? Remote all right, and by all accounts with a distinctly spiritual ‘something’; but it necessitated a rough and questionable boat trip and I doubted if my stomach would stay the course. Besides, the very name sounded a trifle stark … whereas
Lin-dis-farne
held a soft, emollient note: a sound redolent of peace and soporific ease. And even as I murmured it to myself I could see ‘bare ruined choirs’, hear the lapping of gentle waves, the cry of the curlew, and the misty monkish orisons …

Yes, that was where I would go, to St Wilfrid’s own land, and soon! My imagination was gripped, my resolution firm, and I rushed to the telephone and dialled the number of the Reverend Pick.

‘I say, Pick, you wouldn’t like to oversee my parish for a few days, would you? There wouldn’t be much to –’

‘No,’ came the firm answer.

I took a deep breath and smiled winningly down the phone. ‘Oh, come on, Theodore, be a sport. I just need to get away for a spell to recharge the old batteries – you know the sort of thing!’