A Bedlam of Bones (13 page)

‘What on earth are you doing?’ demanded Primrose. She stood on the threshold of the garage, suitcase in hand and looking extremely put out. ‘I’ve been hammering on your front door for ages and all I got were roars from the dog! And why is Nicholas here?’

‘Nice to be welcomed,’ murmured Ingaza, rising from his haunches and smoothing his hair with a grimy hand.

‘Yes, well, you see we’ve been changing the tyres, Primrose,’ I explained apologetically. ‘It had to be done rather urgently.’

‘What, all four?’ she asked, gesturing towards the discarded pile.

I nodded. ‘There’s been a bit of a problem, and, er … Anyway, let’s all go in and have a drink, shall we?’ I grabbed her case and propelled her towards the house, leaving Ingaza to sling the spares in the boot of his Citroën.

When he rejoined us Primrose had powdered her nose and was absorbed in the sherry. ‘Not quite as dry as mine,’ she observed, ‘but I’ve known worse.’

I acknowledged the compliment and poured a gin for my co-mechanic. Mechanic? The term is inadequate. Given the circumstances, Nicholas had been a saving grace and I was grateful for his help. However, I felt less warmly when, in answer to my sister’s repeated query about the tyres, he observed casually, ‘You had better tell her, she won’t be put off.’

Primrose replaced her sherry glass on the table and fixed me with an astringent stare. ‘Yes, Francis, I think you had better.’

And so I told her the whole story. It took some time and she kept unnervingly silent throughout. But when I had finally finished, she said, ‘If you want my opinion it was definitely Clinker – I always have thought he was murky. Anyway, why on
earth
didn’t you tell him to take care of his own damn corpse? I would have!’

Ingaza giggled. ‘You’re too harsh, Primrose. Poor old Hor may be odd but he’s no murderer – and as for taking care of a corpse, he’d have only made a hash of it.’

‘As you did,’ she replied coldly. ‘Thrusting it through that woman’s hedge!’

There being no answer to that, we lit fresh cigarettes and contemplated the dog.

The main topic at supper was naturally ‘the situation’. ‘It stands to reason it’s the bishop,’ declared Primrose. ‘He’s hell-bent on securing that post – much kudos and little work; and in any case, even if they don’t appoint him he couldn’t endure anything getting out about his Oxford lapse. You’ll see – he did it in a crisis of terror. Mark my words!’

Her words were duly marked and duly ignored.

‘Honestly, Primrose, I just don’t think it’s in him,’ I said.

‘That means nothing. One could say that about
a lot
of people,’ she replied darkly, giving me a pointed look.

‘Speaking as part of the “Oxford lapse”,’ interrupted Ingaza smoothly, ‘I’ll lay you a treble fee for your Canadian sales that he didn’t do it.’

‘Done,’ she said swiftly, refilling her glass; and after a pause added brightly, ‘Well if it wasn’t Horace, perhaps it was someone who bore him a grudge … you know, thought it amusing to do the job on the bishop’s premises and then sit back and watch events.’

‘Huh,’ I said drily, ‘so that backfired, didn’t it? Thanks to our ministrations, no events to observe! Whoever did it must be utterly baffled.’

‘You mean poisonous Gladys has been robbed of her fun?’ laughed Nicholas. ‘But you’re right – somebody must be feeling pretty puzzled. After all, it’s one thing to have killed a chap, but quite another to hear no response from the person outside whose door you left the remains! Normally all hell would have been let loose with police and press everywhere, and photographs of the bishop looking pale and pained. Instead an uncanny hush. Rather disquieting I should say. What do you think, dear boy? You’re the expert.’ He gave a broad wink, and I glared.

‘That’s enough, Nicholas,’ said Primrose sharply, ‘you are being most unfair!’

I have noticed with my sister that while she has no compunction about needling me herself, she is generally quick to defend me to others. It was like that when we were children, and so it remains. I am grateful.

A thought struck me. ‘Of course, she won’t know yet presumably – but I wonder how Lavinia will take the news once it eventually gets out. She seemed pretty friendly with Felter at that party in Kensington.’

‘And at the Brighton binge,’ added Primrose. ‘They clung to each other like limpets nearly all evening.’

‘The great thing is to avoid any contact with her until it’s public knowledge,’ warned Nicholas. ‘And that goes for Hor too. I wouldn’t put it past him to let something slip in a thoughtless moment – like paying his condolences on the death of her friend! I’d better warn him …’

At that moment the telephone rang in the hall, and I got up to answer it. And returned at some speed.

‘It’s Slowcome,’ I gasped. ‘Wants to come round with a couple of questions – if it’s not too inconvenient!’

‘Well of course it’s inconvenient,’ exclaimed Primrose. ‘Did you tell him your sister was here and we had only just finished dinner?’

I ignored that and turned to Nicholas: ‘For God’s sake, leave immediately and take those tyres with you! Get rid of them, destroy them, cut them into pieces!’

‘All right, old man, keep your hair on,’ Ingaza replied, but he rose quickly. ‘I’ll leave in a tick, but I just need to christen your gents.’

‘Surely you can hold on or use a hedge,’ I protested.

‘Certainly not,’ he replied indignantly.

After what seemed an age of messing about, Ingaza left. And with the thankful sound of the departing engine in my ears, I scurried around tidying the sitting room and trying to create an air of bland innocence. This included replacing my sports jacket with one of shadowy hue, putting on my dog collar and strewing copies of the
Church Times
in prominent places.

‘What
are
you doing, Francis? You’re like a flea in a fit!’ exclaimed Primrose. ‘What about offering me a glass of port?’

‘No,’ I snapped, ‘you’ll have to make do with coffee if you must. It wouldn’t look good.’

‘Oh, really!’ She took out her compact and applied lipstick. ‘This Slowcome, is he good-looking?’

‘Awful,’ I said, searching vainly for a picture of the Archbishop of Canterbury to hang on the wall.

‘And is he likely to turn up on his own?’

‘Bound to be a sidekick, there always is.’ I thought gloomily of the dreaded Samson, who, with Inspector March, had plagued me for months over the Fotherington affair. At least I should be spared his foxy presence. Too shrewd for Molehill, Samson had transferred to Scotland Yard where his sullen and questing eye was presumably striking fear into villains far above my league. Occasionally life grants small mercies.

The doorbell rang and I went to answer it with sinking heart.

Yes, there were two of them: Slowcome, of course, and a round-faced youth in a navy mac, carrying a briefcase.

I ushered them in, and made introductions to Primrose. The latter immediately assumed her lady-of-the-manor mode. ‘
Do
let me make you some coffee, Superintendent, you must be chilled to the bone on a night like this!’ (It was in fact unusually mild, but such details are of little account to Primrose.) She made great show of taking their coats and settling them in the warmest places by the fire; then before going for the coffee, said to Slowcome, ‘My brother tells me you are a lay-reader at the cathedral and that Bishop Clinker says you are an absolute stalwart, in fact the only one with real voice!’ She laughed gaily and disappeared to the kitchen.

Absurdly she had hit the mark. For flushing slightly, Slowcome said, ‘Very complimentary of His Lordship. One does try to do one’s best, you know. A
steady
tone is what’s needed – at least that’s what I always think, and in my modest way it’s what I feel I achieve …’ (Modest way, my foot! Bumptious ass.)

‘Ah,’ I said earnestly, ‘but of course it’s not just a matter of tone and resonance, it’s also interpretation,
intelligent
interpretation – that’s what Clinker looks for in his readers. Not easily come by, I fear, which is why he’s so thankful to have a veteran like yourself among the cohorts!’ I chuckled conspiratorially.

When Primrose returned with the coffee it was to find us absorbed in the niceties and snares of public gospel reading. I say ‘us’, but in fact it was principally Slowcome pronouncing and airing his views, with me supplying an obsequious obligato. (Anything, anything to delay the ‘couple of questions’!)

Primrose dispensed the coffee, and turning to the round-faced youth enquired whether he shared his superior’s interest in public reading. The young man shook his head; but before he had a chance to reply, Slowcome said jovially, ‘Thomas doesn’t read, he
sings
. In the church choir, he is.’ (Yes, I thought I had seen him before: Thomas Winjohn – one of the tenors, and always half a beat behind everyone else.)

‘Really? How splendid!’ gushed Primrose. She was clearly ready to initiate further diversionary discussion, but the boy got in first.

‘Yes,’ he said eagerly, ‘and do you know, it was when I was on my way back from choir practice that I think I may have passed the car!’

I had taken a small sip of coffee, but it suddenly went down with a whoosh, burning my throat. ‘Car?’ I asked mildly. ‘What car?’

‘The one parked by Miss Briggs’s hedge. The one we are trying to trace the tyre marks of.’ He tapped his notebook importantly.

‘Yes,’ said Slowcome sharply, all thoughts of lay-reading vanished, ‘and if your bike had had its lights functioning properly like a constable’s ought, you might have seen something useful. As it is, you can’t recall a thing!’

‘Well, except that it may have been some sort of sports car … But like I said, sir, it was pitch dark and my dynamo had failed, and I’d got my head down against the rain. Wasn’t seeing anything very clearly except the pot holes …’ He trailed off, crestfallen.

‘Maddening, isn’t it, to have been so close?’ said Primrose sympathetically. ‘But I know how contrary those dynamos can be – always giving up just when you need them most! Besides, it’s not as if you were even searching for a car. So easy to be wise after the event. Don’t you think so, Superintendent?’ She gave the latter a worldly smile.

Slowcome nodded briefly, and turning to me said, ‘Now this is where you might be able to help us, Canon. I gather that on that night you and a friend were returning from Brighton and got flagged down at our roadblock. They tell me there was a Ford Anglia ahead of you. But can you recall seeing any other vehicle either in front or behind, say within a couple of miles of Molehill?’

Which would be best? To say I had seen nothing, or dozens? Helplessly I glanced at the dog for inspiration. Bouncer stared back and gave a single wag of his tail.

‘The roads were very empty – but I think there may have been one,’ I ventured.

‘Can you remember its make, sir?’ asked Thomas Winjohn briskly, clearly wanting to reinstate himself with Slowcome.

‘A Humber … yes, a Humber Snipe. Or come to think of it, it may have been an MG.’ I frowned.

Slowcome cleared his throat. ‘Bit of a difference, I should have thought, between a Snipe and an MG.’

‘Oh, Francis is hopeless on cars!’ broke in Primrose. ‘I remember when we were children – he couldn’t even distinguish the Dinky ones!’ She emitted a gale of laughter, while I was torn between being grateful for her intervention and feeling piqued at having my reputation with Dinky cars so traduced. They had in fact been my favourite toy and I had taken particular pride in my expertise.

‘Still,’ continued Slowcome, ‘given that DC Winjohn thinks that the one parked by the lady’s hedge
may
have been a sports model, and that those tyre marks show a fairly narrow width – who knows, what you saw just may have been the one. A long shot, but worth pursuing anyway.’ He turned to his companion: ‘That’ll be your job first thing tomorrow – make a list of all MGs registered in the Surrey area and then you and DS Withers can have a go at them.’ I closed my eyes, thinking of all the innocent MG owners about to be so plagued.

However, my sympathy was short-lived, for at the next moment Slowcome said, ‘And now if you don’t mind, Canon, perhaps we could take a quick shufti at the tyres on your vehicle – or rather DC Winjohn will. He likes doing tyres, it’s his speciality – never happier than when he’s on his knees measuring treads and such. Just give him the garage key, it won’t take long. He’s got all the necessary in that smart new briefcase of his – torch, camera, measuring stick, reference manual. He’s got the whole works in there – haven’t you, Thomas?’ The latter nodded, though I was not sure whether with pain or pleasure.

‘Goodness,’ cried Primrose, ‘is my brother on the suspect list? That’ll be a novelty for him!’ (No need to over-ice the cake, Primrose, I thought irritably.)

Slowcome gave an indulgent smile. ‘All car owners are suspects at this stage, Miss Oughterard – even vicars. Bishops too I daresay!’ He laughed complacently at his own joke, and I started to wonder how I might scupper his chances on Clinker’s lay-reading rota.

With Winjohn doing his bit in the garage, we turned to other matters, i.e. Bouncer. ‘Cheerful old boy, that one,’ observed our guest. ‘Looks nice and docile too. I like an obedient dog. In fact now that I’m out of London and settled in the country, I quite fancy getting something like that myself.’ He gave Bouncer a friendly pat. The latter cocked his head on one side, presumably trying to appear cutely docile, but in fact looking mildly insane. ‘Yes, nice little chap,’ observed Slowcome, ‘not like that savage cur that bit our victim … According to the pathologist it happened post-mortem, you know – all very peculiar, not quite savoury!’

‘Yes,’ I agreed quietly, ‘very odd.’

I did not like the turn the conversation was taking and was thankful when the constable returned. However, though confident that the original tyres were well away, I still felt a pang of fear. Despite the failure of the wretched dynamo, supposing there was something familiar about the Singer that had jogged Winjohn’s memory? I glanced nervously at Primrose who stared ahead, a fixed smile on her face.