A Bedlam of Bones (14 page)

The young man wore a solemn expression. And with briefcase grasped firmly in hand, went over to his superior and muttered something in his ear. They both turned to look at me.

‘Are you aware, Canon,’ said Slowcome accusingly, ‘that you have got
two
punctures fore and aft and that the tread on the offside front is
well
below the permitted limit?’

‘Good gracious,’ I exclaimed, ‘how dreadful!’

I think both of us slept well that night, and the following morning we reviewed matters over a large breakfast, prior to Primrose departing for Harrow.

‘It’s all very well your saying we should cut our connection with Lavinia and Turnbull,’ she said, ‘but we can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Millie Merton wants me to exhibit in her Brighton gallery.’

‘Who? Oh,
her
. Why? And what’s that to do with the price of coal?’

‘It has nothing to do with the price of coal but much to do with my bank account,’ replied Primrose icily. ‘And as to why, I should have thought that was obvious – I am a local artist of increasing national renown. She’s lucky to get me.’

‘Hmm. From what you told me about those peculiar abstracts, I shouldn’t think your sheep and church pictures would fit in there, far too traditional.’

She gave an imperious shrug. ‘Quality will always out, you know. Something that Millie Merton will doubtless learn.’

‘But where do Lavinia and Turnbull come in?’ I protested.

‘They
come in
by being her friends and by Lavinia having specially recommended my work to the gallery. Actually, I think I was far too charming to her when she stayed overnight for its opening. She now seems to look upon me as a valued chum … Anyway, the point is that it rather commits me, wouldn’t you say?’

Grudgingly I agreed that it probably did, but that I personally intended keeping my distance.

‘If you can,’ she retorted. ‘Once it becomes known that that body is Felter’s, they are bound to want to chew the cud. I mean to say, their friend suddenly turns up assassinated and, of all places, discarded in your parish … Well naturally they will want to hear what you think about it all. It’s not as if you are merely a passing acquaintance. We
stayed
at Lavinia’s house in France, supported her over her husband’s death, we’ve taken tea with them both in London, and you and Ingaza were recently guzzling their champagne at her housewarming. You can’t just cut them – even if Turnbull did murder Boris. It’ll look so odd.’

‘Oh really,’ I exploded, ‘it’s too bad!’

She sniffed. ‘More fool you for getting involved in the first place. If you and Ingaza had had your wits about you you’d have left well alone, or at least dumped the body somewhere else. Wigan, for example.’

‘
Wigan
? Why there?’

She shrugged again. ‘Well any place would have done, except Molehill of course.’

I began to feel the onset of an enormous headache, and thought wistfully of my bed and several aspirin. If she left for Harrow within the next twenty minutes, it meant I could get in a good two hours’ snooze before sallying forth to confront Colonel Dawlish and the church wardens.

‘Primrose,’ I said winningly, ‘would you like me to help you down with your suitcase?’

Needless to say, once he had recovered from the initial shock, the dog was in his element and swaggered around the garden gabbling incessantly about the ‘the stiff that I savaged’. The dimensions of the ankle into which he plunged his teeth increased substantially with each telling; as did the rankness of the ‘muttony’ smell, which even now he swears pervaded the car for the entire journey. I very much doubted this last detail, but in his current heated state it was pointless to argue. Besides, I have to admit to a sneaking respect for the dog’s tenacity in the face of distasteful circumstance. It is amazing what these humans think they can impose on the rest of us (not that F.O. ever thinks very much), and I consider that thrusting a corpse upon a sleeping dog is the height of ill manners. Naturally I did not say this to Bouncer, who needs no encouragement in the role of injured innocent. There was enough gilding of the Bonio as it was.

But naturally the gruesome drama went well beyond the dog and its fangs. There was, for example, another martyr claiming centre stage: Mavis Briggs. To decant the thing into that person’s domain was an act of unmitigated folly! But with the vicar and the questionable Brighton Type at the root of things, what else could you expect? Increasingly I felt myself immured in a bedlam of bone-headed buffoons. But that, alas, is the fate of most cats … other than tabbies. (With that breed foolishness goes with the genes, and the concept of lunacy naturally passes them by.)

As an example of such bedlam, the events of that past week had been a testing challenge to an animal of my sensibilities. However, a prolonged sojourn in the graveyard sun did much to restore my natural bonhomie (so much so, that I found myself addressing an affable miaow to the Persian jezebel three doors down, who seemed surprised and scuttled in the direction of her voluminous mistress).

But still, despite renewal of spirits, I did not relish seeing a repeat of the rubber tyre episode! That performance might have been risible had it not been so disruptive of my peace and comfort. As it was, I was disturbed not once but
twice
by the vicar’s mismanagement of the affair. The first occurrence was a Sunday afternoon – when he is normally out for the count on the sitting-room sofa and thus safely immobilized. Not so this time.

I had just finished a particularly choice lunch of cream and hake-cakes, and feeling well sated (and with Bouncer absorbed in his usual spider-hunt in the crypt) had repaired to the garage for a snooze upon the bonnet of the car. For a time this went very nicely, and I was slipping in and out of consciousness, musing about the days of boyhood under the tutelage of my redoubtable grandfather (he of the upstanding fur) and his brother the wily Marmaduke. What a heroic pair! And how patient with the callow kitten I then was! Ah well, another story perhaps, another time …

Anyway, there I was quietly absorbed in my reverie, when all of a sudden came a stupendous crash, and shattering the idyll a voice cried, ‘Watch out you idiot, that was my blithering foot!’

‘Bugger your foot,’ was the nasal reply, ‘what about my trousers? What the hell’s that can of oil doing in the way?’

Instantly those dulcet days vanished and were replaced by the unsavoury sight of F.O. and the Brighton Type lumbering around heaving a pile of motor tyres!

I emitted a startled screech, followed by a series of piercing hisses. But to my chagrin no one took the least bit of notice – far too busy scrabbling around in the dust, levering away at the wheels of the car. It was too bad! And after a few seconds’ rapid thought I leapt to the sanctuary of the shelf under the skylight. From here I monitored the scene in all its grisly absurdity.

Amid curses and swirls of fag smoke, the two of them crawled around the vehicle wrenching at hub caps, manipulating something the Type referred to as the ‘bleeding jack’, and with a metal rod yanking off one set of tyres and replacing them with another. It seemed a pointless, not to say noisy, pursuit, and I was puzzled. However, eventually the task seemed finished and they sat back on their heels, panting. Despite his exertions, F.O. looked relieved and I heard him say, ‘Well at least that’s done. One less thing to worry about!’

‘Hold on,’ said the Brighton Type, ‘better dirty up the rims otherwise they might smell a rat. Trust some smart arse to notice recent activity!’ And he started to smear the hub caps and tyre crevices with dust and mud from the garage floor. I regarded this with some curiosity … And then of course everything suddenly fell into place and my agile brain saw the light! It was something to do with tell-tale tread marks at the scene of the corpse’s disposal! Bouncer had told me that it had been raining when they had stopped at the Mavis woman’s hedge, and that F.O. had had to shunt the vehicle to and fro to get off the slippery grass. So perhaps that was what they were up to: foiling the police by eradicating clues. Having witnessed similar antics from F.O. in the past, I concluded this to be the case.

However, all I can say is that while explanation may satisfy curiosity, it hardly compensates for ruined peace. And I was just about to embark on a sulk when I heard a third voice at the garage entrance: the vicar’s sister demanding to know what they were doing. Enough was more than enough and I made a hurried exit through the open skylight.

*    *    *

Such had been my haste to find a more suitable snoozing place that I left behind my Special Eye. This glass orb is an exquisite plaything, and if it were not to be trampled under some galumphing foot, rescue was imperative. Thus, when the vicar was occupied with his visitors later that evening, I slipped back into the garage via the still-open skylight and started to scour the floor.

Crouched by one of the back wheels I glimpsed the thing lurking under the chassis, and with a miaow of pleasure darted to retrieve it. Then just as I had it under my paw, there was a thud on the door and the rattling of a key in the lock. Surely F.O. wasn’t planning a joy ride at this time of night!

No, not the vicar. It was, as Bouncer would say, some other joker – to wit, the round-faced youth who had arrived with Slowcome. I remained deadly still as he started to scan the tyres with a flashlight, then got down on his knees to commence a minute inspection of each one. The process went on for some time with much puffing and muttering and fumbling with tape measure. This item rather fascinated me, and seeing it momentarily discarded on the floor I couldn’t resist giving it the merest tweak. A foolish move, for the youth lowered his head to peer under the sill and then cried, ‘Oh my Christ, a rat! Get out you little bugger!’ And grasping an old broom-handle, he had the gall to thrust it under the car where it made contact with my hindquarter.

Well, you can imagine my fury. Bad enough being assaulted in that manner, but to be actually mistaken for a rat was insufferable! Really, sometimes I think the obtuseness of these humans knows no bounds. Indeed I later observed as much to Bouncer, who nodded sagely and said, ‘You are quite right, Maurice. And what’s more, they’re stupid.’

Anyway, the upshot of such churlish conduct was that in my haste to escape I was forced to abandon the Eye yet again. But fortunately, despite discomforted stern, I returned the following day to collect it. So all was well … albeit as well as anything ever
can
be in the vicar’s household!

I imparted all this to Florence the wolfhound who is one of those rare canine breeds to display good sense. She listened gravely to my tale (though judging from the drooping eyelids may have been a little sleepy – too much horseplay in the park, I daresay) and when I had finished, murmured that such things must be a great trial for a cat of my calibre and suggested I went lickety-split to the graveyard to recuperate.

‘You are so right, Florence,’ I exclaimed, ‘and I will go immediately!’ She wagged her tail vigorously. And then with a languid wave of massive paw turned and ambled back to the house … Matey though Bouncer is, it is always refreshing to talk to one of reciprocal intelligence and whose remarks soothe rather than grate.

It’s just as well that Florence is around otherwise I don’t know what the cat would do! He was in a rare old bate the other evening. The two goons arrived to interview F.O. about the car tyres and one of them mistook Maurice for a rat. And oh my backside, did the balloon go up! Thought I’d never hear the end of it. Spitting and hissing half the night, he was. No wonder I’ve spent most of the day down in the crypt trying to get a bit of kip!

Anyway, he’s better now, as he went off to complain to Florence and she put him right like she usually does. Wolfhounds can do that – they have a knack of calming ruffled fur. A bit like a donkey with a horse. Maurice is what you might call a bit special and needs careful treatment. It’s his nerves. Of course, my nerves are sound as a cricket ball, bone-solid you might say … except of course when faced with a ruddy great human corpse shoved on top of me! Still, as mentioned, I got my own back there all right.

But as a matter of fact, biting the bastard is not the only thing I did. Oh no! I’m getting pretty canny with corpses, what with the body in the wood and then the Boris person in France. It’s living with the vicar that does it. I mean, it was me who dealt with those deeds in old Fotherington’s pocket
and
took the Special Eye from the stiff by the pool. And now I’ve done SOMETHING ELSE. But I’m not telling the cat as he’ll only get bossy and then take all the jam. Of course I don’t
know
that there will be any jam, but in this life you have to keep your wits about you and snaffle things when you get the chance JUST IN CASE! As I’ve said before, no fleas on Bouncer!

Mind you, anyone would think that the vicar was smothered in ’em. Oh yes, he’s a very nice master and all that, but as my friend O’Shaughnessy would say, he’s a couple of studs short of a full collar. Or as you and I might put it, doesn’t always know his arse from his whatsit.

Take the other day for instance. There I was, lying quietly in the long grass by the rhubarb, when he suddenly leaps out from his study, yelling, ‘Oh hell and
dies irae
!’ Now, I’m not too good on words – as the cat often tells me – but you don’t spend time in the crypt with all thoseghosts and mouldering tombs around you without picking up a few handy terms. And
dies irae
is one of them. I’m getting pretty smart on the old Latino and I know that it means ‘Watch out! God-awful day ahead!’ So when F.O. shot on to the lawn and started ranting at the buddleia, I thought to myself, Ho ho, Bouncer, time for more marrowbone … better prime the gut for the next palaver!

Well, after I had visited my secret hidey-hole and had a few good gnaws, I saw that the vicar had gone back inside, so I followed him in. And do you know what? As I bounded into the hall, I nearly bashed into something – GUNGA DIN!

Yes, old Gunga, all beams and blubber, and I could hear his mistress shouting the odds in the sitting room.

‘Cor,’ I said, ‘fancy meeting you here! Thought you’d gone back to London.’

‘Yes, nice, isn’t it?’ he answered, wagging that joke of a tail. ‘Thought you’d be pleased.’

‘We-ll,’ I said, ‘I’m
surprised
.’

So we had a few matey sniffs, and then I asked if he had seen Maurice. He told me that he had but didn’t think the cat had seen
him
as it had walked by looking the other way. ‘Thinking about mice I expect,’ he wheezed. (More like thinking about how to sidestep jumbo bulldogs!)

So I asked him again why they weren’t in London and he said that Mrs T.P. was in one of her nosy moods and seemed to want to pick the vicar’s brains about ‘urgent matters’.

‘Huh!’ I barked. ‘With the size of our master’s brain, that shouldn’t take long!’
I
thought that was very funny but he just looked vacant and started to scratch … slowly, because of being fat.

Still, he must have been chewing over my words, because when he had finished scratching, he said, ‘Ah but you see, Bouncer, it
is
taking long because there is another lady with them and that’s why he had to rush into the garden. Probably thought it was getting a bit crowded.’

‘What other lady?’

‘She’s got a high, squeaky voice but sometimes it fades away like a dying gas jet.’

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘that’ll be Mavis Briggs. She’s very fond of bulldogs. You go back in and sit on her lap, she’ll love that.’

He frowned. ‘Do you think so, Bouncer? I thought she looked a bit worried.’

‘That’s her usual look,’ I told him. ‘Give her a big kiss and she’ll be much better – you’ll see.’

‘All right,’ he snuffled, ‘I’ll have a go.’

He turned round and plodded back into the sitting room. The door was half open and I could hear the rumbling sound of the Tubbly’s voice, the squeaks of Mavis and the vicar’s ummings and aahings. And then suddenly everything went dead quiet …

But not for long, because the next moment there was an almighty crash of tea cups hitting the floor, a bone-busting squawk (a bit like those ducks in France) and the Mavis person shrieked, ‘Keep him away, Vicar! He’s going to eat me! Keep him
away
!’ There was another crash, a howl from Gunga, and then the noise of the Tubbly booming out, ‘My poor little boy! Come to Mummy then! Come to Mummy!’

It sounded like good sport, and I was just edging up a bit to take a crafty peek, when Maurice strolled by. He stopped, shoved his paw in my ribs and said, ‘You’ve been at it, haven’t you, Bouncer? You’ve been at it!’

You can’t always tell what sort of mood the cat’s in. So at first I didn’t say anything – just put my head and tail down and peered up from under my fringe. But then he gave me another prod, purred and said, ‘Bravissimo, Bouncer! Larks in the afternoon. Whatever next!’ I
think
that is cat-speak for THE DOG DONE WELL … Either that or he had been at Gunga’s saucer of gin!