A Bedlam of Bones (16 page)

I am not energetic, but given the circumstances I felt that an early evening stroll would help clear the mind and calm the spirit. This being the aim, I did not take Bouncer.

Others might have chosen Foxford Wood for a peaceful ramble – and from a distance it did look inviting. But for reasons earlier detailed,
*
for me it had become forbidden territory, so I settled for the local park, a pleasant enough spot beloved of dogs and small children. At this hour fortunately the latter were largely absent, being presumably occupied by supper or prep. Thus the place was virtually deserted and I wandered slowly, enjoying the solitude. Gradually, amidst begonias and scent of box the day’s revelations receded somewhat … although I knew that the lull could only be temporary.

However, temporary or not, it was slightly marred by the sudden sight of Mavis and Edith Hopgarden lurking by the lily pond. Edith was busy laying down the law – her gestures unmistakable – and had not seen me. Mavis clearly had, and for one dire instant I thought she might come trailing over. But instead she tossed her head and looked away. Evidently I was in the doghouse over the Gunga Din debacle. Small mercies …

After pausing to feed the ducks, I made my way back to the vicarage via the churchyard and cobbled lane. A figure was moving briskly down it: Colonel Dawlish, stick and newspaper tucked firmly under one arm. He greeted me genially and asked if I had seen the latest news.

‘What news?’ I replied, wondering if the government had fallen or the Test been lost.

‘That cove in Mavis’s garden. He’s been recognized.’

‘Ah,’ I said guardedly, ‘is that so? And, er, who is he?’

‘Name of Felter, lived in North Oxford apparently. A retired accountant they seem to think.’

It would have been nice to have been able to reply, ‘How curious,’ or something equally non-committal, and feigning all ignorance, walk on. As it was, I affected astonishment and exclaimed in my best thespian tone, ‘How extraordinary – I met a man called Felter only recently at a soirée in London. But I don’t suppose it could possibly be the same!’

‘Unusual name,’ Dawlish said, ‘you never know, could well be the same chap. What height was yours?’

‘Well, not very tall,’ I replied hesitantly.

‘There you are then. Just like the corpse! A little squit.’ He drew himself up to his own six foot two, and added, ‘Mark my words, old Slowcome will be on your tail before you can say knife!’ He chuckled. ‘“Last observed, the victim was seen conversing with the Reverend Francis Oughterard at a
private
rendezvous in London.”’ And with a cheerful leer and thrusting the evening paper into my hand, he went on his way.

I pondered his words, wondering how long it would take before Felter’s social calendar was checked and the interviews begun. They were probably at it then, methodically working their way down Lavinia’s guest list … Oh well, time would tell. I entered the house and went into the kitchen where I was met with a scene that occurs regularly every six months or so: Bouncer’s basket ritual.

This is an elaborate performance which involves the dog dragging the contents of its basket – rug and debris – on to the floor. Bits of bone, gnarled toys and generally one or two of my old socks lie strewn in haphazard array, while the dog sits on his haunches staring and sniffing at each. This can go on for a good half-hour, and any attempt to tidy things up is met with bared teeth and sepulchral growls. I have long since learnt that my role in this ritual is to show admiration and keep my distance. Whether the display is for my benefit or as a means of impressing the cat I can never be sure. Certainly Maurice participates – by crouching statue-like and fixing the wares with gimlet eye. At the end of the allotted period, i.e. when the stuff is retrieved and returned to the basket, the cat gives a long miaow and stalks away. It is a curious and unvarying business.

Thus, to pass the time and not wishing to incommode the dog, I lit a cigarette and started to scan the Colonel’s paper for the Felter article. I found the item and was about to start reading, when for some reason I glanced again at the mess on the floor. In the midst of the usual rubbish lay a small, black, shiny notebook – one of those smart ones with a slim pencil slipped down the side. I was intrigued. What was the dog doing with something like that? It certainly wasn’t mine, so where had he got it? Besides, what on earth did he want with it? Hardly typical of his usual stock! I resisted the urge to pick the thing up, knowing that the gesture would not be appreciated. Instead, curbing my curiosity for a safer time, I returned to the newspaper article.

The information was predictable, providing nothing more than the bare facts: Frederick John Felter, sixty-nine, divorced, retired accountant, house in north Oxford for the last fifteen years, keen traveller, member of the local chess club and experienced yachtsman. Neighbours were shocked, saying he was a very nice, respectable gentleman who kept himself to himself and not the sort you expected to get murdered. (Whatever that might mean!)

There was, however, one detail that startled me. Apparently there was evidence to suggest that his house had been broken into – with desk and safe showing signs of ‘vigorous exploration’, though money seemed not to be the object of the search. According to the reporter, the police were reluctant to confirm a connection between the two incidents, and local residents were being advised to keep a vigilant eye on their household security.

It could of course have been a total coincidence – an opportunist Joe Burglar trying his luck on an empty property. Though if that were the case, what about the money? Either there was none or it was not what the intruder was after … Odd. My thoughts were interrupted by a noise from the cat and I realized that Bouncer’s ‘show’ was over and we could all go home. I watched as the dog with much panting and badgering laboriously dragged the things back into the basket. Then with a dour look at me, as if to say, ‘Don’t you dare,’ he pottered off.

Having missed lunch I felt hungry, and was about to reheat the abandoned meatballs and see what else I could throw into the pan, when I remembered Primrose’s threat to telephone once I was more ‘attuned’. I wasn’t sure if that condition had arrived, but noting that it was nearly half-past six realized she might call at any minute. Rather than risk interruption of supper I decided to get in first.

‘I see what you meant about the geese,’ I said. ‘Has Nicholas contacted you?’

‘Yes, we’ve got to work out how to put the lid on this Canadian operation. The horse may have bolted but we’ve got to do something! He’s coming over tomorrow afternoon to discuss things.’

‘Or you could go there.’

‘What, and risk meeting Eric? No thank you! Besides, I want you here as well.’

‘Well,’ I said doubtfully, ‘I am a bit pressed at the moment, it’s getting rather a busy time – you know, weddings and so on …’

‘Ah, so you don’t want to give your sister support in her hour of tribulation?’

‘Well, it’s not that, Prim, it’s just that—’

‘Oh very well then, I shall just have to cope on my own!’ The martyred tone cut no ice for I did not doubt Primrose’s ability to ‘cope’. However, I was flattered to think I was needed, and after a brief hesitation I capitulated.

‘Good,’ she said briskly, ‘and you can stop off at that shop in Alfriston and bring some of that nice chocolate cake they do. Now don’t forget!’

Supper over and my instructions for the following day duly accepted, I turned to Bouncer’s basket. Its owner was otherwise engaged, so with a furtive glance at the cat, I flicked back the blanket and smartly appropriated the notebook.

‘But didn’t you mind him taking that thing?’ I asked Bouncer. ‘I mean, usually you make an appalling hullabaloo if any of your toys are interfered with.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ answered the dog. ‘But this time I think it could HELP!’

‘Help? Help what?’ I replied, adjusting my ears.

‘Help the vicar of course, he’s getting more and more wound up. So I filched the thing from the stiff’s pocket just in case.’

‘In case of what?’

‘In case it could HELP F.O.!’ he shouted. I cogitated while he shoved his water-bowl around with his nose, the usual sign of pique.

‘I see,’ I said quietly. ‘So what made you think it might be efficacious and why did you not inform me of your
remarkable
sleight of jaw?’

The shoving accelerated, and retreating a few paces, I prepared for flight.

‘If you MEAN why did I do it and why didn’t I tell you: it was because my sixth sense said I should and because I knew you would go on and on like what you are doing NOW!’ He made a lunge but I skipped sideways … unfortunately colliding with our master’s feet as he entered the kitchen to remonstrate. He stumbled, dropped his cigarette and cursed; then seizing us both by our scruffs pushed us out into the garden, ramming shut the pet-flap.

‘Now look what you’ve done,’ grumbled Bouncer. ‘He’ll forget all about us and we shall be here for hours and miss our feed!’ He had a point.

‘Not if I jump up on the study window sill and push my face against the pane while he’s working. For some reason that always unsettles him.’

The dog snorted. ‘I should think it would! I mean, it’s not something you’d like to see too often, is it? A blooming cat’s face all flat and furious, squashed against the glass glaring at you. No fear!’ And he began to scuffle about in mock agitation.

I was too busy gathering myself for the jump to take much notice; but he suddenly added, ‘Do you remember how you used to do that with the Fotherington bird when you belonged to her? Gave her the screaming abdabs, it did!’

I smiled and miaowed reflectively. ‘Indeed,’ I acknowledged, ‘and sometimes I think that had I persisted and perfected my technique, F.O. would not have had to go through all that trouble in the wood.’

‘You mean she would have taken one look at you and pegged out anyway – sort of murdered by the mog!’ He gave a throaty chortle.

‘Well,’ I began, ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but—’

‘Mind you,’ he continued, ‘if that
had
happened it would have saved us a lot of messing about. We wouldn’t have to keep protecting him and wondering what he was up to all the time.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed musingly, ‘with my mistress dead but the vicar blameless, just think, we could have spent a life of consummate ease!’ I hesitated, and for the dog’s benefit revised my words: ‘That is to say, Bouncer, we could have had a jammy number.’ There was silence as we contemplated that vision.

Then, giving a thoughtful burp, he said, ‘But you know what – except for my bones, your haddock, the church crypt and the Veaseys’ fish pond, there wouldn’t have been much to do, would there?’

‘For those of us with resourceful minds,’ I remarked pointedly, ‘there is always something of—’

‘Like bollocks,’ said the dog.

‘I
beg
your pardon! Kindly refrain—’

‘Come off it, Maurice. You know I’m right. We’d have become bored and fat like Gunga Din … Now, chop chop! Up on to that ledge and start staring. I want my GRUB!’

Later that evening and having secured our food, we decided that the best policy was a low profile … that is to say, I instructed the dog to keep quiet and mind its manners. ‘We shall know if this notebook thing is of any significance by the way the vicar reacts. A subtle vigilance is required,’ I explained.

Bouncer nodded, settled in his basket, heaved his flanks and, shutting one eye, kept the other trained obsessively upon our master. At the same time I took up my position by the boiler, and silent as a garden gnome watched him lynx-eyed …

Nothing happened. He sat staring aimlessly into space, crunching peppermints and blowing smoke rings – simultaneously. Typical!

I became impatient and could already detect the sound of stertorous grunts from the dog’s basket. It was time to expedite matters. The notebook still lay on the top of the draining-board where F.O. had carelessly flung it earlier. Quietly I edged over to the sink, and in one swift movement leapt on to the board and gave the book a brisk nudge with my paw. It fell to the ground – along with a clatter of accompanying crockery.

‘Bloody cat,’ was the explosive response. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ He bent down, scooped up the debris and took the notebook back to the table and began turning the pages. The noise had woken the dog, who with a baleful bark scrambled out through the pet-flap.

For a while there was silence, and then an anguished exclamation. I watched as F.O. stared intently at one of the pages. ‘Down in black and white,’ he gurgled, bits of humbug spraying all over the table. ‘Little so and so!’ He had in fact gone quite white himself and I rather suspected that Bouncer’s ‘helpful’ retrieval might prove less of a blessing than a blight. I sighed … clearly further crisis was looming.

I was on the point of inspecting Bouncer’s trophy, but suddenly remembered I had not yet written my monthly address for the parish newsletter. Its deadline was nine o’clock the following morning. Having been late in submitting the previous month’s copy and not eager to risk another wigging from Colonel Dawlish, I hastened to the study and began making notes.

I had been at my desk barely five minutes when I was interrupted by a spate of disgruntled animal noises. I strode into the kitchen, sorted them out and thrust the disputants into the garden. ‘Cool your paws there,’ I muttered, and returned to the labours of the newsletter.

There was further interruption: Maurice glowering fiendishly and yowling for his fish at the window. But bit by bit, and to the chummy accompaniment of Wilfred Pickles and other radio stalwarts, I eventually got the thing done and thankfully returned to the kitchen to forage for humbugs and black coffee. I sat at the table, reflecting on the day’s events, and was just lighting another cigarette when out of the corner of my eye I suddenly caught sight of the cat on the draining-board; the next moment the floor was strewn with cutlery and broken plates. With a screech the creature leapt to the sanctity of the boiler from where he watched and purred happily as I swept up the pieces.

Amidst the mess was also the notebook from Bouncer’s basket, and with mild curiosity I started to scan its pages. This took a couple of seconds, for it was empty except for what looked like some sort of list on the first page. I examined it idly, then with more attention, and finally with alarm. It read as follows:

Despite the varied and in places cryptic references, it would seem these were all persons having one thing in common: impropriety. And two names struck me immediately, Hayward MP and Sir L.L. The first was presumably William Hayward, colourful Labour MP for a Yorkshire constituency and in the news recently for resigning his seat on grounds of ill health and ‘family reasons’. The second could only be Sir Lionel Lucy, prominent West End backer and vaunted philanthropist. As to the others, well at first they meant nothing (though the Hon. Mrs Wyvoe with her multiple escapades sounded fun) … And then suddenly three of them meant a great deal! My gaze riveted on the references H.C., P.O., Ing. Had the annotations been less explicit I might have persuaded myself of some coincidence. As it was, buggery, fakery and a prison sentence could surely mean only one thing: Horace, Primrose and Nicholas. Oh my God! Mechanically I unwrapped another humbug and lit a cigarette, grappling with the implications.

Obviously those listed were under surveillance. By whom – the Law? But were adultery and plagiarism crimes? Dishonourable conduct perhaps, but not generally police matters. No, this was nothing official … this was surely a blackmailer’s agenda. One such as Freddie Felter might compile? Exactly! But in that case, how on earth did Bouncer …? ‘Oh my sainted aunt!’ I groaned. ‘The car, it was in the car!’ If the chap’s handkerchief could work its way from his pocket, so probably could a small notebook. What with the dog’s back-seat antics and us having to heave the freight in and out of the cramped space, there had been quite a mêlée. It must have fallen in the manoeuvres and for some reason the dog had picked it up – thought it was a trophy perhaps for biting its ankle. I inspected the rest of the notebook: the pages may have been blank, but they certainly had the mark of chew upon them. Possibly the dog itself had pulled it from Felter’s pocket. After all, judging from the amount of snuffling and growling going on, anything could have been happening!

As I reflected upon the curiosity of the matter the sheer luck of the thing suddenly struck me. With a shiver I thought of what might have happened had the notebook remained in Felter’s coat pocket. It would have been found by the police, subjected to the closest scrutiny, the list of names examined, conclusions drawn, those featured identified, followed up and questioned … Well, Bouncer’s agency or not, at least he had brought the thing to my notice and thus removed it from harm’s way. I grinned, wondering what Sir Lionel Lucy et al would think if they knew that the Reverend Canon of Molehill held certain embarrassing data in his possession. Fed up, I imagine.

And then I thought of the dog again, and went to the French window to call him for bed. ‘Bouncer,’ I yelled, ‘good dog, come on. Come on in now!’ He didn’t, of course.

Despite relief at having secured Felter’s list, I wondered if any more such details might come to light from the police investigation. They would certainly be scouring his house for personal data, and thus there was surely a chance that other incriminating tit-bits might be found. Besides, what about the
recent
communications? Not surprisingly I slept badly, the night beset with dreams and fears and long intervals spent staring at the darkness.

The next day I arose tired and dispirited and was glad that it was my morning for inspecting the hymn lists in the church and checking the proceeds of the charity boxes. Enforced repose amidst the shadows of St Botolph’s wouldn’t go amiss – indeed was more than welcome.

At that hour the place held a seductive serenity, and before commencing my domestic duties I paused to sit in one of the pews and contemplate … Contemplate what? This and that and this and … And then inevitably, and as so often, Elizabeth’s face swam into mind, and not for the first time I wondered what the hell I was doing and whether I would ever do anything different …

‘Canon,’ the voice cried, ‘I was going to telephone but here you are!’ Wearily I looked up to be confronted by Mavis sporting a straw hat and paisley pinafore. Evidently it was her turn for the vestry cleaning. I smiled briefly, rather surprised that she had not scurried past, still smarting from the bulldog incident. No, it takes more than that to deter Mavis. She hovered determinedly and I realized that something of moment was in the air.

‘Canon,’ she fluttered again, ‘I have a little problem and would welcome your advice. It’s, ah, a trifle delicate really.
Embarrassing
, in fact.’

‘Well,’ I replied with sinking heart, ‘I’m sure it can’t be that bad. What have you been up to – raiding the collection box?’

‘Of course not!’ she tittered. ‘But it’s something I’ve got to
report
.’

‘To me?’

‘No. To Superintendent Slowcome. It’s about that dreadful night before I discovered the body.’

My attention flared and I asked her cautiously what it was.

‘Well,’ she replied, flushing slightly, ‘I don’t think it’s the sort of thing one can discuss here – at least not in so many
words
.’ And she gestured vaguely in the direction of the altar and the pulpit. ‘Perhaps we should go outside – away from these hallowed precincts.’

Somewhat startled, I nodded obligingly. ‘Er, yes, of course Mavis, if that’s what you feel.’ And taking her firmly by the elbow I propelled her out into the sunshine.

She trotted down the path, then presumably deeming we were at a respectable distance from the church porch, turned and said, ‘You see, I’ve been so distracted by this whole matter, quite apart from having to order new border plants – all flattened of course – that I quite forgot to mention something which the superintendent might find useful … I mean in pursuing
clues
.’ She gazed at me, intent and wide-eyed.

‘So why don’t you tell him?’ I asked woodenly, fearing it might be the handkerchief.

‘Well that’s just it. I don’t quite know how to! And I wondered if you might suggest … After all, it’s not the sort of thing that I am used to—’

‘What are you talking about, Mavis?’ I muttered impatiently. ‘What exactly do you have to tell him?’ I felt worried and wished to God she would get to the point.

‘As you know, my cottage overlooks the lane. It was quite a damp night but rather warm, and I had my bedroom windows wide open. Morpheus was upon me and—’

‘
What?
’

‘I was fast asleep – in the land of dreams. But for some reason I suddenly woke from my slumbers and overheard something on the other side of the hedge – something of possible
significance
! But then I nodded off again and it quite went out of my head until today … It’s funny the way that can happen. Do you ever do that, Canon? It’s so strange because sometimes—’

‘What was it you heard, Mavis?’ I enquired through gritted teeth.

‘A man’s voice.’

‘Oh yes, and what did it say?’

She lowered her head and started to whisper. I lowered mine but couldn’t hear a word.

‘Sorry, Mavis, you’ll have to speak up.’

She cleared her throat and hesitated. And then seeming to brace herself, and staring me boldly in the eye, enunciated crisply, ‘“Hold the fucker’s legs, can’t you? Do you want me to get back to Brighton with a bleeding hernia?”’ She closed her eyes, shuddered, and then added, ‘Although now I come to think of it, he may have said Worthing, or Bognor possibly. One of those south coast towns …Yes, Bognor perhaps.’

My first instinct was to roar with laughter, but that was swiftly replaced by numbed horror as the implications hit me … Brighton. That was exactly what we had told Sergeant Withers at the roadblock! Indeed, so keen had I been to supply authentic detail of our business that I had given him a vivid account of Bouncer’s liking for the Brighton sea-front. If Mavis told her tale to the police, surely the Brighton reference might ring bells. Too clever by half, Francis!

Perhaps, I thought wildly, I could offer to go to Slow-come on her behalf and then conveniently forget. But knowing Mavis she would hardly let slip the excitement of another interview, and in any case was bound to bring it up again at some point. I clutched at a straw: her erratic memory. If she could forget something as crucial as Ingaza swearing about the corpse and be vague about the mentioned town, with steady repetition Brighton might be overlaid by Bognor. After all, they both began with the same letter. It was some distance along the coast to the west of Brighton and with Worthing in between. With a bit of luck, and assuming Mavis kept its name in her head, no significance would attach to Ingaza’s Brighton domicile as recorded at the roadblock.

‘Bognor! Well I never,’ I exclaimed. ‘And I thought it was so respectable! Why, I remember during the war how dull the troops found it. Nobody ever wanted to go on leave there. “Bally Bognor” we used to call it. Hastings was so much better. Well, fancy those thugs coming all the way from
Bognor
to dispose of the body!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Mavis excitedly, ‘and Bognor is where the deed may have actually been committed. Good gracious, I must tell Mr Slowcome straight away what I heard. It could make all the difference!’ (Couldn’t it just.) She stopped, and then stammered, ‘But I’m not sure that I could possibly repeat the exact—’

‘Don’t worry, Mavis,’ I said gallantly, ‘you won’t have to. I’ll come with you if you like, and I’m sure together we can produce a suitable substitute!’ I beamed encouragingly.

‘Oh what a relief, Canon,’ she squeaked, blushing again. ‘That would be such a support!’

And that is what we did: beetled off to the police station and in euphemistic terms told the desk sergeant all about the awful man who was so eager to get back to Bognor without incurring a hernia.