A Bedlam of Bones (17 page)

‘So you think it was a Sussex resort, Miss Briggs?’ asked Slowcome slowly.

‘Oh
yes
,’ exclaimed Mavis, ‘Bognor to be precise. I wouldn’t make a mistake like that!’

Later, taking me aside, he asked if the witness was reliable. ‘Absolutely,’ I replied gravely. ‘Miss Briggs may appear a little airy-fairy, but she has a memory like an elephant.’ He nodded, and seeming satisfied wrote something briskly on his desk pad.

Also later, after the witness had garrulously departed, he made sly enquiries of me regarding the cathedral’s new gospel-reading rota, clearly intent on getting himself picked to play a major role in the forthcoming centenary celebrations.

‘I daresay the good bishop has me marked down for something or other,’ he remarked casually. ‘And of course as one of the
old hands
at the podium, I should be more than happy to offer my services. These occasions are always a bit fraught and the public can’t abide mumblers! They appreciate an experienced reader.’

You mean one who likes the sound of his own voice, I thought sourly; but with an ingratiating smile I assured him that I would certainly relay his kind offer to Bishop Clinker. He seemed satisfied and I hurriedly took myself off home to down a much-needed Scotch.

The following morning was more congested than usual, the proposed visit to Primrose necessarily entailing a compressed schedule. One of the compressions was a now painfully early meeting with Colonel Dawlish to discuss the new sidesman – a sallow gentleman hastily recruited to fill a gap.

‘He’ll have to go,’ fumed Dawlish as we stood in the church porch. ‘Does nothing but pick his nose and drop the plate – half-crowns rolling all over the shop! Besides, Edith Hopgarden has taken against him and you know what that means!’ I did, but was curious to know what form this particular gripe took.

‘Says he lurks in the aisle and leers at her and she can’t concentrate.’

‘Concentrate on what? The psalms?’

‘Giving the glad-eye to Tapsell in the organ loft.’

‘Oh well, he’ll have to go then,’ I agreed mildly.

‘Done!’ said Dawlish with satisfaction.

I had hoped that might conclude matters and that I could slope off back to the vicarage for a belated coffee, but he clearly had more on the agenda.

Tapping me smartly on the shoulder, he said, ‘You know you said we needed some new fund-raising proposals?’

I nodded.

‘Well, I’ve got one: a dogs’ talent contest. We could have them all parading in your garden, put ’em through their paces and charge owners five bob a head. Couldn’t be simpler! What do you think?’

I had a momentary vision of Maurice confronted by hordes of roaring canines, and also of the baby next door … That’ll give them both something to yowl about, I thought grimly.

‘Um, well,’ I began, ‘I’m not sure whether—’

‘It’ll be just the thing,’ he urged eagerly. ‘And you’ll see, my Tojo’s bound to scoop a prize. Cocky little devil, best prancer in the neighbourhood!’ (And biter, I mentally added.)

‘Yes, it’s a thought,’ I acknowledged vaguely.

‘Good, good! I’ll have notices drawn up and set the whole thing rolling. Just leave it to me.’ He took off to the lychgate, untethered the waspish Tojo, and together they belted out of sight.

‘Oh Lor …’ I sighed.

Tasks completed, I bundled Bouncer into the Singer and hared down to Sussex – remembering just in time to make a detour via Alfriston to pick up the chocolate cake.

When I arrived Ingaza was already there, and I rather gathered that to soften the ‘Canadian geese’ threat he and Primrose had already worked out some kind of exit strategy from their project.

Turning to me he said, ‘I’ve explained to my Canadian contact there’s a revival of interest in that type of thing among British collectors, and that such pictures have become as rare as hens’ teeth, making supplies impossible … Means the loss of a few fat cheques of course, but in the circumstances better to be—’

‘Safe?’ I asked with some asperity. ‘Don’t bank on it! I doubt if our friend will suspend activities just because you’ve ceased trading. I always thought this commercial racket was highly dangerous and now look what it has led to!’

‘Stop being so pompous, Francis,’ cried Primrose. ‘Besides, it most certainly was not a commercial racket, as you so delicately put it. It was an artistic enterprise of wit and imagination and a valuable chance for the Canadians to own artefacts remarkable in their resemblance to the rustic originals. Personally I think one was doing them a thoughtful service … And by the way, did you remember to bring the cake?’

I assured her that I had remembered, adding that I just hoped the blackmailer was the only one fly enough to have detected her hand in the paintings, otherwise all denials would be useless.

‘Possibly,’ cut in Nicholas smoothly, ‘but you do have your
own
problems, don’t you, dear boy? And if this chap has nosed out the Canadian thing, who knows, you could be the next on the list along with the rest of us. So let’s work out who the bastard is.’

‘Exactly,’ declared Primrose, ‘and then we can take him out.’

‘
Primrose!
’ I cried.

‘Only joking … at least I think I am.’ She stood up, and taking the cake from me went off to make tea.

While she was gone I let the dog into the garden, then produced Felter’s notebook for Nicholas and explained how I had found it.

‘Clever little bugger, your dog! Sharper than its owner.’

I ignored that and gazed out at the lawn, watching Bouncer as he rambled and sniffed among the rhododendrons, guessing that it wouldn’t be long before he trotted off to view the rabbits. I just hoped the chinchillas were safely caged and not hopping about.

Turning back, I saw Nicholas studying the list, apparently with some amusement.

‘What are you grinning at?’

He pointed to one of the entries. ‘Angela Dillworthy – I knew her years ago. Bought some pictures from me. Doped up to the eyeballs even then … and now she’s pushing the stuff. Well, what do you know! Hubby won’t like that, nor the sponging brother – unless they’re in on it too of course.’

‘The Dillworthys?’ asked Primrose, returning with the cake and tea things. ‘A
very
suspect family in my opinion, not quite on the level. Why are you talking about them?’

I explained that one of their members had been marked down for blackmail by Freddie Felter, and described again how I had found the notebook in Bouncer’s basket.

‘There you are then,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I bet they all got together and there was a collective bumping-off.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ drawled Nicholas, reaching for a large slice of the chocolate confection, ‘but even allowing for your poetic imagination, Primrose, that doesn’t tell us who the devil is on our trail
now
!’

There was silence as we sipped, munched and cogitated. And then I said musingly, ‘Oh, I can tell you who it is.’

Nicholas raised a quizzical eyebrow, while my sister also looked sceptical. ‘Who?’ she challenged.

‘Turnbull … And I bet you he also killed Felter.’

At that moment Bouncer bounded in, covered in mud and bits from the compost heap. He tried to scramble up on to the sofa, but was met with such an eruption from its owner that he slunk away to the rug. But even there he was not safe. ‘Francis,’ Primrose expostulated, ‘you
must
put him in the kitchen! I’ve just had that thing cleaned and I’m really not prepared to have dirty marks everywhere!’

Dutifully I hustled him into the kitchen, gave him a wink and returned to the drawing room.

‘Now, what were you saying?’ she continued.

‘Turnbull. I think he’s behind this – the notes and the killing. We know he has blackmailed before and more than probably murdered. Nothing else fits.’

‘But why should he kill Felter? They were on good terms – at least that’s what Lavinia seemed to imply.’

‘Yes they were. But suppose Freddie had found out or knew about the dispatching of Birtle-Figgins. After all, he was also an old family friend of Lavinia’s. The two of them were quite matey. Remember how you described them at the Brighton gallery launch – stuck to her like a leech, you said. She could easily have let drop something about what happened in France, or even perhaps told him directly – she’s not exactly reliable! From what we’ve learnt of Freddie, both through Mrs Tubbly Pole’s account and Clinker’s recent experience, he was pretty insouciant in his pursuit of victims. I bet you he had started to put the thumbscrews on Turnbull as well, and Turnbull wasn’t having it.’ I paused, drained my tea cup and carefully detached the icing from my cake, reserving it for the final splurge.

‘Hmm, all sounds a bit speculative …’ said Primrose. ‘But of course speculation doesn’t necessarily make it wrong. We know that Boris Birtle-Figgins was threatening to expose Turnbull’s shady business dealings in France and thus ruin his career,
and
we have seen the evidence linking him with at least one, and probably both, of those two deaths. If he could kill twice to preserve his reputation in France it’s equally likely that if threatened again, and just when his professional plans are going so well, he would do it again.’

‘Could be,’ mused Nicholas. ‘After all, what’s another killing? Might as well be hanged for three as for one. I expect those are your views, aren’t they, Francis, dear boy?’ He grinned.

‘Shut
up
,’ I muttered.

‘Francis doesn’t have any views!’ said Primrose indignantly.

‘Oh he does sometimes,’ Nicholas replied, still grinning, ‘and in this case he could be near the target. The only thing is there’s no mention of our man on Freddie’s list. Horace, Primrose and myself feature only too clearly, but not Turnbull. Not that that means much, I suppose. After all, one doesn’t have to feature on a list to achieve distinction.’

I took the notebook from him and pointed to the letter
R
with its
tba
addition and the tick. ‘Could be Rupert – Rupert to be arranged,’ I suggested.

‘Huh,’ observed Primrose, ‘should have made the arrangements more watertight!’

‘You see,’ I went on, ‘that tick might suggest that he had already set things in motion, made his approach – i.e. the “arrangements” had been put into practice. And Rupert took umbrage – as he had in France with Lavinia’s hubby. It was probably he who drove Freddie to Clinker’s place and then attacked him as he left. In fact I wouldn’t mind betting it was he who broke into Felter’s house afterwards, searching for any stuff about himself. ‘

‘So that all hinges on the letter
R
, does it?’ enquired Ingaza.

‘No,’ I replied testily, ‘that initial is merely an additional possibility in a picture of cumulative detail.’

I rather liked that last phrase and was annoyed when my sister gave a stifled laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ I asked coldly.

‘Well, I daresay we shall be able to test out that theory before too long, or at least have another look at it. Remember we’ve been invited to the inaugural reception for the opening of Rupert’s Oxford language school.’

‘Not me!’ I said quickly. ‘I know nothing about it and have no intention of risking further association. I told you ages ago that getting re-involved with Turnbull would be dangerous; and after what Maud Tubbly Pole told me about how he beat up that boy in India, let alone what we take to be his recent record in France, I am convinced of it. So kindly count me out!’

‘Too late,’ she replied. ‘I’ve accepted and so has your bishop. Seemed rather eager.
I
think he’s taken a shine to Lavinia.’

‘Hmm,’ murmured Ingaza. ‘Should that be the case and Turnbull is indeed the one, old Hor had better watch it otherwise another note might come winging his way! I doubt if Gladys would appreciate learning she had
two
rivals.’ He smirked.

‘I am still not going,’ I said. ‘I shall plead illness.’

‘In which case I shall telephone Mavis Briggs and urge her to bring you some gruel,’ responded Primrose sweetly.

I scowled and turned to Ingaza. ‘Have you been invited, Nicholas?’

‘No, but I might go all the same.’

‘What for? I should have thought it was in your interests to keep as low a profile as possible. In fact, if I were in your shoes I would take Aunt Lil on a long cruise lasting several months!’

‘Not Aunt Lil, you wouldn’t.’

‘But why on earth do you want to go?’

‘Could be a chance to get the lie of the land, to see if there’s anything in his manner to support your theory. And if there is … then, well, one might …’ His voice trailed off and he lolled back on the sofa, twiddled his signet ring and smiled wistfully – a mannerism which at St Bede’s had invariably signified impending trouble.

‘Might what?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘Turn the tables. Give him a taste of his own medicine. After all,
we
know about the French business – or think we do … I take it you do still have that piece of evidence which you so cleverly unearthed?’
*

‘Yes,’ I said uneasily, ‘I have, but I really don’t think—’

‘Nicholas is right,’ agreed Primrose. ‘He might consider us easy pickings, but he’s in a far worse position himself – as Freddie probably made clear!’

‘And Freddie’s bloody dead!’ I reminded her.

Suddenly there was loud barking from the kitchen.

‘Hold on,’ Primrose said, ‘I think that’s the phone. Drat! It’s probably the Smithers wanting me to make up a bridge four. Won’t be a minute.’ She left the room, while Nicholas and I smartly divided and consumed the remains of the cake. We were just about to return to the subject of Felter’s notebook, when Primrose came back looking flustered.

‘That was Millie Merton,’ she announced. ‘She’s got Lavinia and Turnbull staying the weekend and wants to bring them over.’

‘Rather you than me, can’t abide that woman!’ said Nicholas. ‘When?’

‘Now, actually.’

‘What!’ I yelped. ‘I’ve told you, I do not want to meet either of them!’

‘And I certainly don’t want to see the Merton woman, she’s already poached two of my clients,’ Nicholas added.

‘Too bad. They are on their way and they’ll think it odd if you disappear, especially as I said my brother had so enjoyed Lavinia’s housewarming and would be delighted to see them again. Besides, I want to keep in with Millie, there’s a good chance of her exhibiting some of my paintings.’

‘Oh really, Prim,’ I protested, ‘that’s a bit much! Besides, I’ve got to get back to Molehill … Busy day tomorrow. Funerals.’

‘Liar,’ she said briskly. ‘Now hurry up and help me get the place tidy, those cushions are in an awful mess.’

‘I’m off,’ announced Nicholas stiffly.

‘No you are not,’ she replied. ‘After all, it was you who was saying you wanted to go to their Oxford thing to see the lie of the land. Well now’s your chance. And if you don’t cooperate I jolly well won’t come to applaud your tango exhibition at the Old Schooner. The competition’s being broadcast on the Light Programme and the contestants with the loudest claps get the prize
and
the lolly.’

He made a face and mooched into the garden.

I had to hand it to my sister. A bit like Ingaza himself, she knew the right wires to pull. ‘Snake Hips Ingaza’ was a soubriquet in which Nicholas took sly satisfaction; and his prowess on the Brighton dance floors and in certain arcane nightclubs was surpassed only by his talent to run an art dealership of maximum flair and minimum probity …Yes, winning the competition mattered, and Primrose knew it.