A Bedlam of Bones (18 page)

‘
So
lovely to see you again, Primrose!’ Millie Merton gushed. ‘Oh – and Nicholas too. Long time no see!’

‘Two weeks ago at Lavinia’s flat,’ was the dry response.

‘Ah yes, one so easily forgets these things …’ She drifted off to examine a bowl of lilies.

‘Bitch!’ he muttered under his breath.

Primrose whisked Millie into the hall to admire a new painting and Lavinia followed. The latter had brought Attlee, sporting a filigree harness. He looked morose, and I watched with some sympathy as his little bandy legs spindled after his minder.

Left alone with Turnbull, Nicholas and I exchanged pleasantries, asking him about the new language school and his plans for its development. He spoke enthusiastically about the patronage from the Foreign Office and also his hopes to establish links with some graduate school in India. ‘Jaipur, actually,’ he volunteered, ‘they seem very keen.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Nicholas blandly, ‘you were at St Austin’s, weren’t you? Oddly enough, one of my customers was speaking very warmly of you only recently – name of Timms – said he remembers you well when you were in the sixth form and being tutored by your friend Freddie Felter. He was a housemaster then, wasn’t he? Timms seems to recall you both returning to England at the same time … Must have been an awful shock for you and Lavinia, him turning up dead like that!’

For a moment Turnbull was silent, his face expressionless. And then he said quietly, ‘Yes, it was. Awful. Poor old Freddie, an extraordinary business! We shall miss him.’ Before he had a chance to say anything further, Millie Merton had zoomed up, and taking him by the arm, inveigled him on to the terrace to admire the line of the South Downs in the westering sun.

I glowered at Nicholas. ‘For one who was reluctant to stay this afternoon, you’ve certainly made your mark,’ I fumed. ‘What on earth possessed you to mention Timms? You do realize that was the name of the boy Rupert and Freddie victimized! And I don’t believe for one moment he’s a customer of yours. Besides, how did you know the name?’

‘From you. You mentioned it when you were telling the tale you heard from your novelist pal. I’m quite good on things like that – little trifles.’

‘Well this is no little trifle,’ I snapped. ‘You’ve as good as told him you know about the Jaipur scandal, and he’s bound to assume you’ve discussed it with me. I suppose next you’ll tell him we suspect him of other things too!’

‘Nothing so crude,’ he replied smoothly. ‘I just thought that a mild hint wouldn’t go amiss. What you might call a little needler, dear boy, just to see the reaction – the only problem being that little Miss Fig Face had to come and put her galumphing oar in things, otherwise I could have pushed him further.’

‘Do
not
,’ I hissed, turning to fix a ravishing smile upon Lavinia.

She smiled back but said pensively, ‘You know, Francis, I simply can’t get over dear Freddie’s death, and such an awful way to go, too! It really has rather unsettled me. He was so entertaining and with such a wonderful sense of humour!’ I rather doubted whether Clinker would share those particular views, but in my best clergyman’s voice – and possibly with a modicum of sincerity – I launched into the appropriate condolence.

However, this rather lost its momentum when she suddenly exclaimed, ‘But the
amazing
thing is his being found in that woman’s garden so near you. It does seem strange! After all, he spent most of his time in Oxford and London, so what was he doing in Surrey, I wonder?’

‘Ah, but they say he was, er,
dispatched
elsewhere,’ I said quickly.

‘But that’s what makes it all the more peculiar. Why kill him in one place and then take him to tiny Molehill? And
you
must have been pretty shocked too when you heard about it. I mean, you had only just recently met him at my party – and then his body is discovered so close by. Ghastly!’

I agreed that it was more than ghastly, and enquired if she would care for an early cocktail. My own need beginning to be acute, I was relieved when she said she would.

I went into the kitchen to see what I could find but Nicholas was ahead of me.

‘Where does your sister keep her drink?’ he asked.

I directed him to a cupboard. ‘But at all costs avoid the sherry. It’s lethal.’

‘Better give it to Millie Merton, then.’

*    *    *

Cocktails sipped and the ritual perambulations of the garden complete (with gormless chinchillas duly admired) it seemed likely the guests would soon take off. Indeed Millie Merton was already making noises to that effect, announcing loudly – for Ingaza’s benefit, I suspected – that they were dining with a
most
distinguished art critic that evening and they really shouldn’t be late. (‘Distinguished, my arse,’ Nicholas had later opined. ‘Can’t tell a Tintoretto from a Margaret Tarrant!’)

‘We can’t go yet,’ exclaimed Lavinia, ‘Attlee’s disappeared. He’s wandered off somewhere and I can’t see him anywhere!’ And marshalling Primrose and Nicholas she set off with them to scour the shrubbery.

Turnbull laughed and offered me a cigarette. ‘That dog,’ he protested, ‘it rules the roost. Will of iron and silent as the grave. Not quite sure what Lavinia sees in him – though a change from Boris, I suppose … How’s yours these days?’ He gave Bouncer a friendly pat.

I was taken aback by this casual quip re the dead spouse, and to conceal my confusion hastily embarked on a catalogue of Bouncer’s oddities. Turnbull seemed amused, stooped down to pat the dog again and began to talk wittily about the antics of his neighbour’s cat. I was just getting drawn into the exploits of ‘Tigger’ when he broke off and, looking thoughtful, enquired if I knew when Bishop Clinker had last seen Freddie Felter.

Caught on the back foot I could only stammer that apart from Lavinia’s party, I didn’t think he had. ‘Er, why?’ I asked nervously.

‘Well it’s simply that Freddie had a spare first edition of that sailing novel the bishop seems so keen on – the one about riddles and sands – and he said something about wanting to give it to Clinker next time they met. I just wondered if he had managed to deliver it before the tragedy – seem to remember him saying he might drop it in if he was ever passing.’ I was about to disclaim all knowledge, when he added lightly, ‘Actually, that was something I forgot to mention to the Surrey police when they interviewed us – quite slipped my mind. Still, don’t suppose it matters really, they’re bound to have more pressing aspects to pursue … Have they been to you yet?’

‘Been to me?’

‘Yes, they seem to be doing a routine check of all those who may have spoken to him at Lavinia’s party.’

‘Oh, yes of course. Er, no, not yet, but I imagine it won’t be long – the superintendent is pretty keen.’ I smiled vaguely, wondering what I could say to get him off the subject, but wasn’t quick enough.

‘Must have been terribly distressing for the bishop to learn of Freddie’s death like that – practically on his own doorstep, you might say. Awful shock!’ His blue eyes regarded me earnestly.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, feeling mildly ill, ‘most distressing.’

Mercifully, at that moment the search party returned with Lavinia clutching the errant Attlee.

‘Where was he?’ asked Turnbull.

She giggled. ‘You will never guess – curled up with the chinchillas, fast asleep! Their cage door was on the latch and he must have hooked it open. He’s such a sharp little thing!’

I glanced down at Bouncer and muttered, ‘Missed a trick there, didn’t you, old boy? Must be slipping.’ He wagged his tail vigorously – though presumably less in agreement than to signal his desire to leave. It was a desire I shared and I was thankful when the visitors finally departed.

After they had gone Primrose said with satisfaction, ‘That was rather productive, I consider!’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve got a contract out of the Merton Gallery.’

‘Cultural suicide,’ snorted Ingaza.

Despite my sister’s scepticism over my run of funerals the following day, I had in fact been telling the truth and the first one was at an early hour. Thus, after her guests’ departure, I declined Primrose’s offer of supper and started my journey homeward.

A busy day ahead was not the only reason for my desire to get on the road. Given the circumstances, I had found the unexpected arrival of Turnbull and Lavinia a considerable strain, and their references to the Felter matter had been unsettling … so much so that I wanted time on my own to reflect before saying anything further to Primrose and Nicholas. Thus, shifting Bouncer from the front seat to the back with the enticement of an old bone from under the dashboard, I lit a cigarette and drove off pondering the significance, if any, of what had been said.

On the face of it their reactions had been entirely predictable: distress at the death of their friend, shock at its manner, puzzled surprise that his body should have been found in the vicinity of Molehill. Surely their words had been unremarkable … Or had they? Blandly innocuous or loaded with innuendo? Turnbull’s allusion to Clinker’s doorstep had more than rattled me, but was I being absurdly sensitive? It was after all a perfectly ordinary expression which anyone might use. Was there really any reason to see the coincidence as sinister? Other than nervous instinct, no.
But
, I nagged myself, what about his reference to Felter intending to deliver that novel to Clinker! Surely if the police learnt of that they would be round to the Palace like a shot … But they didn’t know about it: Turnbull had omitted to tell them. It seemed a curious detail to have slipped his memory. The man wasn’t a fool, he must have recognized it could provide a useful lead in establishing Felter’s later movements. Yet he had dismissed it as being of little consequence. In which case why mention it at all – indeed, make such a point of asking me about it?
Because
, I concluded unhappily, the whole matter was a fabrication. Turnbull was just trying it on – throwing down a covert challenge, letting me know that he knew … Just as Ingaza had been doing to him over the Jaipur business. I groaned, stopped the car and let the dog out.

Propped up against a farm gate and watching Bouncer ambling blithely amid shafts of willowherb, I lit another cigarette and thought about Lavinia. Had she been part of the ‘game’? Were her remarks also double-edged, designed to get me windy? If so, she had certainly succeeded.
But that’s what makes it all the more peculiar. Why kill him in one place and then take him to tiny Molehill? And
you
must have been pretty shocked too when you heard about it. I mean, you had only just recently met him at my party – and then his body is discovered so close by!
Yes, she was quite right – it did look peculiar: Clinker and myself encountering Felter for the first time in London, only to have his corpse turn up jettisoned ten miles from the bishop’s domain and in my obscure parish. Surely she had every reason to be intrigued. And yet, I fretted, had their separate concern over the locality of the find, their emphasis on the strangeness of its proximity to both me and Clinker been a trifle too harmonious – orchestrated, even? Both had been making exactly the same point, the one observation neatly reinforcing the other … Again my mind returned to Turn-bull’s metaphor of the bishop’s doorstep; and again amid the perplexity I felt a sting of fear.

My cogitations were interrupted by the dog making clear its purpose of resuming the journey. And taking my cue I returned to the car, and once more we set off on the homeward path and the relief of bed.

‘It was a bit rum,’ I told Maurice, ‘and just as well you weren’t with us, you would have gone all ratty.’ The cat opened his mouth to make some sniffy answer but I got in first. ‘You see,’ I said quickly, ‘it wasn’t just the Prim and the Brighton Type who were there but the whole blooming lot – Turnip and the thin bird and a short one I didn’t know (and didn’t like much either), plus that little geezer Attlee. Far too many for you, Maurice, and all jabbering nineteen to the dozen. I mean, it was like what you say sometimes …’ (I had to stop here, trying to remember exactly what it was he
did
say – it’s not always easy) ‘um, you know – when you wave your paws in the air and screech: “I can’t tell you how awful it was: the noise, the
people
!”’

‘And what about those purrnishus rabbits,’ he asked, ‘were they still there?’

I told him that they were, but that since I was on my BEST behaviour and hoping to get some special extras from the tea-table I thought I would give them a miss this time.

‘In that case,’ said the cat, all hoity-toity and pleased with itself, ‘how do you know they were there? Your sixth sense, I suppose!’

I told him coldly that my sixth sense had better things to do than bother itself with bastard bunnies (or even PURR-NISHUS ones), and I knew they were there because Attlee vanished and was found fast asleep between them.

‘Peculiar,’ said Maurice. ‘I am surprised they didn’t raise hell. After all, that’s what they usually do if any of us go near.’

‘Yes, you would have thought so,’ I said, ‘but old titchy legs seems to have a knack. He told me that he just went up to the hutch door, nosed it open, said nothing, pushed them apart with his elbows and lay down. They didn’t do anything, too stunned I suppose. He said that one of them, Karloff probably, did begin to squeak, but thought better of it when he was fixed with a stern eye and told to pull himself together.’

For once the cat looked quite impressed. But we got on to other things such as Turnip and F.O. I said that this time my sixth sense was working overtime because I kept having the feeling that Turnip was somehow getting at the vicar and making him all hot and bothered – and that the thin lady hadn’t been helping much either. It was like they were both watching F.O. to see what he would do – going so far and then holding back: ‘Just like you, Maurice, when you play Tom Tiddler’s Ground with the Veaseys’ goldfish.’ (That got him preening all right – fancies himself as a dab-handler of pond life.)

So when I had finished telling him about Turnip & Co. and that funny little Attlee fellow he asked what happened next, and I explained that by then F.O. was so windy, the next thing I knew I had been yanked into the car and we were off at a rate of knots … But I tell you, I soon put a stop to that! I mean to say, he hadn’t even allowed time for me to put my leg up properly; just got it at half-cock when he hustled me into the car
a
nd
shoved me in the back seat, if you please! And as I said to Maurice, Bouncer was buggered if he was going to stand for that, oh no! So after we had gone a few miles and our master was in the middle of mangling some hymn or other, I made it clear I wanted a run. So we stopped and got out, and I beetled around a bit while he leant against a five-barred gate smoking his head off and staring into the distance, twitching. He stood like that for ages and in the end it was my turn to push
him
into the car. Anyway, we arrived home at last and I was pretty glad to get into my basket for a good kip. After all that scent and such those ladies were wearing – it smelled really nice, all sort of old and hairy and earthy. Just the job!