A Bedlam of Bones (23 page)

‘What?’

‘Attlee.’

‘Oh, have him. A keepsake!’

For a few moments I sat rooted where I was, caught in the waft of her lingering scent and listening to the faint clicking of receding heels on the landing. Then there was silence and it was as if she had not been there – no trace at all except for the huddled effigy at the desk.

Pulling myself together, I grabbed Bouncer’s lead, dragged him away from sniffing the effigy’s trouser-leg (planning another bite?), scooped up Attlee and, following Lavinia’s injunction to look both ways, fled the building.

‘But what on earth can I do with Attlee?’ I said plaintively to Primrose in the car. ‘There’s no question of my keeping him, it’s quite enough with Maurice and Bouncer without having that little tike tottering around. And if Maurice thought he were going to be a permanent fixture, goodness knows what might happen!’ I lit a cigarette and glanced in the driving mirror at the minuscule passenger seated next to Bouncer. It gazed back unwaveringly, then with a mild grunt settled down to sleep.

‘I don’t suppose you want him, do you?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied my sister, ‘I thought he treated the chinchillas most cavalierly. Karloff was particularly put out. No, I couldn’t take the risk. Besides, to be frank, I find him rather unsettling: he has a funny look. And then there are those long silences – one is made to feel such a fool! Have you thought of Mavis Briggs?’

‘I try not to. In any case, we were brought up to be kind to dumb animals. To offer Attlee to her would be a gross dereliction of duty.’ (And I thought again of the hamsters.)

There was silence as we trundled slowly out of London in the evening traffic. And then she said brightly, ‘Well one good thing, anyway, I bought the corset – two, actually. I think I shall need a new dress to go with them.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘corsets aside, do you think Ingaza might oblige?’

‘Oblige? You don’t mean take Attlee, do you? Huh, I shouldn’t think so. Though I suppose he might if he thought he could get a good price for him!’

‘Well it wasn’t so much Nicholas that I was thinking of – rather his Aunt Lil. He tells me she kept a mastiff for years and has never got over its loss. Perhaps Attlee might make an interesting alternative – sort of divert her attention from the nephew.’ I grinned. ‘In fact, come to think of it, he might be jolly grateful.’

‘Worth a try, I suppose, though knowing Nicholas he’s sure to find something to bind about. Eric could be a better bet … Now look here, Francis, are you
sure
you left no trace in that flat?’

‘Absolutely. There wasn’t a single person about and I didn’t touch a solitary thing.’

‘Really? What about the door handle? They’ll check it you know.’

I shook my head. ‘Been through all that before.
*
Gave it a quick once-over with my handkerchief on the way out.’

‘Well, if you’re sure – then do you realize that thanks to dear crazy Lavinia we are all off the hook? Two dead and one absconded to the arms of an old man in Rio! I think I might sample a little of your malt when we get back, and then among other things we can drink to Clinker.’

‘To Clinker? Whatever for?’

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? I read it in the early edition of the
Evening Standard
when I was waiting for you in the Greek cafe. Apparently he has landed the job – that appointment as aide to the Archbishop of York. I gather it was his performance in Crewe that clinched it: what the press calls his “spirited” castigation of the failing missionaries.’

A picture of Gladys came to mind, also spirited and plaguing the angels in seventh heaven … Why, she might never deign to speak to yours lowly again! And with that pious hope I pumped the accelerator and spurred us on to Molehill and the libations.

‘My dear,’ Mrs Tubbly Pole trumpeted two days later, ‘you’ll never guess!’

‘Guess what?’

‘That toad Turnbull – he’s been found dead in Wimpole Street! Poison in his drink. It’s all over the
Daily Sketch
!’

‘Well I never!’ I said. A response which, although limp, was at least true.

I discovered his diary, you know –
and
disposed of it. Dynamite! But since I’m ninety now and, according to my wife, in my dotage, there’s no point in blowing the gaff to all and sundry. And even if I wanted to, nobody would believe me. ‘Old chap has finally lost his marbles!’ they would laugh. Well, marbles lost or not, I can still think about it and marvel at how he kept going for so long, or indeed how he managed to fool so many people … But then I suppose that’s just it – he didn’t
set out
to fool anyone, not in a malicious way at any rate. Simply wanted a bit of peace and quiet (a wish I increasingly share). And I suppose it was that very simplicity of purpose and lack of guile that forestalled detection and kept him afloat … until the Mavis Briggs débâcle, of course.

Had he been more ‘professional’, more efficient or savvy, he would probably have fallen at the first hurdle. As it is, despite the vicissitudes and blunders, he eventually found a little of that peace he had always wanted and became to all intents and purposes a reasonably competent pastor … competent in that he rarely upset anybody, could occasionally preach an intriguing sermon and was generally regarded as a useful chap to have around. Which, when you think of it, is as good a thing as most of us can achieve … Yes, I make no bones about it: murderer though he may have been, Oughterard always struck me as fundamentally a decent cove, and frankly and despite everything, I am sorry he is no longer with us.

‘So where is he?’ you might ask. To which I reply: ‘Sleeping soundly in a shady plot at the far end of the churchyard’, a situation entirely suited to his particular needs and proclivities.

‘But how did he die?’ you might also ask. Answer: cut off in his prime rescuing Mavis Briggs from plunging to her death over the side of the church tower – an event on which even now she still dines out. Indeed, not only does she dine out on it, but she has been one of the foremost sponsors of that gigantic commemorative plaque mounted in St Botolph’s nave. Among other adjectives, the terms ‘Bold and Resolute’ feature in large gilt lettering. From my knowledge of the subject and having read his diary, these are not the words that I would personally have chosen for his epitaph. But who am I to cavil at the description of one who is fast becoming not only a local legend and hero, but a latter-day Saint Francis, attracting pilgrims from as far afield as Basingstoke and Surbiton? (And his empathy with domestic pets, specifically cats and dogs, has been the topic of many an article in diocesan magazines – although I have to say he was never noticeably enamoured of my own late lamented Tojo.) Yes, quite a mystic cult has grown up around our Francis, and even Edith Hopgarden gets in on the act by asserting piously that she had always known there was more to him than met the eye – an observation as fatuous as it is accurate!

The last entry in his journal was about two years before his actual death. I don’t know why he had ceased to write … presumably because he had dispensed with the main subject, i.e. the Fotherington affair, and got it out of his system. The extraordinary details of the tale and its ramifications had been told and relived: the worst was over, the future moderately unthreatened. One imagines he had no further urge or reason to put pen to paper (other than for the necessity of parish paperwork, a chore which he heartily deplored). Why add to the burden by continuing a memoir increasingly concerned only with the humdrum? For someone as rootedly idle as Oughterard, it was doubtless quite enough to cope with that humdrum without having to narrate it as well!

So, as far as one can make out, the final span of the Canon’s life was passed without drama or incident – unless you count occasional brushes with the bishop’s secretary and Tapsell the organist. But I think by then he was sufficiently inured to both gentlemen to take them in his lolloping stride; and as long as he had the companionship of Maurice and Bouncer and access to his fags, gin and piano, he seemed entirely content to play a benign and moderately helpful part in Molehill’s less than bustling society … Thus the speed and sheer staginess of his end came as a terrible shock, particularly to those of us who were witnesses – of whom there were many.

It took place on a Monday – the Cubs’ annual outing, an occasion which happened to coincide with a rather ‘fashionable’ baptism in the church. Oughterard never liked baptisms – the infants put him off his stride – but to give him his due he was punctilious with the protocol; and unless he had over-doused or let slip the subject, parents went away generally well pleased.

As I said, it was a Monday: to be precise the fifteenth of September, one of those gloriously sunny and mellow afternoons when one was glad to be alive and when St Botolph’s tower, all moss and ivy, rose into the blue as if in some bright and enamelled painting. Picturesque it certainly was. But it was also rather noisy, as somehow Mavis Briggs had pressurized the scoutmaster into bringing his young charges to visit the belfry and thence to inspect the tower’s medieval battlements. Ostensibly this was to give the youngsters a treat and a sense of Molehill’s ancient history; in reality merely an excuse for her to stand against the flagpole declaiming those frightful ditties from her
Little Gems of Uplift
. A tyro reporter from the local rag had been dragooned into attendance and was required to take photographs of the whole spectacle, i.e. Cubs, battlements, flagpole, Mavis. The vicar had been invited along to complete the composition, but had regretfully declined, pleading a pressing date with a child at the font. ‘My God,’ he had muttered to me, ‘never thought I should be so glad to be taking a christening! Perhaps I can spin it out a bit …’

And so that was the set-up: Cubs and Mavis up on the roof parading around and spouting verse, Francis in full spiel and regalia sousing the baby below. Both groups commanded a fair audience. Normally I would be busy on a Monday but that day was an exception; and since Tojo seemed in particularly vocal mode I had thought I would quell him with a brisk walk round the churchyard.

When we arrived the whole thing was in full progress: a contingent of Cubs playing tag among the gravestones, Mavis and the rest looking like Lowry stick figures on top of the tower, and rousing singing from the christening party in the church. I remember saying to Tojo: ‘Listen to that, old boy, they’re airing their lungs all right. The vicar should be pleased.’ Dog didn’t answer of course, and sat down and had a damned good scratch … And then, by jove, all hell broke loose!

Manic screeches suddenly erupted from the battlements, and when I looked up there seemed to be a sort of commotion – people leaping about and arms flailing. The old peepers weren’t too good even in those days, so I couldn’t make out the finer details, but clearly something was going on and the shrieking got worse. I was just wondering what the hell it was all about when Vera Dalrymple shot out of the south door, and pounding over to me cried, ‘Do something, Colonel! Young Billy Hopkins has just come down the staircase and told us that Mavis Briggs is hanging off one of the gargoyles!’

‘What’s she doing that for?’ I said.

‘Not for pleasure, you fool!’ she snapped. I was a bit miffed at that but said nothing. Indeed, I wasn’t given a chance, for the next instant she had grabbed me by the lapels and was yanking me into the church, crying: ‘The Canon needs you – he’s dropped the baby and is going up to help!’

As she dragged me over the threshold I just caught sight of a cassock whisking around the open door to the tower. The singing had stopped and was being replaced by wails from the jettisoned infant and furious imprecations from the godparents who evidently felt the celebrant had deserted his post when most required. It had the makings of an ugly scene. But I didn’t stay to watch and, putting Tojo in the charge of young Hopkins, I scrambled up the stairs after Francis.

I eventually caught up with him on the top landing. Somehow he had contrived to shove a cigarette in his mouth and was muttering something to the effect of ‘Bloody Mavis, she’ll be the death of me!’ And of course as things turned out, she was … However, he wasn’t to know that, poor fellow.

Anyway, we both got on to the roof and rushed to the parapet, and along with everybody else gawped over the edge to view the dangling Mavis. Well, she wasn’t dangling exactly, but rakishly astride a gargoyle – an airborne Lester Piggot, silent as the grave and legs flapping feebly. Glancing down at the turf so far below, I felt a trifle sick – as obviously did the scoutmaster, who was busy fainting in a corner and being supported and sworn at by a couple of nine-year-olds. To this day I can hear their shrill voices: ‘Cor, Mr Philpot,’ one of them piped, ‘this ain’t no bleeding good. You said we was s’posed to be ever ready … Look at you, then – ready for bugger all, that’s what!’

But Francis was ready. ‘Just typical!’ he sighed. And giving me his fag to hold, started to ease his long legs over the side of the parapet. We watched, mesmerized, as he crawled along the ledge, and then lying flat managed to stretch down and grasp Mavis by her belt and then one of her arms. He pulled and pulled … until eventually others were able to lean over, grab a hold and gradually haul her up, inch by agonizing inch. We were riveted by that burden, desperately urging it to safety. And at last they had her: winched, waxen and whimpering … but safe. A collective cry of relief went up.

But at the very point of triumph there was a faint scrabbling noise and a flutter of something to our left, and before we realized what had happened, we saw a billowing surplice … and Francis Oughterard, like a swooping albatross or huge Pentecostal dove, was swirling earthward. Down and down through the sunlit air he flew, until finally, far below in the toy-town churchyard, he lay spreadeagled on the green sward like an obeisant neophyte …

As you can imagine, it was a terrible time for all of us: and not least for the wretched Mavis, who, wanting to make a splash for the photographer, had apparently taken it into her head to perch roguishly on the stone balustrade. Too damn roguish! She fell backwards, arse over tip. What did she think she was
doing
, for pity’s sake – being a cover girl? She should have kept to her verses and crochet.

Still, the funeral was a success – tremendous, in fact. I made sure of that. Got ’em all out. A full church parade, you might say. Splendid show! Full congregation, Scouts and Guides, choristers, the Townswomen’s Guild, the Young Wives, Mothers’ Union (brandishing their flag), lesser and major clergy – even the bishop, that Clinker fellow and his satellites. In fact it was he who gave the address – insisted on it, moreover. Wasn’t bad as those things go, except that he kept talking about the Canon having a safe pair of hands – not
quite
the metaphor I would have chosen – and being the mainstay of the middle path which, he opined, was the best track to follow. (Obviously didn’t know about that middle path through Foxford Wood!) But on the whole it all went like clockwork and I made it my duty to see there was no slacking in the ranks. (Give some of these clergy chaps an inch and they’ll take a yard off the ritual, and I wasn’t having that! Besides, Francis wouldn’t have approved.)

The sister was there of course. Recognized her immediately – tall with the same thin legs and nose as her brother. She had brought Bouncer with her, for once looking quite kempt (obviously groomed for the occasion) … And wouldn’t you know it, just at the moment of committal, as the coffin was being lowered into the ground, that damned cat appeared: darted out from the bushes and settled itself on the rim of the grave, staring in. That got the dog going, of course. Dragged itself away from Primrose and joined the cat, and together they gave tongue. And how! For one moment I thought the sextons were going to drop the thing down head first! But then the racket stopped as suddenly as it had begun and they seemed to lose interest. The cat took to sleeking its whiskers and the dog had a good pee against an adjacent gravestone, and the interment continued with all due solemnity.

Yes, altogether it was a pretty good show – though there were certain characters that I didn’t recognize and who struck me as being a bit odd. Shady, actually. Three of them: sober-suited all right, in black from head to toe, but sporting huge diamond cufflinks and outlandish tie-pins. One was muffled in a jet astrakhan – not the type of coat normally seen in Molehill, least of all in summer. Two of them were stocky and the third – the one in the coat – as thin as a lath. Rather a raddled cove, I thought, and distinctly lachrymose. Kept sniffing loudly into a yellow handkerchief. His companions seemed quite solicitous and supported him to the graveside, where with flashing cuffs and glittering pin, he loitered bleakly. They also supported him back again to the bun fight afterwards, though by that time he had produced a hip-flask the contents of which were being downed with impressive celerity. Being rather taken up by other matters, I didn’t have a chance to approach and enquire their connection with the deceased. However, I did note that tearful though he was, the thin one was scoffing Vera Dalrymple’s flapjacks at the rate of knots, while the others were making a highly focused raid on the fish-paste sandwiches. The sherry too was clearly appreciated. It was only later when I saw them sloping off in the direction of a black vintage Citröen that the penny dropped … Ingaza and his henchmen, Eric and the Cranleigh Contact. I should have known!

*    *    *

So, all in all a good send-off … though where exactly he was sent
to
I am not sure. But then, you might ask, where are any of us going? Not the sort of thing one likes to delve into much, easy to get bogged down! And who knows what goes through a chap’s mind when he’s hurtling hell for leather to his death – or before, for that matter? After all, diaries don’t tell everything. I remember that bit in the poem he chose for her anthem, something about ever singing of Heaven and hoping to have it ‘after all’.
*
Yes, reading between the lines, I think it did weigh upon him; but it was as if the matter was being continually shelved – endlessly overtaken by too many events! Perhaps if he had found rather more of that peace and quiet he was always after, he would have been able to deal with it. And maybe he did in those last months. Who can tell? So all I can really say about Francis Oughterard is to echo what little Mr Savage remarked at the funeral: ‘You know, Colonel, the missus and me, we rather liked the Rev. As vicars go, he wasn’t a bad sort, was he?’