A Bedlam of Bones (11 page)

‘As a matter of fact, Maurice, I don’t feel too well,’ I told the cat. ‘I’ve had a very hairy time,
very
hairy. In fact, so hairy that you are lucky to see me still here!’ The cat yawned and said he couldn’t be too sure about that, and what was I on about anyway? So I told him to take a deep breath and pin back his ears. Being Maurice he said he had no intention of doing any such thing, but if I cared to explain he would guarantee not to walk away.

I thought that was a bit RUDE and normally I would have done something about it tootie-sweetie! But do you know what? I didn’t feel up to it. After all, I’ve had a VERY NASTY SHOCK, which I’ll tell you about.

It all started when I had just come back from knocking over Edith Hopgarden’s dustbins with O’Shaughnessy. We had managed to scoff some nice tit-bits, then having a bit of time on our paws we went and shouted at Stem Ginger the cat down the road. (He quite likes that as he lives with a very boring family and enjoys a dust-up now and again.) But after that O’Shaughnessy said he had to get back to his mistress as otherwise she would be screaming blue murder and refuse to give him his evening nosh. ‘Can’t have that,’ I said. ‘No grub: awful nightmares!’ So we said cheerio and I went home to the vicarage.

When I got there I saw that big black car parked in the drive, the one which belongs to the Type from Brighton and which we went to France in. I was just putting my leg up on one of its wheels when the two of them – F.O. and the Type – came bounding out of the house and rushed towards the vicar’s car. I could see they were in a hurry, so I thought, Ah ha! If Bouncer plays his biscuits right they will take him too!

So before they had a chance, I whizzed ahead, hurled myself against one of the doors and scrabbled like hell.

‘Get off the paintwork, bloody dog!’ bawled the vicar. Of course I took no notice, so he opened the door, saying, ‘Oh all right then, if you must,’ and shoved me in.

We set off smartish and soon got to that bit of road called the Hog’s Back. (I keep looking out for hogs but never see any. But one day I will, and then there’ll be a racket!!) Anyway, F.O. likes that stretch, and so do I because usually we go VERY FAST, and if he’s in a good mood he’ll sing his head off – hymns mostly, but other things too such as ‘Run Rabbit Run’. Now that’s
really
good – all about bastard bunnies, and guns and farmers and chasing the beggars! Still, there wasn’t any singing that afternoon as the two of them were too busy nattering. Don’t know what about (wasn’t listening really, too busy watching for hogs) but something was on their minds. I can always tell, it’s the old sixth sense.

After a while we drove down a long drive and came to a big house where they parked. I jumped out pronto for a sniff and a leak, but then F.O. put me back inside and told me to be a good boy. I don’t mind being left on my own as it gives me a chance to mee-use – as Maurice would say – or to have a quiet kip. But after all that rushing about with O’Shaughnessy I didn’t feel like doing much
mee-using
(takes it out of a chap), so I curled up and went to sleep – like a good boy.

When I woke up it was nearly dark. And I was just thinking it was time to be going home, and wondering what F.O. would give me for supper and if I could wheedle some extra rations, when the door was suddenly wrenched open and this GOD-AWFUL THING came in!

Whew! It was ten times worse than
anything
the cat brings home! Really made my hackles stand up, it did. Dead humans in daylight and in open spaces are one thing, but that doesn’t mean you want to be crammed up against them in the pitch dark and with no cat to keep you company. Oh no! And that’s what I told F.O. and Gaza in no uncertain terms. Gave it to ’em good and proper, I did. ‘Shut up and be a good dog,’ yelled the Brighton Type … Be a good dog, my arse! He should have tried sitting where I was – in the back on a stiff’s lap!

Still, things looked up because when at last they started to drag the goon out of the car I managed to get in a really good bite on its ankle. Mind you, it was a bit of a let-down really. You see I’m what the Frogs call a bone
con-o-sewer
, and I can tell you that this bone was NOT in the top bracket! Left a very nasty taste in my mouth. (When I told Maurice about this he said that he was sorry about the poor quality of the ankle, but that there are times when we all have to suffer for our principles and I had done a noble thing … I don’t know what ‘principles’ are, but I think the cat was saying I had done well. Howzat, then!)

So after giving it that bite I felt much better and went to sleep – chuffed that whatever else happened to the thing, Bouncer had jolly well got in first and LEFT HIS MARK. That was good … But what’s not so good is that it will be quite a while before I try to jump into the vicar’s car again. After all, you never know what might be there!

We arrived at the vicarage in a state of mild catalepsy (including, I think, the dog, who leapt into its basket, and as if grasping at the comfortingly familiar, immediately shoved its head down to inspect its nether regions). Also in search of comfort, Nicholas and I repaired to the sitting room where we took solace in whisky. We sipped and cogitated.

‘Well, at least that’s Felter fixed,’ he observed at last. ‘So what’s next on the merry agenda?’

I winced. ‘Mavis Briggs.’

‘Hmm, you can count me out of that one,’ he said drily. ‘I’m off first thing in the morning. There are some things that even the strong can’t take.’

‘So you’re staying the night, then?’ I asked.

‘If the spare room is remotely habitable and its owner agreeable I think I just might. Nerves a trifle fragile. Besides, the petrol’s down and most garages are shut – and I certainly don’t want to risk another encounter with some hare-brained police cordon!’

I was glad of his decision for my mind was a whirligig of fears and questions and I needed company. The first question of course was who on earth had done it.

‘You know,’ I said uneasily, ‘there’s nothing really to suggest that it wasn’t Clinker. I mean, I know he denied it and so on, and seemed as shocked as we were, but you can never tell with that sort of thing, and it’s amazing how some people genuinely believe in their own stories. Dispatching someone is a pretty big psychological upheaval and—’

‘Oh yes,’ he agreed, ‘and of course you would know about such matters.’

I ignored that and continued to ponder the question. ‘As we know, there was an awful lot at stake, particularly for someone like Hor: status and reputation are crucial matters to him. And in any case it’s not as if he has only himself to think about – there’s always Gladys. (‘Always,’ was the grim response.) If Felter was taunting him in the way he said, it’s quite possible he suddenly lost his nerve and out of blind panic shot him, then hid the gun intending to dispose of it later.’

‘Like you did with those binoculars,’ Nicholas helpfully reminded me.
*

‘Look, I should be grateful if you would stop bringing me into it all the time! It’s discourteous and irrelevant!’ I glowered at him and he had the grace to look mildly apologetic.

‘I told you, nerves a bit fraught – leads to unthinking remarks. And you are quite right: Clinker is the first one the police will suspect. Only one on the premises, easy opportunity. Except that I don’t actually think it happened like that. I’m pretty sure he’s on the level … But even if he isn’t, it’s hardly anything to do with us. After all, it’s not as if we would “bring it to the attention of the authorities”, is it?’

I took another sip of whisky. ‘No,’ I said, ‘no we wouldn’t …’

‘Good. Glad that’s settled. Now, assuming I’m right and that he
is
telling the truth, let’s consider possibilities.’ There was a long silence during which Maurice wandered in, and ignoring me, turned his attention to the guest. Settling at Nicholas’s feet, he toyed daintily with his shoelaces while now and again giving a speculative tweak to his trouser turn-up. Nicholas shuffled his feet irritably.

‘Don’t do that,’ I warned. ‘He’s pretending you are a fieldmouse and will pounce if he senses resistance.’

The fieldmouse rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Your creatures, Francis!’

‘But,’ I continued, ‘if Clinker didn’t do it, someone else did. Must have followed him to the Palace and lain in wait. But what puzzles me is how did Felter get there in the first place? Hor just said he had “presented himself”. Presumably he didn’t drive otherwise his car would have been there when we arrived. A taxi is possible I suppose, but in that case it would surely have waited while Felter was conducting his business.’

‘Unless he paid it off, intending to stroll back to the railway station.’

‘Stroll? It’s nearly four miles!’

‘Oh well, perhaps he was a keen cyclist.’

‘Huh! He would have had to be fanatical to slog it all the way down from London. And even then he must have left the bicycle somewhere. And no point in hiding it if he was going to leap back into the saddle and pedal home again.’

‘Of course, we don’t actually know that he arrived from London,’ said Nicholas more seriously. ‘Could have been staying locally and just sauntered over.’

‘What, like in a hotel or pub, you mean?’

‘Possibly, but maybe at a private house close by.’

I sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose the thing to do would be to check out all the likely places within a half-mile radius where he might have been …’

‘Just a minute, Francis,’ exclaimed Nicholas. ‘Don’t get carried away, dear boy! It hardly matters how the bloody man got there. The main point is that he is mercifully dead and that thanks to us nobody knows he was at Clinker’s place anyway.’

‘Except the murderer,’ I murmured.

‘Except the murderer. Which brings us back to the original question. Discounting Hor, who?’

‘Gladys?’ I suggested hopefully. ‘Perhaps she never went away at all, but somehow learning of the rendezvous and knowing more than she let on to Clinker, hid in the bushes and just as the visitor was leaving plugged him at close range with the air-rifle.’

Nicholas grinned. ‘Don’t get your hopes up! Besides, according to Clinker the rifle was having its stock done – easily verifiable.’

‘There’s also the
why
,’ I went on, discarding my reverie.

‘Well that’s obvious. According to Hor he had a long list of victims, he and I certainly weren’t the only ones. Somebody had had enough and thought it time to exterminate the little toad.’ He paused, and then chuckled. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t me, was it? I was with the Reverend Canon Oughterard – an impeccable alibi. And being with you, I also know for a fact that you haven’t been up to your tricks again!’

‘I do
not
get up to tricks!’ I cried, scattering the cat and spilling my whisky.

‘Keep your hair on, old cock, just testing.’ He stood up, stretched and yawned and announced his departure for bed. ‘I suggest you do the same. Busy day tomorrow – Mavis and all. You’ll need a good night’s sleep!’

I groaned and followed suit.

Of course I didn’t sleep – or not until much later when I snatched a couple of hours before dawn. Instead I lay awake reliving the nightmare, thinking of Clinker (possibly similarly engaged), dreading the kerfuffle that was bound to erupt the next day and asking myself incessantly who had done it, and why on the bishop’s premises … always assuming, of course, the resident to be innocent.

As I lay staring into the darkness, I heard the onrush of rain pelting the windows and toolshed roof. That’s all we need, I thought: corpse waterlogged as well as bitten … I turned fretfully on my side and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the vision of the sodden body and willing a sleep that refused to come. Lids closed, mind wide open.

Our conjectures had been vague to say the least, and I was still puzzled by how Felter had arrived at the house. The Palace was relatively secluded and even if, as Ingaza had suggested, he had been staying locally, he would still have had to cover almost a mile along the main road and then a further distance down the long drive. Elderly, fastidious, and apart from the sailing, not notably the outdoor type, it seemed unlikely that he would have walked. So why no car? The answer was suddenly plain: because he had not been
followed
but
taken
there by someone else! Clinker seemed to think he may have caught the sound of an engine shortly after discovering the body. Well, sound or no, it did seem perfectly feasible that Felter had been dropped a little way from the house – perhaps among the trees in the drive – and with the business completed, intended returning to the vehicle to be whisked away. But clearly his driver had had alternative plans: to ambush him as he left the house. And with no one but Clinker at home to observe proceedings, had performed the task and slipped safely away. If this were indeed the case it would mean that Felter had known his assassin, who, given the nature of the visit, might presumably have been a confidant: a confidant turned turncoat.

Perhaps, perhaps. ‘If ifs and ans were pots and pans …’ My mother’s voice echoed languidly down the years, as, befuddled by fruitless speculation, I at last slipped into a curiously dreamless sleep.

‘Well, I’m off now,’ announced a brisk voice from the doorway. ‘Mustn’t keep old Eric waiting. I used your telephone last night to tell him I wanted a slap-up breakfast the instant I arrived. He gets fractious if the porridge overcooks. Still, at this hour of the morning I should get a clear run.’ Ingaza paused, and then added cheerfully, ‘Better give yourself a good one too – you’ll need it!’

He disappeared and I heard the front door slam. The dog barked and I slid beneath the bedclothes.