A Bedlam of Bones (12 page)

It was Savage who received the first onslaught. He had gone over early to tune Mavis’s piano, and had been met halfway up the path by an avalanche of frenzied screams. ‘The police, the police,’ the banshee voice had shrieked, ‘they’ll be here at any minute. I thought you were one of them. It’s disgusting!’

He explained to me that being blind, he was particularly sensitive to sound and that the cacophony was like being blasted by loudhailers from hell. ‘Gave me a nasty turn, it did,’ he complained. ‘I mean, a racket like that’s not what you expect when you’re minding your business en route to tuning a lady’s piano.’

‘No,’ I sympathized, ‘I am sure it isn’t.’

Apparently Mavis had clutched his arm so violently that he had dropped his tuning fork. ‘Fell into the long grass. I spent ages scrabbling about trying to find it. The ground was sodden and I got my trousers all wet. I can tell you, Mrs S. was none too pleased!’

Plying him with more of his wife’s fairy cakes that he had kindly brought, I asked what happened next, and he told me that while he was still on all fours with Mavis caterwauling above, there was the sound of a police car roaring up the lane, its clanging bell adding to the rumpus. The next thing he heard was Sergeant Withers saying, ‘What are you doing down there, Mr Savage?’

‘What does it look like?’ Savage had said. ‘Searching for a body, that’s what.’ He paused in his account, smiling wryly. ‘Given the circumstances, Rev, it wasn’t the best of answers, but at that stage I didn’t
know
the circumstances. If I had, I might have said something else. As it was, it set Mavis off again and Withers got all shirty and asked if I knew something that he didn’t. Anyway, eventually they took themselves off to her back garden and found the thing.’

‘And did you find your tuning fork?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes. Under the bloody tortoise.’

After he left I polished off another fairy cake and decided that the best place for respite from telephone and callers was the church. Apart from Savage, I was reluctant to discuss the matter with anyone; but I also knew that in a small place like Molehill, untoward events invariably embroil the vicar, and that it would not be long before I was inundated with excited news-bearers eager for a reaction. Still dazed by the whole nightmare, it was the last thing I was ready to face. But the balloon was poised for take-off, and well before lunchtime the parish would be agog with Mavis’s discovery.

Thus, with Bouncer trotting docilely at my heels, I repaired to the sanctuary of St Botolph’s. The dog’s dutiful adherence was untypical and I put it down to the chastening effect of the night before. I felt pretty chastened myself, and it would be a relief to sit quietly in one of the side pews and get my bearings before being engulfed by the tidal rush of rumour and gleeful speculation.

We had just reached the lychgate, when round the corner strode Colonel Dawlish, preceded by a prancing Tojo. Seeing Bouncer, the West Highland emitted a piercing snarl of recognition, to which my companion responded with a throaty ‘Gurtcha!’ Greetings of a less acerbic nature were exchanged between their owners, and after a brief pause Dawlish asked if I had heard about the body in Mavis’s back garden.

‘Yes,’ I admitted cautiously, ‘all very unfortunate.’

‘You can say that again!’ he replied. ‘You know what it means, don’t you?’

‘Er, well I suppose—’

‘It
means
that we shall all be plagued by yet another volume of lamentable verse. Only this time it won’t be about Mother Nature’s benison, but the frailty of life’s natal gift and how death is “but a whisper away”. You’ll see.’

‘Alternatively,’ I murmured, ‘about the beatitude of the quaintly unexpected …’

‘Exactly. Either way, after this she’ll really have the bit between her teeth and there’ll be no stopping her! Won’t be long,’ he added darkly.

‘So, ah, what is she doing at the moment?’ I asked casually.

‘According to Edith Hopgarden, torn between taking to her bed with shock and milking it for all it’s worth in every tea shop on the High Street. Still, you’ll find out shortly when you visit her.’

‘What?’ I said, startled.

‘When you visit her – you are going, aren’t you?’

‘Well, I hadn’t really thought that far …’ I began.

‘Oh she’ll be expecting you,’ he said confidently. ‘After all, that’s what you chaps do – comfort the afflicted.’

‘Yes, of course.’ I hesitated. ‘But Mavis isn’t exactly afflicted, she just happened to find the—’

‘Ah, but that’s how
she
will see it, mark my words! Take my advice – get it over with, you’ll feel much better.’

‘Will I?’

At that point Tojo gave a brisk bark and an impatient tug on his lead. ‘That’s my cue,’ said the Colonel, ‘can’t keep the little beggar waiting.’ And giving me a solemn wink, he marched off. Left alone, Bouncer and I wandered into the church, sat down and cogitated, the dog seeming as preoccupied as myself.

I sat for some time mulling things over, calmed, if not comforted, by the silence and familiar smell of polished wood and the ingrained legacy of incense. The early sun warmed the muted colours of the stained glass, and the ancient altar and flagstones gave anchorage to a mind adrift on confusion and fears. Current fears were focused on the immediate business surrounding Felter’s corpse and our part in its disposal. But, I reflected, there was more. Much, much more. Far too much to confront at that particular moment … A time to keep silence, and a time to speak? One day.

But regarding the present time, one thing was certain: Dawlish was right, I should have to go and visit Mavis. I glanced at my watch. Yes, just time to fit it in before the midday Intercessions and the blessing of the Brownies. I stirred Bouncer and we set off with resolute tread.

When I reached the vicinity of Cowslip Cottage, rather as feared there was a substantial police presence. There was also a cordon across the lane, a couple of press photographers; and clustered in an adjacent field a bevy of small boys mysteriously not at school. One had shinned up a tree with a pair of binoculars. As I approached I heard him yell, ‘Cor, here’s the vicar. I bet he done it!’

‘Nah,’ was the reply, ‘not ’im, it’ll be that organist – ’e ’ates everybody!’

I glared at them but felt a smug superiority in being ranked less suspect than Tapsell.

Approaching the cordon, I asked if it would be possible to see Miss Briggs as I understood she had had a great shock and might be in need of some moral support.

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ answered the WPC gloomily. ‘Done nothing but babble ever since we got here. Non-stop. Don’t know where she gets the energy! Still, if you think she wants supporting I suppose you’d better go in. D.C. Hopkins is with her,
trying
to get his report right. He’s done it once but Sergeant Withers sent it back – said it was a load of rambling whatsit.’ (Mavis’s narrative style is not known for its clarity and one could see the constable’s problem.)

I entered the cottage with an uneasy feeling of déjà vu. The last time I had been there was with Ingaza, intent on our mission re the Spendler painting.
*
Then, except for the ticking of the cuckoo clock in the hall, there had been an eerie silence. Now, however, the ticking was submerged under a welter of gabble from the sitting room, and any sudden effusion from the cuckoo was doomed to be upstaged.

Gingerly I slid into the room.

‘Canon!’ she cried immediately, leaping up and scattering Hopkins’ notes. ‘I knew you would come to aid a damsel in her distress! You were so wonderful over my stolen painting – but this is much, much worse. A dead body amid the polyanthus!’

‘Wasn’t it the pansies?’ I said rather thoughtlessly.

‘No, no. His
hat
was on the pansies but the rest of him on the polyanthus plants – and I had only just put them in! Dreadful, dreadful!’ I glanced at Hopkins, on his knees gathering his notes. He stared back with glazed expression.

Well, I did my best – i.e. poured a bucketful of oil and said how brave she was and that the whole town was buzzing with her name. This seemed to do the trick and I was able to make my escape comparatively unscathed. It wouldn’t last of course, but for the time being I was a free man.

However, just as Bouncer and I were sidling into the lane, a couple of cub reporters bounded up asking if I had any particular views on ‘the tragedy’. ‘None,’ I answered curtly. ‘These things happen.’ I hurried on, knowing I was likely to be late for midday prayers. On reflection, I think I could have phrased my response a little more judiciously. A headline flashed before my eyes: ‘Murdered man is “just one of those things”, announces busy vicar.’

Later that afternoon, having finished my stint with the Brownies and blessed both them and Giles (a particularly bellicose guinea pig), I went into town to get a haircut. The local evening paper was already on sale (rushed out an hour earlier than usual), the front page proclaiming: MURDERED CORPSE FOUND IN LOCAL FLOWER BED. Out of resigned curiosity I bought a copy and took it home to read at leisure.

I laid the paper aside. Typical: only Mavis would be daft enough to go and feed squirrels!

I sighed and turned to Bouncer. ‘And trust you to plunge your teeth in where they’re not wanted. If you’re not careful they’ll be taking fang-prints soon. Ruddy dog!’ He stared back gormlessly. And then, very slowly, began to wag his tail.

‘DOG’S MAULING OF CORPSE’S ANKLE!’ blazoned the
Clarion
’s headline. ‘It is now confirmed that teeth marks on the ankle of the unknown murder victim found in a Surrey garden were not inflicted by human agency but most probably by a dog of fearsome disposition. According to our sources the injury occurred shortly after death. The mystery deepens as to why or how …’

And thus cheated of the possibility of ‘human agency’, the newspaper substituted lurid speculation regarding the size and savagery of the canine assailant. Of the human attacker little was said, presumably for lack of evidence, and by the end of the article Bouncer had assumed the proportions and ferocity of a Baskerville.

I slung the paper aside, lit a cigarette and cogitated. My instinct was to take to my bed for a week – or a year – until the whole thing was over, but unfortunately current demands prohibited such luxury.

The first demand came from the bishop:
The Times
had also briefly reported the incident of Molehill’s mysterious victim, and Clinker, with a mind like a razor, had put two and two together. ‘I take it this was your doing,’ he trumpeted down the telephone. ‘What on earth possessed you and Ingaza to leave it in that woman’s garden? Surely you could have thought of somewhere more discreet. Now the whole area will be in a state of hue and cry. It’s too bad!’

Considering the awfulness of our experience, I felt the reprimand less than gracious, and with uncharacteristic boldness observed that since it was his corpse and nothing to do with me, he couldn’t be too picky as to where it was deposited.

This produced a thunderous silence followed by a spate of throat clearing, while I waited for the next volley. This in fact was less a volley than a grumbling protest to the effect that it certainly was not his corpse, and neither was it his fault if Felter happened to have been dispatched on Church premises. There being no useful response to this, I enquired how his session with the Archbishop’s secretary had gone.

‘Quite good,’ was the reply. ‘In fact, between you and me, Francis,’ (note the cajoling first name) ‘it’s virtually in the bag. Which is why discretion is imperative … a tactical silence is required. The last thing I want is for Creep Percival to get wind of anything. You do grasp that, I trust?’ he added anxiously. Oh yes, I grasped it all right!

The next demand was from Primrose. She too had seen the item in
The Times
, and agog to hear more about the corpse in my parishioner’s flower bed thought she might stop off for a night en route to stay with friends in Harrow. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I want to know if there have been any more developments regarding
you know what
!’

‘What?’

‘You know, the
blackmailer
! I’ve got one or two theories which—’

‘Yes, well, um, that’s been rather resolved …’ I hesitated.

‘Anyway,’ she continued briskly, ‘I’ll be with you on Friday, six o’clock sharp. So make sure you’ve got something decent to eat.’

With that injunction she rang off, and I was left staring at the dozing dog with its ‘fearsome disposition’ and propensity for manic mauling. I shifted my ankle.

That afternoon came fresh disturbance: Mavis Briggs. She accosted me in the High Street, and seeing my car asked if she could have a lift. To give her her due, she does not normally do this, but gesturing plaintively to her shin she explained she had tripped over the milk bottles at the front door and bruised her leg. ‘It’s the new milkman,’ she grumbled. ‘He’s so disorganized, never in the same place twice!’

Encumbered with library books and shopping bags, she clambered into the Singer’s rear seat, presumably imagining that there might be more space there. Mavis does not talk, she bleats. And it was not unlike carrying an under-the-weather sheep in the back.

I drove off, paying scant attention to the passenger’s ramblings, my mind largely occupied with Primrose’s forthcoming visit. I had got as far as remembering to buy some dry sherry (beloved of Primrose but not to my taste) when there was an exclamation from Mavis: ‘What a
large
handkerchief – and look, somebody’s initials. Perhaps it belongs to one of your clergy friends?’

‘Hmm,’ I said abstractedly, circumventing a small child dangling its foot over the kerb.

‘F.F.,’ the voice bleated. ‘Now I wonder who that can be? Certainly not Archdeacon Foggarty, I know for a fact
his
Christian names are Auberon Peregrine – rather a mouthful, I always think!’ She gave an ovine titter.

I glanced in the mirror to see her peering at a pale blue pocket handkerchief presumably plucked from the floor. ‘It’s mine,’ I said quickly, ‘Francis Philip.’

‘But Philip begins with a
P
,’ she protested. ‘It can’t be—’

‘Not in our family,’ I said firmly. ‘Always an F.’

‘Really, Canon? How very unusual, I’ve never come across—’

‘Where do you want to be dropped, Mavis?’ I asked abruptly, cursing Felter for his posthumous carelessness. It must have been pulled from his pocket when we were dragging him out – or pushing him in.

‘Edith’s house. I’ve got something
very
important to tell her!’

Edith Hopgarden and Mavis conduct a running skirmish in gossip and one-upmanship, and their relations are not so much cordial as spirited. I suspected therefore that this was to be a visit of careful briefing rather than social courtesy. How right I was! In the next instant she said, ‘You see, I doubt if she has heard the latest development about my dreadful body!’

‘Your …?’

‘The body in my garden. Superintendent Slowcome has told me personally that the police are convinced it was transported there by car and probably left on my premises to avoid the nearby roadblock … You know, Canon, in many ways that is a
great
relief!’

‘Why?’ I asked faintly.

‘Well, it means I was not specially singled out, and that pushing that poor man through my hedge was simply a
faute de mieux
, if you see what I mean.’

Some
faute de
bloody
mieux
all right! ‘Oh well, they’re always full of theories at this stage,’ I replied vaguely. ‘Don’t suppose it’s anything more than—’

‘Oh it’s definitely a
fact
, Canon,’ she breathed down my neck. ‘The Superintendent himself took me aside and said: “Be assured, Miss Briggs, that’s what happened all right, your garden must have been a godsend to him – or more likely
them
– and we’re working on that very thing. Once we’ve established the victim’s identity, it won’t take long to find the person or persons responsible.” Well, I must say I find that very reassuring. Don’t you, Canon? This Mr Slowcome, he’s so much more professional than that Inspector March, much more up to date!’

‘Is that so?’ I said, stopping hastily at Edith’s house and wistfully recalling March’s bumbling bonhomie.

‘Oh yes,
much
,’ she gasped, clawing her way out of the back seat, ‘and of course he also told me about those tyre marks …’ And thanking me and squaring her shoulders in preparation for Edith, she turned towards the latter’s gate.

Tyre marks?
Oh my God! Retrieving Felter’s handkerchief from where Mavis had mercifully left it, and stuffing it firmly into my own pocket, I drove off at breakneck speed.

‘I need a whole set of tyres,’ I yelled down the phone. ‘Get Eric to find some!’

‘Can’t you buy them yourself?’ asked Ingaza indifferently. ‘A full set is pretty expensive – besides, what’s wrong with your local garage?’

‘Not new ones –
used
ones of course. They must be put on immediately!’

‘Bit risky isn’t it, old man? I mean, I know you are a parsimonious bastard, but even you need to draw the line somewhere.’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘Thrift is all very well, but breaking your neck is—’

‘Thrift be damned!’ I snapped. ‘The police have found tyre marks by Mavis’s hedge and there’s bound to be a full-scale door-to-door enquiry. I’ve got to do a swap – and pronto!’

‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘I see what you mean. A complete new set could look a bit obvious; and I suppose if it got about locally that the vicar had just ordered some fresh ones, new or old, they might just mark your card.’

‘And yours,’ I said sharply.

He sighed. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll get Eric on to it and he can bring them up. Always been keen to meet you, he has.’

It was not a keenness that was reciprocated. Parleying with Eric on the telephone was one thing, but the thought of being faced with his bludgeoning good cheer in the flesh, particularly at this juncture, was more than frazzled nerves could stand.

‘Er, actually, Nicholas, if you don’t mind, could you possibly bring them yourself? I mean to say, Eric hasn’t been here before and, um, well, he might lose the way …’ I trailed off feebly.

There was a crack of laughter. ‘What’s the problem, old cock? Afraid he might fancy you?’

I felt myself blushing. ‘No. No, of course not. It’s just that … well, I’m feeling a little tired at the moment, and—’

‘And you just need Uncle Nick’s hand on your brow; a sort of soothing poultice, as one might say.’

‘I do
not
need a blooming poultice, or your hand! Just bring the bloody tyres, will you?’

‘Absolutely, dear boy. Have no fear, Nick is here!’

Ten minutes later, with a large whisky inside me, I took my seat at the piano and launched into a curious medley of my own devising, involving Scarlatti, Edmundo Ros and Ivor Novello. It was what you might call esoteric and I don’t think the dog liked it particularly, but it kept me sane and my mind off things criminal and cadaverous.