A Bedlam of Bones (2 page)

I had decided to take the train up to London, feeling that meeting Primrose at Victoria station would be fraught enough without having the worry of parking the car as well.

It was pouring with rain, and pacing on the platform I irrationally feared there might be delays on the line. In fact she arrived punctually, sporting a rather nippy coat and skirt and having stuck to her choice of the veilless hat. I was surprised at how smart it looked. Fortunately, despite the wet the cab queue was short and we were soon installed and driving out of the station forecourt.

‘Now,’ Primrose said, ‘our best plan is to get the tea business over first – you know, soften him up with scones and cream and all that stuff, and then when he’s sated and charmed by my—’

‘Hat,’ I broke in.

‘What?’

‘Your hat.’ I smiled. ‘After he has succumbed to its undoubted elegance.’

She frowned impatiently. ‘No, not my hat – my thoughtful interest in his wretched language schools of course! Once all that’s over and he’s suitably malleable, I’ll get down to brass tacks about the pictures while you make an excuse to visit the gents and settle the bill.’ I knew I had some role, I thought wryly.

As the taxi trundled into Albemarle Street, Primrose snapped open her powder compact, scanned the mirror, pulled on her gloves and tapping me briskly on the knee, said, ‘Now, best foot forward, Francis. Much depends on this. And don’t overtip the driver!’

Rather to my relief, Brown’s tea lounge was almost empty. Apart from a mother and a small girl in neat school uniform (half-term treat and merciful respite from Matron?) and an elderly couple holding hands in rapt tête-à-tête, the room was empty and we could take our pick of a suitable corner. Primrose summoned a waitress, and I was just about to order tea for three when she stopped me and said, ‘You had better make it four, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’

‘In case he brings Lavinia. She’s still with him, you know.’

I changed the order and, a little surprised, asked how she knew.

‘When he accepted the invitation last week. He said something about how nice it was to have his cousin back in London and hoped she could find something suitable while selling the French property.’

‘So you think she’s intending to settle here? Hmm – quite a change from the lofty peaks of Boris and the Massif Central, I should think.’

‘Yes, but I think that’s exactly what she’s after. As we observed at the time, not entirely the prostrate widow. And with Boris conveniently dead she’s all ready to immerse herself in the flashing fleshpots of the gay metropolis.’

‘Oh really, Primrose, your imagination!’

‘Not at all,’ she protested. ‘Remember what she said to you at his funeral – about her passion for fast cars and how she longed to learn the tango? And after all, we did see the pair of them zooming off to Paris only days after boring Boris was lowered into his grave …’

‘So you still think she was complicit in the murder?’

‘Undoubtedly. In fact, if you ask me … Damn!’ she muttered. ‘Here they both are. I told you so. Now, I don’t want her lurking around while I’m getting him to sign on the dotted line. You’d better take her for a walk or something.’

‘But how …?’ Before I could protest further, Turnbull and Lavinia had spotted us, and with ingratiating smiles we rose to greet them.

Seeing the pair so soon after our time in France, there seemed nothing remarkable about their proximity. And apart from the fact that Lavinia was wearing azure blue eyeshadow and stockings with startlingly black seams (a change from the pale lids and drooping smocks of the Auvergne), neither looked any different. Nevertheless, despite the social normality of our meeting, I felt a frisson of fear as I watched Turnbull being the perfect guest amidst the starched napkins and bone china of our decorous surroundings. I stared down at the low table and saw not gâteaux and cucumber sandwiches, but Boris sprawled and bloodied on the sunlit flagstones. Had he
really
done it? Oh lor!

‘Nice to see you both again,’ I lied. ‘And Lavinia, how well you look!’

‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘it must be the relief from strain. So much to do and organize after poor Boris’s end. And there’s been all the business of putting the house on the market – the French are so awkward over these things! Anyway, now that I’m back in good old London town and away from it all I feel
so
much better!’ She sank on to the sofa, arranging her bouffant skirt and stretching out a neat toe, shod in what Primrose assured me later was a Rayne original. (‘His latest model,’ she had fumed. ‘Must have cost at least thirty guineas. Tainted spoils, that’s what!’)

‘Good, good,’ I said vaguely, not quite sure whether I was supposed to show sympathy or give a cheer, and turning to her cousin I asked how his plans for the language school were coming along.

‘Couldn’t be better,’ Turnbull replied. ‘The Oxford one is opening in a couple of months and the one in Kensington at the end of next week – which is why I need your sister’s paintings in place.’

We went on to chat about this and that, asked after Lavinia’s search for a suitable London base and tactfully skated round all but the barest mention of Boris and his putative killer Herbert Castris. At one point the name of Inspector Dumont was mentioned (‘such a charming man and with such Gallic politesse!’), but the conversation quickly slid away into neutral matters – namely Primrose’s latest accolade for her sheep pictures. ‘Do you know,’ she laughed, ‘the reviewer actually said he had never seen such soulful faces in his life!’

‘Huh,’ I responded. ‘Obviously hasn’t seen my flock when the sermon’s too long and they’re dying for their G and Ts!’ And then, as I was lifting a cup of Lapsang Souchong to my lips and speculatively eyeing the impressive array of cakes at my elbow, I sensed a movement in the doorway.

The round furrowed face of a brindle bulldog appeared, followed by its squat and hefty torso. Breathing heavily, undershot jaw firmly clamped, the creature stood foursquare and staring. I stared back nervously, and then in horror – as with a rumble of recognition, the creature lumbered over to me and thrust its head on to my lap … I gazed down at the snuffling form of Gunga Din.

In startled silence my companions also gazed. And then clearing his throat, Turnbull said, ‘Is that another of your pets, Oughterard? I thought you just had Bouncer and the cat.’

‘Er, no,’ I said uncomfortably, contemplating the rolling eye. ‘I think it belongs to a friend …’ And before I could add anything further, Maud Tubbly Pole came billowing into view.

‘Hello!’ she boomed, unsettling the trysting couple in their mutual absorption. ‘First it’s the Channel ferry and now it’s Brown’s. We’re obviously destined, Francis!’ She advanced with beaming purpose. Gingerly pushing aside the encumbrance, I rose to greet her and made the necessary introductions: ‘This is Maud Tubbly Pole, lethal crime writer,’ I said with a laugh – and instantly regretted it. (What a tactless comment in front of that pair!)

They smiled politely and shook hands, but I thought I noticed the merest start of surprise from Maud when Turnbull’s name was mentioned. However, she gave him an affable nod, and turning to Primrose, said stoutly, ‘I like your paintings, my dear, the sheep have such intelligent faces – unlike most!’

Lavinia gave a silvery laugh. And then gesturing toward the snuffling pet, said, ‘Is this your dog? What a sweet little fellow.’ She regarded Gunga Din with mild distaste.

‘Not sweet,’ his owner chortled, ‘but
sterling
. Mummy’s sterling boy, that’s what he is!’ And she prodded him fondly on the backside. This brought forth a pained grunt, and with a loud hiccup the sterling boy rolled over and went to sleep.

After a pause, pleasantries were resumed, and I asked Mrs Tubbly Pole if I could get her an extra cup and saucer. She waved this aside. ‘Oh no, my dear, I only popped in to secure a table for tonight. I can’t have caviar
and
cakes! Alfred’s secretary – I’m standing him dinner for helping me to clinch matters with the Great Man. You’ll see, your name will be up in lights before you can say “Holy smoke”!’ She grinned toothily and delivered a prod not dissimilar to that received by Gunga Din, but fortunately mine was on the knee.

I smiled wanly and hoped that nobody had heard. No such luck. And for Lavinia’s benefit I had to endure a lengthy synopsis of the whole saga – i.e. her successful novel inspired by the infamous Molehill murder
*
, the invaluable help given by the ‘kindly parson’ in her quest for local detail (yes, I recalled ruefully: hoisting her and the deadweight Gunga up the belfry ladder in search of ‘atmosphere’), and finally her ‘masterly’ persuasion of Alfred Hitchcock not only to turn it into a film, but – horror of horrors – to give ‘my friend Francis here’ a walk-on part.

‘Goodness,’ Lavinia laughed. ‘To think that we have a rising film star in our midst. Hidden talents, Francis!’

With a more caustic tone, Primrose also laughed. ‘Well, better a film star than a murderer in our midst. Hitchcock’s films are so sinister he’ll probably cast him as one!’

I froze. How
could
she be so brazen? Did she think it a game to jibe Turnbull thus! I shot him a covert glance to see the reaction, but he was preoccupied with his napkin and a particularly lush choux bun, and seemed not to have heard. I certainly hoped not … And then the thought struck me that perhaps the jibe had been directed at
me –
exactly the sort of flippant observation Primrose would make! Either way, one could do without such intemperate innuendos and I scowled in her direction. She ignored my look and plied Turnbull with more tea.

I turned to Mrs Tubbly Pole and was about to enquire after her niece, Lily, when I noticed that she was staring at Turnbull intently. ‘I think I knew your …’ she began. Then stopped short, and bending down started to drool over Gunga Din. A moment later, still smiling affably, she yanked the dog’s collar, and murmuring something about a hair appointment made ready to leave. Amid effusive farewells I escorted her to the foyer and then out on to the street to hail a taxi.

As one came near she grabbed my arm and said hastily, ‘You want to be careful with that one, Francis.
Very
careful … Anyway, I’ll telephone you shortly with news of Alfred – and
other things
.’ She shot me a meaningful look, and before I had a chance to say anything, the cab drew up and she had bundled herself and her companion into its depths.

The very last thing I wanted was news of ‘Alfred’ and the tiresome film proposals. But I did want to hear about the ‘other things’. What had she meant about Turnbull – and whom had she known connected with him? His father, his brother, wife, mistress …? It could be anyone. But whatever the meaning, Mrs T.P.’s warning certainly seemed to confirm my own earlier fear: that Rupert Turn-bull was a dangerous piece of work and best avoided.

I returned to the hotel and caught a brief glimpse of Lavinia mounting the stairs en route for the ladies. With luck she might be there long enough to allow Primrose and Rupert to complete their business. Well, let them get on with it; and the sooner Primrose detached herself from the wretched man’s orbit the better! I lit a cigarette and sat down on one of the sofas in the hallway. If Lavinia returned too soon I could always divert her by bland social chit-chat, i.e., ‘How’s life without saintly Boris? And did you really egg on your cousin to do him in?’

‘I think that all went rather well,’ Primrose chuckled as we walked down towards Piccadilly. ‘Very well indeed. No problem with my terms and he’ll take delivery of the pictures on Friday. Excellent.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘So that’s that and we don’t have to see them again.’

‘No we don’t
have
to see them again, but it might be polite all the same.’

‘Why? What do you mean?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘You were probably too busy with your novelist friend, but while you were both gassing Lavinia invited me to go with her to a new art gallery launch in Brighton. Belongs to an old school chum. Apparently it’s likely to be quite a big event and I think she wants a running mate.’

‘What about Turnbull, can’t he go with her?’

‘She didn’t mention him. I had the impression she was going on her own.’

‘How is she getting there? Return ticket on the Brighton Belle?’

‘Actually she’s staying the night with me in Lewes.’

I groaned. ‘Oh for pity’s sake, Primrose! I thought it was agreed that we were going to keep our distance. That palaver in France was frightful to say the least, and the sooner we put the lid on it the better. You may remember we had all voted to keep our heads well below the parapet, and here you are waving a blooming flag!’

‘Don’t exaggerate, Francis. Overreacting as usual. I simply want to find out a bit more about Lavinia, i.e. discover if she really did encourage Turnbull to bump off her old man. You must admit it’s quite intriguing!’

‘Only to the officious.’

‘Don’t be so pompous. Just because you’ve got your own skeleton doesn’t mean you can’t be interested in another’s.’

‘I consider that remark in very poor taste,’ I replied stiffly.

‘Hmm. But if I did find out anything I bet you’d want to know.’

‘Possibly.’

‘You bet you would! Quick! There’s a taxi. Take me back to Victoria and I’ll buy you a shandy in the buffet.’

I set her safely on the Lewes train, and with some relief took the tube to Waterloo and thence the train on to Molehill. One way and another it had been a tiring day and I was glad to gain the comfort of my armchair, switch on the Home Service and doze to the emollient voice of Frank Phillips apprising the nation of its latest scandals.

The following morning was marred by the realization that my cigarette case was missing. I don’t use it very much, being generally in too much of a hurry to make the transfer from one jacket to another. However, it’s handy for social occasions and I was annoyed not to see it anywhere. I tried to think when I had last had it; and then wondered perhaps if it might have been dropped in Ingaza’s car on our way back from France. Typical of him not to say anything. It was a long shot but worth a try, and I went to the telephone and dialled his number.

‘Well ’ee’s in bed, yer see,’ explained Eric. ‘What you might call
languishin’
.’

‘Languishing?’ I snapped. ‘What’s Ingaza got to languish about? He was perfectly all right the last time I saw him.’ (Swirling off from the Newhaven docks in a cloud of exhaust and brilliantine.)

‘Ah, but ’ee’s gorn down since.’

‘Huh,’ I said without sympathy. ‘Aunt Lil on the warpath, is she? Didn’t get her quota of postcards from the Auvergne, I suppose.’

‘Nah, she got those all right,’ said Eric, ‘thought they was very nice, she did. It ain’t that, Frankie,’ (I winced at the name, but knew I was stuck with it), ‘it’s what you might call
rav-vah
serious … not too nice at all, old son, if you get my meaning.’ I did not get his meaning and was about to say as much, when he added, ‘And of course the old bish won’t like it much either. Put him in a pretty pickle I shouldn’t wonder …’

I stiffened. ‘Old bish’? Surely he couldn’t mean … I cleared my throat and said tentatively, ‘You’re not by any chance alluding to my superior, Bishop Clinker, are you?’

‘Got it in one, mate. That’s the geezer – Clinker.’

‘So what has the bishop got to do with things?’ I asked warily.

‘We-ll, not for me to say really. I expect His Nibs will fill you in when ’ee’s stopped languishing.’

‘Oh yes? And when is that likely to be?’

‘Couldn’t say, old son. Most like when he gets a good tip from ’is Cranleigh pal.’ He gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Abaht time that ferret earned his commission! Toodle-oo.’ He rang off, leaving me perplexed and uneasy.

Ingaza’s languishing was no concern of mine, but I was ruffled by the link with Horace Clinker. Whatever Eric was referring to, it was clearly something affecting the two of them and evidently unwelcome. If Ingaza was sufficiently exercised to be ‘languishing’, what then was the bishop in his ‘pickle’ doing? Searching around for someone to complain to … or to blame, no doubt. Over time I had noticed that in periods of pique or discomfort, more often than not it was F. Oughterard who bore the brunt of Clinker’s fulminations. Would this be such an occasion? In view of my association with Ingaza it most probably would.

I sighed irritably. Really, after all our recent tribulations in France the last thing I wanted was to be embroiled in the bishop’s problems – particularly if they involved Ingaza. Coping with each separately was bad enough, but a joint onslaught was more than nerves could stand. No peace for the …

I whistled for the dog, shoved his head in his collar, slammed the front door and set off grimly to view the defective brickwork around the church porch.

*    *    *

When I returned, the lunchtime post had arrived. Rarely does it contain anything much except bills and diocesan circulars, and I was about to sweep it aside when I saw a large cream envelope postmarked Maida Vale with my address scrawled boldly in purple ink. Judging from both locality and script I guessed it could only be from Maud Tubbly Pole, and never quite knowing what to expect from that quarter, slit it open with a certain trepidation.

She went on to supply dates and times for her visit and breezed cheerfully about other topics, but I gave scant heed to these, being too elated by the Hitchcock news. I was also intrigued by the laconic reference to Turnbull. Well, I would just have to wait and see. Meanwhile, there were psalms to be sung and pews to be addressed … I donned my cassock and prepared for both.

*    *    *

Later that day I was ambling along the High Street, minding my business and trying to look as anonymous as a vicar ever can, when I was pulled up short by a sharp tug at my sleeve. I looked down and was confronted by the intent face of Mavis Briggs.

‘Canon,’ she breathed, ‘can you spare a moment? I was about to have a coffee, and perhaps you would care to join me – there’s something rather urgent I need to discuss.’

I did not care but was caught nevertheless. And having no ready excuse, dutifully followed her into Mrs Muffet’s Tea Room. Mavis ordered only coffee, but stung by the hijacking I compensated with a jam doughnut.

Mavis does not hang about. That is to say, when she has some point or request to make she cuts to the chase and gives her victims little time to collect their wits.

‘I am really very concerned, Canon,’ she began earnestly. I bit into my doughnut, looking impassive. ‘You see, I can’t help thinking that that new librarian is getting above himself.’

‘How far above?’

‘What? … Oh, I see. Well in my opinion, much too far.’

‘In what way?’

‘You may not have noticed, but it has become fashionable for authors to be invited to the library to give readings from their books, answer questions and discuss
literary
matters with their readers.’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I’ve heard about that. Rather a good idea I should have thought …’

‘Indeed,’ she agreed, ‘but it rather depends on what
sort
of author! After all, a library does have certain standards to maintain, one can’t have just anyone. I mean,’ and here she lowered her voice, ‘
some
might be a corruptive influence on the young! Mr Hoylake would do well to bear that in mind.’

‘Perhaps,’ I agreed uneasily, wondering who on earth Mr Hoylake had invited that was to exert such a malign influence on the local youth … Frank Harris was rumoured to be ill, and I doubted whether Henry Miller would see Molehill as a lucrative trading post for his books. ‘So who are you talking about?’

‘Haven’t you read today’s
Clarion
? It’s that woman crime writer, Mary Tubbly Pole. She’s coming in a fortnight’s time!’

‘Maud,’ I said mechanically.

‘Well whatever her name, I don’t think she’s at all appropriate.’

‘But she’s very popular,’ I protested. ‘Probably be quite a draw.’

‘She may be popular, but is she
literary
?’ Mavis squeaked sententiously.

I wondered whether we were to embark on an exploration of what constituted literature and whether entertainment and intellectual stimulus were mutually exclusive. If so I should need to be fortified by another doughnut. On the other hand, such a course would surely lengthen proceedings and prolong the agony. Thus I decided to forego the doughnut and say nothing. ‘Hmm …’

However, it became clear that Mavis’s question had been largely rhetorical, for in the next instant she rushed on: ‘You see, Mr Hoylake has been more than negative about my own little publications. After all, it is not every Surrey town that has a
poet
in its midst, and yet whenever I broach the idea of holding a series of readings with a chance for the public to ask me about my
philosophy of life
he clams up and says nothing. Or at least, he did until yesterday.’ She paused pointedly and I felt that I was supposed to say something.

‘And, er, what did he say yesterday?’

‘Well,’ she twittered, ‘it was the third time this week that I had approached him, and I was just about to enquire if he would care to reconsider my useful offer, when he swung round and said that he had no intention of permitting his library to provide a platform for pappy piffle, and would I kindly move out of the way as I was making a barrier between Colonel Dawlish and the Hank Jansens! I may say, Canon, I was more than shocked, but I stood my ground, oh yes!’

‘Good for you, Mavis,’ I said, awed by Hoylake’s nerve and his alliterative zeal. ‘So what did you say?’

‘I told him that although
he
might not possess literary discernment, a number of people did, including Canon Oughterard who was only too eager to write the introduction to my third volume. That gave him pause for thought!’

It also gave me pause to wipe the smug smile off my face; and I emerged into the High Street wondering how on earth I was ever going to summon the nerve to enter the library again.