A Bedlam of Bones (4 page)

As predicted, after my talk with Eric and his cryptic reference to the bishop’s ‘pickle’, the telephone rang with an episcopal summons. The thin voice of Clinker’s secretary informed me that his Lordship would be obliged if I would call at the Palace at my earliest convenience, i.e. Monday, or Tuesday at the latest. Monday was Bouncer’s day to have his teeth scrubbed, and as far as I was concerned if there was to be a clash between diocesan business and the dog’s dentistry the latter had priority. Thus I opted for ‘the latest’.

There was a displeased pause at the other end. ‘Hmm, I think his Lordship would have preferred the Monday.’ I murmured something about there being an urgent christening. ‘Very well,’ the voice sighed, ‘I’ll slot you in for nine thirty sharp. You’ve made a note of that, have you, Canon?’

I assured him I had and asked tentatively if he knew what it might concern.

‘Not the least idea,’ was the pained reply. ‘I am merely the messenger.’ He rang off and I lit a cigarette and brooded.

Clearly, after the enforced intimacies of France and its dramas, Clinker had reverted to official mode – thankful perhaps to resume the mantle of rank and distance. Provided it meant I was not to be embroiled in fresh embarrassment, this mattered not a jot. However, coming so soon after Eric’s news, I suspected that the summons signalled only two things: grief and gloom. I went to the piano and embarked upon Chopin’s Funeral March.

As was his habit, Bouncer came and took his place beside me, staring up intently at the keys. For a dog of such extrovert temperament, he has a curious penchant for such dirges, and I can never decide which is his favourite, the one from Handel’s
Saul
or the Chopin. Either way he is apt to punctuate the notes with a series of gurgling whines which I fondly interpret as discerning appreciation – though of course one can never be entirely certain with that dog.

Maurice, on the other hand, hates all music; and the moment he sees me making for the piano stalks from the room in dudgeon … Although there was one memorable occasion when Savage had lent me his precious gramophone record of Joe Venuti playing ‘Honeysuckle Rose’, and the cat had pranced in curious boogie fashion up and down the piano top. I suppose the wailing violin sounds must have struck some atavistic feline chord. He’s never done it since … but then neither have I borrowed the Venuti since. Time for another sampling, perhaps.

Apart from an overture (parried) from Mavis Briggs about my penning the introduction to her less than inspiring
Little Gems
, the weekend passed off tolerably well. There was of course the usual prima donna tantrum from Tapsell in the organ loft and complaints from Colonel Dawlish regarding the state of the banners in the Lady Chapel, but such things are par for the course and I survived to Monday no more scathed than usual.

Monday itself was a little more taxing, for as mentioned, it was Bouncer’s dental date. Naturally the usual drama erupted; but eventually master and dog emerged into the sunshine none the worse for wear and with the latter sporting alarmingly chalky fangs. No, it was Tuesday that was the real killer: my rendezvous at the episcopal palace, where I arrived poised for difficulty but not imagining it would take quite the course it did …

I had set off at what seemed like the crack of dawn, i.e. a quarter to nine, and through lashing rain drove slowly along the Hog’s Back. In better conditions and without a defective windscreen-wiper I thoroughly enjoy this stretch of Surrey, and it is amazing the speed the old Singer can get up. But that day, with visibility almost nil and my mind clouded with the prospect of Clinker’s demands (whatever they were likely to be), the journey was a chore and a bore. However, I reached the Palace in good time, and after waiting only two minutes was ushered into the bishop’s study.

It was the first time we had met since our time in France and I was taken aback by the sudden change in my superior. He must have shed nearly half a stone, and his eyes had that slightly hang-dog expression I’ve seen on Bouncer in one of his rare under-the-weather moods. The voice, however, retained its customary edge.

‘Ah, Oughterard, glad you could spare a few minutes from your
frantically
busy schedule. Doubtless very tiresome having to come over to Guildford. Much obliged I’m sure.’ He did not look particularly obliged. However, I made suitably tactful responses and waited.

He cleared his throat, paused, and then said, ‘And, ah, how is Maurice?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Maurice, your cat. Nice little fellow. Survived the trip back, did he?’

‘Er, yes,’ I replied in wonder. Cat and bishop had not notably taken to each other in France, so why on earth this sudden solicitude?

‘Good, good. And Bouncer?’

Bouncer?
What on earth had got into him?! ‘Yes,’ I mumbled vaguely, ‘in fine fettle, I think. Teeth have had to have their annual cleaning, but other than that he …’ I stopped, noticing that Clinker was drumming his fingers and staring out of the window. Of course, I thought, that’s what it’s about – playing for time. So when is he going to lob it to me? In the next instant.

‘Have you heard from Ingaza?’ he snapped. I told him I hadn’t – assuming that Eric’s enigmatic bawlings hardly counted. ‘Hmm,’ he said bleakly, ‘thought you might have by now.’ There was another pause. And then, staring me in the eye and as if suddenly seizing the bull by the horns, he announced, ‘There’s a bit of a problem going on, Francis – delicate, really.’ Clinker’s use of my first name, although in theory a mark of chumminess, invariably spells embarrassment and trouble, and I steeled myself accordingly.

‘Oh dear,’ I replied, adjusting my features to show sympathetic concern. ‘Not too bad, I hope.’

‘Huh! Couldn’t be worse,’ he said curtly. And to my surprise he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and proceeded to light up. I had never witnessed this before, and in fact was so surprised that I even forgot to feel piqued at not being offered one.

‘Yes,’ he continued, amid clumsy puffs, ‘distressing really. Not what one wants at my time of life – especially with the possibility of this new appointment in the offing.’ (The appointment involved being a sort of supplementary aide to the Archbishop of York; a post, I gathered, that entailed few duties but much prestige. Clinker had been angling for it for some time, and it was one of the reasons why he had been so desperate to hush up the recent French shamozzle. His chances were good, the only rival being a fellow bishop, Percival Crawley, whom Clinker detested. To lose the post would be painful, but to lose to ‘Creep’ Percival intolerable.)

‘If I can be of any help …’ I began reluctantly.

He sighed heavily. ‘I doubt it – I just thought you might have heard from Ingaza. Are you
sure
he hasn’t said anything?’ I shook my head, and he looked perplexed. ‘Hmm – perhaps he can’t have been approached yet.’

‘Approached about what?’

‘Blackmail,’ he muttered, almost inaudibly. I gazed in astonishment. ‘Good Lord! You mean you are being blackmailed, sir? But who on earth by?’

‘The
blackmailer
, of course. And keep your voice down!’ He ground out the cigarette on his desktop, burnt his finger and winced.

‘I see,’ I said slowly. ‘And what does Mrs Clinker say?’

‘Gladys? What are you talking about, Oughterard! She doesn’t say anything – she doesn’t know. It’s hardly the sort of thing we might discuss at the breakfast table! Oxford before the war may be a long time ago now, but even so, you surely don’t imagine that I would confide—’ He broke off and started to scrabble through an address book. ‘Where is that confounded man’s number?’

I studied him, things falling into place: Nicholas Ingaza and Oxford pre-war. Oh my hat! And after all this time … They were both being got at! So that was it: the younger Clinker’s momentary lapse, an absurd whimsical indiscretion and quickly eclipsed by Gladys and the respectable tentacles of the Church. Surely nobody could be on his tail
now
! And what about Nicholas? Who on earth would want to dig up that particular passing episode when there must have been so many scurrilous antics since, not to mention the infamous Turkish Bath incident?
*
He had done time for that. So who was wanting to pursue him now? Surely it was all yesterday’s news … On the other hand, I reflected grimly, Ingaza’s bathtime high jinks might be old news – but not the bishop’s gaffe. That could be dynamite!

‘How much?’ I said to Clinker.

‘What?’

‘How much money do they want for their silence?’

‘Don’t know,’ he replied shortly. ‘It’s not been mentioned.’

‘But presumably it will be.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes, yes, I imagine … But it’s not the money as such, it’s just the – it’s just the
ghastliness
of it all! That letter was brazen, taunting. It really made me feel so—’ He broke off and stared at me intently. ‘Of course, I’m forgetting. You wouldn’t know about it, would you?’

I hesitated. ‘Well, I did rather gather from Eric, Ingaza’s friend—’

‘Suppose you’re going to ask me to enlarge,’ he cut in bitterly, ‘all the damn details. Shouldn’t have called you over here really, stupid of me … Still, it will probably all surface sooner or later. Oh my God …’ He got up abruptly, scattering papers, and stumbled to the window where he stood chewing a pencil and scowling at the beating rain. Tricky.

I cleared my throat and said mildly, ‘Think I’ve got the gist of things, sir. A minor aberration years ago. Small matter between you and Nicholas – no great shakes, water under a bridge really …’

He whirled round. ‘
No great shakes!
That’s hardly the idiom I would use! I suppose that’s how
he
described it. Typical. You do realize the matter is an indictable offence, Oughterard! Not on the scale of Ingaza’s later shocking tomfoolery, I grant you, but an offence all the same. If this is raked up, I’m done for!’

‘I am sure it won’t come to that,’ I ventured reassuringly. ‘And besides, I gather they are getting much softer on that sort of thing nowadays. There’s so much more to …’

‘Look, Oughterard,’ he said bitingly. ‘Having led a life of such sheltered and singular rectitude, presumably you are unable to grasp the straits that I am in. The merest hint that the Bishop of Surrey and Berkshire once had a fling, however fleetingly, with one such as Nicholas is enough to scupper both my boat and my pension – and Mrs Clinker can kiss goodbye to being Vice-President of the National League for Darning and Elocution. She’s set her heart on that, and I shan’t hear the end of it.’

‘Goodness,’ I exclaimed, ‘I didn’t know there was such a thing. Whatever do they—’ I broke off hastily. No, this was not the time to pursue such curiosities. Instead, assuming an air of cool efficiency, I said, ‘Well, I had better take a look at the letter then.’

He hesitated, slightly surprised at my tone. ‘Er – yes, of course. I suppose you had better.’ He rummaged in his desk, produced an envelope and passed it over in silence. It bore a central London postmark, date-stamped ten days previously. Like the envelope, the single sheet of white paper was neatly typed:

I handed the letter back to Clinker. ‘Seems to have a fixation with Walt Disney,’ I remarked drily.

‘Hmm,’ he replied dismally. ‘Bastard.’

He was right. It was a vicious little note, mean and low, and I suddenly began to take the bishop’s plight seriously.

‘As you say, he’s not actually asked for money,’ I mused. ‘I wonder what he has in mind.’

‘What he has in mind,’ fumed Clinker, ‘is to play silly beggars with me, soften me up and then go in for the kill and take me for everything I have. I’ve read about this sort of thing. That’s what they
do
– keep you on hot bricks. But of course that’s not something you would be aware of.’

Oh no? I thought, recalling the French nightmare.
*

‘I take it that the police would not be a good thing?’

‘Too right they wouldn’t!’ he yelped. ‘Not at this stage at any rate, though God knows it may come to that …’ He groaned.

‘But who could it be?’ I asked. ‘Who would have known about you and Nicholas at Oxford? Although I suppose the writer needn’t have actually been there himself – it could have been dug up recently. Doesn’t he say “it has come to my notice”? Unless of course that’s simply a blind, or a façon de parler.’

‘A façon de Christ Almighty!’ cried the bishop. ‘No, I’ve no idea who it could be! Perhaps Ingaza has. Why hasn’t the wretched fellow contacted me? He must have received that note by now. What on earth is he doing?’

‘Languishing,’ I replied absently.

‘
What?
Well he has no business to languish. He ought to be here, giving constructive advice. He’s not in my address book – have you got his number?’