A Bedlam of Bones (7 page)

Later that morning, having extricated myself from Tapsell and the mice, i.e. by telephoning the rat-catcher and giving church and organ a wide berth, I retreated to a rare bolt-hole – the darkened snug of the Swan and Goose – and over an early restorative reflected on Primrose’s letter.

Lavinia certainly seemed brazenly insouciant about her husband’s murder all right, and increasingly it looked as if she had indeed been Turnbull’s accomplice – or at the very least, cheerful accessory after the fact. I recalled our first meeting with her as the earnest and whey-faced chatelaine of their modest estate in the rugged Auvergne. There, she had been the model of other-worldly piety, amiably dull and a fit consort to the high-minded Boris. But now, shot of that role and returned to cosmopolitan life, she was fast taking on a persona altogether more chic – and possibly hard-boiled. I remembered her manner in Brown’s Hotel: charming and giggly – and yet somehow, beneath the suddenly fashionable attire and wide-eyed gaiety, subtly self-possessed. Interesting how a change in situation can reshape character …

But in a way I was more intrigued by Primrose’s allusion to her companion’s elderly chum. The more I pondered on the name Frederick, the more I began to question my earlier doubts about Lavinia’s admirer having once been Turnbull’s distasteful housemaster. If Primrose’s assessment was right, then his age of sixty-five or thereabouts could certainly fit; but more significant was the fact that like Maud’s Freddie Felter, he had schoolmastered in Jaipur before the war. It was true, Frederick
might
be the man’s surname – but if Lavinia had mentioned him casually as being an old friend of the family wouldn’t she have been more likely to use the less formal title – i.e. his first name? ‘Old friend of the family,’ I mused. How far did the term ‘family’ stretch? Turnbull and Lavinia were cousins of sorts … Did their familial link include Freddie Felter, erstwhile housemaster at St Austin’s, the British college of Jaipur, and drummed out for dubious practices? Hmm.

‘Francis!’ a voice bawled from the doorway. ‘Spotted you, you rogue!’ I righted my glass and retrieved the scattered peanuts. It was Mrs Tubbly Pole.

‘You weren’t at my bun fight last night,’ she accused.

‘Er, no, I—’

‘Feet on fender, screwing up a crossword no doubt.’

‘Ah, well not entirely …’ I murmured defensively.

‘No matter, dear friend. You’ve pledged six copies as it is, so I owe you a pinkers!’ She gestured imperiously to the barman. ‘A large gin and bitters for the Canon, and have something for yourself. Oh, and you can top mine up while you’re about it.’ She proffered her glass while I looked nervously for Gunga Din.

‘Left the little man at home,’ she explained, ‘sleeping it off. Heavy night last night
and
successful – although I have to say there were a few oddities in the audience. Somebody called Mavis – kept asking about the “moral dimension”. Hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. And then if you please she started to spout some plaintive doggerel. Sounded half-cut to me! Have you got many like that in Molehill?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘lots.’

‘Ah well, all in a day’s work. One gets used to it.’

I nodded, and then asked her how she had managed to reach the Swan and Goose. ‘It’s over a mile and a half from the Gravediggers’. Did you take a taxi?’

She fixed me with a beady eye. ‘Some of us, Francis, are sound in wind and limb and are able to drag ourselves the odd mile or so – unlike certain members of the clergy who, scraggy as they may be, evidently bust a gut getting up the pulpit steps!’

I smiled, glancing at my thin knees (but then flinched, recalling my panting efforts trying to hoist her bulldog up the belfry staircase
*
). ‘I’ll be happy to drive you back anyway.’

She beamed and we embarked on this and that. Mainly that – i.e. the current parlous state of the publishing world, the conservatism of the reading public, the peculiar foibles of forensic experts, and then – perhaps as a nod in my direction – the equally peculiar foibles of the nineteenth-century Oxford Movement. I contributed a couple of observations on the last item and listened fascinated to the rest. Eventually I ventured a question.

‘I say, Maud, you know the Freddie Felter you were talking about, did he ever drink Sidecars?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said carelessly, ‘all the time. In those days in India it was considered a bit raffish – black cha and whisky being the usual. But of course beastly Freddie had to be different.’

As Ingaza might have said: well, what do you know!

She paused and looked at me quizzically. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, Francis, your question strikes me as a mite inconsequential … What on earth does Freddie Felter’s penchant for American cocktails have to do with anything?’

I told her that my sister had seen someone like him talking to a friend of hers recently.

‘Is she rich?’

‘Who, Primrose?’

‘No, the friend.’

‘Well,’ I said reflectively, ‘not short of a bob or two. In fact, now you mention it, probably quite—’

‘Could be him I suppose. Little toad always had his eye to the main chance, snooping here, fawning there … If you want my advice, tell your sister to steer clear. Felter and Turnbull: a nasty pair then and probably much worse now!’ She gave a derisory snort, and then glancing at her watch exclaimed that it was long past the ‘little fellow’s biscuit time’. And thus we made a rapid departure to the Gravediggers’ and the charms of Gunga Din.

That evening Primrose telephoned, grumbling about Ingaza’s tardiness in remitting her latest dues for the ‘Canadian project’.

‘He’s so slippery,’ she fulminated. ‘And besides, it’s high time he increased my whack – those sketches are being snapped up like hot cakes! Can’t you do something, Francis?’

I hesitated. ‘Er, I don’t suppose he would listen to me. But in any case, Prim, he’s a bit preoccupied at present—’

‘Oh yes,’ she exclaimed scornfully, ‘doubtless cooking up some fiendish heist with that awful Eric!’

‘You mean more fiendish than yours?’ I asked innocently.

The explosion was swift and predictable, but I cut her short, saying, ‘If you really want to know, he is being blackmailed – and so is Clinker.’

There was a silence, broken by a spluttering whistle. ‘Who on earth by? Canterbury?’

Patiently I explained the situation of the letters; and then on the principle of in for a penny, in for a pound, unfolded my suspicions about Turnbull.

There followed another silence. And then she said musingly, ‘You might have something there. I gather from Lavinia that since getting back from France, Rupert and Clinker have been socializing.’

‘Socializing? In what way?’

‘The usual way. Apparently they bumped into each other at some education conference in Oxford, and Rupert got quite chummy with Clinker – started to reminisce about Berceau-Lamont and poor old Boris, and quizzed him about his time as a don before the war. It seems Turnbull managed to screw some funding out of Hor’s old college for another language institute he is busy setting up, something to do with the foreign intake on their postgraduate courses. Anyway, according to Lavinia, since then he and Hor have been getting on quite well. She seemed to find it rather amusing.’

‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she,’ I replied tartly, ‘knowing that the noble bishop is unwittingly consorting with a murderer?’

‘Hmm,’ replied Primrose smoothly, ‘as he does unwittingly with you …’

I glowered down the telephone, but let it pass and instead asked her: ‘Do you think I should warn him off – you know, sort of suggest that Turnbull is a bit iffy and he would be wise to steer clear?’

‘Well if he
is
the blackmailer, it’s a little late for that, isn’t it? He has obviously delved into Clinker’s past and, alias Donald Duck, already made his approach. Besides, there’s absolutely no
proof
that he is involved. He may have dispatched Boris and be fundamentally nasty, but that doesn’t mean he is now putting the screws on old Horace. So far it’s mere conjecture … Best to keep quiet if you ask me. As Ma used to say to Pa, “Close your eyes, dear, and it will all dissolve.”’

‘Yes,’ I said wryly, ‘and I remember Pa’s response. It wasn’t pretty!’

She giggled. ‘No, it wasn’t. But just occasionally Mother was right: it doesn’t do to jump the gun.’

I wasn’t entirely convinced, but reflected that it would be tricky giving a cogent warning without also disclosing other matters to Clinker – i.e. our conviction that Turn-bull had been Boris’s assassin in France: a revelation whose reception could be exhausting to say the least. Yes, I counselled myself, Primrose was right – let sleeping bishops lie …

They were not to lie long. The following morning I was startled awake by an early phone call. And after blearily stumbling downstairs and nearly breaking my neck on the dog’s bone, I was even more startled to hear Ingaza’s nasal tones. Dawn raids are not his speciality.

‘I’ve heard from Hor,’ he announced. ‘He’s had another letter.’

‘Er, sorry – what?’

‘Clinker. He’s had a second letter … from the fucking duck.’

‘Oh no,’ I groaned, ‘this is really a bit much!’

‘I should think it is a bit much!’ Ingaza snarled. ‘It’s sodding too bloody much!’ A rant ensued involving terms of a similarly robust ilk.

‘So it is only Clinker – you haven’t received another?’

‘Not yet, but I’m bound to get one – or,’ he added sadistically, ‘you will.’

I paled. ‘Me!’

‘Well yes, old boy,’ he replied, reverting to his usual drawl. ‘He may have started with Hor and me, but you have to admit that you rather have the edge on us in the high stakes. I wouldn’t be complacent if I were you.’

Complacent? That would be the day!

‘I am far from being that, Nicholas,’ I replied evenly, ‘but for the moment I think we should address the immediate threat which is to you and Horace. No point in crossing hypothetical bridges.’ (That last utterance had a familiar ring and I recalled it had been one of Pa’s favourite sayings. Did my tone sound as patronizing? I hoped not.)

‘Hmm. That’s as may be. Anyway, Hor’s in a right sweat. Wants to meet us pronto at his London club this Saturday. He’s up there for some function at Lambeth Palace and it’s the only time he can manage. He sounded pretty rattled so I suppose if he wants to talk about it we had better go. I gather the club is one of those swish jobs in Pall Mall and does quite a decent lunch. Actually offered to foot the bill, so he must be desperate!’ He gave a hollow laugh.

There was a busy week ahead and Saturday would be the first break in the schedule. So the prospect of flogging up to London to listen to the bishop and Ingaza lamenting their collective plight was not enticing. I had enough perils of my own to consider without augmenting them with other people’s.

But the instant the thought came, it vanished in a puff of guilt. It was precisely because I was so familiar with the condition of fearful panic and the isolation it brings, that I should now give what small support I could. ‘That’s what pals are
for
, Francis,’ I heard my sister’s voice pontificating in the treehouse decades ago, ‘they help you out of jams!’ I wasn’t sure that either Clinker or Ingaza fitted the category of ‘pal’ exactly (bane, more like), but you get accustomed to people and owe them a jaundiced loyalty … Besides, as Nicholas had hinted, and which had already passed through my own mind, there was always the possibility that I too might be caught in the orbit of the Donald Duck character. And as Nicholas had also so charmingly observed, in my case the stakes were higher. One did not get the chop for buggery, but one did for murder … No, this was not a time for wry disinterest. The jam was sticky, and one way or another we were all up to our ears in it.

‘Yes, Nicholas,’ I said easily, ‘Saturday should be fine. If the Lord Bishop requires our presence in London, who are we to deny him that whim?’

‘My sentiments exactly, old cock,’ was the dry reply.

The next few days were both trying and bumpy: trials via the Vestry Committee with its interminable ramblings and agitated phone calls; bumps from the Mothers’ Union, the Confederacy of Church Wardens and other assorted complainants. Three funerals brought relief from their cheerless attentions, but by Friday night I was ready for some emollient rest. Not that any was in prospect, for a day in London with the bishop and Ingaza was unlikely to soothe a troubled spirit. However, I recalled grimly, all part of one’s moral duty …

Thus with our meeting scheduled for midday, I rose at dawn on the Saturday morning. Apparently Clinker had to return to Lambeth in the afternoon to chair one of the sessions, hence the early lunch at his club.

I was just checking the timetable for a fast train to Waterloo when the phone rang. It was Ingaza, in some dudgeon.

‘Change of plan,’ he exclaimed, ‘you can go back to bed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say. Hor wants us in the evening instead. We’ve got to meet him at the Albert Hall.’

‘The
Albert Hall
! Why there, in Heaven’s name?’

‘You might well ask,’ he said acidly. ‘It’s bloody Gladys – something to do with her joining him unexpectedly inLondon and wanting to go to a concert there. Messed up all his plans.’

‘But we can hardly discuss the letter with him if she’s hovering.’

‘That’s what I said, but he seemed to think he could manage some diversionary tactic. Apparently he’s up to his eyes with meetings in the coming week and it’s the only chance he’ll get to give us a sighting of this thing.’

‘But I was going to listen to a good concert on the Third Programme tonight,’ I protested.

‘Well, dear boy, what could be better? We might get seats at the Albert Hall. Far better than the wireless! Not my thing entirely, but since we’re there I don’t mind staying for a couple of good tunes.’

‘What tunes?’ I asked suspiciously. ‘No idea, but I gather Sargent’s conducting, and some old trout called Myra Hess is tickling the ivories.’

‘Myra Hess!’ I exclaimed. ‘Good Lord, put me down for that!’

And that’s what he did. And I met him that evening in the bar of the Rubens Hotel for a quick snifter before confronting the purlieus of Kensington Gore and the laments of Clinker.

Actually, the snifter wasn’t so quick. And after we had finished making fruitless speculation about the blackmail, and Nicholas had eyed up the barman and regaled me with gruesome tales of his awful Aunt Lil, time was running out. We had fifteen minutes to find a cab and take our seats.

The resultant race was undignified and exhausting. But we arrived with seconds to spare and decanted ourselves into the auditorium, pushing our way past tutting seats and irate glares just in time for the entry of the orchestra leader. With a flourish of coat-tails he took his place to the sound of polite applause, fiddled with his fiddle, and with a look of quizzical expectation peered towards the wings from which, after a fractional pause, Sargent appeared.

Evening dress impeccably cut, carnation pristine, black hair finely sleeked and shoes polished to perfection – dapper, stylish Flash Harry took his bow to a wave of thunderous acclaim. Graciously the confident smile raked stalls and loggias. The clapping swelled, subsided... Then with a nod to the first violin, the svelte figure turned to face his players and with a shooting of cuffs and brisk flourish of baton, signalled the opening bars...Yes, as always, intelligent musician and consummate showman was in fine fettle.

‘Christ,’ Ingaza muttered, ‘wouldn’t mind a bit of that!’

‘Didn’t think you liked Brahms,’ I whispered.

There was a pause. And then he replied sotto voce, ‘Not Brahms, dear boy – the other chap.’

In fact, given our situation, there was scant chance for either of us to savour the performance – musical or otherwise. For ten rows away I could see Clinker and, despite my hopes, Gladys at his side. Just marvellous! How on earth were we going to have a chance of seeing that letter with his wife in tow?

And then my eyes alighted on someone else: Hubert Hesketh, dean of Clinker’s cathedral. He was sitting next to Gladys, flapping his programme and nodding rhythmically to the music. She won’t like that, I thought with some satisfaction. However, Gladys’s irritation was of little concern compared with my own annoyance that we were fated to negotiate the bishop’s entourage before getting a glimpse of the letter. What an absurd idea – to demand that we meet him here and then to bring his wife and dean! I slumped irritably in my seat. But unlike Ingaza, whose eyes were clearly magnetized by the figure on the platform, I soon became diverted by those plangent magisterial strains; and closing my eyes and banishing all thoughts of the Clinker contingent, gave myself up to Brahmsian sonorities …

With a final swirl of the baton and discreet nod to the brass, the crashing chords were stilled, to be replaced by a tidal wave of applause. The maestro turned, beamed, bowed, exited; re-entered, beamed, bowed, exited; re-entered …

Nicholas leered. ‘Not bad at all, at all...Now, where’s old Hor?’

‘Scarpered.’ I scanned the exit and just caught sight of the backs of Gladys and Hesketh disappearing into the throng.

‘Who’s that with her?’ asked Nicholas. ‘It looks like another of your crew.’

‘It is,’ I said shortly. ‘Hesketh, the dean.’

‘Good Lord, you don’t mean old Hubert Hesketh – the one who was always so keen on reading the lessons at St Bede’s? Fancy him turning up again! Thought he might have made his name by now at the Folies Bergère.’ He sniggered.

‘At the Folies … What
are
you talking about, Nicholas?’

Still grinning, he dropped his voice and in confidential tones said, ‘Well according to the college grapevine, his balls used to light up like Christmas trees … on certain occasions at any rate, I gather.’

‘Light up like what?’ I cried, blushing to my roots.

‘Yes, all silver and sort of—’

‘Would you mind, Nicholas,’ I protested. ‘I really don’t need to know these things!’

‘No,’ he agreed, ‘you’re probably right, old man. Wouldn’t do your psyche any good. Now, what’s Hor up to?’

Still retaining uneasy pictures of flashing baubles, I told him that in view of the latest development, he was probably trying to escape his companions or anaesthetize himself at the bar.

We pushed our way out into the foyer and glimpsed the other two, but not the bishop. ‘Probably gone for a leak,’ said Nicholas. ‘You hang on here and I’ll see if I can find him.’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Gladys has just noticed us.
I’ll
go and you can hold the fort.’

Without waiting for a response, I made my way purposefully towards the gents. As luck would have it, Clinker was just coming out as I went in.

‘Ah, Francis,’ he exclaimed, ‘glad to see you. Thought you weren’t here. Couldn’t see you when we arrived. Ghastly day, ghastly!’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said hastily, ‘but what about the letter? Have you got it?’

‘Of course I’ve got it,’ he replied testily. ‘You don’t imagine I left it at home in Gladys’s sewing basket, do you?’ With a furtive glance to left and right, he delved into his inside pocket and fished it out. This time there were only a few lines:

‘Still the farmyard fixation,’ I observed, ‘and still no mention of the exact money.’

‘No,’ replied Clinker bitterly. ‘As I said, he’s enjoying making me sweat, spinning it out for the sudden pounce. And what’s that sneaky bit about being watched? Oh my God, this is awful. Where’s Ingaza? He’s got to see this.’ He scanned the crowd distractedly.

‘Slightly tricky at the moment, he’s collared by...er, he’s talking with your wife and the Reverend Hesketh.’

Clinker sighed. ‘Yes, the moment it was known I would be up in London for the Dioceses’ Forum she insisted on a shopping expedition to Derry & Toms, plus this concert some friend had given her tickets for. Friend bowed out – hence Hesketh. I hadn’t a chance.’ He scowled; and taking the note from me, stuffed it back in his pocket.

‘But you have to admit the music’s rather good,’ I ventured. ‘Some time since I’ve been to a full-blown performance, and it’s always inspiring under a conductor like Sir Malcolm. And with Dame Myra doing the Beethoven after the interval it will really be—’

‘Yes, yes,’ muttered Clinker impatiently, ‘all very nice I’m sure, but I have no intention of staying for the second half. That fellow Turnbull has invited us to his cousin’s housewarming party. Apparently she’s putting on quite a show. It’s in one of those flats behind the Hall, just a couple of streets away. So with luck one can get there before everything’s scoffed. Having starved on salad for lunch and listened to the Lambeth contingent droning on about the dearth of African missionaries I could do with something substantial.’ He paused, and as I was digesting the bit about Lavinia’s housewarming, added in anguished tones, ‘But I
must
see Nicholas, it’s essential we compare notes!’

‘Yes, he certainly wants to look at the letter, but I don’t think there’s anything to compare. So far he hasn’t received a second one.’

‘Really?’ asked Clinker in surprise. ‘Well it’s about time he did. I don’t see why I should bear all the brunt!’

‘Probably come in tomorrow’s post,’ I murmured. And on that reassuring note we returned to seek out the others.

Gladys had already donned her coat and, looking like the wrath of God, was cramming on her hat. ‘There you are,’ she began. ‘Couldn’t think where you had got to! It’ll look so rude if we’re late.’ She glared at me, obviously assuming I was responsible for the bishop’s absence – which in a way I was. ‘Do hurry up!’

‘All in good time,’ replied Clinker shortly. ‘Besides, there’s something I need to discuss with Nicholas first,’ and he made to draw him aside.

‘Can’t think what,’ was the brusque retort. ‘In any case, people are already returning to their seats. We don’t want to delay Mr Ingaza’s musical enjoyment, do we?’ (This said with a smile of icy politeness.)

Her husband looked mulish, so sensing defeat, Gladys declared she would go on ahead and grasping the hapless Hesketh by the elbow, propelled him towards the exit.

Clinker breathed a sigh of relief and once more taking the letter from his pocket, thrust it under Ingaza’s nose. The latter read it impassively.

‘So what do you think of that?’ the bishop demanded.

Ingaza shrugged. ‘Not much. A borderline case, I would say – unless he’s assuming a persona.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well...so far the tone of these letters has suggested spite and obsession, i.e. the classic style of a twisted temperament. But that might just be a misleading front – or an amusement. It’s possible the writer is entirely sane and detached, his very normality his insurance.