A Bedlam of Bones (8 page)

‘Hmm,’ said Clinker, ‘you may be right, but either way, what a scoundrel! And as for that crack about my movements being noted...why, he might be here
now
!’ He glanced around nervously.

‘Yes, it’s probably Hesketh,’ grinned Nicholas.

Clinker eyed him coldly. ‘I consider that in very poor taste. Typical. No help at all!’ He sighed heavily. ‘Hmm. Perhaps I really ought to start shifting some shares …’

As the bishop pondered, I thought of Ingaza’s earlier words: ‘sane and detached, his very normality his insurance.’ And again the amiable face and pleasant voice of Rupert Turnbull swam into mind …

‘This party you’ve been invited to,’ Ingaza suddenly broke in, ‘can anyone go?’

‘What?’ said Clinker vaguely.

‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Ingaza explained smoothly, ‘you did drag us up here on the promise of a few drinks and a cosy confab at your swish club, but so far all we’ve had is the Albert Hall; and other than Flash Harry, no entertainment. Personally I could do with some champers and a little pâté de whatsit. Do us all good!’

Clinker looked doubtful. And then he brightened. ‘Yes, I take your point … a spot of epicurean indulgence to blot out the horror. All right then – don’t suppose they’d mind a couple of extras, it’s not as if they’ve never met you.’ He turned to me and added, ‘Besides, Lavinia seems to like you, Francis, and anything’s better than being stuck with the dean all evening!’

I hung back, nettled by this last observation and reluctant to forego the pleasure of hearing Dame Myra. I was even more reluctant to re-encounter Turnbull. However, the other two were already striding ahead, and thus I followed in a mood of nervous curiosity …

‘Stupid idiot!’ the dog grumbled. ‘He’s gone and taken my bone and dropped it in the dustbin.’

‘Hardly the first time,’ I murmured. ‘Why don’t you get it out? Knock the thing over, you usually do.’

‘I have. But he’s clamped the lid on so tight I can’t get into it. You’ll have to do something, Maurice.’

‘Me!’

‘Yes, you can shove one of your claws under the rim and ease it off.’

‘I hardly see why I should employ my undoubted dexterity in retrieving one of your beastly bones.’

‘Ah, but you might if I tell you what I’ve heard.’

‘Oh? What have you heard?’

‘Shan’t say,’ he chortled, plunging his head down to his nether regions.

I viewed the inelegance with narrowed eyes, debating whether to succumb to the dog’s blackmail or remain in ignorance. Being an enquiring cat, I eventually bowed to curiosity and graciously told him that I was always ready to help a fellow creature combat the vicar’s foibles.

He frowned. ‘What’s foi …?’

‘A minor silliness,’ I explained patiently.

‘Huh! No silliness,’ he growled, ‘plain revenge!’

‘What for?’

‘Went arse over tip on his way to the blower. The idiot hadn’t seen my bone on the bottom stair.’

‘How careless,’ I tactfully agreed.

He nodded eagerly. ‘So you’ll do it?’

‘Provided you tell me exactly what you know.’

He embarked on a fractured, albeit theatrical account of F.O.’s telephone conversations, first with the Brighton Type and then with the Prim. From what I could make out there was some disturbance involving the Clinker: unsavoury letters had been received and pressure applied. I tried to read between the lines of Bouncer’s narrative but could glean little other than the bishop person was in danger over something in his past and that the Brighton Type was incandescent. (According to Bouncer, F.O. had gone quite pink at the quality of the invective … though of course those were not the dog’s words, his being something about the vicar going red as a baboon’s backside.) Anyway, the upshot seemed to be that F.O. was required to join the Brighton Type in London – though regarding when or for what purpose the dog was tantalizingly vague. I tried to elicit further details but he lapsed into gormless truculence and asked when I was going to rescue his bone.

Needless to say, the lid slipped off the bin with the ease of an oiled haddock and Bouncer was suitably impressed. I have a knack with such things, learnt long ago at the paws of my redoubtable grandfather, Maltravers. Under his tuition I was able to assimilate a wealth of skills necessary to the confounding of human guile … And from the same source came my refusal to kowtow to the obstinacy of dogs. Thus if Bouncer imagined I would be fobbed off by vague evasions regarding F.O.’s mission to London, he could think again! Such is the bedlam in this household that it doesn’t do to permit lapses in intelligence: at all costs a cat must keep ahead of the chaos!

The flat was in one of those Victorian red-brick mansion blocks favoured by the fashionable and well heeled; and as we went up the solid steps I couldn’t help thinking that Lavinia must have done pretty well out of the sale of the French property – and indeed any other remunerations accruing from her husband’s murder.

We took the lift to the third floor, and guided by a buzz of voices and a slightly open door, entered the vestibule of her new abode. The room beyond was large, beautifully furnished – and packed. We hovered on the threshold, bemused by the throng but eager to forage. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Hesketh, still attached to Gladys and presumably still making dutiful small talk. In his hand he held a glass of water (conceivably gin, though it seemed unlikely). Clinker, too, had probably seen them, for with a brisk clearing of throat he began to push his way in the opposite direction, muttering something about looking for his hostess. He wasn’t of course; just seeking the nearest source of food.

Ingaza became similarly engaged, but in his case the focus was a distant tray of champagne – although I wasn’t sure whether the attraction was the drink or its purveyor, a handsome youth whose white flunky’s jacket conferred a passing air of distinction.

And then just as I was thinking that I too might go in quest of libations, I noticed the new tenant standing in a far corner talking animatedly among a group of her guests. I had not seen Lavinia since taking tea at Brown’s, and her now total transformation from frump to moderate siren was striking. I had forgotten the sartorial details in Prim-rose’s letter, but the cobalt-blue sheath-dress, elaborately coiffed hair and glittering bangles jogged my memory. I also recalled my sister’s description of the newly acquired lap-dog Attlee, and I scanned the room, curious to spy the little creature, but he had obviously elected to remain aloofly out of sight. (Nevertheless, mindful of the embarrassing encounter with Bouncer at an earlier and fateful soirée, I was careful where I put my feet.
*
)

‘I say, Oughterard,’ said a voice behind me, ‘awfully good of you to come. A most pleasant surprise!’ I turned round and was met with the benign features of Rupert Turnbull. Slightly embarrassed, I started to explain that I had been ‘swept up’ by the bishop at the concert and was on the point of leaving for Molehill.

‘Oh no, don’t do that,’ he beamed, ‘all the more the merrier. You
must
stay, Lavinia will be delighted that you are here!’ And so saying, he thrust a drink into my hand and propelled me towards where she was standing.

She greeted me warmly and I complimented her on the decor of the new flat. She looked almost radiant, and divested of the late Mr Birtle-Figgins was clearly in her element.

We chatted for a while, and she enthused about her cousin’s language schools, saying she was helping to back a fresh project in Oxford. ‘Of course they’ve got masses of such places there already, but Rupert’s will be
ultra
up to date with all the very latest equipment, and catering
only
for the high-flying specialists … you know, the Foreign Office bods and MI5 – and MI6 too, I gather, or whatever number they give themselves!’ She giggled. ‘Oh yes, it’s going to be all rather special, and
so
enterprising. Mind you, there’s a huge outlay required. But knowing Rupert he’s bound to recoup it in next to no time, he’s awfully good like that!’ She prattled on merrily, while I visualized Boris’s fate upon the flagstones.

After a little I was able to melt away in the direction of the dining room, which displayed a still-enticing buffet. Just as I was piling up my plate and nodding vaguely at some fox-faced woman twittering on my left, there was a tap on my shoulder and the earnest form of Hubert Hesketh presented itself. Unless he had had a refill, he was still clutching the same glass of cheerless water.

‘Ah, good to have a word with you, Canon,’ he whispered. (Except when bawling canticles, Hesketh invariably whispers – a habit that sends Clinker mad and the congregation to sleep.)

‘I trust you are enjoying things … though I have to say it’s not entirely my cup of tea. Too many people and, er,’ (eyeing my heaped-up plate) ‘so much food and noise. I always try to avoid these things in Guildford if I can. But when Mrs Clinker heard I was up at Lambeth with the bishop for the annual Forum she most kindly invited me to accompany them to the concert. And then … ah, well the next thing was I seemed to be
here
…’ He smiled ruefully and took an abstemious sip from his glass.

I could see that he was indeed out of his element – even more so than myself, who was at least bolstered by Scotch and kedgeree. (And as to Gladys’s ‘kind’ invitation, I rather suspected the dean’s presence was subtle revenge on Clinker for some infringement of her domestic regime.) Dutifully I enquired after his life’s work, an ongoing tome devoted to the lesser points of Canon Law in fourth-century Anatolia, and whose proportions and desiccation grew mightier by the year. He gave the customary answer of: ‘So much to do and so little time!’

I smiled, observing that it always sounded like a task of daunting complexity, and rather he than me.

‘Ah, but you see when one is bent on uncovering the
truth
, nothing daunts. One plods on patiently, intrigued, inspired – and liberated!’

‘Liberated?’

‘Most definitely,’ he whispered. ‘After all, every truth is a freedom. Man is but fettered by ignorance. Wouldn’t you agree?’

I nodded soberly, while at the same time seeing such truth sending me spiralling down through Pierrepoint’s trapdoor. Which was better, I mused: to be revealed and dead or concealed and alive? Given the biological instinct for life over death, I opted for the latter condition. It would do for the meanwhile … I also wondered just how liberated our revered bishop might feel if Turnbull or A. N. Other chose to blazon abroad the truth of his Oxford friendship with Ingaza. I had a glimpse of Clinker kicking up his heels on the episcopal lawn, cope and crozier flung to the winds as he tasted the novelty of his ‘unfettered’ state … The scene dissolved with uncanny speed.

Beginning to tire of both kedgeree and Hesketh, I glanced around for Ingaza. With luck he would be ready to leave. At first there seemed no sign, and rather uncharitably I assumed he had slid into the kitchen in pursuit of the white-jacketed waiter. But then I suddenly saw him with Lavinia, talking to a smallish elderly man with bow tie and pincenez. Lavinia must have seen my gaze for she waved me over, saying, ‘We were just talking about you, Francis, and I was telling Freddie here what a
strength
you and Nicholas were during that appalling business with my poor Boris in Berceau-Lamont!’ She turned to her companion, adding in rather gushing tones, ‘They were simply wonderful, you know, simply wonderful!’ Nicholas smiled modestly, smoothly attuned to the charade, while I felt absurd.

However, feelings of absurdity quickly gave way to shock as the name ‘Freddie’ struck sparks in my brain. Could this be …? I looked to see what he was drinking. But other than a cigarette in an ivory holder he held nothing, let alone anything resembling a Sidecar. No, I was obviously becoming ridiculously obsessed – unhinged, you might say (it doesn’t take much) … Except that, turning to me and extending a hand, he announced: ‘Freddie, Freddie Felter. A pleasure to meet you, Canon. I think I just missed talking to your sister in Brighton – Millie’s new gallery launch. Lavinia was going to introduce us, but alas, I had to make a wild dash for my train. Pathetic really, how one is in thrall to railway timetables. Indeed, one gathers that the mobilization of the Great War was
utterly
dependent on such trivia!’ He laughed genially, snapping open a tortoiseshell cigarette case. I accepted the offer, catching the faint echo of Maud Tubbly Pole’s voice:
Felter and Turnbull: a nasty pair then and probably much worse now!

In fact, Felter struck me as being perfectly agreeable. (But then of course so was Turnbull. And by now I knew full well that being agreeable was no test of probity! Nevertheless, given Maud’s novelist’s imagination and her penchant for drama I began to think that she may have been inflating his vices. It was in any case a long time ago, and people changed.) He talked engagingly on a number of subjects, not least his early experiences as a novice yachtsman in the English Channel. ‘Still, nothing like the Baltic. Now that
was
baptism by fire – or wave!’ he chuckled.

‘Know the Baltic, do you?’ a voice asked with sudden interest. Clinker had joined us, and I could see exactly where the conversation would lead: his favourite book, Childers’
The Riddle of the Sands
. I muttered an excuse and quickly slid away, disinclined to hear yet another of the bishop’s paeans. I knew them too well, and in any case could not share his enthusiasm. Whether Felter could I didn’t wait to learn.

Nicholas followed my cue. And carefully sidestepping Gladys nattering with some similarly lantern-jawed female, we went for a final raid on the buffet. Nicholas had scooped up yet another champagne en route, and when in a careful undertone I asked him whether he had made any further assessment of Turnbull as blackmailer, he replied loudly that he hadn’t and didn’t care an eff anyway, and had I seen that bloody Millie creature?

I winced, thankful that few guests were within earshot. The lady’s name rang a bell but I was pretty sure I had not so far encountered her. Telling him to keep his voice down, I asked who she was.

He took a slurp from his glass and replied witheringly, ‘Oh, you know, that whey-faced troll from the Brighton gallery – the owner – stacked with diamonds and without a discerning thought in her head. Some crony of Lavinia’s. Had the nerve to accost me just now and suggest I give the place a plug among my own clientele!’

I realized from his description that it must of course be the same woman Primrose had mentioned in her letter and, presumably, the one Felter had referred to a few moments before.

‘So what did you say?’

‘Well if she hadn’t been simpering up at blue-eyed Turnbull I’d have told her to take a running jump. As it was, I said that my clients were interested in
art
and not the populist posturings of third-rate amateurs.’ He smirked with satisfaction, while I closed my eyes.

‘Oh yes, if Turnbull really is the blackmailer that’s bound to endear you to him! Insulting one of their guests will probably double the fee!’

He shrugged indifferently, and draining his glass replied, ‘As I said before, and as Clark Gable or somebody once remarked, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck.”‘

‘Damn, actually.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Let’s get out of here. Party’s over.’ I set him carefully in the direction of the outer hall while I sought our hosts and made the appropriate farewells.

Lavinia looked pleased with the evening’s success and was most insistent that we should meet in Oxford to celebrate the opening of the new establishment. ‘After all, it’s not very far from you really, and I’m sure the dear bishop would love the opportunity to drop in on his alma mater and relive old times!’

‘As doubtless would Mr Ingaza,’ chimed Turnbull blandly. His face betrayed nothing – although I thought I caught the hint of a sardonic note in his voice, but I couldn’t be sure …

*    *    *

It had been a strenuous evening (whole day in fact) and I was ready to return to the vicarage and the comparatively temperate company of cat and dog. But before that, it looked as if I might have to shepherd Ingaza back to Victoria for the Brighton train. Fortunately, however, once out on the pavement my companion seemed to recover himself sufficiently to flag down a taxi, and with an airy, ‘Toodle-oo, old cock,’ disappeared into its depths and into the night.

Left alone, I wondered whether he too could expect a second note, and my jocular quip to Clinker about it arriving the next day prove only too true. But if so, would it really be by Turnbull’s agency? And even if it were, what the hell was to be done about it? One thing was certain, such an event would certainly shift the recipient’s current insouciance all right! I strolled towards the tube station, grimly imagining the sound and scale of the victim’s fury. And for a brief spell the twittering inanities of Mavis Briggs seemed almost bearable …