A Bedlam of Bones (9 page)

To my slight surprise and much relief, the next few days yielded nothing from Brighton; and thus I assumed that unlike the unfortunate Clinker, Ingaza had been spared a second approach. So clinging to the principle of no news being good news, I immersed myself in the palliative routine of matters ecclesiastical. Here I could exert at least moderate control over events … although not, as it turned out, in the case of the Inter-Church Flower Festival.

This was an annual affair in which churches of the diocese came together to celebrate the benisons of summer – an elaborate business involving copious processions, floral dances, decorative floats and general junketing. The week’s events were crowned by a prize-giving ceremony to award a cup for the most imaginatively decorated lychgate and church porch. For several years St Botolph’s and the adjacent parish of St Hilda’s had been limp rivals in these floral stakes, though both were regularly out-manoeuvred by a church in the north of the county. I cannot say that this bothered me unduly – being merely thankful that we could put on a respectable show and that nothing actually went
wrong
.

However, under the directive of Gauleiter Edith Hop-garden, this year moves were afoot to smarten up our act and win the coveted laurels. ‘St Botolph’s in Bloom shall not be beaten!’ was Edith’s war-cry (to which, I gather, the response from St Hilda’s was ‘Buggery and bedlam to the blooming Bots!’ I do not
think
this was the Reverend Pick’s personal composition, but doubtless he shared the sentiment).

Anyway, the result was an inordinately lavish and convoluted display which so overwhelmed both gate and porch that access could only be gained by crab-like insinuation. To gild the various lilies, Mavis Briggs was fixated on inserting home-made pixies amid the foliage – an idea which prompted Mrs Carruthers (arch sceptic and Clinker’s erstwhile tiddlywinks partner) to volunteer some of her egregious garden gnomes. Pulling rank and in my best canonical voice, I directed both ladies to where they could put their suggestions.

So far, so good. And then the blow fell. The selection committee for the prize was traditionally headed by some county dignitary who would visit each parish to make the final judgement. This year it was to be the Honourable Daphne Porringer, a rather nice old bird with whom I had always got on well; and I was quite looking forward to meeting her off the train and showing her the delights of Molehill prior to being confronted with our floral efforts. But at the last moment she had telephoned announcing she was fearfully sorry, but her diplomat godson had wired from Monte Carlo to say he had booked her into the Hotel Hermitage before dining with Prince Rainier and enjoying a little flutter at the Casino, and would I be frightfully put out if she sent a proxy to judge the flowers? ‘There are some things, Canon,’ she declared, ‘that one simply cannot pass by! Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Absolutely!’ I agreed. ‘Er, who is your stand-in?’

‘Gladys. Gladys Clinker, our bishop’s wife.’

‘Charming,’ I replied through clenched teeth.

And that was it. I was faced with the grating task of entertaining Gladys
alone
, and no doubt being the butt and practice for her scathing observations. Penance, penance, penance!

*    *    *

Inspection day dawned with an awesome sun. And closing the blinds in the kitchen I drank buckets of coffee and morosely attacked an egg. Coming only from Guildford, Gladys would not be on a train but was apparently arriving in Clinker’s formal car, chauffeured by his driver Barnes. The last time I had encountered the latter was when his employer was in the process of being levered from the vicarage in a condition of mild paralysis – or legless in Gaza as some might put it.
*
Though hardly in a position to comment, Barnes had nevertheless conveyed tacit disapproval of what he clearly saw as my doing (which it was). Thus the prospect of the chauffeur’s cold eye and his passenger’s acid tongue was not a happy one, and I told Maurice so in no uncertain terms. Ignoring me, the cat looked the other way and began to groom itself with dedicated absorption.

Gladys arrived promptly at ten o’clock and I went out to the car to greet her. Barnes, as coffin-faced as when last seen and clad in Gestapo black, was already standing at the passenger door ushering her on to the pavement. She emerged looking mildly human, but I knew that wouldn’t last.

‘Ah, Canon,’ she began, ‘what a lovely day – spoilt only by the fact that here I am in Molehill instead of on the golf course
as planned
. Daphne Porringer
begged
me to do this little favour for her and so of course I could hardly refuse. But looking at lychgates decked in wilting cornucopias of grossly extravagant blooms is not my idea of a stimulating morning. However, duty calls …’

I replied something to the effect that I was sure she would find the flowers well watered, that matters need take no more than fifty minutes (twenty with luck!), and would she perhaps like some coffee before commencing her inspection? She said she would, and instructed Barnes to return in good time as there were other contestants to see and she had no intention of letting things drag on into the afternoon. The chauffeur gave a dutiful nod, and turning to me murmured quietly that this time he was sure he could rely on ‘sir’ to return madam in an upright state. Then still po-faced, he had the effrontery to give me a sombre wink. The cheek of it!

Quietly seething, I took Gladys indoors, produced the coffee and sat meekly while she pontificated on this, that and the other. I asked if she had enjoyed Lavinia Birtle-Figgins’ housewarming party the previous week.

‘Well,’ she replied with a sniff, ‘at least we were spared the parsley sandwiches she seemed so keen on serving in France. In fact, with that awful husband out of the way she seems to have smartened up considerably. Mind you,’ she added cuttingly, ‘it doesn’t do to get too grand and pushy, looks rather vulgar I always think. Personally I do not regard that Felter person as the best of influences, though Rupert Turnbull appears pleasant enough – always very courteous when he visited their house in Berceau. I dare-say they’ll marry once his language schools are up and running …’

‘Er, what’s wrong with Freddie Felter? He seemed very friendly at the party and I gathered the bishop got on well with him—’

‘Oh, my husband will get on well with anyone who speaks highly of Erskine Childers and his tedious boat novel. The man was shot, you know – a traitor!’

I was disinclined to discuss either the politics or the literary worth of Childers, being far more interested in her opinion of Freddie Felter. It was intriguing that two women as different as Gladys Clinker and Maud Tubbly Pole should be so averse to him. Maud of course had apparently good reason from the past, but what were Gladys’s objections?

‘So what didn’t you like about Felter?’ I persisted gently.

She shrugged dismissively and twitched her nose in a way I had witnessed many times. ‘Oh, I don’t know … just rather a common little man, I suppose – touch of the parvenu if you ask me. Besides, he had the discourtesy to howl with laughter when I was expressing a very serious opinion. Can’t remember what it was now but he seemed to think it highly droll.
I
did not!’ She glowered at the memory, while I warmed further to Freddie.

‘Unfortunately,’ she continued, ‘now that Horace has learnt of his shared liking for that novel and knows its setting, they have been corresponding and exchanging views.’ She sighed impatiently. ‘I suppose I shall be expected to ask him to luncheon next!’

Recalling my own experience at Gladys’s lunch table
*
I wished Felter well of it. Politely I offered her another cup of coffee, but glancing at her watch she declined and intimated it was time to inspect the flower arrangements. ‘One isn’t here to gossip, you know, Canon.
Some
of us have things to do!’

Duly rebuked, I hastened her into the sunshine and up to the church, where, sidling through the heavily garlanded lychgate, we made our way to the west porch. Though lacking both gnome and pixie (one had feared Mavis might have made furtive adjustments during the night) this now looked remarkably like Queen Titania’s fairy bower, and I have to admit that personally I found it rather charming.

Gladys did not. She had walked on ahead, pencil and notebook in hand, and was peering intently into the porch interior. Suddenly I heard a cry of horror, followed by a loud: ‘Disgraceful!’ Startled, I hurried to where she was standing and followed her gaze into its depths …

Titania’s bower, did I say? Too right it was – replete with a looming image of Bottom with his ass’s head, monstrous ears bedecked with a circlet of pastel posies! And as if that wasn’t enough, next to him, coyly poised, stood another figure: Bambi, Walt Disney’s winsome fawn, sporting a jaunty straw bonnet woven with buttercups and bindweed.

I gaped in stunned fascination, while the two companions gazed blandly back, framed in their tumbling foliage.

Gladys swung round, and in strangulated tones gasped, ‘What is the meaning of this, Canon? Who are these ridiculous creatures?’

‘Bambi and Bottom,’ I mumbled.

‘
What?
’

‘Er, um … literary characters,’ I explained helplessly.

‘Typical!’ she snapped. ‘Trust you to want to be different. I’ve always told the bishop there was an odd side to you, and here it is!’ She glared at me and then again at the offending objects, and said icily, ‘You
do
realize that this smacks of paganism – indeed many would see it as a form of desecration. My husband will be most distressed.’

Huh! I thought, not half as distressed as having his youthful gaffes exposed in the
News of the World
. Were that to happen, papier-mâché models of Bambi and Bottom embowered in the west porch would be the least of his worries!

‘Oh come now, Mrs Clinker,’ I protested mildly, ‘that’s putting it a bit strongly, isn’t it? I suspect it’s just a merry prank of the Brownies. They are very fond of our animal brethren, you know … in fact they have a most beguiling guinea pig called Giles. It’s a wonder they didn’t put him in there as well!’ I started to giggle, imagining the manic Giles playing slaughter among the roses.

She stared at me frozen-faced. Then putting a mark in her notebook and shutting it firmly, observed: ‘All I can say, Francis, is that Brownies or not, in total I am awarding your parish a single point for misplaced effort. As you are doubtless aware, the maximum number is twenty. And I can assure you that St Botolph’s will not be hearing further from the selection committee.’ (It always strikes me as ironic that whenever Clinker is in a mellow mood or particularly needs my help he uses my first name. Not so Gladys, who brandishes the informal address as the ultimate slight.)

Yes, the Bottom affair had been a dispiriting business and I reflected ruefully that had Daphne Porringer been in place, we might have had quite a jolly time and a fair chance of success. As it was, with the good lady rolling the dice with His Highness in Monaco, we didn’t stand an earthly …

However, there was a mild turn-up for the books that evening which made me feel considerably better. Theodore Pick from St Hilda’s telephoned. Such approaches are invariably spiked with gloom and I did not relish an additional dampening.

‘How did you get on?’ he asked.

‘Not all that well,’ I replied guardedly. ‘Don’t think our display was quite what was required.’

There was a pause. And then he said, ‘Hmm, neither was ours … not exactly.’

‘Really?’ I asked with interest. ‘You seemed to reckon it was in the bag this time.’

‘Ye-es, but that was before,’ was the glum reply.

‘Before what?’

‘Before some joker left a cardboard cow under the lychgate, with socking great udders
plus
its hind evacuations. She wouldn’t award a single point!’

I smiled. Pick pipped at the post – wonderful. ‘Ah,’ I said with smug superiority, ‘
we
got one. For effort.’

In spite of the strain he must have been under, Ingaza’s commercial activities seemed unaffected and he had rung to say that he was visiting the Cranleigh Contact and would I be at home if he called in on the way back. As it happened, the meeting I was scheduled to attend that afternoon had been cancelled and I was at a loose end – or rather there was nothing pressing which could not be happily shelved.

He arrived just before five, and it being a little early for anything stronger, I produced some tea as a stop-gap. We had just got on to the subject of Lavinia and the dramatic change which had come upon her since returning from France, when our speculations were interrupted by the telephone. Leaving Nicholas with a fresh cup of tea I went into the hall and picked up the receiver.

It was Clinker’s voice – but utterly incoherent. In fact to begin with, I couldn’t understand a word: the volume and speed was just too much. Drink? It seemed unlikely. I concentrated harder and gradually random phrases emerged – ‘frightful shock’, ‘too awful for words’, ‘thank God Gladys away’, ‘appalling’. But other than the fact that he was agitated, I could glean nothing.

For a brief moment the torrent subsided and I tried to elicit something useful. ‘So sorry you are upset, sir. What exactly is the trouble? Perhaps you could give some details. What about your secretary – can’t he help?’

‘Certainly not!’ came loud and clear. ‘Anyway he’s not here, nobody is. Just as well, far better without. You must get over here immediately, Francis! It’s crucial. Don’t waste a minute. Do you hear? Immediately!’

‘Er, well, yes of course,’ I said, more than startled. ‘But, um, at the moment Ingaza is with me. Shall I bring—’

‘Yes, yes, bring Ingaza – but nobody else, mind! And for God’s sake not a word to anyone, do you understand?’ I told him I did and would leave straight away. ‘And when you arrive,’ he added, ‘make sure you come to the side door – the
side
door, and you can put your car round there as well.’ With that injunction, he rang off.

I returned to the sitting room baffled and uneasy. ‘Hor’s in an awful stew,’ I explained. ‘I think there’s something really wrong, but I couldn’t make out what.’

‘Heart attack?’ asked Ingaza.

‘No, no I don’t think it’s anything physical – voice certainly seemed strong enough. It’s as if he’s had an awful shock, and apparently there’s no one else in the house. Gladys is away and the staff are off duty. Sounds pretty urgent.’

‘Oh well,’ he sighed, ‘suppose we had better go and see what’s bugging him, otherwise he might bust a gut. I’m low on petrol so it had better be your car – saves messing about.’

Bouncer was loitering in the garden, and the moment he saw us making for the Singer he shot ahead and scrabbled to get in. Since apparently time was of the essence it seemed simpler to take him with us than to inveigle him back to the house.

On the way I told Nicholas about the bishop’s insistence we should use the side door.

‘Typical of Hor,’ he laughed, ‘pompous even in dire straits. Personally, if I were a canon I should be pretty peeved to be so relegated!’

I laughed too and said that even Clinker wasn’t as crass as that (though I wouldn’t put it past Gladys), and presumably the main door must be temporarily out of order – jammed, or being painted or something.

As we sped along the Hog’s Back I was reminded of the last time I had driven that way – at a snail’s pace and lashed by early morning rain. That time too I had been en route for the Palace … blithely unaware of the news that Clinker had in store.

‘I say,’ I said, turning to Nicholas, ‘do you think it’s something to do with the blackmail? Perhaps he’s had another threat or demand. He sounded fairly desperate.’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘that’s rather what I was thinking … My God, it’s a bugger, isn’t it? What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on that bastard!’

‘I know we agreed not to, but maybe it’s time the police
were
approached. They’re practised in handling these things discreetly and most of it could probably be kept under wraps – the actual nature of the thing, at least.’

‘Don’t bank on it,’ he replied bitterly. ‘Too risky. It’s bad enough for me – no good for trade and I shall be a laughing stock if it gets out: Aunt Lil would split her bleeding sides. But it’s even worse for Hor. I’ve told you before, the publicity would destroy him.’

‘You’re right,’ I agreed glumly.

There was a pause, and then he said musingly, ‘I wonder if the sod could be nobbled.’

‘Nobbled?’

‘Hmm. Put out of the way – quietly. I’ve got a pal who knows a chap who—’

‘No, Nicholas!’ I cried. ‘Absolutely not – you must be mad!’ And without thinking I revved us into third gear.

‘All right, all right! Keep your hair on, old man, just thinking out loud.’

‘Well don’t,’ I snapped, adjusting to fourth again. ‘Out loud or otherwise.’

He gave one of those maddening giggles. ‘Sorry, forgot. Touched a raw nerve there – here, have a cigarette.’ He lit a couple of Sobranies. I took one, and puffing furiously pounded on towards the Palace.

*    *    *

Given the drama of the phone call, when we arrived I was vaguely surprised to see the bishop’s residence looking complacently normal. Flanked by trees and well-tended lawns, it dozed peacefully in the early twilight, its stolid Victorian frontage exuding an air of unruffled ease. Like the incumbent, it seemed assured of its own probity.

I don’t quite know what I had been expecting – chimneys ravaged by fire, windows smashed, a tree sprawled across the roof? All was calm, and there was certainly nothing out of the ordinary about the front entrance. However, following the bishop’s instruction I dutifully ferried us around to the side of the house, and leaving Bouncer in the car, we presented ourselves at the kitchen door.

I yanked the bell-pull and almost immediately heard heavy footsteps.

Clinker opened the door cautiously, beckoned us in and drew the bolt across. Although clad formally, he looked creased and dishevelled and the usually florid cheeks were a sort of pasty grey. It crossed my mind that perhaps Nicholas had been right about the heart attack.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ I asked.

‘Of course I am not, Oughterard,’ was the testy answer, ‘and neither would you be given the circumstances!’ Despite the words, the irascible tone was reassuring and it looked as if imminent demise was unlikely.

‘And what are the circumstances?’ Nicholas enquired.

‘I’ll show you,’ he said grimly, and led us through the dark kitchen, down a gloomy servants’ passage and eventually into the front hall where he paused in the area of the porch – in darkness but with door slightly ajar. He hesitated, then flicking a light-switch and seizing the handle, he flung it wide.

‘There!’ he whispered dramatically.

There indeed … Freddie Felter. On the floor, shot through the head. We gazed in paralysed fascination as the stark, garish light exposed every facet of the scene. He was slumped on his side, legs half drawn up and a bloody crater over his right ear where presumably a bullet had done its worst. He wore what looked like a Burberry raincoat, and I noticed inconsequentially that his trilby had rolled into a corner. For some reason that hat riveted my attention and it was only afterwards that I knew why: Elizabeth too had worn a hat – a green one. But in her case it had remained firmly clamped to her head …

‘Well this one’s not going anywhere, that’s for certain,’ said Nicholas.

‘But he
was
,’ exclaimed Clinker. ‘He had already reached the drive but I had to drag him back into the porch. I mean, I couldn’t possibly have that spectacle lying on the gravel!’

The implications of his words struck home and we stared in disbelief. And then Nicholas said quietly, ‘Look, Hor, why don’t you tell us exactly what happened – for example, why was Felter here and how did he get shot? Just give us the plain facts. It will, um … well, it will sort of put us in the picture.’

‘Yes, yes of course,’ he replied, suddenly brisk and clear. ‘You see, after meeting at Lavinia’s party we had telephoned each other a couple of times to discuss
The Riddle of the Sands
– I was scheduled to give a paper at the Guildford Literary Society and was glad to get a few more angles on the thing. Anyway, he rang up one day and said that as he was likely to be passing and happened to have a rather rare first edition, could he drop in for a cup of tea and show it to me? Naturally I said I would be delighted and that since Gladys was away there would be plenty of time for a good jaw. However, I also knew I would be in London shortly and suggested that we meet there instead, but he seemed keen to come to the house so I left it like that. If only I hadn’t this might never have happened! Still, easy to be wise after the event I suppose.’ (You can say that again! I thought.)

‘So as arranged he turned up, and to begin with he was extremely affable – charming, in fact. Then all of a sudden the smiles vanished and he showed his teeth! Said he had a transaction to complete and if I didn’t cooperate I would suffer the consequences. Well naturally I had no idea what he was talking about and told him I wasn’t aware of any transaction. At which point he asked if I had enjoyed his letters, and when I asked what letters, he had the audacity to quack like a duck! At first I thought the man was mad, and then of course the penny dropped. Ghastly! He became no better than his letters – snide and brazen and too damn pleased with himself – beastly little braggart. I hated him!’ He winced as if reliving the scene.

‘What was he bragging about?’

‘The number of people he had put through hell and the money he had earned as a result. Said he had a list as long as your arm and it was getting longer. Would you credit it?’ Clinker gave a derisive snort. ‘He then had the gall to put forward a proposition, saying it might “mitigate” my problem if I accepted. Disgraceful, simply disgraceful!’

‘But whatever was it?’ I urged.

‘Had the nerve to say that although I was quite a fat catch, there were even fatter fish in the pool, and one in particular had caught his eye. However, the “dossier” was incomplete, and if I could supply the necessary details he would look favourably upon my own situation – and by implication yours, Nicholas.’

‘But why did he think that you would be able to supply details?’ Ingaza asked.

Clinker sighed. ‘Because it happens to involve a rather eminent colleague of mine. He was wrongly accused of substantial embezzlement some years ago. There wasn’t a shred of evidence, and I can assure you, absolutely no foundation. In fact the case never came to court. But Felter seemed convinced that there was mud to dredge up and that I knew certain undisclosed things which would help him to “piece it all together”. In exchange for certain data he might be prepared to “waive” the present situation. I believe his proposal is what is known as a
trade-off
.’ The bishop enunciated the term with distaste, and then clenching his fists, cried, ‘I told him I had no intention of participating in his sordid little scheme.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said that I would if I knew what was good for me … And that’s when I knew I’d had enough. I didn’t care what might happen, I simply wasn’t going to be browbeaten any longer by that insufferable creature! Somehow the thing had to be dealt with there and then!’

‘So how did you deal with it?’ I gasped.

‘Prayed.’

‘
Prayed?
’

‘Yes, Oughterard, P-R-A-Y-E-D. Doubtless you have heard of the efficacy of prayer?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘
And
I was answered.’

‘So what did the Almighty have to say?’ murmured Nicholas with interest.

‘To clock him one.’

There was a silence as we digested this. Nicholas coughed discreetly. ‘Went a bit further than that, didn’t it, dear boy? Chap’s covered in blood with a bullet in his ear.’

Clinker whirled round on him. ‘It certainly did not go further,’ he rasped. ‘Never even got that far, didn’t lay a finger on him … And kindly refrain from calling me “dear boy”!’

‘But sir,’ I protested, ‘he’s been shot!’

‘Very observant of you, Oughterard – but that had nothing to do with me. I would hardly have summoned you both here if it did! Now pull yourself together, we have a problem on our hands, it’s nearly seven o’clock.’

I sat down on the porch bench, feeling rather weak and not too keen on the adjective ‘our’.

‘What’s seven o’clock got to do with things?’ Nicholas asked.

‘
Because
that is when Ridley the Archbishop of York’s secretary is arriving with important documents regarding my imminent appointment as His Grace’s aide. It would hardly look good if the man were required to step over a corpse to gain access to my study. The final interview is only a fortnight away, and I do not propose that this wretched Felter should mess things up!’

We stared down at the mess at our feet, studying the blood-encrusted tiles. ‘So if you didn’t clock him one as directed,’ said Nicholas, fumbling for a cigarette, ‘what happened? I mean, what stopped you from having a go?’

‘Wretched man roared with laughter. Said we were both too old for that sort of horseplay, and proof or no proof he could make it very nasty for me. Said he was already composing a juicy article to send to the newspapers. That made me even angrier, and I thought I would try biffing him one anyway, but he sidestepped and, still cackling, shot out of the study into the hall. I heard the front door slam, and, and …’ Clinker suddenly lapsed into silence, staring ahead vacantly.

‘So then what?’ I asked gently.

‘Well nothing, really,’ he replied flatly, ‘I sort of lost my legs, couldn’t seem to make them work. Then by the time things were back to normal and I went to take a look, he had gone. Except of course he hadn’t … He was still there, spread all over the gravel, just the other side of the porch door! Couldn’t understand it, didn’t know what to do! But I couldn’t leave him there, could I? I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you want right outside your front door. So as you can see, I brought him in here.’ He gestured towards the shape on the floor, then with a groan slumped down next to me on the bench, his face in his hands.