Bone Idle (15 page)

‘Ah, Oughterard,’ he said, ‘thought I might catch you. That Mrs Pinder who was sitting next to you during coffee – she’s very keen for you give a talk to her Ladies’ HistoryGuild. Says she wants to hear more about that Bone Idol thing of Claude’s, the Beano pig or whatever it’s called. Apparently her father was something big in Poona, and so she’s especially interested. Gladys seemed convinced you could oblige. Anyway, I’ve given Mrs P. your number, didn’t think you would mind … Glad you could get over for luncheon. It all went very well, I feel.’ Like hell, I thought.

Another happy sojourn amidst the gravestones! It is gratifying the number of pleasures that can be packed into so short a time: scattering the newly dug soil on the Fanshaw mound, organizing my defences against the intrusion of that foul Siamese, pressurizing the butterflies in the far corner, practising pouncing tactics behind the compost heap, and keeping vigil on my favourite tomb for any irregularities in the lane below. (Regrettably none on this particular occasion, but one always harbours the hope.) Thus I returned to the vicarage well satisfied with my morning’s diversions and looking forward to a light lunch.

As I pushed my way through the pet flap, I was met by Bouncer in a state of noisy indignation.

‘Some bastard’s been here!’ he exclaimed.

‘Probably the verger. Sometimes he changes his day to Saturday.’

‘No, not that bastard, another one. I knew there was something up last night on my walk, but of course you and F.O. wouldn’t believe me. There’s a very funny smell, very funny indeed!’ To demonstrate, he thrust his snout to the floor and rollicked around the kitchen snorting and growling theatrically.

‘Calm down, Bouncer!’ I admonished. ‘You’ll wake F.O.’ In fact I could already hear stirrings from above, the bed springs creaking and a shoe being dropped or tripped over.

‘It’s about time he came down,’ he muttered. ‘I want my grub. Anyway, if he hadn’t been snoring his head off this wouldn’t have happened!’

‘But nothing
has
happened!’

‘That’s what you think,’ he said darkly. ‘I know better. I feel it in my bones.’

Just occasionally the dog’s bones do seem to exhibit a curious intuition, but it is not something I often acknowledge. Instead I asked him if the smell was confined to the kitchen.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘all over the shop but especially in the study. That’s why I know some bastard’s been here, and why I’ve got to go down to the crypt and THINK!’

‘What about your grub?’

‘After that, of course. You can’t think without a bit of nosh in you. I wish he’d
hurry up
!’

‘Start baying. That should do the trick.’ He took a deep breath and proceeded to let forth. Forfeiting lunch I escaped hastily through the window.

I bided my time lurking in the tool shed for a while, but became unexpectedly embroiled with a colony of mice who had the nerve to assume they could run circles round me. Then having demonstrated otherwise and feeling rather satisfied, I curled up for a brief snooze. In fact when I awoke it was nearly tea-time. By now Bouncer would be well ensconced in the crypt and the vicar busy in church, and thus it might be a good moment to enjoy some belated haddock undisturbed …

How easily the best laid plans of mice and cats are foiled! As I glided past the open study door I suddenly noticed an alien shape bending over the desk. Far too squat and fat for F.O., it was clearly a stranger – indeed, an intruder riffling through the vicar’s papers! I watched silently, recognizing the portly form of the Crumplehorn, but undecided whether or not to make my presence felt. As I pondered, there was the familiar sound of canine toenails rasping on the linoleum in the hall: the dog evidently returned from his subterranean thoughts. He pottered over to where I was poised by the study door and also stared in. ‘Fetch!’ I murmured …

I must explain that this was a command that Bouncer had last heard when living with his first master, the bank manager Reginald Bowler, who would bawl it out with tedious regularity. I gather that the idea was to train the dog into performing some useful act of retrieval. However, despite Bowler’s persistence, the command would remain only partially executed – the dog invariably preferring to concentrate on the preliminaries (involving much sound and fury) rather than the concluding delivery. I once asked him why he never completed the task. ‘Boring,’ he growled. ‘Nothing beats a good bite and a chew – what’s the point of handing it over?’

However, the word clearly awoke some Pavlovian instinct, for the dog immediately hurled himself upon the Crumplehorn’s bending buttocks, and with whoops of unfettered joy proceeded to devour the ample rump. Loosing a volley of high-pitched oaths, his victim fell to the floor dragging ink and papers with him. Here he writhed, lashing out vainly, while Bouncer, snarling like Ghengis Khan, gave no quarter. I watched with interest; and then deeming that things had gone far enough, called the assailant to heel … that is to say, I punctuated proceedings with a falsetto yowl and a claw to the dog’s tail. This had the desired effect, and relative calm descended as Bouncer, still looking his bellicose best, stood guard with quivering flanks, and snout within inches of the intruder’s ink-drenched face.

I was about to compliment him on his martial zeal, when there was a slight movement from the study door, and turning my head I saw F.O. standing frozen on the threshold mouthing silently and clad (rather remissly, I felt) only in his shirt and sock suspenders. He seemed to be saying, ‘God in heaven, what the hell now!’ On the other hand it might have been, ‘How long, O Lord, how long?’ It was difficult to tell exactly. But what
can
be told is that the Crumplehorn passed out and that Bouncer – evidently overdone by his exertions – trundled on to the hearthrug, curled up, and with a satisfied sigh went fast to sleep. With the two contestants out for the count I was left alone with the vicar whom I fixed with a quizzical stare …

He gazed wildly at the comatose Crumplehorn, began to fumble for his cigarettes, shoved one into his mouth the wrong way round, and then cautiously approached the now stirring heap by the desk. He made some initial enquiry which was swiftly followed by an interesting exchange of imprecations, Crumplehorn’s being the more explicit but the vicar’s the more literate.

I have to admit to being impressed by Bouncer’s handiwork: he had routed and cowed his quarry without inflicting anything worse than shallow tooth marks – painful no doubt but far from serious. The victim continued to swear, but gradually levered himself off the floor and then had the nerve to demand that F.O. supply him with brandy! To his credit the vicar denied him the request – though I suspect less on account of principle than because he had demolished the last of the bottle the previous evening. However, he expressed his refusal in a suitably righteous tone and, after further and prolonged altercation, seemed to achieve the verbal advantage. Eventually, sweating and still garrulous, the visitor turned to the french window and withdrew whence he had come.

It had been a perplexing, disturbing little incident and I was not surprised to see F.O. make a stumbling beeline for the toffee tin and thence the telephone … Presumably either the Brighton type or the sister was to be the recipient of a spluttered narrative.

I had just got home from the church and gone upstairs to change into more comfortable clothes, when the house was suddenly rent by the most appalling noise from below: a bedlam of jungle snarling and human roaring, followed by a stupendous crash. In shirt and socks I tore downstairs to investigate … and then gazed transfixed by the spectacle before me, scarcely believing that I was standing in my own study. Was I experiencing some parallel existence – some mode of being hitherto unvisited? Or was it simply the overripe Stilton at lunch that had precipitated such nightmare? Perhaps at any moment I would wake, sweating but sane … None of those things. I was only too awake and the study firmly real. And at the foot of my desk, solid, ink-sodden and insensible, lay Victor Crumpelmeyer!

His body was surrounded by a shower of pens and papers and all the accumulated debris which had cascaded from the open lid during what had clearly been the dog’s attack. The man’s right trouser leg was split from hip to knee. And what had sounded like mayhem as I bounded down the stairs was now replaced by a deadly hush, broken only by the dog’s snoring from the hearthrug where he had retreated at my entry. The cat sat grooming himself on the window-seat, pausing now and again to stare at me with a look of accusing curiosity. I stared back helplessly, and then took a few tentative steps towards the figure on the floor.

I cleared my throat. ‘I say, Crumpelmeyer, are you all right?’ There was silence. And I gazed down at the slumped effigy, wondering what to do next. Police? Ambulance? A cup of tea? Unsure which for the best, I lit a cigarette. Bloody man, what the hell was he doing here – and at my desk too! (It wasn’t just its lid that was wide open, I now noted, but also a couple of the drawers.) There was a movement from the hearthrug and Bouncer, evidently rested from the excitement, came padding over to survey his handiwork. I took him by the scruff, but before I had time to get a grip, he had craned forward and started to snuffle and lick his victim’s face. That stirred things.

‘Get that fucking hound off me!’ screeched Crumpelmeyer.

‘He is not a fucking hound,’ I observed reprovingly. ‘He is an extremely efficient guard dog – as I am glad to say you have discovered.’

There followed what might be termed an animated conversation. Until finally, looking murderous and clutching his posterior, Crumpelmeyer girded his loins – or rather hoiked at his trousers – and still ranting, lurched out into the garden. I refrained from following, judging the man to be too incommoded to constitute further threat; but was careful nonetheless to shut and firmly bolt the french windows.

The whole episode had been extremely unsettling, and to soothe my nerves I made a raid on the toffee tin, before sitting down and telephoning my sister to see if she had any thoughts on the matter. A voice of moderate sanity would be welcome.

‘It was dreadful!’ I expostulated to Primrose. ‘He was here, when I came home, locked in battle with Bouncer in the study. The dog had him by the seat of his trousers and there was a fearful noise, and the desk drawers wide open and my papers strewn all over the place. Obviously having a good old rummage, if you please!’

I was about to enlarge on the details of the appalling scene, when she cut me short: ‘Francis, are you sure you’ve got your teeth in?’

‘
What?
’

‘Your teeth, are they in?’

‘What are you talking about?’ I replied indignantly. ‘I don’t have any teeth … false ones, I mean!’

‘Well, you could have fooled me. There’s an awful lot of chomping and gurgling going on, I can barely hear you!’

Swallowing hard, I took a piece of blotting paper from the desk and removed the caramel which had become stuck in a lower cavity, and then resumed my tale.

‘Crumpelmeyer – he was here, ransacking my desk! And quite frankly if it hadn’t been for Bouncer attacking him I don’t know what might have happened. He was in a very nasty mood … when he came to, that is. Had the effrontery to accuse me of harbouring the Hound of the Baskervilles and harassing innocent passers-by who had just dropped in for a friendly chat. I tell you, Prim, the man’s as mad as a hatter!’ Without thinking I broke off another piece of toffee, and was about to thrust it into my mouth when I remembered her previous comment and lit a fresh cigarette instead.

I continued to relate the details of the episode: Crumpelmeyer’s absurd and garbled story that he had had a matter of business to discuss with me and, not getting any response at the front door, had come round to the open french windows hoping I might be in the study. Apparently he had just entered and called my name, when the dog suddenly flew in, pinned him to the desk and proceeded to savage his backside. The attack had been so frenzied that in his attempts to remain upright he had clawed at the desk, wrenching at the drawer handles and scattering all the files and papers. ‘A likely story!’ I fulminated to Primrose. ‘He was just snooping, and I can’t think why!’

‘I can,’ she replied coolly.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ I exclaimed.

‘It’s obvious: he was after those deeds – you know, the ones for that place in France you were telling me about. Having failed in their bid to dig up the mother’s bracelet, he and the Violet woman are now after the deeds – probably think that crumbling pile may be worth quite a penny; sort of compensation for the “lost patrimony” which they’re convinced you owe them.’ And she gave a dark chuckle.

‘But I haven’t got the damn deeds,’ I moaned. ‘Besides, it’s not funny, Primrose. Crumpelmeyer is clearly deranged and I am being made the victim of a groundless persecution!’

‘We-ll,’ she murmured, ‘not entirely groundless. After all, you have to admit there’s a certain dramatic irony to it all.’

‘Look,’ I snapped, ‘this is not the perishing theatre, it is real life, and I am sick and tired of being pursued by Pond and her fat fancy man or husband, or whatever he is. I just don’t know what to do!’

There was a silence, and then she said, ‘You could always go to the police, I suppose.’

I sighed in exasperation. ‘Given the circumstances, the less I have to do with the police the better. It’ll only give them a chance to do more sniffing and questioning about other matters. And in any case, it would simply be my word against Crumpelmeyer’s: there’s no actual proof to suggest that his cock and bull tale of wanting to drop in for a chat isn’t perfectly true. And what’s more,’ I added, hearing my voice rise an octave, ‘I shall probably be accused of keeping a rabid dog in the house … and then what!’

‘Now look here, Francis,’ she said severely, ‘being accused of keeping a rabid dog is not as bad as being accused of doing away with Crumpelmeyer’s mother-in-law. Do try to keep a sense of proportion and calm down. Sometimes you sound just like Uncle Herbert!’ That sobered me. Pa had been difficult enough but his younger brother was impossible, and I did not care for the analogy.

‘So what do you suggest?’ I asked morosely.

‘Well, in the short term I recommend that you go and play on that nice piano of yours. It always does you good and you’ll feel much better afterwards.’

She was right. A turn on the piano would doubtless help to soothe the jangled nerves, but it was a temporary palliative and I needed something more far-reaching.

‘And what about the long term?’

‘That remains to be seen. But meanwhile I think you had better come down here for a couple of days and let the dust settle. The garden needs doing again, and I doubt whether Crumpelmeyer will try another incursion, not now at any rate. From what you’ve said he’s probably just as ruffled as you are and will want to lie low. And as to the pair of them lodging a complaint about Bouncer and it being your word against his, what about his word against
yours
? After all, you’re the one who’s the vicar – pillar of the community and all that. And by now the police are bound to know all about them having wanted to exhume the grave for her diamonds. That’s not criminal intent of course, but it doesn’t
look
good … No, I should think there is no immediate threat or worry, but it won’t hurt you to get away all the same. You sound peaky.’

Peaky! Who wouldn’t sound peaky with all I had to put up with? The nightmare event of the woods, March and the officious Samson, Ingaza and the Bone blithering Idol, bloody Claude, the intrusions of Clinker, and now the lunatic Crumpelmeyers: all intent on driving me insane! What else, for God’s sake? What else?

‘As it happens,’ Primrose went on, ‘if you were to come down here you could be quite useful – socially, that is.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, I might be needing a little moral support …’

I found that hard to believe, but saying nothing waited for her to explain.

‘Yes, you see I’ve got that friend of yours coming over from Brighton – the Ingaza man, to discuss the matter of my paintings going on the Canadian market. You remember my telling you. I must say, he sounds very keen.’

I closed my eyes. When I opened them I heard myself saying wearily, ‘You mean the fakes.’

There was a pause, and then in distant tones she replied, ‘Francis, I have no intention of explaining to you yet again the difference between crude fakery and artistic adjustment. Clearly these are technicalities far too subtle for your understanding.’

‘You bet they are!’ I muttered irritably.

Her voice became brisk and managerial. ‘Now come along, Francis, stop being such a wet blanket! Your sister needs your brotherly support and you need a rest from those peculiar people. Padlock the house, board the animals, and tell the parish you’re going on a course.’

‘What course?’

‘Christian Ethics, I should think.’