Bone Idle (16 page)

He’s lucky to have me, you know. Very lucky indeed! I’m what’s known as a watch-dog of the first water – as my old master Bowler used to say. (Most of the time he said too much, but now and again he was SPOT ON!) Anyway, I really helped the vicar the other day and even Maurice was impressed. Got that pasty Crump person right down on the floorboards, I did, and gave him what for. Just the job! But
he
didn’t like it – not one bite, he didn’t!

Mind you, F.O. looked under the weather as well, and started to shake all over just like those posh show dogs at Crufts with their hind legs going like the clappers. Still, he calmed down after a while and went over to the desk and asked Chummy exactly what he thought he was doing. (Silly question really – it was obvious what the basket was up to: CASING THE JOINT! Anyone could see that, but the vicar is a bit slow sometimes. Can’t help it, I suppose – humans are made that way.) Anyway, after a right old argy-bargy between the two of them, Fatso gets up and limps out on to the grass, and the vicar bolts the door. Should have done that much earlier, if you ask me, but he never does of course. Far too trusting – or just plain idle.

Of course, I’d known for days that something was going on and that it wasn’t the first time that Droopy Chops had been prowling around – he was here a few nights ago when F.O. took me for my bedtime walk. I’ve got this sixth sense, you see: it’s in the bones and you can learn all manner of stuff that way. Maurice says it’s rubbish, but then he says that about most things … Well, it wasn’t rubbish what I did the other evening. It was JOLLY GOOD, and I hope he comes back for another dose. But I don’t suppose he will … Yes, they’re lucky to have me around all right. In fact that’s just what I told Maurice – ‘Bouncer’s the chap!’ I said. He didn’t answer of course, just flattened his ears and shut his eyes tightly. But I think that secretly he’s quite proud of me. After all, it’s not every cat that has a top prize-fighter for a companion!

I was telling O’Shaughnessy all about it and it got him really excited, and he said I was no end of a fine fellow and was I after doing anything more like that. I told him not at the moment, but since he’d missed all the fun I would give him one or two demonstrations. That really got him going and he kept chasing his tail and barking, ‘Up Dev! Up Dev!’ Don’t know what he meant by that but he seemed to be enjoying himself so I joined in too, and we raced up and down the road roaring those funny words until a neighbour came out and hurled a bucket of water at us. Missed, of course.

Well, here’s a howdy-do! According to Maurice, who was listening to him burbling down the blower, the vicar is going to visit his sister again, and
not
taking us with him. He was talking about boarding us out, if you please! I got a bit shirty when I heard that, but Maurice says it’s all right because he has arranged to settle us with those new people down the road who own the wolfhound, Florence of Fermanagh. So maybe things won’t be too bad. In fact, come to think of it, they could be a load of all right! That Florence is a very nice lady, and I know she likes me, and even Maurice approves. And what’s more, I’ve heard that her owners are pretty free-handed with the grub. So all in all we might have quite a good few days. I’m just sorry that we shan’t be seeing those gormless rabbits again … but still, you can’t have everything. Plenty of nosh and a great friendly wolf should be enough!

I brooded on Primrose’s suggestion. Visiting my sister was always a trifle fraught, and the prospect of Ingaza’s presence of little enticement. On the other hand, my nerves really were shot to pieces by the Crumpelmeyer confrontation, not to mention March and Samson’s suspicions about those absurd deeds. And the thought of getting away – if only to dig my sister’s garden – was not uncongenial. So when the bishop telephoned to announce that he wished to speak to me on urgent business and would be shortly arriving in the area, what had been merely a mooted idea swiftly turned to firm purpose.

Unfortunately immediate escape was impossible, for in addition to a sudden spate of baptisms and funerals, there loomed the Vergers’ Social Evening – a ferocious affair of Colonel Dawlish’s devising, invariably conducted with military rigour and sadistic relish. And such were the instigator’s powers of persuasion that attendance was by far the simplest course. Thus, willy nilly, Clinker and his vagaries would have to be faced before fleeing Molehill for the sanctuary of Sussex. Still, it was something to look forward to …

A few days later my superior arrived, looking decidedly harassed; so much so that I felt a spark of sympathy. It quickly died.

He cleared his throat, looked shifty, and then said, ‘Now look here, Oughterard, uhm … it’s about Mrs Carruthers and the tiddlywinks.’

Oh Lor’, I thought, here we go!

‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘The fact is I have to practise some rather special moves with her. The team is entered in the Neasden Championships, a most prestigious event, and we stand a very good chance of winning. But it’s essential to be well prepared – some pretty stiff competition! The trouble is, she’s got her nephew staying and he’s allergic to tiddlywinks and hates bishops. I wouldn’t feel comfortable crawling about on her carpet with him there. But Wednesday evening is the only time I’m free. So I thought your vicarage would be a good substitute for her sitting room. You can easily take yourself off to the cinema … They’ve got
Roman Holiday
showing at the Plaza,’ he added encouragingly.

I explained that much as I would like to see
Roman Holiday
and Audrey Hepburn, the vicarage was unfortunately booked that evening for the bell ringers’ AGM and they wouldn’t be leaving until at least ten o’clock.

‘Surely you can shove them somewhere else,’ he protested.

‘Not really, sir, there’s quite a lot of them and the notices have already gone out. Besides, Mavis Briggs is doing the sandwiches and she won’t want to –’

‘Hell,’ he groaned, ‘that’s torn it! Can’t you think of anywhere, Oughterard?’

‘Well,’ I ventured, ‘I suppose there’s always your Palace.’

‘Don’t be facetious,’ he snapped. ‘You know perfectly well the position with Mrs Clinker!’

I pondered. What on earth would be a suitable venue for the bishop and Annie Carruthers to clamber about on all-fours rattling the dice and flicking bits of plastic at each other? There was a long silence and he drummed his fingers.

‘I know!’ I said brightly. ‘The allotments – there’s a vacant shed, third row from the end. A bit cramped, perhaps, but better than nothing!’

‘The
allotments
! You mean those big ones by Foxford Wood, the ones behind your graveyard? Are you mad, Oughterard? You can hardly expect me to get down on my hands and knees at dead of night in a potting shed! Most undignified. It’s an outlandish suggestion.’

The whole charade struck me as being outlandish, but I refrained from saying so, and instead stood meekly shuffling my papers while he fumed. After a while he calmed down, and enquired the dimensions of the shed and whether it had an even floor.

‘I rather think so. It’s one of those new pre-fabricated ones, all very neat and shipshape. As a matter of fact it belongs to a friend of mine – our local piano tuner – he lets it out, but at the moment no one’s using it.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Clinker, ‘might do, I suppose … well, it’ll have to. Got to get something fixed up! But those allotments are huge – you’ll have to be there to show me where the thing is exactly. What time are your bell ringers coming?’

I told him eight o’clock.

‘Oh, plenty of time then. You can meet me at six, and meanwhile I’ll make arrangements with Mrs Carruthers.’

After he had gone I put on my slippers, removed the cat from the armchair, and easing myself into his place closed my eyes. Really, the things one did for one’s masters …

To my relief Savage was remarkably co-operative about the loan of his property and was only too happy to hand over its key. I had had to explain its purpose of course – the tiddlywinks – but naturally made no mention of Clinker, simply stating that I had a friend whose tastes in recreational pursuits were a trifle juvenile. When I explained that Mrs Carruthers shared those same tastes and would be accompanying him on the shed floor, Savage exclaimed, ‘Cor, you don’t say!’ and started to grin. I was slightly put out by this and felt we might be at cross purposes; but before I could clarify matters Mrs Savage appeared from the kitchen floured and flushed, and insisted I try her latest batch of fairy cakes, and thus the matter was shelved.

Later that day there was a telephone call from Clinker agitating about the forthcoming arrangements. Discretion, he confided, was the name of the game. It would not do for him to be observed accompanying Mrs Carruthers through the portals of the allotments: they would travel separately and he would establish himself in the shed and practise a few special thumb flips while awaiting her arrival.

‘But she doesn’t know where the shed is,’ I objected, ‘she’ll need guidance.’

‘Yes, but not from me, Oughterard. That will be your job. What I want you to do is to take me there first and then go back and meet her at the bus stop in The Avenue. I’ve told her you’ll pick her up.’

‘Wouldn’t it be simpler if I just met her at the allotment gate?’ I asked, inwardly fuming that I was to be involved in these antics at all.

‘Not really. You see, she doesn’t
know
that we shall be playing in the shed … I, uhm, thought it better not to mention it.’

‘Why ever not?’

There was a pause, and then he said distantly, ‘It is quite evident, Oughterard, that you know very little about the female psyche. Were she to learn that she was expected to crawl about on a hard floor amidst dust and potatoes in an alien potting shed, the ructions would be stupendous and one would doubtless forfeit an invaluable hour of practice. I’ve set my heart on that Neasden Championship and I don’t propose being under-rehearsed because my partner had chickened out on account of her nylons!’

‘But she might make an even bigger fuss when she does find out!’ I exclaimed.

‘Perhaps, but it’ll be too late by then. Face them with a fait accompli and they generally back down. Having had the benefit of Gladys all these years I know about these things.’ There was a grim note in his voice.

I sighed. Yes, I was thankful to be spared that particular benefit. Nevertheless, the prospect of Mrs Carruthers’ fury when confronted with the bishop’s choice of rendezvous was not a happy one, and I wondered disconsolately if there was any way of getting out of it. There wasn’t, of course.

Wednesday evening arrived; and having organized the sitting room in readiness for the bell ringers and added a couple of spare chairs, I reluctantly left the vicarage and made my way to the allotments. Through the gathering dusk I could just discern a dark bulky figure lurking by the main gate: it was clearly the bishop in his incognito garb – black raincoat and face-concealing fedora hat. Fortunately there was no one about for he might just as well have been wearing cope and mitre.

We exchanged a few pleasantries, and in answer to his anxious enquiry I assured him that Mrs Carruthers was all set and I would fetch her as arranged. He was holding a briefcase, presumably containing the tiddlywinks, which he gave me to carry. Then, keeping a nervous eye open for strangers, I led him along the winding cinder paths until we reached the far end and Savage’s shed. I took the key from my pocket and went to unlock the door. There was some difficulty as the wretched thing got stuck and wouldn’t turn properly. Either it or the lock must have been bent.

‘Here, let me try,’ said Clinker impatiently. And after some rattling and wrenching it eventually worked, and the door creaked open. He went in and stared into the gloom muttering something about finding a light switch. Then I heard him gasp. ‘My God!’ he cried, leaping back and crushing my foot. ‘What the hell’s that!’

Standing behind him and in the half-light, I couldn’t make out much, and said in some pain, ‘It’s only the wheelbarrow, it’s –’

‘Don’t be a fool, Oughterard! Can’t you see … it’s a
body
. Look, there are the legs!’

I gazed into the murk. And sure enough, there was indeed a pair of legs – female ones, sticking up in the air propped behind the barrow. As I stared, I could just make out what seemed to be the head and torso sprawled on the floor, the body up-ended in a sort of jack-knife pose. There was a long silence as we peered paralysed; and then I fumbled for the switch.

‘Don’t!’ snapped Clinker. ‘Do you want us lit up like Christmas trees? Go and take a look and check if it’s really dead.’

I took a few limping steps. Mercifully the face was turned away – but judging from the position of the neck, the rope around it, and the icy stillness of the form, I had no doubt we were in the presence of a corpse. (You may recall it was not the first time I had been in such proximity.)

‘Dead,’ I whispered, ‘… garrotted.’

‘My God!’ Clinker gulped. ‘I’ve got to get out of here. This is appalling! Quick, Oughterard, go back to that phone box by the main gates and ring Mrs Carruthers. Fob her off!’ And grabbing his briefcase and staying for neither God nor corpse, he pushed past me and floundered down a side path into the dusk and on to the lane. From the other side of the fence I heard the revving of a motor car. And then silence.

Left alone, I stood for some moments in numbed horror, riveted by the legs. Pulling myself together, I stumbled to the exit, tried vainly to lock the shed door, and pocketing the redundant key, started to pick my way back along the cinder tracks. It was nearly dark, but not wishing to risk meeting a loitering plot-holder, I scrambled through a gap in the hedge to the anonymity of the road, and looked for the telephone box.

I spun her a garbled tale of the bishop being overcome by influenza and anchored to the episcopal bed. And then with solicitous squawks ringing in my ears, and still in a state of zombied shock, I began my walk back to the vicarage. I did not get far. Coming up the road was Savage – tapping along briskly and, for once, whistling in a moderately tuneful way. Had I been thinking straight I suppose I might have side-stepped him and he would have continued none the wiser – for the time being at any rate. Time at least for me to collect my wits. But I was not thinking straight, and in any case it seemed only charitable to warn him of what lay ahead.

Thus I coughed discreetly to herald my approach, and as he paused said: ‘It’s me, the vicar. I say, Savage, I hate to tell you – but there’s a dead body in your shed.’

He grinned. ‘It’s not April Fool’s Day, Rev. Pull the other!’

‘No, really,’ I hissed, ‘it’s true. Behind the wheelbarrow – dead. Throttled, actually.’

‘In my
shed
!’ he yelped. ‘Have you been on the bottle?’

‘Certainly not!’ I exclaimed indignantly, and proceeded to give him the few details I knew.

He scratched his head, emitted a low whistle, and muttered, ‘A corpse, eh? Well, here’s a howdy-do and no mistake. I don’t think Mrs S. will like that very much, especially as it’s nearly brand new.’

‘What is?’

‘The shed. We’ve only had it six months … This body, whose is it, anyway?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I replied. ‘But it’s all rather tricky. You see …’ And I started to impress upon him how embarrassing it would be if my ‘colleague’ were to become involved.

‘You mean the one that was going to have a dink-donk with the Carruthers woman?’

‘Yes – no! Nothing like that! I told you, they were going to practise tiddlywinks.’

‘I doubt if it was tiddlywinks they were going to practise.’ And he gave a sly chuckle.

‘Yes they
were
,’ I protested.

‘If you say so, Rev. Anyway, this friend of yours, he got more than he bargained for, didn’t he! … Mind you,’ he added musingly, ‘so have I. Better inform the police, I suppose, but I can’t do that tonight – not when she’s on one of her baking jags. More than my life’s worth! It’ll have to wait till tomorrow. What the eye doesn’t see …’

I was grateful to Mrs Savage. Her periodic bouts of manic baking may have been a trial to her husband, but this particular occasion allowed me time to think: to produce a cogent reason why the Canon of Molehill and his bishop should be appearing in court as principal witnesses in the case of what the press would doubtless dub ‘THE ALLOTMENTS SLAUGHTER!’ Really, I fumed, as if I hadn’t enough with a murder of my own to cope with, without having to be dragged into other people’s as well. It was too bad!

I was reflecting upon this irony and wondering just how I was going to play it, when I heard Savage say, ‘What have you done with the key, then?’

‘Oh, it’s here,’ I said, producing it from my pocket. ‘But it’s no use, there’s something wrong with the lock or maybe the key itself, it wouldn’t work. Kept jamming.’

‘There was nothing wrong before I went off this morning,’ he replied. ‘Both were oiled and in good working order.’

‘Well, I can tell you, it certainly wasn’t working just now,’ I muttered irritably.

There was a pause, and then he said slowly, ‘No, and I can guess why. Whoever did her in had to pick the lock. How else could they have got access? Either he strangled her
in situ
, or he brought the body in from somewhere else … Still, that’s for the police to decide. In the meantime, if you’ve got any sense you’ll go back there.’