Bone Idle (18 page)

‘Capable of cutting a good deal?’

‘I should say!’

‘That’s all right then.’ And she clattered off into the hall.

The dog started to growl and I gripped his collar. ‘Nothing to worry about, Bouncer,’ I lied. ‘It’s only your nice friend Nicholas. He’s come to visit us.’ To my surprise, he stopped growling and began to wag his tail. No accounting for tastes, I suppose.

Nicholas appeared in the doorway looking almost distinguished, his frayed elegance only partly dissipated by the brazen tie-pin and over-large silk handkerchief tumbling from his breast pocket. The brilliantined hair was shorter than when I had last seen him, and the sheen on his shoes put my own to shame. He was nursing two enormous bunches of yellow gladioli which he presented to Primrose with a theatrical flourish. He too, it seemed, was intent on cutting a good deal.

‘
Enchanté
,’ he murmured, flashing her a smile of oiled intimacy. ‘I have been
longing
to meet you. Your paintings are a delight, such rare intelligence and … but my goodness,’ he gasped, ‘I’ve just noticed! Those ear-rings are
exquisite
. Clearly the originals, and they frame your face so beautifully. How clever of you to find them!’

I listened to the patter with cynical amusement. If Ingaza imagined he was going to impress his hostess with that sort of blague he was barking up the wrong tree. My sister was the last person to be so disarmed. And I awaited her reaction with a degree of unease, fearing a tart response. None came. Instead Primrose flushed, cleared her throat, simpered into the gladioli and muttered something to the effect that they were just some old family heirlooms which she happened to have to hand. Then instructing me to offer our visitor a drink, she gathered the flowers and retreated awkwardly into the kitchen mumbling about vases and water.

Left to ourselves I poured him a Scotch which he grabbed with alacrity.

‘Christ, what a day, what a journey – all the sods in Sussex on the road!’

‘But you’ve only come from Brighton,’ I protested, ‘it can’t have been that bad.’

‘Ah, but I had to go to Eastbourne first to visit Lil. Howling gale! And I tried to get her into the cinema but she wasn’t having that – oh no, had to be the perishing bandstand as usual. Freezing cold, no hot-dogs, and now I’ve got earache.’ He took a gulp of the whisky and grimaced. ‘Bit heavy-handed with the soda, aren’t you, dear boy, or are you on one of your puritan kicks?’

I made good the defect and enquired after the health of his Aunt Lil.

‘Never been better,’ he replied sourly. ‘Playing merry hell with everyone, including yours truly of course. Old baggage still blames me for that disastrous Spendler business. Had the nerve to tell me I was losing my touch and should have stayed in the Church. I ask you!’

I could see the funny side, but to divert him from the tribulations of Aunt Lil said consolingly (albeit a trifle acidly) that doubtless his negotiations with Primrose would compensate.

‘Ye-es, I think they might. They just might.’ He smirked slyly and sleeked his hair. ‘Yes, I think your Primrose and I could come to a very useful, not to say lucrative, arrangement. She’s a bit sharper than you, Francis, a little more on the commercial ball if you don’t mind my saying.’

‘Not at all,’ I replied drily, ‘but kindly count me out, would you? I have no intention of being involved in this dubious transaction.’

‘Absolutely, old boy, absolutely! After all, you’ve got your own little upset to deal with, haven’t you? Wouldn’t dream of burdening you further.’ He beamed ingratiatingly.

I scowled. Like hell he wouldn’t dream! Ingaza would dream of anything if it suited him and money was at stake.

At that point Primrose emerged from the kitchen once more her poised self. She poured a dry sherry, accepted one of her guest’s Sobranies and embarked on a witty and scathing account of a local art exhibition she had recently attended. Nicholas appeared to hang on her every word, nodding in the pauses and chuckling conspiratorially at the more caustic of her pronouncements. Thus the gallery was played to and duly showed its appreciation. It was a collusive little display in which I formed no part, and instead spent my time brooding on ‘La Folie de Fotherington’ and Violet Crumpelmeyer’s legs in the tool shed.

Supper went remarkably well: Nicholas continuing his role as charming and complimentary guest, and Primrose (presumably buoyed up with the prospects of a lucrative partnership) doing her best – which wasn’t at all bad – to sound artistically cosmopolitan and financially practised. My own contribution was descriptions of the grosser gaffes of Mavis Briggs and the romantic shenanigans of Tapsell and Enid Hopgarden. They listened to these with courteous good humour, but it was obvious that each was impatient to get down to business and ‘clinch the deal’. Thus, supper over and having done some of the washing up, I made the excuse of walking the dog and left them to it.

It was a pleasant night, soft and starlit; and although Bouncer was clearly intent on visiting the chinchillas, I eventually diverted him out of the garden and into the adjacent fields. Here we wandered about peacefully: me enjoying the silence and the stars, and he in his element sniffing and peeing at every turn. I suppose it was the novelty of the new landscape which produced such sustained activity.

I lit a cigarette and brooded yet again on the extraordinary fate that had overcome Mrs Fotherington’s daughter. The coincidence was unnerving to say the least, but it was also intriguing. Who on earth had done it? And indeed, whatever was his or her motive (other than irritation) for taking Violet’s life? For a split second I had a pang of sympathy for the newly-weds – the bride’s demise so soon after tying the knot being surely singular bad luck! However, such altruism was immediately eclipsed by thoughts of their joint awfulness and the husband’s disgraceful behaviour at my desk. I would have pondered the matter further, but by now Bouncer seemed to have exhausted his urinary excitement and was indicating his preference for home comforts.

Thus we made our way back to the house and re-entered by the side door. To get there one had to pass in front of the drawing-room window. The curtains were still open and I had a brief glimpse of Primrose and Nicholas taking their ease in the large fireside armchairs, each nursing a glass of cognac and looking remarkably relaxed. So much so, I noted, that Nicholas actually had Maurice on his lap and was stroking his ears – a situation which normally I would have expected neither to permit! Presumably the Canadian negotiations had gone well.

My surmise was correct. As I entered the room I was greeted with unusual warmth from both parties and invited to share in the brandy.

‘You’ve been ages,’ exclaimed my sister. ‘Jolly lucky that’s there any left!’

‘Bung-ho!’ said Ingaza vaguely, waving his glass in my direction.

‘Bung-ho,’ I answered soberly.

There was a pause, and then Primrose said, ‘Francis, dear, your friend and I have come to a most amicable arrangement regarding my paintings and I think I can say that we look forward to a most profitable partnership!’

‘Oh yes,’ giggled her collaborator, ‘most profitable – what you might call
artistically
so.’ And he downed more brandy.

‘Delighted,’ I said shortly, taking a small sip.

There was another pause, and then Primrose burst out, ‘Oh come along, Francis, don’t be so moody. The Canadians are going to love my sheep, and if they are fool enough to think they’re from the eighteenth century then that’s their lookout. As we say in the art world,
caveat emptor
! I mean to say, when all’s said and done, it’s the quality that counts, and the quality is very
good
.’ She looked at Ingaza for confirmation. ‘Isn’t that so, Nicholas?’

‘Rather!’ he replied, taking another gulp. ‘Simply superlative!’ And turning to me he exclaimed, ‘So kind of you to introduce us, dear boy.’

I began to say that I had made no such introductions, but looking at the pair of them triumphant in their mutual resolution, realized I was out-gunned. ‘Oh well,’ I grunted, ‘I suppose it’ll be all right – but just keep me out of it, that’s all.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ Nicholas cried. ‘No worries on that score. As I said before, you’re far too heavily engaged in
other
areas to take on artistic matters as well.’ And then lowering his left eyelid into a heavy wink, he added, ‘Besides, considering the mess you made of things last time, your involvement would be a distinct liability.’ This was followed by a hoot of laughter and he offered me a Sobranie. I have a particular liking for Sobranies and also fancied some more brandy; and so despite my misgivings regarding their scheme (let alone the brazen innuendos about my ‘other areas’), I accepted his offer and settled back on the sofa resigned to the merriment.

The merriment proceeded for some time; until Primrose suddenly said out of the blue, ‘Well now, what about this latest murder, Francis? You can’t expect to keep it all to yourself, you know. After all, given the circumstances, you must admit the whole thing’s pretty rum!’ She looked at me intently and I knew it was something I could no longer side-step.

‘Well,’ I began uneasily, ‘to be frank I don’t know much about it, no more than you’ve already seen in the
Argus
really. I gather that Mr Savage tripped over the body in the morning when he went to prick out some cabbages … you know, despite his dodgy eyesight he’s awfully deft like that and produces some marvellous –’

‘Oh, blow the cabbages,’ she exclaimed impatiently, ‘what did he do next?’

‘Uhm … well, I don’t think anything very much. He was a bit taken aback, and had to think about it, I suppose.’

‘You don’t say!’ observed Nicholas caustically. ‘Sat on a flower pot and cogitated, no doubt!’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Once he had got over the shock he marched straight down to the police station and reported it to the duty officer. And beyond that I simply have no idea. It’s all very baffling.’ (Which, of course, was entirely true.)

‘But you must admit,’ said Primrose, ‘it does look odd … considering your earlier imbroglio with the mother. Are you
sure
, Francis that you didn’t –’

‘Of course I’m sure!’ I expostulated. ‘I’ve already told you, I know nothing about it!’

‘But where were you when it occurred?’ asked Nicholas softly. ‘I mean, can you produce an alibi or anything?’

‘I do not need an alibi,’ I replied stiffly. ‘But if my whereabouts fascinate you so much, as it happens I was out all day; and then in the evening with the bell ringers … more or less.’

He grinned, and repeated slowly, ‘More or less with the bell ringers. Police will like that all right!’

I glared at him. And then Primrose interjected, ‘But Francis, why didn’t you tell me about this when you first arrived? After all, Molehill can’t have many excitements – I should have thought it would have been at the forefront of your mind.’

‘No,’ I snapped, ‘it was not at the forefront of my mind. I have other things to consider, i.e. that deranged Crumpelmeyer and his dastardly intrusion into my study. God knows what he thought he was doing!’

‘We’ve discussed this on the phone,’ she replied. ‘He was obviously digging to see if he could find the deeds or any mention of that Fotherington Folly thing which Elizabeth wanted you to have.
Do
you have them?’

‘I know nothing about the Fotherington fucking Folly!’ I heard myself yelling. There was silence as they looked at me quizzically.

‘Steady on, old boy – you’re getting over-alliterative,’ observed Nicholas.

‘And kindly don’t shout,’ added Primrose.

The next morning the guest departed, clearly well satisfied with the way things had gone and urging Primrose to commence her ‘creative endeavours’ as soon as possible. She needed no encouragement. The combination of outrageous flattery, artistic challenge and the expectation of handsome profit was quite enough to send her scurrying to the studio. Here she closeted herself for most of the day, while I was directed to mow and dig the garden, hack down the convolvulus and build a bonfire. I was also required to feed the chinchillas. Since my previous dealings with those creatures had been mildly catastrophic, I was surprised at this last diktat but assumed that Primrose’s zest for the Canadian project had blurred either memory or resentment.

I applied myself to all tasks with uncharacteristic energy. Somehow, grubbing about in the garden, and even engaging with Boris and Karloff, provided a welcome diversion from the strain of recent events; and with Nicholas safely returned to Brighton and the artist absorbed in her spurious pastorals, I spent a few congenial hours communing with nature and the rabbits. I also constructed a very serviceable bonfire.

Eventually, proud of my achievements and the unaccustomed exercise, I returned to the house where, with Primrose still occupied in the studio, I made a cup of tea, pushed Bouncer off the sofa and settled down for a well-earned nap.

I awoke to the striking of the hall clock and the sound of my sister’s feet thudding down the stairs. She entered the room in paint-daubed smock, hair dishevelled, and grinning broadly. Her labours too, it seemed, had been productive – though I was still uneasy as to their outcome. But it was fruitless to issue further warning about Ingaza, let alone the thin ice of forgery. Older than me and with a stubborn will of her own, my sister would take scant notice of the moral qualms of her clergyman brother … nor presumably of one who had been instrumental in relieving the late Mrs Fotherington of her life.

She was still intrigued about the second murder but mercifully seemed to have got over the idea that I might be in any way responsible. And thus we spent a convivial evening playing gin rummy and inventing an elaborate crime scenario in which Mavis Briggs and the bishop’s wife were the chief suspects. Rather to my relief nothing more was said about the Canadian project, but before I left in the morning I dutifully and vaguely wished her good luck with ‘things’. She smiled confidently and replied that with her talent and Ingaza’s knowledge of the market, ‘things’ could hardly fail. I was unconvinced of that but refrained from saying so; and gathering cat and dog, and waving a fond farewell, set off for Molehill – and fresh developments.

These were slow at first but once started came thick and fast, and I was hard pressed to keep my head above water – or indeed neck from noose.

The first problem was inevitably the press – the
Molehill Clarion
. This organ of mischief and public righteousness was happily wetting itself in ecstasies of conjecture. ‘Obviously,’ it assured its readers, there was a clear link between the death of Elizabeth Fotherington and the slaying of her daughter: the coincidence was too great for the crimes not to have been perpetrated by the same hand. A bestial serial killer was on the loose and all doors should be securely bolted at night. Indeed, it counselled, padlocks should be purchased for bicycle sheds and pigeon lofts … who knew where the assassin might not lurk!

Originally the press had seized upon poor dead Robert Willy, ‘the flasher in the undergrowth’, as being Elizabeth’s killer; but now with this latest incident his place was supplanted by an unknown (and thus more exciting) predator. Good for the
Clarion
and its readers, less good for the vicar and his peace of mind. With Willy discounted, the way was once more open for all manner of rumour and speculation. This was bad enough in itself, but I also had to contend with the thought that in the fearful event of my being arrested it was highly likely I should be saddled with a
double
murder! I brooded upon the injustice of chance, and then sloped off to practise some scales.

These produced little internal harmony, and quickly tiring of the exercise I decided to take Bouncer for a walk instead. It was not the dog’s normal hour, and he clearly resented the interruption to his accustomed routine. And thus we commenced our outing in mutual gloom. Typically the dog swiftly regained his snuffling good cheer. I did not. And thus when I saw Tapsell coming in our direction my spirits sank to further depths.

The organist seemed to share my annoyance and he gave one of his customary glares. I wondered whether in retaliation I should mention Edith Hopgarden. Ever since I had unwittingly surprised them
in medias res
, mention of the one to the other invariably produces red-faced discomfort, a condition which generally works to my advantage.

However, I was in no mood for mischief and prepared to let him pass with a bland smile. I was just composing my features for such when he stopped, and in querulous voice said, ‘It’s not right, you know – all these murders going on. What are you going to do about it?’

‘Do about it?’ I said in surprise. ‘What do you mean? How can I do anything about it?’

‘Well … it’s your parish, isn’t it? You’re the vicar –
canon
in fact. I mean, you ought to organize something – vigilantes or a protest group.’

‘
Vigilantes?
A protest group?’ I exclaimed. ‘To whom would one protest, for goodness sake?’

‘Huh! The police for a start. In my opinion they’ve been very slow about the whole thing. Need to smarten themselves up. It shouldn’t be allowed – innocent citizens being terrorized in their beds while this vampire’s abroad. Not right at all.’

‘Vampire? That’s a bit colourful, isn’t it?’

‘Not at all,’ he replied indignantly. ‘He’s done two, hasn’t he? There’s bound to be a third one, there always is. You mark my words!’ He waved a truculent finger. ‘Anyway, like I said, it’s your parish and you ought to set an example. If it was me I’d take the police by the ears and tell them what’s what.’

‘I doubt whether that would achieve much,’ I observed drily.

He continued to glare, and I was just beginning to wonder whether the time had come to introduce both Edith Hopgarden
and
Mrs Tapsell into the conversation, when he moved closer and in a more conciliatory tone said, ‘
I
think you ought to hold a rally – or better still, an all-night vigil in the church: prayers, psalms, candles and such – and with me playing the organ. I’ve got a new composition I want to try out and it would be just the thing for a time like this. Why, we could even get the press to come!’

So that was it, was it? Tapsell angling for limelight and glory in the wake of Violet’s demise. Typical! He had never really got over being centre stage at the Elizabeth Fotherington Memorial Ceremony, and now presumably was seeking similar laurels from the daughter’s misfortune. Yes, in my next breath I jolly well would mention the wife … wife
and
girlfriend! But again I was forestalled.

‘In fact come to think of it,’ he went on, ‘it would probably appeal to the grieving widower – sort of calm him down.’

‘What?’

‘Him – Crumplesheet or whatever his name is; daresay he’d be quite appreciative.’ He lowered his voice and added, ‘They say he’s
stricken
… I could have a word with him if you like.’

‘No,’ I said swiftly. ‘That will not be necessary. Mr Crumpelmeyer is not of this parish and I am sure his own vicar and church are perfectly equipped to deal with his grief. We don’t want to appear officious, Tapsell, do we!’

‘Oh well,’ he sniffed, ‘if that’s your attitude … Just trying to be helpful, that’s all.’ And throwing a look of distaste in Bouncer’s direction, he marched off.

Mention of Victor Crumpelmeyer pushed me into further gloom – or rather gloom compounded by agitation. So shocked had I been by the naked fact of Violet’s murder, that the victim’s spouse had been temporarily erased from my mind. The visit to Lewes and the matter of the Nicholas/Primrose collusion had also had an amnesiac effect. However, Tapsell had jolted disturbing memories and I found myself once more dwelling on the man and his brazen intrusion into my affairs. Had he really been after the deeds to that French property as Primrose was so convinced? And if so, would he launch another ‘investigative foray’ upon the vicarage? Given the outcome of his previous endeavour it seemed highly unlikely – particularly in view of the current circumstances. With spouse lately strangled, presumably even one as grasping as Crumpelmeyer would be occupied with more pressing concerns.

We had reached the canal bridge and I let Bouncer off the lead to nose about in the bushes while I stared down into the water, brooding. And then I brightened: with Violet gone and the husband ‘stricken’ perhaps I should be permitted to merge into the background again. I whistled to the dog, who responded with uncharacteristic speed, and we set off briskly back to the vicarage.

The following day I went into the High Street to do some shopping and was promptly accosted by Miss Dalrymple. ‘I say,’ she began, ‘this is a pretty kettle of fish, isn’t it, Canon? Two murders, and in the same family!’

‘Yes,’ I replied vaguely, ‘appalling.’

‘And of course
he
is frightfully cut up. It’s all over the papers,’ she added with zest.

‘Which papers?’

‘Well – the
Clarion
principally.’

‘Hmm, the
Clarion
rather enjoys these things. Doesn’t do to pay too much attention.’

‘Ah, but in this case, Canon, there is considerable truth in it all. There’s a full-page spread with photographs and interviews … and apparently there’s some reporter piecing it all together.’

‘What do you mean, piecing it together?’ I said sharply.

‘Showing the connections between the first murder and the second. After all, mother and daughter – obviously it’s by the same hand! But they’ll get the savage all right, you mark my words. Oh yes!’ And clutching brolly and library books, she strode confidently on her way.

I sloped into the newsagent, bought a copy of the
Molehill Clarion
, and finding an empty table at Miss Muffet’s Teashop covertly turned to its centre page. The first thing that loomed up was not one, but three photographs of Crumpelmeyer. (Presumably the editor was short of copy that week.) ‘STUNNED WIDOWER GRIEVES’, the headline ran. He didn’t look at all stunned, merely gormless as usual; but the article underneath milked his bereavement for all it was worth, emphasizing the newness of the marriage and the spirited gaiety of the relationship. The first was a fact, the second an assertion I found hard to credit. In my experience there had been nothing remotely gay about Violet … and as for her consort, it would have been difficult to find a more unspeakable pain in the arse. However, she was dead and he evidently bereft. So who was I to raise a sceptical eyebrow? There were more insistent things to ponder: the wretched reporter for example and his zeal for ‘piecing things together’. I ordered a cream bun and stared morosely at the porcine features of the grieving widower.