Bone Idle (24 page)

‘Which bit did you like best, Maurice?’ I asked the cat. ‘The bit where I rushed in and savaged his bum AGAIN, or when Florence sat on his head and then went and woke up F.O. with big kisses?’

‘To tell you the truth, Bouncer,’ he said, ‘I think it was the first part really – your
redoubtable
attack!’ (I’ve been practising that word, you know. It’s given me a lot of trouble, but the cat doesn’t often give praise so I wanted to get it just right.) ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘well meaning though Florence is, I think she frightened the life out of the vicar and if she had continued much longer we might have lost him for good.’

‘You’re right,’ I agreed. ‘If the weedy Samson hadn’t squirted him with the soda siphon he’d have been a gonner.’

‘Yes,’ grumbled the cat, ‘but you do realize that half of that went on
me
. I was soaked to the skin all along my left flank! Co-ordination of hand and eye is not within Samson’s compass.’ (I think he meant he couldn’t aim straight.)

‘Oh well,’ I replied, ‘what’s a bit of wet if it meant F.O. was all right!’ There was a long pause while Maurice stared at me blankly. He opened his mouth a couple of times as if he was going to speak but seemed to think better of it. And then he started to groom his ears while I had a go at my rubber ring.

We chewed and groomed for a while, and then he said, ‘I daresay the Samson person will get a medal – or promotion at any rate. He actually seemed to know what he was doing – an achievement, I fear, which has generally escaped our master.’

‘But he is kind, isn’t he, Maurice?’

‘Oh yes,
kind –
just incompetent.’ I wasn’t quite sure what that last word meant, so kept quiet and went on chewing.

And then I said, ‘But I tell you what: though that Samson was quick off the mark and put two and two together and followed the fat thug to the house with those other cops, it was us that got there first and buggered things up. I mean, if we hadn’t made OUR PRESENCE FELT – as you would say, Maurice – he might have been too late and we would have been left with a third corpse on our paws and that mad chump rampaging all over the shop. And then what!’

I think I may have been making a teeny bit of noise because the cat just nodded and kept his eyes tightly shut. He does that sometimes if I get excited. But you know, it’s difficult not to make a noise living in the vicarage, there are so many things going on – which is what I like really. No point if nothing happens. BORING! I told O’Shaughnessy once about the cat saying I spoke too loudly, and
he
said why wouldn’t a fellow want to air his lungs now and again, it was the most natural thing in the world, and to tell the mog he was an eejit, so he was! I tried to explain to the setter that you didn’t say things like that to Maurice, not if you valued your snout you didn’t. But he just laughed and went leaping down the road. Mind you, he won’t laugh when I tell him about this latest thing – it’s the second time he’s missed out on a bit of craic. He won’t like it at all!

Well, it’s been a pretty long day what with one thing and another and I’m feeling a bit snoozy. So I’m going down to the crypt now to get some kip, and when I wake up I’ll listen to the ghosts and tell the spiders everything … but they won’t believe me, they never do.

When I regained consciousness it was to find myself lying damp and blood-soaked on the sitting-room floor, in the midst of what I can only describe as a scene of spectacular unreality. Lights, noise, people, animals, the strident wailing of a police siren – I seemed caught in a vortex of chaos and cacophony. But despite the muddle, what was very clear was the kneeling figure of Victor Crumpelmeyer, head down and arms pinioned behind his back, howling obscenities while a cherubic-faced constable struggled to apply handcuffs. The youth’s difficulty seemed to lie less with his captive than with Bouncer (emerged from goodness knows where) who, whooping frenetically, was intent on assisting the process. Another uniformed shape was shouting loudly down a walkie-talkie; and up on the bookcase, miaowing the odds with fur
en brosse
and furious tail, crouched Maurice. The din of course was appalling; but it was not so much the mayhem which made me think I had been shifted from vicarage to circus ring, but the fact that only a few feet away there seemed to be a couple dancing!

I assumed I was delirious and the dancing couple a figment of waning senses. Dazed from loss of blood and the pain in my shoulder, I strained to stay conscious, focusing my hazy eyes on the close-knit pair holding centre floor. One of them seemed to be enjoying the dance rather more than the other – indeed was full of affectionate delight, pawing and snuffling at the neck of their partner with unconcealed pleasure. The other, I suddenly realized, was struggling frantically to get free. There was a burst of laughter from somewhere in the room and a voice rang out: ‘She
likes
you, sir!’ And immediately all was clear: the dancing vision was no less than the wolfhound Florence of Fermanagh, immense on her hind legs, and embracing for all she was worth the diminutive form of DS Sidney Samson.

I must have passed out again but they evidently patched me up and carted me off to hospital for tests and rest: a brief sojourn, but in the circumstances quite welcome.

While there I was visited by March and Samson, the latter bearing a bunch of grapes which he placed morosely on the bedside table. They had come, March explained, to ‘put me in the picture’ and to confirm that I would stand witness in the police prosecution of Crumpelmeyer. I wasn’t entirely happy about that, feeling that the less I had to do with such matters, the better. After all, who knew what skeletons might emerge! However, it would have looked odd if I had declined, and so smiling benignly I reluctantly agreed.

March seemed pleased but said ruefully, ‘He’ll get off of course – plead insanity and be sent to Broadmoor, you mark my words. A pity really because apart from that poor Ruth Ellis, we’ve not had a hanging for some time. The public expect it, you know.’ He stretched for a grape, while under the bedclothes I clenched my knees in terror.

‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘on the whole it’s all worked out very well. The culprit’s caught, Slowcome’s preening himself,
and
it’s obvious to anyone with a ha’porth of sense that he did for the mother too! Oh yes, no doubt about it: he knocked her off knowing she was loaded, and then married the daughter expecting to get the lot. But then of course, as I’m sure you tell your congregation, sir, “the best laid plans of mice and men” and all that …Yes, a good bag, a left and a right as it were!’ He took another grape and turned for confirmation to Samson who was staring out of the window and seemed not to have heard.

‘Extraordinary,’ I murmured. ‘But what put you on to Crumpelmeyer? And how did the police arrive so quickly?’

‘Ah well, that was the sergeant – no flies on our Sidney,’ said March. ‘He’d had that Crumpelmeyer in his sights for some time, ever since the two of them started making such a fuss about that buried diamond bracelet. “There’s something wrong there,” he said to me, “very wrong indeed, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it, you see if I don’t. I can always spot ’em.”’ He turned to the Whippet. ‘That’s what you said, isn’t it?’ The latter nodded expressionlessly. ‘Like a leech, Sidney is,’ March continued with pride. ‘He put a tail on him some time back, been watching his every movement. Mind you,’ he added, ‘he’s had good training from yours truly, even if I do say it myself – isn’t that so, my lad? Best mentor in the Force is old March!’ His gave a rumbling laugh while his colleague remained silent.

I coughed quickly, and turning to Samson said, ‘Well, I have much to thank you for, Sergeant … why, without your sleuthing skills and exemplary speed and courage I might not be here today – dead as the proverbial doornail no doubt!’ I spoke with genuine gratitude, but as usual in Samson’s presence felt a twinge of nervous unease – and, as always, it was justified.

‘Ah well, sir, you know how it is – win one, lose one,’ he replied carelessly. ‘There’s always one that gets away … leastways, so they
think
.’ He looked at me thoughtfully and only the thin mouth smiled.

They took their leave and I settled down thankfully for a much-needed doze. When I awoke it was tea-time. A nurse looked in and announced that I had another visitor. I held my breath, fearful it might be Mavis Briggs …

Savage appeared bearing flowers, fruit, magazines, and the ubiquitous but always welcome fairy cakes. He plonked them down on the bed and, manoeuvring with his stick, found the chair and sat down next to me.

‘Cor,’ he exclaimed, ‘you have to walk miles in these places. No wonder everyone’s in bed – exhaustion, I should think! … Anyway, Rev, how are you keeping? Quite a little dust-up, that was! Got yourself knifed in the shoulder, I hear. You do lead a busy life! Still, as I told Mrs S., that’ll rope ’em in on a Sunday all right. There’s nothing like a bit of blood and guts to fill the aisles … and the collection plates too, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He grinned slyly and commiserated again about my shoulder.

‘As a matter of fact,’ I grumbled, ‘it’s not so much the shoulder as the knee.’

‘What’s wrong with the knee then?’ he asked. ‘Took a pick-axe to it, did he?’

‘No,’ I laughed, ‘Bouncer’s bone. I fell over it trying to escape that maniac. Practically crippled me, it has!’

‘Ah, well,’ he observed sagely, ‘they say it’s always the little things that trip you up and bring you down. I remember in Normandy when that mine got me. If I hadn’t stopped to tie my bootlace I’d probably have my sight today … Still, that’s life, isn’t it: all in the detail, as you might say. Just goes to show, can’t afford to overlook anything – not even the dog’s bones!’ He smiled cheerfully and fumbled for the fairy cakes. We munched in brief silence, he possibly recalling the perils of Normandy, and me anxiously racking my brains to think what disregarded detail would play its lethal part in my own downfall …

He stayed a little longer and we mulled over the Crumpelmeyer business.

‘Well, there’s certainly one thing I’m thankful for,’ he said. ‘At least it wasn’t
done
in my shed. Mrs Savage is very particular about that sort of thing, she wouldn’t have liked it at all and I’d never have heard the end of it. In fact,’ he went on, ‘a lucky escape really – I mean, if it had been where the deed actually happened and not just the dumping place, she’d have probably made me pull the whole lot down. I took a heap of trouble over that shed – getting it painted and properly kitted out; it would have been a blinking waste to have had to get rid of it – a real waste.’

‘Frightful!’ I agreed.

‘Mind you,’ he mused thoughtfully, ‘I expect I could have thought of something to bring her round – I generally do. There’s usually a way if you don’t get panicked … like those tiddlywinks counters and the coppers for example.’

‘What counters?’ I exclaimed sharply.

‘The ones found in the shed that the police were interested in.’

‘I didn’t know about those!’

‘I told you, didn’t I?’ he said vaguely.

‘No, you did not.’

‘It was when they interviewed me the second time – after I first reported finding the body. “Mr Savage,” they said, “can you account for these here three plastic counters we found on the floor by the potatoes? Because if you can’t it’s our belief that they may be a crucial lead to the murderer. He may well have dropped them in his haste to get away. Follow these up and I think we’ve got our man!”’

‘Good Lord!’ I gasped. ‘Whatever did you say?’

‘I said they were mine.’

‘Yours?’

‘Well, the nipper’s really; said I had given him a set of tiddlywinks for his birthday and the little tike would never put the things back in the box but insisted on keeping them in his pockets.’ He chuckled. ‘Anyway, they seemed to swallow it all right … Just as well really, otherwise your friend would have had a bit of explaining to do, wouldn’t he? ‘

‘Yes,’ I agreed grimly, ‘he certainly would. Thanks, Savage, you’re a brick.’

After he had gone I lay back on my pillows, closed my eyes, and meditated upon bishops and their quirks and carelessness … Where would they have come from, for God’s sake! His trouser turn-up?

*   *   *

Fortunately I was kept in only briefly, though in a way it had been a pleasant interlude – hospital life, even in passing, inducing a liberating sense of aimless coma.

Once home, I was greeted by both animals with attentive approval, Maurice going so far as to present me with his woollen mouse. However, I was just getting used to the gift when it was briskly retrieved. Bouncer’s offering – a freshly chewed bedroom slipper filled with macerated Bonio – was of longer duration for unlike the mouse it seemed on indefinite loan. My shoulder was still painful but fairly bearable, and my knee considerably helped by my father’s old walking stick. I recalled ruefully – and perhaps a little nostalgically – that the last time I had had recourse to that particular prop was after the belfry expedition with Mrs Tubbly Pole and her impossible bulldog.

What did unsettle me, initially at any rate, was confronting the chair in the sitting room where Crumpelmeyer had fatly sat on that dreadful evening. It was where I would normally sit myself, and the idea of resuming my usual place was distinctly unnerving. I toyed with having it re-covered, or better still, thrown out; but I quite liked it, and the combination of habit and idleness ensured it remained, and eventually we became reacquainted.

As to Crumpelmeyer himself, March’s prediction of his being unfit to stand trial proved correct, and, as I learnt from the police officer who came to interview me, moves were afoot to send him to Broadmoor for an unspecified period. That was certainly a relief – both his fate and the fact that I should not be required to give evidence in a public court of law. In my situation a low profile has much to commend itself.

Less welcome was the confirmation that, handy though Savage’s shed had been as a place of concealment (and possibly a means of implicating some random allotment owner), the victim’s end had indeed been elsewhere: Foxford Wood to be exact – a few yards distant from the spot where Elizabeth had lost her own life. Much was made of this fact, and the
Clarion
wrote excitedly about the ‘mother-daughter scenario’ and the ‘dramatic properties’ of the crime. However, it was not a subject that I personally cared to pursue.

Thus, after the general hue and cry and the topic of ‘The Canon’s Ordeal’ finally exhausted, life in Molehill and at St Botolph’s reverted to its placid norm, and I was able to resume my parish duties with a modicum of ease.

Primrose had shown great solicitude, and while not actually inviting me down to stay (the damaged shoulder being clearly unsuited to grass cutting), she had generously sent a case of her excoriating sherry. Eric had telephoned with renewed invitations to avail myself of the sea front at Brighton. However, feeling insufficiently strong to face the full brunt of his raucous good cheer, not to mention the fearful prospect of encountering Aunt Lil, I thanked him warmly and made my excuses. Still, it was nice to be asked. Of Ingaza nothing was said and, deeming myself too fragile, I refrained from enquiring. Presumably he was either still languishing from the nervous strain of foiling the Customs as Eric had hinted, or (the more likely) living it up with his smuggled funds in the Bournemouth casino.

In fact I was just reflecting upon that as I passed the Swan and Goose one evening on my way back from a parish meeting. Coming out from the pub’s doorway was the lumbering figure of Inspector March – this time not only minus the Whippet but also divested of his customary fawn raincoat. Without the po-faced Samson and wearing what might be termed his mufti outfit, he looked quite human.

He greeted me warmly. ‘Good evening, Canon! Nice to see you out and about again. Shoulder getting on all right, is it?’ I told him it was behaving admirably and I would soon be as good as new. ‘That’s the ticket, doesn’t do to let the criminal fraternity get us down, does it! Up and at ’em, I say!’

‘Absolutely,’ I murmured.

‘Yes, sir, you handled that little business very well. Not the sort of thing a clergyman can expect every day, I shouldn’t think – a real credit to the Church
Militant
, one could say!’ And he chortled, amused by his own pleasantry.

‘Oh, I am afraid I wasn’t much use,’ I coughed, ‘it was Sergeant Samson who came to the rescue and –’

‘Ah, Samson. I was coming to him,’ he intoned with a note of pride. ‘He’s got promotion, you know … yes, our Sidney has gone to higher things. Up at the Yard, he is now. Just the place for him – doesn’t miss a trick, you know, sir, not a trick!’

‘Is that so?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes. Molehill doesn’t realize how lucky it’s been having Sidney in its midst. Sidney Samson has what you might call
acumen –
mind like a razor, nose like a ferret. Not much escaped him, I can tell you!’

‘No … not very much,’ I agreed. ‘And, er, what about you, Inspector? I suppose you’ll have to train up another assistant now.’

‘Oh no. Pension time for me, and a good thing too. I’ve done my bit for law and order, thank you very much. Time to hang up the handcuffs and attend to the dahlias. I’ll get that first prize if it kills me!’ He chuckled, and then added, ‘Tell you what though, with Samson and me out of the way, Molehill’s villains can rest easy in their beds at nights … Very easy, because I don’t think our Mr Slowcome is going to be much cop, if you’ll excuse the pun! Too fond of all these new-fangled courses and
psychology
seminars. Doesn’t like to get his hands dirty!’ He laughed wryly and we bade goodnight, he returning home to dwell on dahlias and glittering prizes, and me to sleep easy in my bed.