Bone Idle (7 page)

I had a jolly good day yesterday, JOLLY GOOD! In fact it was so good that it made up for me losing my new cubbyhole in the church vestry which O’Shaughnessy had kindly helped me with. When I told him what had happened, about the vicar putting the kybosh on things, he said that in his experience that is what owners generally did, and the name of the game was not to be downhearted but to rise to the challenge and find something else to fox them with. He said that was one of the things that made it fun being a dog: always something to keep you on your toes and your snout in good order!
I
think O’Shaughnessy talks a lot of sense, though the cat can be a bit sniffy about him – but then Maurice is sniffy about almost everything. He enjoys it. I suppose that’s his bit of fun. Mine is racing about or eating – and I did a
lot
of both yesterday!

You see, F.O. had gone swanning off to London, and then down to Brighton, where the Type comes from, so we were without him for almost twenty-four hours (didn’t get back till nearly two in the morning – at least that’s what Maurice says; I’m not too good on clocks myself). So that meant I could do pretty well just what I liked! Mind you, when Maurice first told me of F.O.’s plans and that he had no intention of taking ME with him, I was pretty miffed. After all, what about my mealtimes? The cat made one of his
un
funny jokes, saying there wouldn’t be any grub! Well, you can bet that upset me. I mean to say, no self-respecting dog is going to go all day without his Bonios and Muncho. So I made a bit of a scene. Scared the daylights out of Maurice, who then had the brass neck to say he had been pulling my leg. SOME STUPID JOKE!

Anyway all was well, because the vicar had organized the woman from over the road to come in and give me the necessary. I made a great fuss of her – grinning all over my face, wagging my tail nineteen to the dozen, staring fondly into her eyes, and even sitting up and begging. (I didn’t use to be able to do that, but think I’ve got the knack now, and it’s JOLLY handy!) She was so impressed that she gave me extra dollops all round, plus masses of chocolate cake – which F. O. never allows me. She said I was the sweetest little fellow she had ever seen! Maurice said it all made him feel rather sick.

In between the noshes I went and played with O’Shaughnessy in the graveyard and beat him
twice
in our race round the tombstones! Maurice said that the setter was just holding back to let me win, but
I
know different. Bouncer knows a thing or two when it comes to crafty obstacle races! After that we paid a visit to the organist’s aunt – the one whose Yorkie was murdered by the bulldog belonging to the vicar’s friend, Mrs Tubbly Pole. I told O’Shaughnessy that if we were to get into the garden without the old girl seeing us he would have to be very quiet and tread carefully. He said he would be as quiet as a Celtic fairy. Like hell he was! Great paws crashing everywhere, and all the time laughing his head off fit to bust! Don’t know how Tapsell’s aunt didn’t hear us – deaf, I suppose. Anyway, we had a good time doing her dustbins over, and then had a bit of digging practice outside the drawing-room window. The earth is quite soft there and we were able to make some really big holes. There were lots of those bulb things all strewn about and O’Shaughnessy tried to eat some, but he made awful faces and spat them out, and then rolled about waving his legs in the air making gagging noises and pretending to have tummy-ache. It was good fun – but it was even more fun when the aunt’s cat appeared. That really stretched our legs and lungs! We were just on our second lap round the garden when I saw the owner at the window, purple in the face and shaking her fist. Suppose she thought her pet was about to go the same way as the Yorkshire! Anyway, we ditched the cat and got out smartish.

On the way back I asked O’Shaughnessy if he would like to come home for tea and have some chocolate cake (assuming Maurice hadn’t hidden it in his litter); but he said that he thought it was nearly time for his mistress to come back from the hairdresser’s all permed up, and that he must go to his usual post at the front gate and put on a forlorn face ready for her return. I asked why the face. He said this always makes her feel guilty for leaving him so long, and he would be much petted and given titbits for the rest of the evening. I thought of trying that with the vicar, but knowing him he would probably walk straight past me and never notice a thing!

Still, it was just as well that O’Shaughnessy didn’t come back, because as I began trotting up the front path who do you think was coming
down
it? The rozzers: the fat one and the weedy one!

‘That’s his dog,’ said the fat one – March, I think his name is. ‘Hello, Bouncer old boy! Where’s your master then?’ (Damn fool question. Did he really think I was going to say anything?) ‘Gone off and left you, has he? Eh?’ He patted my head and I gave him one of my soppy looks.

‘Nice little chap, this one,’ he said, turning to his mate.

‘No he’s not!’ the weedy one snapped. ‘Don’t you remember when we were here interviewing Oughterard last year? Him and that cat, like fiends from hell they were! Nasty beggars, the pair of them.’ And he glared. I was going to glare back but then thought it better if I stayed looking soppy.

‘Come off it, Sidney,’ said the fat one laughing, ‘they were only having a game.’

‘Having a game? That’s not what you said at the time, sir. What you said was –’

‘Yes, yes, all right, Sidney, no need to be so literal … besides, we’re not here to discuss his domestic pets. What we want to know is when’s he coming back so as we can have another go at him. That’s what we’ve got to consider.’

‘Well, you won’t get it from the dog, that’s for certain!’ And he gave me another sour look.

They went babbling on, but I was feeling sleepy after playing with O’Shaughnessy and it was quite a strain keeping my ears cocked, so I didn’t catch much else. (You have to listen really hard when humans talk to each other – and most of it’s gobbledygook anyway.) Then after the fat one had written something in his notebook and told me to ‘be a good dog then’, they went on down the path to the gate. I was glad to see them go as they were standing in the way of me getting at that cake – which I did NOT have to share with O’Shaughnessy!

It took ages getting out of London, not helped by the fact that I discovered the petrol gauge was teetering on empty and filling-stations perversely self-effacing. However, I found one at last, and feeling a trifle more relaxed could concentrate on negotiating my way to the Brighton road.

This eventually achieved, I started to think about Nicholas and presenting him with the pig from Poona – or the Beano Bone Idol as it was officially known. I had to admit to being rather pleased by my ‘coup’ and trusted that he would be duly grateful. After all, he could hardly accuse me of making a cock-up this time, and might even offer to stand me supper or certainly a couple of drinks at the Old Schooner where we had arranged to meet. After the dramas of the day I suddenly felt rather in need of strong libations and glad we were meeting in the warmth of the hotel and not in the dubious domesticity of his home (wherever that might be, for I still didn’t know). I wondered if he would bring the so far faceless Eric, but hoped not. For a reason I could not quite define, I was reluctant to confront either his pad or his pal. Perhaps anonymity on both counts helped to preserve the sense of unreality and keep the nightmare in check … the more I could keep aloof from the grasp of their raffish world the better!

I pushed on through the gathering dusk, and once beyond Hickstead began looking for a telephone box from which to announce my arrival. Naturally no such thing materialized until the precise moment when I had a large saloon with blazing headlamps right on my tail. But I was loath to miss the opportunity and, quickly signalling, swerved a trifle abruptly into the kerb and came to a skidding halt. With screaming klaxon and flashing lights the saloon roared past, and despite the gloom I had a brief glimpse of an irate driver and fulminating passenger. For a tense moment I thought they might stop and come back and remonstrate – or worse! But fortunately it sped on, still hooting, into the night.

Muttering oaths I scrambled out on to the grass, and was halfway towards the kiosk when I remembered the pig in the glove box. I suppose I was becoming paranoid, but after the earlier fiasco I was nervous of letting the thing out of my sight until ‘safe’ in Ingaza’s avid grasp. I returned to fetch it, found the requisite coins, and after some fumbling was able to get through almost immediately.

‘Wotcha, Francis,’ bellowed Eric’s voice, ‘so you’re on yer way all right! Got the goods, ’ave yer?’

I assured him that I had the goods.

‘Righto. I’ll tell His Nibs to look smartish. In the bath he is – always likes a good sluice before doing business, especially with an old mate! Anyway, I expect he’ll be there before you. Can’t hang about, old son, big darts bash at the Anchor. I’m their only ’ope!’ And with a thundering guffaw he rang off.

I was relieved about the darts match, annoyed at being cast as ‘old mate’; but didn’t know whether to be flattered by Ingaza’s careful ablutions, or piqued that unlike me – harried by the drive and the day’s events – he had the leisure for such matters. I could have done with a relaxing bath myself – but even more so with a relaxing drink! And spurred by that prospect I returned to the car and pressed on to the south coast.

*   *   *

Eighteen months previously the Old Schooner had played a brief but major part in my muddled life. It was there that I had fled after my terrible event in Foxford Wood; and it was there that I had encountered Nicholas – last seen a decade earlier making a handcuffed exit from the portals of St Bede’s – following
his
event in the Turkish bath.

I pushed open the revolving doors and, caught in a swirl of strange and painful memory, wandered into the bar. This time, instead of the early evening sun flooding the room, the curtains were closely drawn, the lamps lit and the corners dim. But the pianist was there just the same, tinkling away in an alcove – and, as predicted by Eric, so was Nicholas: draped on a bar stool, thin fingers caressing a cocktail, and exuding his customary air of raddled elegance. I had been cursing him all day – while soft-soaping Claude, kowtowing to Clinker, negotiating the mayhem of Croydon’s rush hour, and nearly getting myself blitzed by some hurtling limo. But suddenly seeing him there, sveltely poised in the mellow warmth of the Old Schooner, I experienced a pang of almost pleasurable familiarity. I say ‘almost’, because Nicholas, however occasionally engaging, is invariably dangerous. But it had been a hard day and my defences were down. So I responded to his languid wave with a broad grin, triumphant that my mission was accomplished, and moved quickly to greet him.

I was thus slightly put out by his opening words: ‘Christ, Francis, you’re not wearing that, are you!’

‘Wearing what?’ I exclaimed.

‘The dog collar of course. Not exactly the sort of thing to help you melt into the crowd, dear boy! I should think they’ve mapped your progress all the way from Wigmore Street to the Royal Pavilion. Cover it up, for God’s sake!’

I had a scarf in my raincoat pocket and obediently wound it round my neck.

‘Got it, have you?’ he asked briskly.

‘Yes, yes,’ I replied, ‘but what about a drink first? I’ve had a hell of a time!’

‘Let’s see the pig first,’ he said evenly. ‘And then, old cock, you can have anything you want …’ He smiled slyly.

‘A Scotch will do,’ I said quickly … and then groaned, remembering that yet again I had left the thing in the car. So much for careful resolutions! He raised a caustic eyebrow, and, feeling a prize idiot, I gabbled an apology and hurried back out to the sea front.

When I returned with the precious box Nicholas had moved from the bar to a nearby table. There was a drink lined up for me – not the requested whisky, but a cocktail glass containing what looked to be the same concoction as his own.

‘What’s this?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘Between The Sheets.’

‘Between
what
!’ I exclaimed.

‘Sheets. They’ve only just caught up with it down here, and it’s become all the rage. Try it and see.’ He raised his own glass encouragingly.

I took a tentative sip … and then another. And then, just to be sure, a third. He was right: it was very,
very
good. And accepting the proffered Sobranie, I settled back in the chair savouring the taste, and feeling all the pressures of the day slip from my shoulders …

‘Well, I’m going to have a quiet shufti at this thing – got to make sure you’ve brought the right one!’ Nicholas announced.

‘Of course I have …’ I started to protest; but with box in hand he had already got up and was making his way to the cloakrooms.

I stared after him indignantly. However, my attention was diverted by the arrival of three men at the next table. Loud-suited and loud-voiced, they carried beers and whisky chasers, and were smoking cigars of impressive proportion. I took them to be local bookies on the razzle. However, judging from their conversation, which was not difficult to overhear, it transpired that two of them had recently come down from London and, having joined the third, were en route to catch the Newhaven night ferry, stopping off at the hotel for a bracer before embarkation. I hoped that this would not be a protracted affair as I had been enjoying the soothing drink and found their noisy laughter grating.

The most florid of the three, who seemed to be in the chair, asked if the others had had a good journey: ‘Cut it a bit fine, didn’t you? Thought I’d have to catch the boat on my tod.’

‘Lights at the level-crossing stuck as usual. Besides, bit of luck we’re here at all after that blithering idiot braked when he did, stupid sod!’ exclaimed the one sitting nearest to me.

‘Looked like some priest,’ the other added, ‘got one of those collars on.’

His companion grunted and flicked the ash from his cigar. ‘Might have guessed. Heads in the clouds … lethal they are! If we hadn’t been in such a hurry I’d have stopped the car and rammed the collar down his bleeding throat. That would have got him to Kingdom Come all right!’ He gave a coarse laugh and the others joined in.

I could feel myself going scarlet, and nervously wound the scarf more closely around my neck. I resented his use of the word ‘lethal’, feeling that, all things considered, the Church and its ministers probably did slightly more good than harm. I was about to ponder this further, when it struck me that as applied to myself – and from Elizabeth Fotherington’s point of view – the term was unnervingly apt. I contemplated my drink soberly, took two more large sips, and then began to feel rather less sober …

Nicholas returned from the Gents, took one look at my muffled neck and said scathingly: ‘Well, you don’t need to overdo it. You look like some invalid in the last throes of laryngitis!’

I grimaced, and muttered out of the corner of my mouth, ‘If you don’t mind I think we should move elsewhere – not too keen on the present company.’

‘Look, old boy, it’s not that I’m deaf or anything, but if you must mumble into your scarf like that you can’t expect me to understand a word you’re saying!’

‘I am going to the
bar
,’ I announced – rather more loudly than intended – and got up sharply, promptly knocking his drink over.

‘Good thing too, old sport, you can buy me another while you’re there!’ He followed me over, instructed the barman to mix two more doubles at my expense and resumed his position on one of the stools. From the distance I heard one of the voyagers observe, ‘What’s wrong with him, then? Must be your voice, Cyril. Enough to scare the pants off anyone!’ There was a volley of laughter and another swirl of cigar smoke.

Settling myself on the stool next to Nicholas, I tentatively loosened the scarf a couple of folds, and with back firmly turned to the group at the table, reapplied myself to the cocktail. It really was rather good!

I sensed Nicholas watching me, and in the mirror caught sight of his sardonic grin.

‘Thought that might slip down well,’ he observed. ‘You can always trust Old Nick in these matters!’

‘About the only ones,’ I said drily.

‘Now, now, don’t sulk, Francis. You’ve actually done well this time – the pig’s the right one all right: and it’s going to make me a moderate mint. Congratulations, dear boy, Bishop Clinker would be proud of you.’

‘Clinker?’ I exclaimed. ‘What on earth has he got to do with it?’

‘Don’t you remember at St Bede’s how he was always saying that he didn’t mind his clergy being simple-minded as long as they were
efficient
? Well, at long last it seems you’re beginning to show the missing ingredient. My compliments.’

I scowled and was about to retaliate, but somehow both the drink and his accompanying laughter were infectious, and instead I started to giggle. ‘At least the Spire Fund can get its rake-off – you did mention a cut, I recall!’

‘A modest one, yes. Enough anyway to keep that inebriate female of yours tanked up on brandy for a while … God, that was awful!’ He closed his eyes, looking suddenly haggard.

Clearly the memory of Mavis Briggs simperingly and insatiably consuming his finest cognac had entered deep into Ingaza’s psyche. It was not the first time he had mentioned it.

‘That was nothing,’ I said, taking another sip, ‘you want to be there when she’s spouting her verses, nothing beats that … Anyway, she is not
my
female, simply a pre-p-posterous parishioner!’ I had a little difficulty with that last phrase and wondered vaguely if Between The Sheets was taking its toll. I can’t say the matter bothered me unduly … but his next words certainly did.

‘Ah, but not as preposterous as the other one,’ he murmured silkily, ‘Elizabeth Fotherington.’

This time it was I who closed my eyes. ‘No,’ I said shortly, ‘not as bad as her.’ There was a pause. And then I expostulated, ‘Do you really have to bring that up now, Nicholas? I am only just beginning to thaw out – it’s been a very taxing day!’ And to underline the point I threw down some more of The Sheets.

‘Sorry, old man – a bit like a twingeing dental cavity, I suppose.’

I stared at him open-mouthed. ‘A twingeing frigging cavity? Are you out of your mind? Have you
any
idea!’

He raised an enquiring eyebrow, offered me another Sobranie, lit one for himself and said smoothly, ‘Just testing, that’s all … intriguing really. You know: the psychology of it all.’

‘Oh yes,’ I retorted acidly, ‘like some curious specimen. Doubtless I provide you and Eric – whom I presume you’ve told – with endless speculative material! As it happens, there’s nothing remotely intriguing about it – she just got on my fins, that’s all, and I did it. Took me by surprise. In fact, if you want to know, I’ve been feeling bloody surprised ever since!’ I pushed my drink aside and started to get off the stool to go to the Gents.

He caught my arm, and in a low but firm voice said, ‘Listen, Francis, I’m not too keen on spreading dynamite around, one tends to get blown up oneself. I have told no one, so get that out of your addled head! Now, go and pee and then we’ll have supper.’ And so saying, he reached for the menu and started to scan its limited fare.

I left the bar feeling partly reassured and yet in a way even more unsettled. Naturally it was a relief to learn of his discretion (if that was really the case), yet his use of the term ‘dynamite’ was a painful reminder of my looming peril. Not that I needed reminding, but having it defined by someone else was a confirmation I could do without.

I peed dispiritedly, and with waning appetite returned to the bar. Nicholas, however, was clearly bent on having a full supper and was already moving to the dining room. I followed him in and we sat at a corner table. The cocktails had begun to cloy and I was glad that he had ordered a bottle of house claret.

‘Cuts the sweetness. You look as though you could do with something a little more astringent.’ And he poured me a large glass. ‘So who shall we drink to this time?’ he enquired genially.

‘Can’t think of anyone.’

He shrugged. ‘Oh well, it will just have to be My Lord Bishop again.’ And we solemnly raised our glasses to Clinker. Reference to Clinker made me think of Claude and the wretched Bone Idol. Theft seemed a bagatelle in comparison to murder.