Bone Idle (8 page)

‘Better toast the pig,’ I said. He agreed and placed the box between us. We duly drank its health, while I fervently hoped that this marked the end of my ‘assignments’.

He pushed the menu in my direction murmuring, ‘I don’t advise the macaroni, dear boy, it has the texture of a dead Durex.’ I blushed and hastily chose the beef.

In fact the food was better than expected. What with that and the absurd toasts, my mood and appetite were restored; and feeling more relaxed again, I began to embark on a richly coloured version of the day’s events. Indeed I think I must have grown quite expansive, for when I announced airily that I might start my journey home by way of the South Downs, Nicholas hastily urged that I stick to the conventional route.

‘No bloody fear, Francis, not at this time of night! In your state you’ll only end up at Beachy Head or drive into a chalk pit or something, and then there’ll be headlines in the
Argus
– “Vicar found drunk and disorderly in dew-pond: claims he was delivering a pig to distinguished Brighton art dealer.”’

I was about to retort that, drunk though I might be, the term ‘distinguished’ was the last I would be likely to use. However, the riposte was never uttered, for suddenly I had the shock of my life …

There
she
was – sitting at a table at the far end of the room, lumpish and unmistakable: Elizabeth Fotherington’s dreadful daughter, Violet Pond!

‘Whatever’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘You look as if you’re having a seizure!’

‘I am about to,’ I gasped. ‘It’s her, the Pond woman – Elizabeth’s daughter, the one who kept plaguing me about the will … I told you … seemed to think I’d rigged the whole thing and duped her mother into adding the codicil in my favour. Relentless, she is!’

‘Put your head down, she may not see you.’

‘Too late,’ I groaned, ‘she already has. Oh Lord, that’s all I need!’

‘Me too,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘I’m fed up with your marauding females. Time I was off!’ Grabbing the pig, and hastily throwing down a small share of the bill, he melted towards the door leaving me to the larger part and the tender charms of the Violent Pond.

She was halfway across the room, bearing down with purposeful stride. I affected not to see, grabbed a passing waiter, thrust far too much money at him, and with equally dedicated stride headed for the foyer. With luck I could reach the sanctuary of the Gents before she caught up … Useless. My path was blocked by a couple of dithering guests, and before I had time to change course and achieve the exit she had tapped me smartly on the shoulder.

‘If I am not very much mistaken, it must be the worthy Vicar of St Botolph’s, Francis Oughterard!’ This was said in a tone of accusing acidity.

‘Canon, actually,’ I corrected mildly (might as well make use of the few straws I had).

‘Well, whatever it is – canon or vicar – I see that you are enjoying the fruits of my mother’s money – and the wines too, I shouldn’t wonder.’ She glanced at the claret-stained napkin still trailing from my waistcoat buttonhole.

I removed it hastily and said in as dignified a voice as I could muster, ‘Mrs Pond, it is always a pleasure to meet you, but as I invariably have to point out, I had absolutely nothing to do with your mother’s will, and –’

‘Except receive what was rightfully Violet’s,’ a voice said quietly in my ear.

I spun round, and was confronted by a plump moon-faced man standing uncomfortably close to my shoulder.

I was about to ask who on earth he thought he was, when Violet Pond said preeningly, ‘This is Victor, my new and delightful husband. He is
such
a support! We’re on our honeymoon.’ And she gave me a look of simpering smugness.

New he may have been, but he looked far from delightful to me – squat and shifty and, from my possibly biased viewpoint, wearing a look bordering on imbecility.

‘How do you do,’ I said stiffly. ‘I fear you are rather misinformed about the will – but trust that you and Mrs … er, will be very happy.’

I was about to turn on my heel and walk away, when Pond cut in: ‘Crumpelmeyer, that’s my name now, and we’ve just bought a large house near Godalming – although of course it could have been even
larger
had my poor late mother’s wishes been properly regarded.’

‘They were,’ I said shortly. ‘Now, if you would excuse me, I really must be getting back to Molehill. Busy day tomorrow, five funerals.’

My departure was not quite as smooth as intended, for I became entangled in the unusually brisk movement of the revolving door, and rather embarrassingly found myself circulating twice prior to reaching the pavement. However, once there I raced hell-for-leather towards the Singer, couldn’t find the key, and slumped panting and distinctly woozy upon the bonnet. I expected to hear pounding footsteps behind me, but mercifully there was nothing, and for a few moments I remained thus: staring out at the darkened sea, listening to the gentle slap of surf on shingle and the moan of distant foghorns.

After a few moments of such repose, I located the car keys in an inside pocket and climbed thankfully into the driving seat. Heeding Ingaza’s injunction not to take the Downs route, I drove at stately pace through the centre of Brighton and on to the homeward road.

There was something unreal about that journey which haunts my mind even now. It had been a long eventful day, and latterly bibulous. The sky was black and the roads deserted; and as I drove through the enclosing night in a haze of claret and muddled memory I felt detached both from my surroundings (too dark to define anyway) and even from the pressures of my situation. I thrust forward in a vacuum of unclear purpose and curious calm. Certainly Ingaza was a pain, the Pond woman impossible, my prospects dire – yet somehow, on that solitary midnight road, such things melted and nothing really seemed to matter … until, of course, I took a wrong turn and crashed the car.

Actually it wasn’t a real crash, rather an ungainly shunting into a ditch as I overcorrected the steering wheel having missed my way at a roundabout. Fortunately there was little damage, and after some revving and sliding I was safely en route again. But it was enough to sober me up and focus the mind on achieving Molehill and bed.

This I eventually did at about half-past one, and stumbled into the kitchen glad – and slightly surprised – to be home. I was also slightly surprised to see that Bouncer was not in his basket by the boiler, but assumed it must have been one of his nights for the crypt … And then I heard the faint sound of canine snores issuing from my bedroom. Maurice, however, was there – awake and unusually chummy, greeting me with a couple of thin miaows and sharp head butts to the ankles. I wondered if he had been at the haddock again, but was too tired to check; and giving his tail a friendly tweak retired thankfully upstairs where I collapsed beneath the blankets and the dog.

The next day, despite my reference to the five funerals, there were in fact only two – one at the crematorium and one in the graveyard. I prefer the burials. I suppose it is that raw proximity to the earth that chastens and induces feelings of awe and – oddly enough – comfort. Our roots are with the primitive, and it is that tacit recognition, felt in the touch of mist, rain, snow and sod, which anchors the mind and soothes the spirit.

Maurice enjoys burials too, and it is rare for such a service to occur without some glimpse of the cat’s inquisitive presence. Mostly he watches from afar, crouched on his favourite tombstone from where he keeps gimlet sentinel; but sometimes he moves in close and you catch brief sight of twitching ear or darting tail. Only once has he intruded, and that was in connection with Mavis Briggs. Some months previously a local dignitary was being interred and thus Mavis was inevitably at the forefront of things – or had contrived to be so – insinuating herself among the family mourners until she was virtually on the rim of the grave. I had noticed the cat lurking quietly in the shadows, when suddenly, with lightning flurry, he was at Mavis’s ankles tweaking her shoelaces with rabid playfulness. The result was mild mayhem – shrieks from Mavis as she teetered on the brink, titters from the mourners, and an oath from one of the pall bearers. It was an unseemly interruption and I was none too pleased. However, it had had the happy effect of keeping Mavis well away from funerals for some considerable time. Even she, it seems, is capable of embarrassment.

Anyway, the current afternoon’s obsequies over, I returned to the vicarage to catch up on paperwork interrupted by the previous day’s exploits. I was still tired from the driving – not to mention my encounter with Violet Pond – and had hoped to pursue the pen-pushing undisturbed.

It was not to be. A telephone call from the police station enquiring if I was at home announced the imminent arrival of March and Samson. I groaned and grimly braced myself for what, in view of the Whippet’s earlier appearance, had been only a matter of time.

They turned up at four o’clock, and if Samson had been expecting more chocolate cake he didn’t get any. I had not seen March for a few months and in the interim the portly figure seemed to have gathered additional girth, the fawn raincoat looking more strained than ever, although its wearer’s genial phlegmatism appeared unchanged. The Whippet was as always: thin and morose.

His superior coughed, fumbled for his notebook, perused it slowly, and then in a tone of apology said, ‘Bothersome business, sir, isn’t it … but you see, our Mr Slowcome has just arrived down here from the Met and he’s a great stickler for procedure … a great stickler. And he’s got this bee in his bonnet that the case involving your friend Mrs Elizabeth Fotherington was not conducted entirely to his exacting standards and that there are still a few trailing ends. Well, of course it’s not for me to say – but you know these London officers, they have a different way of looking at things from us so-called “country bumpkins”. Always going on courses and then coming back with ideas which don’t seem to connect with anything much!’ He cast a glance at Samson. ‘Isn’t that so, Sidney?’ The latter said nothing.

I didn’t much like the allusion to my ‘friend’ and was about to explain that she wasn’t so much friend as parishioner, but he continued to rumble on: ‘So you see, we’ve got to run over a number of statements again, and in your case there are just a couple of things that need straightening out.’

‘Such as?’ I asked casually.

‘For example, this legacy she left you – the money you say you gave away. It was quite a tidy little sum, wasn’t it, sir?’

I conceded it was indeed quite a tidy little sum, and naturally I had given it away – as he might well recall. And in any case, it could surely be verified by checking with the recipients.

‘Oh yes, sir, we’ve done that already, discreetly of course; but you see, what needs to be established is how
much
of the funds was thus allocated. After all, it’s only human nature, isn’t it, sir, to keep a little back … I mean, just for a rainy day, as one might say.’

I regarded him coldly. ‘It may generally be human nature, but in this particular case it was not
my
nature. I can assure you, Inspector, I gave away every root and branch of that legacy.’

‘Jot and tittle too, I daresay,’ intervened Samson snidely.

‘As it happens, yes. And if you have any doubts on the subject I suggest you peruse my bank statements.’

‘I was coming to that, sir,’ said March. ‘You see, our Mr Slowcome is very particular about that sort of thing – fancies himself as an auditing wizard, and whenever there’s any doubt in the matter what he always says is, “Check their accounts, March, check their accounts!”’

I looked at him steadily. ‘I am sorry if I appear a trifle dense, Inspector, but who exactly are you and Mr Slowcome referring to when you say “their”?’

March blinked and looked vague, opened his mouth and was about to say something when he was pre-empted by Samson.

‘What they are referring to,’ barked the Whippet, ‘are the
suspects
.’

There was a brief silence while I glanced out of the window at the sparse lawn and lacklustre privet, and then at Maurice who returned a glassy stare.

‘I see,’ I said slowly, turning to March. ‘So you think I murdered Mrs Fotherington?’

‘Well, not as such, sir … that is, not entirely.’

‘Not entirely! You mean I only half did it, and someone else came along and finished her off? What are you talking about, March!’

He cleared his throat. ‘No, sir, you misconstrue my meaning. What I am saying is that all those interviewed previously are being asked to furnish further details. What you might call filling in the gaps, so to speak. All part of the general routine. As I said, it’s Mr Slowcome, he –’

‘So I am
not
a suspect?’ I snapped.

‘Ah well, sir, that was Samson’s word. Very keen, is Sidney – makes him use rather colourful language sometimes. Leastways, that’s what I would call it.’ And turning to his companion he smiled indulgently. Samson scowled.

‘Well,’ I replied stiffly, ‘using monochrome language, perhaps you or the detective sergeant would be good enough to explain what “gaps” you are seeking to fill.’

‘It’s principally this legacy aspect, sir. A formality really – but you’ll understand that what with it being so large a sum and the codicil appended only a few days prior to her death, it is something that has to be given precise scrutiny, especially with you being the chief beneficiary – contrary to all the daughter’s expectations. It’s what we call a bit of an anomaly, really. So you see, it just needs that extra bit of checking … sort of belt and braces, if you get my meaning!’

‘I would hardly call it an anomaly, merely a common or garden coincidence. As I explained at the time, my appearing in that codicil came as a bolt out of the blue, and it is clearly my ill luck that she should have met her unfortunate end so soon afterwards!’

‘And hers too, I suppose,’ muttered Samson.

I affected not to hear and continued to address March. ‘And why she should suddenly have favoured me over her daughter, I have absolutely no idea; but it is my experience – and doubtless yours, Inspector – that people are full of whims and fancies for which there is no accounting. It is just one of those things!’

He smiled patiently. ‘I expect you’re right, sir, but we’ll have to check those bank statements all the same. Mr Slowcome is most particular in these things. Likes it all tied up neat, he does.’

‘Well, the last thing I want is to obstruct the punctilious Mr Slowcome – nor indeed you, Inspector, so you are perfectly welcome to scrutinize my accounts to your heart’s content. I can assure you that every bit of that legacy was deposited with the said charities and that not a single penny was retained for my personal use.’ I spoke in a tone of careless confidence – a state genuinely felt, for I knew that as far as the legacy was concerned I was absolutely in the clear. If that was all they were bothered about I was as safe as houses!

March nodded, apparently satisfied, and closed his notebook. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘But there is something else,’ added the Whippet flatly. (Something else? What more, for God’s sake!)

‘Oh yes,’ I said smoothly, ‘and what might that be?’

‘The time that you say you left the house to go on your jaunt to Brighton. Now that
is
an anomaly. You see, in your original statement you said that you left at dawn – it being such a nice day and all that. But we have a witness that says you left at lunchtime.’

I felt sick, but also perplexed. What witness? Surely there hadn’t been a soul about. I had used the short cut on to the A281 and I could swear blind there had been no sign of vehicle or pedestrian. Admittedly, at the time I was in a rather dazed condition and hadn’t taken any particular precautions of concealment. Nevertheless, I was pretty sure the roads had been totally empty. Indeed it was precisely this recollection which, on my return from Brighton and in a panic of self-preservation, had prompted me to give my departure as being earlier rather than later. The forensics had established Elizabeth’s death to have occurred between 8.30 and 9.30 a.m. Thus at the time the lie had seemed a sensible precaution. Now, of course, I saw it for what it was – foolishly crude and highly dangerous.

Naturally Samson wasn’t going to hand it to me on a plate, i.e. naming the witness and thus giving me a chance to formulate my response. Instead he paused, gazing out into the garden, leaving me to flounder in limbo unsure whether to stick to my story or adjust it as best I could.

It was March who spoilt his tactic. And even now I can remember Samson’s look of fury as his superior pronounced the name of the local errand boy, and thus unwittingly gave me the merest chance to collect my wits.

‘Young Charlie Fenton. Says you came out of your gate at a right old lick at about midday and nearly knocked him off his bike. Says he wobbled so much that two loaves fell out of his basket!’

I didn’t recall the bread part, but March’s words suddenly jogged my memory into seeing the look of startled indignation on the boy’s face as I swung the Singer into the lane, wrenching the wheel to avoid the dawdling bicycle. I remembered too the heat of the noonday sun, the smell of the car’s warm upholstery, and the revving of the engine as I took off from the vicarage in a vortex of fear and numb denial.

I forced a laugh. ‘Oh yes, Charlie – I’d quite forgotten. Nearly sent him flying, I’m ashamed to say! Mind you, he’s pretty lethal on that bike of his – should think he’s been knocked off many a time!’ And I laughed again, desperately wondering what I could dredge up next.

‘You are probably right, sir,’ replied March ponderously, ‘but you see, what we are wondering about is the
time
– it being lunchtime and not dawn, as you first said.’

‘Exactly,’ interposed Samson sharply, ‘it’s the time factor. You will observe the discrepancy between the two recollections. Quite a difference, I should have thought, between dawn and midday. They don’t tally – do they, sir?’ And he cast one of his blank yet penetrating looks.

‘No,’ I answered, sounding rueful, ‘they don’t tally, and I’ll tell you exactly why. Sounds ridiculous, I know … but I set off from Molehill first thing, dawdling here and there to enjoy the scenery and sunshine; and then when I had done about three-quarters of my journey I suddenly realized that I had left its whole purpose on the kitchen table!’

They looked uncomprehending, as well they might, and I continued blithely: ‘Yes, the essential point was that it was to have been a reading holiday – so much to catch up on, you know! And I had left all my books and papers in my briefcase right in the middle of the kitchen table. Would you believe it!’ (Not anyone in their right mind, I hear you say.) ‘It was useless continuing to Brighton without them – waste of time really. So after a comfort stop and some coffee from the thermos, there was nothing for it but to turn round and drive all the way back. I got home at about eleven thirty, picked up the books, read the post, and then set off again in a mad hurry. Which was when I bumped into young Charlie!’

There was a silence, and then March cleared his throat. ‘I see. And it escaped your mind to mention this to us when the matter was first discussed?’

‘Well,’ I replied blandly, ‘I am not sure I would say it was
discussed
, Inspector. I mean, I seem to remember that you asked me what time I started off for Brighton, and I told you – before breakfast, which was indeed the case. I don’t recall subsequent details being requested, and we got on to other things, I think …’ I trailed off, beaming ingenuously.

There was an impatient grunt from the Whippet and the bullet was fired: ‘These books that you
say
were left on your table … What were they?’ Sharp. But for once I was ahead of him (must have been the adrenalin flowing!).

‘
Tractatus Bensonii
,’ I replied without hesitation, ‘King James’s
Basilikon Doran
, and a volume of Herbert’s early devotional verse. One or two others, I think, but I really can’t quite remember now … Oh yes, Newman – such a stimulus!’

He looked sour and was about to say something but was cut short by March. ‘Doesn’t sound like your kind of reading, does it, Sidney? Not yours at all!’ And turning to me he added, ‘Hank Jansen, that’s his favourite … though personally I always say you can’t beat a good Edgar Wallace. At least he’s British!’ I nodded in sympathy. ‘Anyway, Canon, thank you for your time. We’ll be off now – but yes, as I said, we’ll still have to check those accountsat the bank, if you don’t mind. Mr Slowcome, he –’

‘Of course, of course …’ I replied benignly, stooping to tickle the cat’s ears. And then burbling something about the inclement weather, I opened the front door and watched them proceed down the path. They seemed to be talking intently – or at least the Whippet was – and I wondered if they were discussing their literary tastes.