Bone Idle Page 3

  Eventually, however, he said mildly, ‘I’ve been giving some thought to your little problem. I sympathize – must be quite tricky for you.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ I replied woodenly.

  ‘Yes, quite tricky … but then of course, given the circumstances, it could be quite tricky for me too. Not really sure what the penalty is for supplying a false alibi, or at least, misleading Her Majesty’s law enforcers … and of course, I’m not mad about having those charmers sniffing at my door again. Not good for business, you might say!’ He spoke lightly but pointedly, and I felt sick at heart.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ I mumbled. ‘Must have been crazy to try to involve you, very thoughtless. Panic, I suppose. Forget all about it – and if they come back to you about those binoculars, just tell them that I had told you a pack of lies and you were confused.’

  ‘Oh, good Lord, no!’ he replied. ‘I’m not trying to pull out if that’s what you’re thinking. Not at all – always eager to help an old mate, even one as woolly as you … it’s just that it could be rather complex, not entirely easy, you know. A mite troublesome, if you see what I mean.’ And he tapped with delicate precision on the shell of his egg.

  I somehow doubted the professed eagerness to help and was irritated by the term ‘old mate’ (we had never been close at St Bede’s, he being two years ahead of me and moving in realms far different from my humdrum sphere). I was also somewhat stung by his reference to my ‘woolliness’. Still, it was certainly a relief to hear that he hadn’t changed his mind about the corroboration; and expressing awkward thanks I also – but with rather less dexterity – attended to my egg.

  There was silence as we reabsorbed ourselves in the newspapers – or at least he did, my own mind being far too tense to do other than merely gaze at the print. The night’s insomnia coupled with the shock of my confession was already taking its toll, and glad though I was to have Ingaza’s assurance of help, I was beginning to feel more than tired and wished that he would go. But he showed no signs of wanting to, being fully engrossed in his reading and evidently intent on a lengthy breakfast …

  ‘Ever heard of the Pontoon Idol?’ he suddenly asked. I shook my head.

  ‘No, thought you probably hadn’t. Things artistic not up your street really, are they?’

  ‘If you mean that I hadn’t heard of those crass Spendler paintings that you tried to palm off on me, you’re quite right. A load of rubbish they were!’

  ‘Ah, but not this Pontoon Idol – different class of goods altogether, the real McCoy you might say.’

  ‘Well, what about it?’ I asked wearily. ‘And anyway, what is it?’

  ‘The Pontoon Idol is one of the world’s most sought-after objets curieux and there are a number of fakes and copies. However, I happen to know who has got the original … except that he doesn’t.’

  ‘You mean doesn’t know that he has the genuine article, thinks it’s some sort of imitation?’

  ‘Exactly, Francis. The speed of your deduction delights me!’

  I scowled, and asked him what was so special about the thing.

  ‘Comes from Poona. It’s a bone effigy of a rampant pig sporting emerald eyes and a bejewelled tail.’

  ‘A rampant pig!’ I exclaimed. ‘Who on earth would want that sort of thing? Sounds hideous!’

  ‘That’s as may be, but there are those who would give their eye-teeth to get their hands on it. The gems themselves aren’t all that important – it’s the origin and history which collectors find fascinating.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ I replied drily.

  ‘Yes. You see, at the end of the eighteenth century, 1797 to be exact, it fell into the hands of Sir Royston Beano –’

  ‘The explorer, you mean?’

  ‘That’s it. He was being entertained at cards in the Viceregal Lodge in Delhi – some sort of house party with a number of distinguished guests, European largely, but also a number of high-ranking Indians including an irksome chap called Hyder Ali, a dabbler in rare tribal artefacts. His wife was with him, a rather beautiful girl by all accounts. Apparently Beano was very smitten with the lady but found Ali less entrancing – in fact according to the unpublished diaries he was a “boor of the first water”, and I seem to recall that the term “tiresome toad” was also used … Anyway, in the course of the evening a number of the guests, including the begum, were mad keen to play a few rounds of pontoon, and as Beano had a passion for both the game and the girl he was only too keen to participate. Ali wasn’t good at cards – wasn’t good at anything according to Beano, except getting in the way – and he elected to leave early, directing the wife to be escorted home by coach and chaperones once the gaming had finished.

  ‘After he left a good time was had by all – except that in the course of it the beautiful wife lost very heavily to Beano, and unbeknown to her husband was already up to her neck in gambling debts. So she found herself in the embarrassing position of having to offer yet another IOU – and one which she could not possibly honour.’

  He paused for a moment, smiled, and then went on: ‘Now, you might think that there was an obvious solution to her problem and that the debt could have been settled in the age-old way. But although Beano was a philanderer he was not a cad, and apparently it was always a point of honour with him never to press home an unfair advantage on the opposite sex. So instead of requesting the lady’s presence in his bed, he said he would cancel the debt if she were to give him some little memento of the evening’s events – a memento whose charm should be enhanced by being both rare and obtained at some small risk to herself.

  ‘The begum, evidently a gal of sporting spirit, rose to the challenge; and two days later sent Beano the most prized object of her husband’s special curio collection, i.e. the prancing pig from Poona. It was carved from a tiger’s femur by some obscure early tribe, and the only one of its kind. Beano was delighted, and it’s said that in an access of further gallantry he paid the donor a nice little packet to cover the rest of her gambling dues. But according to several accounts it was less the pig itself that pleased Beano, than the fact that it had been lifted from under Hyder Ali’s self-satisfied nose by his own wife: a sort of substitute for cuckoldry without the attendant risk.’ Nicholas stretched out his arm for the marmalade, buttered more toast, and giggled.

  ‘But surely,’ I said, ‘if it was such a primitive piece of carving it wouldn’t be decorated with jewels.’

  ‘Of course not. It was Beano who had those added, and then back in England gave it to his own good lady as some sort of anniversary present.’

  ‘So what happened to it? And in any case, what made it look so different from the later fakes?’

  ‘They had a row and she threw it at him.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t tell me anything!’

  ‘Oh, yes it does. You see, he ducked and it hit the fender. When they picked it up one of the emeralds had fallen out and they found the tiniest nick on its underside, the merest blemish but it’s there all right, and he mentions it briefly in one of the diaries – something to the effect of: “Gadzooks! Thanks to Lucinda’s temper I’ve had to have the creature’s right eye reset, but otherwise none the worse except for a snip under the stern. No matter, I’ll have Beeston put that right. What a harpy the girl is!”’

  ‘Who’s Beeston?’

  ‘Beeston & Littlejohn. They were a firm of silversmiths in the City; but as a sideline the senior partner used to do all sorts of renovation work and was much in demand. Beano obviously had him smooth the mark out, but if you look really hard and run your thumbnail over the surface you can still detect the merest trace.’

  ‘So I take it that you’ve seen this thing recently?’

  ‘About a year ago, give or take.’

  ‘And you think the owner has no idea what he’s got?’

  ‘From what he was saying, hasn’t a clue. He’s obviously very attached to the thing but seems to assume it’s just a pleasing Victorian copy.’

  ‘Why
didn’t you enlighten him?’

  Nicholas gazed at me in wonder. ‘Enlighten him, dear boy? Whatever for?’

  ‘Well … might have made his day I suppose – learning that he’d got the real thing which everyone else is clamouring for.’

  ‘My dear Francis, it is not exactly his day that I am interested in.’ And he slowly raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed.

  I cleared my throat and lit a cigarette, not quite grasping the implication but sensing something dubious. However, he made no further comment and went on munching his toast.

  After a while I said curiously, ‘So, where did you see it then? I mean … who exactly is this lucky owner?’

  He crumpled his napkin, and then pushing back his chair replied casually, ‘Blenkinsop’s brother.’

  I gaped. ‘You don’t mean Archdeacon Blenkinsop, here in Guildford – surely not! Didn’t even know he’d got a brother, certainly never mentions him!’

  ‘From what I remember of the archdeacon, he never mentions anyone except himself. Besides, I doubt whether they’ve much in common: brother far too arty-farty for old Vernon’s prosaic liking.’ And he smiled wryly, adding, ‘But they share one thing all right – both windbags. I met a sister years ago – crashing bore she was too! Runs in the family, I imagine.’

  ‘So where does he live, this other Blenkinsop? Your neck of the woods, Brighton?’

  ‘No, London. Behind Wigmore Street – just off Manchester Square. Very salubrious. Wouldn’t mind having a little pad there myself one day, a handy pied-à-terre tucked away in some secluded nook and far from the hurly-burly of the south coast … just the job.’ He looked thoughtful. And then leaning across the table, he said quietly, ‘In fact, Francis, that’s where you come in.’

  ‘Me!’ I exclaimed. ‘What do you mean? How on earth do I “come in”? Don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  ‘Well, you’re a colleague of the archdeacon, you know him. As did I once, of course – Oxford before the war. He was on the periphery of Clinker’s mob. But that was ages ago, and in any case, ever since that little contretemps at St Bede’s I’ve never been exactly persona grata with our clerical brethren.’ He gave a mocking smile.

  I said nothing. And then with tightening throat, I asked slowly, ‘But how does my being a colleague of Vernon Blenkinsop have anything to do with your aspirations to owning a pied-à-terre in Manchester Square?’

  ‘Possibly quite a lot, old chum – if things go right, that is.’

  ‘What things?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘To do with the pig.’

  I splashed the dregs of the now very cold coffee into my cup, took a gulp, and said as distantly as I could: ‘Nicholas, I do not know what you have in mind, but whatever it is I can assure you that in no respect do I intend becoming involved with your domestic arrangements, let alone with that rampant pig! So please put any such ideas out of your head.’

  Ignoring both my tone and words, he went on: ‘What is in my mind, Francis, is that you should persuade Archdeacon Blenkinsop to give you an introduction to his brother – under some pretext or other which we can work out later; gain access to the flat, and whilst there engaging in gay social chit-chat, liberate the pig and substitute a copy. Blenkinsop the younger will continue in blissful ignorance, I can flog said article for a whopping packet, you’ll get a neat cut (never let it be said that Old Nick isn’t fair) – and we shall all be as happy as sandboys!’

  ‘Like hell we will!’ I cried. ‘Have you lost your scheming wits? This is preposterous!’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said smoothly. ‘Not preposterous at all – perfectly feasible. Should be quite a simple little operation. Needs attention to the finer details of course, but actually the whole thing could be done in a trice and nobody would be any the wiser – least of all Blenkinsop Minor.’

  ‘It’s hardly the logistics that concern me,’ I exclaimed angrily. ‘It’s the principle … the whole suggestion is disgraceful!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said sweetly, ‘but not quite as disgraceful as murder …’

  I stared helplessly, dumb with fear and outrage. Eventually I muttered something to the effect that I thought it a bit much being subjected to that kind of manipulative blackmail and that I had expected better of him. (I hadn’t really, but it sounded suitably pained.)

  He was quite unruffled, and observed suavely that in view of the delicacy of my situation and the perilous nature of his own involvement in it, I could hardly begrudge him a little favour. Deep down I acknowledged that he had a point, but instinctually I was furious. However, there was little that I could do, and, having nothing else to say, I weakly offered him some more cold coffee. He accepted.

  * See Bones in the Belfry

  5

  The Cat’s Memoir

  It was quite obvious that something of moment was afoot. Not long after Samson’s visit the vicar made a frantic telephone call to Brighton; the result being that two days later the questionable friend arrived – the Gaza fellow – replete with suitcase and unctuous goodwill. At first F.O. seemed pleased to see him, but by the end of the evening it was apparent that he was working himself up into ‘a right lather’, as the dog would say. In fact I rather got the impression that the vicar had foolishly divulged details of the murder business – a typical blunder, though I suppose it was only a matter of time!

  Thus the following morning, curious to learn what had transpired from the night before, I settled myself discreetly under the kitchen table and lent ear to the proceedings above. At one point the visitor had the grace to address a few words to me. I responded cordially and kept my ears primed. He then embarked on some elaborate tale involving, of all things, a bone pig. Since I have an aversion to both pigs and bones I did not find this especially edifying; but in the interests of intelligence-gathering remained at my post, where listening carefully I was able to grasp the gist of his discourse – and its purpose.

  As feared, the Gaza person was intent on persuading F.O. to participate in some madcap scheme which wouldinevitably line his own pockets but do little for the vicar. This worried me somewhat as our master is not noted for keeping a cool head in times of crisis – and being under pressure both from the Molehill police and from his visitor could well be regarded as such.

  Thus I summoned Bouncer and told him I had been listening in on their breakfast conversation and there was something he ought to know. ‘From what I could ascertain,’ I said, ‘the type from Brighton was launching a plan which would involve F.O. raiding a flat in London and stealing some bone ornament.’

  ‘Likes bones, does he?’ asked the dog with interest.

  I sighed. ‘No, but he likes money, and this bone thing costs a lot, and the Brighton type wants to get his paws on it. Thinks he can use the vicar to do his dirty work.’

  ‘And will he?’

  ‘If he’s desperate enough. At the moment there is much huffing and puffing and crunching of humbugs, but I think he is snared so he’ll probably have to in the end.’

  ‘Just as long as we’re all right.’

  ‘Yes, Bouncer, but that is the whole point – we may not be all right! It is bound to be more than F.O. can cope with, and coming on top of this latest development in the Fotherington affair it could make him crack under the strain.’

  ‘Shall I savage the Brighton type?’

  ‘Certainly not! That would do untold harm to all of us.’

  ‘Just a thought … Anyway, whereabouts in London? Any place I know?’ he asked with a casual air.

  ‘Of course not,’ I laughed, ‘you are hardly familiar with the Great Metropolis!’ I rather like the sound of that phrase and can trip it neatly off my tongue, but it was wasted on Bouncer.

  ‘The great what?’

  ‘London! You do not know it!’

  ‘Yes I do,’ he barked truculently.

  ‘All right, name me one place that you know.’

  There was a long silence while he chewed his paw. And then bounding to his fee
t and rushing manically around the room, ‘H … H … HARRODS!’ he exploded.

  The sound was deafening and it was as well that F.O. was out taking a service. But the dog was right: he did indeed know of that emporium (as detailed in my first memoir), and for some reason it has remained deeply embedded in his memory whence periodically he will pronounce its name with pride and thunder.

  ‘So now you can tell me,’ he said smugly.

  ‘Manchester Square.’

  ‘Never heard of it!’

  I mewed irritably. ‘Exactly, that is what –’

  ‘But,’ he went on, ‘I did know a Manchester terrier once, called Marlene. A bit of all right, she was, if you get my meaning!’ And he clicked his tongue – an unpleasant sound that I have heard humans make when they wish to accelerate the speed of their horses.

  I regarded him bleakly. ‘Trust you to consort with a terrier called Marlene. And in any case, your unsavoury liaisons are hardly the matter in question. What is in question is the vicar’s sanity and our survival. Kindly stick to the point and listen to what I am saying.’

  He lay down and began to snore.

  6

  The Vicar’s Version

  Having assured me that he would be in touch before too long to ‘discuss strategy’, Nicholas departed with a cheery wave and a spluttering exhaust. I stood on the pavement watching as the vintage Citroën wound its way out of sight. The car had always had a faintly sinister air, and now, despite the brightness of the morning, its Reichstag image struck me more forcefully than ever.

  I was about to return to the house, but instead sat down on the garden roller (never used and fast rusting), and lighting a cigarette pondered who would destroy me first – the police or Ingaza.