And as for that crack about my movements being noted...why, he might be here now !’ He glanced around nervously.
‘Yes, it’s probably Hesketh,’ grinned Nicholas.
Clinker eyed him coldly. ‘I consider that in very poor taste. Typical. No help at all!’ He sighed heavily. ‘Hmm. Perhaps I really ought to start shifting some shares …’
As the bishop pondered, I thought of Ingaza’s earlier words: ‘sane and detached, his very normality his insurance.’ And again the amiable face and pleasant voice of Rupert Turnbull swam into mind …
‘This party you’ve been invited to,’ Ingaza suddenly broke in, ‘can anyone go?’
‘What?’ said Clinker vaguely.
‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Ingaza explained smoothly, ‘you did drag us up here on the promise of a few drinks and a cosy confab at your swish club, but so far all we’ve had is the Albert Hall; and other than Flash Harry, no entertainment. Personally I could do with some champers and a little pâté de whatsit. Do us all good!’
Clinker looked doubtful. And then he brightened. ‘Yes, I take your point … a spot of epicurean indulgence to blot out the horror. All right then – don’t suppose they’d mind a couple of extras, it’s not as if they’ve never met you.’ He turned to me and added, ‘Besides, Lavinia seems to like you, Francis, and anything’s better than being stuck with the dean all evening!’
I hung back, nettled by this last observation and reluctant to forego the pleasure of hearing Dame Myra. I was even more reluctant to re-encounter Turnbull. However, the other two were already striding ahead, and thus I followed in a mood of nervous curiosity …
15
The Cat’s Memoir
‘Stupid idiot!’ the dog grumbled. ‘He’s gone and taken my bone and dropped it in the dustbin.’
‘Hardly the first time,’ I murmured. ‘Why don’t you get it out? Knock the thing over, you usually do.’
‘I have. But he’s clamped the lid on so tight I can’t get into it. You’ll have to do something, Maurice.’
‘Me!’
‘Yes, you can shove one of your claws under the rim and ease it off.’
‘I hardly see why I should employ my undoubted dexterity in retrieving one of your beastly bones.’
‘Ah, but you might if I tell you what I’ve heard.’
‘Oh? What have you heard?’
‘Shan’t say,’ he chortled, plunging his head down to his nether regions.
I viewed the inelegance with narrowed eyes, debating whether to succumb to the dog’s blackmail or remain in ignorance. Being an enquiring cat, I eventually bowed to curiosity and graciously told him that I was always ready to help a fellow creature combat the vicar’s foibles.
He frowned. ‘What’s foi …?’
‘A minor silliness,’ I explained patiently.
‘Huh! No silliness,’ he growled, ‘plain revenge!’
‘What for?’
‘Went arse over tip on his way to the blower. The idiot hadn’t seen my bone on the bottom stair.’
‘How careless,’ I tactfully agreed.
He nodded eagerly. ‘So you’ll do it?’
‘Provided you tell me exactly what you know.’
He embarked on a fractured, albeit theatrical account of F.O.’s telephone conversations, first with the Brighton Type and then with the Prim. From what I could make out there was some disturbance involving the Clinker: unsavoury letters had been received and pressure applied. I tried to read between the lines of Bouncer’s narrative but could glean little other than the bishop person was in danger over something in his past and that the Brighton Type was incandescent. (According to Bouncer, F.O. had gone quite pink at the quality of the invective … though of course those were not the dog’s words, his being something about the vicar going red as a baboon’s backside.) Anyway, the upshot seemed to be that F.O. was required to join the Brighton Type in London – though regarding when or for what purpose the dog was tantalizingly vague. I tried to elicit further
‘Yes, it’s probably Hesketh,’ grinned Nicholas.
Clinker eyed him coldly. ‘I consider that in very poor taste. Typical. No help at all!’ He sighed heavily. ‘Hmm. Perhaps I really ought to start shifting some shares …’
As the bishop pondered, I thought of Ingaza’s earlier words: ‘sane and detached, his very normality his insurance.’ And again the amiable face and pleasant voice of Rupert Turnbull swam into mind …
‘This party you’ve been invited to,’ Ingaza suddenly broke in, ‘can anyone go?’
‘What?’ said Clinker vaguely.
‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Ingaza explained smoothly, ‘you did drag us up here on the promise of a few drinks and a cosy confab at your swish club, but so far all we’ve had is the Albert Hall; and other than Flash Harry, no entertainment. Personally I could do with some champers and a little pâté de whatsit. Do us all good!’
Clinker looked doubtful. And then he brightened. ‘Yes, I take your point … a spot of epicurean indulgence to blot out the horror. All right then – don’t suppose they’d mind a couple of extras, it’s not as if they’ve never met you.’ He turned to me and added, ‘Besides, Lavinia seems to like you, Francis, and anything’s better than being stuck with the dean all evening!’
I hung back, nettled by this last observation and reluctant to forego the pleasure of hearing Dame Myra. I was even more reluctant to re-encounter Turnbull. However, the other two were already striding ahead, and thus I followed in a mood of nervous curiosity …
15
The Cat’s Memoir
‘Stupid idiot!’ the dog grumbled. ‘He’s gone and taken my bone and dropped it in the dustbin.’
‘Hardly the first time,’ I murmured. ‘Why don’t you get it out? Knock the thing over, you usually do.’
‘I have. But he’s clamped the lid on so tight I can’t get into it. You’ll have to do something, Maurice.’
‘Me!’
‘Yes, you can shove one of your claws under the rim and ease it off.’
‘I hardly see why I should employ my undoubted dexterity in retrieving one of your beastly bones.’
‘Ah, but you might if I tell you what I’ve heard.’
‘Oh? What have you heard?’
‘Shan’t say,’ he chortled, plunging his head down to his nether regions.
I viewed the inelegance with narrowed eyes, debating whether to succumb to the dog’s blackmail or remain in ignorance. Being an enquiring cat, I eventually bowed to curiosity and graciously told him that I was always ready to help a fellow creature combat the vicar’s foibles.
He frowned. ‘What’s foi …?’
‘A minor silliness,’ I explained patiently.
‘Huh! No silliness,’ he growled, ‘plain revenge!’
‘What for?’
‘Went arse over tip on his way to the blower. The idiot hadn’t seen my bone on the bottom stair.’
‘How careless,’ I tactfully agreed.
He nodded eagerly. ‘So you’ll do it?’
‘Provided you tell me exactly what you know.’
He embarked on a fractured, albeit theatrical account of F.O.’s telephone conversations, first with the Brighton Type and then with the Prim. From what I could make out there was some disturbance involving the Clinker: unsavoury letters had been received and pressure applied. I tried to read between the lines of Bouncer’s narrative but could glean little other than the bishop person was in danger over something in his past and that the Brighton Type was incandescent. (According to Bouncer, F.O. had gone quite pink at the quality of the invective … though of course those were not the dog’s words, his being something about the vicar going red as a baboon’s backside.) Anyway, the upshot seemed to be that F.O. was required to join the Brighton Type in London – though regarding when or for what purpose the dog was tantalizingly vague. I tried to elicit further
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