Free Bones in the Belfry by Suzette Hill

Bouncer gnawing a brand new ham bone – presumably a product of the sister’s misplaced charity. I elected to keep a dignified distance, still somewhat peeved at my treatment in the motor car and having no wish to make their amends easy. Time enough for apologies in the morning. However, before sampling my milk I did ask Bouncer if he had made any progress with the rabbits.
    ‘Have they spoken yet?’
    ‘The grey one did – sort of.’
    ‘What did it say?’
    ‘Sod off!’
    ‘And did you?’
    ‘I was in two minds. I mean, I wasn’t going to have that carrot-chomping Jumbo telling me what to do! But I was beginning to feel a bit peckish and thought that if I went indoors and played my biscuits right I might get that Prim person to give me a nice titbit … which she did.’ And grinning smugly he attacked the bone with renewed and noisy relish.
    I felt it time to seek a quieter and more congenial setting and repaired to the drawing room where, tired from the rigours of the day, I curled up and slept the night through in moderate comfort.
     
    I was glad to get home. The new scenery, though not without its interest, was quite enough for two days; and pleasant though the sister’s garden was, it lacked the breadth and majesty of the graveyard. There is a great deal to be said for tried and tested surroundings – as indeed for people. The vicar certainly tries me often enough, but I have tested him sufficiently to know that, although defective in a number of ways, he is on the whole a congenial host. Primrose, the sister, I found less so. Not of course that she was impossible like my former mistress Elizabeth Fotherington – let alone that gallumphing daughter – but she has what you might call a certain spikiness which is inimical to my kindly urbanity. Needless to say, because she had given him that disgusting ham bone, Bouncer thought she was ‘JOLLY GOOD’. The dog never learns.
    He also seems obsessed with her moronic rabbits and has talked of little else since our return. Indeed, only this morning I overheard him telling O’Shaughnessy about them and exaggerating their dimensions out of all proportion. The setter seemed entirely receptive to his lies and I could see him egging him on, flailing that duster of a tail and grinning from ear to ear. I don’t think the Celtic influence is very good for Bouncer; he is fey enough as it is.
    From what I could make out, the vicar’s mission was successful, in that the sister had seemed prepared to house the gross pictures with (absurdly in my view) few questions asked. I watched them heaving the things up into some sort of attic, and gave thanks that this at least would be one thing off F.O.’s mind, and trusted we might now be in for a spate of repose.
    In the vicarage, however, such periods are of only relative calm. On the evening of our return, for example, I had to endure a particularly painful re-enactment of Bouncer’s bedtime rituals. In the unfamiliar surroundings of the Sussex house these had been largely curtailed, but once back on terra cognita they were resumed with a vengeance.
    The ceremony is elaborate and unattractive. First there is the matter of his playthings which have to be retrieved from various corners and dragged into his basket: the mangy rubber ring, one of F.O.’s old socks, invariably a chewed Bonio or two, and of course the awful ball with its jangling bells. This process will take some time; after which, evidently thirsty from his exertions, he laps loudly and clumsily from his bowl. Then once in the basket, the ablutions and scratchings begin and his head goes down to explore his nether regions. This involves much snorting and shifting about. Finally, after making several scrabbling pirouettes and emitting a loud groan, he flops down dead to the world. At that point I breathe a sigh of relief.
    But as you might expect, the vicar is little better. One can hear him all over the house – thumping about on the landing, opening and