Free Bones in the Belfry by Suzette Hill Page A

slamming the bathroom door, gargling and coughing, pulling chains, turning on taps. An earsplitting palaver! I often think that there’s not much difference between dogs and humans: both are noisy and largely insane.

12
     

The Vicar’s Version
     
     
    It had been a pleasant journey down; partly because I enjoy driving but mainly because I felt a blessed relief that the pictures were to be safely transferred. Primrose greeted me kindly, but at first seemed a trifle put out by the presence of Maurice and Bouncer. In my preoccupation with the paintings I had entirely forgotten to alert her to their coming, and the omission had not been helped by Maurice being particularly bloody when he was let out of the car. However, by the time we had hauled the parcels out of the boot and gone into the house for a drink she had calmed down, later even supplying Bouncer with an exceptionally meaty bone – a gift to which he applied his usual full-throttled attention.
    I like my sister’s house. It is solid and spacious and occupies a sheltered position facing the South Downs. It gets a good deal of sun and the garden is pleasantly secluded. She had moved into it about six months previously, and when I had first visited her, just after my dire event, it had seemed an almost restful haven. I say ‘almost’, because being Primrose she had inevitably prepared a number of chores for me (although these, given the circumstances, did have their diversionary use). But the brief visit had nevertheless allowed me to collect my thoughts and stiffen my nerve for the return to Molehill and the overtures of the local police.
    At that time she had also just taken possession of a rather sinister pair of chinchilla rabbits whom she had dubbed Boris and Karloff. Their appeal was what one might call esoteric, but knowing that Primrose had grown attached to them I now dutifully enquired after their welfare. She regaled me at some length about their quirks, habits and dietary preference; but even when the topic was finally exhausted I couldn’t help thinking that their charm was subtle rather than manifest.
    At one point I did ask whether perhaps she was thinking of substituting chinchillas for sheep in her sketches of downland churches. This didn’t go down terribly well and I was told with some asperity that I clearly hadn’t lost my knack for the facetious. I was slightly put out by this as I had genuinely wondered whether her celebrated (and lucrative) little churches might not benefit from a change in their accompanying fauna. However, since the buying public’s enthusiasm for scenes of church, sheep and Sussex Downs showed no sign of flagging, she was probably right to keep to the winning formula.
    Tactfully I started to change the subject, but before I could she said briskly, ‘Now, what about your paintings? As said, I don’t mind storing them here for a while – at least they’re better off with me than with you – so long as they’re not those ghastly Spendlers of course! Goodness, what a fuss the papers are making about that business!’ She laughed derisively and started to open another bottle.
    I smiled palely, proffered my glass and tried to think what line I might spin about the contents of their frames. In my eagerness to offload the things it had not occurred to me that she might ask direct questions about their subject or provenance. Now, looking at them resting wrapped and stacked against the kitchen dresser, I could see she might be curious.
    ‘Chance would be a fine thing!’ I replied jocularly. ‘Those pictures would set me up for life all right!’ And I began to laugh loudly but catching Bouncer’s startled eye adjusted my tone and said something to the effect that my colleague had talked so much during his visit that I hadn’t really given the details my full attention, adding vaguely that I thought they were some sort of modern abstracts but couldn’t be sure.
    ‘Really, Francis,’ she expostulated, ‘you are