Bones in High Places Read Online Free Page A

bones and assured him it would come to nothing.
    However, with the Type’s telephone calls more frequent and F.O. growing more tense, I began to think that the dog wasn’t so far off the mark. It was when the sister started sending her telegrams that my suspicions were really aroused … and the vicar’s frantic purchase of a new French dictionary finally confirmed them.
    It was plain that the dog was disturbed by the thought of his master disappearing to foreign parts (having had a bad experience with his original owner decamping to South America * ). However, when I told him it would be only for a short time and that I had overheard F.O. arranging to settle him with Florence, he recovered his spirits remarkably well, reminding me incessantly of how admired he was by the wolfhound, and that her nice owners were ‘dab hands with the grub’. In fact, as the time drew nearer for the vicar’s trip, the more excited Bouncer became at the prospect of his own little holiday – going so far as to ask whether he should apply a spit and polish to his rubber ring. Since the item was ingrained with months of dirt, I said I thought this an excellent idea but it would need a considerable amount of saliva. The ensuing cleaning process was objectionable but useful, for it kept him fully occupied and thus gave me time to consider my own plans. These naturally were both bold and masterly.
    Although the odious Crumplehorn was firmly incarcerated in Broadmoor (the lunatic asylum in Berkshire distrusted by humans), I was nevertheless worried that things might yet again prove perilous for the vicar. He is not of a robust ilk, and accompanied by one as slippery as the Brighton Type his chances of being dragged into more dangers seemed distinctly high. There was of course the sister – who might be expected to exert a modicum of control over matters, but having seen her assaulting the sherry and drooling over those dire chinchillas, I could not be too sure. Thus I felt it my inescapable duty to accompany our master on his travels and ensure that he returned, if not hearty (God forbid), then at least hale.
    This decision was not such a sacrifice as you might think, for I have to admit that having once been treated to the ramblings of Pierre the Ponce (Bouncer’s friend, the toy poodle) re the pleasures of Continental life, I was now tempted to see for myself just how well the other half lived. According to Pierre, the French pilchard was of a quality so rare and exquisite as to make all other varieties pale into watered milk. Of course the poodle is a notorious blagueur and such claims are typical of his Gallic showmanship. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help wondering …
    *    *    *
    So, the decision made, I drew up my strategy. Quite a simple one really: I would become a stowaway – both on land and on the high seas! The prospect gave me a frisson of excitement, and despite my usual discretion I could not resist confiding my plans to Bouncer. He stared at me for some time with what I took to be surprised awe. And then he said gravely, ‘You’ll rue it, Maurice. You’ll be as sick as a dog.’
    This was not the response I had expected, and for a few moments my buoyant spirits were quite dashed … so much so that I considered a sulk was in order. But just as I was preparing for such, it occurred to me that with only three days to go before the vicar’s departure, time would be better spent in planning tactics. Thus pausing only to tell Bouncer to watch his tongue I made my way briskly to the graveyard, and under the branches of the old yew spent a most profitable hour devising ways and means.
    I was interrupted in this by a loud barking, and the next moment the dog appeared tousled and panting. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he announced.
    ‘That’s nice,’ I murmured. ‘What about?’
    ‘Your trip to foreign parts. You had better start practising.’
    ‘Practising what?’
    ‘Mewing in French of course.’
    ‘If you imagine,’