Bones in High Places Read Online Free Page B

I replied, ‘that I have any intention of adjusting either my accent or my vocal cords, you are entirely wrong. Foreign soil does not necessitate adopting foreign peculiarities!’ He took no notice of course, and hurtled into the shrubbery, rump triumphant and lungs fit to burst. Deafened, I returned to the kitchen; and settling myself by the boiler engaged in some meditative grooming.
    This lasted for a lengthy period, but was broken by the arrival of F. O. who, fresh from bell ringing, started to warble and grind peppermints in the most irritating way. However, the interruption was just as well for it reminded me that it was time to reflect further upon my stowaway – i.e. how best to insinuate myself into F.O.’s car and thus to France. I slipped through the cat flap and returned to the graveyard where, settled comfortably on one of the sunnier tombs, I cogitated.
    This went well, and I was on the verge of returning to the vicarage and my pre-prandial milk, when in the distance I saw the dog bounding about. I watched his antics for some moments, and then, just as I was poised to slip into the long grass, he saw me and came cantering over. In some excitement he suggested we should settle ourselves beneath the yew tree as he had something important to say. Travel plans complete and in no hurry for my milk, I said I could spare a few minutes, followed him to the base of the tree and sat down expectantly.
    ‘I know something you don’t know, Maurice,’ he began smugly.
    ‘Oh yes,’ I said indulgently, ‘and what is that?’
    ‘It’s what I heard some of F.O.’s cronies gassing about. It’s to do with London and something they had seen there – something like a story with curtains.’
    I pondered. ‘Ah, I think you mean a play, it’s what humans look at from time to time and pretend they are other people.’
    ‘You mean like us when you pretend to be a giant tiger and I’m the brave wolf?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    ‘Well, this play thing has got a special name, and I thought you would like it because it’s to do with catching mice.’ He cocked his ears and grinned.
    ‘Catching mice?’ I said with interest. ‘How do you know?’
    ‘Because it’s called …’ He paused dramatically. ‘It’s called THE MOUSETRAP!’
    As it happens I did have a vague recollection of the title. Stem Ginger, the cat down the road, had said his people had seen it – but it sounded disappointing as from what he could make out there were no mice in it at all.
    I was about to say as much to Bouncer, but before I had a chance he went rollicking on: ‘And what’s more, there’s a murder in it – just like F.O.’s.’
    ‘Not like F.O.’s,’ I observed, ‘I gather there are substantial differences. Besides, I cannot quite trace the direction your thought is …’
    He looked blank and then shook his head impatiently. ‘If you mean you can’t see what I’m getting at, I’ll tell you … I know whodunit. Heard the piano tuner telling the vicar. And it’s a deadly secret – has been for ages. But I know , you see. So what do you think of that?’ He swaggered around wriggling his stern.
    ‘Bouncer,’ I exclaimed sharply, ‘on no account must you ever divulge that secret. Stem Ginger told me it brings years of bad luck – and there’s quite enough of that around as it is, coping with the vicar.’ I fixed him with a forbidding glare.
    ‘Hmm,’ he muttered, ‘we’ll have to see about that. I heard F.O. say the thing had gone on far too long and would probably last for a hundred years. I shall be dead by then and won’t have told anybody. BORING.’
    ‘Well, you’ll just have to be bored,’ I snapped. ‘I do not propose having my fate put in jeopardy because you cannot keep your mouth shut. So kindly remember!’
    It cut little ice. He looked sly, commenced to snuffle at the yew roots and lifted his leg. I gave a disdainful mew and left him to it.
     
    * See A Load of Old Bones

The Vicar’s