Bones in the Belfry by Suzette Hill Page A

that their recent visit had indeed seemed to send him into one of his spins, and that after her departure he had retired abruptly to bed without even the courtesy of preparing my usual milk. Yes, it was clearly something to do with Mrs T.P. – and quite possibly those pictures in the belfry brought over by the questionable type from Brighton. Because of Bouncer those things had caused me insufferable trouble, so perhaps they were also in some way responsible for the vicar’s edginess. It wouldn’t surprise me. I hadn’t liked the look of them one bit.
    As I pondered these things I noticed that F.O. was gearing himself up to make an assault on the piano. You can always tell when this is about to happen: his fingers start to drum on the arm of the chair and he rotates his left ankle. The urge to play seems to hit him at moments of extremity, i.e. when in either a good or a bad mood. That night it was evidently the latter and I hastened from the room just in time to escape the opening chords.
    In the hall I nearly collided with Bouncer for whom, unlike myself, music has a peculiar attraction. He invariably appears when the vicar is playing, and sits listening with a glazed and vacant expression. For a dog with such philistine tastes this so-called ‘musical sensibility’ never ceases to surprise me. But it takes all sorts, I suppose, and of course Bouncer is a very peculiar sort.
    Anyway, I gave him a brisk jab with my paw and told him this was no time to be mooning over the vicar’s piano-playing as I had important matters to discuss, and if he wouldn’t mind detaching himself from the sitting-room door we might find a place of peace where I could apprise him of my thoughts. Naturally he grumbled, as he invariably does, but was sufficiently intrigued to leave the door and pay attention.
    ‘Look,’ I said, ‘there is something afoot. I have been putting two and two together and –’
    ‘Made zero!’ exploded Bouncer amidst yelps of mirth. I narrowed my eyes, arched my back and fixed him with a stiletto stare. That quietened things.
    I continued. ‘He was all right over Christmas and most of New Year once all that police business died down; relatively balanced you might say, but since then he’s become edgy again and I think there’s something on his mind which, as you know, will rebound on us . If he is in jeopardy it will upset the –’
    ‘STATUS QUO!’ boomed Bouncer. ‘And we shall be out on our ears!’
    ‘Precisely,’ I said quietly, closing my eyes to blot out the din.
    In fact I had been going to say ‘the apple cart’ but the dog is both fond and proud of the term ‘status quo’ having somehow picked it up during his long sessions in the crypt where he noses about among the old tombs and ossuaries sniffing the past, and in his weird canine way absorbing the Latin inscriptions. For a creature of normally such crude and limited vocabulary he has an uncanny knack of producing the most bizarre phrases. In this case, however, he was right. We had spent the whole of the previous summer trying to protect our master and preserve our own domestic interests. It had been a delicate business and had imposed a considerable strain. The last thing we now wanted was further threats to the vicar’s – and indeed our own – status quo!
    ‘There is something going on,’ I warned, ‘and we shall need to be vigilant. Keep your nose to the ground, Bouncer. And if you’ve got any sense you will make amends to Gunga Din. Show solicitude about his backside; he could be very useful in telling us what his mistress is up to. I just hope she’s not going to prove dangerous to F.O.!’
    ‘So do I,’ he replied. ‘Otherwise she may be for the high jump like the other one.’

The Vicar’s Version
     
     
    I reflected on Mrs Tubbly Pole’s proposed inspection of the belfry and wondered whether she would bring the dog with her. I hoped not: the prospect of hoisting both Gunga Din and his mistress up those narrow