A Bedlam of Bones Read Online Free PDF

scratch and a look down below didn’t mean I hadn’t got my ears cocked! Anyway, he went on to report that F.O. had said something like, ‘“Prim’s put her hoof in it now … Can’t face being caught up with Turnip again, slippery customer! Mrs T.P. nearly swallowed her teeth when she saw him, said he was murky. He’s that all right! Enough murk with Elizabeth – can’t stand any more following me around … Oh God!” So you see, Bouncer,’ the cat went on, ‘if this Turnip is skulking about and the Brighton Type and the bishop person are on his wick, then clearly there is more than a nip in the air and I fear storm clouds gather!’
    I didn’t really understand that last part because it seemed quite a nice day to me – and besides, I don’t know what the weather had to do with it … Still, like I’ve said before, the cat’s got a tricky mind. Anyway, I think we shall have to watch our rumps – not to mention the vicar’s … Funny that bit about the Tubbly. Sounds as if she must have been in that London place too – and I bet old Gunga was with her! So I expect we shall be seeing him before long … Probably just as fat – and tight. Soon find out I expect.
    But right now I think I’ll go and do a bit of Frog-speak with Pierre the Ponce. I learnt a lot of useful stuff in France, such as merde , salope , and ne toochay par mon os . It’s a good thing to keep up with the old parlay-voo, but Maurice says he’s got better things to do with his time. Probably just as well – he talks enough in ordinary lingo (though being Maurice it’s not as ordinary as all that, of course). But perhaps I might practise in the crypt with those gabbling ghosts – I’ll ask after their crumbling osses. That’ll fox ’em!

The Vicar’s Version
     
     
    As threatened, Mrs Tubbly Pole did indeed install herself at the Gravediggers’ Arms, and her advent there was preceded by hue and cry both from the bookshop and the local library. Posters were displayed, flyers distributed, personal invitations circulated, and the reading public earnestly urged to drop everything and hasten to avail itself of ‘such exciting literary opportunities’. ‘A Rival to Agatha’, ran a headline in the Molehill Clarion , and even the normally snide Edith Hopgarden was heard to murmur she might grace one of the occasions with her presence. (Though I suspect this was as much to do with needling Mavis Briggs as with satisfying any particular enthusiasm of her own.)
    Personally I was delighted that Maud should receive such acclaim, but was still distinctly apprehensive that her diagnostic ramblings about her book, Murder at the Mole-heap , might in some way implicate me. But in this respect there was little that I could do other than to keep as low a profile as possible and hope for the best.
     
    As expected (and, in view of the promised Turnbull data, partially hoped for), I received a telephone call from the Gravediggers’ to alert me to an impending visit. ‘My dear,’ she bellowed, ‘all very cosy here of course, but nothing like having a drink with an old friend. What about tonight?
    Gunga could do with a little outing and I’m sure your beasts would so love to see him!’
    I looked at the ‘beasts’ sprawled comatose and snoring on the carpet, and rather doubting her words said I was sure they would like nothing better.
    ‘Six o’clock it is,’ she said briskly. ‘All news then. Line ’em up, Francis! Toodle pip!’
    Hastily I searched for my wallet and bustled out to the off-licence to replenish depleted stocks and buy extra crisps for the dog, recalling it liked a little blotting paper with its gin.
     
    Six o’clock approached and I made the necessary preparations: stoked the fire, plumped the cushions, rallied the animals, got out the glasses (plus a saucer for Gunga Din) and as instructed, lined up the hooch. There was a sound of a taxi drawing up, and a few minutes later the doorbell rang with clarion ferocity. Maud