A Bedlam of Bones Read Online Free PDF Page B

and companion were upon us.
    With a broad grin and grasping the equally broad drink I had poured her, she eased herself into the chair by the fire. Taking its cue, the dog too settled heavily on the hearth, and I was about to offer it the usual saucer when she forestalled me, saying, ‘Not just yet, Francis, he must mind his manners and say hello to his hosts first. Where are the little fellows?’
    I went into the kitchen, scooped up Maurice from the window sill and hustled Bouncer ahead to the sitting room. Here the due courtesies were enacted. The cat emitted two of its more gruesome screeches and Bouncer made a beeline for the bulldog’s bottom, sniffed liberally and then gave a matey bite. Gunga Din rolled on to his back, waved his stumpy legs in the air and let out a falsetto howl of what I took to be pained horror. I started to apologize and remonstrate with Bouncer, but the victim’s guardian cut me short, saying, ‘Oh don’t worry – that’s just his way of saying, “I’ll get you next time and what else shall we play?” Give him his gin now and he’ll be as happy as Larry.’
    I dispensed the statutory four drops. And from amidst the rumpled features and to the sounds of heavy breathing, a small and startlingly pink tongue emerged to toy with its evening cocktail. Mrs T.P. watched indulgently. Bouncer meanwhile had retreated to the far end of the room, and begun – rather ostentatiously, I thought – to worry his marrow-bone. I think it was his way of showing who was top dog and who the lounge lizard.
    With characteristic gusto my guest started to hold forth upon her imminent book-signing session and plans for the talk in the local library. She was obviously keen that I should lend support, something I was perfectly ready to do were it not for my fear that in her zest for her theme, i.e. the murder of a rich and respectable local widow by person unknown, she would exaggerate my role in her earlier researches. * As the unsuspected subject of those researches, I had found those investigations a particular embarrassment. Thus I was reluctant to retrace old and painful ground and be quizzed yet again (least of all in public) about my ideas regarding the dispatch of ‘poor Mrs Fotherington’. Regretfully I pleaded a prior engagement but promised to look in on the book-signing and pledged the purchase of six copies. (A gesture not quite as cynical as you might imagine. I had become genuinely fond of Mrs Tubbly Pole and was happy to contribute, however scantily, to her literary success.) ‘That’s the ticket, Francis,’ she crowed, ‘generous to a fault! Knew I could rely on you.’ I blushed and hastily proffered some of Gunga Din’s crisps and started to refill her glass. ‘Bottoms up and here’s to crime!’ was the genial response.
    ‘Ye-es,’ I agreed, a trifle tentatively. ‘And here’s to yourself of course.’ I raised my glass.
    ‘And don’t forget Cecil, my dear!’
    ‘Cecil? Cecil who?’
    She wagged an admonishing finger. ‘Ah, you have forgotten. Cecil Piltdown of course!’
    Of course. Mrs Tubbly Pole’s alias and beloved literary doppelgänger: a name kept specifically for her more lurid flights of fancy, and which, I suspected, provided the greater part of her considerable bucks.
    ‘To Cecil,’ I acknowledged respectfully.
    She shifted her gaze to Bouncer, still absorbed in grinding hell out of his bone, and seemed about to launch into a spiel on the quirks of canine psychology. However, intriguing though dogs may be, it was another kind of psychology that drew me. ‘Maud,’ I said carefully, ‘the other day when we were having tea with Rupert Turnbull and his cousin, I think you recognized him, didn’t you? And you mentioned it briefly in your letter.’
    She gazed meditatively at her whisky. ‘Hmm, pretty well. It was a long time ago, so I couldn’t be entirely sure if it was the same Rupert Turnbull – he was a lot younger then – but I have a feeling I was