Bones in High Places Read Online Free PDF

Newhaven in silence, at that grey hour neither of us in the mood for chat. But as we approached the dock Primrose exclaimed anxiously, ‘I know we’ve got our passports, but I suppose we can rely on Nicholas to bring all the tickets. I don’t fancy walking up the gangplank only to have my way barred at the last moment for want of some vital document. It would be most disappointing!’
    ‘Oh, he’ll have everything,’ I assured her gloomily, ‘including the wretched deeds. He’s not going to let the chance of gain slip by on account of lost travel tickets – more’s the pity.’
    ‘Don’t be such a killjoy, Francis. You’ll see, you’ll probably fall in love with the place when we find it, stake your claim and retire there for life.’
    ‘Oh yes?’ I answered. ‘If the new police superintendent or that ferret-nosed Samson get to hear of my link with the Fotherington estate I shan’t be retiring anywhere except into one of Her Majesty’s penitentiaries – or more likely, through Mr Pierrepoint’s trap door.’
    ‘Too late to think of that now,’ she said briskly, ‘and don’t be so theatrical. Now, brace up … and mind that seagull, you nearly ran it over!’
    I swerved, and drove into the car park beside the main quay where we were to rendezvous with Ingaza. There was a scattering of vehicles but no sign of the black Citroën, and for a few moments of joyous reverie I had a vision of its owner being confined indefinitely to bed with lumbago or cholera. Naturally, the vision faded, for seconds later we saw his car appear around the side of the Customs shed and drive smartly through the gates into a space close to our own.
    He got out and opened up the boot, gesturing to us to bring our bags. I think I had half expected him to be sporting a Breton beret or jaunty Maurice Chevalier boater, and was relieved to see otherwise. As it was, with raincoat collar turned up against the morning dank, and slouch hat pulled well down over his sharp profile, he looked not unlike an effete form of Philip Marlowe. Presumably as a gesture to holiday convention, the customary emaciated tie was replaced by a knotted silk scarf.
    It was as well that we had little luggage, for large though the boot was, almost half of it seemed to be allocated to assorted cases of whisky. I recoiled. ‘Good God, Nicholas, we can’t take that with us. It’ll be impounded and so shall we – are you mad? Besides, what on earth do you want that amount for? We can hardly drink it all ourselves.’
    ‘Always handy for oiling palms and wheels,’ was the reply. ‘Scotch is one of the few British things the French appreciate – it’s considered “ très snob ” over there. Now keep your hair on, old chap, it’ll be perfectly all right. They never bother at this hour. Besides, we’ve got the vestments.’
    ‘Vestments! What are you talking about?’
    ‘Camouflage of course. Borrowed them from a mate of mine who’s keen on dressing up as a choirboy. They come in quite handy for this sort of thing – a couple of surplices strewn on top of the stuff and they’ll think we’re a bunch of ecclesiastical outfitters, or parsons off for a sing-song at Taizé. Now, where’s your collar?’
    ‘My collar?’ I asked faintly.
    ‘The dog collar. You did bring it, didn’t you?’
    ‘Yes, but I wasn’t expecting to –’
    ‘Well, then, put it on! The boat sails soon and we’ve got to find the right loading bay. Hurry up.’
    I went back to the Singer, shut and locked its boot, fumbled under the dashboard for the collar and clipped it round my neck. As I did so I surveyed the Channel with its bleak skies and sullen waves, and felt slightly sick.
    I returned to the other two who were standing in front of the Citroën’s bonnet engaged apparently in some sort of dispute. ‘But it will spoil my hairdo,’ I heard Primrose complaining, ‘and besides, I never wear black next to my face, it’s so ageing!’
    ‘What on earth’s the