Bones in the Belfry Read Online Free PDF

to cross their paths. I kept well out of range, and glancing up saw Tapsell peering down from his organ loft, waving his arms and shouting the odds in a state of rampant ecstasy. Wretched fellow, I thought, could he never conduct himself with dignity? His job was to play the organ, not be a tick-tack man! He must have seen me scowling for at that moment he sat down and launched into a violent rendering of the march from Tannhäuser . The noise was deafening – yet only marginally more so than the row raging from beneath.
    Amidst all the mayhem I glimpsed one still and solitary figure: Trev, sitting on the pulpit steps smoking a cigarette. I felt a momentary pang of envy as I could have done with one myself. However, I went over to him and said gently that smoking was not really allowed in the church and could he possibly wait until later. He nodded obligingly and stubbed it out in Mavis Briggs’s tastefully placed pot of trailing ivy. Feeling sorry for him I started to marshal words of sympathy.
    He cut me short and with a slow smile said, ‘That’s all right, mate. I never really liked her and it weren’t mine anyway.’ It was difficult to know what to say to that, and while I was racking my brain, he added ruminatively, ‘Just goes to show, don’t it: if yer keeps yer fingers crossed long enough somethin’s bound to turn up in the end.’ I was impressed by the tenacity of his faith. And thus fortified, I left him to his peaceful contemplation and set off to quell the revellers.
    Eventually of course, things died down, though I think that was less to do with my efforts than with the combatants’ desire for beer and buns. Thus, averting my eyes to avoid confronting the state of the church and firmly locking its door, I herded them into the parish hall where they set about the wedding tea with the same relish as they had shown in beating one another up. Of the runaway couple there was no sign, and the last I saw of Trev was a spindly-legged figure sauntering nonchalantly across the canal bridge in the direction of the Swan and Goose. He looked enviably free.
     
    The next morning there was a complaint from the cleaners and a request that I go and view the fallout from the festivities. Obediently I walked over to the church and surveyed the damage. It was a daunting sight. The grey flagstones had become a kaleidoscope of spilt confetti and shredded flowers. Hymn books, service sheets, broken vases, articles of apparel – gloves, scarves, collars, the bride’s veil – all lay strewn in loose abandon. Unaccountably the Mothers’ Union banner had been ripped from its socket and was slumped limply over the back pew, its blue and gold embroidery looking raddled in the morning light. It may have been my imagination but there even seemed the faintest whiff of stale ale, and I cast a wary eye around for signs of a broken bottle.
    My gaze was intercepted by the baleful face of Edith Hopgarden as she and her fellow polishers stood relishing my dismay. Clearing my throat and tut-tutting loudly, I grabbed the nearest broom, rolled up my sleeves and started to sweep vigorously. One by one, and with grudging grace, the ladies joined in and were soon hard at work complaining primly and swapping anecdotes about Madeline and her questionable companions.
    After a while I thought I might safely slip away but was waylaid by Edith who, taking me to one side, said that she hoped the previous day’s events were not going to set a precedent for future weddings at St Botolph’s. I assured her this would not be the case, and then asked solicitously after the health of Mr Hopgarden. This generally does the trick in forestalling further offence. Ever since I had once stumbled across Edith in flagrante delicto with Tapsell in Foxford Wood her attitude to me has been one of reproachful petulance. However, the one thing that gives ballast to our relationship is a shared allergy to Mavis Briggs. Thus in addition to Mr Hopgarden, reference to