Bones in the Belfry Read Online Free PDF Page B

the former is invariably useful in defusing bouts of Edith’s simmering hostility. So I asked her if Mavis was all right after being so nearly trampled in the skirmish at the church door.
    She sniffed and said tartly, ‘Well, she’s making a great fuss . Thinks her arm’s broken but it’s pure imagination of course. I don’t know what she was doing by the door in the first place.’ I was inclined to agree but said nothing and, leaving her brooding on the ninnyish Mavis, made my escape.
    On the way back to the vicarage I saw Mrs Tubbly Pole and Gunga Din in the distance but they didn’t see me and I slipped into the house unmolested.

The Vicar’s Version
     
     
    Rather unexpectedly a card from Nicholas bearing a French postmark had arrived by the early post; but having more important things to do than decipher his obsessively tiny script I had delayed giving it my attention. Now, with a few spare moments, I was able to do so.
    It began by sending me fulsome ‘Greetings from Le Touquet’ and went on to describe the delights of its municipal gardens and the casino. Why he thought I should have been interested in either I could not imagine. However, what did interest me – or rather irritate – was the postscript to the effect that he hoped the pictures were ‘behaving themselves’ and that he might be over soon to remove one and replace it with another. That Nicholas might simply take the two of them away altogether and leave me in peace was clearly a fantasy of absurd devising! I sighed wearily, and seeing Maurice glide past was tempted to tweak his tail, but fortunately prudence prevailed.
    The morning had not been helped by bumping into Mavis Briggs – last seen at the wedding going gently berserk in front of the church door. Recalling Edith Hopgarden’s scornful reference to the allegedly injured arm, I was not surprised to see her sporting a large sling and a martyred expression. I tried to look sympathetic, and together we tut-tutted about the mores and alarming peculiarity of modern youth.
    Eventually I was able to disentangle myself, but not before she had warned me about the state of the floorboards in the lower loft of the belfry, observing in pained tones that it would only take the merest stumble for a bell-ringer to be laid flat out, or worse still, losing control of the rope, be hoisted to the rafters! Accidents were so common, she observed, glancing pitifully at her bandaged arm.
    I assured her I would go and investigate immediately; and assuming an air of worried concern set off briskly for the bell tower. However, since it was nearly lunchtime and I was feeling rather tired, I decided to postpone the matter till the afternoon. Doubling back on my tracks and keeping the dwindling figure of Mavis in sight, I got home unobserved in time for the one o’clock news, a cigarette and a bit of shut-eye.
    Later that afternoon and moderately refreshed, I set off once more to inspect the floorboards. Despite the irritation of the Le Touquet postcard, I must have been feeling in lighter mood, for as I started to mount the first flight of stairs my mind was beset with images of Mavis Briggs swinging spectacularly on the end of her bell rope, watched by a ring of gaping colleagues as she spiralled slowly and remorselessly skyward …
    Savouring these scenes, I emerged into the lower chamber. The mirth stopped: across the bottom rungs of the belfry staircase, its coverings split and loosely trailing, sprawled the larger of Nicholas’s pictures.
    I gazed dumfounded. I could have sworn blind they had been stacked safely against one of the rafter posts. How on earth could this one have found its way to the bottom of the steps? Surely on top of everything else I was not now to be plagued by some deranged poltergeist. It was too bad! I stared at it bitterly, cursing Nicholas and wondering how I was going to summon the energy to heave the wretched thing all the way up again. However, it certainly couldn’t be