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the piano top. I suppose the wailing violin sounds must have struck some atavistic feline chord. He’s never done it since … but then neither have I borrowed the Venuti since. Time for another sampling, perhaps.
     
    Apart from an overture (parried) from Mavis Briggs about my penning the introduction to her less than inspiring Little Gems , the weekend passed off tolerably well. There was of course the usual prima donna tantrum from Tapsell in the organ loft and complaints from Colonel Dawlish regarding the state of the banners in the Lady Chapel, but such things are par for the course and I survived to Monday no more scathed than usual.
    Monday itself was a little more taxing, for as mentioned, it was Bouncer’s dental date. Naturally the usual drama erupted; but eventually master and dog emerged into the sunshine none the worse for wear and with the latter sporting alarmingly chalky fangs. No, it was Tuesday that was the real killer: my rendezvous at the episcopal palace, where I arrived poised for difficulty but not imagining it would take quite the course it did …
    I had set off at what seemed like the crack of dawn, i.e. a quarter to nine, and through lashing rain drove slowly along the Hog’s Back. In better conditions and without a defective windscreen-wiper I thoroughly enjoy this stretch of Surrey, and it is amazing the speed the old Singer can get up. But that day, with visibility almost nil and my mind clouded with the prospect of Clinker’s demands (whatever they were likely to be), the journey was a chore and a bore. However, I reached the Palace in good time, and after waiting only two minutes was ushered into the bishop’s study.
    It was the first time we had met since our time in France and I was taken aback by the sudden change in my superior. He must have shed nearly half a stone, and his eyes had that slightly hang-dog expression I’ve seen on Bouncer in one of his rare under-the-weather moods. The voice, however, retained its customary edge.
    ‘Ah, Oughterard, glad you could spare a few minutes from your frantically busy schedule. Doubtless very tiresome having to come over to Guildford. Much obliged I’m sure.’ He did not look particularly obliged. However, I made suitably tactful responses and waited.
    He cleared his throat, paused, and then said, ‘And, ah, how is Maurice?’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Maurice, your cat. Nice little fellow. Survived the trip back, did he?’
    ‘Er, yes,’ I replied in wonder. Cat and bishop had not notably taken to each other in France, so why on earth this sudden solicitude?
    ‘Good, good. And Bouncer?’
    Bouncer? What on earth had got into him?! ‘Yes,’ I mumbled vaguely, ‘in fine fettle, I think. Teeth have had to have their annual cleaning, but other than that he …’ I stopped, noticing that Clinker was drumming his fingers and staring out of the window. Of course, I thought, that’s what it’s about – playing for time. So when is he going to lob it to me? In the next instant.
    ‘Have you heard from Ingaza?’ he snapped. I told him I hadn’t – assuming that Eric’s enigmatic bawlings hardly counted. ‘Hmm,’ he said bleakly, ‘thought you might have by now.’ There was another pause. And then, staring me in the eye and as if suddenly seizing the bull by the horns, he announced, ‘There’s a bit of a problem going on, Francis – delicate, really.’ Clinker’s use of my first name, although in theory a mark of chumminess, invariably spells embarrassment and trouble, and I steeled myself accordingly.
    ‘Oh dear,’ I replied, adjusting my features to show sympathetic concern. ‘Not too bad, I hope.’
    ‘Huh! Couldn’t be worse,’ he said curtly. And to my surprise he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and proceeded to light up. I had never witnessed this before, and in fact was so surprised that I even forgot to feel piqued at not being offered one.
    ‘Yes,’ he continued, amid clumsy puffs,