Read The Primrose Pursuit Online
Authors: Suzette A. Hill
The Primrose Pursuit (10 page)
My dear Agnes,
You won’t believe this – but since my last letter the most extraordinary thing has befallen the school: Mr Carstairs, the maths master, has been found dead and decapitated at Chalk Hill dew pond. Yes, can you imagine! No, of course you can’t and neither can anyone else; but it has happened all right, and to prove it the police are swarming everywhere like flies or helmeted bluebottles. Mr Winchbrooke has turned a permanent shade of gangrenous grey, and Bertha Twigg, the gym mistress, has taken to her bed declaring that with this hanging over us she cannot possibly perform on the parallel bars. In my view no bad thing … the last time she ‘performed’ was sheer disaster and there have been complaints ever since. Anyway, the whole thing is very mysterious and very grisly.
Now
I come to think of it you are probably aware of it all, as I am sure dear Charles will have already informed you of the event. But speaking as one who is willy-nilly in the midst of things – or on the sands at Suez as young Harris and his cohorts keep bleating – I may be able to apprise you of the subtler details.
One such detail is the new chief superintendent for Lewes police force, Alastair MacManus. Actually he is not subtle at all but rather imposing and has taken command in a most assertive manner. Primrose, needless to say, has taken against him, disliking both his manner and the fact that he is (allegedly) teetotal. ‘No good can come from such a person,’ she informs me periodically. But then, of course, she says the same about Mr Topping – who, as it happens, has turned out to be an absolute gem. Very good with the boys, universally useful and displaying a slightly roguish air which entirely captivates
Fräulein
Hockheimer. ‘He ist zo naice,’ she keeps intoning. Mind you, since the dreadful incident the roguish air has been somewhat displaced by a firm sobriety, and on at least two occasions I have overheard him reproving the boys for their ghoulish jokes and lack of respect for the departed. Personally, I feel that Erasmus House can only benefit from one of such sensibility.
Whether Chief Superintendent MacManus has any sensibilities I am not sure but he certainly exudes an air of great competence. I can say this because today he actually took a hand in
interviewing
the school staff, including Yours truly. I gather from Sergeant Wilding that this is not normal practice, a fact that seems to cause him disquiet … well not so much disquiet as mild apoplexy. I think he had been looking forward to doing the job himself and clearly thinks MacManus’s intrusion highly irregular. Not being au fait with police protocol, I wouldn’t know. However, what I do know is that the chief superintendent is very stern and very searching. Indeed after my session with him I felt not so much ‘grilled’ as fried to a frazzle! At one point I ventured some light pleasantries but as these were met only with a grunt and a blank stare, I didn’t try again.
Afterwards I mentioned this to Mr Topping who said that in his experience the police, particularly the top rankers, were not noted for their frivolity and that I mustn’t mind if my little banter had fallen flat. ‘Be assured,’ he had smiled, ‘your piquant wit is not lost on the rest of us.’ Evidently Mr Topping has some insight into police psychology and I have to say that I was most reassured, and indeed flattered, by his kind words. When I told Primrose this she laughed like a drain and said that piquant wit was not something she would readily associate with me and it was just conceivable that Topping had been pulling my leg. Really, at times she can be so cynical, not to say rude!
Still, while the chief superintendent may not be blessed with much humour he certainly showed
interest
when I told him that I knew for a fact that Mr Carstairs had been in the habit of visiting his mother in Newhaven as he had said as much to me on more than one occasion. Yesterday I mentioned this to Primrose who immediately said the mother was bound to be a significant factor in the enquiry – and in this she seems to be right as Mr MacManus lost his grim expression and asked for the address. I explained that not having been on close terms with the deceased it was not, alas, something I could supply. He looked put out by that but wrote a few words in his notebook and said I had been most helpful.
On that cheering note I assumed that was the end of things. Not a bit of it. The next moment he said, ‘Now tell me, madam, as school secretary I daresay you have access to quite a lot of correspondence.’
‘Oh yes,’ I replied, ‘you have no idea how much we get: all those edicts from the ministry and the interminable circulars the governors insist on sending out, not to mention shoals of enquiries from the parents. A veritable avalanche! And then, of course, there are all the tradesmen’s bills to file, and—’
‘Not that sort of correspondence,’ he said rather curtly, ‘I am referring to letters for the staff. What is the system – are you responsible for their collection and distribution?’
I confirmed that it was indeed my domain and that I was assiduous in personally inserting the letters into the staff pigeon holes. (Being of uncertain
eyesight
, my assistant Martha is apt to get muddled.)
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you would doubtless be aware of the volume and provenance of the deceased’s post.’
I have to say, Agnes, that I couldn’t quite make out whether that was intended as a question or a statement but assumed the former; and nor was I entirely clear on ‘volume and provenance’ – but took it to mean how much mail did Mr Carstairs get and where did it come from. So I told him that having a demanding administrative schedule it really wasn’t something to which I had paid much attention. I don’t think he liked that because I noticed one of his fingers beginning to twitch (though, of course, it might just be a congenital tic; Mother has one of those). ‘Well perhaps you could pay some attention to the matter now,’ he said. ‘Naturally my officers searched the deceased’s room but rather surprisingly they found no correspondence, either kept or discarded. So it would be helpful if you could recall when he last received a letter – or indeed whether there have been any subsequent to his passing.’
I can’t say I was much struck by his tone which held a note of command rather too abrasive for my liking. Still, I suppose that is no bad thing in a policeman – after all they have to deal with some very peculiar types! But, as it happens, I knew I could give him a straight answer: ‘Oh yes,’ I replied, ‘a letter arrived by the late post on the very day that we last saw him. I do remember putting it in his pigeon hole. Indeed who knows, it may still be there.’
This
piece of information had a startling effect on my interrogator and he leapt to his feet exclaiming, ‘Good God, woman, why on earth didn’t you tell me this before? We must get it immediately. Quick: conduct me to the pigeon holes!’ As a matter of fact I was feeling a little tired by this time, not to say a mite peckish having missed my usual elevenses; thus I was not especially eager to go traipsing all the way to the staff common room, whoever wished to be ‘conducted’. However, he seemed insistent so I did as I was bid.
Was the letter there? No. Only a couple of the headmaster’s memos and Harris’s hundred lines: something about not catapulting the cat. MacManus asked if I was sure there had ever been such a letter, and rather coldly I told him that I had not been secretary at Erasmus House all this time to make a mistake like that, and that if he wanted my opinion, poor Mr Carstairs had probably retrieved it shortly before his death and dropped it along the way. (I gather his pockets were empty when found.)
At that point, MacManus consulted his watch and said rather abruptly that in view of my heavy schedule he wouldn’t detain me any longer. I confess to being very glad about that as I was beginning to find the whole interview somewhat trying. Primrose’s remarks about him are unnecessarily scathing; but I would agree that his manner does lack emollience. Still, it is reassuring to know that the case is being handled by somebody of authority and purpose – unlike that idle type from Crawley
we
had a couple of years ago whose wife was had up for shoplifting and I don’t know what else! Yes, Agnes, I am sure that if anyone can get to the root of this disgraceful affair it will be the new broom of Chief Superintendent MacManus.
Your good friend,
Emily
The Cat’s View
Settled in one of my favourite places, the hall window seat facing south, I lay musing upon my experiences of the previous night at Podmore. There was much to consider.
However, I had not got far with my reflections when the dog appeared from the kitchen toting a brand new and assertively orange rabbit with blue waistcoat – clearly yet another toy P.O. had indulged him with. At least it had the merit of being clean. I hastily closed my eyes feigning sleep; not a notably successful tactic but always worth a try.
I could hear him padding around, toenails clicking on the parquet, sniffing this and scratching that. Yet despite these mild irritants there seemed to be something missing which I couldn’t quite put my tail on. I opened one eye and shot a discreet look, but he seemed his usual self – tousled and aimless.
I was about to shut the eye but it was too late, he had seen me. ‘What are you staring at, Maurice?’ he snorted, ‘thought you were supposed to be asleep.’
‘Just dozing,’ I replied casually. ‘But since you mention it, do you find that it is unusually quiet in here?’
He frowned and shook himself from side to side, a noisy rat-a-tat action which was only too familiar. But today the racket seemed slightly more muted. ‘Where’s your collar?’ I asked. ‘P.O. doesn’t generally take it off till after supper.’
‘Wearing it,’ he said, ‘can’t you see?’
I peered down trying to discern a glimpse of leather amidst all the fuzz. Yes, he was quite right, it was there. But in that case … ‘Aha,’ I mewed, light dawning, ‘Now I know what’s wrong. I’ve been wondering about that for some days: it’s your metal name tag, the one that always clinks against the collar studs. It’s not there. No wonder things have been a trifle more
piano
recently!’ Like my late grandfather’s, my ears are acutely sensitive – especially regarding anything connected with Dog. ‘P.O. must have taken it off.’
He sat on his haunches and looked thoughtful. ‘It’s funny you should say that,’ he said slowly, ‘because now I come to think of it I
have
been feeling a bit odd these last few days … it’s as if something is missing, like I wasn’t quite all there. Do you know what I mean, Maurice?’
‘Actually, Bouncer,’ I replied, ‘I know exactly what you mean; I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ I raised a paw to my face to veil a smile. I think he was a little surprised at this ready agreement, so I went on quickly: ‘I wonder why she has removed it. Perhaps it needs polishing – it is amazing how such trivia will occupy humans.’
‘Hmm, don’t know about that,’ he growled, ‘but I want it back. I like the noise it makes, sort of friendly. And besides, it’s got my name on; people might not know who I am without it.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about that,’ I assured him, ‘they know all right!’
He sighed and looked bleak. ‘Even so, I still want it back. Doesn’t feel right without it.’ Then his ears cocked and he said hopefully, ‘Perhaps she is getting me another one, a
bigger
one. That’d be good.’
‘Would it,’ I remarked dryly. ‘And perhaps while she’s about it she will also buy you another mammoth rabbit – that one will be eviscerated within a week.’ I regarded the orange thing with distaste.
‘Huh,’ he snorted, ‘and bones could fly.’ Then he paused and added, ‘As a matter of fact, Maurice, I wouldn’t mind seeing a flying bone – brighten the day as you might say.’
‘Not my day it wouldn’t,’ I snapped. Really, as if normal ones weren’t bad enough, but the idea of an airborne bone was intolerable. Trust the dog to dream that one up!
‘Well I think it would be good sport, especially if it had an engine … almost as good as a souped-up cat.’ He spun round in a circle chasing his tail and then rushed into the garden roaring ‘Brroom-brroom! Brroom-brroom!’ at the top of his lungs.
I closed my eyes and this time really did try to sleep.
Alas, sleep is becoming almost as elusive here as it had been at the vicar’s. No sooner had I begun to nod off than I was disturbed by a loud screeching of tyres and the slamming of a car door. I raised my head, and saw sprawled on the gravel a low-slung black vehicle which I instantly recognised as belonging to the Type from Brighton. I sighed. One had seen quite enough of the Brighton Type when living in that other place and I had always placed him in the category of the Dubious and Dangerous. He had certainly led our
master into some very fraught situations. But fortunately P.O. is more resilient than F.O. so I persuaded myself that his arrival here might prove less vexing than in the past.
Vain hope! The moment he set foot in the hall and saw me on the seat he roared with laughter and said to P.O., ‘I see you’ve still got old Scrag-arse keeping sentry. And where’s the big fellow, burying bones?’
I am not accustomed to being laughed at and even less to being described as ‘scrag-arse’. Thus I leapt to the floor, narrowed my eyes, gave one of the loudest hisses I could muster and stalked off tail at full mast. Disgraceful!
The Primrose Version
As planned, Ingaza came to tea and was moderately attentive to what I had to say about the Topping matter. Nevertheless his entry was not entirely welcomed by the cat who walked off in obvious ire. I think it was offended by the guest’s cavalier manner and to being referred to as ‘scrag-arse’; and once we were settled in the drawing room I did murmur a mild reproof: ‘It’s all very well for you, Nicholas, but you don’t have to live with these creatures. I do, and I can tell you they can be very sensitive, especially Maurice.’
‘Nonsense,’ he replied indifferently, ‘that cat has a hide like the proverbial rhinoceros; tough as old boots. And what’s more it’s not something you’d want to meet on a dark night.’
Actually I was inclined to agree, but said nothing and went instead to fetch the cucumber sandwiches and a bottle of Scotch.
I could see that Ingaza was not enamoured of the
grocer’s whisky but I had no intention of raiding Pa’s legacy of best malt. He would just have to make do. Besides, after the second glass it is amazing how quickly one becomes attuned.
‘So what do you think,’ I said eagerly, ‘is it really the same Topping that you knew at Oxford?’
He nodded. ‘Oh yes, it’s him all right. Oddly enough he happened to come into one of the Brighton auction houses last week – only having a general browse, no serious intention. I was there bidding for a pal of mine and saw him at the far end of the room. Older, of course, as we all are, but he hadn’t changed really; just as dapper and pleased with himself. Still has those pink cheeks, which was what made me certain.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ I exclaimed, ‘he is obviously up to his fiendish tricks again down here in Sussex. Having been part of Messina’s mafia outfit he is bound to be involved in something murky. Leopards do not change their spots,’ I said firmly.
Ingaza sipped his whisky, made a sour face and then giggled. ‘That’s what you said about me once.’
‘Doubtless. And I was right too,’ I snapped. ‘Listen, you may take this more seriously when I tell you what Emily Bartlett has told me about the missing rosebud. I consider the coincidence highly significant.’ I gave him a detailed account of what Emily had confirmed about the third of May: the one day when Topping was minus his usual decoration and when only hours previously I had seen a rosebud bobbing about in the water just yards from Carstairs’ head.
I also told him about my recent encounter with Topping
astride that ridiculous racing bike. ‘He actually referred to a
moonlit pond
,’ I cried, ‘and I have never painted a pond in my life, moonlit or otherwise. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was some kind of covert threat!’ My earlier rash dismissal of such fears was by now replaced with nagging doubt.
‘Hmm. I suppose you mean a threat to keep your nose out of his affairs and to stop pursuing him like a rabid bloodhound.’
Despite the mocking tone I could see he was intrigued. Indeed long association has taught me that it is in the midst of levity when Ingaza can be at his most lethal – as Francis had so often found. Thus I continued: ‘Rabid or not, I intend to get to the bottom of this matter.’
He took another sip of whisky and a large bite of his cucumber sandwich, and rather indistinctly enquired, ‘Even if it kills you? Or were you about to add that?’
I said nothing and instead stared at the dog. It saw me looking and gave a friendly belch. ‘Bouncer,’ I exclaimed, ‘you are not to do that! It’s disgusting, especially in front of our guest.’
‘Oh don’t mind me,’ said Nicholas graciously, ‘you should try living with Eric.’
‘Now that
would
kill me,’ I said. ‘Tell me, how is your lively chum these days – still exercising his elbow with the beer and darts?’ Frankly I wasn’t in the least interested in Ingaza’s loud companion, but thinking of him somehow helped deflect my mind from that last question.
‘He sends you his fondest love,’ was the solemn reply.
‘What?’ I cried, ‘I barely know the man – I only hear him on the telephone and that’s enough.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘Yes, that’s what your brother used to say … But you know, Eric took quite a shine to old
Francis, always referred to him as “that nice vicar geezer”.’
‘Is that so,’ I said dryly, ‘and just how does he refer to me?’
He put a finger to the side of his nose and winked. ‘Ah well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it? But I can assure you he certainly sent his most affectionate felicitations.’
‘Affectionate felicitations, my arse!’ I snorted.
Nicholas grinned, and then stopped. ‘Actually Primrose, since you’ve introduced the topic yourself, I would suggest you watch your rear. I am being serious. From what I recall of Topping and from what one heard of that particular gang, he is not one to be trifled with. I hate to admit it but you could just be right about his link with Carstairs.’
I watched as he stretched for another sandwich, and felt rather shaken. If Nicholas Ingaza used the expression ‘I am being serious’, then you knew that this was no light statement and that matters might indeed be dangerous. Thus for a few moments I faltered, tempted to shelve the whole beastly business and instead concentrate my energies on plaguing the town clerk and producing a fresh batch of lucrative sheep pictures – this time possibly featuring a moonlit pond – minus foreign matter, of course.
I had just decided on this when somewhere from the far past I heard Pa’s reedy voice recounting yet again his one moment of triumph on the Western Front:
So as Fritz lunged towards me pistol in hand, I shouted: ‘Keep back you bastard or I’ll have your guts!’ And I did too
.
It was a tale that Francis and I had always found faintly curious. That a man as dithering and cack-handed as Pa could have put a spanner quite so firmly in the enemy’s works was puzzling. But Mother vouched for its veracity: apparently he had suffered nightmares for years afterwards.
Thus I told myself that if Pa could confront Fritz in his Flanders shell hole, then, with or without bayonet, I could jolly well deal with Hubert Topping here in Sussex.
I leant forward. ‘It is precisely because it is serious, Nicholas, that I propose continuing my pursuit. We can’t have little toads like Topping behaving unspeakably on the South Downs.
Somebody
has to step in.’
He sighed and took out his cigarette case. ‘I was afraid you might say that,’ he murmured.
Shortly after he left, I had a phone call. It was from Melinda Balfour. ‘I say,’ she breathed, ‘I suppose you’ve heard about this dreadful thing on the downs, everyone has. It’s too awful for words!’
‘Awful,’ I agreed tersely.
‘Well,’ she went on, ‘Freddie and I were discussing it earlier, and
he
said, “Sounds to me as if it must have happened when you were just packing up the cards. In fact I imagine Primrose Oughterard would have passed the site on her way home, it’s exactly on her route.”’ Melinda paused and then said, ‘My dear, that would be right, wouldn’t it?’
‘Er, yes,’ I replied vaguely, ‘I suppose it is.’
‘Gosh, just think, you might have
seen
something!’
‘Not that I was aware of,’ I said hastily, ‘it was too dark; and in any case the dog was being difficult – terribly distracting.’
‘But don’t they say that often witnesses absorb things
subconsciously
and that they just need someone to jog their memory and it all comes flooding back? At least that’s what Freddie says. He says it happens all the time.’ Oh yes? And how was Freddie to know – Balfour of the Yard?
‘Well I hardly think—’ I began.
‘And MacManus agrees with him, says it’s very common,’ she added.
I was startled. ‘And why was Freddie talking to the chief superintendent? Been nicked on the A27 like poor Mr Winchbrooke?’
Shrieks of laughter from the other end. ‘Oh, no, nothing like that. They both attend the same Rotary suppers and Freddie happened to mention the coincidence of you probably passing the pond on your way home from my bridge party. According to Freddie, MacManus seemed quite interested and said something about having to look into it.’ There came more loud giggles. ‘Just think, you may become one of those people who are said to be “helping the police with their enquiries”!’
I joined in the laughter, while privately planning how to shove Freddie Balfour’s stupid pipe down his stupid throat.
