The Primrose Pursuit (14 page)

‘
Force majeure
,’ I said stiffly; and quickly moving away from the subject asked him what he meant by suggesting MacManus was morally flexible.

‘Ever heard of the Bognor Bordello?’ he asked.

‘I don’t move in those circles. What is it – a superior knocking shop?’

‘Superior is not a word that comes readily to mind, discreet might be more accurate … But yes, that’s it: half a mile back from the seafront. MacManus has been known to go there, used to at any rate; and not conducting a raid.’

‘Do you mean as a punter? Goodness, no wonder the wife looks so sour. I take it he doesn’t don his uniform for such occasions?’

‘Apparently not. Merely the proverbial raincoat plus moustache, though whether either is removed when occupied I wouldn’t know.’

I asked him how he had acquired such intriguing intelligence. He tapped the side of his nose and said it was from all the little birds that fluttered around his shoulders.

‘And what else do your feathered friends tell you?’

‘Nothing much except that not only is he moderately bright but also ambitious, ruthlessly so. He did the dirty on some poor little snout a couple of years ago: had promised him immunity and then fitted him up and got
the chap sent down before you could say knife. Won his promotion on that.’

‘In that case, I am surprised he is so free with his favours in Bognor. Bit of a risk I should have thought, given his position.’

‘Ah well,’ Nicholas observed magnanimously, ‘we all have our little weaknesses and vanities. Besides, it’s probably part of the challenge: skating across frozen ponds, testing the ice, it probably gives him a kick.’

‘Like it did you in the Turkish bath?’

The lazy lids came down and he gave a slow leer. ‘My dear girl, nothing frozen there: that was
steamy
!’

You know I am beginning to wonder about those two animals, or at least about my own sanity. I used to think that Francis was exaggerating when he complained of their mysterious antics. But now I am not so sure. For example, when I arrived home this evening after asking
searching
questions at the town council meeting concerning their absurd attachment to personal parking spaces, I found the kitchen in the most extraordinary state. I do not mean untidy exactly but things most peculiarly arranged.

Smack in the middle of the floor, between the oven and the larder door, lay a neatly assembled collection of articles: scrubbing brush, a packet of soap flakes, a dog collar and an apron … Well, as you may imagine
I
had certainly not left them there like that, and for a few seconds it occurred to me that Mrs Maggs, the treasured char, had had another of her turns – or worse still it was some coded message indicating she was about to give
notice. However, relief and wonder mingled as I recalled she was currently savouring the delights of Skegness in a charabanc. Clearly some other agency was responsible. Nervously I checked the windows and back door, fearing the house might be harbouring an escaped lunatic with a cleaning fetish, or at best some small prankster from the school. But all seemed normal. I continued to stare, fascinated by the ‘crop circle’ on the floor; and then doubting my own sanity retreated to the sitting room for a restorative brandy.

After a couple of these and thus comparatively sobered, I brooded upon the scene in the kitchen. There could be only one answer: the source was indigenous;
they
had done it! Clearly something was being signified – or did the dog and cat regularly engage in such random high jinks? Had they perhaps been playing some arcane version of mah-jong or Cluedo – versions known only to the animal world? I pondered the possibility and then decided to take another look. With luck the vision would have disappeared.

Luck was out. And as I stared a pattern emerged. Yes, how obvious; not only were the items linked but they added up to one thing: a
laundering
. Of the dog’s bedding? Possibly – but far more likely of the dog itself!

As I tried to digest this uncanny hint, Bouncer pottered in. I shot him a covert look but he caught my glance and responded with a sheepish grunt, and then proceeded to sniff at each object in turn. The cat appeared, surveyed the scene and with a brisk hiss pounced on the collar and began to play with it, pawing and prodding as if it were some hapless mouse. I watched the performance, impressed by the creature’s dexterity; but then with an excited swirl of
the tail he sent the soap packet flying, its contents spilling everywhere.

This was too much. ‘Oh really,’ I cried, ‘for goodness’ sake get out of the way the pair of you!’ I was about to clear up the mess but was anticipated by Bouncer who rushed forward, started to lap up the flakes and then with spume drizzling down his chops began to gag in the most disgusting way. That galvanised me: ‘If that’s what you want, you shall have it,’ I said grimly. I stooped down, hauled him up, and staggering to the sink, shoved him in it and turned on the taps.

I won’t go into the details of the ensuing ten minutes. Suffice it to say that the dog clearly enjoyed itself while I did not. Then with ordeal over I raked him with my electric hair dryer, a process which elicited further yelps of prancing joy. The resultant sight was of a bear whose front and rear were indistinguishable. Maurice, I noted, had scarpered.

And talking of Maurice, he too has caused me some concern. Indeed for at least a day I was convinced he was ill and had it not been the weekend I would have taken him to the vet. Fortunately this no longer seems necessary as he has become his normal self, aloof and difficult. However, while it lasted the phase was really most peculiar.

He had disappeared on the Saturday morning – one of his not infrequent absences; and then just before lunch as I was scanning the
Telegraph
on the terrace, I saw him slip through the hedge and start talking to the dog. I say ‘talk’ but you know what I mean: circling, sniffing and twitching – the usual ritual. Bouncer’s ears, normally drooping, had sprung bolt upright and he seemed to be staring intently at the other.

Anyway, I resumed my reading. But all of a sudden there was a piercing screech, and the next instant the cat had landed on my lap like a bolt from the blue – literally, the sky being a June azure and the air blissfully still. The screech was followed by a manic purring as Maurice tried to drape himself around my neck while at the same time rasping my cheek with his scouringcloth tongue. I
think
it was a sign of affection but can’t be sure as it has never happened before. I was startled to say the least, and in the general confusion sent my coffee cup flying. This clearly distracted the cat who ceasing its endearments – if such they were – leapt off my lap and attacked the cup, rolling it obsessively on the crazy paving (porcelain chips everywhere, of course). I was about to hurl the newspaper, when just as suddenly the creature stopped; curled up and fell fast asleep … for the
rest of the day.
Yes, didn’t even surface for its pilchards. I ask you!

Later, when recounting this to Charles Penlow, I remarked jokingly that from my experience the display bore all the signs of the cat being as tight as a tick, i.e. crazed and maudlin antics followed by stupefied slumber. Charles laughed and asked if I had ever considered that Maurice might be an undercover dope fiend. I told him that fiendish and undercover though Maurice was, I had never pictured him as a junkie – a term recently encountered in a Chandler yarn and of which I was rather proud. For a while we discussed the curious habits of domestic pets and I enquired whether Duster ever went similarly berserk.

‘Oh no,’ said Charles, ‘the blighter is as sober as a judge. Pompous little basket – it’s high time he was mated.’

Putting aside Duster’s amatory needs and changing the subject, I said, ‘Talking of pompous little baskets, I don’t suppose you’ve seen any more of Hubert Topping, have you?’

‘Funny you should ask that,’ Charles replied. ‘No, I’ve not seen him but I have heard him – this morning on the telephone. He said he was fascinated by my restoration project and wondered whether we might meet for a drink tonight and talk about it. Apparently he had once had an uncle who was an architect and thus he has always been interested in such matters. Someone had told him I was hoping to site an orangery in the grounds and he said that if I was interested he might have one or two suggestions.’

I sniffed. ‘Oh doubtless he will be brimming with suggestions. Where does he propose having this drink – in that dreary cottage he rents from Miss Dunhill?’

Charles laughed. ‘No, he suggested the White Hart. But since it is my building plans we are going to discuss it seemed the obvious thing to invite him to Podmore and then I can give him a conducted tour.’ He paused and added, ‘As a matter of fact Primrose, I was wondering whether you might care to join us, it would give you a chance to get to know him better.’ He gave a sly grin.

‘Hmm,’ I replied, ‘nice though it always is to share a drink with you, Charles, I very much doubt whether Mr Topping improves on further acquaintance. Thanks for the offer but I think I’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind … besides I am rather tied up this evening,’ I added vaguely. ‘I think Emily might be coming.’ She wasn’t. But still rattled by my recent encounter with Topping and his peculiar allusion to midnight ponds I was in no hurry to engage in more small talk of that ilk!

But by the time I got home I was having second thoughts. ‘Know the enemy,’ Pa had always counselled. Indeed it had been one of his favourite dicta – although who the enemy was had never been entirely clear. I cannot recall his having had any notable opponents, and rather suspect that apart from the shell hole incident most hostilities were enjoyable figments. Nevertheless it was sound advice and which, given the present situation, it would be foolish to dismiss. Obviously if I wanted to verify my suspicions about Topping, let alone protect myself, the more I had the chance to scrutinise the man, the better. So supressing instinctive reluctance I telephoned Charles to say that Emily’s visit had been most unfortunately cancelled and that I should be delighted to join him and his guest if the offer were still open.

He said that it was, adding gnomically that he had rather thought I might come round in the end. What that was supposed to mean I really have no idea.

Thus shortly after six o’clock I drove up Podmore’s potholed back drive and parked outside the east wing (the only habitable part). As I approached the side door, I noticed a bicycle propped against the wall, and judging from the drop handlebars and spruce condition assumed it to be Topping’s. I thought grimly that it was typical of the man to have arrived bang on the hour … doubtless eager to make the most of his host’s whisky and to give him the full benefit of his architectural expertise.

I smoothed my hair, straightened my seams and gave a smart blast on the bell … well it would have been a blast had the thing been working properly. As it was, there was a sort of death-throe whimper and then silence.
Fortunately from the other side of the door I could hear a canine scrabbling and whining; and as I waited I couldn’t help comparing Duster’s muted response with Bouncer’s. In similar circumstances the latter’s bark would by now have reached full throttle.

‘Your doorbell’s buggered,’ I announced when Charles finally greeted me.

‘It’s not the only thing,’ he said ruefully; ‘the whole place is in rack and ruin.’

‘Obviously. But I thought that was supposed to be all part of the great challenge,’ I replied briskly.

‘In principle, yes; but I’ve been stuck all afternoon with the county planners. It dampens the ardour.’

‘Well I am sure Mr Topping must have some bright ideas,’ I whispered. ‘Where have you put him?’

‘We are in the library for this evening – or what will be one day. The sitting room is getting too cluttered: Agnes has shipped some more stuff from Tobago. Just where I am expected to store it all I have no idea. Anyway, come on in.’ He took my coat and I followed him across the hall to an open door.

It was a large room and doubtless one day will be lovely. But currently, apart from a large pouffe, small console table and a couple of leather armchairs, its space was magnified by scant furniture and empty bookshelves. However, I was cheered to see the console sporting an array of decanters and glasses – one of which Topping was grasping. At my entry he rose, smiled unctuously and – rather commonly, I thought – clicked his heels. But at least this time one was spared the Peter Lorre white tuxedo, although the usual pink embellishment was on full display. Ridiculous.

Cigarettes were exchanged and small talk commenced: the weather and its forecast, the latest test score, the vicar’s petulant paddy during Communion, the Anderson girl’s unfortunate condition, Macmillan’s latest witticism and Rod Laver’s prospects for Wimbledon.

By now we had reached our second round; at least
I
had – the punctual Topping being naturally well advanced. Thus I was just wondering whether I could subtly introduce the topic of Carstairs’ cranium when I was anticipated by Charles. ‘I say,’ he said, turning to the guest, ‘I daresay poor Winchbrooke wishes he were somewhere else, a ghastly business to deal with. His nerves were never good. How is he coping?’

‘Given the pressures, remarkably well,’ Topping replied. ‘But then, of course, he does have the help of the estimable Mrs Bartlett,
so
adroit!’

I was startled. An image of Emily being adroit was not within my mental scope. ‘In what way adroit?’ I enquired curiously.

‘With the parents. She parries their questions, talks volubly and wears them down. They go away dazed and silent and none the wiser. Invaluable really.’ He smiled.

Yes, it made sense. I had often been in that condition myself after talking with Emily. Nice to know the effect could be so useful … I was about to give a merry laugh and say I knew just what he meant, when at the next moment his smile transmuted into a knowing leer and he said, ‘And I gather
you
, Miss Oughterard, are very adroit at cards – quite formidable in fact. A lady after my own heart!’ And before I had a chance to make modest denial, he went on, ‘A little bird tells me that you virtually swept the board at Mrs Balfour’s not so long ago – a veritable slaying apparently!’

‘Well I—’

Charles gave a bark of caustic mirth. ‘Not the only slaying, I fear. It was the night of poor Carstairs’ demise.’

‘Ah yes, yes, of course,’ Topping purred. ‘It must have been sickening for you, Miss Oughterard, sickening. A ghastly shock.’

I was about to say, ‘You bet!’ but stopped abruptly. What was the little creep getting at? Why should I have been so sickened unless I had been present at the scene – and why should he suggest that unless he himself had been there also and seen me?

Playing for time I took a sip of my martini, trying to decide whether to look utterly blank or make some light agreement. But before I had decided, he added, ‘Mrs Balfour mentioned that you and the redoubtable Bouncer had left at midnight. Rather unnerving to think that you drove past the very spot where it had been – or indeed
was
being – enacted. A bit gruesome I should think.’ He regarded me quizzically.

I shrugged and said coolly, ‘Who knows? Had I stopped, it might have been. As it was, I was eager to get home and had no plans to loiter on the downs at that time of night, far too tired!’ I gave a polite smile.

This was not returned. Indeed the ingratiating expression had entirely vanished and was replaced by a hard, impassive stare. ‘How wise,’ he remarked. ‘It doesn’t do to jeopardise one’s safety, however long the odds. But as a bridge player you would know that, of course.’ The stare hardened. And perhaps it was my imagination but I couldn’t help feeling that the smoke ring which he had just so neatly expelled had been deliberately cast in my direction. I averted my eyes to the vase of azaleas on the mantelpiece. I don’t
think Charles had heard our exchange, being too busy hoisting Duster out of the window to sprinkle the plants; and as he regained his chair Topping had swiftly turned the conversation towards his host’s building plans and the projected orangery.