The Primrose Pursuit (17 page)

So I was right. He
had
been at Newhaven and down by the docks. Vindicated! I couldn’t wait to meet Ingaza the following day and press him to be more precise about their movements. He must surely have noticed something more revealing than the mere absence of a bicycle. Typical of Nicholas to be so cryptic and to clam up just when one wanted to learn more. Yes, just as I had surmised, they must have been hanging about waiting to receive the mysterious cargo, the consignment of stuff, whatever it was. Obviously it was something illicit otherwise why all the subterfuge, such as that ridiculous lie about taking prep? What was it that was being collected on those Wednesday evenings? Hardly ‘brandy for the parson’ – these days cognac is plentiful enough, and in any case, judging from the suspicious quantities of orange squash the Reverend Hollis consumes I rather imagine that gin is the preferred tipple, a commodity obtained at any off-licence. ‘Baccy for the clerk’ also seemed unlikely, our own
municipal jobsworth being obsessed with the obnoxious sucking of pear drops.

I wondered who Topping’s accomplice had been. Emily hadn’t specified the gender of the driver but I think if it had been a woman she would doubtless have remarked. Yes, the other man was surely the same figure Ingaza had seen with him on the quay.

Despite my buzzing thoughts that night, I slept remarkably well and the following day I felt so full of energy that I completed my current canvas and started a fresh one – its foreground taken up by a shimmering but placid dew pond. Perhaps Winchbrooke would like it for his study. Other than a break to exercise the dog and feed the chinchillas I continued in my studio all day. And thus come five o’clock it was quite a relief to put down my brush and get ready for our rendezvous.

I looked at Bouncer mooching about on the terrace and wondered if I should take him but decided against it. It would be gracious to spare Ingaza’s jacket. And in any case the hound had had quite enough drama the other night with that absurd MacManus creeping all over the place. I made a mental note to direct a sly innuendo at Polly Fox-Findley the next time I faced her across the bridge table. With luck it might put her off her stride and win me a trick; one should never pass up an opportunity as Pa had constantly reminded us. The context of the opportunity was rarely defined but I think it generally had something to do with confounding the enemy – whether at a game of cards or in the game of life, a piece of advice which Nicholas would surely endorse. I hurried to the car not wanting to keep His Nibs waiting: there
were important matters to discuss and I certainly didn’t want him slipping away before they were fully aired.

In my haste I reached the pub well before the allotted time. It had only just opened its doors and was in that semi-somnolent state that prevails just before the onset of homing farm workers and businessmen. This meant I could secure a cosy corner in what was ambitiously called the lounge bar – distinguished only from the public one by its hideous carpet and plastic flowers. Both rooms are dingy but the beer is good and the publican pleasant.

‘Good evening, Albert,’ I said (he won’t answer to Bert), ‘I’ll have half of Harveys’ best please, and I don’t suppose you could rustle up some cheese and pickles, could you? I have been painting all day and if I don’t have sustenance I shall faint immediately.’

He grinned and nodded. ‘Can’t have that, Miss Oughterard, bad for trade. And speaking of which, how’s yours these days – still raking it in with the old sheep and churches?’

‘Oh one hobbles along,’ I replied genially, ‘but actually I’ve just introduced something new: a water feature. It doesn’t do to get stuck in the same mould, however popular.’ My eyes swept the smoke-encrusted bar with its fake horseshoes gathering dust.

‘Ah, you mean a river? Which is it – the Ouse or the Cuckmere? I bet it’s the Cuckmere: artists like all those meanders. Or do I mean ox-bows?’

‘It is not a river, it’s a pond. A downland pond.’

Albert gave a low whistle. ‘Well, now that is inspired! I suppose it includes the headless stiff; that’s bound to pull
in the punters.’ He gave a sepulchral chuckle and lumbered off to fetch the cheese and pickles.

I took my beer to the table and picked up the evening paper. No news of the murder except a couple of lines to say the police had matters in hand and that the chief superintendent was expecting a speedy resolution … Huh, I thought, most likely the only thing that MacManus has in hand is Polly Fox-Findley. As to the speedy resolution, it would rather depend on how soon her husband returned from his business trip.

So absorbed was I by the image of weedy Lance squaring up to his strapping rival that I did not at first see Ingaza. He had slipped through the door unnoticed and like a thin shadow had settled himself opposite. He flashed a brilliantined smile. ‘My drink on order, is it?’

‘Not really,’ I replied, ‘didn’t know what you wanted.’

He sighed theatrically. ‘Just like your brother, ever tight-fisted.’

‘I am
not
tight-fisted,’ I retorted, ‘merely thrifty. Why should I waste money on something you might not appreciate? And besides, Francis wasn’t tight-fisted, it was simply that his mind was frequently preoccupied.’

‘You bet it was. Trying to work out how to elude Mr Pierrepoint.’

‘Really, Nicholas, I consider that remark most uncalled for. Utterly tasteless.’

He had the grace to look contrite. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘you’re right. It was rather.’ He got up abruptly and went to the bar to order a Scotch. When he returned my bread and cheese had arrived.

I pointed to the plate. ‘You may have a pickled onion,’ I said graciously.

‘How kind … Now, dear girl, tell me: what’s in the wind?’

And so I told him my suspicions, starting with my evening at Podmore and the Latin master’s sinister flash of hostility. ‘It was quite obvious, Nicholas, he was distinctly menacing. Only a few seconds admittedly, but it was the look as much as the words. It was most unpleasant! It was if he knew I had been at the dew pond and was deliberately taunting me.’

‘That’s a bit subjective, isn’t it?’

‘Things often are but that doesn’t invalidate them.’

He nodded.

I then told him about Topping inventing the tale of having to get back to the school and then shortly afterwards being seen by Emily sitting in a large car apparently en route for Newhaven. ‘And
that
isn’t subjective. In fact in view of what you said last night about seeing him down at the docks with another man it is the plain objective truth. Not even circumstantial. And by the way, what were you doing there – and more to the point what were
they
doing?’

He explained that he had been on his way to a nearby public house to support Eric in one of his darts matches, a regular contest between the Brighton Warriors and the Newhaven Newts. However, other than noticing the pair talking on the quay amid the boats and oil tankers he had seen nothing. ‘The weather was filthy and I wasn’t going to hang about; but it was him all right – a bit like a sodden weasel.’

‘There you are then,’ I said eagerly, ‘it all fits with that note you translated. He’s obviously in some racket to do with smuggled goods and using the school as his cover. And Carstairs’ death is all part of it!’

I suppose excitement made me speak louder than I meant for I saw Ingaza wince and he muttered, ‘For God’s sake, Primrose, keep your voice down, you’re not calling the odds at Epsom.’

‘But what do you think it is,’ I asked in a suitably hushed tone, ‘gun-running? Although there don’t seem to be any wars at present – unless the Irish are restive again. The venerable de Valera is still in the cock-pit you know …’

He laughed. ‘No, I think those times are over; he’s a pussy cat now. If Topping is in the receiving game it will be something simpler and smaller – drugs I shouldn’t wonder. London has become full of the stuff these days. It’s a very lucrative business … In
fact
, dear girl, it might be right up your street: I am told that hollow picture frames make excellent carriers.’

‘Oh very funny,’ I said. ‘Now kindly apply your mind and suggest something useful. What’s our next move?’

He looked startled. ‘
Our
next move? Look, I don’t wish to be a skeleton at the feast but I have no intention of getting embroiled in this unsavoury affair, and if you take my advice neither should you. I’ve told you before, little Topping can turn nasty. He wasn’t with the Messina brothers for his charm, you know.’

‘And that is precisely why I propose spiking his beastly gun,’ I retorted tartly. ‘Now, I am sure there is one thing you could do for me: check the shipping timetables and find out what boats come into harbour on Wednesday nights. At least that would be helpful.’

He took a sip of his Scotch and flicked a length of ash into the tray. ‘Actually Primrose, I am rather busy at the moment. The Sussex Art Dealers’ Convention is looming and I have a couple of rather special clients to accommodate.
Things are a trifle delicate and need my fullest attention. So if you don’t mind—’

‘So I suppose you won’t,’ I said impatiently.

He sighed. ‘Just like Francis, always jumping to conclusions. What I was
going
to say was that I can’t but Eric can. It’s the sort of thing he likes doing: nosing around and imagining he is being crafty. He’ll be only too pleased especially when I tell him it’s for you. Probably make his day. Now, one for the road and then I must be off. Got to see a man about a dog.’ He winked.

I was pleased with this concession and when he returned to the table started to tell him about my vigil outside Topping’s cottage and MacManus’s tiresome intrusion. ‘And do you know what? I’ve just learnt via the grapevine that he was more than likely romancing Polly Fox-Findley on that night. She is one of our local ladies who he had given a lift to after the Rotary dinner. I suppose he chose that area because it’s secluded. Stupid idiot.’ I started to laugh.

‘I doubt it. She was at home by then.’

I stopped laughing and stared at him. ‘What do you mean? And how on earth would you know?’

‘Because I know the Fox-Findleys, professionally at any rate. They come into the gallery and Lance puts an occasional bit of business my way. She’s a fool but I don’t dislike her. Anyway, she appeared the other day effing and blinding about your new police chief. Said he had the manners of an oaf and she never wanted to see him again. Apparently she had accepted that lift, hoping they might stop for a drink en route, or something equally jolly, and instead of which he drove like the clappers, reached her house in record time and didn’t even get out to open the car
door. According to her she tripped on the running board, snagged her dress, and by the time she had scrabbled for the latchkey her gallant escort had zoomed off into the night leaving her in the middle of the drive. She was none too pleased I can tell you!’ Nicholas tittered and added, ‘Just goes to show, a gal can’t always trust a uniform.’

Well, I thought as I drove back from the pub, that’s scotched that piece of gossip. How disappointed Melinda will be. Indeed I was mildly disappointed myself. It had been satisfying, risible really, to think of the starchy MacManus falling prey to Polly’s predatory glad eye. And I wondered vaguely how much it would cost to repair the stitching on the Victor Stiebel cocktail dress …

Once home and unsated by the pub’s cold collation I stirred the stew and pondered Ingaza’s tale of Polly’s speedy delivery to her house. Clearly, if anyone had been hidden in that silent vehicle outside Topping’s cottage it had not been her. Had the superintendent been alone there after all and, as I had originally surmised, intent on some perfectly legitimate police business – business which necessitated prowling around and peering into innocently parked cars? Presumably. Yet according to Melinda he had sent his wife home after the dinner saying there were mountains of urgent paperwork awaiting him at the station. But if that were so, and not, as assumed, a pretext to dally with Polly, why had he been knocking on my car window at midnight and not sitting at his desk toiling over reports?

I took a ruminative sip of wine and addressed the dog: ‘You know what, Bouncer?
I
think he was on the Topping trail, and just like us was there to spy out the land. Perhaps he had received a sudden tip-off. What about that phone
call to the hotel, for instance?’ The dog gave a gormless stare and then promptly went to sleep. So much for animal empathy.

I have to admit to being annoyed at the thought of MacManus conducting the same speculative vigil as myself, and wondered irritably whether he had learnt anything. What had happened, for instance, after my hurried departure? Had Topping and accomplice turned up staggering under the weight of drug-laden cargo conveniently shouting out words of triumph? Or had the prey returned empty-handed and alone, slipped quietly through his front door and retired meekly for the night? Or had he not appeared at all? Or had the waiting MacManus grown impatient and driven off to the comfort of his bed, and like me none the wiser? I sighed. It was all very frustrating.

Thursday brought the Erasmus House Founder’s Day dinner, an event from which Winchbrooke excluded all staff but assiduously invited the patrons and local notables – presumably in the hope that their presence might bring fiscal benefit. Since I had donated a couple of my paintings to the school – and I suspect was marked down for more – my own name featured on the guest list; as did that of Chief Superintendent MacManus. I rather doubted whether the latter’s presence would be of pecuniary value but assumed he had been invited to confer a whiff of legal probity should the Inland Revenue turn wayward.

Being taken up with an expectant daughter in London, Mrs Winchbrooke was unable to play hostess, and thus Melinda Balfour, escorted by ubiquitous Freddie, had been asked to deputise. To my distaste – and given our last encounter some slight unease – I found myself seated next to MacManus. Why Melinda had decided to place me so I cannot imagine; she knew very well my lack of sympathy
for the man. Doubtless revenge for my having trounced her at the last bridge supper. Anyway, whatever the reason, there I was being charming in the teeth of a bleak challenge.

‘Tell me, Chief Superintendent,’ I began earnestly, ‘now that you are well established in our neighbourhood, how are you finding things? It is a lovely part of Sussex but new places always take some getting used to, however attractive. Wouldn’t you agree? … Or perhaps you miss the bright lights of London,’ I added vacuously. ‘I fear we are a little dull down here.’

There was a pause while he seemed to consider. And then after an unduly protracted sip of his soup, he replied, ‘I wouldn’t go so far as that, Miss Oughterard, not with this current tragedy still looming over us. From my observations, it is not something that the majority of Lewes’s residents would term “dull”. But, of course, you being an artist might think it small beer in comparison with some of the bohemian excesses one hears of these days.’ He gave a wintry smile and I felt justifiably rebuked.

‘Oh no,’ I gasped in horror, ‘of course I didn’t mean
that
, far from it! Naturally, we are all appalled by this dreadful business and are only too anxious for the villains to be found. I suppose I really meant
generally
speaking, that is to say, in your recreational time.’

He observed soberly that as a senior police officer he had little time for recreation and that the current case in particular was absorbing most of his energies. ‘But it will be resolved I assure you, Miss Oughterard, have no doubt of that. These things just require tenacity and patience –
and
, of course, the cooperation of the public.’ He gave me a hard look. ‘Some people take their civic duties rather lightly.’

‘Oh I am sure they do,’ I agreed quickly, ‘so thoughtless!’
(Oh God, was he still brooding on Bouncer’s wretched name tag? Did he really suspect that I had witnessed something?) I turned smartly to my neighbour; but before I had managed to catch the attention of the colonel’s deaf ear, MacManus said abruptly, ‘And how is Bouncer?’

‘Bouncer? Oh
he’s
always all right.’

‘That’s not what you said the other night. I gather he had been poorly which is why you had taken him to that field below Barking Wood. One of his favourite haunts you said.’

I gave a smile of lying agreement, wondering nervously what this was leading up to. Was he suspicious of the excuse I had given (true, exercising the dog did seem pretty limp) and suspected some other motive for my being there? Quite possibly. But then I still couldn’t make out what
he
had been doing since amatory dalliance was evidently not the reason. Perhaps my earlier notion was correct and he really had been staking out Topping’s cottage, lurking around in the hope of surprising his quarry. If so then he was sharper than I had given him credit for. It was, I supposed, just conceivable that this stiff-necked man was streets ahead of me in the affair, had everything sewn up and was on the brink of busting Topping. Was he perhaps already anticipating his triumph and the prospect of another rung up the chief constable ladder? Well, I thought sourly, if he was so damn clever then he didn’t need the help of Primrose Oughterard. I turned again to my other neighbour and this time did manage to get his attention. ‘How’s tricks, Colonel?’ I asked gaily.

‘Damned godawful,’ was the growling reply, ‘and so is this claret. Can’t think where they get the stuff!’

We spent an amiable ten minutes disparaging the claret,
the price of coal and most other things. But such pleasantry could not be sustained, for when the colonel stooped to retrieve his fallen napkin I received a light tap on the elbow from MacManus, who with no preliminaries said: ‘By the way, Miss Oughterard, how often do you and your dog go wandering in Barking Wood?’

‘We do not wander, we march,’ I replied curtly, puzzled by his interest. ‘And as to how often, I really couldn’t say.’ I fixed him with a cool stare, stung both by the question and its bald delivery. Really, anyone would think we were down at the police station rather than in the headmaster’s dining room.

He must have sensed my annoyance for he said quickly, ‘One doesn’t like to talk shop on such occasions, but you see with your local knowledge there’s something you might be able to help me with.’ He lowered his voice: ‘Something in the wood.’

‘In the wood? Whatever do you mean?’ I exclaimed.

He cleared his throat and dropped his voice further. ‘Yes. You see there is an old shed there, a disused charcoal burners’ hut which according to local legend was used by smugglers to store their contraband. Of course that’s all history now but we have reason to believe that recently it has been used for storing something else equally illicit.’

‘Absinthe, not brandy?’ I quipped.

‘Of a similar potency,’ he said solemnly, ‘cocaine.’

I was startled. Ingaza in talking of Topping’s
onus
had certainly surmised the existence of a drug dealing ring in the area, but it had been mere speculation. Yet here was the chief superintendent voicing the same theory – although coming from such a source it was less likely to be theory than fact.

‘How extraordinary,’ I replied, ‘but I really cannot see what that this has to do with Bouncer and me; we are not familiar with drugs.’

‘Possibly not,’ he replied, ‘but you might be able to supply information all the same.’ (
Possibly
not? The cheek of the man!) ‘You see as you and Bouncer frequent that area I thought you may have seen something untoward, persons hanging around the shed, for instance.’

Since I had never taken Bouncer anywhere near the wood before that evening, the question was irrelevant. However, having fabricated the lie I was bound to stick with it. Thus I frowned, trying to give the impression of deep thought. ‘No,’ I said slowly, ‘I am afraid I can’t help you there. I don’t recall seeing anybody on our little walks, not a soul.’ I endeavoured to sound regretful. And then a thought struck me: ‘But have you asked Mr Topping, that nice Latin master from the boys’ school? Living so close he may well have seen something.’ I beamed helpfully.

MacManus gave a non-committal nod and after a pause said, ‘I expect you were wondering what I was doing there on that Wednesday night. Sorry if I startled you.’

I shrugged. ‘Not really. Presumably some police matter …’

‘Exactly. We had had a tip-off that there might be activities at the hut that evening; but other than seeing you in your car, there was nothing.’

‘Oh dear,’ I murmured, ‘a false trail.’

‘Hmm. You could say that I suppose.’

He didn’t sound especially convinced and seemed to be regarding me with an unnecessarily fixed gaze – at least so it seemed; but perhaps that was simply the effect of the heavy eyebrows which rather got in the way of things. It
occurred to me afterwards that perhaps he suspected I was one of those ‘persons hanging around’.

Anyway, at that moment I was dug in the ribs by the colonel, who in a rasping stage whisper said, ‘I say, my dear, if you are not going to eat any more of that trifle you can pass it to me. Our host’s puddings are considerably better than his wines.’ Thankfully, I turned away from MacManus and gave the colonel my plate.

After the cheese we broke for the port – the men for the port, we women to gossip in Mrs Winchbrooke’s bedroom followed by coffee in the drawing room. I always feel glad of such interludes. I mean if one has been grappling with some ponderous type like MacManus it is very refreshing to be amidst the scent and idle chatter of one’s girlfriends.

However, nothing lasts and once we were all reassembled sipping liqueurs, to my annoyance I again found myself sitting next to MacManus. (I really must have a word with Melinda regarding the logistics of such matters.)

I didn’t think the port had done him any good. He looked flushed and his voice had taken on a distinctly conspiratorial tone.

‘I expect you are wondering where my wife is,’ he said.

‘Er, not really,’ I replied indifferently.

‘You see,’ he continued, ‘she has gone to stay with her mother.’

‘How nice,’ I said vaguely.

‘Yes, in Norfolk.’

I was about to quip ‘very flat, Norfolk’ but thought better of it. I mean what on earth was the point?

And just as I was thinking that I was sitting next to the
biggest bore in Christendom he suddenly said, ‘I met a friend of yours recently.’

‘How nice,’ I said again. ‘And who would that be?’

At first the name Sidney Samson meant absolutely nothing to me. And it was only when MacManus cleared his throat and added, ‘Chief inspector as he now is,’ that it suddenly struck a chord. That was the name of the beastly little detective sergeant who had been so irksome to Francis during the Fotherington débâcle. He and his superior, March, had been most persistent, and while the latter was civil enough his ferrety sidekick, Samson, had been obnoxiously tiresome – and dangerous. After the shelving of the case and Francis’s death, I heard he had gone to Scotland Yard – destined for higher things apparently. Judging from this new title he was progressing briskly.

As these memories stirred, I sensed that MacManus was regarding me intently. I smiled vaguely and took a bolstering sip of Benedictine. ‘I do remember but I don’t think “friend” is quite the right term, we met once, that’s all.’

He shrugged. ‘Oh just a
façon de parler
you might say.’ (No actually, I wouldn’t bloody say I thought savagely.) ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I was up at the Yard recently and we happened to bump into each other and had a chinwag about old times. He remembers you from that unsolved case in your brother’s parish. Says you were very sharp – says you were both very sharp in fact. Uncommonly so.’ Frankly I don’t think that I had ever heard Francis described as ‘sharp’ – although since he had succeeded in foiling Detective Sergeant Samson at a crucial stage of the investigation some might regard him as such.

‘I am flattered,’ I replied. ‘But I’m even more surprised that the chief inspector should remember me.’

‘Oh our Sidney remembers everything, particularly people. That’s useful really, very useful – especially in our line of work.’ He gave a flaccid smile and a puff at the cigar someone had been fool enough to offer him. ‘Yes,’ he mused, ‘it’s amazing the role memory plays in unravelling forgotten cases.’

If he was trying to unsettle me he had certainly succeeded. What the hell was the wretch getting at?

‘
Now
,’ Freddie Balfour suddenly bellowed from across the room and clapping his hands, ‘we are all going to play Murder in the Dark. Chop, chop, everybody! No excuses!’ I don’t think the headmaster had been expecting that and I saw him crumple as if hit by a cricket ball.

‘Just up your street, Chief Superintendent,’ I said winsomely, and promptly volunteered to play the victim.

Later in bed that night and worn out with being the corpse, I reflected on my conversation with MacManus. Normally this might have sent me off to sleep pretty quickly. As it was, it kept me staring at the ceiling, irritable and worried. The allusion to Samson was a shock. It would suggest that the two had been discussing the details of the Molehill murder. Hearing of the Sussex killing and perhaps recalling that Lewes was where the Revd Oughterard’s sister lived, Samson may have been moved to speculate about all manner of things with MacManus. I could picture the pair of them hunched over a table in some drab office: the Whippet, as Francis had always called Samson, still sallow and scrawny and his nicotined fingers rolling the inevitable fag, while our
‘handsome’ Sussex gauleiter grimly lapped up his every hint and suspicion.

I sighed and switched off the light. The things one has to put up with! I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, having a murderer in the family is not something one is especially anxious to shout from the rooftops. And the fact that Francis escaped detection, and indeed died a hero’s death, makes it no less tricky: one is so vulnerable to officious enquiry. Naturally,
I
know that the foolish boy simply lost his head and blundered, but others might not see it in that light, least of all Alastair MacManus. Thus it was with considerable disquiet that I eventually slipped into a fitful sleep.