The Primrose Pursuit (7 page)

I dressed hurriedly but dallied over breakfast, filling up
on jam and black coffee while devising a pretext for visiting the school to see exactly what was going on. I sat and brooded, idly scanning the spines of the cookery books. And then suddenly a title caught my eye:
Pen Scratches from Mongolia: An Artist’s Vision
. I was perplexed. What an uninspiring title and whatever was it doing there? It certainly wasn’t one of mine for I had no desire to visit Mongolia, still less have a vision of it … And then, of course, I remembered: the book had been thrust upon me by Winchbrooke on my return from the Auvergne a couple of years previously. He had seemed to think the two regions held some similarity, though what I can’t imagine, and had presented it to me on a ‘long loan’. Well, long or short, I certainly didn’t want it cluttering up my bulging shelves: it should be returned to its owner forthwith. A splendid excuse. I leapt from the table, grabbed the book and my coat, and with mind ablaze with questions, set off for Erasmus House.

Halfway there I bumped into Charles Penlow and his cairn terrier ambling towards me on the path leading from the school. ‘I say, Charles,’ I demanded, ‘have you just come from Erasmus and did you hear anything?’

‘What?’ he said, looking blank.

‘The
school
. Have you been there, and if so what’s going on?’

‘Er, well no actually – we’ve just been to the vet’s. Duster’s got something in his paw, a thorn I think. Roberts has mixed some stuff for it and I have to give the little blighter hot poultices until it starts to—’

‘Oh dear, poor dog,’ I said impatiently. ‘So you haven’t heard anything then?’

‘Heard what?’

I started to relate my ghastly discovery but stopped abruptly. It doesn’t do to be precipitate in such matters; far better to stick to my original plan of simply making a casual appearance at the place and subtly absorbing what intelligence I could. Thus I gave dog and owner a ravishing smile and said I hoped they would both be better soon. I thought Charles looked a little puzzled but I hadn’t time to hang about and took off smartly.

Entering the school gates, I crossed what they ambitiously call the quadrangle – a sort of flag-stoned yard with pots of ferns festering in dank corners. At the main door a miniscule child accosted me whom I recognised as Sicky Dicky – Richard Ickington, grandson of the high court judge of the same soubriquet. Dicky had been the proud recipient of a prize I had recently presented for the best junior painter of wildlife – newts principally – and he took his Fine Art studies very seriously.

‘I say,’ he piped excitedly, ‘you will never guess what we’ve seen up at the dew pond!’

‘Really?’ I enquired blandly, heart lurching.

‘
Yes
, it’s super-duper! Gave us quite a shock I can tell you. You ought to go up there and take a look, Miss Oughterard. You’ll get a big surprise.’

Like hell I would! … I gazed benignly at the little boy, trying to project an air of unruffled interest. Friends with children tell me one should never evince alarm or undue agitation with the young, it unsettles them. ‘And what would that be?’ I murmured.

‘Masses of them, the thing’s simply crawling. All over it they are!’

‘What
thing
?’ I said sharply, revolted by his words.

‘The pond! All those tadpoles – hundreds of them and baby newts too. It’s chockers! We were there yesterday morning and Mr Cheesman says it’s the sudden warm weather, makes them hatch and grow you know.’ He beamed rapturously, and then plucking my arm added, ‘And what’s more I’m going to paint them – all in different sizes and in different patterns. Perhaps I’ll get a prize again. Grandpa would like that; he says I’m a right little Picasso. Do you think it’s a good idea, Miss Oughterard?’

‘Wonderful,’ I said faintly. He capered off, warbling Colonel Bogey, while I sat down heavily on the porch bench and drew a deep breath.

Collecting my thoughts I considered my next move: obviously a direct approach to Winchbrooke’s study flourishing book and gushing its praises … Foiled again.
Fräulein
Hockheimer clattered towards me garbed in a voluminous smock which she clearly thought had something to do with Renoir. I put my head down and scrabbled in my handbag, vainly hoping she would pass by.

‘Ach, Madame Hooterayde,’ she exclaimed, ‘what honour to zee you hi-er. I was just telling ze boys vat interesting talks ve hef hed at the party of Hoobat!’

‘Of who?’ I said.

‘Herr Topping. You remember ve spoke of—’

‘Ah … yes, indeed. And, er, tell me
Fräulein
, how
is
Mr Topping?’

She looked a trifle downcast. ‘Alas, he ist gone.’ Too right he’s gone, I thought. ‘A big shame because he vas going to help me viz my picture framing but suddenly he disappear!’ I was about to enquire how suddenly when she
added brightly, ‘But he certainly come beck tomorrow.’ Her faith was almost touching.

‘Well that’s nice,’ I said kindly. ‘Now tell me, have you seen the headmaster because I really need to speak—’

‘He is gone too.’

‘Where? To the police station?’

‘Oh no, they cancelled ze fine.’

I regarded her with mild irritation. ‘I am not referring to Mr Winchbrooke’s misdemeanour on the A27, but his going to the police to report a crime.’

‘But he is not with ze police; he is in London with Herr Topping. Hoobat is going to present there a special paper, “
Vax Lyrical Viz Latin Syntax
”.’ She beamed. ‘He is
very
clever, you know. Now if you will excuse me I must go and “zound ze brass”!’ She pounded off, smock billowing; and the next moment my ears were rent by the crashing of the school bell. It was, I felt, time to leave.

I walked home in a semi-daze stunned by Hockheimer’s words. Could the woman be right? Was Topping really in London with Winchbrooke ‘vaxing lyrical’ with his Latin syntax? If so, what was he also doing up at the dew pond minus his head? Clearly the two conditions were incompatible. Assuming the art mistress was not totally addled (questionable), there were two possibilities: either the headmaster had slain his companion – or the thing I had seen the previous night had not been Topping at all but some other corpse.

I reflected on this, bringing to mind the hastily noted details of build, jacket, signet ring, receding hair and, of course, the floating rose. Rather reluctantly I had to admit that the first four features were not necessarily the monopoly of Topping – a lot of men were below average height, wore brown-checked jackets with elbow patches, were growing thin on top and, albeit more rarely, wore signet rings. Thus I conceded that the victim could perhaps
be A. N. Other. But then what about the rosebud for God’s sake? Surely A. N. Other hadn’t been given to sporting one of those as well.

I was just musing upon these matters and deciding that I should ring Emily immediately to verify if Winchbrooke and Topping were indeed in London, when I was startled (bludgeoned) by the blaring of a klaxon. Its provenance was a black vintage Citroën of Gestapo mien parked by the bridge. One sees few of such models these days, and indeed the only one that I know hails from Brighton and belongs to Nicholas Ingaza. I glared at the vehicle and was acknowledged by a languid wave from the driver’s window.

Crossing the road I was torn between remonstrating about the noise and divulging my astonishing news. The latter seemed the more interesting. ‘I say, Nicholas,’ I said, manoeuvring myself into the passenger seat, ‘I’ve had the most ghastly experience, you’ve simply no idea.’

‘Oh yes?’ was the response, ‘the town clerk asked you to elope, has he?’

‘No, a different sort of ghastliness. I have encountered a headless corpse at the Chalk Hill dew pond; yesterday just after midnight. It was dreadful!’

Ingaza raised an eyebrow and observed mildly that if I insisted on roaming the Sussex downs in the middle of the night then I must expect such horrors.

‘Don’t be facetious,’ I retorted, ‘I was returning from a bridge supper and stopped to let the dog out.’

‘Ah, I see: half-cut, I suppose.’

‘Certainly not!’ I snapped. ‘Kindly be sensible and just
listen
.’ And I proceeded to apprise him of the gory details and my perplexity over the victim’s identity.

When I had finished he said thoughtfully, ‘I must say, you Oughterards seem to have an appetite for trouble, or do I mean aptitude? Either way, you manage to get embroiled easily enough. I wonder if it’s to do with—’

I was incensed. ‘Aptitude for trouble?’ I cried, ‘that’s rich coming from you, Nicholas! If Francis hadn’t found himself in your clutches his life might have been considerably smoother. As it is—’

‘As it is it was largely through my solicitous direction that the dear boy escaped the scaffold. Why, without my guiding gaiety to keep him sane he wouldn’t have stood a chance. Fair dos, Primrose.’ He had the nerve to grin.

‘Fair dos, my arse! What about your abortive scheme flogging my paintings to the Ontario art market under false pretences? I could have lost my reputation over that.’

‘But you didn’t. And you also made a nice little packet, initially at any rate.’

‘Less lucrative than yours,’ I reminded him sharply.

He sighed. ‘Yes, I fear that’s the way with business, the middleman takes the biggest cut. Now have one of these and let us give thought to your current situation; rather more pressing I should say.’ He whipped out the Sobranies, and in a fog of swirling fumes we assessed the matter and discussed my next move.

In fact my next move amounted to nothing; for we agreed that the best thing was for me to return home as originally planned and wait for ‘intelligence to filter through’, as filter it surely would.

‘So you don’t think I should report anything to the police?’ I had asked.

‘If they don’t know yet, they soon will,’ was the
dry reply. Having once been caught in a delicate position (indelicate really) involving a Turkish bath, Ingaza regards the police with a wariness bordering on paranoia. It was a wariness that my brother, for another reason, came to share. Personally, I had no particular reason for wariness other than the knowledge that reporting a crime does not automatically exclude one from the list of suspects. ‘Speak when necessary,’ Pa had always counselled, ‘and
never
before.’ Had he taken his own advice, life at home would have been infinitely quieter … However, the principle was sound enough.

I was about to get out of the car when Ingaza asked if I had told anyone else.

‘Haven’t seen anyone except for Charles Penlow. I thought he might have heard something but he obviously hasn’t; kept rambling on about that po-faced cairn terrier of his, so I said nothing and went on up to the school.’

He looked surprised. ‘Penlow? I thought he was playing the
flâneur
in the Caribbean.’

‘Well he’s back now playing the master-builder in Sussex, though I can’t think why. That Podmore Place of his should be bulldozed and replaced by a set of smart town houses. He could make a lot of money that way.’

‘But it’s not in the town,’ Ingaza objected.

‘Irrelevant. It’s the concept that counts.’

He looked at me thoughtfully and said something to the effect that for an artist my outlook was refreshingly materialistic.

‘Well, that makes two of us,’ I replied briskly. ‘Now what about this corpse? Do you think it’s Topping? I bet you it is.’

‘Evens?’

‘Certainly not. Ten to one on.’

He nodded. ‘Cash, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Alas, I have been proved right. Peace here in Sussex is as illusory as it was in the vicarage. Our mistress has taken it into her head to pursue the Top-Ho character, and from what I can make out has resumed her contact with the Brighton Type. It seems he has given her information which has turned her suspicions into certainties and we all suffer accordingly. That is not quite correct:
I
suffer, the dog rejoices. Bouncer has a puerile lust for excitement, hence his goading of the chinchillas, and is more than intrigued by Top-Ho and whatever shenanigans P.O. imagines he is engaged in.

Rather reluctantly, however, I have to admit that there may be some substance to her views. In my few idle moments I have passed a discerning eye over the man and am not entirely taken with what I see. Homo sapiens with small feet and glib tongues are generally suspect, and he undoubtedly belongs to that category. Besides, he rides a bicycle, a machine that I have never
found appealing. I recall my mother once having a contretemps with such a contraption – or rather its rider; and while she survived with ease – clinging to the spokes and dislodging the incumbent – the incident did little to endear me to the things. Bouncer’s tale of seeing Top-Ho peddling furiously to the telephone box that night was intriguing and I still haven’t fathomed the purpose. But I shall get to the bottom of it without a doubt … I might enquire of Eleanor. She is a sound sentinel and may well have some views on the matter.

And talking of Eleanor, she has been most useful in introducing me to the better type of local feline. I am not by nature a gregarious cat but it is nevertheless reassuring to know there are others in the area who share the same cultural bent as myself. I think too that I have already established myself as a cat worthy of regard, and one not averse to waving a gracious paw when occasion requires – providing, of course, the recipient is not a tabby or a Manx; naturally a line has to be drawn somewhere. For the moment, however, such social niceties must yield to more pressing matters – the sampling of the pilchards P.O. has prepared. And after that I think a little snooze is in order …

Great Cod! What a to-do. Bouncer has found a dead head if you please! Yes, up on the downs in a pond – or at least the body was, its head being on the grass. P.O. had gone on some card-sharping jaunt and taken the dog with her, and apparently on the way back he had let it be known that he wanted to stretch his legs (or squirt the bunnies as he so crudely put it). Apparently our mistress got out with him, lit a cigarette and wandered around gazing at the stars,
something humans like to do. He said that ten minutes later he heard her making a sort of gagging noise, and when he went to take a look, noted she had her nose shoved in a gorse bush. Thinking that was a bit odd even for the Prim, he started to move closer and came face-to-face with a circular apparition on the edge of the pond. ‘A bloody great bonce with staring eyes’ were his exact words. Now Bouncer, of course, is given to melodrama so one cannot vouch for the eyes, but the rest of his description has the mark of veracity. He said it was a cracking adventure because there was also ‘a thing’ sprawled in the water wearing a brown-checked jacket, but that P.O. did not seem to share his interest as she insisted on dragging him back to the car which she then drove home ‘at one hell of a lick’.

As it happens, I could see something was amiss the moment they came through the front door. Instead of going up to bed in the usual way, our mistress rushed to switch on the fire in the drawing room and then made a headlong dive for the drinks cabinet. I had seen her brother do that often enough and recognised the symptoms: blind panic. Bouncer too was in a turbulent state and once we were in the kitchen I had to speak to him very firmly. Rather to my surprise, after he had exhausted his energies with the usual theatricals he went totally silent and just lay there gnawing his paw and gazing into space. I was about to retire for the night to my usual spot in the laundry room, when he suddenly said, ‘I say Maurice, I don’t suppose you would like to share my basket, would you?’

In normal circumstances nothing would induce me to get into the dog’s basket (you never know what you might find – all manner of grisly items: bones, bits of chewed rubber, hairy biscuits and other unsavouries), but it struck
me that he might be in the grip of delayed shock. Now, my grandfather had always insisted that we were a family noted for our nobility and skills of self-preservation. The latter I have in abundance but as yet have had little cause to exercise the former; but here perhaps was an opportunity. Thus gritting my teeth I said, ‘By all means, Bouncer, I should be honoured’; and without more ado leapt into his basket and began to purr. I think the dog was a little surprised for his jaw hung open for at least twenty seconds. But we settled down easily enough and spent a warm and surprisingly amicable night.

With the first shaft of dawn I dug him in the ribs and urged him to reveal further details of his escapade. ‘So apart from the staring eyes, what was the head like?’ I enquired.

‘Pretty good,’ he growled.

I sighed. ‘No, Bouncer, it is not the calibre but the character that interests me. Being a cat of forensic interests I should like to know a little of its physicality, such as dimensions, density, colour, texture, amount of hair and colour of eyes etc. – all that sort of thing.’

‘Cor,’ he grumbled, ‘you don’t want much, do you?’

‘The usual aspects,’ I replied carelessly. ‘After all, if you come and tell me that you have encountered a human head resting on the brink of Chalk Hill dew pond, I think you could assume I might want the full picture.’ I flicked a morsel of chewed Chum off my left paw. ‘Reasonable enough I should have thought,’ I added.

The dog looked doubtful but then said briskly: ‘Well, as dead heads go, I should say it was definitely about average – sort of football size.’

‘Really? And how many dead heads have you seen?’

‘Hundreds,’ he said.

Lies, naturally. But I could see a mulish glint in his eye and conceded hastily that there had indeed been a couple in the past – although from what I could recall, those had been of the attached variety. However, it doesn’t do to be pedantic, least of all with Bouncer.

He picked up his bone, dropped it and then licked his chops. ‘And,’ he grinned, ‘not much hair, blue batty eyes and a bit white around the old gills and gullet.’

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘so there was a gullet?’

He cogitated and started to frown. ‘No not much, just a bit. What, Maurice, you would call a … a …’ I could see he was groping for the right word but fortunately found it before I had to prompt him.

‘A
remnant
,’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘That’s it – the bonce had a remnant of gullet!’ He paused, and added brightly, ‘though I suppose it might have been his wind funnel.’

I closed my eyes: partly to muffle the noise, partly to blot out the image and partly to decide whether I should congratulate him on his improved vocabulary or rebuke him for the reversion to slang. Teaching the dog the Queen’s English is a taxing task – every step forward entailing at least another backward. But I feel it my bounden duty and thus I press on …