The Primrose Pursuit (9 page)

Well, things aren’t half hotting up here and no mistake! I mean it’s not often you come snout to snout with a cut-off human head – especially when you are in the middle of cocking your leg on a lump of rock. There I was at one end and it was at the other. Glaring at me. Cripes, did I yelp! I mean it’s not the sort of thing you expect to see at a time like that, is it? Quite put me off my stride it did; made everything go haywire … As a matter of fact, once I had got over the shock I went a bit haywire myself. After all, it’s pretty exciting to be suddenly faced with a dead head and
then
to see the rest of it floating in the water. I can tell you I didn’t know which bit to sniff first! Not that I had much of a chance. P.O. didn’t seem at all keen to hang about and kept shoving me towards the car. She was a bit of a spoilsport really. Still it was nice while it lasted.

Mind you after we got home I came over a bit queer. Didn’t feel like myself at all. Odd really. Maurice said it was
mislaid sock
or some such. Don’t know what he meant
by that but he said it enough times so I suppose he knew what he was talking about. Anyhow he was quite matey and stayed the whole night in my basket. Now what do you think of that? I thought it was jolly decent, though there
was
one small problem: he twitches like hell when he sleeps and I kept waking up with his tail rammed in my ear. And you know that white paw of his? Well somehow he had stuck it in my jaw; and I was just dreaming that I was chewing on a nice piece of bacon when there was a god-awful caterwaul and I found my mouth stuffed full of gungy wet fur. Ugh! There was a good deal of pussy-limping around in the morning but he didn’t say a word – which I also thought was jolly decent. It just goes to show that cats are not always catty … Well not
ALWAYS
, just mostly.

Anyway, after the Prim had given him his early milk and me my biscuit we had a good bow-wow about it all. Maurice was
very
interested in my adventure and wanted to know every detail about the head. I got a bit muddled – I mean a dog can’t be expected to remember everything at that time of day, can it? Still, you know how Maurice is, and he wouldn’t let up; kept on firing the questions. When he had finished he shut up for a while and closed his eyes, like he does when he is ‘mee-oosing’, as he calls it. I quite like it when he
mee-ooses
because everything goes still and I can collect my thoughts, e.g. work out what bones I’ve got and choose where the next burying hole will be. Then, I had just decided on that patch of ground behind the rabbit hutch when His Nibs opens his eyes, swishes his tail and says, ‘In my considered opinion, Bouncer, this whole affair is extremely purr-quewlia.’

PURR-QUEWLIA
? Big deal, my arse! What the hell did he
think that
I
thought when I found the blooming bonce! I mean I know that Maurice is all very clever and uses long words which I don’t understand and can count things without using his paws, but
ANYONE
could see that a deadheaded stiff in a pond was purr-quewlia! Even P.O. was being as sick as a cat – and it takes a lot to rattle her (unlike F.O. who would collapse at the first cuckoo). If you ask me, Mop Face, the grey Persian, has got something to do with it. Ever since she invited Maurice for a night on the tiles he has been what you might call ‘distray’. (I think that’s the right word – it’s the one he uses anyhow; it probably means mad as a coot.) He keeps poncing about in the tool shed kicking up his heels as if he’s practising some daft dance – the Pusstrot or something. He thinks I haven’t noticed but I’m a crafty hound and I’ve spied him through the crack in the broken brick. No fleas on Bouncer!

Yes, that’s what I think: he’s so taken with trying to make a show for Eleanor that only half his mind is on this head business, the other half being up on the tiles among the chimney pots. Well too bad, I say. Bouncer will go it alone and sniff out
EVERYTHING
.

And to start with I may chew things over with Duster, that tall man’s cairn I was talking about earlier. Maurice heard P.O. on the blower to the tall man saying she would visit him soon and bring the new dog. That’s me, of course. If I like the Duster he could be a useful ally – though it doesn’t do to be too sudden.
Always size up the buggers first and don’t give an inch without gain
. That’s what Bowler, my other old master, used to say about his customers (you know, the bank manager in Molehill who ran off with the cash). But that was a long time ago in my puppyhood and before I met my next master, the vicar, so I don’t remember
him much. But sometimes in dreams I still hear his voice: ‘Bouncer, come here, sir. Come here
at once,
sir!’ Of course I never did. Why should I?

Anyway, back to the cairn. I am not quite sure what to expect when I get taken there, because the other day when we met on the pavement on our leads he seemed a bit odd, sort of quiet and queer. Kept staring at the hedge and not looking at me. And do you know? His tail never wagged once; not all the time they were yattering on! I told Maurice about this and he gave me a long lecture about how I had got to be patient and not be neg-a-tive. Huh, he’s a one to talk – he’s the most neg-a-tive cat I know. If Maurice doesn’t like something or somebody then don’t we all know it! Still he may be right, I suppose. We’ll just have to sniff the bone and see what’s what.

Great drama at the school. One of the masters has been found absent without leave … or at least not so much without leave as without his head. Yes, on the downs at the Chalk Hill dew pond. An extraordinary business! The papers are full of it and so are the tea shops. It has set the town ablaze and agog. Apparently he was discovered by some shepherd in the early morning: body in water, head a little distant. The shepherd has been living on medicinal brandy ever since.

Murder not being the mark of a good school, it has made the headmaster acutely embarrassed and at first he tried to suggest that it must have been suicide. ‘The deceased was always a little dour,’ he had ventured to a reporter. However, a number of people, including the police, pointed out that suicides are not generally adroit enough to hack off their own heads let alone place them at some distance from their torsos. Winchbrooke conceded that they had a point. I also gather that the poor chap was the maths master who
had
joined the school three years ago and whose Common Entrance results were remarkable. Indeed it struck me that perhaps this was the work of some vengeful rival (from St Bede’s at Eastbourne?) who, being tired of secondary honours, had decided to nip further triumphs in the bud. I had rung Primrose who I thought might have been amused by the idea; but rather unusually she said nothing, cleared her throat and changed the subject. Probably felt the telephone wasn’t the place for such drollery. It’s time I invited her here and we can explore the matter more freely.

Later

Primrose came, as did the new dog, Bouncer. At first I was a little concerned in case he and Duster didn’t hit it off. But I needn’t have worried. They sat quietly just staring at each other for a long time; and then without a word (or a bark) slouched off in tandem to the terrace. I’ve no idea how things proceeded from there but since no sounds of butchery or mayhem ensued, we assumed they were all right.

Whether Primrose was all right I wasn’t entirely sure. She seemed a bit shifty … well not shifty so much as distracted. I had the impression she had something on her mind, something which bothered her but which she was hesitant to divulge. Such reticence is a-typical. Normally she is only too ready to give tongue, to seize bulls by horns and give a good toss. But tonight there was a distinct holding back, a restraint which I couldn’t quite fathom. We talked of this and that – my tussle with the planners over adjustments to Podmore, the government’s blunders, the proposed new housing estate, and inevitably the incompetence of the town
clerk
(on which topic she did give tongue). But all the while I had the impression that her mind, except when directed to the town clerk, was otherwise engaged; and engaged in a way she was reluctant to share.

I offered a second whisky and by way of broadening our agenda said jovially, ‘Well now, Primrose, what do you think of this latest affair, our unfortunate corpse?’

She hesitated and then said, ‘Oh I suppose you mean the one in the pond that everyone’s talking about. All very sordid I consider.’

‘But rather fascinating you have to admit,’ I observed encouragingly.

‘Not necessarily. It sounds beastly.’ She gave a dismissive shrug.

I was slightly surprised at this, not realising Primrose was so squeamish. Indeed it seemed most out of character. I recalled her excitement over the stabbing of the Teddy boy at the rectory fête and her fascination with Beachy Head’s latest suicide victim whom she was convinced had been pushed. Both incidents had preoccupied her for days. To be so indifferent towards this current drama was unusual to say the least.

I tried again. ‘Of course Winchbrooke is terrified of the publicity; he thinks parents will start withdrawing their children once the facts are fully revealed. On the whole, people object to the idea of their progeny having been taught by one destined for decapitation; unsettles them, the parents I mean. The boys love it, of course. Still it’ll give the local police plenty to do: that new man MacManus is itching to get his teeth into something. Eager to win his spurs. You’ll see, he’ll have drummed up witnesses before you can say knife!’

‘Witnesses? Oh I shouldn’t think there will be any of those,’ she said firmly. ‘Not up there at that time of night.’

‘Ah, but it’s amazing how often people loiter in lonely places. Detective novels are full of them.’ I laughed. Primrose did not.

‘Well,’ she retorted, ‘I very much doubt if there are any witnesses in this particular case, and it’s hardly a novel after all.’ She fixed me with one of those glacial stares which invariably spell immovable dissent.

I took the hint and changed the subject. ‘So how’s your friend, Topping?’ I asked. ‘The last time we spoke you told me you felt he was distinctly flaky.’ I smiled enticingly.

She brightened. ‘Oh he’s
that
all right … but you know it’s all a bit peculiar. I can’t quite make out—’ She had lowered her voice and leant forward in the old confiding way, and then stopped abruptly as if having second thoughts. I was about to probe further but was forestalled by a crash from the garden door as the two dogs bounded into the room. Anything that Primrose might or might not have been going to say was instantly swept aside.

‘Oh look,’ she cried, ‘they have been having lovely games!’ She threw open her arms in rapturous welcome. Bouncer, always a glutton for attention I have since learnt, relished the role of long lost wanderer and responded with frenzied woofs and head butting. Duster, more circumspect, at first hung back but then submitted manfully to the spate of pats and effusions.

Actually I was slightly puzzled by the display. I knew that Primrose was not averse to animals (why else would she have taken on her brother’s orphans?). Nevertheless I was surprised at the force of her reaction; she is not normally so demonstrative … And then, of course, I realised: the
display
had been a feint, a handy means of dismissing Topping and whatever it was she had been about to say. Like
dei ex machina,
Bouncer and Duster had appeared just when needed
.

Thus hoping to resurrect the theme I suggested we had a final nightcap, but Primrose declined, explaining she had a heavy morning ahead lecturing to the Women’s Institute about the habits of sheep. (Apparently it is assumed that because they feature in her paintings that she must be an expert on ovine psychology. She is not in the least but invents the wildest of anecdotes which entrance her audience and increase her sales.) Anyway, as she and Bouncer were leaving I said brightly, ‘Well if you hear anything spicy about the dew pond business do let me know!’

‘Oh certainly,’ was the vague reply.

I don’t quite know why I was reluctant to talk freely to Charles about my experience. Ingaza’s fault no doubt for ruffling me about the police. If, as he says, they really are intending to grill everyone connected with the school, then nice as Charles is, I don’t think this is quite the moment to have it bruited abroad that I was there. In fact it’s something to be kept dark at all costs. Of course, I am sure Charles wouldn’t
mean
to say anything; but you never know, he might just let drop something to Agnes who is
not
known for her discretion. After all, still being in Tobago doesn’t stop her from writing excited letters to all and sundry – even telephoning were she sufficiently intrigued. The mayor’s wife is still reeling from Agnes’s gaily started rumour that the lady’s long sojourn in London had been prompted by some facelift blunder. Actually I think she was merely cat-sitting for her sister, but the seeds are firmly sown … Yes, it has to be said that Agnes Penlow’s undoubted charm is matched only
by the size of her vocal cords. Hence my hesitation to confide in her husband.

Of course when he enquired about Hubert Topping I
very
nearly let slip that I had seen a pink rosebud drifting in ‘mysterious circumstances’. Thank goodness I realised in the nick of time that such news would naturally establish my presence there. One can see the headlines only too clearly: ‘Respected local artist admits to being at murder spot.’ No thank you! Fortunately the dogs’ sudden entry made a handy smokescreen and I’m sure Charles didn’t notice a thing.

I am
extremely
suspicious about that rose; and the more I think about it the more convinced I am that it had fallen from Topping’s smug lapel. Carstairs may have been the corpse, but I wouldn’t mind betting that H.T. was the perpetrator, or at least foully involved. It is a shame that I cannot discuss such matters with Charles for he is one of the few people around here who is solid and whose judgements are moderately shrewd. Ingaza’s judgements may be shrewd but he is far from solid. However, with no other suitable confidant available (Emily being less than sound) I may have to brave the pain and speak further with him. This will entail the expensive pleasure of inviting him to tea (must remember to replenish the Scotch – grocer’s will do). But meanwhile I must get hold of Emily and see what I can prise out of her regarding Carstairs and his background.

Emily has a penchant for cream horns … actually not so much a penchant as an indelicate greed. And just as I was passing the newly opened Smugglers’ Café I observed
her in the window gorging disgracefully.
Two
on her plate if you please: one chocolate and one vanilla. Thus seizing the opportunity, I went in and parked myself at her table. I don’t think she was terribly thrilled at that, being too enamoured of the pastry feast to welcome tiresome intrusions even from friends. However, undaunted I stated my business.

‘Emily, dear,’ I enthused, signalling to the waitress to bring another cup, ‘how lovely to see you, and at the very moment when I was wondering how you were coping with that dreadful disturbance at the school. It must be so nerve-racking!’

‘Yes,’ she replied indistinctly from behind the cream horn, ‘it is rather.’ And then after a pause she added, ‘It does one good to get away for some private peace and quiet occasionally.’

Well, frankly, if Emily Bartlett thought she could give me the brush-off like that I fear she was much mistaken. I flashed a sympathetic smile. ‘Oh absolutely,’ I agreed earnestly, and pressed on. ‘And what about poor Mr Winchbrooke? How is he dealing with the grisly business? Up to his ears with police enquiries no doubt. Must be ghastly for him, especially as good maths teachers are so hard to come by.’

Emily nodded; and embarking on the second cream horn said that things were not helped by the fact that the usual means of advertising, the
Prep School Journal
or whatever it calls itself, was so slow to insert notices. ‘It will be weeks before we get a replacement,’ she grumbled.

‘Well meanwhile you will just have to share someone with St Hilda’s,’ I said briskly. ‘Now tell me about Dr Carstairs. Was he married, for instance?’

‘Oh no. He had a mother – or so he said – over at Newhaven I believe. He used to visit her regularly; most weekends and Wednesday evenings too sometimes. He was always scurrying off there – I daresay she did his laundry. Very commendable I am sure.’

I thought I detected an acid note in this last observation, Emily’s visits to her own parent at a safer distance on the Isle of Wight being invariably conducted in a mood of Lenten penance. ‘Well presumably the police will be interviewing her,’ I observed. ‘She may well be the key to the whole business.’

Emily scooped up the last bits of the cream horn. ‘Really Primrose, you are not suggesting that she
did
it, are you?’

‘Of course not but she might know a thing or two … about his habits and so forth.’

‘What habits? Other than being sarcastic to the boys I don’t think he had any – though he did keep a bicycle,’ she added.

‘Kept a bicycle?’ I said in surprise. ‘Well, there you are then,
just
like Mr Topping. I expect they were cycling cronies.’

Emily looked bemused. ‘I don’t think so, or at least not that one was aware. Certainly they both did quite a lot of peddling about, but on the whole in opposite directions.’

‘
Very
opposite,’ I said darkly. After all, if Topping had had a hand in carving up Carstairs, their interests must have diverged more than somewhat. Needless to say, my point was lost on Emily, who, clearly sated by her gourmandising, seemed ready to depart. But I had one more pressing question: ‘Tell me,’ I said warmly, ‘and how
is
Mr Topping these days? Still sporting that smart pink
buttonhole? It has become quite a little trade mark! It’s so nice to see a man paying attention to the finer details of his attire. Most seem indifferent to that sort of thing nowadays.’

Emily, in the middle of scrabbling in her handbag for some silver to pay the bill, paused and stared at me. ‘That’s not what you said the last time you mentioned it. What you said then was that only a neo-nancy or a prissy little fraud would parade a socking great rose in his lapel day after day.’

‘Did I say that?’ I exclaimed lightly. ‘Must have been Maurice’s influence; you’ve no idea how his moods affect one’s own.’

Judging from her expression I don’t think she was entirely convinced. However, she gave me the answer I had been seeking: ‘Since you ask, Mr Topping is most punctilious in his habit. In fact from what I can recall he has broken it only once.’ She found a half-crown and was about to call the waitress.

‘When?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘
When
did he not wear the rose?’

She sighed. ‘Well really, Primrose, I can’t be expected to remember such details, especially when there is this ghastly tragedy looming over us … although, as it happens, I rather think it was in early May. Yes, that’s right, it must have been the third. I do remember because that was the morning when I was on my way to the dentist and I bumped into Mr Topping coming out of School Hall. At the time I thought he looked a trifle down in the mouth – a bit like me in fact with my bad tooth! We were both in rather a hurry but I did notice
that his jacket was without its usual emblem. In fact I made some joking reference to it, but he just shrugged and hurried on, saying something about the bloom having withered in the night … Forgot to refill the water, I suppose.’ Emily stood up, left the half-crown on the table and with a slightly puzzled smile at me, left the café.

I remained, and lighting a cigarette, hailed the waitress for some fresh tea. There was much to think about. The third of May was, of course, the day that Carstairs and his appendage had been found by the shepherd and when I was barely recovering from my midnight ordeal.

I sipped my tea and brooded. Clearly I should contact Ingaza to fix our rendezvous. Surely with this new revelation he was bound to take things seriously and be of
some
use – if not as an ally then at least as a convenient sounding board. I left the café and started to walk home in a reflective mood.

Absorbed by these thoughts and also wondering whether I should give the dog a treat for its supper, I was suddenly startled by the shrill blast of a bicycle bell and a voice from behind cried, ‘Why it’s Miss Oughterard, if I’m not mistaken. Walking all the way home? You should get one of these.’

I turned, and smiling politely at the gnome crouched over the bike’s handlebars, said, ‘Actually, Mr Topping, I have a perfectly good motor car but I often choose to walk – it stimulates thought.’

‘How wise,’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s nothing like a good dose of country air to stir the old brain box – although,’
and he gave a light chuckle, ‘perhaps in your case one should say the paint box. An artist such as yourself must draw great inspiration from the
tangibilities
of nature. All those rambling sheep, rustic churches and enchanted moonlit ponds … nature seen in the raw must be vital to the muse!’ (Muse? I don’t have any muse. Hard graft, that’s what.) ‘Ah well,’ he continued, ‘if you will excuse me I must push on. Time and tide and the third-formers wait for no man.’ And with a brisk thrust to the peddles he sped off.

I gazed after him. The ‘tangibilities of nature’ my foot! What extraordinary language these people used … And then I froze. What else had he said exactly? ‘All those rambling sheep, rustic churches and enchanted moonlit ponds.’ What
ponds
? I had never painted a pond in my life, least of all a moonlit one. Not one of my paintings featured such a thing, with or without enchantment! So was this simply part of his vacuous gush, or did the term hold a darker meaning, a sly reference to my presence on that fateful evening? Perhaps, as Nicholas had gaily hinted, I had indeed been observed and this was an oblique way of letting me know. I winced:
not
a happy thought … Still, I reasoned, it doesn’t do to be overly literal and one should always allow for poetic licence, especially with a smarmy type like Topping. Probably he had included the term randomly to evoke the bucolic style of my pictures. Yes, that was it surely: the term was merely figurative and contained nothing sinister at all. Clearly Emily’s revelation about the missing rosebud had made me unduly sensitive and I was seeing connections where none existed.

Thus persuaded, I strode home where I was greeted by
Maurice toting a mangled mouse. He wore that smug, self-satisfied look which invariably hints at further triumphs and whose remains are generally scattered in the kitchen. I entered cautiously. Two more bodies were laid out by the gas stove, their severed heads neatly arranged at their sides. I retreated to the drawing room, and with Carstairs in mind, poured a drink.