The Primrose Pursuit Page 11

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Primrose Version

  I had spent much of the day in the studio grappling with recalcitrant sheep and ancient hedgerows. My sky was good but the grass poor, and despite the introduction of gambolling lambs and splodges of bluebells, the picture lacked animation. I sighed irritably, unable to settle to the thing. It was not so much that I was bored, but distracted – distracted by thoughts of Freddie Balfour and the likely consequence of his officious comments to the chief superintendent.

  I do not like MacManus: his blend of ambition and sanctimony being far from my taste. Doubtless he is more competent than the last man we had here, and his height and jutting jaw seem to impress the more susceptible of our local ladies including, I suspect, Emily. But personally I find his manner wooden and charmless and I certainly did not relish the prospect of being interviewed by him. With luck, I thought, he might send a lackey. But since it was he who had personally appeared at the school, and indeed questioned Emily, it was quite likely that I too might be accorded that dubious honour.

  Yet it was not simply the prospect of Alastair MacManus that unsettled me: it was the idea of being interviewed at all. As explained, it was clearly in my best interests to steer well clear of any known involvement in so gruesome a matter. Thus to now learn that I was likely to be the object of police probing was distinctly disquieting.

  However, as I wielded my brush over sheep and bluebells I told myself that I was becoming absurdly windy. The thing would be perfectly simple: lie like a trooper and tell MacManus or whoever that I had indeed been passing the dew pond in the early hours; and
that no, I had not stopped, and that after a merry evening at the bridge table I had been only too glad to get home to my restful bed. Apart from one unsavoury detail this was, of course, entirely true. I could talk rapturously about the silvery moon and luminous sky, the scent of thyme wafting in through the car window and the little lights of Lewes twinkling merrily in the far distance … Oh yes, indeed, I would supply lavish descriptions of everything other than that awful balding head, yellowing teeth and staring eyes!

  I cogitated and felt slightly better. The point was that other than Freddie Balfour’s loose-tongued tattling there was nothing to connect me with the crime scene at all … I could await the chief superintendent’s approach with relative ease. So with that settled I slung my brush aside and went out to walk the dog.

  I say ‘walk the dog’ – the dog walks me. And I spent the best part of an hour stumbling and bawling in Bouncer’s wake as we scoured rutted fields and sodden paths searching for God knows what. Eventually the quest lost its urgency, and with the dog tired and me exhausted we returned to the house to be met by Maurice screeching for his supper. I sometimes wonder how on earth Francis managed. He had never had much stamina (hence the dispatch of Mrs Fotherington), so how he coped with this pair I do not know. Ignored them, I suppose.

  As predicted, the following morning I was telephoned by some police cleric asking when it might be convenient for the chief superintendent to call and ask a few routine questions. I was about to reply that if the questions were so routine why didn’t he send a minion, but thought better of it. It doesn’t do to ruffle their feathers. However, as a matter of principle I did make it clear that being extremely busy, no time was especially convenient, but that naturally I was willing to cooperate as best I could in this dastardly case. Thus an appointment was fixed and I waited.

  In due course a black Wolseley rolled up; and leaving the driver in the car MacManus presented himself in my porch. After the usual formal pleasantries (I had no intention of producing coffee), we settled down to brass tacks, or rather he did.

  ‘Miss Oughterard,’ he began, ‘I gather from Mr Balfour of Hope Vale that you were playing bridge with his wife and a party of friends on the evening of the incident and that you left shortly after midnight. Is that correct?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I enthused, ‘we had a splendid session and I actually did rather well. Do you play bridge, Mr MacManus? I should think that with your training and expertise it would be right up your street. It needs a sharp mind.’ I beamed encouragingly.

  ‘I dabble,’ he replied shortly. Dabble? That probably meant he missed every trick in the book – just like Freddie Balfour.

  ‘So you left after midnight … and then what did you do?’

  ‘Do? Well I drove home, naturally. Far too tired to hang about.’

  ‘And you passed the dew pond, of course.’

  ‘Of course, it’s the quickest route.’

  He nodded, and after a pause said, ‘And I take it you didn’t stop or see anything out of the ordinary. No cars parked on the verge? There was nothing strange that caught your eye?’ Caught my eye? I suppose he meant like a beheaded corpse.

  ‘No, I am afraid I can’t help you there. Mind you,’ and I gave an embarrassed laugh, ‘I have to admit to not having my eye entirely on the road: it was such a glorious night and the stars were utterly magnetic!’

  I was about to launch into further poetics, when Bouncer bounded in from the garden. But on seeing the visitor he stopped abruptly, flopped down and instantly fell asleep. It is amazing how discerning animals can be in judging the calibre of visitors.

  ‘And I suppose that’s Bouncer,’ MacManus said.

  I agreed that it was and expressed surprise that he should know his name. He explained that Freddie Balfour had once mentioned the dog, disparagingly no doubt, and then stared thoughtfully at the heaving flanks.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said brightly, ‘I haven’t had him for very long. He belonged to my late brother.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course, that vicar in Surrey – Molehill, wasn’t it? The one that flung himself off the church tower.’

  I was enraged! But biting back caustic fury, I replied evenly that my brother had indeed been the canon of Molehill and that his sad death had been occasioned by his gallant rescue of a parishioner dangling from a gargoyle. ‘Francis,’ I added, ‘would never have flung himself anywhere, let alone while on church property.’ I looked suitably pained; while MacManus looked suitably abashed – as well he might.

  ‘Ah yes, yes, of course,’ he muttered; but then added, ‘Hadn’t he been a friend of that unfortunate woman found dead in the woods? I seem to remember—’

  This was becoming irritating. Why on earth was this tedious man raking up things long since buried? It was too bad. Why didn’t he just stick to the matter in hand: Carstairs and his beastly cadaver? Thus I said rather curtly that ‘friend’ wasn’t quite the right term but naturally, being Mrs Fotherington’s rector, my brother had indeed known her in his professional capacity. I then enquired rather pointedly if he had any further questions.

  ‘Yes, I have actually,’ he replied. ‘Tell me, do you often go up to the dew pond, Miss Oughterard?’

  I was puzzled by this and not a little unnerved. But I told him, truthfully, that I did visit the spot very occasionally, though not nearly as often as Francis and I had when children – and started to give a vivid account of our exploits there.

  He cut me short, saying, ‘And your dog, does he go up there?’

  ‘My dog? Well, er … not without me he doesn’t. At least I shouldn’t think so, it’s rather a long way.’ I laughed nervously.

  MacManus fished in his pocket and held out his hand. In it there lay a small metal disc, a dog collar tag with the word ‘BOUNCER’ writ large.

  I gazed nonplussed. ‘Wherever did you find that?’

  ‘Just by the deceased’s head,’ MacManus replied.

  It was a blow all right. But unlike Francis I have the capacity for fairly quick thinking, and thus despite my shock I heard myself exclaiming: ‘Goodness gracious, so that’s where it got to. I’ve been looking for ages!’ Then giving a stage gasp, I cried: ‘But oh how dreadful – I mean it being found so close to the, er, well to the remains.’ I shuddered and rushed on before he could say anything. ‘You see we had gone up there about a fortnight ago and spent such a lively afternoon with all the other dogs. Bouncer enjoyed every minute – splashing about and rabbiting in the gorse; he was having a lovely time. So I suppose with all that rampaging it must have fallen off. Probably been loose for ages and I had never noticed.’

  MacManus cleared his throat and placed the disc on the table. ‘So you think it dropped off the dog’s collar a fortnight ago and has been lying on that same spot ever since?’

  ‘Well yes, evidently; unless, of course, some sheep picked it up from under a gorse bush, and then wandered about and spat it out.’ There was I fear just a hint of ice in my tone. Whether MacManus had noticed I am not sure. But to compensate I said forlornly, ‘You know, Chief Superintendent, I really don’t think I want it back now. After all, it would always be such a ghastly reminder of that poor man’s fate!’ I endeavoured to look stricken.

  ‘Hmm,’ he grunted, and slipped the disc back into his pocket.

  Little else was said, and after thanking me politely for my time he returned to the waiting Wolseley and was driven away.

  The moment he had gone the dog woke up and shook itself. ‘Short commons for you this evening,’ I said, ‘how could you have been so crass!’ He looked blank and mooched off into the kitchen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Primrose Version

  The morning after MacManus’s visit I had an unexpected encounter; not especially congenial but interesting all the same. I was in the queue at the baker’s, rather keen to get my hands on some of that new loaf he has just produced – the Lewes Lozenge or some such esoteric name – when I realised I was standing behind Bertha Twigg, the gym
mistress at Erasmus. I had only spoken to her twice, neither time enlivening, but since I was eager to learn more of what was afoot with the Carstairs case, I made my presence known.

  ‘Why it is Miss Twigg, isn’t it? How nice to see you,’ I gushed. ‘I wonder if we are after the same thing, Mr Dexter’s exciting new recipe. Emily Bartlett tells me it is the best thing since Chelsea buns.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Bertha replied, ‘I only buy the rye wafers; bread of any kind is bad for the thighs.’ She wore the look of the stoutly righteous, and stealing a glance at her lower limbs I felt like murmuring something about things past redress; but intent on my agenda instead asked if she would care to join me for a coffee at the adjacent bookshop.

  This she did and I began to pump her about the situation at Erasmus House.

  ‘It must be dreadful for you all,’ I said, ‘especially for Mr Winchbrooke. I gather that two pupils have been withdrawn already. I hope there won’t be many more.’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ she replied. ‘Half-term has just finished and the parents will be gagging for a rest. Besides, those two were in line for expulsion anyway, so it saves a lot of messing about. As I always say, even the worst things can produce good results.’ She stretched for a chocolate biscuit, while I visualised Carstairs’ conveniently propped-up head.

  ‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ I agreed doubtfully. ‘But then, of course, there is also the mother. Poor woman, she must be desperate – her only child I believe.’ I had a vision of the lonely widow in Newhaven bereft both of her son and the ritual of his weekly laundry, and did indeed feel sorry.

  ‘Oh there’s no mother,’ Bertha said briskly. ‘That was all my eye.’

  ‘But whatever do you mean? Emily Bartlett told me that—’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he told us all but when the police checked, there was apparently no trace; not a single trace. Mr Winchbrooke is very annoyed. If you ask me it was simply a ruse to get more time off than the rest of us.’ She eyed the biscuits indignantly and took another. It struck me that for one so solicitous about the condition of her thighs, Bertha Twigg was pretty sharp in the chocolate stakes.