The Primrose Pursuit Read online

  This time I decided that I had endured enough. Such treatment is anathema to one of my breeding. Besides, I was beginning to be aware of an odd sensation in my nostrils and to feel just a trifle light-headed. Perhaps I was sickening for a dose of cat flu, and thus all the more reason to return home where I could be suitably nurtured by our mistress. With luck she would have replenished the store of my special pilchards and ordered fresh cream from the milkman. Thus pausing only to give a skittish kick to a lolling snail, I set off on my journey home.

  I have to say that the inward journey was even more congenial than the outward. The country scents seemed stronger and the spring colours brighter. And despite the tingling in my nose, by the time I had squeezed through the hedge bordering our domain I was in quite a merry mood. Bouncer was mooching in the garden and raising my paw I gave a cheerful wave.

  His mouth fell open slightly and he fixed me with a puzzled stare. As he approached, I beamed benignly.

  He looked a bit shifty and then said, ‘I say, Maurice, what’s that white stuff all over your nose and whiskers?’

  I replied that I had no idea what he was talking about but that doubtless it was the pollen from the cow parsley.

  ‘Doesn’t look like pollen to me,’ he grunted, ‘more like that powder the Prim puffs on the ants or on her face.’

  ‘Oh fiddley-dee,’ I mewed gaily, ‘I daresay it will come out in the wash.’

  The dog looked blanker than usual, and cocking his head on one side, said ‘Wot wash?’

  ‘Don’t be so pedantic; there’s bound to be some wash or other, there always is,’ I yawned.

  The dog moved closer and shoved his snout in my face. ‘Have you seen your eyes?’ he said, ‘because if you ask me they look a bit skew-whiff.’

  I smiled and riposted that unlike some of our human friends I was not in the habit of carrying a face-mirror around with me. I thought the observation quite witty but the dog’s mouth fell open again, this time even wider. Then with a long yawn I stretched my length on the grass and with paws in the air contemplated the sky.

  Bouncer swivelled his head to worry his rump, and then said solemnly: ‘I think you’re up the spout, Maurice. You should go inside. It’s probably the sun; too much isn’t good for cats …’

  Those were the last words I heard that day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Dog’s View

  You know that cairn is sharper than you might think and I am beginning to get the gist of his funny way of talking – not that he does talk much, which is just as well as sometimes I really have to cock my ears to make out what he’s saying. It’s all growly and gurgly and full of words that sound like ‘sporran’ and ‘och aye’ and ‘something-ken’. I mean it’s almost as bad as talking to that big French dog the time when we were AB-RORD. I liked him, he was a good sport; though I’m not sure if Duster is – a bit of a dark horse if you ask me. But I expect I’ll get his measure, especially once I grasp what he’s actually saying. Maurice says he speaks Garlic, and I suppose the cat knows – or thinks he does. Anyway, garlic or not, I’ve got to persuade him to be our lookout at Podkennel and to report if Top-Ho comes peddling down the drive again like he did the night Maurice and the Persian were there. You see because Duster is small, grey and mainly silent he can melt into the shadows and spy with uhm … with … IMPOONITI. That’s one of Maurice’s words and I was a bit puzzled when he first used it so I asked him what it meant. The cat must have been in a good mood because he kindly explained, so now I know … Im-poon-i-ti means you can do something without being caught and getting a kick up the backside. I’ll tell Duster that: it might make him more ready to play the game.

  And going back to the cairn’s lingo, when you can understand him he’s quite interesting. For instance, he says that he has seen Top-Ho wobbling down that drive a number of times. In fact he saw him on the same night that the two cats were there. While they were watching Top-Ho, the cairn was watching them and the mogs never knew! I think that’s very funny and I would like to tell old Maurice but he would only get shirty and go into a sulk so I’d better not.

  Anyway, Duster seemed to like my suggestion that he should do a bit of spying for us; said he had always thought he was meant for higher things. I told him I didn’t know about higher things, especially with his legs being so short, but that the great thing was to keep his snout and ears well primed … Oopsie! I think I put my paw in it there because he suddenly looked very fierce and asked who did I think I was talking to, some bloody dachshund?

  I don’t have the cat’s tact (or so he keeps telling me) but there are times when Bouncer can be JOLLY canny. So I told Duster that it was a well-known fact that all the best spies have short legs as it means they can keep their noses close to the ground, and that, of course, his legs were far taller than any short-arsed dachshund’s.

  He gave a sort of grunt and I could see he was thinking that over. And then he said, ‘So if dachshunds are so short-arsed does that mean they make better spies than cairns?’

  I tell you, old Bouncer had to think pretty quickly! ‘Not at all,’ I growled, ‘they can’t hear a thing with those flapping ears; deaf as posts. But a cairn’s ears being so pricked can hear everything. I mean to say, short legs and sharp ears – what could be better for DI6?’

  Well that did the trick because he wagged his tail and nosed his rubber ball towards me. ‘Hmm, so you think I would suit Dog Intelligence, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘You bet,’ I said.

  ‘And who should I report to?’

  ‘ME,’ I barked.

  He wanted to know where the cat fitted in and I said that in my experience he didn’t fit anywhere very much except by a lily pond netting goldfish; but since he had asked, I could tell him that Maurice was a sort of behind-the-scenes chap issuing orders which I saw were properly carried out.

  ‘Och aye,’ the cairn said, ‘so you’re the gofer, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I roared, ‘I am not the gofer! I am NUMBER ONE DOG, the lynch-bone of the whole outfit!’

  He didn’t say anything for a few seconds but just twitched his ears and stared bleakly, and then trotted off and cocked his leg against a lavender bush. This took quite a long time so he must have been thinking because when he came back he said, ‘When do I start?’

  ‘That’s the biscuit!’ I barked; and told him that there was no time like the present. (That’s what the cat is always saying, so I expect I had got it right.)

  Mission completed I went home over the fields. It’s slower than on the road because there are lots of different trails and funny smells and a chap can get sidetracked. But though it’s slow it’s also safer because that way you don’t meet humans banging on about the ‘poor little lost dog’ and then trying to catch your scruff to read your collar disc. (Well that’s one thing they won’t be able to get hold of – P.O. still hasn’t got me a new one.)

  Anyway, when I got back I found Maurice snoring on the terrace so I gave his tail a jolly good pull.

  ‘Good Fish,’ he screamed, ‘what the hell’s that!’

  ‘Only me,’ I said.

  ‘Only you,’ he hissed, ‘that’s enough, isn’t it?’

  I pretended I hadn’t heard that and did what Duster does and just stared into the distance. And then I said, all sniffy, ‘You might like to hear that I have nobbled the cairn. He has agreed to be Our Man in Podkennel.’

  I could see that Maurice was impressed. ‘Well done, Bouncer,’ he mewed. ‘Now be a good dog and go and fetch me that carton of cream the Prim has left in the larder. This calls for a celebration … Oh and by the way, I note that there is some treacle cake on the sideboard; you like that, don’t you?’

  So we had a really good nosh and then made ourselves scarce in the garden for a LONG time!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Primrose Version

  There was an agitated telephone call from Erasmus House, from Emily. ‘Oh Primrose,’ she breathed, ‘you couldn’t possibly do
the headmaster a favour, could you? It’s all rather tricky.’

  ‘Rather depends,’ I replied guardedly. ‘What is it? Fräulein Hockheimer struck with German measles and someone is needed to take her art classes?’

  ‘Not so simple,’ she said. ‘You see it is poor little Dickie Ickington, he’s been left in the lurch and he was so looking forward to everything.’

  ‘Looking forward to what?’ I enquired.

  ‘Being taken out by his grandfather Mr Justice Ickington. They have a rendezvous every half-term. But this time the judge is caught up in some complex fraud trial and simply can’t get here and the parents are away on the Riviera so there is no one to give the little chap a treat. He is being awfully brave about it, which somehow makes it worse. I don’t suppose you could take him off our hands for the afternoon, could you? I mean now that you have Bouncer and Maurice I expect you are quite good at that sort of thing …’ Her voice trailed off hopefully.

  What on earth did she expect? For me to throw the child a bone and a piece of haddock? Kind though Emily is, she sometimes has the strangest notions. ‘Er, possibly,’ I replied, ‘if you are sure it’s only for the afternoon. I’ve got rather a lot on at the moment and can’t spend too much—’

  In a trice the plaintive note had vanished to be replaced by brisk assertion. ‘Excellent,’ she cried. ‘Meet him at the school gates at two o’clock and take him to Drusilla’s the children’s zoo at Alfriston. Bring him back at five.’ The line went dead.

  So that was my brief: to entertain Sickie-Dickie for three scintillating hours feeding the llamas and chimpanzees, taking multiple rides on the model railway and staring endlessly at the repellent denizens of the reptile house … And you can damn well put a brave face on it too, I heard Pa’s voice say sternly.

  In fact my charge turned out to be quite companionable: polite and enthusiastic, and chattered authoritatively on a whole range of topics from Hornby rolling stock and the mating habits of moths to Bertha Twigg’s serge gym knickers. ‘They’re awfully big,’ he confided. And then after demonstrating his skill at plunging head first down all three slides while I dutifully clapped, he suddenly remarked breathlessly: ‘I say Miss Oughterard, do you know anything about hacked-off heads – you know like what happened to Dr Carstairs at the dew pond? I bet he got a shock! I wonder what size axe they used, a pretty big one I should think.’ He gazed at me, seeking enlightenment.

  I told him that I had no idea and it really wasn’t something one talked about in polite company. He protested that we weren’t in polite company as it was just him and me (!)

  ‘Yes, Dickie,’ I said, ‘but it’s still not a very nice subject and it was obviously done by someone very wicked involved in something very wrong.’ I glanced at the sky, hoping to point out an odd shaped cloud. There weren’t any.

  The little boy nodded solemnly: ‘Oh yes, bound to be dope I expect. Grandpa says there’s a lot of it about these days.’

  ‘Really?’ I said mildly. ‘Well I suppose he would know. He probably has to deal with quite a number of those nasty drug smuggling people.’

  The child nodded again. ‘Grandpa says he hates the bally buggers and he’d string ’em up given half a chance and it wouldn’t be by the neck either.’ He frowned. ‘How else would he string them up, Miss Oughterard?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said hastily. ‘Now Si – er, Dicky, why don’t we go and have some nice ice creams? They do some very tasty vanilla cones at that little tea shop.’ I smiled indulgently.

  The smile faded somewhat when he explained that on the whole he would prefer a Knickerbocker Glory – a whopping big one with chocolate fudge, cream, cherries and a long spoon, as that was the kind that he and his grandfather always ate when they visited Drusilla’s. I felt like telling him that he would do no such thing and that he could eat a fourpenny cone like any other child. However, not wishing to fall out with the judiciary I bought him a small sundae – with a short spoon.

  As it happens, it was quite a useful move since it entailed our sitting at a table and ordering lemon squash and tea. Not only did this take the weight off my feet and delay gazing at yet another baboon’s bottom, but more to the point it allowed me to ply Sickie with some subtle questions, such as what was his opinion of poor Dr Carstairs and nice Mr Topping?

  This produced the answer that he had thought Dr Carstairs pretty stupid because he hadn’t liked baked beans and that Mr Topping wasn’t nice anyway.

  ‘Really?’ I asked eagerly. ‘And why is that I wonder?’ I splashed more squash into his mug and considered whether I should order him another sundae, but stayed my hand. Bribery can be overdone – as I am sure Mr Justice Ickington would have agreed.

  ‘Well,’ he began, licking his spoon, ‘for a start he doesn’t laugh at my jokes, says they’re silly. I think that stinks because I tell jolly good jokes. They are some of Grandpa’s, and everyone laughs in court when he cracks one, even the fellow in the dock. Shall I tell you a few, Miss Oughterard?’

  ‘Not just now,’ I said hastily. ‘Er, but you were saying about Mr Topping and his lack of humour … Is that the only thing he lacks?’

  The boy looked thoughtful. ‘Reverence,’ he announced earnestly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Reverence – you know, it’s how you’ve got to behave in church.’

  I was intrigued. What on earth was the child talking about? And how had Topping flouted the laws of churchly convention – orgies in the vestry? Card-sharping in the organ loft? My mind whirled with curiosity.

  ‘Oh I cannot imagine Mr Topping not showing respect in church. Perhaps you’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said stoutly, ‘I saw them at it.’

  I cleared my throat, and then rather cautiously asked at what exactly.

  ‘Passing notes; him and Dr Carstairs when we were singing “All Things Bright and Beautiful”. They weren’t joining in at all, just scribbling away and shoving these bits of paper at each other.’ Sickie-Dickie looked indignant. ‘I mean if we pass notes in class we get lines and a cuffed ear. It’s not fair, is it? And after all, this was in the middle of chapel! I think that’s a bit sneaky, don’t you, Miss Oughterard? I mean telling us off and then doing the same thing yourself – it’s what Grandpa would call hyp, hypo something or other.’

  ‘I am sure your grandfather is right. But it may have been something rather urgent or conversely rather trivial, or perhaps simply comments on the excellence of the choir’s singing.’

  He shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t think so, not with old Travers conducting. The writing was all in Latin anyhow.’ He glanced around, eyeing the cake counter. ‘They look pretty good,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘In Latin?’ I exclaimed, ignoring the cakes. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘What? Oh Dr Carstairs dropped one when we were marching out, so I picked it up. I was going to give it to him and say, “Oh, sir, I think you’ve just dropped this piece of paper that Mr Topping passed to you when we were saying our prayers after that nice hymn.” But he was moving too fast and I missed him … Anyway, like I said, it was only a bit of old Latin.’

  ‘So what did you do with it?’ I enquired softly.

  He screwed up his face in an effort to remember. Chucked it away I feared. ‘Oh,’ he said vaguely, ‘it could be in my hymn book or p’raps my blazer pocket.’

  There was a long pause as I surveyed the child opposite me. ‘Do you mean,’ I said casually, ‘the blazer you are wearing now, the one with those smart stripes?’

  He gave a surprised toothy grin. ‘Oh yes, that’s it, I’d forgotten all about it! It was ages ago.’ He dug his fingers into the top pocket and drew out a screwed-up piece of paper. ‘Yes, this is it, it’s still here. Do you want it?’ He pushed the paper across the table while again casting a speculative eye towards the cake counter.

  This time I summoned the waitress. ‘Two cream buns for the young man,’ I said. My request was no bribe, merely a token of gratitude …
/>   Back at home and the child safely returned to the school, I unfolded the crumpled note. It was indeed in Latin and its hasty scrawl did little to aid translation. In any case my own memory of the language was sparse to say the least. How maddening – and how typical of Topping to communicate in this way. Smug little showman! I stared irritably at the pencilled words, one or two striking distant chords – navalia, ad tempus, onus – and then to my surprise I discerned the name Caesar. What on earth had he to do with anything! I studied the other three terms: something to do with a dock and a punctual burden? Unlikely, as the only other word I recognised was mater: mother. Perhaps the wretched man had coded it as well. There was only one thing for it: the dubious help of Nicholas Ingaza. With a first in Classics (and, as Charles had let drop, at Bletchley during the war) he would surely crack the thing in an instant.

  I dialled straightaway and was answered by Eric. Ingaza’s telephone voice is silkily wary; Eric’s has the subtle lilt of a costermonger.

  ‘Wotcha!’ he roared.

  ‘Good evening,’ I began, ‘this is Primrose Oughterard. I wonder whether—’

  ‘Well stone the crows,’ he exclaimed, ‘if I haven’t just put money on you!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Yes, five good smackers at Kempton Park. Miss Primrose, fifty to one. A blooming outsider, of course, but with a name like that you never knows your luck, do yer?’ He gave a dark chuckle. ‘Yes, the moment I saw that one among the runners I said to His Nibs, “That’s my girl. I’ll back her any day!”’

  ‘Oh really?’ I said, feeling faintly flattered. ‘And what did His Nibs say?’

  ‘Ow he didn’t say nuffin’, just gave one of those looks. Know what I mean?’