The Primrose Pursuit Read online

  ‘Well I—’

  Charles gave a bark of caustic mirth. ‘Not the only slaying, I fear. It was the night of poor Carstairs’ demise.’

  ‘Ah yes, yes, of course,’ Topping purred. ‘It must have been sickening for you, Miss Oughterard, sickening. A ghastly shock.’

  I was about to say, ‘You bet!’ but stopped abruptly. What was the little creep getting at? Why should I have been so sickened unless I had been present at the scene – and why should he suggest that unless he himself had been there also and seen me?

  Playing for time I took a sip of my martini, trying to decide whether to look utterly blank or make some light agreement. But before I had decided, he added, ‘Mrs Balfour mentioned that you and the redoubtable Bouncer had left at midnight. Rather unnerving to think that you drove past the very spot where it had been – or indeed was being – enacted. A bit gruesome I should think.’ He regarded me quizzically.

  I shrugged and said coolly, ‘Who knows? Had I stopped, it might have been. As it was, I was eager to get home and had no plans to loiter on the downs at that time of night, far too tired!’ I gave a polite smile.

  This was not returned. Indeed the ingratiating expression had entirely vanished and was replaced by a hard, impassive stare. ‘How wise,’ he remarked. ‘It doesn’t do to jeopardise one’s safety, however long the odds. But as a bridge player you would know that, of course.’ The stare hardened. And perhaps it was my imagination but I couldn’t help feeling that the smoke ring which he had just so neatly expelled had been deliberately cast in my direction. I averted my eyes to the vase of azaleas on the mantelpiece. I don’t think Charles had heard our exchange, being too busy hoisting Duster out of the window to sprinkle the plants; and as he regained his chair Topping had swiftly turned the conversation towards his host’s building plans and the projected orangery.

  Clearly eager to discuss the proposals, Charles suggested a brief tour of the grounds and led us out into the rear courtyard which housed the dilapidated stable block. He gestured towards it and said, ‘Originally I thought I might convert this into a set of garages; that way our pernickety house guests couldn’t complain that there was no shelter for their precious motors. It’s the Bentley owners, they’re so damned fussy. Well they’ll just have to take their chance with the rest of us because I’ve decided to raze the whole lot. Unless they decide to go on strike, the bulldozers will appear in a fortnight’s time. Once it is all cleared away the view will be superb.’

  ‘Oh what a good idea,’ I agreed, ‘and then you will catch the evening sun over the downs. As you say, blow the Bentleys!’ We laughed gaily but I couldn’t help noticing that Topping did not join in. In fact he looked decidedly grim, sullen really.

  And then once our mirth had subsided and Charles had started to walk on, he suddenly said, ‘If you don’t mind my saying, I think that would be a bit of a blunder – considerable in fact. Personally, I would delay the bulldozers.’

  ‘Oh really,’ Charles asked, ‘and why is that?’

  ‘Well I know you said you wanted to tag it on to the west wing, but the position of that stable is ideal for an orangery. It will not only catch the westering sun but get the full benefit from the south as well. Besides, don’t you see that the aesthetics would be so much better? Far more harmonious, and then you wouldn’t need to dismantle the whole thing but use some of the original materials for flooring and a nursery section. Yes, I would certainly shelve demolition for a while and meanwhile concentrate on putting the west wing to rights before those planners change their minds. You know how mercurial they can be – and that’s putting it politely!’ This time the laughter was threefold.

  ‘You could be right,’ mused Charles, ‘I won a major tussle this afternoon; perhaps better exploit it while the iron still glows … Yes, I suppose that might be best: deal with essentials first and leave the stable question till later.’ He grinned and added, ‘And then I can decide whether I want a perfect view or perfect oranges.’

  ‘Exactly,’ chimed Topping, ‘a tantalising choice and thus not one to be hurried. Bide your time. Besides, as said, one mustn’t give those planners a chance to renege. Forge ahead on the west wing while the going’s good, that’s what I say!’ He chuckled and turned to me: ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Oughterard?’ As one who has experienced a number of run-ins with pettifogging officialdom, I certainly did. However, I was loath to give Hubert Topping the satisfaction of my support.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I am sure Charles will do whatever he thinks fit but it is always useful to hear others’ opinions.’ I flashed him a dazzling smile – of the sort that our school matron would give whenever she was feeling particularly vicious – which was often.

  We sauntered on, Charles expatiating on the niceties of building materials and treating us to what he termed ‘Podmore’s potted history’ … Very potted actually, as apart from some tale of an ancestral crank given to taking covert rifle shots at his guests, it consisted largely of a tirade against the listed building people for their cavalier refusal to allow modern pots for the refurbished chimney stacks. ‘The cost for originals will be extortionate,’ Charles fumed. It was clearly an issue of some moment and on which he waxed not so much lyrical as incandescent. Fortunately the tirade was curtailed by Duster loping from the bushes, his head covered in some sort of briar.

  ‘Poor little man,’ I cried, ‘if he’s not careful it’ll get into his eyes!’ I rushed forward and did the necessary. ‘Good boy,’ I crooned gratefully, by now bored with brickwork and the finer details of dry rot. From the distance came the faint chimes of the church clock.

  ‘Ah,’ Topping exclaimed, ‘alas, it tolleth the hour and duty calls. I must be off to supervise prep; a tiresome but necessary task. No rest for the wicked I fear!’

  I was about to express pointed agreement but he was already babbling his thanks to his host and making tracks for the bicycle. Mounting this, he gave a gay wave, and shouting something like ‘Remember, festina lente,’ to his host, peddled rapidly out of sight.

  ‘Funny little chap,’ remarked Charles as we returned to the house, ‘clued up on architecture all right and he’s probably quite right about the west wing and delaying the stable business, but he did seem to rush off rather abruptly. I was going to suggest a digestif.’

  ‘It’s Winchbrooke,’ I explained, ‘he has an obsession about the masters starting prep punctually. He is invariably late himself but is a stickler for others.’

  ‘Ah yes, that follows. Poor old Wichbrooke – a pity about Carstairs and his head. Can’t be easy for him …’

  ‘Don’t suppose it was for Carstairs,’ I replied. ‘I say, did you mention a digestif?’

  Driving home in the gathering dusk and musing on what had surely been Topping’s veiled malice, I saw a small figure marching along the side of the lane: Emily. I drew up sharply, and winding down my window offered her a lift.

  Detaching herself from the hedge, she exclaimed, ‘Really Primrose, you shouldn’t creep up on people like that, it’s highly dangerous.’

  ‘I wasn’t creeping up,’ I protested, ‘surely you heard the car’s engine.’

  ‘Yes, but I hadn’t expected it to stop, least of all with such loud brakes!’

  ‘Oh well,’ I countered, ‘beggars can’t be choosers. Here, hop in and I’ll drive you to the very gates of Erasmus, or Elysium if you prefer.’ She tossed her head and eased herself into the front seat.

  ‘So what have you been doing?’ I asked. ‘It’s not bell-ringing night, is it?’

  ‘As it happens, I have been attending one of Dr Bracegirdle’s lectures on the mechanics of the mind.’

  ‘Was it enlightening?’

  ‘Not really.’ Having long been sceptical of Bracegirdle’s mental balance this did not surprise me. ‘And what about you?’ she asked.

  I told her that I had been at Podmore being taught the mechanics of renovation and enjoying the dubious company of Hubert Topping.

  ‘Oh funny you
should say that: he passed me in a Humber a couple of minutes ago. In fact I waved but he was with somebody and didn’t see me.’

  ‘You were mistaken,’ I laughed, ‘it couldn’t have been Topping; he’s doing prep duty. No wonder the occupant didn’t return your wave – doubtless thought you were flagging him down for a little nocturnal dalliance.’

  ‘Really, Primrose, you can be so vulgar,’ she expostulated. ‘I assure you it was no mistake; and anyway I know for a fact that he is not on prep duty.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How? Because there is never prep at Erasmus on Wednesday evenings. It is the boys’ night off when they are permitted to play with their Dinky cars and Meccano sets. The noise is appalling.’

  ‘But he told us that he was—’

  ‘Then in that case you must have misheard … mistakes are so easily made,’ she added smugly. I said nothing, thought the more and squeezed the throttle. Soon we had reached the school gates where Emily got out, thanked me for the lift and bade a rather cool goodnight.

  As she turned to go I put my head out of the window and said casually, ‘By the way which direction was it going in?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The car, where was it going?’

  There was an impatient sigh. ‘Well really how should I know? You do ask the most absurd questions, Primrose!’

  ‘Just think,’ I directed her.

  There was another sigh followed by a pause; and then she said, ‘It turned off on to the Newhaven road, that’s all I can tell you … Now if you don’t mind I propose having an early night. Dr Bracegirdle’s lectures can be rather wearying; they probably need a certain calibre of brain to be fully grasped.’ Yes, I thought, unhinged most likely.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Primrose Version

  When I arrived home my mind was in what you might term as quiet turmoil. ‘A tiresome but necessary task’, was it? What a downright lie – and delivered with such casual ease! Oily little charlatan! Anyone else would have just mumbled something about having to feed the proverbial cat or some such; but not Hubert Topping. Oh no, he had to gild the lily by inventing specious detail. Well, he hadn’t reckoned on the adroit Emily Bartlett blowing the gaff.

  I gave a rueful smile: yes, dear Emily did have her uses. She would certainly have known about the school prep schedule. But, I reflected, had she been right about the car? You would need to be pretty sharp-eyed to see the occupants as it sped past. But then, of course, Emily is sharp-eyed, as the Erasmus boys have frequently found to their cost. She may be gullible but she does take note of things … and remembers – a trait which renders her so indispensable to Mr Winchbrooke.

  I looked down at the distinctly unproverbial Maurice lazily toying with his woollen mouse. He must have sensed my gaze for his ears twitched, and lifting his head he gazed back in that truculent fashion which used to so unsettle Francis. ‘Well, Maurice,’ I murmured, ‘what do you think of this then?’ He continued to stare defiantly, and then with a flick of his tail returned to the mouse. And I returned to Topping.

  Clearly the man had peddled swiftly home, jettisoned the bike and met his companion. Probably there had been an arrangement for the car to pick him up. I pictured Topping poised in readiness at his front gate all ready to jump in … to be transported where? To the cinema in Newhaven? Like hell. To the port, of course, to take delivery of the onus or to do whatever else Carstairs’ regular missions to his ‘mother’ had entailed. I delved into my handbag and drew out the scribbled note purloined by Sickie-Dickie. My Latin had not improved since last time’s scrutiny, but with Ingaza’s translation in mind I was able to check its gist and confirm that the previous assignation had been set for a Wednesday evening at nine o’clock. Today was also a Wednesday, and glancing at my watch I saw that it was now nine-forty. If Topping and his accomplice had calculated correctly and their vehicle hadn’t blown a tyre, then they would have arrived at the Newhaven quay at approximately nine o’clock. So quite possibly this little trip was part of a regular event, an event in which the hapless Carstairs could no longer feature. Ingaza had earlier suggested he may have blotted his copybook and thus grown surplus to requirements. I wondered if Topping’s driver was his replacement. If so, he would have to watch his step – and neck!

  There was a sudden movement from the hearthrug. Tired of the mouse Maurice had cast it aside and was regarding me with what I can only describe as a look of quizzical scorn. He gave one of those strangulated miaows as if to say ‘Surmise! Surmise!’ and strolled from the room. The languid progress was abruptly checked by an explosive snarl followed by a howl of fury: Bouncer was evidently in one of his playful moods and had been patiently lying in wait for his friend. ‘Shut up,’ I shouted, ‘I’m thinking.’

  Growling and spitting they retreated to the kitchen and peace reigned once more. Well silence at any rate, for I was far from peaceful – too busy trying to decide on my next move: whether to enjoy an early night with the crossword or to race to the Newhaven docks on the off-chance of spying Topping and pal … No, far too long a shot; and besides it was now nearing ten o’clock. Whatever they were doing on the quayside – assuming that that had been their destination– by the time I arrived it would doubtless be finished and the birds flown. Yes, I argued, no point in embarking on a fool’s errand. Clearly an early night was indicated.

  I looked at the newspaper but was unenticed by the crossword. Monday’s puzzles are manageable and can be completed with smug satisfaction, others are more difficult but intriguing; while occasionally there is one where the clues are not only abstruse but simply fail to engage, and thus even the frisson of challenge is forfeited. Tonight’s was such a one; and my mind returned to a more tantalising conundrum: Carstairs’ head. (That copybook must have been more than blotted – total saturation I’d say!)

  The clues here were few but specific: the floating rosebud, and, according to Emily, Topping’s naked lapel on the morning after the event; his close liaison with the victim (for as the passed note had made clear it was more than chess and the cleaning of bicycles that the pair had in common); and then there had been that private telephone conversation during his drinks party: But I checked it myself, there was at least fifty grand’s worth … Are you sure of that? Because if so I think a little action is required, don’t you? We can’t allow that, there’s far too much at stake. Listen carefully. What I suggest is … What was it that had been worth fifty grand? Part of the ‘onus’? Had Carstairs done the dirty and helped himself to some of it? And indeed what exactly had Topping suggested – to preempt further theft by killing Carstairs and cutting off his head? It seemed a bit extreme … but then what vital thing was ‘at stake’? Hardly a coveted prize for Latin prosody! It was just typical of Emily to have appeared at the crucial moment – a few minutes longer and I might have heard the whole thing. She really can be so annoying.

  With these fragments whirling in my mind, earlier thoughts of bed had completely vanished and I found myself increasingly restless and eager to learn more of Topping’s current activity. As decided, it was pointless to drive the five miles to Newhaven; but perfectly reasonable to drive the mile or so to Miss Dunhill’s cottage and check if her tenant had by chance returned from his evening’s venture. It was shortly after ten, and if he was at home the lights were bound to be still on. And if not? Well one could simply park the car round the corner and wait upon events. Who knew what clues might be gleaned! I could hear my brother’s voice of protest: Oh really Prim, must you be so nosy? It will be frightfully embarrassing if you are seen, he’ll think you are snooping. Don’t interfere so!

  ‘I shan’t be seen,’ I inwardly retorted. ‘And I am not interfering, merely gathering information. Besides, why shouldn’t I take the dog for its late night walk? He doesn’t know that part of the locality yet and it’ll do him good to get a fresh perspective.’ Yes, that was it: Bouncer would be my pretext, my cover. I went to fetch him from the kitchen and discovered that unlike me he had re
tired for the night and was snoring heavily in his basket.

  ‘Time for walkies,’ I announced briskly, rattling his lead and nudging the basket with my foot. He leapt up with an indignant roar and despite the sight of the dangling lead seemed reluctant to cooperate.

  ‘Be like that,’ I said indifferently, picking up my handbag but still trailing the lead. ‘I’m off for a nice car ride.’ I turned to the door, and seconds later heard the thudding of paws and a sort of grumbling yelp.

  As we neared Miss Dunhill’s cottage, I doused the headlights, slowed to a dignified pace and cruised past. The little house was swathed in darkness with not a glimmer to be seen. At the crossroads I turned the car and slowly glided back again. Absolutely nothing; not a movement or light.

  I rounded the corner and drew up at the kerbside. From here I could just see over the low hedge into the garden and despite an overhanging apple tree had a partial view of the front gate. It was a good vantage point – although whether likely to provide an advantage one couldn’t be sure. After all, he (or they) might not return for hours. Bouncer evidently felt the same, for having first shown interest by shoving his face against the side window he then gave a weary grunt and settled down to sleep.

  I lit a cigarette and prepared for boredom. It came. And I lit another cigarette while the dog slept on. I started to fidget: retrieved a squashed toffee from the floor, dusted the dashboard, and then winding down the window a couple of inches, listened to an owl hooting. From the nearby wood came the eerie wail of a vixen. The dog slept on.