The Primrose Pursuit Page 19

  One is tempted to agree with the vicar’s assessment – but there is more to Bouncer than meets the eye and just now and again he is uncannily sharp. This was one of those rare moments. I beamed at him – such flashes of perspicacity merit reward – and said: ‘That is a most helpful observation, Bouncer, and one that in the fullness of time will doubtless assist our enquiry.’ His response was to wag his tail so vigorously that I felt quite dizzy.

  I wanted to reflect on the cairn’s report but was too diverted by Bouncer’s incessant tail and Eleanor’s incessant giggling. ‘Let’s play a game,’ the latter suggested. ‘We’ll have a quiz.’ She turned to Bouncer and demanded to know how many bones make five.

  ‘Don’t care,’ he growled, ‘but five bones make a very happy Bouncer!’

  She sighed and turned to me. ‘I bet you don’t know how many studs are on Bouncer’s collar.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I replied wearily, ‘there are seven.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ the dog asked.

  I shrugged and murmured that I knew quite a lot of things. ‘It’s all to do with cat curiosity,’ I explained. ‘As a species we are as some human once put it, “snappers up of unconsidered trifles”.’

  ‘I like trifles,’ Eleanor mewed. ‘I ate a whole one once, straight off the dining-room table. They didn’t like it, of course, but I did!’ She made rather distasteful slurping noises as if to emphasise the point.

  I was about to explain that it wasn’t exactly the kind of trifle I had in mind, when I was rudely interrupted by Bouncer. ‘Ho, ho,’ he chortled, ‘if you ask me it wouldn’t be trifles you snap up, Maurice, but unconsidered chickens.’

  He emitted a howl of mirth and fell on the path waving his paws in the air. To my irritation Eleanor joined in … I think I may have to revise my opinion of the Persian, she may not be as bright or refined as I had first thought. I withdrew with dignity to sulk amidst the catmint – and also to muse in peace on Duster’s report.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The Primrose Version

  I had been looking forward to spending a quietly diligent day in my studio, so was not particularly pleased to be disturbed by the telephone. I cursed and hoped it wasn’t Emily trying to wheedle me into accompanying her to another of Dr Bracegirdle’s mind-numbing Mental Mechanics. Wiping my hands on my smock I traipsed down to the hall and picked up the receiver. I was met with a gust of heavy breathing followed by a series of squeaks.

  ‘Is that Miss Oughterard?’ a tiny voice asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied guardedly, ‘who is that?’

  ‘It’s me, Dickie Ickington. You took me to Drusilla’s.’

  I told him that I remembered it well. (Surely the child didn’t want to go again!)

  ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘Matron says that I’ve got to telephone you to ask if I can have my cap back. She says I must have left it with you and it would be good practice for me to ask politely on the telephone like grown-ups do.’

  Now that he mentioned it I did recall a cap – or at least something striped – in Bouncer’s basket. So assuming that was it I asked when he wanted to fetch it.

  ‘Today if you please because that’s when we have to go to Mr Topping’s house to see his slides on the Roman forum. Matron said I should pick it up on my way back.’ I sighed. How thoughtful of Matron.

  I told him that would be all right, and was about to put the phone down when he cleared his throat and piped, ‘That is most exceedingly kind of you, Miss Oughterard. I am only too grateful – uhm, uhm, toodle-ooey!’

  ‘Toodle-ooey,’ I said, and went off to retrieve the trophy from Bouncer’s basket.

  The boy arrived fresh from the Roman forum and clearly hoping for some more cream buns. There weren’t any and he had to make do with crisps and Tizer. He took the deprivation in good part and launched into a long description of Topping’s slides of the ancient ruins. At the conclusion he observed, ‘I don’t think I really like all those old stones and things; I like landscapes and dogs and pretty ladies in crinolines.’

  ‘How right you are,’ I agreed, ‘but it was very good of you to sit still through the whole of Mr Topping’s little exhibition.’

  ‘Well I did nearly,’ he said, ‘but I was itching to spend a penny, so when Mr Topping had his head down by the lantern slide I slipped into the passage to look for the lavatory. And then on my way back I sort of went into his study where the door was open. You see it was a bit boring looking at all those grey columns and crumbling water spouts.’

  ‘One can imagine,’ I said, ‘but I don’t suppose you stayed long in the study, did you?’

  He hesitated and looked shifty. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I did just stay for a little. You see there were these funny pictures, three photos on his blotting pad; so I did sort of have a squint at them … but not for long,’ he added quickly, ‘and then I went straight back into the sitting room.’

  ‘What do you mean “funny pictures”?’ I asked.

  ‘Pictures of a man in a bear suit – one with the head on and two with it off. Actually it wasn’t a very good bear suit, a bit tatty – sort of mangy round the edges.’ He giggled. ‘I say, I sound just like Grandpa! That’s what he says about most of the people who come up before him in the dock.’

  Ignoring Judge Icktington’s personal views of his clients, I asked Dickie if bears were the only things the photos featured, and was slightly taken aback when he said that from what he could make out there was also a blonde lady dressed up as an ostrich – with very thin legs and carrying a whip.

  ‘Ostriches don’t carry whips,’ I said sternly.

  ‘She did, she did!’ he cried. ‘I don’t tell porkies any longer – Grandpa said if I told any more he would send me down for a hundred years! … I say Miss Oughterard, why do you think they were dressed up like that?’

  ‘Rehearsing for a pantomime,’ I replied. ‘“Goldilocks and the Three Bears”, I daresay.’

  He nodded sagely; but then looked puzzled and said he hadn’t realised that ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’ contained any ostriches. I assured him that there were various versions and that this was clearly one of the rarer ones.

  However, prurient curiosity got the better of me and I enquired casually whether by any chance he had recognised the bear suit’s incumbent.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied simply, ‘it was that policeman: Mr MacManus.’

  To say I was shocked is to put it mildly. However, despite my astonishment I was able to say laughingly that I was sure he was mistaken and that the chief superintendent had far more pressing things to attend to than pantomime rehearsals.

  The child stood its ground, explaining that the bear was very tall and broad-shouldered like the policeman; and besides, he had recognised the heavy eyebrows and the dark wart on the left side of his nose – ‘You know, the one that bleeds sometimes.’ I did not know but did recall the wart. He then asked a question which had been in my own mind: ‘I wonder why Mr Topping had the pictures on his desk.’

  ‘Probably keen on amateur theatricals,’ I said quickly. ‘Now, Dickie, what about some nice éclairs? I’ve just remembered that I have a tin in the pantry; we’ll have a feast.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘And have they got jam as well as cream?’

  ‘Not yet, but you can help me put some in – lots.’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Oughterard. Whizzo!’

  An animated but sickly half hour was spent filling and devouring the éclairs, during which the conversation ranged widely across newts and frogspawn, his new Winsor & Newton paint box, his grandfather’s latest pronouncement on the dope-dealing fraternity (‘sodding buggers’), his chances of being picked for the second eleven and the weediness of Mr Hutchins.

  Just before bundling him into the car to return to the school I said earnestly, ‘You know Dickie, I think it would be best if you didn’t mention seeing those photographs in Mr Topping’s study – either to him or anybody else. After all, you wouldn’t like him to thin
k you had been snooping, would you?’

  There was a shrill protest to the effect that he hadn’t been snooping and that it was pure chance etc. etc.

  ‘Oh yes, you and I know that Dickie – but schoolmasters can be a bit odd sometimes. They get touchy and tend to exaggerate.’ There were vigorous nods. ‘So I think it’s best if we keep this very firmly under our hats. Don’t you?’ More nods. ‘It will be just our little secret.’

  He grinned. ‘That’s what Grandpa says when he slips me a ten bob note. And I don’t breathe a word!’

  Well, I thought cynically, if that child imagines he is going to get a ten shilling back-hander from me he is out of luck. He had done quite well enough on the éclairs. But judging from the ingenuous expression I suspected such cynicism was misplaced; and besides, now being privy to his illicit raid on Topping’s study did rather put me at an advantage. Thus exchanging conspiratorial smiles we speeded off back to Erasmus House.

  As I drove home I had only one thing in my mind: the ridiculous image of MacManus in the mangy bear suit, cavorting with the whip-brandishing ostrich woman. Thank goodness Sickie-Dickie was only ten and not sixteen and still wore the bloom of innocence. But distasteful though the image was, it certainly had its funny side … though really it comes to something when a senior officer of Her Majesty’s law enforcers stoops to such shenanigans, especially one so starchy. What had he said at dinner the other night? That he had no time for recreation? Like hell he didn’t. What a humbug!

  But then I thought of the other humbug, the glib-tongued Topping. That particular aspect of the child’s tale was what really intrigued me. How extraordinary that the Latin master should be in possession of such incriminating photos. Where had they come from and why on earth should he want them? Were the two men participants in some circle of unsavoury charades? And if so, what costume did Topping favour: an elf’s garb, a cap and bells, leotards of spangled rosebuds? Or perhaps simply sock suspenders and a cream tuxedo … For a few seconds I allowed my mind to spin all manner of sartorial possibilities – and indeed in my mirth nearly spun myself off the road.

  However, luckily I sobered as the answer suddenly danced before me. It couldn’t be a case of blackmail, could it? Or perhaps something similar. Maybe Topping was weaving some insidious web of control, a means of deterring the chief superintendent should his investigations of the Carstairs case grow too close for comfort. Were the photographs a sort of indemnity, a handy brolly for a rainy day?

  I stopped the car, got out and lit a cigarette. Leaning my elbows on a five-barred gate I gazed out over the placid fields towards the jutting profile of Firle Beacon and cogitated. From what Nicholas had hinted of Topping both at Oxford and in his tutelage under the Messinas, such self-defensive strategy would be typical. And indeed from my own observations he was not someone to leave things to chance; a cool customer was Hubert Topping and, I rather suspected, one who would derive sly amusement from ruffling the dour MacManus. Yes, that must be it. The photos were his hold over the man should the latter get too nosy: aces at the ready to be flourished as and when required.

  I lit another cigarette and listened to a blackbird whistling its evening solo. Surmise! Surmise! the notes fluted.

  Yes, I mentally answered, but the photos were tangible enough. They had been there on Topping’s desk; ludicrous and compromising. The boy had been adamant about the man’s identity and there was no reason to doubt his sincerity – especially with his grandfather’s hundred-year sentence hanging over him! Yes, Topping must surely have had them for some calculated purpose, i.e. to safeguard his own guilt in the murder of Carstairs!

  Evidence? Evidence? the insistent bird continued.

  ‘Oh do shut up,’ I muttered. Admittedly, hard evidence for his guilt was scant but there were definitely bits and they were mounting. Besides, the very fact that Topping had the photos at all looked shady. Why have them unless for something dubious? Clearly the police chief posed a threat of some kind inimical to the Latin master’s interests. I felt a stab of satisfaction: it had been Topping’s bad luck (not to mention MacManus’s) that Sickie’s intrusion should have coincided with the photos being spread out on his desk … just as it had been my good luck to overhear that curious telephone conversation at his dreary drinks party. Well whatever it was I would trump him all right! But how, that was the question.

  As I turned to go, a car pulled up behind mine and honked: Charles Penlow. He got out, and hauling the sober-faced Duster from the back seat came to join me at the gate. ‘Ah, well met!’ he cried. ‘I was going to phone you this evening but now I can plead in person.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you pleading, Charles. It must be very important.’

  ‘Hmm, well it is really. You see I was just wondering whether you might be prepared to take charge of this little tyke for a couple of days or so. I have to go to London to see the solicitors and one or two other chores and it wouldn’t be the best thing to drag Duster up there. I had hoped Agnes would be back by now but she’s been delayed and isn’t due for another fortnight. I don’t want to leave the little fellow at the kennels as he is a bit picky about that sort of thing.’

  ‘So you don’t think he would be picky about me?’

  ‘Probably. But with luck Bouncer might distract him; they seem to be getting on all right now.’

  I regarded the cairn. It was standing four-square, staring intently at a cow pat in the centre of a group of thistles. Did it have artistic leanings? Such close absorption in still-life might suggest so.

  ‘Of course I’ll take him,’ I smiled, ‘but I can’t vouch for Maurice’s language, he can get peevish with strangers.’

  ‘Oh that won’t worry Duster,’ Charles replied cheerfully, ‘he ignores cats just as he ignores most things. Lives in a world of his own.’ He turned to the dog. ‘Don’t you, Duster old boy?’ The dog looked up briefly, gave a perfunctory snort and resumed its study.

  ‘Well, if he is as silent as that I am sure we shall get on famously,’ I said. ‘When can I expect him?’

  Charles said he would drop him round the following afternoon along with his bowl and special biscuits. He also said he would bring a spare key to Podmore.

  ‘What, in case Duster cuts up rough and insists on going home?’

  Charles laughed. ‘Oh don’t worry, he can be quite obliging when he wants.’ Well that was a relief.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The Primrose Version

  So that was the arrangement: Charles would deliver the cairn in the afternoon of the following day and then take off for London. ‘Goodness,’ I said brightly to my fellow residents, ‘aren’t you the lucky ones! We’re going to have a little visitor for a few days. Won’t that be fun? Now just make sure you treat him nicely.’ The news was greeted with blank indifference and they swiftly went to sleep.

  The visitor’s arrival was prompt and decorous. That is to say, no offence was given and none apparently taken. The cairn slipped quietly into the house, sniffed the rugs in the hall and was greeted with uncommon grace by Bouncer and in silence by Maurice. Having expected noisy hub-bub I was much relieved, and leaving them to their own devices retired upstairs to the studio.

  When I came down the cat had disappeared but I saw the two dogs in the garden trotting out of the shrubbery, muzzles smeared in earth. Presumably Bouncer had been showing off his bone collection.

  I started to prepare supper but was interrupted by the telephone. ‘I say,’ said Charles’s voice, ‘I am most fearfully sorry, Primrose, but would you mind awfully going over to Podmore to fetch Duster’s harness. I quite forgot to bring it with me. I know it’s a bore but if you wouldn’t mind—’

  ‘Why ever does he need a harness?’ I asked in surprise. ‘I mean he’s not exactly a leaping greyhound; seems pretty docile to me. Does he often wear one?’

  Charles laughed. ‘Oh no, he doesn’t wear it, just sleeps with it. And the point is, if he doesn’t have it by him he won’t settle and makes a shindig all night.’


  The prospect of the cairn making a shindig all night was not enticing. And thus amid further rueful apologies from Charles I assured him all would be well and that I would go over after supper and collect it from the downstairs cloakroom. I stared at the dog. ‘No one told me you were a blithering neurotic,’ I said irritably. Duster gave a sombre wag of his tail.

  Supper over and after completing a corner of the crossword, I reluctantly rallied myself to fetch the wretched harness. Podmore being barely a mile away and the night clear and dry, I decided to walk. Stuck in the studio most of the day made me ready for exercise. Thus, taking a torch but eschewing the company of the two dogs I set out on my mission. Anything to keep the cairn quiescent!

  In fact it was quite a pleasant stroll and there was enough moonlight not to need the torch. Podmore’s main gates were locked but Charles had directed me to the back entrance which would take me down the old east drive to the side door. Here I did need the torch as the path was rutted and overhung with trees. Driving along it in daylight the previous week had been easy enough, but on foot and at night it was a different matter and once or twice I nearly caught my ankle in a pothole. However, I reached the entrance all right, and using the key let myself in. Pitch dark, of course, and I groped vainly for a light switch. I shone the torch and saw a door which I vaguely remembered as being either to the cloakroom or the kitchen … Yes, the cloakroom-cum-lavatory. Here I did find a switch and after peering about under the forty-watt bulb saw the dog’s harness hanging on a peg. I shoved it into my bag, switched off the light and prepared to leave.

  But at that moment the silence was cut by a noise – the low purr of an approaching car, and through the high, narrow window I caught the glow of a headlamp. How strange. Who was calling on Charles at this time of evening? It was well past the supper hour, almost midnight. And anyway didn’t they know he was away? Would they ring the bell and if so should I answer it? My own presence though perfectly legitimate might seem odd – especially if I couldn’t find the light switches to welcome them in. I had an absurd vision of myself on the darkened threshold trying to explain who I was and what I was doing. But then what were they doing? Or could it possibly be Charles himself returned from London with a change of plan, or to collect some vital item he had left behind such as his cheque book or a file for one of his meetings?