The Primrose Pursuit Page 4

  The excitement of my frustrating vigil at our host’s study door, plus a glass too many of his painful drink had made me rather tired, and with the party over I was glad to get back to the comfort of my bed and reflect soberly, or so it seemed, on what Pa would have termed ‘the evolutions of the day’. The reflections were short-lived and I woke at five in the morning with a splitting headache and no aspirin. Thus pallid on pillows I tried to divert myself with further thoughts about Topping and his telephone conversation; but the effort was too much and I returned to fitful sleep until roused by the querulous call of Maurice demanding his breakfast.

  1. To read more about these previous shenanigans, please refer to Bones in High Places.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Cat’s Views

  I have a nagging feeling that my earlier assumption of life being smoother here than in the vicarage may have been precipitate. The sister too is beginning to show signs of paranoia. One might charitably argue that given the circumstances of the Fotherington mess our master had some cause for anxiety. In P.O.’s case I as yet see none. Perhaps it is merely a passing phase. One certainly hopes so. I have become nicely attuned to the surfaces of the garden wall and find the lemon thyme under the dining-room window much to my taste. It would be too bad to have such pleasures compromised by further human folly.

  Possibly I am being overly sensitive – an affliction of the more intelligent – but I can’t help noticing that our mistress is exhibiting a peculiar fondness for the word topping which she mutters to herself and occasionally to others such as that Emily person or as just now down the telephone to Ingaza the Brighton Type. It is a term that seems to induce in her both satisfaction and annoyance – simultaneously and in equal proportion. I must reflect upon it and speak with Bouncer … not that the dog will illuminate matters; but occasionally he can make an observation that will spur my own train of thought.

  Pursuing my intention I have thus spoken to the dog. ‘Does the word “topping” mean anything to you?’ I asked.

  He looked characteristically bemused and stared at his grub bowl, and then said slowly, ‘You mean like topping a rabbit?’

  ‘Well,’ I began doubtfully, ‘I suppose one could—’

  ‘Because if that’s what you mean, Maurice, I can tell you it’s not all that easy. In fact if you really want to know it’s quite—’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘I don’t think it has anything to do with rabbits, more with people actually. It’s something P.O. keeps muttering.’

  ‘Oh that Topping.’ He took his eye off the bowl and started to sniff at his blanket.

  I looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Well, she’s always on about him, isn’t she.’

  ‘On about whom?’

  ‘Topping, of course.’ He looked perplexed. ‘Who’d you think I meant?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Ye-es, yes, of course …’

  ‘I mean that’s the geezer she’s got her knife into. Wouldn’t you say so, Maurice?’

  I shifted my position, wafted my tail and replied quietly, ‘Oh indubitably.’

  ‘What?’ He looked vacant and then gave a cavernous yawn. ‘Cor, it’s been a heavy day; what with a new bone and a new ball, I’m knackered!’ And with that he flopped into his basket and promptly fell asleep.

  I sat for some minutes studying the heaving flanks and twitching nose, piqued and nonplussed. So what was it that Bouncer knew and I didn’t? And why were canines so impossible? There being no ready answer to either query I repaired to my own bed in some annoyance. It was a bit much!

  Fortunately today has brought enlightenment. I do not mean about canines, who I fear will always remain opaque, but about the Topping enigma. As Bouncer had implied, he is indeed of the human species: one of those pedagogues at the boys’ school across the fields into which P.O. occasionally disappears, wielding a paint brush.

  My source of information was the grey Persian who sits just inside its entrance gates. On the whole she is fairly couth and we have got into the habit of passing the time of day – briefly, of course. She told me that Topping is newly employed at the school to teach the rudiments of the Roman tongue and that the headmaster is much relieved, as the previous incumbent had become too old and peculiar and left under a cloud in a van. Considering the collective insanity of humans I often wonder how they distinguish one case of derangement from the many: randomly, I suspect.

  Anyway, Eleanor – a reassuring name for a Persian – said she had not as yet made an assessment of Topping but was working on it. I enquired if she assessed all those who entered the premises at that spot. ‘Most certainly,’ she exclaimed, ‘one should never underestimate the value of vigilance.’ Evidently a cat after my own heart and one whom I may cultivate further. Indeed on closer acquaintance I might go so far as to invite her to a night on the tiles. Since coming here I have not had many of those, the roofs of Lewes being less proximate than those of Molehill. It would be pleasant to trip the light fandango beneath the moon and the chimney pots with one as shrewd as Eleanor. She would be useful too in introducing me to the better class of mouse colony – one has to be in the know about such places and a sponsor is generally required. Yes, pursue the Persian, that’s what I must do.

  In the meantime, and with Persians and chimney pots aside, the more pressing task is to get to the bottom of this Topping character and P.O.’s seeming obsession. One just trusts that nothing unsettling will emerge. The antics of our late master were quite enough.

  CHAPTER NINE

  My dear Agnes,

  So glad that Charles is coming home any moment, but rather selfishly I am sorry to hear you have chosen to stay a little longer in Tobago. Though if that were me I suspect I should want to be a permanent fixture there. Lucky you! It will be lovely to see Charles again and hear all your news and his plans for the manor. But I have to say it will be good for another reason: Primrose. She really is behaving very peculiarly regarding this Topping master; the dear girl has a bee in her bonnet that he is shady, as Edgar Wallace might say. I am not quite sure what she means by that but gather he is likely to be an international arms dealer, gangland boss, white slaver or something equally murky … My dear, as mentioned in my last letter, you cannot imagine a more inoffensive little man. He has charming manners and a racing bike! Yes, one of those drop handlebar things, just like your nephew’s. Well not quite so dropped but almost; anyway, it has pale blue mudguards and looks very dashing. He zooms about on it exploring Roman sites such as Fishbourne and running useful errands for the headmaster. Primrose, of course, likes neither the bicycle nor its rider.

  I am now safely returned from my sojourn with mother and am relieved and mildly surprised that other than Mr Winchbrooke having his licence endorsed for an unusual manoeuvre on the Eastbourne road, nothing untoward has occurred at Erasmus House … Or at least nothing that is verifiable, by which I mean that Mr T’s hoodlum activities as envisaged by Primrose continue to go unrecognised by the authorities.

  I think I mentioned in my last letter that I had come upon Primrose leeched to Mr Topping’s study door when we were guests at his little party. Thus when I got back from the Isle of Wight and she was once more in a welcoming vein I plucked up the courage to enquire what it was she had managed to hear. Her response was what your Charles would term ‘opaque’ – though I was made to understand that had I not appeared at that specific moment she would now be in possession of damning facts. I said that I was sorry to have impeded her enquiries and would she care to be my guest at the local fleapit. They were doing a revival of The Petrified Forest with Leslie Howard, and since Primrose has always had a craze for that actor I thought it might be a useful move. It was. And I am now returned to favour. But more importantly it has taken her mind off poor Mr Topping … temporarily at least.

  The dog too has its uses in that respect. Since it was once her brother’s, she feels duty-bound not only to minister to its welfare, but as far as I can make out,
pander to its every whim. It is an amiable enough creature but I do rather draw the line at being expected to stand in the garden endlessly throwing filthy bones for it to retrieve. It’s not as if it actually does; instead it seizes the things and bears them off to some lair in the shrubbery whence it returns empty-jawed and bellowing for more. There must be a veritable ossuary in there! Primrose says it’s all part of his training, though training for what I cannot imagine. She also assures me it has musical tastes (apparently it used to sit regularly by the piano while her brother pounded the keys) and she feels these are not being properly catered for. John Rivers is distinctly worried as he has an aversion to all household pets and has been approached by Primrose suggesting she bring the dog to listen to his arpeggios. He comforts himself by saying she will forget about it. But she won’t you know! Ah well, doubtless the novelty will wear off. And, as said, at least Bouncer can deflect some of the Topping interest.

  Tuesday

  Great excitement today – well, moderate I suppose – as Bertha Twigg, the gym mistress, had organised an expedition for the third-formers to visit the Long Man of Wilmington on the downs near Eastbourne. They were all very keen – except for Harris, of course, who complained he had seen it too flipping often and couldn’t he just stay behind and read the new Mickey Spillane sent by his uncle. (Personally I think that uncle has a lot to answer for, but naturally being merely the school secretary who am I to comment?) Mr Rivers sensibly told him that he could certainly stay behind if he chose although his pastime would not be the reading of unsuitable thrillers but writing … 500 lines. That brought him to heel all right and we set off in the charabanc in merry mood.

  Being a keen walker as well as cyclist, Hubert Topping had been persuaded to join us, and I have to say that his presence was really most instructive. He is a fund of knowledge about local hill forts and native butterflies. In fact he put me right about one of the latter – very firmly! I had pointed out one of those charming little grey-blue types seen so often around here, and said I thought it was exclusive to Sussex. ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘we used to see a lot of those in Malta though I am surprised they are found so far north.’ He seemed very sure about it and I asked how well he knew the island. Apparently he had been there at the end of the war in some capacity and had stayed on for a while afterwards. He didn’t enlarge, and in any case at that moment we were diverted by Harris relieving himself in the foot of the Long Man. I think he was piqued at being baulked of his Mickey Spillane. It’s amazing what children will do to make a point.

  The rest of the afternoon passed most agreeably and even cook’s sandwiches seemed a little fresher than usual. Mr Rivers actually produced a small guitar from his rucksack and started strumming ‘con brio’ as they say. It was a valiant effort but didn’t last as a sharp east wind got up and stifled the sound; besides, apart from a couple of the politer boys most seemed to prefer rolling down the steep turf or playing at being Dan Dare. However, all in all it was a successful outing and clearly Bertha Twigg was much relieved – her ideas are not always so fruitful. The only slight mishap was Mr Hutchins’ ankle: he sprained it climbing over a stile and then looked woebegone for some hours; but then he often looks like that.

  On the way back I asked the coach driver to drop me off in the High Street as I wanted to pick up some provisions at the grocer’s, and I was just coming out when I bumped into Primrose. She was striding up the hill at the rate of knots – the only person I know who can do that without succumbing to exhaustion; she has her brother’s long legs. Seeing me she stopped and remarked tactfully: ‘Well it’s obvious that you haven’t just come from the hairdresser’s, more like from the proverbial hedge I should say!’ She put on that superior face (you know the one) and patted her own disciplined coiffure.

  I explained that I had just had a bracing experience on the downs; at which she roared with laughter and said one could never have too many of those and was he nice … Well really! From what I recall the Oughterard family was never noted for its humour, ribald or otherwise, and as such she is a-typical. I suspect her days at the Courtauld have much to do with it: art students being notoriously ‘broad’ in their outlook. Anyway, I ignored the sally and went on to tell her how much the boys had enjoyed themselves and how good, relatively speaking, they had been, one or two even showing sympathy for Mr Hutchins and his ankle. And then, perhaps foolishly, I alluded to Hubert Topping and his knowledge of butterflies. The instant I mentioned Malta and his having been there, she cried, ‘My God, I knew it!’ And then in a tone which seemed to mingle shock with triumph, added, ‘Nicholas was so right. It’s disgraceful!’

  I was startled by the reaction and said mildly, ‘But Primrose, I cannot see what is so disgraceful about Mr Topping’s interest in the butterfly life of Malta.’

  ‘It wasn’t the butterflies that interested him,’ she replied darkly. ‘That man must be stopped.’

  ‘Stopped from what?’ I asked.

  ‘From whatever he is doing, of course!’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ I said mystified. ‘And, er, what exactly is he doing?’

  There was a pause, and then she replied, ‘Hmm. That’s the problem. I’m not sure yet; but something is afoot all right and I fully intend to find out.’ She looked very fierce. And then just before taking off she hesitated and staring at my hair said, ‘You know Emily, I think it might be an idea if you made an appointment with the hairdresser, they’ve got a new girl there now and she’s fearfully good.’

  As you can imagine, I walked home in a puzzled mood. What on earth had she been talking about? And was my hair really as bad as she implied? And who for goodness’ sake was Nicholas? I brooded. And then, of course, it came to me – or at least the answer to the last question did: Nicholas Ingaza, that rather oblique Brighton art dealer. I had met him once at an exhibition she had taken me to and was not impressed. In fact, frankly Agnes, he is not one I would normally choose to have dealings with – too clever by half and with smarm as long as your arm! I think she had met him through her brother – though what one as correct as the vicar had to do with that type I could never quite fathom. But at one time I believe Primrose and he had some sort of business arrangement – though its exact nature was never defined and since she volunteered no information, I never liked to enquire. I got the impression it ended rather abruptly, but I suppose there might still be a link. But personally, Agnes, if it is the Ingaza man whom she thinks is ‘so right’, then in my opinion that is all the more reason to doubt her judgement regarding nice Mr Topping!

  As said, I look forward to Charles’s return and trust he may be able to inject a modicum of common sense into things … In the meanwhile I think perhaps it is time I had a fresh perm – but naturally I shall go to my own hairdresser and certainly not the one counselled by Primrose.

  Your good friend,

  Emily

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Cat’s Views

  Alas, my fears of a ruffled future are proving well founded. Remarkable how accurate a cat’s instinct is, far superior to a dog’s so-called sixth sense. One had hoped that P.O.’s odd behaviour was merely a passing phase and that fundamentally she was more balanced than her brother. This is not the case. The Topping business is clearly preoccupying her and she returned the other night in a state of some volatility, pacing the kitchen and muttering about ‘that ghastly man’ and ‘asinine Emily’. Having apprised the kitchen of her feelings she retired to bed, and then omitted to rise in time to give me my breakfast. I was forced to express sharp words which luckily remedied matters.

  Nevertheless I just trust this is not the prelude to further lacunae in my feeding schedule; there were quite enough of those with F.O. Still, one must be charitable and assume it was an aberration. Let us hope so as it will save the onset of a sulk. Though on reflection, I haven’t had one of those for a while so perhaps it is time.

  I am also a little anxious about her renewed contact with the Brighton Type. Our experiences in Molehill with the vi
car have taught me to question anything which may involve the Ingaza specimen. She would do well to steer clear; but humans being contrary creatures I doubt if she will. And talking of contrary, Bouncer has been unusually quiet of late. Not that I am complaining, of course, but if by chance he is sickening for something then there will be all the drama of the new vet. I must make enquiries.

  Enquiries made, it transpires that there is nothing wrong with Bouncer – that is to say no more than usual – but he has, I gather, ‘been thinking’. This is not entirely reassuring for I am never quite sure which is worse – when the dog does not think or when he does. Either way it can be a troubling experience. When I enquired what he had been thinking about he looked smug and said I must be patient as he needed to prepare a mental list. ‘Oh really?’ I replied, ‘surely there are only three things on your mental list: bones, more bones and bunnies.’

  ‘Balls,’ he said.

  ‘What!’

  ‘Balls, Maurice. You forgot to mention those two rubber balls she bought me from the pet shop. So that makes five things.’ He beamed, looking even smugger. It has taken the dog a long time to count up to five so he flaunts the ability whenever the chance arises.

  I said nothing and settled down to observe the sparrows. But peace was not to be, for at the next moment he bellowed, ‘But there’s something ELSE, Maurice, something pretty rum!’ With a frenzied flurry of wings the sparrows scattered to be replaced by the dog standing foursquare in front of me panting.

  I sighed. ‘What is it?’ I asked wearily.

  ‘You know last night, when the Prim came back and went to bed?’